In less than half a minute, all six gunners—the men who aimed the pieces in Meder’s Battery—were standing, fists raised, signifying they were loaded, on target, and ready to fire. But Fred had been watching how quickly the lancers’ ranks were swelling. “First ones up, as usual,” Meder proclaimed loud enough for Dukane to hear. “Battery C, at my command . . . fire!”
Six guns roared as one, smoke-belching muzzles dipping and clanging as carriages jolted back six or seven feet across the mushy ground. Even before they came to rest, their crews took hold to heave them back in place. Meder was watching through his glass. “Fine, fine,” he murmured, watching shells burst over the enemy. Dukane’s battery fired, blinding Meder with its smoke. “Damn that man,” he groused. “Battery C, commence independent rapid fire, same settings, but listen for corrections.”
All three batteries, eighteen guns, were pounding out shells as fast as they could as if the whole thing was more a competition among themselves than a desperate battle against a brutal enemy. A dense, impenetrable wall of white smoke towered in front and drifted across them, making it impossible to see. A young rider galloped up. “Colonel Hara’s compliments; you’ve done excellent execution, but now you’re firing long. Observers on the right report the lancers are moving forward with”—the kid gulped—“an estimated strength of around five thousand.”
Meder arched his eyebrows and looked at Fred and Kari. “And us with two regiments, less than two thousand men in support. Things might get lively.” He nodded. “Very well. We can’t adjust fire in this smoke; we’ll have to let it clear a bit.”
“That was Colonel Hara’s assessment as well. He wants you to know the infantry will begin moving up between your guns.”
Meder turned back to his battery and yelled, “Load canister and hold!”
“Canister is for close up, right?” Fred asked.
“Indeed. And they might already be close enough, for all we know. Nothing for it.”
Blocks of infantry about twenty wide and four deep double-timed up between the guns. Fred thought they looked sharp in their dark blue wheel hats and light blue uniforms with white crossbelts and polished rifle-muskets on their shoulders. He was glad to see them and thought the artillerymen would be too. Instead he heard cries like “How’re we supposed to fight with these buggers in our way?” answered by variations on “You’re not fighting now. Move, so we can.” He shook his head and smiled. Some things are universal, he supposed.
But the artillery wasn’t finished. The smoke had cleared just enough to see what appeared to be one great long mass of mounted men, coming at a canter, barely three hundred yards away.
“First rank!” shouted a young lieutenant commanding the troops between Meder’s far right gun and Dukane’s left. Fred was surprised to see O’Riel again. “Set your sights for three hundred. Present! Fire!” The small volley crackled among many others. “Second rank!” O’Riel cried.
Dukane’s battery unleashed six loads of canister, consisting in this case of eighteen hundred half-inch balls. His gunners groaned when a gust of wind revealed only a score or so horses and riders going down. Almost all their fire had churned the ground a hundred yards short of the oncoming enemy.
“You’re an idiot, Donkey!” Meder roared. “We haven’t time for your foolishness now. Aim high!” Putting his hands on his hips he turned to the front and assumed a disdainful air. “C Battery! We shall not cast our seed upon the ground!” Even the nearby infantry exploded with laughter.
“Whaat does thaat mean?” Kari asked. Fred’s face reddened and he shook his head.
“Fire!” Meder roared.
On any battlefield—on any world—no matter what kind of charcoal is in the gunpowder, what wood provides the sabot or sawdust that buffers the shot, gunsmoke billowing around canister always has a yellowish tinge. One is tempted to blame the brimstone in the powder, for its hellish associations, but if that’s so, why doesn’t the color exhibit when any other type of shot is fired? Perhaps it’s because canister is so hellish, in and of itself.
Almost none of C Battery’s canister went to waste. Men dropped their lances and threw up their hands as they tumbled from the saddle. Horses screamed and rolled, smashing and grinding their riders. A great swathe was torn from the cantering horde—just as the third battery savaged it just as badly. Rifle-muskets came into their own, keeping up a continuous fire by ranks and even the most dubious marksmen found it difficult to miss in such a press. But regardless of how many men and horses were shot or blown to the ground, there were more.
