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Chapter 7: The Battle of Flieden

Monday, September 4, 1634


The up-timers had some strange holidays, but in Astrid’s opinion, Labor Day was the strangest. They celebrated it by not working. However it originated, they really used it to mark the end of summer. Neustatter gathered everyone in NESS together and invited the Hauns. They attempted to cook up-time foods: sausages, burgers, sauerkraut, potato salad, dumplings and cabbage. Everyone found foods they liked, although not always the same ones. And then there were desserts: apple kuchen, cake, and krapfen doughnuts.

After they finished dinner, Anna stood and began unwrapping a bundle.

“NESS needs a flag,” she said. “Two of them, I found out.”

She held up the first one. Its thirteen red and white stripes were standard for an SoTF flag, but its five-pointed white stars were arranged into a big six-pointed star on the blue field.

“Very nice, Anna!”

“There are thirty stars. One for each county.”

Then she held up the other flag. It had a red upper half and a white lower half with a triangle taken out of the side furthest from the pole. Yellow letters in the center spelled NESS.

“A cavalry guidon! Danke, Anna! We will carry these with us,” Neustatter promised.

The next day, four wagons carrying tools and goods set out for Frankfurt with a teamster driving each, nine NESS agents guarding them, and a representative of the machine shops along to supervise delivery and installation. Neustatter and Ditmar’s teams were riding horses—NESS’ four time-shares and two rentals—and Hjalmar’s team was on the wagons. The flag and guidon were lashed to the front corners of the lead wagon.

Neustatter planned to cover twenty miles a day—minus broken wheels or axles. They would travel four days, then give the horses a day off.

They were only two days out when the first wheel broke. This was a well-funded expedition, though, and had a couple spare wheels. They lost three hours putting the new wheel on, which was not bad at all.


Monday, September 11, 1634


Everyone had settled into a routine, and while they were short of Neustatter’s ideal goal, they were not truly behind schedule. The expedition had passed Fulda the day before and heard that some of the up-time administrators were missing.

Neustatter was in the lead wagon, standing on a box of equipment in the wagon bed. Lukas was in the second wagon, and Phillip was in the fourth. Ditmar’s team led the way, while Hjalmar’s team was the rear guard. The road descended a hill, and the teamsters slowed to increase the distance between wagons.

Neustatter frowned. That was unavoidable, but it left the wagons vulnerable to attack from the side. The woods that came up to the edge of the road on the right were dense enough to—

He spotted the glint of sunlight on metal coming around the edge of a tree.

“Gun!”

A deep whoom echoed over the wagons as whoever it was fired immediately.

Neustatter drew his Colt and returned fire. One of the horses pulling the wagon shied and then tried to bolt. Neustatter shifted his weight to keep his balance and pulled the M1911 back on target. But the man was now behind the thick tree.

Two men, shouting and brandishing blades, charged out of the trees at the second wagon.

A rifle cracked somewhere behind Neustatter as Lukas dropped one of the men. The other kept coming.

Neustatter jumped over the side and charged into the woods. The man who had initiated the ambush was reloading.

Neustatter’s Colt swung to the right, fired. That man was down. Neustatter continued on.

Another man among the trees up ahead, out of position, but carrying a wheellock pistol. Neustatter fired twice. One shot hit the man, and he dropped the pistol. Neustatter expected him to fall, but instead the man tugged a sword from its scabbard. Neustatter waited for him to close. He crouched and fired a single shot at ten yards, hitting the mercenary in the neck.

“Neustatter!”

That was Ditmar, doubling back.

BLAM!

Shotgun. Then that was Ditmar and Richart. They would have left Hans holding the horses’ reins. Neustatter cut to his right, away from them.

Other shots rang out from the back of the wagon train. Five, maybe six pistol shots, a mix of snaphance cavalry pistols and black powder revolvers, punctuated by a rifle shot. That meant Hjalmar, so the rear guard was engaged. The two bangs that ended the engagement sounded different. That meant Otto had shot at someone with his up-time .38, and the lack of return fire suggested he’d hit his target.

Neustatter paralleled the road, working his way toward the back of the wagon train. He circled around the thickest undergrowth and ducked under low-hanging limbs, moving in a crouch, holding the .45 in a two-handed grip.

He spotted movement and stepped behind a tree. Peering around the trunk, he saw one mercenary hurriedly reloading another of the large cavalry pistols. Neustatter drew back. He pulled a fresh magazine from his pack and switched out the one he’d been using. Then he carefully moved to the next tree. It gave him a different angle, and now he could see a second mercenary. He scanned the area, including behind him, and spotted no one else. Just these two, then, unless they had someone really far out on a flank. Pistols and swords suggested mounted troops, so there would be horse holders, of course, but they should be a good distance back.

Neustatter started easing forward again. He wanted to walk right up to the first one, but the man finished reloading and leaned around his own tree.

“Drop it!” Neustatter barked.

The man whirled around. Neustatter saw his arm coming up and pulled the trigger. The mercenary fell, his pistol unfired. The second one bolted east, the direction the wagons had come from.

Neustatter heard the man yelp, and a cavalry pistol fired. Silence settled over the forest. He started picking his way in that direction.

“Martin!”

The single word rang out, and Neustatter smiled.

“Katie!” he called back, completing the old challenge and countersign he and his men had used during the war.

Hjalmar hurried into view and reported. “Three down here. Two are alive. We lost a horse on the third wagon.”

“I got three. I think Richart got one.”

“We need to find Ditmar.”

Neustatter and Hjalmar started to retrace Neustatter’s steps. They had gone only a little way when they heard a soft call. “Martin!”

“Katie!”

They spotted Ditmar and Richart moments later, working their way through the trees toward them.

“Richart got one.” Ditmar spoke quietly.

“That is seven.” Neustatter also kept his voice low. “They will have horses. Hjalmar, go back to the wagon train. Standard post-ambush actions: secure prisoners, treat wounded, gather intel. I need the up-time weapons with me.”

“Ja, sir.” Hjalmar was gone in a flash.

“Spread out,” Neustatter directed. “Twenty yards. We sweep forward. Do not fire if you can avoid it. I want their horses.” He fished a round from the partially depleted magazine and topped off the current one. Then he recovered the shell casing from the round he had just fired.

The three crept forwards through the trees, which started thinning out considerably. Ditmar held up a hand first. He pointed, and Neustatter spotted four horses, all facing inward, with a horse-holder at the center.

Neustatter edged forward, scanning for the others. He spotted another group of four horses off to his right. He thought through the skirmish and wished he had asked Hjalmar if the two men who had charged toward Lukas’ wagon were included in the three down he had reported. Nein, Neustatter decided. Hjalmar had been in a fight at the back of the column, not in the center. There were probably nine attackers, which meant a twelfth man should be somewhere nearby, holding four more horses.

Neustatter looked at Ditmar and motioned with two fingers toward his eyes, then tapped the top of his head as the drill sergeants had taught them.

Ditmar held up two fingers.

Neustatter turned to Richart and did the same. Richart was not in the military, but Neustatter had taught the new men (and Astrid) the up-time arm and hand signals. Colloredo’s Regiment had had some signs, too, but Neustatter did not want NESS using two systems and mixing them up. Nine of them used the up-time system on National Guard duty already, so that was what NESS had adopted.

Richart showed two fingers, too.

Neustatter signaled. The three of them moved carefully forward. They advanced from tree to tree, covering about twenty yards of straight-line distance. Then Neustatter slowly raised a clenched fist. The next time Ditmar and Richart looked his way, they both stopped.

There was not a signal for water, but Neustatter pointed ahead and left, toward where the ground dropped away. Then he made a wavy motion with his hand and pantomimed scooping up and drinking water. He saw Richart nod; he understood there would be a stream at the bottom of that draw. Richart tapped himself on the chest.

Neustatter turned and communicated the same thing to Ditmar, who nodded. The third horse-holder had probably taken his animals to get a drink.

If Richart could get closer enough for an open shot with a shotgun slug, then he and Ditmar could take the other two . . . if Neustatter could get close enough for a pistol shot.

Neustatter pointed at Richart and made an over-the-hill motion with his hand. Then he extended his forefinger and thumb like a gun and jerked his hand up to simulate the recoil of firing. Then he motioned to himself and Ditmar and made gun signs with both hands.

Richart nodded and tapped his chest again. He would shoot first.

After Neustatter conveyed all that to Ditmar by sign, he started crawling forward. Silence was more important than speed. He eased a couple fallen limbs out of his way, pushing some leaves aside. He reached partial cover behind a tree. The two horse-holders he could see were just standing there, occasionally adjusting the reins they held in their hands. Neither was looking around. Neustatter settled in, took the Colt in a two-handed grip, and found his sight picture. Then he waited.

About ten minutes after Richart had started down the hill to the creek, a shotgun blast boomed through the woods. A couple of the horses shied, and one screened the horse-holder from view.

Ditmar’s .22 rifle cracked. Neustatter glanced that way, saw the horse-holder stumble. He surged to his feet and sprinted toward the remaining one. The man’s full attention was taken up by the horses. One of them was still jumpy.

Neustatter was fifteen yards away when the man’s head jerked around.

“Gib auf!” Neustatter ordered. “Give up!”

The man fumbled for a weapon.

Neustatter ran up to the nearest horse and slapped its flank. It bolted, and the horse-holder got half-twisted around before wisely letting go of those reins. He lost another set at the same time. That horse took off, too.

Neustatter smacked the man upside the head with his .45. That knocked him out cold.

Hjalmar and Phillip arrived as Ditmar was tying horses’ reins to convenient trees.

“I could use some help here!” Ditmar called.

“Where’s Neustatter?”

“On a horse, chasing down a couple others that bolted. One of you check over the hill. Make sure Richart is okay.”

Two hours later, the teamsters were grumbling while they hitched one of the cavalry horses to the third wagon.

“Ja, in the end this is going to cost us a full day. Maybe two,” Neustatter agreed. “And slow us down the whole trip. But equal shares in a dozen horses—Lorenz, Heinrich, is that not worth the extra trouble?”

“How are we going to share a horse? And why is this going to cost us a whole day?” The gray-haired Heinrich sounded understandably cautious.

“We need to drop the prisoners in the next village and send messengers back to Fulda to get the National Guard to come take them. And possibly defend the village in the meantime.”

Heinrich grimaced, but Lorenz pointed out, “We are all unhurt. Not like the . . . what? Eight men we just buried.”

“We will be ready to ride in a few minutes,” Neustatter promised. “Let me tell you about shares in a horse . . . ”


Flieden


“We cannot take this risk,” the village amtmann insisted. He indicated several men at his side, standing across the road. “Men I trust have seen cavalry on the road the past two days. Dozens of them. We do not know who they are, but they are certainly not from the State of Thuringia-Franconia.” He was a wiry, tough-looking man, probably in his fifties. Neustatter suspected he owed his position to sheer hard work and determination.

“We will stay until State of Thuringia-Franconia forces arrive,” Neustatter promised.

“Neustatter! Who knows how long that will take?” Tobias exclaimed. He was one of the other teamsters, not one with whom NESS had worked before. “We need to press on.”

“You should go,” the amtmann told Neustatter. “The cavalry who rode through said if there was any resistance, they would burn Flieden.”

Flieden was bigger than Birkig, but smaller than their home village. Its two rows of houses thickened to a third row in the middle of the village. Right now, NESS and the wagons were just inside the eastern edge of the village.

“If we leave, they may attack anyway,” Neustatter pointed out. “Women and children run for the hills, older boys try to move the animals up there. You men die trying to buy time.” He gazed off at the hills. “Sometimes villages let the enemy occupy them, hoping they will limit themselves to stealing a few things. It becomes more and more things over time. Often women and girls are attacked.”

Neustatter’s eyes tightened as he focused on the amtmann. “Which one is your plan if this cavalry attacks?”

“Flee.”

Neustatter nodded in understanding. “Then you should send the women and children off now.”

The amtmann looked down.

Neustatter looked from the amtmann to the other Flieden men standing with him. He watched them realize that their plan probably would not work.

He was supposed to deliver machines to Frankfurt.

Neustatter gazed out at the rolling hills. “Where are the adel? What forces can you expect from them?”

“None. Many of them oppose the State of Thuringia-Franconia. The others have few forces.”

“Neustatter, we have to go.” Ernst Wunderlich, the machine shop representative, shaded his eyes against the setting afternoon sun with a worried expression.

Neustatter nodded and stepped back. Once he reached the wagons, he ordered, “NESS, circle up. Teamsters, Herr Wunderlich, you too.”

“Thoughts?” he asked.

“We need to get out of here,” Tobias stated. “Before more cavalry show up.”

“They will be just like Wallenstein going through a village,” Lukas stated.

“Und Flieden?”

“They are on their own,” Wunderlich stated.

Jakob Bracht nodded, clearly unhappy. “They should flee now.”

“They ought to, but will not,” Johan Deibert stated. “People do not want to give up almost everything they have when the danger is not yet certain. Then when it is certain, it is too late.”

Neustatter let the men talk while he listened. Flieden had two choices, both bad. Well, there was a third option—hope that the enemy cavalry suddenly had more pressing concerns. But the nearest force was the Fulda Barracks Regiment, and it was scattered, looking for missing up-timers.

Neustatter considered whether those two facts were connected. Strange things happened in war. But two strange things happening at the same time, having nothing to do with each other? Neustatter glanced over at the four wounded ambushers they had prisoner in the wagons. He could ask later, when one of them woke up.

