A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  “Pat, I think they’re doomed anyhow.”

  “Not if we stay, dammit. Ha’ark is stretched. He’ll have to come straight to us, afraid that if we even break out temporarily and cut his rail line he’s finished. By God, sir, you are talking about citizens of the Republic, and this army is sworn to defend them.”

  “By defending them we might all die.”

  Pat leaned forward, staring straight at Kal. “This is the Senate talking, isn’t it? Some of those same damn old boyars we should have shot years ago. They want to sell out Roum, strike a separate peace with Ha’ark.”

  Embarrassed, Kal lowered his head.

  “He made you another offer, didn’t he?”

  Kal nodded.

  “Out with it. What was it?”

  “The army withdraws back to Rus. Any Roum who want to go with us can. We tear up the rail line between Roum and Rus and he’ll acknowledge the rights of the Republic.”

  “And you believe that horseshit?” Pat snarled.

  “It could buy time at worst. Or at best he’ll turn about and continue eastward come spring. We’ve defeated two Hordes. The others, let the others go as they once did, forever riding eastward, and we’ll finally have peace.”

  “First off, they’ll be back in twenty years.”

  “That’s twenty years, Pat. Twenty years of peace. We can build, fortify. They would not dare to touch us then.” His voice softened. “And the killing will stop.”

  “And leave the job for the next generation. Some legacy.”

  “Our generation is fought out, Pat. There isn’t a family in Rus that hasn’t lost a father, husband, or son. We lost two, three times as many as we would have if we had just submitted to the Tugars.”

  “As slaves, worse than slaves, as cattle,” Pat snarled. “By God, Andrew might be dying, the man who freed you from slavery, and this is your thanks.”

  “We need to survive now, Pat. Since this war started we’ve been losing. We’ve retreated over five hundred miles. Three corps have been smashed. When in hell will this end? When Suzdal is in flames?”

  “Well, if it does burn we’ll go down fighting. At least the men of the 35th Maine and 44th New York will. This is the second war we’ve fought to end slavery, and we’ll be damned if in the end we crawl on our knees and hold our hands up for the chains. You people did it long enough, but we sure as hell won’t.”

  Kal visibly winced at Pat’s bitter words. Pat wanted to apologize, sensing he had gone too far, but his anger was up and he remained silent, glaring defiantly at the president.

  “As president I can order a withdrawal.”

  Pat looked down at his uniform jacket. Flecks of blood—Andrew’s blood was on it. And what would Andrew do, the one who wrote the Constitution, who had breathed life into the concept of a republic on this alien world? What would Andrew say?

  “Andrew always said the military must ultimately take orders from the civilian branch,” Kal pressed, as if having read his thoughts.

  “And Vice President Marcus, the Roum, what of them?”

  “They can have sanctuary in Rus. Ha’ark said we’d be allowed to withdraw.”

  Pat laughed sadly and shook his head. “Once we’re strung out, halfway through the move, a million and a half civilians with us, he’ll strike. I tell you, he’ll strike.”

  “You and Andrew said he’s strung out as well. Tied to his rail line as we are. He doesn’t want a fight any more than we do at this moment.”

  “Then why is he here?” Pat snapped. “If he doesn’t want a fight, tell the son of a bitch he can leave at any time.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Pat.”

  Pat nodded, staring straight at Kal.

  “I’m not Andrew, sir.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just that.”

  “You mean you’ll refuse.”

  The shadow of a grin creased Pat’s features. “Sir, I think Andrew had some high-sounding words for it, something called a constitutional crisis or something like that.”

  “You can’t.”

  Pat stood up and came around from behind the desk.

  “Kal, you and I go way back. I remember the first time you took me to a tavern, and a fine brawl it was. We’ve raised many a glass together, and I hope, the saints preserve us both, we’ll raise many more. But this, old friend, is a parting of the ways if you press it.

  “Roum won’t stand for it. The Republic will split. I don’t want to act like a boyar of your old times, but I will. I’ll tell the army it’s ordered to stay, and by God many of them will stay. The army’s been their life for half a year or more. I’ll tell them that’s what Andrew wanted, and they’ll listen.

