Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

Rising off the starboard beam, Andrew saw another wave towering above them.

  "Pull, goddammit, pull!" Tobias roared.

  Ever so slowly the ship started to respond, but Andrew could see that they would not come about in time. For the first time in years he found himself praying. The premonition that had held for him and the regiment, that they were damned, was most likely true after all, even if the end did not come on a battlefield.

  The wave was directly above him, its top cresting in a wild explosion of foam. The mountain crashed down.

  He thought surely the rope about his waist would cut him in two. For one wild moment it appeared as if the ship was rolling completely over. His lungs felt afire as they were pushed beyond the bursting point. But still he hung on, not yet ready to give in and take the breath of liquid death.

  The wave passed, and Andrew, gasping for air, popped to the surface. They had foundered, the vessel now resting on its portside railing. Helpless at the end of the rope, he looked about, cursing that his fate was in the hands of a captain who had killed them all for the sake of his foolish pride.

  "Damn you!" Andrew roared. "Damn you, you've killed us all!"

  Tobias looked over at Andrew, wide-eyed with fear, unable to respond.

  Tobias's gaze suddenly shifted, and with an inarticulate cry he raised his hand and pointed.

  Andrew turned to look and saw that yet another mountain was rushing toward them, this one even higher than the last, the final strike to finish their doom.

  But there was something else. Ahead of the wave a blinding maelstrom of light that appeared almost liquid in form was spreading out atop the wave like a shimmering cloud of white-hot heat.

  The cloud swirled and boiled, coiling in upon itself, then bursting out to twice its size. It coiled in for a moment, then doubled yet again.

  "What in the name of heaven--?" Andrew whispered, awestruck by the apparition. The intensity of the light was now so dazzling that he held up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

  There seemed to be an unearthly calm, as if all sound, all wind and rain, were being drained off and they were now lost in a vacuum.

  But still the wave continued to rise behind it, and then, to Andrew's amazement and terror, the wave simply disappeared as if it had fallen off the edge of the world. Where a million tons of water had been but seconds before, now there was nothing but a gaping hole, filled by the strange pulsing light.

  Suddenly the light started to coil in yet again, then in a blinding explosion it burst back out, washing over the ship.

  The deck gave way beneath Andrew's feet, and there was nothing but the falling, a falling away into the core of light as if they were being cast down from the highest summit.

  There was no wind, no sound, only the falling and the pulsebeat of the light about them. As his thoughts slipped away, he could only wonder if this was death after all.

  He awoke to the glare of the sun in his eyes. Groaning from the bruises that covered his body, Andrew sat up and looked around.

  Were they dead? Was this the afterworld? Or had they somehow survived? He came to his feet, and from the way the protest of bruised muscles coursed to his brain, he somehow felt he must be alive after all.

  But how? Was the light a dream, the falling a wild hallucination? All he could recall was that endless falling, the light pulsing and flaring. He struggled with the memory. He seemed to recall awakening at some point, and still they were falling in silence, the light about them shaped like a funnel, spiraling downward and dragging the ship with it.

  Improbable, he thought. The wave must have knocked him unconscious and somehow that damned captain had managed to save them after all.

  The deck of the ship was a shambles. All three masts were down, with rigging, spars, and canvas littering the deck from stem to stern. In more than one place Andrew could see a lifeless form tangled in the wreckage. He'd have to get the men moving to start cleaning this up and disposing of the dead.

  But where were they? He raised his eyes. They were aground, the shore a scant fifty yards away. The sandy beach before them quickly gave way to brush and low trees, and beyond he could see a series of low-lying hills.

  Fumbling with his one hand, he managed to untie the rope about his waist.

  It was hot, nearly summerlike, and he could feel the beads of sweat coursing down his back, trapped by the still-damp wool of his salt-encrusted uniform jacket.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, which felt sunburned, he turned and saw a dull red orb already halfway up the sky. It didn't look quite right, he thought, somehow bigger. Not thinking any more of it, he turned away.

