The Left-Handed God

by I. J. Parker

  Franz turned away. The tears of his shame and grief poured again, and his stomach heaved. This time he nearly blacked out when he vomited. He straightened, his face blubbered with tears, mucus, and vomit, and he wiped it with his sleeve. Then he started looking for his regiment.

  The battlefield had shifted to the south and west. The infantry now fought for the small hillock someone had called Trois Croix. The Prussian and imperial cavalry were engaged near the Spittal Woods.

  Sword in hand, Franz started toward Trois Croix. Three crosses. Golgotha. He had lost the colors and did not want to live without at least an attempt to redeem himself.

  Almost immediately he came across another casualty, a captain. He lay on his back. Franz recognized the light blue and white uniform of the Kurpfalz dragoons and stopped beside him. The wounded man was still alive, his eyes fixed hopefully on Franz.

  “Thank God,” he said. His voice was fairly strong and sounded desperate. “Can you help me?”

  Franz knelt to look for wounds, saw blood stains only on the white trouser leg, and said, “It doesn’t look too bad, sir. Just a leg wound. Someone will come soon. I must get back to my unit. I’m with the Salzburg Seventh.”

  The officer was not much older than Franz. He snapped, “Don’t be a fool, Ensign. I’m done for. Shot in the back. Can’t move my limbs. Reach into my coat and take out the letter. You’re from the Seventh? From Kurpfalz?”

  Franz had just realized that this must be the same officer who had been dragged by his horse earlier and was distracted by the fact that the back of the captain’s head was a mass of blood and raw flesh. “Surely,” he said, “it’s just temporary. Perhaps the effect of the blow to the head.”

  The young officer closed his eyes for a moment. “Don’t waste my time. I’m dying. Take the letter. Take it to my father. I’m Christian von Loe. Promise you’ll do that?”

  Franz put his hand inside the coat and found the letter. It was bloodstained, and the officer’s shirt felt soaked with blood. He doubted he would survive this day himself, but there was no point in arguing. “I promise,” he said, putting the letter inside his own coat, “but when you find that you’ve been mistaken, I shall return it to you. God be with you.” He gave the officer an encouraging smile and grasped his right hand. It lay cold and unresponsive in his, but the bloodless lips murmured, “Thank you, Ensign. Be careful. Guard the letter with your life.”

  It was a strange request, but Franz was already up and running toward the action again. Somehow, he found soldiers from his regiment with another unit. They were in disarray, firing listlessly at a company of Prussian infantry without making much headway. Franz picked up an abandoned musket but dropped it again. His left arm was too stiff to load and aim a gun, even if he had bullets, powder, and flint.

  A moment later a stray cannon ball tore through the lines, wreaking such bloody havoc that bits of human flesh landed near him. The other company turned and ran, the men from the Seventh joining them. Franz shouted, “Stop, you cowards! Stand and fight!”

  Some of the Seventh turned and came back. Others followed. To Franz’s amazement, they still obeyed an order. His order!

  He waited, sword in his good hand and his bloody left arm hanging by his side. He knew he must be a shocking sight with his blood-covered face and coat. When there were enough men, he raised his sword. “Form line and advance!” They cheered. His sword raised high, he took them up the hill at a run to where a company of Bavarians were in hand-to-hand combat with Prussian dragoons. His men fell upon the dragoons with sword and bayonets to the cheers of the Bavarian soldiers.

  It was butchery. The enemy fought for every inch of ground. Franz used his sword viciously, furiously‌—‌for the drummer boy Carl and for the young man who would never see his mother again. He shouted his fury and was filled with a strange joy. When a big Prussian sergeant stepped in his way, Franz cut open his belly and was past him before the man doubled over and fell. A Prussian officer was next. Sword against sword.

  The other man was an experienced soldier, but Franz parried and slashed, and severed the man’s sword hand. The officer, a captain with a small gray mustache and soft blue eyes, could have been Franz’s father. He stood, cradling the bleeding stump with his left arm and waited, looking calmly at Franz from his blue eyes. Perhaps he intended to surrender, but Franz had no time to discuss the matter. He ran him through and saw a look of astonishment, almost of outrage at a betrayal, on the dying man’s face.

