Chapter LVII – At the Crossroads, part II
March 18th 1656
Near the southern road into Linz, Austria
Early in the morning
“I simply cannot believe it,” Turenne exclaimed as he brought his mount to halt on a low tuft covered in tall yellow grass. Behind him, his staff fell into formation and many telescopes were unfolded and pointed at the outer ramparts of Linz, still covered in the menacing shadows of the retreating night. The old city walls stood defiantly against the outworn French army and only the pitch-black smoke from the chimneys in the guard-towers indicated that anyone was still alive in the city. As a cold shiver went down his spine, Henri,
Vicomte de Turenne and recently appointed Marshal General of France followed the puffing clouds as they ascended from the blackened tile-clad towers before the lazy morning breeze mixed them with the bleak skies.
“We have come this far,” he thought to himself as he remembered how he had felt that day outside Strasbourg “and today we end it.” With a sudden jerk he turned his head around to face the young Coligny who came galloping towards him. With a concentrated grimace Gaspard reined his horse in and allowed it to trot the last few metres until he sat at the side of the marshal. “The enemy has dug in to the West of the city walls,” he hissed with a voice fitting more the stuffy atmosphere of a funeral than the early hours before a battle. “The
Comte d’Artagnan reports that the Papist horse has taken to the South-East... bound for Vienna,” Coligny finished with a grin marked by the strains of days of forced march.
“What of the Gates? Are they undefended?” Turenne dared not raise his voice – it was as if the two of them were sharing the most eloquent of secrets as the weak rays of the sun began to crawl over the dark brown roofs of Linz. Coligny nodded perceptively as he bit his lower lip, “Aye… or that is at least what the
Comte thinks. Luxembourg is down there right now.” Breathing heavily, the Marshal General wet his dry lips. He was the first to hold the rank after the late Francois de Bonne and he had been the mentor and steward of the King… Nicolas’ intentions were getting clearer to him as the familiar sounds of silently shrieking horses and mules of the
Gendarmes filled the cold spring air. The King expected his newly appointed champion to break the back of the German Catholics so that he could turn the war around. Madrid had fallen
again to the forces of Don Carlos and the English were busy stealing tobacco from Spaniard plantations… the faithful needed a decisive victory here today… or else this endless slaughter could go on and on forever.
Picking up its pace, the breeze caught up in strength and soon the many banners of his
esacdres and the feathers in the
pistoliers’ panaches began to dance merrily in the frosty wind. As he turned around in the saddle, away from the brooding moats of Linz, he could see the long column of Protestant infantry disappearing over the hills in the distance. Taking heart at the reassuring sight he gestured for the two generals Crussol and Condé to come closer. Leaving their fellow officers the pair of them slowly strolled over – Crussol holding the side of his broad hat in the face of the staunch wind.
“
Messieurs,” Turenne began “…
D’Artagnan tells us that the enemy horse has fled the field. We need to be secure of this before we can allow a general advance against the fortress’ walls...”
“Monsieur,
Maréchal général des camps et armées du roi… I will take my men and scout the field. Rest assured that your advance will be safe… I will hunt the enemy down and destroy him.” Condé interjected as he bowed slightly – the black-lacquered armour clank eerily as the metallic joints collided.
Taken aback, but obviously not displeased, the Vicomte nodded thankfully. “I have every faith in you,
Maréchal… take care, but leave some squadrons for monsieur D’Artagnan to hold in reserve.”
Condé smiled before he returned to the other officers grouped together on the grassy knoll. With agility seemingly unbelievable for one wearing such a burden as the dark armour constituted, the Prince of the Blood swung himself in the saddle of one of the white stallions nipping at the dry yellow grass. With a silent salute to his helmet,
the duc d’Enghien kicked his spurs to the sides of the nervous mount and took off for the cavalry’s positions. General Coligny noted how Turenne’s face light up as the sun began to rise steadily. Soon the remaining officers had been tasked with the objectives of securing the causeway into the Southern part of the city. Crussol and Turenne prepared to go West in an attempt to lure the encamped Catholics out on the field. As they observed how the Huguenot foot prepared to deploy for the advance against the Southern gatehouses something strange happened. The bells of the city’s churches began to ring. Clear and loud the many tones of dozens of tunes rang out over the otherwise silent town…
Then the bombardment commenced.