But anything he learned from them would be just information. Useful to know, perhaps necessary to survive. But it was not the decision itself.

Most of Flieden was going to die because they were too stubborn. Should NESS risk themselves for people who did not want their help?

The wagons were lined up in the road, pointing west. Enemy cavalry lay ahead of them, but cavalry had to sleep, too. A tight column showing no light might make it through. But that would leave Flieden defenseless, so that option was out.

Too stubborn to evacuate . . . When you got right down to it, though, the villagers should not have to evacuate at all. Flieden was their home.

Herr Augustus had ordered Neustatter and his men away from their homes to war. When they had finally been able to return, they’d had to leave their own village immediately. They could not have held it, not even if most of the villagers had joined them, and all the reinforcements would have been on Herr Augustus’ side. Then they’d had to leave their new home in Murphyhausen because it was indefensible. But Flieden . . . 

Flieden was none of those things. Friendly reinforcements were not that far away, and the village could be held.

Besides, NESS wasn’t just the men from the village anymore. They were citizens.

Neustatter wasn’t going to run out on an SoTF village. This was the Fliedeners’ home.

Flieden needed a better option.

Neustatter strode toward the lead wagon and began untying the guidon.

“What is he doing?” Wunderlich asked.

“Wagons with an armed escort might be left alone,” Ditmar explained. “As long as they do not see those flags.”

“Risky,” Hjalmar warned.

Neustatter moved around the wagon and untied the flag. He started back to the group.

“Of course, that is not what he is going to do,” Ditmar said.

Neustatter tossed him the guidon. Ditmar caught it.

Lukas Heidenfelder sighed. “Neustatter, are we really going to Adler Pfeffer this village?”

“Could be.”

Stefan saw the teamsters exchange looks. “That means ja, we are going to do it,” he told them.

The face of the machine shop representative reddened in outrage. Ernst Wunderlich babbled something about precision parts.

“NESS, faaaall . . . in!” Neustatter ordered.

The amtmann watched with increasing irritation as the very small formation—three ranks of three—marched up and halted at Neustatter’s command.

“Neustatter, we have a contract!” Ernst Wunderlich roared. “I am ordering—”

“My men and I are trained in village defense. We can show you what to do. Tell me about the cavalry you have seen and heard about.”

“Neustatter! I demand we leave at once!” Wunderlich began.

“We are not placing ourselves under your command!” The amtmann spoke right over Ernst’s rant.

“My company will appeal to the government!”

“—demand you leave at once!”

“Enemy cavalry—”

“Are any of you in the National Guard?” Neustatter’s voice cut across all the others. “I am activating all reservists in the area.”

A chorus of Nein! answered him.

“Now I am activating the unorganized militia. That is all men eighteen to forty-five years old, along with any older or younger men and any women who want to join in.”

One of the villagers standing with the amtmann bristled. “We will not—”

Neustatter spoke quietly. “Lukas.”

Heidenfelder stepped clear of the formation. His right hand flashed to the stock of the U.S. Waffenfabrik rifle on his left shoulder, and he slammed it butt-first into the man’s chest. The blow knocked him to the ground.

Men began to shout angrily.

Neustatter slammed the end of the flagstaff into the ground.

“Silence!” he thundered.

Everyone shut up.

“Flieden Militia Company, faaall . . . in! Two ranks, right here. Amtmann, your name?”

“Bernhardt Zeithoff.”

“Fall in beside Hauptmann Zeithoff!” Neustatter lowered his voice and addressed Zeithoff. “Understand, Zeithoff, that while you are hauptmann of your village militia, and I am a corporal, I will be in command until the cavalry is beaten or we are relieved by the Fulda Barracks Regiment.”

“Or you are dead,” Zeithoff pointed out.

Neustatter gave him a thin smile. “Could be. But I do not fight fair.”

“Neustatter, we have to get the machine parts to Frankfurt.” Ernst Wunderlich was practically pleading now.

“Nein, because once I send three men to Fulda, we will not have a sufficient escort.” Neustatter turned to one of his team leaders. “Hjalmar, take your team to Fulda and get help. Ride as long as you can see, find a village inn, and set out at dawn. Take the best three captured horses as remounts.”

“Yes, sir.” Hjalmar stepped back. “Otto! Jakob!”

“Nein!” Tobias protested.

“I would rather not,” Neustatter agreed. “But with cavalry out there, even all nine of us would not be enough to deliver your shipment. How many of these machines would not survive being struck by pistol balls?”

Wunderlich’s wince answered that.

Neustatter turned to the villagers, many of whom—including the man Lukas had struck—had arrayed themselves in two rows. Neustatter wouldn’t call them ranks, not yet. Build morale.

“We are the State of Thuringia-Franconia,” Neustatter stated. “So are you. Do you know about the Croat Raid on Grantville?”

“Of course. But they had all their guns . . . ”

“Against over two thousand Croats,” Neustatter added. “This force you have seen—how many? Maybe a couple hundred total?”

Zeithoff looked at him shrewdly. “Not even that many, I should think.”

“Then we can hold,” Neustatter stated. “If Hjalmar’s team returns with the SoTF National Guard, we will drive the dragoons off. If they do not, we will do it anyway.” Don’t confuse image with reality. He heard that in Dan Frost’s voice. “First, I need everything you know about this cavalry. That will tell us how to prepare. Then I need to know what weapons you have.”

“Not likely!” Zeithoff exclaimed. “That would let you plunder the village.”

“Herr Amtmann, we already could.” Neustatter spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. “We simply do not want to. So, Herr Hauptmann, I need to know what weapons you have.”

“Hmphh.” Zeithoff clearly had his doubts.

“Und I cannot promise no casualties,” Neustatter continued. “People die in battle. But we will do everything we can to make sure it is the other side that does the dying.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Do any of you have clay bowls? I need one or two dozen, and I cannot promise they will not get broken.”

“Clay bowls?” Zeithoff, Wunderlich, and the teamsters were all mystified.

Lukas chuckled. “You will like this part.”

“Then I need the wagons to block the road.”

“Machines, Neustatter,” Ernst hissed.

“We will unload those and store them somewhere safe,” Neustatter told him.

“Unload, reload,” Tobias grumbled. “More delays.”

Neustatter remembered something. “Get the wounded prisoners out of the wagons and into a house. Ditmar, post a guard. Now, how many cavalry are east of Flieden?”

“Just the one squad rode through,” Zeithoff told him.

“Gut, for two reasons. That probably rules out a two-front attack, at least at first. It also means we can send men for help. I need six men who can ride. Married men. Send them in pairs to rally the three closest villages. They are to come back here, and those villages will send their own men on to three more. Now, if you were coming from the west, how would you get closer to Fulda without going through Flieden?”

Neustatter put everyone to work—NESS agents, teamsters, and villagers alike. By sundown, the road through the village was blocked by wagons. Clay bowls were partially buried in the road on both approaches, with a few more obvious in the fields nearby. A lit lantern was hung from a tree branch in a belt of trees sheltering the west side of the village. Two wagons were positioned across the road on both sides of the village, at the second pair of houses from either end. Next to the wagon barricade at the western end of Flieden stood one of the machines they’d been transporting to Frankfurt, with a pair of muskets fastened to it.

“What does that do?” one of the villagers asked Richart, who had rigged the thing.

“Absolutely nothing.” Richart grinned. “But if you did not know that, had heard tales of the up-timers’ machine gun, and caught a glimpse of it in the dark, might you not approach some other way?”

“And break an ankle in those holes we dug,” the villager reasoned out. “Or trip on one of the ropes and bring cooking irons crashing down.”

Ditmar nodded. “Right. Look, this is not as good as we could do in Birkig, but the National Guard pays that village to help with training. It is good, because the training destroys a lot of their crops. By now, the villagers there know how to rig all this—and more—themselves.”

Neustatter sent Phillip out with five men from the village, and they found cover from which to spring an ambush—nowhere near the lantern in the woods. Hans Deibert took charge of five more men at the barricades.

“And where will you be?” the amtmann asked Neustatter.

“Questioning the prisoners. Assuming I find out what I want to know, after that I will be asleep in the inn until I take the second watch.”

* * *

Neustatter knocked on the door of house where the wounded had been taken. The house was of half-timber construction and looked well-cared for. After a minute, the door swung open, revealing a stooped, older man.

“Ich heisse Corporal Edgar Neustatter. Are you a doctor?”

“Nein. Just Hermann Topf. I treat people if I can. Sometimes it works. I have set bones. But I am no doctor.”

“How are the wounded?”

Topf stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. “One has died. Another might. The other two? As long as the blows did not damage their brains, they should recover.”

“If we can get them to Fulda . . . ”

“Why?”

“I have no reason to want them dead,” Neustatter stated. “When they ambushed us, ja. But our drill sergeants gave us a list of reasons we should want them to survive.”

Topf gave him a skeptical look.

Neustatter returned a lopsided grin. “All I can do is tell you what Drill Sergeant Huffman told us. I cannot promise it will work out that way.

“First, having some sort of law of war can help prevent savagery. If one side knows the other will try to keep prisoners alive, it may do the same for theirs. Second, someday some of yours may be captured, and you can exchange them. Third, they are of intelligence value. That means they can give us information. That is what brings me here tonight.”

“To make them talk?”

“I simply want to know what unit they are and in whose service. If they tell me more, gut.”

“How are you going to get them to tell you that?”

“I was thinking about giving them some food and small beer and talking with them.” Neustatter held up a hand. “I know. It does not sound like it would work, but Drill Sergeant Huffman said that is what the most effective interrogators did up-time. If they are scared for their lives, they will lie. Then they confirm what you think you already know. That’s bad intelligence. Bad intelligence gets your people dead.”

Topf still looked skeptical.

“So, have they eaten?”

“I have not had time. I will go get something.”

Two of the three surviving prisoners were still unconscious. One had been hit pretty badly in the leg. Neustatter had seen wounded men before and thought Topf was probably correct that this one could go either way. The one Hjalmar had buttstroked with a clubbed musket was still unconscious, but the other, whom Neustatter had pistol-whipped, was awake.

Neustatter sat down next to him. “I am Edgar Neustatter.”

The man—more of a boy by age, but Neustatter figured anyone who marched or rode in the ranks was a man—looked at him very warily. Eventually he stated, “Hans.”

“We had three Hanses in our unit. Young Hans got killed at Dessau Bridge. Old Hans died of sickness later on. Town Hans got killed . . . I guess it has been about three years now.”

“Are you saying I am going to die?”

“I would prefer not to bury another Hans, if that is okay with you.”

The young man snorted and then winced, raising one hand to his temple. “I am not ready to die yet.”

Topf came back with a mug of beer and some food. Hans dug right in.

“Looks like Hermann Topf here has patched you up,” Neustatter said. “I sent for reinforcements. They might have a medic. I do not know.”

Hans paused between bites. “We have a regimental surgeon, but he is worthless. He would have cut John’s leg off by now.”

“What regiment? I will be sure to stay away from this doctor.”

“What is yours?”

“SoTF National Guard Reserves, out of Grantville.” Neustatter delivered that in English, because he’d heard an accent.

The wounded cavalryman swore.

“Irishmen,” Neustatter observed.

“Aye,” the young man blurted out. “Ja, they’re Irish. Me, I am from Bavaria. Picked up some of the language from them.”

Neustatter nodded. “Irish out of the Low Countries?”

“Nay. Maybe headed there. I do not know,” the wounded man added quickly. “Came east from Bohemia last year. That is when I joined.” He took a hefty swallow of the beer.

“Irish . . . Irish . . . Bohemia,” Neustatter mused. “They would have left when Wallenstein took over. What were their names?” Somebody Irish was in that research paper about Wallenstein he’d bought and read to NESS on the bus to Erfurt. At length, he came up with a name. “Butler. Some Scots or Irish. A French name.”

He saw from the man’s expression that he was on the right track.

“They are the ones who killed Wallenstein up-time. I imagine your unit had to run for it. Which one of them are you with? Butler?”

The young man hemmed and hawed for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose it matters. MacDonald’s dragoons.”

Neustatter nodded, trying to convey that he’d expected that information. But—

“Dragoons, you say? Your squad was outfitted as cavalrymen.”

“Nay. Just never enough muskets to go around.”

“Ja, is that not the truth everywhere?” Neustatter saw no reason to point out that it was generally not true in the SoTF National Guard. Instead he shook his head. “Short on everything, probably. What were you doing here?

The man shook his head. “I don’t know. They don’t tell us that.”

“Ja, that happens everywhere, too.”


Tuesday, September 12, 1634


The first watch was quiet, and Neustatter spent at least half of it asleep. Neustatter and Lukas led the second watch, and nothing happened. Ditmar was at the western barricade on the third watch when day dawned, and Richart had taken a fresh team into the woods.

The five villagers with Ditmar were tiring. A couple of them had their forearms on the side of one of the wagons. One of them picked his head up as it started to droop. Ditmar could sympathize. He thought the dawn watch was the hardest to stay awake through. He weighed the resentment he would create by telling them to be more alert compared to the risk of an actual attack. Ditmar hadn’t reached a decision when another man’s head suddenly came up.

“Horses!” he hissed.

Ditmar didn’t question the man. He simply listened. Ja, that was horses. He touched two men on the shoulder. “Wake the village.”

A pair of riders came into view. Their horses were at a walk, and the riders were scanning ahead and to both sides of the road.

Ditmar decided these were scouts. He had not heard just two horses.

