Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  Dead?

  In shock Mario searched the slope and saw for the most fleeting fraction of a second a shadow racing high through the woodline. He shouted and pointed frantically for those around him to do something, but they were firing in every other direction. When Mario looked again, the shadow was gone and another shot—a lot of them—erupted from the ridge to drop men by platoons.

  Pointing with his sword, he cried, "There, you fools!"

  Uncoordinated, they fired high and low and wide, strafing the forest with a blistering barrage that tore limbs from trees and vaporized leprous white rocks of the slope while the slope above them still thundered with rifle fire—they had hit little or nothing.

  "Devils!" Mario shouted and found himself retreating with others who had thrown their rifles aside for the advantage of speed. He raised his saber to—

  The bullet that struck his saber snapped the thin blade in half and sent it spinning end over end.

  Mario was not even aware he'd dropped the jagged grip as he staggered back in shock.

  If Gianavel's concentration had been one iota less, he would have been amazed that the commander’s sword deflected his bullet before it reached his forehead, but there was no time for thoughts of anything but action. Moving deliberately but quickly, Gianavel recharged his first rifle and didn't waste a second to replace the rod.

  Captain Mario, eyes wide and wild, had cast the broken sword aside and held pistols in both hands.

  In the same breath that Gianavel sighted, he fired. Mario shouted as he fell back, disappearing behind a boulder. The Captain of Rora ducked back as others saw him and opened up.

  The bullets that struck the tree could be felt to the other side, and Gianavel waited to let the second volley pass harmlessly through the woods about him. Then he dropped his second rifle and launched himself forward, running toward the front of the battalion. He had killed the captain and sergeant major, but there would be others who might rally the force.

  Everything was fully alive—every leaf was distinct with its own shade and motion, every branch was skeletal and clear before him, outlined to the faintest twig as he ran. His breath was without effort or thought, and he was aware that everything was vivid to his eyes. He knew how many steps he would need to reach his destination, how much strength it would require, how he would drop, where his hands would be reaching—powder and ammunition and patch.

  It was the kind of mind speed that comes only when the mind instinctively shuts out all emotion and worries, forcing everything not vital for survival to the sides, dominating with a power that only emerges in dreams or death.

  Gianavel felt sixteen—sixteen, his mind counted—shots tear through the trees about him, most missing widely but one sailing inches behind his back—no threat. Then he dropped beside another oak, uncorked his powder horn, scanning. In seconds he reloaded and saw a man carrying a sword. He aimed, waiting to see if the man was in charge. He was.

  Gianavel fired.

  Another down, and then Bertino's thick form was visible on the distant ridge, not so far by the yard but a long path if one climbed up from the ravine. The huge farmer threw a small barrel.

  Burning fuse!

  Gianavel dove behind the tree and opened his mouth to the tremendous concussion of the powder keg, and then smoke billowed like a wheat field afire with oil. Huge plumes of black blotted out the sun in seconds, night beneath day.

  He didn't need to look to know that the third company, largely untouched by the battle and led by at least two captains and a half-dozen sergeants, was stampeding up the pass, fiercely determined now to charge the slopes. And although they would certainly incur heavy losses, they would more than likely reach the ridge.

  Gianavel saw Bertino's thick form on the opposite slope and hailed him, dangerously exposing his position. But Bertino was unaware that the third company was charging.

  Dropping to a knee, Gianavel aimed carefully and fired, hitting a tree trunk. The big man shouted at the impact and then bellowed to those around him. But even as they aimed, Bertino recognized Gianavel and shouted for them to hold fire.

  Gianavel gave the sign to retreat.

  Bertino obeyed without question. With only a terse word to the others, he turned and vanished into the trees.

  Gianavel raced down the slopes, ignoring the dead and the wounded and the smoke and the flame, knowing they had to prepare a secondary defense to hold the village against these last three hundred who would be upon them in seconds.

