The Left-Handed God

by I. J. Parker

  Franz could see troops behind the Prussian lines, reserves, an indistinct roiling of dark bodies among the white tents. The Prussians had dark blue uniforms and were easy to tell apart from the Austrians’ white but not so easily distinguishable from some of their allies‌—‌like the Bavarians and the dragoons and cuirassiers of the Kurpfalz, who also wore blue.

  He had not yet learned to identify all the uniforms of troops gathered here under the command of Field Marshal, Prince von Stolberg. The colors were handsome but confusing. The dragoons from Pfalz-Zweibrücken wore red and yellow, but those from Württemberg blue and yellow. The Hungarian hussars had light blue breeches with dark green jackets, or red with dark blue, or with light green, and they had short, fur-trimmed jackets slung over their left shoulders. The hussars spoke hardly any German, drank like fish, and wore their dark hair in long curls or braids on either temple, like girls‌—‌a very strange sight with their large stiffened mustaches.

  A number of mounted staff officers rode into Franz’s field of vision and stopped on the small promontory to survey through their telescopes the terrain and the enemy’s preparations. Franz recognized General Luszinsky. He commanded the infantry regiments “Salzburg,” “Würzburg” and “Varell.” With him were Generals Vecsey of the cavalry and Kleefeld of the Austrian advance guard, and their aides.

  Sometimes Franz wished he were a dragoon or cuirassier. They looked very dashing on their fine horses. But at least he was not an artillery officer or sapper who could do nothing but point their guns and fire. Once in place they were immovable and, if overrun by the enemy, they had to abandon their positions and run for it. No, the infantry was the place to be. It was the fist that punched the enemy in the belly, forcing them back, separating their columns, and making them easy prey for cavalry swords.

  He watched the generals, trying to guess from their gestures what they were planning. He knew the green-coated sharpshooters would begin the battle. They would try to kill the enemy’s officers and thus disable their regiments early on. He had seen one of them pass through their own ranks during the night and wondered about it at the time, but the man would have found his place by now.

  Strangely, he still felt no fear at all, not even when the long Prussian infantry columns formed in the distance. God was with the just cause.

  *

  It was time. The light was not perfect but quite good enough. The assassin crept up behind the fallen oak, gauged the distance once more, and found it still right. He knelt and raised his rifle, sighted, and nodded to himself. It was one of the new wheel lock rifles made by a master gunsmith in Switzerland. He drew a cartridge from his pocket – he carried only two and did not expect to need the second. Biting off the end of the paper cover, he took the bullet between his teeth, then poured a pinch of the powder into the priming pan, and closed the frisson. The rest of the powder went into the barrel, followed by the paper, and the whole thing was tamped down firmly. The bullet went in next – he spit it down the barrel‌—‌and was tamped down again. Then he rested the barrel on the fallen tree, pulled back the cock, and was ready.

  Any moment now his man would appear. He slowed his breathing. It would be a tricky shot‌—‌a moving target was always difficult‌—‌but he was close enough and the angle was good. And while he was still in the shadows and hidden by the trunk and branches, his victim would be in the open. In a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, he would move into his sights.

  *

  On the promontory, General Luszinsky separated from his colleagues and their aides, and turned his horse to gallop back. As he passed in front of Franz, the general’s eye brushed over him and the soldiers of the Seventh. He swerved to an abrupt halt before Franz.

  “You look familiar. What’s your name?” he snapped, looking from the glum-faced, slouching figures of the men to Franz.

  His heart beating faster, Franz saluted. “Ensign von Langsdorff, sir. We met in Hof a few weeks ago.”

  Luszinsky stared at him for a moment. “Are these men yours, Ensign?”

  Franz thought of their disreputable appearance and reddened. “Some of them, sir.”

  “Some of them? Don’t you know?”

  “I do know, sir. All of us belong to the Infantry Regiment Salzburg, sir. I am with the company from Kurpfalz.”

  The bewhiskered face softened slightly. “Ah. Kurpfalz. Right. Some of your dragoons and cuirassiers are also here today. How old are you?”

