Captain Fantom

by Reginald Hill

  This was, I recognized, a military foraging party. Had I not commanded many such myself and used just such tactics? Arrive at a farm at dawn so that news of your intent is unlikely to have preceded you; leave the carts a little way behind so their noise does not betray your approach; get everyone out of the house, then go through it with a fine tooth comb, for while the farmer’s provisions may belong to the army, his personal wealth belongs to him who can find it.

  But I had little time to reflect on the morality of the exercise for, as I anticipated, having emptied the granary, half a dozen soldiers were now making towards the stable.

  My predicament was extreme. Whose men they were hardly bothered me at all. Wallenstein’s or Mansfeld’s, or perhaps belonging to Bethlen Gabor, the Protestant prince of Transylvania, it was all one; their behaviour pattern was unlikely to be different. Once they saw my horses, they would take them, and if they saw me, they would probably kill me. Yet I was loth to sneak away and lose all I possessed without a fight.

  My only hope was to parley with their officer. I checked my pistol which had been lying, loaded and cocked, within easy reach of my hand all night, drew my sword and stood against the wall, close by the door. As I anticipated, the focus of all eyes when the ramshackle door was drawn open was my trio of lovely horses. Such a prize as this had not been anticipated and they crowded forward eagerly to get a closer look.

  This was the dangerous part. There is no way for a single man with a one-shot pistol to hold off six if they wish to take him. Five must get through, and though usually five-to-one is odds too short when a man’s life is at stake, it only takes one impetuous fool to destroy the deadlock.

  I made sure all of this group were in the barn, then stepped out behind them and said in my best voice of command, ‘Hold!’

  Their chatter ceased and they turned swiftly, stopping when they saw the pistol. I did not give them time to start thinking, but said, ‘You with the red beard. Call your captain. Quickly!’

  Feeling that if he was the object of my special attention, he must also be the object of my aim, redbeard opened his mouth and, after a nervous, cough, called: ‘Captain! Captain! Here in the barn!’

  In the silence that followed I heard footsteps approaching from the house. I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the men grouped round my horses. A word of warning now could make things very sticky. No one spoke but something about their very silence and awkward demeanour must have warned the approaching officer, for he stopped outside the door and said, ‘Yes? What is it?’

  My heart jumped for I thought I recognized the voice.

  ‘Rydberg? Is that you?’ I called in Swedish.

  ‘Yes,’ came the cautious answer. ‘Who speaks?’

  ‘Carlo Fantom,’ I answered in relief. ‘We were at Munster together, do you not recall?’

  I stepped out to face the tall, thin-faced Swede whom I had known vaguely in my early days with Mansfeld’s army and I hoped his memory was at least as good as mine.

  For a moment I thought I was going to be unlucky. He regarded me with a puzzled air for several seconds, then slowly recognition broke and he raised his right hand and said ‘No!’

  I didn’t understand the gesture or the denial till I looked round and saw that one of the soldiers had taken advantage of my distraction to come up behind me, sword levelled for the kill. I swear the man looked actively disappointed. I didn’t blame him. Dead, I could not reasonably dispute ownership of the horses.

  ‘What are you doing here, Fantom?’ asked Rydberg.

  ‘The same as you is my plan. I’ve been riding in search of Mansfeld.’

  A smile ran across his thin lips.

  ‘Have you? Then you will have far to ride. Or, knowing you, Fantom, perhaps not so far.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled and alarmed.

  ‘Mansfeld’s dead.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  My surprise was complete. Some men have a vitality which it seems must have immortal springs. Mansfeld dead was as unthinkable as the Pope growing tits and turning whore.

  ‘In battle,’ I said. It wasn’t a question, but an inescapable conclusion. Rydberg shook his head.

  ‘No. Disease. Wallenstein’s army took up such a strong position that there was nothing for Gabor to do but seek a truce. One of the conditions was that Mansfeld left Hungary for ever. He was on his way to Venice when he fell ill.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said. After my initial unselfish shock, awareness of the change this caused in my own circumstances began to seep in.

  ‘You fight with Gabor now?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘No I Gabor is finished. He has few men and less money. The Turks won’t help him any more. No, there’s only one source of employment for a professional soldier in the East now.’

  Wallenstein.

  And Wallenstein was no good for me. He and Tilly must work in concert if their two armies were to secure all Germany for the True Faith. And if a Croatian cavalry captain’s head helped to keep his fellow general happy, I could see no reason why Wallenstein would not send it gift-wrapped.

  Of course, I was probably over-dramatizing the situation. These were stirring times, what the historians call an era of transition. All over Europe the transitions were going on, from Protestantism to Catholicism, from rich man to poor man, from hope to despair, from virgin to whore, from life to death. My own escapades, what were they worth in the eyes of history? Nothing. Perhaps a couple of hundred words in some daft old man’s tatty notes which somehow survived the kindling box and the nail in the bog wall. Even D’Amblève after his stupid rage had worn off must surely get back to the normal course of his life. Hurt pride could be a deep wound. I would strike south and see what I could pick up in Italy. Not Venice; no; I had spent a year in the service of the serene republic when I was only a youth and my precocious behaviour might still be recalled there. Perhaps I’d be better off with the Turks currently rattling their swords in the direction of Persia. I’d fought with them before and made a few good contacts.

