A Carpathian Campaign: The Powers Book 1

by Alma Boykin

“Heh. I suspect the Brits would give him the Boers if he asked nicely, as long as he pays the moving costs.” Felix’s jibe made everyone chuckle. “But you’re right, he couldn’t be encircled that way.”

  Since encirclement is everything in the Berlin papers, it seems, István sighed. The French and Russians won’t trap Prussia. The Russians might attack, but not the French, all that talk about honor and lost provinces be damned. He finished his beer. When it came down to hard truth, István knew, the Empire had to worry about the Russians and the Turks, and the Prussians were not helping with their fixation on France. Especially given how the Prussian bluster pushed the French toward the Ottomans, encouraging them to support the Porte’s ambitions again, just like Louis XIV egged the sultan to attack Vienna in 1683.

  István nodded to himself. It was the Turks the Prussians should be worrying about, not the French. Turks goading the Russians into being foolish in Bulgaria and Romania and Serbia again by beating up Christians, or pushing them into scaring the Prussians as a way to cover the Turks trying to recapture the Balkans. Or closing the Bosporus until the Russians backed out of the Balkan mess and paid an indemnity or passage fee of some kind. The British are too secure on their island, blandly talking about the impotent Ottomans and how they will never try to recapture Serbia, Croatia, or Hungary. That’s what Hunyadi Janos and Mátyás thought, too. And we know what happened next. He crossed himself at the memory, then lifted his hand to summon another beer. Just one more.

  Three days later, István stared at the chaos enveloping the railroad platform in Jaroslau and wished he could go get dead drunk. Men climbed out of transport cars, led horses out of stable cars and across the wooden floor of the platform to reach the gate to the open gathering area, and searched for their baggage. István’s head ached as if he had been on a spree, and he glared at the overly calm railroad official standing beside him. Only half the regiment’s horses and personnel had arrived and most of their field equipment remained in Krakau. “What do you mean the rest of my men and our equipment will not arrive until tomorrow?”

  The stationmaster tipped his head to the side, asking in Polish, “Co masz na mysil?”

  István switched to Bohemian, then back to German. “Nerozumím. And you understand me very well, or else you would not have your job. And you won’t for much longer, since my cousin, Prince Nicholas Eszterházy, is always looking for ways to trim the railroad’s personnel costs.”

  His bluff worked. The blood drained from the man’s round face and he stammered, “Ah, my lord, that is, your other trains were shunted aside for rail and passenger traffic.”

  “Oh really,” Col. Marbach’s cold voice said from over István’s shoulder. “And who ordered that?”

  “Ah, this way please, sir.” He let the two officers into his office, scrambling among the papers on his desk until he found the telegram and handed it over with a shaking hand.

  The colonel read it, crumpled it, and tossed the yellow page onto the desk. “I see. Your telephone and a direct connection to Herr Regional Rail Director. Now.”

  István left the office and returned to trying to get his men and their mounts sorted out and away from the rail station. His sergeants and captains had done fairly well, and several of the privates emerged from the special horse carriages with bits of tack, a horseshoe, and other odds and ends that had fallen from bags or been knocked loose in the move. Capt. Báthory nodded a salute as István walked up. “First and second squad are accounted for, sir, and third is almost ready. Fourth is on the next train, and fifth with them. We’ve got two of major Eggenberg’s squads mixed in with us. Do you want them out?”

  “No, let them stay. I have maps, so once Third is ready we’ll go. I’m not waiting for supplies unless Col. Marbach says otherwise.” The horses can’t eat coal and those hedges and flowers are probably poisonous.

  “Yes sir.” Báthory walked back into the slowly organizing mass of men and horses, calling out orders.

  Half an hour later, just as Third Squad finished getting sorted out and ready to ride, Col. Marbach reappeared. István stepped back without meaning to, trying to get away from the anger enveloping the dignified officer. “We go,” Marbach snapped, words as clipped as a Prussian’s.

  Only when they’d ridden out of the rail yard, clear of town, and were en route to the camping and dispersal area, did the colonel explain to his majors, “It seems that some fool of a civilian railway dispatcher, with the agreement of the district supervisor, rerouted two of our trains and put them behind the scheduled passenger and freight trains.”

