1637 The Polish Maelstrom Read online

  “Not a problem,” said Judy. “In fact, Jakub himself would agree that that’s the best tactic you could follow.”

  Gretchen snorted. The sound was half sarcastic; half…not. “He’s clearly a student of Mike Stearns. He will use Red Sybolt the same way Mike has always used me.” She pointed to the side, her finger now stiff with warning. “You can either negotiate with me or negotiate with the wicked witch from down below.”

  But there was no anger in her voice. Whatever suspicions she’d once had of Mike Stearns had been buried in the snow that fell on Dresden the same day that Stearns crushed the army of the counterrevolutionary brute Johann Banér just a few miles beyond the city’s walls.

  “And I’ll do what I can to persuade Janos to give us his backing,” said Noelle. She made a face. “Mind you, talking the emperor of Austria-Hungary into letting his kid sister marry a Polish revolutionary is…going to be tricky.”

  They all smiled at each other. Then Judy asked: “So, speaking of witches, when shall we three meet again?”

  Airstrip south of the Vistula

  Kraków, official capital of Poland

  Actual capital of Lesser Poland

  As soon as the Steady Girl lifted off the ground, Denise issued a loud “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!” from the back seat, followed by: “Best family outing ever. Even if I haven’t been able to see any of it.”

  “Stop grousing, dear,” said her mother.

  Chapter 50

  Half a mile northwest of Kraków

  Jozef saw no point in being subtle, so once he brought the APC off the rise and onto level ground, he just steered it straight toward the pike-and-musket formation which was now about two hundred yards away.

  He didn’t drive very fast—never more than ten miles an hour and usually less. Even going at that speed, he’d cross the distance separating the enemy from the APC in a minute or so. He was worried about getting the vehicle stuck in a ditch or hole or some other obstruction. Having to peer through a slit in the armor covering the windshield made for truly miserable visual conditions.

  He began humming a tune, mostly to settle his nerves. He’d learned it in Grantville during his stay there. The tune wasn’t quite appropriate to the occasion, but he thought it would do well enough.

  Not more than five seconds later, Walenty complained. “I hate humming. If you insist on doing this, at least sing the blasted song.”

  Jozef smiled thinly. “As you wish.”

  He cleared his throat. Then:

  “Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear,

  “And it shows them pearly white—”

  As he watched the monstrous vehicle coming toward his army, Mikołaj Potocki finally understood the rebels’ full intent. He and his fellow magnates had been fools. They’d assembled their forces and marched down here with the serene confidence that their professional soldiers would have little trouble crushing a motley band of rebels. That would be even more true because a large fraction of the so-called konfederacja weren’t “rebels” at all. They were foreign invaders.

  But they’d miscalculated everything.

  The magnates hadn’t taken seriously enough the warnings they’d gotten not to underestimate the impact the new up-time technology could have on the battlefield. They hadn’t grasped the shrewd manner in which the enemy had disguised their foreign troops by always maintaining an outward shell of Polish forces. The discord and disunity they’d been sure they would find simply wasn’t there—at least, Potocki had seen no sign of it yet. In fact, the rebels seemed to be coordinating their units extremely well. Quite a bit better, being honest about it, than the magnates were managing.

  And, finally, they’d never expected to encounter this level of military skill. Potocki had no idea who the rebels had for their top commander. The only possible candidates anyone knew about were the two Opalinskis. But Potocki didn’t believe that the brothers had the experience to plan and carry out such a shrewd strategy, applied with such deft tactics. They were both still in their mid-twenties.

  He knew what was going to happen within a few seconds. It was a given, a certainty. The most stalwart pikemen in the world weren’t going to stand their ground against such an inexorable behemoth.

  All he could do now was save his army.

  “Pull back! Pull back!” he shouted, waving his sword to the rear. “Maintain formations!”

