1635: The Eastern Front (6 page)

Caroline didn't give a damn what they called it. What difference did it make? No matter what name was given to the upcoming war, Thorsten would be doing the same thing—either leading a charge against well-armed enemies or holding off a charge of theirs. To make things still worse, the "flying" part of "flying artillery" meant Thorsten would be mounted. She couldn't think of anything dumber or more dangerous than perching a man on top of a horse on a battlefield, with about fifty gazillion chunks of metal flying every whichaway.

"So you think I should go," she said.

"Yes. I do. For one thing—if you can tear yourself away from your personal situation for a moment—you'll help keep the trip from becoming a minor disaster. I'm sure and certain Prince Ulrik will jump for joy. Kristina's a handful at the best of times, and visiting her mother will not be one of them. By all accounts I've heard, the woman's a loon."

Caroline couldn't help but smile. "I don't think ‘loon' is one of the approved terms in the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Maureen."

"No, it isn't. Not even in DSM-IV. Who cares? That damn thing was only good for hustling medical insurance companies—and there aren't any of them in the here and now, either. By all accounts, the queen of Sweden is a loon. Or if you prefer, a nut case."

Caroline wasn't inclined to argue the point. She knew that a good part of the reason the young princess was so determined to have Caroline accompany her to Stockholm was because her mother always upset her. That would be even more true this time, Kristina said, because she'd be introducing a future husband in the bargain.

Interestingly, Kristina now seemed more worried that her mother wouldn't approve of Ulrik, rather than being worried about what Ulrik might do. In the short time since she'd been introduced to her spouse-to-be, the girl had taken a liking to him. What was perhaps even more important, given the cold realities of royal marriages, was that she was starting to trust Ulrik as well.

That was fine with Caroline. She thought Ulrik was quite trustworthy herself. And that certainly boded well for the future. Unhappy royal marriages usually produced grief that extended far beyond palaces. One of them had even caused the most famous war in history, assuming Homer hadn't made the whole thing up.

"Okay. You said, ‘for one thing.' That implies a second reason. What is it?"

Maureen shook her head. "I can't believe how dense you are sometimes. Caroline, we're trying to introduce modern and enlightened attitudes toward mental problems and diseases into a century where they still burn witches. Has it occurred to you that having the future—take your pick, or pick all three—queen of Sweden, empress of the USE and high queen or whatever the hell they call her of the Union of Kalmar being someone friendly to us and to our endeavors might be just a tad helpful?"

"Oh." She thought about that, for a while. "All right," she said eventually. "I'll go."

When he got the news that Caroline Platzer would be accompanying them on their voyage to Stockholm, Ulrik did jump for joy. Not very high, true; and he didn't even think of clicking his heels. But jump he did, grinning from ear to ear.

"Baldur," he announced, "a Herculean task just became a merely difficult one."

The Danish prince's sidekick, technical expert and close friend Baldur Norddahl was less sanguine. "The girl's still who and what she is, and the mother's still no more than half-sane. And that's a long way to go, and the Baltic can be treacherous. And I don't like Stockholm to begin with. Never did."

Ulrik's grin stayed in place. "That's because you were accused of crimes there. Falsely, you say."

"The charges were preposterous in every particular," Baldur said stoutly. "Either I was confused for another—the charitable explanation—or the authorities harbored animosity toward me." He cleared his throat. "For reasons unknown."

"Ha! But have no fear. I will vouch for you myself. Perhaps more to the point, so will the princess. She's taken a liking to you, I think."

Norddahl thought the same himself. He was not sure, though, whether being Kristina's friend or her foe carried more in the way of risk and excitement.

Thorsten Engler reacted to the news very calmly. Equanimity was something the young German ex-farmer did very well. Normally, that was one of her fiancé's traits that Caroline cherished. But less so, of late, once it dawned on her that he probably exhibited that same equanimity in the middle of a battle. She'd be a lot happier if he shared more of his friend Eric's healthy respect for peril. No one would ever accuse Eric Krenz of being a coward, certainly. But the young German ex-gunsmith was the first to say that war was a silly way to settle disputes and that his own happiness and serenity improved in direct measure as he distanced himself from mayhem.

