Thomas opened his fist and looked at the dice. He counted the pips. He closed his hand and said, "This conversation is over, Goepfert. I've made my decision. I want you to lead the men."
Goepfert sagged, defeated. He nodded. "Yes, my Lord. But . . . perhaps Elsinger would be a better candidate for command? He's younger and-"
Thomas shook his head. "No. Elsinger is rash. You're steady, and your excellent tactics on-map correspond perfectly to your past performance and reputation in the field. Dettwiler placed his faith in you, and so shall I. You can lead the men, and you will."
Goepfert sighed and nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
As Goepfert left the tent, Thomas placed the dice carefully on the table. He counted the pips again.
Snake-eyes.
Failure . . .
****
He's crazy. The boy has lost his mind.
He would never say this to the boy's face, but Lukas Goepfert feared for Thomas' soul. Not in the traditional sense, with brimstone and lightning bolts from the clouds, nor did he think the young von Allmen would burn in Hell. But his soul, his essence-and in Thomas' case, the seat of the soul was the mind-had fallen hard under the American spell. They weren't wizards, as many detractors liked to say, but they were dangerous, and they had poisoned Thomas into thinking that he could learn war from a game. What folly!
And yet, Goepfert admitted, there was some practicality to it. Their tabletop exercises had ferreted out some weaknesses on both sides, and it was easier to "try things out" as Thomas might say, without having to put the men through rigorous drill that might, in the end, prove fruitless. And, it was kind of fun. So maybe the kalbfleisch had something in this wargaming business after all. But to declare Elsinger "rash" was silly. Elsinger might be young, and yes he was impatient at times (and wasn't very good at playing the game), but no one could question his resolve, his loyalty, or his fighting spirit. In Goepfert's experience, such individual elan had turned many defeats into victories. No wargame could anticipate the minute by minute changes on the battlefield, nor the stresses that could turn a stalwart into a crying baby, or a coward into a hero. Only through experience could a commander know and anticipate these things. And what of direct leadership? A good commander cannot lead from a tent. Being visible to your men and sharing their sacrifice could turn the strength of fifty into a hundred. Mathematics mattered, yes, but heart was just as important.
"Captain Goepfert!"
Behind him, behind the long ranks of pike and musket that moved up the narrow pass, Elsinger arrived with his cavalry. The pike moved aside and gave the road to him and his men. He came alongside Goepfert, saluted, and said, "We must make Susch within the hour . . . if we are to follow Thomas' plan and remove its citizens."
It seemed to Goepfert that the young cavalry officer was trying to solicit a negative response to the order, but he ignored the intent and said, "Yes. Move your men along quickly and keep me informed of Gremminger's dispositions. You're supposed to act like Jeb Stuart, our beloved commander has said. I don't know who the hell that is, but you are going to be the eyes and ears of this affair."
Elsinger shook his head and spat onto the ground. He growled. "We should fight in tercios. You know that."
"No. On this, I agree with the boy. Our supplies were sacked when Dettwiler fell. We do not have the ammunition or the runners to distribute it among the units. We have to keep them in three separate blocks, snaplocks, calivers, and muskets alike, until such a time as they are needed and can be moved accordingly. Besides, these passes are narrow enough that there is little concern of being outflanked, and that's where you come in. You have to keep Gremminger's cavalry off my infantry until I can move into town and position our men."
"We shouldn't be attacking at all."
"I know."
"Then why are we?"
"Because we've been ordered to!"
Goepfert looked down. The army was moving forward, slowly but deliberately, their pikes, guns, halberds, and swords glistening in the sunlight. If they noticed his agitation, they did not show it on their faces. He sighed, put up his hand, and whispered, "I know you're concerned, Elsinger. So am I. But we follow our commander's orders. We follow them . . . until I say otherwise. And then, we will do what we have to do to preserve the army. Understand?"
Elsinger nodded.
"Now get going," Goepfert said, patting him on the shoulder. "Be our eyes and ears."
The cavalry moved down the road, and Goepfert led his horse to the embankment to let the infantry continue its march. He studied them with admiration. They were good men, some mercenaries, many farm boys, most dirt poor, but they were willing to fight and die for the von Allmens. They didn't want Gremminger on their lands any more than they wanted a pope telling them how to pray. But Goepfert felt like a butcher leading lambs to slaughter. Oh, Thomas, my dear boy. What do you see in your mathematics that makes you think we can win?
Goepfert looked into the bright sky toward heaven, but the answer was not there.
****
Gremminger watched as his men moved toward Susch en echelon, their frontage protected with musket skirmishers. It was the traditional formation for Swiss infantry, and it had held his country in good stead across scores of European battlefields. It would serve its purpose here too, he knew, as they moved forward quickly and took up their positions on the edge of town to the cadence to martial drums. Two solid blocks of one hundred pikes each, with the middle block comprised of Spanish halberdiers for up-close fighting. Looking at the Spanish formation, Gremminger was relieved that he had managed to calm Mendoza down and convince him to stay. The poor bastard was ready to quit the field after his cavalry was routed. Gremminger had never heard so many Spanish curse words in all his life, and he couldn't help but chuckle a little. But only a little. The kalbfleisch had surprised him. It was a clever move, and one that Gremminger would not fall for again.
He was disappointed that von Allmen had arrived in Susch before him. Murner's cavalry, usually very good at holding the enemy at bay, had not moved as quickly as advised. At least the good townsfolk were gone, it seemed, as Gremminger peered through his glass. They'd left in a hurry. That's good, he thought. Sometimes it was difficult to know which side these small towns were on, so close to the border and so readily influenced by outside events. He smiled. At least he wouldn't have to worry about killing innocent people.
On the other side of town, ten small blocks of infantry lay with a smattering of musket support. Gremminger looked through his field glass and sneered at the banners waving in the breeze. Most of them were displaying the traditional God's House Ibex on mixed white-and-red fields, and some with smaller coat-of-arms at the top of a white shield. Von Allmen had no business waving such flags. He and his supporters had cast their lot in with the Ten Jurisdictions and the USE; God would punish them in good time. As I will punish them today, he thought as Captain Murner arrived with his cavalry. I will bring those banners down, and we will walk across Ibex bones all the way to Davos.
"You're late!"
The cavalry officer saluted quickly and said, "My apologies, General. Elsinger has been harassing our approach all morning. We drove them off finally, but . . ." He hesitated. ". . . they took out one of our guns."
"Destroyed the carriage?"
Murner shook his head. "No. They spiked it. Hammered a nail down the touchhole and broke it off."