Rally Cry (43 page)

The Tugars were moving fast and hard. He had thought the eighty-mile warning would give them enough time,
but
they were pressing in without stop. The
Ogunquit
and
the
35th were reported in position, but that would never be enough. Twenty miles were past, and the Wheel now filled the evening sky above them, but still he pushed his men on.

Past village and crossroads the column moved forward. It made him think of
Gettysburg again, that strange dreamlike night march when all in the ranks somehow knew that
the
fate of a nation waited for them on the road just ahead. The night was even the same, cool after a hot day, the steady tramping of feet, the same singsong chant.

"Close up, boys, no lagging now, close up, boys."

The Great Wheel rose higher and higher, and then passed over toward the western sky.

Reaching another signal station, he looked up and called for a report. The man above did not reply, busy with the waving of a torch. Finally, with the message finished, he came down. Following the old form, the Suzdalian forgot to salute and bowed deeply.

"All but the last five signal towers have fallen," the old man said.

Ten miles for them, he thought to himself, and we
still
have five. They must be as tired as we are. He looked back at the ranks, the men staggering past as if walkers in a dream. He had one regiment of Suzdalians waiting there, and the 35th as well. The men with him needed to rest; worn out, they'd be of no use in what was to come.

"Courier!"

An exhausted boy astride a horse came up and saluted.

"My compliments to General Schuder, and tell him to pass the word for the march to stop. Let the men sleep the rest of the night and bring them up at dawn. I'm pushing on to the ford."

The boy saluted and disappeared back down the road.

Hans, old friend, you'd better bring them up quick if you hear guns, Andrew thought to himself. Groaning from the effort, he got back in the saddle, and with staff trailing behind, galloped northward into the night.

The lone horseman galloped across the ford, water spraying up at his passage. Standing in his stirrups, he waved his hat excitedly.

"They're coming! They're coming!"

Standing by the bank of the river, Andrew nodded as the man raced across, pushing hard, and drove his horse up the riverbank and into the woods.

It was such a beautiful morning, Andrew thought quietly.

The red sun was cutting the horizon behind him, dark in color, its rays giving the landscape a ruddy tint. He should see that as a portent, but for the moment it was only a source of beauty. The woods were alive with the singing of birds, and the chattering of squirrels disturbed by the presence of men on the ground beneath them.

Andrew looked down the line. The positions were well concealed, the loose dirt from the entrenchments covered with brush, fallen logs, and sod.

He could hear them now, a steady thunder in the distance, like a wave drawing closer and closer. Turning, he went back up the embankment and slid down into the trench, pulled out his field glasses, and waited.

The thunder rose in intensity. Surely they should be in sight by now, he thought. There was a flutter of movement in the woods on the other side. He raised his glasses.

No, nothing.

A movement again, a flight of birds kicking up and taking wing.
Then more movement, and now he saw them.
A lone Tugar on foot, ducking low, racing to a tree, then another and another, filtering through the woods like an Indian.

So they've already learned, he thought.

Singly, in twos and threes, and now by the dozen, he saw them moving forward toward the opposite bank, two hundred yards away.

"Over there," one of his men whispered, rising up to take a look.

"Stay down," Andrew hissed.

One of the Tugars on the other side stood frozen for a moment looking straight at him, and then turned and disappeared.

The clattering of hooves grew loud, and as if he had suddenly appeared out of the ground a lone Tugar reined in on the opposite side of the ford.

The warrior sat alone, hand over eyes to shade them from the sun. Proud, disdainful of any danger, he sat for long minutes watching.

The tension felt as brittle as glass. Andrew could sense
bis
men and the lone Suzdalian regiment poised, waiting for the command, but he wanted to wait, to let the enemy get close, nearly on top of them, before opening fire.

More and more Tugars were filtering down to the edge of the woods on the opposite shore, advancing no farther. The moment seemed to stretch into an eternity, both sides aware of the other, yet not reacting.

The single crack of a musket tore the silence, like a scream roaring through the peaceful tranquillity of a church.

Andrew stood up, looking for the man who had violated orders. There was another crack and another.

