He probably wasn't as good a horseman as the fleeing French officer, who was almost certainly a nobleman who'd been riding since he was a boy. But Engler was good enough, given that his mount had had time to rest and that of his prey was badly winded.
He caught up with him in less than half a mile. The fleeing officer's horse had finally stumbled from exhaustion. By then, fortunately, the horse had been moving so slowly that its fall was more in the way of a slow roll than a sudden spill. So its rider had the time to get out of the saddle before the huge beast fell on top of him and crushed him.
He was still badly bruised, of course. Horsefalls are always a dangerous experience and never a pleasant one. But he didn't even have his wind knocked out, so when Thorsten brought his horse alongside and aimed his wheel-lock pistol at the man, he was able to speak.
"Je suis Charles de Valois, duc d'Angoulême. There is an excellent ransom."
* * *
As Colonel Nils Ekstrom worked his way through the various reports sent to Luebeck from Torstensson's adjutants, he spotted an oddity.
Coincidence, perhaps. Or a simple error.
Still, it was intriguing. He sent a courier to inquire.
The following day, the courier returned. No coincidence of names, and no error. The humble sergeant in Torstensson's volley gun units who had captured both the French cavalry commander Guébriant as well as the enemy's commander-in-chief d'Angoulême were, indeed, one and the same man. And, yes, he was the Thorsten Engler who was betrothed to an American woman in Magdeburg.
"Oh, splendid!" exclaimed Ekstrom. "That's one problem solved, at least."
Well . . . not quite. Imperial counts—at least, if they followed the Austrian model—didn't carry place names. And the princess was likely to be stubborn.
"Bring me a map," he commanded an aide. When the map was brought, Ekstrom studied it for a moment.
"Nutschel. That's about where the capture was made."
Frank Jackson happened to have come into the chamber of the Rathaus where Ekstrom was conducting his labors, while Ekstrom had been waiting for the map. "What's this about, Nils?"
Ekstrom explained, then said, "Silly name, anyway. We'll just inform the villagers that the emperor—their emperor, now—has decided to rename their village to honor the great victory."
"Rename it what?"
"Narnia, of course. That gives us a fallback position—that is the American term, yes?—in the not unlikely event the emperor capitulates to his daughter."
Frank stared at him. Then, at the map. "You've got to be kidding."
Ekstrom gave him a fish-eyed look. "You have met Princess Kristina, I believe."
Frank had grown a beard not long after the Ring of Fire, foreseeing the likely disappearance of safety razors, and long since had developed the common habit of tugging it. He did so now, wincing. "Good point. Yeah, I have met her."
He looked back at the map. "Narnia, huh? Well . . . as long as they don't spell it in Fraktur."
Chapter 59
The Øresund
SSIM Constitution moved steadily on a north-by-northwest heading. The gray-blue coast of the island of Falster lay to port, floating on the horizon like some distant bank of fog, as she led the rest of Simpson's squadron out of Luebeck Bay and towards Copenhagen. The dark, cold blue water of the Baltic stretched into hazy invisibility to starboard, and Simpson stood gazing out into that blue vastness while he considered what lay just over two hundred air miles north of his present position.
God knew King Christian was a stubborn fellow. He was as renowned for that as he was for his ability to . . . multitask enthusiastically. But surely even someone like Christian should recognize the inevitable when it dropped anchor off the waterfront of his capital city.
Of course, anyone but King Christian would have recognized that aligning himself with Catholic Europe against Protestant Germany and Sweden had not been the most effective possible technique for convincing his fellow Protestants to back his candidacy for their leadership. In which case, he wouldn't have had to worry about what the USE Navy might be about to do to his capital city, now would he?
He's not really an idiot, Simpson reminded himself. He couldn't possibly have accomplished everything he's gotten done if his brain simply didn't work. In fact, his brain has to work better than most people's. But he's certainly managed to figure out how to look like an idiot this time.
The admiral snorted at the thought, more in disgust than amusement.
At least he's a hell of a lot smarter than King Charles of England—not that "smarter than Charles" is any great recommendation of genius. And I suppose part of it is that we all end up comparing him to the other Scandinavian king, which would tend to make anyone look less than lifesize. But I still wish Railleuse had managed to get there before we did. Grosclaud's report would've been a real douche of cold water. Unfortunately—he looked back towards the south, where the squadron had passed the crippled French ship an hour or so earlier—she didn't. But even without that, he grinned thinly, we should still be able to get Christian's attention when we get there. Now if only—