by Eric Flint
And they had experienced the big day, so they could give alms to the one person who hadn’t. Compared to the wealth they were able to loot from the town, it was definitely alms. But together with the wine, clothes and other things Anna had found in the town, it was at least worth the effort.
“Ist mir doch von Herzen leid gewesen, dass die Stadt so schrecklich gebrannt hat, wegen der schönen Stadt und weil es mein Vaterland ist.”
“I was sincerely sorry that the city burned so terribly, because the city was beautiful and because it’s my home country.”
—Peter Hagendorf’s Diary
Breitenfeld, near Leipzig
September 17, 1631
“Da sind wir am Lager wohlauf gewesen die ganze Zeit über, bis der Schwede ist angekommen…Da sind wir ihm entgegengegangen, über zwei Stunden.”
“It was a good time in the camp [in Leipzig] the whole time, until the Swede arrived.…Then we went to meet him, over two hours.”
—Peter Hagendorf’s Diary
From his place in the first line, Peter could look over the whole area. A feeling of pride rose in his chest when he saw the enormous army he was part of.
Seventeen battles formed the heart of the Bavarian army, arranged in the Spanish Ordnance, the square formations the Spaniards called tercio, framed to the left and right by thousands of cavalrymen.
They were waiting on the only rise over the flat grassland, the sun at their backs. The enemy had to look up and face the rising sun. Oh, yes, old Tilly knew well how to prepare a battle in order to win.
Far to the left Peter could see the banners of the Black Cuirassiers. Colonel Pappenheim was leading his famous heavy cavalry in person, and so his infantry—far away on the right wing—was put under the order of the young Bavarian Joachim Graf von Wahl today.
To the right of Peter’s companies, he could see the regiments of Wallies and Wangler and the light cavalry at the rightmost position. The view to the left showed the other battles, the big cannons in the middle.
Straight ahead on the enemy’s left flank Peter could see the Saxons. Von Wahl had already given Tilly’s order down to the companies that those were their first target. Peter smiled. He had heard how inexperienced they were. And their appearance proved that rumor right. Their weapons shone in the sun, their clothes were colorful like peacocks. Experienced mercenaries wore unremarkable clothes, didn’t waste their time washing them, had muskets, dark from the heat of the rounds, pikes and swords stained by oil.
He could count only fifteen or so companies, with very few cavalry. No match for the thirty veteran companies under von Wahl’s command.
This had to be the next big day after Magdeburg. And this time Peter was determined not to fall down again and miss the whole fun.
The artillery on both sides had already started their probing two hours ago. Peter could hear the steady deep pounding of the big pieces. They would certainly shatter the Swedish cannons; not much to answer came back; those were only small field pieces.
A murmur went through the battles, when the heavy cavalry far away at the left flank started an attack. Pappenheim! Yes! Peter fastened his grip at the musket. Dispatch riders came from the center. And now the drums were rolling.
The battles started their march. A picture Peter had dreamt of since he became a soldier. And with seventeen earth-shattering unstoppable battles advancing, the cavalry on the right started their attack.
Yes, scare the gutless Saxons away. Make them run like rabbits. This day will be our victory!
“Jesus Maria!” the men shouted while they made their way crossing the gap to the enemy. “Father Tilly!” Yes, that was better. Peter had always had problems yelling along with the Catholics around him. More perhaps than the other Lutherans and Calvinists in the regiment.
The fact that he had signed in for fighting against his fellow Protestants had taken a long time to register in his mind. Then in Ulm, it seemed to be the easiest way to get a regular income in war-torn Germany.
This time his emotions were not as churning as after Magdeburg. Here they were at least fighting against the foreign Swedes and the Saxon assholes led by the drunkard elector his own people called “Beer George.”
And exactly these Saxons were now straight before them, waiting to be stomped into the ground by Tilly’s glorious warriors. Well, they’d certainly get what they wanted.
The light cavalry had already attacked and found very few problems. The lines of the Saxons showed gaps, began to waver, seemed to break.
