Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  Yes, he did like Hazin, and in a different world he might consider him a friend, no matter how loathsome his dreams, morality, and obsession with power. He had never met a mind like his, or a personality that could be so frightfully engaging and controlling.

  He knew Hazin had seduced him, had seen him as but one more pawn in a game of power. And yet it was Hazin who had granted him his life.

  Bullfinch nodded. “That is all, Lieuten—Commander Cromwell.”

  “Yes, sir.” He stiffened to attention.

  “Your own personal orders I assume the president told you.”

  “Yes, sir, he did. He said I was the most qualified to lead the section, though he preferred that I accept a staff assignment with you instead.”

  “My staff?” Bullfinch laughed. “Hardly likely.”

  “I assumed you would prefer it this way, sir.”

  “You at least guessed right on that one, Cromwell. We have a million square miles of ocean to watch. As the air corps moves down here, you will serve as liaison to them and for training. You’ll do more flying in the next month than you did in the last four years. Try not to get yourself killed doing it, Cromwell.”

  “I plan to be here for the fight, sir.”

  Bullfinch shook his head. “What we have here,” he sighed, pointing at the papers and then looking back up, “scares the living hell out of me, Cromwell. I hope my threat to send you on that shit-shoveling detail comes to pass, for all our sakes.”

  “I hope so, too, Admiral, but I can tell you, unless we pull off a miracle, we’ll all be in hell before you can hand that shovel to me.”

  “Lieutenant Keane, over here!”

  Abe urged his exhausted mount to a loping gallop, leaning forward in the saddle as they zigzagged up the face of a low butte, following an ancient mammoth trail. Sergeant Togo, the troop’s lead scout, was crouched low on the crest, horse concealed just below the lip of the rise, and Abe swung out of his saddle, slipped to the ground, and took the precaution of unslinging his carbine and bringing it along. As he scrambled up the last few feet of rocky ground, the scout extended his hand, motioning for him to keep low.

  He crawled up over the edge of the rise.

  “Careful, sir, don’t kick up any dust.”

  The sergeant pointed over at the next butte a couple of miles to the east.

  Abe raised his field glasses and within seconds spotted more than a dozen Bantags, dismounted at the base of the butte, watering their mounts along the far banks of a muddy stream. They were out in the open, clearly visible, one of them carrying a red pennant, signifying a commander of a thousand.

  The low summer grass covering the open ground between the butte and the stream was burnt brown with the heat, and crisscrossed with hundreds of tracks, crushed flat in some spaces across the width of a hundred yards or more.

  “We’re on a main column here,” the sergeant announced. “Hard to tell at this distance, but the mounts look dun-colored, Betalga’s clan. Damn, he is one mean bastard.”

  “Wish we had a flyer,” Abe sighed. “I haven’t seen or heard one all day.”

  “A million square miles and twenty-four flyers.” The sergeant shook his head.

  “Look at the water and the far bank, sir.”

  Abe carefully looked at the ground, which shimmered in the summer heat, not sure for a moment what he was looking for. Then he realized that the river above the crossing was still fairly clear, while for several miles below it, the water was churned a dark, muddy brown. The far bank looked wet, rutted with deep tracks.

  “They’ve crossed here.”

  “Thousands of them. I bet the tail end of their column of yurts isn’t a mile or more around that next butte. Remember, we crossed that same ford coming back.”

  Abe wasn’t sure if he remembered and said nothing. “This group was camped north of where we were. They’re swinging in behind Jurak’s main column, covering his withdrawal.”

  Abe looked back down over the side of the butte he had just climbed. Five companies of the 3rd Cavalry were strung out in columns, weaving their way up a dried ravine. In the lead troop, his unit, the men had dismounted, a few relieving themselves, others sprawling on the ground, munching on hardtack, drinking cold coffee from canteens while Togo scouted forward.

  He caught a glimpse of Major Agrippa’s guidon. He was the commander of this half of the regiment and was moving up past the head of the column. The yellow banner stood straight out in the hot, southeasterly breeze that was as diy as a bone, carrying not a hint of moisture from the sea four hundred miles to the south beyond the Shintang Mountains.

