Casca 48: The Austrian, page 16
It was just after midday that the regiment emerged from the hill called Grunberg – green mountain – and began deploying into lines. There were a few hills still in between them and the main battle line but they were nothing like they had just crossed. Some of the terrain was obscured but they could see some of the main line of Ottomans. In the lee of these hills Casca could see one or two small villages and they would have to be cleared before they could take on the main army.
And then there were the irregular Tatar horsemen, riding up and down, keeping their distance, making sure they were out of range. The land was a mass of walls, hedgerows and row upon row of vines.
“This is going to be hell,” a Polish adjutant muttered to Casca, eyeing the volunteer soldiers getting into formation. Musketeers were interchanged with small squares of pikemen in the classic chequered formation first used by the Swedish king Gustavus Adolphus, and memories of those days brought a fond pang to the eternal mercenary’s heart.
“We may as well get on with it or we’ll be late,” Casca said.
The officer grunted. “What of you? What will you be doing?”
“I’ll be here in the front line,” Casca replied, slapping the stock of his musket. “It’s what I do best.”
Now they advanced, a regiment on either side of them. There was no onrushing charge, rather a steady, measured pace. Pikes were thrust forward, and the musketeers all loaded up, striding in time to the call of the sergeants who were there to make sure the lines were as regular as possible.
Ahead the Tatars wheeled, fitting arrows to their bows, and loosing off, riding off as the Poles closed. Soldiers fell, arrows sticking from their arms, shoulders, chests or legs, but these were few in comparison to the numbers of Poles marching through the vineyard.
Casca gritted his teeth. These bastard horsemen were slowing the advance down. The only good thing was that the broken ground was awkward for the irregulars and they had to ride away from the vines as they would get entangled and slowed down and then they would be engulfed.
They pushed through yet another series of vines, and Casca had the thought as he kicked another out of his path that there wouldn’t be a decent 1683 vintage. Too fucking bad. There was a waist-high stone wall to mark the boundary of this and they were ordered to halt and present when they got to it. Casca blew on his match and readied his musket. Alongside him the rest steadied themselves and levelled their pieces. The irregulars were galloping around, loosing off arrow after arrow, at a distance of perhaps sixty yards or so.
The order to shoot came and a volley of fire rippled out. A few Tatars crashed to the ground and the rest scattered. With a cheer the Poles vaulted the wall, walked six or seven paces, then waited until they were all in formation again, then continued.
Behind them the Polish artillery at last began to open up with caseshot. The artillery commander, Katski, only had about twenty cannons but he was determined to put them to best use, especially after dragging the things over the Kahlenberg. The cavalry couldn’t yet come to grips as the terrain just wasn’t suitable, especially for the heavy shock cavalry, the winged hussars, with their leopard and tiger skins over their shoulders and their ‘wings’ fluttering behind their backs. Time yet for them.
For the moment it was the infantry. Casca reloaded as he went, using his decades of experience, and they went up a slight rise, then down. More Tatars came riding at them, and again the cannons roared, sending case shot exploding amongst them. The irregulars fled. Now, ahead stood a wooded hill, the Michaelsberg, and they grimly marched up. As they did so, they came into view of the other contingents to their left and a huge cheer rose up from the Bavarian troops who were there.
Up, up, they climbed. It wasn’t steep but it was stamina sapping, and they broke up as they weaved in and out of the trees. At least the damned Ottoman cavalry couldn’t get at them. Then they were through and descending, and now the plain lay before them. The officers and sergeants called for a halt just as they came out from the woods, and got them men into formation once more.
Then they set off again, and now the Ottoman infantry could be seen. They swung to the left and approached a village. Behind every wall, every fence, was a Turk, aiming. Cannons roared, gouts of earth flew up, and then came the order to attack.
Casca ran forward alongside his comrades, and shot spat at them. A couple of Poles staggered and went down, then Casca had a clear sight of one Ottoman reloading, his shoulders and head visible. It was forty yards. He loaded on one knee, then aimed and fired. The Turk flew back, his arms upraised, and vanished from view.
