1634 The Baltic War

by Eric Flint

  He spotted one of the sergeants giving them a quizzical look. Thorsten waved his hand, trying to make the gesture seem as relaxed as possible.

  "Just keep having the men dig in!" he shouted. "We're not going anywhere for a while."

  * * * *

  Ingolstadt

  Erik Haakansson Hand didn't think he'd ever seen Johan Banér in such a jolly mood. The Swedish general was practically prancing in the headquarters of the fortress he'd just captured.

  "Ha! Ha! Taken without a single one of those CoC assholes within ten miles of the place! And those useless oh-so-precious world's-best-siege-guns and those fucking snotty up-timers can kiss my rosy Swedish ass! They're still mired somewhere in Franconia!"

  None of it could be denied, of course. True, seizing a fortress by suborning a treacherous garrison commander was hardly what anyone besotted of martial myths would consider a splendid feat of arms. But neither Gustav Adolf nor any of his top officers were prone to such nonsense, anyway. It was just a fact, attested to by the long history of warfare, that most sieges were won by that method.

  For a certainty, none of General Banér's own troops would begrudge him the honor of having seized Ingolstadt without needing reinforcements. They'd been able to march into the city through its own open gates, without a drop of blood spilt in the process. A good portion of them were already guzzling beer in the taverns and eyeing the waitresses.

  The waitresses and tavern-keepers wouldn't even be too worried about the situation, themselves. Troops who captured a city without a fight were usually in a decent enough mood, and not prone to atrocities. Not so long as they remained sober, at least—and by the time they started getting drunk, Banér would have military police units in place. The general was a shithead, sure enough, but he was a competent one. He'd not want Ingolstadt to become a problem instead of an asset.

  So, it was time to do the honors, and no stinting. "My congratulations on a splendid triumph, General Banér," said Colonel Hand, bowing.

  Banér eyed him intently.

  Hand managed not to smile. "I shall send a despatch to my cousin Gustav immediately, informing him of your success. The king and emperor will be most gratified."

  Banér grinned. "Have a drink first! It's dry work, writing long despatches."

  Hand planned the despatch to consist of not more than two sentences. Three, at most. What more was needed?

  But a beer sounded good, actually.

  * * * *

  A bit later, halfway through his first mug, the grin that seemed fixed onto Banér's face thinned a little. Not much.

  "Only problem now is that I've got to figure out what to do with that fuckhead Cratz von Scharffenstein. He insisted on a job, the greedy swine, as well as a bribe. Don't suppose you'd want him?"

  "For what?" Colonel Hand shook his head. "I really don't have much in the way of a military retinue, you know. My cousin mostly uses me for... ah..."

  This could get a bit delicate.

  "Special assignments." Hopefully, Banér was too full of his jolly self at the moment to press for details. Special assignments like keeping a watch on intemperate and overly-ambitious generals, for instance.

  "Too bad." Banér took another swig. "I'd love to fob him off onto Torstensson, but he's a canny one. Maybe Horn will take him."

  Hand shrugged. "I really can't see where it's a big problem, Johan. If you'd like, I can add a sentence or two to my despatch, asking the emperor if he has a garrison command available somewhere."

  "Better make it somewhere far away from any possible action," sneered Banér. "The treacherous louse."

  Hand smiled. "Oh, I'm sure there's something. The garrison at Stralsund, perhaps. He can study the glorious waters of the Baltic all day, keeping an eye out for fish with evil ambitions."

  * * * *

  Somewhere in Franconia

  Major Tom Simpson and Lt. Commander Eddie Cantrell studied the radio message that their commander Colonel Schmidt had just passed over to them. They were standing just outside the tent that the radio operator had set up for the night.

  "Well, fuck. I guess it's Basel after all."

  Eddie kept studying the message; as if, by some magic brought on by intense scrutiny, the contents might change. Tom looked up and glowered at the artillery train. The great, huge, heavy, ponderous, unwieldy, break-your-back-before-breakfast-and-rupture-you-by-lunch artillery train.

