"And if the Merki come back in from the west?"
Vincent shook his head and chuckled.
"We'll be fighting on the banks of the Neiper once again, with your monitors all that's left to stop them."
"We're in the shit, aren't we?"
Vincent chuckled sadly. "Most definitely my friend, most definitely."
Andrew stepped back as the courier reined in his mount, mud spraying up around the horse.
"Their flanking column's two miles out, sir. General McMurtry is asking permission to disengage."
Andrew nodded. 'Tell him we'll meet at the rendezvous this evening."
"Yes, sir!" The courier tugged his horse around and, kicking up yet more mud, galloped back up the road leading into the woods to the north.
"Don't know if this damn rain is heaven-sent or a devil's curse," Emil shouted, trying to be heard above the shrieking of a train whistle as it lurched out of the Port Lincoln train station, pulling twenty flatcars loaded down with six batteries, the gunners huddled under shelter halves tied off around field-pieces and limber wagons in a vain attempt to block out the driving rain.
Trotting alongside the track, the horses for the batteries were being led west, more than one of them carrying a footsore infantryman riding bareback and hanging on for dear life.
"You really should take the train, Andrew," Emil said, continuing the argument he had been pressing earlier. "Don't hold much with this theory that getting wet makes you sick, but you've been pressing yourself pretty damn hard."
"No room for Mercury on the trains, doctor," Andrew said, nodding to his mount, "and he won't let anyone else ride him. Besides, Pat's up forward now. I think I'll tag along with the boys pulling back."
"You don't have to set any examples here, Andrew."
Andrew smiled. "But I do, doctor, I do. No one's getting left behind, we have trains to get them out, at least till the final rush, and I want to make sure it stays that way."
A gust of wind swirled across the Port Lincoln rail yard, and in spite of the driving rain, sparks danced around Andrew from the piles of supplies burning by a siding, the air thick with the smell of smoke and kerosene.
The whistle of the last train in the station shrieked, the engineer leaning out of the cab and waving to Emil.
"Get aboard now, Emil. I'll see you in three days."
"Take care, Andrew. Be careful and don't do anything stupid."
"Me, dear doctor?"
"You're a walking violation of the law of averages, Keane. Don't go rolling the dice again."
Andrew laughed and patted Emil on the shoulder as the old physician climbed up into the command car, which was crammed with the serious cases from the hospital.
A distant rattle of musketry echoed from the woods. Looking up, Andrew gauged the sound.
Stepping back from the train, he waved to the engineer. Pulling down on the whistle, the engineer eased in the steam, the wheels spun, grabbed hold, and, with a lurch, the train started down the track and out onto the main line. As the boxcars loaded with wounded and the last of the infantry from the rear guard drifted past, Andrew stood at attention, returning their salutes.
Stepping away from the track he looked down toward the sea. The spectacle had an apocalyptic quality to it that held Andrew's attention. The warehouses, which had been fired earlier in the day, were now smoldering ruins, clouds of steam and smoke blanketing the side of the hill, rolling black clouds swirled up from the hospital, while in the harbor explosions erupted, flashing bright in the gloom as what was left of Petersburg and Fredericksburg blew apart. The Bantag blockade ships had moved in closer, and, as he watched the shadowy beetlelike forms of the ships, another broadside erupted, shells arcing overhead to explode in the woods beyond.
"Damn poor shooting," Andrew said disdainfully, now that the worry of a lucky hit on one of the trains was over. Looking to the east, he could see dark forms moving on the far side of the ravine . . . forward skirmishers of the Bantag host advancing up the road. A flash of light detonated as one of the riders triggered a mine, the distant boom of the hundred-pound shell echoing a dozen seconds later.
"Well, it's all over," Andrew announced. "No sense in hanging around. Let's get the hell out of here."
One of the boys on his staff nodded toward the door of the headquarters. Andrew stepped back into the building for a final look around. There was a scattering of papers on the floor, the door into his room in the back open, the clock still ticking, the wall map, marked with pins and tape showing the ever-tightening pocket they were in, still hung on the far wall.
"Go ahead, Vasili," Andrew said.
