Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "Let's get going, then," Hans snapped.

  "Just a second, you damned Dutchman," O'Donald said softly.

  Hans drew closer.

  "What the hell is wrong?" He felt his voice shaking.

  O'Donald looked up at him and drew his hand away from his stomach.

  "I guess I stopped one."

  "No, no." He grabbed hold of O'Donald as he started to slide down to the ground.

  A sharp grimace crossed O'Donald's features.

  "Feels like I spilled hot soup on myself," he gasped.

  "Lost nearly everybody getting to the gate, had to keep going, had to cut the line."

  "Rest easy, Pat. Don't talk."

  Hans tore O'Donald's shirt back and saw the ugly pucker of a bullet hole in his stomach.

  "It's not that bad," Hans whispered, as if by some magic of words he could somehow change it.

  "Too much of an old soldier to believe that," O'Donald grunted. "Belly wound and you're in the grave. Do me a favor."

  "Anything."

  "Shoot me."

  "Like hell."

  "Damn you," O'Donald cried. "You know what's going to happen to me." He smiled weakly. "Goodbye, Hans. Now get it done."

  Hans knelt beside his friend, unable to speak. It would take four or five days for him to go. He'd start to swell up, his insides rotting out, puffing up with the stink of death. There'd be the horrible delirium, the screams of anguish. In the end the face would already look like a skull.

  He looked over at his carbine lying on the ground beside him. This way it'd be over in seconds. He looked back at Pat. His eyes were closed, his lips moving.

  "Hail Mary full of Grace …"

  For the first time since he had seen Andrew wounded at Gettysburg, Hans felt tears come to his eyes.

  He reached over for his carbine, stood up, and saw the survivors of his staff standing around him waiting for orders, the battle still raging to either side not fifty yards away.

  "Detail four men, make a stretcher, and get him the hell back to the hospital area."

  "God damn you, Schuder," O'Donald cried. "You know I'm a dead man. Now finish it!"

  How could he explain? He had done it once before, out on the prairie, when one of his troopers had stopped a Cheyenne arrow in the gut. They couldn't leave him behind, and the boy, a Catholic, said he couldn't do it by his own hand. So he had volunteered. Nearly twenty years ago, and it still haunted him. The boy had whispered the same prayer, crossing himself and then smiling sadly at him before he closed his eyes and turned his head away.

  "Pat, I can't," Hans whispered, leaning over and almost tenderly brushing the hair back out of the wounded man's eyes.

  "God damn you," O'Donald gasped.

  Hans stood up and looked back again at his men.

  "All of you know," he snarled, "I want Mikhail alive. Make sure that's obeyed. Now let's take this goddam place back."

  Hans started forward. He paused for a brief second to look back at his friend, and in the swirling confusion of men O'Donald disappeared from view.

  Wide-eyed, Vuka saw the billowing clouds of spark-laden smoke turn the bend of the river before him. They were coming. He looked over at the Cartha ship captain.

  "It's going to get hot out here," the captain said, looking up at the Merki beside him.

  "It is madness for us to stay in the middle. Get us out of here—take us in close to shore."

  Startled, the captain quickly nodded his head and turned the tiller over, the galley swinging about to head upstream. Hulagar had ordered them to stay in front of the ships, and he fully knew the reason why.

  Hulagar be damned. He'd find the proper excuse later. For now he would simply watch.

  Rounding the bend in the river, Andrew felt his stomach tighten. Beneath the double shadows of the moons, Tobias seemed to be waiting for him. The Ogunquit, brightly silhouetted in the middle of the Neiper, was anchored stern-first, her heavy gun pointing straight downstream. A hundred yards forward were the other four ironclads.

  It would be a half-mile run straight up against the current. The only sound was the creaking of the oars as they turned in their locks, and the splashing of the paddle wheels of the two ironclads steaming fifty yards ahead and now spread out to run side by side.

  A bell started to rattle in alarm, counterpointed by the harsh screech of a steam whistle.

  So much for surprise, he thought coldly.