Don’t hurry! Leave some of the glory to us!
But the cavalry didn’t hear Peter’s thoughts. They started to circle the Saxon regiments, and separate them from their Swedish support.
Running horses and marching men blew up more and more dust, and in the meantime Pappenheim’s regiment had reached the foot of the little hill they had started from. So Peter lost his overview.
New orders were coming. Ah, the old fox! Tilly obviously wanted to take advantage of the Saxon’s weakness. The three regiments of the right flank were slowly turning to the right, to make room for the other fourteen to their left.
Peter coughed. He wasn’t the only one. The dust in the air became thicker, mingled with the smell of sulfur and ash. He had, like most of his comrades, drawn his scarf up to cover his mouth, but the hot weather of the last weeks, together with the boots of thirty thousand men, had made a desert out of the grass plains. Only from the sun’s position at his back could Peter tell that they were still advancing on the Saxons.
Or at least to the place where they had been. They should have met them in the meantime. So the cowards had already panicked and left the battlefield. Peter tried to imagine the layout. With the Saxons gone, Pappenheim’s regiment and the two others to their right no longer had an enemy to face. Infantry was not fit to pursue fleeing enemies. That was the task of the cavalry.
So the regiments would have to turn left and attack the Swedes from behind. No problem. That was even better. Somewhere their camp followers should hang around. They were easy prey for the victorious army and a good booty, too. Peter was satisfied with his tactical sense, when he noticed the drums changing their rhythm to indicate the left turn.
But soon their advance slowed down. Over the shuffling of thousands of feet Peter could hear shooting. Muskets and the high tone of the small Swedish cannons, the pounding of their rounds somewhere before him. Apparently this was not behind the Swedish lines; this wasn’t an open flank. The Swedish must have managed to open a new front.
But what had happened to the imperial cannons? The regular deep pounding had turned irregular. And worse. One of their rounds even crashed into the lines of the Pappenheim regiment. A loud moaning rose, the lines wavering. Idiots! Why don’t they shoot the Swedes? And then another round, again from the left. More men went down. Suddenly a rumor was spreading. “The Swedes have captured our cannons.” That was bad. Very bad.
The regiment was still not in a place to fight. In the meantime their advance had completely stopped, and the dust was still too thick to see anything. The men looked in the direction from where the horrendous cannon balls from their own cannons were arriving.
Again a new command from the drums. “Spread! Spread!” Somebody had reacted. But the men had no room to spread. Before him were the hindmost lines of another regiment; behind him all the lines of his own. To the right and left men from his regiment and two more to the right. So he could only stand and wait, wait and stand. And hope that none of the big balls landed on his head.
Ahead him the cries of men became louder. Each time one of the Swedish cannon balls struck it didn’t only take a few men. The balls were arriving grazing, smashing through the lines like murderous skittles balls. Again and again he could see through the dust a whole row of men in front of him being hit and torn by a single ball.
Peter cursed, when his tactical sense set in again, painting a clear picture of the situation. This must have been a trap. The Saxons had been the bait, fla
mboyantly colorful, guaranteeing not to be ignored. They must have had an order to retreat immediately and lure the cavalry away.
Oh shit! And all the regiments on the right side were neutralized. Standing behind the other ones in the middle with no chance to fight. This was more than frustrating.
You are lucky, his mind told him. The battles at the front are torn apart by the Swedish muskets and cannons. You can only be hit by one of our captured cannons. In the half clear sky he could see most of the big balls traveling far over the regiment. If none of these kills you by chance, you will stay on your feet.
A small comfort. He wanted to fight, but he couldn’t. He stood locked between five thousand men with no chance to advance, retreat or dodge to the sides.
Oh what a grandiose shit! Another not-so-big day in my life.
* * *
`“An diesem Tag sind wir geschlagen worden, die ganze bayrische Armee, ausgenommen diese vier Regimenter nicht…aber was wir in der Altmark gefressen haben, haben wir redlich kotzen müssen vor Leipzig.”
