1635: The Eastern Front: Chapter Twenty Two

Chemnitz, in southwestern Saxony

   John George’s face was almost literally red. The Elector of Saxony’s eyes were bulging, too. Half in disbelief, half in fury.

   “What?”

   That was the third time he’d said that since Captain Lovrenc Bravnicar had returned and given his report. The young Slovene officer had been told the Saxon ruler could be difficult, but this was his first personal experience dealing him.

   “What?” He shrieked the word this time. All traces of disbelief had vanished. The Elector’s mood was now one of pure rage.

   Bravnicar would have had some sympathy for him, under most circumstances. Treachery was indeed a just cause for anger. But what did John George expect if he employed a mercenary like General Heinrich Holk?

   What had happened was now clear. The captain had pieced the story together from many sources. As soon as word reached the Vogtland and the Erzbebirge of the Saxon defeat at Zwenkau, Heinrich Holk had mobilized his army and marched to the northeast. The presumption was that he intended to skirt Bohemia and enter Poland, and then offer his services to King Wladyslaw.

   Why should anyone be surprised? As a military leader, Heinrich Holk had only two skills: Recognizing a lost cause immediately, and changing sides faster than a snake could molt its skin.

   John George’s wife stuck her head out of the carriage. “What is wrong?”

   “Holk has betrayed us,” her husband snarled.

   Clearly, she didn’t understand the implications. She just shook her head and said: “I never liked that man anyway. When can we get out of this wretched carriage?”

   Their son Moritz stuck his head out alongside hers. “Yes, Papa, please. Horses would be so much better.”

   John George looked back at Bravnicar. For a fleeting moment, the captain wished he had a talent for treason himself. Without Holk’s troops, escorting the Elector through the Vogtland was going to be dangerous. All Bravnicar had at his disposal were a little over a hundred Slovene cavalrymen, a handful of Croat scouts, less than a hundred and fifty infantry soldiers — and those mostly dregs taken from other units — and exactly one artillery piece and a crew of gunners to service it. A splendid thing, in its own way. A nicely made Italian heavy culverin, which could fire five-inch balls or twenty pounds of canister.

   It also weighed two and half tons and, with the forces at his disposal, was impossible to move through this mountainous terrain.

   “Perhaps… Sir, I strongly recommend that you make peace with the king of Sweden. As best you can. If we try to pass through the Vogtland without Holk’s troops as an escort…”

   It was no use. The Elector of Saxony spent the new few minutes berating the Slovene captain for presumption, stupidity, ignorance, insubordination, bumptiousness, insolence, effrontery and, most of all, cowardice. By the time he finished, Captain Bravnicar’s face was very pale and the knuckles of the hand gripping his sword were prominent and bone-white.

   That was quite foolish behavior on the part of the Elector. There were any number of mercenary captains who’d have cut him down on the spot and tried to sell his head to Gustav Adolf. Their troops certainly wouldn’t object. Mercenary soldiers were loyal to whoever paid them, and only rarely did their pay come directly from their employer. Usually it was passed through the mercenary commanders, and it was those officers to whom the soldiery gave whatever loyalty they had.

   Fortunately for John George, the young captain he’d so thoroughly offended was a scion of one of the many noble families in the Balkans who took personal honor very seriously. Often stupidly, too; but always seriously.

   So, he simply gave the Elector a stiff little bow and said: “As you wish. I do recommend you follow the advice of your wife and son. From here south, carriages are impossible.”

   They left Chemnitz two hours later, early in the afternoon. They should be able to reach Zwickau by nightfall, now that they’d shed the carriage. After that, it was only fifty miles or so to Hof. Three or four days travel, given the nature of their party and assuming the weather held.

   They’d have to bypass Hof in order to avoid possible USE patrols. And, throughout, they’d just have to hope that Gustav Adolf kept all his airplanes in the north carrying out reconnaissance missions against the Poles and Brandenburgers. But once they got into the Bohemian Forest, they should be able to stay hidden within its dense woods until they reached Bavarian territory.

   The real problem, however, was that first fifty mile stretch between Zwickau and Hof. That took them right through the heart of the Upper Vogtland.

   The region was controlled by Kresse and his bandits, except when large army patrols passed through the area. At such times, Kresse would withdraw into hiding until the patrol passed.

   In all, Captain Bravnicar had about two hundred and fifty men. Kresse wouldn’t normally attack a force that large. But these were not normal circumstances. Kresse had excellent intelligence. Everyone knew the Saxons had been defeated by the USE and thanks to his tirade, plenty of people in Zwickau now knew that John George was here. Kresse would have no trouble figuring out that the middling-large combined cavalry and infantry force passing through the Upper Vogtland had John George in its midst.

   Would he attack then? Two years ago, probably not. Today, after the depredations committed by Holk’s mercenaries in these mountains…

   Almost certainly.

Magdeburg

    “It’s a trick,” said Achterhof.

    Gretchen Richter rolled her eyes. “A trick, Gunther? By whom? Rebecca?”

    “And to what purpose?” added Spartacus.

    When his paranoid streak was aroused, Gunther Achterhof was as stubborn as the proverbial mule. “No, of course it’s not Rebecca. Just means she’s been tricked herself. By who? That snake of a landgravine, that’s who.”