  But I must confess I felt very down. To have come all this way for nothing was a sad blow. My money would not last for ever, but more importantly I was missing the company and security of an army. A man alone must live on his nerves.

  ‘Well, Rydberg,’ I said, ‘I hope you have left enough for breakfast here. I have paid for my lodging and I’m sure Wallenstein would not have you rob an honest soldier.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Indeed he will do more. He will provide your breakfast in his camp. Come, saddle up. I think we have taken our due here.’

  He turned away and I opened my mouth to explain that my plans were other, but when I glanced round at the soldiers who stood behind me, I realized I was wrong.

  I shrugged philosophically. In Rydberg’s place I would have done the same if I had come across a lone mercenary whose current loyalties were uncertain. I might be some kind of scout, though for whom at this present juncture God alone knew. Anyway, it was no use worrying about it. It looked as if I was going to see Wallenstein after all.

  One thing I noticed before we set off from the plundered farm. Rydberg walked up to the surly lout of a farmer who was still shivering in his shirt tails surrounded by his revolting brood, courteously saluted him and handed him a piece of paper. The man looked at it stupidly, turning it round in his hands in a manner which clearly indicated his illiteracy. Rydberg spoke to him patiently for a moment, then mounted his horse and we all set out after the laden carts.

  ‘What was that about?’ I enquired curiously.

  ‘It was a requisition order,’ said Rydberg. ‘Wallenstein is a strict disciplinarian. He permits no looting.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, puzzled. ‘You mean the paper is exchangeable against money from the paymaster?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Rydberg seriously. ‘But the farmer knows now that his goods have not been looted but legally requisitioned.’

  I laughed out loud for five minutes and then settled down to a steady
chuckling for the next half hour. This Wallenstein I had to meet.

  It was in fact several days before I had the opportunity. The General was away from camp when I arrived and when he returned the following day he naturally had many more things to concern him than the fate of a wandering mercenary.

  I was treated well and entertained as Rydberg’s guest rather than his prisoner, the only limit to my freedom being that strict orders were given to the picket guards that I was on no account to be allowed to ride my horses. Rydberg was no fool. He knew I wasn’t going anywhere without my precious mounts. Or if I did, it would be admission of guilt and he would have lost a spy but gained the three best horses in Central Europe.

  I had no real objection to the arrangement. My entertainment was luxurious, and not just by comparison with the rough living I had experienced during the past few weeks. These men knew how to look after themselves. Seldom if ever have I encountered such splendour of dress, such excellence of victuals, such cultivation of behaviour, in a campaigning army. I felt very much a country cousin at first and it wasn’t till I had parted with a few gold pieces and accoutred myself in a blue and green suit of soft velvet with a dark navy cloak trimmed with ermine, that I began to feel at home. I also took into my employ a local youth called Bela who despite his tender years had all the makings of a first class scoundrel. His attractions for me were that he knew his way around the camp and the countryside, could lay his hands on the best wine and food at quick notice (and at a price) and in addition he was very knowledgeable about horses and could be trusted to check the health of Orfeo and the others when I was unable to pay my own evening visit. He was also a very pretty boy. Not that this interested me – I have tried a boy now and then by way of change and experiment but it was never the same – but it did mean he had access to some high ranking officers, and indeed Bela told me that Wallenstein was to see me the following day, several hours before Rydberg knew.

  Rydberg’s revelation was the more dramatic however, for it was coupled with another piece of information. After telling me that Wallenstein would see me at noon, he asked me casually if I was acquainted with Colonel D’Amblève. My hand went to my sword but I released it instantly. Other men might adopt such an oblique approach, but Rydberg like most Scandinavian officers of my acquaintance while being ruthless in the execution of his duty was totally free from malice.

  ‘I know the name,’ I replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘The poor wretch was found in the forest. He had been robbed, stripped almost naked and beaten.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘No, but he was like to die. Fortunately some papers remained by the body and the sergeant who found him could read enough French to make out that he was a well-born gentleman whose safety might be worth a reward. So he dressed his wounds and brought him to the camp.’

  This was a singular example of how out of place and dangerous learning is among the lower ranks. Had I the charge of an army, I would soon whip all claims to education out of my men. A soldier’s life is fighting, drinking and fornicating. I would as soon see the plague rife in a barracks as a book.

  I sent Bela to find out more about D’Amblève’s condition and prospects. He returned a little later saying that the newcomer had recovered consciousness for a moment, but the chirurgeon had then started to bleed him and he had fainted away once more. I cheered up at this news. Army chirurgeons can usually be relied upon to complete what the enemy has begun.

  I toyed with the idea of visiting the sick man myself and seeking the occasion to help him on his way, but Bela’s description of the room where he lay made me doubt if I could bring it off. The sergeant who had discovered D’Amblève had remained in close attendance to ensure that his claim to reward would be firmly established at the first sign of recovery, and even the renowned discipline of Wallenstein’s army wouldn’t keep him standing by as I slipped a knife between the lovely boy’s ribs.

