The Left-Handed God (3 page)

Elsewhere more drum rolls joined in. The regimental flag flapped in the wind, and a great exultation of sound and fury seized Franz. He could feel the same surge of excitement in the men with him. Someone cheered. The drum beat quickened and Franz marched faster. They kept step beside him, behind him. The ground was even and descended toward the enemy. Franz felt the steady boom, boom, da-boom, boom boom, da-boom of the drum in his blood. His heart beat to the rhythm. His eyes were fixed on the enemy line. Was it less than one hundred yards yet? That was when he would order them to start firing.

More bullets whistled past, another man screamed, and someone else cursed loudly. His sergeant shouted, “Close rank,” and they moved on without missing a step. Franz stared at the approaching Prussian line. Any moment now. As soon as I can make out the Prussian dogs’ faces, he thought, as soon as I see the color of their eyes. He wished he had a musket. They were only fifty yards apart now.

Varel’s regiment to their right stopped to release its first volley. Then the Prussians halted. Through the noise, Franz heard their own sergeant’s shout, “Halt!”

Franz came to a stop, stepped aside, and called out, “Front rank, kneel!” His voice squawked, but they obeyed anyway. He took a breath. “Aim! And…‌fire!” The crashing sound nearly deafened him, and acrid smoke burned his eyes. “Second rank…‌aim and fire!” Another volley. Before he could call, “Third rank!” a Prussian volley raised a din of screams among his men and shouts from the sergeant to close ranks. Franz closed his mind to everything but the sequence of commands.

He shouted. They knelt, they aimed, they fired. Then they reloaded, and those behind them fired over their heads. Taking turns, they went through the familiar motions in practiced sequence, delivering a barrage of ragged fire. Someone screamed, fell forward, and another man took his place.

Franz squinted through the smoke. Impossible to gauge enemy casualties. The volleys crackled painfully against his eardrums, and the smoke burned his nose and made his eyes water. The Prussians exchanged volley for volley, and he knew the lines were too close to miss each other. On both sides, sergeants shouted again and again to close ranks, and bullets whistled and struck the ground at his feet.

He wondered if he was invulnerable‌—‌caught in a dream. He no longer knew where he was, just that he must stand with his colors and shout orders to fire until it was time to advance again.

A mounted officer appeared out of the smoke beside him. “Are you deaf?” he shouted from his height, “Left! Turn left! Now!” and wheeled away. Franz stared after him, bewildered. The order was passed on by others, and the men scrambled up and turned, running at a trot, bayonets pointing forward, and Franz, clutching the colors, finally moved, caught up, still confused and lost.

When the smoke cleared a little, he saw the Prussian cavalry bearing down on them. Someone shouted, “The hussars. Form square! Form square!”

The men struggled to change their lines into a hollow square bristling with bayonets, but it was too late. The enemy was already upon them, wild-eyed horses, huge and powerful, forcing their way into their ranks, hooves flailing, running men down, their riders shouting and slashing down with curved sabers.

Franz found himself surrounded by soldiers using their bayonets to defend the regimental colors. The air was filled with the screams of horses and men.

A Prussian hussar on an enormous black horse forced his way toward them, his eyes on the colors, teeth flashing white under his mustache. His saber slashed and men fell or jumped away, and suddenly there was nothing between Franz and the hussar.

Franz clutched the standard to himself with his left hand and drew his sword. Somehow, he remembered to jump clear to the rider’s left and to strike upward. He missed. The hussar swung his horse about and came again. Franz waited, twisting aside again at the last moment. The hussar delivered a glancing cut to Franz’s left shoulder, but Franz cut the man’s right thigh. The hussar wheeled, and this time he tried to run Franz down. The horse reared above him. One of its flailing hooves caught the side of Franz’s head. He felt the colors torn from his hand and began to fall through a red mist. The noise, the stench of blood, the pain reached a crescendo, then died away.

*

The assassin did not join the battle. As soon as he had hit his mark, he left the woods, abandoning the green coat on the way. A little later, he reported to his commanding officer in his regular uniform.

