Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  A soft whistle roused him from his thoughts. Something was happening below them. Under the covering fire of these terrible cannons men came forth and started to build a wooden bridge. They jumped into the shallow water and drove pegs into the riverbed.

  “Open fire when they are in the middle of the river,” Franz said at his left. “And then we blow their asses away,” the jester added. Peter passed the order to his right, grinning.

  From time to time a cannon ball from the Bavarian side landed between the men in the river, but the rareness of these events told Peter that the Swedish cannons had already taken their death toll. In the meantime they aimed their shots onto the wooden fortification and into the forest, which made them deafening loud.

  One man to his right fired and one man in the water fell down. Then Peter fired also. Another Swede went down. While Peter rose behind a tree to reload his gun, more men in the river were cut down by the well-aimed shots.

  But then suddenly he heard a strange sound from Franz’s position. Like a cleaver hitting a pig’s ham. Directly followed by a crack, and the sound of a falling body.

  Peter slumped to the earth. “Franz! Are you all right?” No answer. Then he crawled to the left. Franz was lying there on his back.

  “Franz, what’s the matter?” Peter hissed. No answer. He crawled closer. First he could see nothing that could have brought the man down. Then he noticed a small hole in Franz’s chest. Much too small to be a problem. Peter had survived a much bigger hole in Magdeburg.

  Only a small amount of blood had emerged, but Franz was not moving and his eyes stared broken into the cloud-covered sky. Peter reached to Franz’s mouth, and there was no breath. The man was apparently dead. Witchcraft? Then Peter saw a dark fluid emerging from under Franz. Blood! Did that little ball go all the way through? Still crouching he managed to turn the corpse over.

  “Herrgott!” Franz’s back showed a huge wound; more than a handful of flesh had been torn out. What kind of weapon had caused this?

  While he was still doing this, the strange sound repeated again and again. Plop, crack, cry, and slump. Soft and clear he could hear the sound of a strange gun through the continuous roar of the Swedish cannons. Plop, crack, another falling body. But that was impossible. A gun that hit before it could be heard? Like lightning and thunder.

  “Gott im Himmel!” Peter whispered and made the sign of the cross. Four years in a mostly Catholic troop had consequences to behavior. What else should he do?

  Then he heard von Scharffenberg’s voice from the other end of their line. “Down, down! Don’t dare to move. That’s an American ‘tchoolee.’”

  “O Scheiße,” Peter shouted but stayed down. A survivor of the so-called Battle at Jena had told them about the marksmen the Americans had deployed to kill all the officers and other leaders of the scattered remnant of the Bavarian army. And he had told what the Americans’ German allies called them.

  But judging from the number of corpses he had heard falling down, Thomas’ orders seemed a little too late.

  Oh what a grandiose piece of shit! Another not-so-big day in my life.

  “Da haben wir uns gesetzt. Da ist viel Landvolk zu uns gestoßen, aber alles umsonst. Als der König mit Macht ist auf uns gegangen, mit Kanonen geschossen, dass etliche gefallen sind. Auch ein amerikanischer Tschuli ist dagewesen, hat zehn von uns niedergemacht.”

  “There we settled. Many local troops have joined us, but all was futile. When the King attacked us with force, shot with cannons, so many died. Also an American tchoolee was there, killed ten of us.”

  —Peter Hagendorf’s Diary

  II

  South of Ingolstadt

  Early May 1632

  The Swedes had finally lifted the siege of Ingolstadt. The fact that King Gustav had lost his white horse by a shot literally below his butt might have convinced him to seek greener pastures for his army and squeeze some gold out of the coffers of the rich Bavarian towns.

  The Bavarian army had left Ingolstadt, too, to secure the Danube in Regensburg.

  The few survivors of the skirmisher company had been kept back to support the garrison and seek for replacements in the town and around.

  Peter had jumped at the opportunity to leave the stinking town and going to loot—uh—survey the situation in the small villages south of the Danube, which had been more or less devastated by the Swedish troops.

