Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  "Understand?"

  The men nodded their agreement.

  "Artillery to the front!" O'Donald yelled excitedly.

  "All right, gentlemen, let's get ready."

  Lashing their team, the gun crew galloped down the road, the infantry parting to let them pass.

  "Uncase the colors!"

  The chilling thrill washed over Andrew as the color bearers stepped to the front of the column. Behind them, five hundred bayonets snapped out of scabbards, rammers were pulled, and cartridges slammed in. Steel-tipped rifles came back up to shoulders, and grimly the men waited.

  Dismounting, Andrew turned his mount loose. Drawing his saber, he stepped into the middle of the road, directly behind the limbered gun. Without looking back, he raised the sword high and pointed toward the city.

  "35th Maine, at the double time forward!"

  Down the slope toward the city they moved, gaining speed. O'Donald, roaring with delight, spurred his mount forward, screaming wildly at the gun crew, who clung desperately to the bouncing, careening limber. Never had he led a charge such as this, racing far ahead of the infantry.

  The gates of the city were open before them. Onward they charged, galloping past still forms on the side of the road, and terrified refugees who leaped away at his approach as if he were an apparition.

  A wild cry came up from the gate. An arrow snapped past.

  "Battle front, unlimber!"

  With skill borne from long years of practice, the gun crew turned from the road, the limber and gun skidding in the snow. Even before it had come to a rest the men swarmed off, heaving the gun free from its limber and turning it about to point straight at the gate.

  "Spherical case shot, one-second fuse," O'Donald roared, jumping off his mount to join the crew.

  The loader rushed up to the gaping maw of the gun, carrying a three-pound charge of powder and a shell that would explode two hundred yards downrange, cutting loose with a deadly hail of fifty musket balls packed inside.

  A stream of arrows started to slam into the snow about the gun. The cartridge pushed in by the loader, he leaped clear as the rammer, leaning in on his staff, shoved the charge and shell home.

  O'Donald grabbed a primer and stuck it in at the breech.

  "A bit more to the left." The men leaned on the wheels and angled the piece while O'Donald squinted down the barrel.

  "Hold it. Stand clear!"

  With a thunderous roar the Napoleon leaped back. An instant later the gateway filled with a lightning flash of fire.

  Even as the gun fired, Andrew came rushing past, screaming hoarsely, the men now breaking into a charge.

  He thought it must be his imagination, a desperate last wish that what was happening would somehow be prevented. Staggering from the sword wound to his arm, Kal backed against a wall, gasping for breath.

  There was a pause, so others had heard a thunder as well, but it was only a second before the nobleman, screaming hoarsely, cut in again with his blade.

  Near the front of the company, Hawthorne leaped over the mangled bodies that filled the gateway. Ahead, by the glare of the burning palace, he could see the warriors running in panic up the street.

  Dear God, he prayed, let them keep running, let them keep running.

  He barely spared a glance for the carnage all about him. The streets seemed choked with dead and dying, peasants, warriors, and nobles piled indiscriminately atop one another. Fifty, a hundred yards up the street they pushed, meeting no resistance, while always at the lead were the colors and Colonel Keane, his hat gone, sword raised high, as if he were an avenging angel, with the demon of Sergeant Hans running by his side.

  Suddenly the fleeing warriors slowed and stopped, coming up against a crush of men who were heading back down the street to meet the new attack.

  Andrew stopped and looked back.

  "Spread that company across the street!"

  As a corporal it was now his job to help, and following Sergeant Barry, Hawthorne guided the ranks into a double line while behind them Company B drew up in the same formation.

  "Front rank, take aim . . . fire!"

  "Second rank!" Hawthorne brought his rifle up and pointed toward the still-charging warriors. How can I? his mind screamed at him. Dear God, not again.

  "Take aim!" He steadied his hand, drawing a bead on a noble who, screaming and shouting, was driving his foot soldiers forward.

  He closed his eyes.

  "Fire!"

  The gun slammed into his shoulder.

