Hans looked down to see lngrao, blood pouring from a slash to his face, standing by his side and smiling.
"Couldn't resist it," Hans said quietly.
"You have a touch of the romantic in you after all," lngrao replied.
"Don't insult me," Hans said.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out what little was left of the tobacco plug. He bit off half, then offered the rest to Charlie.
Charlie took the plug and nodded sadly.
"I'll see you in Hell," Charlie said defiantly, then went to stand by the one four-pounder still left in the square. He picked up the lanyard and waited.
"Mine eyes have seen the glory .. ."
It started off with a deep bass, the men picking up the words, their voices echoing across the plains. Ramrods clattered in fouled muskets, cartridges were run home, pieces were raised, bayonets poised.
He clicked open his carbine, which he had somehow managed to cling to. Sliding a last round in, he cocked the hammer and rested it across his knee, oblivious to the red stain running down his trousers.
The breeze was blowing fair and clear, the standards fluttering in the wind, the air washed clean by the rain.
There seemed to be a far-off place now. It wasn't here. No, it was Antietam again. The young, terrified officer standing there, looking at him like a lost boy.
He had watched him grow, grow to lead a regiment, an army, an entire world.
The son he'd never had, the son in fact that he now did have. That was enough to leave behind.
"He has loosed the fateful lightning . . ." "God keep you, son."
The nargas sounded.
"Get the men out of here!" Pat shouted, "back to the next train!"
Gregory looked at Pat, unable to move, his gaze shifting back to what was happening down in the valley.
"Goddammit, Gregory, move them!"
The young officer, unable to speak, turned away and fell in with the retreating infantry.
The Roum infantry, many openly weeping, raced past. Gunners from the armored car leaped out, joining the push to the next train back.
Shot screamed past them, the growing cordon of Merki on their flanks pressing in.
The singing reached up the hill and Pat stood as if struck, his vision blinded by tears.
The massed battery fired as one, the tattered remnants of the square dropping, a cry going up, and yet still the song wavered and held.
"Glory, glory . . ."
The thunder of the charging host stormed in, scimitars flashing. A final defiant volley snapped out, its voice weak. For a moment he saw him, sitting alone, carbine raised. And then the song died away, and there was nothing left but the flashing of the scimitars, rising and falling, rising and falling.
Bell tolling, the engine backed into the station.
Andrew felt alone, completely alone. The empty trains that had come back up the line had been enough to tell the tale, but he had had to hear.
The boxcars of the last train were filled with Roum infantry, gazing out at him hollow-eyed, wounded holding bloody limbs, ashen-faced soldiers with defeat on their faces.
The engine hissed to a stop, and he saw him climb down from the cab.
Andrew walked up to Pat, who came toward him as if carrying a burden impossible to hold.
"Hans is dead," Pat said woodenly, struggling to blink back the tears.
Andrew said nothing, turning away. God, he wanted to cry, to beat his fist upon the ground, to crawl away into a dark corner and hide away forever. But he couldn't. Not now.
Hans had stood by his side at Gettysburg, stood by him as he looked down on the body of his only brother.
"Not now," his old friend had whispered. "Mourn later, but not now."
Hans was dead. He stood by me for over six years, he taught me everything, he was the strength that helped to make me. And now he's gone.
Andrew turned to look back at Pat.
"So close, God forgive me, so close," Pat said, his voice flat, rambling in the dull, numbed tones of one in shock.
"The three brigades?"
"No one got out. Forced into square, then ripped apart by artillery."
"Ingrao, Anderson, Esterlid, Basil Alexandrovich?"
Pat shook his head.
Andrew stood in silence.
"Sweet Jesus, you should have seen them, though," Pat sighed. "Sing they did, the voices of angels bent on killing to the end. That damned Dutchman in the middle of them, surrounded by the flags. I bet chewing a plug, cursing the saints."
