1637 The Polish Maelstrom Read online

  Eric’s pistol came out of the holster. The guard at the door now had his musket at the ready.

  “Stand down!” Gretchen barked.

  Everyone in the room froze at that commanding voice. Except for Denise Beasley. She was on her feet and racing for the door.

  “I knew you were no good!” she yelped. “Wait till I tell Mom! You’re in for it, buddy!”

  Chapter 3

  Wiśniowiecki town house

  Warsaw, Poland

  After the servant poured the wine, Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki waved his hand dismissively. The servant, whose name Wiśniowiecki didn’t know—it had never occurred to him to ask the man—quietly took his stance by the door to the salon, ready in case his services were needed further.

  Which they would be, judging from the consumption of wine by the two noblemen sitting in front of the fireplace, enjoying the heat produced by it. The fire was not a big one, though. It was autumn, not winter.

  “It’s done,” Wiśniowiecki said, after taking a gulp of wine. His voice was full of satisfaction. A hefty portion of smugness, as well—the sort of smugness that comes to rich, powerful and capable young men after they’ve completed a task well. A middle-aged man will invariably have suffered his share of misfortunes and setbacks by the time he’s in his forties. At the age of twenty-six, Wiśniowiecki had known nothing but success.

  Of course, he’d started off with many advantages. To begin with, he’d been born into one of the wealthiest families in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. He was an orphan, his parents having both died by the time he was seven. His uncle Konstanty was now the formal head of the family, but Jeremi had taken over control of the family’s huge estates in 1631, after he returned from a sojourn in western Europe.

  The estates were centered on the Ruthenian town of Lubny, about one hundred and twenty miles southeast of Kiev. The estates were so enormous that they were sometimes called the Łubnie state, being larger than most European realms and having a population of almost a quarter of a million people. Wiśniowiecki could field a private army of several thousand men.

  But, as was typical of most young men of his lofty rank, he took all that for granted; nothing more than his proper due. The Americans had an expression for his attitude: He was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple.

  Wiśniowiecki himself had never heard the expression, though. While still a teenager, he’d spent time in western Europe; first, attending a Jesuit college and then gaining some military experience in the Netherlands. But he returned to the Commonwealth before the Ring of Fire, which he only heard about many months later. He’d never had any personal contact with the up-timers. That was not surprising. Like almost all Polish and Lithuanian magnates, Wiśniowiecki despised the political notions that the Americans had brought with them. He had no desire to see one of the insolent creatures unless he was hanging from a gibbet.

  “You’re sure of that?” asked his companion, Mikołaj Potocki. “There’s been no news from Poznań.”

  The self-satisfied expression on Jeremi’s face remained in place. “Not yet, no. But that’s to be expected. Those men know their trade. They’ll make it look like something resulting from natural causes. Food poisoning, most likely. I didn’t want to know the details, of course.”

  He took another quaff of wine. “Relax, Bearpaw,” he said, using the nickname that his close associates used for Potocki. Despite their difference in age—Potocki was forty-one, fifteen years older than Wiśniowiecki—the two men were on close terms. They’d both participated in the Battle of Paniowce in 1633, where Grand Hetman Stanisław Koniecpolski had defeated the Ottoman Turks, and had been friends ever since.

  “I’ve used these men before,” he continued. “They were the ones who took care of that would-be upstart Bohdan Chmielnicki for me, two years ago. They’re Lisowczycy.”

  “Ah.” The name referred to men who’d fought under Aleksander Józef Lisowski, a Lithuanian military adventurer. After his death in 1616, many of his followers had continued Lisowski’s banditry-in-all-but-name.

  The older man took a sip of his own wine. Unusually for a Polish nobleman, Potocki was abstemious with liquor. In truth, he’d only accepted the wine out of politeness. From past experience, he knew that the prince would outdrink him by three or four cups to one.

  That same caution was what had led him to allow Wiśniowiecki to be the leader of their cabal, despite being young and inexperienced. If the plot should go sour, Potocki was sure he could still slide out from under whatever repercussions might follow.

