1634: The Baltic War (64 page)

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Torstensson knew he was gambling, but he didn't think it a reckless one. From his position at the center of the USE army, he hadn't gotten as good a view of the ragged nature of the French left flank as a young lieutenant from the Moselle and a young sergeant from the Oberpfalz. But he hadn't needed it, either. He had far more experience at gauging battles than either Reschly or Engler—or a dozen of them put together, for that matter.

So, he'd keep the main body of the French army pinned with his infantry and artillery, and see if he could rout the enemy's left flank with a cavalry charge. More precisely, a charge of cavalrymen and the three volley gun companies he had in his force.

The only one of his subordinates who put up any sort of protest at all was Frank Jackson, and that wasn't so much of a protest as a cold-blooded observation.

"This is likely to get pretty rough on the volley gun crews, if the French don't break."

"Yes, it will," was Torstensson's reply. "But I haven't got enough cavalry for the purpose, and I think this maneuver will work because they'll be expecting regular light artillery. And if it comes down to it, I can afford to lose the volley guns, since the French have even less cavalry than I do."

Seeing the expression on Jackson's face, Torstensson gave him a thin smile. "Cold-blooded bastard, aren't I?"

After a moment, Frank shrugged. "The last war I was in was being run by a guy named Robert McNamara, who was even more cold-blooded than you are, General. The difference was, he didn't have a clue what he was doing."

Jean-Baptiste Budes, comte de Guébriant, wasn't giving any thought at all to the nature of the enemy's commanders. He was too busy cursing that of his own, under his breath. The evolution the French army was trying to carry out would have been difficult enough, under any conditions. Having as the commander of the left flank another one of Cardinal Richelieu's political appointments made it twice as hard. Jean-Baptiste didn't have any personal animus against Manassés de Pas, marquis de Feuquières, whom he'd found in person to be a pleasant and convivial sort of fellow. But the marquis was far more suited temperamentally to the life of a courtier than a cavalryman. He was just plain sluggish—and they were in a situation where quick reflexes were critical. Those enemy cavalry and flying artillery units were coming at them rapidly, and in very good order.

"So much for an undisciplined rabble, eh?" said his adjutant sarcastically, as he drew up his horse.

Guébriant scowled. Normally, he enjoyed Captain Gosling's dour Norman sense of humor, but today it grated a little. "They're
supposed
to be professional soldiers, Guilherme! Look at them! It's like herding geese."

Guilherme Gosling made a little placating and apologetic gesture. "Sorry. My quip was intended for the enemy." The gesture turned into a finger, pointing at the German forces moving to outflank them.

"Oh." Jean-Baptiste winced. "Yes. As I recall, the phrase the esteemed duke of Angoulême used last week was 'a mere militia.' They don't look like it, though, do they? What news from Feuquières?"

"He says he'll have the infantry units in place shortly."

Guébriant savored the term. It left a very acrid taste. " 'Shortly.' How marvelously imprecise."

His lieutenant shrugged. "He
is
trying to move them along, Comte. The problem isn't so much the marquis as, well . . ."

"He surrounded himself with a gaggle of adjutants, not one of whom could find his ass in broad daylight, on a battlefield. Yes, I know." Guébriant was scowling fiercely. "Fine fellows in a salon in Paris, though, I have no doubt."

But there was no time for that, either. Jean-Baptiste pointed at the enemy's flying artillery units. They had fallen slightly behind the first line of cavalry, instead of moving to the front as they should have been. That was the only sign he'd seen yet of the insufficient experience of the enemy army. It was always hard to get light artillery to develop the iron nerve it took to set up at the very fore of a battle line. No point in having them anywhere else, though, since they could hardly fire through their own ranks.

By now, several of Guébriant's lieutenants had gathered around. "Pull together as many of our cavalry units as you can. We'll charge at once, while the enemy's artillery is still out of position."

"They've got somebody competent in charge over there," commented Torstensson. He lowered his eyeglass. "So now we'll find out just how good those volley gunners are. Have the buglers give the order."

Eric Krenz's face had been pale already, as he sat on the lead horse of the battery wagon. Now, hearing the command for
volley guns, forward,
it got paler still. Thorsten Engler almost managed a laugh. Not quite—since he might very well be dead in a few minutes.

"I
told
you," he hissed at Krenz as he swept by him. "
Flying
artillery."