"Oh God, forgive me, Andrew. I stood there and couldn't save them," Pat gasped. He sagged forward and wrapped his arms around Andrew's narrow shoulders, his body racked with sobs.
Hans is dead, Andrew thought dully. Somehow, he'd thought the old man would live forever. Hundreds, he had heard hundreds of names spoken with the pause, and then the whispered words, "He's dead." But not Hans . . . No, he had never dreamed that nightmare.
Hans, gone forever.
"Do you have a chew?" Andrew whispered.
Pat nodded. He stood back and pulled out a handkerchief, blowing his nose noisily. He drew out a plug and proffered it. Andrew took a chew, and the biting sting brought with it a flash of memories.
"They're moving fast," Pat said, trying to force himself to regain his composure. "We damn near didn't get out. They'll be here by nightfall, maybe to the Neiper by tomorrow. What happened with the rest of the army?"
"Back across the Neiper by now."
Pat nodded absently.
"We've still got a war to fight," Andrew said, and putting an arm on Pat's shoulder he walked back to the train, while behind him the station was put to the torch.
Chapter 7
"Blow it."
Mina touched the torch to the fuse and watched in silence as the powder train snapped to light, racing down the side of the bank and then on to the trestle. Seconds later the first charge snapped off and timber, rails, a month of work rose upwards, charges further on the bridge flashing off with thunderclap detonations.
The Neiper bridge collapsed. Several hundred yards upstream a second flurry of charges went off, and moments later the first crest of the flood came around the bend of the river, the mill dam torn away, the water washing through the ford.
Mina tossed the torch aside and walked over to the train where Andrew stood.
"Had to do it myself," John said quietly.
Andrew nodded without comment and followed John up into the train car.
He spared a quick glance to the chair in the corner, brass spittoon resting beside it. Clearing his throat, he went to the head of the table and sat down.
"How bad are the losses?" Kal asked.
"Eight hundred casualties in first corps, three hundred in the second," Andrew said, looking down at the roster reports. He paused for a moment. "First division, 3rd corps, and half of the 2nd and 3rd divisions gone."
Kal leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.
"Ten thousand boys."
Andrew nodded.
"Nearly all the corps equipment except what they carried out—sixty field pieces, half a million rounds of ammunition, tentage, two hundred thousand rations."
"And Hans," Pat stated softly. "And twenty-five more of the men from the 35th and 44th."
John shook his head.
"I know that," he whispered. "It's not my job to report the flesh and blood, only the rest."
Kal extended his hand in a consoling gesture.
"Now what?"
The room was silent.
"Now what?" Kal snapped, his voice sharp, jarring Andrew from his thoughts.
He looked over again at the empty chair, as if someone were still sitting there, quietly judging, ready to reproach him if he lost his nerve, especially now.
"We continue to fight," Andrew said coldly.
"Forgive me if I seem unduly pessimistic, Andrew," John said, "but we've lost nearly twenty percent of our best trained troops in the last three days. T
he plan was that we wouldn't be fighting on the Neiper till midsummer, and that at that point we'd have two, maybe three corps more, ready and equipped. The rail line up the river would be completed, and the entire river from the Inland Sea to a hundred miles upstream fortified."
"Well, the plan is finished," Andrew said quietly.
"And our alternative?"
"Fight to the death," Pat snapped angrily. "Hans piled them up in mounds around his square. By God, I'll take a dozen with me when they come."
"You're talking defeat," Father Casmar interjected.
"When you're staring forty umens armed with artillery in the face," John replied, "it's hard to think otherwise."
"We beat the Tugars, we beat the Merki fleet last year," Casmar reminded him reproachfully.
"Father, we won both by the skin of our teeth," John replied.
"And the grace of Kesus and Perm," Kal interjected.
"Well, the grace is gone," John said coldly. "In two days they'll be building batteries across from Suzdal and be on the other side of the river, not a half-mile from where we sit. Within the week they'll have patrols a hundred miles farther up the river. Within ten days they'll have tens of thousands of Cartha slaves working like moles at a dozen different places. We saw that on the Potomac."
