The king turned his head and glared at the distant Burgstall. "You know as well as I do, Lennart, that Wallenstein has no intention of offering me battle. That spider intends to just sit there-for months, if need be-while everyone dies around him. He counts men like a spendthrift counts coin."
Again, he clapped his hands. "Yes! Plenty of time for Captain Gars to carry out the task. More than enough."
Torstensson was scowling ferociously, now. "Your Majesty," he protested, "you haven't used Captain Gars for anything of that nature in years!"
The king matched the scowl with one of his own, even more ferocious. "What?" he demanded. "Are you saying you have no confidence in the man?"
Torstensson started. "Well-no. Of course not!"
The king's gaiety returned. "Done, then!" He gave Torstensson's shoulder a hearty pat. "Done! Captain Gars it is."
The decision made, Gustav moved at once. He turned to his bodyguard, Anders Jцnsson. "You heard?"
Stolidly, Jцnsson nodded. The king continued: "Get Captain Gars a cavalry detachment, Anders. A good one. The captain is partial to the Vдstgцta, as you know. And make sure he has plenty of Finns and some Lapps."
Gustav grinned cheerfully. "And I do believe I'll assign you to the captain as well, Anders." He waved a thick hand in the direction of Nьrnberg. "There obviously won't be any danger to me, in the midst of these great fortifications. Will there?"
Stolidly, Jцnsson shook his head.
"Excellent," said the king. He began walking away briskly, heading for the stairs leading down from the redoubt. Almost bouncing with enthusiasm, it seemed. Over his shoulder: "Captain Gars will be so delighted!"
When he was gone, Jцnsson and Torstenson stared at each other.
"Captain Gars," muttered Jцnsson. "Wonderful."
Torstensson's expression was a mix of concern and amusement. "Do take care of him, Anders, will you?"
The response was stolid, stolid. "That madman? Impossible."
Chapter 51
"What the hell are they doing, Heinrich?" demanded Tom Simpson. The big American captain was peering over the top of the parapet which had been erected across the road leading into Suhl from the south. The hastily built field fortifications were positioned at the northern edge of a large meadow. The meadow was about two hundred yards long and slightly less than that in width. A small stream ran through the center of it, bisecting the road.
His commanding officer shrugged. A pair of binoculars was slung around Heinrich's neck, but he was not using them. The oncoming mercenary soldiers were already entering the meadow, and in plain view.
Tom raised his own binoculars and scanned the meadow. After a few seconds, he lifted the eyepieces and began slowly studying the woods which covered the hills beyond.
"I don't like it," he muttered.
Next to him, Heinrich smiled. If he had any professional criticism of his inexperienced junior officer, it was that Tom insisted on finding complexity where, more often than not, there was none. "Too much football," he murmured.
Tom lowered the binoculars and peered at him suspiciously. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Heinrich's sly smile widened. "What it means, my friend, is that you keep thinking you are on a playing field. Facing enemies who are working out of a fancy play book."
Except for the English phrases "playing field" and "play book," Heinrich had spoken the last two sentences in German. The language made the English sports terms particularly incongruous-which was exactly what Heinrich had intended.
Tom snorted. "And what do you know about play books? Every time I've tried to explain football, you either fall asleep or order another beer."
Like Heinrich, Tom now also spoke in German. His command of the language had improved faster than that of any adult American in Grantville. It could not be said that Tom was fluent yet-not quite-but he was already able to participate in any conversation.
"That's because it's too intricate," retorted Heinrich. His hands zigzagged back and forth. "This one goes that way, that one goes this way"-his forefinger made a little twirling motion-"the other one runs around in circles to confuse the opponent-ha! It's a wonder you didn't all collapse from dizziness."
Tom grinned. "Not my problem. I didn't go anywhere except straight ahead-right into the guy in front of me."
"Excellent!" cried Heinrich. He slapped Tom on the shoulder with his left hand while he pointed at the meadow with his right. "Then you shouldn't have any difficulty with this. They come straight at us-good soldiers!-and we knock them flat. What is to understand?"
Tom's grin faded, replaced by a scowl. "Dammit, Heinrich, it doesn't make sense! They have got to know by now-"
Heinrich cut him off. "No, they don't! Tom, listen to me. You have no experience with these mercenary armies. Those men"-he jerked his head toward the meadow-"have probably had no contact with Tilly's. And if they did, they would have ignored anything a stupid Bavarian had to say."
He could tell that Tom was not convinced. Heinrich chuckled. Pointing now with his chin, he indicated the woods beyond the meadow. "What? You think there are cavalrymen hidden in the wood? Bringing their clever maneuver to fruition. Waiting to pounce when the time is right?"
Tom hesitated. Heinrich smiled. "Double reverse? Is that what you call it?"
"All right," the American grumbled. "Maybe you're right." He lifted his head over the parapet again. Softly: "We'll know soon enough. They're starting to cross the stream."
Lazily, Heinrich raised his own head and studied the enemy. "Swabians, I think. Sorry ignorant bastards."
Tom's lips twitched. "All of them?"
"Every Swabian ever born," came the firm reply. Then Heinrich's own lips moved. Twitched, perhaps. "I'm from the Upper Palatinate, you know."
"As if you haven't told me enough times. Funny thing, though." Tom's heavy brows lowered. "I was talking to a Westphalian just the other day, and he swears that everybody from the Palatinate-Upper or Lower, the way he tells it-is a natural born-"
"Westphalians!" sniffed Heinrich. "You can't believe a word those people say. They're all goat-fuckers, for a start. Bastards, too, every one of them."
Tom started to make some quip in response, but never spoke the words. For all the relaxed casualness in Heinrich's stance and demeanor, Tom understood the sudden squinting of his eyes. During their badinage, the German veteran had never taken his gaze off the enemy. Tom envied him that relaxed poise. Personally, he felt as tight as a drum.
"Seventy yards," Heinrich murmured. "Good." He raised the whistle hanging around his neck. But before blowing into it, he gave Tom a sly smile.
"How do you say it? Oh, yes-play ball."
The whistle blew. An instant later, three hundred U.S. soldiers rose from behind the parapet and began pumping lead slugs into the Swabians.
Five minutes later, the gunfire ceased. Heinrich swiveled his head. The sly smile was back.
"How do you say it? Oh, yes-blowout, I believe."
Tom made no reply. He appreciated the humor, but couldn't really share it. Unlike Heinrich, Tom Simpson was not a veteran of a dozen battlefields. He kept his eyes firmly focused on the enemy soldiers stumbling in retreat, so that he wouldn't find himself staring at the corpses mounded in an innocent meadow. Or a pleasant stream, suddenly running red.