  That last was probably hopeless, but he had to try. If his men started withdrawing out of control, the retreat would quickly become a rout—and whatever might be the failings of the Galician cavalry, they’d already shown they were fierce. They would pursue his men and butcher them. Infantry on the run from cavalry were an easy target.

  * * *

  Jozef saw the first breaks in the enemy formations when he was less than fifty yards away from their front ranks. The mass of pikemen was parting before them—and not smoothly. Within seconds they were nothing more than a panicked mob, with pikemen in the path of the APC desperately trying to get out of its way and having no means of doing so except to clamber over their fellows.

  Pikes were discarded—and as they came down, the blades inflicted wounds, a few of them fatal.

  Jozef reached up and yanked on the cord controlling the air horn. Three times, quickly. That was the signal he’d established for the riflemen in the turrets.

  * * *

  Tomek Wrzesiński had been on the verge of coming out of the turret anyway. Crouching in that narrow space with a heavy wooden lid covering the top of his turret was stifling and uncomfortable. Jozef had insisted on the lids in order to protect the riflemen from grenades that might be thrown at the turrets. Tomek appreciated the concern, but enough was enough. He’d never liked being in confined spaces.

  He rose and shoved the lid aside. He heard it clatter on the top of the APC’s armored roof, but didn’t pay that any attention. He was scanning the area around him, bringing up his rifle and looking for targets.

  Oh…and there were so many of them.

  Tomek was a veteran and knew what he was seeing. The APC’s charge had terrified the enemy pikemen and musketeers, and they were now starting to run. A few officers on horseback were trying to bring order to the retreat, but Tomek didn’t think they’d have much success.

  The APC came to a stop, providing Tomek with a stable shooting platform.

  The enemy officers would have no success at all, actually. Tomek and his fellow marksmen would see to that. He brought up the rifle, took aim at the nearest officer, and shot him right out of the saddle. Not more than half a second later, he heard Ambrozy Krampitz’s gun fire.

  He didn’t take the time to see the results. He had another target in his sights. At this range—fifty to a hundred yards—it was like shooting sheep in a pen.

  * * *

  Peering through the slit in the armor, Jozef decided he would give the marksmen in the turret another minute or so before he set the APC back into motion. Tomek and the others could do a better job of shattering the enemy’s leadership than he could. The APC was too clumsy for such work.

  So, he went back to singing “Mack the Knife.”

  * * *

  Jozef wound up just staying where he was. Before the minute was up, Lukasz and Krzysztof Opalinski pounded past the APC, with close to two thousand Galician hussars and Cossacks in their wake. Given the terrain, Jozef probably couldn’t have kept up with them and it would be sheer folly to have his marksmen trying to shoot anyone while the APC was moving.

  For him—and best of all, for his children—this battle was over.

  “—Scarlet billows start to spread”

  “That’s a rather disturbing song,” said Walenty Tarnowski.

  Three hundred feet above the ground

  “There’s no target here, Eddie,” said Christin, looking out of her window. Below, the Galician cavalry was wreaking havoc on their routed foes. They were too mixed up for Christin to want to take the risk of dropping bombs.

  “Yes, I agree,” he said, b
anking the plane to the east. “Let’s go see how the Hangmen are doing.”

  From the rear, Denise piped up, mimicking Eddie’s voice. “‘How the Hangmen are doing.’ That’s kinda sicko, Eddie.”

  A mile and a half north of Kraków

  “And here they come,” Jeff said softly. He was speaking to himself, since he was perched on a saddle about fifteen yards behind the front line of his riflemen. He’d found a rise of sorts—if you could call it that at all. The rise was no more than two or three feet higher than the surrounding terrain, but it still gave him a better view of the approaching enemy than he’d have had on the dirt road where most of the regiment had taken position,

  It would take the enemy a bit of time before they arrived. Polish infantry formations weren’t quite as rigid as Spanish tercios, but they would still never be considered “foot cavalry.” More like “snail cavalry.”

  Well…“Tortoise cavalry,” at any rate.

