Battle Hymn

by William R. Forstchen

  Ha'ark stood silent, watching as the first round detonated behind the first rank of attackers, dropping two of them. A second later a gun on the southeast bastion fired as well, but the round fell short.

  Behind him the next line of attackers came up out of the ditch and started forward at a walk. His heart swelled at the sight of them. They seemed like something out of the legends of the Usurper Wars, when attackers marched into battle, flags held high.

  Though he fervently wished for modem weapons, true aircraft with bombs that could shatter the entire fort in seconds, or even just a single machine gun to sweep the battlements, he still felt a certain contentment with it all. Five years ago the barbarians he ruled would have charged on horse against the walls, waving their swords and spears, shooting arrows. Now they were going forward like soldiers, rifles at the ready. Even though they were not of his elite umens, still they were of his creation.

  "They're not counter battery firing," Jamul observed.

  "Waste of effort for them," Ha'ark replied. "He doesn't have any trained cattle up there who can work the larger guns with accuracy. I wonder if he even has the heavy guns loaded at all. Best to concentrate what he can against the infantry."

  A line of smoke erupted from the front of his line, and he raised his field glasses to study them. The front line had stopped a bit short. He would have preferred to see them a hundred yards closer—after all, it was terrified cattle they were facing—but the first volley, even at five hundred yards, should startle them. The smoke would help to obscure the advance as well. He was pleased to see that training was finally overcoming their damnable pride. Some of the warriors were lying down, or at least sitting, taking careful aim. The second line advanced through them and continued forward. Moving another fifty yards, they stopped and opened fire. The third line now passed through the second, advancing another fifty yards to engage, so that within a couple of minutes there were five lines of infantry, spaced out across two hundred fifty yards, pouring fire at the fort. The remaining lines had stopped at six hundred yards and waited now for the order to close once a weakness began to show.

  "That's it, lay the gun on the wall." Hans reached around the trembling Chin woman, notching the rear sight up another level. Standing behind her, he pressed the gun in against her shoulder. Then he guided her finger up to the trigger and stepped back.

  The woman staggered from the recoil but then grinned at him with delight. Cursing soundly in English, he smiled and continued down the line. A steady hum of bullets whistled overhead, occasional spurts of earth kicked up along the bastion wall, but so far he was surprised at how few casualties they had taken. It made him wonder just how much training their opponents really had in marksmanship.

  The methodical nature of the attack was at least giving him time to get his own people familiar with how to load the guns and shoot them—not that they were hitting much. Through the eddies of smoke he saw only a couple of score fallen.

  Another line came bursting forward, sprinting to less than two hundred yards, and he grinned.

  "Now, watch!" he shouted, shouldering his way up to the wall and drawing the attention of a dozen or more defenders. Resting his rifle on the battlement wall, he took careful aim and a Bantag went down, shrieking, holding his stomach. He quickly reloaded, hitting a second one in the chest, then reloaded and fired again, spinning another around to the ground.

  Exclamations at his prowess were cut short when one of his own tumbled off the battlement, the top of her head gone. Hans saw that it was the girl he had been trying to teach only minutes before.

  "Start killing the bastards!" Hans roared. "Kill them!"

  He stalked away to the southeast bastion, which was drawing most of the attention of the artillery. They were zeroing in, earth geysering over Gregory and his crew as they sent back sprays of canister into the advancing line, unable to miss with the range down to two hundred yards.

  "The crew's getting the hang of it!" Gregory shouted above the explosions.

  Hans peered up over the wall, then ducked as a shot screamed in and dirt sprayed over him. He saw that a heavy skirmish line was swinging out along the southern wall, so Alexi finally had some targets as well. Rifle fire erupted down the length of the wall, and he saw several Bantag drop with the first rounds.

  "We could take this all day," Gregory announced. , "It won't be long now. He'll realize we're not panicking without a really hard push. Get ready for a charge. And remember, don't fire the heavy gun till I give the word!"

