Chapter 67
Northern battle line
Christian heard the horrific discharge of musket fire. The whole world heard it, he imagined. He and the world paused to listen, and his heart sank.
Wounded Székely soldiers fell back from the ambush. Christian could see the mass now, a red-coated shamble of terrified men who were still under heavy fire from the thick tree line on each side of the road. For a moment, he feared that he and Mitzlaff’s cavalry would not be able to work through it, that their charge would be blunted by the chaotic retreat. Should we withdraw? he wondered. Re-form and try another way? Then he heard the faint rumble of horses’ hooves beyond the retreating lines, and the recognizable howls of Tatar cavalrymen.
Christian leaned forward and put his head on Alphonse’s mane. He stroked the horse’s neck. “Mut, mein Freund. Wir werden das gemeinsam durchstehen.”
Holding Alphonse’s reins tightly, Christian drew one of his pistols and held it aloft. He looked left, right. His and Mitzlaff’s men were in place, ready. Lieutenant Enkefort was at his side, fearful, Christian knew, but steady.
He cocked his pistol, both barrels. “Ready, men!” Christian shouted. “Ready…”
“Charge!”
Central battle line
Jeff stepped back as the rider’s mount slid to a halt in front of him, splashing dirt and pebbles forward. The boy in the saddle, his voice raspy and breathless, botched the salute. Jeff waved it off. “Give me the skinny, son.”
The boy seemed perplexed by Jeff’s words, but answered anyway. “Sir, the APC line has been breached.”
“How?”
“One of their tanks struck, pushed it over, and then exploded in fire!”
Jeff’s heart sank. “How the hell did that happen?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. All I know is what they tell me. They say its battering ram struck the middle wagon and knocked it over. Then it got stuck in the wagon’s carriage and—”
Jeff blew out a long, high-pitched whistle. “Damnation!”
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. Apparently its naphtha tank was breached and then ignited, killing its own crew and many men in the APC, though some got away. But the Janissaries are coming, sir. They’re coming!”
“What of the other APC?” Jeff asked. “There are two.”
“The other is doing well, sir. Transylvanian soldiers following the APC swarmed one of the tanks and took it. The second tank was struck by the locomotive.”
“What?”
The boy couldn’t help but smirk. “They say its crazy pilot decoupled from his wagons and took off after it, struck it square and forced it to retreat.”
Jeff grunted and shook his head. “That’s a set of balls for you. May have to give that fool a medal when it’s all over. Thank you, young man. You may go.”
Jeff stepped away and walked to the edge of the camp, raised his spyglass, and looked out across the battlefield.
Large lines of smoke drifted into the sky. More smoke than he had, in truth, ever seen on a battlefield in this new timeline. No doubt created by those twice-accursed flame tanks. He shook his head. To go down into the middle of all that…
But two tanks were now out of commission, if the runner’s report was correct, and the last one was locked in a fight with the other APC. So that left only the Janissaries to deal with. Easy-peasy.
Jeff couldn’t help but laugh. Easy-peasy, my ass.
He tucked his spyglass away and turned to his aide-de-camp. “Sir, fetch me my horse. It’s time to meet those Janissary sons of bitches.”
* * *
The Hajdu made one more attempt at hitting the advancing Janissaries, but Usan’s men, their blood up, pushed them aside as they had all other obstacles. The Hajdu were an impressive fighting force, he had to admit, a credit to their country. But nothing was going to stop him and his orta from reaching the streets of Gyulafehérvár. The path was wide open now.
Usan calmed his men and brought some order to their advance. He appreciated their energy and enthusiasm, but now was not the time for undisciplined movement. Re-form the lines and move together, one unified block of fire, shot, and sword. The Ifrit, which they had relied upon for so long, was nothing but a burning husk behind them. Going forward, they would have to rely on their own fighting prowess to bring victory.
He looked up and down the red-and-white columns of the orta, his lieutenants barking orders to maintain good form and pace. Nowhere near the number of Janissaries he had first met in that field in Timișoara. Their numbers now were well below full strength, some of them having fallen fresh in the fields behind him. But if any men could take a city…let it be mine.
