1636: The Saxon Uprising by Eric Flint
Herr Langenmantel was still holding a grudge over the personal insult concerning his former betrothed. “That borders on treason, it seems to me!”
By now, though, Langenmantel was on his own. Even the head of the city council, Jeremias Jacob Stenglin, had resigned himself to the inevitable.
“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbled, picking up his stein of beer. “How can the throne betray itself?”
As Stenglin drowned his sorrows, another city council member spoke up. “Face it, Adelbert. The citizenship issue is a lost cause. By now, even half the guildmasters are against making any changes.”
“More like two-thirds,” grunted the militia commander. “Look, it’s just not that important. The city was doing well enough, wasn’t it?” He waved a thick hand. “Yeah, sure, the CoC is annoying. So is my wife, a lot of the time. But she’s reliable. Things could be worse.”
A tavern in Melsungen, in the province of Hesse-Kassel
“Here’s to the health of our landgravine!” shouted one of the revelers, holding up his stein of beer. “Long may she reign!”
The tavern was full, as it often was on a winter’s eve. Not a single stein failed to come up to join the toast.
It now seemed almost certain that Hesse-Kassel would weather the storm without damage. Thanks to the landgrave’s blessed widow.
Another reveler stood up, hoisting his stein. “And here’s to the empress! Long may she reign!”
“She’s getting an early enough start!” shouted another.
Amidst the laughter, not a single stein failed to come up to join that toast either.
A tavern on the coast of the Pomeranian Bay
“I’m glad now I voted for the Prince,” said one of the fishermen at the table.
His two companions gazed at him suspiciously. “You said you’d voted for Wettin,” said one.
The fisherman shrugged. “I lied. Didn’t want to get into trouble, seeing as how the rest of you were so dumb.”
After a moment, the third fisherman said, “Yah, I voted for him too.”
The skeptic rolled his eyes. “Give it a month and it’ll have been pure magic, the way Wettin got elected. Seeing as how apparently nobody voted for him at all.”
Tetschen, near the border between Saxony and Bohemia
“Message just came in from the general,” said the Hangman’s radio operator. He set a slip of paper in front of Jeff Higgins.
With a sense of relief, the regiment’s commander put down the newspaper he’d been laboriously working his way through. There was no German-language newspaper in Tetschen so he’d been trying to make sense out of the analysis in the Noviny.
With no great success. Jeff’s grasp of Czech was rudimentary and mostly limited to everyday phrases you’d use about town. Order a beer, buy a loaf of bread, that sort of thing—not interpret commentary about political developments in a neighboring country.
It was probably a moot point anyway. He already knew what the radio message from Magdeburg said, since it had been picked up by the regiment’s own radio as soon as it was transmitted. In fact, the Noviny had gotten it from them in the first place. Jeff had just been hoping he might pick up some further scraps.
When he looked at the message which had just arrived, that became a moot point also. To hell with scraps. The meal had arrived.
The message was one word.
Now.
“Showtime,” said Jeff, heaving himself to his feet. “Adjutant! We’re moving out!”
Chapter 35
Berlin
“What is it?” asked Colonel Hand, as soon as he entered the king’s chamber. Gustav Adolf was lying on his bed, asleep.
Erling Ljungberg shook his head. “It didn’t last long, and then he fell asleep again. But for a while there…”
The big bodyguard took a deep, sighing breath. “He’s coming back, Erik. I finally believe that he is.”
“What did he say?”
“First, he looked at me, as if he were puzzled. And then he said, ‘Where is Anders’? When I explained that Jönsson was dead, he seemed uncertain as to what I meant for a few seconds. Then—it was just as if a light went on in his eyes, Erik, I swear it was—his face got very sad. He said ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it? Was I too reckless again?’ ”
The colonel looked down at his sleeping cousin. Then he also took a deep, sighing breath.
“And what did you say?”
