Chapter 28
Szamos River Valley
East of Déj
Sergiu Botnari watched as ten horsemen from the enemy army came into view. Light cavalry. Scouts. They were moving slowly, not even a trot. They seemed tired, bored. The one behind the lead horse was speaking German into a wooden box attached to the side of his saddle. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet or discreet. His voice echoed through the river valley.
Beyond the cavalrymen ran the Szamos River, moving slowly but surely at the edge of the road, bright and sparkling as it caught light from the setting sun. The world was growing dark. Sergiu smiled. He couldn’t have asked for a better tableau.
Sergiu did not speak. He was not as foolish or arrogant as the cavalryman down the ridgeline, speaking so loudly into that wooden box that it frightened birds in their passing. Sergiu raised his hand instead, and the twelve men lying in wait readied their muskets. He held his hand up, up, then dropped it.
The blast of their musket fire echoed through the valley. The first three riders and their horses in the patrol line dropped. Smoke obscured what had happened to the remaining horsemen down the line, but judging from the terrified screams of their horses, they too had been hit, to some extent at least. Sergiu wasted no time waiting for the smoke to clear.
He drew his sword and ran down the wooden hill. He and his men had already picked ideal spots to fire and then charge. They followed, their swords raised and so too their voices, no longer under strict noise discipline.
Sergiu took advantage of the confusion and ran right up to a cavalryman who was trying to regain control of his steed. Sergiu slashed at the saddle, trying to cut the girth straps and thus toss the rider. Instead, he cut the horse, which was almost as effective. It reared up on its powerful hind legs. Its rider tried keeping his balance, but Sergiu’s sword strike had pushed the horse closer to the river. It lost its footing and toppled down the muddy bank as the rider released the reins. He tried breaking free from the horse, but he could not get his boots out of the stirrups. Both horse and rider hit the water and disappeared.
Sergiu turned toward the rear of the ambushed column. Three of the riders there had apparently not been hit at all in the first volley. One held a pistol that Sergiu had never seen before. It looked similar to the one tucked away at his belt, but it was thicker, heavier, longer. It was no wheellock. The man kept control of his horse, pointed the strange pistol at one of Sergiu’s charging men, and pulled the trigger.
The man toppled over, a large hole blown through his chest and out his back.
For a moment, Sergiu balked, expressing a bit of fear at the marvelous wound from the up-time weapon, for that’s what it must be, this pistol that he had never seen before. And for scout cavalry to be carrying such lethal firepower…well, it was marvelous and terrifying to witness.
A musket shot near his head brought Sergiu back to the matter at hand. He turned toward the firing man. He had a good notion to draw his knife and put it through the man’s throat. “Don’t fire so close to my head, you fool! I can’t hear a goddamn thing now!”
The man tried to apologize. Sergiu pushed him out of the way as his ears began to recover from the blast. He drew his pistol and raced toward the remaining three scouts.
Another one of those marvelous pistols rang out, and another of Sergiu’s men fell, this time with a point-blank shot in his face. The man receiving the shot dropped immediately, his hand catching in the horse’s stirrup. The scout who had fired brought his horse under control and took off with Sergiu’s dead man dragging at its side.
Sergiu stopped, raised his pistol, and aimed it at the scout as he tried to flee. The two other scouts who had not suffered wounds turned their horses and fled as well.
“Fire!” Sergiu shouted to three men still holding their muskets. One was trying to load, the other was confused. The third fired on command, but his shot was off. Sergiu followed that inaccurate shot with his own.
Sergiu cast down his pistol and screamed. “Aaaaaa! They got away! Three got away! You sons of whores. I said to get them all!”
His surviving men said nothing. They stood there, seemingly in shock, the whole affair over in just a few seconds.
Sergiu went to one of his men, writhing in pain on the ground. He had suffered a shoulder wound from one of those powerful pistols. He was still alive. Barely.
“Did you get your man?” Sergiu asked, kneeling and placing a comforting hand on the man’s forehead. “It’s okay. You can tell the truth.”
The man shook his head, tears of pain running down his face. “No, sir…I—I missed the shot. Got his horse. Darius finished him.”
“But Darius is dead too, isn’t he?”
They both looked at the man lying nearby, facedown, his back blown out and pulsing blood.
