1636: The Ottoman Onslaught Read online

  Now, they came to what she was almost certain was going to be the proverbial bone of contention.

  “On the issue of the established church. We propose the following. The Oberpfalz—assuming the populace agrees, of course—will have full freedom of religion. Complete separation of church and state.”

  Again, she paused, and looked at the emperor.

  “Agreed,” he said. Then, making a face: “I don’t care for it, but the Oberpfalz has been such a mess for so long due to cuius regio, eius religio—one ruler after another changing the region’s official denomination—that trying to establish a church now is probably hopeless. Please continue.”

  “Mecklenburg and Württemberg”—she had to keep her lips from tightening here—“will have Lutheranism as the established church.”

  Gustav Adolf’s eyes widened a bit. She didn’t think he’d foreseen that concession from the Committees of Correspondence. Then, of course, his eyes narrowed considerably. In negotiations of this sort, what one hand gives the other will promptly try to take back.

  “And Saxony?” he asked.

  She sat up a bit straighter. “We propose a compromise. What you might call a semi-established church. Lutheranism will be recognized as the province’s official church and will therefore be entitled to financial support from the provincial government. But all other religions—that includes Judaism as well as all varieties of Christianity—will not be penalized in any way.”

  The emperor’s eyes were now fairly close to being outright slits. “I fail to see the point. We have already banned all forms of religious persecution anywhere in the United States of Europe.”

  Gretchen had grown so relaxed in the presence of Gustav Adolf that she had to restrain herself from snapping: don’t play the fool! As if she were arguing with one of her own comrades.

  Which the emperor, as cordial as he might be, was decidedly not.

  “Your Majesty, I’m not simply speaking of persecution as such. There are other ways in which non-official denominations can be penalized. In Hesse-Kassel and Pomerania, for instance, only the established churches can have churches on the street. Other Protestant denominations have to maintain their churches inside courtyards, with no visible sign of their existence. And Catholics and Jews are required to maintain their places of worship on the upper floors, not on the street level. We want none of that in Saxony. The Lutherans can have their tax support. But that is all. That is the only additional benefit they would enjoy.”

  She stopped and waited for what she expected to be a royal outburst. Gustav Adolf had quite a famous temper, when he unleashed it.

  And, indeed, the emperor was glaring at her. His big hands gripped the ends of the armrests, the knuckles standing out prominently.

  To her surprise, he took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. Then, still more to her surprise, he got a peculiar expression. It was almost…

  Foxlike? Yes—insofar as the term was not absurd, applied to such a heavy face.

  “I will agree on one condition,” he said abruptly.

  “Yes?”

  “If you win the election and become the governor of Saxony—or whatever term you choose for the post—we will face the awkward situation of having the chief of state of a province with an established church who does not belong to that church—in fact, belongs to no church at all.”

  His expression now became self-righteous; so much so that Gretchen suspected he was putting on an act. “That’s quite unacceptable! So my condition is this—you must cease this unseemly quasi-agnosticism and join a church. The Lutheran church would be ideal, of course. But I will settle for any other—”

  She interrupted, trying her best not to seem too foxlike herself. “But—Your Majesty!—as you perhaps may not know, I was raised—”

  “Except the Catholic church!” he boomed. “I’ve got too many blasted Catholics in the USE as it is!”

  He leaned back in his chair. “That is the condition, Gretchen. Pick a Protestant church—and not one that is too disreputable, like the Anabaptists. A Reformed church is acceptable. We have that already in Hesse-Kassel and Brandenburg.”

  She considered outright rebellion, but…

  It was not an outrageous condition, given what the emperor was prepared to allow in exchange. And, besides, did it really matter that much any more?

  Well…

  Yes. Some stubborn root at the very heart of Gretchen Richter was choking on the idea. Not because she cared about doctrinal issues—which she never had, even when she’d been a young Catholic girl—but simply because she was being forced.

