Chack knew it was an illusion, but there were enemies ahead, moving to resist “Major” Blair’s assault on the “Irish” town of Waterford on the banks of Lake Shannon. Blair had landed four days before, south of the west-coast town of Cork, just as planned. The landing caught the inhabitants completely by surprise, and, after a short, sharp action, the town was in Allied hands. Blair was greeted as a liberator by the inhabitants, cheering and weeping with relief. Cork was a fishing village of indentured females, mostly, but several hundred “True Irish” Company troops and a contingent of Dominion “Salvadores” had been billeted there, going about their grisly “pacification, conversion, and reeducation” process. Hundreds in the town had already been slain and their bodies carried away. This last act had been just as cruel and apparently irrational as the murders themselves.
In any event, the plan seemed to be working. Blair’s capture of Cork had drawn rebel troops from Easky, Bray, and Waterford down upon him, and he met them with prepared positions in Cork and on both sides of a pass through the Wiklow Mountains. Not only had he been punishing the enemy severely, he’d drawn all attention other than that focused on the fleet offshore of New Dublin, and Chack’s division had virtually strolled ashore at Bray. The reception there was similar to the one Blair received except there’d been no fight at all. The “garrison” had gone to Waterford in response to Blair’s attack at Cork. Chack’s most immediate problem after landing had been convincing the locals that he and his Lemurian troops weren’t “demons” and were there to help—and to keep them from lynching anyone suspected of collaborating with the Doms. His division had swelled by several hundred “auxiliaries” who knew the island intimately and who, regardless of their former leanings or associations with the Company, were practically rabid to destroy the murderous Doms.
Chack now had a great deal of experience with “plans,” but he was increasingly optimistic. Nobody knew what the enemy had at New Dublin. Doubtless, the bulk of the Dom troops and rebels were there, but their attention was fixed for now, and Chack’s scouts reported no effort to force the bottleneck between the northern Sperrin Mountains and the sea. As far as they knew, only whatever enemy troops might be in the western “panhandle” city of Belfast were unaccounted for.
Major Alister Jindal, commander of the Imperial regiment and Chack’s exec, galloped up alongside the shorter ’Cat and stopped his horse. Chack couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s horsemanship—and the animal’s willing cooperation.
“Good aafternoon, Major Jindal,” Chack said pleasantly. He liked Jindal, and the two had worked well together in preparation for this operation. Some Imperials still had reservations about the Alliance, and a few were openly antagonistic toward the Lemurians in particular, refusing to serve with them and unwilling to take orders from them under any circumstances. Governor-Emperor McDonald couldn’t fire them all, but he could put them to use where their attitudes wouldn’t be a distraction. Jindal was a good friend of Blair’s and perfectly prepared to accept Chack’s more experienced command.
“Good afternoon, Major Chack,” Jindal said, grinning. Chack had halted his horse under the shade of a massive tree of some kind; it looked much like a Galla, except for the leaves. Despite the wind that brought them the sounds of battle to the east, it was hot and sultry in the valley between the two craggy mountain ranges, and the dense forest harbored more than enough moisture to make the day oppressive. He’d been watching his division pass by. The Lemurian Marines wore one uniform, but probably represented every member of the Alliance. Some “artiller-ists” in the uniforms of various Army regiments walked or trotted alongside their paalka-drawn guns. The “tried and true” split-trail six-pounders were still moved by a single animal, but the new twelve-pounder field guns used a single stock trail and limber hitched to a team of paalkas. Horses pulled the Imperial artillery, and Chack considered that a waste. Even in the Empire, horses were rare, and paalkas were stronger, if slower. He foresaw a thriving horse/paalka trade.
Imperial Marines in their red coats with yellow facings marched side by side in column with Lemurian Marines in their white leather armor and blue kilts. Black tricorns and shakos contrasted with polished bronze “doughboy” helmets. The colorful nature of the force gave a festive impression, but there was no doubt it meant business. The Lemurian Marines had grown accustomed to war and the associated hardship and discipline. Even in this foreign land with its strange creatures and people, they knew what to do, even if the enemy was different. The Imperials didn’t have the experience or training, but they were motivated. Nearly all the Marines, Lemurian and human, were armed with muskets; Imperial flintlocks and “Baalkpan Armory” caplocks were all brightly polished and glittered silver as they swayed to the marching cadence under the hot afternoon sun.
