Captain Fantom

by Reginald Hill

  And he had told me simply that the minute I attempted to leave his service, I was a dead man.

  I went back to my quarters well satisfied to be in the service of such a General.

  1627–34

  Saxony — Sweden — Bohemia

  The next few years were among the happiest of my life. I soon became such a firmly established favourite with Wallenstein that even the threat of D’Amblève’s presence was reduced to a mere petty irritation. Indeed, I could have forgotten it altogether for, having recovered his health and most of his looks, the once-more beautiful boy seemed to have decided to let sleeping dogs lie; and besides he was much used for liaison between our army and Tilly’s so he was often gone from us for long periods. But I never underestimate the hurts I have put on a man. Entirely free from malice myself, I have been too often its victim ever to take food from a hand I’ve bitten. So I kept my eyes open and my pistol primed, and the curs that hung around the camp gathered hopefully whenever I dined for they knew it was my custom to toss a few tit-bits to any attendant dogs before setting to myself. Paranoiac this might sound, but a favourite boarhound of Rydberg’s had convulsions after two or three mouthfuls of a hare pie from my table one night. Perhaps the creature had been taken with a poison bait as is frequently used by these stupid German peasants, but after that I took still greater care and carried with me a small flask of salt and mustard dissolved in sour wine to use as an emetic in case of need.

  My only other care was that I was perhaps too close to Wallenstein. A commander’s favour is a fine thing – while he commands. But greatness breeds envy, and envy conspires downfalls and the downfall of a great man often plunges his associates to the depths also. Any doubts that may have remained about Wallenstein’s notion of his personal role in the future of Europe disappeared after the peace of Lübeck in 1629 when, instead of reducing his armies, he increased them. I’d quickly spotted that Wallenstein was something more than a financier with a lust for profit and a talent for soldiering. He was a visionary, which is to say, in plain words, a natural, and therefore dangerous for all good sane men to be around. When I heard him talking of his plans for bringing the whole of Germany completely under the domination of the Emperor, I listened carefully but said nothing. When I heard him blaming the opposition of priests and prelates for thwarting his plans, I edged my way quietly to the door. And when I heard him speak wistfully of the rich plunder that awaited the first army to sack Rome in modern times, I retired to my quarters and thought seriously about my future.

  Then a few months later at Ratisbon the Electors put pressure on Ferdinand to get rid of Wallenstein and to everyone’s surprise, the general resigned without protest or demonstration. At first sight, this was the best time for me to go, but in fact it threw me closer to Wallenstein than ever before. D’Amblève was still lurking with my death warrant signed by Tilly in his pouch. I learned later that he had at least six copies of this monstrous document made so that one would be handy should the opportunity to use it ever arise. With Wallenstein a private citizen once more, there was nothing to prevent my arrest and summary execution. But private though he now was, Wallenstein still had plenty of personal power, enough to keep those in his immediate vicinity safe. So I retired with him first to his own duchy of Mecklenburg, which since he acquired it had been the only area of Germany where soldiers were not permitted to enter, and afterwards to Bohemia where he waited quietly for more than a year till the rising tide of Protestant victories should wash him back to command again. My presence he acknowledged with an ironical smile and a small speech of gratitude at my loyalty.

  This period of comparative peace and rest fell nicely for me in one respect. Laura had been covered by a stallion which broke loose from the picket line one night, and was in foal. Fortunately the beast had been a fine animal, a Lippizaner his owner claimed, with the high action of the Neapolitan line. Luxuries such as breeding (of horses, I mean) are rarely permitted by the soldier’s full life, but now I was able to personally supervise the birth and first schooling of Laura’s foal. He was a grey like his father and gave promise of great excellence.

  At the end of ’31, this peaceful interlude ended. Wallenstein was put back in command, allegedly on a temporary basis. But when in April the following year poor old Tilly was killed at the Passage of the Lech, he was once more undisputed commander of all the League’s forces.

  Tilly’s death did me a power of good too, for now D’Amblève could use his warrants to wipe his arse. No one was going to act on a dead man’s name. So I decided to stay with Wallenstein while the pickings were good, but with the mental reservation that there was nothing to stop me moving on if the climate changed.

