The servant fetched up soon after midnight to hear my ‘I will’. He began by knocking on the outside of the wagon. It was the time of night when I sleep most deeply, so his voice was rather too loud as he called, ‘Sabina, Sabina, my love, my delight, wake up! You promised me an answer.’ The cavalry captain’s tent was right beside the wagon, so he woke before I did. He’d long seen his servant as a rival. In fact, he must have been well green about the gills by now. Still, he didn’t emerge to disturb us, simply slipping out of bed to eavesdrop. The servant did eventually wake me with his insistence, demanding that I either come out and face him or let him in. I wasn’t having that. Who did he think I was, I asked him – a whore? My agreeing to see him today had been based on his offer of marriage; without that, I wasn’t giving myself to anyone. He said it was nearly time I got up anyway. I had to make breakfast for the servants. He’d go and fetch wood and water, and light the fire for me. ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘you do that, then I can grab another forty winks. Off you go. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’ However, since the idiot wouldn’t leave, up I got, more to start the day’s chores than out of any kindness to him. In any case, yesterday’s desperate silliness seemed to be behind him. I made a pretty good field-kitchen maid, having learnt to cook, bake and do the washing with the Croats. Spinning was beyond me, but that didn’t matter since soldiers’ wives don’t usually spin on campaigns. And my clumsiness at other ‘women’s work’ (brushing hair, for instance, or weaving plaits) the captain’s wife overlooked because I’d never been taught.
As I descended from the wagon with my sleeves rolled up, the sight of my white arms so aroused the servant that he couldn’t help covering them in kisses, and when I put up no particular resistance the captain of horse, who had a grandstand view, lost control completely and sprang out of his tent with rapier drawn to give my poor suitor what for. The latter took to his heels, clearly with no intention of returning, so the captain switched his attention to me, shouting, ‘You damned whore! I’ll show you—’ Well, that was all he could say, he was so livid. He went for me like a madman. Only my screams made him stop, because he was fearful of raising the alarm. The two armies, you see, the Saxon and the Imperial, were camped side by side because the Swedes, approaching under General Banér, were now quite close.
Twenty-Six
How he is then gaoled as a traitor and sorcerer
When day came and the two armies were busy striking camp, my master handed me over to the stable lads. They were a rough bunch, so I could expect correspondingly hideous treatment, I knew. They hurried me over to a thicket where they could let their beastly lusts rip, doing the things such sons of devils do when they’re given a woman. A flock of men trooped after them to watch the ghastly spectacle, my would-be swain among them. When he saw it was me facing a fate worse than death, he decided to rescue me by force, cost what it might. Others chorused support when he roared that I was his intended. Sympathizing with us both, they sprang to our assistance. But the stable lads, thinking they’d more right to me, weren’t going to give up such a prize easily. Time to meet force with force, they thought, as the two sides closed. More and more men came running, and the noise level rose. Honestly, it was like one of those jousts where, for the sake of a fair lady, everyone tries to deafen everyone else. The yelling reached the ears of their provost, who was more feared than the devil in person. He turned up just when, my clothes having been ripped off, I was revealed as not being a female at all. The hullabaloo ceased abruptly. The fighters lowered their fists. A few sharp questions revealed what the trouble was, and whereas I’d hoped the provost would be my salvation, he had me arrested instead. Something suspicious was going on, he reckoned, when a man in a dress was found in the middle of an army. So off they marched with me, he and his escort, past regiments lining up to go into battle, intent on delivering me to the judge general or the army’s chief of military police. However, as we were passing the regiment headed by my colonel, that officer recognized me and called me over. Finding me something to wear, he transferred me to our own provost marshal, who very promptly clapped me in irons.