  They were alive, but where? Had they run all the way to Bermuda, or were they now wrecked somewhere along the coast? It had to be somewhere in the south. It could never be this warm in the north at this time of year.

  Could it be the Carolinas? But no, he remembered that the hills didn't come this close to the sea. Perhaps he was mistaken, but best not to take any chances—they'd have to assume they were in rebel territory till it was proved different.

  "Colonel, you all right?"

  Hans popped his head up from an open hatchway, and for the first time in memory, Andrew could see that his old sergeant had a look of total bewilderment on his face.

  "All right, Hans. Yourself?"

  "Damned if I know, sir," and the sergeant pulled himself up onto the deck. "I thought we'd gone under, and then there was this light. For a moment there I thought, Hans, old boy, it's the light of heaven and those damned stupid angels have made a mistake. And the next thing I know I wake up still alive."

  "What's it like below?" Andrew asked.

  "Six hundred men puking their guts out. Ain't very pleasant, sir. Couple of the boys got killed from the battering, a number of broken limbs, and everyone with bruises. They're just starting to come to now."

  "Well, go below and start getting them up on deck. There's work to be done."

  "Right sir," and the sergeant disappeared back down the ladder.

  "So you finally decided to get up."

  Andrew groaned. He knew he shouldn't think it, but he found himself wishing that Tobias had been swept overboard.

  "Where the hell are we?" Andrew asked, turning to face the captain, who was strolling down the deck toward him.

  "South Carolina, I reckon. I'll shoot an angle on the sun and soon have it figured out."

  "How did we get here?" Andrew asked, unable to hide his bewilderment.

  Tobias hesitated for only a second.

  "Good piloting, that's all," he replied, but Andrew could sense the doubt in his voice.

  "And that strange light?"

  "St. Elmo's fire, but I reckon a landlubber like you never heard of it."

  "That wasn't St. Elmo's, Captain Tobias. It knocked all of us out and we woke up here, and I daresay you can't explain it any more than I can."

  Tobias looked at him, trying to keep up the front, then turned away with a mumbled curse.

  "We've been hulled. I'm going below to check the damage. I suggest we get started straightening this ship out, and I expect your men to help where need be."

  Without waiting for a response, Tobias headed for the nearest hatchway and disappeared below.

  Within minutes the deck was aswarm with men staggering up from below, most of them looking rather the worse for wear. As quickly as they came up, the various company commanders tried to sort them out and run a roll. Spotting

  Kathleen coming out from the captain's cabin, he hurried to her side.

  "You all right, Miss O'Reilly?"

  She looked up at him and smiled bleakly.

  "Long as I live I'll never set foot on a ship again." The two of them laughed softly.

  "Sergeant Schuder told me there've been some casualties. I'd deeply appreciate it if you would find Dr. Weiss and give him your assistance."

  He continued to look at her closely, not wanting to admit that he had been concerned for her.

  "Colonel, si
r!"

  Andrew looked up to a private standing atop the ship's railing and pointing off to shore. He came up to his side and looked at the boy, trying to remember his name. The boy was nothing more than a mere slip of a lad, standing several inches below five and a half feet in height. His red hair, freckled face, and cheerful open expression gave him an innocent, almost childlike look. Andrew fished for his name, wondering how this lad had ever gotten past the recruiting sergeant. Then again, army recruiters were simply interested in warm bodies, nothing more. Suddenly the name came back to him.

  "What is it, Hawthorne?"

  Vincent looked at him for a moment, swelling a little with the fact that the colonel knew his name. That was another thing learned from Hans—always know their names, even though too often the knowing in the end would cause pain.

  The boy was silent, still looking at him.

  "Go on, son. What is it?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. Sir, look over there, near that cut in the dunes a couple of hundred yards up the beach. Seems like a cavalryman."

  Andrew shaded his eyes and looked to where the boy was pointing.

  Damn big horse. Looked to be a Clydesdale.

