1634: The Baltic War: Chapter Twenty Seven

Amiens

 

Picardy, France

 

March, 1634

 

    After stomping into the office that Robert Du Barry and Yves Thibault maintained for their new arms manufactory, shrugging out of his winter coat and hanging it on a peg, Henri de La Tour d’Auvergne glared at his two subordinates. Or glared in their direction, at least.

    “The Vicomte de Turenne seems in a foul mood today,” said Du Barry. The French cavalry office’s tone of voice was mild.

    His civilian gunsmith partner looked up from the sketches on the table. “Must be the local Picards pissed him off again, the way they butcher the French language. Or maybe he just doesn’t like every building made out of dark red brick.”

    “Including ours.”

    “Very witty,” growled the twenty-two-year-old French marshal, brushing a bit of snow from his trousers and wiping his boots on a mat. “I wasn’t actually thinking of you at all—though if you maintain this stupid badinage, I may yet.”

    “God forbid.” Du Barry pointed to the sketch. “Well, come here, then. This should cheer you up, Henri.”

    His expression lightening, Turenne came over to the table. “Do you really think you can get it to work?”

    Thibault laughed. Du Barry grinned. “Better yet.” He jerked a thumb at the gunmaker. “Yves has one already made. And, yes, it certainly does work.”

    Hearing that, Turenne simply glanced at the sketch. “Show me the gun itself, then. I’m a soldier, blast it, not an artist—of which the French army has sufficient as it is.” His scowl returned. “All of them loudly assuring Cardinal Richelieu that they are about to unveil a military masterpiece, in two months.”

    Du Barry lifted an eyebrow but asked for no clarification. It was a mark of his young commander’s anger that Turenne had said anything at all on the subject of his clashes with the French military establishment, in the presence of a civilian. He’d give Robert the details later, in private.

    Thibault was already heading for the door into the workshops. “This way. Since I knew you’d be arriving today or tomorrow, I have it set up in the firing range.”

 

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    Five minutes later, after handling the new gun without firing it, Turenne shook his head.

    “I owe you an apology, Yves. I take back every sarcastic remark I ever made on the subject of breech-loaders and gunsmiths who can’t control their obsession with the things.”

    Thibault smiled, then shook his own head. “You would probably have been right, if Servien’s spies in Grantville hadn’t found enough of a diagram of this mechanism for me to work from. I confess I was thinking only in terms of those wonderful modern American breechloaders. That would have been… not impossible, no, to make in small numbers. But—”

    He hurried forward to cut off Turenne’s certain interruption. “Yes, yes, Henri, I know! You told me once, you told me a thousand times. Better to have weapons that are good enough in numbers an army can use, that to have a few splendid ones that will only wind up hanging on the wall for a general to admire.”

    Turenne grinned at him, his mood obviously lightening. “My motto, indeed.” He hefted the rifle. “And…”

    Thibault wiggled his hand back and forth. “I can’t possibly make enough of these—not in time for this spring’s campaign, certainly—to arm every soldier of France. But I can have enough ready by the end of May to equip your force for what you need.”

    “Not soon enough, Yves. Things are getting darker by the day. How many can you have ready by… let’s say, the end of April.”

    The gunmaker scratched his chin. Then, took a few steps to the entrance of the firing range and looked out at the big workshop beyond, in which dozens of workmen were plying their trade.

    “Let’s see…” he murmured. “If I take Francois off…”

    Turenne turned away. From experience, he knew that Thibault would take several minutes in his muttering cogitations before he’d provide him with an answer. Might as well take the time to test the gun himself, while he waited.

    He held up the rifle again, looking at Du Barry. “Have you fired it, Robert?”

    “Oh, yes. It’s not complicated at all.” He extended his hands and Turenne gave him the weapon.

    “This lever here. It looks like a large trigger guard—which it is also—but it’s actually what works the mechanism.” He lowered the trigger guard and pulled it forward. “See how this block slides, opening the breech for loading? It’s called the drop block.”

