“I asked what was going on,” he said.
“There’s a problem, Andrew,” Emil said.
“Emil, not now, for God’s sake,” and she started to guide him back into the room.
“No. I need to hear it.”
She looked up at him, and he could sense the fear in her. Fear of what she had done, what he might say.
“You were right, Kathleen.”
She lowered her head. “I know,” But even as she spoke he could feel her starting to shake in his arms.
The memory of it all was forming, and he was ashamed. Ashamed of what he had forced her to do, of the terrible struggle that still boiled inside him. He wanted to scream at Emil to leave, to not drag him back so quickly. But the doctor was already in the room, waiting.
“Go ahead, Emil.”
“Marcus has informed Pat that he will surrender the city.”
“Why? My God, Emil, they haven’t even breached the outer wall.”
Emil sighed, looking now at Kathleen, and she finally nodded her head.
“Go on, Emil. You’d better tell him.”
Pat sat disbelieving, unable to continue the argument any longer. Though he was tempted to arrest Marcus, or better yet shoot him, he knew he could never do that. To do so would trigger not just a surrender but a civil war in the ranks of the army. They were played out to the end, and he saw nothing left to do.
It was obvious, though, that something was wrong with the Bantag army. Their rate of fire had dropped significantly since dawn and was falling off even more in the early afternoon. They were nevertheless pushing in on the inner wall and at one point had even gained a temporary foothold before being driven off.
And he could not blame the Roum soldiers for melting away from their units. In the panic consuming the city they now believed the battle lost and sought their families if for no other reason than to die with them.
Pat looked back up at Marcus.
“I never thought I’d say something like this,” Pat sighed. “I’m begging you, Marcus. I know the battle’s turning. I’ve been a soldier far too long not to know it. Hans broke their line, they’re out of supplies. We hold on till sunset, we have them.”
“We fight till sunset and they’ll be into the inner city. And once they’re in, there’ll be no acceptance of terms. They will murder everyone. I must think of my people now, Pat. You fought a good fight, but it’s over. I have to save what is left.”
“I can’t accept this. Andrew would never accept this.”
Marcus shook his head. “But Andrew is no longer in command.”
“I might disagree with that, Marcus.” The voice came from the far side of the room.
Pat stood up, mouth open as if he were seeing a ghost. And for a moment he thought Andrew had indeed passed over and his shade had come to him to bid a final farewell. His uniform hung limply from his shoulders. His features were pale, white, like the face of a consumptive. The only thing that was still recognizable was the eyes, the pale blue eyes that at times could look so absent, distant, but in an instant could flash with the fire of battle, and the fire was there.
All in the room fell silent, everyone freezing in place. Weary, dejected staff officers gazed upon him, then came to their feet. No one spoke, no one moved, as he slowly, painfully walked into the room. His gaze fell upon the map table, studying the lines tracing the Bantag advance, the wooden blocks marking where units were positioned, all the blocks now crowded into the inner city or cut off, surrounded, out in the suburbs.
He studied the map for several minutes, everyone silent, and then finally looked back up at Pat.
Pat could see the strain, the struggle, his one hand resting on the table in order to brace himself, to keep standing.
“What is the report on their ammunition?”
“We’re finding bodies without a single round on them now, no more than six to eight rounds usually. Artillery fire has almost stopped as well.”
Andrew nodded and then looked back at Marcus.
“What is this about surrender?”
“Andrew, a lot has happened since you were wounded.”
“I know. We’ve fought a campaign. We retreated five hundred miles, we stretched him out to the breaking point. Fabian tactics, we call it, named after a Roman general of our ancient world.”
He paused for a moment, as if each word was paid for with pain.
“We stretched him out, and now the line’s broken as I knew it would be. We’ve won.”
“You call what is going on out there a victory?” Marcus asked, struggling to control his frustration.
“I’ve fought enough wars to know a victory, Marcus. He’s exhausted. We hold the rest of the day, we counterattack at sunset, and they’ll run.”
