Try watching men you love choking their lives out with black lung, you rich bastard, fighting the companies tooth and nail—and their so-called “experts” and 90% of the government—for every dime they can get. Try—
He broke off the thought. Snapped it off, rather. This was no time for it.
“Why are they angry? Well, John, let’s start with the fact that for fifteen years they’ve watched Germany’s princes—and every other prince in the world except maybe Gustav Adolf—grind their lives under. Even Gustav is only on probation, as far as they’re concerned. Add to that the fact that their lives before the war weren’t exactly a commoner’s paradise.”
He shook his head. “Wismar didn’t make them angry. Anger, they already had—anger and rage and grief and bitterness, drunk to the dregs. And I can guarantee you that the spectacle they’ve been watching right here in Magdeburg for the past few weeks”—Mike pointed a rigid and accusing finger in the direction of the palace where the Chamber of Princes had been holding their sessions—”did nothing but rub salt in the wounds. Once again, Germany’s princes will bicker and dawdle and protect their privileges, while Germany’s millions stare at their blood and intestines spilling on the ground.”
Torstensson grunted. The sound was that of a detached observer, acknowledging that the expert had made a valid point.
“What Wismar did,” Mike continued, “was finally crack their doubt. Not doubt in the princes—they’ve long ago given up any faith in princes—but doubt in their own ability to do anything about it.”
He took a long, almost shuddering breath, fiercely controlling his own grief. “Hans Richter didn’t simply destroy a Danish warship, John,” he said softly. “He also broke the last chain the princes had on Germany. When all is said and done, he belongs to them. Not us. Or, at least, we only had a part of him. We can give whatever medals we want to that part. But Germany’s people will lift his memory to the skies, and use it for their own standard. And that standard—don’t doubt this for a moment—is a battle standard. The standard of people who, for the first time, think they can win. Understand for the first time, really, that ‘winning’ can even be a part of their world.”
“True,” pronounced Torstensson. “The first elements of the crowd moving toward the palace were chanting his name when I left the palace grounds. And, as you say, it was a battle cry.” He smiled thinly. “I know the sound of such.”
“But—” Simpson shook his head. “Who are they going to fight? Here, I mean?”
“Me, most likely,” growled Torstensson. “Or the Saxon troops. John George has already summoned them into the city. To protect himself and the princes from mob violence. That is his excuse, at least, and—” Torstensson cast a quick glance toward the swelling murmur. “I cannot honestly say it’s simply an excuse. Some of the crowd is already calling for his head. As well as the head of the elector of Brandenburg.”
Now, Torstensson looked every inch the 17th-century general. Still interested, perhaps; but also sure of his duty. His eyes were hard and narrow.
“Who, may I remind you—yes, George William is a swine; and so what?—has a son to whom Princess Kristina is unofficially betrothed. And since I am the commanding officer of Gustav’s army in this city—where the Princess also lives now—I must put a stop to this. However brutal that may become.”
Simpson’s eyes widened. “My God, this could be a disaster!”
“Screw that,” Mike snapped. “Yes, it could be a disaster. It can also be a triumph and a victory. And a big one, too. But that’s up to us, gentlemen.” He gave both Simpson and Torstensson a hard look of his own.
“Will you follow me?” he demanded. The question was addressed at both men.
Torstensson’s answer came immediately. “Yes—to a point.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “And do not ask me what that point may be. I do not know yet. But . . . this much I can promise you, Michael Stearns. So long as I retain confidence that you can control the situation, I will do as you say.”