1637 The Polish Maelstrom Read online

  Undecided.

  She looked out the window at the ground passing below. Jozef would be approaching the battlefield himself now. Somewhere a few miles to the west a man born in the first decade of the seventeenth century was driving an armored coal truck built more than three and a half centuries later toward a battle that might decide—begin the decision, anyway—whether Poland would resume its forward progress or keep sliding back into medieval serfdom.

  On his way into Kraków the day before, Eddie had flown over the Rudawa River. He’d reported to Jozef that the road that ran parallel to it was wide enough for the APC but that there would be some obstructions that needed to be cleared away—a couple of fallen trees and a small rockslide.

  Jozef hadn’t been concerned about that. He had two hundred hussars accompanying him, after all. They’d complain bitterly at the indignity of being reduced to manual laborers, but they’d still do the work since they could console themselves with the thought that it was really just part of the battle. Sort of like hauling fascines up to a moat, except further away.

  “Coolest family outing ever,” she pronounced.

  Left bank of the Rudawa River

  A few miles west of Kraków

  “Mark warned me about this,” Jozef complained, “but it’s worse than I thought it would be.”

  He didn’t so much as glance at the man sitting in the passenger seat of the truck’s cab. He was leaning forward, almost hunched over the steering wheel, peering intently through the narrow slit in the armor plate that now covered the entire front windshield. Similar armor protected the two side windows.

  Walenty Tarnowski was looking through the same sort of slit on his side of the windshield. “It’s a real nuisance, I agree. All you can see is a small piece of the territory ahead of us. But we don’t really have any choice, Jozef.”

  The mechanical engineer reached out and rapped the windshield with a knuckle. “This is called ‘safety glass,’ but it’s not magical. A bullet that hits it squarely will pass through, even if it doesn’t shatter the whole windshield. Besides, we’re not driving very fast.” He leaned in Jozef’s direction to look at the instrument panel. “Twelve miles an hour, it says—and most of the time you’re driving slower than that.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Jozef, still sounding grumpy. “I’m starting to worry we won’t get to the battlefield in time.”

  That was a little silly, and he knew it. Their arrival at the battlefield would be the signal for the cavalry to charge out of the city, not the other way around. Half an hour either way wouldn’t make any difference; even an hour or two wouldn’t be disastrous. But Jozef was one of those people who disliked being late for anything. One of the things he’d found refreshing about Americans during his time in Grantville was that they were almost always punctual. That came from growing up in a society that had plentiful and accurate clocks; granted, it wasn’t the product of superior character. He still found it preferable to the lackadaisical attitude of most of his fellow Poles—and Germans and Czechs and Italians, for that matter. The Americans marked off time in hours, minutes and seconds. Down-timers marked it off in matins, lauds, sexts and nones.

  Another dip in the so-called road that Jozef hadn’t spotted in time caused the APC to lurch. Again.

  * * *

  The effect was even worse for the four hussars in the gun turrets above, especially since they could only hold on with one hand, the other being needed to grip their weapons. But they were in a much better mood about it than Jozef was. First, because they didn’t have to concern themselves with the actual driving. Second, because the feel of those same firearms was a source of great satisfaction, bordering on outright joy.

  The four men in the turrets were the best marksmen of all the hussars who had fled Poznań. They cherished good guns as much as they did good lances and sabers—and these were far and away the finest guns they’d ever seen. “Hocklotts,” the woman Tata had called them. She’d stockpiled a few in Breslau when the Silesian army marched out to aid the Galicians in taking Kraków.

  The hussars hadn’t been at all happy to hear about the role being played by the Silesians, true. On the other hand, the Silesian forces included Poles as well as Germans and they were being led by Gretchen Richter, who was regarded even by Polish hussars as not being one of the damn Swedish king’s people. Not exactly, anyway.

  Besides, there were those magnificent rifles! Accurate to several hundred yards—they’d fired a few shots to test the claims—and, best of all, they had an incredible rate of fire.