His superior was watching the progress of the battle through his glass and shook his head. “Salzburg’s in retreat. I knew they were hopeless. A ragtag regiment made up of children and old men.” He collapsed the glass. “No point in risking more men. We’re pulling back. Tell Marshall Stolberg we’ll halt at Burkersdorf and then follow us.”

The assassin saluted and watched the general ride away. He was not surprised. The old man did not want honors; he wanted to protect his regiment to sell the men’s services for the next battle.

He scanned the confused battlefield. The Prussians seemed to be everywhere, and the action had moved westward. It would take only a few minutes to make sure he had not missed, but he might get caught up in the fighting. He decided to postpone it.

*

When Franz came to, he lay on his back. Heavy gray clouds scudded across the sky. He heard thunder and thought
I must get up and go inside. I must close the shutters because Mama is frightened of thunder and lightning.
But he felt too tired. After a little, the thunder began to sound strange. Something told him that he was not at home, was not lying in the grass of their garden. And this was not thunder. This was artillery fire.

His head hurt, but he turned it and looked. He was alone. Both armies, infantry and cavalry, had disappeared as if swept away by a storm. Instead the muddy field was covered with bodies of men and horses. More men than horses‌—‌proof that regiment Salzburg had been defeated by the enemy cuirassiers.

Memory returned slowly. The noise of battle now came from a distance, punctuated by the booming of heavy artillery. Franz heard it through a curtain of pain. There were other sounds nearby: a man wept, another moaned, a third cried for help.

Franz looked back at the gray sky and took stock of himself. He felt blood on his face and seeping down his back. The worst pain was in his head. It throbbed mercilessly. He tried to roll onto his side, felt a violent bout of nausea, and almost passed out. After that, he lay very still and concentrated on the rest of his body. Something was wrong with his left arm. It felt wet, stiff, and numb all the way to his fingers. His legs seemed all right, though. He moved each foot at the ankle, and then bent his knees. His right arm was merely sore, and the palm of his hand felt raw.

That was when he comprehended that he had lost the colors and wept. His failure was monumental. Within minutes of engagement, he had lost that which he should have guarded with his life. He had lost the colors because he had not given the order to turn and form square in time. With the colors lost, the men had run.

Shame overwhelmed him, but it also gave him the strength to sit up. He looked around, fell back twice, but eventually managed to get to his feet. The dizziness caused him to vomit, but he felt a little better for it. The colors were gone, but he found his sword and staggered toward the sounds of battle. When he passed the first body, he saw a dreadful saber wound across the man’s face and averted his eyes. The next man was still alive, but in his chest a single wound had opened like a blossom and turned the white cloth of his uniform red. The soldier stared up at Franz with glazed eyes. “
Mutterl
?” he whimpered. “
Bist du’s, Mutterl? Es tut so weh.
”

Franz stammered, “
Gleich
‌—‌in a moment. It will be better in a moment.”

The man smiled and closed his eyes. Franz looked around for help, but he was the only one standing. When he looked back down, the man was dead. Would his mother be told, or would she wait for months and years for the son who would never come home again? He turned away and stumbled on among the wounded and dying, sometimes stopping to pray with them or give assurances of help that would not come in time.

Along that terrible route, his head cleared a little, and he became aware of the saber cut in his upper left arm. The cut had opened again when he tried to help one of the wounded, and the blood now ran down over his hand, but it seemed to be a mere flesh wound.

Then he saw the drum and the small body curled around it. Afraid, he went closer. One of Carl’s hands still clutched the stick; the other was flung out to the side, a child’s hand. The boy’s head lay a few steps away, his tricorne near it. A frail child’s slender neck was no obstacle to a sharp saber swung by a powerful hussar’s arm. Carl’s eyes were wide open, staring into the distance. There had not been time for the child to cry out for his mother or father.

Franz turned away. The tears of his shame and grief poured again, and his stomach heaved. This time he nearly blacked out when he vomited. He straightened, his face blubbered with tears, mucus, and vomit, and he wiped it with his sleeve. Then he started looking for his regiment.

The battlefield had shifted to the south and west. The infantry now fought for the small hillock someone had called
Trois
Croix
. The Prussian and imperial cavalry were engaged near the Spittal Woods.

