Battle Hymn

by William R. Forstchen

  "We need the train schedules, it's the only way."

  "I think you're insane. At least let me get started here first. That way, if you fail, some of us still might get out."

  "Thanks for the confidence."

  Alexi sighed, extending his hands. "Go ahead, then, you damn fool."

  Without waiting for a reply he turned and crawled through the firebox door into the boiler, whispering for his two helpers to start passing wood in.

  As Gregory rounded the corner on his way back to the warehouse, he saw that the guard at the tower was looking in his direction. Again, he raised his shotgun in acknowledgment. The guard did not reply for several seconds, as if coming to a decision, and then finally waved in reply and slowly turned away. As Gregory walked along the platform, he saw the Bantag turn and look at him again.

  He must be suspicious, Gregory realized. After all, how many five-and-a-half-foot Bantag are there? He tried to walk casually past the warehouse door, slowed, then came to a stop. One of the weaknesses of their plan was already obvious. The sounds coming from inside the warehouse as it filled with escapees could not be contained—muffled whispers, the dull thud of something dropping, a badly concealed cough. Each noise sounded to him like a thunderclap.

  In the next few minutes the guard turned around several times to look at Gregory and then back to the factory compound. Gregory slowly paced back and forth, the minutes seemingly dragging into an eternity. Every couple of minutes the guard peered at him again. He ignored the glances, trying to act as if he were numb with boredom, his head lowered, his feet shuffling. He'd have to make his move on the dispatch hut soon, but it was best to hold off as long as possible. He drifted to the end of the warehouse and checked the locomotive. It was starting to build up steam, sparks spiraling out of the stack as the heat from the fire increased the draft. Pops and hisses, like the sound of a teakettle heating up, echoed in the yard. He looked back again at the guard, who apparently had settled down. Gregory eased back toward the door.

  "Lin?"

  There was a moment's pause. "What is it?"

  "How many so far?"

  "Just over a hundred and fifty."

  It was way too slow.

  How much longer do we have? He walked back around the warehouse and saw a fiery glow flickering as the firebox door popped open.

  The sound of heavy footsteps echoed. To his right he saw a column of half a hundred Bantag guards come around the corner of the compound wall, moving quickly. He felt as if his heart would stop.

  He waited for the column to turn toward him, but it continued straight past, running toward the main gate. He stepped back into the shadows, watching intently. In the middle of the crowd he saw a lone human. Though he had never laid eyes on him before, he sensed who it was and spat out the name like a curse.

  "Hinsen."

  Hans looked around the foundry floor. They had put more than two hundred into the tunnel so far, and nearly everyone was out of his own barracks. At the nearest treadmill, he saw, the pace had slowed. Several of those inside stared straight at Hans and then at the new crew of charcoal bearers walking past. They must have figured it out by now, Hans realized.

  Hans walked away, moving up the floor in the opposite direction from number three.

  "Hans!"

  It was Ketswana.

  "Gregory just passed a message back. Fifty armed guards at the gate. Hinsen's with them."

  "Who?"

  "Hinsen. Gregory just sent the message back up through the tunnel."

  "Hinsen." In all the time here he had never actually seen the traitor. Why, why of all nights would he come here tonight?

  The realization was like an icy hand clutching his heart.

  "They know."

  Hans tried to absorb the information. At least once every couple of weeks the Bantags pulled a surprise search during the night, looking for hidden food, weapons, any excuse to haul someone away to the pits. He wanted to believe that was the case tonight. But even if it was, they would soon discover that several of the barracks were half empty.

  They had to know that something was up. Someone must have talked, most likely directly to Hinsen. Otherwise he would not be here for the kill.

  Hans looked around at the factory floor. “The other guards?"

  “At their usual posts."

  “Get ready to kill all of them. Get ready as well to send the signal for a mass break to the other barracks."

  "It's going to trigger a panic."

  "I know."