  She was about to refuse when a very foxlike thought came to her. What if…?

  Yes. That would do.

  “Very well,” she said. “I accept. But I will need a bit of time to make my choice.”

  Gustav Adolf waved his hand expansively, magnanimously. “By all means! So long as you have made your choice before you take office.”

  He rose to his feet. “That assumes, of course, that you win the election. Which I most certainly hope you do not, since you are a notorious agitator and the fellow running against you, Ernst Wettin, is a far more sensible sort.”

  He was smiling when he said it, though.

  * * *

  She spent that evening giving a full report to a large assemblage in Rebecca Abrabanel’s town house. Several of Magdeburg’s CoC leaders were present along with the people from the Fourth of July Party.

  The idea she was considering with respect to the church she’d wind up joining herself, however, she discussed with no one except Rebecca.

  Who thought the idea was both charming and shrewd. As she put it: “It’s a way to goose the emperor without his being able to take umbrage.”

  She then had to explain the bizarre way Americans had turned a goose into a verb.

  * * *

  The next morning, Eddie Junker showed up at the townhouse.

  “Where are we flying to now?” he asked. “Back to Dresden?”

  “Later. First we go to Grantville.”

  * * *

  Once they were in the air, heading south, Eddie asked Gretchen: “How long will you be in Grantville?”

  She didn’t answer immediately because they’d encountered some turbulence. Her left hand was clutching the side of her seat. Her right hand had been clutching the door handle but she’d snatched it away when she realized that if she had a sudden spasm caused by—whatever—she might inadvertently fling open the door—never mind that the wind pressure would be working entirely against that possibility—and then fling herself out of the airplane for no good reason known to man, God or beast.

  All her knuckles were bone white. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes were wide but fixed straight ahead as if she were gazing into the maw of hell.

  “Oh, relax,” said Eddie. “Turbulence in the air is nothing to worry about. Look at it this way. If you were on a ship at sea you’d expect to be riding up and down with the waves, wouldn’t you? In fact, if you weren’t you’d be in trouble.”

  He waved a hand, indicating the atmosphere through which they were flying. “That’s all this is, too. We’re just riding waves in the air instead of in water. It only seems dangerous because you can’t see these waves.”

  “It’s not the same at all,” Gretchen said, through still-clenched teeth. “If a boat comes apart and drops me into the water, I know how to swim. If this airplane falls apart and drops me into the air, I don’t know how to fly.”

  * * *

  After the turbulence had died down and Gretchen had relaxed a bit, Eddie repeated the question.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “An hour? Two hours? A day? Two days? A week?”

  “At least a day. Maybe two. I don’t think it should be longer than that.”

  Eddie nodded. “Fine. I need to fly Noelle and Janos Drugeth from Vienna to Prague as soon as possible. I got the message from the radio operator at the Magdeburg airfield just before we left. So after I dr
op you off in Grantville, I’ll take care of that business before I return. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”

  Gretchen said nothing. They’d run into turbulence again.

  Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

  The door was opened by a woman whom Gretchen knew to be in her early eighties but who didn’t look it to her down-time eyes. Gretchen’s grandmother Veronica was only sixty-one, which many Americans still considered to be “middle-aged,” but she looked older than the woman standing in the doorway.

  They’d encountered each other any number of times when Gretchen was living in Grantville after her marriage to Jeff, but she couldn’t recall that they’d ever spoken directly. As always, Gretchen was struck by the old woman’s hair. Snow-white but still full, and extremely curly. It was not hard to understand why she’d been the inspiration for Ewegenia, symbol of the Franconian League of Women Voters during the Ram Rebellion.

  “Veleda Riddle?” she asked by way of a formal greeting. “I am Gretchen—”

  “I know who you are, dear.” Veleda smiled. “The whole world probably does—well, Europe, anyway—at least by reputation.”

  Holding the door open, she moved aside and gestured for Gretchen to enter.