  ***

  Mario glared about angrily, his hand reflexively grasping his upper arm where the bullet had struck. He didn't remember being hit, only falling back. When he finally reached his feet, the entire ravine was black with smoke, and the company was racing forward with pikes lowered.

  He staggered into the wave not because of courage but because he was less a target among many than alone. They didn't slow as they passed the remains of the first company, nor did anyone offer aid. Then they were rushing down the slope toward the village that loomed beyond, riflemen already firing.

  Chaos was visible as the third company climbed a slope that seemed stunningly difficult to Mario, and then they reached the farthest outskirts of Rora—scattered clusters of huts that were being quickly evacuated but not quickly enough.

  The greater portion of Rora stood within reach, if they could quickly make their way through this poorer section of the township and take the bridge. Victory was within his grasp.

  Mario saw his men killing everyone not quick enough to gain the bridge—young, old, women, children, babies, strong men. All fell alike under sword or rifle or bayonet, but he wished for the company to move forward far more quickly. He bellowed orders to leave the dead where they lay and to continue the assault.

  Obviously, these people, perhaps two hundred, would not abandon the village unless all hope was lost. Which was wise; they stood far less chance of reaching one of the caves than of holding a fortified position, and many were too old and feeble to even make the attempt. Yes, they would retreat only when they had no more chance of holding this ground—their very homes.

  They neared a bridge that led into the better-built section of the township when suddenly Mario felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck and saw the same shadow—the same man he had seen on the slopes—the man who almost killed him.

  Alone, sword in hand, the man boldly stood on the far end of the bridge. His countenance and his stance made it clear that he would not let them pass. He stood, watching.

  Waiting.

  Gianavel did not even blink as the three hundred men charged through the already burning remnant of the village, closing quickly on the bridge. He looked at Bertino, concealed within a doorway, and nodded once. Bertino also nodded. They were ready.

  With no time to devise an elaborate defense, Gianavel and those with him had reached the bridge only seconds ahead of their attackers. Unable to reinforce the poorer section of the village, they had been unable to stay that massacre. But all was not yet lost. If they could stop them here, then the larger portion of Rora—including all the field hospitals—would be saved.

  Unmoving, Gianavel watched as the infantrymen narrowed like sand through an hourglass, crossing the bridge. When they were less than one hundred feet away, he raised his sword, and windows above him erupted with rifle fire.

  Pikemen sprawled face first across cobblestones, but those in the rear did not hesitate. Trampling down the bloody bodies, obviously electing speed as the greatest element of safety, they threw themselves into a frantic charge.

  Gianavel leaped to the side as they rushed toward him, and baskets stacked behind him were cast aside. The Captain of Rora could only imagine what the attackers beheld in that instant.

  Grinning and holding a torch in one hand, Hector was bent over a demi-cannon. On his flanks, two forty-pounders were aimed dead into the heart of the regiment.

  What Gianavel did see were twenty men dropping pikes and turning to retreat, only to be pushed
backward, since those behind them were slower to arrive at the sight.

  Then the street exploded with the force of a volcano, and entire buildings vanished behind roiling clouds that reached almost to the face of their disappearing attackers. Gianavel gazed out to see heaps of bloodied corpses strewn across the entire length of the street and bridge rails.

  On the far side of the creek, commanders instantly began bellowing furious commands to attack, to attack, to overwhelm by sheer superiority of numbers. But no one wanted to be the first into that horrendous grapeshot that dismembered men like insects, leaving arms and legs scattered unrecognizable amid bodies split and torn.

  Bertino raised his rifle in the air as those in the windows erupted in taunts and jeers, and Gianavel grabbed the big man's arm.

  "We don't have enough cannon fire to hold them!" Gianavel shouted above the din. "We'll take them twelve at a time with rifles as they advance!"

  Bertino nodded and grabbed men close to him, repeating the instructions as Gianavel reached a stairway. In moments he was on the second floor, positioning men behind overturned furniture that strengthened the walls against muskets. He assigned them to specific angles because each man had only a limited view of the street.

