Bridge on the Oder River Schwedt, Holy Roman Empire

MacRae had elected to march Talbot Company around Schwedt to gain access to the great bridge that straddled the Oder River. He did not wish to incur the wrath of the city militia and have a thousand guns aimed at his men. The march was not particularly hard, although Warwick was having some trouble micromanaging his irregulars, some of whom had begun shoving other soldiers out of formation so that they could walk faster.

After a six-mile march, Talbot Company beheld the site of the Schwedt bridgehead. Marching along the water’s edge, the men could smell the wet earth from the banks of the mighty Oder. To their left was the city of Schwedt and the last neutral town they were to encounter; to their right was the Oder River, and beyond that Poland. In front of them lay the wide bridge which they would use to cross into enemy territory.

It was curiously crowded with soldiers who were not crossing the bridge. None of the men on the bridgehead were in formation, and all of them seemed to be waiting around in gaggles.

MacRae, who was riding at the head of the formation on horseback with Gunther and Bjornsson, signaled a halt to his men and rode to the rear to find Otto.

As he passed the throngs of soldiers, MacRae yelled for the musketeers to prepare their matches, the swordsmen to draw their blades, and the artillerymen to unlimber their guns.

Otto, surprised to see his commander galloping to the rear of the formation, rode up to meet him.

“Is there a problem mein Herr?” he said.

“Find out who these fucks are and why they be blocking our fuckin’ bridge. I want no messing about, Master Koenigsherr.”

“Jawohl mein Herr.” Otto replied as he galloped past his superior.

The German cavalrymen rode alone towards the bridgehead and slowed to a trot when he approached the disorderly mob of soldiers congregating there. From what Otto could tell, there were Irishmen, Scots, Belgians, and Germans among them but the majority of the group seemed to be French. A banner with a blue bird on a black field flew from a banner held by a bored looking standard bearer.

“Where is your commander?” Otto asked the standard bearer in French. The soldier pointed towards the bridge, where the baggage train of the company sat, held up by a broken wagon.

Otto carefully walked his horse through the crowd of soldiers, each of whom stared at him as he waded through the massive crowd of armor and pikes. When he approached the wagon, he found the group’s commander kneeling down on the dirt, helping his men hammer a nail into the loose spoke of a wagon wheel. When he noticed a shadow of a rider looming over him, the company commander turned around and faced Otto.

“Oh, bonjour monsieur.” he said with a smile, “I did not see you there.”

“Pardon me, my good sir, but am I to assume this is the reason why your men are blocking this bridge?” said Otto, returning the man’s smile.

“Your assumption is correct. Do not worry, we will be done soon.”

“Is there anything my men or I can do to assist you?”

“Well, we do happen to be short of a few nails. I hope you can spare some of your own. I would be in your debt.”

“Of course – I will relay this to my quartermaster. Where is it you were going with this large army, at any rate?”

“Ah, as you know, beyond this border lies the wild country of Poland. It is no secret that the king of Poland is hiring real Europeans to augment his forces.”

“I see. Well, I wish you the best of luck with the wagon. I shall return with those nails. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Colonel Dominique Sauvage.” the Frenchman said with a flamboyant bow.

“Captain Otto Koenigsherr. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

With this information in hand, Otto trotted out of Sauvage’s way and rode back to Talbot Company’s formation at a hard gallop. His horse skidded as it stopped by MacRae.

“Catholic mercenaries, sir.” Otto reported, “A mix of nationalities but the majority are French. They’re repairing their broken wagon.”

“Did ye find their commander?”

“Ja, mein Herr, a Colonel Dominique Sauvage. He…”

“Form up in lines of attack.”

“Mein Herr?”

“This was the fuckin’ wankstain that deprived us of our treasure.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed.

“We’ll grab them by the balls with our pikes and musketeers, then ye and yer cavalry boys can fall on them from the left flank. The river is to our right flank, they will have nary a place to run to. Keep the swords and irregulars in reserve until the pikes get tangled up in the push.”

“Jawohl mein Herr.”

Bjornsson drew his own sword and rode up next to MacRae.

“I want no conflicts in command. These are your men and you know how they fight. Direct my musketeers and myself as you please, colonel.” the captain said in French.

