by Eric Flint
Gaps. Judy was no soldier, but you didn’t need to be Napoleon to figure out why the Ottomans had left a couple of places unburned. That was where they’d do their charge on the walls.
Until this very moment, Judy hadn’t really been that concerned about the outcome of the siege. Like almost everyone else, she knew the past history and the future history and the repeated failure of the Ottoman sultans to take Vienna. And had let that knowledge—no, not “knowledge,” merely supposition—determine her thinking.
“We need to get out of here,” she said. “Right now.”
She turned from the window and saw that Minnie was already hoisting the archduchess out of the bed.
“What’s happening?” Cecilia Renata said again.
“Bad stuff,” was Minnie’s reply. “Come on, Your Grace. We’ve got to get you someplace safe. Well, saf-er.”
With a little grunt and a heave, she had Cecilia Renata cradled in her arms. Fiddler and singer she might be, but Hugelmair was a strong girl. “Lead the way,” she said to Judy. “I’ll carry her.”
Chapter 39
Vienna, capital of Austria-Hungary
The soldiers on the other bastions began firing as soon as the Ottoman airships were within range—in other words, much too early. At two hundred yards, they could reach the airships with their musket balls, but even firing in volleys most of the balls would miss at that range. Even if they hit, the likelihood that they’d have enough force to punch through the tough wicker was low. All the more so because now that the enemy vessels were closer, Leopold could see that the Ottomans had attached shields to the sides of the gondolas. These were the type of shields the Turks called “kalkans,” made of rattan wound around a central metal boss and further strengthened with silk cords. They were quite light but effective. As a second layer of shielding, they added further protection from musket balls fired at the sides of the gondolas.
The floors, on the other hand…
Using his spyglass, Leopold studied the bottom of the gondolas. They were flat, not sloped or rounded, and they weren’t shielded.
He lowered the spyglass and turned to Montecuccoli. “I think—”
But the Italian’s attention was riveted on the soldiers in the adjoining bastion, who’d just fired their first volley. “No! You fucking idiots!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Wait till they get closer!”
The officer who seemed to be in command over there obviously heard him, because he made a rude gesture in their direction—and, just as obviously, had no intention of following the advice.
Leopold placed a hand on Montecuccoli’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. “Ignore them, Raimondo. We have our own airship to deal with. Wait until it’s no more than a hundred yards away—and then have the men aim for the floor of the gondola.”
Montecuccoli broke off scowling at the adjoining bastion and squinted at the nearing Ottoman vessel. “Aim for…” He made a face. “These are just muskets, Your Grace. Not very accurate.”
“Yes, I know. But we have a hundred of them.” He gave a quick glance at the mob of soldiers who’d piled onto the bastion’s fighting surface. “More than that, I think. But you need to take command. Their own officers are… well, confused.”
Montecuccoli immediately began shouting at the soldiers on their own bastion, and gathering their officers around him. They were relieved to see that someone was in charge and seemed to know what he was doing, even if technically he had no direct authority over them.
Leopold went back to studying the Ottoman fleet of airships. The nearest of them had now started to pass over the glacis and was within a few dozen yards of the fortifications themselves.
The archduke had a gnawing feeling that the same confusion existed everywhere on Vienna’s fortifications. Most of the Austrian troops in the garrison were veterans, but in this situation that might be as much of a handicap as a help. They were accustomed to a certain type of fighting, but today the Ottoman sultan was breaking all the familiar rules. It was now clear to Leopold that Murad had never intended to take Vienna by the normal methods of siegecraft. That was the reason he was launching the assault before the trenches had come near, and the reason the Turkish sapping efforts had been so lackadaisical. They had in fact just been for show.
Less than half a minute later, the first Ottoman airship began dropping its bombs, and the Austrian defenders were caught by surprise again. Or, at least, Leopold was—but he was quite sure General Baudissin was also.
The Ottomans weren’t dropping normal explosives, they were dropping fire bombs. Big jars full of some sort of liquid that not only erupted into flames as soon as the jars burst on impact, but seemed to cling to everything as well. Leopold wasn’t certain, but he thought this was the material that the Americans called “napalm.” They also called it “jellied gasoline,” if he remember right. In essence, an up-time and more fiendish version of Greek fire.
It was a terror weapon, which killed as effectively as normal bombs but also spread panic among the defenders. Already Leopold could see streams of soldiers pouring off the bastions, almost as if they were a liquid themselves. He could hear officers shouting commands, ordering the men to stay at their posts. But it was increasingly clear to him that they would fail in that effort. The men were simply too frightened, too uncertain, too confused. As Leopold had feared, Baudissin’ insistence that the soldiers remain on the bastions and walls during the airship bombardment was proving disastrous.
A shadow came over him. Startled, he look up and saw that the enemy airship which had been heading toward this bastion was almost overhead. And it was very low, certainly not more than one hundred yards above them. Belatedly, it occurred to Leopold that he was on the verge of being roasted alive, if—
“Fire!” Montecuccoli roared. The sound of the volley came instantly, as if it were an explosion itself.
Looking back up, Leopold thought that the gondola seemed to buck a little. As if struck from below by an ox. Or a donkey, at least.