    Turenne leaned forward. “And the block is solid enough to withstand the powder charge?”

    “More than solid enough.” He closed the lever, showing how the block moved back into position, then re-opened it. “There’s some leakage, you understand? No way to eliminate all the backflash. The breech will wear and leak more over time, too, but it is adjustable with this screw here. That’s the only adjustment on the whole rifle, so the shooters shouldn’t be able to fuck it up too badly. Still, the soldiers will complain about it, so be prepared.”

    Turenne grunted. “Troops always complain. But they’ll be so delighted at the prospect of being able to reload without standing—or reload in the saddle without dropping everything half the time—that I don’t imagine the complaints will be more than what’s needed to maintain soldierly self-respect.”

    “What I figure also. And there’s this added advantage.” He pointed to the face of the breechblock. “The rifle is a single-shot, you understand. Still needs to be reloaded each time it’s fired. But we can used prepared cartridges—no need for messy and clumsy powder flasks—and you see this edged blade here? It will cut the linen cartridge and expose the powder, all at the same time, which makes everything very quick. All you have to do…”

    He broke off while he demonstrated the steps by which the rifle was to be loaded, ending with: “And now you simply place the percussion cap on the nipple—like… so—and all that’s left is to cock the hammer and pull the trigger.”

    He extended the weapon to his superior. “Go on, try it.”

    Turenne fit the stock against his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took aim at the post some twenty yards down the range. “Anything I should know?”

    “Prepare to have a bruised shoulder, if you fire it enough.”

    Turenne frowned. “I thought it was only a half-inch bore.”

    “It is. What the Americans would call a .50 caliber. But it’s a .50 caliber carbine, Henri. You wanted a light gun, short enough for cavalrymen to handle easily. There isn’t much weight there to absorb the recoil.”

    “So I did—and so it is. I forgot—well, to be honest, I didn’t really expect Yves could have it done in time.”

    He pulled the trigger, not trying for more than an indifferent aim. Then, lowered the rifle and gave it a very respectful look. “Sure enough, it kicks like a mule.”

    “Something else to keep the troops happy, in their grousing. But they’ll love it, they surely will. This is a real cavalryman’s weapon. The first gun you could properly call that in history, I think.”

    “Yes, it is.” Seeing that Thibault had finally concluded his self-deliberations, Turenne placed the rifle back on the bench.

    “I can have two thousand ready by then, Marshal. No more, I’m afraid. But training is very important if the rifle is to be used properly. So I will have twenty guns ready in two weeks, so your sergeants and officers can start learning how to use it soon enough to train the rest.”

    Turenne pursed his lips, while he did his own much quicker calculations. “Two thousand should be enough, I think. It means I can arm almost half—well, no need to get into the details. Intending no offense, Yves, but the enemy has spies too.”

    “None of my business,” the gunmaker agreed pleasantly. “And now, I’ll take your leave and give Francois his new marching orders.”

    After he was gone, Du Barry turned to Turenne. “Are you sure—”

    “Robert, please! I know you want to accompany the expedition, but that’s just foolish. I have enough good cavalry commanders. This—right here—is where you’re indispensable. Without you to serve as my watchdog, these maniacal gunsmiths would have gone in twenty different directions. You know it as well as I do. We need a real soldier in command here.”

    Du Barry took a breath, and blew it out loudly. “Well, so be it. Are you still planning the same campaign?”

    “Basically, yes.” Turenne looked back at the rifle. “But with these… I think I can add a nice extra touch. Send perhaps a third of the force to threaten Hesse-Kassel while I press on to the target with the rest. I’d keep all the breechloaders—what name have you picked for them, by the way?—for the main force, since they’d make up for the fewer numbers, and the diversionary force wouldn’t actually need to engage in any real fighting.”

    Smiling slyly—and perhaps a but ruefully—Du Barry ran fingers through his hair. “Well, that’s a problem, there. What to name the rifle, I mean. It depends on whether you’d prefer to taunt the enemy or instill pride in our own. If the former, then why not just call it a Sharps rifle? Let the damned Americans grind their teeth, that we have their own famous historical rifle and they have nothing but muskets.”