“It’s a lovely sight,” Jindal said, mirroring Chack’s thoughts.
“It is,” he agreed. “Lovely, stirring . . . and terrible all at once.”
Jindal hesitated. “I’m . . . glad you’re here.”
Chack looked at him, surprised. His tail flicked alongside his right leg. That was one problem with riding horses. The saddle made his tail very uncomfortable, and he was constantly adjusting his kilt to maintain his modesty. Lemurians didn’t care as much about such things as humans, but even among them, it was undignified to run around with one’s “ass hanging out.”
“I’m not,” he said with a snort. “As you may have gathered, I consider this something of a ‘sideshow’ in a more important war . . . but it has become part of that war, regardless.”
“All the more reason I’m glad you’re here,” Jindal said.
Chack barked a laugh. “Thank you for that. It’s nice to be appreciated!” His tone grew somber. “And in truth, I don’t mind it much. I’ve developed my own . . . dislike . . . of these ‘Doms’ and their Company rebel . . . tools.”
“I can imagine!’ Jindal blurted. Blair had described the action at the Dueling Grounds in considerable detail.
Chack’s attention was diverted by a figure on a horse, racing toward them on the opposite side of the column. The animal jarred to a stop, and he was amazed to see Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar sitting atop as if she’d been riding horses all her life.
“Make way,” she shouted, and forced the horse through the marching troops. Reining in before Chack and Jindal, she saluted.
“How did you learn to control that animal so?” Chack demanded.
“I practiced, sir,” she answered simply. “Beg pardon, but scouts have encountered enemy pickets on the road ahead.” She paused. “They could have brushed them aside, but they left them be, per your orders. They were probably seen.”
“Any contact with Blair yet?”
“No, sir.”
Chack considered and wished again they had the new field communications equipment First Fleet had deployed. Soon they would, reportedly with the arrival of Maaka-Kakja. They’d managed only about five miles the night before, and they’d pushed on early that morning with little sleep. So far, they’d made eight or nine miles that day, but with the heat and humidity, he wasn’t sure his division was ready for a major pitched battle without some rest. “Let’s have a look,” he decided. “Stay back, Major Jindal, but push more scouts ahead on the flanks. We need to coordinate with Blair—and make sure there’s nothing moving up on the left. We want to draw defenders out of New Dublin, but not many, not yet.” His tail swished impatiently. “I do wish we had some ‘air,’ as Captain Reddy would say.” He shook his head. “Not for a few days yet, according to the last reports, so we’ll just have to muddle along the old-fashioned way for now.” He looked around at the confining forest alongside the road. “Be ready to go from column into line,” he said. “It will be hard, but do the best you can. The terrain should open up soon, closer to the town, I believe. If you have no word from me by then, deploy the troops at that point, regardless. But watch the flanks!” He nodded at Blas. “Come,” he said. “Show me.”
They trot
ted forward, Chack a little unsteady on his mount, parallel to the marching infantry and creaking guns. A sudden flurry of shots echoed in the woods ahead. Instead of dying away, however, such as would have happened if it had been just more pickets and scouts, the shooting intensified.
“It would seem someone has run into someone else,” Chack quipped. He slowed his advance and looked around for someone to hold his horse.
“What are you doing, sir?” Blas asked.
“I want to go forward and see what’s happening, but I don’t want this animal shot!”
“Major, we’re on the verge of a ‘meeting engagement’ as General Alden would call it. For the first time, we’re stumbling into a battle we know almost nothing about. You must stay on your horse so you can move quickly from one place to another. That’s why you have him!”
“But . . .” He looked at the horse. “He didn’t volunteer to fight . . . did he?”
