Never Sound Retreat

by William R. Forstchen

  "Fill the hopper and get some more water into the barrel casing!" Timokin shouted. Letting go of the trigger, he stuck his head out of the turret.

  The entire column was breaking apart, surging back to the south, running in mad panic, while the arcing lines of tracers pursued them. He could hear cheering and, looking back, saw where Third Division, Sixth Corps was finally catching up, the swiftest pushing ahead, leaping through the high grass past his machine. One of the ironclads from third squadron was already turning, swinging its Gatling fire up onto the northern slope of Rocky Hill, sweeping the Bantag advance clambering up through the boulders, tearing it apart.

  He could hear artillery fire to the northeast, and through the smoke he saw flashes of light as first squadron, sitting at the bottom of the hill, fought it out with the surviving enemy ironclads, which were racing down the hill. Two of his machines were going into reverse, backing up to keep the range open. Explosions detonated along the open slope as several of the enemy machines exploded.

  Turning his attention forward, Timokin slid down into the turret.

  "Loaded, and the barrels are cooling!" his assistant shouted, pointing to the temperature gauge, which had drifted down out of the red.

  Aiming high to avoid striking the charging line which was now ahead of him, Timokin arced a burst of fire into the retreating mob of Bantag, spurring the panic along. Remembering to pace his fire, Timokin fired a burst, waited a few seconds, then fired again.

  Slowly they crept around the western side of the hill, catching a glimpse of the broad open plain to the south. Columns of horse riders were deployed nearly a mile away, but they were stopped already, drawing back. Raising his gun to maximum elevation, he squeezed off a hundred rounds, the shots arcing up high, then plunging down, the demonstration of fire more than enough to check any riders who were still considering pressing the attack.

  Timokin looked over at his loader and finally nodded.

  "Just tap it. Hold it for just a heartbeat or two, and aim high!"

  Grinning, the boy slipped behind the gun, as Timokin dropped back down below. In the excitement he was unaware of the fact that his main gun had been pouring in fire as well, now firing shot at long range.

  "Sergeant, steer her around so that we're guarding the southern approach."

  "Major, we're damn near out of coal!" Andrei shouted. "You've been blowing steam like mad up there!"

  "Just another minute or two, Andrei."

  Watching through the open gun port, he guided the sergeant to a spur of land projecting off the side of Rocky Hill. Cresting it, he signaled Andrei to disengage the engine.

  Blue-clad infantry, deployed in open order, were already several hundred yards ahead, the Bantag infantry streaming southward, the mounted warriors retreating out of range as well.

  A hammering echoed on the side of his machine and, going aft Timokin pulled the hatch open, Andrei moaning with delight as the outside air, which seemed as cold as a January blizzard, swirled in. As he stepped out of his ironclad, the cold air caused Timokin to reel, feeling as if he would faint, and he leaned wearily against the side of his machine, looking up at Marcus.

  "Hell of a fight!" Marcus roared.

  Unable to speak, Timokin could only nod. Behind Marcus he saw two of his ironclads deploying farther down the slope, a battery of twenty-pounders swinging in beside them, the lead gun already tossing shells at long range.

  "We're damn near out of fuel, water, and ammunition, sir," Timokin finally was able to gasp.

  "I'll have them brought up. Hold here. You picked a good spot, but I think the fight's knocked out of those bastards for today."

  Taking off his helmet, Timokin let it fall to the ground as he looked across the field. Hundreds of bodies, nearly all of them Bantag, littered the slope. The roar of battle still sounded from the north side of the hill.

  "Marcus!"

  Timokin was startled to see Colonel Keane coming around the side of his cruiser. Marcus, grinning, snapped off a salute.

  "Damn good to see you, Marcus," Andrew said, leaning over in the saddle to shake hands. Timokin looked up wide-eyed at the legendary commander. The attention of the entire Republic had been focused on getting Keane and his lost units out. Now that it was accomplished, Timokin stared at the two generals. He sensed there would most likely be a print of this scene in Gates's paper; perhaps he would even

  be in it as well, but at the moment he'd trade all of it for an ice-cold bottle of vodka.

