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Chapter 59

Southern battle line


Captain Andrej Dordevic waited for his cavalry to slowly—too slowly, perhaps—assemble into nice, tidy rows and await orders. The voivode of Wallachia had already given that order, but Andrej had paused. Why?

Two reasons. First, Matei Basarab was no general, and he had little or no understanding of tactical preparedness. Dordevic’s men simply weren’t ready when the order was given. He had to wait until the Croats, arriving late to the battle, were in place and armed with proper weapons.

Second, that little aircraft that the enemy insisted on flying over their battle line had spooked their horses. Morale had teetered on a knife for a while as he and his staff had to convince the hopelessly gullible within his ranks that God wasn’t raining death down upon them for what they were about to do. What they were about to do, Andrej had to convince them, was to drive this Jewish force out of Transylvania, and then reap the rewards accordingly. His men had already been given enough silver dinars to last many, many months. Imagine the treasure that full victory might give them.

The thought of those rewards had renewed Andrej’s enthusiasm about this engagement. In his heart, he had no love for the Sultan or the Ottomans nor was he inclined to take up arms on their behalf, but if they could beat this Bohemian army and take Transylvania, well—

His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a rider who came galloping over a hill. The young Serbian reined his horse to a stop, saluted, and said out of breath, “Captain Dordevic, enemy cavalry, just over the ridgeline, is attempting to deploy its dragoons along a small stone wall.”

“How far are they along?” he asked.

“They’ve just arrived, sir. Starting to deploy now.”

“Excellent!” he said, almost hissing. “Then we go, now, and strike them in mid-deployment.”

Andrej rose in his stirrups, pulled his sword, held it high, and gave the order to charge.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jason pushed the screaming man’s bloody leg down until it was flat against the ground. Like many others of First and Second Regiments, he had staggered back behind the relative safety of Third Regiment’s defensive line, had fallen to his knees, and had begged for help. Scores of Ashkenazi soldiers had done much the same.

Jason had helped the medical staff at the Battle of Déj, but nothing had prepared him for this.

Young Tobias moved quickly to place a tourniquet on the man’s leg before he bled out. Jason was impressed with the young man’s efficiency. Young, but apparently quite capable. In fact, now that he thought about it, he did recall Isaac saying how much he admired Tobias’ quick mind and cool demeanor. Jason could see fear in the boy’s eyes—who wasn’t afraid at this moment?—but once casualties had begun arriving, his whole attitude had changed. Tobias moved from man to man, making quick triage decisions about their care: “superficial,” “minor,” “treatable,” “priority,” “expectant.” Those with superficial or minor wounds were sent back into the fray; treatables were given care on the spot; priorities were placed in a wagon and sent to the main field hospital where Doctor Kohen resided; expectants were left to die. Jason lingered behind for those, giving them comfort in their last moments, praying with them, holding them even after death. The new Murad mini-ball was a devil of a bullet. So far, over a third who had managed to stagger back from the front lines had died from their horrible wounds.

“Heavy casualties,” Tobias said as they moved to another group of fresh arrivals. Thankfully, most of their wounds were minor. It seemed as if not everyone fleeing from the Wallachian attack waited until the last minute.

“How much longer can we hold?” Jason asked under his breath, more to himself than to anyone around him.

“Have no fear, Rabbi,” a soldier, one Tobias had classified as “priority” due to the severity of his leg wound, said as Jason helped other medics put men into wagons. “We’re pushing them back!”

The man coughed uncontrollably, and Jason helped him find his resting spot in the wagon. Pushing them back…doubtful, Jason figured, although the corps’ modern weapons were just as powerful as anything the Wallachians could wield. Perhaps even more so. He wondered what it might be like on the Wallachian side of the line, how their wounded were faring amid so much terrible gunfire.

He shook the thought from his mind. As much as he wanted to love and respect everyone, to think good thoughts about all people, even the enemy, he had to focus on the care of these men, his men, boys whom he had prayed and worshipped with during many Shabbos since the very moment they had joined the Sunrise. Right now, they alone deserved his respect and attention.

Tobias slapped the hindquarters of the horse at the front of the wagon. The driver responded with a snap of the reins, and the wagon was gone.

From his right and through the tree line, Jason heard a rising of voices, galloping horses, and shouting men. Everyone in camp could feel the tremor of charging hooves. A silence cascaded from one wounded group to another. Jason looked at Tobias. The young man’s impressive focus on duty was suddenly washed away. In its place, abject fear.

A man charged out of the tree line. Winded, exhausted, he fell to his knees and shouted, “Serbians…the Serbians are attacking!”


Northern battle line


Another charge into the Moldavian infantry, and for a moment, it seemed as if they would break. But Delta and Echo, two of five free infantry companies that Generals Roth and von Mercy had assigned to the Székely defense of the northern battle line, paused to loot bodies, thus giving the enemy time to bring up Tatar and Akinji cavalry and slam into their flank. Delta and Echo held, wavered, then routed.

“This isn’t like Déj,” Captain Josef Kinsky said, as he was ordered to redeploy his dragoons to the right flank to reinforce Foxtrot, Golf, and Hotel, the remaining three free companies who were, themselves, close to breaking.

“Not at all,” Christian said, barely able to raise his tired arms to shake Kinsky’s hand. They met in the middle of Kinsky’s men who were in saddles and rushing to the right flank. “Can’t General Renz do anything? Can’t we get that Silesian regiment back?”

Kinsky shook his head. “Apparently not. At least not right away. Lots of problems in the south. The Joshua Corps is getting hammered, I hear.”

Christian shook his head in disgust. His neck, too, hurt, though he had not suffered many wounds on the charge, save for that leg slash and a cut across the left sleeve of his buff coat. Alphonse had suffered a few other minor cuts. “Too inexperienced an army. We got too many green men in the field.”

Kinsky nodded. “Not to mention mercenaries more interested in personal wealth than fighting. Ahh, well, that’s to be expected. At least Hatmanu’s men aren’t falling back like they did before. They’re taking a beating, but thank God, holding.”

Kinsky shouted orders to his men as they finished moving to their new defensive position. He turned and took a good look at Christian. “How are your men holding up, Captain?”

“Fine. Though, we’re running low on ammunition.”

“I spoke with Col—I mean, General—Renz. They’re sending more, though he could not tell me when it would arrive.”

Too late, probably, to do much good, Christian figured. In the midst of battle, wagonloads of supplies couldn’t roll up into the middle of it. Wagonloads of wounded were coming out of those dangerous areas right now. The narrow roads leading into and out of the capital were already teeming with horses and men and wagons and walking wounded. A log jam would most certainly occur and, inevitably, at the worst time. It always worked out that way.

“Do you need assistance, Captain?” Christian asked. “I’ve re-formed my men—those I have left—to the rear. We can move on your order and give support to your redeployment, protect your flank.”

Kinsky smiled. He leaned over and patted Christian on his dusty shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. That won’t be necessary. Ulfsparre’s company will take that role for now. But stick around. Things’ll get dangerous, I’m sure.”

General Hatmanu’s aide-de-camp rode into view with a security detail, their Székely banners, bearing an armored hand clutching a sword on a red field, waving madly in the wind. He was courteous enough to wait until Kinsky’s men had cleared the road, then he approached. “Sirs,” he said, “General Hatmanu has asked that you attend him…immediately.”

Christian rolled his eyes. Apparently, things were getting dangerous right quick.


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