Chapter 54
Field hospital
Grand Army of the Sunrise
Isaac gave young Tobias his orders, supplies, and sent him on his way. To the southern triage center, in fact, where he and other medics and nurses would wait for casualties. And there would be plenty. On that, Isaac had no doubt. More, perhaps, than he had experienced in Krakow. Much more than on that stone bridge years ago.
“Thank you, Oana,” he said with a smile, handing her a basket of sanitized bandages and horsehair stitching. “Give that to Doctor Oberheuser, please. Ask him to review its contents, and if he is satisfied, he may hand it over to the field medics heading north.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said with a sweet smile. She turned on her heels and walked away. Isaac watched her leave until a less attractive figure stepped into his view.
“Captain von Jori,” he huffed, “surprised to see you here on the eve of battle.”
“The eve? Maybe. Or two days, three. It all depends upon the enemy.” Christian stepped aside and turned to watch Oana leave the tent. “Hmm. Pretty woman. You seem quite taken with her.”
Isaac pointed a stern finger at Christian’s good eye. “Watch yourself, Captain. Fräulein Dalca is a great caregiver. I cannot have you diverting her attention from the casualties that will be—”
Christian waved the comment away. “Peace, my friend. I did not come for that.”
“Andreea Hatmanu is here somewhere,” Isaac said, lifting himself up on his toes to look through the bustle of medical and supply staff.
“I didn’t come to see her either. We’ve…shared our words already.” Christian straightened. “No, I’m here to see you. If you have a moment.”
Isaac nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. There’s much to do before the battle, but now would be a good time.”
They stepped through the flap and into the darkness. The light from so many torches and lanterns gave the evening an eerie glow, a kind of ghostly visage that swirled around them in the wisps of fog leaching through the camp. The activity outside the tent was almost as frenetic as inside. Somewhere in the distance was laughter and, as usual, Doctor Oberheuser’s booming voice as he dictated simple tasks at the top of his lungs.
“So, Captain von Jori, to what do I owe the honor?”
“I wanted to drop by and see how you were. You know, ever since Kolozsvár, I’ve been worried about your—”
“My breakdown?”
“No, no, that’s not what I going to say. I—”
Isaac waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, my friend. I’m well versed in psychological trauma and stress. It isn’t just soldiers that deal with such things. Let’s call it what it was: a nervous breakdown. I’m fine now, Christian. Ever since I arrived in the capital, I’ve been well.”
They paused. Isaac breathed deeply, catching the scent of meat roasting on a spit nearby. Some of the Saxon soldiers who had fled from the south were bivouacking nearby in support of the medical corps. They caroused in German. Isaac understood the words, but not the context. He was glad to see and hear them in such good spirits. Nervous laughter, perhaps, but any laughter in a moment like this was better than brooding silence.
Christian raised his chin toward the capital. “Right now, at the college, our fates are being decided by General Roth and his lieutenants.” He chuckled. “Like the gods of Olympus high above us mere mortals.”
Isaac raised his brows. “Ah…you’re a soldier and a scholar.”
“No, I know very little about all that. But my uncle used to speak of such things when he would return from his mercenary work in Greece, Italy, France. It seemed like he’d been everywhere.”
Isaac could see a spark in Christian’s eye, a longing for, perhaps, those simpler days as a child, where stories of war were always less bloody than the real thing. Where heroes always vanquished the wicked. Where God’s divine purpose always prevailed.
“You said you were going to tell me about your uncle and how he was the reason you became a soldier. We’ve got time now. Tell me about it.”
Christian sighed, paused, then began. “Very well. My uncle, Klaus von Jori, was a mercenary. Most of his life, I suppose. He was my father’s youngest brother. Captain Kinsky reminds me of him, a kind of brash, undisciplined fellow from a good family who struck out on his own in his youth and never regretted a moment of it. In winter, he’d come back to the homestead and stay with us for a few months, sometimes longer. Always with a fresh wound—a slash across his face, neck, chest. A broken bone, a limp, a bump on the head. He was a footman, which I always thought was surprising given his family’s business. Another example, I suppose, of his rebellious nature.
“But I loved him. Not so much for who he was, but for what he did. He did things, Isaac. He stepped outside of Zurich, outside Switzerland, and did things. All my father ever wanted his family to do was to stay in Zurich and manage horses. Horses, horses, horses. I never passed a morning sunrise without hearing the whinny of a horse, a snort, a stamp or shuffle of hooves. It’s surprising that I didn’t grow to hate them.
“But unlike my uncle, I grew to love them. Depend on them. I can’t imagine life without a horse, Isaac.”
Isaac nodded. “I know what you mean. I can’t imagine myself not being a doctor.”
