A rifle bullet snapped past, humming like an angry bee and nicked the brim of his hat. Instinctively, he ducked low and chuckled. After all this, he thought, grimly, to get killed by an unaimed shot fired in the middle of the night. He stood back up again, surprised that his knees actually felt a little weak after the scare.
"Hans, you all right?"
"Fine, Ketswana, fine," Hans replied, a bit embarrassed.
"Thought it hit you for a second, scared me." Kets-wana came up to Hans's side, deliberately standing in front of him, while half a dozen Zulus of Hans's headquarters company spread out around them.
"Just had a report a few of the bastards actually slipped clear into our lines a few minutes ago. You never know who's out there," and even as Ketswana spoke one of his men raised his rifle and fired into the dark. Another rifle bullet whistled by, passing between Hans and his friend.
Hans nodded and turned back toward the center of the square, no sense in risking lives.
He looked over at Ketswana and realized that, in spite of the storm, he could make out his friend's features. Dawn must be approaching.
"Pass the word, time to get up. I want to get moving before full light—we've got another long day ahead of us."
Cursing violently, Ha'ark the Redeemer paced along the wharf, watching as the ironclad, moving slowly as it plowed through the whitecaps, turned into the narrow harbor. Once clear of the storm-lashed sea, the ship leapt forward up the narrow cove for the last quarter mile, then slowed as its engines reversed. Even before the squat black vessel was tied off, Jurak was through the hatch and at Ha'ark's side.
"You're late," Ha'ark snarled. "Everything, everyone is late."
"The weather, Ha'ark. You can plan everything else, but you cannot plan for this." Jurak pointed to the heavens, where dark, low, rolling clouds raced overhead.
"It should be easing up later today," Jurak continued, and, even as he spoke, a shaft of sunlight poked through the clouds to the east for a brief instant before disappearing again as a cold shower lashed across the harbor.
"It still gives them the advantage. They're moving by rail and we are not. The weather doesn't matter to them. Keane is most likely a full day's march ahead of you."
Jurak nodded. "I have half an umen, mounted troops, pressing fairly close, but he did manage to get ahead of us."
"By how much?"
"Two days."
"Damn all, how!" Ha'ark roared.
"We had to fight through 150 miles of forest after crossing the river, and there's only one real road and the railroad bed to move our horses on. I still have seven umens all the way back out in the steppe waiting to deploy. It's a quagmire. I'm pushing artillery forward as fast as I can, and that's making it even worse. There's ten and twelve horses now to a single piece."
"What about the rail line?"
"Weeks before we get that running again. Every bridge is blown, track torn up. We didn't capture any engines or rolling stock."
Jurak stood before Ha'ark as if waiting for an explosion.
"The plan was for you to flank them and cut them off."
"Ha'ark, I moved as planned and attacked as planned but their red-haired devil, this other commander of Keane's, kept one step ahead. He's a masterful foe. I understand he's the one who fought the retreat from the Merki. He learned his lessons well."
"I'm disappointed in you," Ha'ark growled. "If you were not my companion from before, I'd have your head."
"You may take it at any time," Jurak replied defiantly. The standoff continued for several long seconds. Ha'ark looked back at his staff, glad they had not heard the exchange, for if they had, Jurak would have to die.
"You press too far," Ha'ark hissed.
"I have sustained sixty thousand casualties in this campaign. It's like ancient history in our hospitals, Ha'ark. I've seen warriors get their limbs hacked off without anesthesia, gangrene is running rampant. I'm losing some of my best-trained soldiers to mere scratches."
"The Bantag know no different," Ha'ark replied. "It is different for you and me."
"That doesn't change what's happening to the warriors I'm responsible for. It's like stories we read in school about the wars of the Second Empire. They die like flies, and by all the gods the stench of it can be smelled for miles. Nothing we saw in our war back home comes even close to this barbarity."
"This is home," Ha'ark snapped. "We are never going back to the old world. This is home; this is our empire."
"At least you still say 'ours,' " Jurak said.
"If you wish to challenge, go ahead."
Jurak shook his head.
"No, I never wanted it the way you do. I'm more than happy to be second, that way I do not bear the responsibility so heavily upon my soul."
"If you want to leave this fight, you're free to do so."
"No, not that either," and his voice was soft, hollow. "I've come to hate them now, maybe even more than you. You received my report about what happened on the bridge."
"You were a fool to press so many in like that, the trap was so obvious."
"The blood of my warriors was up. I could not stop them. It was murderous, no honor in that killing"—Jurak looked away—"murderous bastards."
Ha'ark smiled.
"Now you are finally seeing what I saw. This is not some petty dynastic struggle, two princes fighting over a province, a hill, a filth-encrusted village where we died and then, when it's finished, they drink together again and trade stories of the game they played over our bodies. This is a war of annihilation, and in such war there is no honor, no glory."
Ha'ark indicated his staff.
"We feed such tales to them. I give one of them a bauble, a title, and the others rush out eager to risk death so they too can be thus honored. It has always been with such things that armies are led.
"And because of such things, I will announce your campaign a glorious victory, though you know the truth of that."
