by Eric Flint
“Why does God seem to have such a grudge against poor Poland?” he muttered. Jozef had an insouciant temperament and was generally good-humored. But by now the contrast between Poland’s feckless rulers and the people he’d come to know in Dresden was becoming downright grotesque. Were he not a son of Poland and quite attached to his homeland, he’d have instantly traded King Wladyslaw and the whole miserable worthless Sejm for a printer’s daughter named Gretchen, a former tavern maid named Tata, and a one-time gunmaker become quite a good officer named Eric Krenz.
The children were still frozen in place, like two little statues. Josef got back on his feet, leaned over, and picked the girl up in his arms. She did not try to resist, nor did she make any sound.
“Don’t hurt Tekla!” the boy cried out, reaching out his hand. “Please don’t!”
His Polish had a heavy rural accent, but was obviously his native tongue.
Jozef cradled the girl in one arm and reached down with his other hand. “I won’t hurt her. Or you. Now come, boy. We have to leave here. What’s your name?”
Hesitantly, the boy reached up, took Jozef’s proffered hand and levered himself upright.
“I’m Pawel. Pawel Nowak.”
“Where is your family, Pawel?”
The boy looked distressed. His eyes moved toward one of the wrecked buildings and then shied away. “Gone. All of them except me and Tekla. They killed my father and uncle. My older brother Fabek also. My mother… I don’t know what happened to her. The soldiers took her away. I think she was hurt.”
By the end he was starting to weep. So was the girl. Jozef put an arm around Pawel’s shoulders and drew him close, while cradling Tekla more tightly.
So he remained for a while, until the children were cried out.
“Come on, now,” he said. “We have to get moving.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’ll spend tonight in Boleslawiec.” Since the children were Polish, he used the Polish name for the town. “After that… I have to get to Wroclaw.”
Pawel’s eyes widened. “But that’s so far away!”
The distance from Boleslawiec to Wroclaw wasn’t actually that great. Perhaps eighty miles—certainly not more than a hundred. A few days on horseback, no more. But for a Silesian village boy, it would have seemed almost as far away as Russia or France. If he even knew where those countries were located, which he probably didn’t.
After some experimentation, Josef found that the best way for the three of them to ride was with Pawel sitting behind him holding on and Tekla perched on his lap. It was awkward and it was going to be uncomfortable for all them, especially the poor horse. But at least today they didn’t have very far to go.
Tomorrow and the days thereafter… were tomorrow and the days thereafter. There were advantages to having Jozef’s temperament. He wasn’t given to worrying overmuch about what the future might hold.
* * *
He found a fairly decent tavern in Boleslawiec that had a room to rent. The food was mediocre but edible. The biggest drawback to the situation was that the tavern’s barmaids seemed quite friendly but with two children in tow he found himself unable to proceed as he normally would.
So, he retired for the night sooner than usual. When he got back to the room he’d rented, he found that Pawel and Tekla were already sound asleep. They were cuddled together so tightly that he’d have more space on the bed than he’d expected.
First, though…
He’d already placed the batteries in the radio before he’d left Dresden. So all he had to do was place the antenna out of the window. Then, patiently, he began spelling out the Morse code.
Poznań, Poland
“You wanted me, Grand Hetman?” Lukasz Opalinski didn’t quite come to attention—Polish military protocol was fairly relaxed about such things—but his tone was respectful and alert. Koniecpolski was not in the habit of summoning one of his junior officers on a passing whim. Something important must be brewing.
The top commander of the army of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth looked up from a piece of paper in his hand. Silently, he extended the hand to give the paper to Lukasz.
In radio contact again. In Bunzlau. Need to meet with someone in Wroclaw. Have two children need care. Nephew.
“Two children?” Lukasz couldn’t keep from laughing out loud. “I wouldn’t have thought even Jozef could have sired two bastards in the time he’s been gone.”
Koniecpolski smiled. “I don’t understand about the children either. But if he says he needs to meet with someone, we must see to it. My nephew is brash but he’s no fool.”
Lukasz had already thought ahead. “I’m free at the moment—not much for a hussar to do in this sort of siege—and I’ve been to Wroclaw. I wouldn’t say I know the city well, but I do know it.”
Koniecpolski nodded. “Off you go, then. It’s about a hundred miles or so. If he’s in Boleslawiec with two children you’ll get to Wroclaw about the same time he does.” The Grand Hetman frowned slightly. “I don’t know why he used the German name for it.”
Lukasz shrugged. “They’re a rude and abrupt folk, so their names are usually shorter. That matters when you’re using Morse.”
“Ah. I hadn’t considered that.” Koniecpolski was aware that there was some sort of code usually involved in radio transmission, but he’d probably never actually heard it used. He would have simply been given already-translated messages.
Lukasz was in very good spirits on his way out. Sieges were boring.
Lower Silesia, between Legnica and Wroclaw
“There’s someone up on the hill,” Tekla said. Her tone was anxious. “In the trees. I think they’re trying to hide.”
