1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [152]
Had their histories been reversed, he might have had some sympathy for them. Might even have agreed with them, actually. For all Wladislaw IV's posturing and loud claims to being the rightful heir to the Swedish throne, it was not him—nor his father Sigismund III Vasa before him—who had invaded Sweden and laid waste to its lands, after all. The destruction and plunder had gone entirely the other way.
Three times the bastard had invaded and ravaged Poland. There was not going to be a fourth.
The Scots were crumbling. There weren't enough of them to hold off this many hussars.
Jönsson made a quick decision. He'd do better on the ground. He slid off the saddle and took position guarding the fallen king, almost straddling him.
And there he stayed, until a company of Småland cuirassiers arrived and finally drove off the Poles.
He'd emptied two magazines in addition to the eight rounds fired from the first. He'd just loaded the last magazine when a Polish lance finally put him down. Even then, with his blood pouring out of a severed femoral artery, he shot down his killer. He spent the last minute of his life lying across Gustav Adolf's body, shooting any hussar who came into his sight.
He would have died from blood loss, anyway. But a Pole he didn't see rode up and drove his lance all the way through Anders' body. The hussar was actually trying to kill Gustav Adolf, but since most of him was covered by the huge Jönsson, he saw no option but to try to slay the king through the bodyguard.
He succeeded in the second, but not the first. The Pole reversed his grip on the lance and rose up in his stirrups in order to drive the lance straight down with all his might. The lance missed the sternum, passed between two of the ribs, cut open the right ventricle of the heart and almost made it through Jönsson's entire torso. But there was just too much muscle, too much mass. The king beneath was quite untouched.
Chapter 39
The rain was starting to let up. In the distance to the west, Koniecpolski could see patches of clear sky. By evening, the storm would have passed completely. And with it, his great advantage over the Swedes.
The latest hussar charge had been driven back also, although this one had come close to shattering the enemy. If they'd been able to widen that gap just a bit more, a bit faster . . .
But there was no point dwelling on what might have been. Once again, his men had been repulsed—and they were finally showing the effects. The grand hetman had been in enough battles to know that he'd driven his cavalry almost to the breaking point. They'd done all he asked of them. The time had come to accept that he'd accomplished all he could this day and not drive into ruin. He hadn't destroyed the Swedish army, as he'd hoped to do. But he'd hammered them badly. Added to the destruction of the Hessians, he'd leveled the odds a great deal in Poland's favor. The intelligent thing to do now was return to Poznań. From here on, this was going to be a war of sieges.
Afterward, he would take a small private satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd already made that decision before developments made it inevitable. No sooner had he turned to give new orders to his adjutants than he saw a Cossack scout racing toward him.
Literally, galloping at full speed—on this treacherous soil. The man was either a superb horseman or utterly reckless.
Or most likely both, being a Cossack.
Koniecpolski waited until the man drew up his horse. Obviously he was bearing important tidings. Not even a Cossack would run his horse like that for any other reasons.
"The enemy is coming, Hetman!" The Cossack turned and rose in his stirrups, pointing a little east of south. "One mile away. No farther. Thousands of men."
Already? He hadn't thought any of the three divisions of the USE army could get here until tomorrow. Even then, not till noon or early afternoon.
Perhaps it was a different enemy force,