Wolves at the Gate

The fall of the St. Othmar Church

SHORT STORY

Coren McGirr

12/1/20236 min read

A fictional story based on true events surrounding the Ottoman attack on the town of Mödling...

     The sharp crack of a sledgehammer thundering against the small iron-plated door echoed through the empty halls of the town church. For a moment, the desperate cries of those who had sought refuge within the holy walls grew quiet. Fear laid upon the people like a thick blanket, suffocating all hope like water in the lungs. Three men hastened up the narrow stairway with thick wooden beams in their hands and pressed them against the small gate, which groaned beneath the abuse it so hardily withstood. Sunrays shot through its wounds, highlighting the dust floating in the hot, motionless air. Another hammer swing sounded as the chanting and cheering from outside the walls gained momentum. Shouts in a foreign language became louder and more distinct as the gate slowly gave in to the assault. A lone baby’s cry reinitiated the panicked shrieks and cries for help by the captives. The men and women grabbed beams, candelabras, and anything they could get their hands on in preparation for what was to come. A young woman stepped onto a bench and took down a wooden cross hanging beneath a stained glass window. “Forgive me”, she whispered under her breath before she shouldered it and swiftly made her way to the front ranks which had formed facing the ascending stairs. She then burst into song, praying to God for strength and courage. Other voices joined in. One last time, a choir song filled the room. The gate shattered in half. The last safe haven of the townspeople had been transformed into their grave.

For over 100 years, the Sultans of the Ottoman Empire had been reaching their fingers deep into central Europe. The people of Mödling, a small town south of Vienna, saw this dark cloud grow ever more powerful in the East. In the early spring of 1683, word spread through the town's dusty streets that a military advance of the Ottomans was pending. These rumors also reached the ear of Colette, a young woman who spent her days working at the market to earn enough money to raise her son. “I hear they are coming with tenfold as many men as last time.”, “Tenfold? I say twenty. Kara Mustafa will muster all he can lest he embarrass himself at the gates of Vienna as Süleyman did.” The chatter at the main square of Mödling never ceased. Tales, news, and rumors often became so intertwined that one could not tell the difference. Curious as she was, Colette often tried to spark conversations with her customers to learn of the happenings outside the city walls. “Collette. Collette”, a raspy voice pulled her from her daydream. “I beg of you, my dear. Please, keep your young Burchard out of the potatoes.” “Oh, Burchard, come here, my son. You may be five years old, but that is no reason to be nosey. I do apologize, Opa.” “No need to apologize. I see he not only shares his long dark locks and chestnut eyes with his mother but the same fiery spirit as well”, the man responded with a big smile, exposing his teeth that could be described as anything but pearly whites. “Did you hear those men, though?” Collette continued as if she had not heard him, “They are travelers. They say an army from the east will try to sack Vienna again.” The old man, whom Collette lovingly referred to as Opa after he took her in when she fled France, ruffled his beard, “Vienna is the gate to the West for the Ottomans. I suspect they will try and try again until it falls. You will see, before long, preparations will begin here.”

As the months passed, rumors of a faraway land turned to regular updates of an army of 120,000 pillaging and ransacking soldiers heading straight for Austria. Discussions turned to arguments as fear snuck into the people’s minds. Leisurely work turned to frantic food stockpiling and desperate fortification of the city wall and its strongholds. Tales of farmhouses and villages burning and entire cities being massacred became ever-increasing. A state of readiness set on. Collette began to take leftover food from her market stand and store it in the room she shared with her son. She did this in secret. Not even Opa knew of this. This was nothing new for her, as much of her life was a secret. Shortly after Collette gave birth to Burchard, Louis XIV began making life uncomfortable for Protestant Huguenots, such as her, and forcing religious conversion upon them. Not three years later, persecutions became widespread throughout France, and executions of those who refused to submit to his will grew in frequency. Collette had no choice but to flee Marseille when her husband, a Huguenot pastor, was murdered. The passage to England, she believed, would be too difficult for a mother and child to survive. Germany offered a shorter and safer journey. After months on the road, she had found herself in Mödling, trying to scratch out a life for herself and her baby by begging on the streets. They would not have survived their first winter if Opa had not shown some pity and taken the two of them in. Her religion and her past were secrets she would take to her grave. Her French accent had made her life hard enough as it was.

