Chapter 50
By the time Mike and Torstensson got to the big square before the palace, the area was already packed with the crowd. Fortunately, Achterhof and his militants were able to clear a path for them. The task became easier as they passed through the mob, and word of Mike’s arrival began to spread. Toward the end, nearing the steps of the palace itself, the biggest problem was clearing aside people who were pressing in to cheer them.
Well . . . cheer Mike, at least. There were precious few cheers coming Torstensson’s way, which Mike was quite sure the general had noticed.
Good. Get the picture, Lennart? Make sure you pass it along to Gustav.
Still, Mike was relieved not to hear any calls for Swedish blood, either. Fury and rage were obviously roiling through the thousands of people gathered there. But, so far at least, it seemed aimed at Germany’s princes and not the Swedish prince who—in theory—ruled them all.
By now, partly under Becky and Melissa’s tutelage and partly from his own disciplined reading program, Mike knew enough history to recognize the phenomenon. It was a common pattern, repeated many times. The crowd was still—just barely—willing to give the emperor a pass. If he did the right thing and got rid of his evil and wicked advisers.
The emperor seemed a goodly enough fellow, after all. He’d beaten down the Habsburgs, hadn’t he—something no German prince could claim. And he slept with his own troops in the field, didn’t he—lying on the cold ground right next to them. And, perhaps most important of all, he had greeted the United States with . . .
Well. “Open arms” was a bit much. Still, he had greeted them. Which no one could say for German princes.
Except one, who had chosen to give up his princedom.
When Mike saw Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar already standing on the steps of the palace, not far from Spartacus and—like the young German leader of the CoC—trying desperately to calm down the mob, he gave him a silent nod of respect. And, simultaneously, felt a deep sense of relief and satisfaction.
If I can head off this civil war—contain it, rather—maybe we won’t have to fight the next one at all.
When Wilhelm and Spartacus caught sight of Mike striding up the steps, the look of relief which crossed their own faces was almost comical.
“Thank God you’re here!” hissed Spartacus. “What do we do? I’ve been trying to reason with them, but . . .”
Mike clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. Then, as Wilhelm scurried up, did the same for him. Both gestures were purely histrionic. Mike Stearns was on stage now, and the common folk of his new times did not appreciate method acting. They wanted dramatic gestures. On this day, they would demand them.
Now with one arm around the shoulders of each man, half-dragging them forward with him, Mike stepped up to meet the crowd. To greet the crowd.
No, to greet the people.
His people, always. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
“Welcome, people of Germany! Rejoice in this day of triumph! Victory is ours! Today—and tomorrow!”
By the time Simpson’s men arrived with the equipment to set up the loudspeakers, Mike was almost hoarse with shouting. But he’d settled things down enough to avert any immediate clash. Torstensson had indeed withdrawn all Swedish troops from the area, except a bodyguard remaining inside the palace for Princess Kristina. Who was herself leaning out of a window, smiling and waving cheerfully at the crowd. Many people in the crowd were now waving back.
God bless smart little girls. And I think that one’s a genius.
The Saxon troops John George had summoned to the city were also nowhere in evidence. Torstensson had taken most of his Swedish troops out to meet them beyond the city’s limits, and explain the facts of life. Given Torstensson, Mike could just imagine the terse manner in which he’d do it.
Fact one. We whipped Emperor Ferdinand at Breitenfeld.
Fact two. You ran like dogs.
Fact three. You’ve got ten minutes to get out of here. Five, if I don’t see your tails between your legs. Now.