  Even as he shouted out the command, he heard the distant braying of nargas, the traditional war trumpet of the Hordes. An angry cry went up from the field, and through the smoke he saw the lines begin to rush forward.

  The charging lines compressed as they hit the entanglements and rows of sharpened stakes forward of the moat. Rifle fire redoubled along the wall as the range closed to the point that even the most inexperienced found they could now hit the targets. Hans walked along the line, stopping to slap down the rear sights of his troops, which many of them forgot to lower as the range dropped. Bantag warriors, some armed with axes, began to slash their way through, cutting paths in toward the moat. A column of troops attempted to charge down the railroad embankment and from there leap into the moat, but a blast of canister from Gregory's gun swept them back.

  Hans paced up and down the line, shouting encouragement, stepping over the bodies of the dead and dying, sensing the desperation around him, and also the exhilaration of slaves who were finally striking back at their hated masters.

  "Artillery!"

  At the shout, Hans looked up to where one of Ketswana's men was pointing and saw two horse-drawn guns advancing toward them along either side of the railroad embankment. The gunners swung their weapons around at less than four hundred yards and started to unlimber. Hans ran down to Gregory's bastion and saw that he had already perceived the threat and was bringing his fieldpiece to bear. A loader was fumbling through the limber chest, but Hans shouldered him aside and pulled out a round of shrapnel. He was relieved to see that the fuses were percussion; otherwise there would have been even more confusion and wasted time trying to teach a loader how to cut and insert timed fuses. Hans passed the shell over to the loader, who ran it to Gregory.

  Even as Gregory stepped back from the gun, lanyard held taut, the first Bantag gun fired, the shell impacting on the gate. Gregory's gun answered, and the round hit the embankment twenty yards in front of one of the guns. The two guns started a methodical drumming against the gate, a dozen rounds shrieking in, until Gregory finally dismounted one of the pieces. Another gun was up in less than a minute, dragged forward by one of the horse teams that had been sent back from the first two guns.

  Hans ran down from the bastion and standing to one side examined the gate. Another round hit and sent a spray of splinters and metal shards into the courtyard. He darted up for a quick look and found himself facing a swarm of Bantag who, screaming wildly, were surging out of the moat, axes raised high to chop their way through the tottering barrier.

  "Can you bring us any lower!" Andrew shouted.

  "Sir, there must be five thousand of them bastards down there with rifles than can shoot half a mile, and a dozen artillery pieces to boot. Besides that, we got those two ships to deal with." Even as Jack shouted back at him, the two-pounder behind Andrew fired, and Feyodor screamed a curse as he burned his hands pulling the hot breech open to extract the shell casing.

  The airship rode a thousand feet above the river, now less than a mile away from the fort. A swarm of antlike creatures could be seen moving in on it from the east and north sides. Over his shoulder Andrew saw another Bantag flyer moving to intersect them from above. Though he would not have admitted it, he was petrified. Every surge of the ship from eddies of wind convinced him that it was coming apart. He had long ago separated himself from his breakfast and, for that matter, from what was left of any meal he'd had in the last day.

  Perhaps Kal and Jack had been right
. He felt like a useless spectator, someone who served only to get in the way.

  "I'm taking one swing over the fort, sir, then we're getting the hell out! There's gonna be four airships on us in a couple of minutes if we stay here!''

  Andrew wanted to argue, but one look from Jack told him it was useless to try. He read one last time the hastily penciled note before sealing it into a message pouch and handing it to Feyodor, who turned away from his gun and attached a red streamer and whistle to it.

  With engines howling, Jack guided Flying Cloud straight toward the fort. Clearing the west wall, he pulled the stick in to his stomach and the ship reared up.

  Andrew struggled to hang on, pulling himself up into Feyodor's chair, and then leaned out. The fort was obscured by smoke, and to his horror he saw a storming party swarming up out of the moat. In desperation he looked at the chaos below, trying to see through the fog of battle, hoping that somewhere he would see the blue uniform of his old comrade.