  He picked up a speaking trumpet.

  "First three boats make straight for the Ogunquit. Number four and five stand back and prepare to take out the nearest ironclads. As soon as the Ogunquit's hit, if any of you haven't struck yet, take out the nearest target, and for God's sake don't hit one of our own!"

  He hated to hold back, but this time he knew the reserve might be all-important.

  A snap of light ignited on the water, and seconds later a tower of hissing water rose up between his two ironclads. The galley rode up over the waves and continued on. The commanders of the other ships called for battle speed, and the vessels seemed to leap forward.

  Too soon, dammit, but he knew it was useless to call them back now that their blood was up.

  A shower of sparks rose up out of the Ogunquit's stacks.

  The range was closing painfully slowly, and he paced back and forth in the narrow confines of the bow.

  They were down to six hundred yards, and ever so slowly the first enemy gunboat started to slip out into the middle of the river, blocking the path in to the Ogunquit, followed seconds later by a second boat.

  There was another snap of fire, and a shower of sparks soared up from the Gettysburg, the metallic clang of the hit booming across the water. The ship pressed on, clawing its way up the river to get into carronade range.

  Andrew felt as if time had dropped to a crawl as they crossed through five hundred and then down to four hundred yards.

  The first two enemy ships were now making steam, coming straight down the river. His two ships seemed to fire simultaneously, their shot screaming up the river, one striking the lead ship, the other skipping across the water into the darkness.

  The four ironclads seemed to be on a collision course. The three galleys forward continued to press straight in, the other two swinging out wide to either flank.

  In the narrow confines of the river he felt that there wasn't an inch of space left for maneuver.

  The range closed down to a hundred.

  The enemy ships fired. A shot slammed into the gun deck of the President Kalencka, and a shower of metal and wood fragments sprayed across the water. The one ironclad started to turn, running straight into the middle of the channel, heading at the three galleys.

  "Get out of the way!" Andrew screamed.

  He saw the pole of one of them drop.

  "No, goddammit, the Ogunquit."

  The galley swerved in toward the first ironclad, and another galley followed suit, turning to run in front of its supporting gunboat, racing straight toward the other ship.

  "Goddammit!" Andrew roared.

  He felt the concussion through the water. There was a dull flash, and then with a thunderclap roar a column of water seemed to leap straight for the heavens. The massive bulk of the enemy ship seemed to lift straight up on its side. His galley swerved over, the captain aiming it away from the tremendous explosion ahead. He could hear the shouts of excitement and fear from his crew. Now they really knew what they had volunteered for.

  The second galley slammed into its target and another explosion soared upward, followed a brief second later by a detonation from within the ironclad that tore it into an expanding cloud of deadly debris.

  The mushroomlike explosion slammed across the water. Andrew felt the deck jump beneath his feet. The boat started to slide off back into the middle of the channel, and he looked aft.

  A section of railing had been torn away and half a dozen men were down, screaming in anguish.

  A wave of water, laden with steam and stinking explosives, wash
ed over them. The boat plunged through the smoke. The water was foaming around him, and in the dank stygian mist he saw the shadow of the first ironclad rolling over on its back, horrified shrieks echoing from within the doomed ship. Like a curtain pulling back before him, they shot out the other side. Ahead his two ironclads were still pushing in. Behind them he could see two of his galleys.

  The third had simply disappeared in the cataclysm.

  Andrew picked up his speaking trumpet.

  "The Ogunquit! The hell with the rest—get the Ogunquit!"

  The ship continued forward, and he looked back at the crew, their backs to him as they labored at the oars.

  They must know their chances now; and yet still they were hanging on. Everything he and his men had suffered for Roum he felt was already paid back in full.

  He looked forward.

  The Ogunquit was less than three hundred yards away. Another couple of minutes was all they needed.

  A brilliant snap of light burst from the front of the ship. An instant later an explosion of wood burst out the aft end of Gettysburg's paddle-wheel armor. A tearing shriek of wood grinding itself up issued from the ship as it instantly slowed. Within seconds, Andrew shot past the vessel as it lost way and started to drift back down the river.

