Chapter CXXIX: The English Civil War
15 January 1643
What started as rumours of a rebellion erupted into a problem that was threatening the hegemony of the Spanish state. A small rebel army turned into a host of tens of thousands hundreds of miles away from the Peninsula. An angry protest became a call for Independence. The Silent Room had to face the reality that the situation in the North had become unmanagable.
“The English have control of most of the ports from Cornwall, 'round Kent and up to Lincoln our men in London report,” someone was hurrying to deliver to the frantic gentlemen seated at the wooden table. Discussion was firing back and forth as streams of messages and couriers brought news. Silent ones near the long wall where the map of the world hung faded and used would adjust the different flags and banners for each new piece of information. The red flood of the English rebellion had now captured nearly half the island while the Dutch had made themselves masters of their native territories. Only the fortresses near the Rhine and Lille held the impressive push of the armies of Orange at bay with stubborn garrisons.
“We are completely cut off from Scandinavia and the Russians are beginning to encircle our forces there,” someone at the table commented on the situation.
“We can't do anything about it,” the man at the end of the table sighed heavily under his breath as he spoke. “We will have to route the supplies beyond the Hebrides and use our Scottish supply stations.”
“The Scots are still on our side for now, Your Grace,” a person among the assemblage spoke up, “but the armies raised by Parliament are already making headway northward. The only reason the Scots still fighting for us is because they hate the English more.”
“How long until the Russians encircle us in Scandinavia?” the man at the end questioned the group.
A short shuffle of parchments in the dim lamplight preceded the answer: “Colonel Mola has been pushed out of Stockholm and is retreating with what’s left of the North Fleet to the mercenary garrison in Oslo,” someone reported. “The Count of Molina is holding the northern passes several miles of Oslo and Novgorod is still in Russian hands. We suspect Molina’s supplies will last for two more months before he has to retreat to the sea again.”
“And the state of the division in Oslo?”
“Desperate,” someone spoke up quickly. “We’ve been sending salaries for the regular soldiers only since that’s all we could afford to do. Many of the mercenaries have already deserted and have begun pillaging the surrounding towns. There have been a few uprisings in the city as well…”
“Your Grace,” someone else said from the shadow, “we’re looking at the complete reduction and capture of the Northern force in four months…”
The man sitting at the end of the table brooded over the news and warmed his chilly hands together. The veil of shadow in front of him where his cabinet was looking at his worried face for a decision hung like a dark mist. Only the man in scarlet to his right seemed to be relaxed. “Our progress in the Netherlands?” the man at the end of the table asked quietly.
“Stagnant,” an advisor spoke up, “The Prince of Orange is on the field south of Antwerp and we’ve sent most of our French garrisons to Lille with a depot in Amiens to stop any advance southward. Our armies in Germany have massed along the Rhine. There are still some pockets of resistance inside, I’m told…”
“Recall the men from the Americas,” their leader said. “Leave Colonel Hidalgo in Corpus Christi and the Duke of Braganza in Recife, but send for the rest immediately.” As soon as the word was said, a runner leapt for the door to deliver the order.
“Your Grace,” the man in vermillion now spoke up. He had a calm and even tone to his words which grated against his lyrical Italian accent. The vestments of ecclesial office made him stand out even more amongst the myriad of nobles present in the Room. “We all know that will not be enough. To effectively end this rebellion we will need tens of thousands of new men and that means we will need to get the money or send for the men from the Eastern borders.”
The one at the head of the table looked down towards the wooden surface and continued to crush the air in between his palms. “We cannot spare anyone from the Eastern borders,” he said quietly, “Word has already reached Isfahan that we have two rebellions on our hands and a deteriorating war with Russia. If we start pulling troops out, they will take this chance to claim the rest of the holy places they’ve lost. Poland and Lithuania might consider this an opportune time to strike as well.”
The clergyman took in those words but said in reply: “Our armies in France are already engaged on the Dutch front; our German armies on their side of the Rhine; a quarter of our main corps are in Scandinavia, another half spread about the globe keeping peace and our Italian contingents consist of only the Pope and his Swiss mercenaries. We have the manpower to raise more troops, Alvaro,” and here the soft tenor of the man segued seamlessly into his familiarity with the leader, “but that can only be done if we raise more money.”
“Raising taxes is what got us in this mess in the first place,” Alvaro sighed between his teeth.