A wave of excitement spread through the narrow streets, and the news spread like wildfire: Refugees were at the gate. Villagers and farmers from the surrounding area were streaming into the town. How many could Mödling take? How long would the food storage last? A black column of smoke billowed on the eastern horizon. It grew wider to the North and the South. The Ottoman army was moving closer. In front of them, they drove a herd of people fleeing the violence and death. The citizens of Mödling huddled atop the wall and watched as Ottoman riders broke ranks to cut down the runaways. For hours, this cruelty continued as the refugees and mounted pursuers made their way to the village. “We beg of you! Save us from these savages!” the farmers and their families yelled at the top of their lungs, banging on the wooden village gate. Their hands and feet were bloodied from running across the fields and forests. “Open the gates! Do not let our people die out there,” Opa demanded in a stern voice. Collette had never seen him speak in such a manner. The gates remained closed. Collette trembled at the shrieks and grunts that sounded over the wall as the horsemen rode up onto their victims. The town could only watch.

Hours passed before the invader’s main military force halted at the walls, and the brave defenders took up their positions. Volley after volley of cannon fire was unleashed on the trembling town. The ground shook. Smoke and dust filled the air. A foul smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh made it nearly impossible to breathe, and a battle cry arose from the Ottoman forces as visibility returned. Collette held Burchard close as he clutched her pale green gown, their ears ringing from the explosions. The city wall lay in ruins. The first wave of attackers stepped into the town as the vastly outnumbered guards of Mödling valiantly took up arms and stood their ground. The defensive positions fell one after the other. A stampede broke out among the unarmed citizens. Before Collette grabbed Burchard and followed the flow of the masses, she saw Opa pick up the lance of a fallen soldier and thrust it into one of the three men storming at him. The crowd pushed Collette along, and she lost sight of the battle scene.

The people of Mödling rushed towards the St. Othmar Church. The small iron gate leading to the lower church stood open. It measured no more than 3 feet wide and led into a narrow, steep stairwell. The first few people filed in. A cry arose from the back. “Faster! They are here…” The voice sank into a gargle as a curved Kilij blade cut it off. A violent panic broke out as people forgot all civility and clawed their way to the entrance. Collette held onto her son as the sharp sabers thrashed through the crowd. Burchard cried out loud as the rib-breaking pressure increased the closer they got to the door, and elbows were thrown around like on a battlefield. They passed the doorway and slid down the stairs littered with the bodies of those who had stumbled and been shoved in first. Shortly before all the townspeople had made it to safety, the gate was shut and sealed. The scent of death filled the air. Blood trickled in underneath the door. A feeling of safety and a sigh of relief went through the crowd that had made it into the lower church. Outside, words of frustration and anger could be heard. Sabers thrashed against the iron gate until a sound could be heard that disheartened even the most hopeful of the townspeople. A great sledgehammer had been brought up to the church. The Ottomans chanted at the nearing of their victory. The first swing nearly brought the chandeliers down from the ceiling. Again, panic erupted. Collette hid her son in the back corner of the building — the next swing. Metal splinters flew through the room. She saw a few people pick up makeshift weapons, and she scanned the room to find something she could fight with. The wooden cross mounted on the wall caught her eye — another swing. Three men climbed over the bodies and held beams against the door. Collette carefully pulled the cross off the wall, blew her shivering son a kiss, and walked towards the stairwell. “My sword is the cross. They can kill my body, but they cannot kill my soul.” her voice was shaky at first but gained strength. “Pater Noster,” she began to sing, “Qui es in caelis,” more people chimed in, “sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum.” The hall erupted into song as the last hammer strike tore down the gate and a wave of dust, warriors, and swords poured through the narrow entrance. The invading forces stormed into the church.