Already the horseman was spinning his mount around, puffs of dust kicking up around him.

"Dammit!" Andrew roared, but it was too late, as the entire Suzdalian regiment cut loose with a ragged volley. The horseman pitched from his saddle; his foot caught in the stirrup, he disappeared down the road.

The range was too far, simply too far for smoothbore muskets, and he wondered that the Tugar had even been hit.

A deep-throated horn sounded from the far side of the river.

And then the sky above the river turned dark as a volley of arrows slashed up from the far bank.

"Get down!" Andrew shouted.

With a clattering rush, hundreds of arrows slammed down around him, and the first casualties dropped into the trench.

"35th! Mark your targets!
Independent fire at will!"
Andrew shouted.

Singly and then in an ever-increasing staccato, rifle shots rang out. Andrew raced down the entrenchment and reached the position where four guns had been dug in. Sergeant Dunlevy saluted at Andrew's approach.

"Start pouring solid shot into the woods to either side of the ford!" Andrew shouted. "Give them something to think about!"

Seconds later the four pieces kicked off with a salvo, brush and trees splintering an instant later on the opposite side.

From the Suzdalian line north of the ford another volley crashed out, and cursing, Andrew sprinted across the open road and into their lines.

"Colonel Anderson!" Andrew roared, racing down the packed entrenchment. Another shower of arrows slashed into the line, and a man in front of Andrew spun from the firing step like a top, collapsing at his feet. He leaped over the body and pushed on.

"
Anderson!"

The young officer, who had been a mere lieutenant only weeks before, turned wide-eyed at the obvious rage of his commander.

"Goddammit,
Anderson, you know your smoothbore weapons can't hit the broadside of a barn at this range!"

"The men just started firing!" he shouted back as muskets kept rattling off.

"Stop them, dammit. We're wasting powder. Let them
close,
let them get closer, dammit!"

Stunned, Andrew watched as
Anderson jumped on top of the breastworks.

"Cease fire!"
Anderson roared. "Cease . . ." The young officer pitched back into the trench, an arrow through his throat.

Dammit, Andrew cursed silently.

"Major Black!" Andrew pushed down the trench and saw the rotund former sergeant knocking muskets up, shouting, bringing control to the right of the line.

"
Anderson's dead!" Andrew shouted, "Steve, you're colonel now. Bring these men under control and stop wasting ammunition!"

Another volley of arrows slashed past, and they ducked against the breastworks.

Black saluted, and without another word to Andrew turned and shouted commands down the line. In another minute the regiment was back under control, hunkered down against the storm, waiting. Andrew pushed back southward, and racing once more across the road, he jumped into the entrenchments of the 35th.

The men were fighting as only seasoned veterans could. Loading their rifles, they'd lean up over the entrenchment, carefully take aim, fire, and then slide back down. The new Suzdalian recruits, obviously rattled, watched and learned. A routine had already been worked out, two or three men loading and passing up rifles to skilled marksmen who snapped off round after round. Through the smoke Andrew could see they were having an effect as Tugar bodies littered the shore.

Leaning against a tree, Muzta watched the action.

"We saw two formations of them, the Yankees to the south of the ford, what must be Rus cattle to the north," Muzta said, looking over at Qubata. "Why are only half firing?"

"Perhaps they wish to wait for our charge, or they might wish to save their fire powder. The third reason could be that like bows that shoot at different ranges, so too with their weapons."

"If that is true, our bows can reach farther than their weapons."

"We are losing dozens to the south," Qubata shouted, above the roar of battle, "north only a handful. It might be skill, or it might be weapons. We haven't seen any others yet, but our scouts on the right are reporting a column of dust coming up the road."

"So they are holding here for reinforcements. We must act
quick
."

Four sharp cracks snapped out from the enemy side, and an instant later a small tree not a dozen feet from Muzta split in half and came crashing down.

The two looked at each other in surprise.

"A terrible device," Muzta snapped. "What glory is there in fighting against such things?"

"I don't think they are concerned with glory," Qubata replied.

"And their great ship?"

"It is a thousand paces down the river, just around the bend, as if waiting."