  "Andrew, you're wounded," Marcus cried, pointing at Andrew's bloody sleeve.

  "Well, like Pat said, lucky the arm was already cut off. I'll live."

  Andrew looked down at Timonkin and extended his hand.

  "Your leg, son, it needs attention."

  Timokin nodded, touched that his commander had noticed.

  "Once things calm down, sir, I'll have someone see to it."

  "Never really thought these damn things would work, Major. You charged like cavalry with them. Damndest thing. You could hear the Bantag howling in panic."

  "Thank you, sir," Timokin whispered.

  "How is it over there?" Marcus asked, pointing toward the north slope.

  "They're breaking, streaming off to the east. You got here just in time. We're damn near pushed back to the summit; there was no place left to go."

  Andrew, shading his eyes, looked southward.

  "Can you keep those warriors back, Marcus?"

  "The fight's out of them, sir."

  "We've got ten thousand or more casualties to get out," Andrew announced, and to Timokin it seemed like all life had suddenly drained from his commander. "We've lost nearly all our wagons and horses when they pushed us back up the slope."

  Marcus nodded toward the field.

  "I'll get men upending their caissons, there's hundreds of horses loose out here. We've got a couple of hundred wagons at the rear of the advance as well." "Fine." Andrew sighed wearily. "I just want to get the hell out of here."

  Andrew turned his mount about and rode off, Marcus following. Timokin watched as they rode up the slope.

  "Sir?"

  It was the gunnery sergeant, sticking his head out of the hatch and watching in awe as Keane rode off.

  "Can we grab some air for a few minutes? The boys are damn near dead in there."

  "Fine, Sergeant."

  Another burst of Gatling gun fire erupted from the top turret, the rounds soaring high into the air before plunging into the open steppe.

  "Tell that damn fool up there to cease fire."

  Picking up his helmet, Timokin walked aroundSaint Malady,examining the dozens of pockmarks, dents, and buckled plates. A wagon, loaded with sacks of coal and barrels of water, lumbered up, the teamster shouting for some infantry to help him unload. Behind it a limber wagon arrived, carrying boxes of cartridges and shells.

  Timokin sagged against the front armor, gladly accepting a canteen of water offered by his sergeant. Uncorking it, he upended the canteen, pouring half of it over his head, then took a long drink.

  "We sure beat the hell out of them," the sergeant announced, sliding to the ground beside him.

  Timokin, remembering Keane's expression, looked across the field at the dark host on the distant ridge.

  "It's only just started," Timokin sighed.

  "Ship oars."

  Admiral Bullfinch, not waiting for the launch to reach the dock and tie off, leapt for the gunnel, and up onto the wharf. A shell, slicing the air high overhead, shrieked out into the bay, a geyser of water mushrooming off the bow of his ironclad. He didn't even bother to look back. It was nothing but light field artillery, its threat like that of an insect attacking an elephant.

  "So, Bullfinch, you finally decided to show up."

  Bullfinch looked into the eyes of Sergeant Major Hans Schuder, not sure if the opening comment was a reprimand or not. In the twilight he could see that Schuder was exhausted, features drawn, eyes red-rimmed. He waited for the blow, ready to accept the blame
.

  "You're here, that's all I wanted Bullfinch, you're here." Hans extended his hand. "You got me out last time; I knew you'd do it again."

  "Sir, I'm sorry, I . . ." His voice trailed off and he lowered his head.

  "We've all lost fights, Bullfinch. Lord knows I've lost my share."

  Bullfinch looked out across the bay, where one of his steam transport ships was dropping anchor, and then back to the city. In the shadows he could see armed patrols in the streets.

  "The Cartha?" Bullfinch asked.

  "I think I just started a war with them." Hans sighed. "I asked permission for us simply to evacuate through here. They refused and barred the city gates."

  He chuckled softly.

  "Funny what a battery of twenty-pounders can do as a persuasive tool. A dozen shots and they threw in the towel, but the half dozen ships that were here hightailed it out. I guess they've run back to Cartha with the report."

