Chapter 34
Kisvárda
Political status in transition
“There it is, Eddie,” said Minnie Hugelmair, leaning out the open cockpit window far enough to point to a feature in the landscape below. From his vantage point at the plane’s controls, Eddie couldn’t see for himself what she was pointing at, but knew that it had to be the small lake they’d been told about. “White Lake,” the local residents called it. It was part of the wetlands created by the Tisza River in this far northeastern corner of the Great Hungarian Plain.
The plan was to create a small fuel and supply depot on the shores of the lake, which was only a few miles from the nearby town of Kisvárda. A small unit of the Grand Army of the Sunrise was supposed to be in place already. Whether that was true or not remained to be discovered, since the unit had no radio. Eddie would provide them with one in a later trip, along with a radio operator—who were in shorter supply than the radios themselves.
They’d chosen that location for a fuel and supply depot for several reasons. First, it was approximately halfway between Kassa and Szatmár, roughly fifty miles either way, which was well within the range of a Dvorak aircraft. Secondly, the lake provided a good landing area for a Jupiter, with its air cushion landing gear; and there was a good area to create a short airstrip next to the lake for either a Dvorak or a Dauntless. Thirdly, Kisvárda and the area around it were definitely included in that portion of Royal Hungary that Austria had ceded to Bohemia. And finally, because the town had a large Jewish population which could be counted on to be friendly to Bohemia and the Grand Army of the Sunrise.
Eddie circled back around and brought the Jupiter to a landing on the lake, and then did the water equivalent of taxiing to bring the aircraft to the place on the shore indicated by the small group of men he could see waving their arms. He wasn’t concerned about their identity since all but two of them were wearing GAS uniforms, and one of the soldiers was holding a Bohemian standard aloft.
The location had been well chosen. This stretch of the lake shore sloped up gently, which enabled Eddie, using the air cushion landing gear, to move smoothly from traveling across water to traveling up onto the adjacent land. It had taken him a while to get accustomed to the ACLG, but the more he used it, the more he liked it.
As soon as he brought the Jupiter to a stop, Minnie Hugelmair and Tuva Dreyzl hopped out. That was from habit, not because there was any need for them to do their usual routine of chocking the wheels. Once the plane came to a halt, the skirt of the landing gear did a fine job of securing itself to the patch of land it rested on.
By the time Eddie clambered out of the aircraft, the propellers had stopped spinning, and the small group awaiting them felt confident enough to approach—although they kept a wary eye on the propellers. They weren’t accustomed yet to dealing with aircraft, but they knew enough to know that a propeller was quite capable of lopping off an arm or a head—and this plane had four of them.
The man in the lead was a civilian. When he reached Eddie, he made a small bow and said: “Greetings. I am Matej Došek, the newly appointed administrator of Kisvárda district. We will be establishing your depot here”—he waved his hand about—“if you find that suitable.”
“Quite suitable,” said Eddie. “If some of your people will help me, we can unload the fuel and other supplies quickly, and we’ll be on our way.”
That took no more than ten minutes. When they were done, there was enough fuel in place to supply a Dvorak for at least a week.
“And now,” Eddie said, “we’ll return to Prague to get the second Dvorak. Tuva’ll be flying it, of course.”
“Yes,” said Tuva. Minnie made a face. She was still grouchy that Eddie had peremptorily disqualified her as a solo pilot.
“You’ve only got one eye, Minnie,” he’d said. “Dammit, face facts. You’ve got no depth perception—which is the last thing you want in a pilot trying to land a plane. You’ll be the flight engineer for the Jupiter, and you can double as a relief pilot once you’re up in the air.”
“I can do takeoffs, too!”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah, that’ll be okay. Just no landings.”
Eddie gestured toward the cockpit of the big, four-engine aircraft. “In fact, you can do this takeoff. You need to get used to a Jupiter.”