The boy could not help but let the flicker of a smile appear as Andrew walked out. Upending a five-gallon can of kerosene, the boy emptied the contents out, flinging the can into Andrew's office. Pulling out a match, he flicked it to life with his fingernail, lit a newspaper, then tossed it on the floor, stepping back out.
"Enjoy yourself?" Andrew asked.
Embarrassed, the boy looked around.
"It's all right," Andrew said. "It's almost like burning down your school."
The boy nodded, ashamed to admit his incendiary fantasies.
Swinging up onto Mercury, Andrew grimaced at the clammy feel of the wet saddle soaking through his trousers. Pulling his slouch cap down low, rain beading off the brim, he led the way along the track, pausing for a moment to look behind him as flames licked out the doorway of his headquarters.
Another volley erupted from the woods to the north, this time closer. A fieldpiece clattered out of the forest, drivers lashing the horses, the caisson and gun bouncing into the air as they went over the tracks. A troop of cavalry followed. Mounted infantry appeared along the flank to the north, filtering out through the trees, weaving their way through the cluttered streets, their horses shying nervously as they dodged around the smoldering ruins of the town.
"Colonel Keane?"
Andrew barely recognized the commander of the Third Suzdal Mounted Rifles as he reined in. The young officer, the son of an old Boyar, was covered from head to foot in mud, an ugly gash creasing his face from forehead to jaw, blood mixing with the mud.
"You all right?" Andrew asked.
"Bastards shot my horse out from under me. Had to kill one of them to get a new mount."
Andrew looked at the horse and saw that the saddle and trappings were Bantag. He wondered if his young officer had checked to see what was in the ration bag behind the saddle and thought it best for now not to mention it.
"Just a little shaken, sir. I think we better get a move on. They might be spreading out ahead of us again."
"Lead the way then," Andrew said.
The cavalry officer swayed in the saddle, his guidon bearer reaching out to steady him.
Cursing, the officer shrugged off the help and urged his horse up to a canter. A rifle ball fluttered past, followed by two more, and, looking back toward the flaming town, Andrew saw several Ban-tag riders emerge from the smoke. Horsemen around Andrew turned, raising carbines and firing, dropping one of the skirmishers into the muddy street as the other two pulled back into the smoke.
As they continued down the track more men emerged, pulling out of the forest to gallop down the road, deploying after several hundred yards to form a screen. Crossing over a low rise, Andrew could see the last train out receding into the distance. Sparing the time for one final glance at Port Lincoln, he saw that what was left of the town was already in enemy hands.
There goes a year's worth of building and planning, Andrew thought sadly. A fleet gone, supplies to keep an army in the field for weeks, a hundred miles of rail, and nearly three thousand dead. He turned Mercury about and continued westward toward Ha'ark.
"Damn all, I wish I was going with you." Chuck Ferguson sighed, pulling his collar in tight against the wind-driven rain whipping around the station platform. The latest storm had swirled up in the afternoon and by evening had turned into a bitter-cold downpour. A wracking cough sei
zed Chuck, and Vincent looked over anxiously at Jack Petracci, who was holding up an umbrella to try to shelter the young inventor.
"You think Andrew would be crazy enough to allow you within a hundred miles of a battlefield?" Vincent replied.
"Just, well, maybe there are better ways of going than this," Chuck said weakly.
"The hell with that," Vincent snapped back angrily. "For starters, wandering around out here in the rain is just courting trouble. Now get the hell back into the station."
Chuck, ignoring the warning, stepped past him and started to walk down the length of flatcars, looking up at the artillery crews who stirred and came to their feet at his approach.
"Remember, you can kill at over three hundred, but try and let the range close to two hundred yards, boys. Try to avoid deflection, aim 'em straight in. And keep those shells dry; otherwise, the papier-mache will melt off."
Vincent turned away, knowing it was senseless to argue, and walked up to Kal, who stood in silence, watching the loading of the last three trains, which were taking a division of Sixth Corps to the eastern front.
"They're tough men," Vincent announced, "mostly veterans, hardened by being out on the western frontier. They'll do well."
"Do you really think you'll get them all out?" Kal asked.