  Three surviving skirmishers and a handful of slightly wounded musketeers—now also armed with the Suhl rifles formerly belonging to Peter’s unfortunate comrades—were the escort for three horse wagons.

  Even some of the soldiers’ wives were traveling on the wagons—officially to provide first aid to possible survivors among the civilian population. But unofficially they were always the ones with the better eyes for hidden treasures, while the men could stand guard.

  The first couple of villages hadn’t posed any surprises. The Swedes had killed or stolen all animals for food and also looted the farmers’ granaries. The people were slowly returning from the woods where they had spent the last weeks. The Ingolstadt scribe accompanying Peter’s group took the names of the villagers, and then they continued.

  But when they approached another village—Weyering was its name according to the scribe—Peter could see something happening when they reached the forest edge.

  “Stop!” he ordered. “Musketeers take cover behind the trees and ready your rifles!”

  From the distance he couldn’t exactly see what was happening. Men were moving, and houses were burning.

  Later he would learn that a small Swedish detachment was about to do the same thing as Peter’s troop had planned. But the Swedes were not simply taking the names of the survivors but were looking for another kind of fun.

  Suddenly two horses emerged from the village in full rout; the riders whipped them frantically. Two skinny villagers as far as Peter could see. Soon other riders chased them, the latter wearing cuirasses and yellow brassards. Swedes!

  Peter thought quickly. “Group one: Shoot the pursuers as soon as they are in range. Reload as quickly as possible.” He scrutinized his troop. Twelve men with rifles against nearly the same number of enemies on horses. “Group two: wait ten heartbeats, then you start shooting. And for the sake of god, try to leave the fugitives alive.”

  “Aiming” was a new concept for the recruits in his group, but they had practiced on the Swedish besiegers during the last weeks.

  Two hundred paces. That was doable. Peter aimed at the second man in the group of pursuers. And fired. “Scheiße!” He had missed the man, but his bullet took the horse down. While he used one of his self-made paper cartridges to reload his rifle, he could notice that two of the Swedes were down on the first volley. And two horses. The second group scored only one man and one horse.

  But that was enough. The Swedes had not expected to be interrupted on their joyride chasing for the villagers, who were riding bareback on the two plowhorses. The cuirassiers turned around and flew, the horseless men running behind them.

  “Cease fire!” Peter commanded. “Unless they come back. Johann, Heinrich, try to fetch the horses! The others keep an eye on the village!”

  When the fugitives reached the shelter of the forest they literally fell from their horses. Both were covered in blood.

  Anna had become an experienced surgeon since Magdeburg. Peter could no longer remember how many wounds she had tended since then. She tried to help the boy—apparently a young man—first, but soon looked up to Peter and shook her head.

  Then she tried to help the girl. Peter could see that the blood stains on the girl’s clothes concentrated around her waist and had an idea what she had experienced before. Oh my god, she’s twelve, fourteen at most! When he approached the girl—one eye still on his men and the village in the distance—he could see her wince and sobbingly cling to Anna.

  Anna shooed him away.

  Grumbling he turned to his men. “We’ll stay until dark,” he said. “Then I’l
l scout the village.”

  * * *

  “Auf einem Sonntagsausflug mit den Jungs haben wir ein paar Schweden getroffen. Konnten sie überzeugen zu verschwinden. Und jetzt haben wir doch wieder ein Mädchen in der Familie.”

  “On a Sunday trip we met/hit some Swedes. Could convince them to disappear. Now we finally have a little girl in the family again.”

  —Peter Hagendorf’s Diary

  * * *

  The boy had been shot by one of the Swedish mercenaries. The girl—Marie was her name, the only information Anna could extract out of her after long hours of trying—had obviously been raped by not only one man, all her limbs showing black bruises. Her father had been decapitated; her mother been raped like herself and stabbed afterwards.

  The farm was a complete write-off. The mercenaries had bound burning torches at the tails of the farms’ cattle, and when the animals flew into the supposed safety of their stable, they lit all the buildings.