“Do paalkas volunteer?” Blas retorted. Chack started to reply that it wasn’t the same, but Blas had already moved forward. The firing ahead continued to build; dull, thumping crackles of musketry. The troops around them on the road started to trot in response to orders shouted in two languages. The column began shaking out into a ragged line in the trees, facing south, and NCOs shouted and shoved men and ’Cats into position. Chack glanced behind him and saw the rest of the column had ground to a halt. Blas is right, he thought, patting the horse again. I have to stay mounted and find out what’s happening. He urged the horse forward with his heels.
Musket balls voomed through the woods, thwacking into trees and causing a gentle rain of leaves.
“Major!” Blas called. She was leaning over in her saddle, speaking to an Imperial lieutenant.
Chack joined them, and the Imperial lieutenant saluted excitedly. The former wing runner had gained a reputation much larger than his stature, and sitting calmly on a horse with musket balls whizzing by only reinforced it in this man’s eyes.
“Are you in command here?” Chack asked.
“No, sir. Captain Morris commanding Company E of the Fifth, and Company C of your own Second, sent me. They’re in contact with the enemy!”
“I can hear that. What does he face and how did he come to be engaged so closely?”
“Their pickets fled and when we advanced, we ran into a blocking force on the Waterford road.”
The musketry redoubled, and two thunderclaps stirred the brush and loosed more leaves.
“Six-pounders,” Chack decided. “Ours. Your captain Morris must be fully engaged and at least partially deployed. What have we run into, and why were our pickets and scouts not between us?”
“The scouts were . . . elsewhere,” the lieutenant admitted. “Captain Morris believes we face at least two companies, perhaps a regiment.”
“Artillery?”
“None yet, but it will doubtless arrive soon.”
Chack nodded. “Then we must displace them. They must’ve been expecting us, but maybe not this fast. If we give them time to dig in, this will be a costly fight.” He looked west, toward the mountains he couldn’t see through the trees. “And we have no contact with Major Blair—but he must see this fight; the rising smoke. . . .” He shook his head. “I didn’t want this yet. I wanted to draw troops from in front of Blair but leave them confused about our movements, spread them out. That’s over. The fight has begun. I won’t ask troops to attack ‘gently’ to buy time with their lives.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Tell Captain Morris that the rest of the regiment is coming up. I’ll be there directly myself. In the meantime, he’ll reinforce the companies now in contact and extend his left with an eye toward turning the enemy flank. If he sees an opportunity to do that before I arrive, he will, if he wishes to remain an officer. If the opportunity does not arise, the movement should at least weaken the forces in front of him—and that’s where we will strike with all our might as soon as I join him.”
“What of Major Blair?” Blas-Ma-Ar asked.
“He’ll coordinate his attack with ours, I’m sure of it. We must push the enemy into the open around Waterford to gain the full effect from our artillery and mortars!”
The lieutenant saluted but stood there, waiting.
“What?” Chack asked.
“Uh . . . where will you be, sir?”
“Right here,” Chack said. He turned to Blas. “Inform Major Jindal of this . . . change in plans, and return as quickly as you can. I don’t want a battle in this oppressive forest. We must force the enemy out of it where we can see him—and kill him properly.”
The Doms and “rebels” were eventually pushed out of their rapidly improving position by a combined frontal and flank attack. They held determinedly until the fixed bayonets of Imperial and Lemurian Marines drove them from their hasty breastworks. The almost-fanatical courage of Dominion troops had been proven before, but they suffered a major technological disadvantage in a close-quarters fight: their bayonets were “stupid.” Their muskets were little different in function from those of the Imperials, but Imperial and “American” Marines used offset “socket” bayonets that slid on the outside of their weapons’ muzzles. Doms used “plug” bayonets shaped like short swords. They were better tools for everyday use and could hack brush and cut meat and serve as large knives. When “fixed,” however, they were inserted into the muzzles and held in place by friction. They usually had to be driven out. Firing a musket with one in place would rupture the barrel and likely injure or kill the shooter.