He brought the spyglass back up and peered through it.
Yes! He could see two—three—four—five—was that a sixth?—hole in the floor of the gondola.
Or thought he could, at least. He really wasn’t sure. It was quite dark under there. Maybe he was imagining things.
But then he realized the airship had already passed over them—without dropping any bombs.
Yes!
* * *
Moshe Mizrahi stared down at the corpse of the airship’s commander, Mustafa Sa’id. He had been… butchered was the only term Moshe could think of. One of the balls that came through the floor of their gondola had struck Mustafa right under the chin, taking off most of his jaw and his nose. A second bullet had passed through his groin and ended somewhere in his abdomen.
Moshe forced himself to look away. With Mustafa dead, as the airship’s pilot he was now in command of the vessel.
Elijah Frizis was also dead, he saw. He felt a moment’s guilt that he was more upset over the death of Mustafa than he was over that of his fellow Jew, Elijah. But Sa’id had been a good fellow, for a Muslim, and a very capable airship commander. Whereas Elijah’s best quality had been that his surliness also made him taciturn, so at least you didn’t have to try to talk to him. And the reason they’d made Frizis their bombardier was because that job took practically no skill at all. Just a strong back, to pick up the heavy bomb jars. The man had been dull-witted as well as unpleasant.
“What do we do now?”
Moshe turned his head and was relieved to see that Mordechai Pesach was still alive. Leaving aside the fact that Mordechai was a friend, he was also the airship’s engineer. As chance would have it—good luck, in this instance—the two men whose skills were most important to running an airship had both survived.
“You’re bleeding.” said Pesach. He pointed to Moshe’s left side. “There. Just below your elbow.”
Moshe brought up his arm and was surprised to see that he’d ap
parently been wounded. He couldn’t feel a thing, though, so it must not be serious even if there seemed to be a good bit of blood soaking his sleeve.
“No time for that now,” he said. He took a quick look over the side of the gondola. They’d passed completely over the bastion and the fortifications and were now above the city itself.
“We need to climb higher,” he said. “Drop some ballast.”
Mordechai pointed to the jars lined up on a ledge against the side of the gondola. There was another line of them on the side where Moshe was standing. “Why not just drop the bombs?”
Moshe shook his head. “Not over the city.”
“Why not?” demanded Mordechai. “We’re not carrying fire bombs. Not even superstitious Muslims have a problem with dropping regular bombs anywhere. And even if they did, it wouldn’t apply to us. We’re zimmis, remember?”
“That’s not the point. These bombs are supposed to be used on the troops guarding the city walls. If we drop them anywhere else, the sultan will be angry.” He shook his head again. “Just drop some ballast, that’s all. Enough to lift us another fifty kulaçs—no, better make it another seventy-five.”
Mordechai grimaced. “And return to base with all the bombs still on board? The sultan is sure to order us executed if we do that.”
“We’ll drop them when we pass back over the city walls.”
“On top of janissaries? Why don’t we just cut our throat and be done with it?”
“We’ll make sure we pass over a part of the wall that’s burning. The janissaries will only be storming two of the bastions, remember?”
“How could I forget?” said Mordechai. “Since one of them was the one we were supposed to bomb.”
Moshe had already thought of that—in fact, he was tempted to turn right around and make another bombing attempt on the same bastion. The problem was that the airship was slow and cumbersome, and by the time they came back over that bastion the janissaries would have started their assault.
He looked back at the bastion in question. From their height, he could see the Ottoman army in the distance beyond.
Then he saw the great cloud of smoke and realized it was all a moot point. Clearly enough, Sultan Murad had spotted the problem and come to his own solution.
“We’ll just have to hope for the best,” he said, pondering the odds.
On the one hand, Murad was said to be a fair-minded sultan. On the other hand, if he did decide against you he usually had only one punishment. Moshe fingered his neck, wondering what being hung felt like.
Not good, he was quite sure of that. But at least you’d die fairly quickly. And maybe he’d get lucky and Murad would have him decapitated instead.
* * *
Stefan Branković hadn’t been expecting the order. But he and his men had been ready for it, nonetheless. When you were operating directly under the eye of Sultan Murad, it was not wise to be sluggish. It was really not wise.
So when the signal rang out, he and Vuk Milutin had their katyusha cart in motion before the cymbals stopped clanging. Vuk rode the guide horse while Stefan, as the cart commander, rode the back of the cart itself.
The position was more prestigious, but as he had every time before, Stefan envied his partner. Even the skimpy saddles provided for katyusha crews were more comfortable than being jostled and jarred on the back of a cart being pulled by horses.
They were trotting, of course, not galloping. Still, it was all he could do to keep from being thrown off.
Fortunately, they didn’t have to go very far. Just four hundred or so kulaçs, enough to get in front of the janissaries and within close striking range of the bastion ahead of them.
Glancing quickly to each side, Stefan saw that the entire bölük was keeping pace with them. By the time they reached the janissaries, the infantrymen had reformed their ranks into lines that the katyushas could pass through. They were arrogant bastards—Stefan didn’t know anyone who liked janissaries, even their fellow Muslims—but you couldn’t deny they were good at what they did.
