"They don't have to be believed, Joe," Sandy said, a little put out. "It's just a game."
The two days were up and Thomas had scribbled enough notes to fill a notebook. Before he left, he invited the boys to serve as his aides in camp, but their parents flatly refused. "My son isn't going to Switzerland to get himself killed in no foolish war," said Eckerlin's mother, and Joe's parents weren't very diplomatic about it either. Thomas understood. He thanked the boys profusely and before he left, Joe slapped a leather bag into his hand.
"Here, take some dice with you," he said. "There's an old twenty-sided in there and a few twelves and tens, but mostly six-siders. Larry Wild's old stash, used to slay dragons and orcs in D amp;D, I reckon. I don't think you'll be doing any of that, but they may come in handy."
Indeed they did.
****
Gremminger unbuttoned his grey wool coat. It was still cold, but the sun was high, and across the snow-topped mountains in the distance, there was sufficient heat to make the day pleasant. It was made even more pleasant by the formation of Spaniards who stood at attention before him in ranks of twenty men each. Tarasp had promised and had delivered, and in impressive numbers. "Two hundred fifty," Gremminger said, his eyes lit up like candles. "A good variety of weapons too, I will say. The Spanish have been busy."
Captain Luis Mendoza y Rodriguez nodded his appreciation, and said, "Thank you, Herr Gremminger. Spain is delighted to be of assistance in this most dangerous endeavor. I wish I could say that Bishop Mohr had delivered these men to you, but you understand his situation, I'm sure."
Yes, he did. The Bishop of Chur, Joseph Mohr von Zernetz, had always supported the God's House and its standing in the Grisons. Chur was the capital of the League, of course, but since the arrival of the Americans and the subsequent creation of the USE, Mohr's allegiance had come into question. Pressure from German and Italian interests (both financial and political) had put entirely too much strain on the old priest, and his health was failing as well. Now close to death, he'd gotten soft and indecisive. Gremminger had given the man a chance to prove his loyalty by requesting support. Mohr had refused. Gremminger shook his head. At least some of the Hapsburgs in Tarasp still had back-bone. But . . . "You understand, Captain Mendoza, that my quarrel with Gregor von Allmen has nothing to do with the League of Ostend and their political mechanizations. My purpose is strictly mercenary, as the saying goes. Von Allmen stole land from my father. I intend on getting it back." He turned and faced the Spanish captain. "Entiende?"
The feud between the Gremminger's and von Allmen's went back thirty years, when a mutual agreement was made to swap disputed lands. The agreement seemed to be holding, until the young, impetuous Gregor von Allmen took it upon himself to violate the agreement and reclaim those lands. The Gremminger's had not been in a position to protest in force at the time. Such was not the case now.
Mendoza nodded and Gremminger could spot a tiny wink in the Spaniard's right eye. "Of course, senor. My associates in Tarasp just feel that, in these troubled times, it's best to show support for a fellow Catholic who has expressed his el amor que no se muere . . . oh how do you say it? His . . . undying love for God and for the Valtellina."
"Of course." Gremminger nodded. Then he noticed the gun strapped to Captain Mendoza's back. He pointed to it. "What's that?"
Mendoza's face spread in a mighty grin and he swung the gun off his shoulder and presented it to Gremminger. "Ah! This is what I wanted to show you. New weapon, fresh out of manufacture. There aren't many of them, understand, but enough to make quite an impressive showing."
"What is it?"
Mendoza turned it round and round in his hands. "It's what the Americans call an 1853 Enfield muzzleloader, used with minie ball, housing a flintlock ignition system. It has an engagement range of nearly four hundred yards, and an effective range of two hundred fifty yards. A good man can fire two, perhaps three, rounds per minute."
Gremminger took the rifle and studied it. "How did you get it?"
"The Americans aren't the only ones who can make weapons, senor. This particular piece was made in Suhl, you see. They are difficult to produce, but not impossible."
"How many do you have?"
"Twenty." Mendoza turned to his men and said, "Presenten!"
Twenty among the ranks held up their rifles. Gremminger looked at them, delight covering his face. Not only had his army swelled to just over a thousand men with the Spanish arrival, but its firepower had grown precipitously as well. Spread out over so many ranks, however, did not make sense; their effectiveness would be diminished in the din of battle. But together . . .
He tossed the rifle back to Mendoza and said, "Captain, please extend my thanks to your associates for this pleasant gift you have offered. We accept Spain's support, and we welcome you to Zernez. I think you will find the air and the fighting here most agreeable to your warrior sensibilities. My spies tell me that our opponent, Thomas von Allmen, sits day and night in his tent, toiling over what we do not know, but I suspect he's pulling out his fair hair over what to do. He's young, inexperienced, and has never led men into battle. Let him rot in that tent for all I care! With your arrival, victory is all but assured, and with your new guns, it's simply a matter of time. But if I may, I would like to take your Enfield riflemen and put them into one unit. And, Captain, can your men ride horses?"
Mendoza nodded. "Certainly, General. The Spanish are born in the saddle. What do you intend?"
Gremminger turned and looked over the horizon, toward the wall of snow-capped mountains. He smiled.
"I have an idea."
****
"That's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard!"
Captain Lukas Goepfert was never one to restrain his opinion, and as Thomas moved his blocks in the manner most objectionable to his older confidant, he smiled. "You forget, Herr Goepfert, that I know what I'm doing."
Goepfert huffed. "That's debatable. Captain Elsinger's cavalry will cut you to pieces."
Thomas smiled again and moved his smaller, less-effective pike block into an adjacent hex. The unit had already suffered losses and was marked with a tiny flag that indicated its "shaken" status, which meant that if it took additional casualties or was forced to retreat in the face of an unshaken cavalry unit, it might "rout" out of existence.
Elsinger, who was in command of Gremminger's army (seventeen blocks strong), smiled and moved his fresh cavalry block into the space with the shaken pikemen. "Don't forget, Elsinger, that you must first take a morale check before moving your cavalry into my space."
"What?"
Thomas nodded. "That's right. Entering the frontal arch of a hex occupied by a pike block, regardless of its status, requires a check."
Elsinger picked up his dice, shook them rudely, and tossed them into a wooden box near the tabletop. He rolled a five and a one. "Let's check the chart."
Thomas grabbed the morale chart which he had carefully scripted onto a piece of paper, cross-referenced the numbers rolled and got the result. "Your unit is hesitant, which means that it can still perform the charge, but its strength is reduced by one to a four."
"Ridiculous!" barked Elsinger.
Thomas shook his head. "Not at all. My men may be weakened but they still hold eighteen-foot poles that will tear your horses to shreds. Your cavalry follow orders, Elsinger, but remember that they do maintain a certain amount of self-preservation. We're not dealing with Huscarls or Japanese samurai here. Thank God you didn't roll snake-eyes! Your charge would have been over before it began."