“If they don’t, we all die.”
“Then we die,” Andrew snapped, and now there was a whisper of strength in his voice. “Because, Marcus, if you surrender we will all die anyway.”
Marcus was silent. Andrew looked around the dimly lit room. Too many people here for what needed to be said.
“I want to see the fighting,” Andrew said. “Marcus, Pat, follow me.”
He walked slowly, deliberately. His hand shot out to the narrow wall of the staircase as if to brace himself as he cautiously took the steps one at a time.
When they reached the observation platform, Pat moved around Andrew, guiding him over to a sandbagged niche. The startled observers gaped at Andrew, then came to attention, grins lighting their features as they saluted.
Andrew smiled, half raising his hand, then Pat shooed them away.
Andrew stood silent for a moment, breathing deeply. In spite of the drifting smoke, the wet damp smell of battle, the air smelled good to him, the scent restoring something, reminding him of what he was. A bullet smacked into the pockmarked dome behind them, and he flinched at the sound of it.
“It’ll take some getting used to again,” he said self-consciously.
Pat gazed at him, still not quite believing.
“Jack Petracci flew over an hour ago and dropped a message that they had cut the line for nearly fifteen miles. Blew some trains and rescued at least seven thousand Chin slaves. Andrew, it’ll be days, maybe a week or more, before they can bring up more supplies. And listen to the battle, Andrew—the rate of fire is dropping. They’re running out of ammunition even now!”
Andrew turned his head. It was hard to tell, for the roar of battle was all-encompassing. There was nothing to compare it to in terms of what it must have been like a week, two weeks ago. But whether their rate of fire was dropping or not, he knew that Pat had to be right, and if their supplies were cut it was over.
He looked back at Marcus.
“We fight.”
“And if I refuse?”
Andrew stared at him.
“Refuse as what?”
“Vice president, leader of the people of Roum.”
“You mean vice president of the Republic of which Roum is but one state.”
Marcus said nothing, staring at him.
“Marcus. Between you and me. If you give the order to surrender. I’ll have you arrested.”
“I doubt that.”
Andrew smiled. “What is said between us, Marcus, I pray is never repeated. I have admired you since I first laid eyes upon you. I believed you to be the embodiment of all that was good of the ancient Roman Republic. I still believe that. But, my friend, we are winning this fight, and if you try to surrender I will overthrow the government if need be in order to save it.”
“You who designed it? Then what will you be, Andrew?”
“A traitor, Marcus, plain and simple. But I can see the ghosts of a hundred thousand boys, Marcus. Boys who died to create this Republic and save it. I must answer to them too, and they will want us to fight. So I will overthrow the government in order to save it, to save every person on this world, for that is what this fight is for. The Republic is everyone, not just us, but all those still waiting to be free.
“And as for me? Well, I’ll take the responsibility for it. And once we’ve won. I’ll resign my commission, reinstate you and Kal, and then, if you feel like it, you can shoot me for treason.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life, Marcus.”
Marcus looked back out over the city in flames, the thunder of battle, the screams of terror, the braying of the Bantag nargas, all of it washing over him. Finally he lowered his head.
“We fight till sundown.”
“We fight to the death,” Andrew replied sharply.
Marcus nodded, unable to speak.
“Marcus?”
“What is it?”
“Help me to make this victory. You sacrificed Roum. The Rus sacrificed Suzdal. I need you now. Will you take my hand?”
Marcus looked at Andrew as he extended a hand and came toward him.
The old Roum general hesitated, then finally smiled.
“You Yankees. You are madmen.”
“And that is why we win.”
Grinning, Pat burst away, racing down the stairs and back into the headquarters.
“We fight!” he roared. “By God, we fight. I want every one of you out of here, out to anyone you can find. Full loads of ammunition to be moved up. The reserve units on the eastern sector, make sure they get full cartridge boxes first. I want fire suppressed along the docks and ammunition on those monitors offloaded. Then I want everyone to open up and pour it on nonstop. Every rocket we have, to be fired simultaneously to signal the counterattack. And pass the word. Andrew Lawrence Keane is back in command!”
