A staff officer had been assigned to show them the route out of town, and at first Dolfen wondered if the young man was lost, because he seemed to be leading them almost due east; but then he saw there was a method to his madness. The east side of West Memphis was protected from flooding by a stout levee, and the top was flat and wide enough for a column of cavalry. He led them up on to it and turned north. This let them pass through the defensive works with no trouble, the river on their right and the Martians – hopefully - well off to their left.
As promised, there were numerous warships on the river firing at the enemy, and their heavy guns did seem to be keeping the Martians away. Dolfen sent his scouts ahead, warning them not to go too far. He was a bit worried about being silhouetted on top of the levee, but a quick look at the ground on either side convinced him this was the only practical route. So they rode north with a grandstand view of the battle to the west.
The artillery was firing at a steady pace, and from time to time there would be a salvo from a ship on the river. He could see explosions where the shells hit and sometimes a tripod would be lit up, but they were too far off to tell if any damage was being done. Every now and then they’d see a heat ray being fired, but it looked as though the enemy was still just probing the defense lines. The main attack was still to come. Dolfen was actually glad to be out of there, now that he thought about it. A city fight was no place for cavalry.
They rode a few miles and got to the place where they were supposed to turn more to the west and head for the town of Clarkdale, but the scouts came back and reported that there was a solid line of enemy tripods blocking the path in that direction. “There’s one of them bastards every four or five hundred yards across the line of march,” said a sergeant. “No way we’ll get past ‘em without a fight, sir.” Dolfen reported this to Colonel Schumacher.
“There’s no point in us getting ourselves into a pitched battle here,” he said. “Is the way along the levee still open, Frank?”
“Seems to be, sir. Although it swings in a loop off to the east, following the river.”
“Well, so be it. We’ll take a wider route up to Gilmore and see if we can get into their rear from there.”
“That’s gonna take a while. Might be dawn before we get there, sir.”
“I know. We’ll have to pick up the pace. Get them moving, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” He gave the orders and the column lurched into motion again. The levee actually turned away from the direction they wanted to go for a mile or so, but then swung back to the northwest. It was also getting lower and lower and eventually stopped altogether. There was still a dirt road following the river, but it was overgrown and clearly hadn’t been used for a while. Frank hoped it wouldn’t just lead them into a swamp. Their staff officer had disappeared an hour earlier and he had no one familiar with the area. Except for the remains of one smashed tripod - killed by the navy apparently - they had left the battle behind. While they could still hear it, they were getting no light from the star shells anymore and it was very dark under the trees which lined the road.
It was about one in the morning when by dead reckoning they turned away from the river and headed for Gilmore. They broke out of the trees and found that the moon, just two days past the full, was now overhead and providing enough light to see by. They advanced a mile over abandoned fields and eventually stumbled on a road which appeared to be going the way they wanted. The battle was just a rumble now, and the noise from the motorcycles and armored cars seemed very loud in the warm, still night air.
The land sloped slightly upward away from the Mississippi. Another mile or two and it would flatten out with unobstructed views for miles. Once it was light, maybe they could get some aircraft spotting for them. They’d been a big help during the skirmishing in the previous week, although no attacks had been permitted. Apparently they were saving them for the…
“Captain! Captain Dolfen! Rider coming in!”
The shout wasn’t loud, but it still made him flinch. He looked ahead and a man on a horse was galloping down the road as fast as the beast could carry him. Damn, they must have run into another Martian scout. The bastards were being a lot more careful after what had happened at Little Rock. Could they get around it somehow? If they lost the element of surprise…
“Martians! Martians, Captain!” gasped the man. As he reined in his horse, Dolfen saw that it was Sergeant Findley, one of the best scouts in the regiment. “A whole passel of ‘em!”
“What? How many? Where?”
“Hundreds! Just the other side of that high ground! Hundreds of them heading east!”
“Get hold of yourself, man! Are you sure?”
“’Course I’m sure! They ain’t a mile off and I can see ‘em in the moonlight!”
Good God! Another attack force? Where had it come from? And where was it going? “Come on, show me!” The scout turned his horse around and they both headed back the way he’d just come. Dolfen shouted back at Lieutenant Lynnbrooke: “Halt the column! Get the colonel up here!”
Dolfen leaned forward and used one hand to hold his hat on as they galloped to the higher ground. Even before they reached the top, he could see the heads of the tall war machines bobbing along in the distance. The man had been right: there were a lot of them.
A lot of them.
He halted his horse and took in the horrifying sight. More tripods than he’d ever seen at once before. A hundred at least and maybe more, all striding from left to right across his path. Moonlight reflected off their skins like off the water in a flowing stream. The red lights which normally glowed from the middle of their ‘faces’ were all dark for some reason. Their thin, metal legs were moving with that bizarre, yet rapid gait that always gave him chills. It looked like some metal forest on the march. And all around the machines’ legs…
“Are those the spider-machines they’ve been talking about?” whispered Findley.
