Early February 1633 - Have Time, Will Travel Part II
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] Yes, it's about time! – No time to waste, you have to reach Pomerania as soon as possible to start working on your regiment if your are to reach your quota on time! You have to find a place to camp, suitable officers, soldiers, drill your men, get a hold of more supplies… all this takes time! [move out of Warsaw immediately; locks out all other options below]
After spending almost a month in Warsaw, you finally decided that it was the right moment to leave. While the weather wasn't getting that much better, you really couldn't afford to waste much more of your precious commodity, which was time. If you where to finish organising your regiment by the end of summer, you had to start working on it as soon as possible. Still, you did spend quite an enjoyable month in the Polish capital and hoped, that this wasn't your last visit. You looked forward to coming back again, especially when it shall be warmer, so that the cold and copious amounts of snow won't be a problem anymore. Your only regret was not finding any of your fellow countrymen to join you on this new venture, but you hoped to make up for it with your work in Pomerania.
You finished packing up your possessions and soon afterwards went down to have your last breakfast at "Szymon's Corner", the inn that has been your home for the past few weeks. The owner, a jolly old Jewish fellow named, unsurprisingly, Szymon was sad to see you go, since you were his best customer, yet all good things must come to an end. You, for your part, will miss his roast beef, which was the local specialty. Having said goodbye to the innkeeper, you took your first step outside that day. The men were already ready and waiting.
"Good morning, Colonel, sir! Everybody's present and accounted for!" Michał Olechowski said with a smile on his scarred face, standing close to the door. Dressed in his second-class Polish nobleman's attire, yet with a well-maintained sabre strapped to his side, a pistol tucked behind his belt and a fur cap with a peacock's feather adorning his head, he could have easily been mistaken for a brigand. Which, as you have guessed, might not have been that far off. Olechowski quickly repositioned the coat on his back after a stronger gust of wind and seemed eager to get going. He possessed the manners and aura of a military man, giving you some sense of confidence, because everyone else you hired were farmers fresh from the plough. Wait, make that two, because there's also his brother, the brute called Adam. He was standing next to one of the horses dressed in his large fur coat, a bearskin cap on his head and a sabre by his side. There was also this nasty little thing called a horseman's pick, a type of war hammer, in his meaty hand, which he used like a cane, probably mimicking some richer nobleman. His bearded face showed signs of boredom and a hope of moving out soon. While that bear of a man showed all the necessary symptoms of a dumb muscle, it would surely be unwise to ever let him know about it, less he forgets whose side he's on. The rest of the poor noblemen were also awaiting your command, dressed according to the local fashion of grey and brown as befitting impoverished nobles, with different coats, fur hats, sabres, horses and firearms of various quality tucked inside their saddlebags. Most were in their early twenties, some in your age or older. None of them had seen action. All three wagons were also present and ready for the road, as well as your own mount. It would seem your generosity was quickly paying dividends.
"Very well, Mr Olechowski." You replied in Polish and addressed the rest of your men as they were briefly removing their caps to greet you. "Gentlemen, thank you for being here on time. We are moving out at once. Our destination: Pomerania. God willing, no surprises await us on the road, yet keep your swords close at hand and your powder dry. Just in case."
"Of course, sir!" They replied.
You didn't waste any more time and swiftly mounted your trusted horse, giving the go-ahead command with a wave of your hand. The caravan was off and in no time you left the Polish capital behind you, moving along the north-west road. A brand new future awaited you beyond these snow-covered roads in Royal Prussia, the land which you have visited a few years back as an armed invader. You were quite certain, that you haven't made any acquaintances among the natives back then that would like to "thank" you for your past transgressions, yet as always it would be a sound strategy not to bring that topic up. Most of the locals were still rebuilding after your last visit and nobody likes to be reminded, that the man in front of them "helped" them in that.
[The road: 37]
[Anything interesting?: 98]
As you rapidly found out, the weather wasn't as good as you initially hoped it to be. While it wasn't really that bad during the opening hours of the journey, Mother Nature was quick to remind you, that winter has yet to see its final days. The road to Zakroczym was covered in snow and the wagons were having a hard time trying to ride through it. It wasn't a piece of cake, yet you and your men managed to force your way though. While it did require some pushing and pulling and the occasional horse whipping, you were merrily on your way, sort of. The pace of your journey was disappointingly slow and that made you cross. You had well over 35 miles* to cover and at this rate you'll reach your destination during your golden years. The only good thing out of this, is that the nobles you hired knew the way to Pomerania and you didn't have to worry yourself about getting lost along the way.
