1634 The Baltic War

by Eric Flint

  No. It was plain and simple. They had to keep out of sight. It would be nice to be invisible. He thought wistfully of the stories of the ancient Tarnhelm. More prosaically, they were constantly hiding.

  That was easier than it usually would have been. The villages were basically deserted and unpopulated; the fields untended. It would have been a good harvest, after the miserable one of the preceding year, but the soldiers were carelessly riding or tramping the grain down as they passed. Another grievance for the peasants. The region between Munich and Ingolstadt would be very restless once this autumn campaign was over and the armies had to go into winter quarters.

  Marc and Susanna hadn't gone into the villages. Soldiers were in all of them, looking for food and loot. They had stayed on the outskirts; even better, in the hay meadows. The cattle were all gone from the grazing lands, either driven off by their owners or confiscated by the army. Any hay that was to be made this year had already been made and was in the barns. A bit of stubble was left. There was not much new growth coming up through it this late in the season, not in this heat. There was little in the hay meadows to interest passing troops. Marc hoped that the soldiers would continue to graze their horses on the pasture land that had not been put to hay this season.

  The unit passing now was unusual. It had to be the retinue of some extremely important officer, with his staff. The duke was sending someone very significant to confront the Swedes south of Ingolstadt. Who? Marc wondered. From what he had heard of the Bavarian army in this year of 1634, the only commander who would rate that kind of retinue, short of Maximilian himself, was Franz von Mercy.

  A troop of riders made a lot of noise, but he could hear a dog, probably one of the half-starved ones left behind in a nearby village, over the hoofbeats and rattles. It was baying. By the sound of it, the cursed mutt was running across the field directly toward them.

  * * * *

  A shadow fell over him from behind. "A couple of deserters, Captain," somebody said.

  Marc rolled; stood up. Susanna rolled, sat up.

  Two men. One an officer.

  Definitely the wrong officer to see him here.

  "My," the captain said. "Not deserters, I think, Sergeant. If it isn't our supposedly Italian repairer of bridges? Lying here beneath a bush, spying perhaps? With an apprentice spy to help him. A runner perhaps, who takes the information he gathers to his paymaster? Both unarmed, as it would appear. Secure them."

  It was a drainage ditch, after all. For generations, the farmers of the village had been tossing rocks into it, to slow the loss of soil caused by the flow of the water after the rains. Susanna's left hand closed on a fine, solid, rock. She threw it into the face of the sergeant's horse, followed by a right-hand throw of a rock in the general direction of the captain's horse.

  The horses were trained, but this was not a battle. They were not expecting this. The sergeant was half-dismounted when the rock hit; his horse spooked and headed in the direction its horsy brain thought might be home, at a flat out run. This required it to jump the drainage ditch. The sergeant was lucky, in a way; he managed to pull his foot out of the stirrup; he was not being dragged across the countryside by one leg. He was unlucky in another. The landing on the rocky lower bank smashed his left wrist to a pulp. The right one was broken, but cleanly. He moaned in pain. Susanna wobbled out of the ditch, her footing uncertain on the loose, rough dirt of the upper bank, a rock in each hand.

  * * * *

  All Marc could think was that the captain must not be allowed to get a shot off. A shot would bring a dozen men, at least. The captain was drawing his sword. Marc thanked God for the training that the man's tutors had drilled into him from childhood. A noble. His first response to danger was to go for his sword, even when a pistol would be more effective.

  The captain had been wrong in his assessment. Marc was not completely unarmed; he had his dirk on his belt, hidden under his loose shirt. He leaped forward, slashing at the thongs that attached the rider's saddle-bags, pistols, helmet, any thong he could reach. He was hoping for the saddle girth, but missed.

  The captain started to bring his sword down. Susanna threw another rock. She was aiming at the horse again, because horses were big. She missed the horse but she did hit the man. The down-slash of the sword missed Marc and went against the side of the horse. With the flat, not the blade. The captain was good at this; he had managed to turn it at the last instant. He raised the sword again. Marc was jumping back, trying to get out of its reach. Susanna threw her last rock. Without waiting to see where it went, she scrambled back into the ditch to get more.