  If that was indeed where the Bantag were heading, once they got up into those mountains they’d be all but impossible to control. But then again, he wondered, how could a couple regiments of cavalry change their mind?

  “Keep an eye on them, Sergeant, see if you spot anything else.” Abe pointed at the ravines and low, bare hills that flanked the valley ahead.

  “It’s .crawling with them. I can smell their stink,” the sergeant grumbled. “Tell the major it doesn’t look good up ahead. It’s a natural spot for an ambush. I suggest we stop here and then probe forward real careful like.”

  Togo pointed at the buttes that flanked the approach to the ford. “They could have a full umen hidden behind those buttes, and we’d be none the wiser. I think we should send scouts out to circle them first. For good measure, send a courier back to the rest of the regiment to come up before we go venturing any farther.”

  “The other half of the regiment is fifteen miles or more off,” Abe replied.

  “Just the opinion of a lowly enlisted man, Lieutenant,” Togo replied, looking up balefully at him.

  “I’ll tell him,” Abe replied.

  He slipped off the top of the rise, remounted, and endured a nervous, gut-churning slide back down the face of the butte. Major Agrippa arrived at its base to meet him.

  Abe reported the sighting along with Togo’s recommendations.

  Agrippa grinned. “Good work, Lieutenant.” He turned and ordered a sergeant to ride back down the line and to urge the men up, forming into companies by line.

  Agrippa turned and looked back at Abe.

  “So you think they’re just ahead, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir. I’m new at this, but I trust Sergeant Togo’s judgment. He grew up in the northern plains. It looks like we’re crossing into the track of Betalga’s clan. They can field well over an umen.”

  “Their males will be spread out across a hundred square miles of ground, Lieutenant. They’ve got to hunt to survive, and this is damn poor ground.”

  The lead company came up out of the ravine behind them, and Agrippa pointed for them to deploy to his left, calling for them to form a skirmish line.

  “Sir, maybe you should go up and take a look with Sergeant Togo. The ground around the other side of this butte is flat and open like a bowl, two miles across, the stream at the far end. In the flanks, though, there’s a lot of ravines, washouts. It’s impossible to see what’s in them.”

  “They crossed through here. We’ve been picking up signs all day, Lieutenant. I’m not looking for a fight. We’ll just advance, get into the rear of their column, and make it real clear they are to stop in place.”

  “You could have ten thousand of their riders on us inside an hour.”

  “Lieutenant, they wouldn’t dare attack if we gain their column of yurts. We could slaughter their mates and cubs. They know that. They’ll back off, and then we turn them around.”

  Abe swallowed hard, realizing that the men of his troop were watching the exchange. “You men mount up and fall in,” he snapped angrily, then looked back at Agrippa. “Sir, should I get one of my men to head north, find Colonel Yarsolav, and have him come up?”

  “Yes, you do that, Keane. Let him know we are into the rear of their column and bringing them back.”

  Abe hesitated.

  “Keane, this isn’t the old days back when I was a lieuten
ant in the last war. The Bantag barely have one gun for every ten men. We’ve got two gatlings with this column. So just relax and follow your orders the way you were trained to do. You might think a lot of the Bantag, but they’re little more than beggars now, so just follow your orders.”

  Abe stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll make sure you get mentioned in the dispatch when I report how we turned these bastards around and forced them to come back.”

  Abe saluted, turned, and called for his other scout, Togo’s brother.

  “Listen to me carefully,” he whispered. “Your brother’s got a bad feeling about what’s ahead. Ride north like hell. You should find Colonel Yarsolav and the other half of the regiment about fifteen miles from here. Tell them to get down here at once. Suggest as well they send a dispatch back to Fort Malady before advancing. I think we’re going to have a fight here.”

  “You mean, old Agrippa is riding in after them.” Abe nodded and the trooper groaned. “Damn, I never should have volunteered for this unit.”

