Kara Mustafa, eager to emulate or surpass his predecessors who had marched all the way to Venice, would not listen. ‘If I can hold together my army, and if I can have enough Tatars on my left flank to harry whatever enemy we encounter, I can take Vienna and all of Austria.’
Muhammad was insistent: ‘I foresee real danger if you try.’
But still Kara Mustafa would not listen. ‘Since you ascended the throne in 1648, decisions of war and peace have been made by my family. Let it continue that way, and Turkey will rule Europe.’
Muhammad, now forty-one and surprisingly knowledgeable despite his preoccupation with women and hunting, became angry with his grand vizier for treating him like a child, and to the tremendous surprise of his court, he stepped forward and handed Kara Mustafa a green silk cord, very strong and more than two arms in length: ‘Go to Vienna, besiege it, but if you fail, you are to hang yourself.’
In accordance with ancient tradition, while the Sultan and his court watched, the grand vizier tied the green cord into a running knot and passed the noose over his head, tightening it when it reached his neck. From that day on, during the march through Hungary, and the battle at Bratislava, and the exciting approach to Vienna itself, Kara Mustafa never removed the silken cord from around his neck, and if General Lubomirski inside the walls was apprehensive about the forthcoming battle, so was Mustafa, for each man knew that this was a battle to the death.
The Sultan, for his part, decided to support his army by a display of austerity at home. From his several harems he dismissed battalions of his best concubines. In seven different countries he closed down many of his hunting establishments, turning the land over to peasants. And most important of all to a confirmed huntsman, from his many stables he released nearly nine hundred of his favorite horses to the military. He did not make himself destitute, however, for he did keep an impressive selection of the most attractive women, nine of the best hunting areas and about four hundred choice horses, and in the years 1682 and 1683, as the battle for Vienna approached, he continued to enjoy himself, but he often paused to speculate on how Kara Mustafa and his green cord were doing.
By early August, when he had assembled what expeditionary force he was going to be able to collect, King Jan Sobieski already knew that Vienna was completely surrounded by Turkish troops and that a siege of the most brutal efficiency was under way. On the fifteenth of July, the day after the attack began, General Lubomirski had asked a brave assistant to see if he could slip through the Turkish lines with an urgent message for Sobieski, and this man, riding at top speed, informed the Poles as to what was happening at Vienna:
‘The siege began at dawn on the fourteenth. Trumpets sounded and three horsemen from the Turkish side cantered easily across the empty land leading to the city walls, set up a small catapult and threw numerous rocks into the center of Vienna. Each bore a message: “Surrender now and you will be saved. Open your gates, turn your churches over to us and lay down your arms, and no one will be killed. If you resist the Will of Allah, your leaders, and all of them, will be slain. Able men and women will be sold into slavery. You will be allowed no rights of worship, and your mighty walls will be thrown down. Fight and you die! Surrender and you live!’ ”
When Sobieski interrogated him regarding military details, the man said: ‘On the north and east, where the arm of the Danube protects us, large concentrations of Turkish soldiers are blocking any movement in or out of the city. On the south huge arrays of cannon already bombard us night and day. And to the west, from which the greatest trouble will come, sappers already work at digging tunnels to deliver gunpowder under the walls.’
‘How long did Lubomirski estimate the forces inside the city could resist?’
‘You must reach Vienna before the end of August.’
‘That I cannot do,’ Sobieski said with heaviness of spirit.
‘Then the city is doomed.’
Gravely Sobieski walked back and forth, a huge man whose monstrous unruly mustache made his head look even larger than it was. ‘We must rely upon two miracles. Those in Vienna shall resist the siege until September. Those of us outside must reach there in time to save them.’ He raised his large arms to heaven and cried: ‘Blessed Virgin of Czestochowa, allow us those miracles.’
When all was in readiness at Krakow he delayed departure for four days to allow him time to journey to that shrine of the Virgin, where in the company of his advisers, including Count Lubonski, he prayed before the Black Madonna, and as he rose from his knees, a priest attached to the shrine presented him with a reproduction of the painting which one of the monks had done. It was about two hands high, one hand and a half wide and was suspended from a heavy gold chain, which the priest passed over the king’s head, so that the painting came down over Sobieski’s chest, hanging like a small plate of armor.
The incident moved the king deeply, and placing his left hand reverently upon the painting he asked for his sword, which he raised in his right hand until it pointed to heaven, and cried in a loud voice: ‘Poles! It has always been our duty to defend the Christianity of Europe from the threat of its barbarian enemies. Tomorrow we ride forth once more to hurl back the infidel. May God ride with us.’
On the trip back to Krakow he told Lubonski: ‘Old man, it is not necessary for you to repeat this long and dangerous journey. You’ve served Poland well. Go home and pray for us.’
But Lubonski could not accept this advice. ‘It seems I have spent my life fighting the enemies of my homeland. But the greatest battle was saved for the end. If we lose Vienna to enemies of God, we lose all.’ And Sobieski, imbued with religious fervor, understood this attitude and said: ‘Come along, old man. You’ll be the best warrior we have.’
