PREFACE
Glory
The Battle of Alte Veste
Late September 1632
Jacob Fugger, count of Kirchberg and Weissenhorn, knight of the Calatrava order, at twenty-six years of age, the eldest son of Johann Fugger the elder, count of Kirchberg and Weissenhorn, and Countess Eleonore von Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, reined his war horse to a halt. One of his captains stopped behind and to his right.
Below him, lay chaos and death. He was familiar with both. One of his strengths as a commander was his ability to partition his brain, to look past the urgency, the horror, and the death, and to see the patterns, strategies, and rhythms of a battle. To analyze dispassionately. Fight now, mourn later.
Behind him, concealed among the trees, was the Fugger Cuirassier Regiment, perhaps the best cavalry in the Catholic army. Their training was superb, and their mounts the best in the land from the Fugger stables in Swabia. They had the most modern equipment, and more importantly, would follow the young count anywhere, into any battle. They had been tested in this war often with the Protestant forces, and they were victorious each time they were tested.
But this…
What he looked at today was more then he could process. The death was overwhelming, and the battle so foreign that it defied all his previous experiences. Down the hill, below him, large self-propelled war wagons had just broken the Catholic lines. Thrice the size of a normal horse-drawn wagon, twice as tall, and armored in thick metal, they had gone through lines of pikes and muskets like they were toy soldiers. Volleys of musket fire had no effect. Pikes snapped and bounced off—in the rare times a brave pikeman even got close. From the sides of the self-propelled wagons, came rifle fire. Accurate, deadly, and rapid. A ripping, cracking sound, unlike the boom of the matchlocks. Men fell away like stalks of wheat before the scythe. Those who did not yield were crushed beneath the massive black wheels.
He had heard about the Swedish forces and their association with the up-timers, as they were called. People from the future. His family’s spies and factors had been in their town, Grantville, from almost the beginning. But the reports did not prepare him for anything like this.
The noise the war wagons made was odd, a deep growling noise, accompanied by a robust and throaty whine, which sounded like mining machinery. The young count was deeply familiar with mining machinery—mining was the core of the family business. But this noise was much more refined, a higher speed mechanical noise, more precise than any machinery with which he was familiar. There was the usual battlefield background of dust, burned powder, horses, and men too long without a bath, but this was different. A smell of burned oil, full of sulfur, and it wafted up the hill towards their position.
He knew the order to charge would come very soon. The wagons—no. What had his spies called them? Mining trucks. The mining trucks had paused after the lines were broken, waiting for the infantry behind them. Next they would move towards the old castle on the hill, from where Wallenstein and his generals were conducting the battle. Looking to his right, he saw a courier, galloping his horse across the ridge, rider and animal moving as one, caution tossed aside like the luxury it was. The courier would hold the orders he knew were coming. Charge the mining trucks with his cavalry, turn them back, allow the reinforcements to come up and plug the line.
He nodded to his captain, who nodded to his lieutenants, who did not need to nod at the sergeants. They were already moving, shouting orders, calling down the lines, snarling at an errant artilleryman who scrambled out of the way. The regiment made ready. The sounds of equipment being checked, the clank of armor, buckles and cinches squeaking, and horses snorting told the young count the regiment was ready to go behind him.
The courier arrived in a flurry, breathless from his chaotic ride. He was a boy, of no more than fourteen, not yet shaving. Count Jacob Fugger nodded to the boy. The captains gathered around. “Report,” said Jacob.
“Wallenstein is shot and badly wounded, General Gallas is dead. He was killed from the enemy lines, almost a mile away.” The boy swallowed, face dirty and flushed, fighting back fear and panic. “You must attack the metal war wagons and delay them. Infantry is coming up behind you.” He gestured to the rear, then looked down the hill at the indestructible metal buildings on wheels, bristling with strange guns. “God be with you.” His voice cracked as he jerked the reins on his winded horse, and was gone, back the way he came.
His captains showed little emotion, no more than a raised eyebrow. All of them were much older than the count. He met their eyes. “We will charge. Focus on the foremost wagon. Circle it, and aim for the slits where they are firing, and the openings where the front is. That looks like where it’s piloted from. Suggestions?”
The men shook their heads.
The count sat erect in his saddle. “Very well. Be ready, and truly, may God be with us.” The captains dispersed, and he was left alone.
He turned to face the enemy. He could hear the rhythmic clockwork sound from the mining trucks as they paused below them. It was one of those unusual quiet moments in a battle, a respite while the pieces were being moved around the chess board. Birds chirped hopefully in the trees around them.
He reached under his cuirass and plucked a silver crucifix from the chain around his neck. He kissed it and said a prayer. He thought of his home, and his uncle’s schloss in Tyrol, where he had last seen his wife a few short weeks ago. It was beautiful there, the mountains, and the valley below. He looked around him. The trees starting to change to the fall colors, the shallow valley below him, the old castle to his right, the scent of gunpowder and woodsmoke, horses and leather, it was all so alive. He absorbed it like the elixir it was. He tucked the crucifix back into his armor.
It was time. He stared towards the enemy, focused on the field in front of him. He picked out his path, where he would place the animal as he charged, where he would break and start to circle the first truck. There. There. There. He saw the charge in his mind’s eye, his men streaming behind. Finally satisfied, he nodded to himself. He drew his blade. He heard three hundred other men do the same thing, all keyed to his every movement. There was no need for flashy commands, for trumpets, for flags. They all knew. Spurred, the horse hesitated a moment, rocked to its hind legs, and launched. The count pushed his helmet down on his head, settled in the saddle, and hung on, his powerful legs gripping the sides of the animal. His vision narrowed to the view directly in front of him. He was only vaguely aware of the thunder from other charging animals around him. He guided the horse with a sure hand and pressure from his legs, the sword in front of him like a gun sight, pointed unerringly at its goal.
He was vaguely aware of the thin smoke from the line of mining trucks in front of him, guns firing, he knew, trying to cut down the cavalry before it reached its goal. The trucks, all of them, as if by signal, began to move to form a defensive line. They moved quickly, more than he could imagine for something that large. In another ten seconds they would overwhelm the first target, circling like hornets in a swarm, overpowering the enemy defenses. If they could get there before they formed up…
The count felt something hit him in the side like a hammer, his grip on his sword and the horse failed at once, and he found himself suddenly on the ground, bouncing like a rag doll, and landing face up, seated on his rump, looking to the south. He blinked. He tried to stand and found he could not. He was vaguely aware of horses thundering by. Of screaming, of other men falling. He used his hands to search for what was wrong, running them down his sides, and found part of his hip missing. He watched as his blood ran quickly onto the ground, fascinated for a moment how it mixed with the dust. Very fine dust, like powder. He swallowed, laid his head back, and tried to think of home. His young wife. Family. Childhood friends. The white courtyard at his uncle’s castle. And mountains. Yes, mountains. They were so beautiful, and now, in September, there would be snow.
Thinking of snow-capped peaks, he died.