1636: The Saxon Uprising Read online

  For the most part, exploded with excitement and joy, which they expressed with impromptu parades and half-organized festivities. Flags were flown, many of them handmade on that same day. Speeches were given, almost of them cobbled together on that day. At least half of the male children born that day were given the name of Michael—a name which had previously been almost completely absent from the Germanies but henceforth became rather popular.

  The tavern in every Rathaus did a land office business—or would have, except the town councils often (and in some cases very wisely) offered the beer for free.

  The militias in at least three-fourths of the towns held a march celebrating the victory. The militias in the other fourth argued about it. In the months to come, it was noteworthy that the militias which had refused to march had a hard time recruiting new members.

  Almost all apprentices celebrated that day; at least four out of five journeymen; and well over half of all guildmasters.

  Here and there, the explosions came in darker colors. The city council of Heidelberg had been dominated by extreme reactionaries who had carried out harsh measures against any opposition. But they’d made the mistake of falling between two stools. They’d been more than harsh enough to infuriate a large part of the population but not harsh enough to destroy all resistance. The backlash on February 27 would destroy them instead.

  Four of the council members got out of the city alive. The rest all died, several of them quite horribly—and in the case of one, with his entire family. All were burned alive in their home.

  Even more savage was an incident in Mecklenburg, just outside of Rostock. A party of Swedish merchants was caught by a mob and torn to pieces. The hapless merchants were utterly bewildered. What did they have to do with the wars of dynasties?

  Those were the two worst incidents. There were many instances of beatings and vandalism, but nowhere else did anyone lose their lives.

  Except by accident. There were quite a few accidental deaths. Mostly due to the combination of liquor and livestock, or liquor and heights. In what was perhaps the most flamboyant such death, a totally inebriated apprentice fell off the famous tower of the Ulm Minster, the Lutheran church that boasted a steeple one hundred meters tall. He was trying to affix a tricolor flag to the very top. He was within four yards of the top when he fell, holding onto the flag all the way down.

  The parade in Magdeburg was the largest in the nation. For all intents and purposes, the whole city turned out.

  Ulrik opted for caution. Over-riding Kristina’s vehement protests, he insisted that they avoid any formal participation in the rally that culminated in Hans Richter Square at the end of a march. Instead, he had Kristina standing on the steps of the royal palace as the march went by, waving at the crowd—and then hustled her off to the kitchens of the Freedom Arches.

  Enough to please the mob, not so much as to burn all bridges with the Swedes.

  That course of action might have posed a problem, except that there was a most suitable substitute for Kristina on this occasion to serve as the official centerpiece of the rally.

  Rebecca Abrabanel, the Prince’s wife, who was appalled and aghast when her role was explained to her.

  By everyone on the committee. She had no allies at all. Not one.

  “I don’t give speeches!”

  She did that day. Five of them. By the time she got to the fifth one, everyone agreed it was pretty good.

  The parade in Hamburg was huge as well. So was the one in Augsburg.

  In Hamburg, the Battle of Ostra—as it came to be called—and its aftermath shifted the balance of political power still further in favor of the Fourth of July Party and the Committee of Correspondence. But that shift had been happening anyway. Hamburg’s economy had been expanding rapidly, which had drawn into the city people from classes which were naturally inclined in that direction.

  The political change in Augsburg was more significant, because it was much less predictable. The central figure was the militia commander, Ruprecht Amsel. The combination of Kristina and Ulrik’s actions and his anxieties about the Bavarians had already inclined him toward the Fourth of July Party more than he normally would have been. Mike Stearns’ victory at Ostra was the catalyst. On February 27, he announced publicly at the rally held in that city that he was switching his party allegiance. Most of his militiamen followed suit.

  Thereafter, Augsburg joined most of the imperial cities as FoJP bastions. Not to the degree that Magdeburg or Luebeck were, to be sure. But certainly as much as Hamburg or Frankfurt.