They were good at dying, too, Stefan thought cheerfully. Better them than him—although, being a conscientious man, he’d do his best to make sure as few of them died today as possible.
At the mülazım’s command, they halted the cart and readied the katyushas. That took very little time. At the next command, Stefan put the slowmatch to the fuse, as did all those to either side. The entire line of katyushas was swallowed up in billowing rocket smoke.
Because of the smoke, Stefan didn’t see the effect of their barrage on the bastion. But he didn’t really care, anyway. Whatever Austrian soldiers might still be alive up there—they were the janissaries’ problem now, not his.
* * *
When Leopold saw the hail of rockets headed toward them, he realized in that instant that Vienna was lost.
Or accepted the loss in that instant, it might be better to say. The more rational part of his brain had already realized the Ottomans were going to take the city that day.
“Take cover!” he shouted. But Montecuccoli had already given that order. The men were crowding against the walls on the bastion, sheltering as best they could from the oncoming missiles.
Belatedly, it occurred to Leopold that perhaps he should follow his own advice. He barely made it to the wall before the rockets began striking—and then, had no choice but to huddle against the backs of the men already there. Fortunately for him, the rockets proved to be rather ineffective against fortifications like these. For one thing, they were inaccurate. Many of them plunged harmlessly into the glacis, others struck the walls but the warheads were not powerful enough to break those heavy fortifications. Others sailed overhead and landed somewhere behind, while still others veered completely aside.
Out of that entire barrage, only three rockets struck onto the bastion fighting surface itself—and one of them at the very far edge. The warheads were using timed fuses, and those were always a bit haphazard. This missile didn’t explode soon enough, so almost all of the shrapnel sailed off harmlessly.
The same problem afflicted the other two missiles, since they were coming in at such a shallow angle. The one which exploded while it was still passing above did wound several men and kill one outright. But the fuse on the third missile must have been cut much too long, because that missile actually bounced off the bastion surface and was at least thirty yards beyond the edge when it finally exploded. Its warhead did no damage at all, beyond peppering the walls of nearby buildings.
Leopold came to his feet and tried to peer over the walls to see what was happening now. He had to half-climb onto the men in front of him to do so.
What he saw was frightening. A mass of Turkish soldiers—janissaries, from the uniforms—was charging toward the bastion. And in their midst was some sort of bizarre machine. Leopold recognized the noise it was making as the one he’d heard before. He was pretty sure that was a steam engine driving the thing forward.
The machine was what the up-timers called a “tank,” he thought. An armored vehicle of war driven by its own engine and armed with a cannon. In fact, he could see the cannon itself—although, oddly, it seemed to be aiming at the glacis in front of it.
He slid off the pile of men he’d used as an impromptu ramp of sorts and looked toward the other bastions on the walls. Most were now enveloped in flames—all of the bastions he could seem except his own and the one on the far west which was almost out of his sight. That one also had a mass of janissaries charging toward it, although he didn’t see another tank.
The correct defensive tactic in this situation was obvious. The same flames that had driven Austrian soldiers off the walls and bastions would also act as a barrier against the Ottomans. They needed to rally the soldiers and concentrate them on the two bastions where the Ottoman assault would be taking place.
He saw that Montecuccoli was coming toward him and started to give those very orders. But then, as he looked around, saw that it was already too late. The Austria
n troops—everywhere except right here, from what he could see—were already routed. In a panic, they were fleeing away from the walls. By the time they could be rallied, it would be too late.
“The day is lost, Your Grace,” said Montecuccoli. “I recommend that you do what you can to lead an evacuation of the city. If we move quickly, I think we can still save many of our soldiers, though not the city itself.” He paused, seeming to brace his shoulders a bit. “I will take charge of the defense of the bastion and buy you what time I can.”
Leopold shook his head. “Your plan is good but the arrangement is wrong. You organize the retreat, Colonel—get Captain Adolf Brevermann to help you. He’s already got boats ready for the purpose. If you encounter Baudissin, assuming the stupid bastard is still alive, tell him I gave the order to do it. I will stay here and organize the bastion’s defense.”
“Your Grace—”
“That’s an order, Colonel. I would have no idea how to rally and reorganize men who are already demoralized. I think it is within my capability to do something as simple as tell men already in position to hold steady and open fire.” He shrugged. “Raimondo, they are more likely to stay and fight if I stay with them. You know that as well as I do. So now, go and do as I command.”
Montecuccoli opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. Closed it. Then, gave Leopold a quick, deep bow.
“Your Grace,” he said. He turned and hurried off the bastion.
But Leopold didn’t watch him once he was sure Montecuccoli was leaving. He had his own soldiers to rally.
“To the guns, men!” He remembered he was bearing a sword and drew it out of the scabbard. “To the guns!” he repeated, waving it around and feeling a bit silly. He was supposed to be a bishop, not—not—
What had been that Roman’s name? Horatius, if he remembered the legend right. Horatius at the bridge.
Whether it was the sword-waving, or perhaps because his voice had not wavered, or perhaps because he was an archduke of Austria—perhaps because he was a bishop, who could say?—the men held firm. They were loading the cannons and making ready to fire.