“Exactly. You understand. Anyway, my uncle would come home and tell us stories about his ‘adventures,’ as he called them, his time in Greece or Italy. France. He seemed to love France the most, though he never explained why. He’d tell stories about battles and all the fights he was in. If he ever got too graphic, too overzealous with his descriptions, my father would rein him in, sometimes kick him out of the house for the evening. But then I’d sneak out and find my uncle sleeping in the barn, and he’d quietly tell me more. Well, from there on, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
“Then the Ring of Fire happened. News of it came slowly to Switzerland. It was months before we learned of the event. Of course, like many in Zurich, we thought it a falsehood, an evil lie. Fanciful Germans telling tall tales after drinking too much ale. But it was true, and the world began to change.
“Young men in Zurich left to head north, to see for themselves these up-timers who had come through some godless ring of fire to our time. Witches and warlocks, that’s what they were called. But when things really began to change, when word of their successes on the battlefield arrived in Zurich, well, I had to see these people. I had to know for myself if they were real.
“I tried leaving in 1633, and I almost got away. But my father caught me hanging out the window. He didn’t strike me, he didn’t rage. He was calm and rational about it, and for that, I paid him the courtesy of staying for a while longer. But in the spring of 1635, I finally left. I stole a man’s horse from our livery and headed north, into Germany. From there, I got work with one cavalry regiment after another, as a farrier, a blacksmith, a quartermaster’s aide, until I got the chance to join a company.”
Christian held up his hands. “And here I am: Captain Christian von Jori, commanding officer of my own company. I think my uncle would be proud.”
“Your father?”
Isaac could see tears well up in his friend’s eyes. Christian did not let those tears drop. Instead, he shook his head, rubbed his face. “I don’t know. I left without saying goodbye. Left without kissing my mother, without telling my sister or younger brother where I was going. They probably think me dead.”
Isaac felt a tear of his own begin to form. “Well, one day you will return home and regale them with stories about high adventure on the Transylvanian plateau.”
That seemed to pique Christian’s mood. He nodded. “Perhaps. If I live that long.”
That last comment hurt. “Would you like to pray?” Isaac asked.
Christian shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m not very good with that. But, if you will, please say one for Lieutenant Enkefort and my men tonight. They deserve a good word.”
Isaac nodded. “Yes, I will do so.”
Isaac opened his arms. Christian did the same.
They hugged. A short, sweet squeeze and pat on the back.
“I must be off,” Christian said, letting go and turning away. “Back to the company.”
“Go with God, Captain.” Isaac forced a smile, perhaps the last smile he would ever share with this man that he had grown to know and admire as a brother. “I’ll see you soon.”
General von Mercy’s room
It was late, nearly one o’clock in the morning, but Morris could see a sliver of lamplight through the general’s cracked door. He knocked lightly.
“Come in,” von Mercy said.
Morris opened the door and stuck his head through, smiled. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Please come, General.”
Von Mercy was telling the truth. He was up in his wheelchair, sitting over a map of the battlefield that he had laid out over his bed. No one else was in the room. It was quiet, with the only light from the lamp focused on the bed and map.
“I hate to disturb you at this hour, General,” Morris said, opening the door just enough to enter, then closing it behind him. “But I thought I’d go over the plan with you once more.”
“Very well. Shall I call in Renz, or Higgins, or—”
Morris put up his hand. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll talk alone.”
He wanted to go over the plan again, for sure, but that wasn’t why he was here. But now that he stood before von Mercy, with the general sitting upright in his chair, waiting patiently for him to make the first move, Morris wasn’t sure he could speak about what was really gnawing at his brain. He wondered if perhaps it was better to speak to Jeff on this matter. Up-timer to up-timer. Someone who, though younger and with less knowledge of Jewish up-time history, had at least enough knowledge of it to know what was coming. Or, at least, had a much, much better sense of what could happen if the Grand Army of the Sunrise failed in its cause.
Morris sat on the edge of the bed, disrupting some of the pieces von Mercy had spread across his map. He sighed deeply. “I’m…concerned about the battle.”
Von Mercy nodded. “Understandable. Is there something in the plan you’d like to discuss, go over again? We’ve time to make adjustments, if necessary.”
Morris shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m satisfied with the plan. I’m worried about the men.” Oh, hell, just say it! “I’m worried about the Joshua Corps.”
Von Mercy said nothing, waiting, Morris supposed, to see if his commanding general would continue.
“They’re green, General. Green as a gourd, as an up-timer might say. Yes, they’ve been given good training. They’ve drilled continuously before and during the march into Transylvania. In their minds, they know what to do. They’ve got enough muscle memory stored up. They’re ready.
“But let’s be honest: they’re just boys. Most of them, anyway, and there’s a big difference between shooting at a target and shooting—and killing—a real enemy soldier, a live human being. Someone who’s bearing down on you with their own gun, their own sword. At the height of the battle, General, are their muscles going to remember what their minds forget?”