  “Twenty, sir.”

  “You look younger. And you have just started your service?”

  “Yes, sir. Three weeks ago, sir.” Franz felt a little resentful that he had been forgotten so soon, but then generals were busy people.

  The general still stared down at him. “Ils sont fou!” he muttered. “Des enfants! Children to take men into battle. You have not seen any action, Ensign?”

  Franz felt his ears burn. “Not yet, sir. But I completed my course in Heidelberg with honors. And I hope to do well today.”

  “Mon dieu!” The general gave a sharp laugh, then sobered abruptly. “I hope you do, Ensign. I hope you do. Your commanding officers should have lined up the men. No doubt they will take care of their duties shortly.” He gestured toward the plain. “See those Prussian columns?” Franz nodded. “They will advance against you, and you will exchange fire. Do you know the drill?”

  Franz straightened his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Just do your duty. Don’t try to be a hero.”

  “No, sir. I mean…” Franz broke off helplessly.

  The general looked at the men again. “Someone go and get the officers,” he bellowed, “and the rest line up. You look like a damned herd of cattle.”

  They scrambled, found their places, and presented reasonably organized lines.

  Luszinsky shook his head and turned back to Franz. “Remember, Ensign,” he said in a lower voice, “no heroics. If you desert your place to engage the enemy, you will risk the colors, and with the colors gone, the men will run.”

  Franz nodded, ashamed that he had thought to use his sword.

  A sudden burst of rifle fire made him jump. On the plain below him strange puffs of smoke blossomed. Franz gaped at them. The general cursed in Polish and spurred his horse to gallop back to the general staff. A cavalry officer crossed in front of him at a trot, and he checked momentarily. Franz heard the crack of another rifle shot from the line of trees to his right and turned his head.

  A horse screamed, then someone shouted. When Franz swung around again, the general staff was galloping off in all directions. The cavalry officer’s horse had unseated its rider. His foot was caught in a stirrup as it dragged him away.

  Franz was still staring after him when the middle-aged sergeant shouted, “Hurry up, sir. The skirmishers have started. We’ll be moving right away.”

  Franz ran. He remembered the colors and pulled them from their leather cover, shaking out the blue silk with the emblem of the virgin as he ran, and fixed them to the standard with shaking fingers. Then he took his place in front of the line. The battle had started.

  Riflemen, green-coats from both armies, moved across the open ground toward each other, flinging themselves to the ground to fire, then running again. Where they found them, they used shrubs, ditches, stacks of rotting hay, a tumbled down barn for cover.

  They were called Jaeger because they were recruited from hunters. Their rifles carried farther and were more precise than the muskets issued to the infantry. They had to take out as many of the officers and ensigns as possible before the columns moved. To protect the colors, each ensign had a sergeant assigned to him to step in his place if he fell.

  On the Prussian side, a blare of a trumpet was followed by a rattle of drumbeats, faint at first, then louder as the tambours and pipers joined in. The Prussian advance had begun. Salzburg still waited, listening to the cacophony of musical notes and gunfire. Bullets passed over Franz’s head and flicked into the grassy ground. Once someone cried ou
t behind him. Franz hoped the command to advance would come soon. He did not relish standing there being shot at.

  In the town of Freiberg the church bell struck seven. It seemed earlier. The sun had finally come up but could not pierce the thick cloud cover or the brown haze from campfires. The battlefield was cast in a dismal twilight.

  Then a strip of cloud broke apart, and a fierce sulfur-yellow light fell over the land. The advancing Prussian uniforms looked green in this light. They were already much closer than Franz had thought.

  “Salzburg will advance!”

  The command came from the rear, repeated by subalterns and sergeants through the ranks. Franz straightened his back, held the colors more firmly, and glanced down the line of men beside him. The drum struck up, the fifers fifed, and they began to march. They moved in tight formation, in lockstep to the rhythm of the drummers and pipers.