He took up his position at the head of the batteries along with Lieutenant Reschly. The young officer from the Moselle already had his saber in hand and wasn't waving it so much as he was flourishing the weapon. It was all very dramatic.

Further down the line, Thorsten caught a glimpse of Colonel Straley doing the same thing.

Thorsten drew his own saber, feeling both awkward and foolish. It wasn't the sword that bothered him—it was just another tool, that's all, for a different purpose—but the need to pose histrionically with the damn thing. He was a
farmer,
for the love of God!

Just before the bugles blew again, though, he steadied his nerves. He even laughed. Caroline had described to him, in one of her letters, the manner in which Princess Kristina had finagled their way onto the army base.

Volley guns, charge!

So what a farmer might have found difficult, the count of Narnia managed quite easily. He flourished his own saber as splendidly as anyone could ask for and shouted "Forward, fellows!" loudly enough to be easily heard by all the gun crews in the company, and several of the ones in the companies on either side. Best of all, although he hadn't noticed himself, that sudden and impromptu laugh had been almost as loud. Steadied the men very nicely, it did.

"Forward, I say!"

The count of Guébriant was astonished when he saw the enemy's cavalry peeling aside to let their flying artillery come forward. The maneuver itself was a standard one, of course, and they carried it out quite nicely. But they had to be insane to do it at this late stage. Jean-Baptiste's cavalry was already within a few hundred yards of their enemy. The USE artillery would be able to fire at most one volley before they'd be overwhelmed.

True, they'd be firing canister, and the French cavalry would suffer losses from that one volley. But there wouldn't even be that many casualties. As quickly as the enemy artillery was moving—they'd already almost gotten into position, he saw—those couldn't be anything more powerful than four-pounders.

Those thoughts came to him in chaotic fragments, though, and he didn't have time to consider the problem except on the half-instinctual basis of an experienced combat officer. Leading a cavalry charge was just about as insalubrious an activity as could be imagined, from the standpoint of careful and deliberate cogitation.

"En avant!"
His own sword-flourishing was splendid, as you'd expect, and by now came to him as easily as breathing.

"Steady, fellows, steady!" Thorsten shouted, as he trotted down the line. "Don't pay any attention to them! Just do your job! You know how to do it!"

Thankfully, he didn't see any reason to maintain the silly sword-waving business, since he was now a few feet behind the volley gun crews. He did use the sword once, though, to point at a jittery-looking crewman who was glancing back and forth between the advancing enemy and the rear. The sword-thrusting gesture was a combination of an admonishment and a veiled threat.

"Stop worrying about them, Metzger! Pay attention to your job!"

Easy enough to say, of course. Thorsten had to struggle a bit himself not to just gape at the oncoming French. He was discovering—they all were—that what they'd been told in training was quite true. Cavalry charges are absolutely terrifying, if you let yourself dwell on them instead of concentrating on what you're planning to do to the enemy. Even at a few hundred yards distance, those armored men on horseback looked twice the size they actually were. As soon as they began to gallop, which they would very soon, they'd look larger still.

And there were thousands of them coming. Only a few thousand, true—Reschly's estimate had been no more than four thousand, and probably closer to three—but even three thousand horses make an incredible drumming din. They were still cantering, too, since the enemy commander was smart enough or experienced enough not to take the risk of winding the mounts. Once they started the gallop of the final charge—

Three hundred yards. Close enough.
"Charge!"
shouted Guébriant. A few paces behind him, the trumpeters sounded the command.

—they'd make the very earth seem to shake.

Which it did.

"Steady, fellows, steady!"

He saw that all the gun crews in his half of the battery were ready. Glancing over, he saw the same was true of Reschly's half. The lieutenant was already lowering his sword, having used it to give the colonel a signal. Straley had wanted the first magazines fired in a coordinated volley, although thereafter the gun crews would fire as ready. With the slightly duck-foot design of the volley guns, the rounds became too dispersed beyond two hundred and fifty yards, and the colonel didn't want nervous gun crews wasting that important first volley.

In the distance, Engler could see Straley's mouth open, shouting something. He couldn't hear a word of it, though, over the thunder of the horses' hooves.

That's why they used bugles, of course. The sharp sound of the instruments pierced through the noise quite easily.

Fire!

One of the cavalrymen right next to Jean-Baptiste was slammed back in the saddle, his helmet sailing off. The man stared blank-eyed at the sky for a moment, blood pouring down the back of his skull, before he slumped off onto the ground.