Despite her naturally self-confident disposition, Minnie was a bit apprehensive as she took her seat. Eddie had let her fly the plane once they were aloft, but this would be her first takeoff.
She looked in both directions at the wings. The Jupiter was a biplane, unlike either a Dvorak or a Dauntless or a Belle. What made her more nervous was simply the sheer size of the aircraft. The Jupiter was sixty feet long, and the wingspan of the upper wing was one hundred feet. It was powered by four 110-horsepower radial engines suspended from the wider, upper wing. A Dvorak looked like a moth if it were placed next to it. Even a Dauntless was a little puny looking.
On the positive side, the four engines were a source of comfort. If one or two of them failed, the plane was quite capable of flying on only two engines—probably on only one engine, in fact, if it weren’t too heavily loaded.
Camp of the Grand Army of the Sunrise
Five miles northwest of Szatmár
Morris had hoped the main body of the Grand Army of the Sunrise would be able to reach Szatmár before sundown, but it was not to be. He’d once heard Mike Stearns grousing about the plodding nature of army “marches” in the here and now. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time; he’d probably just written it off as Mike having a grumpy day. But since he’d been in command of a large military force himself, he’d come to realize just how much truth there’d been in what Stearns had said.
The problem for an up-timer was that even now, more than six years after the Ring of Fire, their subconscious minds still had a notion of what “roads” were that derived from the universe they’d come from.
Roads were:
Wide.
Flat.
Smooth.
Firm.
Uniform.
Graded.
Everything, in short, that roads were not in the year 1637.
Oh, yes—and roads had bridges over moving bodies of water and over steep-walled gullies and ravines.
The terrain southwest of Fehérgyarmat had been particularly bad, even by the standards of eastern Europe. At one point, the day before, the army had been delayed for almost six hours by the need to lay down a corduroy road through what amounted to a swamp.
Morris could remember reading, in a history of the American Civil War, about one of the Union armies progressing by the use of corduroy roads. Sherman’s army in the Carolinas, if he remembered correctly. It had seemed very simple and straightforward in the pages of a book—even a bit romantic.
The reality was miserable for the men who had to build it and miserable when they had to cross a swamp afterward. It was far worse for horses. They’d had to put down four horses who’d suffered broken legs from logs which had shifted or rolled under their weight.
By now, though, Morris had gotten philosophical about such things. As exhausted as the army was, at least most of the men would sleep well tonight. When they weren’t on sentry duty, at least.
Szatmár
“I’d be happier if the lighting was better,” said Werner Ruppel. He glanced up at the evening sky. There was a moon out, but it wasn’t much of one—crescent, not gibbous, and a very slender crescent at that. Once the twilight faded away in an hour or so, the meadow where they’d set up their camp would become very dark.
Gretchen glanced at the moon herself. “Yes, so would I. But I think the big campfires we set up around the perimeter will make up for most of it.”
The campfires she was referring to had been set up at least thirty yards away from the camp. None of them had been lit yet because they wanted to conserve the wood. Hopefully, the fires would last through the night. Once all of them were lit, anyone attacking the camp would be silhouetted against the light they cast—but the campfires wouldn’t cast enough light to make the camp itself very visible except in rough outlines.
From the distance of the meadow’s edge, the camp looked pretty simple. The wagons had been drawn up in a circle, with about twenty feet of space between one wagon and the next. Those gaps had been filled with enough posts and crossbars to turn the camp into a corral—a crude one, but sufficient to keep the expedition’s livestock penned in and protected. The rough fencing wouldn’t prevent attackers from breaking into the corral, but it would slow them down quite a bit.
And that should be enough, unless their assailants turned out to be a much larger force than anyone expected. By all accounts, Vasile Lupu’s force of so-called “Impalers”—terrorists, to call them by their right name—operated in bands of one to two dozen men. If there were two dozen, they would outnumber the defenders of the camp, but not by all that much. To compensate for that, the defenders were better armed and would be fighting from behind well-built defensive positions.