He saw one of the scouts stiffen as he caught sight of the barricade. The man obviously said something to his partner, for both of them pulled up and studied the village. The second one looked around and then pointed, drawing the other scout’s attention to the light in the woods. The two of them wheeled their horses around and rode back the way they had come.

Neustatter arrived at the barricade in just a couple minutes, and other men began streaming into position.

“Two mounted men,” Ditmar summarized. “Scouts, I think. Unless I miss my guess, there is a company of mercenary cavalry on the way.”

“Dragoons, according to one of the prisoners. Hopefully a short company.” Neustatter raised his voice. “Cavalry detachment, mount up!”

In a few minutes, the riders reappeared. There were three of them this time. Ditmar saw that two of them were the original scouts and suspected the third was either a sergeant or an officer. A good way behind them came riders in a column of twos.

“Ja, a short company,” Ditmar said. “About forty or fifty men.”

The third man with the scouts was studying the barricades when Neustatter and Phillip led twenty mounted men—fully a third of Flieden’s men of fighting age—out into a fallow field.

“So that is why we dug shallow pits out where they would do no good,” muttered one of the men at the barricade.

“Ja,” Ditmar confirmed. He waved theatrically, motioning half a dozen village boys into position at the wagon. Then he pointed at the two men standing behind Richart’s contraption. One of them sketched a salute.

He knew that if those dragoons charged, a lot of villagers were going to die. On the other hand, a lot of mercenaries would, too. But Ditmar did not expect them to charge. The men at the barricade plus the defending cavalry should be able to break a charge . . . unless the mercenary dragoons figured out that only the six NESS agents had any idea what they were doing.

The two forces remained in their respective positions for some time, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes. Then the man accompanying the scouts wheeled his horse and rode back to the main body. He spoke to the right-side rider in the front rank.

One is the officer. The other is the sergeant. My targets, Ditmar decided.

A few more minutes passed, and then the main body began to pull back.

One squad remained behind. Keeping watch.

Ditmar sighed. This had now become a straightforward tactical problem: how to extract Richart and the five villagers with him from the woods without touching off a battle. The short answer was that they were going to lose another day on the delivery of their cargo.

About nine in the morning, Neustatter led his “cavalry” back toward the village. They passed in front of the two wagons of the barricade and took up position south of the road.

The squad of mercenaries had remounted as soon as Neustatter’s group began moving. Twenty minutes later, they began dismounting again, weighting their numbers on the south flank.

That meant they could not see Lukas, who was standing on the north side of the third house north of the main road, counting from the western side of Flieden. He waved both arms over his head and then motioned toward himself with both hands.

A few minutes later, Ditmar saw a man at the edge of the woods. The man pointed north. Ditmar understood. Richart and his men were going to return via a big circle to the north. He posted a watch for them, and then began cycling villagers off-duty. There was no point in exhausting everyone. Rotating the men home would reassure their families.

Ditmar was just finished a hunk of bread about midday when one of the village boys dashed up.

“We see the men returning!” he blurted out.

“To arms!” Ditmar ordered. “Everyone on the line!”

He had two reasons for that. First, if the dragoons mounted up, they could still intercept Richart and his men. That would be true even if half their number stayed to oppose Neustatter’s horsemen. Second, obvious activity ought to draw the mercenaries’ attention to the barricade rather than to the men trying to return to the village.

It almost worked. The mercenaries remounted. So did Neustatter and his men. Then one of the mercenaries pointed north.

Richart and his men were a couple hundred yards from safety. They broke into a run.

A couple mercenaries nudged their horses and started in that direction.

Ditmar wrapped the sling of the .22 around his left hand and leveled the rifle. Two riders were crossing from left to right in front of him, and several other mercenaries were spurring their horses into motion.

He led his target, exhaled slowly, and squeezed. The .22 fired with a metallic snap. Ditmar saw the rider twitch and knew he had hit him. The man stayed in the saddle, keeping a grip on the reins. But he made no attempt to draw a weapon of his own.

I got him in the right arm or shoulder, Ditmar decided. He loaded another round.

Suddenly, the lead pair of riders turned away. They headed west, angling back toward the road. A couple of the others veered after them. Others continued on, and Ditmar led his next target.

Then all of them broke to the west. Ditmar pulled the rifle back to a port arms position.

“What are they doing?” one of the teamsters asked.

“They are withdrawing out of range,” Ditmar answered. “Richart and his men will be here in a minute, so that part is good. But unless I miss my guess, they are going to dig that bullet out of their man’s arm and decide they are up against up-time weapons.”

“Gut. Then they will stay away.”

“Or their commanding officer will launch an all-out assault to capture up-time weapons,” Ditmar warned. “It could go either way.”

Richart hurried up a few minutes later. “Dank, Ditmar. That was you, ja?”

Ditmar nodded.

Neustatter and his men rode in shortly after.

“Nice work,” he told them both. “Let us cool the horses down and start rotating men off-duty again.”

“Do you want to pursue them?” someone asked.

“Nein. Not unless something changes. There is too great a chance they could turn the tables on us. We will wait for Hjalmar’s team to return, hopefully with SoTF troops.”

Over the course of the day, the villagers tired of the novelty of the sort-of-siege. Neustatter took a mounted patrol west in the mid-afternoon, spotted the mercenary squad about a quarter mile down the road, and quickly returned to the village.

“We definitely wait,” he said. “They are competent. We would lose men trying to force our way through, and there is no reason to. Besides, the rest of their company cannot be too far away.”

At dusk, shouts went up from the barricade on the eastern side of Flieden.

“Horsemen!”

“Cavalry, mouuunt . . . up!” Neustatter ordered. “Ditmar, reinforce that barricade with twenty infantry!”

But as Flieden’s “cavalry” massed near the eastern barricade, Neustatter studied the seven approaching shapes and then called out, “Martin!”

A faint “Katie!” came back from the approaching horsemen.

“Our men,” Neustatter stated loudly. “You can see the tan uniforms now. That’s Hjalmar’s patrol.”

Three of the shapes resolved into Hjalmar, Otto, and Jakob. The other four were clad in orange-pink uniforms.

“At ease,” Neustatter ordered. He heard Ditmar repeating the order.

Hjalmar and one of the men in the orange-pink uniforms rode up to Neustatter. Hjalmar saluted.

“Team Two reporting, Corporal Neustatter!”

Neustatter saw chevrons and saluted, and the third man returned it.

“Ich heisse Sergeant Dietrich Sperzel, Fulda Barracks Regiment,” he said. He looked a few years older than Neustatter and wore his hair long.

“Corporal Edgar Neustatter, SoTF Reserves. My men and I are Neustatter’s European Security Services. We were ambushed by a squad of mercenary dragoons while escorting machine parts to Frankfurt.”

“Your men showed me the spot,” Sergeant Sperzel said. “Good work fighting your way through.”

“Dank. Do you have more men on the way?”

“Half a company, but they are on foot and should arrive about midday tomorrow,” the sergeant answered.

Sperzel, Neustatter, and Hjalmar all dismounted. Two men approached them.

“Sergeant Sperzel, Ditmar Schaub is my Team One leader. Bernhardt Zeithoff is the amtmann of Flieden. I called up Flieden’s unorganized militia with him as hauptmann.”

Captain Zeithoff had a couple questions about the watch.

Sperzel let Neustatter do the talking.

Neustatter concluded. “Amtmann Zeithoff, you should evacuate the women and children from Flieden. You can give them a sufficient escort.”

Zeithoff shook his head. “We do not want to leave.” He sighed. “Some believe we would be ridden down on the road. Others that their goods would be stolen.”

“I would not divide my forces,” Sperzel stated. “Except to get the women and children out of here, I might.”

“The majority would stay.”

Sperzel and Neustatter exchanged looks. “If some leave and some do not, there will be trouble in the village in the future,” Neustatter pointed out. “Worse if one of the two groups suffers casualties.”

“I understand,” Sperzel replied. “I do not approve, but I understand.”

Once Zeithoff moved off with his answers, Sergeant Sperzel spoke again. “However you were planning it, there is no reason for me to second guess your deployments. In fact, Neustatter, I will speak bluntly since there are no villagers in earshot just now. My men and I are part of the Fulda Barracks Regiment, and we are not universally beloved by the citizens of Buchenland. As long as Zeithoff and the rest of the villagers will follow your orders, keep giving them. How did you establish your authority?”

Neustatter explained, with a few interjections from Ditmar and Hjalmar.

“And you even have some men from neighboring villages. These dragoons, they should go someplace else. I do not know why they are staying here.”

“I talked to one of the prisoners last night,” Neustatter said, “but he says he does not know anything. I think I believe him.”

“Tell me about the casualties.”

“For us, so far just one of the draft horses in the initial ambush. We defeated the ambush—killed eight and captured the other four. One of them since died of wounds. A company of about forty or fifty approached Flieden this morning. We are prepared . . . ”

Sergeant Sperzel blinked several times during Neustatter’s summary of events.

“Show me the defenses, bitte,” he requested.

Zeithoff and Neustatter gave Sperzel a complete tour. When they returned to the western barricade, Neustatter directed, “Hjalmar, you and your team get some dinner and some sleep. My team will take the first watch.”

“I do not see a lot of weapons.” Sergeant Sperzel spoke quietly.

“Flieden has about forty matchlocks and arquebuses. The cavalry has ten, there are five at each barricade, and the infantry force has twenty. The pair hooked up to that machine do not work. Men have started arriving from other villages. Not many—perhaps forty. They have maybe a dozen arquebuses and matchlocks between them. Two crossbows. The rest have axes or scythes.”

“You have twenty cavalry,” Sperzel noted. “What is the other half armed with?”

“Farming implements. I tried to keep them in back. Whoever commands those dragoons is skilled. He may have figured it out by now.”

Neustatter and Sergeant Sperzel conversed and planned throughout the first watch. They did not station any men in the woods. Ditmar’s team took the second watch. It was quiet, as was the third watch for Hjalmar’s team.


Wednesday, September 13, 1634


Neustatter had left orders that he was to be awakened early. He immediately checked the watch.

“All quiet,” Hjalmar reported.

The pre-dawn was cool and humid. Hjalmar’s team were all wearing their blue NESS coats. The complete absence of wind was the only thing that prevented the morning from feeling absolutely raw.

“I did not get a chance to talk to you last night, Hjalmar,” Neustatter said. “Good job.”

“Dank. We ran into Sergeant Sperzel’s patrol, and they rode into Fulda with us. This Fulda Barracks Regiment is . . . different. They do not have the same technology that the National Guard troops at Camp Saale do. But their camp is well-run. It is called Barracktown, outside Fulda. Young officers, good sergeants. The commander is an up-timer, Major Derek Utt. We did not meet him personally, but everyone says he is solid.”

Neustatter nodded.

“I think they are used to making do. You saw that Sperzel studied things like the clay bowls carefully.”

Neustatter nodded and looked out over the barricade. “How was the ride?”

“Long. We switched horses and switched back. The up-time saddles are so much better, but we could not take time to change the tack.” Hjalmar waved his hand at the defenses. “This looks like a complicated plan. Much more so than that village north of Prague.”

“I could not have made this plan back then,” Neustatter agreed. “And Sperzel?”

“He seems a good man.” Hjalmar shrugged. “He did not give us any trouble about keeping our weapons when we entered Barracktown. Asked good questions. Got us right to an officer.”

“Gut. Send one of your guys to wake him and another to Zeithoff.” Neustatter’s words were suddenly clipped. “We have visitors.”

Hjalmar took one look at the squad or so of riders coming into view and sent two men racing to rouse Sperzel, Zeithoff, and the rest of the village.

Neustatter studied the approaching dragoons carefully. He figured there were plenty of ways the enemy could lose this battle but most of those involved either cockiness or foolishness or both. Yesterday’s action—or lack of it, really—suggested a sober professional was in command. For just a moment, Neustatter wondered about the ambush NESS had foiled. It had been less professional, launched before all their men were in position. Sloppy. Not like the captain over there now.

Neustatter decided that if he were attacking, he would either rush the barricades at dawn or tie up the defending force with a distraction.

That squad of dragoons was advancing at a walk.

“Ditmar!” Neustatter shouted.

“On the way!” The Team One leader and several residents of Flieden were thirty yards away, hurrying toward the barricade.

“Take your team and ten infantry south.” Neustatter pointed. “The way those horses are taking their time tells me someone’s got dismounted dragoons closing in, so watch yourself.”

Ditmar started giving orders.

“What is happening?” Sergeant Sperzel did not waste time with a greeting.

Neustatter sketched the situation.

“My men and I will reinforce the center.”

“Ja, Sergeant.” That was exactly where Neustatter wanted them.

He turned, spotted Captain Zeithoff, and pointed north. “Hauptmann, get five men with matchlocks up on roofs, bitte. The south or east side of the roofs, watching off to the northwest.”

“You think they will attack on both flanks?” Sergeant Sperzel asked.

“Not sure. They might just move up dismounted dragoons behind that mounted squad. But I would not want a long exchange of fire at the barricade. The mounted men can ride around it if there are only a handful of men there. Easier to make us thin our lines.”

Black powder weapons thundered to the south.

“Still close to nighttime, no wind,” Neustatter noted. “Sound carries. That is not as big a firefight as it sounds. But, Hauptmann, send someone to make sure Hermann Topf is ready to treat any wounded. Is there anyone who assists him?”

“Nein.”

A matchlock thundered from a nearby roof.

