by Eric Flint
“Yes, if you would. Go over there and put them in order. Make sure they get their job done.”
“What are they doing?”
Tata sniffed. “They’re supposed to be organizing supplies for the wounded.”
Ernst looked back over. The oldest of the group looked to be perhaps sixteen.
Pity the poor wounded. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, heading toward them.
Eric Krenz felt his spirits pick up, when he caught sight of Gretchen Richter coming onto the bastion.
His spirits had been rather high already, as it happened. He didn’t have much doubt, any longer, that they’d be able to beat off the assault. Banér had gambled, Eric was pretty sure he’d lost the gamble—and there’d be a high price to pay for it on the morrow. Mercenaries were tough, up to a point. Very tough, in fact, as you’d expect from professional soldiers. But they reacted more poorly to heavy casualties in a failed assault than regular soldiers did—and regular soldiers didn’t react well. It would probably be at least a fortnight before the Swedish general could marshal another major attack.
Still, he was glad to see Richter, and so were all the men on the bastion with him. That was obvious from their pleased expressions. It was like having their own angel pay a visit.
No sweet cherubim, either. This was a sword-bearing angel from the heart of God’s fury.
Good-looking, blonde, and she was actually unarmed. But none of them were fooled.
“Gott mit uns!” one of the men suddenly shouted, in the old anti-imperialist war cry.
“Gott mit uns!” roared the soldiers on the bastion. In an instant, the call was picked up and racing down the curtain wall. It sailed out over the snow and the darkness and the blood-covered ice of the Elbe.
Chapter 33
Magdeburg
At the end, their pilot chose to fly all the way around the field—and right across the whole city of Magdeburg—before he brought the plane down to land. Prince Ulrik was surprised. Egidius Junker had behaved like such a stolid and unimaginative fellow up until then, from the first moment they met him. Who would have guessed such cunning lurked beneath?
After the plane was down and was taxiing toward the crowd waiting for them at the airfield’s terminal building, Ulrik leaned forward. “That was well done, Herr Junker,” he said, over the pilot’s shoulder.
“Yes!” agreed Kristina. She was sitting in the other seat in front, next to the pilot. “It was a wonderful flight!”
Junker glanced back and smiled. There was more intelligence in that glance and that smile than the prince would have expected, too. The pilot’s expression managed to convey, simultaneously, his appreciation for the compliment; his understanding that it was really a compliment on his political and not piloting skills; and his amusement—not derision, simply amusement—at the nine-year-old princess’ misunderstanding.
Ulrik spent the rest of the time until they came to a stop wondering how much an airplane like this would cost. Surely it would be within the budget of a prince?
They’d need to support a pilot as well, he realized. This was only the second time Ulrik had ever been aloft in an airplane. The first time had been a brief ride during the Congress of Copenhagen, whose sole purpose had been thrill-seeking. The truth was, he hadn’t particularly enjoyed it, because he’d been too nervous. Now that he’d flown a second time, as part of an actual journey with a real purpose, he had a much better sense of the business. It would be far better to have a regular pilot, especially one who was no dullard when it came to political affairs.
Junker brought the plane to a stop. Again, Ulrik leaned over his shoulder. “I am giving some thought to buying an airplane. Would you be available as a pilot?”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Ulrik!” Kristina clapped her hands.
Junker gave him another smile full of subtleties. “I’m afraid not, Your Highness. I’m rather committed to my current employer.”
The smile faded a bit. “And I had to leave my betrothed behind in Dresden. Now I’ll need to figure out a way to get her and her friends out of there.”
“Ah.” Ulrik glanced out the window. The crowd of notables was still waiting. Probably for the propeller to stop spinning, he imagined. He certainly would have waited. That thing could carve a man up like a warrior out of legend. Of course, you’d have to walk right into it—but in the press of a crowd, such things could happen.
He had a few seconds left, and it never hurt for a prince to scatter favors about.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Write down their names for me, if you would.”
Junker cocked an eyebrow. Ulrik started removing his shoulder straps. “You never know. I might have some influence, here and there.”
“Thank you. I will.”
The crowd was moving in, now. There was a handy up-time expression for this sort of thing, but Ulrik couldn’t quite remember what it was.
“Showtime,” said Junker.
Yes, that was the one.
Even before they entered the city, Ulrik was impressed. Whoever had organized this affair had done a superb job of it.
To begin with, they were in a motorcade, riding in a large up-time automobile rather than the carriage he’d expected. Two other American self-propelled vehicles were with them, one in front and one behind. As a sheer public display, it was splendid. But Ulrik also understood—all the better now, for having been the target of such an attempt—that the vehicles and their configuration would make things quite difficult for assassins seeking to do them harm. The automobiles were moving quite slowly, not much faster than a horse could trot. But if necessary, they could speed up rapidly and soon be racing down the road at a tremendous velocity.
Given the road, of course. On most roads, even in the USE, the great speed of which up-time automobiles were capable was a moot point. But this road from the airfield into the city was obviously of up-time design, macadamized from beginning to end.