  He looked forward, and it seemed as if the Ogunquit was not any closer. In the moonlight he could see water starting to foam underneath the ship's stem as the vessel slowly started to back up.

  "More speed!" Andrew screamed. "We need more speed!"

  Terrified, Tobias looked back at Tamuka through the curtain of gunsmoke filling the deck.

  "They're torpedoes! You saw what they did!"

  "Torpedoes? Can these things get us?"

  Tobias felt an inner twinge of pleasure at the note of confusion in Tamuka's voice.

  "I'm backing her up. We've got to get the hell back. We're reloading the gun with canister."

  "Can they sink us!"

  "Goddammit, yes, they can sink us!" Tobias shrieked.

  "Then you should have thought of this before," Tamuka said darkly.

  Again, damn them all, yet again they had tricked him, and yet again he would be judged. How could he ever have planned for this? Roum was supposed to have fallen, Andrew was supposed to have come back by land. No one was ever to have thought of making torpedoes against his ship.

  "If need be we can run back to the city."

  "You can't," Tamuka snapped.

  Tobias turned and looked at the Merki. There was something in his voice—he was hiding something.

  "Why?"

  Tamuka was silent.

  "Why, damn you, why?"

  "Fight your ship here," Tamuka replied.

  "Not until I know!" Tobias roared back.

  "Because the Vushka are crossing the river even now."

  Stunned, Tobias backed away from Tamuka, whose hand now rested upon the hilt of his blade.

  "So you lied to me all along," Tobias hissed. "You promised me Rus to rule as my own. You cheated me, you bastard."

  "You can still rule," Tamuka shouted. "But without us, you are nothing! Now fight this ship."

  Tamuka stood over him, his features dark. Tobias, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol, was tempted to draw the weapon but saw the look of warning in the Merki's eyes.

  He tried to hold his gaze, but the eyes burned into him, taunting him darkly, with all the dredged-up fears.

  Shaking, he turned away.

  "Attack slow!"

  "What the hell was that?" someone shouted, pointing off toward the south. Seconds later he saw it, a flash of light soaring up into the night sky.

  "They must be fighting along the river. Now keep moving!"

  The column ahead continued the charge straight up the main boulevard, and suddenly the Great Square was before him. Turning, Hans saw the endless stream of men pouring into the city behind him, the flashes of gunfire along the wall marking the rout of the Carthas, the breach into the city widening with every passing second.

  "If that bastard's hiding anywhere, it's in the capitol!" Hans shouted. "Form line by company, skirmishers forward!"

  Men started to sprint across the open area, while the regiment behind him raced across the front of the cathedral, showing a skill under fire born out of countless hours of drill. Hans felt a trembling in his heart at the sight of his old veterans falling into place.

  The battle flags came up into the center. A flash of light snapped across the square, and a spray of canister swept into the ranks.

  Hans held his carbine up.

  "For Rus!"

  The line broke, leaping forward.

  Screaming with rage, he fell in with the advance. Half a dozen cannon snapped lose their deadly loads of canister. It seemed as if hundreds of men went down, but the charge did not falter. The men raced in, bayonets forward. The Cartha gunners worked feverishly to reload while the charge closed in. A man broke away, turning to run back up the steps, and instantly the entire battery broke, men throwing down equipment, bolting in every direction, throwing up their hands shrieking for mercy.

  The charge went up and over them, and with Hans in the lead stormed up the steps.

  An arrow slammed past him, dropping the flag-bearer. He looked up to see a line of Merki archers, and at the sight of them the wild screams of the charging regiment changed into a near-primal roar of hatred.

  Onward they came, oblivious to losses. The Merki before him threw aside his bow and swept out his long scimitar.

  Hans, laughing coldly, aimed his Sharps straight into the warrior's face and fired.

