Bullfinch nodded, looking like a savage pirate with his eye-patch and scarred face.
"Aye-aye, sir."
Andrew grimaced at the affectation of nautical jargon.
"I think you're going to enjoy this."
"That I am, sir. Independent command of a flotilla—who wouldn't?"
"Just get back safe, young man, and don't lose any of these ironclads. Mina's arranging to have food, wood, and coal moved down the Kennebec to keep you supplied. If you can free a ship to support Hamilcar on his raids, do so."
"What he wanted to hear. It'll keep him happy."
"Good luck, son."
"Couldn't you at least tell me why all the secrecy, sir. We've been hearing rumors: an area beyond the city that's been sealed off to everyone for weeks; the no shooting near the city. Just what are you up to, sir?" Bullfinch said quietly.
"You have your sealed orders. Don't open them until you see what I told you to look for."
"Exactly as you order it, sir," Bullfinch said, his disappointment in not knowing obvious.
"Good. Now get a move on."
Bullfinch snapped off a salute and turned to race back toward the naval yard.
Going out through the inner gate the column reached the station at last. The two trains waiting on the siding were already partially filled with the last refugees. The column broke to file aboard the cars.
John came out of the staff car and saluted.
"Pat reports they'll be in Vyzima by nightfall. Advance teams are already filtering out of the woods."
"The army?"
"Falling back in good order. I've got thirty trains in Vyzima to pick them up. The rear guard's going to be tough, though—the Merki are pressing pretty damn hard."
"Pat. Have you heard from him?" "Not since midnight."
"I need that damned fool," Andrew said. "I pray to god he doesn't get caught like Hans." John nodded.
"And along the river front, south of the Ford?" "The last unit pulled out of the Ford just before daybreak—the train should be shuttling through the switch shortly. The Merki are most likely crossing by now."
"Let's get going, then."
John helped Kathleen up into the car, which was soon packed with staff from Andrew's command and Kal's office, plus Casmar's priests.
The assistant telegrapher was hanging from the pole by the station, looking down at Andrew. "Shut us down," Andrew said. The boy clipped the wire free, the telegrapher inside reeling the cable in. The boy scrambled up into the car and paused.
"Sir, what about that wire you ordered run out? Is that to stay?"
"Never mind now," Andrew said, shooing the boy aboard the car.
Andrew stood alone on the siding, looking at the anxious faces looking back at him from the window and from open boxcar doors. He walked back into the station and into a small room behind the telegraphers' office. Yuri was waiting for him, and came to his feet. "I'm counting on you," Andrew said. "God knows I shouldn't be, but I am counting on you."
"Against the angels of your better judgment," the man replied.
Andrew nodded.
The man reached into his tunic and pulled out a letter.
"I've only told you part of the truth. For my own reasons. Open it later."
Andrew nodded.
There was a nervous nod of reply. Andrew could see there was no sense in dragging it out—it served no purpose for either of them.
Hesitantly, he extended his hand.
"Good luck to you, Yuri."
Almost shyly Yuri took his hand, and then turned away, his eyes bright.
"You'll never know how your simple charity changed everything," Yuri said. His back was turned, and Andrew was already gone.
Andrew stepped back out into the early morning light.
He looked back at his city. It was silent, except for the occasional rattle of gunfire. It reminded him of a village early on a summer morning, when no one had yet stirred. Somehow it should be coming alive shortly, vibrant with life.
Suzdal was filled now only with memories.
He waved to the engineer leaning out of the cab.
A shudder ran through the train.
"Good-bye," was all that he could whisper as he climbed up into the car.
The engine started down the siding, the train before it already through the outer fortress lines.
Andrew stood alone, watching the earthworks fall behind. The train turned and started to pick up speed, the barrows of the Tugar slain on the hills to the right.
The engine rattled over the trestle crossing the Vina. Looking down, Andrew saw the river running turbulent, the floodgates of the dam wide open. The factories were visible for a moment up the valley— smokestacks clean, the last of the false fires set to deceive the enemy now out and cold.