Even as he spoke Ha'ark made a show of patting Jurak on the shoulder so that their staffs nodded, Jurak's with obvious relief that their commander had not fallen and they along with him.
"And what of the other campaigns?" Jurak asked hurriedly, struggling to contain his annoyance at Ha'ark's display of approval.
"The first of the steamships will be up late today," Ha'ark replied, and again his anger started to flare. "Two days late."
"The weather Ha'ark, the weather. You're dealing with low-pressure steamships, not oil-fired high-pressure turbine engines. Any kind of sea, and they're down to a crawl."
"The front to the south?"
"Schuder," Ha'ark snarled. "I can't get any accurate report on where he is. Bakkth in his airship claimed he saw elements of their army pushing north. I have a full umen engaged in the passes. There are reports Schuder is with them, then other reports of part of their army moving away, to the south."
Jurak nodded. "It'd be like him to do the unexpected. How big is this force to the south?"
"I'm not sure. Bakkth never got that far south."
"And what are you going to do?"
"As originally planned. I've detailed one umen of rifles and ten land cruisers to land down the coast."
"Wouldn't they serve better here?"
"The force against Schuder was nearly all mounted bows and no artillery. It took sixty days of riding just to position them. I want more modern equipment brought to bear wherever he is. There'll be enough coming here in the next two days to secure this position. Blocking forces on the ridge to the west of the junction and to the east. With the reinforcements coming, we should hold while you move to crush them from behind."
Jurak nodded wearily.
"I'll try."
"I want the attack pressed no later than tomorrow. Even now Keane is deploying to the east of me. At least two of their umens are moving into attack position. On the other front Bakkth reports nearly thirty trains coming from the west, loaded with troops, artillery, and—I suspect—land cruisers."
"T
hey have them?" Jurak asked, incredulous.
"And why shouldn't they. It's been nearly five moons since Schuder escaped. That's precisely why I wanted to press this attack now. Bakkth reported seeing five flatcars covered with tarps, same way we move ours. They'll be up by late today. We need to press the attack now."
"Ha'ark, I've tried to explain to you, it's chaos."
"It's chaos for them, too, damn it! I have only three umens here. One covering the east, one the west, the other the south. Tomorrow I should have at least three more and by late tomorrow, twenty more land cruisers. If I can hold my position and force them to attack frontally, we'll slaughter them by the tens of thousands, but you must bring your force up to attack the rear of Keane's line now. We must put the pressure on him, force him to attack head-on."
"Ha'ark, my warriors are exhausted."
"So are theirs. It is a matter of will now. We must break their will. Bring them up, damn it! Bring them up. Keane is in that pocket and I want his head. Once he is dead, they'll crumble. We must crush him tomorrow!"
Chapter Ten
"He's picked his positions well," Andrew said as he swept the next ridge line with his field glasses.
"Aye, damn bugger, looks like bloody Cold Harbor. You'd think he studied under Lee."
Andrew nodded as he focused on the outer line. The Bantag were well dug in, the forward trench an ugly swath of black earth zigzagging across the open fields. In front of the trenches abatis were in place, while farther up the slope, behind the front line, was a second line of fortifications, earthen forts spaced every half mile, the dark snouts of artillery pieces projecting out of embrasures.
Where the railroad line had once passed, only the roadbed was left, the crossties and track torn up, the material used to strengthen the Bantag defensive line.
"It looks like this all the way from the sea right up into the forest," Pat announced. "Six miles of it."
"Any land cruisers?"
"We've seen smoke plumes down toward where Junction City is." He pointed off to the southwest. "My guess is they're holding them in reserve, ready to shift in whatever direction we try to attack. The problem is we had a patrol by the sea just report back in. They could see where Fort Hancock was and said there's dozens of ships coming in even now."
"His second wave up from Xi'an."
"That's what I figured as well."
"Another three, maybe four umens," Andrew whispered, remembering the old ratio that an attacking force, hitting a fortified line needed odds of at least four to one in their favor at the point of attack in order to have any hope of success, and even then one could count on losing a quarter to a third of the assaulting column. If Ha'ark managed to bring three more umens in, there was no hope of their getting through, and the swarm closing in from behind would tear them apart.
Andrew sniffed the air and looked over at Pat. Pat said nothing, merely pointing across the shallow valley to where a plume of smoke was rising. Andrew focused on the smoke and swore softly. A dozen bodies were suspended from a wooden tripod, dangling head down, while several Bantag were tending a fire, an impaled human body slowly turning on a spit.
"Bastards started doing that yesterday, as soon as we got here and began deploying. Tossed a few shells at them to stir things up, but as soon as they see one of our guns fire, they dive into a bombproof and come back out laughing. Wrong thing for them to do; it's just getting the boys' blood up for some killing."
Andrew nodded, looking toward his own line, which was dug in along the crest line, the men resting behind a shallow wall of breastworks which had been thrown up during the night. Most of the men were behaving like veterans, grabbing sleep whenever there was a chance. The few that were awake sat in quiet groups around smoldering fires, frying up some salt pork, drying out clothes, or cleaning their weapons. He could see they were worn, nearly two weeks of hard campaigning had taken a toll, uniforms were filthy, tattered, an occasional elbow or knee showing. He could sense an almost professional detachment on their part, and it was now impossible to distinguish between the veterans of Hispania and the new recruits who had joined the ranks since.