Now the other Poles began shooting, and they formed two rows. The front one in which Casca was in, knelt on one knee and kept up a steady rate of fire, while the second row stood and fired over the heads of their comrades. Casca winced more than once as an ear-splitting crack deafened him for a moment. The smell of gunpowder was like a heavy cloud all around them. The Janissaries in the gardens and animal pens of the village kept up a steady rate of fire, and a few Poles were soon lying lifeless on the ground before the lines of musketeers.
“Come on!” Casca yelled, getting to his feet. “Let’s flush these bastards out of here!” He was getting fed up with the stubborn defense. Drawing his bayonet out of its sheath, he ran at the stone wall of the nearest house, behind which he knew a line of Turks were reloading.
One rose up just as Casca closed in, and the eternal mercenary fired one-handed, the ball taking the Turk through the upper chest, splintering his ribcage. A risky shot but Casca was tough and had immense strength, so a one-handed discharge from his matchlock was possible. Ramming his bayonet into the smoking barrel, he vaulted the wall with a shriek.
He landed in a muddy garden with Janissaries to the right and left. Giving them no time to react, Casca ran the one on his right through the kidneys with his bayonet. Even as the Turk fell over screaming, Casca had pulled out his sword with his right hand and spun, the blade executing a perfect arc, meeting the throat of the Ottoman soldier to Casca’s left as the man turned to shoot him.
Other Poles came running, two of them falling to wild shots from the defenders, but now the musketeers and pikemen were flowing over the wall, driving the Turks back. Casca swung his musket, butt first, with his left, braining another Janissary who crashed to the ground as if poleaxed, and he thrust his sword at yet another who staggered back in terror, his eyes wide, clutching his useless discharged gun.
One slash, two, and then the third as the Ottoman’s defense was opened up. The sword blade sank deep into the man’s chest and Casca left him sinking to his knees, blood dribbling through his hands, on his way to the next house. Getting to it meant he had to cross the one road that ran through the village, and the door to the house opened, a Janissary framed in it, musket levelled.
Casca dived forward, rolling onto his right shoulder. The shot intended to smash his chest open missed, and Casca regained his balance and slammed his sword up into the defender’s guts, angling up into the chest cavity. The Janissary groaned and fell backward, dropping his musket.
Another shot splintered the doorway and Casca ducked involuntarily. The man who’d fired was in the doorway to the rear of the house. Casca went for him, sword raised. The Turk threw down his musket and hauled out his curved blade and met the first attack above his head.
Casca had to modify his attacks. The ceiling wasn’t that high and he’d scraped the blade across the wooden beams already. Side swipes or thrusts only. He stepped forward, weight on his right leg, and slashed sideways. The Turk blocked and riposted, hoping to skewer the scarred warrior, but Casca had centuries of experience and knocked it aside, then countered inside the Turk’s line of attack. He was left grimacing in pain with a deep wound to the chest, and fell to the floor.
Casca eyed the window out of the rear of the house. A squad of Turks were shooting down the street, not noticing that the house next to them had been taken. Casca reloaded quickly, blew on the match, withdrew the bayonet, then aimed through the window. He fired and the ball blew apart the officer’s brains, sending his gray matter over his horrified men.
The Turks turned and fled, not liking being shot at from two directions, and now their commander was dead, they decided the main line was much safer than this place, which was rapidly becoming outflanked.
Casca ran out of the house, rejoining his comrades, and they walked through the village, reloading, and once again forming a cohesive line. One more hill stood to their left, and before them stood the main Ottoman line, waiting.
The Polish troops now stopped for a breather. The afternoon was progressing but finally they had got through the obstacles and now were ready for the final play in the battle. Both sides knew the end wasn’t far off, one way or the other. The sound of firing came heavily from the left and heads turned to see what was happening. After a while word came filtering down that the Bavarians and Austrians were heavily engaged in ejecting the Janissaries from another village that was holding up the advance in the center. Once they were thrown out, then the battle would enter its final phase.