  An APC armed with four such riflemen in the gun turrets would be fearsome on a battlefield. So they put up with being bounced around cheerily.

  Cheerily enough, anyway.

  Rynek Główny

  Kraków, official capital of Poland

  Actual capital of Lesser Poland

  The Galician cavalry, which included the Cossacks, was gathered in the huge market square in the center of which stood the town hall and the Cloth Hall. It had been agreed by all parties that it would be better to let the Galicians use the Rynek Główny as a place to assemble while von Mercy’s cavalry and the Slovenians gathered in the northern end of the city. The Bohemians and Slovenians were professional soldiers almost to a man.

  The Galicians…not so much.

  Most of them could claim to be veterans, true. But they were veterans of the sort of wars fought in the Ruthenian lands—what Jakub Zaborowsky somewhat sarcastically described as “freestyle” tactics and formations. If they tried to assemble in the small squares and narrow streets near the Brama Floriańska, Kraków’s big northern gate, they’d almost certainly get themselves completely tangled up before they could charge out of the city.

  As it was, the only thing that kept the Galicians in some sort of order were the Opalinski brothers, especially Lukasz. The Galicians weren’t as familiar with him as they were with his older brother Krzysztof, but Lukasz exuded the sort of commanding presence that all hussars could recognize—and at some point or other, at least half of the Galician cavalry had claimed hussar status.

  * * *

  “He does look quite magnificent,” commented Cecilia Renata, looking down into the square from her chamber in the Cloth Hall. Judy Wendell was standing next to her in the window.

  “He seems like a pretty nice man, too,” Judy said. “We spent weeks in close proximity to him in the carriage on the way back from Vienna, and he was cordial and courteous the whole time.”

  Cecilia Renata smiled. “You can leave off the—what do you call it?—sales pitch, if I remember correctly. Yes, Lukasz seems like a decent fellow and he’s certainly not boring.”

  The young archduchess’ expression tightened for a moment. “I’ve done some discreet investigating, since you raised the idea. There doesn’t seem to be the sort of womanizing in his history that made my husband in your universe such a difficult spouse.”

  She was referring to the current king of Poland, Władisław IV. In the up-timers’ history, Cecilia Renata had married Władisław in this very year—1637.

  “At least this time around you won’t have to worry much about dying in childbirth—or losing any kids,” said Judy.

  In Judy’s universe, Cecilia Renata had had three children by Władisław. The first, a boy, had died at the age of seven. The second, a girl, had lived less than a month. The third had been stillborn—and Cecilia Renata herself had died the next day. The exact cause of her death hadn’t been in any of Grantville’s historical records, but it was almost sure to have been the sort of infection that made childbirth such a risky business for women of this era.

  But it was getting less and less risky by the day. Even the Americans’ most hostile opponents were starting to adopt the up-timer practices when it came to sanitation and medical methods.

  “I said, you can leave off the sales pitch.”

  Judy would have made a quip in response, but she’d spotted Jakub in the milling crowd of horsemen below.


  This wasn’t the first time she’d seen him riding a horse, but it was the first time she’d seen him do so while armed and armored. She was glad to see that he seemed at ease in the saddle. At least he wasn’t likely to fall off in the coming battle and get trampled. But she wasn’t at all happy with the so-called “armor” he was wearing, which was nothing more than a buff coat. She had a winter coat not much lighter than that hanging up in a closet in her parents’ home in Grantville. It was great at warding off winter’s chills, sure. But bullets? Or even a saber?

  Jakub looked up, his eyes scanning the row of windows in the upper floors of the Cloth Hall. Spotting Judy, he waved his hand in greeting.

  She waved back. Then, when she recognized the man sitting on a horse next to Jakub, she gave him a wave also.

  Red Sybolt. What the hell is he doing here? Are all men crazy?