  In any case, nature and the medical profession would probably do the job for me, I thought. But later that evening Bela, to whom I had given a watching brief, came with the news that D’Amblève after passing through a period of crisis in which the priest had taken over from the doctor was now much more comfortable, had woken long enough to take a little nourishment and was now in a deep sleep.

  This was bad news. I questioned Bela closely and as far as I could make out, D’Amblève had not mentioned me. Again I wondered if I were not being unnecessarily fearful, but the sight of two private soldiers hanged that morning for assault and robbery and left dangling as a reminder to the rest of the army, approved me in my decision to take all precautions. Campaigns are planned on paper but they only succeed if the plans are as various as chance and changing conditions will have them be. I sat up late into the night, then drank a bottle of Tokay to still my too active mind and went to bed.

  The following morning the news from the sick room was worse. D’Amblève was eating well, both the doctor and the priest were modestly accepting the plaudits of their fellows, and the blasted book-learned sergeant was going round all the Belgian and French officers in the army making sure they knew of D’Amblève’s survival and his part in it. For a moment I was tempted to take whatever mount I could lay my hands on and ride off to find the Turks. But that was a course perhaps as dangerous as remaining and to tell the truth I was much impressed with what I had seen of the conditions and organization of Wallenstein’s army and was reluctant to part company with it. A professional soldier could be happy here – but only if he had his leader’s confidence. I was in desperate need of Wallenstein’s support on two counts – as my normal insurance against the malicious accusations of jealous husbands and, of more immediate import, to save my neck from Tilly’s sentence.

  Without boasting, I think I can safely say I’ve never had much difficulty in getting on with the men at the top. I can sum up a man pretty quickly, but I don’t just rely on intuition. No, if I can manage it, I get a bit of background information first, and in Wallenstein’s case, I’d had plenty of time to do my research. Basically he was a financier, fighting (to start with anyway) as much for profit as principle. This would have suited me very well, but other snippets of information did not quite fit with this picture of a cold cash-man. He was unstable, subject to fits of wild rage. Well, that didn’t bother me. A man out of his own control could generally be fitted into someone else’s. In addition he was one of those superstitious wretches who believe in the influence of the stars. As above, so below! Jesus, if that holds, then the skies should be dripping blood! But I was pleased to hear of it in Wallenstein. A man who clings to childish superstitions is like a man who enters a wrestling match with his parts hanging out. Seize them and you have him at your mercy.

  But the final bit of information pleased me less. He was, so my informants told me, cruel, treacherous (so far, so good), and a man of unnatural and immutable chastity. This was a real facer. I mean, when it comes down to it, most men don’t really rate sexual assault on a woman as a very important crime – not unless it happens to be their woman. Otherwise it’s generally reckoned that the man can’t be altogether at fault nor the woman altogether innocent. Even Tilly, that monk in armour, had learnt from his religious upbringing to be saddened rather than outraged by the weakness of flesh. But Wallenstein was a convert and there’s nothing like a strict Protestant upbringing for putting the fear of cock into a man.

  On the other hand he clearly wanted to run the most powerful army in Europe and you couldn’t do that with a gang of stitched-up eunuchs.

  So I prepared myself as best I could for my audience. He held his court (the only term for it!) in the local Rathaus, a huge barn of a place with a stone-flagged floor and high wattled walls round which ran a rickety and deep-shadowed gallery. The whole place was a study in lights and shades, sun falling in a sharp wedge through narrow windows, jewels shining on skin made brown by much campaigning in hard weather, eyes gleaming watchfully from each dark corner and in the middle, s
eated on a high backed chair like a bishop’s throne, Wallenstein himself dressed from head to toe in black and deep grey, with a sash of dazzling scarlet running across his chest like a sabre-cut.

  He was an ugly bastard with a Jew’s nose and a lower lip you could have stood a wine bottle on. Had he been a horse, I’d have paid high for him, for such a face would have been worth much in a charge.

  ‘You’re late,’ murmured Rydberg.

  ‘Barely an hour,’ I answered. ‘How should so great a man notice?’ But he did.

  ‘Fantom,’ said Wallenstein as if the name tasted of horse shit. ‘I like my officers to be punctual.’

  ‘I am not yet one of your officers, sire,’ I said. ‘And besides it was not … apt.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ he demanded keenly.

  ‘My star-readings gave this as a better hour for this audience, sire,’ I answered.

  He now began to study me closely and I saw the significance of my clothing and ornament beginning to dawn on him. I was wearing a tunic of gold embroidered with a design of an archer slaying a wolf with a crow flying above him. Bruno the heretic says this is a potent image of the sun, and on my hands I wore several rings of gold set with diamonds and topazes which are also alleged to be solar talismans. I had fixed on the Sun as the planet whose influence I wanted to attract because the grimoires say that this is most efficacious in gaining the support of powerful people. An hour earlier and Mars would have been more influential – good for operations connected with military matters, and therefore better perhaps for Wallenstein. The thought had not escaped him.