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Chapter 16

Breslau, capital of Lower Silesia province


“It’ll take you forever to get there,” Tata predicted.

“No, it won’t,” countered Gretchen. She continued her slow walk around the wagon train, inspecting both the mules and the wagons themselves. “It’s less than three hundred and fifty miles from here to Kassa, and from here to Krakow—that’s about half the distance—the roads are quite good. I figure we’ll get there in two and a half weeks. Three, at the most.”

Tata’s expression was dubious. “That’s assuming you don’t encounter bad weather.”

“It’s June, remember? The temperature is pleasant this time of year in southern Poland.”

“Yes, it is. But June is also the rainiest month of the year. Rain on dirt roads—you’re not in Grantville or Magdeburg out here—means mud and mess.”

Gretchen stopped and frowned down at her shorter friend. “Why are you so grumpy?”

“I want to go with you.”

“Mud and mess, remember?”

“So what? There’ll be plenty of mud and mess here in Breslau, too. But if I’m with you, I’m doing exciting stuff. Here, I’m just the governor. Have to deal with the messes made by people as well as rain.”

Gretchen shook her head. “You have your ambitions standing on their head.”

“So do you! Every chance you get, you shed your proper responsibilities to go charging off on another crusade. You were the chancellor of Saxony, remember? You were the Lady Protector of Silesia.”

Gretchen took a deep, slow breath. There was…perhaps a grain of truth in that charge. A very tiny little grain, to be sure.

“For what it’s worth, Tata, I wish you were going with me too,” she said quietly. “You’re wonderful to work with. But… ”

She shrugged. “Such are the demands of the struggle. We do need to consolidate our position in Silesia—and on a sound republican basis. I can trust you to keep the nobility properly squelched.”

“Ha! I’m the one who was a duke’s concubine, remember? I’m sure my soul is still tainted and soiled by that sordid episode.”

Gretchen chuckled. “Won’t work, Tata. Eberhard was one of the famous Three Good Dukes—and almost everybody thinks you’re the one who persuaded him on his deathbed to bequeath his duchy to the entire population. The modern Esther, they call you.”

“That’s pure nonsense and you know it. Eberhard came up with the idea all on his own once he knew he was dying.”

“Legends take on a life of their own. Way it is. Get used to it. I’ve had to. And to get back to where we started, it will not take forever to get to Kassa, even going by wagons pulled by mules. It’ll be faster and easier to go by horseback, but—”

Again, she shrugged. “The demands of the struggle, once again. I have got to have a good printing press, where I’m going and what I’ll be doing. No way to carry that size machine on horseback.”

Tata really was in a sour mood this morning. She immediately spotted another anxiety to gnaw at and widen. “You know how valuable that thing is? Word gets out—which it will, don’t think it won’t!—and every gang of robbers between here and Kassa will be waiting for you.”

“Let’s be more precise. You’re saying they will be waiting for me and my escort of fifteen stouthearted CoC organizers and militants, armed with the finest rifles, not to mention… ”

She drew a pistol out of a shoulder holster. “My trusty 9mm, with which I have gunned down more than a handful of miscreants. And some of the other women in the expedition are armed and know how to use guns, too.”

She returned the weapon to its holster, swiveled a bit, and pointed to the third wagon in line. “And did I mention how much ammunition I’m taking with me? For all the guns, not just mine. That whole wagon and most of the one behind it is carrying nothing else—well, except for more rifles.”

The gaze she now bestowed on Tata was serene. Almost—not quite—angelic, you might say.

The wagon master rode up at that moment. “Let’s get moving, everyone! We just got word over the radio that the weather is good in Krakow—but you never know. Weather is treacherous. We could find ourselves in a downpour if we dawdle.”

“See?” demanded Tata.


Kassa (Košice)

Joshua Corps encampment


The blisters on the young soldier’s foot were fat with fluid. They covered his heel and toes. He had high arches—a small blessing—so he was suited for the infantry. He just wasn’t ready for the long march between Krakow and Kassa.

“How many are like this?” Isaac asked the medic standing nearby.

“At least a quarter of the regiment, Herr Doctor, has reported blisters and foot discomfort of some degree,” Tobias said, reaching into his satchel as directed for a needle and supplies. “Most are not as bad as this, but still, bad enough.”