The baton of the Maréchal général des camps et armées du roi (Marshal General of the King’s Armies and Camps). Shown here is a contemporary replica as Turenne’s own was lost during the Battle for the Crossroads (at Linz).
***
March 18th 1656
Near the southern gate into Linz, Austria
Around 8.54 AM.
The hollow rumble of canon fire immediately snapped Turenne from his dazed state of mind. Using his gloved fist to cover from the sun’s rays he scouted towards the ramparts of what he thought to have been a cordoned city. Luxembourg’s battalions had turned around and were running for cover as the tall battlements became engulfed with white smoke from dozens – no maybe hundreds of muskets being fired at them. Rising as veritable mountain summits above the clouds of smoke, the two guard towers soon followed suit with their cannonade and blossoms of flames and smoke burst through the embrasures as the first volley was unleashed upon the Protestant infantry.
Cursing slowly, the Marshal General turned to his nearest aide de camp, “Bring Luxembourg my dearest compliments and ask him…
in God’s name to bring his men outside of range from those damned towers!” Bowing smartly the official took off, although the look on his face clearly revealed the dislike he felt for intermingling with those men involved in the fighting. With a suppressed obscenity on his lips, Turenne turned around to observe Vauban’s artillery being manoeuvred into position. The captain was doing his best, but the Vicomte knew that Sébastien couldn’t hope to inflict any real damage on the Austrian fortifications… that’d require far more elegant planning and far heavier pieces. But his intent was also only just to cover Luxembourg’s retreat.
The granite boulder walls of Linz with their red tile-roofs stood as sharp surreal contrasts to the mellow lead-blue sky where the sun began to break through the quickly moving clouds. The two towers were still encircled by the hastily disintegrating musket and canon-smoke. “Trumpeter, give Luxembourg’s brigades the signal for a general retreat from the walls…” If Luxembourg was so hell-bent on losing his men in the merciless crossfire at the gates… well then he’d have to relieve him of his command.
The trumpets clang clearly and beautifully through the morning air and the marshal general noted with satisfaction how the infantry still stranded in front of the gatehouse began to withdraw in good order. Now if he just could get some ladders and storm shields prepared… It was not ideal, but with enough time he would be able to deploy his force in a formation that would allow the Huguenots to drive west and crush the encamped Austrians… Unless they all had been awoken by the turmoil at the gates… “
Shit!” exclaimed Turenne as he with a sweeping movement turned away from the towers towards the city’s western walls. Advancing in three rows came the Habsburg main force – with its left flank closely anchored at the foot of the tall walls. Marching under fluttering and colourful banners and to the sound of untold drums and flutes they were very much awake… “First rank advances in mixed formation. Pikes and muskets!” one of his many aides called out as he observed the slowly advancing foe through a brass spyglass. “Second rank…
Dutch formation… 5 regiments of musketeers…” lowering the telescope the official shook his head with a disappointed grimace, “I cannot see the third and last, monsieur.”
“They are utilizing the cover of the ramparts so they can advance without fearing our artillery,” Turenne snapped the spyglass from the aide’s shaking hands and collapsed it with a strength conjured by hopeless frustration, “are Coligny and Luxembourg out of reach?... Good… then tell them to deploy the infantry in three rows and await the arrival of general Crussol… They must withstand the enemy assault until Condé arrives. Go!
Rapide!” With a clumsy bow the aide skirted through the tall grass, swaying like a willow in the wind.
Under the cover from Linz’ fortifications, the Austrian infantry kept up a steadfast advance and Turenne knew that it wouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour before they would be within range of Coligny’s brigades. He was almost alone on the low knoll now. Coligny, Crussol and Luxembourg were all at the front and most of his aides had taken off to bring orders between the headquarters and the Huguenot lines at the vanguard.