“Keep at it! Hammer ’em, lads!” Captain Meder cried, his own horse capering beneath him. Poom! Poom! went the big guns, canister shrieking away. Poom-poom-poom-poom! The rifles rivaled them and there was no pause as the infantry fired independently, men in the rear ranks crowding in around the guns even as artillerymen cursed and pushed them out of the way so they could reload.
A loud horn blared a long, piercing note and the enemy lances all came down, red pennants fluttering behind razor-sharp tips. Another horn sounded a different note that brought to mind the wailing shriek of a dying woman and the Doms finally charged. The sweat running down Fred’s back seemed to freeze, the sheer weight of the thundering Dom charge as frightening as the Grik had ever been. He looked anxiously at Kari and she blinked something back he’d never seen before, like reassurance mixed with terror.
“Fix bayonets!” roared company commanders, punctuated by the bugle call confirming the order. “Guard against lancers!” Men in the first two ranks thrust their long muskets forward, trying to make an impenetrable wall of steel to discourage the horses. But the lances were longer. Meder calmly drew his revolver, another powerful six-shooter, and Fred nervously pulled his .45 out of its holster while Kari unslung her Blitzer. “Take care not to fire around a limber chest when it’s open,” Meder told them almost casually, just before the lancers struck.
Fred and Kari were never in a shield wall back in the “old days” after Walker first arrived, when ’Cats were fighting the Grik with whatever weapons and tactics they could throw together. But Fred imagined the clattering, screeching, booming crash they heard must’ve been what it was like for those who had. There were no shields here, however; all there was were bodies. Horses, men, and the weapons they held. Lances drove deep into the ranks, skewering men like shish kebabs before shattering and exploding under the strain. A terrible collective scream of horror, agony, and desperate defiance rose from the ranks, and not all of it came from human throats. Regardless of their training, horses are rarely as brave or stupid as their riders, and few will willingly bash their way through a phalanx of bristling bayonets. They may not recognize them for what they are, but they’ll balk and slow in the face of roaring muskets, then instinctively recoil from the first searing pain of the sharp, wicked blades. And a 750-grain bullet traveling at 1,100 feet per second will wreck them. Yet the leading edge of such a charge can’t escape the press from behind. Forward is the only way and even horses must subdue their pain and terror.
On the other hand, the courage and discipline required to stand and face the flashing lances and roaring avalanche of countless tons of horseflesh is beyond many men. Particularly when the ranks in front of them, several deep, have been wiped away, and no one stands behind them. Men will recoil from that as well, and it was in those places the lancers cracked the lines.
“Hold them, God damn you!” Meder roared as the block of men between his number three and number four gun shattered and spilled from the gap, heaved back by the sheer weight of the assault. Grim-faced Dom lancers, most now without their signature weapons, churned through the bloody break. A few fumbled for carbines while others swept heavy sabers from their scabbards and hacked at stubborn defenders. Men shot them or stabbed their horses with bayonets. The piercing screams of men and horses were indistinguishable.
Without hesitation, Meder kicked his horse to with
in six feet of a Dom and shot him in the belly with his big revolver. The Dom hunched over, dropping his saber to clutch the wound. Meder shot another man, charging through the smoke, then used his pistol to block a saber slash from a third. Fred and Kari exchanged another, different glance, and bolted after Meder.
Kari’s Blitzer clattered loudly, sweeping men from their mounts. Fred hadn’t shot a pistol toward anybody in a very long time, and then he’d only been shooting in their general direction—and hit his own plane. He suspected he’d killed a few Doms with a Blitzer once, when he and Kari sprayed a small boat full of them, but he’d never shot directly at an individual in his life. He did so now, popping at Doms pressing in on Meder. Almost immediately it seemed, his slide locked back, just as Kari’s Blitzer emptied.
“Shit!” Fred squeaked, yanking at the magazine pouch on his belt. He might’ve hit a couple of targets; one fell off his horse. Still, with all the other shooting, it was hard to tell. He had drawn attention, however, and several Doms spurred toward him, sabers raised. Meder rammed his horse into one and cracked him on the back of the neck with his heavy revolver just under the flange of his plumed helmet. The helmet went flying and the man dropped away. Meder tossed the pistol. Either it was empty or the saber strike had damaged it. He drew his own saber.
