The Saxon Uprising(149)
And then, there was the central image! As arresting as Judith slaying Holofernes. The conquering general, presented with the head of his defeated enemy—and spurning it. Not from horror but from majesty, as befitted a prince.
Paris, capital of France
“Your judgment was quite sound, Your Grace,” said Servien, once Richelieu had finished reading the news report that had come in over the radio in the palace. “It was wise not to do anything.”
The cardinal set the report aside and shrugged. “Most likely, yes. It would have been easier to deal with Oxenstierna, but I’m afraid he’s in a bad place now. He should have left well enough alone.”
Coming from Richelieu, that statement was perhaps dubious. There were many in France—some of them not even his enemies—who thought the accusation couldn’t leave well enough alone belonged on his own doorstep.
Madrid, capital of Spain
There was no reaction to the news report in the court of Spain.
They had no radio. They wouldn’t receive the news for days yet.
Poznan, Poland
“They claim some Poles were involved,” said Lukasz Opalinski, as he scanned through the report. After reading a couple of more lines, he hissed. “I don’t believe it! The fellow who was apparently their leader claims some connection to the Koniecpolskis! Some bastards will say anything.”
“His name?” asked Stanislaw Koniecpolski.
Lukasz shook his head. “They don’t provide it. But it’s an obvious lie. The only Pole we know in Dresden is Jozef and he certainly wouldn’t…”
His voice trailed off. Startled, he looked up at the grand hetman. “You don’t think… Surely…”
Koniecpolski started to laugh.
Berlin, capital of Brandenburg
Keeping well off to the side of the assembly chamber, almost but not quite in the shadows, Erik Haakansson Hand listened cynically to Oxenstierna’s speech. The chancellor was taking the time to rally the spirits of his followers, even as he prepared to march his army out of Berlin.
Everything is fine, lads.
He wouldn’t be marching on Magdeburg, though. There’d been a last minute change of plans. He’d have to march on Dresden instead, and hope to succeed where Banér had failed.
Victory will soon be ours.
He needed to move quickly, too, before Stearns’ division recuperated.
I march on the rebels tomorrow!
Great cheers rang the chamber. The colonel felt a hand tug at his elbow. Turning, he saw it was James Wallace, one of the Scot bodyguards in Ljungberg’s unit.
“Erling says you have to come now. Quickly.”
Gustav Adolf was sitting up in his bed when Erik entered the room. His blue eyes seemed bright and clear.
“What is happening, cousin?” the king asked. Only the slight drawl indicated the lurking anger. He hooked a thumb at Ljungberg.
“He won’t tell me anything. Me, his own king.”
“That’s because…”
Where to begin?
The king solved that problem himself. “Is my daughter…?”
“She’s quite well, Your Majesty,” Erik said hurriedly. “In good health. Even in good spirits. Just yesterday, I listened—well…”
“What? Damn you, Erik, what’s happening?”
Ah, that familiar temper. A good solid kingly sort of temper. Not a wild and unfocused rage.
Also a far more dangerous temper, of course.
“Yesterday I listened to a speech she gave over the radio. Quite a good one, too, allowing for her age. Very enthusiastic.”
Gustav Adolf frowned. “Why is my daughter giving speeches? Over the radio, you said?”
“It’s a long story, Sire.”
“Then sit.”
Chapter 50
The United States of Europe
All of the major newspapers in the country and many of the smaller ones came out with the story the next morning. It didn’t matter what day of the week they normally published. It didn’t matter whether they were morning papers or evening papers. Even if the edition was just a two-page special edition, nothing more than a broadsheet printed on both sides, they all published something.
The headlines varied from city to city and province to province, but the gist of them was essentially the same:
great battle at dresden
terrible casualties
the prince triumphant
swedish army routed
general banér killed in the fighting
siege of dresden lifted
The emphasis varied from one newspaper to another. Some stressed the drama and pathos of the terrible struggle in the middle of a snowstorm. Others focused more on the tactical details, still others on the political ramifications.
None of them were restrained. Purple prose was alive, well, thriving—you might even call it the kudzu of contemporary journalese—and most writers laid it on as thickly as they could.