Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 60

Field hospital

Gyulafehérvár


The wounds Isaac was seeing were not like those from Déj. The Murad mini-ball was a beast of a bullet.

It created a wound similar to the Sunrise’s own ZBs, but this was the first time that he had seen those kinds of wounds in large numbers arrive at the hospital. At Déj, and even at Krakow, the wounds were of a more traditional sort, from match and flintlock muskets, wheellock pistols. The kinds of wound he was more familiar with. Here at the capital, the enemy had just as powerful weapons as the Sunrise, and they knew how to wield them.

Wagonloads of wounded began arriving shortly after the battle commenced, and it had not dissipated much since then.

Soldiers lay inside and outside the tent. Good people from the capital had volunteered to assist the Sunrise’s beleaguered nursing corps perform many of the mundane—though important—tasks of nursing, such as cleaning, sanitizing, preparing medical equipment. Devorah, Oana, and Andreea worked tirelessly in helping Isaac and Doctor Oberheuser sift through the wounded to determine which ones would be cared for first. Simply put: those with serious, though treatable, arm and leg wounds were cared for immediately. Those with deep body wounds, if they survived an hour waiting, were then admitted for evaluation and surgery. It was a brutal decision that Oberheuser put in place as soon as he saw the numbers arriving. Isaac didn’t like it, but didn’t complain. The old man was in a right mood, and in truth, the decision was probably the correct one. Treat those who could be saved relatively easily, where the largest volume of patients could be sent on their way, either back to the front or into convalescence outside the tent.

Isaac now stood over a young Ashkenazi soldier who had taken a shot through the gut. A clean entry and exit wound. Rare, but treatable. If only the boy would calm down.

Oana and Andreea held his legs and arms down while Devorah administered a shot of morphine. “Keep still, young man,” Isaac said.

“Will I die?” the boy asked.

Isaac shook his head. “No, son. Not if you keep still.”

“There were hundreds, thousands of them,” the boy spit, as Devorah pushed the syringe of painkiller into his arm. “We couldn’t hold them. Nobody could hold them.”

From the Ashkenazi arriving at the tent, Isaac had gotten dribs and drabs of information from the southern battle line. It was a mess down there: an inexperienced Joshua Corps trying to hold back an entire Wallachian army, and one with terrible killing weapons like the one that had punctured this young man’s bowel.

Damn all wars!

Isaac waited until his patient was unconscious, then he stepped aside to allow Oana to clean the entry wound. “There’s not much I can do for him,” he whispered to Devorah. “We can clean the area, remove the shrapnel, sew up his bowel, and then pray he doesn’t get an infection.”

“I’ll pray for him while you do the work,” Devorah said.

Isaac nodded and smiled. “Ja, meine Dame.

It was always a joy working alongside Devorah.


Southern battle line


“Hold the line!”

Colonel Burkenfeld’s order to Gayling’s dragoons was received, but not acted upon in time, as Serbian cavalry charged down the ridgeline toward them in waves of flowing red robes and glinting steel. Wheel- and flintlock pistols fired sporadically along their charge. ZB-2 Santees responded in kind along the stone wall from those who had successfully deployed before the charge. Others scrambled to try to get off shots before the Serbians swept their position. They shot and fell back, shot and fell back, trying desperately to maintain good order.

Pechmann’s and Lamotte’s heavy cavalry slammed into the Serbian advance, and that helped divert a portion of the attack. But still they came on, screaming and howling like red devils. If it had been simply a scrap between evenly matched forces, Burkenfeld’s companies would have held, its dragoons’ more modern rifles forcing an easy retreat. But the sheer number and weight of the Serbian charge was too great.

His hastily formed defense collapsed.

Colonel Burkenfeld found himself in the middle of the fight, a heavy Panzerstecher in his hand, slashing and stabbing his way through a wave of Serbian red coats, his cuirass protecting him from most sword slashes threatening to drop him from the saddle. He howled and hacked and hammered, ignoring the fact that his vision was partially obscured by his now-broken helmet. He raised his sword in his right hand and drew his Santee with his left.

He cocked one hammer of the pistol while parrying an attack from his right. The Serbian’s saber struck his hand, splitting the flesh between index finger and thumb. Burkenfeld shuddered in pain, dropped his sword, and turned his pistol to the right to address his assailant.

Shots were fired, but not from his pistol. Two Serbians to his front fired into his cuirass. One shot was deflected. The other punctured a seam in his chest plate and tore through his stomach.

