The mayor stood next to him, pointing out in detail that things had been bad enough, this past year, without this. Namely, in December of 1631, the bishop had fled from Bamberg to Forchheim bringing along the cathedral treasure. Then in February a Swedish colonel named Hastver who had been besieging Hochstadt an der Aisch came down with a detachment, drove away the imperials who were camped along the Regnitz, and burned the wooden supports out from under the bridge across the Regnitz. Then in March, Field Marshall Tilly had come along, marching toward Bamberg with twenty thousand men. He had stopped at Forchheim to negotiate with the bishop. While he was at it, he had requisitioned almost all of the city’s reserve supplies. His army, of course, had brought disease with it. Since then, hundreds of people in Forchheim had died of hunger and typhus.
Then, in May, Duke Maximilian of Bavaria had sent the colonel and the troops he commanded to reinforce the garrison. To “help” the bishop; Duke Maximilian had said frankly that Forchheim was too valuable to let the bishop manage its defense. Just barely in time, considering that the Swedes and the Nurnbergs had attacked again not two weeks later. And again in July. Beaten back both times, of course, for which the city fathers were duly grateful.
After the Alte Veste, Wallenstein’s retreating army had come through, taking more food and leaving more disease.
Then, when the bishop fled again in the fall of 1632 after Wallenstein’s defeat at the Alte Veste, he had left the treasure behind. That meant that the town-which meant the colonel-was now responsible for its safety. But rations were running out. Fast. While the mayor understood, of course, that the soldiers of the garrison naturally had first claim on what food remained, nonetheless . . .
The mayor’s voice trailed off.
Colonel von Schletz grunted. It wasn’t as if he had not heard the whole lament before.
But what he was seeing now was something new. Not a siege. Most of what was happening outside Forchheim was in sight, but out of cannon shot. At least, out of shot of any artillery he had available in the city, which weren’t bad. He could shoot as far as the Regnitz bridge or the Keller Forest. Forchheim had the only powder mill in the prince-bishopric of Bamberg. He could keep the cannon supplied with powder until they ran out of supplies to manufacture it. Which they would, soon. But, at present, he did not have anything to shoot at.
The up-timers ought to be sending a challenge. Something dramatic on the order of: “We will burn Forchheim to ashes!” That would allow him to reply something on the order of: “The city still has enough beer and wine to put out the fire without resorting to water.”
It was a ritual. It wasn’t for nothing that the Forchheimer had picked up the nickname of Mauerscheisser because of their mode of demonstrating that that there was still food inside the walls, too. After all, that which went in must come out. They figured that it might as well come out in a location that made a point.
At that stage, the besiegers should start to burn down the surrounding villages, forcing the farmers to take refuge in the woods, hunting them down like animals. But he had a feeling that it was not likely. Instead, the farmers who were still around were planting undisturbed. The up-timers were, apparently, even attempting to provide them with draft animals.
And they were undertaking some kind of construction.
If it were an effort to divert the stream of the Wiesent, depriving Forchheim of its water supply, he could understand it. It could be done, he thought, if they started up around Gosberg. But there was no sign of that.
The motto of von Schletz was: “I will hold this place.” Which he intended to do, no matter how hardly he had to treat the townspeople.
For that matter, no matter how hardly he had to treat the gentleman canons of the Bamberg cathedral chapter. They had also fled to Forchheim and had not, most of them, managed to get out of town when the bishop did.
For most of the past year, Colonel von Schletz had managed to do more than hold Forchheim. He had responded to every attack with night-and-day cannon shots, no matter what the weather, so they got no rest. They had taken away more losses than his own men. Then, when Tilly fell, he had become de facto the imperial commander for the entire region. Well, episcopal commander, of course, if one wanted to be technical about it. Through the summer of 1632, when he wasn’t dealing with the occasional besiegers, he had sent out dragoons and foraging parties, near and far, raiding through the area to deny its resources to the enemy. And, of course, bring in as much as possible, so it would be there when the next siege party came along.
The farmers complained, of course, just like the townspeople. It couldn’t be helped. That was the nature of war. This summer, though, he couldn’t get out to raid because of the way these allies of the Swedes had burned clear every inch of land between Forchheim’s walls and their own perimeter. Every time he tried a sally, he was turned back. No matter which gate he came out of. He had no idea how the up-timers did it.
But what in hell were the Swedes doing now? Or, more precisely, the up-timer? He knew that the forces outside Forchheim were no longer really Swedes, but he continued to think of them that way.
One up-timer. Walter Miller, the visitors said his name was. He was living in Eggolsheim-Neuses and setting up the outlines of the local administration. Plus, there were five hundred or so soldiers. Not more, von Schletz thought. And a lot of laborers. Really a lot of laborers. But they were not building siege works.
