"Saw it from the hospital window; I have the ambulances coming to take off the casualties."
Andrew nodded, saying nothing. As he turned the corner around the last of the warehouses Petersburg stood plainly in view, water foaming beneath its stern as the ship backed engines to ease its way up against the dock. Several hoses snaked out of open gun ports, water pulsing out from pumps working below.
He slowed for a moment. The entire starboard side of the ship was a shambles. He quickly counted five holes that had been driven clean through the armor siding.
"My God, sir," Hawthorne whispered, "they cut her to ribbons."
Cries of astonishment rippled through the crowd as they pushed forward to look at the wreckage of the Eastern Fleet's flagship. The bent and mangled side hatch door opened, and the deck crew streamed out, scrambling along the side of the ship, catching lines tossed from the wharf.
A vent of steam escaped as the engine shut down and the ship gently bumped against the dock. Men lining the wharf were besieging the deck crew with questions. Andrew looked over at Vincent, and a nod was all that was necessary. Vincent scrambled onto the top of a piling, drew his revolver, and fired it into the air. Instantly all eyes were on him.
"All right, you damn bastards!" he roared. "You're behaving like a mob of schoolgirls. Now get the hell back to work."
The men looked at him wide-eyed. In the background the clang of an ambulance bell sounded as a white, canvas-covered wagon turned onto the main street leading to the dock.
"Listen, men," Vincent continued, softening his tone. "It's obvious they've had a fight here. Now clear away so we can get your wounded comrades to the hospital. I promise you we'll send a messenger with news around to all the units once we find out what's happened. We've got to stay calm. So get back to work; there's a job to be done."
The men, talking excitedly, reluctantly broke away from the wharf and started back up the hill, leaping aside as the first of half a dozen ambulances pulled up at the edge of the dock. The deck crew threw a gangplank across and the first stretcher came out, carrying a man who had lost both legs just above the knees.
He was in a daze, blinking in the light. Andrew stepped aside and for an instant the wounded sailor was looking at him. Andrew reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
"You're home now, son," he whispered. The sailor tried to say something, but Emil was shouldering Andrew aside, placing a hand on the sailor's forehead, and urging the stretcher bearers on.
Andrew watched in silence, hiding his emotions as the stream of wounded were unloaded, men missing limbs, faces scorched and blackened, blood-soaked bandages wrapped over the gaping wounds torn into their bodies by shell and flying splinters. The walking wounded came next, hobbling down the gangplank, some of them trying to salute, but Andrew just motioned them on.
Finally Bullfinch appeared, hesitating as he reached the edge of the gangplank as if he was a schoolboy returning home with a report of his failure.
Andrew motioned for him to join him, returning his salute as he stepped onto the dock. Together they started to walk down to the far end of the wharf.
"We lost, sir," Bullfinch finally said, his voice thick with emotion. Andrew looked down at the diminutive admiral, who, like Hawthorne, was only twenty-seven.
"Tell me about it." Andrew listened in silence as his admiral described the disaster.
"I'm sorry, sir," Bullfinch finished, and as he choked out the words he finally broke down, lowering his head. Andrew put a hand on his shoulder, knowing the anguish, remembering his own failure when Third Corps was cut off, the debacle of the retreat back to the Neiper, and his dread of having to face Kal.
He looked at the ruins ofPetersburg,and the full import of what it signified finally started to sink in. Ha'ark had jumped the level of technology, making ships and guns that could not only match, but exceed human output. The uneasy foreboding that had haunted him was coming to pass—Ha'ark was no longer imitating, he was leaping ahead. Ferguson could run all his calculations, they could upgrade their guns, their armor, and maybe for the moment regain balance, but the distinct advantage the Republic had maintained ever since the wars began, that they could count on superior weapons, was finished. He could sense that in the men who had stood by the dock. For years they had fought, bled, and died, first with smoothbores, then with rifled muskets, and now breechloaders, knowing they would have the edge. The damage to Petersburg was grim evidence that it might never be the same again.
Yet that was a question looking months, even years, into the future. It was what this victory implied for the moment that he had to focus on.
