"Marcus, without them, you'll have no country."
"Don't push me," Marcus said coldly. "In five days' time your comrades will be here. They must know that out there, they'd be mad to stay and be caught by your army."
"Oh, they know we're coming," Vincent replied, thinking back to the mystery of why the telegraph line had not been cut. "I half suspect they want Andrew to come here with the army."
"Why?"
"I don't know. But I suspect all of us, you, Andrew, everyone is being maneuvered for some other plan."
"And don't maneuver me for your plans," Marcus said evenly. "I've come to like and admire you, young though you are. But you have the streak of a dreamer in you, Vincent Hawthorne. Maybe it is this strange absurd Quaker belief you carry."
"I don't know if I can call myself a Quaker anymore," Vincent said sadly. "I've killed too much to still claim my belief."
"Would you rather have lain down to the Tugars, or to those out there who we both suspect are the human mask of the Merki?"
"No," Vincent whispered, somewhat ashamed at giving an open voice to his denial of faith.
"My belief in freedom still stands, though," Vincent continued.
"And my belief in maintaining Roum as the eternal it has always been remains as well."
A thin smile creased Marcus's handsome but careworn features.
"I think we are at an impasse, my young ambassador," Marcus said, making it clear that the debate was finished.
Vincent suddenly noticed they had been standing on the battlement for some time, and not a shot had been fired from the heavy siege guns, or from the lighter weapons. Turning away, he walked over to the wall.
Across the field, alongside the battery he saw several horsemen. Pulling out his telescope, he raised it.
"It's Cromwell," Vincent hissed, offering the glass to Marcus. "I'd give damn near everything to have a Whitworth," Vincent snapped, enraged at his impotence.
"Something's up," Boris announced.
One of the three horsemen broke away from the group, riding up over the battery ramparts, and started across the field. A white flag fluttered from his lance.
"What does a white flag mean?" Marcus asked.
"It's the symbol of truce. They want to talk."
Marcus looked over at Vincent.
"There's nothing they can offer, Marcus. It's a calculated move to play on our weaknesses."
"Let's first hear what they have to say."
The horseman drew closer, waving the flag over his head, slowing as he approached the wall. The lone rider came to a stop fifty yards out and held the flag up high.
"Come forward!" Marcus shouted.
Cautiously the man drew up before the breach, gazing at the ruins with interest.
"Boris, level your gun on him," Vincent ordered.
With a grin of delight, Boris stepped up to the edge of the breach and clicked the hammer of his weapon, the sound causing the rider to look up.
"You'd better have business with me or I'll order you shot," Marcus announced.
"I am seeking Marcus Licinius Graca, first consul of the Roum."
"I am here," Marcus replied sharply.
"It is the wish of my commander that you come before him in parley so that the differences between us can be settled without further resort to blood. He will promise your safety."
"Not yourself," Vincent replied sharply. "It's not done, and you don't dare leave the city."
"I will send an emissary."
"You have nothing to fear from us," the envoy retorted, his voice full of irony. "We pledge your safety."
"Like hell," Vincent replied. "Send someone else."
Marcus looked down at Vincent and smiled.
"Then it's you."
"Me? I'm the ambassador for Rus, not your envoy."
"Who should I send, then? One of my senators? This war involves you as much as us. And it's your Cromwell you'll be meeting. I'm sending you."
With bell clanging, the engine slowed to a crawl. Stepping out of the car, Andrew walked out onto the platform and nervously grabbed hold of the railing.
If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was heights. Cautiously he peered over the side to the river valley a hundred feet below.
"Crossing the Kennebec, sir?" an orderly asked, looking out the door and then coming out to join Andrew.
"None other," Andrew said dryly, his stomach knotting as the boy immediately went to the side of the platform and leaned over.
"It sure is a long way down there, sir."
"More than a hundred feet, son. Now get back up here."
The young Rus soldier came up and looked at Andrew as if he were yet another boring adult who had cut into his fun.
"What's your name, boy?" Andrew asked, slightly embarrassed. It was getting so he couldn't even recall his own staff. They came on with him for several months, soaked up the training, and then went on to serve as adjutants in other regiments.
"Gregory Vasilovich, sir," and with a proud flourish he pointed back over the side. "My father helped build this bridge."
"Well, you've something to be proud of, Gregory."
The train swayed slightly and Andrew clutched the railing even tighter. Since there were no side rails to the trestle, it appeared as if they were crossing on thin air, and he felt as if at any second the train would simply tumble over the side.
"Don't worry, sir, it's as safe as they come. The biggest bridge in the world."
He had watched the construction with awe while it was going up. Over three hundred thousand board feet of lumber had gone into it. Ferguson had designed the five-hundred-foot-long structure with amazing skill. All the wooden supports and beams had been precut to a standard size at a sawmill in the woods fifteen miles north and then floated down the river and hammered together with wooden pins. The most amazing part of it was that the structure had gone up in under a month. Ferguson felt he was in a race with the legendary railroad engineer Hermann Haupt, who had worked miracles with the Union Army supply lines and had built a bridge of similar size in only three days. Lincoln had called that bridge the beanpole-and-cornstalk wonder. The name had stuck, and most of the men on the line now called this one the beanpole bridge, a name which at the moment did little to reassure him. Five other major bridges and dozens of smaller ones were needed for the line, but for Ferguson this was his proudest accomplishment.