  A still greater political shift took place in Hesse-Kassel. Amalie Elisabeth instructed her officials and military commanders to place no obstacles in the way of anyone wanting to celebrate the events in Dresden. Indeed, she instructed them to provide quiet assistance, if they were asked for it.

  Then, as a march took place that would culminate in a rally that afternoon, she spent the rest of the morning just thinking. And by noon, had decided that caution now required boldness.

  She went to the radio room her husband had set up in the palace the year before and spent a bit of time there. Then, to everyone’s surprise starting with her closest advisers and top officials, she made her way to the rally and politely asked the organizers to give her the platform.

  They were just as surprised as anyone, but naturally they agreed at once.

  Her speech was short and consisted simply of reading the message that she’d had transmitted an hour before to the entire nation. Leaving aside the flowery preface, the gist of it was simple:

  General Stearns was quite correct. Chancellor Oxenstierna’s actions were completely illegal. The legitimate prime minister, Wilhelm Wettin, should be released from prison and returned to office.

  The applause went on and on and on. Liesel Hahn, who was on the platform herself, was simultaneously delighted and downcast. Delighted, because she thought Amalie Elisabeth’s actions were entirely correct. Downcast, because the prospects for the Fourth of July Party itself in Hesse-Kassel would remain dim for some time.

  Probably for the lifespan of the landgravine, in fact.

  Kristina would always hold a bit of a grudge against Ulrik for keeping her from the rally. But not much of one. The truth was, he’d probably threaded the needle as well as anyone could. People in Magdeburg simply remembered her in the kitchens of the Freedom Arches that day. Within a few months, if they’d been asked, most of them would swear that Kristina had given a speech at the rally. A good one, too, allowing for her age.

  Mostly, the little grudge was because she’d burned her finger on a skillet. Somehow that was Ulrik’s fault.

  He put up only a token protest, figuring that it was worth the price to exchange what might become a big political grudge for a petty personal one. Once again showing great skill at threading needles.

  The only major cities in the USE which did not celebrate on February 27 were Dresden and Berlin.

  Dresden did not celebrate because the city was mostly just relieved to have been spared what might have been a truly hideous fate—and had immediately pressing problems to deal with. First, thousands of wounded men to treat. Second—a much thornier problem—thousands of surrendered soldiers to deal with.

  Goerg Kresse and his Vogtlanders were inclined toward a simple solution: kill them all. But Mike Stearns refused and made it quite clear he wasn’t going to tolerate any impromptu lynchings either.

  That still left the problem of what to do with them. In the end, Mike opted for the traditional solution. He offered those willing to volunteer a place in the ranks of the Third Division. The ones who refused would be placed in hard labor clearing away the rubble that weeks of siege had left in Dresden.

  About two-thirds of the captured soldiers volunteered. That meant Mike now had the problem of absorbing more than four thousand new men into his regiments.

  That task would have been extraordinarily difficult except that the regiments accepted the challenge with confidence and even good
humor. Perhaps ironically, they were the one large group of men in the Germanies who weren’t nursing a grudge against all things Swede.

  Why should they be? They’d just thrashed the Swedes senseless. As they’d known they would.

  If you looked at it the right way, the willingness of Banér’s mercenaries to switch allegiances was simply a reaffirmation of the Third Division’s august status. Even dumb Swedes knew which end was up. (And never mind that there were only two hundred and eighty-six actual Swedes among the new volunteers, and seventy-three Finns.)

  Berlin did not celebrate because Chancellor Oxenstierna had twenty thousand troops in or near the city on the Swedish payroll, and was in a fury.

  A cold fury, to make things worse. He was now in a desperate situation, he knew it—and he knew he only had one option left. Sheer, stark violence.

  Chapter 51

  Dresden, capital of Saxony

  Before dawn of the morning after the battle, the two young hostlers had the draft horses out of the stable and hooked up to the first of the plows. After paying them the first installment owed, Denise and Minnie headed out of the city. Others could celebrate the victory, tend to wounded, fuss over prisoners—but they had important work to do. By sunrise they were on the airfield and started to clear away the trash and debris.