After you passed the small town of Dziekanowo, you were greeted by an unusual sight in times of relative peace. The Olechowskis reported a straggler found on the road, buried in the snow. Having arrived at the scene yourself, you noticed a man in the middle of the trail, covered in snow, along with a dead horse alongside him. From the looks of it, the animal has been shot, since there were pools of frozen blood everywhere. The saddlebags were missing.
"Get him out." you ordered the Olechowski brothers without hesitation. They were quick to do as they were told and started to dig the poor sod out of the snow. After but as few moments he was already freed from his icy tomb and checked over.
"He's alive!" shouted Michał Olechowski, after inspecting the straggler for any signs of breathing, as a small fog appeared out of the man's mouth. You wasted no time and ordered him to be brought back to the wagons, where he was covered with blankets and given some vodka. After a coughing fit, the barely conscious man muttered something under his nose. You weren't quite sure, but it sounded like Gaelic to you. He had nothing, but a Western-style shirt on him, along with a pair of breeches and torn stockings. His face was bloodied and covered in snow, but you could see, that he was no older than you, with a neatly trimmed moustache and messed up long, ginger-coloured hair. All in all, a handsome fellow of stocky build, given the circumstances and not a local, judging by the remains of his attire.
[Surgery: 96]
"We make camp here. Find a good spot and get a fire going. I'll need hot water, some strong spirits and a clean bandage." you ordered, calm and collected, the rest of your party. The Polish nobles got to work right away without the slightest hesitation, knowing that life was on the line. The possibility of an early rest near a campfire after the slog with the elements helped too. In times like these you thanked God for all those poor bastards that died right under your nose, so that you may learn from their mistakes and stop a man from bleeding out to death or fix a broken arm before it'll have to be cut off due to gangrene. A soldier that knows nothing about battlefield medicine has one leg in the grave already.
A few hours later, when it was already dark, the poor soul you've rescued from an untimely demise was resting on a bedroll near one of the fires in your camp, his head bandaged and the body covered with spare furs to keep him warm. You've managed to get some hot soup into him and are fairly certain, that he'll make it. It would seem, that you have found him just in time. Brigands, that was your first thought when you analysed the events of the day. Just in case, you doubled the guards this evening should they still linger around.
Then your new guest started to come to.
"Well I'll be a horse's arse..." were the first few weak words, that came out of the man's mouth and in English at that.
"You certainly are." was your surprised answer "A few more hours and we'd have to pry you from the road with a pickaxe, mighty dead at that."
"Huh? And whom might you be, sir?" the fellow seemed to have noticed you, his condition apparently clouding sound judgement.
"I'm the man that pulled you from the snow on the road. You were found, barely alive and half-naked with a shot horse right next to you. I'm guessing some sort of squabble put you in such a position, am I right?"
"You could say so... I was on my way to Warsaw, when I met these natives, poor sods all of 'em... needless to say, they weren't friendly. After we exchanged greetings, one of them killed my horse and after that they were all over me and took whatever I had... the last thing I remember was that one of 'em smashed me head with the butt of his musket and that's it..."
"And how did you communicate? We aren't on the Isles you know." it's not that you were suspicious of anything, but better to be safe, than sorry by checking his story.
"Oh, right, kind of forgot. German, one of 'em knew German." he replied without a hint of hesitation.
"I see... English?" you asked bluntly, watching him very closely.
"Hell no! Irish!" the man answered indignantly.
"Buíochas le Dia..." the words came out of your mouth with great relief. While you certainly would not have pestered somebody you just saved from certain death no matter his origin, yet you still might have considered leaving him here without so much as a bottle of vodka, should the man turned out to be an Englishman.
"Is breá le Dia na nGaedheal..." was the reply. It's been ages, since you spoke with somebody in your own native tongue and the feeling was... exhilarating.
"Had I known I would meet one of my own countrymen simply lying around on the road, I would have left Warsaw ages ago." you continued "Instead, I was forced to drink with a bunch of unsavoury individuals from all over the place, hoping to find a true Irishman."
"I must have missed a good party then." he answered with a faint smile.
