Tapping the gauge, Andrei opened a valve, letting more water into the boiler, the temperature dropping momentarily as half a dozen more gallons flooded in through the pipes. Seconds later the pressure gauge again began to climb as the water flashed to steam.
Timokin slapped him on the shoulder and edged forward to where the gun crew waited, their ten-pounder withdrawn from the port, which was slammed shut. Stepping up behind the engineer, he crouched to peer out the driver's open hatch.
"Little more to the right, Nikolai. Let's aim for that battery."
"Right it is, sir."
The engineer, grabbing hold of the wheel with both hands, slowly turned the wheel. Lining up on their target, Nikolai turned the wheel back.
"Streambed ahead!" Nikolai shouted. "Hang on."
The machine lurched into the narrow creek, Timokin grabbing hold of a hand strap bolted to the inside bulkhead, glad that he was wearing an iron helmet as he slammed against the side of his ironclad. Looking back, he saw his fireman cursing, rubbing his left arm where he had most likely banged it against the red-hot boiler.
The ironclad dug into the far bank, crept up the embankment, and surged forward. Popping open a side viewing port, Timokin saw that the rest of his line, save for one machine which appeared to be hung up on the creek bank, was pressing forward, infantry moving behind the ironclads, using their metal bulk as protection from the battery fire on the ridge.
"We'll give them canister at three hundred yards," Timokin announced, and his gun crew leapt to work. A high-pitched ping banged against the front of the ironclad, followed in seconds by dozens more, sounding to Timokin like hail striking against glass.
"Masks down!" he shouted, reaching up and pulling down his chain-mail mask, which he had pushed up over his helmet. A thunderclap boom echoed through the ironclad, staggering Timokin backwards. The head of a bolt ricocheted back and forth inside the ironclad, striking a glancing blow off Timokin's helmet.
Another boom slammed through the ironclad, tiny pieces of metal spraying off the right side, sweeping the inside of the machine, one of the gunners screaming a curse as he grasped his arm. For a second Timokin thought they'd been breached, until he looked over and saw the bulging dent just aft of the gun position, the metal shining brightly.
The pinging continued as bullets slammed against the ironclad from front, left, and right. A round singing through the open view port forward whistled past the engineer's head.
The engineer reached up, slamming the large view port shut, so that a narrow slit two inches wide and a foot across was now the only outside view offered.
Timokin stepped back, waiting, looking aft to where the fireman hovered over his gauges, feeding in more steam as they crept up the slope.
"Two hundred and fifty yards!" Nikolai shouted.
"Open port, stop engine, run her out!"
The ironclad hissed to a stop as the forward gun port swung open and Timokin, squatting, bent over to sight along the barrel.
"Bit to the right, more, more." The two men on his left labored at the pulleys hooked to the naval gun carriage, the gun slowly swinging.
"Hold, stand clear!"
Timokin stepped back as the gun sergeant yanked the lanyard attached to an oversize gun trigger. The trigger snapped back, the hammer slamming down, driving a firing pin into the rear of the ten-pound brass cartridge.
With a roar the gun recoiled, the noise inside the ironclad deafening in spite of the wads of cotton stuffed into every man's ears.
Smoke filled the chamber, the men coughing and gasping as the four gun layers, set two each on the pulleys attached to each side of the carriage, ran the weapon forward as the sergeant yanked the breech open and pulled the shell casing out. He stepped back as a corporal slammed another round in. The sergeant stepped back, sighting down the barrel, and Timokin caught a glimpse of their target. Half the Bantag around the gun were down.
"Stand clear!"
The gun kicked back again, and then yet again, as a third round tore across the ridge.
Stepping back from the gun, Timokin climbed up the narrow ladder into the top turret. Resting on one elbow he reached overhead, pulled the latch for the opening to the topside, and pushed the lid open, a rush of steaming hot sulfurous air swirling up around him. Sticking his head out, he looked straight up the slope. The battery directly ahead was out of action, nearly every gunner down, horses piled up around a caisson.