“Hallo the roof!” Neustatter called through cupped hands. “What do you see?”

The man was busy reloading while trying to maintain his balance. He leaned into the slope of the roof—shingled, not thatched—and braced the butt of his matchlock against one foot.

“Men coming through the meadow!” he called down.

“How many?”

“Hard to say!”

Neustatter heard the first shot. It was not quite light enough to spot the gunpowder smoke yet, but a return shot from a rooftop suggested that someone had probably spotted the muzzle blast itself. Gunshots peppered the air to the northwest. A few more replied from rooftops.

“Hauptmann Zeithoff, send a team to get all the women and children out of the outermost houses. Move them east,” Neustatter ordered. “Hjalmar, get your team and five more men over to the right, and let me know if those dismounted dragoons start closing in.”

That left the five Fliedeners at the barricade, Sperzel’s four, Neustatter’s own three, and ten men from neighboring villages. Plus thirty men with farm tools. If the dragoons Neustatter could see charged, they’d take casualties. But if even ten of them made it past the barricade, they’d scatter the defenders.

Neustatter turned to the men gathered at the barricade and spoke as though he were giving directions for what they would be doing in the fields today. “If they charge down the road, I want the lead horses dead. I want them thinking about the clay bowls and the pits.”

“Any horse can step over those!” one of the men from Flieden shouted.

“Sure could,” Neustatter agreed. “Almost any horse I ever met could do it. But when the horse in front just took a musket ball in the head? And there are loud noises everywhere around? Horses panic just like people do. They make mistakes. I want to see a lot of mistakes.

“Someone once told me that I was more likely to get into a high noon shootout than a backstabbing. I think it is time for that. We have the range advantage.”

“But only seven rifles with that advantage,” Sergeant Sperzel pointed out. “And limited ammunition.”

A few minutes later, a man dashed over from the south side of Flieden (which wasn’t all that far from the north side of Flieden). He ran up to Neustatter and Sperzel but addressed Zeithoff.

“Bernhardt! Claus is hit! Johann and Franz are bringing him in!”

“Take Claus to Hermann Topf’s house.” Neustatter spoke calmly. “Two of the men with farm tools take over from Johann and Franz.”

“Johann and Claus are brothers,” Zeithoff told him.

“Very well. Two men take their weapons and get back on the line. Phillip!”

Phillip Pfeffer ran over.

“Find Ditmar. Bring me a report,” Neustatter ordered.

“Ja, sir.”

Sergeant Sperzel gestured with his chin, and Neustatter obligingly stepped aside so that the two of them could talk privately.

“Neustatter, we need to hold until the half-company gets here. If the dismounted dragoons rush both flanks and the mounted men charge . . . I do not think the villagers will stand and fight.”

“I agree. I think the horsemen are going to advance. I would like to take our cavalry and fight that part of the battle behind the barricade.”

“Not in front of it?”

“Sergeant, when the National Guard trains recruits near Grantville, basic training ends with an exercise called Adler Pfeffer. The recruits attack a village, then they defend it. The villagers are paid by the National Guard. My men and I have gone back to help with this exercise.”

“That is not something we have in Barracktown.” Sperzel shook his head. “You are right. Sooner or later, they are going to send mounted dragoons right up the road. It just depends on how patient their hauptmann is. But what does that have to do with fighting on this side of the barricade?”

“Two reasons, Sergeant. First, it means the dismounted dragoons on the flanks will not be able to shoot our cavalry. Second, the militia will be defending their homes. The dragoons are going to have to pass left or right of the wagons. If several of our men can meet each of theirs as he emerges, our chances are much better. And I want to pull my men with revolvers to the center. Six shots each.”

“Is that what you are carrying?”

Neustatter drew his weapon. “Nein, sergeant. Colt 1911 semi-automatic, seven-shot magazine. Johan, Jakob, and Phillip have the new revolvers—and Otto has an up-time thirty-eight. Und I have been holding out. The dozen snaphance pistols we took from the squad that ambushed us are in these wagons.”

“What were you saving them for?” Sergeant Sperzel demanded. He sounded genuinely angry.

“The decisive moment.” Neustatter was unflustered. “I think three men in each wagon, lying low until you give the signal. Once the mounted dragoons are bunched up trying to go around the wagons. There will not be time to reload.”

“If we lose, they will massacre the village.”

Neustatter remembered the conversation he’d had with Ditmar after their defense of Birkig in basic training: “Next time, we probably ought to get farmers and the unit out . . . One of several errors.”

The civilians didn’t want to leave, and it was probably too late to get away, anyway. Militarily, the best course of action was to abandon the village. But Neustatter could understand why people didn’t want to leave their homes. They’d just have to hold until relieved.

“What time is it?” he called out.

“Who knows?” someone called back. “Seven o’clock, maybe.”

“Six hours,” Neustatter declared. “We need to hold for six hours.”

Lukas heard him. “That is twice as long as Birkig.”

Neustatter was grateful Heidenfelder hadn’t added the rest: “ . . . and we never lasted the full three hours in that mission.” On the other hand, that was against three companies of SoTF veterans with a couple cannons. Here in Flieden, they were facing only about fifty dragoons.

But they had only four men from the Fulda Barracks Regiment, six NESS agents who were Reservists, and three other NESS agents. And about a hundred militia, only half of them with firearms.

“On the other hand,” Neustatter said aloud, “our messengers have already reached the nearest base. Reinforcements are coming. We just need to hold the fort.” He smiled. “That is a lot better than Birkig, where we were losing to buy Sara Carroll time to warn Camp Saale.”

Phillip raced toward them. “Neustatter! Two men down! The dragoons are closing in!”

Neustatter turned to the men from nearby villagers and counted off ten of them. “Go get the wounded. Recover their weapons if possible.” He addressed the ten with arquebuses. “You are under Philip’s command. Five of you fire at a time. Give Ditmar’s men time to withdraw. Go.

“Hauptmann Zeithoff! I needed these houses opened up. If there are any tables inside, put them on their sides outside. Build a wall. Lukas will show you what I mean. Take as many of the unarmed men as you need.”

Neustatter had already set eight men aside. The two with crossbows were behind the wagons along with five men with matchlocks who were the guard force there.

“You men all said you have fired a pistol before,” he said to the other six. Heads nodded. “Up in the wagons. There is a box under the seat of each. There are six pistols in each. Do not raise them into view, but check them over. When the mounted dragoons charge, stay down. Once they bunch up trying to pass left and right of the wagons, fire one pistol and then the other. Aim. And fire. Point blank range.”

“Sounds dangerous. Where are you going to be?” one man challenged.

“Right here. I am going to create the cavalry pile-up you are going to fire into. I want the men down, not the horses.” Neustatter had a thought. “I do not really know what the National Guard rules are, Sergeant Sperzel. Who keeps the horses we are going to capture? I think the villagers should get some of them.”

“That is above my pay grade,” Sperzel answered.

Men came running up from the fields south of Flieden.

“There are too many of them!”

“Run! Run!”

“Halt!” Neustatter ordered. “Get behind these tables. Take a knee. Give the rest of your men some cover fire.”

One man threw away his weapon and ran. Neustatter tackled him, stripped the powder horn and bag of musket balls off him, and let him go. The man scrambled to his feet and raced off, making it to the eastern edge of Flieden before the laughter of Flieden’s “cavalry” brought him up short.

Neustatter had already recovered the man’s matchlock. He stepped behind one of the tables. It was part of an intermittent row from the second house south of the road to the third and on to the fourth.

“I have not used one of these since basic training.” His words were loud but casual as he loaded the matchlock. “Five, six,” he counted as two more men ran back into the village. He held the slow match next to another man’s, succeeding in relighting it.

Ditmar was next. He and another man were carrying one of the casualties. Two more men were right behind him with the other casualty. Then Phillip’s squad began falling back.

About a dozen dismounted dragoons approached in a skirmish line. Neustatter let them close inside seventy yards.

“Take a knee, men,” he ordered. “They will fire soon.”

The oncoming line halted.

“Quiet!” Neustatter ordered.

Some of the defenders actually heard the order to the dismounted dragoons to make ready.

“Pick your targets.” Neustatter spoke more quietly. He selected the man he thought was probably in command of this detachment.

“Fire!” Neustatter gave the order first.

His target slumped, although Neustatter didn’t know if he’d actually been the one who hit him. Nor did he know whether the man was badly injured or not. He ducked behind the table rather than trying to find out. One militiaman was hit.

“Charge!”

Neustatter popped back up. He saw nine dismounted dragoons charging.

“Phillip! Johan! Richart! Aim!” Neustatter dropped the matchlock and drew the .45. He held the Colt in a two-handed grip. At thirty yards, he exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and the semi-automatic fired. He brought the sights back on target and fired again. The man was reeling from the first shot. Neustatter thought the second had been a wasted shot and moved to the next target.

He fired twice, and the man stumbled. Neustatter heard the distinctive blast of Richart’s shotgun and the reports of black powder revolvers. He turned back to his left and found a third target.

Neustatter fired once and missed. But the man suddenly turned and fled. Neustatter looked further left and saw no attackers. He spun back to his right and saw a dragoon going down. The noise of gunfire died away, and the battle appeared to be over on the southern edge of Flieden. An eerie silence was punctuated by scattered shots on the north side.

“Lukas! Richart! Prisoner teams!” Neustatter ordered. “Hans! Phillip! Step inside a house to reload! I don’t want the dragoons getting a good look! Hauptmann Zeithoff, have men take the wounded to Topf!”

Neustatter crouched behind the table and turned to his left. He ejected the magazine from his pistol and slammed a fresh one home. Then he holstered the Colt and dug out five rounds to bring the mostly depleted magazine back up to seven. A moment later, he was on his feet, striding toward the two-wagon barricade in the road.

“Report,” Sergeant Sperzel ordered.

“Dragoons to the south forced our men back into town. We just broke their charge.” Neustatter was not even looking at Sperzel. His gaze was fixed on the mounted dragoons.

“Sorry, Sergeant.” But he still watched the dragoons. “They are a lot closer than they were.”

“They stopped when all hell broke loose on the left,” Sperzel told him.

“Have you sent a runner to our right?” Neustatter asked.

“Nein.”

Neustatter looked around for the teamsters and beckoned the two he saw forward. “Where are the other two teamsters?”

Lorenz shrugged. “They disappeared.”

Neustatter snorted. “Like Jimmy Hoffa.”

Lorenz and Heinrich both laughed.

“We are not much good to you in a battle, Neustatter,” Lorenz pointed out.

“You are about to be. Lorenz, run over to those houses on the south side of Flieden. I want Hans and Phillip here at the barricade. Und I want a report from Ditmar.” Even as Lorenz hurried off, Neustatter was speaking to Heinrich. “Heinrich, I need a report from Hjalmar on the north side. I do not know what roof he is on. Be careful, but tell me how close the dismounted dragoons are.”

It took longer than Neustatter wanted, but he forced himself not to fidget. Phillip and Hans showed up first.

“How is the left?” Neustatter asked them.

“Quiet,” Hans told him. “I think we had a half a dozen men hit. A handful of dragoons fled.”

Ditmar showed up a couple minutes later and confirmed Hans’ report. “Neustatter, Sergeant Sperzel, the left is secure for now.”

“Dank, Ditmar.”

“Rescue teams and prisoner teams are working.”

“Good work,” Neustatter told him. “Send teams for any weapons the dragoons had.”

“Already on it. With your permission, I will get back there.”

“Go,” Sperzel agreed.

“Und with permission, I will check the right,” Neustatter said.

He had a feeling the right was in trouble. He’d heard intermittent fire, but it had died away.

Before Neustatter was even fully away from the barricade, he encountered Heinrich. The teamster was at a dead run.

“They are overrunning the houses!” the man gasped out. He kept going.

Neustatter pivoted to his right and sprinted toward the horses. “Cavalry, mount up! Mouuunt . . . up!” Now it was just like Adler Pfeffer.

He mounted one of NESS’ horses, and within a minute, twenty mounted men were cantering across an open area where the three rows of houses in Flieden narrowed down to two, aiming north between the second and third houses from the western end of the village.

Neustatter spotted a dismounted dragoon coming around the corner of the third house. The man brought up his matchlock. Neustatter fired first, second, and fourth. The first two shots were enough to throw off the dragoon’s aim. The last one hit him in the side.

Neustatter pulled on the reins, directing his horse around the same corner. A second dismounted dragoon was caught by surprise. He did not get his matchlock leveled in time, and Neustatter kicked at it. It spun away. Neustatter heard an impact. At least one of the cavalry following him had thudded into the man.

Neustatter rode east. Three dragoons had already gained the roof of the next house. Neustatter dimly recognized the roof shingles were brown, not faded to an almost-gray like the roofs of most of the other houses. At ground level, two more dragoons were helping another up toward the roof.

None of the dragoons were taking fire, so at least a couple of Flieden’s defense were down or had been run off. Neustatter reined in, leveled the Colt, and shot one man off the roof.

The other two spun around. One lost his footing and slid. Neustatter fired two rounds at the other. Some of the cavalry fired, too. One round hit. The man swayed, regained his balance. Somewhere a rifle fired, and the man pitched to the ground.

Neustatter fired his last round into one of the men boosting his buddy up. He’d rushed it and was fairly certain the man was not seriously wounded. But it certainly caused him to lose his grip, and the man halfway onto the roof crashed down onto him. Neustatter nudged his horse with his knees while ejecting the magazine. He slammed a fresh one in.