“On that day, we were beaten, the whole Bavarian army, all but these four regiments, namely Pappenheim, Wallies, Wangler and Young Tilly…But what we devoured in the Altmark we had to vomit near Leipzig.”
—Peter Hagendorf’s Diary
Ducal-Bavarian Wheat Beer Brewery, Kelheim
March 1632
“Unser Regiment ist zu Kelheim an der Altmühl gelegen. Hier haben wir wieder gutes Quartier gehabt. Da wird ein trefflich gutes Weißbier gebraut.”
“Our regiment took quarters in Kelheim along the Altmühl. Here we had again a good accommodation. A very good wheat beer is brewed there.”
—Peter Hagendorf’s Diary
“That’s impossible!” Peter shook his head and took another big pull from his stein of Weißbier. Being in quarters in a town famous for its beer had its advantages.
“I’m telling you the way it is. I’ve been there. They call their town ‘Grantville,’ but they’re no Frenchies. They swear it had been in Northern America until last year. In the year Twenty-Zero-Zero.” Thomas von Scharffenberg was another mercenary. In Magdeburg he had been the Fähnrich of Peter’s company; and while Peter was recovering from his wounds he went to Thuringia foraging with a handful of companies. And there they had encountered a new kind of enemy.
Peter shook his head, half from disbelief, half to get his beer-drowned head free to understand.
“They’ve got more guns than a regiment,” Franz Moser chimed in. Originally he had come from Austria, learned the craft of gunsmith in Suhl, but couldn’t become a master there. “A town of three thousand inhabitants including women and children armed to the teeth like ten Spanish tercios. I honestly believe they are born with a gun in their hand.”
Laughter arose around them. Gallows humor. Franz always made jokes, when the situation got nasty.
“Well,” Peter said. “Three thousand armed people are not negligible. Militia are always difficult to crack, when they are fortified behind city walls.”
“Grantville doesn’t have walls,” Thomas said smiling. “No palisades, not even a trench. It’s down in a valley. Their creek goes straight through the town instead of around.”
Peter tried to imagine such a town. He failed.
“And there weren’t three thousand on the field. They attacked us with not more but a company of infantrymen. Our colonel wanted to simply stomp their company but they shredded us like a piece of paper.
“They didn’t even need the cavalry they had.”
“Cavalry?” Peter asked. “So they have regular troops where they come from?”
Common shaking of heads.
“They were Scots, a company, no idea where they got them from.” Thomas shrugged. “But they used them only for cleaning up. These Americans, you know, they’ve got weapons shooting clack, clack, clack, clack. Without pause for reloading. Burning bullets. Without heating them first. I’ve got a burned wound.” He showed Peter the small black scar at his upper arm. “And after they had killed most of the regiment, instead of hanging the rest at trees, they took the survivors to their doctors. They cleaned my wound and stitched the edges together.”
“And then let you leave, for no reason?”
“They imprisoned us,” Franz said, grimacing as if from pain. “Full three days. And do you know what the worst torture was?”
Peter shook his head. First treating their wounds, and then torturing them?
Franz rolled his eyes. “They washed us.” Everyone broke out in laughter. “They said we’re full of vermin. They poured water over us, gave us stinking soap to rub in. What a shame!”
Peter laughed. “Do you want to tell me they were wrong? About the vermin I mean.”
Franz only grinned.
Peter sobered. “And what are these people? Wizards? Witches?” he asked.
Franz shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think so. These shotguns they have, you know, I could build them easily if I had the right tools.”
“I don’t think so either,” Thomas said. “There weren’t sudden thunderstorms, poison in the air, or evil demons killing our people. Only weapons. But what kind of weapons…think how not long ago there weren’t any muskets. And now add three hundred and seventy years of development. I’m not surprised about that.”
Franz suddenly grinned. “And beautiful girls they have. And their teeth…as if made from white marble and polished.”
Peter laughed, uncertainly, trying to hide the ruins in his mouth. It was simply unbelievable. Then he got serious again. “What do you think will happen?”