“I see them,” said Jozef. He’d actually spotted the men before the girl had, half a minute earlier. The “hill” she referred to was more of a slight elevation just a few yards off to the left side of the narrow road they were following. The landscape was mostly flat, as was generally the case in the basin formed by the Oder river. They were quite a ways north of the Sudetes mountains which formed most of the southern border of Silesia.
But there were occasional rises in the terrain, often wooded, and at least three men were on the one just ahead of them. They were indeed trying to hide—none too adroitly—and it was quite obvious the reason they were doing so was because this clumsy effort was their idea of an ambush.
Jozef felt a fierce surge, almost one of exultation. His fury had been building for days and he’d finally have someone to unleash it upon.
But first, he had to take some care of the children.
“Tekla, Pawel, I’m going to stop very soon and you both have to get off the horse.” He nodded toward some brush off to the right a short distance away. “Go hide in there. Keep your heads down.”
“What are you going to do, Uncle?” Pawel asked nervously. In the three days of their travels, Wojtowicz had undergone a transition from scary stranger to nice man to Uncle Jozef.
“Make these bad men go away. Far away.”
Oh, so very very far away.
He brought the horse to a halt. “Now, children. Off you go—and on the right side of the horse, where they can’t see you well.”
Pawel was on the ground in less than two seconds. He reached up to catch his little sister as Josef lowered her with one hand.
His right hand, unfortunately. But he didn’t think it was really going to matter because with his left hand he was already drawing out one of the two pistols he carried at his waist.
He thought the world of those weapons. Even with the money provided him by Grand Hetman Koniecpolski, Josef hadn’t been able to afford actual up-time pistols. But these were close to the next best thing: Blumroder .58 caliber over-and-under double-barreled caplock pistols. He’d opted for the longer eight-inch barrels despite the extra weight and somewhat more awkward handling because he wanted to be able to fire from horseback—while moving, at a canter if not a gallop—with a good chance of hitt
ing his target.
He’d been able to practice a fair amount with them, too, before he left Dresden. After his participation in the sortie that marked the height of the battle between the besieged forces and Báner’s men trying to get back into the trenches, he no longer bothered hiding the fact that he’d trained as a hussar.
He watched while the children scurried off into the shrubbery, without so much as glancing at the wooded rise where the ambushers were waiting. He didn’t need to. Part of the training he’d gotten—which had been reinforced by his later experience as a spy—had been to quickly scan and memorize terrain and whatever forces might be located there.
There were three beech trees crowning the rise, all of them mature with thick trunks and plenty of room for horsemen beneath the lower branches. It was the sort of place careless and lazy soldiers would pick for an ambush. They’d have done better to use one of the groves of fir trees that dotted the terrain.
As soon as the children were out of sight he spurred his horse and charged the rise, angling to the right in order to take as much advantage of the road as he could before the final moments.
Part of his mind registered the squawks of surprise—there was some fear there, too—coming from the men half-hidden among the trees. But he paid little attention to that. His concentration was now visual, keeping everything in sight, in his mind’s eye—where everyone was, how they were moving—how many were there?
Three, he thought at first. But then a fourth man came out of hiding and began running away on foot. Clearly, the fellow hadn’t been expecting this reaction from a lone traveler with two small children—and wanted no part of it.
He was a dead man, but Josef ignored him for the moment. He’d already shifted the pistol from his left hand to the right and taken the reins in his left. He now guided his horse off the road and straight up the rise into the trees.
The pistol came up—the range was less than ten yards now—and he fired.
His target jerked and yelled something. Now six yards away. He fired again and the target went down.
He shoved the empty pistol into a saddle holster—quickly, the range was down to three yards and one of the men was aiming his own pistol—and drew the one on his right hip.
Then, rolled his upper body down next to his horse’s flank. The enemy’s shot went somewhere over his head. The fool should have tried to shoot the horse.
He was back up again. Visualizing everything. One enemy was clambering onto a horse—and not doing a good job of it. He must be rattled. A second was fumbling with his pistol—probably the one he’d just fired, proving himself a fool twice over.
Josef drove his horse over him, trampling him under. Distantly he heard the man scream but he was now concentrated on the one getting onto his horse.
He ducked under a branch and came up right next to him. Fired. Fired. The man slid out of the saddle, smearing blood all over. The horse panicked and raced off, dragging him from one stirrup. If he wasn’t dead already he would be soon, being dragged like that.
Jozef wheeled his horse around. The man he’d just trampled was moaning and clutching his belly. Something in his body had been ruptured, probably. He’d keep for a while.
The first man he’d shot was lying on his back, staring up at the sky with lifeless eyes. The second shot had passed through his throat.
Josef wheeled his horse back around and set off after the man trying to run away. By now, he was perhaps thirty yards distant.
The fleeing soldier didn’t stop and try to stand his ground, the way he should have. He just kept running—as if he could possibly outpace a warhorse. Lukasz had told Josef that routed infantry usually behaved this way but he hadn’t quite believed him.
Stupid. Jozef’s saber was in his hand. It rose and fell. The fleeing soldier’s head stayed on his body but not by much. Blood gushed from his neck like a fountain.
On the way back, Josef stopped at the rise, got off the horse and finished the business with the trampled one. He used the man’s uniform—such as it was—to clean the saber blade.