  "Company B, six paces forward!"

  Hawthorne opened his eyes, and through the tears saw that the noble was gone. Perhaps he had missed the man and he had run away. Hawthorne prayed.

  Reloading, he waited.

  "Company A, six paces forward!"

  He stepped forward, rifle raised.

  "Both ranks, take aim, fire!"

  "Company B, six paces forward!"

  Like a machine, he tore cartridges, his face smeared with powder. He felt as if in a dream, caught up in some devil-made machine, whose gears turned and turned, bringing him forward, and spitting broken bodies out the other side.

  Slowly they advanced up the street, stepping over the dead and dying, the snow beneath their feet now churned into a pinkish slush that splattered their uniforms.

  Ahead the street suddenly broadened out into the main square.

  "C Company forward, A to reserve!" Andrew roared.

  Pausing for a moment, Hawthorne looked down at the ground, and recoiled with horror. Nahatkim's face looked up at him, a soft smile on the old man's bloody features.

  A bitter hatred coursed through Hawthorne's blood. They had killed that gentle old man, and he screamed with a crazed animal frenzy, his cries mingling in with the wild shouts of the regiment who raged at the carnage about them, and now added to it with every volley.

  "A and D companies to the front," Andrew cried. "Form to the right of line!"

  Pushing up the street, Hawthorne stepped into the square, and racing with his command the regiment shook out into a four-company front over fifty yards long.

  The enemy had been driven back halfway across the square, stunned by the sudden onslaught, while to the left could be heard the growing rattle of musketry as Mina pushed his men up the flank.

  There was a growing sense of desperation from the milling crowd in the middle of the square.

  "They're gonna charge," Barry roared. "You can smell it, they're gonna charge!"

  "O'Donald, get that gun up here!" Andrew shouted, looking back down the street to where the artillery piece was stalled by the sheer mass of bodies in their way.

  "Here they come!"

  "Present. . . fire!"

  A scathing volley swept the square, but storming over the bodies the warriors pressed forward, screaming hoarse cries of rage.

  "Independent fire at will!"

  Furiously Hawthorne rammed another charge home. He felt as if all the world were suddenly slowed, his arms made of lead. Ever so slowly he pulled the rammer out and fumbled for a percussion cap.

  The wall of shouting, raging men came closer, closer.

  He brought his rifle up, pointed, and squeezed.

  The face of a man not ten yards away exploded in blood.

  "O'Donald, the gun!"

  It sounded as if Andrew's shouts came from a million miles away.

  Relentlessly they came forward.

  A dark shield seemed to fill the world in front of Hawthorne. Bayonet lowered, he met the charge and thrust in.

  His blade skidded off the shield. Over the rim he could see the wild eyes of a man intent on killing him.

  An ax came down, and he leaped to the right. Gun raised high, he drove in, the bayonet catching his man in the throat.

  And then another body filled the world before him, and then another, while all the time he screamed as if one possessed, no longer caring if he lived or died.

  "They're running, they're running!"

  Incredu
lous, Kal staggered to his feet. The noble who had been so intent upon killing him but a moment before seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

  All up and down the street, doorways were flung open, people pouring out, armed with whatever they could grab.

  Stunned, Kal looked about. Never had he seen his people thus, fire in their eyes, a look of triumph raising them to exultation.

  "To the square!" Kal cried. "Death to the nobles!" And his cry was picked up, echoing and reechoing above the nightmare which was now turning to hope.

  "You've got to hold," Andrew roared.

  They were no longer firing, for the pressure was too great to give his men a chance to reload. He knew that sword and shield against bayonet would win out, but they had to hold, and link up with Mina, who from the sound of battle was pushing in from the west.

  Turning, he looked at Hans.

  "Bring up the reserve!"

  Saluting, the sergeant ran off.

  "O'Donald, where the hell are you?" And as if in answer the red-whiskered major came storming up to his side.

  Drawing his revolver, he emptied the six chambers in a matter of seconds.