  “How dare he?” someone demanded from the colonel’s other side.

  “We are not at war, so we do not have priority,” the white-haired man quoted, slurring the words with a heavy Polish accent. “That we very well might be at war in the next weeks if the Serbs don’t pull their troops out of Montenegro and Novi Pasar failed to impress him.” He leaned forward and turned his head so he could see István. “I invoked your cousin, Major Eszterházy.”

  István nodded—his bay stud had been alarmed by a wind-fluttered bit of horse-eating newspaper, and he was too busy keeping it from spooking to reply. Once the paper had disappeared from sight and the horse settled down, he said, “I doubt he’ll object, sir.” Nicholas would never hear about it from the soldiers. If he heard from the railroaders, he’d assume they were to blame and act accordingly, as usual. Which was as it should be, István thought. He turned his attention to the fine autumn afternoon.

  The wheat and other grains had already been harvested on the estates on either side of the road east from Jaroslau. Here and there he saw women and children gleaning the fields, gathering up any stray bit of grain the lords’ harvesters might have left. They’d reaped the corners and István frowned. His family had ordered their men to leave the corners alone, for the poor and needy to use.

  “No oil wells here yet, thanks be,” Capt. Krzweski observed to the air.

  István glanced over his shoulder at the Galician officer. “You don’t care for oil wealth?”

  “I don’t mind the money, sir. It’s the stink and mess, and the damn Ruthenian peasants working the wells that I mind.”

  “I dare you to say that when we’re around Imperial Navy men,” someone said, and laughter rang out from the men on the road. The people in the fields looked up, pointing to the passing soldiers.

  Krzweski shook his head, the plume on his helmet trembling. “I know better, sir. I just wish they’d gather the goo themselves. It sticks to everything and the only way to clean it off is with lamp oil, or lye soap and scrubbing.”

  Báthory shrugged. “That goo brought two more rail lines into Galicia, despite Archduke Johann’s protests that the empire didn’t need them.”

  “No,” István corrected. “He said they needed to run south, through eastern Hungary, instead of one going west to Tarnow, then south. He didn’t like that second line to Laibach and Triest, either.” Although that had more to do with dividing a hunting estate than actual fiscal concerns, as memory serves.

  “You will be relieved to know that we do not have to deal with the railroads again until we return to Lösch,” the colonel said, interrupting the conversation. “A last shift in our orders arrived as we were departing, part of the plan for the exercise.”

  Almost everyone sagged with relief. Major Fischerbach, now recovered from his overindulgence, gave the Habsburg troops a sour look. But István couldn’t tell how much of that was unhappiness at the lack of rail transport, disgust at the morning’s mess, or dyspepsia. His horse threw its head and he scowled more deeply. The sunlight glinted off the polished Hohenzollern eagle and spike on his helmet.

  The horsemen reached the maneuvers area a little before three that afternoon. Their assigned camping space contained markers designating each unit’s location, and István approved of the proximity to water. He did not care for the soft ground and lack of tents or food. Well, shit happened. He gave his horse to a private to feed and water while
he joined Col. Marbach and the other senior officers for a brief meeting with the referees.

  “In light of the delays your regiment is having, Colonel,” the Major on courier duty began, “General Tischwitz has decided to postpone the initial attack until tomorrow at noon. He has also ordered the headquarters kitchen to provide you with a meal tonight, and you have permission to forage if needed. Here are your orders for tomorrow.” He handed the colonel a fat packet, sealed with blue tape.

  Col. Marbach dismissed the courier and waited until he left to break the tape and read the orders. Two of the junior officers, who had arrived late, were tasked with holding the map sheets. “The Russians are thought to be here.” Marbach pointed to a fold of hills. “But that may only be their outriders and scouts, since their main units have not yet embarked from the trains, or so it appears. We are to scout and confirm their positions and presence, then join with ‘Eugene’ and ‘Zhrinski’ to attack them before they can assemble, driving them back to the border.” He indicated the faint dashed line on the map sheet, representing the end of the exercise field. “They seem to have two regiments of cavalry and four of infantry, but no pulverjuden to deal with.”