“Must be,” said Dolfen. They’d heard a lot of stories about them, but this was the first time he’d actually seen them. There looked to be hundreds and hundreds of them moving with the bigger machines.
“Dear Lord! There are more of ‘em! Look, sir!” The trooper pointed and Dolfen saw that beyond the horde in front of him, there was another dark and glittering mass on a rise in the ground another mile or so off to the north.
“My God,” gasped Dolfen. “This is bad, really bad.”
“What’s that noise, sir? That other noise?”
Dolfen cocked his head and heard what the man was asking about: a hissing, grinding sound like something big being dragged along the ground. He fumbled out his binoculars and looked. It was hard to see much, even with the moonlight, but after a moment he realized that broad rectangular shapes were being pulled by some of the tripods using cables. At first he couldn’t grasp what they were but then it suddenly came to him.
“Boats! Damn, they’ve got boats!”
“To get across the river?”
“What else? We need to warn headquarters! Come on!” They turned their horses around and galloped back down the hill to where the head of the column had halted. As he’d hoped, Colonel Schumacher was there.
“What have we got, Frank?” he asked.
“Trouble, sir! Big trouble! There’s two or three hundred tripods and God knows how many of those spider-machines, and they are all heading toward the river and they’ve got boats!”
“Boats?”
“Boats or rafts of some kind. They’re dragging them along. Sir! They mean to cross the river north of the city!”
“You’re right. No other possibility. We need to let MacArthur know. Is there a radio in one of your armored cars?”
“Yes, sir! Right back there.”
“Sir,” said Schumacher’s adjutant, “we transmit this close to them, they’ll hear for sure. They’ll come after us and we can’t fight three hundred tripods!”
“No choice, this can’t wait,” said the colonel. “Get that message off, F
rank. The rest of you, get the column turned around and prepare for a fighting withdrawal!”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 845.2, West of River 3-1
“Commander, we have intercepted an enemy transmission. It is very close by. Two or three telequel to the south.”
Qetjnegartis checked its own sensors and saw that it was true. “It is likely that we have been spotted. Tanbradjus ’s forces were to have swept this area clear.”
“It is a large battle area, Commander,” replied the subordinate. “It is difficult to guard every approach and…”
“Enough! We must deal with the reality. Send one group to investigate and make sure no large force is preparing to attack. The rest of us will push on to the river with all speed. We must get across before they can shift forces or their watercraft can interfere.”
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
The pounding on his cabin door yanked Drew Harding out of the first sound sleep he’d had in two days. “What? What now?” he snarled.
“Sir! Sir!” came a muffled voice he recognized as belonging to Lieutenant Alby Hinsworth. “Signal from the flag, sir! We need to get moving!”
Not quite awake, Drew sat up and swung his legs out of the bunk. “Move? Where?”
“Up river! There’s word the Martians are trying to cross!”
Fully awake now, Drew grabbed his shoes and was grateful he hadn’t bothered to undress. “Just us, or the whole - for God’s sake open the door so I can talk to you!” The door swung open and Hinsworth looked in. “Just us or the whole squadron?”
“The whole squadron, sir! Commodore Rush wants us up there right away. Engage and report the situation. I’ve ordered full steam in ten minutes and we’re getting ready to raise anchor.”
“Good man!” Drew finished with his shoes, grabbed his coat and hat, and went out the door. It was still dark except for the gun flashes on the western shore. “What’s the time?”
“A bit after three, sir.” Drew was glad Hinsworth wasn’t one of those who clung to the traditional navy practice of using ‘bells’ to tell time. Good, two hours and it would start to get light.
They reached the bridge and a signal rating was there with a scrap of paper. “Sir, Evansville, Vanceberg, Manchester, and Louisville Star have all acknowledged the order to move out. No reply from Dixie Dancer.”
It didn’t surprise him. The first three were navy gunboats and the Louisville Star, one of the modified riverboats, had a good skipper. But Dixie Dancer was nearly useless, both the ship itself and the man in command. Drew wasn’t going to worry about whether they came along or not.
He took up his binoculars and scanned the river for nearby traffic. The commodore had divided his forces into a number of squadrons which he had been rotating into and out of action during the attack so the army would have continuous support. Drew’s squadron had been in twice and he’d hoped to be able to rest his men - and himself - for a few more hours before going in again. But it was not to be.
His squadron had been anchored near the eastern shore to keep them out of the way, and as far as he could tell, the route up river was clear. He turned to Hinsworth. “Signal Evansville to take the lead, we’ll follow and then the rest. Did the commodore say how far north the enemy is?”
“No, sir. Just that they were crossing north of here.”
“Well, they can’t be crossing along the stretch where they’ve built the concrete walls. We’d see the flashes from the guns if they were. So they have to be at least ten or twelve miles up river. That gives us a while. Get under way, but don’t order battle stations just yet. Tell the galley to feed the men as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
The anchor was raised and Santa Fe started moving. They slipped in a cable length behind Evansville and the engines were put full ahead. Going against the current, they could only do ten or eleven knots. It would be at least an hour or so before they could expect to run into the enemy. Drew rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and gratefully accepted a mug of coffee and a sandwich.