Up and over a line of connected hillocks, through fields lying fallow for winter, past a farmhouse, and now, Usan could see the banners of the enemy waving in the wind, and the bright white canvas of its hospital. Oh, if he had just two, three cannons, what havoc could he force upon the enemy to drive them away! Why had he been so foolish not to demand cannon be brought with him to this field of battle? Matei needed them, of course, to push the Jews back in the south, and how was that battle progressing? He’d gotten no report of late from the voivode of Wallachia, nor any signals from the Chaldiran. The entire southern attack could have faltered; or, perhaps they had broken the Jewish line and were now driving into the capital themselves. Usan smiled at that possibility. I will meet you at the Princely Palace, Matei Basarab, and there, we will drink a dead prince’s wine in victory.
Usan raised his yataghan, pointed to the white tent, and waved his men forward.
“To the banners,” he shouted until his voice broke. “To the banners!”
* * *
Jeff was off his horse and moving in crouch along the line of men from his Hangman Regiment. Now, he could hear the orders of the Janissary officers as they closed on his hidden position. It wasn’t the best place for an ambush: a half dug-out ditch alongside a dirt road, and if botched, the enemy could easily recreate “Bloody Lane” from the Battle of Antietam.
“Steady, men,” he said, whispering his encouragement as he moved from soldier to soldier, giving them supporting pats on the shoulder, a nod, a smile. Most of them were elite, men who had engaged in many battles over the years. But some were new, and they needed all the encouragement he could give them. This time, they weren’t facing Lithuanian magnates. This time, they were facing Janissaries, and there was a big, big difference.
“Are the volley guns ready?” he asked a member of one of the crews who had come down from the tree line above the ditch.
The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Ready to move into place when you give the order.”
“Then I so order. Get the guns out from behind the trees and set them up as planned. Keep the barrels hidden until you”—he felt silly saying the next thing—“see the whites of their eyes.”
Now was not the time to use old American Revolutionary War lines, but the man didn’t know a thing about up-time wars, and thus, the phrase was new to him. And maybe it still meant something. If the volley guns could slow the Janissaries down and, perhaps, break their lines, then such a declaration would mean everything.
* * *
The first barrage of volley gunfire struck the orta. Usan instinctively ordered his men to drop. Some crouched, some lay flat on their bellies. In both cases, after that initial shot, most of the fire flew over their heads. The guns then paused, and Usan knew that they were adjusting their trajectories for another volley.
In front of him lay a dirt road that meandered both left and right into the horizon. But in the narrow space that they were heading toward, the road dipped out of sight for a good one hundred, one hundred fifty yards. That meant a ditch, and he knew now why those volley guns were firing from hidden positions along the tree line.
There are men in that ditch…waiting.
He did not shout the order. He did not rise to expose himself to gunfire. He simply ran forward in crouch, yataghan in one hand, a khanjar dagger in the other. His men did not need to know what their corbaci wanted them to do.
Usan Hussein led by example.
* * *
The volley guns in the tree line fired again, but Jeff knew the Janissaries wouldn’t—didn’t—take the bait.
“Up, men,” he shouted, “up, and fix bayonets!”
Officers of the Hangman Regiment repeated the order up and down the line, and the men rose from their positions in the ditch and clicked bayonets into place. Then they waited. Jeff wished he had a rifle of his own; he’d be clicking a bayonet into place with the rest of them. But this wasn’t the olden days. He wasn’t a captain or colonel anymore. He was a brigadier, and how many other officers had he admonished for being so foolish as to charge into battle and risk death? No. He would stay behind, find a safe place among the volley guns, and observe the fight with his staff. Besides, if he exposed himself to deadly enemy fire, Gretchen would kill him herself.
“Up!” he shouted again.
His men piled out of the ditch and stood on its lip, waiting.
“Set!”
Together, they shouted and set their bayonets forward.
“Ready…charge!”