"Sir, I sent my executive officer ahead to tell you. Didn't you know?"
Andrew shook his head. "This is the first word we've received."
"My god," Bullfinch gasped. "I saw airships heading north—they must have sunk Defiant. I thought you'd have at least a day's warning."
"Of what?"
"My other ships? Haven't any reported in, sir?"
"You're the first ship we've seen in days."
Bullfinch looked as if he had been struck a mortal blow.
"We got separated during the night. Roum was listing heavily, falling behind. Their airships were over us nearly constantly, dropping bombs. Sir, they could be up here by late afternoon."
"You mean they've broken the blockade?"
"It's more than that, sir. As we were heading north our lookout reported a flotilla coming down the river into the bay."
"Flotilla?"
"He said it looked like dozens, maybe a hundred or more ships. They knocked the door down, sir; they have the sea and can go where they damn well please."
Andrew looked over at Vincent.
"The land cruisers," Vincent said. "Sir, it's the only way they could ever bring them into action. They must be planning a landing."
"But where?"
"They could hit the Shenandoah River and cut off Pat," Bullfinch whispered. "It's navigable right up to the railroad bridge."
Andrew suddenly felt as if his stomach was on fire. Wearily he sat down on one of the pilings, his gaze fixed on Petersburg.
The bastards have the sea; they can hit us anywhere. But where? Where would Ha'ark hit them? Pat, Hans, or here?
Or all three . . . Ha'ark would do the audacious, the master stroke. Andrew felt a wave of self-reproach, of bitter anger. He had been lured out, it was why Ha'ark had waited so long, even after the mask was pulled off, revealing his intentions. Lure the army to the end of the line, then in one blow slam the back door shut.
"He'll hit us near Fort Hancock," Andrew said softly. "They must have mapped this before we even got there. He cast this plan in his mind a year, two, even three years ago. Take Fort Hancock, drive ten miles to the northwest, cut the rail and both fronts at Junction City, where the line branches to the south. Hold there, and then simply let the land forces on both fronts grind us down when we run out of supplies."
"The logistical support though," Bullfinch interjected. "We talked about this before. There's no real harbor at Hancock, there's a fort there with thirty-pound Parrott guns . . ." Then his voice trailed off at the cold realization that thirty-pound Parrotts were useless against Ha'ark's ironclads.
"If his ironclads can tear Petersburg up, they'll most certainly pound the fort into submission," Vincent snapped.
"Vincent, what do we have at Hancock?" Andrew asked.
"Sir, only one regiment, the Third Roum Heavy Artillery. Garrison troops, older men, disabled veterans."
One day's, warning, Andrew thought bitterly, one day and we could have a division, two divisions waiting for him, tear him apart right on the beach if he tried to land.
"Vincent, how many trains are in the yard right now?"
"Fifteen, I think, sir. There's another twenty up on the Shenandoah, and ten, maybe twelve down on the southern front."
"I want the line cleared of all traffic coming east from Roum past Junction City. Get that signal out righ
t now. You're to take two divisions of Fifth Corps, run them up to Fort Hancock now. Get them there. If you get there ahead of the bastards, start digging in, meet them on the beaches. I'll alert Marcus back in Roum to release Tenth Corps and move it up to support. I'll hold one division here in case they go for a landing here or to the east. We can make up another brigade from the men in the supply units."
"What about Hans and Pat?"
What to do there? They had to be alerted, but should he order a pullout right now? Twenty train-loads to move a corps, and that meant abandoning a fair part of their supplies. Pull back the four corps under Pat, the three under Hans. Once that started rolling, it would be impossible to stop. And there was the chance, still the chance, that the lookout was wrong, that all Ha'ark had on the sea was eight or so ironclads and some lighter support ships. But he never would have made the effort to build them unless he wanted to use the sea for offensive operations.
Everything now was tied to a single ribbon of track. Ten corps, over two hundred thousand men, thousands of tons of supplies, all of it to be moved on two strips of iron. It was always the inherent weakness in this new type of war, everything in the end was tied to a twin ribbon of iron that could so easily be cut.