  "Strange thing, colonel—it seems he's carrying a lance or spear."

  Andrew looked around for Tobias, hoping he could get a | spyglass, but the captain had yet to reappear.

  "Son, do you know where my quarters are?"

  "I think so, sir."

  "Well, run quick—there's a single chest there. My name's on the top. Inside you'll find my field glasses. My sword's there as well. Now fetch them quick, lad."

  "Yes sir!"

  Obviously impressed with the responsibility given to him, Vincent jumped off the railing and raced below.

  Andrew leaned over, still shading his eyes, and tried to get a better look at the lone horseman.

  "Stay where you are, dammit," Andrew whispered. "Just don't move."

  "Got something, colonel?"

  Andrew turned to see Pat O'Donald coming up to join him.

  He pointed to where the lone cavalryman sat, half concealed.

  "How'd your men take the storm?" Andrew ventured, while waiting for Vincent to return.

  "It's not the man, it's the horses," O'Donald said sadly. "We brought along enough for two guns and a caisson—the rest went on another ship. Most of them will have to be destroyed, or are already dead. I checked your horse, sir—he made it through all right."

  The tearful remorse in the major's voice was rather a strange paradox coming from a man with his reputation.

  "Your field glasses, sir," Hawthorne cried, near breathless as he raced up to Andrew's side.

  Andrew brought them up and focused.

  "Well, that is the damnedest," he whispered softly.

  If this was reb cavalry, then they sure as hell were scraping the bottom. The man wore a beard that came near to his waist, with long shaggy hair curling down past his shoulders, and which, even more curious, was topped by what appeared to be a conical iron helmet. His dirty white tunic, which looked as if it had a high clerical collar to it, was buttoned off to one side.

  The man didn't even have boots; his lower legs were covered with rags, wrapped cross-hatched with strips of leather. And Hawthorne was right—the man was indeed carrying a spear.

  In front of Petersburg he saw deserters coming in almost daily, but at least they still were carrying guns and had a semblance of a uniform.

  Andrew handed the field glasses to O'Donald, who started to laugh.

  "Faith and upon my soul! So there is the vaunted reb cavalry."

  As if realizing he was being watched, the lone horseman turned his horse about, and kicking it into a trot he disappeared from view.

  "Old men and children in the trenches, and now cavalry carrying spears on draft horses. Won't those poor sots ever give up?"

  Still laughing, he handed the field glasses back.

  "He might look comical, major, but this could prove serious."

  "And how so?"

  "Those low hills there. Whatever it was you were laughing at could be going to get help right now. If they have a single section of artillery handy, all they need do is position themselves up there and shell us into surrender."

  O'Donald fell silent and turned to look back down the deck.

  "Too much of a cant here to deploy my guns to respond."

  "Exactly," Andrew replied. "We'd better get my men ashore immediately and dig in. Get your men moving and bring those Napoleon field pieces of yours topside. That lifeboat there should be enough to ferry them ashore."

  Andrew looked back to where Vincent still stood.

  "Son, you'd better help me on with that sword," he said softly.

  "Colonel, with the captain's compliments he wants you back aboard ship."

  "Damn it all, what now?" Andrew turned on the messenger and saw that it was Bullfinch, the young ensign who had first led him aboard ship.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but the captain did not confide that in me," the boy said meekly.

  "All right. Just give me a minute."

  Andrew quickly surveyed the ground around him. One thing could certainly be said for the men of his regiment— six months of siege work in front of Petersburg had taught them how to dig. A triangular outworks forming a perimeter a hundred yards across at the base was already laid out in the dark loamy soil. It was already several feet deep on the two sides facing inland. O'Donald's men were finished with the first gun emplacement, commanding the apex of the line, and were now turning their attention to flanking position. One twelve-pound Napoleon had already been ferried out and emplaced. Looking back to the ship, he could see that the second weapon was being lowered over the side.