  “Assuming the ploy works,” he asked, “what do you plan to do then?”

  Wiśniowiecki frowned. “That’s become something of a problem. I’d thought we could concentrate our attention on Lower Silesia. Driving out that German bitch with the ridiculous title of Lady Protector—hopefully, we’d kill her in the doing—would do more to enhance our status and gain adherents to our cause than anything.”

  Potocki nodded. “Yes, it would. But you said ‘I’d thought,’ implying you’ve changed your mind. Why?”

  “It’s those rebels in Galicia. They’re now calling themselves the Galician Democratic Assembly and are claiming they’re a konfederacja.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” exclaimed Potocki.

  A konfederacja was a unique tradition of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, not found in any other realm in Europe. It amounted to an armed rebellion, but one that had semi-official status; an extraordinary form of direct democracy, you might call it. But it was a custom reserved for noblemen, not something any serf or guttersnipe could adopt.

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Wiśniowiecki. “But they can’t be ignored any longer. They’ve brought much of Galicia under their influence—and just recently they’ve seized Lviv.”

  “Lviv? You’re joking!”

  The prince shook his head. “I wish I were. They’re not—yet—making formal claim to it as their capital, but for all intents and purposes they now control the city. One of the largest in Ruthenia—and which puts them in position to threaten not only my own estates but those of many other magnates as well.”

  Potocki replied, “Just to name one, Prince Władysław Zasławski. He’s still very young, though.”

  “Only twenty. But there’s also Janusz Łohojski. He’s not a great landowner but he is the voivode of Kiev and the starost of Śniatyń and Żytomierz. He’s both alarmed and enraged by the developments in Galicia, which is not far from him. In fact, he’s the one who sent me this latest news—along with the clear suggestion that he’d be willing to form an alliance.”

  That called for a bit of celebration. Potocki drained his cup of wine. From his point of view, what was most important about the prospect of Łohojski joining them was that the voivode of Kiev was also a man in his forties—just a bit older than Potocki himself—who had considerable military experience. He’d participated in the Battle of Chocim fifteen years earlier where armies assembled by Polish–Lithuanian magnates had driven off the Ottoman invasion of Moldovia led by Sultan Osman II.

  Potocki suppressed a smile. What had worried him the most about his participation in Wiśniowiecki’s plot was that, if—no, it would almost certainly be when—it became necessary to engage in military action, he would be one thrust forward into the limelight. Wiśniowiecki was simply too young to assume command of their forces. Now…

  Potocki had no problem with allowing another man to be the official military leader when the time came. No problem at all.

  “So we’ll be heading to Galicia, then,” he said. “I can bring an army of three thousand men. Added to yours—”

  “We’ll have at least seven thousand men, which is probably enough but I’d like to be stronger.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Zasławski can field three thousand—maybe four—and now that Lubomirski’s thrown in with us that’ll be another two or three thousand. That leaves the voivode of Kiev. I imagine Łohojski’s good for another two thousand, especi
ally since he’ll be in command.”

  Wiśniowiecki smiled thinly. He knew his friend’s cautious manner. “Yes, he will. More wine?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he waved a hand to summon the servant. His own cup was empty, whether or not Potocki wanted any more.

  “It’s a pity, really,” said Potocki. “He was a great man, in his way.”

  The prince shifted his shoulders; a minimalist shrug, you might call it. “Yes, he was. But the Ring of Fire changed everything. You and I both know we can’t continue as before—but he never would have agreed. And as long as he was there, he was like a fallen tree across a road, impeding all forward movement.”

  The servant arrived and Potocki held up his own cup. “True,” he said.

  * * *

  After the servant resumed his place, he began pondering the possibilities. The man’s name was Andrzej Kucharski, and despite his humble ancestry—his last name meant “cook”—he had very good hearing. He’d been able to follow the conversation between Wiśniowiecki and Potocki. As was typical of men of their class, they’d simply been oblivious to the servant’s presence in the room.