What do to? First priority was to move to try and hold Fort Hancock. There was only a single regiment of garrison troops there, a battery of thirty-pound rifles, muzzle loaders from the last war. Useless against what Ha'ark might have. Get Vincent moving, then see where the blow hits and figure the next step from there.
"I want the first train moving within the hour, Vincent. I'm counting on you. Now get moving!"
There was the slightest flicker of a smile. The boy had what he wanted again, a field command. Saluting, he turned and ran, calling for his orderlies, who had been waiting at a respectful distance to follow him.
"Can Petersburg fight?" Andrew asked, shifting his attention back to Bullfinch, who had stood silent, head lowered.
"I lost half my crew, sir. We not only have to repair the damage, we have to add more armor, another three inches at least. The added weight, sir . .." His voice trailed off, and he sadly shook his head.
"No, sir. She's finished."
"Then strip the guns out. We're going to need them here. If we have time, pull the armor off as well and be prepared to scuttle her."
Startled, Bullfinch could not reply.
"I'm sending you back to Roum, Mr. Bullfinch."
"Roum, sir? The fighting's here," he hesitated. "Are you relieving me of command, sir?"
Andrew tried to laugh, but the chuckle sounded false, hollow. "Lincoln once said that if he fired every general who lost a battle he wouldn't have anyone left.
"I'm not sure of this yet, Bullfinch, but you might be needed more there in a couple of days. I want you to get on the first train heading out to Junction City. Take your staff with you. If that's where Ha'ark hits, then get yourself back to Roum."
"Sir, if you're relieving me of command, just tell me, sir, straight out."
Andrew stood up and smiled.
"It's not victory that defines us, son, it's how we handle defeat. You've only started to fight in this war. Now get on that train, I'll forward your orders out later."
"Sir . . ." he tried to look Andrew in the eyes, but couldn't, lowering his head.
"You did the best you could. Now let's get ready for what comes next. Take your staff and get out of here."
Bullfinch finally looked up.
"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
Saluting, he departed, following Hawthorne. Once again Andrew sat down on the piling, his gaze wandering to the ship.
"We're in it this time, aren't we."
Emil approached him, ready if need be to withdraw if Andrew indicated.
"How bad is it?" he asked.
Andrew stirred.
"Emil, it might be worse than the Potomac."
Emil sighed and sat down on a piling across from Andrew.
"Those poor boys in that boat. Never could understand why anyone would be crazy enough to join the navy. Samual Johnson was right."
"What was that?" Andrew replied absently.
"Samuel Johnson. Said a ship was like a prison, with the added factor that you could drown. The wounds some of those boys had. Ghastly." He shook his head sadly. "Damn all wars."
Andrew said nothing, still staring at the ship as if it represented the shattering of all that he had planned and hoped for.
"Andrew, we've got twelve hundred wounded up in the hospital, just arrived from the eastern front. Should I get them out?"
Another factor he suddenly realized. If they were about to be cut off, what of the wounded, a train that could haul two hundred stretcher cases could move two regiments instead. But if they were cut off?
"One train, the serious cases. We need to get Fifth Corps in position first. I'll release two more trains to you if they hit us where I think they will, so you can get the rest out."
"I better get back to the hospital."
"Fine, Emil. I'll keep you posted."
"Andrew?"
He looked up into his old friend's eyes as Emil stood up and came to his side.
"You haven't lost yet," Emil said quietly, and then, with hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, he walked away.
Haven't lost yet.
All he felt now was numbness. A wondering if he had gone to the well one too many times. Ten damn years of this, dear God, he thought, ten damn years, and it never seems to end.
Again there was the dream, the memory of Maine, to escape back to another time, another place of peace, tranquillity. Once it had just been a company, then a regiment. From there to a corps, an army, now armies, and always the same, a right decision brought victory, but even then, at such moments there was the fresh-turned earth, the sightless eyes gazing at the heavens, the harvest of death.