  Crouching low, he broke open the breech and slammed in another round. A Merki charged up to him, sword cutting the air. Hans rolled back, raising his gun to fire. A Suzdalian came in from the side, slamming his bayonet into the Merki's back. He pulled the blade out, clubbed his musket, and swung it back around, smashing it into the creature's face, shattering the stock.

  Hans came up, looking over at the wide-eyed soldier.

  "Come on!"

  They burst into the building. A vicious hand-to-hand battle had erupted in the hallway, and dozens of Merki filled the corridor. Musket shots rang out, and screams of rage, human and nonhuman.

  Regardless of losses, the Suzdalians continued to pour into the building, climbing over the fallen, throwing themselves bodily on the Merki, slashing with their last ounce of strength to take one of the hated enemy with them.

  The melee pushed up the hallway, the floor slippery with blood.

  Reaching the double doors to the presidential chambers, Hans burst the doors open. An arrow snapped past, striking the man next to him. He raised his carbine and fired, knocking the lone Merki off his feet. Men poured in around him. Leaping over the furniture of the front office, he quickly reloaded, then kicked in the doorway into Kal's office.

  The doorframe next to him exploded, and the room filled with smoke.

  And beyond his wildest hope, Mikhail stood before him, a smoking single-shot pistol in his right hand, a still-loaded weapon in his left.

  Mikhail started to back up.

  "Drop the gun, Mikhail," Hans said softly.

  "I'll take you with me."

  "Not the way your hand is shaking," Hans growled. "Now drop the pistol. I'll promise you a fair trial."

  Mikhail looked at him, his eyes wide with terror, and then his gaze slowly started to shift to one of cunning.

  "The law prevents capital punishment, Mikhail. At worst you'll go to prison. Maybe we'll trade you for some prisoners."

  Mikhail lowered his weapon and let it drop to the floor. He started to laugh softly.

  "Then take me away, Yankee, and remember, I know my rights as a senator. Your laws protect me now."

  A thin smile creased Han's features.

  "Not before you get this."

  The crack of the carbine filled the room. Mikhail staggered backward, slamming into the wall.

  Stunned, he looked down at the red smear already spreadin
g out from his stomach.

  "You promised," he gasped.

  "And I've just given you your trial, you bastard," Hans snapped.

  "You lying peasant scum!" Mikhail whined.

  Bill Webster, who had joined the attack against orders, stepped forward, and shouldering his musket, he slammed another shot into Mikhail's stomach.

  "Sic semper tyrannis," Webster snarled, and he stalked out of the room, Hans following him.

  There was another shot, and then another, Mikhail's shrieks echoing into the corridor.

  An angry cry welled up from the Suzdalians as they poured into the room, explosion following explosion.

  Fighting raged farther down the corridor as yet more Suzdalians stormed past.

  The shooting in the room continued unabated, men re-emerging, their faces grim. Reloading, they swept on into the fight.

  Hans turned away from the fight and walked back down the blood-soaked corridor and out into the night. Thousands of troops were pouring across the square, spreading out in every direction. Going over to the edge of the steps, he leaned against a pillar and looked over at Webster, who had followed him. Reaching into his tunic pocket, he pulled out the stub of the cigar O'Donald had given him that morning, bit it in half, and offered the rest to Webster, who took it.

  "I should have killed that bastard years ago," Hans said, his voice distant. "Maybe, just maybe, all of this would never have happened."

  A flash of light lit the sky to the south, and he turned to look out toward the river. Long seconds later a distant boom echoed up the river.

  "If they still have the Ogunquit, we'll be back where we started," he whispered, as if to himself.

  "We need more speed!"

  One of the enemy ironclads swept directly in front of him, its gun exploding. A storm of shot boiled the water to one side, whipping it into a milky foam.

  To his left the President Kalencka continued on. Its carronade fired, and the gunboat before him seemed to explode in a shower of debris. The galley beneath his feet swung over, avoiding the fight, and Andrew cursed wildly.

  Every yard was precious in this mad race between the limits of human strength and the unrelenting power of the Ogunquit's engines.