"Several in fact."
"Pitty. Might I know the name of my saviour at least?"
"Colonel Liam O'Donnell, sir, in Polish service as of recently."
"A pleasure sir, although the circumstances could have been better. I'm Patrick Ryan, a soldier formerly in the employ of... dunno... several different Princes and Kings? Served with a bunch o' rascals in the Imperial army under Aldringen and Tilly. Gunner by trade."
You paused for a moment. That would mean, that there's a high chance you might have met before, but on the opposite sides of a battlefield back in the Empire. Hell, his very own cannonballs might have tried to sever your head from your shoulders! Luckily for the both of you, none have reached their mark. Unfortunately you cannot say the same about the men you used to command. After a short glance you noticed, that most of the Polish nobles around the fire were glaring at you two sharing a conversation, but judging by their expressions none of them understood a word of what you were saying. Gaelic does that to people.
"So Ryan, why you were going to Warsaw all alone anyway?" you asked after a short pause.
"To get a job, what else? Decided to find an opportunity here in this abysmal country to escape the slaughter next door. Heard they were recruiting to fight the Muscovites."
"Any luck so far?"
"No...? Given the fact, that I never reached me destination..."
"Oh, but ye did. Interested in working for me, perhaps? I'm raising an Irish unit and could use a good lad, like yourself."
"Depends. What's yer offer... Colonel?"
What do you offer Patrick Ryan, a self-professed experienced gunner and fellow Irishman, to join your unit? Being in your debt for saving his life and flat broke, you have a feeling he won't be too picky. [pick one]
[X] Hire him as a Soldier - Ryan is a simple soldier and mercenary with little education, at least that's your best guess. Being an artilleryman does require some professional and academic knowledge however. The thing is, you are raising a Dragoon Regiment and his specialty is a bit off. Still, you can put it to good use, if only to train others in the use of firearms. Hiring him as a regular soldier seems to be the best choice and if he'll prove useful, you can always promote him later.
[X] Hire him as an Officer - While he might not be the type, you could really use more officers to help raise your unit and you have to start somewhere. Ryan might as well be the first of his kind, even if his background is a little sketchy. Gunnery might not be high on the agenda, but who knows what type of situations you might find yourself in and teaching the lads a thing or two about cannons might really come in handy. The details can be hammered out later.
[X] Refuse to hire him - For some reason you think, that this Ryan might not be a sound choice to enroll. You'll get him safe and sound to the nearest settlement and then part ways.
*Approximately 250 km (or 155 modern miles).
________________________________
You finished packing up your possessions and soon afterwards went down to have your last breakfast at "Szymon's Corner", the inn that has been your home for the past few weeks. The owner, a jolly old Jewish fellow named, unsurprisingly, Szymon was sad to see you go, since you were his best customer, yet all good things must come to an end. You, for your part, will miss his roast beef, which was the local specialty. Having said goodbye to the innkeeper, you took your first step outside that day. The men were already ready and waiting.
"Good morning, Colonel, sir! Everybody's present and accounted for!" Michał Olechowski said with a smile on his scarred face, standing close to the door. Dressed in his second-class Polish nobleman's attire, yet with a well-maintained sabre strapped to his side, a pistol tucked behind his belt and a fur cap with a peacock's feather adorning his head, he could have easily been mistaken for a brigand. Which, as you have guessed, might not have been that far off. Olechowski quickly repositioned the coat on his back after a stronger gust of wind and seemed eager to get going. He possessed the manners and aura of a military man, giving you some sense of confidence, because everyone else you hired were farmers fresh from the plough. Wait, make that two, because there's also his brother, the brute called Adam. He was standing next to one of the horses dressed in his large fur coat, a bearskin cap on his head and a sabre by his side. There was also this nasty little thing called a horseman's pick, a type of war hammer, in his meaty hand, which he used like a cane, probably mimicking some richer nobleman. His bearded face showed signs of boredom and a hope of moving out soon. While that bear of a man showed all the necessary symptoms of a dumb muscle, it would surely be unwise to ever let him know about it, less he forgets whose side he's on. The rest of the poor noblemen were also awaiting your command, dressed according to the local fashion of grey and brown as befitting impoverished nobles, with different coats, fur hats, sabres, horses and firearms of various quality tucked inside their saddlebags. Most were in their early twenties, some in your age or older. None of them had seen action. All three wagons were also present and ready for the road, as well as your own mount. It would seem your generosity was quickly paying dividends.
