Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  “It’s my son, you know,” Pat finally said. “The fact that he did what Cromwell said. I still can’t believe one of me blood would do such a thing.”

  “Our children, Pat, sometimes one never knows.”

  “Your own boy? I’m sorry. Any word?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Hawthorne said he’s sending up a couple of extra aerosteamers to patrol out toward their last known location. I told him not to do anything special…” and his voice trailed off.

  “The whole frontier’s exploded. Fifth cavalry was completely wiped out, their fort overrun. Fourth and Seventh are in a running fight, retreating. The only thing that saved them was two aerosteamers. The Bantag got one of them, but the gatling fire kept them back long enough so the regiments could ford a river and get the hell out.

  “There’s going to be an uproar in Congress when it opens in another eight hours. The Chin are talking about forming up their own militia, going out, and massacring any Bantag they find. One of the Qarths, old Kubazin, is staying put, says he’s keeping his land. I want him left alone; he’s staying within the treaty agreement, but the Chin want to go and kill him and everyone else.

  “Pat, it’s chaos out there and it starts up here come morning. A fair number of senators are claiming the whole thing is a mad mistake and are looking for someone i. blame.”

  “You,” Pat croaked, looking down glumly at his tea.

  “I can stand that. If the Kazan are indeed coming, in another day or two that song will change. But then it will be a different tune—how we weren’t prepared, how we somehow provoked the attack, how the Republic is finished and will never work.” His voice trailed off as he looked at Pat, realizing that while he had been pouring out his woes, his friend was still dead drunk and consumed with his own anguish.

  “Our boys, Andrew,” Pat sighed.

  Andrew felt a sudden welling up of tears, and he struggled not to break, not now. All he could do was nod. “I thought our war would have finished it. That it would never touch our own.”

  Pat looked up and smiled weakly. “I just wish I’d set mine on a different path, when I still had the chance.” He took another sip of tea and lowered his head again.

  “You’re a dreamer, Andrew me friend, if you thought our war was the last of it. Our parents dreamed it. Mine did when they sent me away from Ireland, saying America would be safe, and look at the right fine slaughter you and I found ourselves in there.”

  He hesitated.

  “If your boy survives, and I pray to the saints he does, his boys after him will fight as well.”

  Andrew said nothing, realizing with a profound sadness that his friend had not included his son in that prayer as well.

  Lieutenant Abraham Keane froze. Something was ahead, something had moved.

  He could sense Sergeant Togo beside him, crouched low, knife out. As the seconds passed, the high wispy clouds that had obscured Baka, the greater of the two moons, parted.

  Togo relaxed. A rabbit, nearly under their feet, leapt up and bounded away.

  Andrew exhaled noisily. Togo held his hand out, motioning for him to remain still. Off to his right, he could see the glow of a fire flickering in a ravine, a gruff voice, silence for a moment, then barking laughter. The next wave of high-drifting clouds covered the moon.

  Togo crept forward, Abraham and the rest of his men following. Every step kicked up tiny plumes of dust, ash, and the smell of charred grass. Another smell drifted on the breeze as well, and he suppressed a gag.

  Again the moonlight appeared, and all of them froze, crouching low. Abe looked back to the east. The butte stood out clearly in the moonlight. A flash, seconds later the report of a rifle.

  Darkness again, they pushed forward. Togo slowed again, touched Abe on the shoulder, pointed. The ground ahead dropped away to reveal a broken wheel sticking up out of the shallow ravine. Togo got down on his hands and knees, crawling the last dozen paces, Abe at his side.

  Three days in the sun had made the stench all but unbearable. He caught a glimpse of what was left of the horses. The Bantag had butchered them for the meat, but not the offal. Abe was startled when a buzzard, which had been resting next to the remains, tried to fly off, squawking, belly so distended that it could barely get into the air.

  Abe pressed his face to the ground, gasping, trying to deaden the sound of his vomiting.