  He spurred his mount and galloped off. The rest of the column was coming up out of the ravine. The compact line kicked up plumes of dust as they deployed to left and right on either side of the butte.

  Agrippa rode down the line, shouting orders, telling the men to draw their carbines, deploy around the butte, and spread into open skirmish order. He caught a glimpse of Keane and rode over, his horse already lathered with sweat.

  “Your troop to the front, get a couple hundred yards ahead of the main line, beat that grass, make sure none of them devils is hiding. And remember, don’t shoot unless fired upon. If they want a war, let them be the ones to start it.”

  Abe was tempted to tell him the grass was barely knee-high, dry as tinder, and a Bantag cub couldn’t hide in it, but orders from majors were orders. Calling his fifty men to form, he rode the several hundred yards to the north flanking the butte and swung out into the open plain beyond.

  “Open order skirmishers, advance at the walk!” Abe shouted, and pointing straight toward the ford, he started the advance, his men spreading out in a line two hundred yards across. Togo rode up to join him, looked over bale-fully, and drew his carbine.

  “Did you talk to him?” Togo asked.

  Abe bristled slightly at the accusatory tone in Togo’s voice, but, remembering Hawthorne’s advice, he did not react.

  “Yes, I told him exactly what you said and threw in my own opinion as well. I sent your younger brother off as a courier to the main column.”

  Togo grunted and said nothing more.

  He heard a bugle call from behind, and looking back, Abe felt a cold shiver at the magnificent sight.

  Two companies came galloping out to the north of the butte, and a hundred yards to the south two more companies emerged, followed seconds later by the limber-drawn gatlings.

  Each flank formed into a line eighty mounted men across and two ranks deep, company guidons in the middle. Carbines were drawn, barrels flashing in the sunlight. Bugles sounded, announcing the advance at a trot.

  Abe picked up the pace of his own line, anxiously looking to either flank. They covered the first mile, the tension mounting. The ground ever so gradually undulated, slowly rising up, dropping down, then rising again.

  They were following the tracks of the clan column, dried grass mashed flat, ruts from the heavy wheels cut into the dry soil, horse droppings everywhere, the droppings still damp. He tried to act composed, remembering his father’s story about going into action for the first time in Antietam. But this wasn’t Antietam. He didn’t know if this was the start of a fight, a war, or just an exercise to please Major Agrippa’s vanity.

  “Ahead, sir.”

  One of his troopers was pointing. The ford was less than a mile away. A lone Bantag rider had come up out of the streambed, red standard held aloft. Several more joined him, one turning to gallop away.

  “The left, sir!”

  He looked where another trooper was pointing. A flash of light up on one of the flanking buttes, gone, then flashing again. Sunlight on a sword blade, a signal, he couldn’t tell, but it gave him a queasy feeling, as if he were sticking his neck into a noose.

  The range was down to less than half a mile. Heat shimmers made the Bantags look like ghostly figures, elongating, flattening out, shifting, changing shape. They continued to close.

  He looked back again. The sight was still inspiring, battle line now joined across a continuous front nearly a quarter mile wide, guidons standing straight out in the hot wind, gatlings following several hundred yards farther back. Looking forward, the range was down to less than six hundred yards.

  “Smoke!”

  Several men cried out at the same time, pointing to the left oblique, just forward of the streambed. For a second he wondered if it was a rifle shot, waiting for the zing of the bullet. He had never actually heard a bullet fired at him, but the veterans had always talked about the beelike hum, the flicker of air as a round brushed past.

  More smoke, now in front, then to the right, puffs igniting, small white plumes. Several of the men cocked their carbines, reined in, took aim even though the range was absurdly long. He shouted for them to hold fire.

  More smoke, white plumes curling up, then laying flat out in the wind. All across the front curls of smoke were igniting, flaring. He saw a flicker of fire, and within seconds it was a wall of flame rising up, spreading out, leaping before the wind.

  “Halt!”

  The first whiff of smoke was already upon them, the sweet scent of dried grass burning, strangely triggering a memory of autumn days at the country home, burning leaves.