“The enemy prepares to engage!” Charles shouted as he came running up the small path leading to the French HQ. The veteran had followed the Vicomte since Strasbourg and it seemed that he hadn’t thought of leaving him now. Unfortunately, his message couldn’t have been truer. The Austrians had finally begun to exchange shots with Luxembourg in the centre while the hostile pike was making its way for the weakened musketeers on the French general’s flanks. Linz’ batteries kept up their steady barrage and Turenne could only imagine the inferno of the melee combined with the steady pounding of the Catholic pieces. Charles panted slightly as he handed the Marshal General a folded note bearing a large, but hastily scribbled
C… C for Coligny. With pounding heart, Henri opened it, and read aloud:
“Enemy attacks with a fierceness previously unknown. The men are giving way… In desperate need of support...
Where is Condé!?”
To his great horror, Turenne could see how the lines of Coligny and Crussol bulged under the push from the Catholic infantry. They had to hold… they simply had to. If Condé could bring his cavalry around at this moment, the enemy would be crushed on the anvil of the Protestant infantry… yet he lacked the needed hammer before he could strike…
“Where is Condé…?” he repeated more to himself than anybody else.
***
March 18th 1656
At the battlefield outside Linz, Austria
Around 10.00 AM.
“Hold it lads! Take it for
crown,
covenant and
country!” Coligny spat each word with suppressed rage. This couldn’t do… his men were under the most merciless of the merciless forms of barrages he had ever endured... and only the work of his officers made them hold their lines. Musketeers weren’t any good against armoured pikemen that had both cover from their own muskets and entrenched artillery. A projectile hit the cluster of field surgeons and wounded nearby his command post and temporarily he was deprived of the ability to hear as a screechy whining filled his ear canals. The massive impact of the explosion conjured earth, shrapnel and body limbs high into the blue morning sky.
With a groan he removed blood and mud from his face… he hadn’t been hit, but the runner he had just sent off for the Marshal General’s position was rolling around on the ground desperately trying to attach his severed right leg to the frayed edges of his knee. He sighed… The more letters he wrote for Turenne the closer the Austrians came to his own position and the closer and more precisely did the enemy “packages” fall. “
Use the bayonets! God’s death boys… remember
Ivry, remember
Strasbourg!” Somehow this ignited something somewhere in the Huguenots and with a roar that would have made the bravest of the brave quail and tremble in terror - the French infantry began to push back. They fought like devils inch for inch and feet for feet. The batteries on the walls of Linz became silent and the Habsburgs silently fell back in good order, leaving most of the plain strewn with the twisted bodies of Protestants and Catholics...
Yawning in an overly humorous way, the General jeered at the retreating Austrians, “What? Had enough you papists? Pope Lovers and slaves of Rome come back and taste the fury of the Reformation!” His men were too tired to even laugh at his taunts, but he could hear the sound of his musicians letting their drumsticks dance over the hide covered and ornate instruments. Quickly he looked to the lines of Crussol and Luxembourg… the enemy was also about to disengage there, but Luxembourg wouldn’t let his enemy go. Charge after charge and volley after volley from the Huguenot centre were repulsed by the withdrawing Austrians and heaps of casualties piled up around the centre lines. As the drumming grew louder and louder, Coligny attempted to conduct an organized retreat from the battle field… enough men had been lost and it was clear the Condé wouldn’t come.
“It isn’t that unusual for cannon fire to make the earth rumble, but drumming?” the young general thought to himself. His men looked up to him with frightened eyes as the horrible truth dawned on him. Somewhere far down the ranks of Crussol’s men someone shouted a desperate cry, “
cavalry incoming!” Even in his dazed condition the general could clearly see that it wasn’t Huguenots, it wasn’t allies and it most certainly wasn’t Condé in the lead of the thousand upon thousand of heavily armoured reiters and lancers that came crushing down upon the French right flank. Coligny didn’t think of where they had come from, he didn’t even think of the remainder of the army when he saw the flags from Turenne’s command position desperately convening the order for a general retreat being waved far behind his own lines. “Fall back, boys! Fall back in good order! Reload,
reload!”