  "Best damn fight I've ever seen!" the Irishman shouted, as he pointed to his gun, which was being pushed into line.

  "B Company, open up!" Andrew shouted.

  Parrying the swarming enemy, the company staggered back past the gun.

  A thunderous roar echoed across the square. The Napoleon leaped almost to the vertical and slammed back down.

  "Triple canister," O'Donald shouted gleefully. "Two hundred iron balls at point-blank!"

  Dumbfounded, Andrew looked in amazement at the bloody swarth that had mowed through the square.

  The enemy charge broke and started to stream back northward, while from out of the west side of the square the first bluecoats appeared.

  "Let's drive them!" Andrew roared. "Keep them moving!"

  Reloading, the four companies fired again, counterpointed by another blast from the artillery.

  Volley after volley slashed out, and in silence Andrew watched.

  So this was the epitome of what he had become, he thought grimly, feeling a strange horrifying sense of power in the destructiveness unleashed.

  Hans came up by his side, while the reserve companies rushed past, forming to the right of the line, their firepower adding to the carnage.

  "We're doing murder," Andrew said grimly.

  "It's our job," Hans replied, pulling out a plug of precious tobacco and biting off a chew. To his amazement, Andrew reached out and took a bite, handing the plug back.

  Breaking in every direction, the nobles and their warriors streamed to the north and east, while from out of the side streets a torrent of peasants poured out, driving the stragglers before them, shouting with wild abandon.

  "Cease fire!" Andrew shouted, and the volley line was stilled.

  The square was wreathed in smoke, the flames from the palace and buildings about the square illuminating the carnage with a lurid light.

  "Hans, get up to Mina and have his command push up to the north. Keep the pressure on them, but show some mercy. If they keep moving, let them go—we've broken them right here. I'll send four companies up the east road the same way, and keep A and B with the artillery here in the square as reserve."

  "It had to be done this way," Hans said, looking into Andrew's eyes.

  "God help me, I know," Andrew replied. "Now get moving."

  Andrew started across the square, but within seconds all semblance of control seemed to break down as a torrent of people, wild with joy, filled the square, laughing, weeping, shouting with joy.

  Andrew, leading his men, started across the pavilion to the church, where there was still a knot of fighting between peasants and warriors. At the approach of his men the sound of fighting died away.

  At least some were starting to give up, he thought hopefully.

  "Surrender!" Andrew shouted. "We offer quarter!"

  The peasants backed away, shouting angrily, and as they gave ground, Andrew stood transfixed.

  Ivor stood in the doorway of the church.

  "Ivor, give up. I'm offering you quarter."

  The boyar gazed at Andrew, a look of pain on his features.

  Andrew started forward.

  "We can work together, Ivor."

  The boyar stood before him, a sad smile creasing his features.

  "I never wanted this," Ivor said, a distant look on his face.

  Andrew could not reply.

  "But you were right when you told me the church would destroy me."

  "Give, up, Ivor."

  Nodding, as if coming from a deep sleep, the boyar motioned to his men, who, letting their weapons drop, started to walk toward the Union line.

  Ivor turned to look back into the church.

  "No!" And leaping to the middle of the doorway, he rushed into the darkness of the nave.

  There was the crack of a rifle shot.

  Andrew, sword raised, leaped up the stairs and into the church.

  Ivor turned to face him, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. At his feet lay Rasnar, with Ivor's sword driven through his body. A still-smoking rifle rested by Rasnar's side, his fists clenched tightly around the barrel. The priest, who had appeared so powerful in life, now looked pathetic and small, his death grimace a horrible contortion of rage and pain.

  "It was meant for you," Ivor said weakly, and drawing back his hands, he revealed a hole in his chest, pouring blood.

  Wordlessly the boyar sank to the floor, and Andrew knelt by his side.

  "It was meant for both of us," Andrew said sadly.

  "Rule my people better than I did," Ivor whispered. "Free them from the Tugars." And then he was still.

