1636: The Saxon Uprising-ARC (6 page)

Chapter 6

Dresden, capital of Saxony

Gretchen Richter studied the man sitting behind the desk. He was slight of build, with a large-featured face framed by long, light brown hair and decorated with mustachios and a goatee. Two bright blue eyes peered at her above a bony nose. The gaze was composed of equal parts of apprehension, suspicion and curiosity.

He seemed to be using the desk as a shield to protect himself against her—more like a barricade, perhaps. He held an old-fashioned quill pen as if it might serve him as a pike against charging cavalry.

About what she’d expected. The very fact that Duke Ernst of Saxe-Weimar had chosen to meet her in his office with himself seated at his desk told her a great deal about the way the man approached the world. The leaders of the Spanish forces besieging Amsterdam with whom she’d negotiated had been politicians, first and foremost. Despite the vast formal gulf in rank between themselves and a printer’s daughter like Gretchen, both Don Fernando—then the Cardinal-Infante in command of Spain’s armies in the Low Countries; now the King in the Netherlands—and his great-aunt Isabella, the Austrian archduchess who was the Netherlands’ regent, had always met her sitting down at chairs in an informal setting.

But the duke was not really a politician, no matter that his older brother Wilhelm Wettin was now the prime minister of the USE and his youngest brother Bernhard had carved out an independent principality for himself from the Franche-Comté and parts of Swabia. Instead, Ernst was an administrator—what the Americans called a bureaucrat. His natural and instinctive response when face with a challenge was to withdraw into his redoubt, his desk. There, armed with pen and ink and paper, he was best equipped to deal with whatever might arise.

A very good administrator, by all accounts. Even a fair-minded one, and no more prone to favoring his own class than was more-or-less inevitable given his origins and upbringing.

Gretchen had spent some time discussing Wettin with Dane Kitt, just a few weeks before coming to Dresden. The SoTF soldier had been in Grantville for the birth of his daughter at the same time Gretchen had been there attending to some personal matters for her husband. Kitt had served in the Oberpfalz during the Bavarian crisis and had given her a hilarious depiction of Wettin’s insistence on bombarding the Bavarian defenders of Ingoldtadt with Lutheran religious tracts hurled by a catapult. That story meshed with what her grandmother had told her about Mary Simpson’s assessment of Wettin:
the slightest whiff of chalk dust acts on that man like perfume.

She decided that was probably where the chink in his armor could be found.

“Saxony’s schools are generally good,” she said abruptly. “Especially here in Dresden. But almost none of them are secular. Correcting that problem has to be one of our first priorities.”

Fiercely, she added: “We won’t be satisfied with purely religious schools, no matter how good they are. They certainly have every right to operate according to the basic principles of the separation of church and state. But those same principles require the creation—or support and expansion, if they already exist—of secular schools established by the government of the province.”

Duke Ernst stared at her. Clearly enough, this was not what he’d been expecting to hear from her. Certainly not as her opening remarks in their very first meeting.

“Ah…” he said.

“And we won’t accept pleas of poverty. Saxony is a rich province. This is not Mecklenburg—and even in Mecklenburg they’ve begun creating public schools, now that the boot heel of the aristocracy has been thrown off.”

That last statement was certainly true, in and of itself, but she’d really added it to allay whatever suspicions the duke might be developing that she was trying to undermine his resolution to oppose her at every point. Which, of course, she was.

One of the negotiating ploys she’d learned from watching Mike Stearns was the value of giving your opposite number a choice between alternatives, one of which was so unsavory that it made the other look tasty by comparison even if it wasn’t actually a taste the person would normally enjoy at all. A standard form of that maneuver was to present a choice between persons:
either make a deal with me or
—here a finger would be pointed to a nearby ogre—
you’ll have to try coming to terms with that creature.

As often as not, Gretchen herself had been the ogre to whom Stearns had pointed. The CoCs, at least, if not herself personally.

But there was a variation on the tactic which she’d also learned from watching Stearns. It was a more subtle version in which the opposite party was given a choice between personalities rather than actual persons. In essence:
Either make a deal with me when I’m in a good mood and we’re discussing something mutually amenable or we can wrangle over something that puts me in a really foul mood.

The actual expression she’d heard Stearns use was “or we can talk when I’m on the rag.” When she’d asked for a clarification of the expression from Melissa Mailey, she’d been stiffly told that it was quite offensive to women and Melissa would say nothing further on the matter.

That had been enough in itself, of course, to make its meaning clear. Gretchen had found the expression amusing rather than offensive. Who cared what men thought about such things? If men didn’t like the inevitable by-products of female anatomy, they could bear their own children and see if they liked being pregnant any better.