On the other hand, he'd managed somehow to get himself promoted too, so apparently he had some share of damn-fooledness as well. What was it about men, Caroline wondered grumpily, that made them so resistant to common sense? With their skills and personality traits—they were both quite charming men, each in his own way—Thorsten and Eric could easily manage to get themselves transferred to much safer assignments, without leaving themselves open to charges of pusillanimity.

They wouldn't even have to leave the army. Caroline was no expert on military matters, but even she knew that most soldiers never got very close to combat. Any army had a bigger tail than it did teeth, as they put it. For every damn fool leading a flying artillery charge, there were at least three soldiers way back in the rear hauling up the wherewithal that allowed him to be a damn fool in the first place.

"Better to haul a wagon than be hauled away in a hearse," she muttered.

"What was that, dearest?" asked Thorsten.

Krenz, whose hearing bordered on the supernatural, grinned widely and leaned back in his chair at the table in Caroline's kitchen. "She fears your imminent demise, on account of your recklessness at the front. Always waving a saber where I—an intelligent man—wield a shovel. That's why she's sniffling, too."

"I'm sniffling because I'm cutting onions," Caroline said. Wondering if it were true.

Thorsten and Eric left the next morning. General Torstensson had summoned all officers to their posts. The emperor was arriving with his Swedish forces and the USE army was mobilizing to join him. The war against Brandenburg and Saxony was imminent, and everyone expected the Austrians and the Poles to come to their aid. That would turn what might otherwise be labeled a mere suppression of rebellion into an all-out war.

To Thorsten's surprise, Princess Kristina came to see him off too. He knew she was fond of him—the "Count of Narnia" title bestowed upon him after the battle of Ahrensbök had been at her insistence—but he hadn't thought she'd go to the trouble. One doesn't expect headstrong eight-year-old princesses to think of such things.

"Caroline must have put her up to it," Krenz said, as they rode off. "It never ceases to amaze me, the way that woman dotes on you."

Engler smiled. "When are you going to get your own woman, Eric, so you can stop fussing at me about mine?"

Chapter 4

Near Poznan, Poland

As he watched the archer bringing his horse around again for another run at the target, Lukasz Opalinski leaned toward the man standing next to him. "So, tell me, Jozef. Is Grantville as exotic as its reputation?"

Jozef Wojtowicz didn't answer immediately. He was preoccupied with watching the mounted archer.

"I think he's still the best horseman I've ever seen," he said quietly.

"He's probably the best in Poland, anyway," said Opalinski. "For sure and certain, he's the best archer." The words were spoken in a tone that had more of derision in it than admiration—albeit friendly derision. Then, in the sure tones of man who was still no older than twenty-two, "The archery's a complete waste of time and effort. The horsemanship . . . Well, not so much. But this is still—"

He waved at the man on horseback, now racing past the target and drawing the bow. With his size and splendid costume, he was a magnificent figure.

"Completely ridiculous. We are not Mongols, after all, nor will we be fighting such. Even the Tatars are outgrowing this foolishness."

The arrow pierced the target, almost right in the center.

Wojtowicz didn't argue the point. But it was still a mesmerizing sight to watch.

"Grantville," nudged his companion.

Josef shook his head. "It's complicated, Lukasz. In some ways, it's incredibly exotic. Yes, they can talk with each at long distance—miles, many miles—using little machines. Yes, they can make moving pictures on glass. Yes, they have flying machines. I watched them many times. Yes, yes, yes—just about every such tale you've heard is either true or is simply an exaggeration of something that is true."

The mounted archer came back around again, still at a full gallop. Jozef, who was an accomplished horseman himself, knew how much skill was required simply to manage that much. The rider's hands, of course, were completely preoccupied with the bow. Add onto that the skill of the archery—again, the arrow hit the target's center—and add onto
that
the preposterous pull of the bow being used. Jozef had no idea what it was, precisely, but he was quite sure that he'd have to struggle to draw the bow even standing flat-footed. And while Jozef was not an especially large man, or a tall man, he was quite strong.