I didn’t like being marched around in fetters like that – not one bit. I’d almost have starved, too, if Secretary Olivier hadn’t arranged for me to have something to eat. I’d still got my ducats with me, but I couldn’t let those be seen because I’d have lost the lot as well as getting into even hotter water. Said Olivier explained to me that same evening why I was being held in such close confinement. Our regimental magistrate had orders to interrogate me immediately; my statement must be with the judge general as soon as possible. Why? Because I was being held not only as a traitor and spy but also as a sorcerer capable of casting spells on folk. You see, soon after I’d gone missing several witches had been burnt who, before they died, had confessed to seeing me at a special Sabbath convened for the purpose of draining the Elbe and making Magdeburg easier to take. I was to answer the following questions:
First, had I or had I not been to university or at least learnt to read and write?
Second, why had I entered the camp outside Magdeburg dressed as a fool when back in the cavalry officer’s service as well as now I had all my wits about me?
Third, why had I then dressed as a woman?
Fourth, had I, along with other fiends, attended the witches’ Sabbath?
Where, fifthly, was I from; where did my parents live?
Sixth, where had I spent my time before coming to the camp outside Magdeburg?
Where and for what purpose, seventhly, had I learnt such women’s work as washing, bread-making, cooking, etc.? Ditto lute-playing?
I immediately wanted to tell my whole life story. That would account for all the strange things that had happened to me and these questions could be answered with the truth. However, the regimental magistrate was not that interested; feeling tired and rather grumpy after the march, he told me to keep my answers brief. So I did, answering as follows (i.e. vaguely and superficially):
To the first question, I said I hadn’t actually been to university but I could read and write the German language.
To the second, for want of a different outfit, I had indeed had to wear my fool’s costume.
To the third, because I was fed up with my fool’s costume and no male clothing had been available.
To the fourth, yes I had, unintentionally, but I couldn’t cast spells.
To the fifth, I was from the Spessart and my parents were farmers.
To the sixth, with the governor at Hanau and with a Croatian colonel named Corpes.
To the seventh, with the Croats, likewise against my will, I’d picked up washing, bread-making, and cooking; at Hanau I’d learnt to play the lute because I enjoyed it.
My statement having been taken down in writing, he said, ‘How can you lie and say you didn’t go to university when, at a time when you were still deemed a fool, you were heard during Mass, at the point where the priest utters the words Domine non sum dignus, to reply (also in Latin) he didn’t have to say so, we’d gathered as much already. ‘Sir,’ I replied, ‘that was what I was told to say at that point. It was a response, people said, that had to be spoken during Mass, whenever the chaplain celebrates.’ ‘I see,’ the magistrate said. ‘You’re the sort that needs a bit of torture to loosen his tongue, is that it?’ At which I thought, ‘God help me if that’s what you think, fool!’
Next morning, our provost was told by the judge general that I must be kept under close surveillance because he wanted to interrogate me himself as soon as the armies pitched camp again. It certainly looked as if I was in for some torture. However, God decided otherwise. During that spell in prison, I often thought of my priest friend back in Hanau and old man Herzbruder, who’d both predicted what would happen to me if I shed my fool’s costume too soon.
Twenty-Seven
What happened to the provost at the Battle of Wittstock
That same evening (we’d only just finished pitching camp) I was taken to the judge
general. With my statement and writing materials before him, he began interrogating me in detail. I told him my side of the story, exactly as it had happened, yet I wasn’t believed. The judge couldn’t possibly know, you see: was he dealing with a fool or a villain? Question and answer dovetailed neatly, and anyway the whole story was so odd. He told me to pick up a pen and write something, both to test whether I could and to see whether what I wrote made sense to him or was at least legible. Handling both quill and paper like someone who used them every day, I asked what I should write. The judge replied (impatiently, perhaps, not wanting my examination to continue deep into the night), ‘Oh, I don’t know – write: “My mother’s a whore!” for all I care.’ I duly set the words down, and when they were read out they didn’t make my case sound any better. The judge exclaimed, ‘Now I know you’re a loony!’ Had I been searched, he asked the provost marshal, and had any letters been found on me? That officer replied, ‘No, why would anyone want to search him when he was brought in virtually naked?’ That didn’t help, unfortunately. The provost was ordered to search me with everyone watching. Moreover, he did it so thoroughly that (an even greater shame!) he found the two donkey’s ears full of ducats bandaged to my upper arms. The judge exploded: ‘That proves it! This traitor had obviously agreed to commit some serious felony. Why else would a clever fellow disguise himself as a fool or a man wear a dress? Why was he carrying so much money if not to pull off something big? And if I’m not mistaken he admitted that it was while with the Hanau governor that he’d learnt to play the lute? The Hanau governor’s one of the slyest soldiers there are. What other bent tricks did he pick up from those filthy Prots, do you suppose? The quickest way to find out is to stretch him on the rack tomorrow and afterwards send him to a well-earned death at the stake. We know he’s consorted with witches, so he deserves no better.’ You can imagine the state that threw me into. I knew I was innocent and I put all my trust in God. Still, I was clearly in danger. Plus I was about to lose my lovely ducats, which the judge general promptly pocketed.