  Judy wasn’t sure of Red’s exact age, but he had to be pushing fifty. On the other hand, he seemed to be at ease in the saddle himself despite—so far as Judy knew, anyway—never having spent a minute on horseback before the Ring of Fire. Of course, he’d spent a lot of time in a saddle since then, roaming around in Cossack territory with Jakub and Krzysztof.

  “In any event,” Cecilia Renata said, “it may all be a moot point by this evening.” She nodded down at Lukasz, who was currently in discussion with one of the Galician hussars. “He may not survive the battle. Or, even if he does, may have been defeated. Possibly captured. My brother will be skeptical of the idea even if all goes well. He has a normal and rational Habsburg attitude toward rebels and revolutionaries. There is no way he would approve of my marrying into a lost cause.”

  Not for the first time, Judy was reminded of the vast gulf between her and Cecilia Renata, despite their friendship. She couldn’t imagine herself being that detached and cold-blooded about a possible husband.

  There seemed to be a stir now, among the Galician soldiers near the northwestern side of the huge square. That was the direction of the gate they were planning to use when they made their sortie.

  Looking back at Lukasz, she saw that he and his brother were pushing their horses forward, heading in the same direction.

  She took a deep, slow breath. “It’s starting,” she said.

  Linz, provisional capital of Austria-Hungary

  The emperor of Austria-Hungary wasn’t exactly glaring at Janos Drugeth, but his gaze was not full of favor and good will, either.

  “Explain to me again,” he said, “why your wife didn’t get herself airlifted out of Kraków while she had the chance—along with my brother and sister. Who, must I remind you, are still the archduke and archduchess of Austria.”

  Janos had been wondering the same thing himself. From the few hints he’d gotten from Noelle in her—also few—radio messages, he was pretty sure his wife had decided to stay in Kraków because she saw some…interesting possibilities. And the same was evidently true of the two royal siblings.

  None of which he wanted to discuss right now with Ferdinand III.

  “Ah…” he said.

  Cloth Hall

  Kraków, official capital of Poland

  Actual capital of Lesser Poland

  “It’s starting,” Mike pronounced. He turned his head to look at Jeff Higgins. “You’ve got the Hangmen ready, right?”

  Since the two of them were alone for the moment—that wasn’t going to last long, judging from the sounds coming from the staircase—Jeff decided he could skip the formalities. “Stop fussing at me, Mike. You’re just antsy because you’re a so-called ‘observer’ and have to stay in hiding up here instead of joining in on the fun down there.”

  “‘Fun!’” Mike snorted.

  “Fine. The action. Of course I’ve got them ready. But I’ve got some time, still. We can’t get out of the city until the Galicians have left.” He glanced down at the activity in the huge square. Activity, in this instance, being hard to distinguish from chaos and confusion. “And that’s going to take a bit, even with Lukasz cracking the whip.”

  He looked back at Mike. “Eric’s riding herd on the regiment while I’m gone. And I am damn well going to exercise the privileges of rank and say goodbye to my wife. Speaking of which—”

  Gretchen was the first one through the door, followed by Rebecca and Noelle. She went straight to her husband and gave him a long and passionate kiss.

  Then, leaned away and took his head in both hands.

  “Go,” she said. “And come back.”

  Two hundred feet above the Polish countryside

  A mile northeast of Kraków.

  “And there they are,” said Eddie. “Like ducks in a row.”

  Looking ahead, Christin saw that he was right. The siege guns the magnates had brought with them were now being manhandled into position just below the crest of a low ridge about half a mile from the city’s walls.

  Completely unsheltered and unprotected.

  Glancing out the window to her side, Christin had to fight down a hiss of alarm. Eddie was flying so low she was amazed they weren’t clipping off the tops of the trees they were passing over.

  That was an optical illusion, she knew. They had to be at least one hundred feet above the ground and the trees below were almost all yews, which weren’t usually more than half that high. Still, it was scary.

  And exhilarating. God, I’m an adrenalin junkie.