Casca took a drink of water and wiped his lips. He checked his equipment once more. He had five shots left. He called for more cartridges, and soon enough members of the supply train were dishing out new cartridges, powder and matches to men who asked for it.
The sun was passing behind them and was sinking towards the peaks of the Kahlenberg. It was about four in the afternoon, and men suddenly gripped their muskets and pikes.
The Turks were attacking.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The entire line of Ottomans seemed to be on the move. Cavalry, infantry and dismounted cavalry came forward in a huge line, roaring to Allah and the Sultan, muskets, swords, spears and bows in their hands.
The Polish troops readied themselves. Pikes would be vital now, both to keep off the cavalry, and to fend the infantry off from the musketeers. The fight to the left would have to take care of itself, now was the time for Sobieski’s lines to hold. The Polish forces were in three elements; in the center were three lines of infantry, bracing themselves, and to either side of this were the cavalry, who were still forming up and not yet ready to be used.
Casca bit off the cartridge top and poured the ball and powder into the barrel. The procedure was automatic now, and he rammed the wad in after it, and made sure the match could reach. He levelled his gun and squinted down the barrel. The mass of charging Turks was impossible to miss. He was one of a front of twenty men, and pikes were thrust out to either side of this.
“Ready!” came the snapped order.
Pan flipped open. Now! The shout to fire came and he squeezed the trigger. A cloud of white smoke obscured his vision for a moment, then thinned and he could see toppling men before him, then the ones behind pushed past them and came for the Poles. Arrows flew, hitting a few, and one or two Turks shot into the mass of the infantry, cutting down more.
Casca worked the reloading sequence furiously. A thundering of hooves caught his attention and a group of cavalry came past, trying to find an opening, but the pikes were too many and it would be suicide to try to plow into them.
Once they were past the infantry came at them, their mad ululating cries filling the air. Sword blades hacked at pikes who thrust back. Shots took out a few pikemen and some Ottomans pushed at them, trying to hack their way through the three lines. Casca blasted one big black-mustached man back with a shot to the chest, then fixed his bayonet and stabbed up at the next man who came for him, murder in his eyes.
The Turk gasped and folded over the bayonet, pulling the musket out of Casca’s hands. Two more Ottomans came for him and Casca just got his sword out in time and slashed up at the first, having to get up on both feet to properly defend himself.
The Turk dodged aside and ran onto another man’s sword. The second had an axe and came down with a blow designed to chop Casca’s head off but it was blocked and parried, and Casca sent his blade deep into the man’s guts.
He had little time to compose himself as another came for him. To either side men were grappling and stabbing, and Casca deflected the stab of this new opponent up, and then they were face to face, too close to use any blade. Each pushed at the other, hands seeking eyes or the throat, and Casca got a thumb in his left eye.
Cursing vilely, he raised his elbows and made it difficult for the Turk to get at him, and then closed his fingers around the man’s throat and began squeezing. His left eye hurt like hell, and he pulled the Ottoman soldier down onto his knees and carried on throttling him. Finally the man’s life left him and Casca looked up, on his knees, to see the Turkish line falling back, rebuffed by the firmness of the Polish troops.
He picked up his musket, breathing heavily, and was helped up by one of his comrades. Bodies lay before them and amongst them, but now the order to advance came. The Ottoman attack had been thrown back and the men sensed they were getting the upper hand.
They went down the gentle slope towards the Turkish lines. The men there were readying themselves to shoot, but now came a roar and the ground shook, and everyone stopped and heads turned to the right to see an astonishing sight.
Over three thousand winged hussars were cantering forward, lances tucked under arms, their armor shining in the late afternoon sun, wings fluttering behind each rider, and then they broke into a gallop. They swept down on the Turkish line like a tidal wave, and the Poles all yelled out ‘Jezus Maria ratuj’ as their cavalry closed on the enemy.