  Marc slashed another thong. The captain's elaborately inlaid and engraved steel helmet rolled under his horse as it landed; it bounced once. One of the horse's hooves came down on it, caught it a glancing blow, shot it to the side. It came to rest by the ditch.

  Marc ran around the horse's head, dirk out; came in on the other side before the rider could turn; plunged it into the horse's neck, where it stuck. He couldn't get it back out. The horse faltered; Marc backed off again. The captain jumped clear, dropping his sword to get it out of his own way. Susanna threw another rock, hitting him in the back. He stumbled forward a half step rather than bending to pick up the sword. Marc grabbed him around the neck, pulling him away from the sword. Marc would far rather wrestle an unarmed man than face an armed, skilled, swordsman. Any day. Especially today.

  * * * *

  Marc was down. Underneath. That had to be bad. Susanna looked around. The helmet. Grasping it by the chin strap, she ran toward the two struggling wrestlers and brought it down against the back of the head of its owner just as hard as she could, with an overhead swing, a two-handed grip.

  His hold on Marc faltered a little. She swung it again, just as he turned his head. Her swing connected with his temple.

  Marc was unconscious. The man had been strangling him. But he was breathing.

  Susanna looked down. She could not be sure how long the captain would be out. She looked at his sword. She was not sure that she had the strength to kill him with it. Even cutting up a tough old hen with a butcher knife took a lot of strength. She knew; she had done it.

  But he was right on the edge of the ditch. The bank sloped down. She wouldn't have to lift his weight. She pulled him down to the bottom and held his face in the water.

  * * * *

  Maximilian Adam, the elder of the two surviving sons of the landgrave of Leuchtenberg—now himself, for a few brief weeks, the landgrave of Leuchtenberg—drowned in a drainage ditch south of Hohenkammer.

  * * * *

  Susanna looked at her hands and let out a little sob.

  "Are you hurt?" Marc asked.

  "No. But my hands are ruined. So rough, so callused; the fingernails and cuticles are all snagged. When I do get back to the archduchess, it will be weeks and weeks before I can work on delicate fabrics. Hands like this would ruin silks, satins, and velvets. Not to mention chiffons and fine lace. I will have to soak them in olive oil and keep them inside kid gloves for a long, long, time. Buff them, smooth them. I hope that she will keep me in her Hofstaat that long, while I can't work. Her allowance is very limited, you know. She can't afford to pay many supernumeraries."

  Susanna considered it more prudent not to tell Marc that she had drowned the captain deliberately. He might worry about it. After she was sure that the captain was dead, she just climbed out of the ditch and shook him until he woke up. Then they just left everything there—well, except that Marc took the weapons and ammunition, the ones he would be able to carry on foot, in his pack, without anyone's seeing them. The horse with his own dirk in its neck had run away. They also took the food that was in the captain's saddle bag—the one that Marc had cut off—and came back to the herdsman's shelter at the side of the hay meadow.

  * * * *

  Marc looked at her with concern. She was so cute, like a kitten. Not a fluffy one; a skinny orange and cream tabby that needed to drink more milk. So little and defen
seless. Sitting here, in the middle of a war, worrying about her hands. He had to take care of her.

  They had both lost interest in watching more soldiers ride past, for today, at least. They ate the captain's food. It had been meant for today; it wouldn't keep.

  * * * *

  The official record, written up after the body was found, stated that the young landgrave had been killed in action while participating in the siege of Ingolstadt. The sergeant died that night, of shock, during a field amputation of his left arm. Searchers from Leuchtenberg's unit had not found them until evening, well after dusk; by then, the sergeant was not coherent. In any case, he could not have explained exactly what had happened. He had been lying face-down in the ditch since he fell.

  Part VIII

  September, 1634

  Another Race Hath Been,

  and Other Palms Are Won

  Chapter 57

  Distrahere Dolor Tale Dulcis

  Bavaria, between Neuberg and Bavaria

  General Franz von Mercy leaned forward in his saddle, squinting at the enemy forces that had just come in sight on the road ahead. "That looks..."