Isaac accepted the needle, a small container of rubbing alcohol, mustard poultice, and a cotton swab.

“Is it what the up-timers call ‘trench foot’?” Tobias asked, kneeling beside Isaac to get a better look.

Isaac shook his head. “We’re not dealing with that here…yet, anyway. That occurs when the feet are kept wet for long periods of time. This is simply the result of young men walking ten to twelve miles per day with minimal training, in less than adequate footwear. They aren’t used to the rigors of the march.”

The quality of a soldier was directly proportionate to the quality of his feet, Isaac knew. Take away a soldier’s ability to walk, and you take away his ability to fight. And it was clear that these men were not following the foot hygiene rules that he had written and distributed among the infantry. He’d have to speak with each company commander and remind them—once again, and perhaps more forcefully this time—to make their men follow the rules. Or, well, this is what happens: a third of the company potentially down due to bullae, sore ankles, and tendonitis.

I hope we stay in Kassa for a long, long while.

Isaac took the cotton swab, doused it with alcohol, then rubbed the tip of the needle with the swab to clean and disinfect. “You do this first,” he said, holding the needle tightly between thumb and index. “Then you rub the blister with some alcohol—gently, like this—and then you make a small puncture in the blister.”

He drove the needle tip into the blister until the swollen skin burst, and the cloudy fluid began to seep out. “Now, normally,” he continued, “you would allow the fluid to leak out on its own. But we’re not in a clinical setting. We’re an army on active operations, currently under a light canopy of trees”—he looked up—“bivouacked next to a river, and it’s threatening rain. So, you can use your fingers to gently push the fluid out to save some time. Be careful not to push too hard, lest you tear the skin around the puncture hole further and cause pain such that you get kicked in the teeth by your screaming patient.”

“I would never kick a man,” the young Ashkenazi soldier said, grinding his teeth and wiggling his sore foot under Isaac’s applied pressure. “Never.”

Wait to say that after your first taste of battle.

Isaac continued. He punctured two more blisters on the soldier’s foot, repeating the same steps so that Tobias could remember the procedure clearly.

“Once all the blisters are drained,” he said, “you’re supposed to apply antibacterial ointment. But, we don’t have any of that. So, just wipe off the excess drainage with a clean rag—and I mean clean, Tobias, clean. Then, apply a little of this mustard poultice to the loose skin of the drained bullae, and then wrap the foot with gauze, or a clean strip of cloth if that’s the only thing available.”

Isaac finished the procedure, tied off the gauze, and slapped the boy on the leg. “All set now, young man, but I want you off your feet for the rest of the day.”

“We’re supposed to drill in a few hours, Herr Doctor,” the boy said.

Isaac shook his head. “No. You tell your company commander that Doctor Isaac Kohen says that you are in convalescence for twenty-four hours, starting now. If he has a problem with that, you tell him to talk to me. Understand?”

The young boy nodded and, despite his obvious concern about the trouble that he might get from his commanding officer, grinned happily. The boy knew as well as Isaac what twenty-four hours meant. Within twenty-four hours Shabbos, the Sabbath, would begin. Thus, twenty-four would become forty-eight, and that was more than enough time for his punctured blisters to begin to heal.

Isaac handed the needle and rubbing alcohol to Tobias. “You understand the procedure now? Good. Repeat it for all of these men.” There were about twenty Ashkenazim sitting about, waiting for care. Isaac leaned in and whispered, “Be judicious in your applications, Tobias. You have a limited supply of alcohol, swabs, and poultice. Treat only the bullae, the big blisters. And maintain good hygiene. I can’t stress that enough. And order them all to convalesce for a full day. Understand?”

Tobias nodded. “Yes, Herr Doctor.”

“Very well, then,” Isaac said, patting Tobias on the shoulder. “I’ll be off.”

“Where are you going?”

Tobias’ question was answered by Len Tanner’s booming voice echoing down the embankment and through the light wood. “Come on, Isaac. Time to go!”

Isaac looked up the rise toward the narrow road. Len’s wagon, loaded with communications equipment, waited. Ellie Anderson sat beside her husband, waving Isaac forward. He waved back to acknowledge their request. “We’re headed over to the cavalry.”