  Togo, ignoring his misery, pulled him over the lip of the ravine and down into the awful mess, then hissed for the others to follow.

  “You men with the canteens,” Togo whispered, “get up the ravine, fifty yards at least from this filth, scoop up an embankment to block the water and start filling the canteens.”

  “Lieutenant, some cartridges might have spilled out of this wagon. Feel the ground.”

  The clouds parted again, and in the moonlight he caught a glimpse of one of the drivers—what little was left of him after the butchering.

  “Still think Jurak’s your friend?” Togo whispered fiercely.

  Abe started to retch yet again.

  “Damn you, Lieutenant, there is no time for that now,” Togo hissed.

  Startled, Abe looked over at him.

  “Look, damn it. Look.”

  Abe crawled across the muddy bottom of the ravine. A wagon had upended, its torn canvas top rippling in the breeze. Inside the wreckage he caught a glimpse of the second driver and turned away.

  “In here,” Togo whispered.

  Abe, startled, saw that the sergeant had come into the wagon from the other side and was kneeling alongside the stinking smear of what had once been a man.

  Abe hesitated, took a deep breath, and then slipped up to the sergeant.

  “The bastards looted it clean, but here’s a broken ammunition box. Help me.”

  Abe heard the rattle of shells as Togo swept them up from the floor of the wagon and started to dump them into his haversack.

  “Come on, Lieutenant. If they saw that buzzard fly off and not come back, they might get suspicious.”

  The stench was all around him. He felt as if it was seeping into his clothes, his hair, penetrating his skin. He tried not to breathe as he swept his hands across the bottom of the wagon. Then he felt something rolling underneath. He scooped up several carbine shells.

  The discovery made him forget his anguish. Half the men back up on the butte were completely out of ammunition, and the rest had only two or three rounds apiece. He rejoiced as if he had stumbled into a cave filled with jewels.

  “Why didn’t they take these?” Abe whispered.

  “You might not believe it, but those hairy bastards have sensitive noses,” Togo whispered. “Our old comrade here scared them off if they came back looking for more later. Now shut up and get these shells.”

  Abe slowly crawled about in the dark, feeling the wooden boards, recoiling for a second when he touched something soft and yielding. Then, realizing that more shells were underneath the noisome mass, he closed his eyes, pushed it aside, and grabbed more of the precious cartridges.

  The haversack draped from his shoulder grew heavy as the minutes passed, and then he became aware that Togo had stopped working. He was crouched half up, tensed, hand out, motioning to Abe.

  All his instincts seemed to flare at once. He felt the hair at the nape of his neck stiffen, his heart thump. Ever so slowly he backed out of the wagon, Togo by his side, neither saying a word.

  A cascade of crumbling dirt trickled down from the top of the ravine. He started to draw his revolver before he saw the glint of Togo’s knife in the moonlight.

  He slipped his revolver back into its holster, reached around to his other hip, and slipped out a bayonet. He followed Togo to the side of the ravine, pressed up against the wall, and waited.

  In the silence, Abe heard something breathing. Again the shadows parted, moonlight flooding the ravine, and on the far wall of the gully he saw a shadow moving.

  Togo pointed at the shadow, then held his knife up.

  Abe took a
deep breath and nodded.

  The two went up the side at the same instant.

  A dark silhouette towered above him. It was turning, swinging something. He ducked under the blow. After a grunt of pain, the silhouette doubled over, dropping a rifle, which fell with a clatter that sounded like a tree crashing in the stillness.

  The shadow lashed out with a clubbed fist, and Togo spun backwards. The mass of darkness leapt on top of the sergeant.

  Abe stood there, transfixed as the two struggled, rolling on the ground.

  “Kill him!” Togo hissed, “kill him!”

  Time stretched out. He wondered who this was. Could it be one of the cubs that Jurak had pointed out to him only days ago? He didn’t seem full-grown for a Bantag.

  “Keane!”

  Abe saw an arm go up, heavy blade shiny in the moonlight.