  But Franz had to jump aside because a Prussian soldier roared his rage and rammed a bayonet toward his belly. “You bastard!” the man screamed. “You killed him and him without a weapon!” He came at Franz, sobbing and cursing, and Franz half-turned and slashed his throat.

  And so he hacked, slashed, and yelled along with his men until the Prussians backed away from this madman to look for easier prey.

  Half-dazed with exhaustion and sickened by the bloodshed, Franz finally paused, lowered his sword, and looked around. They had taken Trois Croix.

  At the moment of his triumph, something took his legs from under him. He fell hard. Before the darkness took him, he knew the battle was over for him.

  *

  When the assassin got to his victim, the battle was over. The hillside and plain below lay deserted except for corpses and abandoned gear. Several hundred yards away, some medics bent over the wounded, but the body he wanted was much closer. He found it quickly, made sure the man was dead, then searched him.

  Nothing. He straightened with a frown when a voice asked, “A friend of yours, Lieutenant?”

  A Catholic priest stood by his side and looked at him curiously.

  He nearly jumped but controlled himself with an effort. “Yes, Father. I looked for something to send to his family but found nothing.”

  “Ah. I saw him talking to another officer earlier. He seemed not too badly wounded so I delayed,” said the priest and sighed. “Now it’s too late.”

  The assassin stared at him. “Do you know the man he talked to?”

  “No, but he was an Austrian officer. An ensign, I believe. And yes, I think there was a letter. Or some papers at least. The Austrian took them and walked straight back into the fighting. A brave young man. They’re all brave young men.” The priest bent to mark the cross on the dead man’s body.

  Mouthing a curse, the assassin left.

  2

  Lindau, 1763

  A woman is a lonely, solitary creature without a man.

  Thomas Shadwell (1642-92)

  Augusta Anna von Langsdorff pulled her woolen shawl more closely around her and reached into the darning basket by her feet for another pair of woolen stockings. Her mother dozed in the large chair next to the kitchen stove, an open Bible on her lap. The cat Volteur slept curled up on the pillow behind her mother’s head‌—‌making a large gray and black fur cap for his mistress. Between them, these two seemed to absorb all of the feeble warmth that came from the small fire on the hearth.

  Augusta cast an impatient glance at her mother. It was ridiculous not to have enough wood to warm at least the kitchen properly on New Year’s Day. The Kachelofen in their parlor, a handsome tiled stove that could be stoked from the kitchen, had been unused all winter. Instead, they huddled here. This past autumn, before the snows came, Augusta had wanted to gather kindling in the woods. She had borrowed their neighbor’s tall basket to strap on her back, but when her mother found out, she had forbidden it. The thought that a von Langsdorff would be seen at such menial work, “work that was only done by poor old women and maids”, scandalized her.

  Poor old women indeed! They were as poor as anyone in Lindau. And when it came to maids, Augusta could have gone into service two years ago when she turned sixteen. She would have been warmer, and certainly better fed.

  Augusta pushed the wooden darning egg impatiently into the next stocking, threaded the needle with black wool and started the weaving which would fill the large hole she had worn into the heel. Regardless o
f how neatly she darned her stockings, they ended up with clumsy welts of wool that rubbed her heels raw. It seemed unfair that she should have been born to a name that obligated its owner to the pretense of nobility without a commensurate income.

  Not that there was anything very noble in her background. Her father had been a younger son in a family that had converted early to the Protestant faith. The religious wars of the past century had cost them most of their lands but, being a stubborn breed, they persisted, passing their small holding and title to the oldest son, sending the next to the university to become a clergyman, and any others into the military.

  Augusta and her brother loved their father deeply, but Pastor von Langsdorff had been an unworldly man without ambition, too caught up in his studies of religious writings to inspire his congregation with rousing sermons, and too improvident to gain their respect. His charities were indiscriminate and when they exceeded his own purse, he spent freely from the tithes. The church elders demanded his dismissal when they discovered that their money had benefited poor Jews and Catholics. The Langsdorff family left the large parsonage in Heidelberg and moved into this modest house in the Fischergasse in Lindau.