  His subordinate, Colonel Johann von Werth, finished the sentence. "Like the new light artillery the Swedes used at Ahrensbök. Yes, sir, I agree. The ones that are said to have devastated the comte de Guébriant's cavalry charge."

  Von Werth's head swiveled from side to side, assessing the terrain with an experienced soldier's eye. "And this ground is as bad as you could ask for. The river hemming us in on the right, those woods on our left. No room for cavalry to maneuver, and a good field of fire for artillery on the defense."

  * * * *

  Facing them from the other direction, also squinting into the distance, were two young officers of the USE's flying artillery regiment.

  "What do you think, Thorsten?" asked Lieutenant Markus Reschly.

  The lieutenant next to him made a face. "Well, we certainly aren't going to charge them. Not with only four out of six batteries."

  He swiveled in his saddle, looking back down the road. The last two batteries of their company had encountered problems with broken equipment. Their commanding officer, Captain Carl Witty, had stayed behind to deal with the matter while he sent the other four batteries ahead under the command of his two lieutenants.

  Thorsten didn't really expect the other batteries to arrive within less than an hour. As fast as the flying artillery had been moving since the assault across the Danube began, they'd outpaced their supply train. It wasn't likely that Witty and his handful of artificers would find wheels and axles that fit the gun carriages in any of the nearby Bavarian villages—and even less likely they'd find a blacksmith. The villages were completely deserted. No civilians in their right mind wanted to remain in an area about to be turned into a battleground. Or anywhere in the vicinity of an army—enemy or "friendly," it hardly mattered—that was on campaign.

  Lieutenant Reschly grunted humorlessly. "I wouldn't be any too keen on charging them even if we did have a full company. That'd be playing cavalrymen at their own game, I think. No, better we just take defensive positions across the road and keep that Bavarian cavalry pinned down, until we get reinforcements."

  Thorsten wasn't about to argue the point. Certainly none of the battery's sergeants would, either. Those non-coms, with the experience of the Baltic campaign under their belts, already had the guns spreading out and setting up to cover the entire field.

  "Right you are," he said. "We'll just wait and see what the Bavarians decide to do."

  * * * *

  From the set expression on his face, Colonel von Werth knew his commander had decided that, bad as the tactical situation might be, they simply had no choice. They had to break that artillery, before the noose could close any further around Ingolstadt. No matter how severe their own casualties.

  "I don't believe we have any choice," said General von Mercy. "Colonel, I'd appreciate it if—"

  He broke off, hearing the sound of a horse galloping up from behind them. Swiveling in their saddles, the two officers saw a courier racing up.

  "General! General von Mercy!" The courier was waving his hand in a vigorous manner. Almost a frantic one, even.

  "We may as well wait until we see what this is about," said von Mercy.

  A few seconds later, the courier drew up next to them. "Ingolstadt is taken," he said, half-gasping the words. "Given up, rather. That stinking traitor Cratz von Scharffenstein surrendered it to Banér not more than an hour ago."

  Von Mercy set his jaws grimly. Von Werth leaned over his saddle. "You're certain?" he demanded of the courier. "No possibility this is just a rumor?"

  The man had his breath back. "It's certain, Colonel. I was there myself when it happened. If I hadn't been warned by a friend in the garrison—those bastards didn't raise so much as a peep of protest—I'd have been caught by the Swedes pouring in. As it was, I just managed to escape in time to bring you the news."

  Von Werth nodded; then, looked at von Mercy. Seeing the expression on the general's face, the colonel turned back to the courier and pointed a bit off to the side.

  "Your horse will need water. There's a stream over there."

  Once the courier was gone, von Werth turned his eyes back to von Mercy. By now, the two officers were quite good friends, as well as soldiers who trusted each other in professional terms—and this was now, clearly enough, a matter between friends.

  "What are you thinking, Franz?" Von Werth's lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "Aside from the obvious fact that we will not be charging the enemy, after all."