The whole world seemed cold at this moment, though the sun was shining brightly and a warm drying breeze was rolling in from the southwest.
The train cleared the trestle. An enemy shot fell short behind them.
The rails clicked louder, faster. The train turned to the east, running up the grade on the far side of the reservoir. The engine slowed. Clearing the rise they continued on, the train's steam whistle tooting out a quick call. Andrew leaned out from the car and saw a switchman running alongside and leaping into a boxcar. The engineer leaned out of the cab to watch, then pushed the throttle back up again.
The train clicked through the switch. To his left he saw the main line run off toward Vyzima while they continued on straight toward Novrod, to rejoin the main line a hundred miles farther on, beyond the range of the Merki advance.
He looked back to the west. All that was visible was the spires. The train turned up over a low hill. For a moment all of Suzdal was again in sight like the first day he had seen it, fairy tale-like with its wooden spires, ancient walls, and soaring log structures carved into a riot of pleasing shapes and forms. And then it was gone.
A ripple of gunfire snapped along the ridge line. Pat sat meditatively, munching on a sandwich, watching the artillery batteries in action.
The limber teams were moved up, crews hooking their pieces to the back of caissons. The first gun started off down the hill, galloping hard through the fields. Several shells burst on the ridge line. A caisson detonated and was lifted high into the air, the gun behind it careening over, tumbling like a broken toy.
"God damn," Pat whispered.
The rest of the batteries continued down the slope. Not a minute later a thin wave of Merki cavalry crested the ridge, leaning out of their saddles and spearing the few wounded still left behind.
The wavery line of infantry that had supported the guns was now coming up the slope before him, colors snapping in the wind, officers shouting orders. From behind him came the roar of a dozen pieces. Seconds later, plumes of dirt rose along the ridge. The advancing skirmish line of Merki cavalry slowed in its advance, then turned to move back behind the slope.
"That ought to slow the bastards," Schneid said with a cold laugh.
"Your people are fighting well," Pat replied, waving a beefy hand in salute as the rear-guard brigade came up the slope, the men cheering at his recognition.
He raised his field glasses with his free hand, scanning the fields around him. In a vast semicircle the 2nd Corps was pulling back. Ripples of smoke marked the front. The lines were holding in good order, something he would not have believed possible only the day before, when the Merki had pressed out of the woods and broken the continuous front at half a dozen points.
But the fifty miles of forest had played far worse for them than for the Rus and Roum infantry, who knew the territory and were pulling back to their base of supply. The small elements of the Merki were cut off and ruthlessly eliminated. Only this morning had the first organized body come through the trail down from Yaroslav, bursting out, a full umen of them by midday. Pat had wrestled with the temptation to launch a counterattack, but to do so would have gained at best a minor victory, compared to the potential o
f yet losing his two corps. It wasn't worth it.
Never thought I'd be this cautious, he thought. Must be getting old. A year ago I'd have said charge the buggers and be damned.
Not now, not anymore. Finishing the sandwich, he uncorked his canteen and washed the greasy pork down with a swill of warm water, grimacing at the taste. He raised his glasses again.
Far to the west he could barely discern the low hills to the north of Suzdal, more than forty miles away, thin traces of smoke marking what had to be the banks of the Neiper.
"Aerosteamers coming up!" someone shouted, and he turned to look to the south. A dozen small dots were moving in, high in the air.
Church bells started to ring in the town. The city was already a mass of confusion. Trains were backed up for a mile or more, waiting to take on the troops pulling out. Beyond the city, in a low valley surrounded by woods, Pat could see the high shed roofs of Jack's fleet. A red flag snapped out from the watchtower.
"Damned poor show," Schneid snapped.
"Telegraph line's most likely been cut from Suzdal, word never got through."
"Well, if they hit an engine and block the line we're all for the fire."