  You may be wondering all this while that my affectionate nature had not caused any more trouble for me, but strangely it was very infrequently now that I heard the trumpets sound. Do not mistake me. There were willing dames enough on the fringes of such a military court as Wallenstein kept and I never lacked company when I fancied it. But the urgent undeniable need which exploded in me from time to time had been dormant almost since the incident of D’Amblève’s betrothed. I often thought of that girl and hoped she had come to her senses and left those awful nuns. I thought of those confessions I heard in Silesia and shuddered. Seeking refuge in these convents from sexual attack is like quenching your thirst in the Dead Sea. Pray God the girl, who should be grateful to me for saving her from D’Amblève, had returned to her green garden with the fountain and the roses and the nectarine trees.

  So on the whole I was now behaving as an honourable gentleman should, paying for his pleasures when they could not be obtained by fulsome flattery and empty promises. The nearest I came to that upsurge of passion which had so often threatened my life was as we lay at Lützen in Saxony, safe as we thought behind the system of ditches and entrenchments which Wallenstein, following his old custom, had created for our defence. It was a cold November morning and the fog that shrouded all things had clinging to it that smell of damp and decay which pervades an English church beyond all remedy of hissop or incense. I shuddered and felt cold and thought suddenly of my childhood. Then through the filthy air a trumpet sounded a tune which seemed to draw the grey vapour into streamers and tentacles as though the dully droned notes would make themselves visible as well as heard. And soon the Swedish troops took up the burden, singing the German fornicator’s doggerel, ‘Ein Fester Burg’. As they sang louder and ever louder the mist swirled and curled and on a rudden rose, sucked up into the cold sun of any icy blue winter’s sky, and we saw the army of Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, lined up for attack. That music and that sight suddenly filled me with a desire to fight and slay as irresistible as my lust for women when the trumpets sound. Our orders were to await the attack behind our trenches, but for me there could be no waiting. I spurred Osman forward and followed by those of my troop who were foolhardy enough to do more than wonder at my madness, we lept over our own fortifications and flew at the enemy. I remember little of the first part of the battle. Osman must have saved my life a dozen times for my own aim was to plunge as deep as possible into the enemy and bathe in their blood, tactics which must have killed me if my mount had not kept his wits when I lost mine. How a horse can recognize friend from foe I do not know. Perhaps these animals do communicate at a basic level. Be that as it may, when pain and fatigue finally brought me back to awareness, I found that Osman had borne me firmly into the midst of a regiment of our own cuirassiers where a lightly armoured cavalry man could feel as secure as anywhere on that bloody field. But even here, so strongly did the Swedes attack that sharp wedges of enemy cavalry pierced our ranks and though they died for their temerity, they wore down the irresistible impetus which a regiment of heavily armoured cavalry can develop. Before me suddenly I saw two of these foolhardy Swedes; one was a pale-faced lad of seventeen or so who with a courage which gave the lie to his colour was attempting to bear away his comrade, an older man nobly featured who strangely wore no armour and
had been grievously wounded for his neglect. There was no escape for them so thick hemmed in were they, and one of the cuirassiers, an English lieutenant, enquired courteously the identity of the wounded man. The youth stared up at him with wild eyes but answered nothing. But the wounded man opened his mouth from which blood trickled thickly and said, ‘I was the King of Sweden.’

  The youth tried to raise him up and he shrieked in agony while the cuirassiers, pressing closer to see his face as news of his capture spread, threatened to stifle him with horseflesh.

  His reputation was great, the noblest general in Europe so they called him. I knew nothing of this personally, but he was a man to respect and oppose on the open field, not to watch shrieking his way to death in the midst of his enemies. So I took out my dog-lock, placed the muzzle on his brow and blew his brains out.

