He squatted down, oblivious to the arrows, raising his field glasses. The back end of the Merki column was still pouring down from the opposite slope, limbered guns falling in on the flanks. Forty, maybe fifty thousand of them forming.
The chanting grew, incomprehensible, but filled with explosive rage, growing louder. Artillery opened up, plowing case shot into the ranks, the light four-pounders barking, five to ten Merki going down from a single round. Still they waited.
“Kesus, come on, come on,” Vincent hissed, the tension nearly exploding inside of him.
Several riders gained the bank, red signal flags up, and they galloped down the line, standing tall in the stirrups, pointing forward and to their left.
The column started forward at the run.
“They’re coming on the oblique,” Vincent shouted, standing up again. The charge was angling away from his position, aiming straight at the juncture between his corps and Pat’s.
Fourth Corps opened up, all but one brigade armed with rifles. Merki went down as if a scythe had cut the front rank. The next rank plunged forward, the deadfalls and traps now useless, the approach carpeted with bodies. The survivors of the last attack, pinned down in front of Pat’s line, stood up to join in the assault, leaping forward, their long legs devouring five yards in a running stride.
Vincent jumped down from the embankment and ran to the bombproof shelter behind his lines.
“Get my horse!”
An orderly led the animal out into the sunlight, and Vincent climbed into the saddle.
“Tell Dimitri that he’s in charge of the line. I’m going back to bring third division up to our right flank. Send a message to Marcus on my left that if he hasn’t already received orders from Andrew to bring up at least one division to support the rear between my corps and Pat’s.”
He raked his spurs in and galloped to the rear.
“Feed it to them! Pour it in, pour it in!” Pat screamed.
The charge was fifty yards away, pushing in fast. He pulled his revolver back out to check the load and cocked the pistol.
The battery of Napoleons stood ready, holding fire, triple canister rammed in, gunners crouched down, waiting, gun sergeants standing low, lanyards pulled tight.
The charge pressed in, Merki leaping over the backs of their own fallen, some with bows, others with scimitars up, others with lances poised low.
Musket fire raked up and down the line, but not fast enough, men struggling with fouled pieces that had put out eighty, some a hundred rounds. Men started to fasten bayonets, standing back from the firing line, poising weapons up.
Thirty yards, the screaming line a wall that seemed to block out the sky.
At ten yards the battery fired in salvo, the guns leaping high, one of them flipping over, a thousand iron balls smashing down everything across a thirty-yard-wide front, the charge disintegrating, but to either side the host pressed in.
The first wave went right over the trench and continued on into the rear at a run. Others leaped atop the trench covering of boards, their weight bearing it down, crashing into the trench atop the men. A soldier next to Pat crouched low, bracing his musket butt on the ground; a Merki crashed through from above, impaling himself, and the man scrambled out from underneath.
Pat whirled around as a sword struck down from above. He fired straight into the warrior’s face, which exploded from the impact at point-blank range, the Merki’s hair catching fire as he tumbled into the trench.
Pat leaned into the command post.
“Out, get out! Signal we’re falling back!”
A Merki slid into the trench beside him, no weapons in his hands. Pat fired into his chest, the Merki looking at him, wide-eyed. Pat looked at him, realizing that this one wasn’t much more than a child, if such things had children, he thought, and seemed almost to be crying. Astonished at his own feelings, he felt an instant of pity, and put a bullet into the Merki’s head to end the agony.
He pushed his way up the trench, climbing over bodies, shooting another Merki in the back as he raised up his sword to cut a cowering gunner down.
One of the Napoleons fired at point-blank range, catching a Merki standing directly in front of the muzzle, and he looked away, sickened.
Grabbing hold of a gunner, he pointed back to the north.
“Retreat up the line! Leave the guns—they’re finished!”
The artillerymen dropped their equipment, pulling out revolvers, following Pat as he worked up the line. He drew a bead on a Merki standard-bearer standing above the trench and fired, the gun clicking on an empty chamber. There was no time to reload. A gunner next to him went down, a spear appearing to leap out of his chest. He grabbed the falling man’s pistol, turned, and killed the Merki standing above him, his hands still on the butt of the spear, roaring in triumph over his kill.
“Retreat up the line!” His voice was failing. He continued up the trench, grabbing men, pushing them forward, a knot of survivors fighting to get out of the tidal wave of Merki that continued to press forward, straight into the center of the line, the Army of the Republics now split wide open in the middle.
Andrew reined in hard in front of the villa which was the command post for the three brigades of Third Corps. The heavy division was formed up two brigades in front, their line a half mile across. A hundred yards to their rear the third brigade was drawn up in five regimental columns. A quarter mile forward, the breakthrough was widening out, the Merki column coming straight in.
“Get ’em in!” Andrew shouted, and he galloped down the front of the line up to the corps commander.
Mikhail saluted and stood up in his stirrups.
“For Hans Schuder, for Rus!”
The cheer rose up, sending a chill down Andrew’s spine, and the vast line started forward at the double, moving across the open field.
Gregory, riding beside Mikhail, looked back at Andrew, gave a cheery salute, and continued on in.