  He leapt upon the back of the Bantag. Grabbing the arm, he pulled it back, jerking the arm with such force that he heard the bone snap.

  There was a howl of pain.

  Terror drove him. He let go of the broken arm and grabbed the Bantag’s head with his left hand, and then slashed down with his right, driving the blade into his victim’s throat.

  He felt something hot splashing out. The howl disintegrated into a gasping, bubbly groan.

  He cut again, feeling the blade hit bone.

  Togo kicked his way out from under the Bantag.

  “Damn, Lieutenant, don’t hesitate next time!”

  Abe, barely hearing him, continued to slash, feeling the life slipping out of the Bantag. He begged for him to die quickly, to end it.

  Togo pulled him back. “Enough, Lieutenant, he’s finished! Now by all the gods let’s get out of here!”

  Togo rolled back down into the ravine, but Abe stood up, still holding the blade.

  A gutteral challenge echoed from the next ravine, where they had spotted the fire.

  “Lieutenant!”

  He saw a shadow standing up, then another.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Abe looked back down at the body, which was still kicking spasmodically.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped, and leapt back down into the gully.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  It was one of the men from the watering party.

  “We’re on the move,” Togo hissed.

  Togo led the way, running up the ravine, Abe and the returning soldier following. They met the men still filling canteens.

  “We’ve only got half of them full,” one of them cried.

  “No time,” Togo snapped, and he sprinted on.

  Abe waited as one of the men plunged another canteen into the muddy pool. Drawing his revolver, he turned, looking for Bantag. The seconds dragged out.

  “Finished!”

  The soldier began to stand up. There was a blinding flash, the roar of a rifle shot shattering the stillness. The man with the canteen seemed to lift into the air and was flung backward.

  A Bantag stood atop the ravine. Flash-blinded, Abe turned, crouched and fired, then fired again. He caught a glimpse of the Bantag crumbling, clutching his stomach.

  The man whom he had been guarding was dead, arms spread wide, half a dozen canteens flung out on the ground beside him.

  The water, the precious water.

  He snatched up the straps of the canteens and started to run.

  As soon as he had turned his back on the dead man, a mad panic took hold, and he ran blindly, weaving his way up the ravine. He heard another rifle shot, this one directly above. He blindly raised his revolver, fired again, and kept on running, slipping on the muddy ground.

  He came around the next turn in the gully and almost screamed with fright. In the moonlight he saw the glint from a gun barrel.

  It was Sergeant Togo, weapon leveled straight at him.

  Togo lowered the gun, then a split second later raised it and fired.

  Abe turned and saw a Bantag directly behind him. He hadn’t even heard his pursuer closing in. The Bantag spun around, clutching his shoulder.

  “Come on, sir!”

  Togo sprinted off and this time Abe followed, keeping close. Ahead he could hear his men running. They were reaching the top. Above the lip he could see the butte, the Great Wheel overhead.

  Strange, the night was so crystal clear. The fact that he had time to recognize that struck him as curious.

  The gully where they had been began to curve away from their mountain fortress. The quarter mile of open prairie that they had crept across before now separated them from safety.

  The men ahead had slowed, not sure what to do.

  Togo didn’t hesitate. He turned to look back, crouching low. “Full out now, boys. Don’t stop for anything. If a man goes down, grab his water, but he’s on his own. Now run for it!”

  The group started off.

  Abe looked back, saw flashes of torchlight in the ravine, deep voices calling. He started to run. Togo was in the lead, but something compelled Abe to keep to the rear, following his men. He heard the clatter of hooves, and from his left saw several Bantag coming up out of a deep gully, urging their mounts forward.

  At the sight of them everyone redoubled their efforts, the men gasping, canteens slung over their shoulders, banging on their hips. For a second Abe was tempted to let his own canteens drop, to cut them loose, but he hung on to the precious load and to the haversack brimming with cartridges.

  At first it seemed that the riders had not seen their prey. Then they turned and started straight for them.