  “Come in. Would you care for some coffee? Tea? Broth?”

  Gretchen was about to refuse politely when she realized she actually did have a desire—a craving, more like—for a cup of coffee. Her nerves were still a little unsettled from the flight.

  And if anyone in Grantville was likely to have good coffee, it would be Veleda Riddle. She was one of the handful of “grand old ladies” among the up-timers. Her son, Chuck Riddle, was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the State of Thuringia-Franconia and while she was now a widow, her husband had been one of Grantville’s few practicing lawyers and had made a better living than most residents of the town before the Ring of Fire.

  “Yes, please. Some coffee would be nice.”

  After she’d taken a seat in the living room and Veleda returned from preparing the coffee in the kitchen, Gretchen said: “I was sorry to hear of the recent passing of your husband, Mrs. Riddle.”

  Veleda handed her a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch positioned at a ninety-degree angle from Gretchen. She had a cup for herself, from which she took a sip before responding.

  “I miss him, I surely do. But we all have to pass someday and Tom made it to eighty-four before he died.” She smiled, in fond reminiscence. “On his eightieth birthday I remember him telling me, ‘Okay, hon, I made it as far as anyone can ask from the Lord. I figure whatever’s left is gravy.’”

  She took another sip of coffee and set the cup down on the aptly-named coffee table.

  “And now, what can I do for you, Gretchen Richter?”

  * * *

  Once Gretchen had explained the purpose of her visit, Veleda drained her cup of coffee.

  “Oh, my,” she said, cradling the cup in her lap.

  She stared out the window for a time.

  “Oh, my,” she said again.

  Chapter 12

  Mainburg, Bavaria

  “We could parachute in,” said Captain Wilhelm Finck. He leaned over and pointed to a spot on the big map spread across the table in Mike Stearns’ HQ tent. “I think this location would be possible, although we’d have to overfly it first to make sure it isn’t too heavily wooded.”

  Mike thought about it, for a moment. The idea was tempting. The location Captain Finck suggested was close enough to the Amper River for his team to make the reconnaissance before a Bavarian cavalry unit could find them. Unless they had bad luck, at least—but that was always a given in war.

  “You need a Jupiter, am I right?”

  The Marine captain shook his head. “Not necessarily, sir. A Jupiter is the only airplane big enough for a parachute drop by more than one or two men. But we could do it from the Pelican as well.”

  Mike frowned. “That thing would be visible for miles. There’s no way to use it for a mission that needs to be surreptitious.”

  “It depends on the time of day, sir. If we make the drop very early in the morning, there will be enough light for us to see but the airships won’t be very visible from the ground—and we certainly won’t be, falling over the side. If any Bavarian soldier does spot the airship they’ll simply think it’s on a reconnaissance mission.”

  The captain was right, probably. But it was still one hell of a risk.

  Looking at Finck’s face, as the captain continued to gaze intently at the map, it was obvious that he wasn’t concerned about the danger involved. Although it was part of the USE’s marine forces, Finck’s unit—officially the 1st Reconnaissance Company, First Marines—was more closely analogous to what the up-time US military would have called special forces. The unit had been formed in response to the disastrous attempt to invade the Danish island of Bornholm two years earlier during the Baltic War.

  Like all such special forces—Mike had met a few during his stint in the US Army up-time—the men who joined them were adrenaline junkies. They simply didn’t have what Mike considered a normal and sane level of caution and risk assessment—which was something, given that he himself was a former prizefighter and had never lost any sleep over mining coal for a living.

  “All right, Captain. We’ll make the drop. How soon can you be ready?”

  Finck shrugged. “That really depends more on when the Pelican can be placed at our disposal than it does on us, sir. Me and my men can be ready by tomorrow morning.”

  “Tell Franchetti—no, tell Major Simpson to tell Franchetti—to give you top priority.”

