The Baltic War(261)
Torstensson squatted next to him, and studied the map for a moment. "Yes, I see your point. He can't go down to Luebeck, obviously, which means he's probably trying to reach the Trave somewhere around here." His own finger came down on the spot that marked the small town of Reinfeld, then slid along the line that marked the upper stretch of the Trave until his finger reached Segeberg.
"Somewhere between Reinfeld and Segeberg—but it would have to be much closer to Segeberg—he'll leave the Trave and make his way across to the headwaters of the Stör. Then follow it down the Elbe near Glückstadt and try to cross there."
"That's what I'm figuring," agreed Jackson. "So I think we'd do better to take the volley guns back to the headwaters of the Trave right here"—he pointed to the west—"and just follow it down until we run into Angoulême coming the other way. Should be somewhere around . . . here, I'm think. This village called Nutschel, if I'm reading this damn script properly." An aggrieved tone came into his voice. "I thought we'd agreed to use Roman lettering in the army, instead of this Fraktur crap."
Torstensson rose from the map. "Germans, you know. Most stubborn people on the face of the earth. All right, General Jackson. Be off, and Godspeed. Bring me back the head of Charles de Valois. And I don't care if it's attached to the rest of his body or not."
* * *
"Again?" whined Krenz.
"I told you to pay attention to your horsemanship." Thorsten had no sympathy at all with Krenz on this subject. " 'Flying artillery,' remember? And now we'll really have to fly, if we're to catch up with that French general."
"Order an advance, all across the line," said Charles de la Porte. Before his lieutenants could start arguing the matter, he threw up his hands with exasperation. "Yes, I know! But what else can we do? If we continue to stand our ground, those fucking guns will just keep hammering us. Our own artillery is simply no match for them. And if we try to retreat—and where, exactly? Certainly not Luebeck!—we'll get cut to pieces without cavalry to screen us. We've got no other choice. We either win a straight-up battle or we surrender. That's it—and I don't want to hear any arguments."
At least the flight of Angoulême had left a decisive man in command of the French army. As they hurried off to prepare the advance, the lieutenants tried to take what confidence they could from that fact.
"His best option," said Torstensson, once he saw the enemy beginning its advance. "Not a good one—not with our artillery—but the best he's got. Who's in command over there, Bryan, do you think?"
His staff officer pondered the question, for a moment or two. "Hard to know, General. If I had to guess, I'd say either Charles de la Porte or Gaspard de Coligny. Either one of them is supposed to be competent. Coligny has seniority, but de la Porte has better family ties. He's one of Richelieu's cousins. Given d'Angoulême, I'd think he'd ignore seniority and select for family ties. If nothing else, it'll help spread the blame better."
"Why not de la Valette, then?" asked another of Torstensson's lieutenants, who'd spent some time in the French colors. "His mother was a Montmorency, his wife a royal bastard, and now that she's dead the rumor is that he's courting one of Richelieu's nieces."
Thorpe barked a sarcastic little laugh. "Better for us if he had! But I don't think d'Angoulême is downright stupid."
As it happened, Bernard de Nogaret de la Valette had accompanied Angoulême's cavalry force, although no one had actually invited him to do so. He knew perfectly well that the so-called "flanking maneuver" was the best—probably the only—way to get out of the trap the French army was in. There'd be hell to pay when they got back to France, but de la Valette would deal with that when the time came. He was considerably more proficient in that field of battle than he was in this much cruder one.
By the time they reached the Trave near Reinfeld, however, scouts reported that lead elements of a new army were advancing from Luebeck. As the duke of Angoulême had guessed, Gustav Adolf was already leading out the city's garrison. There was no time to waste!
Somewhere between Reinfeld and the town of Oldesloe, any pretense that the two thousand cavalrymen were engaged in a wide flanking maneuver crumbled. This was a simple retreat—and, as panic began spreading, it rapidly took on the features of a rout. With d'Angoulême himself setting the pace, the cavalrymen began running their mounts much faster than they should have been, given the great distance they still had to go before they'd reach the Elbe. Or even the headwaters of the Stör, for that matter.