Still, off he went. Leaving in command the thirty-one-year old Charles de la Porte, seigneur de Meilleraye, after having stripped him of all the cavalry forces that remained to the French army.
Not surprisingly, the first words spoken by de la Porte after Angouleme left were "that fucking bastard." So were the next three, and the three after that.
Chapter 58
"The poltroon!" snarled Torstensson. He handed the eyeglass back to the same aide. "Yes, you're right. That's got to be d'Angouleme, unless someone stole his personal banners-and why would anyone do that?"
Frank took off his hat and scratched his head. "What the hell does he think he's doing? All that's back there is Luebeck-and by now, the emperor's probably led the garrison out."
Gustav was doing much better than that-or, rather, was ordering Axel Oxenstierna to do it for him.
The chancellor of Sweden had accompanied Admiral Gyllenhjelm and his fleet. So had ten thousand Swedish soldiers, packed on its many ships.
"Axel, once you get them formed up, take them up the Trave to meet Torstensson. Between the two of you, you'll have d'Angouleme's army in a vise."
The chancellor gave Gustav Adolf a skeptical look. Not because of any hesitation on his own part-Oxenstierna was quite an experienced military commander himself-but simply because it was so out of character for the king of Sweden.
Seeing the look, Gustav Adolf smiled a bit ruefully. "Yes, yes, it's a great temptation. But the truth is, Axel, I'd do far better to leave for Copenhagen with Karl and his warships rather than lead this expedition myself. Judging from the last radio report, by the time you get there it may all be over, anyway. Torstensson seems to be doing quite well. Whereas there's only so much Admiral Simpson can do on his own. Those wonderful ironclads are splendid for blowing things up, but I need to make a settlement with the Danish king. Not so good for that, once he's softened up the drunken bastard. I need to deal with that business myself."
Oxenstierna nodded. "Oh, I don't disagree, Your Majesty. Especially when I reflect that less than two years ago, in another universe, you got yourself killed at Lutzen leading a cavalry charge. It's amazing, really. You wouldn't think the difference between being thirty-eight and thirty-nine years old would produce such a drastic increase in wisdom. I'm fifty, myself, and I can't remember any such great transformation in my own life."
The emperor just responded with a grin. "It's yours, then!" He turned and clapped his half-brother Karl Gyllenhjelm on the shoulder. "Come, Admiral of Sweden! We don't want that upstart Simpson to get all the naval glory."
As they headed for the door leading out of Luebeck's Rathaus, Gyllenhjelm winced. "He really hasn't left us poor Swedes with much more than scraps, Gustav."
"All the more reason to grab the scraps! Before the greedy bastard takes them from us, too."
Torstensson was still snarling. "I'll be damned if he will! Thinks he can escape while leaving his army in the lurch, does he? Fuck that French shithead. Bryan, send a cavalry force after him."
Colonel Thorpe cleared his throat. "Ah, general. You've already thrown the cavalry we have against the French left. All that remains are two companies in reserve."
Torstensson frowned. "So I did. Well…"
He turned his head toward Jackson, smiling a little wickedly. "Let's see if you can make good on another boast, Frank. Now's your chance to prove those heavy weapons units can march as quickly as you claim, too."
Jackson returned the smile with one of his own, that was just as wicked. "A small wager, on the side?"
"Ha! Think me a fool? No, just see to it, please. Do the liaison with Colonel Straley personally, if you would. That'll be faster than sending a courier to try to explain it all."
As he'd been talking, Jackson had squatted down, so he could see the map spread over the ground better. It was held down by small rocks on each corner. Fortunately, there wasn't much wind. Somehow or other, the tent they'd planned to use for a command post had gotten lost along the way. It would probably turn up in a day or two-by which time, the way things were looking, they'd be comfortably set up in a nearby tavern anyway and wouldn't need it.
Such is war, as Frank remembered quite well from his days as a youngster in Vietnam. The plans of mice and men gang aft agleigh, and never more so than once the fighting started.
"I don't think there's any point in actually chasing after them, General." He pointed to a spot on the map and then shifted his finger. "The volley guns can move fast, but they can't move as fast as cavalry-and they'd lose more ground right at the start having to get around the French army. Better, I'm thinking, to figure out where Angouleme is going and cut him off at the pass. So to speak."
Torstensson squatted next to him, and studied the map for a moment. "Yes, I see your point. He can't go down to Luebeck, obviously, which means he's probably trying to reach the Trave somewhere around here." His own finger came down on the spot that marked the small town of Reinfeld, then slid along the line that marked the upper stretch of the Trave until his finger reached Segeberg.
"Somewhere between Reinfeld and Segeberg-but it would have to be much closer to Segeberg-he'll leave the Trave and make his way across to the headwaters of the Stor. Then follow it down the Elbe near Gluckstadt and try to cross there."
"That's what I'm figuring," agreed Jackson. "So I think we'd do better to take the volley guns back to the headwaters of the Trave right here"-he pointed to the west-"and just follow it down until we run into Angouleme coming the other way. Should be somewhere around… here, I'm think. This village called Nutschel, if I'm reading this damn script properly." An aggrieved tone came into his voice. "I thought we'd agreed to use Roman lettering in the army, instead of this Fraktur crap."
Torstensson rose from the map. "Germans, you know. Most stubborn people on the face of the earth. All right, General Jackson. Be off, and Godspeed. Bring me back the head of Charles de Valois. And I don't care if it's attached to the rest of his body or not."
"Again?" whined Krenz.
"I told you to pay attention to your horsemanship." Thorsten had no sympathy at all with Krenz on this subject. " 'Flying artillery,' remember? And now we'll really have to fly, if we're to catch up with that French general."
"Order an advance, all across the line," said Charles de la Porte. Before his lieutenants could start arguing the matter, he threw up his hands with exasperation. "Yes, I know! But what else can we do? If we continue to stand our ground, those fucking guns will just keep hammering us. Our own artillery is simply no match for them. And if we try to retreat-and where, exactly? Certainly not Luebeck!-we'll get cut to pieces without cavalry to screen us. We've got no other choice. We either win a straight-up battle or we surrender. That's it-and I don't want to hear any arguments."
At least the flight of Angouleme had left a decisive man in command of the French army. As they hurried off to prepare the advance, the lieutenants tried to take what confidence they could from that fact.
"His best option," said Torstensson, once he saw the enemy beginning its advance. "Not a good one-not with our artillery-but the best he's got. Who's in command over there, Bryan, do you think?"
His staff officer pondered the question, for a moment or two. "Hard to know, General. If I had to guess, I'd say either Charles de la Porte or Gaspard de Coligny. Either one of them is supposed to be competent. Coligny has seniority, but de la Porte has better family ties. He's one of Richelieu's cousins. Given d'Angouleme, I'd think he'd ignore seniority and select for family ties. If nothing else, it'll help spread the blame better."