Ljungberg shrugged. “I told him the truth. ‘Yes, Your Majesty, you were too reckless. But that’s just part of the job. All of us know it. Anders better than anyone.’ Then he looked still more sad. He asked me what happened. He said he didn’t remember anything after the rain started. So I told him. Then he started to cry. That’s when I sent for you. But he fell asleep after a couple of minutes.”
“Dear God in Heaven,” murmured Hand. Some parsons might call that blasphemy, but he didn’t think so himself. Blasphemy was the sin of taking the Lord’s name in vain. Up until this moment, the colonel might be fairly accused of that.
But no longer. It had apparently not been in vain at all.
“What should we do?” asked Ljundberg.
“Nothing, for the moment. We need more than flashes of coherence from him. We need him back. Oxenstierna is in a rage. I think he’s going to mobilize the army and march on Magdeburg himself.”
Ljungberg’s eyebrows went up. “What happened?”
“You didn’t hear?” The colonel nodded toward the king. “His blessed offspring. She and that very smart Danish prince of hers showed up in Magdeburg. Giving speeches and reviewing parades, the whole lot.”
The bodyguard frowned. There was nothing wrong with Ljungberg’s brains, but his interests were quite narrow. The political subtleties of Kristina’s actions obviously didn’t register on him.
“For all intents and purposes, Erling, she’s thrown the support of the dynasty behind the rebels. Or perhaps I should say, behind the legitimate parties—those people in Magdeburg being the only ones so far who haven’t broken the law and have tried to keep the peace.”
“Ah.” Ljungberg was still frowning. “You really think so?”
“Oh, yes. That’s why our blessed chancellor is doing a pretty good imitation of an Icelandic volcano.”
He looked back down at Gustav Adolf. Then, out the window. Night was falling. Very early, as it did this time of year. “All we can do, still, is keep waiting.”
Chapter 36
Königstein fortress, in southern Saxony
The four guards at the main gate to the fortress didn’t think much when they saw the wagon approaching, except to wonder at the fortitude of the drivers. Night was falling and it was starting to snow. It was cold, too, but that was a given in February.
“Fucking Hans,” muttered one of the guards. “He has got to be the greediest provisioner in Saxony.”
“In Königstein, anyway,” agreed one of his mates. He shifted the musket strapped over his shoulder. “Of course, he’s the only military provisioner in the town.”
“All the less excuse he has,” said a third guard. He was the corporal in charge of the little detachment. “He’s got no competition. So why is he forcing poor Heinrich out in this miserable weather?”
The fourth guard was more philosophically inclined. “It’s February and we’re in Saxon Switzerland. When is the weather not going to be miserable? At least this way, coming this late, Heinrich and his son can spent the night here. Better than that hovel they live in down in the valley.”
The cart had come nearer. The first guard frowned. “That’s not Heinrich’s son with him. It’s some fellow I don’t know.”
He wasn’t alarmed. There could be any number of reasons the teamster was being assisted today by someone other than his son.
“That’s a new cart too,” said the second soldier. “Big damn thing. What’s he hauling in it, do you think?”
“Turnips, what else?”
As it turned out, Heinrich’s big new wag
The teamster’s new assistant turned out to be a captain in the fabled Hangman Regiment of the Third Division. Who would have guessed?
There was no violence. The guards were quick to see reason. Besides, they didn’t much care anyway. They worked for General von Arnim, who hadn’t moved once out of Leipzig since all the trouble started. What clearer signal could one ask for?
“We’re not part of this,” insisted the corporal, as he handed over his musket.
“Not any longer, for sure,” agreed the Hangman captain cheerfully. “Now, fellows, we’d appreciate it if you’d open the gate. And show us to the mess hall. Most of your mates will be gathered for supper now.”
They had good intelligence too.
Once the gate was opened, hundreds of soldiers materialized out of the woods below the fortress, like ghosts. They were wearing peculiar white camouflage outfits. Quite superb, really, for Saxony in winter. Who could have known they were there?