  Franz kept his eye on the Prussian column General Luszinsky had pointed out. They were headed toward each other and nothing could stop them, not even the enemy fusiliers. When someone was hit, the others stepped over him and closed ranks.

  Elsewhere more drum rolls joined in. The regimental flag flapped in the wind, and a great exultation of sound and fury seized Franz. He could feel the same surge of excitement in the men with him. Someone cheered. The drum beat quickened and Franz marched faster. They kept step beside him, behind him. The ground was even and descended toward the enemy. Franz felt the steady boom, boom, da-boom, boom boom, da-boom of the drum in his blood. His heart beat to the rhythm. His eyes were fixed on the enemy line. Was it less than one hundred yards yet? That was when he would order them to start firing.

  More bullets whistled past, another man screamed, and someone else cursed loudly. His sergeant shouted, “Close rank,” and they moved on without missing a step. Franz stared at the approaching Prussian line. Any moment now. As soon as I can make out the Prussian dogs’ faces, he thought, as soon as I see the color of their eyes. He wished he had a musket. They were only fifty yards apart now.

  Varel’s regiment to their right stopped to release its first volley. Then the Prussians halted. Through the noise, Franz heard their own sergeant’s shout, “Halt!”

  Franz came to a stop, stepped aside, and called out, “Front rank, kneel!” His voice squawked, but they obeyed anyway. He took a breath. “Aim! And…‌fire!” The crashing sound nearly deafened him, and acrid smoke burned his eyes. “Second rank…‌aim and fire!” Another volley. Before he could call, “Third rank!” a Prussian volley raised a din of screams among his men and shouts from the sergeant to close ranks. Franz closed his mind to everything but the sequence of commands.

  He shouted. They knelt, they aimed, they fired. Then they reloaded, and those behind them fired over their heads. Taking turns, they went through the familiar motions in practiced sequence, delivering a barrage of ragged fire. Someone screamed, fell forward, and another man took his place.

  Franz squinted through the smoke. Impossible to gauge enemy casualties. The volleys crackled painfully against his eardrums, and the smoke burned his nose and made his eyes water. The Prussians exchanged volley for volley, and he knew the lines were too close to miss each other. On both sides, sergeants shouted again and again to close ranks, and bullets whistled and struck the ground at his feet.

  He wondered if he was invulnerable‌—‌caught in a dream. He no longer knew where he was, just that he must stand with his colors and shout orders to fire until it was time to advance again.

  A mounted officer appeared out of the smoke beside him. “Are you deaf?” he shouted from his height, “Left! Turn left! Now!” and wheeled away. Franz stared after him, bewildered. The order was passed on by others, and the men scrambled up and turned, running at a trot, bayonets pointing forward, and Franz, clutching the colors, finally moved, caught up, still confused and lost.

  When the smoke cleared a little, he saw the Prussian cavalry bearing down on them. Someone shouted, “The hussars. Form square! Form square!”

  The men struggled to change their lines into a hollow square bristling with bayonets, but it was too late. The enemy was already upon them, wild-eyed horses, huge and powerful, forcing their way into their ranks, hooves flailing, running men down, their riders shouting and slashing down with curved sabers.

  Franz found himself surrounded by soldiers using their bayonets to defend the regimental colors. The air was filled with the screams of horses and men.

  A Prussian hussar on an enormous black horse forced his way toward them, his eyes on the colors, teeth flashing white under his mustache. His saber slashed and men fell or jumped away, and suddenly there was nothing between Franz and the hussar.

  Franz clutched the standard to himself with his left hand and drew his sword. Somehow, he remembered to jump clear to the rider’s left and to strike upward. He missed. The hussar swung his horse about and came again. Franz waited, twisting aside again at the last moment. The hussar delivered a glancing cut to Franz’s left shoulder, but Franz cut the man’s right thigh. The hussar wheeled, and this time he tried to run Franz down. The horse reared above him. One of its flailing hooves caught the side of Franz’s head. He felt the colors torn from his hand and began to fall through a red mist. The noise, the stench of blood, the pain reached a crescendo, then died away.