The train inched along the bridge, and as they drew near the east bank of the river he saw two lines of men snaking up the side of the riverbank, bucket brigades, working at a furious pace. The train gained the far bank and with a slashing discharge of steam came to a halt.
"Fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes!" the cry echoed down the train.
"Mitchell, patch us into the wire, find out the latest," Andrew shouted back into the car.
Andrew climbed down the side and jumped to the ground, groaning and stretching. A mad scramble of men cascaded down from the cars ahead and behind.
The tank stop was an insane turmoil of activity. Another train was stopped ahead of them, still taking on water, while gangs of laborers were throwing wood up into the tender.
"Not on this side, you bastards! The other side!" a weary soldier shouted, coming down the track. His foot snaked out, catching a soldier on his bare backside as he started to squat down not ten feet from the side of the train.
"It's a goddam pestilence pit out there," Emil shouted, coming up to join Andrew, pointing to the other side of the train.
"Well, that's one thing we never planned for," Andrew said dryly. "When you're moving twenty-five thousand men, they've got to go somewhere."
At least his staff car and the passenger cars had privies. They were nothing more than small closets with the usual seat that opened straight down to the track. But for the men trapped on the other vehicles it must be gettingrather difficult.
"God, what a stench," Emil grumbled and stalked off. Andrew, wrinkling his nose, found himself in full agreement.
A young telegrapher came past Andrew and leaped onto the telegraph pole, scurrying up it, trailing a wire behind him. Andrew watched him for a moment as he gained the crosstree. Hanging on with one hand, he unclipped the wire dangling from his back that led into the train and snapped it onto the main line.
"Hooked in!"
Andrew could hear the key inside come to life as Mitchell, the original organizer of the telegraph system, tapped out a signal. There was a moment's pause and then the return started to come in.
After several minutes the clattering stopped and Mitchell appeared in the window, leaning out to hand Andrew a piece of paper.
"So what's the news?" Kindred asked, coming up beside Andrew, wheezing slightly from his asthma.
"They've run out of wood a hundred miles back, hitting the last four trains. They're burning everything, including the boxcars, to get to the next station. A car farther up broke an axle, derailing the train. Nine casualties, one dead. It tied the line up somewhat while they manhandled the cars back onto the track. In the middle here we're running a couple of hours behind schedule. Water's running low all along the line. But we've lost only one train so far."
As he spoke, he nodded toward the rail siding, where an old first-model engine, its eight cars behind it, rested on the side with a broken driveshaft. The train had broken down several miles farther up the line. The next train had uncoupled its load, run up, hooked on, then pulled it back. Luck had been with them on that one. If it had let go midway between two of the tank-stop sidings it would have shot the schedule to hell.
"So far so good," Andrew said evenly, looking back up at Mitchell. "Send out my approval, then disconnect."
The whistle of the next train forward cut the air, the engineer playing out the opening bars of a popular and very obscene tavern song. Many of the engineers had mastered the skill of playing the steam whistle, and each had adopted a particular tune as his signature. It was something they never did when Mina was around, since he vehemently denounced the practice as a waste of good steam.
The telegrapher on the pole snapped the connection off, tossed it to the ground while Mitchell reeled it in, and scrambled back down the pole.
The last of the men came scrambling back, leaping aboard as the train started to pick up speed. The train alongside Andrew lurched forward, easing down the track and stopping underneath the water tank, replacing the engine that had pulled away. The hose dropped down, and Andrew watched as a slow trickle of water came out.
Looking over at the wooden tank, he saw the bucket brigade hanging on rough ladders, passing containers up and emptying the precious liquid into the tank in a never-ending battle to try and stay ahead. The one thing they didn't have was a good wind to keep the pump running when they needed it the most.
Soldiers shouldered past Andrew, coming up to the side of the tender and throwing logs up. From out of the cab the engineer jumped down, oil can in hand, setting to work while his fireman and the two brakemen raced down the side of the train, tapping wheels with hammers to check their tone for cracks.
From out of the crowd he saw a blue uniform coming forward. The heavyset mustached officer saluted.
"Stover, sir, commander 2nd Vazima. It was our train that broke down."
Andrew looked at him for a moment, racing through his memory.
"Cliff, isn't it?"
"Thank you, sir, it is," Stover replied with a smile. "I put the boys to work on the water gang, helping out the garrison here. The rest are cutting up a pile of leftover lumber for firewood."
"Fine. I'm sorry to say it looks like you're out of the fight. Your boys can stay on here as extra garrison."
The disappointment in Stover's face was obvious.
"It's an important job. Lose this bridge and we're all in trouble. We can't be sure what Cromwell might be up to."
"All right, sir," Stover said sadly.
The engineer came around from the other side of the train and leaped back into the cab. "All right, we're just about full!"
Andrew looked down the track and saw another train pulling in and stopping on the bridge behind them.