So, she was giving Wettin a choice. Shall we spend the afternoon discussing the profoundly foul nature of the aristocracy—to which you belong yourself—or shall we spend it instead talking about the need for educational reform, a subject about which you yourself are enthusiastic?

By mid-morning, Ernst had half-forgotten that the young woman he was having such a pleasant discussion with was not only the most notorious political radical in the Germanies but someone whom it could even be argued, given the recent change in the USE’s government, was an outright enemy of the state. By now, he had discovered that Gretchen Richter was perceptive and astute on the issue under discussion, in addition to being personally quite charming. Neither quality was one he had expected from her reputation.

In retrospect, he could see the errors involved. So far as Richter’s understanding of the issue of education was concerned, this was no farm girl or tavern-keeper’s daughter. Her formal education might be somewhat limited, but her father had been a printer. Ernst was aware that up-timers viewed the printer’s trade as being what they called “blue-collar,” signifying work that might require considerable mechanical skills and knowledge but was not in the least bit intellectual. But they came from a world in which the different aspects of most professions had been carved into separate crafts. In the seventeenth century, on the other hand, the distinction between a printer and a publisher and an editor was usually meaningless. A man who owned and ran a print shop did all of those things—and, often enough, served himself as an author as well. Print shops were centers of intellectual discourse and quite often hotbeds of political radicalism. That was the milieu from which Richter came, not milking cows or serving ale.

Then, there was her personality. Allowing for some harshness along the edges, here and there, she was quite pleasant company. Polite and very attentive, among other things.

That should also have been obvious, he now understood. He knew, at least in broad outlines, of the central role she’d played in the siege of Amsterdam. Absurd to think that such a role could have been played by a person who was capable of nothing more than scowling and shouting belligerently!

Eventually, though, he forced himself to remember his duty.

“This has been most pleasant, Frau Richter. Hopefully, productive as well. But now I must return to more immediately pressing matters.” He elided over the fact that they’d never actually begun that discussion, since Richter had driven over it right at the beginning. “I am disturbed—let us say ‘concerned,’ rather—at some of the activities of the Committee of Correspondence here in Dresden.”

Richter nodded. “To be precise—if you will forgive me putting words in your mouth, Your Grace—your concerns center on the following.” She began counting off her fingers. “First, that the city’s militia has largely disintegrated. While a rump of the official force remains, for the most part control of the city in military and police terms has fallen into the hands of the CoC’s guard units. Second, those guard units are armed. Thirdly, they are well-armed, many of them with SRG muskets. A few even have breech-loading rifles. Fourth, much of the daily administration of the city has also fallen into the hands of the CoC or one of its affiliated organizations. In particular, the CoC has taken charge of sanitation and medical practices and is enforcing the needed rules vigorously.”

Vigorously.
Ernst stared at her. He knew of at least one tavern-keeper who’d been brutally beaten by a CoC “sanitation patrol.” True, the man had been fouling the streets around his establishment. Quite badly, even by the standards of tavern-keepers. Furthermore, Ernst didn’t doubt for a moment that the CoC’s “vigorously enforced” sanitation rules were lowering the risk of disease and epidemic—always a major concern, especially in times of war and social unrest.

Still…

Richter pressed on.

“Fifthly, you are concerned that we are repairing and strengthening the city’s fortifications, as if we are preparing for a siege.”

He cleared his throat. You certainly couldn’t accuse the woman of evading delicate matters. She brought to mind the image of a very attractive, blonde glacier moving toward the sea.

“You are especially concerned because you suspect we are in fact preparing for a siege. Specifically, we are preparing to defend the city against the approaching Swedish army under the command of Johan Banér.”

She paused for an instant, to give him the first look you could really call “cold-eyed” since the meeting began.

“In this suspicion, you are correct. The Swede general Banér is notorious for his brutality and has been specifically known to state that the proper use of a CoC agitator’s head is as an adornment for a pike.” She tapped the side of her skull. “This is one such head, and I have every intention of keeping it where it is. Under no circumstances will we allow Banér and his army into the city.”

Ernst sighed and looked away. He could hardly argue this particular charge. He’d worked with the Swedish general in the Oberpfalz for months. Banér
was
a brute—a thoroughly unpleasant man—and Ernst himself had heard the general make that remark about CoC agitators and pikes.

Before he could say anything, Richter added: “And please spare us both the pointlessness of arguing that we cannot possibly withstand the Swedes. That’s nonsense, meaning no offense, and you know it just as well as I do. You have considerable experience with sieges yourself, especially at Ingolstadt. Dresden was well fortified to begin with and we are strengthening the city’s defenses still further. The city has a large population, most of whom are highly-motivated to keep Banér and his thugs outside the walls.