Only then did he glance back. Enough of the “cavalry” had followed him to overrun the half dozen dragoons, four of whom were already wounded. He saw a couple cavalry bypass that action. Gut, he would have backup.

Neustatter rode past the fifth house (with another nearly gray roof and some fancier external trim) without seeing another dragoon. Well, there was one down in the field north of Flieden. He cornered around to the east side of the house and slowed the horse to a walk. The flank had been overrun, but the dragoons hadn’t cleared all his men from the roofs. So where were the rest of them? At least there did not seem to be noncombatants in the area. He wondered who had gotten them out of the line of fire.

Two dragoons suddenly burst out the front door of the house. Before Neustatter could even spur his horse, one went down in a hail of gunfire. The other dove back inside.

Up-time weapon. Six shots. Revolver. Otto.

“Martin!” Neustatter shouted.

A shot rang out. Aimed at him. Badly aimed at him. Neustatter had no idea where the shot had come from.

He edged his horse around the next corner, back onto the road. Neustatter aimed the Colt at the door as he rode past.

He turned north, getting between the fourth and fifth houses. That cut down most of the firing angles, except for the window on the west side, unusually close to the front of the building. Neustatter aimed at it, expecting the man inside to poke a musket or pistol barrel out any time now.

The dragoon proved to be cannier than that.

Neustatter didn’t have time for this. He swung back around to the road. The two riders following him were approaching the house.

“Halt!” Neustatter ordered. “Dismount! One of you cover the window. The other cover the door. Just keep him there.”

Neustatter saw one man dismount, so evidently, they were going to follow orders. Or at least try to. Neustatter touched the reins and headed back the way he had come. A confused melee was still going on behind the house next door. None of the dragoons were still on the roof. At least half his cavalry was involved, including some of those with farm implements.

Neustatter rode past them, gathering up a few riders on the fringe. He had to check the first house in the row, the northwesternmost house in Flieden.

A shot spooked his horse, kicking up dirt about a yard left of its front hoof. Neustatter managed to hold on. He wasn’t sure if the horse’s antics caused the second shot to miss, or if it would have missed anyway. But it seemed he’d found the rest of the dismounted dragoons.

Neustatter wanted to charge. But he couldn’t account for about half a dozen of the enemy. They could all be in there. So he wheeled left, between the second and third houses.

The four mounted men following him pulled up in confusion.

“Ride with me!” he shouted. He nudged the horse to a canter across the open ground in the middle of Flieden.

It was risky. There were dragoons inside two houses that he knew of, and they could be looking his way. And there could be one or two more just about anywhere.

But he had to get back to the western barricade before the dragoons in the first house figured out that if they took the second house, they could enfilade the entire barricade. If they did that, the mounted dragoons could charge virtually unopposed.

Neustatter’s horse didn’t have time to reach a gallop before he reached the barricade. A man from the Fulda Barracks Regiment was already kneeling at the corner of the right-hand wagon, firing back at the house. Then he drew back to reload, and Hans Deibert peppered the house with his revolver.

A whole lot of people were scrambling for cover.

Then Sperzel, another of his men, and Lukas fired into the house. Ditmar opened up a steady fire, a shot every five seconds or so with the .22 rifle.

Neustatter tossed his reins to one of the other riders and slid off his horse.

“Get those tables!” he ordered.

Sperzel stole a look down the road. “No time, Neustatter! Here they come!”

Neustatter couldn’t see over the wagons from where he was. But he kept running to the front left corner of the two-wagon barricade. He spotted an unarmed man and grabbed him.

“I am the lookout!” the man proclaimed. “They are coming!”

“I know, I know!” Neustatter pointed south. “Run over and get my men. I want everyone over there right here, right now.”

He popped up over the side of wagon on the left. “You three ready?” he asked the men lying in the bed of the wagon.

“Ja, we are ready.”

“When I shout, pop up, AIM, and fire. One pistol at a time!” Neustatter warned.

“Rifles front!” Sergeant Sperzel ordered.

“Pistols, reload!” Neustatter added. “Do not fire until I give the order!”

Neustatter had a couple seconds to glance around. The defense was disorganized. A solid push by the dragoons, and . . . 

Sergeant Sperzel shot the lead rider in the head.

The charge disintegrated and men peeled off in both directions. It would have been a caracole, but they didn’t even fire.

Neustatter took careful aim, but the range was long, and he did not think his three shots hit anyone.

Sperzel swore.

Neustatter satisfied himself that the dragoons were not going to suddenly wheel about, then took a few steps over to the sergeant.

“Exzellent shot, Sergeant.”

“I did not mean to break the charge,” Sperzel said ruefully. “I know you wanted them closer in for pistol work.”

Neustatter spoke quietly. “That was my plan, but I honestly do not know if we could have stopped fifteen mounted men. I did not get an exact count. There may have been twenty, and we would have been hard-pressed. Better that you broke them early, I think.”

Some of the villagers at the barricade were taunting the enemy. The four men from the Fulda Barracks Regiment were not.

“That is a good officer over there, Sergeant,” one of them stated, “und a disciplined company to pull back on command.”

Another said, “Look! They are dismounting.”

“Aw, crap,” Neustatter said. “He is good. They are going to try to close in again. They are good skirmishers. We have taken casualties, too.”

“Rally the flanks,” Sperzel commanded.

Most of the men from the left flank were running toward the barricade. “Ditmar, take charge of them,” Neustatter directed. “Hold the houses but stay out of the fields.”

Neustatter grabbed Richart and assigned him to suppressing fire on the northwesternmost house. Once there, it took several minutes to get the “cavalry” under control. A couple men and a couple horses had been injured.

“You four”—Neustatter poked each of them in the chest—“get these two to Topf. You four, dismount and sneak up to the second house. One at a time, fire at the first house and don’t get shot!”

“You and you, cover these dragoons. Just because they look dead does not mean they are. Now you two, check them. If any of them are alive, get them to Topf.”

“We could take care of that . . . ”

“You will do it my way,” Neustatter snapped.

That took care of all the cavalry at this house. He turned and beckoned to the four who had been following him around.

“Dismount. Which of you can hold five sets of reins?”

“I can,” a thick-set man volunteered.

“The other three of you come with me,” Neustatter directed. “Are your slow matches still burning?”

One man’s had gone out, but he quickly got it relit.

“We should have thirteen men over here,” Neustatter told them. “I left two of our cavalry watching the house behind us. There was a dragoon in there.”

One of the men grimaced. “That is Friedrich’s house. The enemy has probably stolen everything.” Then a thoughtful expression crossed his face. “Friedrich always says he cannot see what goes on in the back corner of the field. I bet I can sneak right up to the window.”

Neustatter nodded. “Do it. I will cover the window.”

The man crept up and carefully peered in. Then he came back.

“I do not see anyone,” he reported.

Neustatter made his way past the window to the front corner of the house. The two cavalrymen he’d stationed here were nowhere in sight.

Then he heard someone call, “Martin!”

“Katie!” Neustatter shouted back.

Otto Brenner stood and waved from between the two westernmost houses in the middle row—without exposing himself to fire from that last house in the northwest. He pointed.

Neustatter looked in that direction and spotted Hjalmar on the next roof. That explained who had shot the one dragoon off the roof. Hjalmar would have line of sight on the house the dragoons held, although it would probably be a difficult shot.

Neustatter drew back so that no one to the east or west would see him. He pointed at Hjalmar, then at Otto. Finally, he held three fingers before stretching both hands out to each side, palms up, and tilting his head. He hoped they understood: Where is your third man?

Otto pointed to the house where Neustatter had expected to find a trapped dragoon guarded by two cavalrymen. He held his hand with two fingers down and waggled them to indicate a man running. Then he used both hands in a bounding motion. The gait was all wrong, but Neustatter knew he meant a mounted man. Otto continued the pantomime, and Neustatter quickly understood that Jakob and some of the other men he’d sent to this flank had flushed the dragoon out of the house and carried him off. That meant that somewhere, someone had established a prisoner collection point.

Next Otto told him that four villagers had been shot in this area.

Crap. This was just like Adler Pfeffer.

It took longer than he wanted, but Neustatter got the right flank under control. He reported back to Sergeant Sperzel.

“Sergeant, the enemy holds the last house in the northwest. Probably about four of them in there. We had several men killed or wounded on the right. But we have contained the attack.”

Sperzel sighed. “Casualties are piling up.” He glanced down the road. “About a dozen of them have dismounted and are spread out like skirmishers. They have been coming closer.”

Neustatter followed Sperzel’s gaze and frowned. “A dozen? I see a dozen mounted. How can they have that many left?”

Smoke blossomed in front of one of the skirmishers, then another.

“Long-range battle?” Neustatter wondered. “They have to know their fire will not be accurate from that far away.”

“They are fixing us in place,” Sergeant Sperzel pointed out.

“No need,” Neustatter countered. “They could leave any time they want. Unless . . . ”

“A few of them approach to recover any wounded?” Sperzel wondered.

“Maybe, but I have a bad feeling about this, Sergeant.”

Neustatter started doing math. “Fifteen south, fifteen north, fifteen mounted in the center, ja?”

Sperzel shrugged. “About that. More than twelve but less than twenty in each group.”

“I saw nine men charge on the left. That means six or so were down. Or maybe did not charge.” Neustatter paused and recalled what he had seen on the right. “I know what happened to eleven dragoons on the right, and we are reasonably sure there are four men in that house. So, if they have two dozen in the center now . . . ”

“Reinforcements, you think?” Sperzel asked.

“What time is it, Sergeant?”

“Certainly not nine o’clock yet.”

“Then let them besiege us, Sergeant. That takes time. We need to hold for at least four more hours.”

Sergeant Sperzel reorganized the men at the western barricade while Neustatter and Zeithoff reorganized the rest of Flieden.

“Four dead, eight wounded.” Zeithoff was beyond angry. “If you had ridden away from Flieden night before last like I asked . . . ”

“We would have run into these dragoons not very far down the road. We would have shot up the first squad we ran into but then we would have had to retreat back this way. Flieden would have a lot less time to prepare, so those dragoons might have come charging right down the road. Our casualties—yours und mine—would have been higher.” The edge disappeared from Neustatter’s voice. “I am truly sorry we lost anyone.”

Hermann Topf’s house was crowded with wounded. Flieden’s pastor and several women were now assisting Topf. Neustatter wished he’d brought Wolfram. And he hoped that the promised half-company of the Fulda Barracks Regiment had a medic.

Next, Neustatter checked on the prisoners.

“Nein!” he shouted. “We are not locking them all in a house together.” He pointed at two men from Flieden. “You and you, bring back ten men armed with farm tools.”

As soon as they arrived, Neustatter opened the door of the house with his left hand. He leveled the Colt with his right.

“Walk out here one at a time,” he ordered. “I am not going to do anything to you except inconvenience you.”

A single file of five prisoners shuffled outside. They were the ones well enough to walk.

Every time Neustatter passed a tree, he ordered one prisoner to kneel, cross his ankles, and hug the tree.

“Now, two of you stand guard. The other eight of you, drop those scythes and get the wounded prisoners still in that house over to Hermann Topf. He has a bunch already.” Neustatter took the two sentries aside and spoke quietly. “After ten minutes, these prisoners will not be able to stand without assistance. They will be fine. Lay them down for a few minutes every hour or so. We do not want to hurt them.”

“Ja, we do,” one of the sentries argued.

“Nein. Straight up attack on a defended position. Their hauptmann is smart, too. I have not seen a single attack against women or children. Nein, our issue is with whoever sent them.”

“I have been thinking about that,” Zeithoff declared. “This attack does not make sense.”

“You noticed that, too,” Neustatter observed. “The only reason to attack Flieden is that we made a stand here.”

“Maybe they want you and your men dead.”

“Why?” Neustatter countered. “They do not know we wiped out their other squad. They probably suspect it by now, but they had no reason to suspect it when they committed to attack Flieden.”

“They are invading,” one of the Flieden militia declared.

“A cavalry company with no support? What kind of invasion leaves dragoons besieging a village for two days? They ought to be scouting, or General Brahe in Frankfurt will catch them between his army and the Fulda Barracks Regiment. Nein, they are on a mission they cannot abandon. Have to be. They could have drawn back and ridden two miles around Flieden and been on their way yesterday afternoon.”

He took that observation back to Sergeant Sperzel.

“Sounds like you broke up a rendezvous, Neustatter,” Sperzel told him.

“Could be,” Neustatter agreed. “Probably is. Reckon I better divide the militia into ten-man squads and resupply ammunition. With your permission, Sergeant?”

“Do it,” Sperzel told him.

“Hauptmann Zeithoff, whom do you recommend as sergeants?” Neustatter asked.

He started on the left and noticed that the dismounted dragoons had advanced a few steps.

“They are going to keep that up until they are in range,” Neustatter told the men on the left. “Make them be careful. No need for all of you to blaze away at them, but if one of ’em stands up to dash forward, somebody shoot him for me.”

“Ja, Corporal Neustatter.”

Neustatter had to follow a circuitous route back to the north side of Flieden. He took several men with him. Once there, he pulled some of the non-cavalrymen back so that he could brief all ten at once.

“Johann, Hauptmann Zeithoff says you are the sergeant,” Neustatter began. “Your job is to guard this flank. There are only two things to do. First, keep the dragoons in the last house from spreading out. We do not care if they stay there. But we do not want them to get reinforced. So if more of ’em start sneaking through the fields, shoot them. But—second thing—keep your heads down.”