Socket bayonets with their triangular blades were virtually useless tools, but wickedly lethal weapons, and a musket could still fire when they were affixed. When the entire regiment under Chack’s personal command rushed the enemy works, running, screaming through the dense trees and shot, bayonets fixed—then stopped and fired a volley into the terrified, waiting defenders—just enough broke and ran to crack the dam. Once that occurred, the remaining Doms had no choice but to run or die, and the crack gave way to a torrent. After that, the race was on.
The bright yellow coats of Dom infantry made fine targets, and many were shot as they fled. Chack’s ’Cats and Imperials ran after them, shouting, shooting, stabbing at the fallen, and the woods grew dense with smoke even as the trees began to thin. The regiment had orders to halt at the clearing and regroup. Some, caught in the moment, continued chasing the enemy. Chack—still mounted and exhilarated by the experience of charging on horseback, despite having spent more time just holding on than slashing about with his Navy cutlass—shouted for the drummers to recall the overexuberant troops. The Doms were running away as fast as they could, oddly interspersed with monkeys of every size, blizzards of colorful parrots and other birds, and some other strange creatures Chack had never seen. The thundering drums were joined by Imperial horns, and slowly, most who’d continued their pursuit stopped, looked about, and realized how exposed they were. Quickly, they trotted back to the waiting ranks even as a battery of six-pounders rattled down the road, drawn by gasping paalkas, and deployed in front of the infantry. Soon, exploding case shot pursued the fleeing enemy, reinforcing their terror.
“Beautiful!” shouted Major Jindal, galloping up to join Chack. “Stunning! Yet another famous victory, Major Chack!” he gushed.
“It was exciting,” Chack confessed, “but only the beginning. Look.”
A wide plain, checkerboarded with ripening grain and other crops, lay between them and the New Ireland village of Waterford. It was a quaint, spread-out place, reminiscent of the economical architecture Chack associated with Imperials; but interspersed with the occasional classical planters or Company mansion Imperial aristocracy seemed to favor. Beyond the town, in the distance, the large amoebic shape of Lake Shannon sprawled around the settlement, and spread nearly to the water’s edge was a sea of canvas tents that probably outnumbered Chack’s and Jindal’s force. Figure at least two men to a tent. . . .
“Anything from Major Blair?”
“Not yet. I’ve sent scouts farther u
pslope. Perhaps they’ve made contact by now. But the enemy stands between us.” He paused. “I’m not sure we drew much of his attention away from Major Blair.”
“We will,” Chack promised. “Quickly, I want half your regiment and all your artillery up here. Leave two companies in the rear, guarding the approach from the north, and send the rest to the right and prepare to hit the enemy facing Blair on his right flank . . . Blair’s left.” Chack blinked, annoyed with himself for lecturing, but clarity was important. “Send a steady officer who will force his way to Blair if he must, and push hard when we advance!”
“I should go myself,” Jindal said.
“No, if something happens to me, you must be here. We’ll bombard the enemy before us, then advance across the entire front. That move should be unmistakable, and the enemy blocking Blair will have no choice but to defend his lines of communication and supply. I trust Major Blair to sense the proper moment and attack downhill, toward the town. Hopefully, your officer will have communicated this intent by then, but Blair should know what to do regardless. With luck, he may even catch them redeploying and add to the confusion. Ultimately, we should drive the enemy through the town and enclose him between us and the lake.”
Jindal shook his head. “Marvelous,” he confessed. “The scope of your planning . . .” He chuckled nervously. “The scope of this war is beyond anything I ever trained for!”
Chack blinked a sentiment Jindal hadn’t seen before—not that he remotely grasped any of the Lemurian blinking yet. “For all your naval power, your people have little more experience at this kind of war than mine did not long ago,” he said. “You’ll learn, as I was forced to; as Major Blair has done. I was lucky to have good teachers, but the lessons have been . . . hard.” He blinked something else. “Pray you never face a lesson such as Major Blair first endured; his might have destroyed a lesser person.” He paused, then gestured around. “This fight is a skirmish compared to what this war has become in the west; compared to what it’ll likely become here before all is done. Learn it well—however it turns out—because the most important points are these: plan for the best, but prepare for the worst, and every battle is won or lost in the planning, in the mind, before the first sword is ever drawn.”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 29
