1635: The Eastern Front (7 page)

It was a rather extensive network, actually, given the short time available—and, in Jozef's opinion, quite a good one. It turned out that he had a genuine gift for such work.

The young man standing next to Jozef, Lukasz Opalinski, came from the same class of the high nobility. And if the Opalinski family was not as wealthy as the Koniecpolskis and many of the other great magnates, they made up for it by their vigorous involvement in the Commonwealth's political affairs.

They were not stupid men, either of them. Not in the least. Just men so ingrained with generations of unthinking attitudes that Jozef knew how hard it would be for them to even see the problem, much less the solution. He suspected the only reason he'd been able to shed his own szlachta blinders was because he wasn't exactly szlachta to begin with.

"You're smiling, Jozef," said Opalinski. "I don't think I care for that smile."

Jozef chuckled. "I was contemplating the advantages of bastardy."

"What's to contemplate? You get all the advantages of good blood with the added benefit of an excuse whenever you cross someone."

Jozef shook his head. "It seems like an elaborate way to go about the business. Samuel Laszcz manages to cross almost everyone without the benefit of bastardy. Granted, it helps that he has the hetman's favor and protection."

A scowl came to Opalinski. "Laszcz! That shithead." He used the German term, not the Polish equivalent. Like Jozef himself, Lukasz was fluent in several languages. He was particularly fond of German profanity.

So was Wojtowicz, for that matter—although, in recent months, he'd also grown very fond of American vulgarity.

"Finally! He's finished," said Opalinski.

And, indeed, the mounted archer had sheathed his bow and was trotting toward them.

When he drew close, he smiled down at the two young men. "I see from his scowl that Lukasz had not budged from his certainty that I am indulging myself. And what's your opinion, Nephew?"

Jozef squinted up at his uncle. And, as he'd known it would, felt his resolve to break with the man if he couldn't bring him to understand the truth crumbling away. Stanislaw Koniecpolski had that effect on people close to him. Say what you would about the narrow views and limitations of the grand hetman of the Commonwealth, Jozef didn't know a single person who wouldn't agree that he was a fair-minded and honorable man.

The simple fact that he referred openly to Jozef himself as his nephew was but one of many illustrations of Koniecpolski's character. Jozef was a bastard, born of a dalliance by Stanislaw Koniecpolski's younger brother Przedbor. After Przedbor died at the siege of Smolensk during the Dymitriad wars with Muscovy, the hetman had taken in the boy and his mother and raised him in his own household at the great family estate in Koniecpol.

"I wouldn't presume to judge, Uncle."

Koniecpolski laughed. "Always the diplomat! Well, Nephew, I will explain to you the truth, in the hopes that you might see it where stubborn young Opalinski here sees only a pointless melancholy for things past."

He stumbled over the word "melancholy" a bit. The hetman suffered from a speech impediment, and had since he was a boy. He usually avoided long words, in fact, since he tended to stutter on them. That habit of speaking in plain and simple words led some people to assume Koniecpolski was dull-witted, an assumption which was very far from the truth.

Using his bare hands, the hetman mimicked an archer drawing his bow. He twisted sideways in the saddle as he did so, as if aiming at a target off to his left. "Notice, youngster, how the innate demands of using a bow properly while in a saddle almost force the archer to fire to his side, or even"—here he twisted still further in the saddle, imitating a man aiming behind him—"to his rear. In the nature of the thing, it is very difficult to fire a bow straight ahead while sitting in a saddle—and impossible to do it well, even for an excellent archer."

Jozef nodded. "Yes, I can see that."

The hetman beamed. "Well, then! You now understand—should, at least—what somehow still remains a puzzle to young Lukasz. The reason to practice mounted archery is to ingrain intelligent tactics in a soldier. The pike, the musket, the sword—pfah!" His pronounced mustachios wiggled with the sneer. "These teach a man to be stupid. Straight ahead, straight ahead, straight ahead."

Opalinski sniffed. "That may well be. But that will still be the way the Swede comes at us—and not even you think he can be defeated with bows and arrows."

