Chapter 46
The Collegium Academicum
Gyulafehérvár
Morris preferred riding in a Dvorak with Tuva as the pilot. Like Denise, she was quite self-confident in the air, but her demeanor lacked Denise’s bravura. And she didn’t sing that damned song Denise was so fond of.
They landed near the Collegium Academicum, despite the capital having a more permanent, and better, landing site north of the city. The distance between there and here was small, Morris knew, but he didn’t want to waste any time. He had to see his commanding general. He had to see all three of Isaac’s patients.
Len first. Ellie wanted to discuss a few communications matters with Morris in person. A tower needed to be erected near the newly constructed airport, if the Sunrise was going to be in the capital for any length of time. Morris approved the request and made a mental note to get the machinery moving, so to speak, on that score. Having a tower would reduce their need to use the Dvoraks for signal boosts. That would make both Denise and Tuva—and Eddie—very happy.
“How are you feeling, Len?” Morris asked, daring to place a hand on the poor man’s good shoulder. The other was wrapped tightly in gauze. Dried blood had seeped through the fabric. Morris winced at the sight of it.
“I feel like shit if you want to know the truth of it,” Len said, apparently in a foul mood. Based on the look on Ellie’s face, they had had an argument about something, and recently. Tempers were still on a knife’s edge. “El Doctor never gives me enough pain meds, and my beloved wife here refuses to support me on the matter.”
“That’s all I need,” Ellie snapped back. “A goddamned junkie for a husband. He gives you plenty, Len. You’re knocked right out when they give it to you. And besides, you’re already constipated. What do you want to do? Never take a shit again?”
It seemed as if the fight would blow right back up. Morris said nothing, subduing his inclination to jump into the fray. It’d be like jumping into the middle of a catfight.
To his surprise, the argument ended as quickly as it had started. Ellie turned away and went to her radio equipment. Len lay back into his pillow. “Sorry, boss. Things have been a little…hot around here for the past few days. It’s my fault. I’m in a foul mood.”
“As to be expected,” Morris said. “Don’t worry about it. And I must apologize for refusing your request to be airlifted back to Kassa. Trust me: riding in one of those Dvoraks would not be ideal and, quite honestly, perhaps suicidal. And we cannot afford using the Dauntless or the Jupiter for one man. I’m sorry, my friend.”
Len shrugged and winced in pain when he seemed to forget that his shoulder and half his torso were wrapped solid. “Oww! That’s okay, Morris. It wasn’t my idea anyway. It was Isaac’s and Ellie’s. But I told them no. I’m not on a deathbed here. I hurt, but I’m alive, and by God, I can be useful in the battle that’s coming.”
“Can you do radio work?”
Len nodded and forced a chuckle as he adjusted himself on his bed and closed his eyes. “As much as my beloved wife and doctor will allow.”
* * *
His visit with Prince Rákóczi was short. The prince was still in a coma. They had never met in person, and so Morris thought it best to simply step in, pay his proper respects, and leave. Isaac and a young lady named Oana Dalca were attending the patient.
“He has good days and bad days, Morris,” Isaac said. “Today is a particularly bad one.”
“What are his chances?” Morris asked.
Isaac took care to look around the room, at the guards, the prince’s attending aides who did nothing but simply stand there and stare at their declining prince. There were clergy in the room as well, including a Calvinist minister who introduced himself as Johann Heinrich Alsted. Morris couldn’t immediately identify the religious affiliations of the other two.
Isaac did not speak. Instead, he simply widened his eyes, glanced upward, and moved his head in a small, unassuming shake.
“I understand,” Morris said, his mood worsening. “We’ll speak later. Perhaps pray as well.”
He then visited von Mercy who, despite his disheveled appearance and swollen leg, was in relatively good shape.
“The Sunrise will conduct a force march for the capital at first light,” Morris said. “Along with Higgins’ Silesian Guard.”
“Not Richter?”
Morris shook his head. “She’s decided to remain in Kolozsvár. It’s really the ideal place for her to work because it has a bigger, more diverse population than the capital here. She’ll have her personal guard for protection, as well as additional security from the Transylvanian forces already there. She’ll be fine.”