    Turenne chuckled. “Well… it’s tempting. But not altogether wise, I think. Besides, it’s not even really true. Yes, we got the design of the gun from our spies, but the key is the percussion caps. Which—”

    Here, his chest swelled with genuine pride. “Resulted entirely from the genius of France.”

    Turenne was not a puffed-up peacock by nature, however. So, a second or two later, his chest deflated and a similar smile came to his face. Half-sly; half-rueful. “I grant you, the genius consisted mostly in hiring a German alchemy wizard, who did the actual work.”

    “John Rudolph Glauber.” Du Barry shook his head. “It’s amazing, in a way, that he could see what not even the up-timers could. They decided to abandon any quick attempt to develop percussion caps because they could only think of using fulminate of mercury.” He grimaced. “Which is, indeed, very nasty stuff. We lost three men here, ourselves—and twice that many, maimed or badly injured—before Glauber came up with his alternative of using potassium chlorate, as he calls it.”

    Turenne shrugged. “Not so amazing as all that, Robert. The Americans are no different from anyone else. Once people get a notion firmly fixed in their heads, they usually become blind to any alternative.” His early scowl started coming back. “I could show you a much worse example—not that I’d subject you to the misery—at any collection of generals back in Paris.”

    “They haven’t budged at all?”

    “Not an inch. I’m afraid I’m partly to blame for that. They’re none too smart at the best of times, but this degree of mule-headedness is unusual even in their circles.”

    “They resent you, Henri, it’s as simple as that.” Du Barry clapped Turenne on the shoulder. By now, at least in private, their relationship was as much that of two friends as commanding and subordinate officer. “You’re half the age of most of them, and already a marshal.”

    Turenne grunted softly. “Yes. I often think the cardinal made a mistake, promoting me so quickly.”

    “That’s crap. Pure crap. I know those generals in Paris. And why are they still in Paris to begin with, dining in palaces—when their soldiers are shivering in trenches around Luebeck? I served under them, for more years than I want to remember, not being a sprig like you. De la Valette is probably the worst of the lot, but none of them are any prizes. It’s been too long since France fought a real war, that’s all, unless you count that butchery in Mantua. The officers have gotten rotten and the men are mostly undisciplined. And what good young officers do show up, like Jean de Gassion, have been coming into your service. No fools, they.”

    “Yes, I know. It means I have as good a cavalry force as probably any in the world—but that’s still only five thousand men. Even if every last man in the ranks was armed with one of these”—he pointed to the rifle—“five thousand men simply can’t withstand what’s coming in the spring.”

    “That bad?”

    “I think so, yes,” said Turenne gloomily. “Fucking idiots. All they hear from the spies—all they listen to, rather—is ‘volunteer regiments.’ So they assure the Cardinal that the Swede will be bringing nothing but a poorly trained rabble into the field. All the rest of what the spies tell them, they simply ignore. Have no illusions, Robert. Say what else you will about him, Gustavus Adolphus is one of the great captains of the day. He didn’t sit in Luebeck for months waiting for Torstensson to present him with a shiny new army, if he thought it would collapse at the first trial of arms.”

    He threw up his hands. “But what does Gustavus Adolphus know? A barbarous Norseman, is he not? We shall forget that he’s probably fought and won more battles—and bigger ones—than all of today’s French generals put together.”

    The firing range was filled with a grim silence, for a moment. Then Du Barry sighed and said: “So we’ll be depending even more heavily on Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar and his mercenaries than ever. At least you can always count on that shithead to fight. He can move troops quickly, too. Enough that he could come up in time from Alsace, even with his fifteen thousand strong army.”

    Turenne made a face. “I’m not so sure about that, any longer, I’m afraid.”

    Robert cocked his head. “You know something?”

    “I don’t know anything. Neither does the cardinal, I don’t believe. Servien told him that getting spies into Bernhard’s inner circles had proven impossible, so far. I just have a bad feeling about that whole situation. Mostly”—here he smiled, thinly—“because I’ve noticed that Bernhard hasn’t been bragging as incessantly as usual, the past two months.”