“That means that any siege will last for some time, which will require Banér to forage supplies from the Saxon countryside—a countryside which was already in rebellion against the Elector’s depredations and has a large and well-armed military force under the command of the Vogtlander, Goerg Kresse. And while the core of that army of irregulars remains Vogtlander, they have recruited a large number of people from the surrounding area since they came down from the mountains. They can’t defeat Banér in a pitched battle, of course, but they can bleed his army badly. Given the nature of Banér, that will inevitably produce Swedish atrocities against Saxon villagers, which in turn will ensure that your very worse fear comes to pass.”

She paused for just an instant. “That is, you are concerned because in addition to the city’s large number of well-trained militiamen—most of whom have now joined the CoC guard contingents—there are also several hundred veterans of the USE’s army in the city, recuperating from their wounds. Most of them are from General Stearns’ Third Division, and almost all of them are on very good terms with the CoC. You are worried that if a clash of arms develops between Dresden and Banér’s army, those USE soldiers will side with Dresden and give the city’s defenders a core military force which has already defeated the French, the Saxons and the Poles in open battle.”

He looked back at her. A blonde glacier indeed—except glaciers didn’t move this fast.

“In this worry, Duke Ernst, you are also correct. You may rest assured that I have, am and will do everything I can to ensure that those veterans do the right thing if and when the time comes. And I am quite certain they will do so.”

Perhaps he should have stayed on the subject of education, after all.

Chapter 7

Dresden, capital of Saxony

Eric Krenz propped his elbows on the tower’s stone railing and gazed out at the Elbe. The river that bisected Dresden was more than a hundred yards wide, and about that far away from his vantage point on the Residenzschloss. The height of the tower provided a magnificent view of the Elbe valley.

He wasn’t really studying the scenery at the moment, though. He was just using the appearance of doing so as an excuse to stall giving Tata an answer to her question.

As she well knew. The woman was infernally shrewd.

“How long are you going to procrastinate?” she asked, planting her hands on ample hips. “I’m not pushing you, I just want to know. If it’ll be a while, I’ll go get some lunch.”

Not for the first time, Eric wondered what madness had possessed him to get attracted to this creature.

“Attracted”? Better to say “obsessed,” he thought gloomily.

Being fair, when it came to Tata, most of the time his thoughts were quite cheerful. But the woman had an unnerving capacity to seemingly read his mind—and an even more unnerving relentlessness when she wanted Eric to do something.

“I’m not really an expert on this business,” he said. “I have no experience with sieges.”

“Stop whining. I know that. Gretchen knows that. It doesn’t matter right now. Somebody among the soldiers here must have some experience, and you’re good at cajoling people into doing things.”

“ ‘Things,’ ” he muttered darkly. “Would that be ‘things’ as in mutiny and treason?”

She just gave him a level look through dark blue eyes and said nothing.

But he was still just stalling, and he knew it. If that bastard Banér brought his army to Dresden and tried to force his way into the city—and there was every indication he would—then Eric knew perfectly well that a massacre would ensue. It might not be as bad as the sack of Magdeburg at the hands of Tilly’s soldiers a few years back, but it would be bad enough.

Eric was far from being the only soldier in Dresden who’d formed attachments with the local folk by now. Even his morose and generally peculiar friend Lt. Friedrich Nagel had managed to get the attention of a young woman. A guildmaster’s daughter, even, by the name of Hanna Brockhaus.

There was no way the USE soldiers who were in Dresden would stand aside in the event Banér attacked the city. That being the case, it simply made sense to plan and prepare their defenses ahead of time, rather than having to jury-rig something at the last minute.

Eric being Eric, of course, he couldn’t resist a last complaint. Even a litany of them.

“Some of the men are still too badly injured to do much of anything. And some of the others have recovered enough that they’ll certainly be called back to service soon.”

“I said, stop whining. And you really ought to be looking at that last whine from the other end of the telescope.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It’s obvious. By now,
most
of you have recovered from your wounds. You certainly have, judging from the way you keep trying to get me in bed.”

That ranked among the most cheerful of his thoughts about Tata. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t be long before “trying” became “succeeding.” Most of Tata’s remaining resistance was just the ingrained reflex of a pretty woman who’d been a tavern-keeper’s daughter and had been fending off lustful males since she was thirteen.

Tata pressed on. “So what you ought to be asking yourself is why
haven’t
you been called back to service by General Stearns?”