There would only be a few visible sentries—three, each standing atop one of the wagons. In the event of an attack, they were to sound the alarm and take shelter immediately in the rough fortifications that had been placed on those wagons—nothing much, just logs big enough and thick enough to stop a bullet.
Most of the shooting wouldn’t be coming from them. Hidden out of sight beneath each of the wagons were shallow trenches, also protected by logs. There would be two shooters under each wagon and a third person to reload the guns. In the darkness, with no light except a slim crescent moon and whatever illumination came from campfires dozens of yards away, they would be all but invisible to attackers—who would themselves be out in the open, being fired upon by powerful breech-loading rifles.
Gretchen would be a distraction also. She and another woman were perched atop a fourth wagon. If an attack came, they would also take immediate shelter in the same sort of log fortifications that defended the other wagon guards. Between her reputation and her long blonde hair, the attention of attackers was more likely to be on her than trying to peer into the dark recesses below the wagons.
That reputation would work in another way as well—for the defenders, not the attackers. By now, after the sieges of Amsterdam and Dresden and everything else Gretchen had done—Lady Protector of two provinces, Saxony and Silesia—her reputation among CoC members had assumed near-mythic proportions. Knowing that she was leading the defense would bolster their confidence and determination immensely. Every one of them, starting with Gretchen herself, would fight to the death—and not one of them doubted it of any other.
As her up-timer husband would put it, Gretchen Richter was a very tough nut to crack. Of course, they still didn’t know if any of the Impalers were actually in the area or if that was just a wild rumor. They’d never appeared in the Szatmár region. Their depredations had so far been confined to areas further south. So, all of these defensive measures might well just turn out to be wasted labor. But…not so. That question was settled a little past three o’clock in the morning, when nineteen men burst into the clearing, firing as they came.
The weapons they were using were wheellock pistols, the kind favored by cavalrymen. Each assailant was carrying three of the pieces, one in each hand and one in a holster.
They had two holsters, actually, into one of which they stuffed the now-fired pistol. This required them to shift their second pistol from one hand to the other, while they drew out the loaded pistol in the holster.
Clearly enough, the purpose of that initial volley, coming in the dead of night, was to spread panic and disorder among their intended victims. Used against caravans camped for the night, it was probably quite effective. But used against enemies such as the ones they faced here, it was a bad mistake. First, because all the shots were wasted. Secondly, and worse, because carrying out a complicated maneuver like shifting pistols from hand to hand in the middle of the night on uncertain, dimly visible footing, required them to slow down or even stop.
Right at the point when the riflemen hidden under the wagons had come fully alert and had time to aim their weapons. The three sentries atop the wagons had made no attempt to aim their rifles when they spotted the Impalers charging out of the woods. They simply fired a shot in the air and dove for cover into the prepared fortifications. That was enough to arouse whichever of the guards under the wagons had dozed off—about half of them—and give them just enough time to get ready.
The result was devastating. At this short range, Hocklott rifles were very accurate. Five of the Impalers were killed instantly, three were mortally wounded, and two were injured badly enough to knock them down and render them hors de combat. Two others were lightly wounded. One turned and ran away immediately. The other brought up his second pistol and fired a wild shot into the air. As he fumbled to get his third and last pistol out of its holster, Gretchen rose up a bit from the fortifications atop her wagon and shot him three times with her 9mm pistol.
The first shot missed because she hurried it. She was furious with herself for having dozed off at some point. But she settled down, and the next two shots inflicted fatal wounds. One struck the man in his throat, and the other squarely in his chest. He was wearing a leather cuirass, but it was cheaply made and not enough to keep the bullet from penetrating his heart.
Two more of the Impalers ran off, but the rest stood their ground and fired their second pistol. At which point, they made another mistake, because four out of the five men who fired were aiming at Gretchen—who had already ducked behind the log shelter she was perched in.