  "Kal was worried about that, but my orders were if this was where you were heading, I was ordered to blow down the walls if need be to get you out."

  Hans exhaled noisily.

  "Relief hearing that, but there was no place else to go."

  Bullfinch wanted to ask, but was afraid to. There was something about the look in his eyes.

  "Miraculous, sir," Bullfinch finally ventured. "I mean 150 miles, no line of supplies, fighting all the way through. Sherman's march through Georgia was a romp in comparison to what you did, sir. Coming down the coast we picked up some of your men from Bates's command. They said you had up to fifteen umens on you."

  "We counted eighteen all total."

  Bullfinch hesitated.

  "How bad is it, sir."

  "I've got thirty-one thousand men with me, Bullfinch, nine thousand of them wounded. I started with nearly fifty."

  "Merciful God."

  Hans turned away, and Bullfinch could see that the sergeant was struggling to control his emotions.

  "I thought they had us yesterday. They completely broke the square of Seventh Corps, overran it. God, it was a damned nightmare, the screaming, men panic-stricken, trying to get into our square, chopped down, swept by our own rifle fire and canister. We had to fire into them, had to."

  His voice trailed off, and he spit over the side of the dock.

  "We finally cut our way through; I left close to ten thousand men back there." He nodded toward the open steppe.

  "Walk or die," he said, sighing. "Walk or die."

  Hans stepped away from Bullfinch, his gaze fixed on the western horizon as twilight drifted in around him.

  "I'll have fifty ships up by morning," Bullfinch announced. "We can start pulling you out then."

  "Evacuate?" Hans asked.

  "I thought that was the idea."

  Hans spit again and shook his head.

  "We've got this town—it's ours. The Cartha are in the war now, like it or not."

  "What the hell are you talking about, sir?"

  "Bullfinch, we're keeping this town."

  "Sir?"

  Hans forced a smile. "We hold this town, it'll force the Bantag to stay here, too, covering their flank. It's the jumping-off place for a second front for us. Hell, Ha'ark flanked us. Now let's threaten to flank him. We have the sea and this port to cover the flank of Roum. You keep the supplies up, and we'll hold this place till hell freezes. Get my wounded off, but the rest of us stay.

  "I paid for this place with blood, and this is where we'll finally make our comeback, damn it."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ready to collapse from exhaustion, Andrew hesitated by the door into the hospital railroad car, braced himself, then opened it and stepped in. Kathleen looked up with a start and silently slipped down the corridor, all but collapsing into his arms. He winced as her arms swept around him, and she drew back.

  "You're hurt," she gasped.

  He pulled her back into his embrace.

  "Scratch. I've had worse."

  In spite of his feeble protests she forced him into a chair and, kneeling before him, unbuttoned his tunic. He was suddenly embarrassed. It'd been weeks since he had bathed, and now nearly three days without sleep.

  "I stink; I'm covered with lice."

  "I'm a doctor, remember." As his jacket came off she held it between thumb and forefinger and tossed it toward the door of the car. Next came the tattered shirt, and, motioning for a nurse to bring a basin of water, she started to wash the stump of his arm, which had been torn open by the shell fragment.

  "It's infected, but I think we got it in time," she whispered, and Andrew suppressed a groan as she washed the wound with disinfectant.

  "It's going to need stitches." "Not now. Things to do, but I wanted to see you first."

  He looked back up the corridor.

  "How is he?"

  "Not good. Running a high fever."

  "I want to see him."

  "So, Dr. Keane, how's our wounded hero?"

  Andrew looked up to see Emil come through the door, followed by Pat.

  "Emil, how the hell could you let him wander around like this," Kathleen snapped.

  "Well, Kathleen darling," Pat interjected, coming to the protection of his friend. "It's been rather hard pinning the colonel down long enough, what with fighting a withdrawal from the Shenandoah, attacking the Bantag, holding out on Rocky Hill, then directing the retreat back to here."

  "Let me see Vincent," Andrew said.

  Kathleen looked back up the corridor as if ready to argue with him, then nodded. Taking a blanket, she draped it over Andrew's shoulders and motioned for him to follow quietly. Pat and Emil fell in behind, and though she started to raise an objection, Emil's gesture for her not to debate the point silenced her.