The capture of most of the garrison in the mess hall went smoothly and easily. Those soldiers were even less inclined to put up a fight than the guards, since most of them were completely unarmed.
Who brings weapons to eat supper in the mess hall? Only someone expecting a surprise attack, and who would expect that?
The garrison’s commander was captured in his own rooms, where he was having a private supper with the servant who doubled as his concubine.
She screeched with outrage. He put up no fight at all.
The captain in charge of the armory was a jackass and proved it once again. He did put up a fight—such as it was; a pistol against four rifled muskets, and he fumbled the wheel-lock mechanism to boot—and got shot to pieces for his efforts.
Good riddance, was the general attitude. A man like that could get you killed.
And for what? Von Arnim was late with the pay again. To make things worse, that probably wasn’t even his fault. The Swedish chancellor was turning out to be every bit as unreliable a paymaster as the late and unlamented Elector of Saxony.
“You want a different job?” Heinrich asked the corporal who’d been at the gate. The teamster was in a good mood now that the danger had passed with no harm done to himself or his equipment. He’d quite forgiven the soldiers of the Hangman Regiment for high-jacking his wagon and locking his son in a closet. “I think business is going to pick up. The Hangman pays with beckies. And people I know in Tetschen say they never stiff you either.”
It was worth thinking about. The soldier’s trade had some major drawbacks. It wasn’t as dangerous as handling livestock, if you could keep from getting sick. But the erratic pay could get nerve-wracking. Besides, the corporal was getting to an age where he should start thinking about getting married. Not too many women were willing to marry a soldier, unless he was an officer, and the ones who were…
Tetschen, near the border between Saxony and Bohemia
“I wasn’t expecting you here this soon, sir.” said David Bartley.
Mike Stearns looked around the airfield. A platoon of soldiers from the Hangman was standing at attention nearby. An honor guard to escort him to the regiment’s headquarters, obviously. Next to them stood a group of worried-looking civilians.
Very worried, apparently. They were up early. The sun was just above the horizon. Colonel Wood and Mike had taken off from the airfield at České Budějovice at the crack of dawn, as soon as there was enough light to fly.
“Since Jesse had come by for a visit, I figured I might as well fly up here ahead of the division.” Mike turned back to look up at Colonel Wood, who hadn’t gotten out of the cockpit of the Gustav. “You coming in?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the engine, which the colonel hadn’t shut off.
Jesse shook his head. “No!” he shouted back. “I don’t know how long this clear weather will last!”
Mike waved a farewell and moved away from the plane, which began taxiing back onto the runway.
“Who’re the civilians?” he asked.
“Merchants and tradesmen. They’re fretting on account of the Hangman left town. Most of the regiment, anyway. They’re worried what’ll happen to business.”
“For a while, it’ll drop. No way around that. Afterwards, who knows?” Mike gave the quartermaster officer a grin. “We may all be dead. Well, except you and the detachment I leave behind.”
Bartley looked unhappy. “About that, sir…”
“No, David. N. O. Under no conditions, under no circumstances, am I taking you with me.” He clapped a friendly hand on the young man’s slender shoulder. “You’re ten times more valuable here than you’d be anywhere else. Unless your progress reports are a pack of lies, anyway.”
“Uh, no, sir. They’re not. But—”
“Which letter in ‘n-o’ is giving you the most trouble, Captain? You’re the best quartermaster in the army, hands down. And I’m about to launch a campaign in the middle of winter against one of the most capable and experienced generals in the world. One of the few things I’ve got on my side is that I’m damn sure I’m going to be better supplied and provisioned than Banér—so long as you’re handling the logistics. That means you stay here until we take Dresden. Assuming we get that far, of course.”
Again, he gave Bartley that somewhat savage grin. “But I suppose I don’t need to worry that my army will freeze to death before we get to Dresden, do I?”