Secondly, the organizers of the event had made sure to have a large number of spectators and well-wishers even here, while they were still in the countryside. A surprisingly large number, given the weather. The sky was clear, true—indeed, it was quite a beautiful winter’s day. But it was definitely a winter’s day, with the temperature below freezing. Ulrik didn’t envy those people standing alongside the road out there. The automobile had a heating device. The outdoors didn’t.
Thirdly, he was impressed by the shrewdness of the seating arrangement. In the front seat next to the driver rode a very large bodyguard. “Riding shotgun,” the up-timers called it—and in this instance, the term was quite literal. The man was carrying an automatic shotgun and the prince had no doubt at all he was proficient in its use.
Probably more important, given that the principal response to any assassination attempt would surely be to race off, not stand and fight, the man was huge. An assassin firing from the front would have to shoot around him to have a chance of hitting Kristina. (Or Ulrik, but Kristina would be the real target of any would-be killer.) Shooting around that man to hit the princess would be a bit like trying to shoot a mouse behind an ox.
A shot from the rear would be difficult, and probably impossible. Someone had covered the rear window with a decorative banner, which prevented anyone from seeing into the vehicle from behind. And while he wasn’t certain, Ulrik was pretty sure there was a steel plate hidden within the banner. Even a blind shot wouldn’t penetrate.
That still left the side windows, but that was a very difficult shot to make. All the more difficult because Ulrik and Kristina were sandwiched in the middle of the back seat, with a man on either side. To their left, sitting next to Kristina, was the governor of Magdeburg province, Matthias Strigel. To their right, next to Ulrik, sat a man named Albert Bugenhagen. The prince had known he was the mayor of Hamburg, although he’d never met him before.
Ulrik was quite sure the men had been selected for two reasons. First, they held formal positions of government, they
weren’t simply prominent figures in the Fourth of July Party or the Committees of Correspondence. Someone was being careful—thankfully—to maintain a necessary distance between the two royals and their real hosts. As much as possible, Kristina and Ulrik had to maintain a reasonably non-partisan public stance.
The second reason was even simpler. Both men were also very big, although not as enormous as the bodyguard up front. That made the seat very cramped. On the other hand, good luck to anyone trying to hit Kristina in the middle of all that beefy flesh.
So, Ulrik was in a good mood even before they came into Magdeburg. It was always a pleasure to deal with skill and competence.
He would always remember three things afterward about their procession through the city.
The first were the banners. They seemed to be everywhere. On every tower, on every roof-top, hanging from every window and balcony, and waved by seemingly every hand along the streets and in the square in front of the royal palace.
The flags came in all sizes, from a gigantic one draped down the side of an entire building to a multitude of small ones that could be held in one hand. But with very few exceptions, they only came in four types.
The first and most common was the official flag of the USE, with its crossed black bars on a red field. Along the two bars were golden stars representing the provinces of the nation, and at the center was the Swedish royal insignia from the lesser national coat of arms, three coronets under a royal crown. The colors throughout were the traditional German red, black and gold.
The second flag was the simple red-black-gold tricolor that had been informally adopted by the Committees of Correspondence. Sometimes the bars were horizontal, sometimes vertical. There was no official pattern since it was not an official flag to begin with. But it had becomes the recognized national symbol for those who advocated an outright republic.
The third flag was one Ulrik had never seen before—indeed, had never heard of before. It was the tricolor, but with the Swedish royal insignia at the center.
There were a lot of those. Not as many as the official flag but quite a few more than the common tricolor.
Finally, there was a banner. As with the tricolor, there was no set pattern, since these were quite obviously handmade. But the most common design had a red field, a black border all the way around—sometimes these were just two stripes—and a simple inscription in the center, written in gold: Long Live Kristina! Sometimes, Long Live Our Kristina!
Those were the princess’ favorites, of course.
The second thing he would always remember was his first sight of the Marine guard when they drew up before the royal palace. The sight was startling enough to drive him to blasphemy.
“Good Lord! What have they got on their heads?”
“They’re called ‘shakos,’ Your Highness,” said Albert Bugenhagen. “Apparently it was a military design in the Americans’ universe. Rebecca Abrabanel had images of them in a book and had a hatmaker shop produce a few dozen of the things.”
The mayor of Hamburg smiled. “She says the admiral will probably have a fit when he sees them.”
The things were certainly impressive, although Ulrik couldn’t help but wonder how practical they’d be on a battlefield. For that matter, nothing the Marine guards were wearing looked all that practical. They were the most elaborate and heavily-decorated uniforms Ulrik had ever seen, outside of hussar uniforms—and those were not the uniforms hussars actually wore into battle.
They even had the ostrich plumes, sticking up from the shakos. No leopard skins, though.
As they got out of the automobile, Ulrik gave the guards a closer inspection. He was pleased—relieved, in fact—to see that the weapons the Marines were carrying looked a lot more functional than their uniforms. Good SRG muskets, with an up-time shotgun in the hands of the corporal in charge of this particular squad. The Marines held the weapons as if they knew how to use them, too.