  Kucharski was bolder than most servants, but that didn’t make him very bold. Passing this information on to whoever might wish to buy it was bound to be dangerous.

  But dangerous also meant worth a lot and Kucharski was ambitious, insofar as that term could be applied to men of his class. He wanted to get a wife, and for that he needed enough money to set up a household—which would take him another five years on the miserable wages he got paid by Wiśniowiecki. “Prince” or not, the man was a miser when it came to his servants.

  The conversation between the two noblemen had drifted over to personal affairs. Kucharski stopped listening. He was too intent on considering his possible market.

  Chapter 4

  Breslau (Wrocław), capital of Lower Silesia

  By the time the guard got the door to his room open, Jozef Wojtowicz had moved from the bed to the armchair. He’d placed it in the corner that got the most light so he could read easily. Once seated, he considered picking up the book from the side table next to the armchair and opening it just to show his captors that he was nonchalant about his situation. While he’d been staying in Grantville he’d run across a couple of appropriate American slang expressions, one of which they’d stolen from the French.

  Sang-froid. Calm, cool and collected.

  But he decided not to. There would be something a bit rude about it, he thought.

  He’d always considered rudeness to be a display of anxiety—inferiority disguised as arrogance; a sheep in wolf’s clothing. He’d gotten that attitude from watching his uncle Stanisław Koniecpolski. The grand hetman of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, one of the continent’s half-dozen most prestigious military commanders, was never rude to anyone, from the king of Poland to his own servants and the peasants on his estates. To behave so would be beneath his dignity.

  Jozef had plenty of time to make the decision, since it took the guard a ridiculous amount of time to get the door unlocked.

  Unlocked? Say better, unlocked, unbarred, unbolted, unlatched, all padlocks removed—there might even be a barricade on the other side of that door which had to be manhandled aside.

  His arrest had been…comical.

  Gretchen had ordered that he be placed in one of the many rooms set aside for visitors in the town hall, rather than in the dank and cramped cells in the basement set aside for common criminals.

  But he’s a traitor! Eric Krenz had argued hotly.

  He can’t be a foreign spy and a traitor at the same time, Gretchen had pointed out. Make up your mind.

  He’s a foreign spy, then. Spies are hanged! Or stood up against a wall and shot!

  Do I need to remind you that this evil spy once saved my life? And also led the sortie against General Banér at the siege of Dresden.

  That had shut Krenz up for…maybe three seconds.

  Fine. That’s the one thing—okay, two things—that saves him from being summarily executed like he deserves.

  Gretchen’s tone of voice had remained mild. Actually, there’s a third thing that keeps Jozef from being summarily executed.

  What’s that?

  The fact that I’m the Lady Protector of Lower Silesia and you’re not.

  That shut Krenz up quite nicely.

  When the emperor bestowed that silly title on me, I insisted he had to specify what my powers were as well as my duties. He did so promptly and in considerable detail. It’s a bit fascinating, really—as well as being another example of the need for a democratic republic. Talk about arbitrary and capricious powers! Do you know that as Lady Protector I can have anyone summarily executed? Even for such a trivial offense as quarreling with me. It’s true—I’ll show you the emperor’s letter.

  Later. For now, Eric, take Jozef to one of the guest rooms.

  Krenz had managed a final rally.

  At least the door has to be locked! And barred!

  Oh, certainly. Whatever you think is needed.

  * * *

  What had been needed, in Eric Krenz’s opinion, were enough devices to have sunk a good-sized rowboat. It had taken the detachment of soldiers who’d accompanied Krenz and Jozef more than an hour to fix in place all the ways Krenz could think up to keep Jozef from escaping. Apparently he was not just a spy, but a Super Spy.

  When the guard finally came through the door he had his pistol firmly in hand and pointed right at Jozef. On his heels came…

  Jozef hadn’t been expecting this. “I didn’t think you’d visit me,” he said, then gestured at a small divan next to his armchair. “Please, have a seat.”