    “Ah.” Du Barry swiveled his head and studied the target at the other end of the range. The thick wooden post was getting pretty badly shredded, by now. “Yes, that is a bad sign.”

 

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    Two hours later, as Turenne was putting his coat and hat on for the long trip back to Paris, Du Barry reminded him of an overlooked detail.

    “The name of the rifle. You still haven’t decided.”

    Turenne finished buttoning his coat, while he thought about it. Then, with a smile: “Let’s call it the Cardinal.”

 

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Besançon,
The Franche-Comté

    From Saint Etienne, a high plateau that opened onto the Jura massif and overlooked the ancient town of Besançon, Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar studied the Doubs. The river made a great loop below, which enclosed the town on three sides—more like eighty percent of its circumference, actually. The town itself was situated inside the loop, with a fortress protecting the neck and the beginnings of fortifications on the two hills which flanked it.

    Only the beginnings yet, at Besançon. Bernhard’s official military headquarters were much farther to the northeast, at the Abbey of St. Peter and Paul at Schwarzach on the Rhine. Though by nature a very thrifty man, Bernhard had spent a great deal of money to acquire his own copies of the Encyclopedia Brittanica brought by the Americans through the Ring of Fire. He’d chosen that location, to the discomfiture of the Benedictine monks residing there, on the basis of his careful reading of some of Louis XIV’s Rhineland campaigns in the 1680s. That world would now not happen, of course, but the logic of the choice of location remained. Schwarzach had a convenient set of large buildings and was not far from what had once become Fort Louis. What was now becoming Fort … Whatever, since it didn’t have a name yet. But construction was well advanced.

    However, Bernhard and his handful of intimate advisers—Der Kloster, they called themselves since they had settled at Schwarzach, “the cloister,” only half-joking—had agreed that to do more to fortify Besançon at this point would create too much suspicion. Bernhard’s civil administrative headquarters were already in the town’s Hotel de Ville, true enough. Cardinal Richelieu had agreed that an army the size of Bernhard’s needed a civil administration to support it, or the mercenary soldiers would start looting the inhabitants they were supposed to protect. But no one really expected any military action in Besançon, or anywhere near it. Why would any army come here? The town was prosperous but not wealthy, and it was tucked against the mountains. It was certainly not the most inaccessible place in Europe, but the terrain was difficult enough to deter any of the casual plundering expeditions that the war had spilled around itself like a dog shedding water.

    “Any chance the cardinal will increase your commission, Your Grace?” asked Friedrich Kanoffski von Langendorff.

    Bernhard turned his head to glance back at the Bohemian mercenary officer who was perhaps the most trusted adviser he had in the Cloister. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “I don’t dare even ask any more. Richelieu’s the canniest fox of the lot, you know. I think he’s already starting to ask himself questions. We’ll simply have to settle with our existing commission. Ten thousand foot and six thousand cavalry. Less than we’d like, of course, but we can live with it for the moment.”

    Kanoffski wasn’t surprised. The closer they came to the spring, and what everyone expected to be a volcanic resumption of hostilities in the field against the Swede and his Germans, the more insistently Richelieu was calling on Bernhard to move his army farther north. Saxe-Weimar had been able to forestall him so far, pointing out quite reasonably that he had to keep an eye on the Swedish general Horn’s forces in Swabia. Since that was, indeed, the specific task for which the Cardinal had employed Bernhard and his mercenary army—and one which Bernhard had carried out quite satisfactorily for the past two years, keeping one of the Swede’s most capable generals and his army pinned to the southwest and away from the main theater of the war—Richelieu had accepted the excuse. Thus far.

    But Richelieu’s intendants ran a very extensive and capable network of spies. They had no one in or near Bernhard’s inner circles, the Cloister was quite certain of that, but they were hardly deaf or blind. By now, if nothing else, Richelieu would be wondering why Bernhard was keeping so many of his troops this far into the Franche-Comté instead of closer to the Rhine.