  “So I’m telling you that plain and simple, Kal. I’m also begging you, don’t make me do this. If the wound doesn’t kill poor Andrew, if this happens between us, it will kill him inside. I remember him telling me a long time ago that once an army disobeys its commander in chief, and that’s you, it sets something called a precedent, whatever that is. Even if we win this war, even if we set this whole planet free the way Andrew dreams, that shadow will always be there. If our friend wanted a legacy, it was not the army, not the victories, it was the Republic.”

  Pat sighed, and going back behind the desk he reached into the drawer, pulled out a bottle and two glasses. Filling them, he offered one to Kal.

  The president slowly stood up, and for a brief instant Pat felt a cold chill. Kal had modeled his looks after Lincoln, the black suit, the stovepipe hat, the beard, and in that moment he did look like Lincoln, bowed down with the weighty responsibilities of keeping his country alive.

  As he put his hat on, Kal shook his head.

  “I can’t drink with you now,” he whispered and started for the door.

  “Mr. President.”

  Kal paused and looked back.

  “Please don’t. If for no other reason than Andrew’s sake, please don’t.”

  “What purpose is there in my being president?” Kal asked. “You Yanks gave it to me, you gave all of this to us, the Republic, and also this damn war.”

  “We gave ourselves freedom,” Pat snapped back angrily. “Damn it all, Kal, there aren’t two hundred boys left of the six hundred who came here. There are the graves of well over a hundred thousand soldiers who fought with them. We did it together, and nobody gave anything to anybody else. Freedom isn’t a gift, it’s a right paid for in blood.”

  “And how much more blood do we need?”

  “Maybe all of us. You, me, all of us, but I’ll be damned to hell if I ever bow to anyone. I’m Patrick O’Donald, and I damn all who think themselves better than me, boyar, some lordship back in Ireland, and especially some damn Bantag.”

  “I pray that you’re right.”

  “Then we hold?”

  Kal hesitated. “For now, yes.”

  Donning his hat, he walked out the door.

  Exhaling noisily, Pat leaned back in his chair. Without bothering to argue with himself about his promise he took both glasses in turn and downed them.

  “Pat O’Donald, you’re permanently off the bottle, you are.”

  Pat looked up and saw Emil in the doorway.

  Pat sadly shook his head and poured two more drinks, motioning for the doctor to sit down.

  Sighing, Emil joined him, and after a false show of reluctance he picked up the glass.

  “How is he, Emil?”

  “I don’t know yet. Cutting into him like that, on the floor of the train, it was impossible to keep the air clean. I think I stopped the bleeding. I’m afraid I’ll have to go back in again. Two of the ribs were broken, and bone fragments might be lodged in the lung, but another operation would kill him. He’s lost too much blood.”

  Emil sighed.

  “Damn all, he needs blood. I’ve thought about the idea of taking blood from someone and putting it into him.”

  “Didn’t you try that before?”

  Emil nodded. “Five time
s with boys who would have died if I hadn’t tried it. Three times it worked, but the other two times something went wrong. It’s like the blood was wrong. Though I don’t know why, they both died. I don’t want to take that chance.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “I think I’ll lose him.”

  “Then do it,” Pat snarled.

  Emil lowered his head. “It’s one thing to lose him by what happened. It’s another to try some damnfool experiment on him and kill him that way.”

  “How’s Kathleen?”

  “She’s with him now. I relieved her of her other duties—she’s no use to anyone else right now.”

  Pat nodded in agreement.

  “What was going on in here between you and Kal? I was standing outside the door and heard some godawful hollering.

  “Just that he wants to throw in the towel.”

  Emil sighed.

  “Can we still win this? It seems like nothing but defeat’s been dogging us for months now.”

  “It’s not defeat, not yet,” Pat announced. Saying the words felt strange. Ever since they had been flanked at Capua the dark thoughts of defeat had seeped into his heart. All he needed to do was voice them, to even whisper them to one other person, and he knew they would spread, take on a life of their own, and perhaps destroy what will was left.