"Well, of course not. But I also know that I have no chance of defeating the Swede—not so mighty as he has become—if I simply try to match him head to head, like two bulls in a field." Koniecpolski gazed down at the young nobleman, very serenely. "This is why I am the grand hetman of Poland and Lithuania, and you are not."

Opalinski chuckled. "Point taken." He shivered a little, and drew his cloak around him more closely. "And, now, it's cold. Your poor horse looks half-frozen himself. I propose we retire indoors."

In point of fact, the horse—like the hetman—had been exercising far too vigorously to be chilled. And it wasn't that cold, anyway, even this early in the morning. It was summer, after all. Still, the idea of retiring to a comfortable salon and warming one's innards with a stout beverage appealed to Jozef. So, he too drew his cloak around him more tightly, and faked a shiver.

"Weaklings," jeered Koniecpolski. "And at your age! Just another reason to practice mounted archery."

* * *

After Koniecpolski left for the stables, Jozef and Lukasz began walking toward the manor, some distance away. Fortunately, they were on one of the Koniecpolski family's smallish estates, this one located near Poznan. Had they been at the great family estate in Koniecpol, their walk would have been much longer. Fortunately, also, it had been a sunny day, so the ground was dry. Had there been a thunderstorm recently, their boots would have been caked with mud by the time they reached their destination.

Still, it was not a short distance, even if the walk was easy. That suited Jozef well enough, though. He needed the time to compose his thoughts.

"So solemn," Opalinski murmured, after a while. "Is it really that bad, Jozef?"

Wojtowicz gave his friend a sideways glance. "Well. Yes, actually. I'm afraid the hetman's not going to like what I have to say. Or you, for that matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm going to tell him that it's sheer folly to weigh in on the side of the Saxons and Brandenburgers against the USE. Those are German lands, not Polish. We should just stay out of the whole business. All that an intervention on our part will accomplish is to give Gustav Adolf an excuse to invade Poland."

"Not that he's ever needed much of one," grunted Lukasz.

"True, true. Still and all, if we stay out—but!" He lifted his hand. "I may as well save it for the hetman. No point giving the same speech twice. It'll probably be wasted on you anyway, dull-witted soldier that you are."

Lukasz called him a very unfavorable term in Lithuanian.

Jozef grinned. "I have the most marvelous American expression."

After he spoke it a few times, Lukasz began practicing the pronunciation. "Modderfooker . . . mudder—yes, it is nice."

Chapter 5

After Jozef finished presenting his case for staying out of the coming war between the USE and the Saxon-Brandenburgers, Koniecpolski leaned back in his chair. It was a very large and comfortable chair in a very large and comfortable chamber in his manor. Americans would have called it a living room on steroids.

For a few seconds, he stroked his large and prominent nose. Then, as Jozef had expected he would, the hetman sidestepped the issue. "I keep hearing rumors that the Americans are well-disposed toward Poland," he said. "Is that true, Nephew?"

"Well . . . It's complicated. On the one hand, yes. They tend to have a favorable attitude toward Poles. Quite favorable, actually."

"Why?" asked Lukasz.

"Several reasons. The first and simplest is that the country they came from was a country created by immigrants. Many of those immigrants were Polish."

The hetman grunted, and hefted a wine glass. "So I've heard. But I would assume many of them were Swedes also."

"There were immigrants from Sweden, yes, and other Scandinavian countries. But most of the Scandinavian immigrants settled elsewhere in America. Places called Minnesota and Wisconsin. There were many more Poles in the area from which Grantville came."

He made a little wagging gesture with his hand. "But that's only one reason, and perhaps not the most important. Some Poles, including noblemen, helped the Americans in their war of independence with England. And, in much more recent times—‘recent,' at least, as Americans see it—their principal antagonist was Russia. And since Poland was under Russian control—"

He restrained himself from adding:
because of idiots like those who control the throne and Sejm.

"—and Poles chafed at the situation, the Americans were favorably disposed toward us."

Koniecpolski finished drinking from his cup. "And on the other hand?" he asked.