David looked glum. “No, sir, you don’t. You won’t starve, either.” He nodded toward the town. “I’ve got enough winter outfits in the warehouses for the whole division, with a couple thousand suits to spare and at least that many extra pairs of boots. There are only enough skis and snowshoes for a couple of battalions, though.”
“That’ll be enough. I’d just be using them as scouts in really bad weather.”
“And enough food and water to keep you going for a month.”
“Wagons? Sleighs?”
“Plenty of both.” Bartley smiled. “The most worried-looking of those gents over there is the guy who made them. He just had the biggest boom of his life.”
“Well, then, I’d better go talk to them. A happy and secure base is always a big asset.”
Mike did a much better job of cheering up the merchants and tradesmen than David could have done. Bartley was handicapped by having the mind of a financier and quartermaster. Precise numbers, predictable outcomes, sure bets—those were his stock in trade. Watching one of the world’s best politicians at work was simultaneously dazzling and disturbing.
When it was over, David still couldn’t figure out how many lies Mike had told them. If he’d told them any at all. Politicians seemed to operate in an alternate universe where concepts like cause and effect, action and result, premise and conclusion, had at least eleven more dimensions than they did in the workaday world inhabited by normal human beings.
“That’s what they mean by ‘campaign promises,’ isn’t it? Uh, sir.”
“Yup.” The grin came back. “Think of it as a promise that you’ll campaign to make it happen. Now, show me these winter outfits. I’m dying to see the things, after hearing the reports.”
David was awfully proud of them, in point of fact. He was something of a military history buff. He’d designed the outfits himself—well, allowing for a whole lot of input from actual tailors—based on what he remembered of the telogreika, the padded winter jacket that the Soviet army had used in World War II. That had been one of the great advantages the Russians had had over the Nazis.
Most of the outfits were gray, but he’d had about two thousand done in white for camouflage. The Hangman Regiment had taken almost half of them for their assault on the fortress at Königstein.
The jackets all came with matching padded trousers, and there were good winter boots and plenty of wool socks. The Third Division would be one of the few—maybe the only—large military unit in this day and age that would fight a winter campaign
What impressed Mike the most, though, was something David hadn’t even mentioned in his reports.
“You made sleighs for the volley guns?”
Bartley shook his head. “It’s better than that, actually. Uh, sir. These are more like detachable skis that you can add onto the regular gun carriages if you need to operate on snowfields. Here, I’ll show you how they work.”
Mike had half-forgotten than David Bartley had gotten started as a tycoon by helping to design down-time sewing machines based on up-time models. The young man was a good artificer as well as a whiz at finance.
“The town’s blacksmiths figured out most of it,” David admitted. “But it was my idea to start with.”
The design was downright cunning. The ski attachments didn’t weigh all that much and could be fixed to the carriages ahead of time. Once the rig was in place, it wouldn’t significantly impede the teams of horses which pulled the volley guns. But with a simple cranking mechanism, the skis could be lowered in less than two minutes—at which point the carriages became sleighs, for all practical purposes.
Mike scratched his jaw. “I wonder if anyone’s ever tried to tried to use cannons in winter using sleighs instead of regular carriages?”
“I know of at least one instance when it was done,” said David. “During the revolutionary war, Henry Knox hauled a bunch of cannons from Fort Ticonderoga to Boston in the middle of winter using sleighs. I don’t think they kept them on the sleighs while they were firing them, though. They wouldn’t really need to, since they were using them against fixed British positions, not on a battlefield.”
“Regular field pieces might be too heavy to fire on a sleigh. Shouldn’t be a problem with volley guns, though.” Mike gave Bartley a smile. “We’ll find out, won’t we? In the meantime, see if you can mount a field piece on something like this.”
That’d keep the blacksmiths happy, at least.
Three days later, accompanied by the same platoon that had been waiting for him at the airfield, Mike left for the fortress at Königstein. He’d had to wait those three days because of a snowstorm that had passed through Brandenburg and Saxony and the southern fringes of which had touched northern Bohemia.