Looking to his left he saw where several of his machines were already charging forward, infantry swarming up the slope, men dropping from mortar fire, and rifle fire crackling along the ridge.
Bullets zinged past. Ignoring them, he watched as his fourth round, aimed at the next battery to his left, tore in. Horses fell, screaming.
Stepping back down he braced himself on his elbows. Sticking his foot out he felt it brush against Nikolai's helmet. He kicked him three times between the shoulder blades, the signal to go forward. He heard the order shouted back to Andrei and, with a jarring lurch,Saint Maladyrumbled into the attack.
Sticking his head out, he watched as his charging line crawled up the slope. Cheering erupted behind him and, looking back, he saw the column behind him deploying into open order line, the men breaking into a run, sweeping up the hill.
He was tempted to uncover his weapon but waited, watching as the charge rushed ahead, the men leaping through the high grass. A mounted battery galloped across the stream behind him, drivers lashing their horses as they struggled up out of the creek bed.
An explosion erupted on his right, and he looked over to see one of his ironclads, theIron Fist,exploding. Stunned, he saw where a Bantag battery, partially concealed by its position on the reverse slope, had fired into the side of the ironclad at nearly point-blank range, tearing it open.
Stepping down, he put his foot on Nikolai's right shoulder and tapped him three times, the signal to turn. Even as his machine started to lurch into position, the Bantag gun fired again. His machine lurched back as the shot struck the front shield. A scream erupted from below and he held his breath, but they continued to push forward.
Even before he could line up on the gun, an infantry charge, following the regimental colors, swept up over the gun, bayonets flashing in the sun as they tore into the gun crew. Seconds later he saw an infantryman triumphally waving a sponge staff overhead, and, stepping down, he reached to tap Nikolai on the left shoulder. Something felt different, and, letting go of his hold up in the top turret, he slid down, his feet landing on a body.
Nikolai sprawled back in the cabin, at least what was left of him. The deflection shot, slashing across the face of his machine, had cut through the view port, fragments from the round nearly decapitating Nikolai. Blood was splattered across the inside; the gunnery corporal was still frantically trying to wipe it off his chest and arms. The gunnery sergeant was now in the driver's seat.
"Reload case shot, percussion fuse!" Timokin roared at the corporal, pointing at the open gun breech.
The gunner looked up at him and, fumbling, staggered back to the ammunition locker, pulling a round out.
Climbing back into his turret, Timokin again stuck his head out, gasping for breath, afraid he would vomit from the sight of Nikolai and the hot sticky stench of blood.
Regimental flags were cresting over the ridge and, for a brief instant, he saw Marcus, on horseback, galloping along the ridge, waving his sword, urging the attack forward.
A battery galloped pastSaint Malady,reaching the crest, which was now less than fifty yards ahead, the drivers swinging the pieces around.
The ground ahead was covered with wounded and dead. Shouting, he motioned for men moving past him to clear a path. Soldiers, racing in front of his machine, dragged their fallen comrades out of the way, leaving the wounded Bantag to their fate. He blocked out the shrieks of agony as his machine rolled over more than one who was still alive.
The top of Rocky Hill was now in sight, covered in smoke and flame.
"Ti
mokin, push in!"
Marcus was up by the side of his machine, hammering against it with the hilt of his sword.
"We're going as fast as we can, sir."
"Push it, damn it, push it!"
Lurching up over the crest, Timokin drew in his breath at the sight of the chaos ahead.
Swarms of Bantag were fighting at the edge of the woods, a dark column moving across the field to his right, storming up the west slope of the beleaguered hill. Dark burning masses littered the side of the hill, but he could see where at least ten of the Bantag machines were still in the fight, coming about, creeping back down the hill. Batteries from Sixth Corps were deploying along the ridge, taking up the positions occupied only minutes before by the Bantag. The surviving guns of the enemy and the wagons with the mortar crews were pulling back to the southwest, some of the guns already swinging around to protect the flank of the assaulting column. It was obvious Ha'ark was trying one final desperate rush, hoping to overrun the hill and then hold it. If he could gain the position, not only would it mean Andrew and his men were dead, but the relief column would be out in the open as well, with the full fury of Ha'ark's forces turning to smash them.