  Christin George did so. She had a twisted smile on her face, but didn’t say anything until the guard left and finished the process of locking the door. Then she said: “You think this is the first time I’ve had to visit my man in jail? Hell, I had to bail Buster out more times than I can remember.”

  She cocked her head a little, examining him as if he was some sort of peculiar animal in a zoo.

  “I’ll say this much, though. You’ve definitely got style. Buster was mostly just locked up for barroom brawling. Not you! ‘High crimes and misdemeanors,’ no less.” She issued a whistle. “I gotta admit that’s a new one for me.”

  She cocked her head the other way. “So. Did you do it?”

  “Do what? Spy or commit treason? Some people seem to be having a hard time deciding which it is.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, I don’t figure you’re a traitor, seeing how you didn’t betray your own country. Which is Poland, the last I heard. How about the spy business, though? Is it really true that you’re Poland’s head spy in the USE? ‘Chief of spy operations,’ I think Denise called it. She’s really pissed at you, by the way. But I think the real reason’s not that you screwed our nation but that she still hasn’t gotten over the fact that you’re screwing me. She really adored her father, you know.”

  Jozef heaved a sigh. “Yes, I know she did. ‘Head spy’ is a muddled term. More often than not I hired someone to do the spying. I was ‘chief of espionage operations.’ But I worked for my uncle, not King Władysław—be damned to him—and certainly not the stinking Sejm. Leave that aside. It was your country that invaded mine, not the other way around. So you can’t accuse me of aggression, the way I look at it. Just righteous self-defense.”

  Christin’s eyes widened. “It’s really true then? You’re Grand Hetman Koniecpolski’s nephew?”

  “Bastard nephew. He acknowledged me as his brother Przedbór’s son, but I was never a legitimate member of the family.”

  “Did that hurt?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Yes. It did.”

  Christin nodded. “Okay. So now what happens?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. If Gretchen keeps me here in Silesia—or Saxony—I’ll probably stay alive. If she turns me over to the emperor or the prime minister of the USE…Maybe no
t. I don’t know either man well enough to guess what they might do.”

  “Oh, you’ll be staying in Breslau. Gretchen was inclined that way anyhow, and when I told her I wanted you here that clinched the deal.”

  “Why?” he asked. “I’m pleased to hear the news, of course, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Gretchen Richter is hardly what you’d call a sentimentalist.”

  “Not hardly,” Christin agreed. “What she is, though, when it comes to her enemies, is one coldhearted, ruthless bitch. All I had to do was point out that I’m her Number One Premier Bombardier—got a proven track record, which nobody else does around here—and it’d be a real shame if on my next combat sortie I dropped the bomb into a river instead of on top of the evildoers. On account of I couldn’t see well, my eyes being all teared up with grief.”

  It was his turn to cock his head quizzically. “And would they be? Teared up, I mean.”

  She didn’t answer for a bit. Then said quietly: “Some, yes. I don’t know how much yet.”

  “Yet?”

  For the first time since she’d come into the room, a big smile came to her face. That dazzling smile was something Christin and her daughter had in common. There was more than a hint of challenge in it, to go with the friendliness.

  “I’m not what you’d call a casual person, Jozef. I hadn’t come to a decision about you, but I did know that I wanted to keep working at it.” She shrugged. “If you’d been guilty of treason, it’d be a different story. But I got no real beef with someone who’s loyal to his own.”

  Again, the smile came. “Might have to shoot you some day, of course. But in the meantime…”

  She eyed the bed. “I checked with Gretchen before I came over. She’s okay with conjugal visits, as long as I don’t help you escape.”

  That was an English term he’d never heard before. “What kind of visit is a conju—oh.”

  * * *

  In another comfortable room on the same floor of the town hall—a considerably bigger room, though—Gretchen Richter leaned back in her own armchair and gazed approvingly at the three men sitting across from her, two on a couch and one on another armchair.