  The bags of the three killed soldiers and the saddlebags of the horses were the only solace Peter’s group could find on that day. At least not a bad one. They contained more than a hundred gold pieces—much more than normal soldiers carried along.

  Near Zirndorf, Franconia

  Early September 1632

  “Unser Regiment ist nach Regensburg in die Stadt verlegt worden. Mein Quartier ist gewesen bei dem Marktturm, bei Johannes Strobel, Krämer, gutes Quartier. Dann zurück nach Ingolstadt, dann die Altmühl hinauf bis Zirndorf. Da war das große Lager von Wallenstein.”

  “Our regiment was transferred to Regensburg into the town. My quarters were near the market tower at Johannes Strobel, shopkeeper, good quarters. Then back to Ingolstadt, then up the Altmühl to Zirndorf. There was Wallenstein’s big camp.”

  —Peter Hagendorf’s Diary

  The camp was a monster. The village of Zirndorf was contained within the camp, and the tents and paddocks extended thousands of paces in every direction.

  “Have you heard about Gallas’ cavalry? A complete company is missing. They only wanted to water their horses and never returned.”

  This was one of the recurring jokes at the campfires and in the makeshift taverns. Jokes about the stupidity of Swabians had massively decreased after their regiment had left for Suhl two weeks ago and only a handful of them had returned to tell of the outcome.

  Other stories were growing instead. “How many Spaniards do you need to burn down a castle?—None.—The Americans will do it for them. They call it Spanish Roast.”

  Or: “How many Croats do you need to kill an unarmed old woman?—Five hundred.—One to kill the crone and four hundred and ninety-nine to get killed by school-kids in the meantime.”

  Exaggerating had always been a way to overcome fear. And fear was creeping through the alleys of the camp. Would fifty thousand soldiers be enough to bounce the Swedes back at last, when they would attack supported by the American wizards?

  Wallenstein was certain. His generals, too. The lower ranks not as much.

  * * *

  Peter shook his head. He was sitting on a wooden bench in front of his tent, slowly slurping his beer. The last mug for now. Supply was slow for a “camp” which in fact was one of the largest cities of the world at the moment.

  “I don’t know,” he told Thomas von Scharffenberg. The captain of his company was a common visitor at Peter’s private tavern.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated, “how long it will take until the next supply convoy will arrive. Perhaps the Swedes have intercepted them. And perhaps the Swedes will have killed us all before then. Do you have an idea, how many American tchoolees are with them?”

  Now Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know how many of these killers exist in Grantville. Our bastion is eight hundred paces away from the Swedish positions. That’s certainly enough. But their cannons are bad enough.”

  Peter flinched. Only a little. He’d become good at hiding his fear.

  Thomas took a gulp from his beer. “Do you still have these nightmares?”

  Not good enough. Peter blushed. “They’re getting better.” His voice faded. That was a lie, and Thomas most likely knew that. It wasn’t easy for Peter to admit the problems he had.

  The first weeks after the battle at the Lech he awoke each night with the image of Franz’s death. Sometimes he even saw Anna dying instead, broken eyes looking into a cloud-covered sky raining big cannon balls.

  After the incident at Weyering the picture of Marie’s parents often blended in. Her father with his head dangling only from a thread of meat; her mother with the knife still protruding from her chest. And both showed Anna’s face sometimes.

  Fortunately the meantime had been quiet. Only marching and waiting, waiting and marching, no violent events.

  Thomas scrutinized him from the side. “You know what? You should go away. Take Anna and Marie and look for a quiet job somewhere in the north.”

  Peter flared. “I’m no defector. I’ll keep my promises.”

  “You kept them longer than necessary. How long have you been a soldier?”

  “Over five years. I don’t know if I’m fit for civilian life.”

  “Then look for a post in the life guards of a prince there. Or join a town watch.”

  A long gaze from the side, then a deep breath. “Peter,” he continued solemnly. “You’re a danger to yourself and to the men around you. When the fighting starts and you begin to see dead people again…

  “Come to the office tent tomorrow morning. I’ll have your discharge papers ready an hour after sunrise.”