Then, as a horrible and unwanted answer, the Catholic infantry and the batteries on Linz’ fortifications resumed their murderous rampage…
March 18th 1656
At the French HQ outside Linz, Austria
11.09 AM.
Turenne had hoped, no he had
prayed that the signal for retreat would have allowed him to withdraw his men in an orderly fashion, but that hadn’t been the case. When Coligny began his retreat the fragile front collapsed and order left the Huguenots. The flight of the battalions descended into an uncontrollable rout where everybody thought only of himself and saving his own hide. After General Coligny followed Luxembourg’s men and lastly the decimated survivors of Crussol’s brigades… the Catholics continued their advance and as the enemy horse and foot linked up, the Vicomte knew that it was time to leave the field.
Swinging himself upon an abandoned horse, Turenne and Charles alongside the remaining members of the General Marshal’s staff fell back from the low knoll. On the road away from Linz everything was in chaos… Soldiers were storming away from the destructive fire and the onslaught of the Catholic cavalry. At a lone mill not three miles from his deserted command post Turenne met the droopy figures of the generals Coligny and Luxembourg… Crussol was still trying to organize some kind of a fighting retreat. “Gentlemen, your reports if you please…” Turenne wearily began, there wasn’t time for this, but if he was to direct this crumbling army back to Passau he needed to know what forces were left for him to operate with.
“At least 5,000 dead or wounded from the fighting near the walls… no prisoners were taken,
monsieur” Luxembourg began. Behind them the earth was exploding with the impacts of the resumed Catholic bombardment and men and horses fell to the ground wherever the projectiles found their mark.
“And the
esacdres of
Captain D’Artagnan have suffered tremendously under the charge of the Austrian cavalry…” with a sigh Coligny turned his head to the front “we have no more reserves to commit monsieur Maréchal général… unless Condé finally appears.”
The men returning from the front were fatigued but some sense of order had finally been put to their retreat – column after column were marching to the East… away form Linz and towards Passau. At this moment a small group of riders with Crussol and the
comte d’Artagnan in front also arrived at the interim rallying point for the French army. “We cannot hold them much longer
messieurs… the enemy cavalry is about to break through our last line of defences.” The two newcomers seemed absolutely shattered, but Turenne knew that he had to act quickly if the survivors weren’t to be completely annihilated by the advancing Catholics.
“How many men do you have left in your formations, monsieur
d’Artagnan?” asked the blood splattered Coligny with a glance to the arranged gendarmes and pistoliers behind them.
“400 men fit for fight, sire.”
The Vicomte stroked his chin and sat, for a moment, in deep contemplation, before he in one sweeping motion and with a grin on his face bared his long sabre while jerking his horse around.
“Crussol, Coligny and Luxembourg… you lead the men off the field. I will stall the foe long enough for you to leave in good order. That is a promise before God,
messieurs!”
“But
sire!” D’Artagnan interrupted, “the odds for holding such a massive force with what little reserves we have left… it is to jeopardize the wellbeing of the entire army!”
“Never tell me the odds, captain.” Turenne replied with a resolute grimace… “Now follow me if you please. We’ll send those rascals rearing back to Hell or Vienna!”
The charge of the French reserve.
***
March 18th 1656
At the battlefield outside Linz, Austria
11.20 AM.
As they rode off for the front Turenne could feel the adrenaline pumping under his armoured torso. The enemy was busy fighting the few isolated groups of French infantry still holding the western roads away from the city and when the French cavalry came galloping over the small hilltop the trumpets resounded over the rumble of the hooves kicking against the mouldy Austrian earth. Their banners were many and coloured and the wind and the speed of the advance made them flutter dramatically above the 400 man strong and final Huguenot reserve. The few lancers gathered around Turenne who drew his pistol in one hand while he steered his mount forward with other – still clinging his long and ornate sabre. With a shout he led them in between the foe and their battle cries were high and clear and the enemy wailed and reared in confusion and terror from their charge. “With God for France!” He screamed as he fired his pistol into the fear stricken face of an Austrian reiter. The armoured trooper fell to the ground and the hooves of the Huguenot
escadres crushed his lifeless body and many others of the Habsburg foot.
