JIT – Journey In Time (Part 1 of 4)

 JIT – Journey In Time (Part 1 of 4)

By John Abbott

Jonathon Thomas Vincent - November 1990

As I stood there on that joyous November morning in the imperial city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, having flown from London via Nuremburg, it became extremely hard to guide my thoughts across the clouded years that stood between my long-lost relative and me. Situated near to the river Tauber and its peaceful valley was the old walled imperial free city. Here I was amongst its houses with tall pointy roofs, turrets and beams, old signs overhanging the streets, its old fountains alive with scarlet geraniums. Although I had been heavily impressed with the famous winged high altar in the great parish church; it had actually been painted by Hans Herlin in 1466 (over 500 years ago), nothing could have quite prepared me for what I was to find.

 

I could only marvel at the startling journal in front of my eyes. To have found such a jewel amongst this haystack was nothing short of miraculous. And to think that upon being told of this particular collection, my initial thoughts were almost blasphemous. I remember them clearly." Bloody waste of time! What's the point?”

 

Some strange compulsion to find the truth led me to continue. I had been in correspondence with quite a lot of people in Germany and Holland for some time concerning various aspects of my family's heritage, when a friend in Germany mentioned for the first time, the personal library of the Beadle of Rothenburg. In the next few weeks, it became obvious that although this collection was enormous and had been scoured in the past by numerous authorities on German history, a large proportion of the manuscripts contained therein were still unread, (obviously, none of this had been held electronically).

 

After many discussions and much heart-searching with Mansfeld, my closest friend, I decided it would be best to travel to Rothenburg and leave poor old Mansfeld behind. I left him in the care of dear old Mrs Stambridge. She would look after him; she liked dogs.

Imagine the scene from the past, on the eleventh of August, in the year of our Lord 1650, in the imperial free city of Rothenburg, an immense celebration of peace and thanksgiving had taken place. Now that the Swedish soldiers had departed, the populace fully believed the war to be over.

 

The schoolchildren of Rothenburg, the majority of them carrying bouquets and wearing wreaths, with a lavish accompaniment of musicians were assembling in the broad marketplace of the city, where it seemed as if the entire population was present.

Some nineteen years earlier in 1631, their parents and grandparents had knelt in this same square, praying and begging the dreaded General Tilly to spare their city from the fate of Magdeburg. Still to this day, the city holds a festival that commemorates the drinking feat that had saved it from destruction in 1631. General Tilly, who had conquered the city had initially ordered that it be burnt to the ground. Legend has it that he then offered to save the city on condition that one of it's councilors empty, with a single draught, a three pint mug of wine. The old mayor, Nusch by name, took up the challenge. He succeeded in draining this somewhat sizeable container and behold, the city was saved. The city of Rothenburg had been a focus of military activity for two decades at least; the children, both boys and girls who gathered that morning in 1650 had hitherto known only war. Peace was now at hand, the children marched in a slow and solemn fashion from the marketplace to the large parish church, where hymns of thanksgiving were sung before the city's populace and they heard a sincere and earnest sermon by Pastor Johann Dummler. 

Similar scenes were being enacted in cities, towns and villages all over Germany it seems. Rothenburg itself had ruled over some four hundred square kilometres of south-western Franconia back then, and as the church bells tolled over this, the northernmost region of Bavaria, sermons of thanksgiving were heard in village churches across the territory. But not everywhere: not, for example, in Linden.

 

This is where our story really begins: I have attempted to eliminate any linguistic anachronisms from the manuscript that my relative has recorded. I do hope that you appreciate my efforts. For my own sake, I am glad that he chose to record his tale in English and not in the customary Latin.

 

Jonathon Thomas Vincent - January 1634 

It is the year of our Lord 1634 and I have little idea of the underlying reasons for my attempt to record these events, but, nonetheless, I feel compelled to do so. Whether I am writing this as a record of historical events or simply to preserve my dignity and to purify myself I do not know. Only God can make the final judgment. I have convinced myself that what has happened, what I have witnessed and been a part of here in Linden is a monstrous perversity, a truly terrible act of impiety.

 

I came here almost by chance; alas, my inherent honesty requires me to accept that I had a choice. Oh, how much I regret that fated choice.

I could easily have stayed in Briel and maintained a reasonable existence alongside the English regiment residing there. But no, I was finding my stay a little tedious, to say the least. The constant stream of correspondence back to England, the many letters that, no doubt, were still unwritten, and the confusion that passed for the regimental accounts. All were boring me, a callow youth of twenty summers. I desired more. Why, why!!? - such impetuosity, such folly.

