The enemy gunners were starting to break, but some held grimly to their posts, their guns leaping into the air, the deadly canister cutting gapping holes in the line.
But it was too late, all too late. Before him he could see the reserve enemy ranks, hidden beyond the low fold of ground, rising up with muskets poised.
The three companies forward came staggering back screaming their rage, unwilling to break, yet forced, as if by some unseen hand, to fall away.
Another sheet of flame licked out, musket balls snicking past, filling the air with their deadly hum.
The 5th slowed, stunned, and then singly and then by the hundreds the men, no longer commanded, but guided now by the darker instincts of war, raised their muskets and fired back.
Dimitri appeared, staggering out of the smoke, dragging the wounded flag-bearer with him.
"It's a slaughter!" Dimitri roared. "They had a damn reserve in the high grass four ranks thick!"
"Pour it in!" Vincent screamed. "Pour it into those bastards!"
The two lines stood poised not thirty yards apart, firing blindly into the smoke, the only sight of the enemy the perpetual sheets of flame erupting from the other side.
Stunned, Vincent stepped back from the line.
I'm a field commander, he screamed to himself. What the hell do I do now? What the hell would Andrew do?
Taking a deep breath, he struggled for control, and gradually the clarity of thought returned.
A quick look down the line and he could see that though stunned, the regiment was holding, either through pride or in the shock of the surprise—they could not think of anything else but to stand and fire back. Andrew had told him how green regiments would stand out of sheer ignorance when veterans who knew better would turn tail and run. Whatever the reason, the 5th was holding for the moment.
He could see that Velnikov's guns were still in action, but the battery was now firing off to the flank, and in that instant he realized all was lost. The enemy muskets were not just arrayed against him. The sheets of fire from muskets and cannons were extending all up and down the line along a front of nearly six hundred yards. The Roum had already broken, and by the thousands were running to the rear. He could see that nothing would stop their panic until they were inside the city walls.
"Dimitri. Pass the word. Get our wounded out of here. Detail one man to each wounded who needs help. We're not leaving our people behind!
"Tell Velnikov to get the hell back up to the next ridge!" Vincent shouted to a trembling orderly, who saluted and raced down the line.
"Dimitri, the regiment will retreat by line," Vincent shouted. "First line to retire ten paces and reload. Second line will fire, then fall back twenty paces. We'll leapfrog back up to the ridge."
It was an unorthodox maneuver they had never drilled for.
Dimitri saluted, and, shouting commands, he started to race down the line.
The first rank started to fall back, and the Carthas, sensing the pullout, began to push forward.
"Second line, volley fire present!"
Muskets were leveled into the faces of the advancing foe.
"Fire!"
It seemed as if a shot couldn't miss, so close were the enemy.
"Retire twenty paces and reload!"
The discipline was still holding, but he could sense the near panic starting to build as the men turned and ran. For a moment, Vincent feared that they would simply keep on going. The men broke through the line behind them and continued. Vincent stopped with the first rank, praying that the company officers could maintain control behind him. Turning, he looked back, and a moment of pure terror seized him. The Carthas were charging.
"Volley fire, present, fire!"
The enemy not a dozen paces away seemed to go down into a tangled mass, and the charge ground to a halt.
"Retire twenty paces and reload!"
The man next to him staggered backward with a grunt, holding his stomach and falling to his knees. Vincent reached down to pull him up.
"Leave me, goddammit!" the man shrieked.
The moment seemed to stretch into an eternity. He could feel his arms already going around his comrade, trying to pull him to his feet. From out of the smoke he saw a broken line of Carthas coming forward, bayonets leveled.
"Dammit, sir, leave me!"
He looked around wildly. The line was already disappearing back. He had to stay with his regiment. An anguish of self-loathing filled his heart as he let his hands slip away and the man slumped down out of his grasp. With a bitter curse, Vincent ran for his line, even as they presented muskets forward.