Sword in hand, Franz started toward
Trois
Croix
. Three crosses. Golgotha. He had lost the colors and did not want to live without at least an attempt to redeem himself.

Almost immediately he came across another casualty, a captain. He lay on his back. Franz recognized the light blue and white uniform of the Kurpfalz dragoons and stopped beside him. The wounded man was still alive, his eyes fixed hopefully on Franz.

“Thank God,” he said. His voice was fairly strong and sounded desperate. “Can you help me?”

Franz knelt to look for wounds, saw blood stains only on the white trouser leg, and said, “It doesn’t look too bad, sir. Just a leg wound. Someone will come soon. I must get back to my unit. I’m with the Salzburg Seventh.”

The officer was not much older than Franz. He snapped, “Don’t be a fool, Ensign. I’m done for. Shot in the back. Can’t move my limbs. Reach into my coat and take out the letter. You’re from the Seventh? From Kurpfalz?”

Franz had just realized that this must be the same officer who had been dragged by his horse earlier and was distracted by the fact that the back of the captain’s head was a mass of blood and raw flesh. “Surely,” he said, “it’s just temporary. Perhaps the effect of the blow to the head.”

The young officer closed his eyes for a moment. “Don’t waste my time. I’m dying. Take the letter. Take it to my father. I’m Christian von Loe. Promise you’ll do that?”

Franz put his hand inside the coat and found the letter. It was bloodstained, and the officer’s shirt felt soaked with blood. He doubted he would survive this day himself, but there was no point in arguing. “I promise,” he said, putting the letter inside his own coat, “but when you find that you’ve been mistaken, I shall return it to you. God be with you.” He gave the officer an encouraging smile and grasped his right hand. It lay cold and unresponsive in his, but the bloodless lips murmured, “Thank you, Ensign. Be careful. Guard the letter with your life.”

It was a strange request, but Franz was already up and running toward the action again. Somehow, he found soldiers from his regiment with another unit. They were in disarray, firing listlessly at a company of Prussian infantry without making much headway. Franz picked up an abandoned musket but dropped it again. His left arm was too stiff to load and aim a gun, even if he had bullets, powder, and flint.

A moment later a stray cannon ball tore through the lines, wreaking such bloody havoc that bits of human flesh landed near him. The other company turned and ran, the men from the Seventh joining them. Franz shouted, “Stop, you cowards! Stand and fight!”

Some of the Seventh turned and came back. Others followed. To Franz’s amazement, they still obeyed an order. His order!

He waited, sword in his good hand and his bloody left arm hanging by his side. He knew he must be a shocking sight with his blood-covered face and coat. When there were enough men, he raised his sword. “Form line and advance!” They cheered. His sword raised high, he took them up the hill at a run to where a company of Bavarians were in hand-to-hand combat with Prussian dragoons. His men fell upon the dragoons with sword and bayonets to the cheers of the Bavarian soldiers.

It was butchery. The enemy fought for every inch of ground. Franz used his sword viciously, furiously‌—‌for the drummer boy Carl and for the young man who would never see his mother again. He shouted his fury and was filled with a strange joy. When a big Prussian sergeant stepped in his way, Franz cut open his belly and was past him before the man doubled over and fell. A Prussian officer was next. Sword against sword.

The other man was an experienced soldier, but Franz parried and slashed, and severed the man’s sword hand. The officer, a captain with a small gray mustache and soft blue eyes, could have been Franz’s father. He stood, cradling the bleeding stump with his left arm and waited, looking calmly at Franz from his blue eyes. Perhaps he intended to surrender, but Franz had no time to discuss the matter. He ran him through and saw a look of astonishment, almost of outrage at a betrayal, on the dying man’s face.

But Franz had to jump aside because a Prussian soldier roared his rage and rammed a bayonet toward his belly. “You bastard!” the man screamed. “You killed him and him without a weapon!” He came at Franz, sobbing and cursing, and Franz half-turned and slashed his throat.

And so he hacked, slashed, and yelled along with his men until the Prussians backed away from this madman to look for easier prey.

Half-dazed with exhaustion and sickened by the bloodshed, Franz finally paused, lowered his sword, and looked around. They had taken
Trois
Croix
.