  "Message away!"

  He saw the red streamer swirl down toward the parade ground and then disappear.

  A loud explosion detonated at nearly the same instant, and a thunderous shudder ran through the ship.

  "We're hit!"

  Andrew turned back and saw the number three engine dangling, its propeller gyrating as the engine swung off its mount. The propeller sliced into the bottom of the ship and shattered amid an explosion of splinters. Sparks snapped out of the engine as bits of torn cloth wrapped around it.

  "Cut the fuel!" Feyodor screamed. "Cut the fuel!" He pulled open the back hatch, scrambled out onto the catwalk, and started aft, climbing down as the ship continued to soar heavenward.

  "We're getting out!" Jack roared. "Hang on!"

  A bullet tore through the cab, shattering the window next to Andrew, and a shard of glass sliced his cheek open.

  He saw that Feyodor got to the damaged engine and reached up over it to the copper fuel line. As he bent it up, the fuel ran down his arms. A flicker of flame ran across the dangling engine, and for an instant Andrew thought that it would jump to Feyodor.

  Pulling out a knife, Feyodor started to hack at the one support beam that still held the engine.

  "Coming around," Jack announced.

  Andrew wanted to shout that Feyodor was dangling out in space, struggling to kick the engine free, but he thought better than to interfere.

  "Damn it, sir. Man that damn gun back there. We got another one closing in!"

  Andrew climbed out of the seat and slid down the cabin to the two-pounder. The nose of the ship was dropping as he grabbed a shell out of the rack, shoved it in, closed the breech, and clumsily swung the gun around. He tried to line up on one of the airships, but Flying Cloud continued to drop out of its spiraling turn and the enemy ship disappeared from view. Frustrated, he looked down and saw that the swarm was building up around the gate. He lowered the gun, wrapped his finger around the trigger, and fired. The recoil knocked the wind out of him, and for a moment he thought he might have broken a rib.

  He opened the hot breech to eject the shell casing, which hit his leg and burned his trousers. He kicked it away and started to reload. Another shudder ran through the ship, and he looked up to see Feyodor dangling in space, the engine tumbling away. The sudden loss of several hundred pounds of weight caused Flying Cloud to surge up, and Andrew watched wide-eyed as Feyodor struggled to hang on. Finally Feyodor swung his legs back onto the catwalk and let go of the shattered engine spars. He collapsed onto the wooden framework and started to crawl back to safety.

  Andrew shifted his attention back to the fort. Twin tongues of flame erupted on either side of the gate, and the host swarming in around the broken gate were swept down as if a giant's hand had crushed them.

  "Double canister at ten yards!" Andrew roared. "Leave it to Hans!"

  The attack at the gate wavered and then broke, streaming back across the moat.

  Feyodor swung back in through what was left of the aft cabin door, reeking of coal oil. Gasping, he fell onto the deck.

  "Damn you, next time let me know when you're going to dive!" he cried, crawling toward Jack, his eyes filled with rage and lingering terror.

  "What the hell was I supposed to do? Come aft and ask your permission?"

  "You bastard, I'll be damned if I ever fly with you again. That engine got blown clean by an artillery round. I told you before to stay higher."

  The two continued to argue as Jack piloted the ship back out over the river. From overhead Andrew could hear the thump of Stefan's gun, and the scream of a shell from one of the pursing flyers streaking past them in reply.

  He swung his own gun around as they cleared the fort, hoping to give a parting shot. For a moment the smoke in the parade ground cleared, and in the center of the field he saw a lone figure, looking into the sky. Leaning out over the gun, Andrew extended his hand.

  "Hans!"

  For an instant he thought he saw his friend snap off a salute, and then the smoke closed around him and he was lost to view.

  "That crazy fool," Hans muttered, watching as Flying Cloud set a northwesterly course and headed up into the clouds. He held the message streamer in his hands. It would be just like Andrew to do something like this, the damn fool. And him a colonel.