MacRae smiled and made a slight bow of gratitude.

“I appreciate the amicability, Bjornsson.” MacRae replied. His smile then collapsed into a stern scowl, “Move your fuckin’ men to within pissing distance of the enemy and make nary a move till everyone else is in formation.”

Bjornsson gave a swift nod and began to yell out his orders,

“Mousquetaires, en avant… marche!”

The sergeants repeated the command in English, and the drummer struck up the quick time march beat that told the musketeers to advance. Confused as to why they were marching towards a group of men repairing a cart, the musketeers did as they were told. Gunther and his pikemen followed suit, leaving Don Alfonso’s halberdier company little choice but to follow them.

Meanwhile, Otto raced back to Warwick to tell him the plan. The English captain nodded his acknowledgement, but as Otto rode back to rejoin his cavalry troop, Warwick privately sulked. If his men were not at the forefront of the fight there would be no glory for him.

Bjornsson kept his musketeers marching at a slow steady pace towards the French, who were now beginning to suspect something, with some of their commanders forming up their companies in lines of battle while the others simply stared in confusion and anticipation. As soon as Bjornsson judged them to be within “pissing distance”, he ordered the company to come to a halt. The formations behind him stopped as well.

It was so quiet that the only sounds anyone could hear were the cawing of the crows hovering overhead and the grunting of an oblivious Frenchman who was taking a shit by the river.

Bjornsson’s men were so close that they could whisper and the men on the other side could hear them. They could count the number of laces in their boots and see the decorations on their baldrics, but most importantly, they could see the terror and surprise in the eyes of their enemy.

A low thundering noise was heard on the left side of Bjornson’s formation. Otto’s cavalry was coming up on the side in preparation to flank, and only a fool would miss this.

“Compagnie!” was the last word a French sergeant said before Bjornsson gave the order to fire. Dozens of Blue Falcons were torn apart in a hail of musket balls, even as others who were still standing rushed to light their matches and get into their formations. Lone brave souls charged Talbot Company’s musketeers only to be stopped by the spearheads of Gunther’s pikemen, who slowly advanced to protect the reloading musketeers.

Colonel Sauvage, upon seeing the chaos that was ensuing at the bridgehead, hastily summoned his bodyguards, numbering about twenty men, and bid them all jump into the river with him.

Any fool observing from the sidelines could see that Talbot Company was winning this battle. It was taking a lot of effort for Warwick to restrain himself from ordering his irregulars into a charge to take part in the slaughter. His men, however, had no such apprehensions.

“Ye see those bastards over there killing without us?” shouted a Scottish sergeant, “I say we show those wee cunts how real men fight! Up, you bastards, and split their heads open! Buaidh no Bàs! Victory or death!”

With this, the irregulars gave way to their impetuousness and charged into the fray, pushing the Spanish and Italian swordsmen out of their way. The swordsmen sergeants, along with Sophia, tried in vain to push them back but they spilled out of the formation in a tide of screaming, drunken chaos.

One of the Italians, not wanting to be outdone, burst into a spontaneous battle cry, “Let us show them how Italians die!” and ran into battle, goading his companions to follow him.

As the dust settled, the only soldiers that remained with Warwick were a dozen archers including Fletcher, the cannoneers and their guns, a few swordsmen sergeants, and Sophia. Warwick tugged at his hair in frustration.

“Bloody Scots and their damn brass balls,” he said as he watched his men dive into the battle. Throwing up his hands, he commanded his archers to rain down arrows on the enemy to support his infantry while he directed the artillery.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the riverbank to their right; several others followed. Frenchmen came out of the river, water trickling from their shirts and hair, with some holding daggers in their teeth. Colonel Sauvage had his bodyguards walk downstream under the water in a desperate attempt to flank Talbot Company. It had worked. Warwick was now trapped with twenty-two lightly armed fighters against Sauvage’s twenty-one.

Sauvage himself then emerged from the water. Warwick could tell that he was a very strong man, being able to walk four hundred feet with only his head above the water, especially while in a breastplate. Hopefully, he and his men were weary from the long swim.