Then he walked his horse back to the bushes where the children were hiding.
The boy stood up before he got there. “Were those the men who killed my father and the others?” he asked.
Jozef shook his head. “Probably not, Pawel. But they belonged to the same army. Holk’s men.”
“I’m glad you killed them, then.”
“So am I.” He tried—probably failed, though—to keep the ferocity out of his voice.
Tekla came out of the bushes and rushed up to him. He held her for a while, until she stopped crying.
“Come now, children,” he said finally. “We want to reach Wroclaw by nightfall.”
Chapter 14
Vienna, capital of Austria-Hungary
“So that’s him, huh?” Denise and Minnie studied the Austrian archduke across the room. He was engaged in an animated discussion with another man. “His Royal Highness Damn-My-Balls-Hurt,” Denise continued.
Judy Wendell, the young lady who had been responsible for that emphatic rejection of the archduke’s advances, shook her head. “He’s not that bad a guy, actually. Most of the time, I enjoyed his company well enough. It’s just… You know. Monarchy. I mean, real monarchy, not that show business stuff we had with Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana and all them back up-time. These guys get raised really weird and it goes to their heads. The girls too, although they don’t seem to get as screwy. Women are more sensible than men under pretty much any circumstances.”
Denise and Minnie nodded, indicating their full agreement with that proposition. They then went back to studying the royal person in question. “And he’s a bishop on top of everything else?”
“I’m not actually sure about that,” Judy said. “Everybody refers to him that way, as the prince-bishop of Passau—he’s also the prince-bishop of Halberstadt and Strassburg and Bremen, too, they say.”
“Hey!” Denise protested. “He’s got a lot of nerve. We control Bremen and. Strassburg.”
“That’s not how it works,” Minnie corrected her. She wasn’t exactly what anyone would call a studious girl, but she did pay more attention to what their employer Francisco Nasi explained to them about the political situation in Europe than Denise usually did. “The pope hands out those bishoprics like candy, whether he actually controls them or not. They call it in partibus infidelium, which is a fancy Latin way of saying ‘in the land of the unbelievers.’”
She cocked her head toward Judy. “What did you mean when you said you weren’t sure about that?”
“I’m not sure he’s actually a bishop—the way the church means it. Somebody told me that technically he’s just the administrator of the bishoprics. That way he gets to collect the revenues—from Passau and Halberstadt, at least—but he hasn’t taken any holy vows or anything.”
“As he proved when he tried to stick his tongue down your throat,” snorted Denise.
Judy grinned. “Oh, hell, girl, we’re in the year 1636. The freaking popes in this day and age will try to stick their tongues down your throat.”
“And stick you elsewhere with other parts,” Minnie agreed. She said that with no outrage or indignation; just the way she might have said roses are red, violets are blue. She had the seventeenth century’s pragmatism in full measure. “He’s kind of cute,” she added, still examining the royal fellow across the room.
Denise frowned. “Are you kidding? With that long bony nose and the Habsburg lip?”
The three girls spent a few more seconds in study.
“I gotta say I’m pretty much with Denise on this one, Minnie,” Judy said. “I mean, Leopold’s not ugly or anything, but I’d hardly call him ‘cute.’”
Again, they resumed their critical examination. Archduke Leopold Wilhelm, the brother of the current Austrian emperor, Ferdinand III, was a young man—he’d turned twenty-two a few months earlier—and on the tall, slender side. He had dark and wavy hair parted in the middle o
f his head, which was long enough to spill over his shoulders. His narrow face was decorated with a Van Dyke beard.
In all fairness, Denise’s accusations were not wide of the mark. The prince did have a long and bony nose and his heavy lower lip could have been put on display in a museum with a caption saying: If you ever wondered what the famous Habsburg lip looked like, this is it.
“Come on,” Judy said, starting across the floor. “I’ll introduce you.”
Even as brash as she was, Denise lagged behind. “You sure? I mean…”
“Relax,” Judy said. “The emperor himself laid down the terms of the peace treaty between me and Leopold. Of course, nobody said anything to me directly. But he’s been on his best behavior ever since and everybody here at court pretends like nothing ever happened. The French call it sang-froid.”
“Cold blood,” Minnie translated. Despite—or perhaps because of—the little formal education she’d received in Grantville’s school system, Minnie spoke several languages quite well. Her wanderings with Benny Pierce had been linguistically fruitful. Minstrels tended to be a migratory bunch.
The parquet floor they were moving across seemed about the size of a basketball court to Denise. The chamber—it might be better to call it a reception hall or even a ballroom—was almost entirely devoid of furniture. Down-timers, at least those in the upper classes, were more accustomed than Americans were to spending large amounts of time in social occasions on their feet rather than sitting down.
As if to compensate for the absence of chairs or tables, practically every square inch of the walls—and they were tall, too, since the ceiling was a good twenty feet above the floor—were covered with paintings. The great majority of them were portraits, and the great majority of the portraits seemed to consist of representations of various members of the centuries-old and farflung Habsburg family.
As they neared Leopold and his companion, the prince spotted them coming and broke off his conversation. When they drew up next to him, his expression was simply one of calm and relaxed attentiveness.