Then he started pulling Flieden’s “cavalrymen” back to locate their horses. Naturally, some of the horses had run off. But Neustatter was able to place eleven mounted men in the middle of Flieden, out of the line of fire. They were all armed with pistols taken from the Irish dragoons.

He left Hauptmann Zeithoff there, too, in command of fifteen men with matchlocks.

“You are the reserves,” Neustatter told him. “We are going to be firing back and forth all morning. At some point, you may be the last men with gunpowder. I will send a runner if we need you. But if you see the dragoons attack the barricade, come running.”

Once he returned to the barricade—taking the long way around a few houses to stay in cover—Neustatter took a knee next to where Sergeant Sperzel was crouched down.

“Gut. Your NESS men are here.”

“Exzellent. I lost track of Jakob.”

“Tough-looking man, carries one of the new revolvers?” Sperzel asked. “Came by dripping blood. Stop, Neustatter! I sent him to Topf. It is not bad. Go bring Zeithoff’s reserve up to where the three rows of houses narrow down to two rows.”

Neustatter understood at once. “Ready to fall on a force that flanks the barricade from either the north or the south?”

“Ja.”

“Economy of force, the up-timers call it.”

“What’s that?”

“The minimum force necessary to accomplish something. What we have on the flanks. That allows us to achieve another principle, mass. Overwhelming force at the critical point here in the center.”

“I am not sure another fifteen militia with matchlocks is overwhelming.”

“It is not ideal,” Neustatter admitted. He looked at Sergeant Sperzel’s expression and began to suspect that the up-time terminology was not part of the Fulda Barracks Regiment’s training. No matter. Sperzel obviously had enough combat experience to intuit the principles of war. He just didn’t have the up-timer names.

Neustatter peered under the wagon at the dismounted dragoons. They had dared another five yards or so.

No time like the present . . .  “The up-timers have nine principles of warfare. They got them from a German.” At Sperzel’s raised eyebrows, Neustatter continued. “The first is objective. Ours is to hold Flieden. Theirs . . . we will come back to that. . . . ”

Neustatter had reached “unity of command” when the dismounted dragoons opened fire.

“There is a rare mistake,” Neustatter observed. “All firing together, I mean.” He paused to count the smoke puffs. “Twenty-one, I think.”

“Und I still see plenty of mounted men.” Sperzel’s tone was sour. “You are right. They have been reinforced by a second company.”

“The second company’s hauptmann is senior. He is calling the shots—literally. The hauptmann we have been facing for two days now would not make this mistake,” Neustatter stated.

“That is guesswork, but I tend to agree,” Sperzel replied. He raised his voice. “Hold your fire, men.”

The second volley was ragged. A few men on the south side of Flieden returned fire, but not all. Neustatter nodded to Ditmar, who dashed over to remind them not to match shot for shot. They did not have enough ammunition to keep that up indefinitely.

The dismounted dragoons hadn’t hit anyone so far. That didn’t change with their third volley.

“Interesting,” Sperzel said. “Do you see where their hauptmann is?”

“South of the road, about the sixth man in?” Neustatter ventured.

“Exactly. Und his sergeant is in about the same place north of the road.”

“How do you know that?” one of the men from Flieden asked.

“Watch,” Sperzel told him. “They are almost reloaded. Count six men south of the road.”

“I see the sixth man.”

The fourth volley rippled out.

“Oh!”

“Exactly. He fires first. The men to either side of him are firing when they see or hear him fire. The sergeant north of the road is doing the same, and his men follow him,” Sperzel explained.

“Sergeant, would you like him targeted?” Neustatter asked.

“Absolutely.” Sperzel did not hesitate. “Not that I do not respect him . . . in fact, because I do respect him.”

Neustatter hurried off to locate Ditmar. He found him in the house furthest west. It was not only beyond the wagon barricade but set about twenty yards back from the road, just far enough that the defenders inside couldn’t coordinate effectively with the men at the barricade.

“Neustatter, did you just run through a volley?” Ditmar asked.

“I do not know that ‘through’ is the right word. There may have been some rounds in my general direction. Speaking of which, have you seen their pattern?”

“That the man in the center of the line fires first? Ja.” Ditmar looked back out the window. “Probably a sergeant.”

“Sergeant Sperzel and I were wondering if that is the hauptmann of the company we have been facing, sent out by the hauptmann of the newly arrived company. Can you hit him?”

“Interesting thought. Maybe.” Ditmar looked back to Neustatter. “But if I do, that squad may charge this house.”

Neustatter held up his M1911 Colt.

“All right,” Ditmar said. “Before or after the next volley?”

“After. We do not need some competent dragoon hanging back during the charge and covering his buddies.”

Ditmar eased his .22 rifle into position, resting the last couple inches of the barrel on the windowsill. He waited for the man to level his weapon, then exhaled and began squeezing the trigger. As soon as he saw smoke, he fired.

The volley rippled down the line.

“No idea,” Ditmar announced before anyone could ask. He waited for the smoke to drift clear.

“Must have missed.” Ditmar aimed again. He fired. Fired again. Fired again.

Neustatter saw the man go down. A couple other dragoons rushed to his side. The other dragoons spattered a few shots at the house while the first two carried the officer to safety.

“Too far for a moving target,” Ditmar grumbled. “I hit him, but not badly. They have his arms over their shoulders. He is moving mostly under his own power.”

“This house is going to get shot to pieces now,” one of the men from Flieden predicted. “Hans will be angry about it—and rightly so.”

He was right. Musket balls began thudding into the house at regular intervals, making different noises depending on which part of the half-timber construction they hit. The thunks into the wood were a lot more disturbing than the louder impact of lead balls against stone.

“Get away from the window,” Neustatter ordered. “You are right. We are going to have to abandon this house.” He counted off three men. “You three and Ditmar, run back one house after their next volley. We four will cover you. Find positions to cover us.”

The door of the house faced north. Ditmar cautiously looked out to the west.

“They are advancing!”

“My team, fire from the window!” Neustatter ordered. “Ditmar, coming through!”

Neustatter ran out the door and dropped to one knee. He brought the Colt up, fired two shots at the nearest dragoon, and began moving down the line. “Run, run, run!”

Ditmar and his three men took off. A couple Flieden men in the next house gave them additional cover fire.

Neustatter ejected the empty magazine. Thirty yards. He slammed in the next one. Twenty-five. Brought the pistol up. Twenty.

He fired twice, and the dragoon stumbled and fell. Neustatter tracked left and fired two shots that both missed. But that dragoon hit the ground. Neustatter spun back to his right in time to see a dragoon go down. Then the rest broke and fled.

“Cover me!” Neustatter leapt to his feet and ran to the men who had been shot. The first was dead. The second was not. He lifted the man in a fireman’s carry and ran back.

“Neustatter!” Ditmar shouted. “What are you doing?”

Neustatter spilled the man to the ground behind the second house. “Pressure on the wound,” he ordered one of Ditmar’s men. He’d hit the dragoon in the side. The injury did not look immediately fatal.

After Ditmar studied the battle for a moment, he asked again, “What are you doing, Neustatter?”

“Gathering intel.” The dragoon had red hair. Neustatter played the odds and addressed him in English. “Soldier, can you hear me?”

The man moaned.

“You with MacDonald’s regiment?”

The dragoon moaned in pain. Somewhere in there was a “yes.”

“Your officer—captain, yes?—was he pushed aside by the new captain?”

Ditmar shook his head. “That may have been another yes, Neustatter. But maybe that is just what we want to hear.”

Neustatter allowed himself a thin smile. One of the many reasons Ditmar and Hjalmar were his team leaders was their ability to step back and assess new information. Stefan was cynical enough to disbelieve all of it, and Lukas tended to get caught up in the possibilities and believe too much of it. He needed team leaders like the Schaub cousins.

For a moment, he was distracted by the thought that he had a third Schaub. A Schäubin, actually. Once Astrid had some more experience, he ought to make her the Team 3 leader so that he wasn’t trying to run a team and the overall mission at the same time.

Neustatter snapped back to his immediate concern.

“The captain commanding you skirmishers just now, is he the one who was in command yesterday?”

The man gasped in pain. “You . . . shot . . . him,” he got out.

“Had to,” Neustatter stated. “He is too good. But I saw two men help him to the rear under his own power.”

“Oh . . . good. Only . . . good captain . . . MacDonald’s . . . ” The man gave up trying to say more.

“I will have two men take you to the medic.” Neustatter looked up at a couple of the Flieden men. “You heard? That is intelligence. I will tell Sergeant Sperzel we may take greater liberties with the other hauptmann. See to it that this man gets to Herr Topf.”

“Topf is not a herr.”

Neustatter sighed. “Flieden is fighting in its own defense. Have the adel or the lehenholders come to the defense of your homes?”

“Nein.”

“Who are the real herren, then?” Neustatter stood. “Now let’s reoccupy the first house. It is Hans’ home, ja?”

About ten minutes later, Neustatter made a cautious dash back to the barricade.

“Report,” Sergeant Sperzel ordered.

“Wounded the officer and drove off the advance on the left, Sergeant,” Neustatter said.

“Good work, Neustatter.” Sperzel pointed at matchlocks propped against the two wagons. “I thought about arming ten more men, but there is not room for them here. There is not much gunpowder left, either. So they are loaded and waiting. If the mounted dragoons, charge, we will fire our weapons, then grab these.”

Neustatter nodded in understanding. “They ought to charge soon.”

“Ought to. I do not know if they will,” Sperzel returned.

“Is the other half of the dragoons’ skirmish line still lying in the field about seventy yards out?”

“Most of them. A couple fell back with the other half of the line.”

Minutes passed.

More minutes passed.

Neustatter checked with Sperzel and started cautiously putting men back up on rooftops. They drew some fire, none of it accurate.

Hjalmar nimbly dropped to the ground from his own roof and made his way to Neustatter.

“Neustatter, most of the skirmish line north of the road is still there, but someone just ran up to them. He was zigzagging. I could not get a decent shot.”

“Orders,” Neustatter surmised.

“They are thinning the line!” one of Sperzel’s men called. He was peering over the wagons. “Every other man just dropped back ten yards!”

“Leaving? Or a new plan?” Sergeant Sperzel mused.

“Hjalmar.” Neustatter delivered his instructions calmly. “Take Lukas. Get up on a couple roofs that can cover the barricade. Ditmar, anyone who looks like he is in charge is your target. Hans, Jakob, you are with me on the left of the wagons. Otto and Phillip, you are on the right of the wagons, but do not step out until Richart puts a few shotgun blasts into that house to keep those dragoons’ heads down.”

Sperzel looked at Neustatter. “You figure they are going to charge.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Ja. The first hauptmann would not have. Not now. This second one . . . how many cavalry officers have you met who would not roll the dice on a charge?”

Sperzel snorted. “None.” He raised his voice. “You men in the wagons! The dragoons might be getting ready! Stay down but sound off!”

They did.

“That is all six,” Sperzel told Neustatter.

“We are as ready as we can be,” Neustatter told him.

Nothing happened.

“We have got to get a telescope or binoculars,” Neustatter stated several minutes later.

“Astrid is not here to write that down,” Ditmar reminded him.

“I think I will leave my ink and quill right where they are in my pack,” Neustatter returned.

“I suppose you could throw it at them.”

Throw it! Neustatter looked at Ditmar. “Explosives. We need explosives.”

“Not enough gunpowder left to burn up on grenades,” Ditmar pointed out.

Neustatter certainly didn’t want the militia thinking about doing that. Quickly, he asked, “What have we seen in Adler Pfeffer?”

“Alcohol.”

Neustatter spun around. “Hauptmann Zeithoff! Are there bottles of liquor in Flieden?”

Zeithoff looked suspicious. “Why?”

“Grenades.” Ja, technically he meant Molotov cocktails. He didn’t have time to explain the difference.

Five minutes later, they had two bottles of genever.

“Light a little bit of that,” Neustatter directed.

They tried and failed repeatedly.

“Ditmar?”

Ditmar laughed. “Remind you when this is over to write yourself a note to find out when alcohol will burn?”

Lukas spoke up unexpectedly. “I know. Not enough alcohol. Too much water. You have to get some of the water out, but you cannot, because the alcohol will boil off first.”

Neustatter, Ditmar, Zeithoff, and Sperzel exchanged glances.

“Sounds right to me,” Neustatter declared. “We need another plan. What else burns?”

“Straw.” Zeithoff’s answer came instantly. “I am surprised the battle has not set any on fire yet. If Flieden catches fire . . . ”

“Straw in the dirt, though . . . ” Neustatter mused. “Either side of the wagons, where they would have to come through . . . ”

“A man with a torch on each side . . . ” Sperzel added. “I like this. Sure, there is a fire in the road for a couple minutes . . . ”

“That could spread,” Zeithoff worried.

“You still have unarmed men. Have them bring the fire buckets forward, then scatter some straw.”

Neustatter expected the dragoons to put two and two together and charge before Flieden’s defenders were ready. How hard was it to connect water buckets and straw and realize there was going to be a fire? But maybe their plan was not to come straight down the road.

“What if they split in half and hit both flanks—further back where we have no defenses set up?” Neustatter asked.

Zeithoff paled, but Sergeant Sperzel shook his head. “We shift forces when we see them move. But we need barriers to cut down their choices.”