  The general's expression was every bit as sardonic. "To say the least. Our soldiers are now our sole asset. Yours and mine, I mean—and fuck Bavaria."

  Von Werth drew in a long, slow breath. By the standards of the war, he and Franz von Mercy had both been somewhat unusual—in terms of being loyal to their employers, even more than their skill. It was not a reputation that von Werth wanted to give up lightly.

  "You really think Maximilian...?"

  "Don't fool yourself, Johann. The duke's behaving insanely. It doesn't matter that Cratz von Scharffenstein betrayed Ingolstadt to the enemy, not us. You can bet everything you own that Cratz will no longer be within the duke of Bavaria's grasp. Which leaves you and me—the two most prominent officers left who were encharged with defending Ingolstadt. Maximilian will have our heads off within a day after we get hauled into Munich."

  Von Werth didn't really doubt von Mercy's assessment. The arrest and execution of young Hörwarth—so transparently innocent of the charges against him—was enough to prove that Maximilian's fury was insensate, no matter how cold it might seem.

  He pursed his lips. "You realize that if we flee, he'll strip us of all our possessions."

  Von Mercy shrugged. "True. The ones in Bavaria, at least. Which, granted, is most of what either of us owns. But"—here he tossed his head back, indicating the large force of cavalrymen behind them—"we still have our most precious asset, as professional soldiers. Our men."

  Von Werth glanced back. "An even split, more or less? That's what it will be, if you allow me to keep the companies I raised." Honesty compelled him to add: "Well... I'd actually have a bit more than half, I think."

  His friend smiled. "You'll need them, if I'm guessing right. Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar is a friend of yours. I presume that's where you'll go, yes?"

  Von Werth nodded.

  "Then you have a tougher road ahead of you than I do," said von Mercy. "You'll have to skirt the Swede's forces in Swabia as well as the Bavarians. But... in this chaos, I think you'll manage. Take the troops with my blessing, Johann."

  His friend and subordinate cocked his head slightly. "And you? I'm sure the Swede would hire you."

  Von Mercy grimaced. "I don't think I'm quite cold-blooded enough to actually switch sides in the middle of a war. Besides, it could be awkward. I might run into Cratz von Scharffenstein over there—and it would be hard not to shoot the swine down.
"

  "Vienna, then."

  The general nodded. "That's what I was thinking. I've met young Ferdinand, who looks to be inheriting the Austrian throne before too long. I think he'll hire me, especially if I bring a sizeable body of cavalrymen with me. And from here to Austria is an easy enough march. Even if I run into some Bavarian troops, I should be able to bluff my way through."

  That was it, then. There was no time to dally. Von Werth leaned over and extended his hand. "It has been a pleasure to serve under you, Franz. Hopefully, some day we may serve together again."

  There was no point in adding that, given the nature of the war that had engulfed Europe for the past sixteen years, it was just as likely that someday they'd find themselves on opposite sides of a battlefield. Such was the nature of a professional soldier's trade.

  The two men shook hands. Then, began trotting their horses toward their cavalrymen, shouting orders as they went.

  They'd get no quarrel from the troops, of course. First, because their soldiers were mercenaries also, and went wherever their paymasters told them to go. And, secondly, because any mercenary is delighted to learn that he'll be going away from a battle, thank you very much.

  * * * *

  "What are they doing?" demanded Mark Reschly. "Their maneuvers make no sense."

  Thorsten Engler hesitated for a few seconds, before answering. "I think they're retreating."

  "But... why?" The young lieutenant from the Moselle was frowning. "I can understand why they'd decide not to charge us. But they ought to be setting up their own defensive lines, then. Keep us from moving on to Ingolstadt."

  Engler shrugged. "Maybe they know something we don't."

  "Could they... be planning to move away and come back on our flank?"

  "Possibly. But with these woods—not to mention all the marshland—that'd take them a while. By then, we'll have reinforcements. Not just Captain Witty and the two batteries, either. Within two hours, the whole regiment should be here, along with at least one of the infantry regiments."