He felt a stirring, wanting to ride with them, but knew he couldn’t, not yet. When it’s lost, then I’ll do it, but not before, he thought.
His staff, who had fallen behind in the dash down to Third Corps, mounted on the far slower Clydesdale-size horses, started to catch up. He felt his blood stirred by the sight of the old Third Corps going in, thirty regimental flags dotting the front of the line across the half-mile front. He looked back beyond them to the spreading wall of Merki.
“Fourth Corps going down,” he whispered, the hole in the line already as wide as the advancing Third Corps. He looked back up to the circling hills. Where was Schneid’s reserve division?
He looked back to the front. Third Corps was engaged, the thunder of its first volley echoing back over him, a high plume of smoke rising up, its own reserve regiments already running to the northern flank to extend the line, matching the growing width of the Merki breakthrough.
He edged his mount back to the villa that had served as Third Corps headquarters and looked up at several men standing on the roof, field glasses turned to the south.
“The left flank of the breakthrough?”
“Looks like Vincent’s reserve division is moving to seal it.”
He looked back to the north. No more reserves. Where the hell was Schneid’s division?
A telegrapher came running out of the building.
“Train of the reserve division derailed at the switch. The entire line’s held up.”
Unassisted, he swung back up into the saddle and turned to gallop back to the north.
“Wheel it, wheel it,” Vincent screamed, galloping down the line.
The first brigade of his reserve division, which had been deployed to face forward, was now completely out of alignment. Third Corps was already moving up to its right, but directly in front the Merki were starting to mushroom outward, moving to the south, rolling up the entrenched line as they moved. He needed to get the brigade turned ninety degrees to hook the left flank of Third Corps at one side into his other two divisions, which w
ere still in the trenches a quarter mile ahead.
“We’ve got to put a side to the box, close them off!”
Commands echoed down the line.
“Wheel to the right, in line by brigade!”
The twenty-five hundred men stepped off, the man to the extreme right of the line standing still, the last one on the far left moving at the run, pivoting, the entire formation, a quarter mile across, turning like a gate swinging shut, in a bid to pen in the breakthrough.
The line continued to turn, slowly gaining speed, the men struggling to keep alignment as they moved through fields and vineyards, up and over stone walls, regimental flags guiding them in.
Vincent galloped along the front, hat off, waving it over his head, urging them on. The first regiment to the right of the line engaged, hitting the Merki with a volley at fifty yards, bringing the advance to a crashing halt. The two forces raced toward each other, the Merki desperate to widen the breech, the turning line running to close it off. The Merki crashed into the second regiment of the line, and then the third, volleys rippling up and down, arrows darkening the sky overhead. The fifth regiment reached the entrenchments, sweeping up behind them, racing to a stone wall, deploying behind it, and firing a scathing volley at point-blank range. The Merki who had been rolling up the trench, confident that the battle was already won, were staggered by the onset.
Vincent, screaming with joy, wheeled his mount and started back up the line, checking the alignment, moving up the second brigade to reinforce the first in a heavy volley line four ranks deep. He looked back at the hills behind them. From over the crest, Marcus’s reserve division came down, battle standards flying, sweeping to either side of the grand battery, which had turned its guns and now was pouring a deadly crossfire into the Merki breakthrough.
Vincent rode along the line, his heart bursting with the joy of battle.
“Send up the mounted umen of the black horse,” Tamuka shouted, pointing to the smoke-clad battle.
“My Qarth, there is no room,” Haga roared. “Eight umens are in there, in a front so narrow that barely one could ride in.”
“Their north flank is breaking. I want riders in there now!”
Haga, his features flushed with rage at the slaughter, jerked his mount around and rode off.
Tamuka sat astride his mount in silence, eating the last of the salted meat of the cattle taken more than a week before. It was starting to taste rancid. There would be more than enough fresh food tonight, he thought coldly, watching as the northern edge of the breakthrough again began to spill out like a spreading pool of black.
Riding hard, Andrew came around a bend in the road, a low rise in the ground ahead. He reined back in and turned to look to the southwest, and his heart sank. Third Corps was fully engaged, the last of its reserve regiments filing into the right, the regiment bending back at a right angle to protect its own flank. But there was a gap a quarter mile wide between Third Corps and the forward trench, and a deep block of Merki were turning, moving into the opening, threatening to roll up Second Corps all the way back up to Hispania, and to turn the line of Third Corps as well. He sat watching, the Merki less than three hundred yards away, an occasional arrow fluttering down around him.
He saw horses, the flashes of spokes, and to his horror saw a battery of Merki artillery coming out of the press, preparing to wheel their guns out, to fire straight into the flank of Third Corps. If the hole wasn’t plugged now it was over, the forward position gone, the reserve formation flanked, and the Merki able to drive straight across the valley and up over the undefended ridge beyond.
Desperate, he turned to look back up the slope behind him toward Hispania.
For the want of a horseshoe, for the want of a working train switch.
Up over the crest he saw a flag appear, and a thin line of men coming down on the double, running hard. He turned and galloped toward them, leaping over a low stone wall, angling through an orchard, the flag disappearing from view for a moment, as if it were an apparition, and then coming back into sight, closer.