He was already dead, thankfully. Being in the front ranks of a massed charge like this, a minor wound was as surely fatal as anything, if a man fell off his mount. The horses coming behind would trample his body into a barely recognizable mass of pulp. They were galloping fairly slowly, with the weight of their armored riders—not more than fifteen or sixteen miles an hour—but that was more than fast enough for a big horse to be unable to avoid a man lying on the ground.

That was just a passing thought for Guébriant, however. The count was squinting, trying to see ahead through the huge cloud of gunsmoke that had now obscured the USE forces.

There had been something peculiar about that first enemy volley. It didn't sound quite right, even for four-pounders. The cloud of gunsmoke was a bit peculiar, too. It had seemed to emerge instantly across the entire ranks of the enemy artillery, instead of spreading out from the clumps emerging from cannon barrels. It looked a lot more like the sort of gunsmoke produced by musketeers, in fact.

Whatever, it didn't matter. They'd closed another fifty yards in those five or six seconds. By the time even four-pounders could fire again, the French cavalry would be upon them. Even if one or two crews managed to get off a second shot, they'd only do it at the last moment and canister lost much of its effectiveness at very close range. Deadly to anyone directly in front of the barrels, of course. But the shot simply didn't have time to spread out very far.

Thorsten had come to a halt directly behind one of the volley guns. He watched as the three-man crew went smoothly through the sequence. The used ammunition strip was extracted and tossed into a thin-walled metal case lying on the ground nearby. They'd reload it later, when they had time. A new strip was brought out of another case and fitted into the barrels. A powder train was laid behind the ammunition strip and the side-mounted loading lever was shoved into position, securing the breech. A percussion cap was then placed on the nipple located in the center of the barrel array and would be fired by the gunner using a simple hammer mechanism.

The gunner gave the oncoming targets no more than a perfunctory glance, just to double-check that the gun's recoil shift had been corrected properly. The volley gun barrels were rifled, giving them much greater accuracy than smoothbore muskets. But the real advantage was the added range the rifling gave the bullets. With twenty-five barrels laid down in a row, angling slightly apart in a duck-foot design, there was no more point in "aiming" a volley gun than there was in aiming a smoothbore musket. Just point it in the direction of the enemy and close the hammer.

Which, he did. The twenty-five round magazine fired almost in unison with those of the other volley guns on the line. A trained crew could work the volley guns once every eight to ten seconds, where it took the crew of a four-pounder cannon much longer than that. Over time, that slight spread of skill would produce increasingly ragged fire, but this was only the second volley.

Twenty-five barrels to a gun, six guns to a battery, six batteries to a company—and on this field, today, Colonel Straley had three companies under his command. Within a space of one second, two thousand and seven hundred rounds were fired at an enemy now about one hundred and fifty yards away.

Bang.

Bang.

Two thousand, six hundred and fifty rounds, rather. Two gun crews had screwed up and fired a couple of seconds later. But they weren't any of the crews under Thorsten's command, so he didn't worry about it. And he was worrying a lot less about the oncoming enemy cavalry, too. They were starting to suffer heavy casualties already.

The enemy fired another volley, long before Jean-Baptiste expected. For the second time, the count of Guébriant was astonished.

Stunned, even—and quite literally. A round had struck his cuirass. Dead-on, a heavy three-ounce canister ball would have punched right through the armor and killed him. So would a musket ball weighing half as much, for that matter, if it hit straight on. A canister round could kill even with a glancing blow, with its greater weight. This bullet had struck a glancing blow, but the bullet wasn't any heavier than a musket ball.

Good for him at the moment, to be sure. He was a bit dazed and from the pain he knew he might have suffered a cracked rib. He'd certainly be badly bruised. But even through the shock and pain, Guébriant finally understood what he was facing, even though he still couldn't see the enemy clearly because of the gunsmoke. Those weren't artillery of any kind. They were organ guns!

But what sort of lunatic general would try to use organ guns against a cavalry charge? The weapons took as long to reload as cannons did. They weren't used that often, and then almost entirely in siege warfare for the purpose of suppressing enemy sharpshooters on the walls.

Another volley came, after they closed to seventy yards, and the count was struck again. A minor flesh wound on the back of his hand, but it was the right hand that held the sword. His weapon went flying.

That was three volleys in perhaps twenty seconds. Glancing from side to side, Guébriant realized they'd suffered casualties as bad as they would have taken against heavy artillery or massed infantry. It was incredible. He'd led his men into a trap.