  “We hold Roum and we win. That’s what Andrew wanted.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  “You have to.”

  “Emil?”

  Startled, Pat looked up. Kathleen was at the doorway, eye’s wide with fear.

  “He’s bleeding again.”

  Emil was on his feet, Pat following him. Emil raced past Kathleen, Pat falling in by her side. She looked at him, and reaching over he put his arm around her shoulder, as if to brace her up, and pulled her along as they ran through the old forum which had been converted into the headquarters for the upcoming battle for the city and down a flight of stairs to a secluded room where Andrew lay. As they stepped into the room, Pat instantly felt sweat beading his brow. A woodstove had been moved in, a pipe run up and punched through the ceiling.

  Pat had not seen his friend since Emil had started to operate on him aboard the train, and the sight of his waxy features frightened him.

  He seemed doll-like, shrunken, head moving back and forth listlessly, lips moving, a thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Pat glanced at the floor and saw a rubber tube connected to a bottle. Dark blood was dripping into it.

  Emil and Kathleen knelt down by his side. Pat nervously drew closer.

  “Tell O’Donald to come up, come up,” Andrew whispered. “They’re on the wall.”

  Frightened, Pat realized Andrew had drifted back to some battle of long ago.

  Emil glanced at the drain bottle and the trickle of blood at the corner of Andrew’s mouth. Gently putting his head down, he listened to Andrew’s chest, then straightened.

  “I’ve got to operate,” Emil whispered.

  “It’ll kill him,” Kathleen cried.

  “It’ll kill him if I don’t.”

  Emil walked over to a table by the side of the bed and started to open his medical bag while motioning for an orderly to start preparing for surgery.

  Kathleen stood up, tears in her eyes.

  “For God’s sake let him go in peace.”

  “I’m not going to lose him,” Emil cried. “I can’t let him go.”

  Kathleen looked over to Pat, as if begging for support.

  Pat swallowed nervously.

  “My blood, use my blood.”

  “That’s too risky,” Kathleen replied.

  Emil looked over appraisingly at Pat.

  “I should use someone else. It’ll leave you weak.”

  “Then use mine,” Kathleen said. “I’m his wife.”

  “I don’t understand why certain bloods mix and other’s won’t,” Emil replied. “Maybe there’s a difference due to the sexes as well, so you’re out, Kathleen.”

  “Dammit, Emil, use me,” Pat interjected forcefully. “I can’t just stand here and do nothing.”

  Emil looked back at Kathleen and then stepped to her side, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  “You’re his wife. You decide, Kathleen dear. Remember, though, it's not just Andrew, it's the army, the Republic. But if I don’t go in there and finish the job, Andrew will certainly die. At least this way he’ll have a chance.”

  She looked down at Andrew, then finally nodded her head.

  Emil called for orderlies to bring in a stretcher. Andrew was gently shifted out of the bed onto the stretcher and up onto a makeshift operating table, which was nothing more than two sawhorses with the stretcher resting atop them. Two more sawhorses were brought in and a stretcher laid across them, and Emil motioned for Pat to take his uniform jacket off and roll up his sleeve.

  Suddenly Pat felt nervous, shivering slightly in spite of the heat of the room as he lay down on the stretcher by Andrew’s side. Looking over at Andrew, he saw the ugly wound slicing into his side, just below the armpit. As Emil gingerly lifted the bandage off, Emil felt as if he could look clear into Andrew, and he was glad he was lying down as the doctor slipped the drain tube out and a stream of liquid dripped out with it. Strange, he had seen thousands of wounds, but this was different, this was his friend, his comrade, his commander.

  Andrew’s eyes fluttered open and Pat realized Andrew was looking at him.

  “You hit too?” Andrew whispered, his voice full of concern.

  “No, Andrew darlin’, just Emil here’s goin’ to put a little of me precious blood into you.”

  He forced a laugh.

  “Make you a regular Irishman it will.”

