losing his grip on the situation-first and foremost, his grip on his own people.
The tea was quite good, as you'd expect.
Nichols spent the next two days inspecting the sanitary and medical arrangements and facilities that the army had set up in their siege lines around Poznan. As he'd expected, they were well-designed and in good order. Torstensson and his staff officers had genuinely internalized the critical role that sanitation and proper medical procedures played in fending off the diseases that typically swept through armies at war, especially armies engaged in a siege.
But what was probably even more important was that the rank and file soldiers were equally committed to those practices. So there'd be no dodging and shirking, which was often the Achilles' heel of sanitation and medical regulations. Quite the opposite, actually. The punishment a soldier who slacked off would get from his mates was likely to be a lot worse than what he'd get if an officer caught him. Even from the standpoint of its commanders, there were advantages sometimes to having an army so influenced by CoC attitudes.
On the morning of the third day, a small delegation of Polish officers came across the lines under a flag of truce. They'd come to bring Grand Hetman Koniecpolski's answer to the offer Nichols had made the day he arrived to give his advice on medical matters to the Polish army as well.
The leader of the delegation was an officer who seemed very young to be wielding as much authority as he obviously did. But his name was Opalinski-Lukasz Opalinski-which perhaps explained the matter. James had a vague recollection that the Opalinskis were one of the more prominent move-and-shaker families in the upper crust of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth's aristocracy.
Opalinski fit James' image of a hussar to a T. He was tall, well-built, and handsome in a big-nosed sort of way. His hair was short and blond as was his beard, but his mustache was swept out in very dramatic fashion. The tips of it looked as if they probably blew in the wind as he galloped his horse toward the foe.
He was a very polite young man, as well, although he was obviously struggling not to gape at Nichols. In all likelihood, James was the first black man he'd ever met in his life. Not that Germans had met very many black people either, of course. But James and his daughter Sharon were by now so famous in the Germanies that most people in the USE had at least seen a woodcut likeness of them somewhere. To Lukasz Opalinski, James Nichols was an utterly exotic figure, something out of the ancient tales by Herodotus about foreign lands and their peoples. If he weren't being polite, James was pretty sure the hussar would lift up his shirt to see if he had another mouth or pair of eyes on his stomach.
'I'm afraid we must refuse,' Opalinski said, in heavily-accented but quite good German. 'Please accept the Grand Hetman's regrets and his sincere thanks for the offer. But-ah-he asked me to explain that if he accepted, there might be trouble about it in the Sejm.'
From the tinge of exasperation in the young hussar's voice, James was pretty sure Opalinski thought there'd be trouble in the Sejm if Koniecpolski ate porridge for breakfast or put his boots on in the wrong order. But this was all a diplomatic dance, in any event. James had made the offer at Torstensson's suggestion, but the Swedish general had told him he didn't think there was much chance the Poles would accept.
With a polite bow, Opalinski took his leave. He managed not to turn around and stare at James more than twice as he and his party rode off.
'Well, you were right,' he said to Torstensson.
The commander of the USE army shrugged. 'Thank heaven for the nature of Polish government. If it weren't the way it is, I hate to think what Koniecpolski could accomplish.'
Knyphausen grunted. Duke George grinned.
One of the air force's Gustavs landed that afternoon to take James back to Magdeburg. The pilot buzzed the Polish lines on his way out. The Poles fired a volley at the plane in response.
Apparently, that mutually useless display of martial prowess seemed reasonable to both sides. James made no objection, though. He could still remember a time, when he'd been a young man in one of the gangs in Chicago's south side, when he'd have thought it was perfectly reasonable himself. Now at the age of sixty, he'd concluded that the main difference between gang fights and the wars of dynasties and nations was that the gangs were a lot less pretentious about their violence. Stripped of the long-winded folderol, from what James could see, most formal declarations of war came down to 'the motherfuckers dissed us and we're gonna get 'em for it.'
Chapter 25
Dresden, capital of Saxony Jozef Wojtowicz had never worked so hard in his life. Thankfully, he'd been blessed with a naturally strong and sturdy frame, so he was able to bear up under the heavy labor long enough to start getting in better condition. But all that really meant was that he was burdened with still more work.
The city's defenders maintained and even strengthened the fortifications, despite the relentless Swedish bombardment.
That was no doubt how the future history books would depict the situation he found himself involved in. His thoughts on the matter were dark, dark, dark. In the pantheon of liars, he ranked historians second only to outright swindlers-without the excuse of honest greed as a motivation.
Here was the truth behind those innocuous-sounding words, he'd come to discover.
Truth One. In a siege, able-bodied men fall into two categories-and the definition of 'able-bodied' is loose to begin with. There are soldiers, who stand guard on the ramparts vigilantly watching for any sign of enemy action. That is to say, do nothing more strenuous than rub their hands to ward off the chill. And there are civilians, whom said soldiers dragoon into doing all of the work.
Truth Two. The work involved in 'maintaining and even strengthening the fortifications' consists of nine parts staggering under the weight of rocks and other rubble, and one part staggering under the weight of water casks needed to keep said able-bodied civilians from collapsing while carrying out the other nine parts of the labor.
Truth Three. Rocks come in only two sizes. Too big to carry without great strain, or, if they are on the smallish side, too many to carry without great strain.
Truth four. Shovels were invented by Moloch.
Truth five. Picks were invented by Ba'alzebub.
Truth six. Wheelbarrows were invented by Belial.
Truth seven. The notion that there would someday be an end to toil and suffering was invented by Satan himself.
Truth eight. Beware of Polish compatriots-
'Hey, Joe!'
Wojtowicz was jolted out of his gloomy mental recitation of the Great Truths. Carefully, so as not to lose his balance under the weight of the basket of stones he was carrying, he turned to see who had shouted at him.
Ted Szklenski, as he'd thought. 'What is it?'
Szklenski hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 'They want to see you in the castle.' The huge form of the Rezidenzschloss loomed behind him.
Jozef frowned. He did not like the sound of this. So far, he'd managed to remain reasonably inconspicuous- in large part, by staying away from the Rezidenzschloss, which was the center of CoC activity and held their headquarters.
On the positive side, he had a legitimate excuse to put down the basket.
That took a few seconds, and would have taken longer if Szklenski hadn't lent him a hand.
'Who wants to see me?'
Szklenski shrugged. 'Got no idea. I'm just passing along the message from Waclaw.'
Waclaw-his last name had turned out to be Walczak-was the leader of the Polish CoC contingent in Dresden, insofar as the term 'leader' could be applied to the group at all. Even Polish CoC members tended to have a liberum veto attitude toward the principles of majority rule.
Under these circumstances, though, Jozef couldn't just ignore the summons. That would draw more attention than anything else.
Besides, no one would expect him to carry rocks to the Residenzschloss. At the moment, Jozef was willing to risk outright crucifixion for that blessing.