“Not to mention, Eminence,” a man said from the group respectfully, “that we are already taxing heavily here at home, in France, Germany, Hungary, Greece… It’s amazing we haven’t had a full scale rebellion on our hands.”
“It’s too soon to say that,” the prelate retorted. “Tomorrow we may find ourselves fighting on all fronts.”
“Then the question is gold,” Alvaro pondered out loud. “But we cannot hope to raise more taxes in this climate…”
“No, we cannot,” the clergyman interjected, “but there are nations out there who have gold to spare.”
Alvaro looked to the Cardinal intently and watched the chubby grin of the man fill him with curiosity. “Are you proposing we sell something to a foreign power?” he asked half incredulously.
“If the price is right,” the Cardinal shrugged innocently, “I’m sure there are places that we may strategically… pawn.”
“Like where?” Alvaro asked with a sense of trepidation.
“Well…” the Cardinal began, “the Persians have a lot of money on hand.”
“The Persians…” Alvaro repeated without the need to pretend to be shocked. He wanted to smile and laugh if the situation wasn’t so desperate. “What do you intend for us to do, sell them Jerusalem?” Alvaro tried to grin at the joke, but the stoic expression on His Eminence’s face froze Alvaro’s cheeks and tongue like a winter chill.
“It’s been done before,” the prelate replied without a single inflection.
“
That was when we knew it was going to be taken anyway. General Schenkhuizen negotiated an orderly retreat along with securing the True Cross. Why would we give up the Holy City when we have every possibility of defending it? You of all people…”
“Think about it carefully,” the Cardinal smiled again, “We will have enough money to prosecute this war since we know that the Persians will pay a handsome price for it. Not to mention we will be able to use the twenty thousand men defending that surrounded city. Lastly, we will make sure to make the Persians promise to allow pilgrims to worship there freely.”
“But after the blood and sacrifice we went through to reconquer it from the Infidel, you’re asking us to give it back? There will be rioting in the streets if they knew we sold it to the Persians! It’s as bad as if Peter really had sold his ministry to Simon Magus for the money!” Alvaro raised his voice still stunned.
“We both know, Alvaro, that it’s only a matter of time before the Persians declare war again. Our treaty is set to expire very soon and they will use Jerusalem as an excuse to come at us. If we sell them Jerusalem we will deflate any case they have for conflict and usher in an era of peace on the Eastern front that will allow us to finish our mission in the North. But it will not stay that way after we are done in the North. We also both know that it will be easy to make a case that the Persians are restricting our rights of worship in Jerusalem as they are wont to do. It would be us who would then have the power to bring war upon them on our own time and on our own terms.”
“Even if we get them to guarantee rights of worship, the man and women on the street will continue to lose confidence in us… they will see this as just another manifestation of our greed and will turn against us worse than if we raised our taxes. They will say we have betrayed Christ and I am one to believe that as well, Eminence.”
“Christ is not worried about who controls the city of Jerusalem, Alvaro. Christ has already won the victory. Christ is more worried about the quality of our faith.”
“And isn’t part of that quality how well we defend the Church and the lands of Christendom?”
“Yes, it is,” the Cardinal quickly replied, “and that is why I propose to make peace with the Persians now. Peace is what people want, Alvaro. Peace because they are tired of the Northern war. If you tell the people tomorrow that the Persians are now at war with us, they will tire of taxes and be fearful of more. If you tell them, however, that the Persians were thinking of war, but instead we offered the Peace of Christ that guaranteed our position in Jerusalem to worship, people will breathe a sigh of relief.”
Alvaro held his hands tightly together until even his palms began to sweat. He looked to his other advisors who merely looked at the Cardinal in astonishment of the plan. “The peace of Christ…” Alvaro repeated.
“Christ said to love your enemies,” the Cardinal pointed out, “and the people will understand a lasting peace in this fashion. We have not been defeated so we have the power to be generous. Tell them, Alvaro. Tell them tomorrow that there is peace in the East and soon there will be peace in the North.”