The rocket barrage, volley after volley, lifted up from the center of the old city, soaring up almost as high as the lowering clouds, then came streaking back down, detonating among the flaming ruins of the suburbs on the western side of the city.
The concussive roar of explosions washed over him, hundreds of explosions, flashes of light, smoke rising, boiling into the sky. Along the battlement walls, fieldpieces and heavy siege guns redoubled their fire, spraying canister, shell, and solid shot into the confusion.
Ha’ark stood silent, field glasses raised, trying to pierce the gloom, to see, to grasp what was happening. He could hear bugles, high clarion tones, chilling, the call echoing and reechoing above the roar of battle. It was their signal for the charge.
Smoke—there was too much smoke. All he could judge now was the sound, and the volume of it was increasing with every passing second. Volleys of rifle fire erupted now, sweeping the dim outline of the inner wall. They had to be firing blindly. But whether they hit anything or not wasn’t the intent, it was a display of power, and he waited tensely.
The smoke parted for a brief instant, caught by a gust of wind coming up off the sea, and it was as if a curtain were pulling back. The gates of the inner wall were open, columns pouring out, blue-clad, moving fast, and they were cheering. No, it was a chant, a single word, over and over …
“Keane … Keane … Keane …”
On the battlement wall he saw a standard go up. A blue banner, the wind catching it, unfurling, and he looked to the standard behind him that was flapping in the breeze. The standard was the same.
Keane? Was he alive after all?
The cheer rose. Ha’ark looked at his staff. They were gazing at him in wonder. He had said Keane was dead.
“Ha’ark, there, by the standard,” Jurak said, pointing.
Ha’ark raised his field glasses. Someone stood on the battlement, one arm raised, surrounded by others, all of them cheering, waving their hats, shouting their defiance. He studied him and then lowered his head. Yes, it was Keane.
The roar of rifle fire was spreading out, a distinctive higher pitch. They were charging, and there was no fire in return.
Ha’ark lowered his glasses, turning angrily to a battery commander who stood by his silent guns.
“I want fire on that bastion!” he shouted. “We can still turn this back!”
“With what, Ha’ark?” Jurak sneered. “All ammunition is expended.”
Down in the streets below he could see shadows moving back, first just one or two, then dozens, then finally a river of black-clad forms. They were not pulling back in formation, they were running!
To add to the confusion, an airship came in low out of the smoke, aimed straight at him. Diving down against the battlement wall, he tensed. Rapid gunfire erupted, bullets streaking past, slamming into the battery, cutting down the battery commander, most of his staff. It roared overhead, turning up, then disappearing.
Ha’ark stood up, ignoring the screams of the wounded. He could sense the rising terror, the eyes upon him.
“Keane is … he must be a demon, an undead,” Ha’ark announced. He knew his words were a guarantee of terror, but it was that or accept the blame for what was happening now.
Those who wished to believe him nodded. For after all, he was the Redeemer, and the Redeemer had to be right in all things.
Ha’ark sighed, lowering his head. But one more trainload of ammunition and we could have broken through, he thought. Surely they are expending their last gasp here. But one more day and we would have had them. Keane must know we are out, that our supplies are gone, otherwise he would not waste so much powder in a display of power. But one damn train and we could outlast them and tomorrow walk into a city unarmed and slaughter them all. Even two umens armed with bows and lances could do it, but they are all elsewhere. My own dependence on guns, on rails, powder, shot, and iron, which was to bring victory, now spells defeat.
“Against such power we cannot stand. Order the retreat.”
“To where, my Qar Qarth?” Jurak replied coldly.
Ha’ark turned, staring at his lieutenant. The contempt in Jurak’s eyes was evident. Behind him others of the staff were staring as well.
“Out of here!” Ha’ark roared. “We must save this army while we still can.”
“Yes, we must save this army,” Jurak replied coldly. No one moved for a moment, until finally Jurak turned, nodding to the staff officers, who finally broke away and disappeared into the confusion.