  The shock of his unexpected dismissal had been so great that Pastor von Langsdorff suffered a stroke. Not even the beauty of the lake and the gentle climate could heal the wound to his trust in God. He lingered a year as an invalid, then died.

  Their house was part of his wife’s dowry and survived their father’s charitable disposition. There was barely enough money left to send Franz to the university in Heidelberg.

  When Pastor von Langsdorff’s pension ceased with his death, Augusta had offered to go into service. Her mother would not permit this and sold her jewelry and the family pictures, as well as their father’s library and some of the furniture. But those funds eventually also ran out. Franz had left the university to go to war, and now the money he had sent was also mostly gone. Augusta bit her lip. How could their mother have permitted Franz to offer up his life to her foolish pride?

  Frau von Langsdorff made a sudden sound very much like her husband’s final death rattle, causing the cat to wake and hiss, and Augusta to stick the needle into her finger. Her mother mumbled something, then started snoring gently, her chin resting on the lace fichu at the neck of her black silk gown.

  Volteur arched his back, cast a baleful look at Augusta, and jumped down, stalking off with his tail twitching. Franz had given him his name; it was French for “Jumper” and sounded like “Voltaire,” her brother’s favorite author. The cat was forever bounding up to the tops of shelves and wardrobes, whence he would look down at them with a disdainful expression.

  “Bother!” muttered Augusta and sucked her bleeding finger. Thick darning needles hurt when rammed into the fleshy part of one’s forefinger. She resented her mother for leading this dull, sedentary existence when she was in perfectly good health. Augusta was young and active and did not want to spend her life sitting by the fire, mending stockings. Sunday church service was about the only outing she ever got. If only Papa had not died.

  She sighed, gathered up the sock and finished darning it. Then she let the wooden egg slip out and fall to the tiled floor. The crash sounded like a shot, and the egg rolled under the stove. Frau von Langsdorff’s head jerked up.

  “Wha‌—‌someone’s at the door. Go to the window and see. Dear me. I hope it’s nobody.”

  She meant nobody of consequence, and Augusta was about to tell her there had been no knock when there really was. She ran to the parlor to peer out through the front window, then went back to report, “It’s only Herr Seutter, Mama.”

  Her mother jumped up. “Only Herr Seutter? A man who sits on the city council?” Her hands fluttered helplessly between her dress and her cap as she looked around the kitchen. “How do I look? Oh, dear, I wish there were a fire in the salon. What shall we do?” She patted her cap in a distracted manner.

  The salon was the parlor. Augusta saw no point in giving simple rooms French names. “He’ll have to come in here,” she said practically. “Maybe he won’t stay.”

  Her mother cast up her eyes. “How rude you are! We have little enough company, and Herr Seutter is an important man. It is kind of him to call on us. We must be pleasant.”

  The knock came again. Augusta sighed and turned to let their guest in.

  “Augusta!” wailed her mother. “Put away that basket of mending. Do you want him to think we live like common people? It’s bad enough we don’t have a girl to answer the door.”

  Augusta moved the basket into a corner.

  “And take off that apron.”

  Augusta removed the apron and dropped it into the basket.

  Her mother looked at her with a frown. “That dress is getting much too short. I can see your ankles.”

  It was also getting too tight across the chest, but Augusta only said, “Shorter skirts are quite the style, Mama.”

  The knocking was repeated.

  “Go! Hurry! What are you waiting for? The poor man will think he isn’t welcome.”

  Augusta opened the front door to a snowy street. Jakob Seutter, in a brown, fur-trimmed cloak and cocked hat, stood on the doorstep, looking every inch the substantial burgher. He raised the hat with a flourish. “Good morning, Fräulein Augusta,” he boomed. “I see you’re your usual beauteous self this fine day.”

  He was a large man. Bourgeois substantiality, no doubt. As if proud of his broad chest, he fancied bright, embroidered vests. Today’s was yellow silk sprinkled with blue forget-me-nots. Augusta quickly raised her eyes to his red face. “Good morning, Herr Seutter,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “I hope I see you well.”