“I’m sorry, sir…I…I…”
“It’s okay,” Sergiu said again as he pulled his knife from his belt, jammed it under the man’s ribcage, then waited until the thrashing stopped. “You did your best.”
Sergiu wiped his blade clean on the man’s shirt, stood, and walked away.
He found the scout who had been talking into the wooden box. The man was dead. The box lay underneath him. Sergiu pulled it free and studied it.
A strange, buzzing sound emanated from the box. Is this a radio? Sergiu wondered. Probably so. He had heard of them, but had never seen one. The Ottomans apparently used them just like the USE. It was a way to communicate long distances. He wondered if he could use it. It didn’t seem all that complicated.
Perhaps he could, but he had no time for such things now.
Sergiu stood and tossed the radio into the river and watched it slowly sink and disappear. Perhaps that was a foolish thing to do, since getting hands on up-time equipment was probably the best course of action. But he could not be burdened with such a bulky device. Besides, could his movements be tracked with it? If he kept it, would they know his whereabouts? He shook his head. The enemy could not know his movements. Never.
But a mistake had been made. Three scouts had escaped, and without doubt, they would return to Déj and report what had happened.
Colonel Renz’s headquarters
Déj
“Three got away, sir,” Captain Neuneck said in Colonel Renz’s rather crowded headquarters. All four cavalry captains were in attendance, including Denise Beasley. “They were ambushed about ten miles east, men firing from the ridgeline, then charging.”
“Do they have an indication of how many attacked them?” Colonel Renz asked.
Captain Neuneck shook his head. “Twelve, thirteen, fifteen. More than ten, for sure.”
“Impalers?”
“That’s what they assumed. They were not wearing uniforms. A mix of different kinds of people, different clothing.”
“Could it have been Transylvanian citizens?” Captain Kinsky asked. “We’ve heard reports of Székelys joining the Moldavian army to drive out the ‘Jew invader.’”
Captain Neuneck shook his head. “The attack was too coordinated, too well-conceived. These were professionals.”
“Not professional enough,” Colonel Renz said. “Three got away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Denise Beasley let out a big sigh. She’d been standing listening to these men talk for too long. “Colonel, if you want me to scout any more today, I need to go now, while we still have some daylight. I can fly east again. There and back, and it’s going to be dicey anyway. Sun’s setting fast. We got, maybe, an hour of good daylight left, and then it’s gone. I’ve never tried to land the Dixie Chick in the dark. I don’t plan on trying it tonight.”
Colonel Renz nodded. “Keller? What have you seen on your flank?”
Captain Keller stepped forward, shook his head. “It’s clear so far, sir. Nothing. I think we can say with some confidence that the main body of the Moldavian force is approaching from the east. It’s clear to me that Neuneck’s patrol was attacked to keep it from discovering the enemy’s advance.”
“Perhaps,” Colonel Renz agreed, “though we cannot know that for sure. You keep your patrols running south, Captain Keller. Report back every fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Keller said, saluted, and left the room.
“Colonel,” Denise said with a clear hint of frustration in her voice. She tapped her wrist even though nothing was there. “Times a’wasting.”
Colonel Renz turned and faced Denise. “Can you take someone up with you?”
The question took her by surprise. Then she nodded. “I suppose so. Might be best, anyway. I can tell you, ‘Oh, look, an army,’ but I can’t give you details.” She turned to the other three captains standing nearby. “Which one of you wants to take a ride?”
No one volunteered. Denise could see serious trepidation on all of their faces, but time and daylight were running out. Someone needed to step up.
“Captain von Jori,” Colonel Renz said. “You’ll accompany Fräulein Beasley.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that, Captain?”
Christian swallowed. “Well, it’s just that, with the recent injury to my eye, perhaps it’s best to—”
“We can’t send Captain Kinsky because he’s commanding the defense of the approach that will most likely take the brunt of the attack when it comes. We need him to get his defenses in order before nightfall; every minute counts. We can’t send Keller or Neuneck. Despite recent events, I still need them both scouting forward. That leaves you. The southern approaches appear to be quiet right now. I think we can afford to have you missing from the field for an hour or two.
“Go with her, and if you find anything, I want as many details as you can provide: numbers, weapons, dispositions. How many cavalry? Infantry? Cannon?”