    He swiveled in his seat to face Spartacus, who was perched on a stool in a corner of the large kitchen. “To what purpose? You need to ask? It’s obvious. To lull us into carelessness and relaxation by making us think we face no immediate danger.”

    Everyone in the kitchen stared at Achterhof. Not just Gretchen and Spartacus, but the six other CoC leaders present as well. The expressions of all eight people were identical.

    After a few seconds, Eduard Gottschalk leaned back against the far wall and said: “Well, of course. How could we not see their scheme? They will trick us into disbanding our militias, dismantling our spy network, and turning all our energies to organizing public festivals.”

    “We’ll get rid of all the associations, too,” added Hubert Amsel, who was seated next to Gretchen at the table. He waved his hand. “Insurance co-operatives, sports leagues, the lot — all of them! Into the trash bin. Who needs them, now that we have swooned at the feet of the Hessian lady?”

    Achterhof’s jaws tightened. “It’s not funny.”

    The young woman standing next to Gottschalk took a step toward the center of the kitchen. “No, but you are. Gunther, this is carrying caution to the point of madness.”

    Galiena Kirsch pointed her finger at one of the kitchen windows. It was closed, even in midsummer, at Achterhof’s insistence. To eliminate the risk of eavesdroppers, he said, and never mind that there were over a dozen CoC security people guarding the apartment building on every side. As a result, of course, the kitchen was stiflingly hot. It would be years before up-time air conditioning became a feature of seventeenth century life, outside of perhaps a few palaces — and those, small ones.

    “Are you blind?” she demanded. “Or do you think our own intelligence people are tricking us?”

    “What are you talking about?”

    “You know perfectly well,” said Gretchen. “For days, the Crown Loyalist legislators and lobbyists have been leaving the city. They’d only be doing so for one of two reasons. Either Wilhelm Wettin is a mastermind and his political party even more disciplined than we are –”

    That was good for a burst of laughter. Even Achterhof joined in.

    “– and so they’re dispersing to all parts of the nation to carry out their fiendish scheme.”

    “It’s possible,” said Achterhof, in a surly tone of voice. Gretchen rolled her eyes again. So did half of the other CoC leaders present.

    “Or,” she continued, “they’re leaving because the pack of squabbling dogs finally got tired of trying to force their nominal leader to do as they wish, especially now that he’s made clear he refuses to do anything of a major nature until the war situation is resolved. So, their innate selfishness taking over, they are all returning to their manors and mansions. Which is what Rebecca thinks is happening. And so do I.”

    She decided to try a less confrontational approach. As aggravating as he could sometimes be, Gunther Achterhof was a critical leader in their movement. If he was convinced of the wisdom of a plan and committed to it, then you could be sure the capital city of the nation would remain solid as a rock. In any crisis, that was worth a very great deal.

    “Gunther, please. The only specific issue at stake here is whether or not I should move to Dresden. Eduard and Hubert’s stupid joking aside” — here she bestowed a stern look of reproof upon the miscreants — “no one is proposing to relax any of our stances or precautions. So what is the harm?”

    She saw a slight change in Achterhof’s expression. From long experience dealing with the man, she recognized the signs. Gunther was shifting from Absolute Opposition to Resolute Disagreement.

    Another half hour, she estimated.

Vienna

    “It’s in your own report!” the Austrian emperor exclaimed. Ferdinand jabbed an accusing — approving? — finger at the sheaf of papers in his hand. “You say it yourself. The Turks are invading Persia.”

    Janos Drugeth tried to keep his jaws from tightening. He could not, however, prevent his lips from doing so.

    “No, unfortunately they are not attacking Persia. If they were, we could relax in the sure and certain knowledge that the Ottomans and the Safavids would be fighting for another decade, at least. They are simply seeking to retake Baghdad, which is in Mesopotamia. And if the results of this same war in that other universe hold true, they will succeed in doing so — and then make a lasting peace with the Safavids. The point being, that while the Turks pose no threat to us this year, they may very well be a threat in the following one.”

    Ferdinand waved his hand. “You’re just guessing. And in the meantime, the Swedish bastard is marching into Poland. After taking Saxony and Brandenburg. It’s obvious that once he conquers Poland we’ll be the next meal on his plate.

    Janos took a deep, slow breath. Calm, calm. Always essential, when you were arguing with an emperor.

    “Ferdinand, ‘once he conquers Poland’ is far easier said than done. And even if he succeeds, why would he come south? He’d have to break his alliance with Wallenstein to get to us. Far more likely he’d go after Muscovy.”

    “Yes, exactly!” The emperor leaned forward in his chair, which was not quite a throne but very close. “He’ll keep the alliance with Wallenstein. They’ll both attack.”

    Janos saw his chance. “In that case, Ferdinand, the logical thing to do is send all available forces to guard our border with Bohemia.” He squared his shoulders, in the manner of man valiantly taking on a perilous task. “I offer to lead them myself.”

    Ferdinand stared at him suspiciously. The logic of the argument was impeccable, but…

    The emperor was very far from being a dull-wit. He understood perfectly well that another effect of Drugeth’s proposal would be to keep Austria from taking any irrevocable steps. Any nation had the right to protect its own borders, after all. Gustav Adolf could hardly use such a mobilization as a pretext for invasion. And it would keep Austria’s army close to Prague — and close enough to the frontier with the Turks, should Drugeth’s fears prove justified.

    “I’ll think about it,” said Ferdinand, in a surly tone of voice.