1637 The Polish Maelstrom Page 8

  * * *

  In the event, Mike wound up being the one who gave Jeff the news. Ulrik spent his time in a fruitless search for the young American colonel in the regiment’s headquarters, the barracks, the stables—even two of the taverns known to be frequented by the Hangman Regiment. Mike, who knew Jeff much better than the Danish prince did, went to Jeff’s personal quarters.

  Where, just as he’d expected, he found Colonel Higgins sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair, with his bootless feet propped up. He was reading a book and had a mug of beer on a side table.

  Mike concluded his explanation of Higgins’ new duties by saying: “You do understand, I hope, that Gretchen is the boss in Silesia. Until things change, her relationship to you is that of the Lady Protector of Silesia, not your wife. You’ll be taking her orders.”

  By the time he finished, Jeff had his hands clasped behind his head and was laying back as far as he could in the armchair.

  “I got no problem taking orders from my wife,” he said. “Excuse me, the Lady Protector of Silesia who’ll just happen to be in bed with me every night.”

  His expression grew positively serene. “Especially since I know what her first order will be.” He began singing off-key:

  “Happy days are here again,

  The skies above are clear again.”

  Mike smiled. “Clearly, morale won’t be a problem.”

  Chapter 2

  Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia

  In the chamber in Breslau’s town hall that Gretchen Richter used as her headquarters, Jozef Wojtowicz was leaning over another map, also spread across a large table. And, by coincidence, was also singing a cheery song. Rather loudly, too.

  “Sto lat, sto lat,

  Niech żyje, żyje nam.”

  “Make him stop, Gretchen,” complained Major Eric Krenz. “I can’t think clearly while he’s wailing that—”

  He turned his head and glared at Lukasz Opalinski, who was standing next to him. Only half-glared, however. Not even someone as insouciant as Krenz wanted to irritate a big Polish hussar who was known—Gretchen herself had been a witness—to have cleaved a head with one stroke of his saber.

  “What is he singing?” Eric asked. “An uncouth drinking song, I bet. Hardly suitable for these august premises—and in the presence of the Lady Protector herself!”

  Gretchen was on her feet, leaning over the map with her hands planted on the table to provide her with support. She smiled but didn’t look up from her own scrutiny of the map. She’d reached the point in her pregnancy where she economized her movements. Even standing up straight was something of a chore.

  “It’s a birthday song,” said Lukasz mildly. “The words mean ‘one hundred years, one hundred years, may she live for us one hundred years.’”

  “He started singing it as soon as he got up this morning,” said Denise Beasley, who was sitting in a chair against one of the walls with a book in her hands. The unlikely presence of a teenage up-timer at the meeting was due to Denise’s unofficial status as Gretchen’s unofficial liaison with Francisco Nasi. The Sephardic Jew who had once been Mike Stearns’ chief of intelligence had moved to Prague after Mike lost his position as the USE’s prime minister. Since then, Nasi had been operating what was probably Europe’s premier private intelligence agency.

  When Denise looked up, she was scowling even more than Krenz. “On account of my mother. She turned thirty-eight today.”

  “Ah,” said Eric. “Well, in that case…” Unlike Denise herself, Eric approved of Jozef’s liaison with Christin George. He’d discussed it with Lukasz recently, and found that Jozef’s close friend since boyhood approved of it also.

  “It’s good for Jozef to have a woman who’s almost a decade older than he is and not excessively charmed by his excessive charm. He usually cavorts with young girls whose breasts are considerably more substantial than their brains.”

  Gretchen now looked up from the map. “Lukasz, Jozef—whichever one of you knows the answer—how many volunteers have we gotten from the countryside? They’re almost all Poles, yes?”

  To Eric’s relief, Jozef broke off from his singing. “As of right now—well, yesterday,” said Wojtowicz, “we had three hundred and sixty-three men in the new infantry units. One of them was Czech, one was Hungarian, and two were German. The rest were all Poles.”

  “How good are they?”

