'Why, yes, it is, General. The operator tells me it'll take days to fix.'
'At least a week, I think.'
'Yes, a week.'
'See to it, Captain.'
After Pfaff left, von Arnim moved to the fireplace. His servants had a big fire going, which was quite pleasant on such a cold day.
It made a handy incinerator, too. The message was gone in seconds.
Oxenstierna would have sent a courier, of course. No one except up-timers-and not all that many of them- relied entirely on the new radios. But it would take a courier days to make it here from Berlin, this time of year. The recent storm had left the roads filled with snow. Such as they were, in benighted Brandenburg.
Von Arnim would have no choice but to acknowledge receipt of that message. Still, mobilizing ten thousand men was not a quick process, especially in February. By the time he could get his army onto the field to join Baner's, anything might have happened.
Baner could be dead. Stearns could be dead. Both could be dead. The chancellor could be dead. The emperor could have regained his wits.
A horse might even have learned to sing. Paris, capital of France After he finished reading the copies of the intercepted radio messages that Servien had given him, Cardinal Richelieu rose from his desk and went over to one of the window in his palace.
'A real pity,' said Servien, echoing the sentiment he'd expressed a month earlier.
Richelieu said nothing. He didn't agree with his intendant, as it happened. It might be better to say, was feeling a different sort of pity this morning.
Pity poor France. What had the great nation done to so offend God, that he inflicted Monsieur Gaston upon it?
And an even greater mystery: What had the wretched Germanies done to gain His favor, that He would bless them with such a prince? Madrid, capital of Spain There was no reaction to Mike Stearns' radio messages in the court of Spain.
They had no radio. They wouldn't receive the news for days yet. Brussels, capital of the Netherlands Fernando I looked around the conference table at his closest advisers.
'We're all agreed, then?' said the king in the Netherlands. 'We will still take no advantage of the current civil conflict in the USE, even now when it's coming to a full boil?'
'With Stearns on a rampage?' said Rubens. 'Risky, that.'
'He's badly outnumbered,' pointed out Scaglia. 'Outclassed, too, in terms of experience.'
Miguel de Manrique shook his head. 'The numbers probably aren't as bad as they look, Alessandro. And in that sort of fight-it'll be a slugging match, fighting in the snow in February-his army will have a great advantage when it comes to morale. I agree with Peter. It's too risky. If Stearns wins, we'll have a bear to deal with.'
'And to what purpose?' chipped in Archduchess Isabella. The old woman's expression was even more skeptical than Miguel's. 'We've done quite well so far. Minor gains, all of them, yes. But they came with no real risk and they're solid. Leave it be.'
The king had listened attentively, but that was simply to be courteous. He'd already made his decision the night before, while discussing the matter with his wife. Maria Anna was as bold an adviser as any he had-and even she had urged the path of caution.
'We're all agreed, then,' he stated. 'We'll just wait to see what happens.' Poznan, Poland 'The king is still adamant, and the Sejm even more so,' said Stanislaw Koniecpolski. The grand hetman shrugged massive shoulders. 'They'll have no talk of a peace settlement. There's no point in raising the issue any longer.'
Lukasz Opalinski's jaws were tight.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. As every day passed, it became clearer and clearer to him that his friend Jozef Wojtowicz had been right all along. If Stearns had the two divisions of the USE army out there in the siege lines around Poznan to add to his own, he would win this civil war easily. And everyone knew-well, perhaps not every szlachta voting in the Sejm, as pig-ignorant as so many of them were-that Stearns had been opposed to the war with Poland from the start.
It could be argued, of course, that Torstensson would stand in the way. But Lukasz didn't think even Torstensson could keep his men under control, if Stearns summoned them. The Poles had quite good intelligence on what was happening in Torstensson's army, from all the Polish civilians employed by that army. The USE troops were restive and getting more so by the day. They'd even presented a petition to Torstensson three days ago, urging him to march on Berlin and restore the rightful prime minister.
The only thing that really enabled Torstensson to keep them under control any longer was…
The Poles. The stance of King Wladyslaw IV and the Sejm of the commonwealth.
What had poor Poland done, to so offend the Almighty that he visited seven years of stupidity upon the nation? Followed by seven years of idiocy, another seven of imbecility, yet another seven of cretinism-all that coming after seven years of dull-wittedness, preceded by seven years of struggling to count toes, seven years…
He wondered what had happened to Jozef. Was he still in Dresden? If so, was he still alive? They had heard nothing from him in weeks, since the batteries in his radio died.
Chapter 42
Dresden, capitol of Saxony As he had in his first interview with the woman, Jozef Wojtowicz was finding Gretchen Richter unsettling. You'd think eyes that were colored a sort of light brown would be warm by nature, but hers weren't. Not, at least, when she was studying you while trying to squeeze out the truth.
The scariest thing about the whole situation was that she wasn't even suspicious. She wasn't trying to uncover duplicity or treachery or misdoings on Jozef's part, she was just trying to ferret out the truth about his military skills. Jozef hated to think what the woman would be like if she was running an actual inquisition. She'd terrify Torquemada. Either that, or turn him green with envy.
'You still seem hesitant, Jozef,' she was saying. 'I do not understand why.'
He raised his hands in a gesture of frustration, as if he'd been about to raise them high in despair but then managed to control himself.
'You just don't understand.' He blew out a breath. 'Yes, I have pretty much all of the separate skills of a hussar. To start with, I'm an excellent horseman. Better than a lot of hussars, actually. Then, I am quite good with a sword-a cavalry saber, at least. Not so much with a side sword and not at all with a rapier or a schiavona because those are-'
He waved his hand irritably. Richter's face creased into a thin smile. 'Because those are silly things useless in a battle. Good only for duels. And you're not a duelist.'
He cleared his throat. 'No, I'm not.' A fairly good assassin, though, and I'm handy with any sort of dagger…
Seemed like an unwise thing to add, under the circumstances. 'Contra-indicated' was the up-time term, according to Ted Szklenski, who was addicted to the damn things.
'I'm also a fair hand with a lance. Either the big ones favored by hussars or the lighter styles preferred by Tatars.'
'What about guns?'
A fairly good assassin, like I said. No, didn't say. Any sane assassin would rather shoot a man in the back than stab him. Which I can do with just about any kind of pistol ever made. Wheel-lock, new style flintlock, any sort of up-time revolver or pistol-I can handle any of them.
Also seemed contra-indicated.
'Fair enough. Especially with pistols. Cavalrymen-that's how I was trained-don't have much use for any other sort of firearms.'
She nodded. 'So what's the problem, then?'
'I can do all the separate parts of being a hussar, but it's not the same thing as actually being one.