However, before this trial by ordeal was put in hand, Banér’s troops attacked. From the outset the armies jostled for positional advantage, but then the enemy began a heavy bombardment, with our lot losing their artillery immediately. The provost was holding his unit and us captives well back from the fighting, but even so we were close enough to our brigade to be able to recognize everyone from behind by their clothes. And when a Swedish squadron fell upon the brigade we were in as much danger as the men fighting. The air above our heads was instantly so full of whining bullets, the salvo might have been launched for our benefit. The more fearful ducked as if trying to hide inside themselves; the bolder ones and those who’d been in such ludicrous scrapes before coolly let the bullets fly over them. In the battle itself, each fighter tried to thwart death by striking his assailant down first, while the crash of gunfire, the clank of armour, the screams of the wounded and the yells of the attackers, plus the din of cornets, fifes and drums, added up to a quite terrifying music. All you saw were clouds of smoke and dust – as if trying to hide the ghastly sight of the dead and wounded. Permeating those clouds was the pitiful yammering of men dying in agony, coupled with the full-throated roar of those still bursting with spirit. Even the horses, as the slaughter dragged on, seemed keener and keener to defend their masters, furiously performing a duty they’d never volunteered for. Yet others, loyally acquitting that debt, fell dead beneath their riders, torn by countless wounds received through no fault of their own, while their fellow beasts, identically driven, fell on top of those who rode them and thus in death received the honour of being borne by men who, in life, they’d been obliged to bear themselves. Others again, relieved of the heavy burdens that had formerly ruled their lives, abandoned their riders in a frenzy of rage and galloped off into the open fields. The earth, normally used to cover the dead, was that day, in that place, littered with bodies and body parts. Heads lay where their natural pedestals had lost them; elsewhere, bodies lacked heads. Some corpses (a particularly nasty sight) now had their insides on the outside, while some of the heads were so smashed, the brains had squirted through the skulls. There were dead bodies drained of their own blood, living bodies splattered with the blood of others; there were arms ripped off by musket balls, the fingers still groping as if avid to return to the fighting throng, leapt over by fellows fleeing without a spot of blood on them. Butchered thighs lay about. Without the weight of a body to support, they looked the heavier for it. You saw mutilated soldiers begging to be finished off, others, desperate to go on living, pleading for quarter. It was a wretched, wretched sight – I’m telling you. The victorious Swedes, pouring through our lines, drove our army from the ground it had so lucklessly defended. In the circumstances, our provost decided to flee too, taking his prisoners (although as non-combatants we’d have had little to fear from the victor). As he herded us together, threatening to do unspeakable things to us if we refused to come with him, Herzbruder Jr rode up with five horse and greeted the man with a shot from his pistol. ‘Take that, dog!’ he said. ‘Time to sire more puppies, I think. Let’s see if this’ll help!’ However, the bullet bounced off the provost’s chest as off an anvil. ‘Aha!’ said Ulrich. ‘That’s how it is, eh? Well, I’ll not give you the pleasure of my visit for nothing. You must die – even if your soul has become welded to your body!’ And he ordered one of the guards in the provost’s party, if he valued his own life, to strike the man dead with his axe. Accordingly, the provost got what he deserved. And young Herzbruder, recognizing me, freed me from my chains, set me on a horse, and had his servant lead me to safety.