"Send your couriers to my other machines!" Timokin shouted, struggling with the Latin, trying to be heard above the roar of battle and the blasts of steam slashing out of his machine. "Tell first squadron to engage the surviving ironclads, second and third squadrons to follow me. Have Third Division on our right pivot and follow me, but make sure they don't get ahead!"
Startled at being ordered by a mere major, Marcus hesitated.
"I know what I'm doing, sir! First squadron has ten bolts per machine. They'll stay out of range and tear them apart. We need to break up that attack!" He gestured toward the column which was relentlessly pushing across the open field.
Marcus hesitated, then, pointing to his staff, he started to bark out orders. He looked back up at Timokin and nodded.
Sliding down into his turret, Timokin put his foot down on the sergeant's right shoulder, then slid down into the interior of the machine and looked at Andrei.
"Can you give us any more steam?"
"She's running red-hot," Andrei gasped, the fireman having stripped off his chain-mail shirt and apron, standing bare-chested next to his boiler.
Timokin felt a gradual increase in speed as his machine started to angle down the slope, momentum picking up so that his gunnery sergeant, now in the driver's seat, looked back nervously.
"Brakes?"
"Let her roll!" Timokin roared.
Saint Maladybounced and lurched down the slope, going faster than Timokin had ever dared attempt in the practice trials. Slapping one of the gun layers on the shoulder, he motioned to his turret.
"You remember how to do this?"
Grinning, the assistant gunner scrambled up the ladder and squeezed into the turret.
"Sergeant, just steer us straight at the nearest battery, go through it, then head for their attacking column."
Timokin climbed back up into his turret, finding the narrow confines impossibly crowded with the assistant gunner curled up beside him.
"Just remember to keep it flowing, that's all!"
The boy grinned.
"Can I shoot it, sir?"
There was no way Timokin was going to surrender that privilege, and he didn't even bother to reply.
Saint Maladylurched, bounced, and clattered through the high grass, Andrei giving long blasts on the whistle since there was no steam being wasted. Gravity alone was driving the heavy ironclad down the slope at breakneck speed.
Bracing himself, Timokin poked his head out of the turret. The infantry was deploying behind him, running, falling behind. Third squadron, on his right, was coming down in echelon formation, while the three surviving ironclads of second squadron, on his left, were lagging behind, moving in echelon behind him. One of the machines hit an outcropping of rock, surged up, seemed to hang suspended, then rolled over on its side, an explosion of steam blowing out through the top turret. He caught a brief glimpse of the ironclad commander struggling to get out as the machine continued to roll and then crushed him underneath.
The Bantag batteries forward, deployed in the open field, were firing, shells screaming in, explosions erupting on either side of Timokin. He realized it was time.
Slipping back into the turret, he pulled the canvas cover off his weapon, motioning for his assistant to pop the firing slit open. Reaching to his right, Timokin checked the steam-pipe gauge, turning the valve which opened the line into his gun. A swirl of steam erupted around him. Checking the traverse on his gun, he sighted it in on the battery which was less than two hundred yards away.
The Bantag guns kicked back. Another clanging boom echoed through his machine, screams and curses following as bolt heads, sheared off by the strike, bounced around the interior. A searing pain sliced through his leg, and, looking down, he saw where his right calf had been torn open.
Ignoring the pain, he looked back through his sights. The gun crews were frantically reloading; the next volley would be delivered at less than fifty yards, most likely close enough to punch through. He saw several gunners drop from rifle fire, but still the Bantag worked to reload.
"Get ready," Timokin cried.
He waited forSaint Maladyto level out from its wild charge down the hill. Bracing himself, he wrapped his finger around the trigger, said a silent prayer to the blessed Saint Malady, and squeezed the trigger.
The steam-powered Gatling gun sprang to life, barrel spinning. Fifty-eight caliber rim-fired cartridges from the side hopper dumped into the breech and tore out at the rate of eight hundred rounds a minute.