  Stretchers lined both sides of the car, and Andrew moved slowly, reaching out, taking hands as he passed.

  "Licked 'em good, didn't we, sir ... the old First Corps didn't let you down did it, sir . .. don't worry, sir, we'll win this yet."

  Andrew nodded, unable to speak, slowly moving to the back of the car, following Kathleen as she opened the door into a private room, then stepped out a minute later.

  Andrew stepped in and, at the first sight of Vincent, he felt his throat tighten. The diminutive general seemed to have shrunk, looking like a wasted child. Father Casmar was by his side.

  "Sir, how are you?" Vincent whispered.

  Andrew drew up a chair and sat down by the bunk.

  "Damn all, Vincent." Andrew sighed. "Marcus told me about the charge. Why, son? Why did you do that?"

  "It was the only way, sir. Had to fix Ha'ark's attention, make him think we were coming straight in. Would you have ordered the charge and then stayed behind?"

  Andrew shook his head, unable to reply.

  "And you said I was a dumb mick," Pat interjected. "Vincent Hawthorne, I think you're madder than I am."

  "How you doing, Pat?"

  "Hell of a fight." He looked over at Casmar. "Sorry, Your Holiness."

  Casmar smiled. "Damn it; heard a lot worse since I joined the army."

  Pat smiled and relaxed. "Well, damn me, Vincent, you should have seen my guns tear 'em apart. And them ironclads of that boy Timokin. Lord, what a charge."

  "Wish I'd been there."

  Andrew reached out and took Vincent's hand, surprised at how frail it seemed.

  "You did well, son. I knew I could count on you. It was worth it, Vincent. Not for me, for Pat, or Emil. We got four corps out of the trap. It wasn't the Potomac this time."

  "And Hans?" "Wire just came in from Roum; Bullfinch got to him, they're on the coast."

  Vincent sighed and laid his head back on his pillow, his features tightening.

  "Kathleen?" Emil hissed.

  "Gentlemen, please leave," Kathleen ordered.

  Vincent started to tremble, struggling to sit up. Kathleen reached out with firm hands, forcing him back down.

  "Don't leave me," he gasped.

  "I'm here, son," Andrew whispered.
r />   "Sir, I'm scared."

  Andrew put his hand on Vincent's forehead, pushing back a lock of sweat-soaked hair.

  Vincent's gaze locked on Kathleen.

  "Mama?"

  Andrew closed his eyes. How many times had he heard that cry. The wounded, who in daylight would stoically hold on, not crying, not struggling, but in the night, would call for their mothers, the oldest of soldiers, and the youngest boys, in their fear, their pain, dreaming of a soothing hand, the gentle touch in the night.

  "Here, son," Kathleen whispered.

  She took his hands in hers and, leaning over, softly began to pray.

  "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord . . ."

  Andrew drew back, tears streaming down his face, stunned by the anguish he felt for the boy he had used up, the frightened young Quaker who had become the coldest of killers and was now a frightened boy again.

  He was stunned as well by this other side of Kathleen. In his eyes she was, and always would be, the beautiful young Irish lass, red hair, sparkling green eyes, the lilt of a brogue when anger or passion flashed.

  And now, she seemed almost Madonna-like, the soothing mother, not just of their children but of so many frightened boys who stood upon the final threshold.

  A hand touched him on the shoulder. It was Emil, and Andrew withdrew. Walking the length of the car, he stepped out onto the rear platform, breathing deeply of the cold night air. There was still a war on, artillery fire flashing along the ridge, Marcus directing the bombardment that was covering their final loading up. An hour before dawn the remaining guns would be spiked, the crews loading onto the last train, and then the pullback to where new lines were being prepared, two hundred miles to the rear.

  Ferguson had even thought of how to manage that. The last locomotive to back down the track would pull a hooked plow behind it, tearing up the track, twisting the rails so that Ha'ark would be forced to advance slowly, repairing the track if he ever hoped to keep his army supplied.