Near the Hernád River

Second Cavalry Regiment encampment


Christian didn’t realize how hungry he was until he walked through the regimental field kitchen and smelled all that delightful meat turning on the spits: squirrel and rabbit and chicken and fish, crisping and browning as grease dripped and sizzled in the embers. The horse meat from the two that he had had to put down on the march was being removed from barrels where it had been packed in salt. He had a good mind just to stop, sit himself down near one of those barrels, and eat the meat raw. He was that hungry. But first, his own horse needed love and attention.

He passed through the fog of succulent smells, refocused his mind, and stepped into the area of camp where several horses were currently being shoed. New shoes had been attached to his company’s steeds all day long, and a farrier had offered to take care of Christian’s horse. He’d refused. “Thank you, no. He’s my horse. I’ll shoe him myself.”

Besides, Christian’s father liked to say that his youngest son had come into the world grasping a hoof nipper. For his mother’s sake, Christian hoped that wasn’t true. But the von Jori’s were the best blacksmiths and livery stable owners in Zurich. They owned quite a bit of property as well. Before he was five, Christian knew pretty much everything one needed to know about animal husbandry. The skills of a farrier had come easily to him, and he felt it was necessary for a soldier to shoe his own horse. In such a large regiment, it was logical to employ blacksmiths and farriers to do that work for the companies. He understood that. But Captain von Jori didn’t have to follow the rules. Not all the time, anyway.

He weaved his way through the chaos of horses and farriers and found his horse tied to a post, waiting.

He was a strong, beautiful dark brown Hanoverian and Christian’s fourth horse since he had left home. The first had died of infected sword wounds. The second had broken two of its legs tumbling down a muddy embankment on a foolish misstep. The third fell just recently in the battle against the Magnates. This fourth one was the best of the lot and given to him by the men in his company. Thus, it was the captain’s duty to take care of it himself.

Hallo, Alphonse,” Christian said, running his hand across the horse’s broad neck. He cooed gently and laid his head against its smooth shoulder, let his hands run along its side. He took a moment to listen to Alphonse’s breathing and recalibrated his own breaths to match. “Ich bin deiner nicht würdig, aber ich werde versuchen es zu sein.

“He’s ready to shoe, Captain.”

Christian nodded to the farrier holding the reins and got to work.

He started with a front hoof. He used a nail clincher to remove the nails from the old shoe. He then pried the shoe off the hoof. Then he used a nipper and knife to remove caked-on dirt, dung, and excess hoof wall and sole. He then used a rasp to smooth out the rough spots. The farrier in assistance then handed him a heated shoe so that Christian could set it against the hoof, let the hot iron leave its scorch marks to indicate placement, and then, if necessary, determine what additional cleaning, cutting, and shaping of the hoof was needed to form a better fit. This took three tries. He dipped the shoe in water to cool it, and then tacked it on carefully with gentle taps from a hammer. He finished by running the rasp across the shoe a half dozen times. Finished!

He repeated the steps three more times until Alphonse was standing tall and proud with four brand-new shoes.

“Excellent work, Captain,” the farrier said. “He’s ready for war.”

Christian nodded and patted Alphonse’s smooth shoulder. “So am I.”

“I’m not.”

The voice startled him, but he recognized it immediately.

Christian turned. “Ah, Doctor Kohen. What brings you to the cavalry? Your boss has already made his rounds. Checking us all for saddle sores.”

Isaac nodded. “Yes, Herr Oberheuser had the easy job today. Saddle sores are nothing compared to the miles of ruined feet I’ve had to treat within the past few hours.”

Christian wagged a finger. “That’s because you’ve never ridden a horse. You say an infantryman’s feet are essential? Well, a cavalryman’s ass is the same. Try bouncing on blisters for hours and see how it feels.”

Isaac chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

Christian turned to the farrier and said, “Will you please take this fine fellow to the regimental blacksmith and ask him to double-check my work? Also, if my saddle is ready, please pick it up. They were supposed to fix it with a new girth strap.”

“Yes, sir.”

Christian and Isaac stood together and watched the farrier guide Alphonse away.

“He’s a fine horse.”