  "Each man has an angle, like a pipeline, on the street below! With all the angles together, we have the street covered. Each man must shoot only what is within his pipeline! Do not pursue a man if he gets past your pipe! Don't try for a man who hasn't reached you! Shoot only what's in front of you! Do you understand?"

  They nodded together.

  Gianavel turned to the window.

  The battalion was advancing twelve abreast, but there was no space between rows. It was like a solid black snake flowing across the bridge. In the background, commanders had mounted horses for a better view of the conflict.

  "Be ready," Gianavel said sternly. "Don't shoot until they're across the bridge."

  They waited as the men neared.

  Nervous eyes glanced at Gianavel.

  "Wait," he whispered.

  The drum of boots was muffled as the soldiers strode over the bodies of those who had fallen, and some of the bodies cried out painfully. Then they were over the worst and continued steadily.

  "Fire!" Gianavel shouted, and every window and doorway hurled musket balls into the ranks, dropping those in front, who were replaced instantly by those behind. Then another volley was fired and another, and another, and still they came, shoulder to shoulder with rifles and pikes held high.

  "Fire!" Gianavel shouted again and again, and musket balls were redoubled. But still, the army grew inexorably closer.

  Then a single man, young and covered in soot, began to rise, and Gianavel grabbed him forcefully by the shoulder, pressing him back into position at the window. If one broke, they might all break. And a retreat was difficult to stop once it began.

  Gianavel snatched a rifle against the wall and shoved it into the boy's hand. His words sliced through the tension, making all of them more afraid of him than their enemy.

  "We hold them or we die! Look! Your wives and children are behind you! How will you take them with you?"

  No one answered as Gianavel stalked across the window to see the column advancing against the death that plummeted the ranks like rain. But behind them, beyond those who, doubtless, already reckoned themselves dead, the troop thinned, hesitated.

  Every window and door continued to erupt without pause to drop five, six, ten men at a time, and the column was shortened with each stride, rising higher on the bodies of the slain. Then a single man broke and ran, fleeing for the far side of the bridge. The fact that a sergeant killed him in stride should have affected the rest, but either they didn't see or didn't care. In a moment more they overwhelmed the sergeant as he struck fiercely with his sword to cut down all deserters. At the last it was a full rout with rifles tossed aside and pikes cast into the river like so much kindling. Amid shouts of victory, Gianavel raced to the bottom floor of the tavern.

  Bertino turned to him, a smile creasing his face—a smile that instantly faded as he saw the black rage masking their captain's face. Bertino needed no words but snatched up his rifle and called out to the others, "It's not over! Come on!"

  Gianavel paused only a moment, but it was necessary because the last, and most difficult, task would spread them over miles of forest, and it would be impossible for him to oversee their actions.

  "They'll try for the ravine to Turin!" he shouted and slung three rifles over his shoulder. He paused for the briefest moment, staring over them. No one flinched.

  "Come!" he shouted, and as they cleared the door, they broke in a long, loping run that took them at a right angle to the ravaged remains of the retreating battalion.

  Bertino drew parallel to him, a flintlock in each square fist, arms swinging the stocks like a man thrashing wheat. In less than thirty seconds, his face was twisted with exhaustion. "What's the plan?"

  Gianavel said nothing as he leaped a log and continued without a break in stride. Finally he yelled, "We catch them in the ravine and kill as many as we can!"

  Bertino fell back and passed the word, and they closed quickly on the ravine. They heard subdued shouts in the distance, the bellows of dying men who were afraid to die. Then they arrived at the ravine, staring down at the path below.

  So completely was the ravine hedged by rock that an antelope could not have found a quick path to evade the destruction delivered the battalion from above—more men were killed by boulders than the hail of bullets that descended point blank.

  As Gianavel lifted his rifle, they heard the shouts of men coming quickly, frantically, stumbling headlong with injured shouts, and they moved to the edge to see them streaming below, shoving one another aside to race for the front.