The engineer hit the whistle. This time it was a religious melody, which made Andrew smile at the contrast from the previous tune."
"All aboard!"
Andrew returned the salute of Stover and walked back down the line, dodging past the wood crew, which was furiously piling the logs in. Men scrambled past, saluting him, so that he had to walk with his hand constantly up. Climbing up the side of the car, he rejoined Emil, who was coldly looking at the south side of the track. Andrew felt his stomach churn at the sight and smell. Men were running past, some struggling with their trousers, to the shouted delight of their comrades.
The whistle sounded again, and ever so slowly the train started to move. One poor soldier slipped and went facedown into the muck, and a raucous cheer went up. The soldier stood up, a look of horrified disgust on his face at the filth which covered him from head to foot, and Andrew burst out laughing.
"Come on, Annatov, you worthless shit," a voice boomed, obviously from an enraged sergeant.
"Shitty Annatov, shitty Annatov," the chant rose up with hysterical laughter.
"Come on, boy," Andrew shouted. "Run for it."
The soldier looked over at him, saluted even as he ran, and gained his car, greeted now with loud groans of disgust.
"That poor boy will carry that nickname to the grave," Emil chuckled.
The way Emil said it sobered Andrew.
"I just hope he's an old man and can laugh about it in the end," Andrew said as he turned and went back into the car.
"The commander will see you now."
Vincent was seething. He and Lucullus, first tribune of the legion, had crossed through the lines and then been kept waiting out in the sun before a large canopied tent for over an hour. It wasn't until Lucullus had turned on his heels and stalked off back to the city, shouting an angry curse, that their escort started to scurry, begging them to stay, offering some wine and a cool place to sit, along with the promise of an immediate audience.
The tent flap was pulled back, and Vincent could not help but notice that it had the appearance of a Tugar yurt, something that made him feel uncomfortable.
As he stepped into the gloom, he saw a short rotund form rise up from behind a desk in greeting.
"I am Tobias Cromwell, commander of the fleet and army," he said in Cartha, the translator standing next to him converting his words to a reasonable Latin.
"Lucullus, tribune of the legion, envoy of the first consul," the old warrior snapped, coming to attention.
Vincent looked over at Cromwell with a cold rage.
"We have no need for introductions, Tobias," Vincent said sharply.
"You know you weren't invited to this meeting," Tobias replied. "That is why there was the delay. My staff and I had quite a debate concerning it."
"So your Merki masters slipped out the back when you were done, is that it?" Vincent retorted.
"Merki?" Tobias said, extending his hands in a gesture of innocence.
Without waiting for the offer, Vincent went over and sat in a chair by Cromwell's desk. Lucullus shot him a look of reproach and then sat down beside him.
"The purpose of this meeting?" Lucullus asked.
"To spare any more bloodshed," Tobias replied.
"Under what terms?"
"That you renounce your agreement with the Rus and forbid their railroad to enter your territory, that is all. In return you will receive the same type of weapon support that they have claimed they will provide. In fact, I am in a position to immediately give you one thousand of our muskets and advisers to train your men.
"If you should do this, the Rus army will have no legitimate reason to enter your territory and the conflict is over."
"That is it?"
"We will also agree to pay reparations for the damage to Ostia, to any family that lost a member, and also to the owners of the plantations de
stroyed. We did not want to do it this way, but we had to make a clear demonstration of our intent. This war is against the Rus, not against you and the rulers of Roum."
Vincent was seething with rage. The plan was all so neat, yet he could not say a word in response.
"And the disposition of your army?" Lucullus asked.
"We, ah, do have a military concern there. If we should leave immediately, their army will simply return in force. That would not be fair to you, our allies. We would turn west to meet them, we hope with you by our side, and would demand that they withdraw and tear up their rail line to the river which they call the Kennebec."
"Named after a river from your own home state," Vincent interjected with cold irony. "Remember you used to be a Mainer and Union man yourself once."
"Used to be, Mr. Hawthorne," Tobias replied in English, looking straight at Vincent. "Vincent, it's a different world we live in, and we'd all better adjust to that fact."
"Ambassador Hawthorne or General Hawthorne is my title," Vincent replied coolly.
"Excuse me. Ambassador Hawthorne," Cromwell said, the faintest edge of irony in his voice. "It's just that I remember you from different days.
"But back to you, Lucullus," Tobias said, ignoring Vincent for the moment as if he were not there. "Those are our terms. I will call a cease-fire until this evening, when I will expect your decision. Will you agree to a cease-fire in return?"
"We have nothing to fire back with," Lucullus said with a grim laugh, "so of course I will agree."
"One last thing," Vincent said quietly. "I have one question to ask of you."
"Go on, then," and there was a note of exasperation in his voice.
"Why?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why this effort on your part? Whether Roum and Rus are united or not is no concern of the Carthas and you."
"Your expansion is very much a concern of Cartha. And besides, we can offer a better deal to Roum. The same industries, but without the damn peasant and slave revolution you are secretly importing to them along with your products," Tobias replied in Cartha, the translator hurriedly turning it back to Latin for Lucullus.
"Stop skirting the issue, Tobias."
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