staff, along with Wilhelm. I am certain you would be an asset”—Gustav blandly ignored the barely veiled skepticism on the faces of his Swedish officers—“and, in exchange, I believe I could teach you something of the art of war.”
The last part of the sentence did the trick, as Gustav had expected. Saxe-Weimar’s adolescent admiration for the king’s military prowess had become a minor embarrassment.
Bernard’s eyes moved to the other men clustered about. Veterans, all. Men of proven valor. Plain to see, the young man was concerned for his reputation. His gaze settled on the youngest Swedish officer in the tent. That was Lennart Torstensson, the brilliant commander of the Swedish artillery.
Torstensson chuckled. “Have no fear, Bernard. Let the imperialists taunt you as they will. Soon enough—within a year—they will taunt no longer.”
The laugh which swept the tent, this time, was neither angry nor sarcastic. Simply savage and feral. So might northern wolves bark, hearing that reindeer questioned their courage.
Torstensson’s response, and the accompanying laughter, was enough. Saxe-Weimar’s nod turned into a deep bow, directed at the king. “It would be my honor and privilege, Your Majesty.”
Gustav clapped his hands together. “Excellent! In the meantime—” He turned to one of his cavalry commanders, Johann Banér. “That small garrison is still at Badenburg, I trust?”
Banér cocked his head. “The Scots, you mean? The cavalry troop under Mackay’s command?”
“Yes, them. Alexander Mackay, as I recall. A promising young officer.”
Oxenstierna, judicious as ever, refrained from commenting on that last remark. You spent less than an hour in his company, Gustav. Based on that you call him “a promising young officer”? But he left the words unspoken. The king, he was quite sure, was under no illusions. He simply wanted—almost desperately—to bring confidence and good cheer into a day of gloom and horror. Besides, unlike Banér, Axel knew of Mackay’s real mission.
Gustav continued: “Send a courier to Mackay, ordering him to remain in Thuringia. I don’t expect him to hold Badenburg against any serious assault, of course. If he’s pressed, he can retreat into the Thuringen Forest. I simply want him there to report on Tilly’s movements.” He gave Oxenstierna a quick glance. “But have that courier report to me, before you send him off. I’ll have more detailed instructions.”
Banér nodded. The king turned to Hesse-Kassel.
“William, I can provide you with nothing in the way of direct assistance either. But your situation is less desperate. Tilly will move on Thuringia first, not Hessen. And—”
Hesse-Kassel snorted. “And Tilly moves like a slug under any circumstances. The great and mighty General Slow.”
Gustav smiled, but the smile faded very quickly. “Don’t underestimate the man, William,” he said, softly and seriously. “He may be slow, but remember this: Jan Tzerklas, Count Tilly, has been a professional soldier all his life. Most of that time as a commander of armies. He is over seventy years old, now— and has yet to lose a major battle. ”
The king’s face grew solemn. “He is the last, and perhaps the greatest, of a breed of generals going back to the great Gonzalo de Cordoba.”
“The butcher of Magdeburg,” snarled Torstensson.
Gustav glanced at his artillery officer. When he spoke, his tone was sad. “Yes, Lennart, so Tilly will be known to posterity. And everything else forgotten.” The king squared his shoulders. “I do not say it is unjust, mind you. A general is responsible for the conduct of his troops, when all is said and done. But all reports of Magdeburg are agreed that Tilly attempted to restrain his soldiers. He certainly had no reason to put the city to the torch.”
Torstensson, accustomed to
The last part of the sentence did the trick, as Gustav had expected. Saxe-Weimar’s adolescent admiration for the king’s military prowess had become a minor embarrassment.
Bernard’s eyes moved to the other men clustered about. Veterans, all. Men of proven valor. Plain to see, the young man was concerned for his reputation. His gaze settled on the youngest Swedish officer in the tent. That was Lennart Torstensson, the brilliant commander of the Swedish artillery.
Torstensson chuckled. “Have no fear, Bernard. Let the imperialists taunt you as they will. Soon enough—within a year—they will taunt no longer.”
The laugh which swept the tent, this time, was neither angry nor sarcastic. Simply savage and feral. So might northern wolves bark, hearing that reindeer questioned their courage.
Torstensson’s response, and the accompanying laughter, was enough. Saxe-Weimar’s nod turned into a deep bow, directed at the king. “It would be my honor and privilege, Your Majesty.”
Gustav clapped his hands together. “Excellent! In the meantime—” He turned to one of his cavalry commanders, Johann Banér. “That small garrison is still at Badenburg, I trust?”
Banér cocked his head. “The Scots, you mean? The cavalry troop under Mackay’s command?”
“Yes, them. Alexander Mackay, as I recall. A promising young officer.”
Oxenstierna, judicious as ever, refrained from commenting on that last remark. You spent less than an hour in his company, Gustav. Based on that you call him “a promising young officer”? But he left the words unspoken. The king, he was quite sure, was under no illusions. He simply wanted—almost desperately—to bring confidence and good cheer into a day of gloom and horror. Besides, unlike Banér, Axel knew of Mackay’s real mission.
Gustav continued: “Send a courier to Mackay, ordering him to remain in Thuringia. I don’t expect him to hold Badenburg against any serious assault, of course. If he’s pressed, he can retreat into the Thuringen Forest. I simply want him there to report on Tilly’s movements.” He gave Oxenstierna a quick glance. “But have that courier report to me, before you send him off. I’ll have more detailed instructions.”
Banér nodded. The king turned to Hesse-Kassel.
“William, I can provide you with nothing in the way of direct assistance either. But your situation is less desperate. Tilly will move on Thuringia first, not Hessen. And—”
Hesse-Kassel snorted. “And Tilly moves like a slug under any circumstances. The great and mighty General Slow.”
Gustav smiled, but the smile faded very quickly. “Don’t underestimate the man, William,” he said, softly and seriously. “He may be slow, but remember this: Jan Tzerklas, Count Tilly, has been a professional soldier all his life. Most of that time as a commander of armies. He is over seventy years old, now— and has yet to lose a major battle. ”
The king’s face grew solemn. “He is the last, and perhaps the greatest, of a breed of generals going back to the great Gonzalo de Cordoba.”
“The butcher of Magdeburg,” snarled Torstensson.
Gustav glanced at his artillery officer. When he spoke, his tone was sad. “Yes, Lennart, so Tilly will be known to posterity. And everything else forgotten.” The king squared his shoulders. “I do not say it is unjust, mind you. A general is responsible for the conduct of his troops, when all is said and done. But all reports of Magdeburg are agreed that Tilly attempted to restrain his soldiers. He certainly had no reason to put the city to the torch.”
Torstensson, accustomed to
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