Johnnie. How old would Johnnie be now, the baby brother dead at Gettysburg. Same age as Hawthorne and Bullfinch? No, my God, a year older than them. Hard to imagine that, the dead innocent boy might have lived to become the cold proficient killer like Hawthorne, or the shaken, frightened admiral who could never believe in the prospect of defeat and now confronted it in all its horror.
More stretchers were coming off Petersburg, but these did not require a rush to an ambulance, but rather the slow walk to the graveyard on the edge of town, where hundreds of dead from this new campaign were already being laid to rest. The army was so organized in its grim business that the graves were already dug.
How many have died under my command, he wondered . . . The price of victory? A hundred thousand? No, more likely two hundred thousand by now. Every day yet more dead, and now the lives of two hundred thousand more hung in the balance.
Strange, he could remember the stories about Grant and Sherman . . . how when Sherman came to understand the full enormity of what would be required to win that his nerves broke and he went home, hiding for months in his house, unwilling to return to face the task until finally ordered back. And Grant, the damn butcher who could send men into the slaughter of Cold Harbor, but supposedly became ill at the sight of blood, and could not even eat a piece of meat unless it was cooked clean through.
He could sense his men looking at him, solitary, sitting alone on the end of the pier, lost in thought, staring at the ship. What show do I have to put on for them now? Confidence, always the game; let them see you fearless, confident. There was a time, he knew, when he could play it so well. At Fredericksburg, during the charge on Mayre's Heights, turning his back to the enemy fire, walking backwards, shouting encouragement, yet terrified of the bullet he was convinced would strike between the shoulder blades. Or pacing the line at Gettysburg after Colonel Estes went down and he took command. Even at Hispania, when all seemed lost, waiting in the line with his men for the final charge. This was different now. The fighting hundreds of miles away, no heat of the moment, no frightful grim joy of battle to sweep one up and thus transport a commande
r to fight beyond his own fears.
But this situation was different. To be truly alone, to confront one's own fears in silence. To calculate and recalculate, always knowing that in those grim calculations a mistake meant two hundred thousand dead, a war lost, the dream destroyed, and in the most intimate sense, Kathleen and the children dead as well.
He felt as if his knees had gone to jelly as a surge of fear tore into his heart Kathleen, the children. Yet again the enormity of it all reduced to the simplest terms, the survival of those whom he loved the most.
He finally looked away from the ship and saw them, the staff, the youngsters who but a short time before were peasants in the fields, craftsmen in shops, some of them even the sons of Boyars and patricians, now wearing Union blue, waiting for him to decide.
Wearily he stood up and he could sense their anticipation, ready to spring forward to fulfill his orders, hoping, praying for that moment of distinction, of glory that would make their names, their memories shine.
Glory . . . such a strange concept. How I dreamed of it myself, how I still believe in it. Yet it masks the grim reality, that in the end we are doing a butcher's job. Both sides, a butcher's job, and we mask it with banners, uniforms, honor, and glory. For to believe otherwise leads in the end to madness, and in this war, the baring of one's own neck to the butcher of the other side.
He approached them, slowing to step around the bodies that were being unloaded from Petersburg. Without a word he motioned for his staff to follow and slowly walked back up the hill to wait for what would come next.
Leaning back in the saddle, Hans silently cursed all horses. It was one thing to go galloping after the Commanche when one was thirty-five, but chasing the damn Horde when one was pushing into the mid-fifties was something else. And the damnable horses were simply too big, size of Clydesdales back home, he thought, as he drew his left up out of the stirrup and rubbed the old wound, which was aching. Uncorking his canteen, he took a swig of water, swished it around, and spit it out, clearing the dust, then soaked his bandanna and wiped the grime from his face and the back of his neck. A troop of cavalry trotted past, pushing on to the next pass, where a flurry of rifle fire marked the forward line as a dismounted regiment worked its way up to the crest. A battery of ten-pounders to his left opened up, firing high to drop shells over the ridge onto the road beyond. Raising his field glasses, he watched the forward signal unit, which, with a flutter of flags, was passing back word to the battery as to its accuracy. Apparently the range was good because the battery set to with a will.
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