Von Mercy cleared his throat. “The Joshua Corps has good officers. Colonels Shalit and Schiff are both highly qualified commanders.”
“What about Zelikovich?” Morris asked.
Von Mercy shrugged. “He’s definitely less experienced. But the plan isn’t to put his regiment into the front line anyway.” Von Mercy fell silent, rubbed his beard, adjusted position in his chair. He cleared his throat again, said, “I’ll radio Higgins to send one of his Silesian Guard regiments south in support.”
Morris shook his head, stood, and walked over to the lamp. He let the light shine up onto his chin, creating an eerie glow on his face, the kind of glow he remembered as a child. On sleepovers late at night, he and his friends used to hold a flashlight under their faces to cast dark, twisted shadow masks while telling ghost stories. Those were the days. Good days. Simpler days. The flashlight was gone now, but the ghost stories remained.
“I can’t just send in more troops,” he said, “not right before the battle, anyway. What kind of message does that send?”
“Message, sir?”
“Yes, message. I’d be telling them right up front that I, Morris Roth—the guy they see as some Moses that’s come to deliver them from their strife—thinks that they aren’t capable of fighting, and winning, their own battle. What message does that send?”
There was a pause. Morris turned and stared at von Mercy, waiting for an answer, but knowing that a good one was unlikely to come. Morris didn’t have a very good answer himself. His emotions were all in a tangle. Fear, dread, indecision. The kind of emotions best left on the cutting room floor on the eve of battle.
Von Mercy seemed confused as he tried working out an answer in his mind. Finally, he said, “Let me see if I understand you correctly, General. You’re concerned about the battle preparedness of the Joshua Corps, and as such, you are worried that they will not hold against the Wallachians.”
“Yes.”
“As the commanding general, you have the authority to order additional troops to the southern battle line in order to shore up any weakness that the Joshua Corps may possess.”
“Yes.”
“And yet, you are unwilling, or reluctant, to make such a request because you are worried that doing so would make the Joshua Corps seem weak and incapable of fighting for themselves.”
“Yes,” Morris said. “You have it right.”
Von Mercy huffed, shook his head. Morris saw a derisive smile curl the left side of the general’s mouth. “With respect, sir, you are being foolish.”
Morris put his hands on his hips, furrowed his brow. “Excuse me?”
“Sir, I’ve been in this war business for a long time. I can tell you this. A man is not a good or bad soldier because his skin is fair, or dark, or he’s a Christian, a Muslim, or a Jew. He’s a good soldier because he’s been trained to be so, and he has something inside that makes him one. I’ve served with a lot of good soldiers in my life. I’ve served with a lot of bad ones. When bullets begin to fly, the good ones will rise, the bad ones will fall. Bullets don’t give a damn for the color of your skin, or which God you worship.”
“This is bigger than that, General,” Morris said, stepping away from the lamp into greater shadow. “This is bigger than just defending the Transylvanian capital and honoring our commitment to the local people. I cannot allow the Joshua Corps to fail. But I also cannot allow them to believe that they cannot win.”
“It’s a good fighting force, General,” Von Mercy said, wheeling himself away from the bed. “Yes, two of three regiments are green, inexperienced. I’m worried as well. But I’ve seen the best of them in action at Déj, and Colonel Shalit’s regiment will be at the spear point of the attack. First Cavalry Regiment will be there as well. It’s a strong position.”
“You don’t understand, General. You’re not a Jew. At this moment, their psychology matters just as much as the bullets they pump into their barrels. It’s my responsibility to support both. I cannot let them fall. I cannot let them lose faith.”
He turned away and stepped to the window. It was a cold night. Not below freezing, but in the low forties. Light rain had fallen, though no one believed that a storm was brewing. Not one in the clouds, anyway.
“You’ve heard my position on the matter, General Roth,” von Mercy said. “It’s your decision. Send in one of the Silesian regiments right away, or wait and let the southern battle line evolve as it may.”
Morris kept looking out the window. A company of Saxons had been put in charge of protecting the grounds of the college. Now they sat outside, around their campfires, huddled together, smoking, conserving as much warmth as possible. He could hear their muffled German mixed with the occasional Hungarian phrase.
“You know, Morris said, “if Uriel Abrabanel were here, he’d quote Shakespeare and recommend that I don a heavy cloak and walk about my men in disguise, to get the full measure of the common soldier.” He chuckled. “It wouldn’t work for me. They’d spot me in a New York minute.”
“Then what shall it be, sir? If we send another regiment to aid the Joshua Corps, we must do it soon. Time grows short.”
A Saxon soldier outside the window apparently told a joke in German. His campmates laughed. I wish I were with you fellows, Morris thought. I sure could use a good laugh right now.
“Do not send any Silesians yet,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning forward to place his forehead on the cold window. “We’ll stick to the plan…and see what happens.”