He galloped up to the flag, an officer beside it.
“What unit is this?”
“First Vazima.”
Andrew looked down at the panting officer.
“Mike Homula, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir, with the 35th from the beginning.”
“Where the hell’s the rest of your brigade, the division?”
“The train’s stuck. Schneid’s driving them like hell. They’ll be here in five minutes. We were closest up the line.”
Andrew turned and looked back at the Merki. The battery was starting to unlimber, the column continuing to fan out. There wasn’t any more time.
“Homula, you see those guns?”
“Yes sir.”
“I need five minutes. Now take those guns!”
Homula grinned.
“I’ll see you in hell, sir!” He saluted.
The young Maine officer stepped forward, grabbed the regimental flag away from its bearer, and held it aloft.
“First Vazima, fix bayonets!”
The ragged line paused, drawing up along the narrow path, bayonets snicking from scabbards.
Homula looked back at them and held the flag aloft.
“We’re taking those guns. Come on, boys, charge!”
Homula leaped forward, holding the colors up, running madly, not even looking back to see if anyone was following him. An insane frenzy seemed to take hold of the men, and they leaped forward with a maniacal roar, running full out, rifles held up, bayonets flashing.
Andrew sat in silence, watching, heart in his throat, filled with a sense of overwhelming pride and yet at the same time horror for what he had done, ordering Homula and his men to certain death.
The young officer’s voice could still be heard, a mad joy to it.
“Do you want to live forever?”
The Merki battery, which had been deploying to rake Third Corps, paused. A commander turned, pointing toward the thin line of Homula’s regiment running madly across the open field.
Andrew raised his field glasses, unable to tear himself away.
Merki rammers worked madly, running charges home. To the flank of the guns the column charging to the north slowed, turning to meet the assault, a volley of arrows going up, most of them long, a scattering of men dropping, the charge continuing on.
He held his breath.
Fifty yards to go, Homula far out in front, hat gone, hair streaming, blue flag of the regiment snapping.
Ten yards. A gun kicked back, a ragged hole torn into the line, the flag going down, and then he saw Homula come back up, as if driven by some superhuman strength, staggering forward, leaping atop one of the guns, Merki turning, fleeing.
The column of enemy infantry, caught on their own flank, were staggered, the charge pressing on into them, bayonets and scimitars flashing, musket fire rippling. And yet still the flag was up, waving back and forth.
The full weight of the column turned, pressing in, swords flashing, arrows raining down. Smoke drifted over the battle, obscuring the view. It cleared for a moment, and he saw the flag go down, and then there was nothing but the smoke, and the flashing of the swords.
“Sir!”
Andrew turned, wiping the tears from his eyes.
It was Schneid, the full reserve division coming down the hill behind him.
“I’m sorry, sir, the train—”
“Not your fault,” Andrew said.
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Nothing wrong. I guess you could say there are worse ways of dying.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind, general. Get your men in, close the gap.”
Schneid saluted and rode down the line, sword pointed forward. The division swept forward, battle flags up, the veteran formation closing in to seal the gap.
Unable to contain himself, Andrew fell in with the line, his staff finding him, riding to catch up.
“Colonel, what
the hell are you doing?” an orderly shouted.
Andrew continued forward, barely noticing the ever increasing rain of arrows sweeping in, men starting to drop, staggering out of the line. Bugles sounded, clarion calls high and clear, and the division raced forward at the double, cheering madly, Andrew angling over toward Schneid, who was still out front, sword drawn.
“Come on, let’s take them!” Andrew roared, and the charge swept forward at the run, men yelling hoarsely, the wall of bayonets flashing in the afternoon sun.
The Merki seemed to pause in their advance, a single volley of arrows lashing out low, men stumbling, dropping, most of the shots going high. The charge continued on, and suddenly the Merki, stretched out to the final breaking point, turned, falling back, running, pouring back toward the river, which was clogged with a mounted umen advancing forward.
The press increased, panic in the air, and they were over the Merki guns, pressing on in.
Andrew reined in out of the charge as it continued to sweep forward, slowing his horse to a walk. His orderlies caught up and moved in front, placing themselves between Andrew and the rain of arrows still arcing in.
He stopped. A dazed knot of men stood around the guns, survivors of the 1st Vazima.
Andrew dismounted and walked up to them.
A lieutenant stepped forward, blood pouring from his scalp, the broken-off end of an arrow still sticking out of his forearm.
“We took the guns, sir,” he said, his voice weary but proud. “Just as you told us to.”
Andrew nodded, looking around at the group, counting not more than a score of survivors still on their feet. Unable to say anything, he walked away, stepping over the piles of bodies around the battery, pausing for an instant to look at a Merki and Rus locked in a deadly embrace on the ground, each holding a dagger, each having driven it into the heart of the other. The ferocity of the fighting was evident, with few surviving wounded. He walked up to one of the guns and found Homula, lying crumpled on the ground, torn flag still in his hands.
Fateful Lightning Page 32