He'd broken off his account, watching. Opalinski nudged him again. "Grantville, Grantville. Let's keep our mind on the future, Jozef, not"—he waved again at the mounted archer, with a dismissive gesture—"this flamboyantly absurd display of prehistoric martial skills."

Jozef smiled. "In other respects, no. Leaving aside the machines and marvelous mechanism, Grantville seems much like any other town. People going about their business, that's all."

He was fudging here, but he didn't see any alternative. Not, at least, any alternative suitable for a conversation held under these circumstances. The months that Jozef had spent in Grantville had also made clear to him the more subtle—but in some way, even more exotic—differences in social custom that lay beneath the surface of the fantastic machines. He'd also come to understand that those subtleties in social custom were inextricably tied to the mechanical skills that were so much more outwardly evident.

It was not complicated, really, if a man was willing to look at things with clear eyes. If you wanted your serfs to build and operate complex equipment for you, in order to enhance your wealth and power, then . . .

Sooner or later, you'd have to be willing to end their serfdom. The American technology presumed a level of intellect and education even in their so-called "unskilled" laborers that no Polish or Lithuanian or Ruthenian serf could possibly match. And simply instructing them wouldn't work. In the nature of things, education can only be narrowed so far or it becomes useless. And given the necessary breadth, how could a sane man expect an educated serf to keep from being discontented—and, now, far better equipped to struggle against the source of his discontent?

Nor was it simply a matter of education, as such. Another thing had also become clear to Jozef in the time he'd spent in Grantville—and perhaps clearer still, during the months that followed when he'd resided in Magdeburg. The sort of broad-ranging skills that were necessary in a population to create and sustain the technical marvels which the Americans took for granted also presupposed mobility of labor. There was no way around it. Not, certainly, in the long run. The needed skills for that sort of technologically advanced society were simply too complex, too interconnected—most of all, too unpredictable. The demand could only be met by a productive population which was free to move about at will, to learn whatever skills and apply themselves to whatever labor they chose. You could no more regulate it than you could regulate the ocean.

Put it all together, and the conclusion was obvious. Jozef had come to it long before he left Magdeburg. If the Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania was to have any chance at all of surviving the historical doom so clear and explicit even in Grantville's sketchy historical records of the future of eastern Europe—the Commonwealth had been the one and only major European power which had simply vanished by the end of the eighteenth century—then serfdom had to be destroyed. And Jozef could see only two options. Either the Poles and Lithuanians destroyed serfdom themselves, or someone else would destroy it for them. And, in that second event, might very well destroy the Commonwealth in the process.

But how to explain that, even to the young man standing next to him—much less the mounted archer putting on this impressive display?

The archer was Stanislaw Koniecpolski, who was not only the grand hetman of the Commonwealth but also one of its greatest magnates. The Koniecpolski family was one of the mighty families of the realm, not to mention one of its richest. They owned vast estates in Poland and the Ruthenian lands. The hetman himself owned sixteen districts and had a yearly retinue somewhere in excess of half a million zlotys. He'd even founded a complete new town—Brody, which had manufactories as well as serving as a commercial center. Jozef had heard it said that more than one hundred thousand people lived on Stanislaw Koniecpolski's estates, most of them Ruthenians. And most of them serfs, of course.

He was immensely powerful, too, not just wealthy. King Wladyslaw allowed Koniecpolski what amounted to the powers of a viceroy in the southwestern area of the Commonwealth. Some foreigners even referred to the hetman as the "vice-king of the Ukraine," although no such title actually existed in Polish law. But the king trusted him—and for good reason. So, the hetman negotiated directly with the Ottoman Empire, and the Tatars, and even signed treaties in his own name. He also had perhaps the most extensive spy network in the Commonwealth, which penetrated Muscovy as well as the Ottoman and Tatar realms.

And now, penetrated the United States of Europe as well. Insofar, at least, as his young nephew Jozef had been able to create a spy network in that newest realm of the continent over the past year and a half.