“Thank you,” Christian said. “Best I’ve had so far.” He tugged at Isaac’s sleeve. “Come, let’s have a meal. My treat.”

Isaac followed Christian toward the field kitchen, but begged off the food. “No, thank you, Christian. Given the day I’ve had, I’m in no mood to eat.”

“Very well. You can watch me eat. And again, why are you here?”

“I caught a ride with Len and Ellie. They are distributing new radios to each regiment. At some point, they’ll call all the company commanders together and give instructions on their proper use.” He chuckled. “Try not to be too taken aback by Ellie’s brusque, up-time language.”

They entered the field kitchen, and Christian accepted a plate from a server. “Slap the meat high, Rolf,” he said. “I could eat a whole goddamn horse.”

He and the server shared a laugh. Isaac didn’t seem to understand the joke. “You find it strange that we laugh about eating horses?” Christian asked.

Isaac shrugged as they found barrels to sit on near an open pit fire. “I just find it odd that you would eat the very animals you depend upon for your service to the army. For your life.”

Christian took a bite of the rabbit carcass that the server had slapped on his plate. He chewed, swallowed, and said, “Normally, I admit, I would not eat horse meat.” He lifted his plate to show it to Isaac. “I’m not eating it now, as you can see. But if there is no alternative—and on campaign, there often isn’t—a cavalryman must make do. And I like to think of it as the horse’s final service to its rider, its company. The meat that it provides in death may save the life of its rider and all the other riders that it has served with. I look at it as a blessing.”

They sat there for a long moment in silence, as the kitchen and campgrounds bustled with activity. Men playing card and dice games; men talking, laughing, cursing; men trimming their beards and being fitted with new uniforms; men napping beneath trees; men in prayer. Somewhere beyond the tree line, at least a dozen of Christian’s soldiers bathed in the Hernád. Others were checking their wheellocks, flintlocks, and ZB-2 Santees. Others were grooming their horses. Others sat reading.

The entirety of it warmed Christian’s heart and filled him with excitement. He loved the energy of the camp. It gave him strength.

Isaac didn’t seem to agree.

“What troubles you today, my friend?” Christian asked, finishing off the rabbit and flinging the bones into the fire. “You said you had a bad day, but it feels like something more. What’s wrong?”

Isaac sighed and scratched his head cap. He was wearing his yarmulke today. “It’s not just about sore feet, Christian. I have this sinking feeling that we’re going to strike tents soon. Listening to Len and Ellie talk on the way over just made it worse. The way they talk, it’s like they think the same thing. But we aren’t ready.

“Over a third of the Joshua Corps are suffering from poor feet and spine hygiene. When the body breaks down, my friend, infection comes to call. If we leave Kassa now, we’ll lose men on the march. Men who, if they had just a few more weeks to recover, to train and to prepare, they’d be ready. I fear General Roth is going to order the army to move to Transylvania any day now. It’s too soon.”

“Some are saying that we aren’t going there at all,” Christian said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Some are saying that we’ll turn toward Pressburg.”

Isaac huffed and shook his head. “I’d prefer it, to be honest, but I don’t believe it for a moment. We’re heading to the plateau, and what medical horrors await us there?”

Christian waited to see if Isaac was going to say anything else. When he didn’t, Christian said with a smile, “Don’t despair, my friend. It’ll all work out. Remember what the Bible says: ‘Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all.’”

Isaac perked up quickly, opened his eyes wide. “You know Psalms?”

Christian waved him off. “No, no. I’m no biblical scholar, Isaac. But my mother would read verses at night, sometimes over and over, in times of trouble. She thought I was sleeping beyond the thin wall of her and father’s room. But I heard her read passages. Some of them I remember well.”

Isaac’s mood improved. “That’s good to hear. Remember what I always say: For good health, you must nurture… ”

“Body, mind, and spirit.”

“Exactly.” Isaac pointed to Christian’s eye patch. “Mind if I have a look?”

Christian nodded and leaned over. “Certainly.”

Isaac, slowly and carefully, pulled away the patch. “Looks good. The bruising is nearly all gone. No more swelling. How’s the light sensitivity?”

“Tolerable. I can even move the eye around with no pain or discomfort at all.”

“Excellent,” Isaac said, fixing the patch back into place. “Then you have leave to decide whether to wear the patch or not. I officially release you, Christian von Jori, from my care. You may go forward with God.”