Alvaro looked once more to the prelate and then to the massive wall map. The Silent ones working the map had paused to look at the decision to be made. “Bring me the Lord of Balaguer and General von Wiers and find me an Admiral who is familiar with the Channel and Dutch waters.” he snapped his decisions at one of his secretaries before slowly turning to the Cardinal. “Eminence, I’ll entrust you with the task of drafting a treaty…”
---
10 March 1643
The deckhands on board the
San Salvador flagship scurried about the deck with alacrity: many of them were new sailors and the thrill of serving under the banner of Spain still held some captivation for them—that and the guarantee of Persian gold to their salaries. The senior officers watched the new recruits with chuckles suppressed behind their seasoned countenances. On the bridge stood his Excellency the Lord de Belaguer, Commander of the Viscayan fleet and task force attached to it. He was surveying the preparations of the newly commissioned fleet as the soldiers and horses were being ferried and loaded onto the galleons. He looked to his left at the port of Brest with a satisfied grin.
Behind him, Adrmial Van Ossel was conferring with his counterpart General Wiers along a table which had various maps and dispatches. Admiral Van Ossel had served in the Imperial Armada because of his familial connections. Many in the fleet considered him inept and dimwitted, but he was the only one knowledgeable enough of English and Dutch waters who hadn’t defected to either side.
General Maximilian Wiers on the other hand, was the son of a German burgher and had joined the military Academy in Madrid as soon as the Kings of Bohemia and Austria became vassals of the Emperor. His particular speciality was a select corps of men he personally trained which the officers in Madrid began calling Granaderos because of their ability to throw explosives. For General Wiers, it had become an excuse for him to create his own elite corps of the tallest and strongest men, although his explosive tactics had allowed him several campaign victories as an infantry commander against the Turks under General Schenkhuizen. Despite the fact that his division was the only group that contained such a group of men (the regular Tercios would scoff that only they were the invincible backbone of the Spanish army and would never be replaced), Weirs believed that his group of men would be the future.
“I will send several ships northward towards Scotland,” the Admiral began to explain, “to fool the enemy into believing we will be making either a landing or a supply run to Scandinavia. Hopefully this will pull their main battle fleet northward to follow and into the North Sea.”
“That should leave Sussex and Cornwall vulnerable for my land forces,” Wiers said hopefully while placing his fingers along the southern coast of England.
“If we can find the rebel harbour, we can cut off their fleet from their supplies,” the Admiral pointed out, “The trick is finding which of the ports they are using…”
“Admiral,” a uniformed man interrupted the conference.
“Yes, Captain Pied?” the Dutchman addressed his French subordinate with some annoyance.
“I think we’ve got something, sir. The report is only a fragment from a spy ship near Brighton, Sussex, but it’s the best lead we’ve had.”
“We have dozens of spy ships searching the straits,” Ossel replied irritably, “I want proof, not leads!”
“The descriptions indicate ship movements—”
“It could mean anything. If we followed every lead…”
“But, sir, Brighton is supposed to have been evacuated of all ships.”
Casually listening in on their conversation, de Balaguer turned at the news and approached the small canopy that covered the officers from the sun. “You found something?” he asked the three.
“Yes, my Lord,” Pied replied as he handed the dispatch to the nobleman who took a few moments to read it over.
“This is it. The Rebels are here,” Balaguer said sternly.
“My Lord,” Ossel smiled sideways, “there are so many unchecked settlements. It could be smugglers, it could be…”
“This is the port. And I’m sure Cromwell is with them. Set your course for Brighton,” Balaguer would not hear any more discussions. He turned swiftly to his military commander. “General Wiers, prepare your men.”
“Prepare yourselves, men. This is the toughest battle you will ever face. Today you go up against England: A formidable and powerful foe. Our friends across the water will give you a whopping and will keep you fighting until the very end. So never give up. Tonight will decide the fate of our contest and who will go back to their dorms with bragging rights. Will it be you, or will it be them?”
“Us, sir, us!” was the shout.
“Good. Get suited up! We’re on the field in thirty!”
“Yes, sir!” they replied.
“Coom.”
Trey turned around at the call of his name: “Yes, coach?”
“You heard that Michaelson broke his leg the other day, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was thinking of replacing him with Kenton but he’s our best midfielder. The replacement is arriving in a few minutes, though. I talked with him earlier today and I want you to introduce him to some of our tactics before the game.”
“Why me, sir?” Trey asked curiously.
“Well, aside from being a forward yourself, he specifically asked for you. He’s the new kid… Jim I think his name is. He says you two know each other.” Trey only looked at his coach with a chilling surprise, but the older man passed him and patted him on the shoulder before shouting to his team: “alright,
Grenadiers, prepare for assault!”
Chapter CXXX: Assault of the Grenadiers (coming soon)