  The crackling roar of the spreading inferno could be clearly heard. His mount shied, snickering with fright, ears lying back.

  For several long seconds he sat there, dumbfounded, not sure what the hell to do next. He looked back over his shoulder. The line was still advancing, the men lower down in the hollow, but surely they had seen. He caught a glimpse of dust to his left, sliding down the butte—a wave of riders several hundred strong.

  He looked forward again. Beyond the rising wall of flames he saw the standard bearer, up in his stirrups, red pennant held high, waving back and forth.

  “Back!” Abe swung around, pointing to the rear. “Back to the hill at a gallop!”

  As he spurred his mount, it reared up, nearly throwing him. It turned around, and for a mad second he thought it would race off straight at the wall of fire, which was now leaping before the wind, flames dancing high, a front of fire half a mile wide raging across the plains as fast as the wind.

  He viciously sawed his mount around, leaned forward, and dug in his spurs. The horse shied again, then fell in with the rest of Abe’s troopers, who were off at a gallop, racing straight back toward the rest of the line.

  The other four companies were coming up out of the hollow, but the line was slowing. Some of the men were standing in their stirrups to see what was ahead. Those on the left flank were pointing toward the butte to the north, where the expanding line of riders were storming down.

  He headed straight for Agrippa.

  “Lieutenant, what the hell?” Agrippa screamed, and then he looked past Abe, eyes wide. “Bugler, sound retreat!”

  Men were already turning, not even waiting for the call. Abe screamed for his troop to stay with him, but everyone was jumbling together, forward companies falling back into the second line, men turning about, several losing their saddles. A trooper in front of Abe, riding flat out, suddenly tumbled as his mount stepped into a hole, snapping its leg. The man crashed down, his screaming horse rolling over on top of him, crushing him.

  He looked back. The fire was leaping with the wind, actually gaining. Hot embers were swirling around them, smoke blanketing the ground like a fog, blinding him.

  Coughing, eyes stinging, he focused all his attention forward. He weaved around another pileup where two horses had collided, throwing their riders. One of the men was obviously dead.

>   In all the confusion, he suddenly felt a bizarre sense of detachment, wondering what he was doing, why this was happening, what was he supposed to do next.

  The unfurling wall of smoke made everything look dreamlike, surreal, with shadows moving to either side. Then he heard a strange fluttering sound, the air hissing. Directly ahead he saw a man jerk, half rising out of his saddle, then slump over, ever so slowly falling, left foot catching in the stirrup, his face a bloody pulp.

  They’re shooting at us?

  Is this what it is like? he wondered. Strange, he felt no fear, just a curious surprise that someone was shooting, trying to kill him. Did Jurak order this? Ten days ago I was in their camp, I sat with them, talked, and now this.

  He saw another man go down, horse screaming, rearing up in mid stride, twisting in agony, rolling. The rider tried to kick free of his stirrups, then disappeared beneath the writhing mass. The sickening crunch of their hitting the ground snapped him out of his dreamlike state.

  All command was broken down. Everything was mad panic and chaos.

  He caught a glimpse of a larger shadow to his left. A team of four horses raced past, one of the precious gatlings. The limber wagon and piece were bouncing and careening, gun crew atop the limber desperately hanging on.

  He edged over toward them. “To the butte!” he screamed. “Follow me!”

  He weaved in front of them, looking up, catching a glimpse of the pale, red sun visible through the smoke, nearly directly overhead and slightly to his left.

  Keep the wind directly on your back, he realized. We were riding straight into it before.

  As he rode straight on, time seemed to stretch out. He could feel his mount beginning to slow after a hard morning’s ride and now this mad gallop.

  “Come on, damn it, come on!” He raked his spurs in again.

  A shadow emerged from his right, hard to distinguish for a second. It was bigger, far bigger than a trooper.

  A Bantag rider burst out of the smoke, scimitar raised, grinning, roaring a wild battle cry, coming straight at him. Wide-eyed, Abe saw him coming, his fingers still tightly clutching the reins, carbine dangling from his shoulder sling, slamming uselessly against his hip.