"Very well, Mr Olechowski." You replied in Polish and addressed the rest of your men as they were briefly removing their caps to greet you. "Gentlemen, thank you for being here on time. We are moving out at once. Our destination: Pomerania. God willing, no surprises await us on the road, yet keep your swords close at hand and your powder dry. Just in case."
"Of course, sir!" They replied.
You didn't waste any more time and swiftly mounted your trusted horse, giving the go-ahead command with a wave of your hand. The caravan was off and in no time you left the Polish capital behind you, moving along the north-west road. A brand new future awaited you beyond these snow-covered roads in Royal Prussia, the land which you have visited a few years back as an armed invader. You were quite certain, that you haven't made any acquaintances among the natives back then that would like to "thank" you for your past transgressions, yet as always it would be a sound strategy not to bring that topic up. Most of the locals were still rebuilding after your last visit and nobody likes to be reminded, that the man in front of them "helped" them in that.
[The road: 37]
[Anything interesting?: 98]
As you rapidly found out, the weather wasn't as good as you initially hoped it to be. While it wasn't really that bad during the opening hours of the journey, Mother Nature was quick to remind you, that winter has yet to see its final days. The road to Zakroczym was covered in snow and the wagons were having a hard time trying to ride through it. It wasn't a piece of cake, yet you and your men managed to force your way though. While it did require some pushing and pulling and the occasional horse whipping, you were merrily on your way, sort of. The pace of your journey was disappointingly slow and that made you cross. You had well over 35 miles* to cover and at this rate you'll reach your destination during your golden years. The only good thing out of this, is that the nobles you hired knew the way to Pomerania and you didn't have to worry yourself about getting lost along the way.
After you passed the small town of Dziekanowo, you were greeted by an unusual sight in times of relative peace. The Olechowskis reported a straggler found on the road, buried in the snow. Having arrived at the scene yourself, you noticed a man in the middle of the trail, covered in snow, along with a dead horse alongside him. From the looks of it, the animal has been shot, since there were pools of frozen blood everywhere. The saddlebags were missing.
"Get him out." you ordered the Olechowski brothers without hesitation. They were quick to do as they were told and started to dig the poor sod out of the snow. After but as few moments he was already freed from his icy tomb and checked over.
"He's alive!" shouted Michał Olechowski, after inspecting the straggler for any signs of breathing, as a small fog appeared out of the man's mouth. You wasted no time and ordered him to be brought back to the wagons, where he was covered with blankets and given some vodka. After a coughing fit, the barely conscious man muttered something under his nose. You weren't quite sure, but it sounded like Gaelic to you. He had nothing, but a Western-style shirt on him, along with a pair of breeches and torn stockings. His face was bloodied and covered in snow, but you could see, that he was no older than you, with a neatly trimmed moustache and messed up long, ginger-coloured hair. All in all, a handsome fellow of stocky build, given the circumstances and not a local, judging by the remains of his attire.
[Surgery: 96]
"We make camp here. Find a good spot and get a fire going. I'll need hot water, some strong spirits and a clean bandage." you ordered, calm and collected, the rest of your party. The Polish nobles got to work right away without the slightest hesitation, knowing that life was on the line. The possibility of an early rest near a campfire after the slog with the elements helped too. In times like these you thanked God for all those poor bastards that died right under your nose, so that you may learn from their mistakes and stop a man from bleeding out to death or fix a broken arm before it'll have to be cut off due to gangrene. A soldier that knows nothing about battlefield medicine has one leg in the grave already.
A few hours later, when it was already dark, the poor soul you've rescued from an untimely demise was resting on a bedroll near one of the fires in your camp, his head bandaged and the body covered with spare furs to keep him warm. You've managed to get some hot soup into him and are fairly certain, that he'll make it. It would seem, that you have found him just in time. Brigands, that was your first thought when you analysed the events of the day. Just in case, you doubled the guards this evening should they still linger around.
Then your new guest started to come to.
"Well I'll be a horse's arse..." were the first few weak words, that came out of the man's mouth and in English at that.
"You certainly are." was your surprised answer "A few more hours and we'd have to pry you from the road with a pickaxe, mighty dead at that."
