1637 The Polish Maelstrom by Eric Flint

Author:Eric Flint
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science Fiction, alternative history, Time travel, Action & Adventure, Fiction
ISBN: 9781481483896
Publisher: Baen Books
Published: 2019-03-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Kraków, official capital of Poland

Actual capital of Lesser Poland

“I feel utterly useless,” Ulrik grumbled. He squinted against the rising sun, as he studied the walls of Kraków half a mile distant. “It is ridiculous to say I am in command of this army.”

Morris Roth, who was officially in command of the Bohemian forces participating in the assault, was more philosophical about the matter. Or perhaps he simply had the advantage of an additional three decades of life. He was in his mid-fifties; the young Danish prince, only twenty-six years of age.

“It doesn’t matter, Prince,” he said, trying not to sound like he was soothing a grumpy child. “Both you and I are just here for the historical record.”

But Ulrik was in no mood to be soothed. “No, not both of us. You are the one who assembled the Grand Army of the Sunrise, armed it, provided it with its officers. Me? I am just, as the up-timers would say, along for the ride. I haven’t done anything but nod sagely and agree to whatever Colonel Higgins proposes.”

“So? Jeff’s advice has been quite good, as near as I can determine.”

“It’s excellent advice, actually. Which just makes me wallow in uselessness.”

From their vantage point on horseback atop a slight rise, Morris and Ulrik had a good view of von Mercy’s cavalry force milling outside the gate that was northwest of the one which had collapsed. They were engaged in a caracole, riding in half-circles close to the barbican and discharging their pistols at the defenders. Who, for their part, were firing back with muskets that seemed to be no more accurate than the cavalrymen’s pistols.

So far, Morris had seen only one cavalryman fall off his horse; whether because he was hit by a musket ball or just lost his seating couldn’t be told at this distance. It was just as likely to be either one. Unlike Jeff, who’d read about it in a book, Morris had learned of the prevalence of mishaps in war from his own personal experience. One in seven American soldiers who died in Vietnam were killed in accidents, usually involving vehicles. And what Morris had learned since he arrived in the seventeenth century was that riding horses was just about as dangerous as driving cars. True, you weren’t going as fast—but you had no protection and a lot farther to fall.

If the pistol shots were having any effect on the soldiers defending the barbican, Morris couldn’t see it. Of course, at half a mile he wasn’t likely to.

“Doesn’t this seem like a waste of effort, Morris?” asked Ulrik, still watching the Bohemians at their caracole. “And a rather dangerous one at that. I wouldn’t have thought a general as experienced as von Mercy would choose this tactic. On a battlefield, it might be worth doing. But against men sheltered behind fortifications?”

Morris didn’t answer. He’d been wondering the same thing himself.

* * *

Which was the reason that von Mercy was a real general and they were essentially just playing a role.

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