“What is wrong with you?” Ha’ark asked.
“Do you actually expect this army to follow you after what happened here today?”
“What do you mean?” He felt a shiver of coldness, as if a light inside were blowing out, the last of his power waning away, when only hours before he had been so close to final victory.
“Exactly that, Ha’ark. We’ll be lucky if we’re both alive tonight. After this those barbarians we lead will tear us apart.”
“I am the Redeemer,” Ha’ark replied sharply. “They wouldn’t dare.”
He looked craftily at Jurak. If there was blame it was here. Jurak should have kept better control of the flow of supplies. Jurak would be the offering. He started to turn away, reaching into his belt to pull out a Yankee-made revolver. He heard a click and looked back over his shoulder. Jurak had a revolver out, cocked, and pointed straight at his head.
“I am the Redeemer!”
“You were the Redeemer.” And Jurak squeezed the trigger.
Taking the captured standard of Keane, Jurak looked at it for a moment. Slamming the staff down, he planted the flag on the battlement by Ha’ark’s body, then walked down from the battlement. To his surprise the staff were waiting, and he felt a moment of fear but hid it. Show fear and it’s over.
“Ha’ark?” one of them asked.
“He’s staying here.”
Grins slowly broke out. For a long moment Jurak stared at them, and then one finally went down on his knees, followed by the others.
“I am not a Redeemer,” Jurak announced, “but I can still lead you to victory. Now let us leave this accursed place.”
Lowering his head, Andrew stepped down from the battlement, struggling for control, control over a body racked with pain, over his fear, which threatened to take hold again with the whisper of every bullet streaking overhead, the detonat
ion of each shell.
Pat looked at him, wide-eyed, like a child on Christmas morning. In the street below, the column of troops heading for the gate and to the fight beyond looked up at him. They were the veterans, the hard-fighting survivors of the old 1st Corps, their ranks pitifully thin, uniforms torn, ragged, mud-streaked ponchos rain-soaked, reflecting the light of the fires.
The men looked up at him, hats off, raised in salute. He stood silent, unable to speak, the men cheering, chanting his name.
They looked ghostlike in the gloom. Faceless battalions of the living, so many of them soon to be dead, yet they cheered him. For a moment they all looked the same, all were Johnnie, all of them the shadows lurking in the woods. And then the vision passed. No, they were the living, fighting for the living now. The citizens of Roum, clogging the sides of the street, watched the procession pass, and a cheer rippled through the crowd, rising, sweeping up the streets, into the packed alleyways, houses, across the city. It was a cry of the living … of the delivered.
Andrew looked over at Pat and smiled.
“Your victory, Andrew. You did it.”
Andrew shook his head.
“Our victory, Pat. A victory for all of us.”
Chapter Fifteen
Stepping off the gangplank, Sergeant Major Hans Schuder came to attention and saluted the commander of the Armies of the Republic. He could barely contain himself as he looked appraisingly at Andrew, who came forward, hand extended.
The two stopped shyly, only inches from each other, aware that their staffs were watching. Hans broke the tension, putting his arms around Andrew, hugging him. Andrew winced, and Hans let go.
“Sorry.”
“Still a bit sore, Hans.”
Hans stepped back a foot, gazing into Andrew’s eyes.
“Still not over it, are you, son?”
“Don’t know if I’ll ever be.”
Hans looked at his staff, waving them off. Ketswana, grinning, shoved the eager boys along. They fell in with Andrew’s staff and wandered off along the dockside, looking about gape-mouthed at the destruction from the battle.
Hans motioned Andrew over to a sandbagged barricade, and the two sat down. The day was warm, the first hint of spring. Looking about, he was amazed at the devastation. The entire east bank of the river was a shambles of broken buildings, flame-scorched walls, windows looking like empty eye sockets of a blackened skeleton. There was the cloying smell of wet burned wood, rubble, filth, and bodies yet to be discovered.
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