That was a good question, actually. Tata was quite right that most of the soldiers from the Third Division who’d been sent to Dresden to recuperate had already done so. Well enough, anyway, to go back to active service. Yet no word had come from the general to join him in Bohemia. To all appearances, he’d forgotten about them.

Yet that was impossible. It was true that small numbers of soldiers got overlooked, from time to time. Eric knew of a volley gun crew that had remained behind in Hamburg after the city was seized during the Ostend War in order to repair badly damaged equipment. Then the commander of their unit had been injured shortly after leaving the city and had forgotten to mention them to the subordinate officer who’d replaced him. The battle of Ahrensbök had taken place a few weeks later and right afterward the subordinate in question had been reassigned. The end result was that the volley gun crew had wound up spending nine months carousing in Hamburg with not a care until someone finally remembered them.

But that was just three men. There were over four hundred soldiers from the Third Division now residing in Dresden. That represented almost five percent of the division’s strength and was enough men to form an entire battalion. There was no chance at all that Stearns had simply forgotten about them.

And even if Stearns had forgotten them, Eric was quite certain that Colonel Higgins had not—for the good and simple reason that he got letters from Jeff every week or so. There was a good and reliable courier service between Dresden and Bohemia.

So what was going on?

Tata put his own guess into words. “General Stearns
wants
you to stay here. And he’s got a good enough excuse for doing so if anyone asks. ‘Recuperating from wounds inflicted in valiant combat with the foe’ is the sort of explanation that most people, even shithead Swedes, will hesitate before calling into doubt. And there’s only one reason he’d want you to be here.”

Eric could figure out the rest for himself. He already knew from filling in fairly obvious blanks in Jeff’s letters that the Hangman Regiment had been left behind in Tetschen so that Stearns could bring his whole division back into Saxony in a hurry, if need be. The most likely cause of such a maneuver would be an impending battle in or around Dresden.

A battle with whom?

Eric smiled. General Stearns was nothing if not canny. If anyone ever pressed him on that matter, he’d have a ready-made explanation there also.

After being defeated at Zwenkau in August, the Saxon general von Arnim had withdrawn what was left of his army into Leipzig. There, he’d prepared for a siege while he began negotiating surrender terms with the Swedes. But the negotiations had dragged on for weeks, since Gustav Adolf had been pre-occupied with driving forward his offensive into Poland. The Elector of Saxony was killed in September, and thereafter Gustav Adolf wasn’t particularly concerned with the situation in Leipzig. Von Arnim wasn’t a mercenary in the usual sense of the term and his soldiers were mostly Saxons rather than the usual mélange you found in professional armies. Still, with no patron left, von Arnim certainly wasn’t going to launch any campaigns, even after Gustav Adolf took almost all of his forces out of Saxony. He’d stay put in Leipzig until the situation got clarified.

And then the king of Sweden had been severely injured at Lake Bledno, in October, and was now out of the political picture altogether—with von Arnim and ten thousand or so of his soldiers still camped in Leipzig. So, if pressed, Stearns could always claim that he was seeing to it that in the event von Arnim resumed hostilities he could bring his Third Division back into Saxony in a hurry.

The CoC had gotten word in Dresden from their compatriots in Leipzig that the Swedes had resumed negotiations with von Arnim. But while no one in the CoCs was privy to those discussions, no one thought any longer that the Swedes were simply seeking von Arnim’s surrender. They were almost sure that Oxenstierna was trying to hire von Arnim himself—not to fight the Poles, but to serve the Swedish chancellor as another repressive force inside the USE. He couldn’t rely on the USE army still besieging Poznan to serve that purpose. In fact, everyone thought that he’d insisted on continuing the war with Poland precisely for the purpose of keeping the USE’s army
out
of the country. He’d use mercenaries in the pay of Sweden instead. He already had Banér and his fifteen thousand men marching into Saxony. If Oxenstierna could add von Arnim and the ten thousand men he had in Leipzig, he probably figured he could overawe or if need be crush any opposition in Saxony.

“Interesting times,” he murmured, thinking of the Chinese curse Jeff had once mentioned to him.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Tata asked.

Eric made a face. “I guess.”

He started moving around the tower, which was built like a large turret, with Tata trailing in his wake. When he got to the other side, he leaned over the railing and began studying the walls which protected Dresden on the south. Most of the city was on the southern bank of the Elbe.

“We’re not going to be able to protect all of it,” he said. “Have to let the northern part go. Even then, it’s going to be a lot of work to build up those walls.”

“And you said you didn’t know anything about sieges,” Tata said. She wasn’t arguing the point, just doing her usual best to squash any further protests on his part.

“Just common sense,” he grumbled. “I’m
still
not an engineer.”

She came close and slid an arm around his waist. “You’ll do,” she said.