Pat looked back to the west and north. Dark columns were moving across the fields—the Merki spreading out, probing for the flanks, ready to move in for the kill.
Jack ran to the cabin of the Flying Cloud, the engine already radiating heat. They'd been up twice today already, flying along the front, marking the Merki advance and swooping back low to drop reports to the ground. It had been a chilling sight. Merki columns were snaked through the woods all they way back to the Neiper. It seemed as if the forest were alive, a dark, crawling growth undulating through it. Flashes of metal, tan leather, horses, multicolored standards, the wood trail lined with battery after battery of their guns.
On the other side of the clearing, the Yankee Clipper was being edged out of its hanger. The China Sea had already turned off to the east an hour ago, running back toward Kev where the new hangers were going up. Jack was planning to follow suit within the hour, his ground crews then moving down to the rail line to catch the last train out. The men were already nervous, but he had reassured them that it would be some hours yet before the Merki closed in.
For two weeks the flying weather had been iffy at best. On the few days they had gone up, the wind had been strong out of the north. Either the Merki ships had been unable to breast it, or they were leery of another fight. Ships had been sighted twice, but had pulled back at his approach. Jack's time thus had been spent flying reconnaissance, keeping tabs on the Merki. Now, at last, they were challenging him again.
"They're coming in fast!" the watchman shouted, pointing off to the south.
Feyodor came running out of the telegraph office and leaped in behind Jack.
The ground chief watched the carriage, motioning the crews to continue forward.
Behind Jack the boiler was hissing, the metal crackling as it expanded from the heat.
"You got lift!" the chief shouted, reaching under to pull the ground wheels free.
Jack looked over to the tower, watching the flag.
"Give us quarter-speed, Feyodor!"
The propeller started to crank over.
"Cast off all lines!"
The Flying Cloud started straight up, holding steady against the wind. Jack looked over to the Yankee Clipper, its crew still waiting for their ship to gain lift. Something wasn't quite right in her design, though he had spent hours puzzling over it. Most likely some of the seams were a bit loose, leaking out gas and hot air. It took way too long for her to get up, but there was no time to worry about that now. He edged the nose up slightly.
The Merki were coming in not five miles away, several thousand feet off the ground. Jack was tempted to turn with the wind and run out for several miles. It'd take a good fifteen minutes or more to get up to their height. But if he did so, they'd be over Vyzima unopposed. One of their bombs into the rail line could wreak havoc, perhaps even jeopardize the final pullout.
"Full power, Feyodor. We're going straight up!"
He pushed the nose up high, engine roaring. The enemy ships started to drop down, forming a line more than a mile across. He nervously fingered the rack by his side. Half a dozen revolvers were hanging from it. Behind him Feyodor had his supply of benzene bombs, along with two short-barrelled blunderbusses that one of the ground crew had fashioned. They were deadly-looking affairs. He feared they'd be as dangerous for Feyodor as for anyone downrange.
The ships continued in and the formation changed, with six of them falling astern and the other six pressing on in.
Curious. Why would they do that?
He looked back over his shoulder to see that the Yankee Clipper was finally clearing the ground.
"They're going to come in high of us!" Jack shouted. The bastards had the wind at their back, and, dropping down, their speed was at least twice his own.
He grimly hung on in what he felt was a highspeed dance of death. The eyes painted forward of the enemy ships looked dark and menacing.
The range was less than a mile. Vyzima was almost directly below, the activity in the rail yard a mass of confusion, as if a nest of ants had been spilled over. The closing arc of battle was clearly visible several miles away, smoke ringing the lines as the Merki closed in on the main base, the last point out from Rus. Above the howl of the engine, the constant thump of guns was clearly audible. Jack forced his attention back to the enemy ships.
He felt a moment of panic, as he raised his field glasses to study the closest ship. There was a flash of metal in front of the Merki engineer.
"God damn, they've got a cannon on her!" Jack shouted.