  "Fuck," he repeated. "It seemed like a good idea, a couple of months and a few hundred miles ago."

  Schmidt shrugged. "It's the nature of war, that's all. Most of what a soldier does winds up being a waste of time and effort, in the end."

  "Please, Heinrich. Don't go all philosophical on me."

  "Don't be silly. That's just common sense. It stands to reason that most of war is a useless waste, since it's a wasteful business to begin with. 'Philosophy' is that mess you fall into when you try to come up with a logical reason for war in the first place."

  "I said. Cut it out. All I know is that by the time I see my globe-trotting mother again, I'm likely to be smaller than I was when she brought me into the world. More wrinkled, too, and squalling worse than I did then. All squished down by unending toil and wailing from endless trauma."

  "Now you're being ridiculous. I'm sure you'll be no smaller than you were at the age of ten. True, you'll be wrinkled. True also, you'll be sobbing like a babe."

  He retrieved the message from Eddie and stooped to enter the radio tent. "I shall inform our esteemed sustainers—oh, so very far away from here—that we shall be off to Basel on the morrow."

  "Moving as fast as we can't," muttered Eddie.

  "Well, fuck," said Tom.

  * * * *

  Army camp on the Danube, west of Ingolstadt

  "What do you mean, they won't let us into the city?" demanded Eric Krenz. The gunnery sergeant's face was filled with outrage. He flung his arms wide. "They couldn't have taken it without us!"

  Mildly, Lieutenant Thorsten Engler replied: "Actually, we didn't fire so much as a shot, Eric."

  "Well, sure. That's because those gutless Bavarians were terrified, the moment they heard we were coming. I'm telling you, Thorsten, without us that fat Swedish bastard would still be on the outside looking in."

  "That's as may be," said Engler. "But legitimate offspring or otherwise, Banér's in command—and he insists there aren't enough billets in Ingolstadt for us. So here we camp, until we get new orders. Just the way it is."

  "Well, fuck," said Krenz.

  * * * *

  Munich

  It was touch and go, for a few days, but eventually Richel decided he'd escaped the headsman's ax.

  Probably.

  Duke Maximilian was in a cold rage, and much of his fury was being leveled on the man who'd wormed his way into being the duke's new principal adviser by arguing for a hard line on every question. No proposed execution had failed to gain Richel's immediate support. Many of them he'd proposed himself, in fact.

  But...

  Even Maximilian had to finally recognize the new reality he faced. He'd severed his ties with Austria, lost Ingolstadt, and had just seen his two best cavalry commanders abandon him for other service. Not even the iron duke of Bavaria could afford to keep executing everyone around him who incurred his displeasure.

  Not any more. Not with the Swede's troops pouring across the Danube and a peasant rebellion spreading through the southern districts of the duchy.

  Richel had no idea how to handle the first problem. But he had an instant solution for the second.

  Behead the peasant ringleaders, of course.

  However, it would be prudent not to raise that proposal for another few days, he thought. Any reference to the headsman was probably not a good idea still, around Maximilian.

  Chapter 58

  Pericula Varia

  Neuburg

  Marc Cavriani was not sure whether he should be glad or sorry. He was glad, certainly, without any doubt at all, to hear that his f
ather had come safely to Neuburg. He was very sorry that his father was already gone.

  They were staying at Egli's house. That made Marc a little nervous. He had not let even Egli know that Susanna was a girl. He was afraid that if Egli knew, he would refuse to let them go on, wherever they decided to go next. He had actually been rather reluctant to let even Egli know that he had someone with him, but he couldn't leave Susanna by herself at an inn and Egli would get curious if he, himself, did not stay at his house in Neuburg. So they were in the loft of Egli's house, in two of the "servants' rooms." Not that Egli had any servants, other than a cook who came in on a daily basis and a woman who came once a week to clean. He found the loft to be handy, however, for the many couriers who passed through bringing letters from the businessmen whom he represented in the city.