     “Yes, we can live with it, Your Grace,” Kanoffski said, “but let me take this occasion to make clear that I am a most unhappy soldier. More precisely, a most unhappy payroll officer.”

    A little smile came to Saxe-Weimar’s face. “Don’t tell me. You’re going to desert.”

    They both chuckled, softly. Kanoffski could remember a time when the same remark would have triggered off one of Bernhard’s rages, instead of a jest. The man was as notorious for abusing his officers as he was for his arrogance toward almost everyone. Kanoffski had gotten his share of that, in the beginning, and still got some today, from time to time. But he’d found that once Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar did let someone into his confidence, he could be as charming and witty—and generous—as he normally was not at all.

    Granted, he was still not an easy man to work for, as a close subordinate. But Kanoffski was thick-skinned by temperament, and had had plenty of experience as a mercenary officer since he left Bohemia. He’d served under commanders every bit as arrogant and harsh as Bernhard—some, more so—but who had not one-tenth of the Saxe-Weimar duke’s intelligence and ability. Bernhard was frugal without being stupidly stingy; he was a truly excellent administrator; bold in battle and shrewd on campaign. Overall, in Kanoffski’s estimate, one of the very best commanders in all of Europe.

    He was even, in his own way, a pious man. His ordnances for the conduct of chaplains in his mercenary army demonstrated both his concern for the spiritual well-being of his soldiery—and his usual canny sense of the abuses to which chaplains were prone. Well, not abuses, precisely. “Limitations” might be a better word. The ordinances made plain that although the chaplains, like Bernhard himself, were all Lutheran, they were to avoid doctrinal fine points in their sermons and stick to the basics, as the duke saw them. “Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil” worked well, right along with, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.” The duke disapproved of blasphemy. That might be the only thing he had in common with his brother Ernst. Plus, they made it clear that any chaplain who wanted to collect his pay was going to provide spiritual consolation to every man in the regiment, no matter what his own official religion might be. Catholic or Calvinist, sectarian or heretic, a dying soldier was to be given words of comfort.

    Kanoffski didn’t think it was even hard to understand Bernhard’s sometimes outrageous behavior. He was the youngest of four brothers. Four living brothers. Six other sons of his parents had died as infants or children, or been killed in the war—or, in one case, gone mad and committed suicide. That didn’t count the one, William’s twin, who had been stillborn. All four of the surviving brothers had inherited the duchy of Saxe-Weimar, and Bernhard quite obviously nursed a certain sense of grievance at not having gotten his just due. As the youngest of the four, he could never realistically expect enough of an income from the inheritance to live on it in the manner of a Hochadel.

    So, from the moment he became his own agent as an adult, his consuming passion was to find a place for himself in the world, that suited his sense of his own stature. Which was perhaps grandiose, but certainly not absurd. In Kanoffski’s estimate—being in many ways, not so different a man himself—it was that ambition as much as any admiration for Gustav Adolf or commitment to the Protestant cause that had led Bernhard to seek his fame and fortune as a soldier under the Swedish king’s banner.

    But that lurking sense of grievance had exploded when Gustav Adolf, for all practical purposes, handed over Saxe-Weimar’s lands to the American up-starts. The fact that Bernhard had not really lost very much from the decision, in cold-bloodedly calculated material terms, simply didn’t matter. What mattered was that a man trying to gain in stature had just had what little he started with cut out from under him. The fact that the three older brothers had acquiesced in the outrage, arguing political and military necessity, had simply incensed Bernhard further.

    He’d given his oath of allegiance to Gustav Adolf—and the treacherous Swede had repaid him with a stab in the back. And an insult, to rub salt into the wound. Not directly to the duke’s face, of course, but various people—several of them—had made it their business to ensure that he heard what the king had said to Oxenstierna at Mainz. In the hearing of others.