“More tables and furniture,” Neustatter told Zeithoff. “A solid line between houses. They will ride for unobstructed gaps between houses. That is where we will defend.”

He didn’t point out how deadly that could be. Then he realized something.

“Better idea,” Neustatter corrected himself. “We will station ourselves behind the passages that have tables. Spread straw across the ones we do not have enough barriers for. Once they see one burn, they will stay away from all straw.”

That was . . . flimsy. But the new hauptmann of dragoons was no rocket surgeon.

Some minutes later, they were crouched behind the wagons, as ready as they were likely to get. Ditmar muttered, “I cannot believe they are giving us more time to prepare. We should have done this the first night.”

“You are right,” Neustatter admitted. “I did not think of it until now.”

“Neither did the rest of us,” Ditmar pointed out.

“The first hauptmann’s plan seemed to be to scout us and then strike the flanks in hopes of thinning the center.”

“And then charge the center,” Ditmar finished. “It might have worked. But this new man . . . ”

“He has surrendered the initiative to us,” Neustatter stated, “but we dare not take the offensive. They would defeat us in the open field.” He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “Und we do not have enough ammunition for a drawn-out, long-range duel.”

“What if they chased our cavalry?” Ditmar asked.

“Ambush?” Neustatter asked. He thought it over. “Suppose we empty twenty saddles.”

Ditmar grimaced. “That is optimistic, und it still leaves them about fifty. We do not want all seventy galloping at us right now.”

“Once the Fulda Barracks Regiment half-company arrives,” Neustatter stated. “They can be the ambush.”

“Fifty SoTF troops? That would do it.”

“You snipe leaders,” Neustatter directed. “I fire. The rest of the pistols wait for the counterattack. I can load a new magazine by then.”

“Neustatter, do you remember when the firing rates of the U.S. Waffenfabrik rifles and SRGs were impressive?”

“Still are, in large battles,” Neustatter pointed out. “But with revolvers, a semi-automatic, and a shotgun . . . ” He gave Ditmar a thin smile. “Miss Schäubin is going to frown at me, ever so politely, when I give her the replacement ammunition expenses.”

Ditmar got a look in his eye. “Neustatter, I still think you and Astrid . . . ”

“Nein. We are a lot alike. Maybe too much.”

“Neustatter, you are an officer in all but name. Astrid is . . . a secretary.”

“Und a NESS agent, Ditmar. Think where she will be in six years. Further along than we were when we first came to Grantville.” Neustatter stood and stared over the wagons at the dragoons.

Ditmar switched directions. “So you are compatible.”

“There is nothing wrong with your cousin, Ditmar. She is a fine young woman.” Neustatter shrugged. “I just do not think of her like that. Und I do not think she thinks of me like that.”

Ditmar sighed. Neustatter took that as confirmation that he had had this conversation with Astrid, and that it had ended along similar lines. What was taking those dragoons so long?

“Astrid reads many books,” Ditmar observed. “I think she is expecting an up-time romance. Are you as well?”

“Only if I were to court an up-timer,” Neustatter answered. “But neither do I expect a cold contract.”

“That is reasonable,” Ditmar agreed. “Astrid says our little gemeinde is family, and that one ought not marry close family.”

“Something to that,” Neustatter stated. He got a sly look in his eye. “What about you?”

Ditmar looked confused. “What about me?”

“Astrid.”

“Nein. Hjalmar and Astrid may as well be my brother and sister rather than cousins. We grew up together after our parents died.” Ditmar shook his head as if to clear it. “Same reason as you, only stronger.”

“I think we have discovered just how much time these dragoons are wasting,” Neustatter declared.

“They could leave,” Ditmar pointed out.

“Unless we were correct before, and we are in the way of their rendezvous,” Neustatter reminded him. “If so, they can keep wasting time, right up past noon. Why they have not sent half their men on a wide circle around Flieden, I do not know.”

“Maybe they have.”

“That is a disturbing thought. First thing I would do is try to ambush our reinforcements.”

“Why leave anyone here at all? Who could they be meeting who cannot ride cross the fields?”

Neustatter looked at him. “Someone with a wagon.”

Sometime later, a shout went up from the east barricade and carried throughout Flieden.

“Hauptmann Zeithoff, let us find out what that is,” Neustatter suggested.

They found a group of men at the barricade. Zeithoff quickly ascertained they were from a nearby village.

“Twelve more men,” he reported to Neustatter. “All armed.”

“That is good,” Neustatter said. “Men, Amtmann Zeithoff here is the hauptmann of militia. I am Corporal Neustatter, from the SoTF National Guard Reserves, and Sergeant Sperzel of the Fulda Barracks Regiment is at the western barricade. Hauptmann Zeithoff will get you settled in. Danke.”

Neustatter let Zeithoff take care of that while he talked to the five men stationed at the eastern barricade.

“I appreciate reinforcements as much as you do, but if you see any soldiers from the Fulda Barracks Regiment, do not shout, bitte. It is essential that we surprise the enemy. Send someone to the western barricade to tell us, and we will come talk to their officers.”

The men agree to do so.

“We heard the battle is over,” one of them ventured.

“We have beaten off two or three attacks,” Neustatter told them.

“We heard many are dead.”

“A few,” Neustatter corrected. “More of the enemy. We are going to win. The enemy is simply deciding if they have one more attack in them or not.”

He waited a moment before giving orders. “One of you look toward the west so that you see any battle that starts. Two of you watch the north and south, because a smart enemy would split up and come from both directions. The other two of you look east, because the Fulda Barracks Regiment is coming.”

They muttered assent, and Neustatter returned to the western barricade.

“What time is it?” Lukas muttered a while later.

Neustatter pointed to a shadow. “Not noon yet.”

Lukas started watching the shadows. Neustatter did not. The infantry would get to Flieden when they got to Flieden—assuming they had not been ambushed.

Neustatter snorted. This second hauptmann was not going to do something like that. So far, he seemed the sort to make threats and bull his way through.

Neustatter realized something. “Sergeant Sperzel? In their place, would you not have sent a sergeant forward with a flag of truce to demand our surrender?”

“I would have done so before the sun set last night,” Sperzel agreed. “They would have to expect it would be rejected, but it would have kept our sentries anxious all night.”

Eventually Neustatter spoke, but quietly enough that only Sergeant Sperzel and Ditmar heard him. “I can think of only two reasons not to talk to us. The first is that their larger plan depends on them not being identified. The second is that they plan to wipe us out.”

“Or both,” Sperzel pointed out. “You have been careful to take prisoners. If they mean to remain unknown, then they must regain their men und kill all of us und Flieden.”

“They have to know they would miss at least a few of our mounted men,” Ditmar pointed out.

“Perhaps they have a larger force coming up behind them,” Sperzel suggested.

“Then they are courting a battle with General Brahe as well as the National Guard,” Neustatter pointed out.

“Why not ride to the Spanish Netherlands?” Sperzel suggested.

“Perhaps they are lost?”

“All the more reason to bypass Flieden or send a truce flag.”

Neustatter looked around and saw the defenders were growing increasingly impatient.

“Maybe that is it.” He indicated the other men behind the wagons with a quick shake of his head. “Tempt us into attacking them? Or at least letting down our guard?”

One of those men shuffled his feet and loudly told his squad, “We cannot keep this up forever.”

Neustatter took a couple steps in that direction. “Ja, we can—but they cannot. How much food can they have? Tonight, our unarmed men will eat first, then replace half of you at a time.”

“Are they going to attack?”

“Could be. If they do, we are ready.” Neustatter made that statement confidently.

Presently, Lukas spoke up. “Neustatter, I think the shadows are starting to lengthen again.”

Neustatter hoped the Fulda Barracks Regiment was on schedule. He studied the dragoons. A number of them were dismounted and appeared to be checking their horses’ tack.

“Sergeant Sperzel.”

Sperzel was standing next to Neustatter in an instant. “They are about to do something.”

Neustatter laughed. “At high noon, no less.”

“They are pulling the dismounted men back,” Sperzel observed, “und leading horses forward.”

“They are either going to charge or they are going to leave,” Neustatter stated. “Men in the wagons, stay down a little longer. Same plan if they charge, except now we have straw on the ground to each side. We will light that with torches. When I give the word, fire one shot at a time. Aimed. Point-blank.”

Neustatter found Zeithoff. “Hauptmann, bring up the reserve.” Then he detailed unarmed men to run to either flank with instructions.

Jakob appeared at his side. “This is it, is it not, Neustatter?”

“Could be, Jakob. How are you, really?”

Jakob made a noncommittal noise. “Eh, they winged me in that first rush on the right but I will be okay.”

Neustatter studied him.

“Topf bound it. I am not bleeding. I can shoot a pistol and reload, Neustatter.”

Neustatter considered. “All right. I want to take a look at it before night.”

Another man raced up, drawing a shot from the occupied house. Neustatter recognized him as one of the men from the eastern barricade.

“Men coming down the road from Fulda in a hurry,” he reported. He pointed to Sergeant Sperzel and his men. “Dressed like them.”

Neustatter exchanged glances with Sperzel and suspected he had the same nasty grin that the sergeant did.

“Run back. Wave them in. Bring them up to that last house in the middle,” Neustatter directed. “Quick and quiet as you can.”

The man dashed off.

“This is going to be close,” Sperzel warned. “Neustatter, watch the dragoons. I will watch for Leutnant Mehler.”

Within a few minutes, shots peppered the house that a few dragoons were still holed up in. A man wearing the pink-orange uniform of the Fulda Barracks Regiment ran up to the barricade.

Sergeant Sperzel greeted him. “Salute, sir. I do not want to show those dragoons over there who you are.”

Neustatter turned and saw a young man, unusually tall for a down-timer, almost six feet. He had unruly dark hair and looked untried.

Neustatter copied Sperzel’s lead. “Salute, sir. Corporal Edgar Neustatter, SoTF National Guard Reserves.”

“Leutnant Johann Mehler. What is the situation, Sergeant Sperzel?”

Sperzel gave a quick summary. Mehler shot Neustatter a look.

“I agree with Sergeant Sperzel, sir.” Keeping his arm below the level of the wagon, Neustatter motioned toward the dragoons. “They are either going to attack or leave.”

Mehler studied them briefly. “They are about to charge,” he stated. “I see a man testing how his sword draws from the scabbard. No one does that to ride away.”

Sperzel had already smacked one of his men on the shoulder. He dashed off to bring up Mehler’s half-company.

“The dragoons will pass the wagons left and right,” Mehler stated. “Neustatter, your men and the villagers need to stay behind the wagons and leave those passages clear for us to shoot through. My men will be further back and fire as the dragoons pass the wagons.”

“That is sneaky, sir. I like it,” Neustatter told him. “We intend to set the straw on fire.”

“Not until the lead riders reach it,” Mehler ordered.

“There are men with pistols in the wagons. My men have four revolvers and a shotgun. I—”

Multiple cries sounded at once.

“Here they come!”

“They are charging!”

“Ready!” Neustatter ordered. He heard that echoed on the left flank.

“I will be with my men,” Lieutenant Mehler stated. “Hold your positions, and we will get through this.”

“Ditmar.”

Ditmar Schaub leveled his .22 rifle and tracked one of the men leading the charge. He squeezed the trigger. The weapon fired with a metallic snap. He chambered the next round and fired again.

Neustatter saw a horse pull up short and immediately get buffeted by other horses thundering by on both sides.

The ground seemed to shake as seventy dragoons galloped toward them. They stayed pressed together in a narrow column to avoid the clay pots along the edges of the road.

“Take aim!” Neustatter ordered. “Torches!”

Sperzel bellowed, “Fire!”

The first four horses and their riders went down in a hail of gunfire. Before the echoing whoom of the muskets died away, individual pistol shots rang out as Neustatter, Otto, Phillip, Jakob, and Hans Deibert fired methodically. Some of the riders returned fire with their own pistols.

The torch bearer on the right had already panicked and thrown his torch into the straw. It caught with a whuff. The oncoming dragoons split once they passed the half-buried clay bowls, and those aiming to the right of the wagons veered away from the sudden flames. Richart fired into them with a distinctive pattern: two shotgun blasts, pause to reload, two more blasts. Their path put them broadside to the Flieden men on the right. From his housetop, Hjalmar led one horse and pulled the trigger. The horse stumbled and fell. Another horse crashed into it, and a small pileup began.

The dragoons riding for the left of the wagons rode straight into an ambush. Neustatter leapt up on the left wagon. “Pistols!”

Six men popped up and blasted the column with a dozen shots. Neustatter used the confusion to carefully empty a magazine into the front of the column. Men and horses went down, but the column was still coming.

The designated man on the left had thrown his torch. The straw caught as the first few riders pounded past the wagons. A couple of them whirled their horses around to attack the defenders from behind. Others veered off in front of the wagons, trying to get at the men within. One fired a pistol shot and hit one of the Flieden pistoleers in the head. He dropped without a sound. Another dragoon leaned out of the saddle, slashing with his blade. Neustatter twisted mostly out the way. He took some sort of blow to the ribs and calmly shot the man out of the saddle as he rode off.

Then he took a quick look around and ordered, “Down! Down!”

Lieutenant Mehler’s volley emptied half a dozen saddles.

“Fire!”

Sperzel’s men and the Flieden militia alike had grabbed the matchlocks taken from the dragoons’ casualties. The volley crashed out across the wagon and shattered any hope the dragoons had of closing with the wagons.

Neustatter heard Mehler bellow, “Second rank, fire!”

