An officer emerged. "What's this all about?" he demanded, half-sternly and half-worriedly. Whether or not his soldiers knew who the girl was, he certainly did.
It took another two minutes, but in the end he let them through. In fact, he even offered to guide Caroline and Kristina to the right barracks. Surprisingly, perhaps, Caroline was almost sure it was more the silent appeal in her own eyes than Kristina's royal proclamations that turned the tide.
Or perhaps it was simply that he knew Thorsten Engler. And, like everyone Caroline had met, liked the man. That didn't surprise her at all.
"There," he said, pointing to one of the barracks, once they were fifteen yards away.
Kristina surged to the fore again. "Thorsten Engler! Come out!"
A few seconds later, he did. Stared at Caroline, then at the shoes in her hand. Then, turned his head away slightly. A subtle but unmistakable look of great sadness came over his face.
She'd done something wrong. In God's name, what?
So, it was over. Thorsten realized-he should have listened to Eric and the others-that he'd not only been foolish, but had even insulted the woman. So greatly that she'd come out here, the same day, to return the gifts in person. Lest he be under any misapprehension at all.
Suddenly, she started striding toward him. That same very athletic stride that could still arouse him so. But he only watched from the corner of his eyes, since he couldn't really bear to look at her directly.
Until she was standing just three feet way, and extended the shoes. The gesture was oddly tentative, not the firm thrust he'd expected.
"Thorsten… Oh, damnation. Look, I can't help it. It's just the way I am, take it or leave it. I'm a practical girl. And I've got big feet for a woman. The shoes are too small. But…"
Hope surged, where he'd thought there was none. His eyes went to hers.
There was no anger at all, in those green orbs. No smile on the face below, either. But the eyes were simply…
Appealing? Uncertain?
"Can I-or you?-I don't care-trade them in? I'd love to have a pair that fits." Her eyes started watering. "I can't tell how much I would. But…"
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know what to do, either. And I don't want to do anything wrong. Not now. God, not now."
Perhaps he smiled. He never remembered. Whatever. Finally-for sure-he did something right.
Caroline's full smile erupted. She dropped the shoes. "Oh, fuck it," she said. "And fuck whatever horse anybody rode in on."
The next thing he knew she had him in a fierce embrace, and was kissing him more fiercely still.
So. At least that legend was true. Americanesses did all use the Austrian kiss. Her tongue felt like it was halfway down his throat. Good thing he came from sturdy farmer stock, with stout hearts on both side of the family. Or he would have died, right then and there.
Eventually-who could say when? who cared?-she broke off the kiss and nuzzled his ear. "I'll write to you, but I don't know if the letters will get delivered. Please write to me, whenever you can."
"They might," he murmured back. "Hard to know. Damn army. But whether they ever get to you or not, I will write them."
The bugle blew. "Oh, damn," Caroline said. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
Kristina managed to extort another five minutes for them. She'd inherited her father's ability to throw a truly majestic temper tantrum along with his prominent nose. But, eventually, the officers insisted. Push comes to shove, officers with combat experience are less susceptible to the menace of a shaking seven-year-old finger than noble ladies.
But, by then, it really didn't matter. Enough had been said-enough finally understood-that Caroline and Thorsten would either have all the time in the world, or Thorsten would be dead before she saw him again.
Grief she could handle, if need be. Hopefully, this time, she'd handle it better. But at least uncertainty was gone.
Oh, so very very very gone. He had a wonderful kiss, too. And she already knew he'd make a wonderful father, just from watching him with Kristina.
After she was out of sight, Thorsten turned back and reentered the barracks. There, in the middle of the room, he planted hands on hips and looked about at the pitiful inhabitants. They'd all watched, of course, half of them crammed into the doorway and the other half crowded at the windows.
"Go ahead," he said. "Make a joke. Any joke…"
Eric Krenz covered his eyes. "He's going to be insufferable, fellows. Absolutely insufferable. How did it come to this, anyway? This is absurd. It's not in any of the legends." Part Three A glittering sword out of the east April 1634
Chapter 31
The next morning, Thorsten Engler was trying hard not to laugh at his friend Eric Krenz. Eric was in a foul enough mood as it was. Fortunately, since Eric was riding behind him and to his right, Krenz couldn't see the grin on Thorsten's face.
"Where did they get these fucking nags, anyway?" he heard Krenz complain.
After making sure he'd suppressed the grin, Thorsten turned his head and looked back. As he'd expected, Eric wasn't even looking at the horses drawing the battery wagon at all. Instead, his gaze was fixed, like a paralyzed rabbit's on a snake, at the limber pole swaying back and forth very close to his right leg. The "tongue," as it was often called, would inevitably wind up slamming against that leg from time to time, when the limber's wheels struck an obstruction or rut of some sort. Of which there were bound to be some, especially this time of year, even in a road as well designed and graded as the road that followed the Elbe north of Magdeburg.
The blow could easily cause bruises, and possibly even break a bone. That was the reason that the right legs of the volley gunners riding the three near horses of each gun crew had an iron guard encased in leather. So did those of the riders on the ammunition wagon and the battery wagon. The devices worked perfectly well, even if it was a bit startling to have the tongue suddenly slam against you.
The problem was twofold. The first aspect was that Eric simply wasn't accustomed to it. By now, Thorsten had plenty of experience riding the near horses on a gun team, even if-as was true today-he would normally ride his own horse on campaign. That being one of the chief perquisites of his august status as the sergeant in command of a battery, not assigned to any specific team.
Eric, however, being none too fond of horses to begin with, had used every opportunity during their training to avoid riding the blasted beasts. He'd been able to get away with it because he wasn't assigned to one of the crews in Engler's B Battery either. Instead, he'd accompany the battery wagon with its load of tools and equipment to repair whatever needed to be repaired on campaign.
The second part of the problem was even simpler. Krenz was a mediocre horseman, at best. He invariably referred to horses as "surly brutes"-even though, in point of fact, Captain Witty and Lieutenant Reschly had selected the most placid animals they could find. Eric's stubborn insistence on indulging his dislike for horses meant that his rudimentary skills in a saddle had not improved much throughout the course of their training. By no means all of the volley gunners came from backgrounds, like Thorsten's own farming, that gave them experience with horses. But, by now, all of them-except Krenz-were at least passable riders. Thorsten's own horsemanship was quite good, as good as that of most cavalrymen.
Engler had warned Krenz several times that eventually Eric would have to get on a horse. But Krenz had cheerfully insisted that what he called "proper military doctrine"-and there was a laugh, since Eric missed as many of the formal classes as he could, too-meant that he'd always either be on foot or, at worst, riding on the limber.
"Artillery officers want their men on foot, Thorsten," he'd said stoutly, a few weeks back. "I read that in the manual."
"Not our manual, you didn't," replied Engler, a bit irritated. "That's the general manual you're talking about, which is mostly addressed at heavy artillery. Eric, we're the lightest artillery there is. What they call 'flying artillery' or-brace yourself-'horse artillery.' We're supposed to be able to keep up with cavalry, on anything except an actual charge or a fast reconnaissance."