  It was too early to get up. Marc sat at the window, drumming his fingers on the window sill. His father had arrived with a dozen women. His father had left with three women. From the descriptions, he assumed that his father had caught up with the English Ladies and taken charge of Frau Simpson and Frau Dreeson. He could not imagine how his father came to be accompanying the archduchess. Egli was no help on that; Herr Cavriani, he said, had not explained the matter.

  At least Marc could stop thinking about the English Ladies. Egli said that they were on their way to Grantville or, perhaps, already there. He had received no news.

  The sensible choice, Marc was inclined to think, would be to cross the river; to head for Nürnberg and Jacob Durre. A short distance, little more than sixty miles, in friendly territory that was reasonably well policed. There wouldn't be any armies, except, perhaps, some USE troops coming down to reinforce Banér. Friendly troops might be to some extent preferable to hostile troops, at least within the USE's own boundaries. Durre could advise them what to do next.

  Marc thought, very, very, strongly, that Nürnberg would be the sensible choice. The other direction, following his father to Basel, was two hundred miles, much of it through territory as chaotic and war-torn as what they had just experienced between Munich and Neuburg. Not something he wanted to repeat, particularly since there was no guarantee that he would catch up with Papa even there.

  It did not make any sense at all for them to try to go to Basel, especially since he was running out of money. Then it occurred to him that he could simply ask Egli for a bank draft. He had a right to. Which lost him one good argument.

  * * * *

  Susanna was crying. Marc could hear her, through the thin boards that partitioned the servants' rooms in the loft of Egli's house. Not loudly. Quietly, the way his sister Idelette had cried after old Muffin, their mother's little dog who had been part of her life since the day she was born, had died. Into her pillow, not wanting anyone to hear.

  He wished that he could go comfort her.

  He did not dare.

  A few weeks before, when he and his father rode to Munich, he had not even known that she existed. He tried to remember what it had been like, living in the world then, before he knew that Susanna Allegretti was in it. Now, he thought, every hair on his head knew that she was alive and in the next room. Separately and individually. Each hair on his arms as well.

  No way did he dare put those arms around a crying Susanna. Not if he was to remain an honorable man.

  He thought that this was the first time he had ever described himself, to himself, as being a man. Not a boy; not a youth. He was a man.

  * * * *

  There were still Catholic churches in Neuburg, just as there were in the Upper Palatinate. Wolfgang Wilhelm had forced them on the people; the counts of the Junge-Pfalz, taking their guidance from Duke Ernst's policies, had neither confiscated them nor expelled their clergy. They received no revenues other than those voluntarily donated by the parishioners, but some were still there, holding services.

  Susanna said that she had to go to confession. Marc blinked. He had a very unfavorable view of going to confession. Not that one should not confess one's sins, of course. But not to a priest. Not in the darkness of a Catholic church with candles and graven images and... well, awful, papist, sorts of things.

  But she was a Catholic. He knew that. Maybe she was used to it.

  He went along, anyway. Standing in the entrance, half-way in and half-way out. Waiting.

  * * * *

  "I killed a man, Father."

  "Do you sincerely repent of this, my child. Do you come to God with contrition?"

  Susanna paused for a moment. She was in the presence of God; she could not lie.

  "No, Father. The man was a soldier. He was trying to kill someone, someone whom I, well, someone who is very dear to me. No. I am sorry that I had to kill him. But if I were put there again today, I would do it again. I would make the same choice. So I cannot say that I am sorry. Not truly."

  She bowed her head, the tears streaming from her eyes, falling on her hands.

  The priest sighed. He had no idea who this penitent was. Not one of his parishioners, certainly. Anonymity or not, he usually had a fairly clear idea of who was kneeling before him, if only because he usually had a fairly clear idea of what the members of his flock were doing.

  This war, the soldiers. A woman; young, from the sound of her voice. A refugee, possibly. Most of the people from the surrounding Bavarian villages were Catholic; some had come into Neuburg instead of fleeing to the southwest. But her accent was not local; Tyrolese, if anything he recognized. The war. Plundering, thieving, raping, both sides alike. Whom had the soldier threatened?