He felt the pressure as the musket balls passed overhead.

Then he popped up with a fresh magazine in his Colt .45.

The dragoons who had ridden off to the right—the north—wrapped around the first house and rode straight into the heart of Flieden . . . 

 . . . straight into a volley from Mehler’s other platoon.

“Charge bayonets!” the Fulda Barracks Regiment lieutenant ordered. “Cavalry, charge! Second rank, fire!”

Three more saddles emptied. Eleven mounted Fliedeners started forward. Their formation was ragged, their gaits were confused. Neither one mattered. The dragoons wheeled and fled, peppered with fire from villagers defending the right flank.

The Fulda Barracks Regiment platoon on the left moved steadily forward, one rank passing through the other and then firing. A couple dragoons who had made it past the wagons and were still in their saddles whirled their horses around and galloped back the way they had come.

The larger number milling around beyond the wagons, already teetering on the edge, saw them coming and broke.

“NESS! Mount up!” Neustatter ordered.

“Mount up!” Sperzel told his men.

“Go!” Lieutenant Mehler ordered. “Do not get ambushed!”

Most of their horses were where they were supposed to be. Not everyone got the word, but Neustatter and Sperzel set off in pursuit with a total of six NESS agents and four Fulda Barracks Regiment soldiers.

Neustatter had himself, Ditmar, and his four NESS pistoleers. Hjalmar was still up on a roof. Richart was more useful on the ground with that over/under shotgun, and Lukas had been busy capturing dragoons in the immediate vicinity of the wagons. Sperzel and his men had muskets. They would not be firing while mounted, certainly not while in motion.

The two columns of dragoons had merged together into a single retreating stream by the time the pursuit was underway. A few stragglers were still in sight.

Neustatter watched carefully as the pursuit approached the place the dragoons had used as their staging area. He saw a couple casualties, and a lone dragoon standing over them, sword in one hand, pistol in the other. He seemed less than completely steady.

Neustatter reined in. “Hauptmann?”

“Leave my men alone,” the dragoon rasped.

“SoTF National Guard,” Neustatter stated in English. “Lay down your weapons. My men will take you to the medic.”

The man hesitated. Neustatter could see the bloodstain on his side now.

“It was a fair battle. Up-time rules of war. They captured me at Alte Veste.”

The man seemed to sag. Whether in pain or relief, Neustatter couldn’t tell, but his sword and pistol dropped to the ground.

“Otto. Jakob. Talk to the Leutnant, but recommend the usual. We will be right back.”

Neustatter, Sperzel, and six others pressed on for about an up-time mile. They overtook a few men, each time ordering them to dismount and leaving a guard behind. Finally, Neustatter, Sperzel, and Phillip reined in.

“Any further and we would be asking to be ambushed,” Neustatter declared.

“Agreed,” Sperzel said. He wheeled his horse around. “Let us collect everyone and establish order in Flieden.”


Thursday, September 14, 1634


“Pretty sure I said you men did not need to pull sentry duty,” Lieutenant Mehler greeted Neustatter before dawn.

“Pretty sure you have a sergeant or a corporal who could handle this shift,” Neustatter returned.

Mehler nodded. He still looked ridiculously young and untried, and after the battle and late night, his hair was even more of a mess. On the other hand, yesterday he’d simultaneously handled two platoons engaged against separate columns and ordered Flieden’s cavalry in at the decisive moment. So Neustatter was going to make a lot of allowances.

“Thought I would spell your medic and Topf for an hour,” Neustatter said.

“How many did we lose during the night?”

“Another Fliedener. A couple dragoons.” Neustatter shook his head. “All six of those villagers would be alive if I had not ordered a stand here.”

“Might be alive,” Mehler corrected. “The hauptmann you captured—O’Brien—would not have savaged this place, but that second hauptmann? I saw how O’Brien did not come to his defense when we talked in front of him last night. How is O’Brien, anyway?”

“He should be fine,” Neustatter told him. “Ditmar got him with a couple rounds from his twenty-two. The wounds should not get infected, especially since you are taking him back to Fulda. If I may make a suggestion, sir, send him right on to Erfurt.”

“I suspect we will, but my hauptmann, Major Utt, and Herr Jenkins will probably have something to say about that,” Lieutenant Mehler returned.

“Sorry, sir,” Neustatter apologized. “I am not used to that many links in a chain of command.”

Lieutenant Mehler laughed for the first time since arriving in Flieden. “Somehow that does not surprise me, Neustatter.”

Neustatter’s expression did not change at all.

“Neustatter, people die in battle.” Mehler spoke sternly. “You know that. You have been in more battles than I have. Six killed and fifteen wounded are remarkably low casualties.”

“Mostly suffered by Flieden.”

“You have three wounded. I have two wounded. Other villages have two wounded. Flieden has six killed and eight wounded, and that is far less than if they had tried to fend off that second company without your help. I know some of them said the village would have been left alone, but we both know that is not true. O’Brien would have ridden until he found whomever he was supposed to find, but that other hauptmann . . . His tactics show him to be aggressive and arrogant. You did the right thing.”

“Dank, LT,” Neustatter muttered. “But NESS has only two wounded.”

Leutnant Mehler gave Neustatter the sort of skeptical look suited to an exasperated governess. “Were you or were you not bleeding?”

Neustatter snorted. “I have cut myself worse than that shaving. I think he punched me with the hilt and just broke the skin.”

Mehler rolled his eyes and continued. “Und you took a company of enemy dragoons off the roads. Maybe a few more than that.”

“Ja, we did. But the victory is going to be hard on Flieden. Leutnant Mehler? We captured a dozen horses in the initial ambush. I promised one to the teamsters for the wagon horse that was killed and said we would split the rest with them. Shared ownership with a stables. Does the Fulda Barracks Regiment need the horses captured here in Flieden?”

“I do not think we want to give all of them up,” Mehler answered cautiously.

“I know the SoTF and the USE need warhorses. But could we leave some of them here in Flieden? The village is down at least six men, maybe fourteen depending on whether the wounded recover. It would let them keep up with planting and harvest.”

“That is a good idea, Neustatter. Come, let us find Hauptmann Zeithoff.”

* * *

Mehler and Neustatter spotted Zeithoff talking to a few of the villagers.

“Ja, I agree—I wish none of it had happened. But once we could not agree to flee, deaths were inevitable. We fought well. We won. We will honor those men,” the amtmann declared.

“Ja, we must. A service later today . . . ”

Neustatter recognized the short, austere-looking man as Flieden’s pastor. He had crossed paths with Franz Struve for only a few minutes yesterday at Hermann Topf’s house.

Zeithoff noticed Mehler and Neustatter and beckoned them.

“Pastor Struve has suggested a service later today.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Mehler said.

Neustatter held out his hand. “Franz Struve, I understand we have you to thank for getting Flieden’s women and children out of the line of fire. I asked around last night and found out that you personally led them from houses that were threatened.”

Struve looked uncomfortable at that. “Someone had to.”

“Most of the brave men I have met say that,” Neustatter stated. “My men and I would be happy to attend the service.”

When Neustatter returned to where he and his men had slept, he found Ditmar fussing over Hjalmar.

“I am fine, Ditmar,” Hjalmar was insisting. “This should not even count as wounded. I got some splinters sliding down roofs.”

“What, you slid on your face?” Ditmar retorted.

“Some of them might have been from near-misses,” Hjalmar allowed.

Neustatter interrupted. “Can you ride?”

Hjalmar made a dismissive noise. “Of course.”

Neustatter nodded and made his way over to Jakob.

“Can you ride?”

Jakob Bracht looked down at the bandages around his upper left arm, then back up at Neustatter. “Nein, not on a horse. I will be fine in a wagon, but I do not have the left arm strength to control the reins. It is not deep, just—”

“Deep enough that you will be laid up for a while.” Neustatter held up a hand. “I agree, Jakob. If we were still in a life-or-death situation, I would put you back on the line this morning. But we are not. I want you on one of the wagons back to Fulda. Nein, nein, do not start. There is a danger of infection, and Fulda can get drugs faster than Frankfurt. In an emergency, they can toss you in a truck to Grantville.

“But I expect all you will do is get to Fulda a week or so ahead of us. Und the wagons taking the wounded to Fulda could use an agent with a revolver. Once you get to Fulda, take it easy. Telegraph the office if you need to. I will make sure you have enough money for food and drink.”

* * *

At the funeral service, the NESS agents stood with the Fulda Barracks Regiment. The entire village was there, even Hermann Topf. Lieutenant Mehler had sent half a dozen soldiers under the company’s medic to care for the wounded during the service.

Struve was not as polished as some pastors Neustatter had heard, not even as much as Pastor Claussen back in the village. But his simple, direct words offered comfort amid Flieden’s grief.

Afterwards, some of the men came over and greeted Neustatter, Sperzel, and Mehler. The three of them huddled with Zeithoff, who was back to being the amtmann.

“I have to send the men from the other villages home,” Zeithoff told them.

“Of course,” Lieutenant Mehler agreed. “I will stay with most of my men and the medic. The corporal and three men I sent riding for Fulda after the battle was over should be arriving about now. I requested reinforcements and more medics. Once the wounded dragoons are well enough to move, I will send them under guard to Fulda. Und I will send Sergeant Sperzel and a full squad with you, Neustatter, a half-day’s ride. I cannot send them far outside the SoTF, but you should be able to reach Frankfurt without further trouble. From what the prisoners have said, there is no enemy army out there. Just a couple companies of dragoons acting like they were going to meet someone.”

“Danke, sir,” Neustatter said.


Friday, September 15, 1634


In the morning, all the NESS agents were eager to continue on to Frankfurt. So were Lorenz and Heinrich. Tobias and Albrecht were noticeably hesitant but not making any verbal protest.

Ernst Wunderlich was. “Neustatter, how do you know the road is safe? A whole cavalry regiment could be out there.”

“Could be,” Neustatter allowed. “What intelligence we have suggests that the two companies we faced were on their own. But if we run into a regiment, we will come right back to Flieden.”

“A couple hundred dragoons could overrun us.”

“If they were between Flieden and Frankfurt—but they are not.” Neustatter sounded certain. “Leutnant Mehler’s men will have reached Fulda by now, and as soon as they reported in, a radio message would have been sent to Frankfurt. Any other dragoons out there are going to be busy evading General Brahe’s men. Besides, we need to get the machine parts to Frankfurt, ja?”

Lieutenant Mehler and Amtmann Zeithoff approached.

“Danke, Neustatter,” Zeithoff said. “Flieden is still here.”

“I regret the casualties.” Neustatter spoke quietly. “Especially the one pistoleer in the wagons.”

“But you were right. We probably would have lost that many if we had tried to run.” Zeithoff shook his head. “There was no good choice.”

“I hope there is no next time,” Neustatter offered. “But if there is, you and your families know that you defended your homes.”

“If there is, Flieden will be ready,” Lieutenant Mehler stated. “We will do some training to make your men even more effective. Get patrols out this way more often.” He turned to his sergeant. “Sergeant Sperzel, is your squad ready?”

“Ja, sir.”

“Safe journey, Neustatter.”

Mehler and Neustatter shook hands. Then Neustatter saluted. Mehler returned it. NESS mounted up.

Neustatter turned toward the wagons, grinned, and bellowed, “Wagons, ho!”

The four wagons set out, each trailing a couple horses captured in the initial ambush. All the NESS agents except Jakob were mounted now, as were the ten men in Sergeant Sperzel’s squad. Anyone who did not have a revolver or an up-time weapon carried a matchlock or a snaphance pistol captured from the dragoons.

Neustatter figured they were still three days from Frankfurt, and they closer they got, the closer they got to General Brahe’s forces. Sperzel’s squad rode with them for an uneventful morning. The wagon train reached a village about midday, and those villagers had not seen soldiers of any kind in months.

“This is where we turn back,” Sergeant Sperzel told Neustatter.

“Danke, Sergeant. I appreciate the escort.”

“That was a well-fought battle, Neustatter. You did most of it. We will see you when you come back through Fulda.”

Neustatter and Sperzel shook hands and exchanged salutes.


Monday, September 18, 1634


The wagon train met one of General Brahe’s patrols on Saturday and arrived in Frankfurt late on Sunday. They were able to get the cargo under lock and key, but missed any opportunity to send a radio message—and the radio operators were not transmitting on Sundays, except for emergencies.

It was Monday morning before Neustatter was able to have two radio messages sent.


BEGIN: FRANKFURT TO FULDA

TO: MAJOR UTT

ADDR: FULDA BARRACKS

FROM: CPL E NEUSTATTER SOTF NG

DATE: 18 SEP 1634

MESSAGE: HIGHEST REGARDS LT MEHLER AND SGT SPERZEL FOR DEFENSE OF FLIEDEN VS MERCENARY DRAGOONS STOP

PLS CONFIRM SAFE ARRIVAL OF CASUALTIES TO FULDA BARRACKS STOP

END


BEGIN: FRANKFURT TO GVILLE

TO: ASTRID SCHAUBIN

ADDR: NESS OFFICE RT 250 EAST

DATE: 18 SEP 1634

MESSAGE: ARRIVED FRANKFURT 17 SEP STOP BATTLE VS MERCENARY DRAGOONS 11-13 SEP FLIEDEN STOP

JAKOB FLESH WOUND HJALMAR MINOR CUTS SAYS TOO SMALL TO COUNT AND DONT WORRY YOU STOP

ESTIMATE RETURN 28-30 SEP STOP

END


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