A sharp volley punched out as he dived into the ranks for protection. Coming up to his knees, he saw the wounded soldier still kneeling, and through the swirl of smoke a Cartha appeared, with bayonet leveled, and drove the blade into the man's back.
"You bastards!" Vincent screamed. For the first time he unholstered his gun, aimed it at the enemy soldier, and started to snap off rounds. The soldier's face exploded with blood as he staggered over backward and fell.
"Come on, sir, come on!" Someone was grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him back. Still cursing, Vincent retreated with the line, following it back through the next rank.
Another volley snapped out.
The pressure was easing off, the enemy advance in front of the regiment breaking apart under the cadence of volley fire.
Vincent went back up the hill, getting behind his regiment as it retreated, the men working with deadly efficiency. The Carthas forward were no longer pressing in; their attack was stalled now in the bottom of the valley. He looked to his flanks, and his gut tightened.
The legion was gone from the field, and already the Cartha lines were lapping around the edges, the enemy leery of advancing, holding back, but nevertheless firing with ever increasing effect. And then over the steady roar of battle a deeper, rumbling shriek filled the air. Looking to his right, he saw the remnants of Velnikov's battery cresting the hill and falling in beside Bugarin's. A massive plume of dust lifted into the air directly in front of the cannons. The gunners ducked down, pointing excitedly back out to sea.
Racing up the ridge for a better view, Vincent turned out to face the ocean, and his heart felt as if it had been stabbed. The fog had lifted, and there upon the waters was a dark low craft, smoke pouring from a single stack. The vessel was squat and ugly, like a metal shed floating on the placid sea.
"Where in the name of God …" Vincent whispered.
A flash of light snapped from the side of the craft, instantly obscured by smoke. Long seconds passed, and then he heard the round shrieking in, its voice low and full of death, the sound sliding up higher and yet higher. The banshee roar ripped overhead, and for a brief instant he saw the round coming in. A blinding flash filled the sky just beyond his battery, and a thunderclap detonation ripped across the landscape.
Stunned, he looked back at the ship, riding with terrible menace, out of reach on the ocean nearly two miles away.
It had to be Tobias, he thought grimly. Somehow the bastard had made an ironclad and armed it with guns far more powerful than anything in the Rus arsenal. A sense of forlorn despair filled his heart. A flag was flying from the stem of the vessel, and disgust filled him when he recognized it as the national colors.
"Better a rebel flag, you traitor," Vincent whispered, his voice filled with loathing.
Numb, Vincent stood on the crest looking at the fleet while the battle disintegrated around him. The legion was gone, streaming back to the city in mad panic. The Carthas were advancing all along the front, and the Rus units were the only organized formations left on the field.
"It's lost," a voice shouted behind him.
Marcus, oblivious of the death snapping around him, reined in his mount, and Vincent could not help but feel an admiration for this man, under fire for the first time, and yet showing all the calm detachment of a veteran Union officer. The sight of him reminded Vincent of what he was, and what still
had to be done. He forced the ship out of his mind.
"It's lost," Marcus said evenly, his features pale. "Get your people out of here."
"We'll hold them for a couple of minutes more on this hill. It's going to be hell at your gates with that panic." Vincent pointed to the terrified mob rushing back to the city. "My people are the only disciplined forces left."
"I'll not forget this," Marcus said, and leaning over, he gripped Vincent's arm tightly.
"I want you to see how free men can fight, even when it's someone else's war," Vincent retorted sharply.
Marcus drew his hand away as he gazed at Vincent.
"It's a different world now, Marcus, and you'd better realize it," Vincent shouted, pointing back to the advancing enemy and the ironclad ships beyond. "Now go over to Velnikov. Tell that old bastard to pull his guns up, to position two of them by each of the gates back into the city and put his last gun in reserve in the forum. I want Bugarian to split his battery, three guns on either flank of the 5th. After that, try to round up some of your cavalry to help screen our flanks, and see if you can dig up a horse for me as well. I'll see you back in the city. Now move it!"