  Leaning over, Andrew took off Ivor's glasses, and gently closed his eyes.

  Coming back out of the church, Andrew beheld a scene of wild jubilation.

  He saw Hawthorne leaning against the side of the church, and he went up to the soldier, who stood wide-eyed in shock.

  "Are you all right, boy?" he asked.

  "I think so, sir."

  "It's the same for all of us," Andrew said, patting him lightly on the shoulder. "In there lies a friend of mine. See that his body isn't harmed."

  "Keane, Keane!"

  Andrew looked up to see Kal pushing through the crowd.

  "Keane, I knew you would come," Kal said softly.

  "Yes, we came," Andrew said numbly. "We could not let you die."

  Kal looked about the square and shook his head.

  "Is this the price of freedom?" he asked numbly.

  "It usually is," Andrew replied.

  "We're free, Keane, we're free," the peasant said as if coming from a dream.

  "And there'll be a lot more to pay before you're done," Andrew said, looking at his men, who still stood in ranks, which he could see had been tragically thinned.

  "There are still the Tugars."

  Book II

  Chapter 12

  As the gates of the city opened, a wild tumultuous shout went up.

  Feeling a bit foolish, Andrew spurred his mount, and the regiment stepped forward, drums rolling, the men sounding off with the song "The Battle Cry of Freedom."

  He could not help but think of the ancient Romans offering a triumph to a victorious legion commander returning from the field.

  Kal and a delegation of city elders stood at the gate. At Andrew's approach they bowed low, turned, and led the way up the street to the town square.

  Had it only been two days since he came charging up this street, sword in hand, his soul consumed with the joy of battle? As if in a dream, Andrew looked about. Many of the buildings were scorched, their vacant windows looking like blackened skeletal eyes. It was a miracle, he thought, that the whole city hadn't been lost. Only the shifting of the storm into a heavy rain had ended the conflagration.

  All about him were people pressing forward, waving, touching his horse, weeping, laughing.
Turning in the saddle, he looked back down the street. His battle-hardened men were grinning broadly at the reception, their song echoing above the roar of the crowd.

  "And we'll fill our vacant ranks, With a million freemen more, Shouting the Battle Cry of Freedom."

  The vacant ranks, Andrew thought sadly. Twenty-five more men were resting now on cemetery hill, and another sixty were still in the hospital with wounds. The toll of Suzdalians would most likely never be known. At least three, possibly four thousand dead, along with a couple of thousand from the other side. Yet still the people celebrated.

  Drums rolling, the regiment passed its way up to the city square and made their way toward the great cathedral, where a golden-robed figure stood on the steps of the church.

  Drawing up before the cathedral, Andrew reined in, the column coming to a halt. The golden-robed priest raised his hand in a sign of blessing, and all in the square, including many of O'Donald's men, blessed themselves in response.

  Reaching out to a young acolyte for support, the priest hobbled down the steps of the church, and as Andrew dismounted the priest shook his hand, which triggered a wild response from the spectators.

  "As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free," Casmar said, grinning, and in spite of all that was troubling his mind, Andrew could not help but smile in return.

  "They expect you to say something," Casmar said, beckoning back to the expectant crowd.

  He'd been dreading this moment, but knew it would have to be done. Mounting the steps with Casmar, Andrew turned and looked out over the sea of faces.

  "Citizens of Suzdal," Andrew started, his tenor voice carrying clearly in the cold winter air. "You have shown yourselves to be men and women determined to be free."

  A wild cheer went up, and Andrew had to wait until it finally died down.

  "You have fought to win your freedom, and you have paid the first price for that freedom in blood. I wish I could offer you peace, but we all know that is impossible. I wish I could offer you freedom to live your lives as you please, but for now that is impossible as well.

  "For we know what is coming to us from out of the west."

  All were silent.

  "If we are to win, to purchase our freedom from the slaughter pits of the Tugars, it will only be by our being united, by giving heart and soul for the common defense of all. It will be a long road, but a road I pray will lead to final victory and freedom."