  He mentally tried to count off how much time had elapsed since the train crew had gone through. An hour perhaps, maybe an hour and fifteen minutes. Was that enough time to get up steam? All he could do was hope.

  "Once we get our people in, slide the doors shut and wedge them. That should buy us a little time."

  "What about the breakout?"

  "If we're lucky, the bastards will focus here. Let's pray that Gregory keeps his head and waits as long as possible to rush the train. Now go."

  He watched Ketswana turn to leave. He desperately wanted to ask for the one favor, just the one favor, but knew that he couldn't.

  Ketswana looked back. "Manda's with Tamira. I'm going to get her now."

  Hans felt his knees go to jelly and he nodded his thanks.

  Sick at heart, he turned and waited by the door. When the rush broke into the foundry there would be a panic and somehow the door would have to be shut when the Bantag finally closed in. He waited anxiously, knowing that Ketswana might not get to her in time. And then what? He watched the entry gate and waited.

  "If you are wrong," Karga snarled, "I'll personally see to it that your skin is flayed from your body while you are still alive."

  Hinsen, struggling to control his fear, forced a smile. "The information is good, and I am surprised that you were not aware of it."

  As he spoke he looked toward the first captain of the guard. He knew that if he was right, the first captain would undoubtedly back him up, thus ensuring Karga's fall so that he could ascend to command.

  "Has there been anything?" Karga snapped at the gate captain.

  "No, sire. The cattle labor. A few more than usual seem to be going into the foundry. They must be calling in extra workers to finish a pour."

  Karga hesitated and then looked back at the guards Hinsen had rousted out. If he dismissed them now and it later turned out that a breakout was attempted, he would pay with his head. If there were no breakout, he would simply look diligent in his work and he could later find some means to take care of Hinsen.

  "Open the gate. We're going in."

  "Lin."

  He waited a moment, the seconds dragging by with painful slowness until there came the muffled reply.

  "Something's going wrong in the camp. Keep the door cracked open. If you see them moving toward the warehouse, start the breakout. Do you understand?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Just wait here."

  Gregory slipped away from the door and headed back to the locomotive. He heard a whispered hiss of warning at his approach and saw Alexi's anxious face suddenly peering out from the cab.

  "How goes it?"

  "We're almost up to steam now."

  "Start pouring it on. Something's gone wrong in the camp. We need steam now!"

  "I can't work miracles, Gregory."

  “Well, you'd better conjure one up damn quick," Gregory snapped. Even as he moved toward the dispatch building he saw a long rectangle of light suddenly appear as the door was flung open. A Bantag guard stood silhouetted in the light, watching the rising commotion by the gate.

  Moving quickly, Gregory walked straight at him. Lowering his shotgun, he put it under his cape, holding it firmly with his right hand while fumbling to bundle up folds of the cape over the front of the barrel. The guard stepped out of the one-room shack, looking toward the gate and then toward Gregory again.

  "Vuth ka Zagha?"

  He knew he was being asked a question. He contin
ued to advance, shaking his head emphatically.

  “Vuth ka Zagha?”

  There was a rising urgency to the voice. Gregory broke into a slow trot, coming straight at the guard, who now seemed to tower above him. The Bantag looked down at him as he approached, and then suddenly there was a dawning recognition … that he was indeed looking down at someone of human height.

  Gregory leapt forward, jamming the barrel of the shotgun up into the Bantag's stomach. Throwing his full weight behind the blow, he pulled the trigger.

  The blast of the shotgun, though muffled by the layers of the cape and the Bantag's body, still stunned him. The impact knocked the Bantag back into the room, and Gregory fell in on top of him. He kicked backward, struggling to pull the shotgun free from the smoldering cape. Two humans were in the room, clawing their way into the opposite comers. A low, gurgling moan came from the Bantag, who started to kick spasmodically. Gregory came to his feet and looked down at him. He closed his eyes and smashed the butt of the gun down on the Bantag's face. With grim satisfaction he felt the skull cave in. A muffled cry escaped one of the humans, and Gregory brought his gun back up.