  "Did you plan this in advance, my child. Finding a weapon and concealing it?"

  "No, oh, no. The man who, who was guarding me, was down. I threw rocks. Then I saw the soldier's helmet. I hit him with it. At the end, though...." She confessed about the ditch. The water. Her premeditated action.

  He believed she was contrite. The tears told him so. Her heart was not hardened. She had told him only the truth. If she had to make the choice again, she would make the same choice. That was not a lack of sorrow. Merely the harsh realism of living in this world. He reminded her that she was shedding tears; asked her if these were the first.

  "Oh, no, Father. Every evening, in my pillow. At least, since we came into Neuburg and have a safe place to stay. While we were still outside the walls, I did not have time to cry."

  A penance. Not to be performed immediately, since she probably couldn't do so. A pilgrimage to Maria-Hilf on the Lechfeld, when she had the opportunity. South of Augsburg. Not so far away that an ordinary family could not afford to send her there. Managed by a monastery of his own Franciscan order. New, as pilgrimage centers went; only thirty years old. For now, prayers. And, probably, more nightly tears. He reminded her that we live in a vale of sorrow.

  When the priest left the booth and looked around the half-darkened church, he saw no sign of the penitent to whom he had been speaking. Probably she had gone into one of the side chapels. One of the front doors was half-open, letting a bright oblong streak of sunshine into the vestibule. Outlined against it, at the door, there was a boy, speaking to a young man.

  * * * *

  "I have to go back," Susanna was saying to Marc. "I forgot something."

  "What?"

  "I forgot to confess that I have been wearing men's clothing."

  "Let it go for this time," Marc answered. "You're going to be wearing those clothes for quite a while longer. Might as well take care of it all at once, later on."

  * * * *

  Susanna was in no mood to listen to sensible arguments about going to Nürnberg. She wanted, she insisted, to follow her mistress the archduchess. She informed Marc that Maria Anna had told her to come to Brussels and rejoin her household there. She had no idea whether, if she went to Nürnberg, she would ever be allowed to go to Brussels. Or how. The Spanish Netherlands were, after all, at war with the Swede. Nürnberg was his ally.

  Listening to her, Marc started to realize that Susanna had not just been an errand girl. She had been one
of the archduchess' confidants in the escape from Munich. When she mentioned going back to see Doña Mencia safe, he started to think that Susanna might actually be in specific rather than just generic danger. That she might really be someone whom not only the Bavarians but also the Swedes would like to interview.

  She pointed out that the archduchess could have gone to Nürnberg, but did not; that the archduchess could have gone to Grantville with the English Ladies, but did not. That, for whatever reason she had chosen not to do so, Marc's father and Frau Simpson and Frau Dreeson had apparently concurred with her.

  They spent quite some time talking and speculating. Why hadn't the others persuaded her? There must, Susanna insisted, have been a good reason.

  He tried to put his foot down on one thing. No way were they going to some pilgrimage church twenty miles south of Augsburg at a dinky little village called Untermeitingen so she could do a penance. Not even if she cried about it. He insisted firmly that she could not possibly have done anything that she needed to be so penitential about; after all, she was just a girl.

  Finally, he heard himself say something strange. He would take her to this place. This Maria-Hilf on the Lechfeld. After all, there was a direct road from Neuburg through Augsburg to the place.

  Even that, though, did not move her to agree to do something as sensible as agree to go to Nürnberg. She pointed out that Untermeitingen was in the opposite direction from Nürnberg. She managed to argue that from there, it would make more sense to go to Ulm. In the upshot, Marc and Susanna agreed that they would go to Ulm, not that Marc thought it was a good idea, at all.

  Egli, somehow, was left with the impression that Marc and the boy were going to Nürnberg. He fully concurred with this decision. He saw them across the bridge to the north bank of the Danube. After he went back, they returned and left Neuburg again through the southern gate. At least, now that Ingolstadt had fallen, a person could get in and out of Neuburg again. There were a lot of perfectly ordinary people going in the general direction of Augsburg. Very few soldiers, however, which was a considerable relief to Marc.