  István rubbed under his nose, then regretted it when the dust from his gloves made him sneeze. “Excuse me.” I’m glad we don’t have to deal with artillery, but eventually we will, if only so they don’t shoot us by mistake! They only needed the big guns for blowing up fortresses and trains, after all, despite what the gunners claimed. Cavalry won wars, with the support of infantry, no matter what artillery might claim or imagine.

  By piecing out what supplies had managed to come with them or straggle in just as the sun set over the hills to the west, the men were able to have at least one blanket apiece that night, although no tents. It got cool, but not cold. Even so, István’s joints complained when he woke up. Dew covered everything, and as the sun’s light appeared in a pink-misty sky, he could see grandmothers’ webs on all the bushes and almost as many in the grass. The small, tightly woven spider webs caught the dew, looking like handkerchiefs stretched out by old grandmothers to bleach in the sun. The mist boded ill for drying out quickly, and the quiet curses and grumbles around him told István that he wasn’t the only angry trooper in the field that morning. He almost pitied the next railroad man his soldiers saw—almost.

  Hot coffee served as breakfast. Then István met with Col. Marbach and the staff to confirm orders and assignments one final time before gathering his three-and-a-spare squads of cavalry. “Báthory, scout this area,” István ordered. “Schmidt, Fischer, stay here. Karoly, do you have the maps?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said, lifting the item in question.

  “Good. You scout southeast, along the railroad path. I don’t think the Russians could come that way without our knowing, but I want to be certain.” And I want to know if the bridge is intact or if the referees have disabled it.

  “Yes, sir. Very good sir.” Karoly turned to his lieutenants and passed the word. István dismissed all of them and went to wait. He’d found a nice stump that was almost tall enough to serve as a table and spread his own maps out there, tracing routes with a stick. The exercise didn’t strike him as very useful. First, it would take the Russians too long to get to their supposed current position without having been spotted and attacked by the Landeswehr, the reserves in this region. However, if they’d managed to get through undetected, or had moved so fast the reserves had been caught out, then they’d probably have left troops in Lemberg and dispatched some into the oil fields to grab those. István stroked his stubbly chin and thought about what he recalled of the Russian cavalry. Infantry was infantry, undergunned and ignorant in this case. Would the Russians turn the damn Cossacks loose like the Turks had with the Tartars? Possibly, and István made a mental note to be ready if they did. That’d be nothing but hard riding and sabre work. They’re brave, but about as well organized as the red Indians in the United States were.

  An hour later an unfamiliar sergeant rode up, his horse damp with sweat. “Major Eszterházy? My lord Major, Capt. Karoly sends his regards and begs to report that the railroad bridge on the Jawarow road is intact. He’s found no trace of Russians yet.”

  “Good. Thank him and tell him to return.”

  The man saluted and hauled his horse’s head around, drawing red-flecked foam.

  “Don’t ruin that beast,” István barked. “Or you’ll walk back to Moravia.”

  The sergeant glared out from under his hat brim, but relaxed his grip, easing the pressure on the reins. The horse turned willingly and the courier rode off. István sent a messenger to Col. Marbach with the news. The man returned, saluted, and smiled. “The supply wagons are rolling up now, Major.”

  István nodded and went back to the map. What if the Russians swung around Lemberg, planning to cut off the area entirely and then return to finish off the reserves and garrison troops once they’d defeated the imperial army? It would be easy to keep the reserves from assembling if the Cossacks had orders to burn the harvest in the barns, as they did in Russia proper. Surely the colonel would have been told if they were.

  Instead it was István who learned the truth. Báthory’s courier galloped up, stopping in a scatter of grass and leaves. “Sir, Russians on the northern route, along the river. Cossacks and heavy cavalry with infantry behind, several thousand by the captain’s count.” He hesitated before adding, “and there are civilians on the roads, real civilians. The fools think there’s an invasion.”

  István’s courier left as soon as he heard the words, while István said, “You, stay here. Good work. You, get the men ready to move. You, find the supply and medical wagons and tell them to get ready,” he said, scattering messengers. Fifteen horribly long minutes later word came from the colonel: mount up and advance to the hamlet of Kohkanivka. The hills would push the Russians into that area, and the oil field would pull them. “Don’t bother with protecting the wells, harry the Russian cavalry and scouts,” he read aloud, “and send the civilians back where they belong if you meet any.” And keep Fischerbach out of trouble. Lovely.