  "A sound from either of you and you're both dead."

  They were wide-eyed with terror.

  "Listen to me. We're escaping. There's hundreds of us. Decide now. Either you help us or—" He raised his gun, pointing it first at one, then at the other.

  One of the two looked straight at Gregory and then down at the dead guard. A smile creased his round features, and leaning forward, he spat on the Bantag's corpse. The other just stood there, trembling with fear.

  "Which one of you handles the switches?"

  The one who spat nodded and pointed at himself.

  "Good. You have your keys?"

  The switchman knelt down in the pool of blood spreading out from the Bantag and tore a bunch of keys off his belt. "Now I do."

  "We're firing up a locomotive. I want a clear line out to the main track heading west."

  "You can't," the other one gasped.

  Gregory raised his shotgun again.

  "No, no. I don't mean it that way. There's an inbound train coming. It's due in fifteen minutes."

  "Kesus damn all," Gregory snapped angrily. "Do you have the dispatch schedule?"

  The telegrapher nodded toward his desk and Gregory examined the sheets of paper. They were in Chin. Again he cursed.

  "Like it or not, both of you are coming with us."

  The telegrapher's companion was still grinning. "Once you killed that bastard, what choice do we have anyhow?"

  Gregory carefully studied the switchman and sensed he could be trusted to keep his head. He saw that the Bantag was armed with a crude revolving pistol. Now he pulled it loose from the creature's grip, then he tossed the gun to the switchman.

  “Don't use it unless you have to."

  The switchman looked down at the gun in his hands and then back up at Gregory, a childlike delight in his eyes.

  A shot echoed outside. Struggling to control his panic, Gregory stepped out the still open door and looked toward the camp. The column was pouring in. No one, as yet, was coming in their direction. Somehow, in all the confusion, no one had heard his gun go off.

  “Just be ready," Gregory announced, and with his cape still smoldering he started back to the warehouse.

  "Run, damn it! Run!" Hans roared.

  From out of the shadows of the camp compound, he saw the crowd racing toward the door. He felt a moment of pure fear. Tamira was nowhere in sight. Then he saw Ketswana, Manda by his side carrying Andrew, herding Tamira in front of them. They burst through the door as a rattling volley of rifle fire swept the compound, dropping half a dozen.

  “How close?" Hans shouted as Ketswana came up to his side.

  “By the gate!"

  A minute at most, Hans calculated. He watched the crowd still surging in. He'd give them thirty more seconds. He started to count slowly.

  He reached thirty, and still there were a couple of hundred out in the area between the factory and the barracks, many of them recoiling from the rifle fire sweeping the open area.

  “Close it!"

  As Ketswana and his men leaned into the door, he heard shrieks from those still outside, and the surge forward was renewed.

  "Keep closing it!" Hans barked, filled with loathing at what he was condemning those outside to, but knowing that if there were a panicked pileup by the door, it would never be closed and the Bantag would easily get into the factory.

  The door creaked shut, the last few struggling to get through. One woman was halfway through when the door started to squeeze her. Hans leapt forward and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her on in. Wailing, she started to turn back, but he held her. Hands were still reaching through even as the door continued to close, and Hans turned away, sickened, still holding the woman as Ketswana's men struggled to push the hands back out. Rifle shots reverberated out in the compound. A bullet cut through the opening, hitting one of Ketswana's men, who collapsed with a shriek. He could hear rifle shots striking the iron-shod door and then the beating of rifle butts on it.

  The door slid into place, and the cries outside were cut off.

  "Wedge the door!" Ketswana cried, and his men struggled with a section of rail, heaving it into place. Half a dozen men pushed through the crowd, dragging a cart loaded with iron ore. A dozen more gathered around the cart and tipped it up and over. A steady patter of rifle shots thundered against the door from the other side, the heavy oak boards, backed with iron, absorbing the blows.