“Very good, sir. I don’t know when the Wallachians and Moldavians will move against us, but I’m certain it’ll be soon. If I were them, I wouldn’t hesitate.” There was a pause, then: “So, what have you decided about Princess Lorántffy’s offer to me?”
“I think you should accept it.”
Von Mercy adjusted the blanket over his legs. “The Diet is going to explode when I do.”
“We’ll deal with that problem when we get to it,” Morris said, shooting a quick glance down the bed. “But I think you’re right, General. You’re in no shape for fieldwork. You’ll coordinate the battle from here in the capital, via radio and runners. That’ll allow you to keep a better handle on the security matters in the streets. But you’ll need to assign someone to field command. You can’t be allowed on a horse.”
Von Mercy winced, from the pain in his leg, most likely, and not from the reality that he wouldn’t lead the Sunrise into battle. In all the time the ex-Imperial general had served him, Morris had never gotten the impression that von Mercy was overly arrogant or self-absorbed. He had an ego for sure, and it could be bruised, but he seemed capable of keeping it under control…most of the time, at least. The fact that he had offered in Krakow to step down as field commander and give the Sunrise to an Ashkenazi commander was admirable.
“Brigadier Higgins?” von Mercy offered.
Morris shrugged. “Without doubt, Jeff is a fine field commander. But as far as I know, he’s never commanded anyone other than his own Hangmen. And now, of course, the entire Silesian Guard. I worry that, at the height of the battle, he’d focus more on them than looking at the overall strategic situation. Besides, I don’t think he’d accept the command anyway. He strikes me as more of a tactician than a strategist, at least at this stage of his military career. He’s still quite young—twenty-five or twenty-six, I forget which.”
Von Mercy nodded and rubbed his messy, overgrown beard. It had fallen out of clean and well-kept Vandyke status and was now just a nest of black-and-gray stubble. “Then I’d say let it be Colonel Gerhardt Renz. He’s proven to be a good, reliable commander, and I am confident he can coordinate and execute an effective battle plan.”
Morris smiled. “Colonel Burkenfeld might take offense, being as he is commander of First Cavalry Regiment.”
“The decision to promote cannot be based upon the number designation of a regiment,” von Mercy said, his more commanding, authoritative voice taking hold. “Burkenfeld is a fine regimental commander, but Renz would be, in my estimation, a better leader over all. With your permission, General, I will appoint him upon the army’s arrival. I will also appoint Major General Luthor Lange as head of security for the capital.”
Morris nodded. “I’ve said it many times—and to the annoyance of all concerned, I’m sure—I’m not a combat commander, General von Mercy. I shift supplies back and forth. It’s your decision to make.” He smiled and placed his hand atop the general’s. He squeezed it. “And I’m glad to see you so well, sir. We can’t do this without you.”
* * *
Isaac was awakened from a short nap by Oana. “Come,” she said such that Isaac thought her voice a dream, “it’s Prince Rákóczi.”
Isaac rubbed his tired eyes clear and got up, grabbed his stethoscope, and followed her into the hallway.
His steps were heavy. His head ached. A thousand issues clouded his mind. Since he had arrived in the capital, he had gotten, perhaps, four hours of sleep each day. He felt like collapsing, but Oana held his arm and guided him into the prince’s room.
The guards were still there, though they lacked their rigid, statue-like visages. They leaned forward from their corners, their eyes fixed on the prince’s limp, motionless body, like Princess Lorántffy who sat at his side, gripping his left hand tightly. George II, his oldest son, was there, standing beside his mother, looking down at his father’s cold, white face.
Gáspár stepped aside to give Isaac ample room and light. The oil lamp on the nightstand cast shadows across the bed. Isaac placed his fingers on the prince’s throat. He pressed harder.
He then placed the stethoscope’s earpieces into his ears and pressed the chest piece into the prince’s chest. He moved it to another spot and another, and another.
He stood straight, removed the earpieces, and sighed. “I’m sorry, my lady, but he’s gone.”