Chapter 52
General Hatmanu’s headquarters
North of Gyulafehérvár
Three regiments of Székely trabants had pushed across the Küküllő River to keep the Moldavians at bay until such time as a plan of attack was developed. But for some inexplicable reason, General Marius Hatmanu had retreated back across the river prematurely, thus giving the Moldavians full access to all routes leading to and across the Maros. Brigadier Higgins had given the message to Colonel Callenberk via radio in a tirade of up-time expletives that forced the newly minted regimental commander to pull the phone away from his ear. Standing nearby, Christian, who had been given the order to deliver that message, could hear every foul word and almost see Brigadier Higgins’ spit flying through the receiver.
“What are you going to say to him, sir?” Lieutenant Enkefort asked.
Christian pulled on his reins to bring his horse to a slow, steady walk. He shrugged. “I’ll do my duty. What else can I do?”
Two Székely soldiers came forward and grabbed the reins of their horses, bringing them to a halt. They said nothing, nor did they salute him as a superior officer. Christian didn’t care. Now was not the time to waste time with formalities.
He climbed off his horse, fixed his coat, hat, belt, and said to the man holding Alphonse’s reins, “We are here to see General Hatmanu.”
Hatmanu stepped out of the tent. His uniform was the same bright red of his soldiers, but the accoutrements of command were prominent at his neck, on his lapel, on his hat, and without question, in his demeanor. If he preened any more, he’d break in two.
“Why are you here, Captain?”
Christian held his tongue, bit back the bile in his throat, and forced a salute. “General Hatmanu, I’m here to—”
“If you are here to relieve me of command, Captain, you’ve wasted your time. This is my country, my men, my command. I refuse to do so, and I do not recognize you as a—”
“I am not here to relieve you of command, sir,” Christian said, interrupting and raising his tone over Hatmanu’s petulant voice. “I am here to—”
“Tell your Jewish master that I withdrew because, had I not, the Moldavians would have crushed us against the Küküllő. I withdrew to save my brigade, damn you. They had rockets and that infernal flying machine dropping bombs, with fifteen thousand soldiers at their heels. I asked for more men. I didn’t get them. Had we stayed, we’d have been annihilated.”
“I am not here to relieve you of command, sir, nor am I here to listen to your reasons for withdrawal. I am here to escort you to a meeting with Generals Roth, von Mercy, Renz, Higgins, and all the regimental commanders of the Sunrise, so that a plan of attack can be immediately devised.”
“The plan of attack is simple, Captain.” Hatmanu widened his eyes and raised his hands. The image of this pitiful man raising his hand to his wife shot through Christian’s mind. “Give me more men, and I can destroy the enemy.”
Christian sighed, quickly growing annoyed with this delay. “Sir, Brigadier Higgins is sending one regiment of his Silesian Guard here in haste—with volley guns—to help secure your lines. They will be here within the hour and will take command of your defense while you are attending General Roth’s meeting.”
General Hatmanu placed his hands on his hips. “Why didn’t the brigadier send me this message himself? Is he afraid to—”
“He attempted to rouse you by radio, sir. You did not respond.”
The general lowered his gaze, looked almost embarrassed. “The radio’s been…destroyed. Struck by gunfire.”
Impalers. It had to be, mixed in with the advancing Moldavians. They know what radios look like, and they know their value. “Sir, I will say again, you are required to attend me to the meeting.”
General Hatmanu crossed his arms and locked his knees. He closed his eyes to slits. “And if I refuse…Captain?”
Christian paused. He hadn’t considered what might happen if the cretin refused the request, nor had Colonel Callenberk given further instructions on what to do if so.
He cleared his throat. “Sir, you will accompany me to General Roth’s headquarters. If you refuse, I’m quite certain that Brigadier Higgins will be most happy to compel you to do so.”
They stood there, staring at each other. Christian’s heart was beating madly, his confused emotions of anger, fear, rage, all converging to give him an anxiety he wasn’t used to. He was comforted by Alphonse being so close. If things got out of hand, he knew that he could rely on Alphonse, on Lieutenant Enkefort, to get him out of danger. If things got out of hand.
The general’s shoulders lowered. “Very well, Captain. If General Roth wishes to receive my counsel, I will gladly give it. Lead on, boy. Let’s go see what a jeweler knows about war.”
Wallachian Army encampment
Meinbach
Through thick morning fog, Usan Hussein read the signal flags from the Chaldiran. Its crew refused to land and, instead, made three circles over the Wallachian army encampment to give him enough time to decipher the message. He wasn’t sure he had interpreted everything correctly; his skills with signal flags had waned by lack of use. He understood most of it. The parts of the message that mattered, anyway.
“General Hatmanu has fallen back beyond the Küküllő,” he said to Matei Basarab as they watched the airship rise and disappear in a bank of clouds. “Voivode Lupu’s way is open in the north. He will attempt to cross the Maros soon and attack shortly thereafter. He asks that we march on Gyulafehérvár immediately.”
“Asking or demanding?” Matei asked.
Usan huffed. “Is there a difference when it comes to the man?”
Matei nodded. “None. We are but ten, perhaps twelve, miles from the capital. We can be there in half a day.” He sighed deeply. “If we move too quickly, however, without knowing if he has successfully crossed the Maros, then we may be in the middle of a fight before he even engages. If he wants us to attack in unison, then we need to know his disposition beforehand. We need to know that he has crossed the Maros before we engage.”
“If we wait too long, my lord,” Usan said, “then we give the Sunrise the opportunity to seize the field. If we move now, even if we get there too soon, we can determine the ground on which to fight.”
Matei stepped away, looked behind them, turned left, and walked over to Stroe Leurdeanu. They talked a while, then Matei returned. “How are your men? Are they ready? And what of the Ifrits?”
“My orta is ready to move upon your order. Two of the Ifrits are ready at your command. The other requires an axle repair, and there is some fume leakage around its naphtha tank. The crew says it will be ready to move within two days.”
“Two days… ”
Matei let that hang out there, as if they were words of warning. Then, “Can we leave it behind? Let it catch up?”
Usan nodded. “Of course, though I would feel better moving with all three. My orta has grown quite accustomed to following them into battle.”
“And what have we learned of their so-called APCs? Did the Chaldiran give any details about them?”
“Yes,” he said, “what little they know. Voivode Lupu’s spies in the Diet are having trouble getting messages to the Moldavians. A major general from the Sunrise has been put in charge of capital security. He has locked down most veins of information to and from the capital. But what Mordechai Pesach tells me is that these APCs are wagons of reinforced metal plate. They are pulled behind an engine, much like our own tanks, just as wide, but taller. They resemble the old wooden war wagons of Hussite origin, but bigger, more durable. They will be formidable on the battlefield.”
“But not impossible, I pray, to defeat.”
“Nothing, my lord, can withstand a sustained line of fire from our Ifrits.”
Matei stepped aside to deliberate once more. Usan waited, waited. Finally, the voivode of Wallachia said, “We will march at first light. And you inform the crew of that beleaguered Ifrit that they have today to make repairs. In the morning, they will move with us. This army moves together, Usan, or not at all.”