  Andrew smiled weekly. “Hope it gets me drunk.”

  He closed his eyes and then seemed to drift off into his dreams again.

  Kathleen held up what looked like an oversized perfume bottle, and walking around Andrew she started to spray the air with a mixture of carbolic acid. Droplets landed in Pat’s eyes and stung.

  Suddenly there was the cloying fruity smell of ether as Emil opened a vial.

  “Not too much,” Kathleen whispered.

  “I know, I can’t.”

  The cone was over Andrew’s face. Emil let several drops of ether splash onto the cone, and Andrew’s drawn features relaxed as if he were already dead.

  Emil now turned to Pat and held up a needle. A tube snaked from the needle to a rubber bulb, and from the bulb another tube was connected to yet another needle. Emil hurriedly explained what he was going to do, and Pat nodded, feeling quivering in his stomach.

  Kathleen came over, poured a splash of Vodka on his arm, rubbed it clean, tightened a strap around his upper arm. He felt the prick of the needle as it slipped in. Pat closed his eyes, then opened them, again to look over.

  Emil, down on his knees, was already at work cutting into the wound. As he watched, Pat felt as if Emil were at the distant end of a tunnel, then everything slipped away.

  Riding past the burned-out hulk of a Yankee ironclad, Ha’ark reined in his horse and dismounted. In the bitter night cold the ironclad glistened with frost, catching the starlight of the Great Wheel filling the sky directly overhead.

  He looked up in wonder. Which star was home? Was it even this galaxy? No, home is here, this is my place of empire. He paused for a moment. It was never proper to show curiosity, or wonder—let them wait a moment. He walked up to the ironclad, examining the hole punched into the side of the machine. Bits of flame-scorched uniform lay by the side of the machine. Some of his warriors had found a convenient dinner within. He chuckled at the thought. Already cooked.

  The knot of warriors kneeling in the snow farther down the slope awaited his approach, and he finally deemed to notice them. Approaching, he gave an imperious wave for them to rise.

  “Who saw this?” he asked. One of the warriors, an ironclad commander, stepped forward and bowed.

  “I did, my Qar Qart
h.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We were pursuing the beaten machines. The pilot of my machine”—he paused and nodded toward another warrior, whose arm was in a sling—“shouted that he saw the one-armed cattle. I saw him too. I ordered our machine to turn to fire upon him. Mortar rounds were exploding, and then I saw him fall from his horse.”

  “There are other one-armed cattle—how do you know it was him?”

  “There was a blue-and-golden flag beside him. I saw also the red-haired devil with him. When the one-armed cattle fell there was panic, and many gathered around. The red devil took him up on his horse and they galloped down to the iron rail steam engine and put him aboard it.”

  “Did you not try to stop this?” Ha’ark asked.

  The warrior lowered his head. “My lord, I drove us straight at their iron rail engine. It was the one with great plates of armor all along its sides, with many guns on it. That is where we were hit and my machine destroyed.”

  His voice trailed off, as if expecting punishment. One of the other warriors stepped forward, carrying a Yankee flag, the one of blue and gold, and in that instant he knew for certain, this was the flag of Keane, he had seen it following him at the Battle of the Rocky Hill.

  The flag was offered, and Ha’ark took it, holding it, seeing the flecks of cattle blood which stained it.

  “It is as I saw it in my dreams,” he announced. “You have confirmed the vision.”

  There were excited nods, looks of awe, a shaman at the back of the group loudly exclaiming that Ha’ark was indeed the Redeemer.

  Ha’ark grinned.

  “Their spells are broken,” he announced. “Let all know that now. The invincible one-armed Yankee has fallen. All the cattle will now be ours.”

  Still holding the flag, he turned and walked away, heading down to where the rail line was. The city to his left still burned, casting a lurid light across the land. Warriors by the thousands were marching past, moving along the sides of the rail line, and he stood in the shadows, watching them. Chin cattle, staggering in the bitter night cold, were at work, salvaging rails, working along the line, running track back toward the burning city, and as they died they would help to feed his army.