Denise grabbed Christian by the shoulders and turned him to face her. She looked him up and down as if she were measuring him for a suit. “Well…he’s a little big for the cockpit. He’ll burn some serious fuel. But I’ll take him.” She popped him on the shoulder with a smile. “Saddle up, Captain. We fly!”
The Dixie Chick
East of Déj
“Feel that wind, Christian!” Denise shouted as they cruised at about eight hundred feet above the Szamos River Valley. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Christian nodded, though his true feelings on the matter were not quite as definitive. The wind felt good. His stomach did not.
He wasn’t going to vomit. He wasn’t that sick. It was more of a sickness brought on by anxiety, a churning in his stomach like he had felt when he had first charged into battle, or when he had killed his first man. Both life-changing events had been a few years ago, and he’d never forget those moments, nor would he ever forget what he was doing right now: he, Christian von Jori, the son of a prominent blacksmith and farrier from Zurich, Switzerland, was flying hundreds of feet above the ground, moving at a speed that he had never moved at before. How many people in all the world could claim that they had flown in an up-time plane?
The wind was cool with a touch of moisture. It felt good. His eye, however, did not.
Ever since Isaac had released him from care, Christian had suffered blurriness in his right eye. A kind of squiggly line right in the corner, which would grow and grow until he couldn’t see much at all. It would, in time, go away. It had persisted, however, and one could never predict when it might reappear. His vision was fine right now, but it was difficult to see anything from their current height.
“Okay,” Denise said, “We’re ten miles out. You see anything?”
Christian leaned over and stuck his head out the canvas-covered cockpit. He was thankful that Denise had strapped him in thoroughly before they had launched. Otherwise, he’d be tumbling out the door and falling to his death. It was still scary, however, to hang into the wind like this. Christian gripped his seat as tightly as he could and tried to focus his eyes on the ground.
“Can we go lower?” he asked, shouting through the wind, speaking a half-truth. “The sun glare behind us is affecting my line of sight.”
“How far can a musket fire?” Denise asked.
Christian considered. He was less experienced with rifles than with pistols, but a Moldavian army would likely be using less efficient down-time match and flintlock muskets. Unless, of course, the Ottomans had given them more modern weaponry. “Tactics dictate an optimal firing range of a volley up to fifty yards, but they can fire further. Pistols are shorter range than that.”
Denise paused, then said, “So, if I take it down to, say, four hundred feet, we’d be safe, with room to spare?”
Christian nodded. “I would think so, yes.”
“Okay, brace yourself. Here we go.”
The dip was faster than he expected, and his stomach reacted poorly. Christian suppressed a burp. With his head out the window, he could easily open his mouth and expel the meager scraps of his supper. But he held his mouth shut, opened his eyes wide, and searched the valley below for an army.
Nothing. Nothing at all, save for a small Székely village with a few tendrils of smoke rolling out of chimneys. A herd of cattle behind a stone fence. The Szamos River flowing gently along. The ground below him moved by quickly, almost to the point of making him dizzy. Christian blinked, sniffed the air, and caught the strong scent of smoke. A smell he knew well.
Campfires.
“Okay, look,” Denise said, checking the gauges on her dashboard. “I’ll take us another five miles or so, but then we’ll have to turn around and—holy shit!”
Below them, across the entire river valley, were hundreds upon hundreds of tiny campfires, all scattered through the forest. Strong lines of smoke rose from them, and Denise had to pull the Dixie Chick up another fifty feet to keep from flying through the smoke. On the quick, Christian looked through the pall and saw infantry, cavalry, a few cannon, and even the beginning of the supply train, though the tail of it disappeared further down the valley.
“Denise?” Christian said, sitting back in his chair. The queasiness of his stomach was gone. In its place, relief. “Please send word to Colonel Renz. We’ve found them.”
Doctor Isaac Kohen’s medical tent
Colonel Renz had radioed that a Moldavian army had been found encamped about twelve miles east of Déj. As sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, that army would attack by morning, and how many men would die? How many would die simply because Isaac and his entire staff were not present to assist in the care of the wounded?
It was a question that had burdened Isaac’s thoughts ever since General von Mercy had ordered Colonel Renz and four of his cavalry companies forward to Déj. Now, those companies had been ordered to defend the city until the entire force had arrived. Cavalry defending a city? Not unheard of, but certainly not ideal. Casualties would be high.