  Hans stepped back and surveyed the factory. A struggle was going on in the corner of the number eight furnace. A rifle shot snapped out, and then there was a wild, howling cry as the mob of workers fell on the guard and dragged him down. He saw the guard being picked up. It was Uktar. Roaring with insane glee, the mob bore him over to a bubbling cauldron of molten iron and hurled him in. Hans saw that Ketswana was directing the shutting of the door into the Chin compound. As the door slammed, workers started to pile rails up against it.

  Hans shouldered his way through the crowd to Ketswana's side. “The doors should hold until they bring up a cannon. We've got maybe fifteen minutes to get these people through the tunnel."

  “And what about the rest?"

  There were at least two hundred workers on the factory floor. When the reality of what was happening finally sank in, it would create a mad panic to get to the tunnel. The workers in the treadmills were now adding their voices to the growing confusion, screaming to be released.

  Hans struggled to block out their cries of agony. Long ago he had realized that he could not save everyone, but as he saw them now, he felt that his heart would have to turn to stone if he were to survive this night.

  "Ketswana. Set up a line of your men. There might be a rush on the tunnel. I'll try and feed as many through as possible until they break in. Then you and your men make a run for it!"

  Hans hesitated for a second, fixing Ketswana with a stare. "Don't pull the hero out here. By God, I need you and your men on that train!"

  Ketswana smiled, and it suddenly occurred to Hans that he had never seen the towering Zulu smile before. "The same for you, my friend. Just make sure Manda gets out!"

  Hans reached up to slap his friend on the shoulder.

  He saw Tamira and Manda and raced over to them. "Let's go!"

  He half dragged them toward number three. Only a handful of workers on the floor knew exactly where the tunnel was, but at the sight of Hans running past, they started to follow, by ones and twos, and then the mob surged forward. Struggling to keep ahead of them, Hans reached the side of the charcoal pile, the cordon of Ketswana's men letting him through.

  God forgive me, he thought, but she deserves this, I deserve it. He pushed Tamira toward the tunnel entrance. She grabbed Andrew from Manda's grasp. She started forward, then hesitated.

  "For Andrew," Hans shouted. "Now go!"

  She sprang forward, grabbing him fiercely around t
he waist.

  "No time now," he whispered softly. "I'll be along shortly."

  She kissed him on the cheek and broke away, stepping down into the tunnel. One of the diggers handed Andrew down after her.

  "Manda, go with her."

  She hesitated as well.

  "Damn it, woman. Go!"

  Head lowered, as if ashamed to be so chosen, she followed Tamira down the tunnel. Hans watched her go, and for the first time in years he found himself whispering a silent prayer.

  The mob was pressing in, trying to squeeze around the furnace. He picked up a crowbar and held it up.

  "One at a time, damn it!" he roared.

  The panic subsided as all turned to look at him.

  Scanning the crowd, he pointed at a young boy of fourteen or fifteen and motioned to the hole. The boy bolted forward and went down. He counted to ten and then pointed at a Chin woman, and then at what looked to be a Cartha. Screams echoed from the far end of the factory, growing louder as he slowly counted people off, but to his amazement, the panic close around him subsided. He felt perversely like the angel of life, choosing who would live and who would not. Finally he started picking Ketswana's men. He had to make sure that as many as possible got out. They would serve as a disciplined corps of fighters.

  "You next!" And even as he spoke, an explosion echoed through the factory.

  "There must be a way out of there!" Hinsen shouted, trying to be heard above the growing clamor of Bantag guards preparing to storm the factory.

  Karga glared at him. "You said there was an escape planned. They must have been preparing to steal the train. But now they've fled into the building."

  "No, damn it! Hans wouldn't be that stupid."

  "They are in there. We will kill them!"

  A gun crew pushed through the crowd, dragging a muzzle-loading fieldpiece. They swung it around to point at the door. The gun was already loaded. The gun commander whipped his linstock over his head till the slow match on the end glowed brightly and then he brought it down. With a thundercrack the gun kicked back, and part of the door a dozen yards away crashed in from the blow. The crew leapt forward to reload.