  * * *

  After Thomas had left, Peter stayed seated. Should he accept the offer? Should he risk searching for a job? Outside the mercenary troop that had been his home for more than five years?

  Anna came out of the tent. “Is he gone? What did he want?” Her belly was blown up from her fourth pregnancy.

  He took a deep breath. “He wants me to leave. I’m a danger for my comrades, he said.”

  “Nonsense!” Anna stood very close to him. Then she poked in his chest. “He wants to save your life. You’ve earned it after five years. This here—” she waved her hand around “—isn’t a life. Not with the Swedes’ new weapons.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. Anna and tactical assessments did not exactly go together well.

  Anna’s expression changed. Now fear showed in her eyes. “If they come here with their hellfire, like the Americans did in Eisenach, we’re dead. Dead! Do you hear me? You and me and…” Her voice broke. She put her hand to her belly. “I don’t want to lose this child again,” she whispered.

  For a last time, he tried to find reasons to stay with the army. A single reason he could tell Anna. The fear of a changed world outside didn’t count.

  He failed.

  “All right. Let’s leave for Zerbst. Perhaps we’ll find somebody of my family there.”

  * * *

  “Wir sind nach Norden gezogen, nach Bamberg, dann Kronach und Lauenstein zur thüringischen Grenze. Da ist uns eine ganze Kolonne riesiger Eisenkästen auf Rädern begegnet. Und da habe ich meine ersten Amerikaner gesehen.”

  “We trekked north, to Bamberg, and then Kronach and Lauenstein to the Thuringian border. There we met a column of gigantic iron boxes on wheels. And I saw the Americans for the first time.”

  —Peter Hagendorf’s Diary

  Near Lauenstein, at the Franconian-Thuringian Border

  Five days later

  They heard the strange sound long before they could see anything. A deep roar constantly getting louder. Some higher noises mingled in between, rising and falling.

  “What’s that?” Anna asked and stopped the ox cart. Marie clung to Anna’s body, eyes wide open. Anna caressed her head. “Shhh. Nobody will harm you.”

  “I have no idea.” He looked to the sky. It had stopped raining the day before, and nothing indicated a thunderstorm. The sound was anyway far too constant for that.

  Suddenly some strange vehicle came around the next cu
rve. Apparently made from iron, moving without any draft animals, but uttering the strange sound and blowing smoke. It was nearly as wide as the dirt road they were traveling on.

  Before Peter could decide what to do, the vehicle stopped only ten paces away. Men jumped from its rear, clothed in brown suits with black and green spots. They wielded guns, shorter than the rifle Peter had hidden under some bags in the cart.

  “Machen Weg frei,” one of the men said in a heavily accented voice and waved his hand. Peter looked around, but couldn’t see a possibility to put the cart aside. Both sides of the sunken road rose steeply.

  He shrugged. “Wie denn?”

  The man—Peter strongly assumed he was meeting the famous Americans for the first time—looked around, too, and then spoke quickly to his comrades pointing up the slope. Peter could understand very little of their variation of English.

  Then he turned back to Peter. “Wir helfen. Da hoch.” He pointed again and shuffled with his hands. Then he waved at the women and pointed down. “Kommen runter,” he said smiling.

  Peter had conflicting thoughts. These men were heavily armed, so he had no chance to oppose them. On the other hand—apart from their horrible German—they were rather friendly. He turned to Anna. “Come down, they want to pull up our wagon to clear the road.”

  Two men were already unhitching the oxen, while another one was pulling a rope from a pulley at the vehicle’s front up the slope, around a tree and down to the wagon. Peter could see that the rope was no hemp, but apparently made of iron, too.

  The confident and quick motions of the men told Peter that they weren’t doing this for the first time.

  The man who had spoken to Peter—obviously the leader of the group—was standing next to him supervising the actions.

  “Are you—um—Americans?” Peter asked, pulling a little English, he had learned from some mercenaries, out of his memory.