  Mike smiled, a bit crookedly. The up-time military he’d known—for sure and certain some of the tight-ass commanders he’d suffered under—would have had conniptions if they’d been dealing with the Third Division’s realities of life. Mike had what amounted to his own tiny little air force consisting of one airship, the Pelican, and on occasion—nowhere nearly often enough, as far as he was concerned—he also had one of the USE Air Force’s warplanes at his disposal for a few days. Always one of the two Belles, never the newer and more advanced Gustavs. Those were reserved for General Torstensson’s use in the Polish theater.

  Mostly Mike was dependent on the Pelican for what he whimsically thought of as his “air operations”—and never mind the fact that the Pelican was a civilian airship being leased by the State of Thuringia-Franconia rather that the USE government. And never mind the fact that it was operationally commanded by Major Tom Simpson, who was an USE artillery officer with no formal ties of any kind to the air force or the SoTF’s National Guard.

  What the hell, the set-up worked. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

  “When we find a good place to cross the river, sir, what do you want us to do?” Finck asked. “Return or stay in place?”

  “Stay in place, if you can do so without being spotted. But don’t take any unnecessary risks, Captain. There’ll only be a handful of you and even allowing for your weaponry”—Finck’s unit was armed with lever-action .40-72 carbines—“you’ll be overwhelmed by any sizeable enemy force.”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I be off, then?”

  “Yes. Good luck, Captain.”

  * * *

  After Captain Finck left the tent, Mike turned toward Lt. Colonel Thorsten Engler. “When the time comes for us to cross the river, even if we have the element of surprise—and if we don’t we probably won’t try it at all—you can be sure and certain the Bavarians will throw every cavalry unit they have available at us. We’ll be depending on you to hold them off.”

  Thorsten nodded. His flying artillery unit could be used against infantry—and had been, on several battlefields—but they were specifically designed to counter cavalry. They were not as mobile as a cavalry unit but had much greater firepower at their disposal.

  They were useless against fortifications, however, which was one of their drawbacks. Any infantry unit which had the time to build good fieldworks
could drive them off as well.

  “How wide is the Amper, General?” asked Leoš Hlavacek, the colonel in command of the Teutoberg Regiment.

  Mike turned toward Tom Simpson, who’d come back the day before from a reconnaissance mission over the terrain between Ingolstadt and Freising. He’d taken the risk of having the Pelican fly no more than a hundred yards above the ground so he’d gotten a good view of everything. He’d particularly concentrated on the Amper, since that tributary of the Isar was the main geographical obstacle the Third Division was going to face in their march on Munich.

  Tom made a waggling motion with his hand. “It varies. In a lot of places it’s not even a ‘river’ so much as it is a braided network of little streams.”

  “How little?” asked Georg Derfflinger. He commanded the division’s 3rd Brigade and, at twenty-nine, was the youngest of the Third Division’s brigadiers. “If they’re narrow enough and shallow enough, we might be able to cross without having to put up a bridge. Maybe just a corduroy road to keep the men’s boots from getting soaked.”

  Simpson looked skeptical. “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t count on it. I was up in the air, not down on the ground, so I can’t be sure. But from the way it looked, those places where the Amper divides into a network of streams are swamps. We could wind up getting mired down. I think we’d do better to cross someplace where there are solid banks we can anchor a bridge on. Keep in mind that’s a pretty small river. I didn’t see any place where it was wider than maybe ten yards.”

  He started to add something and then closed his mouth. Mike suspected that Tom had been about to make a comment that might have struck the down-timers as American chauvinism. By Tom’s standards as well as Mike’s—any American’s—the rivers in Europe seemed pretty dinky. Mike hadn’t seen the Rhine yet, so he couldn’t judge if it lived up to its world-famous reputation. But neither the Elbe nor the Danube did, for North Americans accustomed to such rivers as the Mississippi, Missouri and Ohio, although Mike had been told that the Danube was a lot more impressive further east than he’d seen it.