Another Catholic came against him with sword and pistol ready. Bringing his stallion to an immediate halt the Vicomte swung his sabre to parry the foe’s blade before he smashed the butt of his metal clad pistol against the enemy rider’s capeline covered head. A disgusting crack informed the Marshal General that he had smashed through the metal face guard and broken the man’s nose. Blood sprouted everywhere and Henri roared with delight as he saw the terror in the eyes of Habsburg lapdogs in front of him.
His men spread out behind him and their cries were terrible to the Austrians who thought they were facing far more enemies than those Turenne had brought with him. The beleaguered Protestant infantry shouted with joy at the relief and soon they had broken the enemy immediately before them and reformed their long lines. “
With Turenne for France and the King!” they shouted as the drumsticks on the tambours once again gave the signal to advance. Their ranks unleashed a blossom of smoke and fire and brought the incoming hostile riders to a halt.
But the enemies were many and not prepared to give ground easily and soon another wave of Catholic cavalry came thundering against them. The barrage from their pistols felled many of the riders from the
gendarmes and when their charge hit home many of the Huguenots turned around and fled. Fighting with the strength of three, Turenne jeered his men back into formation after he had slain a pair of eager youths in nobles’ clothes. Now their beautiful coats and lacquered breastplates were smattered with mud and the dirt of battle, but their eyes saw no more. With a demeaning sneer against the Habsburg line, the Vicomte prepared to ride forth again. The enemy had to be held for a little while longer if the generals were to get the remnants of the army off the field in good order. He had lost his pistol and there were notches in his blade from a duel with an Italian standard-bearer.
From his tattered and dirty slash he drew his golden marshal’s baton and with it he ordered those around him to advance once more. “Onwards… always
onwards men! Remember Ivry and your homes! Make safe the retreat!” He cried with a clear, but battered voice – at this the riders reformed and followed him with sabres and pistols held high. Yet they had lost much of their strength and the enemy didn’t quail this time as the Vicomte brought what little men he had left against what he perceived to be the command post and banner of the Austrian general. The Huguenot infantry came up in support on both his flanks while the cavalry pushed onwards against the hostile centre.
Onwards and onwards they advanced cutting the enemy down before them like hindering branches in a forest. But the wood that was the enemy closed behind the Protestants as more and more of the enemy’s infantry arrived at the scene. His sabre was bloody and his baton smeared with remains of a Bavarian captain’s face, but Turenne kept up the fight. He saw the decorated banner before him with degenerate Catholic idols carefully added with golden needlework. In the midday sun Turenne,
Marshal General of France, engaged the bearer of the grand standard and with a swing from his baton to one side of the enemy’s face and one from his sabre to the other he brought the man and the banner crushing down upon the disturbed earth.
But the cheer of victory came from too few throats and as he turned his horse around he saw a sea of pikes and muskets opposing his small company of remaining riders. Charles, who sat mounted at his side, screamed in agony as a musket shot tore deep into his jovial face. The veteran fell to the ground with a hollow sound. The fighting resumed once again… a pikeman rushed his mount and made the stallion in terror of the long spear. With great difficulty, the Vicomte brought his blade down below the enemy’s morion helmet and with an elegant stroke… cut his throat. His eyes were shining eerily and his face twisted in anticipation of death. The remaining enemies backed wearily away from the mighty warrior who taunted them to come and taste the “teeth” of his sword.
Mighty Turenne… he heard the warning cry from his men, but he didn’t see the pikes that were pushed into the side of his gallant mount. With a frantic scream the beast collapsed and brought the Marshal General with it. Quickly the Huguenots were at his side to shield him from the enemy picking at him like carrions. Rising slowly from the resting place of his stallion Turenne leapt into the mace of the Habsburg infantry with sword and baton shining in the sun’s rays. Many did he fell and many fled, but his men collapsed around him and as he turned around a musket butt caught him off guard. With a groan he capitulated himself on the field. Around him lay the last members of the 400 riders that had left the safety of the retreat and above him, he saw many faces and far, far higher the sky was still deep blue. Then everything went black.
Put them out of their misery 