Jozef shrugged. "Despite their reputation for fanciful notions—what they themselves call ‘romanticism'—the Americans are every bit as inclined toward being practical and hardheaded as anyone else. The fact is, whether they are favorably disposed to us or not, they have formed a close political relationship with the king of Sweden. There are some aspects to that relationship which do not particularly please them, true. Still, by and large, most Americans think their bargain with Gustav Adolf has worked quite well for them. They are not going to jeopardize it because of some favorable sentiments toward us—which, when you come right down to it, are rather vague and nebulous sentiments in the first place."

Koniecpolski nodded again. His eyes never left Jozef's face, though. "And there's something else."

Jozef took a deep breath. "Yes, there is. Whatever favorable sentiments may exist among the Americans toward we Poles as a people, there are no favorable sentiments—not in their leadership, at any rate—toward the Commonwealth as it exists today. I have heard some of their speeches, Uncle, and read a great many more of their writings. That includes, for instance, a speech given by Michael Stearns in which he states that the two great evils which loom before the world today are chattel slavery in the New World and the second serfdom in eastern Europe. Both of which must be destroyed."

"His term?" asked Koniecpolski. "Destroyed?"

"One of his terms. Others were ‘eradicated,' ‘crushed,' and ‘scrubbed from existence.' He is quite serious about it, Uncle. He believes the great evils that afflicted the world he came from were caused, in large part, by the ever-widening divergence between the western and eastern parts of Europe. This, he claims, is what underlay the two great world wars that were fought in the century from which he came, in the course of which tens of millions of people died. And he lays the blame for that divergence upon the fact that, where serfdom vanished in western Europe, it had a resurgence in the eastern lands."

"He's no longer the prime minister of the USE, however," pointed out Lukasz.

"Yes—but that's beside the point. We were talking about the Americans, not the USE. Whether Mike Stearns is the prime minister or not, he still retains the personal allegiance of the big majority of Americans. That even includes Admiral Simpson now, who was once his most prominent opponent among the up-timers." Jozef finished his own glass of wine and set it down on a side table. "Besides, while he is no longer prime minister, he is
now one of the three divisional commanders in Torstensson's army. The same army, I remind you, that crushed the French at Ahrensbök. So it's hardly the case that he's vanished from the scene."

The hetman shifted his massive shoulders. The gesture was not quite a shrug. "I may not even disagree with you, Jozef. But it doesn't matter. I am the grand hetman of Poland, not its king. Nor, perhaps more importantly, am I the Sejm. They will make the decision, not me—but I must tell you that King Wladyslaw is strongly inclined to intervene."

Lukasz sniffed. "Of course he is. He's a Vasa himself and thinks he's the rightful king of Sweden, not Gustav Adolf." A bit angrily, he added, "Which is the reason he's constantly embroiling Poland and Lithuania in things we should be staying out of."

Again, Koniecpolski shifted his shoulders. "I may not disagree with you, either, young Opalinski. But—again—I am simply the grand hetman. Whatever decision the Sejm and the king make, I will obey."

Jozef knew there was no point in pursuing the matter. It was odd, in a way. When it came to martial matters, Stanislaw Koniecpolski had a supple and flexible mind. For all the man's personal devotion to ancient methods of warfare—he probably
was
the greatest archer in Poland; certainly the greatest mounted archer—he'd proven quite capable all his life of adapting to new realities. He knew how to use modern infantry, artillery and fortifications; the so-called "Dutch style" of warfare. He had proven to be skilled at combining land and naval operations, too, although he was not a naval commander himself. Yet that same adaptability ended abruptly whenever Koniecpolski confronted a problem of a social or political rather than strictly military nature.

Koniecpolski now looked to Lukasz. "I could very much use some more up-to-date and accurate military information. My iconoclastic young nephew here has proven to be a superb spymaster. Alas, his knowledge of purely military matters is not what it could be. You, on the other hand—as one might expect from an Opalinski—have already made a reputation for yourself as a hussar."

Lukasz made humble noises. Jozef was rather amused. In point of simple fact, despite his youth, Lukasz
was
a noted hussar. A good thing, too. The Opalinski family produced a high number of free-thinkers and heretics. Lukasz's younger brother Krzysztof, for instance, was already a notorious radical, who was accused of advocating the overthrow of serfdom and the monarchy—even the nobility to which he himself belonged. The accusation was probably true.