Christian nodded. He felt a sudden rush of joy. He never expected Isaac to utter the discharge. Hearing it now was the best thing he had heard all day. “Thank you, Isaac. You have given me excellent care these past couple months. I am in your debt.”

Isaac waved him off. “Never mind that, Captain. Let us pray to God that you never have to be in my care again.”

“That is definitely worthy of prayer. Now, Herr Doctor, what can I do for you?”

Isaac straightened on his barrel, cleared his throat, smacked his lips as if he were thirsty, and said, “I think, Captain von Jori, that you can get me something to eat. What’s on the menu?”

Christian smiled and winked. “Want to try a little horse?”

Isaac chuckled. “Sorry, but I’ll have to try something else. Horse meat isn’t kosher.”


Beč, formerly known as Vienna

Capital of the new Ottoman province (eyalet) of Austria


Usan Hussein knew that his life was about to change dramatically when Hasan bin Evhad handed him a musket and a yataghan and ordered him to follow. They did not stop walking until they were outside the city and standing beneath the Chaldiran, tethered to the ground and ready to launch.

“What is this all about?” Hussein asked, his blood pressure rising, his ruined right eye pulsing beneath the patch with each beat of his heart. “Are we going somewhere?”

“I go nowhere,” Evhad said. “But you are going south.”

“Where? And why?”

“That is not for me to say. I serve and follow the Sultan as directed, and he has directed me to deliver you to the Chaldiran. That is all I’m permitted to do.” Evhad motioned to the airship. “The captain of the Chaldiran will explain everything. Peace be upon you.”

Hasan bin Evhad was gone, and Hussein stood there staring at the Chaldiran like a toy soldier with tiny weapons in hand.

Hussein felt both joy and trepidation. The fact that he was standing there, holding Janissary weapons, could only mean one thing: he was being permitted back into the corps. Yet, he was standing before an airship, and he knew very well that Sultan Murad liked using his airships as execution platforms. Hasan bin Evhad says that I’m going south, but I could be pushed over the side on the way.

He took a step back and considered turning and running. A rope ladder tossed over the side of the ship stopped him from making such a rash decision.

A man swung over the side of the ship and worked his way down the ladder. He dropped the last few feet, settled himself, and then turned in greeting.

He took Hussein in a hug and kissed both cheeks. “As-salamu alaykum, Usan Hussein.”

“Waʿalaykumu s-salam,” he said back, though it felt odd doing so because the man who had just greeted him warmly was not Muslim.

“It has been a long time, Moshe Mizrahi,” Hussein said, trying to remain calm, courteous amid so much confusion, uncertainty. “It is my understanding that I am to be taken south to… ”

“Timișoara,” Moshe said, “and immediately. Mordechai and I have been ordered to deliver you there, where you will take command of a new Janissary regiment.”

“Me?” Hussein could not believe what he was hearing. “Why me?”

Moshe chuckled, though he did not bother to explain what was so funny about the question. “The Sultan’s army has expanded recently. The Janissary corps has been a part of that expansion. They need good officers. Even with your impairment and humiliation in defiance and defeat, your experience and skills are necessary at this time.”

Hussein rubbed the patch over his right eye. He shrugged. “Why am I not being given a command at the front line, near Linz?” He asked the question though he had a good idea what the answer might be. I am an embarrassment. A one-eyed freak that the Sultan does not want

“I cannot answer that question, Hussein.” Moshe motioned for them to take the ladder up to the waiting gondola. “But the Sultan is giving you a second chance, my friend. I would not look so earnestly toward divining his reasons. Take the second chance, and be content.”

Hussein sighed, nodded, and walked to the ladder. He bow-slung his musket over his back, buckled his yataghan to his waist, and grabbed the rungs. Moshe helped him climb.

“What are we going to do in Timișoara?” Hussein asked as he centered himself on the ladder and began to climb. “Guard duty?” Again?

“No. We will not be staying there for long.”

“Where are we going?” Hussein asked as he reached the top of the ladder and was helped into the gondola by Mordechai Pesach.

“Transylvania.”

Hussein shook his head. “Why, in Allah’s great name, are we going there?”


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