"What kind?" Goepfert said.
"We do not know, sir. But they're rifles for sure. Our man watched them drill. They're powerful. At least twice the effectiveness of our own guns."
"How are they positioned in the ranks?"
"They aren't in the ranks, my Lord. They comprise one unit of twenty. And they're being fitted as riders."
"Cavalry?" Goepfert seemed shocked.
Thomas grit his teeth and backed away from the table. A unit of twenty Spanish riflemen on horseback, firing at twice the effectiveness of his own snaplocks. They'd probably field at three times effectiveness in practice, though, for just having those weapons in hand would embolden them beyond their normal strength. They certainly could not fire effectively on horseback, especially in this rocky terrain, so they will likely dismount and take a defensive position like cavalry did in the American Civil War, or like Irish hobilars. But they would be fast, mounting and moving out of harm's way and appearing somewhere else to harry his men. Thomas shook his head.
Gremminger, you sneaky son of a bitch.
He turned back to the tables. "Okay, the die is cast. Gentlemen, return to your commands and get your men ready. It's time to face the Catholics." He leaned over the map and began resetting the blocks into their starting positions. "I want continual reports, by the hour. Understand?"
"Yes, my Lord," Elsinger said. "What will you be doing?"
Thomas looked up and smiled. "I'll be here . . . running the numbers."
****
"Dismount!"
Captain Mendoza gave the order as his cavalry cleared the tiny creek running down the center of the pass. Men came off their horses even before they slowed and some tumbled into the water, breaking their fall by dropping their Enfields and catching themselves before impaling their bodies on the sharp rocks below the melting ice. Mendoza cursed and helped a man to his feet, gave him back his rifle and pushed him to the bank. "Get ready to fire!"
About a hundred yards ahead of their position stood a thin line of pike, taking cover behind piles of rocks and fence rails. Mendoza knelt down, loaded his weapon, and set the barrel carefully in the crook of a tree. He cocked the hammer and waited until every man was ready.
"Fire!"
Down the line the Enfields fired, plumes of smoke following the minie balls as they rifled out of the long barrels and struck the breastworks in front of von Allmen's pikemen. The sheer force of those powerful bullets tore the railings apart, and men behind them wailed as their legs and arms were shattered by low muzzle velocity wounds.
"Reload!"
They loaded their guns and fired again, and another round of fearful screams filled the cold Alpine air. Those still alive after the second volley began to retreat and Mendoza ordered his men back in the saddle to pursue.
On and on it went for the next several miles. Where are their guns? Mendoza wondered. Where are their cavalry? Just one pitiful little screen after the next, ten to fifteen men each. Mendoza considered charging the fifth screen line but reconsidered at the last moment. He only had twenty men, whose purpose was to move up this pass quickly and outflank von Allmen's army. Gremminger had assured him that this route was easily traversable and that Mendoza should not worry. "Von Allmen doesn't know war from waste," he said. "You'll move fast and hit him from the rear while I move my army down the Fluelaand strike like a hammer. Once in position behind his lines, find good ground and kill them on the retreat."
But the pass was too narrow to maneuver around the pike screens, and if he tried, he'd lose men. He couldn't afford to lose a single one.
On the seventh screen, he ordered a retreat. "Gremminger be damned," he said and kicked the sides of his horse.
Three miles back, guns began to fire along the ridgelines.
Not cannon, for it would have been impossible to put such heavy barrels among the thick spruce, but snaplock, flintlock, and the occasional wheellock. Two or three men in each team, spread thin among the trees, taking single shots at Mendoza's men as they tried to gallop out of harm's way. But the creek split his force, and their retreat was slowed by bullets hitting their horses. When the third horse went down, Mendoza realized that they were not trying to shoot his men; they were purposefully targeting the horses. It made sense in a way, Mendoza admitted. Trying to hit a moving target with inaccurate weapons was difficult at best, so why not target the biggest piece of flesh on the field? Another horse went down, and suddenly his men stopped, turned in the saddle or pulled themselves out of the water, and began shooting wildly up the ridgeline.
"Bastante!" Mendoza said, pulling his saber and whipping it into the air. "Enough. Don't waste shots. Remount the fallen men and move! Muevan!"
For the next three miles, Mendoza's impromptu hobilars fought for their lives. By the time they cleared the pass, they had lost twelve horses, five men, and Mendoza himself had been shot in the right arm.
****
"Gremminger disrespects me," Thomas said as he removed the wooden sticks from the map that had represented the entrenched infantry screens. "But damn him, he won't anymore. That bloodied his nose."
Goepfert nodded. "Yes, but we lost seventy-two good pikemen. We can't afford losses like that for such little gain."
"Little gain?" Thomas leaned over his chair and picked up an Enfield rifle that had been rescued from the creek during the Spanish retreat. He hefted it, set the butt against his shoulder, and looked down its long barrel. "Nonsense. The Spanish are back on their heels, and that pass is closed for good."
Goepfert shrugged. "Gremminger will simply refit what remains and try something else."
Thomas set down the rifle and pointed to the map. "And so will I. Are the men ready?"
"Yes, My Lord, but I wish to advise against your plan. It's too risky."
Thomas furrowed his brow. "How so?"
Goepfert leaned over the table and motioned to the twelve blocks arrayed along the Fluelapass. "You're ordering an attack, and it has always been the policy of this army, and of your father, I might add, to defend ground, thus off-setting the numerical superiority that Gremminger has always had. You are asking us to attack, and that, by definition, escalates this engagement beyond our purview, our political scope. If you attack Gremminger, My Lord, you are giving ammunition to his supporters in Tarasp. You are giving ammunition to the Hapsburgs and their desire to ally the Grisons with the League of Ostend. Your father is against the League, of course, but if he's seen as being the aggressor in this engagement, then the Zehngerichtebund will have to move quicker than it intends, and they may well cut their ties with your family and let us burn."
Thomas pointed at the Enfield. "The Hapsburgs have already escalated this by giving Gremminger Spanish troops with up-time weapons. The die is cast. Let us not suddenly lose our wits on this truth. No, sir. The God's House has made its decision, Goepfert, and we are fools if we do not act in kind. My father is dying and my brother, Lord save him, doesn't have the skills to skin a cat. He is weak and our house will fall whether we defend or attack. If we hold, we die slowly. If we attack, we may still die, but we will die with honor. This plan will work. You know it will."
Goepfert leaned against the table. He smiled, but Thomas could sense the man's growing impatience with his young commander. "This isn't a game, Thomas. This is real."
For a long moment, Thomas stared at his captain. Perhaps he's right, Thomas thought, as his hand found some dice and scooped them up. How dare I speak of honor when I'm afraid to leave this tent? I'm a coward, hiding behind blocks and maps and charts. What do I know about war? Perhaps he's right. Perhaps . . .