  As I covered his head with his blue and gold cloak, I heard a roar of rage behind me. Turning I saw D’Amblève attempting to force a way through the cuirassiers. He had come from Wallenstein bearing orders for the regiment and having heard the troopers murmuring Gustavus’s name, had arrived just in time to see me administer the coup de grâce. Perhaps I should have tried to explain my act but to me D’Amblève was now nothing but an impotent upstart, so I turned Osman away and threaded my way through the cuirassiers at a speed his inferior horsemanship could not hope to match.

  Perhaps I should not have killed the King. Certainly I did it with nothing in my heart but pity, and often the death of a particularly well loved leader will so shatter his army’s morale that defeat becomes inevitable. Unfortunately this was not the Swedes’ reaction. As the news spread (and the word was that he had been taken, then foully murdered) their anger grew to such proportions that they fought like madmen and though the struggle raged long, the result was never in doubt. Not in my mind anyway. An army of even the best professionals will in the end do no more than give value for money. Well, Wallenstein’s men did that, and perhaps a bit more. But capitalism and the profit motive can never resist the fiery energies of righteous wrath, all other things being equal that is. The Swedes were as good soldiers as we were. And for a while they didn’t care if they lived or died. Opposing men like that isn’t war, it’s suicide. Not caring about life is the ultimate weapon. If Wallenstein could somehow have produced a regiment of big naked Saxon lasses, all mounted astride black stallions, and so reminded those Swedes of the realities beyond the battlefield, then the result might have been different.

  But he couldn’t. I fought till I saw the battle was lost. Then I broke my rule and fought on, though nothing was to be gained. Why I should have felt any loyalty to Wallenstein, who showed it to none, I cannot imagine. And I paid a heavy price. As I heard the retreat sounded and inwardly voiced thanks, Osman gave a little cough and knelt down so slowly that I was able to step out of my stirrups like a lady from a well-trained hack. Seeing me safe alighted, he closed his eyes and rolled over on his side. A musket ball had taken him square in the throat, and as I watched he died. He was the bravest of little horses, sure-footed as a cat, and he loved a new-baked pan-loaf above all things. I had had him from a yearling and owed him many lives. I walked back from the battlefield not caring if another shot should pay for all, but something of his loving watchfulness must have remained for no harm came near me.

  So ended the battle of Lützen. The invincible Wallenstein was defeated. The immortal Gustavus was dead. And Orfeo and Laura whinnied plaintively as I watched with them all night till they understood that Osman was not going to return.

  Some things did not change, however. D’Amblève, those stupid spurs of his jangling like his brains, went stalking round the camp complaining of my behaviour to any who would listen. It seemed his sense of honour had been offended by my act of mercy to Gustavus and the idiot boy wanted me arrested on a charge of regicide. Fortunately the king’s body was still with us and when the chirurgeon reported on his wounds (three at least of which would certainly have been fatal) and when the cuirassiers who were present described the scene, it was agreed that nothing but praise was owed to me. D’Amblève was so filled with fury that for a while I became very uneasy. A man in such a state of mind as his will sink to any act of treachery and after a day or two of constant trepidation I took the only course possible and hired an assassin. Unfortunately before he could carry out his task the beautiful boy had left the camp in a fit of pique and taken himself off to Vienna, presumably to attach himself to the Emperor who was still theoretically Wallenstein’s boss. I sent for the assassin (a renegade Bavarian monk who specialized in driving broad tapestry needles into the heads of his sleeping victims so that the murder went often undetected) and gave him a handsome retainer in case D’Amblève should return, and then set about considering my own future once more.

  Perhaps the time was near when I too should seek a new master. Near, I finally decided, but not yet arrived. Wallenstein had lost a battle but he still had the nucleus of the greatest army in Europe and the wherewithal to build it up once more. There was no other paymaster as reliable for me to transfer my services to.

  I was shortsighted, I suppose. But I have never claimed to be a politician. All I saw was a man with a huge and powerful army, and what force on earth could withstand that? Perhaps if I’d stayed with the man all the time, I would have seen how things were shaping. But when he asked me to act as his personal envoy in secret missions across the face of Europe I saw no reason to refuse. Even then, the reasons he gave should have made me suspect his judgement. My command of languages and speed of movement were gifts enough to explain his choice, but to them he added trustworthiness – and without his customary ironic inflexion. It was wishful thinking, I reckon. When I saw the odd selection of people I was required to bear messages to, I realized he needed someone to trust. The Electors of Saxony and Brandenburg were bad enough, Bernhard of Weimar was worse, but to find myself bearing offers of alliance to Oxenstjerna the Swedish Chancellor, ruling there till Gustavus’s daughter should come of age, was beyond my silly understanding.