  *

  The assassin did not join the battle. As soon as he had hit his mark, he left the woods, abandoning the green coat on the way. A little later, he reported to his commanding officer in his regular uniform.

  His superior was watching the progress of the battle through his glass and shook his head. “Salzburg’s in retreat. I knew they were hopeless. A ragtag regiment made up of children and old men.” He collapsed the glass. “No point in risking more men. We’re pulling back. Tell Marshall Stolberg we’ll halt at Burkersdorf and then follow us.”

  The assassin saluted and watched the general ride away. He was not surprised. The old man did not want honors; he wanted to protect his regiment to sell the men’s services for the next battle.

  He scanned the confused battlefield. The Prussians seemed to be everywhere, and the action had moved westward. It would take only a few minutes to make sure he had not missed, but he might get caught up in the fighting. He decided to postpone it.

  *

  When Franz came to, he lay on his back. Heavy gray clouds scudded across the sky. He heard thunder and thought I must get up and go inside. I must close the shutters because Mama is frightened of thunder and lightning. But he felt too tired. After a little, the thunder began to sound strange. Something told him that he was not at home, was not lying in the grass of their garden. And this was not thunder. This was artillery fire.

  His head hurt, but he turned it and looked. He was alone. Both armies, infantry and cavalry, had disappeared as if swept away by a storm. Instead the muddy field was covered with bodies of men and horses. More men than horses‌—‌proof that regiment Salzburg had been defeated by the enemy cuirassiers.

  Memory returned slowly. The noise of battle now came from a distance, punctuated by the booming of heavy artillery. Franz heard it through a curtain of pain. There were other sounds nearby: a man wept, another moaned, a third cried for help.

  Franz looked back at the gray sky and took stock of himself. He felt blood on his face and seeping down his back. The worst pain was in his head. It throbbed mercilessly. He tried to roll onto his side, felt a violent bout of nausea, and almost passed out. After that, he lay very still and concentrated on the rest of his body. Something was wrong with his left arm. It felt wet, stiff, and numb all the way to his fingers. His legs seemed all right, though. He moved each foot at the ankle, and then bent his knees. His right arm was merely sore, and the palm of his hand felt raw.

  That was when he comprehended that he had lost the colors and wept. His failure was monumental. Within minutes of engagement, he had lost that which he should have guarded with his life. He had lost the colors because he had not given the order to t
urn and form square in time. With the colors lost, the men had run.

  Shame overwhelmed him, but it also gave him the strength to sit up. He looked around, fell back twice, but eventually managed to get to his feet. The dizziness caused him to vomit, but he felt a little better for it. The colors were gone, but he found his sword and staggered toward the sounds of battle. When he passed the first body, he saw a dreadful saber wound across the man’s face and averted his eyes. The next man was still alive, but in his chest a single wound had opened like a blossom and turned the white cloth of his uniform red. The soldier stared up at Franz with glazed eyes. “Mutterl?” he whimpered. “Bist du’s, Mutterl? Es tut so weh.”

  Franz stammered, “Gleich‌—‌in a moment. It will be better in a moment.”

  The man smiled and closed his eyes. Franz looked around for help, but he was the only one standing. When he looked back down, the man was dead. Would his mother be told, or would she wait for months and years for the son who would never come home again? He turned away and stumbled on among the wounded and dying, sometimes stopping to pray with them or give assurances of help that would not come in time.

  Along that terrible route, his head cleared a little, and he became aware of the saber cut in his upper left arm. The cut had opened again when he tried to help one of the wounded, and the blood now ran down over his hand, but it seemed to be a mere flesh wound.

  Then he saw the drum and the small body curled around it. Afraid, he went closer. One of Carl’s hands still clutched the stick; the other was flung out to the side, a child’s hand. The boy’s head lay a few steps away, his tricorne near it. A frail child’s slender neck was no obstacle to a sharp saber swung by a powerful hussar’s arm. Carl’s eyes were wide open, staring into the distance. There had not been time for the child to cry out for his mother or father.