    No, no, no. In this, the dukes of Saxe-Weimar are proving to be as petty as any German noblemen. In their absence—protracted absence, let me remind you—the people of their principality have seen fit to organize themselves to survive the winter and the depredations of the war. What were they supposed to do, Axel? Starve quietly, lest the tranquility of the dukes be disturbed?

    As if the reason for their “protracted absence” had not been that they were serving in the king’s own army! As if they had been luxuriating at some mineral hot springs rather than fighting in his campaigns!

    Kanoffski had heard it often enough. From Bernhard’s point of view, the common perception that he had “betrayed” Gustav Adolf stood reality on its head. The truth was the other way around. He’d simply repaid the Swede’s infidelity with its just reward.

    They were quite a quartet, those brothers, Friedrich mused. Saxe-Weimar had never been a very important principality in Germany, even before the Americans overran it with their rebellion. Yet, even though dispossessed from what little they’d had, at least three of the four brothers looked to be emerging as major players in the great game of the continent, almost entirely due to their own capabilities. They were an exception—not the only exception, to be sure, but perhaps the most startling one—from the usual run of German princelings, whose pretensions were generally in inverse proportion to their measly land-holdings and still measlier talents.

    The day might even come when the oldest of the brothers, Wilhelm, faced the youngest across the field of battle. Not as two generals, but as two heads of state.

    Who could say, any longer? The war that had begun at the White Mountain in Bohemia fifteen years earlier had steadily pulled more and more of Europe into its maelstrom. And then God had thrown the Ring of Fire into the very center of it. For what purpose, neither Friedrich nor Bernhard had any idea at all.

    But to what effect?—oh, to that question, they had found an answer, with Bernhard leading the way.

    When the youngest duke of Saxe-Weimar broke his oath to Gustav Adolf, he also broke all his ties to established custom. Whether you viewed him as a traitor or—as Bernhard did himself—the one betrayed, the end result was the same. He was now a man on his own, with no limit to his ambition and no restraints beyond whatever objective reality might pose.

    In their smaller and less ambitious ways, all of the Cloister shared the same view. They were new men, in a new world.

    Altogether a new world, even if most of Europe’s powerful and mighty persisted in closing their eyes to the reality. Bernhard and his intimates thought most of the American prattle about equality and liberty was just that—prattle—but they’d all come to accept what they saw as the heart of thing. Which Bernhard himself, something of a patron of the arts like all the Saxe-Weimars, said he’d found best expressed in an up-time book of poetry he’d run across in Grantville. A line penned by an English poet of the future.

    A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a Heaven for?

    So, Der Kloster. As Bernhard had put it to them, in what Friedrich had whimsically come to think of as their own—very different—version of a constitutional convention, held four months earlier at Schwarzach:

    “If Wallenstein can do it, why can’t we?”

    That really meant me, not “we,” since Bernhard was not proposing any sort of constitutional monarchy, much less a republic. But none of the seven officers in the room had objected to that aspect of the matter. That there would be a first among equals—and quite a long ways first, at that—was a given. They remained monarchists, at bottom, they’d simply shed the false and illusory notions concerning so-called legitimacy with which the powers-that-be cloaked themselves. Legitimacy, to a new man with eyes to see, was simply what you made of it. Nothing more—and nothing less.

    Friedrich Kanoffski had been the first to speak . Verbally if not in writing—of course not, in writing, since they weren’t fools—putting down what the Americans would call his John Hancock.

    “Wallenstein is Bohemian, you know. So am I.”

    That brought a circle of grins. They probably should have called it The Wolfpack rather than The Cloister.

 

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    Bernhard turned away from the view below. “I think it would be prudent for the time being, Friedrich, for me to take quite a few companies into the Breisgau. Put the cardinal’s mind at rest. Send Caldenbach and Ohm, maybe Rosen as well, toward Mainz. All three of those units can move very fast when they need to.”

    “Yes, your Grace. Anything else?”

    Bernhard looked down at the ground beneath his boots. “Here,” he said, stamping his foot on Saint Etienne. “We’ll put the big fortress here. Tell Bodendorf to have his military architect start working on the plans while I’m away.”