  "Didn't I teach you better than to risk yourself without good reason?" Hans mumbled.

  He unfolded the message.

  I'm aboard ‘Flying Cloud.’ Hans, my old friend,

  forgive me for not finding you. You must hold out.

  Ships dispatched and will come upriver to get

  you tomorrow. Hold Out!

  God Bless You, My Friend, Andrew

  Hans stared at the message and then back at the ship. Forgive what? Smiling, he shook his head. It would be just like Andrew to blame himself for something he couldn't control too.

  Hans handed Gregory the message, even though it was written in English.

  "From Keane?"

  Hans nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

  "They've pulled back, sir. Keeping a skirmish line about six hundred yards out and moving some of the artillery around to face the gate. I got some of my people swabbing out the big gun, figure we'd take a crack at some long-range shooting with it."

  Hans nodded his approval.

  "More than a hundred casualties, sir. Most of them dead from head wounds, but by Kesus, we tore them up out there."

  "See if you can rustle up some food, find that old Chin fella who looks like their leader. Christ, we haven't eaten in nearly two days."

  Hans walked slowly over to the shattered remains of the gate and peered out through one of the cracked timbers.

  "I don't think they'll come on again today. But he'll tear this whole eastern wall of the fort apart with artillery and smash the gate down proper. I want everyone under shelter except for the artillery crews and those people you think are halfway good with rifles. I want the rest inside the bricked section of the town or in the bomb-proofs under the bastions. Get them busy fortifying the town and also piling up earth onto this gate. Next time they'll come on in column and rush straight at us, none of the fancy footwork. I want a fallback position so we can tear them apart when they do."

  "We're going to make it, aren't we?" Gregory asked eagerly. "The colonel will get us out."

  "That's what he dreams of," Hans said softly, pulling Gregory back from the gate as an artillery round shrieked in and detonated on the other side.

  Chapter Eight

  "I told you not to ride with me, sir.”

  Andrew nodded. He felt as if he had aged ten years in as many hours. He also felt clumsy, not only because of his one hand but also because of the trembling in his legs. He slowly swung out of the cab and worked his way down the rope ladder to the ground. He watched as Jack, then Feyodor, came down after him, followed at last by Stefan. Of the four, only Stefan seemed pleased with the adventure, eager to boast of his latest kill.

  "She'll be out of action for at least a day,�
�� Jack told them. "I'd prefer to try and run her back up north to hangar her. She's riddled with holes, and we have to put in a whole new mount before installing an engine. That means draining the hydrogen out of the number four cell."

  Andrew stepped out from under the ship, looking up at the shadow looming overhead.

  "Well, Colonel, darlin', so how was the flying?"

  To his surprise, Andrew saw Pat walking toward him. "Did they find Petersburg?"

  Pat grinned. "She's on her way."

  "And how the hell did you get here? Don't tell me you flew!"

  Pat shook his head arid laughed. "Not on your precious life. I took a train down to the end of the line and then placed me solid arse on a solid horse and rode."

  "That's eighty miles by horseback."

  "Tell me about it," Pat groaned. "And with piles, no less."

  "You should have let Emil treat them when he wanted to."

  "That butcher got me under the knife once, and then I was unconscious. He won't talk me under it again, especially not to go poking around back there."

  "What's the latest report?"

  "One of the airships found Petersburg couple hours before noon. She's running full steam for the river. Franklin heaved off as well, along with two sloops. Bullfinch sent back a message that he'd sail through hell to get there."

  "How far out is he?"

  "That's the bad news. He won't reach the mouth of the river much before noon."

  Andrew shook his head.

  "And there's worse to it. They'd been shaking her down real hard. The bunkers are low. He says he might just be able to get up the river, but as for getting back down…" Pat shrugged his shoulders.

  "And Franklin?"

  "Two and a half days at full steam will bring him to the river."