  “Very well indeed,” he said with satisfaction. “I called to deliver my New Year’s wishes to your mother and your pretty self.” He made a sweeping gesture, revealing a small boy in the street below him. The child clutched a basket that seemed larger than he. “Come, Hanserl, don’t stand there like a dolt. Bring it in, bring it in.”

  The child was about eight or nine and looked blue with cold. Augusta stepped aside quickly, but Herr Seutter walked in first, cast a glance toward the parlor, saw it dim, empty, and cold, and said, “I thought you and your Mama would be in need of cheering up on New Year’s Day.”

  The boy managed to stagger up the steps. Augusta went to help him, but before she could, his half-frozen fingers slipped, and the basket crashed on the stone floor. The contents clinked in protest, and Herr Seutter was upset. “Careful, Hans. I hope you haven’t broken anything.” He bent to check the basket while Augusta closed the door on an icy blast of air.

  The boy whimpered, “S-sorry, s-sir. I didn’t mean to do it. It s-slipped.” His teeth chattered as he breathed on his stiff hands.

  “I’m sure all is well,” Augusta said quickly. “I’m afraid in your great generosity you have overestimated the child’s strength, sir. He looks frozen. You must both come into the kitchen and warm yourselves. It’s bitterly cold outside.”

  “Nonsense.” Herr Seutter abandoned the basket, took off his hat, and slipped out of his fur-trimmed cloak. “A brisk walk is good for growing boys.” He hung his cloak and hat on the hook beside the door and told the child, “Pick up those things and be quick about it, Hanserl. You can take them into the kitchen and then run home. I’m sure Maria has chores for you to do.” He brushed his curly brown hair into place, straightened the sleeves of his blue coat, and proceeded toward the kitchen.

  Augusta’s dislike of their visitor was not improved by this scene, but she followed without comment. Her mother was back in her chair, wearing her false curls under a fresh cap. Her cheeks looked unnaturally rosy, a color‌—‌Augusta knew‌—‌she had produced by painful pinching.

  She greeted Herr Seutter with a gracious smile and extended her hand.

  He said, “A very healthful New Year to you, dear lady,” and eyed her hand for a moment before shaking it firmly.

  Frau von Langsdorff tittered. “Oh, de
ar. Always so very forceful, my dear sir.” She shook a finger at him. “An eligible bachelor like you can benefit from a little advice. You must bow and kiss a lady’s hand to gain her heart.”

  Seutter stole a glance at Augusta, who suppressed a smile and busied herself with unpacking the basket. It contained bottles of wine, a whole ham, a side of bacon, a loaf of bread filled with nuts and corinths, another of fine wheat flour, a quarter of a whole wheel of cheese, a chunk of butter, and a roasted goose. Her mouth watered at such riches.

  The boy crept closer to the meager fire and stretched his hands toward the glowing coals.

  “Home with you, young rascal.” Herr Seutter clapped his hands, and the boy fled, slamming the front door behind him. His master came to help Augusta. “I took the liberty,” he said, “of bringing a few things to cheer your Mama and you.”

  “Oh, you dear man.” Frau von Langsdorff tripped over to put her hand on his arm and gave him a melting look. “To know that another heart beats with affection for two poor lonely and helpless females…‌I’m quite overcome by such goodness. Come sit by me, dear sir. I feel a little faint. Augusta, run and bring in your father’s chair from the salon.”

  Seeing the foods spread out on the kitchen table, Augusta was in a humor to forgive Herr Seutter. She was even more favorably inclined toward him when he followed her out to carry back the heavy oak settle.

  “God love you, my dear,” he said in the cold parlor, putting his large hand over hers on the back of the chair, “but this will be my duty. I’m not the sort of man who likes to see a tender female put to such heavy work. A young lady deserves a better life than this. A man must strive to make things easy for her.”

  Augusta snatched back her hand. The chair was certainly not beyond her strength, and she had no wish to discuss her situation with him. Instead she held the door open.