Thankfully, there was not a halberd in sight. After the fracas in Stockholm, Ulrik would be perfectly happy never to see another halberd for the rest of his life.
The thought of Stockholm drew his hand to his waist, almost involuntarily. He was carrying the same revolver he’d used there today. There was no particularly use or need for the thing, but Ulrik found its presence comforting nonetheless.
There was a very large party waiting to greet them at the palace. Every notable in the city was there, it seemed. Toward the back, almost hidden behind several other people, he spotted Rebecca Abrabanel. Her own costume was designed every bit as carefully as the costumes she’d designed for the Marine honor guard—except hers was designed to make her as inconspicuous as possible.
“I am not fooled, woman,” Ulrik murmured to himself. Pleased yet again to encounter skill and competence.
The same skill and competence, he didn’t doubt.
And that point a band started to play, which was the third thing Ulrik would always remember. It was a catchy tune, not one he was familiar with. (Later he would find out it was the “Vasa March,” newly composed by one of the city’s musicians.) But what struck him the most was the energy and enthusiasm of the band members. If he’d been one of those musicians, he thought he’d have been too cold to beat a simple drum, much less play brass instruments.
How did you keep your lips from freezing to the mouthpiece?
Ulrik did not like to give speeches, and was not very good at it. Thankfully, because of the bitter cold, no one wanted to listen to a long speech anyway. A few short shouted sentences did well enough.
It didn’t much matter, because the huge crowd in the square had come here to see Kristina, not him. And the princess did like to give speeches.
She was quite good at it, too, adjusting the term “good” to nine-year-old standards. But those standards suited the mood of the crowd perfectly. Enthusiastic, cheerful, not hard to follow—and not too long either.
Soon enough, they were done. The only complication was produced by Kristina’s final words: I’m having a party, and everybody’s invited!
From their startled expressions, Ulrik deduced that the notables hadn’t planned further festivities of any kind. Much less a party to which the entire city had been invited.
He was amused to see the way so many of them looked toward Abrabanel, and began drifting in her direction. The young Sephardic woman was already issuing quiet orders to a coterie of other young women whom she seemed to have gathered around her. Calm, relaxed, confident. What was the difficulty of organizing an impromptu festival, after all, when one has already organized an impromptu overturn of the established order?
Ulrik wondered who the young women were. Most were probably commoners, but several of them were obviously noblewomen. They reminded him of the ladies-in-waiting that could be found in any royal court. At least, those courts run by very capable queens.
By mid-afternoon, the palace was close to a shambles. Not quite, because the mob that had poured into it was in good spirits and not particularly given to drunken revelry. Not this day, at least, when the party was in honor of a child. Still, there was simply no way that number of people could pass through a palace without producing a lot of damage.
Most of the damage could be cleaned up by the morrow, though. Even the worst of it—an entire section of balcony collapsing; fortunately, with enough warning for the people below to escape death and mutilation—could be repaired within a week or two.
Well worth it, Ulrik thought. Cheap at the price.
The palace had a radio room of its own, which Rebecca had ordered closed off within two minutes of hearing Kristina’s impromptu party announcement. There were Marine guards at the door to enforce the orders. These Marines weren’t wearing fancy uniforms but they were carrying exactly the same fearsome weapons.
“Send it,” Rebecca ordered the operator. This message was going out in simple Morse code. She wanted it transmitted as far and as wide as possible.
Princess Kristina, heiress to the thrones of
Sweden, the Union of Kalmar, and the United States of Europe, arrived in Magdeburg today accompanied by her betrothed, Prince Ulrik of Denmark. The entire populace of the nation’s capital was there to greet her. Long live the Vasa dynasty!
“Anything else?” the operator asked, when he was finished.
“No,” she said. “I think that will do.”
Chapter 34
Berlin
When he read the radio message, Axel Oxenstierna burst into a rare fury. “The girl is impossible! Why doesn’t she just abdicate now and save us all twenty years of grief?”
Darmstadt, Province of the Main
The radio message was reported in every newspaper in the USE. That included Darmstadt’s own Abendzeitung.
After the mayor finished reading the short account out loud, there was silence in the council chamber. In the streets outside the Rathaus, the sounds of celebration filtered through the thick walls. The city’s CoC had organized a parade.
“Well, now what!” said the militia commander. It was not even a rhetorical question. More in the way of an exasperated outburst.
One of the council members shrugged. “Face it, Gerlach. The Swede’s floundering.”
In times past, “the Swede” would have been a reference to the king, Gustav II Adolf. Today, it was a reference to Chancellor Oxenstierna.
“If only the emperor would come back,” pined another council member.
And so, the status of a dynasty shifted still further.
Augsburg, one of the USE’s seven independent imperial cities
As usual, the commander of Augsburg’s militia had a very different viewpoint from his counterpart in Darmstadt.
He’d been reading aloud too. Now finished, he set down the copy of the Augsburger Nachrichten and leaned back in his chair. Less given to formalities than their counterparts in Darmstadt, Augsburg’s city council had been meeting in the tavern in the Rathaus basement.
“Good for her,” he said. “Good for her.”