"May their souls find peace," Casmar whispered.
"Work them till we kill them, and in the killing we fill their pots," John snapped.
"We knew three years ago when we faced the Tugars that we couldn't defend the upper Neiper, that sooner or later they'd get across and any troops above the cut would be annihilated.
"Once they cross the river, I'd say in under two weeks, their numbers will bear us down. They'll invest Suzdal, and they'll remember what we did to the Tugars. They'll blow the dam, the city gets washed out, and then they charge in for the kill."
"Start dropping the water in the reservoir right now," Casmar replied.
"I ordered it this morning," John replied. "It'll still take weeks. Even if we drain it down, there's no way we'll hold the city. Remember, this time they have artillery. They'll smash a way in, even if it takes all summer."
Andrew, who was staring dully at the empty chair, listened without comment. "Always play your advantages, do the unexpected. If you lose your nerve, everyone will lose their nerve," the now silent voice whispered.
Losing my nerve. He felt an inner tremble. That was the core of it. He had gone to the bank once too often. Long years of going to the bank, knowing that a mistake might kill the men of his company, the regiment, the army, the nation.
Well, Hans, I just killed you and ten thousand others—a hell of a mistake. You saw it coming, and I didn't. You could have told me to go to hell, could have refused to obey, and god damn you I would have listened.
But no, you never would have done that. You didn't, even when you saw it coming.
"You'll make an officer some day, if you don't get kilt over first"—his favorite line.
Well, Hans, I've been "kilt over" inside, but did I ever make it to being an officer after all?
The bank's empty, and I finally made a mistake that cost you your life.
"My fault, all my fault"; a reb prisoner had told him that's what Lee said after Pickett went down. Ten thousand rebs lost in a half-hour, the turning point of the war.
Was this the turning point, Hans, the end of all of us, because I left you out on the limb, because I did not send up that one extra division?
"Are you saying the war's already lost?" Casmar asked, staring at John. "That tomorrow I go into my cathedral and tell my flock to prepare, to dig their graves, to cut the throats of their own children to spare them the horrors of the pit?"
John spread his hands and looked to Andrew.
"I'll smother Maddie and then hang myself!" she had shouted.
"Andrew?'
He looked back to the table. Kal was watching him.
"Let it rest," Kal whispered.
"What?"
"Let it rest. You can't go back, you can't change it."
"He put up a hell of a fight, he did," Pat said, looking to the chair and then back at Andrew.
Their gaze held for a moment, and Andrew felt as if the look in Pat's eyes were piercing right into his heart.
Do something! You're the one who thinks! I'm just the loudmouthed brawler!
Andrew got up from his chair and walked out of the car to stand alone on the rear platform.
Along the bank of the river troops stood in silence, watching the bridge burn.
He leaned back against the side of the car, pulling his kepi low over his eyes.
The door creaked open behind him, and Kal came out. He wanted to tell his old friend to leave, but he didn't have the heart to do so.
"Still shaken by it, aren't you?"
Andrew forced a weak smile.
"I lost. I killed ten thousand good men and lost my oldest friend. I most likely lost the war in the process. You heard John in there."
"You've lost something else," Kal said.
"Go on and tell me," Andrew replied coldly.
"Your nerve, of course."
"Thank you for enlightening me."
"I'm President of this country because of you," Kal said sharply, coming to stand in front of Andrew.
"If it hadn't been for you and your people I most likely would have survived the Tugars—they would be long gone by now. Ivor and Ragnar would still be squabbling for power, and I would still be a dirty peasant making up bad verse in order to stay alive."
"I didn't want all of this," Andrew replied.
"I did. I still do. And by Kesus, Andrew Lawrence Keane, I need you."
"Do you?"