"Look like we did coming out of the Wilderness," Pat said, and his comment again conjured the worst of memories.
"And before Cold Harbor," Andrew replied. "We were never the same after Cold Harbor, and that's what Ha'ark's offering us over there, another Cold Harbor."
Still looking over at the Bantag lines, Andrew strolled along the crest, glad that the driving rain of the last three days had finally abated. A cold breeze was coming down from the northwest, driving the last wisps of clouds before it, the sky overhead a canopy of crystal blue. The narrow stream in the valley below was still swollen and muddy, but he could see where, in the last few hours, it was already starting to recede.
"How deep?" Andrew asked.
"Fordable in most places," Pat replied.
Andrew sighed, again training his field glasses on the enemy line. The same view, he thought, that the Merki saw when they came up on us at Hispania, forward line of entrenchments, heavier fortifications farther up the slope with artillery. And now it's us doing the attacking.
"Any chance around the flank?" Andrew asked.
Pat shook his head.
"They picked their spot well. Get into the forest, it's a tangle in there. Must have been a big fire swept through there twenty, thirty years ago, mad jumble of fallen trees, second growth springing up, precious few trails. We could push infantry through, but our wounded, the wagons." He shook his head.
"I managed to get a few scouts up around the flank, and they say it'd be a ten-mile march, single file in places, before we could even deploy. The head of that stream comes out of a stretch of bogs. A few regiments of infantry up there could play hell with us."
"So it's straight in then," Andrew sighed.
"Looks that way."
Andrew nodded, feeling trapped into a maneuver he never dreamed he'd be forced to commit to. By this time tomorrow the Bantag pushing up from behind would be pressing in. If he was not out of the pocket by then, it was over. He might be able to hold for two, three days, but all the time more and yet more of their eastern army would press forward while his own precious supply of ammunition was expended.
"When do we attack, Andrew?"
"Three tomorrow morning."
"A night attack. It'll be chaos."
"For both sides. It's our only chance, our only chance."
Feeling as if every bone in his body had been shaken loose by the thousand-mile train ride, Major General Vincent Hawthorne stepped down from the train, accepting he salute of the honor guard drawn up by the side of the track.
Stepping away from the guard, he looked up the track. A line of a dozen trains, over a half mile long, was up ahead, troops piling out of boxcars, artillery crews cursing and struggling with makeshift ramps pushed up against flatcars in order to maneuver their fieldpieces off.
"Vincent!"
Hawthorne turned, smiling, as Marcus rushed up, slapping him on the shoulder. The Roum general seemed to be such an anachronism, still wearing the old traditional breastplate armor, leather kilt and sandals, short sword strapped to his left hip, but on his right hip was a holster for a modern revolver, and a Sharps carbine was slung over his shoulder.
"How is it here?" Vincent asked, following Marcus to where their mounts waited. Suppressing a groan, Vincent swung up into the saddle.
"Madness," Marcus said with a chuckle. "Had a bit of a flare-up this morning, probing attack, but we held."
"Wanted to see if they could push us back. Must mean he's getting reinforcements in."
"What I thought."
"Any land cruisers?"
"None; he's keeping them hidden."
Vincent trotted alongside the track, weaving his way around columns of troops as they formed up under their colors.
"Wish we had a few days to get these men rested," Vincent said as he passed a regiment from Sixth Corps, the men struggling t
o help unload half a dozen boxcars stacked with wooden cases filled with small-arms ammunition. "Some of these boys have been on trains for damn near a week."
The dull thump of an artillery round detonating erupted on the ridge ahead, followed seconds later by three more exploding down the side of the slope.
"Must see the smoke from all the trains," Marcus said.
"Any flyers?"
"Too much wind, just one early this morning. Nothing since."
Vincent edged his mount around a tent city that was going up alongside the track, green crosses painted on the canvas to mark them as the hospital clearing area. A rail crew was busy on the far side of the makeshift hospital, laying a section of track for a new siding.
Coming to a low rise, he slowed for a moment to look back, the sight filling him with awe. More trains were coming in from the west, streams of smoke and steam whipping ahead of them, driven by the chilled wind. All the way back to the horizon they kept on coming, carrying a corps and a half of reinforcements, supplies and the precious special weapons of Ferguson.
Yet again he thought of Lee's famous quote, and, looking over at Marcus, he smiled. "It's good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it."
"I just want to get Andrew and the rest out of this trap and get the hell out of here."
Vincent urged his mount forward dropping back toward the tracks and then up the long gentle slope past where men of Fifth and Tenth Corps had been digging in for over a week. Riding through the sally port of an earthen fort dominating the ridge, he dismounted and climbed to the top of a signal tower that rose thirty feet high in the middle of the parade ground. Marcus followed him up. Taking a pair of field glasses offered by one of the signalmen, he scanned the enemy lines.
Never Sound Retreat Page 22