“Men, draw swords!” Warwick shouted, as his cannoneers ran into the woods behind them. Fifteen loyal men and one woman remained at his side. The Blue Falcons rushed forward, giving no chance for Warwick to draw his pistol. Sauvage himself fell on Warwick with his saber, swinging it at the Englishman’s head. Warwick drew his own smallsword and parried just in time.

Elsewhere, the men were faring slightly better. Warwick’s archers were having trouble keeping the Blue Falcons at bay with their longbows at short range, but the swordsmen were doing what they could as they bashed in faces with their shields and skewered men with their rapiers.

Sophia, far from the timid girl she was before, was now fighting for her life, aggressively slashing at the French soldiers whose movements sprinkled water at her face every time they struck at her. Sophia’s strikes were uncalculated, but quick and strong; powered by her blinding rage. Blood decorated her armor as she swung madly at the exhausted French soldiers.

Fletcher, too, was fighting well. He had stabbed a man in the face with an arrow and was using his hunting sword to cleave through several opponents. His rabbit-like footwork helped him dance through the attacks of many of his enemies, who were slowed down by their waterlogged clothing.

The competence of his soldiers spurred confidence in Warwick as he thrust and parried with Sauvage, matching the Frenchman’s technical swordplay with his aggressive English fencing style.

Sensing an opening through Sauvage’s defense, Warwick thrust for the colonel’s neck. He had him – this fight was over, or so he thought. In a quick, well-practiced movement, Sauvage covered the thrust with his own blade, the sparks of his saber and Warwick’s smallsword flashing in both of their eyes. Before Warwick could counter-attack, Sauvage had stepped around him. Sensing that he was about to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, Sauvage brought his opponent down on the ground with a pommel strike to the back of his head, reveling in the satisfying thud sound that the spherical pommel made when it hit the back of Warwick’s head.

Warwick fell upon the wet grass, mud staining his face and uniform. His heart started racing. Defeat was almost certain. When he tried to bring himself to his feet, Sauvage slashed at his leg, making him scream in pain and staining his white breeches with his dark red blood. Warwick fell back down on the earth as Sauvage planted his boot on his back, pinning him there. Exhausted, the panting Frenchman raised his saber for a coup de grace, just before a sharp pointed blade pierced through his throat, making him gurgle blood.

Sophia stood behind Sauvage with a maniacal grin as her trembling sword hand slowly pushed the blade of her rapier deeper into the back of his neck. The cathartic pleasure of killing the man that was the cause of her suffering felt almost orgasmic. A wave of emotion passed through her, part of it the glee of revenge along with the joy of victory and the thrill of battle.

As Sophia withdrew her blade in one quick motion, Sauvage’s corpse fell on top of Warwick. Sophia could not hold back a maniacal cackle as she whaled on the back of Sauvage’s armored carcass with the pommel of her expensive rapier.

No one but Talbot Company stood alive now. At the bridgehead, victorious, cheering men from Gunther’s company of pikes were dragging crippled Blue Falcons to the water’s edge and holding their heads below the water to drown them. Their satisfying gurgles as they breathed their last under the waters of the Oder River made many men laugh with gruesome delight.

Fletcher, his chest heaving with exhaustion, cautiously approached Sophia, who continued to pound at the lifeless Sauvage with her sword. Warwick lay groaning under him, unnoticed.

“He is dead. You can stop now.”

She understood nothing.

“We need to tend to Captain Warwick.”

She continued to pound away, giggling ever so softly.

Frustrated, Fletcher grabbed her shoulder, and in her surprise, she leaped up and pointed her blade at him. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her chest was heaving from all the physical and mental exertion. This was far from the same girl that Fletcher had saved on the road to Gouda.

Fletcher opened his mouth to say something, but he could not. He knew it would do no good, at any rate, she still did not understand his language. He raised his free hand up to her, as a man does when he is cautious with a wild animal. She refused to lower her blade.

Very gently, he put his hand on her wrist and wordlessly bid her to lower her weapon. The sword fell to the ground, making a soft thud on the muddy grass. Sophia looked into Fletcher’s eyes. The girl that she once was wanted to return to being, but this wall of war and sadness were the bars to her cell that she could never escape.