Marcus looked down at Vincent, a smile crossing his features.
In a gesture that Vincent found to be almost amusing, Marcus saluted him, and then with a vicious tug he pulled his mount around and galloped off.
"It's not looking good," Dimitri cried, coming up out of the smoke, a retreating line of men behind him.
Vincent didn't respond. The enemy forward were now a good two hundred yards back, holding at extreme range. At least the pressure was off there. To his right, several hundred yards away he saw a column of Cartha troops cresting the ridge and starting to swing their line about for a flanking action. In a couple of moments they would be on him.
A thin smile crossed his features. Andrew had faced the same situation at Gettysburg, when the 35th had stayed behind to stem the rebel advance while the rest of I Corps retreated. Could he do as well?
"All right, Dimitri, we'll shake out into a long skirmish line, single-rank. I want the flanks bent back so the line is shaped like a horseshoe. Pull out Company A as a reserve in the center, artillery on the flanks. We'll pull back at a walk, wounded in the center."
Another shrieking howl tore across the sky, and not a dozen yards away a plume of dirt snapped up. Vincent held his breath waiting for the shell to explode and then ever so gradually exhaled.
"Fuses aren't that good. A dud," he laughed.
He looked back out at the ship again. There was nothing to be done about that now. But Andrew had to know what was happening here.
"I need a messenger!" Vincent shouted.
From out of the confusion a young Suzdalian came up to Vincent's side, his eyes wide with fear, a thin trickle of blood staining his blond hair.
"I'm a good runner, sir," the boy said, trying to control the fear in his voice.
"I want two of you!"
The boy beckoned for one of his friends to come over. The second one seemed younger than the first, Vincent thought, forgetting just how little difference there was between his age and theirs.
"Do you know where the telegraph station is in the city?"
"Yes, sir," the blond youth replied.
"All right, then. Have them send this message to headquarters back in Suzdal. 'Under attack by at least ten thousand Carthas, most likely far more, several thousand with muskets, thirty or more cannon. Led by Cromwell. Ogunquit converted to ironclad with very heavy artillery. Retreating to Roum. Expect siege within several hours."
"You got that, boy? Now repeat it."
The boy recited the message back.
"Good. Now both of you run like hell. If one of you gets hit, the other one has to get the message through."
The two saluted, turned and started off across the field.
With shouted commands, Dimitri pulled the lines in. It seemed to take an eternity. Behind the ridge, half of Bugarin's battery galloped across the back of the slope, the field pieces bouncing through the high grass. Velnikov's battery started out on its retreat, the drivers lashing their mounts, the gun crews running alongside.
Vincent felt a swelling of pride. By all rights the men should be in a blind panic, desperate to get the hell out and away from a fight that wasn't even theirs. The enemy formation on the right flank was starting to close in, a solid column of men advancing at the double. Bugarin swung his three guns around, and within seconds a sharp volley rang out, cutting a bloody swath through the formation.
"That's it!" Vincent roared. "Pour it into them!
"All right, at the walk, let's get the hell back to the city!" Vincent cried, and with a steady pace he started the regiment down off the ridge.
A thundering roar cut through the air, and with a soul-tearing shriek a heavy shell plowed into the ground directly in front of the line. Vincent held his breath, waiting for the detonation, as his men started to scramble away. Then ever so gradually he exhaled.
"Another dud," he laughed softly.
A thunderclap snapped out, cutting a bloody swath through his rank, bringing half a dozen men down.
"God damn you, Tobias," Vincent roared, looking back at the ship.
"A signal from Tobias. He's ordering us to break off the attack."
Hamilcar looked over at Hinsen, his eyes filled with rage.
"They're in a mad panic. We could be in their city before noon," he snarled darkly.
"It's not part of the plan," a voice growled behind him.
Hamilcar turned and looked back into the tent where the Merki had been concealed since landing under cover of darkness.
