1632

Eagerly, Gustav examined his right flank. For a moment, he silently congratulated himself for having kept Banйr from pursuing Pappenheim's broken cavalry. The temptation had been almost as great for the king as for his Field Marshal. But Gustav had distrusted the steadiness of the Saxons. Better to have Banйr available if the battle went sour.

Which it most certainly had! But now-now!-Gustav could turn disaster into triumph. Banйr and his men were back in line, organized and ready. Most of all, Gustav knew, those cavalrymen would be infused with self-confidence. They had already broken Pappenheim's famous Black Cuirassiers. Why should they not do the same to the rest?

"Why not?" demanded the king aloud. He grinned at the four couriers still around him. "Why not?" He waved his hat about cheerfully.

The young noblemen grinned back. One of them lifted his own hat in salute, shouting: "Gott mit uns!"

A few feet behind them, Anders Jцnsson slid his saber an inch or so out of its scabbard, before easing it back. He did the same with his four saddle-holstered pistols. Those weapons would be needed soon, and he wanted to be certain they were easy to hand. The huge Jцnsson was the king's personal bodyguard.

The dozen Scotsmen under his command followed suit. They knew Gustav Adolf. The king of Sweden was utterly indifferent to personal danger. There had been few enough battles in which the king was present where he did not lead a charge himself.

Clearly, this was not going to be one of them. His Scots bodyguards were about to earn their pay.

One of the Scotsmen tried to be philosophical about the matter. "Ah weel, he's a braw lad, no' like yon God-rotton Stuart king o' England." He spit on the ground. "Ae fuckin' papist, tha' one be."

"Aye. Near's ca' be," agreed one of his mates.

Gustav Adolf spurred his horse into a canter, and then a gallop. Duke Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar rode at his side, with the couriers and bodyguards thundering just behind.

As they neared the Swedish right flank, Gustav could see Banйr trotting out to meet him. But the king gave the Field Marshal nothing but a moment's glance. His gaze was riveted on a large body of cavalrymen waiting behind Banйr, under green standards. Those were Erik Soop's Vдstgцta. Over a thousand horsemen from West Gothland, organized into eight companies. Gustav thought highly of them. Just the thing!

When he reached Banйr, Gustav reined in his horse and shouted gaily: "And now, Johann? You see?"

The Field Marshal nodded his bullet head. "You were right, Majesty. As always."

"Ha!" cried Gustav. "So modest! Not like you at all!"

The king was grinning fiercely. His own combative spirit seemed to transfer itself to his horse. The great charger pranced about nervously, as if impatient for battle.

"I want you to take the Vдstgцta, Johann." The king pointed to the left flank of Tilly's battle line. With Pappenheim's cuirassiers routed, that flank was unguarded. Unguarded, and getting more ragged by the moment. Tilly's oblique advance, marching from left rear to right front across the field in order to fall on the Swedish left, was straining the rigidity of his tercios. The Spanish-style squares were not well suited for anything but a forward advance.

"I intend to do the same to Tilly that he plans for me," the king explained. "Ha!" he barked happily. "Except I will succeed, and he will fail!"

For a moment, Banйr hesitated. The king was proposing a bold gamble. It would be safer As if reading his thoughts, Gustav shook his head. "Horn will hold, Johann. He will hold. Horn will be the anvil-we the hammer."

Banйr did not argue. He trusted his king's battle instincts. Gustav II Adolf was young, by the standards of generalship in his day. He was thirty-six years old. But he had more battle experience than most men twice his age. At the age of sixteen, he had organized and led the surprise attack which took the Danish fortress of Borgholm. By the age of twenty-seven, he had taken Livonia and Riga and was already a veteran of the Polish and Russian wars.

Banйr had been with him there. Banйr, Horn, Torstensson, Wrangel-the nucleus of that great Swedish officer corps. Along with Axel Oxenstierna and the more recently arrived Scots professionals-Alexander Leslie, Robert Monro, John Hepburn, James Spens-they constituted the finest command staff in the world. Such, at least, was Banйr's opinion.

The king's also. "We can do it, Johann!" he cried. "Now be off!"