  From atop the butte he saw a flash. A second later the sharp crack of a rifle shot echoed. A waste of a precious round.

  The riders closed in, one of them standing in his stirrups, and though he could not see, Abe knew the man had a bow and was drawing it.

  One of his men went down, clutching his leg, canteens clattering.

  There was a flash of a pistol. Togo was firing, and though he missed the rider the horse reared and turned away. The other two continued to follow them. An arrow slashed past Abe, the rider pressing in, both hands off the reins, tossing aside his bow and drawing a scimitar.

  Abe crouched, both hands on his revolver. He cocked it and waited. As the Bantag closed in, he emptied his cylinder. Horse and rider crashed to the ground in front of him He turned, but the third rider was gone, where he could not tell.

  Holstering his empty revolver, Abe ran up to the downed trooper, who was clutching his thigh and gasping.

  “Can you run?”

  The man looked up at him wide-eyed.

  “Take the water!”

  His English was broken, thick with the brogue of the Gaelic.

  Ignoring Togo’s orders, Abe put an arm under the man’s shoulder and helped him up.

  “Run!” Abe hissed.

  The two set off, staggering and weaving. He was tempted to throw off their canteens, but the butte looked so close, so damnably close, and he pushed on.

  He could no longer see Togo and the others.

  He heard hoofbeats, looked over his shoulder, and saw four more riders coming in at the gallop.

  “Run, damn it, run!” Abe cried. The wounded trooper gasped, cursing in Gaelic, staggered alongside him, hopping on his one good leg.

  The pursuit came closer, thundering. He could hear their wild shouts and sensed they were filled with a mad joy, the joy of the hunt and the kill.

  The wounded trooper started to push him away, shouting for Abe to run. Abe turned, pulled his revolver back out, raised it at the lead rider and then remembered that it was empty.

  He stood there, stunned. The rider filled his world, a darker shadow in the darkness of night.

  The rider tumbled backward, falling, illuminated by a brilliant flash.

  A volley crackled around him. Half a dozen troopers came up at a run, crouching low, carbines raised. One of the men grabbed Abe, pushing him forward. Another scooped up the Irish soldier, the two of them shouting at each other in their native tongue.

  Abe fe
lt his legs turn to liquid, and for a second he was frightened that he had wet himself in terror, but then realized he was soaked with sweat.

  Barely able to walk, he accepted the helping hand of a trooper for the last fifty yards to the butte, the ring of skirmishers closing in around him.

  Scrambling onto the base of the mountain, he collapsed behind a barrier of rocks piled up over the last three days as a rough stockade covering the west side trail of the mountain.

  In the shadows he looked around at his companions. Men were gasping, bent over. The wounded man was sprawled out, cursing while his companion pulled out a knife and slashed the trouser leg open to examine the wound.

  “I told you to leave the wounded behind, sir.”

  Abe, knees raised and head between his legs, looked up. Togo was holding a precious canteen, and he offered it. More than a day had passed since his last sip of water, and he eagerly took the canteen, the canvas cover slippery with mud. It was uncorked and Abe tilted his head back. The muddy drink seemed like the finest he had ever tasted. He took a long gulp, then remembering how precious the liquid was, he stopped and offered the canteen back.

  Togo squatted at his side. “Go ahead, Lieutenant, take another drink, you need it.”

  Abe struggled to refuse but gave in, but this time allowing himself only a sip before recorking it.

  “Damn it, sir, that was rather stupid if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Abe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Sergeant Togo, if I remember the way things work in this army, I’m supposed to be in command, not you. I wasn’t going to leave a man out there to be butchered.”

  Togo leaned back and a soft chuckle greeted Abe’s words. A gentle hand clapped him on the shoulder.

  “For a Westerner, you did good out there, sir, real good.”

  Abe shook his head, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry I froze on you.”

  “What?”

  “With the Bantag, back at the wagon.”

  “Your first kill with a knife, wasn’t it?”

  Abe slowly nodded.

  “You’ll get used to it.”