Nothing for it now, however, but to press the charge through. Even with this horrendous enemy rate of fire, they were now within sixty yards. They wouldn't suffer more than one more volley.

That volley came when the French cavalry was not more than ten yards from the line of volley guns. Thorsten had been practically screaming at the gun crews, in his insistence that they stand their ground and keep firing. That wasn't easy, even with the huge clouds of gunsmoke obscuring the sight of the enemy. Unlike infantry units, the volley gun companies didn't have pikemen to fend off cavalry at the final moment. They'd be forced to fight with the ten-foot partisans they carried as hand weapons against men on horseback armed with wheel locks and sabers. And lances, some of them. It would be a slaughter, if it got that far.

But . . . it wouldn't. The gunsmoke had cleared enough, in patches here and there, for Thorsten to be able to see that the French cavalry charge was already collapsing even before that final volley was fired. There was still a solid group of perhaps two hundred men at the center—coming almost right at him, in fact—that was maintaining the charge. But the rest were not. The casualties they'd suffered from this head-on charge at ranked volley guns had simply broken their spirit. They were already peeling away, salving their wounded pride with a rather pointless caracole-style firing of their wheel locks and then racing to the rear. Very few volley gunners would be hit by pistol shots fired in such a manner.

Thorsten ignored them. There were still that two hundred or so thundering at his batteries. He'd never relinquished his own saber, and now he made sure he had it in a tight grip. Being one of the few men in the batteries on horseback, he'd have to meet cavalrymen directly and fight in their manner rather than his.

So be it. He had a fleeting and regretful thought of Caroline, but pushed it aside. He'd die or he wouldn't.

But it never came to that. That final volley shattered what was left of the charge. Only a dozen French cavalrymen made it into the ranks of the gunners, and a good third of them were wounded. Even with their superior weapons, they were simply too outnumbered to put up much of a fight.

The officer leading them was bleeding badly and half-slumped over his saddle before his horse passed through the line. Fortunately for him, his half-panicked mount instinctively avoided the guns and so he passed just beyond the range of partisans being wielded on either side. Then, not thirty feet beyond, a sudden panicky lunge to the side by his horse spilled him from the saddle. He landed on the ground like a sack of meal, his helmet coming off and flipping over twice. Then, with a little spasm of an elbow motion, the officer managed to roll himself over on his back. Half of his face was covered in blood.

Thorsten trotted his horse over and saw that the man was still conscious. That head wound wasn't as bad as it looked. A lot of blood, as always with head wounds, but the wound was a gash across the side of his head just above his ear, not anything that had penetrated the skull. He'd been creased by a bullet, was all.

The French officer groaned and raised his right hand to the wound on his head. The hand was bleeding also.

Thorsten dismounted and came to one knee beside him. "Hold still," he said. "I'll get a bandage on as soon I can, so you don't lose too much blood."

Bleary-eyed, the officer stared up at him. Only then did it occur to Engler than he might not speak German.

Apparently he did, however. The critical phrase, anyway. That might be the only phrase in German he knew, which he'd have memorized as a young soldier.

"Je suis
Jean-Baptiste Budes, comte de Guébriant
," he whispered. Then added in German: "There is a ransom."

Eric Krenz had run over and arrived just in time to hear. He stooped, hands planted on knees, and gave Engler an evil-looking grin. "Not that it'll do you any good, Thorsten. You're neither a widow nor an orphan, and don't have any even if you'd gotten killed, since you didn't marry Caroline yet. Makes you long for the good old days, doesn't it?"

Thorsten gave him an exasperated glance. Leave it to Krenz to make wisecracks about an issue that had practically caused a mutiny in the army, back in training camp. The mercenary soldiers—who were few, in the ranks, but constituted almost half of the officers—had taken it for granted that any ransom for captured enemy officers would accrue personally to the soldiers who actually did the capture. With a rightful portion accruing to the officers in charge, naturally. That had been the established custom for centuries; the army's version of naval prize money.

But, led by their CoC component—very large component—the volunteers in the regiments would have none of it. Medieval barbarism, that was. Instead, in solemn assemblies that they technically had no right to hold but fuck the authorities if they didn't like it, the soldiers voted in their great majority that all ransom money should be turned over to a common pool, to be dispensed to the families of those soldiers who were slain or crippled in action.