  “Not too bad,” said Jozef, “although—”

  “They stink,” interrupted Opalinski.

  “—I wouldn’t want to use them for a while except fighting from defensive positions,” Jozef finished. He gave Lukasz a look of reproof. “Ignore him. He’s a hussar with absurdly lofty notions of what sort of training a soldier needs to fight like a hussar. Which these men will not be doing.”

  “Being sensible Polish peasants instead of idiot szlachta,” Eric muttered.

  “I heard that,” said Lukasz. He was smiling when he said it, though. The big hussar came from one of Poland’s most prestigious noble families. Did he care what some German ragamuffin thought of his lofty place in the world?

  Gretchen had the distracted look on her face that people get when they’re doing calculations in their head. After a few seconds, she said: “Then we add the Third Division regulars—that’s what now, Eric? Two hundred and fifty?”

  “More like two hundred and twenty,” said Krenz. “Sickness, desertion, the usual.”

  Gretchen nodded. “Add Bravnicar’s cavalry, that’s another one hundred and fifty. I asked him this morning before he left on patrol. Then the Vogtland irregulars add another five hundred—that’s men, I’m not counting the women and children although some of the women can fight—”

  “Behind defensive positions,” Eric interjected.

  Gretchen made a hand motion as if brushing away insects. “Don’t quibble. That’s mostly what we plan to do anyway. That brings us up to eight hundred and seventy combatants. Then we can add the German town militias that are willing and able to fight in the field. I figure that’s about six hundred more men. For a grand total of just under one thousand, five hundred soldiers.”

  She pursed her lips and made a faint whistling noise. “That means that once Jeff arrives—Prince Ulrik arrives—we’ve almost doubled our fighting strength.”

  “More like tripled it,” said Eric. “Maybe even quadrupled it. The Hangman Regiment are elite soldiers, Gretchen. Veterans, almost all of them.”

  “In this instance, I have to say I agree with him,” said Lukasz. “There’s really no comparison between the soldiers Prince Ulrik is bringing and the forces we already have here in Silesia.” He nodded toward Eric. “With the exception, of course, of the men under Major Krenz’s command, who are detached from the Third Division of the USE Army.”

  Gretchen ran fingers through her blonde hair. Her still-long blonde hair. She’d been planning to cut it, but once she discovered her husband was coming to Silesia she decided otherwise. The length wasn’t that much of a nuisance and she knew Jeff adored it.

  Thoughts of her husband distracted her for a moment. It had been half a year since she’d seen him. She glanced down at her belly, which was now providing full evidence of the condition that last encounter had produced. She was somewhere between seven and eight months’ pregnant, she figured, probably closer to eight. Even for a woman as strong and robust as she was, moving around was getting a bit difficult.

  On a bright note, Jeff would be here not long after their child was born.

  She turned and took a few steps so she could look out of a window. It was a clear, sunny day, which was not unusual for Poland at this time of year but not something you could count on, either. Even in midafternoon, the temperature was cool, though not uncomfortably so. Fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, according to the thermometer hanging on the wall next to the window.

  The Europe of her day had no standard system for measuring temperature—or distances, or weights, or anything else. One of the effects of the Rin
g of Fire had been the swift adoption of the American system of measurement in many parts of the continent, especially those most heavily influenced by the up-timers. Steadily, if not evenly, universal standards were emerging.

  Ironically, the only vociferous opposition to the trend came from Americans themselves, led by the indomitable Melissa Mailey, who advocated adoption of what was called the metric system. Why are we inflicting this idiotic English system of measurement on a whole new world? she would demand. It caused enough headaches in the one we came from. Measuring distance by the length of a king’s thumb, for Pete’s sake!

  But she had few followers. Americans were accustomed to their antiquated system—and more to the point, so were most of their tools and instruments. When a down-time craftsman built a thermometer—such as the one hanging on the wall less than three feet from her, which had been made in Dresden—they copied an American design. Which came in sturdy Fahrenheit, thank you very much.