Sophia’s tears fell in torrents as she lunged to embrace Fletcher, the blood and sweat from her armor staining his shirt. He hugged her back, whispering that he missed her, but he knew that it would take time before she would ever be the same.

Two of Warwick’s archers rushed over to him and threw Sauvage’s body off of their commander. He struggled to rise, but he was alive. The pain in his leg was sharp, and every step forward was a punishment. He thanked his men and instructed them to carry him to a nearby log, where he sat to rest.

MacRae, meanwhile, rode up to the front lines to the cheers of his victorious soldiers. A Scottish bagpiper struck up a cheerful tune in celebration. It did not drown out the screams of the dying, but that too was music to MacRae’s ears.

He galloped through the crowds of exhausted but cheerful soldiers to find Otto, who was helping one of his sergeants wrest a richly ornamented breastplate off of the carcass of a fallen enemy.

“I hope you do not mind a little blood on your trophy, my good man,” said Otto, drawing his sword to cut the dead man’s arms and head off.

“No sir, that simply gives it more character.” the sergeant replied with a grin.

As Otto proceeded with the grisly task, MacRae called out to him,

“Master Koenigsherr, may I have a word?”

“Certainly, sir.” Otto said as he stepped away, leaving the sergeant to finish off the body. MacRae dismounted so that he could speak to Otto in private.

“Find that fuckin’ chest and get it back into our baggage train.”

“I already looked, mein Herr. Not a trace.”

“By Lucifer’s hairy scrotum, that’s fuckin’ impossible. Bianchi herself told ye that these cunts absconded with the gold, did she not?”

“Ja, but it’s possible, mein Herr, that they could have spent every single piece in one go. Look at the dead men around you.”

MacRae surveyed his surroundings. Otto seemed to be right – every man in the Blue Falcons had uncharacteristically well-made armor and ornamented weapons fit for officers and nobility. The food that Talbot Company was finding consisted of fresh meat, game birds, and fish. The men were even finding real gold jewelry among the dead.

“Tongue up my fuckin’ arse, we’re buggered.” MacRae mumbled, “Ye hold yer fuckin’ wheest about this mess, Master Koenigsherr. No one must know.”

Otto nodded as MacRae mounted his horse to ride away, shaking his head. Hopefully, they would be able to reach Jarlsberg before this new supply of wealth ran out.

Riding down to the rear of the line, MacRae could see from a distance that there were bodies near the artillery pieces and baggage train, where no one should have been. He was thankful that they did not belong to Talbot Company men. As he approached the wounded Warwick, he dismounted.

“What happened here, man? Our flanks were more secure than a chastity belt on an ugly virgin.”

“They walked under the river, sir, and turned up on this side. But that is hardly our concern now. We have beaten the bastards.”

“Can ye walk, Master Warwick?”

“I am not sure, sir, but I fear that I may not stir. The cut feels deep. However, I must add, sir, that if it was not for Bianchi, I would have been singing alleluias with the angels.”

MacRae turned to find Sophia and Fletcher still locked in an embrace. Her wailing was loud and sorrowful. He was about to go and congratulate her but immediately noticed the body lying next to them. MacRae’s face lit up with delight.

“Sauvage ye ball-munching, arse-licking, banger-gobbling toorie! It’s good to see ye, mate!” he said as he dropped his breeches in front of the corpse, leaving his manhood exposed. “This be for what ye’ve done to my money, ye French shitewraith.”

A long and steady stream of warm Scottish urine poured over Sauvage’s face and eyes as MacRae sighed in relief. Sophia stopped crying and Fletcher looked on in disgust.

“Ah, Lodovico Bianchi,” MacRae said as he pulled up his breeches, “In light of yer recent actions, and as gratitude for pulling Warwick’s English arse out of the fire, I hereby restore upon ye the rank of lieutenant.”

“Sir,” interrupted Fletcher, “your language.”

“Nonsense boy, I uttered nary an oath… oh. I see.” MacRae corrected himself quickly and restored Sophia’s rank in French. The Italian girl managed a weak smile and wiped away her tears.

A vast and dangerous country awaited the men of Talbot Company across the Oder, and only a few of them knew that they were vastly undersupplied for the march ahead. If MacRae wanted to keep his band together, he would need a miracle akin to Christ’s feeding of the multitude.