That statement had a very expansive flavor to it. Eric felt full of good cheer again.

Eddie Junker studied the boulevard to the south. Then, swiveled and studied it to the north.

Boulevard,
he told himself firmly. That sounded so much less suicidal.

An uncharitable soul might have called the thoroughfare a “street.” A particularly surly specimen might have added “crooked” to the bargain.

In truth, the thoroughfare wasn’t really crooked. It just…jiggled around a bit.

Standing next to him, Denise Beasley stretched out her hand and made a slow, swooping motion. “You oughta be able to pull it off, Eddie. It’s a pretty straight street. Ah, avenue.”

“The lack of straightness by itself isn’t the problem.” He stretched out his arms, pointing simultaneously to the buildings on either side of the street. “What would you say the width is?”

Denise looked back and forth. Her friend Minnie Hugelmair, always given to direct methods, walked over to the building on the left side of the street. Then she paced off the distance.

“Thirty-five feet,” she announced.

Eddie nodded. “About what I figured.” He gave Denise a fish-eyed look. “And what is the wingspan of the plane?”

Denise waggled her head. “I’m not sure. Twenty-five feet?”

“Ha. Thirty-two feet. Leaving me three feet of clearance in the street—the very-not-straight
street—if I have to come down into it.”

“But you’re not planning to,” protested Denise. “Exactly.”

“ ‘Exactly,’ ” Eddie mimicked. “No, I would simply be following it toward the square while—not quite—coming below the surface of the roofs. That would—hopefully—allow me to come into the landing area with a lower altitude than if I had to hop over the big buildings surrounding it. But if anything goes wrong…”

He looked down and scuffed his boot across the surface of the road. “Then there’s this little problem. You
did
notice these are cobblestones?”

She looked down. “Um. Yeah.”

“And exactly how many cobblestoned airstrips have you ever seen?”

“Um. None.”

“There’s a reason for that.” He lifted his own, much thicker hand, and shook it up and down sharply. “Cobblestones are contraindicated for landing gear.”

The two CoC craftsmen standing next to them looked at each other. Their expressions were dubious.

“Hard to pull up all these cobblestones and lay new ones,” said the taller of the two.

“And then they wouldn’t be as solidly set,” added his companion.

Eddie had already figured that much out for himself. “How about paving it?”

The two craftsmen looked at each other again.

“We don’t have enough asphalt,” said the one on the left. His name was Wilbart Voss.

“Not nearly enough,” said his partner, Dolph Knebel.

Eddie shook his head. “I don’t really need a regular landing strip. The cobblestones would made a solid foundation if we could just fill it in with gravel to even out the surface. Then, level it with a roller.”

The craftsmen exchanged glances again. That seemed to be a necessary ritual before their brains engaged.

“How wide?” asked Voss.

Eddie started walking slowly toward the big square to the north. “I’d want a minimum of forty feet. I’d be a lot happier with sixty.”

Knebel made a face. “That’s…about three hundred tons of gravel.”

His partner was more sanguine, however. “Not so bad,” said Wilbart. “There’s plenty of gravel in the area and with everyone coming into the city for shelter from Banér we’ve got a lot of wagons and manpower. A strong wind might blow some of it away, though.”

Eddie had already considered that problem. “If need be, I figured we can coat it with pine tar. But I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Between building the strip and repairing the plane, there’s no chance we’d be able to use it until January or February. By then, there’ll be snow holding the gravel in place. Just have to pack down the snow. Really well.”

Denise chimed in. “Hey, I just thought of something, Eddie. You could land and take off on skis instead of wheels.”

Junker’s jaws tightened a little. His girlfriend had a great deal of confidence in his ability to do most anything. As a rule, this was a pleasant state of affairs. There were times when it was awkward, however.

“There is no way I am using skis. I have been flying for only a few months, and I have no experience—none at all—with skis. On a plane, I mean. I know how to ski myself, of course.”

“You don’t have any skis for the plane anyway, do you?” asked Minnie.

“No.”

“Can’t be hard to make,” said Denise, reluctant as always to give up one of her pet schemes.

“I am
not
using skis. If we can’t do it the usual way, then we simply won’t do it at all.” Eddie shrugged. “Which we probably won’t, anyway, if we lose the airstrip outside the city. This whole idea of flying in and out of the city’s square is crazy to begin with.”

Denise didn’t argue the point. It’d be pretty hard for her to do so, given that her first reaction upon hearing that the CoC was thinking of building an airstrip inside the city walls was pungent, explosive, and consisted mostly of the Amideutsch variant of every four-letter Anglo-Saxon term known to man and girl.