  It was slow going. The plow worked fine, but neither Denise nor Minnie had any real experience at this sort of work. Both of them were good horsewomen, but that wasn’t the same skill set as that required here.

  Within an hour, despite the cold, they were both sweating—and hadn’t gotten much of the field cleared.

  “We need a damn farmer,” Denise groused.

  The next best thing arrived—the two hostlers, with more draft horses hooked up to the roller sledge. After a short negotiation, they agreed to do the work as well. Fortunately for all concerned, the stable-master had taken the day off in order to join the city’s festivities.

  With capable hands now guiding the work, the field was cleared by mid-afternoon. By sundown, Denise and Minnie were back at the townhouse.

  They found Noelle in the kitchen, sitting at the table and listening to the radio. With Nasi’s purse to draw on, they could afford their own. It was purely a receiver, though, with no transmitting capability.

  “Hey, Noelle, it’s done!” Denise said cheerfully. “We even have time to get to the radio station for the evening window. Eddie could be here by tomorrow.”

  Noelle stared at them. Then, back at the radio. Somebody was jabbering something about Berlin.

  “What’s up?” asked Minnie. “Anything important?”

  Noelle stared at them. Then, back at the radio. They were still jabbering something about Berlin.

  “Well,” she said. “Yes.”

  Chapter 52

  A tavern on the outskirts of Berlin

  Axel Oxenstierna frowned. There was some sort of racket coming from just outside the village inn where he’d set up his temporary command post. It sounded like the movement of a large body of troops. A battalion, at least.

  Why would a battalion be moving here? True enough, he’d been ordering a lot of troop movements. Pulling an army of twenty thousand men out of their barracks and into marching order wasn’t something you did in a couple of hours. But no large body of troops should be assembling here.

  He caught the eye of one of his aides and nodded toward the front entrance. “Go see what’s happening out there.”

  The aide headed toward the door, but before he got there it burst open. Erling Ljundberg came in, followed by three of his Scots and—

  Oxenstierna froze. “Your Majesty…”

  Gustav Adolf pushed past Ljundberg and stepped forward two paces. His face, always pale, was almost as white as a sheet.

  Colonel Erik Haakansson Hand was the seventh person through the door. He almost had to fight his way past the gaggle of Scots. Oversized Scots.

  He was now very anxious. This was moving too quickly. Gustav Adolf was not following the plan they’d agreed on and Erik was sure he knew the reason why. The king had a ferocious temper. He didn’t lose it that often, but when he did the results tended to be volcanic.

  To get past the Scots he had to move around to the right. When he got past the last Scot, he could see his cousin’s face in profile. The instant he saw that ghostly visage, he knew they were in trouble.

  The king started with “You—” The next several words were utterly foul. They were blasphemous, too, which really frightened Erik. The king of Sweden was a devout Lutheran and almost never lapsed into blasphemy. Profanity, yes. This day and age was not the least bit Victorian. But pious men took the third commandment seriously.

  The chancellor raised his hand, half in protest and half simply as an unconscious shielding gesture. His own face was extremely pale.

  Gustav Adolf moved on to accusations that had some content, but they were still laced with profanity and blasphemy.

  “—knew perfectly fucking well I never would have allowed—you God-damned bastard! My own daughter had to hide from you! Were you going to see her murdered too, you stinking son-of-a-bitch? This was fucking treason, simple as that—and don’t think I won’t find out what really happened with that God-damned asshole in Bavaria! You think—”

  It was all spinning out of control. They’d discussed this at length and had agreed that the best way to handle it was a stiff but dignified order to arrest the chancellor. Instead, the king’s fury—

  And then Erik’s worst fears materialized. Gustav Adolf’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the floor.