  Gianavel twisted his head to Bertino and nodded.

  "Now!" the big farmer shouted and set his shoulder against a boulder.

  Almost instantly it broke from its mooring and rolled down the face with a cascading sound of granite crushing bush and stone alike. Only at the last, seconds before it crashed murderously into the ravine, did those beneath it understand. They had time for one howl of terror before they were crushed down.

  And then there were more howls, more pleas for mercy as more boulders, rocks, and logs descended in a cascading avalanche of fury that drowned out all petitions for peace, and dust rose from the pit like a flood of steam unleashed within hell itself.

  When it was over, Gianavel stood stoically at the lip of the cliff, dust rising past him in pillars and plumes, hiding what carnage lay beneath.

  Bertino moved beside him, shook his head. "We killed them all."

  Gianavel was implacable. His face was pale with fatigue, and his hands were open and relaxed. Only his eyes revealed the fierce fighting mind that had commanded the day.

  "No," he said. "Not all."

  He pointed at distant figures, astonishingly few in number, staggering across the rolling plain of wheat that led to Turin. They were wounded, weaponless, and easy prey should Gianavel decide to overtake them.

  "Should we finish them?" Bertino rumbled.

  "No. It's enough."

  "Enough for what?"

  Hesitating, Gianavel seemed to carefully weigh his response, as if he knew it would be laid on a scale where God would judge the violence of his hand against a measure unknown. "Enough to establish justice," he said and then signed, holding it a long time before raising his face to the sky, eyes closed.

  Now, indeed, a fatigue greater than the mere physical was visible. The pure fighting fury so inspiring only moments earlier was banked—something he shut down at once to leave only a white pallor, a sickness of the soul. He was no longer a deliverer of justice in a land besieged by evil men but simply a man—a father, husband, friend.

  "Let's go," he said somberly and turned away. "We've killed enough men for the day."

  ***

  Cloaked in the habitual black suit that he wore even in private, the man
stood with a single arm folded across his chest, staring pensively out the towering window of his private chamber. Uncommonly, he was alone and unguarded. Not even a servant stood in the arched entrances that gaped on the far side of the utterly silent chamber. Nor were there the distant sounds of cavalry, guardsmen, carriage, or the din of transit.

  His face was decidedly militaristic—stern, disciplined, deeply lined by pain and determination. His physiognomy was half a head less than six feet, but he was solidly, though not heavily, built. A carefully maintained goatee and mustache framed his frown, and his eyes were like heated stones with the thinnest sheaths of ice. And not much was required, it was well known, for the eruption of volcanic heat that would blast the ice into shards with fearsome rage and imperious will.

  He turned as boots thudded on the far side of his chamber. His face revealed nothing but calculated assessment as the man walked forward; then he dropped his arm and extended his gloved hand.

  "We have much to discuss," he spoke, as if there had been no question of the man's arrival. "Please pardon me if I proceed quickly past pleasantries."

  Oliver Cromwell, the Lord Protector of England, walked to the hearth and the man followed thoughtfully. As formal in private as in public, Cromwell began, "Understand that I have prayed a great deal over this mission. It is quite dangerous and ... important in a manner that is difficult to describe."

  "I'm humbled," Sir William Lockhart said to the uncrowned King of England.

  Lord Cromwell's mind, both in war and diplomacy, was difficult to anticipate and even more difficult to endure, though the old man had mellowed considerably over the years. His greatest strength was his sincere conviction that God created him to fight a truly righteous war.

  His greatest flaw was searching for it.

  Lord Cromwell stared over Lockhart as if he could somehow divine his thoughts. "Tell me, my son, if you are fearful. My final mind will be established by your words."

  As England's greatest monarch, Cromwell's native genius and imperial will had saved the island in a dozen desperate battles. His daring night-march to win the battle of Dunbar—outnumbered ten to one with no chance of retreat if the tide had turned—was already the rubric of legend. As well as his cataclysmic rage, which had once dissolved Parliament in a single memorable confrontation.