Thomas shrugged. “Perhaps the Swedes will attack them. Rumor said the Thuringian princes supporting the Swede are far from happy about these Americans. It seems they try to get political influence at the expense of the Wettins, Schwarzburgs and Reußens. I heard they are threatening the town councils around them to join their so-called United States.”
Peter frowned. “That would be too good to be true. Two threats eliminating each other. And if not? If they join the Swedes? Can you imagine what they could do to us?” He tried to keep his good mood, but the picture of Swedish cannons ripping the soldiers around him was still visible in his mind. And he tried to imagine musketeers firing without reloading and firing and firing.
“How many rounds do you say they have in their muskets?”
“‘Shotguns’ is what they call them,” Franz repeated. “Some have magazines with several rounds, others are simply opened up like a book, throwing out the used cartridge, and then they insert the new one, close it and fire again. Ten heartbeats they need.” He showed with his hands. Shoot, open, insert, close, aim, shoot, open and so on. No fiddling with fuses, no black powder to prime the pan, simply shooting.
“And then,” Franz made a pause. “There is the machine, a gun that shoots and shoots and shoots without end. Rattattat-rattattat-rattattat. It’s simply terrible if you stand on the wrong side of their barrels.” His face was mirroring the horror. No sign of the jokester any longer.
Peter frowned again. “What can we do? Our regiment I mean.”
Thomas took a deep breath. “Pikemen? Nothing. They’re about to become extinct. Musketeers? They must learn to get cover, take aim and fire volleys. Like the guys who shot you in Magdeburg. What you can’t see you can’t shoot.
“So what will you do, Corporal Hagendorf?”
Peter didn’t answer. His eyes traveled into the distance. Then suddenly he came to a decision.
“Yes, I will accept your proposal. I’ll join your skirmishers, Lieutenant von Scharffenberg. I don’t want to be locked again in the middle of a battle.”
“A wise decision. And I’ll tell you another thing: Wear something without colors. The Americans have suits that look like they’re painted with leaves. If they stand between two trees you can’t even see them.”
“Hmmm. Fortunately these Americans are in Thuringia and not here in Bavaria.”
Scharffenberg laughed. He rose and extended a hand. �
��Welcome to our little company, Sergeant Hagendorf.”
Near Rain am Lech
April 14, 1632
“…wieder fortgezogen nach Regensburg.…nach Donauwörth an der Donau. Bald ist die schwedische Armee auch da gewesen und hat uns von Donauwörth weggejagt. Nach Rain am Lech, eine Festung.”
“…moved again to Regensburg.…to Donauwörth on the Donau. Soon the Swedish Army also got there and chased us away from Donauwörth. To Rain on Lech, a fortress.”
—Peter Hagendorf’s Diary
Once again Peter noticed the mortal sound of the Swedish artillery. And fortunately he once again was not the target of their furor. Scharffenberg had taken his group of skirmishers to the right flank of Tilly’s defense station. Here they were hiding behind some trees and bushes waiting for enemies who approached their ambush unsuspectingly.
It was a kind of warfare old Tilly detested. Peter could understand him. It was…dishonorable, perhaps cowardly. But according to Thomas this was the future. This was the way the Americans had shattered their regiment. Win dishonorably or die with honor? For Peter this question answered itself.
He was squatting behind a bush, wearing the clothes Anna had helped him to color with dots and smears in black, gray, green and brown. Most of the skirmishers had laughed when he appeared this morning wearing the “camouflage,” as Thomas had called it. But Thomas didn’t laugh. He only nodded approvingly.
Thomas had told them that the old field marshal didn’t believe that the Swedes would try to force the river crossing. But you never knew. And perhaps some scattered Swedes would run before the long and rifled barrels of the Bavarian skirmishers’ new guns.
Peter caressed the oily barrel. He had called the gun Elisabeth after his youngest daughter, who had died last year. Peter somehow had the impression that Anna hadn’t taken the repeated death of their children as easy as she said. Her eyes, however, lit up when Peter had shown her the letters he had burned into the rifle’s butt.