  “Are you ready, daughter of mine? It’ll be the left lever first.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” came Denise’s voice from the back seat. “Don’t worry about me and the bombing levers, Mom. Just make sure your rheumy old eyes gauge the target right.”

  Christin grinned. Like mother, like daughter. Adrenalin junkiedom had to be hereditary. Although her own mother had never shown any signs of the trait.

  “Here we go,” said Eddie, bringing the plane down still lower.

  Christin would swear he clipped the top of one of the yews. She kept herself from squealing with glee, though. Denise might mistake that for a signal to drop the first bomb.

  Chapter 47

  Half a mile northwest of Kraków

  Janusz Łohojski stared at the airplane coming toward him. He wasn’t dumbfounded, but he was certainly puzzled. By now, after spending quite a bit of time a year earlier in Poznań, he was familiar with the up-time flying machines. One or another of them was almost always in the sky above that city.

  But he’d never seen one flying this close to the ground. The oncoming aircraft was practically skimming the trees it was passing over, just east of the siege lines the magnates’ soldiers were beginning to build. It was no more than a mile away now—and approaching very swiftly. He estimated it would pass over the rise where he and Prince Zasławski were overseeing the placement of the big siege guns in less than a minute.

  What were they doing? There was something very menacing about the oncoming vessel, but it had been well established by Koniecpolski and his army that the enemy contraptions were insufferably good at reconnaissance but posed no real threat otherwise. Occasionally, they dropped bombs on the forces defending Poznań, but they did little damage. The airplanes were not powerful enough to carry more than one or two hundred pounds of explosives. Koniecpolski himself had once told Łohojski that he thought the USE Air Force simply did the intermittent bombing runs as a training exercise for their pilots.

  The approaching aircraft couldn’t possibly inflict any serious damage on the siege guns. Even if, by fortune, it dropped a bomb on one of the gunpowder stores, the most it could do would be to overturn the gun next to it—which wouldn’t take more than a few hours to set back erect. No competent artillery officer—Zasławski had several of them, and was heeding their advice—would be foolish enough to keep a large supply of gunpowder near the guns themselves. There was no need to, except aboard ships. The big cannons took so long to reload that there was plenty of time to bring forward more gunpowder from stores in the rear.

  Those stores would actually be better targets fo
r bombs dropped from aircraft. But they wouldn’t be easy to spot, as fast as the machines flew—and this one was coming directly at the guns in any event.

  What were they doing?

  * * *

  Prince Władysław Zasławski was wondering the same thing himself—and was quite a bit more worried than the army’s top commander. Łohojski was sitting on his horse on the crest of the rise, some distance away from the nine siege guns being muscled into position just behind the rise. Zasławski, on the other hand, was right in the middle of the battery, overseeing the work.

  All the cannons belonged to him; bought and paid for out of his coffers. True, those were probably the biggest coffers in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth except the king’s, but guns this size were fiendishly expensive. So, the prince had insisted on keeping them with his own forces, which were also busily setting up siege works on either side of the rise.

  He stood up in the stirrups to get a better look at the approaching enemy aircraft.

  * * *

  Noticing something out of the corner of his eye, Łohojski turned his head away from the approaching airplane to look at Kraków. To his astonishment, rebel cavalry were pouring out of the closest gate. A moment later, other cavalry started emerging from the big northern gate, the Brama Floriańska.

  What were they doing? Now, Łohojski was dumbfounded. It was much too early in the siege for the defenders to attempt a sortie.

  He heard another noise, similar to that being produced by the airplane. Turning his head still further to the right, Łohojski saw a bizarre, huge vehicle emerging from a copse of trees and heading toward the rise.

  It took him a moment to recognize the thing, because when he’d seen it in Poznań it had not been festooned with banners. Nor had it had what looked like small turrets perched on the top.

  The “APC,” they called it. Koniecpolski had told him that his engineer thought the vehicle might someday prove quite useful.