The one Impaler who had the presence of mind to fire at a rifleman under the wagons inflicted the only damage the assailants managed to do that night—and that was minor. His bullet struck the ground a few feet ahead of the wagons and off to the side by a foot or two, sending dirt and pebbles flying into the face of his target. But the man had time to close his eyes, so the injuries were painful but not permanent.
That Impaler and all but one of the five who’d stood their ground were killed in the ensuing volley. The one survivor turned to run, but didn’t get more than two strides away before Gretchen brought him down.
As she rose back up and aimed, she was shouting: “He’s mine! He’s mine! Nobody else shoot at him!” She aimed for his legs and brought him down with six more shots. Only three of them hit the man, but that was enough.
She felt a little guilty, then. Dan Frost had taught her to shoot, and one of his firmest rules was always aim for center mass. But she wanted at least one survivor, and she didn’t know if that was true of any of the other Impalers who’d been brought down.
In any event, she wound up with three survivors. She didn’t bother providing them with medical treatment because, within less than four hours, dawn had arrived. By then, she and her guards had hauled all of the corpses, as well as the three still-living Impalers, across the bridge to the town square on the other side of the river.
The day before, a couple of the CoC guards had found what Gretchen had sent them looking for—a sawed-off section of log big enough to serve as a headsman’s chopping block. They spent the early morning in somewhat more pleasant work than hauling corpses across the Szamos: setting up and stabilizing the block in the middle of the town square.
The three still-alive Impalers were the first ones Gretchen sent to the block—and she did the headsman’s work herself. She was a big woman, a very strong one, had grown up a printer’s daughter, so she was no stranger to manual labor and had learned how to use an axe during the time she’d spent as a mercenary army’s camp follower. And as far as temperament went, for this sort of thing, she would have gained the approval of Attila the Hun or Tamerlane.
The only Impaler who put up resistance was the one Gretchen had shot herself, who went first. She settled that by clubbing him with the flat of the ax blade. Then two of the CoC guards manhandled him into position. Whack! And that was done. One of them dragged away the now headless corpse toward a mass grave being dug in a vacant lot—unhallowed ground, needless to say—while the other undertook the lighter duty of fitting the head onto one of the stakes that other CoC people were erecting nearby.
The other two surviving Impalers were brought up—whack! and whack! again—after which Gretchen passed the ax over to a former logger to handle the rest. He’d deal with the remaining thirteen of the sixteen heads which soon decorated Szatmár’s town square. By the time he finished, signs had been erected which identified those who’d been decapitated:
Lupu’s Impalers, now impaled.
* * *
By then, a large crowd had gathered. Some were disapproving, but didn’t say much. A larger number approved, and several of them were quite vociferous about it. The Szekler priest and Saxon pastor just wanted assurances that the corpses wouldn’t be reburied on the grounds of their nearby churches.
As for Ignaz Honterus, the Saxon notable who’d given his advice to Gretchen the day she and her wagon train arrived, he summoned two other Saxon notables and a couple of their Szekler counterparts to a meeting in a nearby tavern.
“We need to make some plans and some decisions,” he said. He raised his mug of ale in what amounted to a toast. “Things are looking up.”
“I’m not clear what you mean by that, Ignaz,” said his fellow Saxon, Christian Sommerus.
“Neither am I,” said one of the Szeklers, Janos Corvinus.
Honterus looked around the table. “I take it that none of you have pondered the presence of Gretchen Richter in Transylvania—along with a sizable and very capable body of confederates. What is she doing here? On the face of it, her presence doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
His companions all had frowns on their faces—which were expressions of puzzlement, not disagreement or disapproval.
“I’m still not following you,” said Sommerus.
“Why is the Bohemian army here?” asked Ignaz. “And the smaller force sent by the USE?”
The other men at the table looked around at each other, still with frowns of puzzlement on their faces.