Forchheim, July 1633
The mayor pointed out in detail that Forchheim’s economy was in ruins. The owners of the inns, the Ox, Moonlight, Lion, Crown, Apple, Seven Towers, Old Post, many others, had no commercial customers. The up-timers allowed people to come into the city. But only people. No goods. No money. They stopped all wagons and pack animals at the distant perimeter and diverted them away from Forchheim. Its citizens could stand on the parapets and see them go. Somewhere. Elsewhere. The people who had come and gone more than once reported that their purses were held by the soldiers watching the perimeter, but actually returned to them again when they left. No outsider was to purchase goods or services in Forchheim.
The mill owners, too. They still had water power, but they had no supplies. Not just the flour mills, but the hammermills, the wire mills, the sawmills. They were all standing idle. There was no one around to buy their products, even if they had raw material.
Many of the citizens wanted to leave. Not, however, at the price of having all their property confiscated. Von Schletz had told them that if they walked out, it would be barefoot in their shirts and shifts.
Outside the perimeter, now, no road led to Forchheim. According to the visitors, the “heavy equipment” brought upon the order of the up-timer, plus just ordinary men and women with wagons and shovels, had dug up the trade route that had led through Forchheim for as long as documents existed. Dug it up. Covered it with topsoil. Plowed the soil and sowed it.
There was a new road, the visitors all said. From Baiersdorf to Poxdorf to Pinzberg. From there to Wiesenthau and Kirchehrenbach. Then across the Wiesent to Mittlerweilersbach and then to the new town of Eggolsheim-Neuses. Another bridge, a beautiful, permanent, bridge, at Neuses.
A beautiful road. Graded, ditched, and graveled. Smoothed and rolled, with ditches and culverts, bridges and security guards. A road that no rational traveler would abandon, even if the political scene should change again. Just far enough away from Forchheim that few travelers would bother to detour to the town. Especially not given the new inns that were being built near the new bridges.
The permanent residents of Forchheim prayed very hard to their favorite saints. The three holy virgins:
“Barbara mit dem Turm
Margaretha mit dem Wurm
Katharina mit dem Radlein
das sind die drei Magdlein.”
At present, it did not seem probable that even Barbara with her tower, Margaret with her dragon, and Catherine with her wheel, all combined, could save the town. They promised a pilgrimage. If and when they were allowed to make one.
Colonel von Schletz approved. Prayer was a good thing for civilians.
The people of Forchheim appeared to be praying a great deal these days. There were regular processions through the streets, to St. Martin’s church, to the chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The number of deaths, the priest told him, was almost twice as high as usual.
Of course, his men were bored from such a long spell of forced inaction. They tended to take it out upon the members of the households where they were quartered. Sieges were difficult for soldiers.
Bamberg, July 1633
“I hope that you realize,” Vince Marcantonio said to John Kacere, “that the money that Walt Miller is spending on your brain child, on this wonderful new road around Forchheim, has eaten up the entire budget for road improvements in the prince-bishopric of Bamberg. We’re getting one luxury road for about fifteen miles. Nobody else is getting so much as a street sign this year.”
“Don’t think of it as a road,” John said.
“What should we think of it as, in your opinion?” Wade Jackson asked.
“Alternative medicine,” John answered. “Believe me, a full-scale siege would cost a lot more.”
Vince sighed. “True. But a regular siege would come out of the military budget. Not out of the road budget.”
Forchheim, August, 1633
Colonel von Schletz decided to try one more sally. The largest of the summer. He gathered his men and led them out in an effort to break through the perimeter that the Swedes had set. Idly, he noted that every woman in Forchheim had apparently decided to do her laundry this morning.
With a final prayer for protection to Saints Barbara, Margaret, and Catherine, the mayor of Forchheim gave his orders. The gates closed behind the majority of the imperial garrison. And stayed closed, when the Swede’s soldiers drove them back toward the city’s walls. Held by men who had nothing left to lose. Men whose wives and daughters were on the parapets, pouring buckets of boiling water down on von Schletz’s dragoons.
* * *
“I don’t know,” Walt Miller said to the mayor of Forchheim. “You’ve still got the river. And a fair bit of infrastructure. But what’s done is done. The road is there and it’s going to stay. The administration is going to stay put, too. I expect that a fair number of your people can find work in Eggolsheim-Neuses. The laws we’ve put into effect there establish open citizenship. All they have to do is register to vote.”
Walt was feeling a little apologetic, to tell the truth.
“I’m afraid that your town has turned into a historical monument. On the bright side, though, in a couple of hundred years you’ll probably start picking up some tourist trade. Tom O’Brien’s on his way down to make sure that no imperial or Bavarian troops can ever fort up in the place again, but I’ll ask him to leave you enough of the walls to look scenic here and there. That’s about the best I can do.”
Eggolsheim-Neuses, September 1633
The company of riders who delivered the month’s payroll also brought the news about what had happened to Willard Thornton and Johnnie F. in Bamberg.