  “Yes, sir,” his men chorused.

  They mounted up and rode south and east. They left the road and cut across harvested fields. Soon they saw the dust and heard the faint sounds of trumpet calls that signaled “battle” in the exercises. István wasn’t happy that the Prussian observer insisted on riding in the van, but bit his tongue. He soon had other things to worry about, as the first of Capt. Báthory’s men appeared, riding back toward him as István’s men turned onto the next road.

  “Russians are too strong. We’re falling back to regroup,” one man said, panting.

  “Regroup behind me.” His men uncased their lances, drew sabers, and spread out to advance on the trot. The fences on either side of the road had been removed to allow cattle to graze on the stubble, and István’s troopers made use of the open area. The road narrowed in a patch of woodland ahead of them. He could smell a nasty, spicy, black scent on the breeze, something almost unnatural with a touch of sweetness like decay.

  “Oil,” Margansky grumped from behind him.

  The formation split, two groups around the woods and one up the center. The sound of “battle” grew louder and István gestured for the bugler, who blew “Lances down.” The horses accelerated to a trot and they burst out of the woods, sweeping down on the “Russians” where they were engaged with the remains of Báthory’s units. After several minutes of “battle”, the referees’ trumpeter blew halt.

  The men waited as the men on the hill overlooking the scene conferred, then sent word. Russians fall back to the main column, pushed by the Imperials. And so it went. By that evening, the “Russians” had retreated almost to Lemburg, then formed a defensive position in another hamlet, chasing the Ruthenian peasants out for the duration of the exercise. As the farm families streamed past on their way to the local manor house to spend the night in the fields there, István rode ahead to scout his own lines
. He caught a glimpse of motion from behind a haystack but ignored it.

  One of the referees appeared and waved a red flag at him. “You’re dead, shot from ambush,” he informed István with a grin and handing him a card.

  “Bastard,” he whispered under his breath in Hungarian before saluting and taking the card. Angry with both the referee and his men for not clearing the haystack, István rode back to the colonel’s camp.

  “Damn it, that’s not how we fight wars,” he growled to anyone who might hear. Shooting from under cover of bushes and houses is wrong. It violates every code of warfare in Europe. Only primitives, terrorists, and anarchists do that, not soldiers. His mood improved a whisker when he saw that someone had set up his tent. He handed to horse to a groom and stalked over to the camp chair set up outside, removing his sword belt and handing that to Balthazar before dropping into the chair with a growl.

  At least I’ll get a shave tonight. I’d better get a shave tonight, or I’ll have a new valet before Balthazar can say ‘foot soldier.’ Damn referees and ambushes both to hell. I’d almost rather deal with the powder Jews of the artillery.

  “You did well, but your men . . .” Col. Marbach said two hours later. “You are dead and we shall see who can step in and restore order. Now go, you have a two-night pass to Lemburg so long as you avoid the exercise area.”

  “Thank you, sir.” István took the pass, saluted, and left the quietly grim headquarters’ officers. Apparently things were not going as well as planned, or the referees had added a surprise, or both. István mounted and returned to the “dead soldiers” camp, where he found a hot meal waiting. He’d already shaved and washed a little. The food improved his outlook on the world, and some good Moravian beer lifted his spirits a slight bit more. I’ll go scout the city tomorrow, see if I can find a trinket for Barbara or Mother.

  István decided to leave Balthazar in camp. He hadn’t been working as hard as István wanted, and the pass did not carry the usual “and staff.” As he thought about it, something itched in the back of István’s mind, as if warning that taking a servant with him might not be wise. The feeling solidified István’s decision. Just before another misty dawn, István rode out, turning due south to avoid the maneuvers area, then east. He met more peasants on the road, several score at least, and a few townspeople, all with carts piled high, stuffed with their belongings, right down to their chickens, leading a few cows and more goats and sheep. Confused, he stopped one better-dressed group. “What’s going on?”