  It must have been one hell of a wave that pushed them this far in, Andrew thought, as he looked at the damaged hull resting in less than ten feet of water. Even as a nonsailor Andrew had realized another curious fact about the place they had come to rest: there was no tide.

  And there was the question of the sun. His timepiece was useless after the soaking the storm had given it, but somehow the day had seemed awfully damn short. Besides that, from the ship's compass the shoreline ran due east to west, and he could recall no such coastline south of New York.

  "Keep the boys at it, Hans," Andrew shouted, and following the ensign, he waded into the near-tropical warmth of the ocean and accepted the helping hands of two sailors aboard the ship's launch. Seconds later they were alongside the Ogunquit, and with the help of a sling, Andrew was deposited back on deck.

  There was a look of anxiety on Tobias's face, something that Andrew actually found to be pleasing.

  "What is it, captain?" Andrew asked coolly.

  "Colonel, can you climb the rigging?" And so saying he pointed up to where the shrouds to the mainmast still clung to the shattered maintop, thirty feet above the deck.

  "Lead the way."

  This was something he would never have worried about once, but since the loss of his arm, Andrew found the prospect somewhat frightening—though he'd never admit it in front of this man.

  Tobias scrambled up ahead of Andrew, almost as if taunting him. But all thought of insult died as he finally reached the shattered platform.

  . "One of my men spotted the first contingent. I thought you should take a look."

  Fumbling for his field glasses, Andrew looked off to the distant horizon.

  Through a gap in the hills it seemed as if an ocean of men were swarming toward them.

  "There must be thousands of them," Tobias whispered.

  At the head of the column rode a contingent of several hundred horsemen, followed by what appeared to be an undisciplined horde, which, after clearing the gap, spilled out in every direction.

  "My glass has more power than your field glasses," Tobias offered.

  It took a moment for Andrew to brace himself and focus the awkward telescope. He trained it upon the head of the column, and a gasp of amazement escaped him.

  It looked lik
e an army out of a distant dream. At the head of the column rode half a dozen men carrying square banners mounted upon crosspoles. The lead banner portrayed crossed swords of red on a white background, looking vaguely like a Confederate battle standard; the next was of a horseman with a double-bladed ax above him. The others had the appearance of stylized icons, being the portraits of men in what Andrew felt was a near-Byzantine style.

  The horsemen, most looking like the scout they had seen earlier on the beach, carried spears. Some had shields slung over their shoulders, and most of them were wearing conical helmets, festooned here and there with fluttering ribbons. A number of horsemen in the column looked as if they were wearing rough plate armor. The heavily armored warriors rode in a tightly clustered group around a portly, bearded man in gold-embossed armor, who rode beneath the horse-and-ax standard.

  Andrew swung the glass around to the swarms of infantry. They looked like true medieval levies armed with an insane assortment of spears, swords, clubs, and pitchforks.

  Andrew looked over to Tobias, who wordlessly returned his gaze.

  "Captain—just where in God's earth are we?" Andrew whispered.

  "... I don't know," Tobias finally admitted.

  "Well, dammit, man, you'd better figure it out, because we sure as hell haven't landed in South Carolina!"

  Andrew started back down from the maintop and jumped to the deck, Tobias following him.

  "Get Dr. Weiss up here!" Andrew Shouted, heading for the rail.

  "What are you going to do, colonel?" Tobias asked.

  Andrew turned on the captain, but found himself completely at a loss for words.

  "Can you get this ship afloat again?" he finally asked.

  "Where's the tide?" Tobias asked in a whisper, drawing closer. "If we had beached at low tide there might have been a chance—but where's the bloody tide? And besides, there's a hole down belowdecks big enough to ride a horse through."

  "Then figure something out, because we sure as hell don't want to stay here!"

  "Wherever here is," Emil retorted, coming up to join Andrew.

  Together the two went into the lifeboat. Before it had even reached shore, Andrew leaped out, Emil puffing to keep up:

  "What is it, colonel?"