So Lubonski sent Brat Piotr, the friar from Czestochowa, galloping to Bukowo to fetch Lukasz, but when those two reported to Krakow ready for the forced march into Austria, Lubonski saw that they had brought with them young Janko from the village, and he protested: ‘We want no boys on such a venture,’ but Piotr replied: ‘He is the son of Jan who served with you in all the battles, and he is ready.’
‘Bring him along,’ Lubonski said, and next morning, 11 August 1683, the king and his army rode forth, as Cardinal Pentucci cried when he blessed them, ‘to save the world.’
Not even the king knew how large his army was, for although he had promised the coalition 34,000 Polish troops, he had reason to believe that the honest number had to be smaller than 30,000, but how much smaller he could only guess. It was not that his clerks were careless; they handed him carefully compiled lists that showed a specific total: In all, 29,516 men under arms.
This precise figure, so neatly presented, was worthless, because each unit commander reported many more men and horses than they had in order to draw down excess stores, which he then sold for his personal profit. So when Sobieski marched toward Vienna he did not know whether he had 27,000 troops or 26,000, and in reporting to his fellow generals he would use either figure, knowing that regardless of what he said he would be wrong. But of course their figures would be wrong, too, and for identical reasons.
As they moved west toward the mountain pass at Cieszyn, they formed an amazing spectacle: the winged hussars in front, the cavalry made up of magnates and the lesser gentry, a horde of foot soldiers, a much larger horde of servants like Brat Piotr and Janko, and about a thousand wagons carrying the goods that would be needed. In the rear, utilizing most of the spare horses, came the hundred and twenty huge cannon which Sobieski hoped would offset those of the Turks. It was an act of considerable will power even to think of transporting such an army at great speed across mountains and rivers, but actually, it was an act of faith.
They did not follow the leisurely route which Lubonski and Lukasz had taken on their expedition into Austria, but rather a direct line to the towns of Brno and Hollabrunn, where the Austrian and German generals participating in the battle would meet them, and as they marched, always at maximum speed, Brat Piotr, with Janko
at his side, began to strike friendships with the noblemen who formed the contingent of winged hussars. He was at their camp every evening, pestering them about their horses, their special lances, and especially that halo of turkey and eagle feathers they wore about their heads when they rode into battle.
‘Could I see how the feathers are attached?’ he asked on the fifth night, when the riders had become accustomed to him. They allowed him to inspect the contraption which held the tall feathers in place, and he studied every aspect of it, explaining it most imperfectly to Janko.
Some evenings later, when camp was struck early—about eight, when there was still plenty of daylight—Piotr prevailed upon one of the hussars to let him try on the piece of armor to which the crown of feathers was riveted. When he felt the armor on his body and could see from the corner of his eye the feathers rising above his head, he called to Janko: ‘Fetch me a horse,’ and once astride it, he began brandishing an imaginary lance and dashing back and forth over the campground, shouting in a high-pitched voice: ‘I am a winged hussar. Stand back, you infidels.’
At one point, his long legs kicking at his mount, his elbows flapping and his dark-brown monk’s garb flying in the wind, he came roaring down upon Janko, who would have been ridden over had he not leaped into a ditch: ‘You are dead, foul Turk! Lie there in your blood!’ Back and forth the wildly excited friar galloped, his feathers making a mournful sound in the dusk, and when slowly he brought his horse back to where the owner of the gear stood laughing, he was most reluctant to surrender it. Fondly he patted the armor, avowing that it was as fine as any he had ever seen, and with care he straightened each of the feathers.
‘You must be proud to wear such a uniform,’ Piotr said, and the hussar replied: ‘I am.’
Now each night when halt was called, Brat Piotr mingled with the hussars, borrowing armor first from this one, then from that, and he galloped so fervently over the campgrounds, his arms and legs extended in strange directions, that the hussars began calling him The Flying Friar, for he looked like those pictures in German books showing goblins and other strange beings flying through the air at night. But always when he finished his ride he would seek out Janko: ‘I used to think that being master of a great monastery was the best a man could hope for, but I would rather be a hussar with feathers singing about my ears, fighting for the will of God against the infidel. That I would very strongly like to be.’
On 31 August, when it was doubtful that Vienna could much longer withstand the dreadful siege being mounted by Kara Mustafa, Jan Sobieski rode into the small town of Hollabrunn, northwest of Vienna and only a short distance from the Danube River, which the army would have to cross before it could engage the Turks, and there he met for the first time with two of the finest gentlemen of Europe.
The meeting could have been terribly embarrassing. Back in 1674, when Sobieski was elected king through French support, his principal opponent had been Duke Charles of Lorraine, a Habsburg for whom Austria was buying votes scandalously. The contest had been keen, with many believing that Duke Charles would win, but in the end the French poured in huge sums, bought magnates right and left, and secured the victory for Sobieski. Now the former antagonists must work together not only as allies but as generals sharing a difficult command.