“Well, that’s all clear enough,” said Corvinus. “Prince Rákóczi—for better or ill—made a pact with Bohemia. In exchange for Bohemia’s military support for ending our vassalage to the Ottomans, Rákóczi will grant a strip of land in northern Transylvania to Bohemia. The involvement of the USE forces is a bit murkier, since they’re not getting any direct benefit from also backing Transylvania, but their motives are clear enough. All they’re investing is three thousand troops from one of their poorest provinces, in exchange for which they open up a new front against Murad.”
“But that doesn’t explain why Richter came as well. She’s not a military leader. Her reputation was built on political organizing, at which she’s supposed to be something of a genius.”
“Reputations like that are widely overblown,” sneered Corvinus.
Ignaz gave him a sarcastic glance. And your own reputation in that field is what? Zero?
But he left the words unsaid. It would be pointless to start a feud with a Szekler of Corvinus’ stature, grossly overblown that it be among his own people.
Happily, deflating the pompous ass was done by his fellow Szekler, Elek Ferenc.
“I suppose you think her reputation for decisive and often ruthless action is overblown as well,” he said. “But you might want to consult the thirteen Impalers in the town square before coming to any definite conclusions on the matter.”
A snicker went around the table. Ferenc turned to Ignaz and said, “Why don’t you just ask her?”
“I plan to.”
* * *
The Grand Army of the Sunrise started arriving in Szatmár less than an hour after the heads went up in the town square. Morris Roth rode at the forefront along with several of his officers and aides, as well as Ellie Anderson.
When he saw the display in the town square, he sucked in a deep breath—luckily, the heads hadn’t started to stink yet—and let it out.
“I see Gretchen’s already arrived.”
“What tipped you off?” asked Ellie.
* * *
The lead elements of the Silesian Guard’s First Regiment—the one which still called itself the Hangman, damn what the regulations said—arrived early in the afternoon.
When they saw the decorations, the soldiers started cheering. Except for one malcontent, who loudly insisted Gretchen should have hung them.
Jeff just smiled. He hadn’t seen his wife in weeks. Hell, months.
Thoughts of Lady Macbeth didn’t cross his mind once. Why would they?
Out, damn spot!
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
Yet who would have the thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
Were not words anyone would ever, ever, ever hear coming out of Gretchen Richter’s mouth.
* * *
Tuva flew in late in the afternoon. She overflew the town square, to see if it would be suitable for a landing place and decided there was enough room as long as she steered clear of the obstacles in the center.
She didn’t give the obstacles themselves much thought. She and Minnie shared a self-assured—indeed, downright sanguine—temperament, although they came from very different backgrounds. Minnie had grown up as poor as the proverbial church mouse and had lost her eye to a brick thrown by a religious zealot. And now she was pregnant by a young Austrian archduke of whom she’d grown surprisingly fond. If there were two phrases that described Minnie Hugelmair to a T, they were:
Takes things in stride.
Seventeenth century, through and through.
Tuva, on the other hand, came from the upper crust of Prague’s Jewish community. Her father was a well-to-do merchant and her mother was a firzogerin. The literal meaning of the term was “fore-sayer” and was bestowed on learned Jewish women in the synagogue whose role was to lead women in prayer in the gender-segregated women’s gallery.
She gave the heads impaled on stakes no more than a glance. Tuva approved of Gretchen Richter and had no more use than she did for the bullies and thugs of royalty and aristocracy. As was true of Gretchen—not to mention Minnie and her best friend Denise Beasley—good riddance were words that came trippingly off her tongue.
Morris Roth greeted her on landing. Tuva was a little surprised at that. Shouldn’t a man of his stature have “people” for such a task?
“Good day, General,” she said, removing her leather helmet to better greet him.
“I’m very glad you’re here, Tuva. We need ya!”
She was delighted to hear that, and ready and willing to work.
“But,” he said, not allowing her to respond to his greeting with more than a smile, “don’t kick your boots up for too long. I’m sending you back up at first light.”
“Oh? What’s the occasion?”
“A good friend needs your help.”