Twenty-Eight
Tells of a very big engagement, in which the winner, at the height of his triumph, is captured
Just as my rescuer, the servant, was leading me out of danger, his master was letting his desire for honour and booty draw him into it – so far into it, in fact, that he was taken prisoner. After the victors had divided the spoils and buried their dead, and my Herzbruder was found to be missing, his captain of horse inherited me, together with the servant and horses, and I had to serve him as a stable lad. All I received in return was a promise that, if I behaved, and when I was a bit older, he’d maybe give me a leg up – admit me to his troop, he meant. At least I had that hope.
Very soon afterwards my captain of horse was promoted to lieutenant colonel, while I was given the post that David once occupied in King Saul’s establishment: in camp I played the lute and on the march I had to carry his cuirass. That meant wearing it, and it was a tad heavy for me. The idea of the cuirass was to shelter its wearer from enemy blows, but in my case it had a different effect. A brood of my own hatching, feeling well sheltered, was at liberty to roam and rampage inside. The armour, it seemed, was designed less for my protection than for theirs, especially since I couldn’t get my arms in to scratch. I devised all sorts of stratagems to thin out the armada, but I’d neither the time nor the opportunity to fight them with fire (ovens are good for this, by the way) or get rid of them with water or poison (though I’d been told mercury could help), much less use other methods (seeing them off with clean underclothes, for instance, or fresh white shirts). No, I had to put up with them, tote them around, and feed them generously with my own flesh and blood. When the biting and sucking became unbearable, I drew my pistol – not to exchange shots with them but to use the ramrod to dislodge them from their feasting. Eventually, I discovered the trick of winding a bit of fur around the ramrod and tying it with sticky yarn. It made a kind of fishing rod for lice, and with it I pulled them out from under the cuirass by the dozen and dispatched the blighters. Not that that brought much relief.
On one occasion my lieutenant colonel was ordered to head a strong cavalcade into Westphalia, and if he’d had as many troopers then as I had lice he’d have put the wind up the whole world. He didn’t, though, so had to go carefully. For the same reason he was obliged to hide in the Gemmer Mark (as the forest was called that lay betw
een Hamm and Soest). At the time my own problem hit something of a peak. The lice were tormenting me so dreadfully, I worried they were making a home for themselves under my skin. No wonder Brazilians become so angry and vengeful that they eat them (the Brazilians eat the lice, that is). Oh, they’re a plague! One day, feeling I couldn’t bear the torment any longer, while some of the troopers were feeding the horses, some sleeping, and some on watch, I went off a little way under a tree to wage war on my enemy. Pulling off the cuirass (I know: most folk don one when going into battle), I launched such an attack of squashing and squeezing, in minutes my twin swords (i.e. thumbnails) dripped with blood and dead bodies (empty skins, I should say) lay at my feet. Those I didn’t kill I left to die slowly, crawling around beneath the tree. Every time I think of that encounter I itch all over and I’m back under that tree, battling away. I shouldn’t be fighting my fellow creatures, I kept thinking, particularly not such faithful servants, who wouldn’t desert their master on the gallows or as he was being broken on the wheel and on whom, given their huge numbers, I’d often slept in comfort outdoors on the hard ground. Nevertheless, I continued my ravages with merciless concentration – to the point where I was quite unaware of the assault that Imperial troops had launched against my lieutenant general’s unit until eventually it reached me, relieved the poor lice, and took me prisoner. My captors clearly had no fear of the virility that had enabled me to wipe out thousands shortly before, easily beating the record set by a certain tailor (‘seven at one blow’, remember?). I was taken by a dragoon, and all the booty he got from me was my lieutenant colonel’s cuirass, for which he nevertheless got a good price from his commanding officer back in Soest, where they were based. The dragoon thus became my sixth master of the war. I was pressed into his service, you see.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 19