The sound of them striking it was teeth-jarring, and Casca watched as the Ottomans were crushed in by the force and size of the charge. Lances splintered, bent and broke, but they had sent hundreds to their deaths in that one hit, and now the Turkish lines shattered open. With a roar, the infantry ran for the enemy who were splitting into pockets.
Casca drew his sword. No point in using the musket as he might hit a friend as easily as a foe, and went for a wild-eyed Turk wearing a red jacket, blue baggy trousers and white stockings. The man had just discharged his musket, cutting down one Pole, and was trying to reload. Casca sliced into his neck, sending him to the ground, and the eternal mercenary vaulted over him, straight at a man trying to get to his feet, clutching a sword, dressed in all-yellow except for a red hat with a white turban wrapped around it.
Casca slashed at him as he passed, cutting him across the chest, and the man fell back onto the grass, joining thousands already soaking it with their blood. A third man stumbled across Casca’s path, a bald-headed spearman with a round shield, white shirt and blue waistcoat. Casca pushed him hard, sending him staggering back, contemptuously slapped the spearpoint aside, then rammed his sword deep into the soldier’s ribcage.
The Turk gaped in surprise and pain, and toppled backwards. All around it was a melee, men from both sides running here and there, and there was no cohesion left. He just avoided being run down by a winged hussar chasing some helpless Ottoman, and suddenly the fight was over, the Ottoman force disintegrating and fleeing back eastwards.
Casca stopped, panting deeply, sweat coating his face, and raised his head to the sky. “Well,” he said in Latin, “there you go again. Pleased? Do you watch this over and over? Are you as sick and tired of it all as I am?” He spat into the ground and took a deep pull on his water, slaking his battle thirst.
“Ho,” one of his unit greeted him. “That showed them, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. That’s it. We’ve saved Vienna.”
The men were running for the camp, hoping to grab a share of the plunder, allowing many of the Ottoman force to escape. Casca wasn’t interested, and he dragged off his Polish overcoat and threw it on the ground. That was his role over and done with, and now he had to go and see if Peter had survived.
It took him almost until dark to get to the shattered, burning mess that were the walls of Vienna. No Turk remained; they had all fled, and he made his way along the trenches to the glacis. Austrian troops were sat in the breaches, drinking, resting, relieved that they had been saved. By the looks of things it had come not a moment too soon.
Casca climbed up the hard-packed causeway the Turks had used a few weeks ago, and found his unit, sitting or lying down behind the Löbel. Captain Kaltenberger, wearing a head bandage and one arm in a sling, greeted him with a huge smile. He forgot protocol and etiquette and slapped him on the shoulder. “By God, am I glad to see you, Sergeant! You did it, then! You got them to save us all!”
“Yes, sir, I did. They got their asses in gear once I told them how soon it was likely the city would fall. Is Peter safe?”
“He was wounded, and he’s being tended at the hospice of St. Jerome near the cathedral.”
“In that case, sir, permission to go visit him?”
Kaltenberger chuckled. “Of course, Sergeant. Permission granted. I doubt things will be organized here for a day or two, but make sure you’re back here tomorrow afternoon. I think we’re going to need new orders now we’ve got them beaten.”
Casca exchanged greetings with the others, Teodor and Herbert included, before he got free and made his way down rubble-strewn streets as the night came. The hospice was a sequestered large house and he was directed there by a street patrol. Men lay in beds, on the floor, in the hallway and any spare place there may be. The smell of blood, alcohol, suppurating wounds and sweat was a cloying wave that hit him as he pushed past the door and a half-asleep wounded man who had been put on guard to make sure nobody undesirable got in. Who knew when some ghoul would come and try to rob the dying, dead or badly hurt?
Casca found Peter, sitting propped up in a chair, his left shoulder swathed in bandages. “So what happened to you?” Casca greeted him.
Peter smiled faintly. “The big attack on the 8th, just four days ago. They blew the Löbel. Part of the wall came down and they went at it like fanatics. It took us an hour to finally get them to give up. I got an arrow in the shoulder. I’ve had special treatment,” he said, smiling over Casca’s shoulder.