  Jeff decided he still had time to check in with Prince Ulrik and Eric Krenz. He turned his horse and trotted back to the battery of mortars which was now positioned about fifty or sixty yards to the south.

  “Are you all set?” he asked Krenz.

  “All you have to do is give us the word. I think we’re ranged in pretty well.”

  “Just make sure you don’t come in short, Eric. I’m more concerned about friendly fire than enemy fire.”

  Krenz clucked his tongue. “You know, it’s terrible for morale to have a commanding officer casting aspersions on his own troops.”

  “Not as bad as having your own mortars shelling you.”

  But he wasn’t really worried about it. For all his flippancy, Eric Krenz was a very capable officer, as he’d proven a number of times by now.

  Jeff trotted over to Ulrik, who’d taken position behind the left flank of the battery.

  “All set?” Jeff asked.

  Ulrik nodded. “As well as possible. To be honest, I wish the fighting would start. This is a bit nerve-wracking, just waiting.”

  “Yes, I—” Hearing a familiar sound, Jeff looked up. The Steady Girl was nearing them—and it was not coming at a tortoise pace. Jeff thought Eddie must be pushing the plane’s limit when it came to speed.

  It was coming very low too. Now, not more than one hundred feet above the ground.

  The aircraft swept overhead. Turning, Jeff and the prince watched it race toward the enemy.

  One bomb was loosed. Before it hit the ground, the second was loosed as well. Two closely spaced balls of flame erupted right in the middle of the enemy infantry.

  “And here we go,” said Jeff, heading back toward the road. He was cantering his horse now.

  * * *

  Prince Jeremy Wiśniowiecki had heard reports of the effect of the rebels’ incendiary bombs but this was the first time he’d witnessed them himself. The first bomb had exploded right in the midst of a formation of pikemen, killing at least a dozen almost immediately. The ones who survived included many who were very badly burned. A number of them would not survive.

  The second bomb had caused less harm. Either by good fortune or simply because the devices could not be placed accurately when the aircraft was traveling at such a speed—that was the prince’s own guess—it had overshot the next formation of pikemen and landed between them and a line of musketeers. None of the pikemen in that formation had been harmed at all. A fair number of the musketeers had been burned—badly burned, some of them, judging from the screams.

  The incendiary devices were deadly, yes. But the prince didn’t think the bombs had killed and injured any more of his men than a good cannon volley would have done. And even compared to siege guns, the aircraft’s rate of fire was abysmal. Two bombs dropped—no more than two—and it had to return to its base somewhere on the other side of the Vistula to rearm. Perhaps it needed to refuel as well.

  The aircraft would not return for at least half an hour, and by then Wiśniowiecki’s forces would be grappling with the enemy—and probably already have routed them. There would be no target for the airplane that wouldn’t risk killing many of the rebels as well.

  It was time to crush this grotesque rebellion. The prince trotted his horse forward, raised his sword, and led his army on.

  * * *

  After Wiśniowiecki had gone no more than fifteen yards, the rebels began to fire. The range was absurd. Clearly, they were unnerved—as you’d expect from such people. Runaway serfs; Cossacks; debauched and depraved former szlachta. It was a wonder they’d had the nerve to rebel at all.

  After the prince had come forward another ten yards, he was struck in the shoulder by a bullet. It was a frightful wound, but had the beneficial side effect of rendering the prince near-senseless from shock. He slumped in the saddle and slid off—which was fortunate, because at least some of the bullets that struck the aides and adjutants riding behind him, killing two of them outright and injuring two more, would have surely struck Wiśniowiecki himself if he’d still been erect in the saddle.

  Three of the prince’s longtime retainers rushed forward, picked him up, and carried him back to safety.

  * * *

  Stanisław Lubomirski had positioned his own army on Wiśniowiecki’s left flank. Such had been the agreement between the two magnates. What they hadn’t agreed on—and would have infuriated Wiśniowiecki if he’d realized what Lubomirski was doing—was that the voivode of Ruthenia was making sure his forces were lagging at least an eighth of a mile behind Wiśniowiecki’s.