"All right," Muzta shouted, "keep bringing more up on their right. I want thousands in there. When the time is right we'll charge!"

The storm of arrows seemed to increase with every passing second. More and more men had slid down to the bottom of the trench, some still, some shrieking, others just sitting quietly, waiting for a clear moment so they could start for the rear.

"Colonel Keane!"

Andrew looked up to see a young Suzdalian boy sitting astride a Clydesdale and looking down at him in the trench.

"You idiot, get under cover!" Andrew shouted.

"Sir, General Schuder reports he'll be up within the hour."

"Well, tell him to hurry," Andrew roared, and the boy, still showing no fear, merely saluted, kicked his mount, and started back to the south.

The artillery kept barking
,
the woods about him filled with the rotten-egg smell of black powder and burning brush where the gun flashes had triggered an ever-increasing number of fires.

"Keep it up here, boys!" Andrew- shouted, and turning, he started back north again. Dunlevy, working like one demented, grinned wildly as Andrew rushed past, his men serving their pieces with skill.

Running behind the low barricade of logs set in the road, he was again inside the Suzdalian trenches. The men looked at him grim-faced.

He knew perhaps the hardest thing on morale was to lie under fire without being able to return the punishment, but it could not be helped.

Black came up to meet him.

"They're taking it hard," Black shouted. "Several have already turned and run. God help me, colonel, I shot one of them. I had to, to stop a panic!"

It was something Andrew had never been forced to do, something almost unheard-of even in the worst heat of battle, but here it was different—they had to keep these men in their positions.

"Here they come!"

Andrew looked up.

Thundering down the road
came
a lone standard-bearer, holding a horsehair pennant aloft. Behind him it looked as if the very gates of hell had been torn open.

Packed ten across, the Tugars came on at the charge. Standing high in their stirrups, the demonlike images swarmed forward, their wild ululating cries sending a shiver of fear down Andrew's spine.

"God in heaven, help me now," Andrew whispered.

The first rank hit the river, then another and another, sending up showering sprays of foam.

"1st Suzdal," Black roared, "make ready!"

The men came to their feet, some of them crying aloud with fear at the sight. Half the
regiment were
veterans of the first fight, but then their enemy had been surprised. Now they were facing a charge driving straight at them as the enemy angled northward, the ranks spreading out, coming in relentlessly.

Dunlevy's artillery, with muzzles depressed, sent in a spray of canister, sweeping down dozens, but still the charge drove forward.

"Wait, men, wait!" Black shouted.

A hundred and fifty yards, a hundred, and the forward ranks slowed, letting those behind them move up, gathering strength for the rush. Behind them on the riverbank thousand of Tugars came out of the woods, rushing down to the river's edge, and with raised bows sent sheets of arrows arching over their comrades.

Men started tumbling, screaming.

The charge, gathering up its strength, smashed forward again with ever-increasing speed.

"Take aim!"

Four hundred muskets dropped to the level, the men resting their weapons on the breastworks as they had been taught to.

Seventy-five yards, fifty.

"Fire!"

The first rank of Tugars crashed down.

"Reload, independent fire at will!"

Four hundred steel ramrods pushed rounds home, the men working feverishly. The charge had been stopped for the moment, but over the bodies of the fallen more Tugars swarmed forward, their mounts leaping over the casualties. Scattered groups were rising out of the river, gaining the shore.

Muskets started to snap, first one, and then within seconds dozens upon dozens of shots rang out.

Andrew looked up from the carnage, and to his dismay saw a packed column of Tugars on foot come sweeping down the road, charging into the river.

"Steve, they've sacrificed some cavalry to drive in close— they'll have their infantry up in a minute. You've got to hold!"

More and more horsemen, roaring their defiance, splashed forward and fell, to be replaced by yet more. A knot of warriors gained the shore and rushed right up to the edge of the trenches before falling. Behind the assault, infantry fanned out across the width of the ford, some of them pushing forward in waist-deep water.

Onward they came, while to their front the last of the five hundred cavalry desperately floundered forward. Rifle fire from the 35th, swung now to the right, hit the flank of the advancing host, while Dunlevy's artillery continued to pour in canister with devastating effect.