If only I could put you in front of a gun, he thought coldly, even as he washed all emotion from his features.
"Remember this is but the opening move," the Merki said sharply. "Maybe you could take the city, but once inside, your muskets could be overwhelmed in the narrow streets, and your artillery would be useless. Our purpose is a siege, not a storming."
"It was a good slaughter," Vuka laughed, shading his eyes to gaze across the field of battle. "But a waste of good meat," he whispered softly in Merki. Hulagar looked over at him coldly.
"Were those Yankees?" Hulagar asked, lowering the telescope provided by Cromwell and pointing to where the last of the 5th had disappeared but moments before.
"They were Rus infantry," Hinsen replied. "Prisoners report that Hawthorne is the ambassador. If that's the case, I'll bet they're his regiment, one of the best in the army."
"You know this Hawthorne?"
Hinsen's features hardened. The pet of Keane and Schuder, while everyone cursed at him. Everyone else got promoted, like Vincent, and until the last he was still a lowly private in the 35th, still kicked around by mick sergeants who wouldn't let him shit without permission. Well, it was the infantry and artillery he had trained that had smashed that goddam Quaker. Inwardly he hoped that afterward he'd find him dead on the field.
"I know him," Hinsen replied coldly.
"And you do not like him," Hulagar ventured.
"It was a pleasure to beat him today."
"His troops were good. Yours still need practice in this new war before you can match them on equal terms."
Hinsen suppressed an angry retort.
Hulagar looked back across the field. He had learned much in the last hour. The Roum were cattle; the fact that they had repulsed thirty thousand Tugars left him with even more contempt than before for Muzta's tattered horde. The Carthas had fought well enough for their first action. But the Rus had shown him something that would bear remembering. They fought as well as any of the Merki horde.
"I can see now why the Tugars were defeated by the Rus and Yankees," Hulagar said, looking over at Vuka and speaking in Merki.
Vuka gave a snort of disdain.
"They are still cattle."
Hulagar shot a quick look over at Hamilcar, who stood in silence, watching the exchange with a look of incomprehension.
&
nbsp; "We will stand by Cromwell's plan," Hulagar said, turning away from Vuka to again face Hamilcar and Hinsen. "Order the men to advance slowly and keep the pressure on, but they are forbidden to break into the city."
With a nod from Hamilcar, the couriers galloped off.
"It is a good start," Hulagar announced. "Now let us see if they take the bait."
Chapter Five
" 'Have retreated to the city. Cartha advancing to surround city for siege. Count three thousand plus muskets, at least forty field pieces. Twenty thousand or more infantry. Two heavy guns, at least fifty-pounders, repeat fifty-pounders, are being moved up.' "
Andrew paused for moment, looking around the table. All of the military staff were present, along with Kal and Casmar, prelate of the church, who besides his other duties with the church and the Supreme Court had become a trusted adviser to Kal. The room was Spartan, containing a simple long table with straight-backed wooden chairs surrounding it. Three of the walls were adorned with a variety of maps and dozens of charts and graphs representing the myriad of tasks associated with running the army, the industries, and the railroad, which administratively was still under Andrew's control as secretary of war. Out in the street below he could hear the chatter of the crowds in the great square, going about their afternoon business, oblivious to the crisis that was upon all of them. Andrew sighed, looked back at the telegram, and continued to read.
" 'Situation extremely critical, food supply in city only sufficient for two weeks. Casualties to 5th and batteries three hundred dead and wounded. Battery commander Velnikov dead. Three guns lost. Telegraph line soon to be cut, will reposition station beyond city to update our situation. Marcus expecting aid. Might capitulate if none forthcoming. Will stay here in city with men and hold until relieved.'
"Signed, 'Hawthorne.' "
Sighing, Andrew took off his glasses and sat back.
"Why in hell would Cartha attack Roum?" Hans asked, looking around the table.
Union Forever Page 14