  There had already been some unpleasant surprises since this battle began—the first of which had been the seemingly rash sortie by Kraków’s defenders. Lubomirski knew that Łohojski had been badly injured and that Prince Zasławski seemed to have disappeared. And—possibly worst of all—there was a rumor that Potocki’s men had been routed.

  If there were to be any more surprises, Lubomirski intended to make sure he wasn’t the one who discovered them.

  * * *

  When the courier brought him the news, Lubomirski wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t seen Prince Wiśniowiecki fall, because he’d been too far away. But he had seen the sudden cessation of his army’s forward progress and drawn his own conclusions.

  So, that was that. Battles were won; battles were lost—and this one had been lost. Happily, the voivode of Ruthenia’s army had barely suffered a scratch and he intended to keep it that way.

  They would retreat to Kielce, he decided.

  * * *

  “That stinking son of a bitch,” snarled Klimunt Wójcik. The regimentarz who had taken command of Wiśniowiecki’s army after the prince was struck down was glaring to the northeast, watching Lubomirski’s forces as they retreated.

  Seeing the looks of apprehension in the faces of the two adjutants he still had at his side—he’d sent most of them out to steady the troops—Wójcik almost snarled at them as well.

  But there would be no point to that. Nor would it be fair to them. With Lubomirski in full retreat—the same seemed to have happened to Potocki—and given the unexpectedly deadly fire coming from the rebels, Wójcik had no choice but to order a retreat himself.

  And quickly—while maintaining disciplined formations. The Bohemian cavalry was out there somewhere. They could still cause great harm to the prince’s army.

  * * *

  In point of fact, General von Mercy was pondering that same possibility himself at that very moment. He and several of his aides had taken position in a small copse of trees and he was observing the army that the Hangman Regiment had brought to a standstill.

  Von Mercy couldn’t tell whose army it was, at that distance. Probably Prince Wiśniowiecki’s, but it might be Lubomirski’s.

  “Do we pursue?” asked one of his aides.

  Von Mercy lowered the spyglass. “No,” he said. “It’s tempting, but this is really not our fight. All we needed to do for our king’s purposes was help the Galician rebels hold Kraków. That, we’ve done—and done as well as anyone could ask for. We ha
ve business to the south and east. Let the Opalinskis and their followers hold what they can. They’re on their own, now.”

  Airstrip south of the Vistula

  Kraków, official capital of Poland

  Actual capital of Lesser Poland

  After the Steady Girl came to a stop, Eddie turned off the engine and slumped in his seat. Flying in combat, he had discovered, was a lot more draining than you’d think it would be, given that a pilot didn’t really do much beyond sit on his ass.

  “We still got two bombs left,” Denise said from the back seat.

  “Who would we drop them on? We won, child,” said Christin.

  “I’m not a child. Okay, I’m your child. I’ll agree to that. But I’m not a child. There’s an important distinction there.”

  Christin decided to leave that alone, lest her daughter start in on her new mathematical theories that had her being nineteen years old.

  Probably twenty-two, by now.

  “We could drop them in the Vistula. It’s a river, so it’s gotta have some fish in it.”

  “Denise, we are not going to go fishing with napalm bombs.”

  “Makes sense to me. You cook them at the same time as you catch them.”

  “She’s still peeved with you because you made her sit in the back seat the whole time.”

  “I know,” said Christin.

  “I never got to see anything!” Denise complained.

  “Your daughter’s a little scary sometimes,” said Eddie.

  Christin nodded. “She gets it from me. When I was eight years old I didn’t screw around with Shakespeare. I went straight for the top shelf stuff.”

  She began a little chant.

  “Lizzie Borden took an axe

  And gave her mother forty whacks”

  A village seven miles north of Kraków