"Huh? And whom might you be, sir?" the fellow seemed to have noticed you, his condition apparently clouding sound judgement.
"I'm the man that pulled you from the snow on the road. You were found, barely alive and half-naked with a shot horse right next to you. I'm guessing some sort of squabble put you in such a position, am I right?"
"You could say so... I was on my way to Warsaw, when I met these natives, poor sods all of 'em... needless to say, they weren't friendly. After we exchanged greetings, one of them killed my horse and after that they were all over me and took whatever I had... the last thing I remember was that one of 'em smashed me head with the butt of his musket and that's it..."
"And how did you communicate? We aren't on the Isles you know." it's not that you were suspicious of anything, but better to be safe, than sorry by checking his story.
"Oh, right, kind of forgot. German, one of 'em knew German." he replied without a hint of hesitation.
"I see... English?" you asked bluntly, watching him very closely.
"Hell no! Irish!" the man answered indignantly.
"Buíochas le Dia..." the words came out of your mouth with great relief. While you certainly would not have pestered somebody you just saved from certain death no matter his origin, yet you still might have considered leaving him here without so much as a bottle of vodka, should the man turned out to be an Englishman.
"Is breá le Dia na nGaedheal..." was the reply. It's been ages, since you spoke with somebody in your own native tongue and the feeling was... exhilarating.
"Had I known I would meet one of my own countrymen simply lying around on the road, I would have left Warsaw ages ago." you continued "Instead, I was forced to drink with a bunch of unsavoury individuals from all over the place, hoping to find a true Irishman."
"I must have missed a good party then." he answered with a faint smile.
"Several in fact."
"Pitty. Might I know the name of my saviour at least?"
"Colonel Liam O'Donnell, sir, in Polish service as of recently."
"A pleasure sir, although the circumstances could have been better. I'm Patrick Ryan, a soldier formerly in the employ of... dunno... several different Princes and Kings? Served with a bunch o' rascals in the Imperial army under Aldringen and Tilly. Gunner by trade."
You paused for a moment. That would mean, that there's a high chance you might have met before, but on the opposite sides of a battlefield back in the Empire. Hell, his very own cannonballs might have tried to sever your head from your shoulders! Luckily for the both of you, none have reached their mark. Unfortunately you cannot say the same about the men you used to command. After a short glance you noticed, that most of the Polish nobles around the fire were glaring at you two sharing a conversation, but judging by their expressions none of them understood a word of what you were saying. Gaelic does that to people.
"So Ryan, why you were going to Warsaw all alone anyway?" you asked after a short pause.
"To get a job, what else? Decided to find an opportunity here in this abysmal country to escape the slaughter next door. Heard they were recruiting to fight the Muscovites."
"Any luck so far?"
"No...? Given the fact, that I never reached me destination..."
"Oh, but ye did. Interested in working for me, perhaps? I'm raising an Irish unit and could use a good lad, like yourself."
"Depends. What's yer offer... Colonel?"
What do you offer Patrick Ryan, a self-professed experienced gunner and fellow Irishman, to join your unit? Being in your debt for saving his life and flat broke, you have a feeling he won't be too picky. [pick one]
[X] Hire him as a Soldier - Ryan is a simple soldier and mercenary with little education, at least that's your best guess. Being an artilleryman does require some professional and academic knowledge however. The thing is, you are raising a Dragoon Regiment and his specialty is a bit off. Still, you can put it to good use, if only to train others in the use of firearms. Hiring him as a regular soldier seems to be the best choice and if he'll prove useful, you can always promote him later.
[X] Hire him as an Officer - While he might not be the type, you could really use more officers to help raise your unit and you have to start somewhere. Ryan might as well be the first of his kind, even if his background is a little sketchy. Gunnery might not be high on the agenda, but who knows what type of situations you might find yourself in and teaching the lads a thing or two about cannons might really come in handy. The details can be hammered out later.
[X] Refuse to hire him - For some reason you think, that this Ryan might not be a sound choice to enroll. You'll get him safe and sound to the nearest settlement and then part ways.
*Approximately 250 km (or 155 modern miles).
________________________________
So...
Finally stopped being mad and finished most of the thing.
Big thanks to @Rolman for the inspiration.
Hopefully subsequent updates won't take as long. Still, our hero got lucky and found his first recruit!
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