  One thing I insisted on in all these envoyages was that I should be a mere bearer of despatches, not a plenipotentiary. Captain Fantom, mercenary, was nobody’s enemy, unless you paid him. But Ambassador Fantom would have provided a good target for all sorts of people. So I delivered my messages and hung around until answers were forthcoming. I was well looked after, never having to share a chamber with more than two others, and as for entertainment, well, finding that in civilian quarters is the soldier’s oldest art.

  One incident however reminded me that I was still somebody’s enemy, even as plain Carlo Fantom. The infant queen, Christina, had a nurse, a woman of mature years, solid and thickening at the waist though still with a head of tight-plaited ash-blonde hair which would have done credit to a blushful virgin. I glimpsed her one evening through a half open door closely guarded by a pair of heavyweight pikemen as she conveyed the young queen to bed. Instantly I heard the trumpets sound but at the first note I turned and ran to my chamber for to have attempted her there and then would have meant instant death. But with the full fanfare blaring in my ears all I could hope for was postponement and after an hour pacing up and down bent almost double much to the consternation of my room-mate, a sympathetic young Frenchman in Stockholm on God knows what mission from Richelieu, I set off in search of the nurse, Ingrid’s room.

  I found it easily, having an instinct in such matters. She was resting on her bed, for a royal nurse must get what sleep she can and be prepared for many an untimely summons. Such an untimely summons as she received now was one she could hardly have been expecting, yet in truth she seemed un-put-out by it. And when, having finished, I rose to make my escape, she seized me in arms like a Hanoverian’s quarters and flung me on my back, where I lay breathless and watched her bolt her door.

  An hour later I was praying that the infant queen would awake and start crying so that Ingrid might be sent for. But suddenly there came an interruption of another kind, the sounds of sh
outing and pistol shots and running feet.

  I rose and dressed swiftly while Ingrid pulled on her nightgown and rushed off to be at the side of her royal charge. I left the chamber with more circumspection. Pistols in the night in a royal palace spell danger, especially to foreigners, and when I found my room full of palace guards, my first instinct was to run. But others came up behind me at that moment and there was no way of escape.

  In fact at second glance the situation looked rather more hopeful. Three men in dark clothes were being held, disarmed, against one wall. Across the bed with blood gushing from three bullet holes in his torso and with his face and throat mutilated by slashing sword cuts lay the Frenchman. His eyes were open but he was looking at sights beyond the vision of mortal man.

  What he had done or known to make him the victim of such a ferocious attack I did not know or want to know. I gratefully complimented myself on my own lowly status as a simple errand boy. But my complacent mood was soon shattered as Oxenstjerna himself arrived and the guards and the prisoners (whom he seemed to know) began to explain matters.

  ‘Having learned today that the assassin of our dearly loved king, Gustavus, was in our country, what was there to do?’ demanded the ringleader of the murderers who I later found out to be Count Iwan of Sura, a minor Swedish nobleman and leader of a fanatically right-wing group. ‘No patriot with this knowledge could refrain from action. There he lies, the murderer, Fantom. Judge me he who dares!’

  He drew himself up and stared with proud challenge at each man in that room. When it came to my turn, I gave him an appreciative wink. But for his impulsiveness I would certainly have got a bellyful of shot and ended my days on a Swedish bed beyond resuscitation even by the intricate medicines of nurse Ingrid.

  The Chancellor asked a few sharp questions. It appeared that someone, a German it sounded like, had sought out this nobleman to put the finger on me. It might have been mere coincidence that I had been recognized by some blabber-mouth Kraut who had been at Lützen, but I doubted it. I smelt D’Amblève behind this.