  The window overlooked Breslau’s central square, what was called the Market Square. The town hall itself was called either the Stary Ratusz, if the speaker was Polish, or the Rathaus by those who spoke German. Since most of Breslau’s inhabitants were Germans, as was true of most of the bigger towns in Silesia, the word Rathaus was the one most commonly used.

  From the outside, the town hall was an impressive sight. It had been built four centuries earlier, in the Gothic style. More precisely, the construction had started in the thirteenth century. The work had continued off and on for the next three hundred years or so. The building as it now existed had been more or less completed by 1560.

  Only more or less, though. Gretchen could hear the faint sounds of workmen as they installed another modern toilet. The new facility was on this upper floor, not far from her own living quarters, thankfully. In her condition, waddling up and down two flights of stairs to use a toilet in the middle of the night was a nuisance. Gothic grandeur be damned, especially in the winter. As far as Gretchen was concerned, “medieval” was just a synonym for “cold.”

  She could hear the clatter of horses—quite a few of them—arriving in the square below, but they were out of sight of the window she was standing at. Some large party had arrived in Breslau, apparently. She wondered who it might be, since she knew of no delegation scheduled to appear today.

  But she’d find out soon enough, when they were ushered into this chamber. In times past, she would probably have gone downstairs to see for herself. Today?—as pregnant as she was? No, thank you. Let others do the stair-climbing.

  She turned away from the window and went back to her study of the map. Krenz and Wojtowicz and Opalinski were still gathered around the table.

  “So what do you think?” she asked. “Can we defend all of Lower Silesia with the forces we have?”

  Krenz shook his head. “Not without help from Roth’s Bohemian troops. And those will come at a price.”

  Eric was talking about a political price, not a monetary one. Morris Roth had assembled an army in Brno for Wallenstein—King Venceslas V Adalbertus of Bohemia as he was formally and officially called, but he preferred his close advisers and confidants to keep using the name he’d gone by most of his life. Wallenstein had put Roth in charge of conquering as much territory to the east as he could. Most of that territory would come from the Ruthenian lands controlled by the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth—the area that in a future world would be known as Ukraine—but at least some of it would have to consist of portions of southern Poland. Between those portions and the northern part of Royal Hungary, which Wallenstein had already obtained through the recent treaty he’d made with Austria, he’d have a corridor connecting Bohemia and Moravia to Ruthenia.

  In short, if Roth brought his army to assist Lower Silesia, he’d insist on getting something in return.

  Gretchen now looked at Lukasz and Jozef. “How much of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth’s territory can we let him have without stirring up too much resentment among Poles? Commoners, I’m talking about, not szlachta and certainly not magnates. I don’t care what they think.” She waggled her hand. “The upper ranks of the szlachta, anyway.”

  The szlachta was Poland’s nobility. It constituted about ten percent of Poland’s population, a much higher percentage than the aristocracy of most European realms. Despite their prestigious social status, the majority of the szlachta were not much, if any, richer than their peasant neighbors.

  Lukasz planted a big forefinger on a part of the map. “As long as Roth stays south of the Vistula River and, if he gets that far, south and west of the Dniester, his quarrel will only be with the magnates. The population is mostly not Polish. But it’s very important that he make no attempt to seize Kraków.”

  “Why?” asked Krenz. “From what I’ve heard, most of the people living in Kraków these days are either German or Jewish.”

  Jozef shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Lukasz is right. There’s no city in Poland that has more sentimental importance. It’s still the official capital of Poland, you know, even if the real capital has been in Warsaw for the past few decades. And Poland’s oldest and most famous university is there: Jagiellonian University, founded by Casimir the Great almost three centuries ago. If Roth tries to take Kraków he’ll stir up a hornet’s nest.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” piped up Denise Beasley. She didn’t bother looking up from her book. “I know Morris Roth. He’s as shrewd as they come. He won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I know the man also,” said Gretchen. “From my time in Grantville, before he and his wife Judith moved to Prague. As Denise says, he’s a sensible man.”