He fired his pistol randomly into the chaos. Maybe he struck someone, maybe not. Nothing seemed to matter to him now as he dropped his pistol, felt the warm sensation of blood draining down his stomach and into his crotch. He leaned to the left and fell from his horse.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Wheel,” Colonel Zelikovich said, finally, with an air of authority and defiance, “and refuse the line!”

Jason could hear the tumult through the trees, a combination of shouting, screaming, muskets firing, and horses dying, the kind of sounds most often reserved for nightmares. But, it was midmorning. This was no dream, and the Serbians were coming.

“Shouldn’t we pull back?” he said, grabbing young Tobias’ shoulder and tugging him away.

Tobias was giving aid to a medic who had fallen back with fleeing men from Second Regiment. He had stepped on a stone and had twisted, and perhaps broken, his ankle.

“It’ll be all right, Rabbi,” Tobias said, seemingly resigned to the possibility that here, now, he might die. “Remember your words: be not afraid of them.”

Them were now pushing hard against Third Regiment. A violent discharge of musket fire sounded through the trees. Jason could not see the discharge of smoke, but he could smell it. He could smell it everywhere. It made him want to throw up, to turn tail and skedaddle, as they say, to jump on the Jupiter and fly back to Prague and be with his wife, their children.

Be a proud Jew… Words he had shared with many over the past several months. Had they come back now to haunt him, to mock him in his fear?

He helped Tobias put the medic in the back of a wagon; the last wagon available to transport wounded to Doctor Kohen. More were on the way, but did it matter now? If Colonel Zelikovich’s order to “refuse the line” failed, would anything really matter?

Another volley of musket fire, then a cold, heavy silence. A long, deep silence. Jason found that strange, for surely the battle had not ceased. Perhaps it was one of those so-called acoustical shadows that he had learned about in up-time school, where observers close to a battle could hear nothing, yet many miles away, the sounds were crisp and clear. He suddenly found himself yearning for those battle sounds again. The silence scared him more.

Then a volley of weak musket fire sounded. A pause, then terrified men from Third Regiment burst through the tree line. Another musket sounded, and one of them dropped. Another screamed, “Run! Run!”

Tobias’ hand was on his shoulder. “Rabbi? You’re right. It’s time to go.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Usan had never seen Matei Basarab in such a pleasant mood. But, good report after good report from his runners confirmed what he and everyone had hoped: the Jews were on the run.

The double envelopment had worked. Partially, at least. The attack on the left flank, led by Captain Dordevic, had succeeded masterfully, pushing the Sunrise dragoons back into the wood line. And now, the two Jewish regiments that they had attacked frontally had fallen back to a defensive position along a narrow stone wall between a row of farmhouses. The entire enemy line was falling back upon itself. All it would take now to break completely was for the cavalry on the right flank to push a little harder. But the Turkish and Wallachian cavalry assigned to that attack had met with stiff resistance. So far, at least.

“The Ifrits and my orta would make short work of that flank, my lord,” Usan said again, trying to goad the voivode of Wallachia into a decision. “Just give the word, and I will bring victory to you and to Sultan Murad, and we will be in the capital by nightfall.”

From time to time, Usan had had to remind Matei who they really served. It was easy to forget, the Sultan being so far away and so preoccupied with other military matters. He had not heard word from the Sultan since arriving in Transylvania. But no one should ever doubt who was in charge of this endeavor, especially Matei Basarab.

Matei lowered his spyglass and shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary, Usan. These Jews will fall before the sun sets. It is certain now.” He motioned to his right. “Fire up the tanks and move them and your orta to the center, as Vasile Lupu recommends.”

Usan sighed. “My lord, it has been hours since the Chaldiran delivered that message. We do not know the nature of the enemy’s position in the center. They may have reinforced it by now. If I’m to go, I would feel better if I could acquire some cavalry to defend my flanks. The Ifrits are powerful, indeed, but slow, and they can be easily outmaneuvered.”

“Your Janissaries aren’t enough to defend those tanks?”

Usan held his anger in check. “My lord, we are but a thousand men”—and even less now after the attacks on Meinbach and Hermannstadt—“and we can only do so much. Give me two companies of cavalry. One company.”

Matei shook his head. “No, corbaci. I still need them for the flank attack. We cannot relent against the enemy still before us.” He paused, stroked his beard, said, “But I will give you my Dorobanţi reserves. A full regiment of a thousand men. More than you’ll likely need, I’m sure. They’re yours. Take them.”

Usan bowed. “Thank you, my lord.” He raised his musket in salute. “Victory for the Sultan!”


Back | Next
Framed