"Not all of them, Father. Some, not all."
"We're bleeding ourselves white out there." Kal sighed.
"You know, if you start to waver, if you fall for anything that Ha'ark is feeding you, it's over."
Kal looked past Vincent and gave a friendly wave to a company of infantry who were marching past, several of the men obviously friends of Kal's from long ago, replying with ribald jests about the infamous tavern owner's wife.
"So few of my friends left now," Kal continued. "Try to keep them alive a bit longer."
"I'll try my best."
"You know, I was thinking about it this morning, when I couldn't sleep. I got up and walked about the White House. Remember when it was the palace of Boyar Ivor?"
"I remember. I was part of the company that escorted Andrew the first time we paid a visit here."
"Ivor wasn't such a bad old character. I think he half wanted to make some sort of agreement with you folks; just there was always the Tugars. Funny, I look back on that time when I was just another damn peasant, surviving by telling bad jokes and singing songs off-key, the palace fool. It wasn't such a bad time then in a way."
Vincent looked at him with a worried expression.
"I look at us now. Our whole society has become a machine of war. I sometimes wonder if we could even survive without war. It's like we're addicted to it, like those poor wounded veterans who've become morphine addicts. And here we go again."
Kal gestured toward the Suzdal rail yard. Crates of supplies lined the track, waiting to be loaded aboard when the trains that had moved Fourth Corps earlier in the week returned. One of the trains had five double-length cars on it, the Republic's answer to Ha'ark's land cruisers, the machines covered with tarps, the mechanics who had been working on them for weeks gathered around Chuck, who had wandered over for a final inspection. With the wind from the west, Vincent could hear the low mournful whistle of a steamboat heading down the river, pulling a dozen empty barges, puffs of smoke showing on the far side of the city.
The old earthen fortress line around the city was showing signs of disrepair, rivulets of muddy water eroding the sides in the downpour. Something to remember there, Vincent thought, get work crews out on them. Even if it's women and children, the Merki could always raid now that the frontier has been all but abandoned.
Vincent pulled out his pocket watch, checked it, and looked over at the stationmaster, who nodded in agreement.
"Time to get going," Vincent announced.
The ritual had been played out so many times that he found he really didn't feel anything from it anymore. Tanya and the children were back at the White House. She had learned long ago that tearful farewells at the station were not within his range of emotions.
He extended his hand to Kal, who clasped it warmly, drawing Vincent into the traditional Rus embrace and kiss, which he accepted woodenly.
"Take care, my son."
Vincent stepped back and saluted formally. From the corner of his eye he saw a women coming through the press, and Vincent walked up to her.
"Mrs. Keane, you shouldn't be out here like this."
She forced a smile.
"Well, Vincent, I've decided I'm going with you. The hospital here is in fine shape. I'm needed more at the front."
"Ma'am, the colonel wouldn't appreciate that."
"Frankly, Vincent, I don't care what the colonel thinks. It's my duty as well, and I'm going. I'll be on the hospital train going back later tonight."
Vincent could see that there was no sense in arguing. Her decision was a logical one. As head of the hospital system now that Emil was trapped behind the lines, it was her duty to be forward.
"Vincent. You know Andrew's always counted on you," she said softly.
"I know."
"No, that's not how I wanted to say it. Of course he knows you'll do everything to get those boys out, and him along with them. It's just, don't lose sight of things out there."
"Ma'am?"
"You're almost too good at what you do. Take Pat. He's a loudmouthed Irish bruiser, and Jesus knows I love him for it, like my da in many ways. Yet even in the thick of it, he always thinks of his men above everything else, how to spare one more life. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
Vincent stood silent and lowered his head, leaning forward slightly as a gust of icy wind whipped around him.
Stepping forward, she kissed him on the forehead. "Bring as many back as you can."
Unable to reply, he stepped back and, to her embarrassment, saluted her as well.
"All aboard!" The cry echoed down the station platform. Soldiers, rifles slung over shoulders, hurriedly said their final good-byes, clusters of families gathered around them in the pouring rain. Train whistles shrieked as Vincent moved through the press and ascended the narrow iron steps into his command car. Swinging the door open, he saw the men and officers of his headquarters company looking toward him, and he motioned for them to stand at ease.