  The American doctor Nichols had warned him this might happen, months ago. He’d also described the possible symptoms.

  “There are half a dozen types of what we call generalized seizures,” he said. “The one that’s best known because it’s the most dramatic is the so-called ‘grand mal’ seizure. Well, you probably don’t use the French term yet. It’s a major convulsion which usually starts with the patient losing consciousness and collapsing. That’s followed by what we call the ‘tonic’ phase, where there’s a stiffening of the body that lasts for up to a minute. Then the ‘clonic’ phase starts, which lasts another minute or so and where the patient has violent convulsions. You’ve got to be careful, then. He may bite his tongue or injure himself some other way. After that, he’ll fall into a deep sleep.”

  “For how long?” Hand asked.

  Nichols shrugged. “There’s no way to know. A few minutes, a few hours—in some instances, even a few days.”

  This was a disaster. The big room in the tavern was a frozen tableau, for the moment. The king on the floor and the chancellor staring down at him. Ljungberg and his half dozen Scots were doing the same. So were the eight officers on Oxenstierna’s staff who’d been in the room when the king burst in.

  But Oxenstierna’s paralysis wouldn’t last. The man was smart, he was ruthless when necessary—and the king’s paralysis gave him the opening.

  They’d all come in armed except the king, but they’d agreed they wouldn’t have weapons in hand. Erik had made certain, though, that his pistol would come out of its holster easily.

  So it did. It was a good flintlock with two rifled barrels. He strode forward three paces. He’d trained himself to shoot left-handed since the battlefield injury that had half-crippled his right arm, and he’d regained much of his former marksmanship. But he was taking no chances.

  The gun came up, on target.

  “Traitor!” he said. Not quite shouting.

  He fired the first barrel; an instant later, the second.

  Both rounds struck the chancellor squarely in the chest. Oxenstierna was wearing no armor and in the heat produced by the fire in the tavern’s main room, he’d had his buff coat unbuttoned and open. The heavy .62 caliber bullets punched into his heart and knocked him off his feet.

  He might not be dead yet. But that was now a meaningless technicality. He would be within a minute or two, and there was no doctor in the
world, not even the Moor, who could have kept him alive.

  The tableau remained frozen—though now with everyone’s eyes fixed on the body of the chancellor.

  Then one of Oxenstierna’s staff officers muttered a curse and drew his own pistol. Two of his fellows began following suit.

  The colonel who’d drawn first was bringing his pistol to bear on Erik when Erling Ljungberg’s automatic began firing. Three shots took him down; two shots each did for his would-be partners.

  The shots were fired so rapidly they almost sounded like a single noise. A sort of tearing thunder, in the confines of the tavern room.

  The three staff officers joined the chancellor on the floor. All three were just as obviously dead as their master.

  Again, the tableau was frozen. Then all the Scots drew their pistols. For their part, the remaining staff officers held up their hands—part in protest; part in surrender—and stumbled back a pace or two.

  “Hold!” Erik shouted. “All hold!”

  Again, a frozen tableau. Now, everyone was staring at Hand.

  He pointed to the door. “Captain Stewart, go outside and see to it that the Västergötlanders have the area under control. Then ask Karl Hård af Segerstad to come in here. Then check to see the dispositions of Colonel Hastfer and his Finnish regiment.”

  The Scot officer holstered his pistol and left.

  The rest of the Scots began holstering their own pistols. It was obvious there would be no further gunfire. Not now, after Ljungberg had ejected the clip and slapped in another one. He was not holstering his gun. He had it pointed squarely at the surviving staff officers and was bestowing a grin upon them that Erik thought would probably give some of them nightmares later. Erling Ljundberg held his post as the king’s chief bodyguard because, just as Anders Jönsson had been before him, the man was utterly murderous.

  The immediate crisis over, Erik hurried to Gustav Adolf’s side. Not knowing what else to use—he’d make it a point to be prepared for this, in the future—he snatched off his hat and rolled up the brim.