"What's the alternative? Fire you? I can, you know, after all, I am the President."
Andrew looked down at Kal, who stood before him, a miniature Lincoln. A foot too short, but a Lincoln nevertheless, in black frock coat, chin whiskers, stovepipe hat, even the broad streak of earthy humor and touch to the common folk.
"Old Abe fired more than one."
"He kept your Grant."
"Grant. The Butcher,' we called him—he carpeted the fields with our bodies. I lost half my regiment in twenty minutes at Cold Harbor because of him."
"And yet you still followed him, because you were soldiers."
"We lost the best under him," Andrew said softly.
"That's war. Sometimes generals make mistakes and good men die for it."
"I lost too many good men. We couldn't afford a thousand dead, let alone ten thousand."
"So who the hell would I replace you with?" Kal asked ruefully. "Pat. A hell of an officer, as long as someone tells him where to go first. John? A desk commander, the best organizational mind we've got, even better than you in that area, but he doesn't have the spark. Maybe Vincent someday—needs a lot more seasoning, and there's a terrible fire in that boy's soul that needs to be doused first."
"He needs seasoning, but maybe someday," Andrew said quietly. "I'd already thought of that, even though he wants out the same way I now do."
"It's you or nothing. Just why the hell do you think Hans picked you to start with?"
Andrew looked at Kal, unable to answer.
"He's expecting you to win even now. You have to Andrew, because I'd sure as hell hate to face him if you didn't."
"Thanks for the guilt," Andrew said quietly.
"If it works, I'll use it."
"You son of a bitch. I was the one who made the mistake," Andrew snarled.
Kal chuckled, shaking his head.
"Most combative thing I've heard from you all day. It'll make great history some day, how my general called me a son of a bitch. A heroic painting perhaps, a wood carving on the side of a train car entitled 'Colonel Keane calls the President a son of a bitch.' "
A smile creased Andrew's features.
"Hans picked you. I need you because, by Kesus, you can think, and you can lead. Look at those men back in there. Pat talking about the pile of Merki
dead around his corpse, John weeping doom, Casmar whispering that the end of the world has come. You alone can change that."
"I've never lost before," Andrew whispered, looking past Kal to some distant point. "No matter what, I've always won. I always got the boys out, even at Cold Harbor."
He shook his head sadly.
"I got to the point where it was impossible to think otherwise, yet there was a cold nagging inside me, whispering that this time I was reaching too far. I was asking more than we could possibly do. And it caught up with me. I hesitated at the key moment. I got rattled and didn't act when I should have."
"That's history now, Andrew. I'm not worried about history, I'm worried about next week."
Kal pointed to the ford.
"In a week, ten days, four hundred thousand Merki will be crossing through here, and farther up they'll be like a herd of locust consuming everything in their path: the grass, the crops, ourselves, our children.
"You alone can stop it. You're not the first general to lose a battle, a campaign, even a war. But by heavens, I dare say you'd be the first one to win a war while inside you we're already defeated," Kal whispered. He fell silent, and climbing down from the train he walked toward the riverbank, nodding as the soldiers saw him, waving for them to stand at ease, to come over and chat.
That damned peasant can outthink us all at times, Hans, Andrew whispered to himself.
All right, we certainly won't stop them on the Neiper, he thought, forcing his thoughts to clear, we knew that all along. Our only hope was to hold them back for so long that they'd start to starve, forced to eat their own horses, their families growing thin until they finally gave up and turned away.
Starve.
An amateur studies tactics, a professional logistics.
In the end we'll lose the Neiper line. We'll all die in Suzdal. At least Vincent will live a while longer in Roum.
We need time, precious time. There was the other idea, the one that had been forming since his talk with Yuri. It still bothered him in a way, so much so that he had spoken to no one about it. He needed time.
He felt as if the old eyes were looking up at him, waiting for the flash of understanding, like the first time at Antietam when the rebs had come crashing in from three sides.
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