  Her attention was distracted again, this time by the sounds of voices coming from below. Several voices; but they were simply engaged in discussion, not shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but it was obvious that the guards weren’t challenging their credentials. The party she’d heard arriving at the town hall would be on their way up soon.

  “We’re about to be interrupted,” she said. “For the moment, I have one last question. Assuming Roth and his Bohemian forces are here with us, can we then hold all of Lower Silesia?”

  “That depends on who attacks us,” said Lukasz. “That there will be an attack is certain. The Polish and Lithuanian powers-that-be can’t just let Silesia go without a struggle. But it’ll make a big difference who comes. If it’s the Polish army, led by Koniecpolski…” He grimaced. “There’ll be no chance we could do more than hold Breslau and maybe Lignitz. But I don’t—”

  “There’s no chance at all the king and the Sejm would send Koniecpolski,” said Jozef. He sounded very confident. “The real threat to Poland comes from Torstensson’s two divisions besieging Poznań. They need the grand hetman up there.”

  “He’s almost certainly right, Gretchen,” said Lukasz. “It will be an alliance of several magnates.”

  “How big an army can they put together?” asked Gretchen.

  “Hard to say.” Lukasz looked at Jozef. “I’d guess ten thousand men, all told. You?”

  “I think they can put together more than that,” said Jozef. “How many more? That would depend on which magnates are involved and—most importantly—which one of them is in command.” The smile that came to his face was thin and derisive. “Polish and Lithuanian magnates are not exactly famous for their cooperative spirit and self-effacement for the greater good.”

  Lukasz barked a laugh. “To put it mildly!”

  The sound of boots clattering up the stairs was getting louder.

  “Someone’s coming,” announced Eric Krenz. “Who is it?”

  “I have no idea,” said Gretchen. She was already rolling up the map as a security precaution. Given the swiftness with which the guards below had let the party pass through, they couldn’t be unfriendly. Still, there was no point letting people see what she and her aides had been studying.

  She’d just finished when the door swung open. One of the guards came through first. He was holding a musket
but clearly wasn’t expecting to use it.

  “Lady Protector,” he announced, “a delegation has arrived from the”—he stumbled over the next words a little—“Galician Democratic Assembly. May I present—”

  But he got no further. The first person in the delegation had already passed through the door and needed no introduction.

  “Red!” exclaimed Gretchen. “Red Sybolt!”

  The up-timer who was, with the possible exception of Melissa Mailey, Grantville’s most notorious political agitator, was grinning widely. “Hey, Gretchen. Long time no see.”

  Another man came into the room, followed by two more. These were all clearly down-timers, but Gretchen didn’t know any of them. The fellow in the lead was as big as Lukasz, and like him had blond hair—in fact…

  She looked back and forth between Lukasz and the newcomer. “Are you by any chance related?”

  Lukasz ignored her. His expression was oddly stiff. “Hello, Krzysztof,” he said.

  The newcomer nodded. “Brother. You’re looking well.” But his attention was riveted on Wojtowicz, not Lukasz. “What is he doing here? And why isn’t he manacled?”

  Startled, Gretchen looked at Jozef. His expression was even stiffer than Lukasz’s.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Krzysztof glanced quickly from Jozef to her to Lukasz and then back to her.

  “My pigheaded younger brother didn’t tell you who Wojtowicz is, did he?” Krzysztof shook his head, in a gesture that somehow managed to combine disapproval with grudging respect. “He’s always been loyal to a fault.”

  “They’re friends,” said Eric Krenz. He had a frown on his face and had his hand placed on the pistol at his waist. “Aren’t they?”

  “Oh, yes. Best friends since they were little boys. Whenever we visited Koniecpolski on one of his estates, they were inseparable.” He planted his big hands on his hips. “But apparently my brother didn’t tell you what else is true about Jozef Wojtowicz. He is Grand Hetman Koniecpolski’s nephew as well as his chief of espionage in the United States of Europe. Very good at it, too, by all accounts. In short, one of your mortal enemies.”