In a near panic he pushed the nose down, slamming the rudder hard over to the right. Three of the ships were continuing straight on to his left, obviously closing in on the Yankee Clipper, while the other three were lining up to pass straight over him.
There was no place to go except down. He pushed the nose forward and went into a dive, pulling open the vent.
The first ship passed overhead. He heard a faint crack but saw nothing, and started to breath easier. Unable to see the ships above, he randomly kicked the rudder back and forth as he dived, the ground rushing up. He closed the vent.
A flash of flame appeared off to his left. For a brief instant he saw what appeared to be a metal barb, like a harpoon, falling to earth, trailing a short length of rope with a flaming torch on the end.
Like hunting a sky-whale, he thought, feeling his knees go weak. Harpoon us from above—the shaft goes in, the torch gets dragged to the hole where hydrogen is leaking out.
Feyodor looked over at Jack and nodded, as the two watched the harpoon slam into the ground just north of the rail yard.
Not twenty feet forward, the bottom of the bag tore open as if ripped by an invisible hand. On the ground several hundred feet below, a plume of dust snapped up from the spray of canister striking down from above.
"Jesus Christ, the bastards are shooting at us too!"
"Well, what the hell did you expect?" Feyodor shouted. "They had to do something back."
Jack pulled the rudder back, the nose lifting, the aerosteamer skimming over the rail yard and starting to climb back into the heavens. He leaned forward and looked up. A couple of dozen holes were in the bottom of the bag, and a section of splintered spar was sticking out. It would be the same on top, and he tried to calculate just how long it would take for the gas to escape.
"It's not that bad!" Feyodor shouted. "We can stay up for some time yet!"
"It still means we'll never get her back to Hispania now."
"Just keep flying!" Feyodor cried.
Nose high, Jack saw that the three aerosteamers that had hit him were now going into a turn upwind. He looked back to his right where the other six ships waited, still a couple of miles up-wind.
He had a flash of insight.
"The other six must be loaded with bombs! They most
likely can't carry both! That's what we're going for!"
There was a rattle of cannon fire, and Jack looked down to see the four-pound anti-aerosteamer guns mounted along the train track go into action. They fired away at the enemy ships which were now running low, three of them turning, the other three pressing in toward the hangers, where the Yankee Clipper was struggling to get up.
He continued to climb, cursing as the ships behind him came about to start in on a stern chase, their advantage in speed now showing. But at least he had the advantage in climb, and he pressed it to the fullest. The bomb aerosteamers waiting out of range started to turn into the wind, trying to keep their distance.
The three aerosteamers behind continued to gain. They were now nearly at the same level, several hundred yards astern.
There was a snap of light from the lead one and Jack hunkered down, feeling naked as a solid shot whistled by. The race slowly continued, with the Flying Cloud now above her pursuers but still far out of reach of the pursued. The enemy ships were tanta-lizingly above him.
"I wish the hell we had a gun to reach them!" Jack shouted. He pushed on for long minutes with little hope of finally closing the gap—they were too far up-wind. Well over a thousand feet up, he looked down as they started to cross over the edge of the battle line. On the next ridge a long line of Merki skirmishers were advancing on foot, carrying muskets. It was the last thing they needed.
"I'm bringing her around, Feyodor. We'll hit those bastards chasing us!"
As he spoke another shot kicked off from the second ship, and he felt a shudder as the ball crashed into the stern of the Flying Cloud. It emerged an instant later from the front, fragments of the wood frame and fabric punching out with it.
"Hydrogen could be leaking from the front and rear bags into the heat chamber!" Feyodor cried. "One spark and we'll burn!"
"Get your bombs ready!"
Jack pushed the rudder to the right, swinging the ship around through the eye of the wind. He looked over his shoulder. The enemy ships were starting to turn as well to avoid the ground fire from the Rus, but his maneuver had caught them. The range closed rapidly.
"Feyodor, get ready!"
Feyodor nervously looked up through the heat-exhaust hole as he pulled out a jar of benzene.
Terrible Swift Sword Page 36