Captain Callenberk’s dragoons had been ordered to ride through the night to reach Déj by morning. Isaac had asked to be sent forward with them. General von Mercy had refused. “I’m not risking my chief surgeon on a night march through a foreign territory. We don’t know where these Impalers are working. They could strike at any time, anywhere. Send others.”
As ordered, Isaac sent in his place Devorah and an older surgeon that they had acquired in Kassa. The best nurse; not so much the best doctor. At least with Devorah, the embattled would have a professional nurse in their midst. But their medical supplies were so low, and based on radio reports, the citizenry of Déj were being less than helpful in the army’s preparations for the attack. Not outright hostile, for what could mostly unarmed townspeople do against four hundred heavily armed cavalry in their streets? “Passively resisting” was what they were doing, and how foolish was that?
Part of the problem was that the eventual political fate of Déj was still unclear. The basic provisions of the agreement Prince Rákóczi had made with Bohemia were that he would exchange some of northern Transylvanian territory for Bohemian military assistance. That was widely known by now, at least among Transylvania’s nobility and its Saxon and Székely notables.
But exactly where would that territory be? It seemed fairly well established that the three towns of Szatmár, Nagybánya and Bistriţa would become Bohemian territory, but that Kolozsvár would remain in Transylvania. What then of Déj, which lay between them?
On some level, Isaac could understand the citizenry’s desire not to get involved. Help one army, and potentially suffer reprisals from the other. Help the other, and suffer the same fate. But now was not the time for such inaction. Lives were at stake here, both family and friends.
Len Tanner poked his head into the tent. “Hey, Isaac. Sorry to disturb you so late, but there’s someone on the radio who wants to talk to you.”
Inside the Dixie Chick
Thank God for the Dixie Chick, thank God for Denise Beasley, and thank God for Dvorak planes.
Christian shared Colonel Renz’s concern about relying strictly on up-time technology for reconnaissance, but no cavalry patrol could have flown over the breadth of the Moldavian army and given him the opportunity to ascertain the strength of the full force arrayed against them. He could not see every horse or every man; the forest canopy and the dips and wild elevation switches of the Carpathian foothills were an impediment indeed. But from high above, he could give Colonel Renz much more reliable numbers than any patrol on horseback.
By his numbers, he estimated an enemy force of at least thirty-five hundred to four thousand men. More infantry than cavalry, and not all of them were Moldavian. Denise had dangerously dipped to about two hundred feet on their last pass-over just to allow him to get a good look at the mercenaries in their midst: Tatars, and others whom he couldn’t identify. It was a sizable force, and it outnumbered them in Déj almost ten to one. Until, of course, General von Mercy arrived with the rest of the army.
It was going to get deadly in the morning. The only questions remaining now were: when would they attack, and would the combination of defensive position and up-time weaponry be enough to hold them off long enough for reinforcements to arrive?
With the Dixie Chick powered off and standing still on its landing site, Denise’s radio squelched into life. “Christian? Are you there?”
He sat upright in the pilot’s seat. He pressed the button and spoke into the transmitter. “Hello, Isaac. Can you hear me?”
“I can here you, Captain. How are you? Where are you?”
“You wouldn’t believe it, but I am sitting in the Dixie Chick, compliments of Denise Beasley and the Bohemian air force. I don’t have very long. I have to finish my defensive preparations. We’ve got a Moldavian army that’s going to hit us hard in the morning. But I just wanted to say good luck, God speed, and I hope to see you soon.”
There was a pause at the other end, and Christian thought the signal had dropped. Then his friend’s voice came through loudly. “Thank you, Christian. You too, my friend. I have sent Devorah in with Captain Callenberk’s dragoons. She’ll be there soon, God willing.”
“I look forward to seeing her.”
There was another pause, then Isaac asked, “How’s your eye?”
Christian swallowed, said, “Fine, just fine. No concerns.”
“Good…I hope…we have a…”
“Isaac? Isaac? Can you hear me? Can you…”
The signal was gone.
Christian placed the transmitter back into its holster. He didn’t turn the radio off, however, because he wasn’t sure how to do it. He’d leave that to Denise.