The first spray went high. Timokin released the trigger for an instant, correcting his sights as they went up over a small hillock. A Bantag gun crew was centered in his sights, and he squeezed again. The one-ounce bullets shredded the crew, and, traversing his gun, he tore a stream of bullets down the line. Every sixth round had a powder charge drilled through its core and Timokin watched, amazed as the tracer rounds seemed like a near-continual stream of fire guiding him in. Two more gun crews went down, and, raising his sights, he stitched a caisson, which detonated in a thunderclap explosion that shook the ironclad.
Panic erupted on the gun line, Bantag turning about, running, as one of the ironclads from third squadron opened fire as well. Two of the enemy guns were still fighting, though, and Timokin could feel the concussion of one of the ironclads from second squadron exploding.
Crashing right through the wreckage of the guns,Saint Maladycharged forward, Bantag artillery crews scattering, running in panic. Ceasing fire, he stuck his head out of the turret, gasping for breath. The cloud of smoke and steam inside was absolutely blinding. Coughing, he looked back and saw that only one machine of second squadron was left. Behind them, several hundred yards away, the dark blue lines of infantry were racing down the hill, a battery following in their wake.
Saint Maladyshifted, and looking forward again, Timokin saw a mortar crew, set up in the open, looking up in wide-mouthed amazement as the ironclad shifted in its course, and came straight at them. The crew broke and ran, abandoning their weapon and ammunition limber.
The charging column going up the slope of Rocky Hill was now less than four hundred yards away and halfway to the tree line, while to his left, on the northern slope, he saw where the Bantag were already up over the boulders and into the trees.
Standing up in the turret, hoping to catch the attention of the ironclad commanders in third squadron, he pointed straight ahead, toward the column, then slipped back into the turret.
"Half-empty, sir."
Timokin, cursing, slapped the ammunition box strapped to the rear of the turret.
"Damn it, scoop some rounds out and reload the hopper, but don't get any in backwards!"
The boy pried the lid open and, reaching in, started to pull out handfuls of cartridges, laying them into the feed hopper.
Saint Maladyslowed
as they started to angle up the slope, the machine laboring and Timokin cursed as the battle on his flank continued to press into the woods. But straight ahead the attack column was beginning to waver as the Bantag, seeing the ironclads approaching out of the smoke, realized that they were flanked. Mounted riders rode about them, waving battle standards, pointing up the slope, and for an instant he saw one mounted on a white horse.
"Ha'ark?" Timokin hissed.
The range was down to less than three hundred yards. Still a bit too far for his liking, but swinging his gun around he aimed at the rider and squeezed the trigger.
Stunned, Ha'ark saw the tracers walking up through the grass, coming toward him, as the enemy gunner raised his sights. The attacking host, who but moments before were surging forward to victory, slowed, looking in wide-eyed amazement at the machines closing in on their flank, many of them, at first, mistaking them for their own.
The staccato chatter of the Gatling gun reached Ha'ark, and he cursed, something that he had troubled over for so long and not been able to make, the humans had created. They had machine guns.
The tracers closed in, and, kicking his left foot out of the stirrup, he flung himself off his mount. Just as he hit the ground the horse reared up, shrieking in agony, and fell over, Ha'ark scrambling to get away from the dying animal's thrashing hooves.
"The Redeemer!"
The cry went up, an agonized wail, and looking up he saw his pennant falling, its bearer cut nearly in half.
He tried to struggle to his feet, but ducked back down as the bullets tore up the ground around him.
Timokin held the trigger down, sensing that keeping Ha'ark down was perhaps even more important than killing Bantag. A machine gun from third squadron joined in, followed within seconds by the other three, along with the one gun on his left from second squadron. It looked to Timokin like six hoses of fire spraying into the packed mass, and in that instant he sensed that what they were doing was yet again changing how war was to be fought upon this world.
His gun suddenly ceased firing and he looked over at his assistant who was struggling to reload, unable to keep up with the demand. Steam was venting out from the water casing that encircled the barrel mount, and he realized that he had come close to melting down the barrels. The gun would have to cool for a moment.
Never Sound Retreat Page 29