Fred slammed a magazine home, dropped the slide, and shot at a rider right in front of him. The bullet hit the oncoming horse squarely between the eyes and it crashed like a stone, pitching the Dom forward and rolling on top of him.
“Whaat you shoot horses for?” Kari shouted angrily, finishing her own reload and sending quick, short bursts at the other men. Like most Lemurians, she rather liked horses. “They ain’t tryin’ to kill us!”
“I didn’t mean . . .” There wasn’t time to finish, and Fred shot another man. He knew he hit this one because he pitched limply from his saddle—but another Dom was close, saber already swinging. Fred ducked instinctively, hopelessly, but an artilleryman clubbed the Dom to the ground with a rammer staff and proceeded to beat him to death with it, screaming, “No damn horses in the gun line, damn you!” Kari blinked baffled relief—at the focus of the artilleryman’s rage and that Fred was still alive—and shot two more Doms drawn to the preoccupied cannoneer. But the stream of riders gushing through the gap was becoming a flood. Guns still belched canister on either side of the breakthrough—double loads of the stuff—and the rifle-musket fire remained continuous, but Fred knew if this breakthrough wasn’t contained, the line would eventually crack. And for all he knew, there might be other breakthroughs.
Despite the efforts of the infantrymen who’d been forced back, the lancers kept pushing to widen the opening, slaughtering gun’s crews still feverishly working their pieces. Other Doms, maybe a couple hundred, simply galloped on, intent on striking deep. Fred thought he heard brisk firing behind, in the vicinity of the caissons. Inserting his last magazine—he’d only started with three, counting the one already loaded—he determined to make every shot count. Kari had more ammo for her Blitzer, ammo that would fit his pistol, but she was using it faster. Better too, he had to admit.
He caught a glimpse of Captain Meder, now afoot, shooting Doms with a revolver he’d apparently taken from a dead lieutenant on the ground.
“Let’s cover him,” Kari shouted. “He’ll be empty soon, an’ their pistols take longer to load.” In unspoken agreement, they both dismounted and ran forward. Neither had been comfortable fighting from horseback, and though their mounts might’ve gotten them out if the line collapsed completely, what would be the point? They were stuck, like everyone else. If they lost this fight, there’d be no escape.
Suddenly, unexpectedly (they never even heard them coming over the roar of battle), about fifty of Anson’s Rangers pounded through the clot of Doms, firing their big pistols and carbines directly into their enemies, almost touching their bodies with the muzzles of their weapons. Men fell all around them as they charged, as sudden and devastating as a bolt of lightning. And they didn’t linger to mix it up as Fred expected; they simply galloped on, curving around, keeping their cohesion as if preparing to charge again. But they didn’t charge. That was left to some fresh infantry surging in their wake, slamming the stunned, disorganized Doms with rifle fire. They’re hitting horses too, Fred noted a little sourly, and Kari’s not griping at them. They quickly joined Meder, and together, they added their fire to the infantry’s.
Horses crashed and rolled and Doms tumbled to the ground. Others, wide-eyed, sawed at their reins, trying to turn their horses against the tide behind them. They were blown apart by heavy bullets blasting through brass cuirasses and the bodies within. The infantry streamed forward to fill the corpse-strewn gap and fire over the guns whose crews had died around them.
“Replacements forward!” Meder called, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Man those guns!” He looked at Fred and Kari as if just noticing them again. “Bring canister from the limber chests, if you please. To the left side of the guns, mind! Hurry!”
And so Fred and Kari did briefly join the artillery, until they themselves were replaced. By then, after just a few more hasty swarms of canister swept away the gathering mass of lancers poised to exploit the break, the pressure began to ease. Fred was relieved of the leather haversack he’d used to carry several heavy charges to a gun and almost numbly retreated to the limber where he found someone had tied his and Kari’s horses to the splinter bar. They weren’t likely to shift the limber, even in their excitement, since it was anchored by three of the six horses that pulled it, dead in their traces.