The battle around West Memphis was still going on, but after a half hour, he started seeing flashes from the north—almost dead ahead. Shortly after that, some of the big guns along the concrete walls on the eastern shore started firing, although he couldn’t tell at what.
“Mr. Hinsworth, get the men to battle stations, clear the ship for action.”
“Yes, sir!” The alarm gong rang out and the crew hurried to their posts. A rating appeared to hand Drew his life-jacket, helmet, and anti-dust gear. It was a warm, humid night, but he didn’t hesitate to put them on. Reports quickly came back that all stations were manned and ready. His crew were veterans now.
The river was in a long shallow curve to the right, and Drew couldn’t see that far ahead due to a thick forest on the eastern shore beyond the line of walls. But the flashes of guns flickered above the trees and the sound of explosions could now be heard. As he watched, a star shell burst in the distance and it was followed by a pair of rocket flares. Somewhere around the bend there was fighting.
“Signal Evansville to let us catch up. We’ll go in in pairs. Have the others do the same. Use the signal light.” The orders were given and the leading gunboat slowed to let Santa Fe draw abreast of her on the right. Vanceberg and Manchester were pairing up astern, and to his surprise he saw a shape which had to have been Dixie Dancer closing in on Louisville Star.
“Shall I send a message to the commodore?” asked Hinsworth.
“Let’s wait until we have a better idea what’s going on. This could just be a feint to draw our forces away from Memphis.”
“Yes, sir.”
But minute by minute he became convinced it was no feint. The flashes grew brighter and more numerous, and the roar of explosions even drowned out the rumble from the West Memphis fight, now ten miles astern. Finally, the river straightened out and he could look ahead.
“Good Lord, sir,” said Hinsworth. “Look!”
Drew was looking. The river appeared to be filled with dark shapes and the western bank was a mass of flame and smoke. Geysers of water leapt up out of the river, and heat rays stabbed out from the shapes against the shore. He raised his binoculars and the shapes became distinct: tripods. A lot of them. Sweeping his view from shore to shore he saw that there were some tripods already climbing out of the water on the east side. There were no concrete walls here, just trenches. More tripods were wading into the river from the western shore, a seemingly endless horde, their metal skins gleaming in the light of the flares.
“Signal the commodore,” said Drew. “Tell him that the enemy is crossing the river in great strength and that we need immediate reinforcements.”
“Yes, sir!” said Hinsworth, who dashed away.
The squadron was still advancing at full steam and the range was closing quickly. What to do? Their guns outranged the enemy heat rays, so it would make sense to hang back - at least until reinforcements arrived. Charging right into that mass of tripods would not be a good idea. He turned to a signal rating and said: “Order to squadron. Hold position here and commence firing.”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 845.2, River 3-1
Qetjnegartis stood its machine on the western shore of the river and observed the situation with satisfaction. Despite being discovered by the enemy prior to launching the attack, it was clear that at least some measure of surprise had been achieved. No prey-creature water craft had been waiting and the defenses on the far shore, while substantial, were not proving to be especially formidable. This spot had been chosen because none of the cast stone walls had yet been erected, although there were some not far to the south whose weapons were within range.
Crossing the river itself was proving difficult, but not as bad as feared. A number of fighting machines had become immobilized in the soft bottom, and two had been swept away by the flowing water. But most were crossing with only minor problems. And the vessels Ixmaderna had designe
d were proving entirely suitable for transporting the drones across the river. Floating vessels had not been used on the Homeworld for many thousands of centuries, since the canals had dried up, but the principle was still understood. A hollow container made of light materials would, along with its cargo, displace a sufficient mass of liquid to balance the pull of gravity. Towed by a fighting machine, the vessel could transport the drones across the water safely.
Some of them had already reached the far shore and were in amongst the defenders there. The prey-creatures were fighting fiercely, but they did not seem to have substantial reserves and had only a few of the armored fighting machines. It appeared as though the feint against the city’s outer defenses to the south had been successful in deceiving the enemy about the location of the main attack.
“Commander, enemy water vessels are approaching from the south,” communicated a subordinate.
Qetjnegartis turned its attention in that direction and saw that six vessels had appeared from around a bend in the river. They were coming directly toward the crossing, but then turned slightly, slowed, and began firing with their large projectile throwers. Explosions began to erupt in the water, some dangerously close to the fighting machines. But there were only six of the vessels. Surely not a great threat.
“Proceed with the crossing,” it commanded. “Ignore those vessels unless they come closer. Get across, destroy the defenders there, and push inland with all speed. We need to strike the defenses around the city before the enemy can redeploy.”
Following its own command, Qetjnegartis moved its machine down the bank and into the water.
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