Walking the length of the car, he slipped into the small private compartment and slid the door shut. Taking off his rain-soaked poncho and hat, he settled down and looked out the window.
Kal was still standing in the rain, hat off, raised in a salute. A band, standing under the protection of the station porch, was playing "Battle Cry of Freedom," sounding tinny and distant. The train lurched and eased out of the station, rumbling through the maze
of tracks onto the main line, slowly gathering speed as it crossed over the bridge spanning the Vina. Looking up the valley, he saw the earthen dam for the reservoir, the factories below the dam belching dark clouds of smoke as the forges turned out yet more locomotives, rails, cannons, rifles, and shells. In the years since the Merki War a whole new city had sprung up around the works, rows of brick houses going up on the surrounding hills, spreading across the open ground where the Tugar Horde had once camped during the siege.
The dam stirred memories of the act he had performed, which had saved Suzdal, and the tens of thousands of Tugars who had died as a result. There was a time when the killing had frozen his heart. Then there was the moment when, as Weiss later putIit, he had a breakdown of nerves as a result. And now? Funny, there was nothing but the war and for now, that was enough.
"Damn cold for this time of year."
Hans Schuder didn't even bother to reply as a bat- § tery commander squatted next to him, extending his hands to warm them on the flickering fire. The rifle fire along the picket line on the south side of the square flashed silently, the reports drowned out by the driving rain and rolling booms of thunder rumbling across the night sky.
Hans looked at the exhausted men around him, huddled in dark bunches around the flame, rain drip
ping from hats, a few of them curled up in the mud, so exhausted they were fast asleep in spite of the wet and cold.
"Bantag don't like it much either," the commander continued. "Just before dark, when they charged us,
you could see their arrows had no punch. One hit me here"—he pointed to his chest—"barely nicked me. Guess it makes their bowstrings stretch or something like that. Lucky for me, I guess. Hell, had two of them things dug out of my leg—one at Hispania, the other at the Ford."
Hans grunted, too weary to reply.
"How much farther, sir?"
"Farther?"
"To, you know, we get to the coast and get picked up?"
"Honestly, son, I don't really know."
The artilleryman looked up at Hans, and Hans realized that the boy was the battery commander who had pushed his guns up into the gully two days ago.
"Four, maybe five days," Hans continued. "We're more than halfway there."
The commander sighed and absently kicked at the edge of the smoldering fire with the toe of his boot.
"Damn, thought we'd be closer by now. The mountains are getting lower on our right."
"We've got to get down to where the plains reach the sea and there's a harbor. That means Tyre," Hans said, knowing he had to say something. One moment of irresolve or a display of despair on his part could ripple through the ranks like a plague.
"Why not try and force some of the passes right over there?" The artilleryman nodded to the ridgeline, which showed up for an instant in a flash of lightning.
"They're blocked, all blocked. We get caught there, break our formations up, and we're trapped. Out here, we're keeping them back. We'll get through."
The rain slackened for a moment and Hans could hear the low rumbling growl of the Bantag nargas, echoing in the night. They had taken to blowing the horns all night long, most likely to try to keep his men awake and unnerve them. At this point, though, no one seemed to really care anymore.
Groaning as he stood up Hans slowly stretched, cursing the rheumatism and the ache of the old wounds. Walking through the mud, he passed encampments of the reserve regiments in the center of the square. A few of them had managed to keep fires going, but most were in the dark, men sleeping in clusters around the regimental flags, which had been planted in the ground to mark their positions. Another flash of lightning revealed the southern line of the square, and he strode toward it. Men were sprawled out on the ground, some tinder shelter halves, or grouped under caissons and ammunition wagons—half the regiment supposedly awake, while the other half slept. Farther forward, a hundred yards out, he could see the occasional flash of a rifle, where a picket fired to keep back Bantag probes. The old Horde fear of night action seemed to be dropping away the farther south he pushed, and, in spite of the storm, there had been half a dozen flare-ups during the night.
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