Another reason for likely failure was that the generals, all of them, must devise a workable plan under which three disparate armies, which followed different systems and had not even a common language, could do battle against a force immensely larger than their own. When the three leaders, accompanied by their staffs, met for the first time in a poorly lit room in an inn at Hollabrunn, there was a moment of extreme tension, for on the rustic table confronting them lay the jeweled baton, about thirty inches long, which would be carried by the commander in chief, and no one knew who that would be.
King Jan looked at the splendid baton with narrow, conniving eyes; he was a vain man who might demand the baton as a kingly right. Duke Charles, stiff and proper, represented the host nation, which gave him a substantial claim. And watchers could see the German Prince Waldeck eying the baton with real desire; he was not only contributing the largest number of troops but he was also a proud, able warrior. This meeting could end in disaster.
However, it started well, for the moment Duke Charles saw his mighty adversary for the kingship of Poland, he stepped forward and embraced Sobieski: ‘You are welcome, Sire, you are twice welcome!’ And then Prince Waldeck kissed Sobieski’s hand, crying for all to hear: ‘We have waited desperately for your troops. Thank God you have come.’
Now the three generals hesitated, and the watchers could not anticipate how the problem of the baton was to be settled. Then the Duke of Lorraine placed one delicate forefinger on the emblem, and immediately Waldeck did the same, and slowly, gravely they pushed the baton to where Sobieski stood. When he realized that he was to serve as commander in chief of all the armies, he lifted the baton, kissed it, and said: ‘It shall be my duty to bring us victory,’ and the watchers cheered.
But when they sat down to a frugal dinner, each man knowing that a great battle and possible death waited only a few days away and a few miles distant, a difficulty of the most dangerous kind arose, at first only a raised eyebrow, but, potentially a disaster that could destroy the alliance.
Sobieski, as commander in chief, sketched on paper provided by Duke Charles the plan of battle. ‘We are three armies, all twenty miles west of Vienna. How we march to that city and in what formation may determine the outcome of the battle. There is an easy route, the left flank along the Danube. There is a very difficult route, the right flank through the high hills of the Vienna Woods. And there is a route half-easy, half-difficult, down the center.’
The generals—some dozen of them—nodded agreement, for they had studied this terrain.
‘What I propose is that we Poles take the extremely difficult right flank through the mountains and the woods. We have the men and horses to haul our cannon across the ravines.’ All favored this gallant proposal, but now they leaned forward to catch the next decision, the important one. ‘I think, strongly, that Prince Waldeck and his Germans, who have not fought in this kind of terrain before, should assume the left flank, along the Danube.’ Then, very quickly, before there could be the protest which he was sure would arise, he snapped out: ‘And the Austrians will come down the center.’ Some of the generals gasped, and when two started to exclaim, he knew he was in trouble.
For several centuries the armies of Europe, when marching to battle, had observed a convention which stated that the right flank constituted the position of highest honor, and in the present situation all agreed that Sobieski had priority in that claim. He was a king, he was commander in chief, and he had repeatedly proven his ability. But the position of second honor was always the left flank, while traditionally, the weakest force or the one led by a general with dubious reputation occupied the center, from which he could not run away, since the two flanks led by heroes would hem him in.
In an army composed of troops from one nation only, it was a simple matter for the king or commander to assign the center position to his weakest general, and the latter had to accept because he usually realized that he was the weakest. But in a coalition when national honor was at stake, the leader of that coalition incurred a grave risk when he assigned the troops of one nation, in this instance Austria, to the center.
‘Sire!’ a lesser Austrian general cried. ‘It would be a requirement which the Duke of Lorraine could not accept, to occupy the center.’
‘He cannot!’ several other irate Austrians agreed, whereupon Sobieski appealed to the duke, praying that the latter would graciously accept, but Charles was a man of the most sensitive pride, and he said with no embarrassment: ‘As leader of the forces of the host country, it would be highly improper of me to place my troops in the center.’
A tense silence filled the little room in which these men were plotting strategies which would determine the fate of man
y nations, and all hung in the balance until Sobieski performed an act that won him the enthusiastic support of all; he left his place at the head of the table, walked ponderously to where Prince Waldeck sat, and bowed low before him, his massive belly seeming to touch the floor. ‘Honored Prince, I have just made an unforgivable mistake. I overlooked the honor of a great champion. Duke Charles has every claim on the left flank, and I beg you to accept the center.’ Before Waldeck could respond, the king said: ‘To you will go the honor of facing Kara Mustafa himself. For in the Turkish line of battle the center is the place of honor.’ And then, still afraid of Waldeck’s reaction, he continued: ‘I know what I speak about, Prince, because in my battles against the Turks, I always chose the center so that I could get to their commander myself.’
While Sobieski remained in his supplicating position, the German generals conferred, and in the end Prince Waldeck said, with obvious sincerity: ‘This battle will be big enough for any position to be one of honor. I accept your placement.’
A sigh filled the room, and when Sobieski was back in his chair he asked: ‘And what do we know about the Turkish position?’ Now Duke Charles assumed command. ‘As you just said, Kara Mustafa in the center, and a very dangerous opponent he is. But I do believe he has already committed a fatal error. He has split his troops. About forty percent of the best remain preoccupied with besieging Vienna. Only sixty percent have been moved into the battle line to oppose us.’