Kari joined him, wearily leaning against her horse, her Blitzer hanging from one hand. The fur around her eyes was wet with tears, but Fred’s eyes were watering too, irritated by the smoke. The Doms were starting to break up and down the line, galloping away, but the fire chasing them only intensified. Poom! Poom! went the guns. PPPPPoom! Ppoom! Rifle-muskets raged and crackled. Part of Fred hated what they were doing. The enemy was finished, let them go. On the other hand, he understood why the Nussies would vent their fury on the fleeing foe. It had been a near-run thing and the Doms would’ve showed no mercy at all. Besides, sickening as he found the bloody math of war as General Shinya taught it, there was a terrible logic to it. Not only did the more Doms they killed today mean the less they’d fight again, it might also mean fewer would be willing to fight another day. And those who were might not stand as long or fight so hard.
“Dang!” Fred cried suddenly. “Look at that!” An orange ball of flame rolled up in the sky beyond the low-hanging smoke and he caught a glimpse of a Repub Nancy, a Seevogel, pulling away. Turning, he saw a pair of black toadstools rising in the sky to the south.
“At least two Naancys,” Kari commented. “Wonder where they came from?”
“Donaghey and Congress, I bet. Maybe some others by now. Probably at the limit of their range when they heard what was goin’ on.”
“Still risky. Wish they’d come get us,” Kari muttered.
“Yeah. Maybe they will, when things settle down.”
“Load case!” Meder bellowed. “Prepare to resume firing at your initial settings! One and a half degrees, two seconds!”
At first Fred was mystified by Meder’s order, then it dawned on him he either meant to rain hell on the retreating Doms, or make them pause in rifle range and under the firebombs of the aircraft. He looked at the artillery captain and saw his hat was gone, his sleeve torn and bloody, the buff saber belt around his waist stained a dark, blackening red. The longer hair on top of his head had fallen over his forehead in sweat-thickened strands but couldn’t conceal the fury in his eyes. Raised to fear and hate the Doms but trained to keep his passions within professional bounds, this had still been his very first battle and his beloved battery had been decimated. All that was aside from the fact they’d very nearly lost the battle right in front of him. The cheerful warrior they’d joined just a short time ago was gone.
“Commence firing!” Meder roared.
The resuming barrage was quickly joined by other batteries and the stiffening breeze allowed Fred and Kari to see the effect this time. Exploding shells made a wall of smoke and slashing shrapnel that withered the farthest retreating lancers and confusion reigned behind them. Some tried to break south, but bugle calls sent dragoons sweeping around between them and the battle roaring in front of General Cox. Only a narrow band of forest separated them from the sea to the north. Whipped back and forth, with their number falling fast, and after a second firebomb dropped among them from an orbiting plane, few had any fight left in them when more bugles silenced the guns—and advanced the infantry. A lot of lancers seized the chance to bolt for the woods to the west, but most were simply too stunned, their horses too blown, to do anything but cast their weapons away and fall out of their saddles and lie on the ground when the vengeful infantry approached. Fred and Kari were just as stunned, in a way. As dreadful as the fight had begun, and as terrible as the ensuing one-sided carnage had been to view, they’d never expected to see so many Doms meekly surrender.
“Ain’t thaat somethin’,” Kari murmured softly.
Meder turned to her. “I thought you said Doms would never surrender on their own soil,” he practically accused. That wasn’t entirely true. The battle clearly lost, thousands of Dom regulars surrendered in El Corazon, even aiding the hunt for “elite” Blood Drinkers after they committed a particularly appalling atrocity. But no one had ever seen Doms just quit an open field battle.
“They never have, like this,” Fred defended, mind racing. “Maybe news of what we did to ’em in the west spread farther than we thought. Especially that we don’t murder prisoners.” He hesitated, reluctant to voice another opinion, but couldn’t help himself. “Or maybe on top of that, and the licking they just took, they’re wondering why they should die for Don Hernan.”
Winds of Wrath Page 13