My original thoughts were crisp and clear enough when the opportunity presented itself. A messenger was required for a long journey into Franconia. The task seemed simple enough; deliver various documents to a Swedish Colonel Stalhaus and await a response. It seemed at once a golden opportunity to become involved in this war. After all, I told myself, that was why I had entered into this endeavour at the outset; the possible excitement and the constant danger of military service abroad, the chance of gold and glory beyond compare - all this and more I had hoped. I was sure that I had little concern for the defense of the Protestant faith.

 

I shall not dwell at any length upon the journey that brought me to the outskirts of this hell, except to describe the method and route taken.

I joined a small group of merchants who were taking a large sailing barge up the Rhine to Mainz, which was indeed a journey of tortuous length. During calm weather, the barge was drawn upstream by a team of eight horses and riders, with a spare team towed behind on a raft, together with a small rowing boat which was used for the acquisition of provisions. Whilst aboard the barge, few signs, if any, of the much-talked about war were readily apparent to me. The occasional drift of grey-black smoke in the distance, small groups of wretched souls who were given very short shrift by the merchants leading this trip, and, significantly, only once, an array of well-armed horsemen passing a tiny burned out village, heading for some unknown destination. There was little obvious suggestion of the calamitous events that had happened around this river in the recent years; mighty clashes of armies and the death of the Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus at Luton in Saxony.

 

From Mainz, I managed to find a smaller vessel which was traveling up the River Main to Frankfurt, where, with God's help, I hoped to find Colonel Stalhaus. It took very little effort indeed to find Colonel Stalhaus, for Frankfurt, it seemed, was alive with the arrival of the Swedes. Everybody was talking about how much longer they would stay, certainly in the southern suburbs that I now found myself in.

 

I asked a few simple questions at the beadle’s residence, and within two days I had arranged an audience with the Colonel.

 

When I arrived for my audience with Colonel Stalhaus, which had been assigned to an ungodly early hour of Wednesday morning. I was somewhat surprised to find such hustle and bustle, clerks and soldiers alike, all carrying boxes to and fro. The reason, I discovered, was that the colonels staff were to move South across the River Main later that day.

 

I must admit to a little nervousness as I entered the drawing room within the sumptuous residence of the beadle. There he was, Colonel Stalhaus, not, as I had imagined, surrounded by servants or guards, but alone.

 

He turned slowly and cast his gaze upon me. He was a stout-looking man, tall - over six feet, with broad shoulders that seemed built for bearing large burdens. His hair was long and fair, but thinning, and his face, although weathered, seemed a touch youthful. As I approached him cautiously, I then realized that this youthfulness belied the truth: his deep-socketed brown eyes were a colour similar to that of an oak barrel, and for all the world appeared to shout the word despair. His apparel was simple and workmanlike. His voluminous breeches were of grey, and he wore a sleeveless waistcoat of a similar dark colour over his white linen shirt, which, although having a collar that was very plainly cut indeed, both wrists showed a touch of lace. He also wore a large red sash diagonally across his breast from his left shoulder, which ended in a large bow almost hiding the hilt of his rapier from view.

The most surprising aspect of him was his shrill voice.

"You have the documents, young man!"

I had expected a gruff bark of a voice, but it was quite the opposite, high-pitched and sweet sounding, not at all authoritative. The English he spoke was clear, but still sounded unnatural. Had I heard it without seeing him, I would immediately have guessed that he was a foreigner.

I replied calmly."Yes, I have them. I hope you understand why I did not mention them to your clerks."

He replied carefully," of course... very commendable.  If only more of my own staff were as careful."

I tried to apologize "Sorry, I did not mean to belittle your st..."

The Colonel broke in sharply "No matter, the documents are bound for Wurzburg anyway."

I decided upon playing my trump card "Colonel, is it possible that I may continue the journey to Wurzburg?"

"I have a letter of introduction from Sir Edward Conway," I quickly added.

"Perhaps ... ummmh ... " his face showed a dour quizzical smile.

He stared resolutely at me. I hoped my expression told him what he wanted to know, that I desperately wanted the task.

"Have you enlisted," he asked?

As it trailed off, I heard the faint whispering echo of his words...

“You young pups, so eager to die."

"Talk to my Captain outside, show him your letter. If you have one."

I remember the moment well; my heart leapt a somersault of joy. What a mistake not to recognize this wise mans words for what they were: a salutary lesson in caution.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright John Abbott