Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "It'd be a lot better than walking, sir," and with a friendly salute Hank went for several more feet and collapsed with a sigh into the grass.

  A shadow came over him, and startled, he looked back as Gregory and another orderly unrolled a shelter half, drove poles in on either side of him, and in seconds set up a lean-to. Embarrassment be damned, he felt as if they were saving his life. He heard someone pouring water and then the shock of something cold running down his back. He had shed his heavy uniform jacket an hour ago at the last stop and had been riding in shirt sleeves and a vest. The cooling water on his neck hit with a shock, and for a second he felt as if he was going to faint.

  "You're pushing a heat stroke, Andrew."

  "Ah, my ever-hovering doctor, do sit down."

  "I didn't save your life at Gettysburg just to have you kill yourself out in this godforsaken desert," Emil snapped, squatting down by his side and looking into his eyes. He nodded to someone standing behind Andrew, and another shower of water rolled down his back. He started to shake.

  "Lie down, colonel," Emil whispered, placing his hand on Andrew's forehead.

  "If I do that, I'll never get up. We've got to keep moving."

  "The men have been dropping like flies for the last couple of hours. I've seen at least four of them dead."

  Andrew held the telegram up for Emil to read.

  "Damn them," Emil whispered. "So they sold out."

  Andrew closed his eyes, though the shimmer of light still danced before him. He had to focus, to think clearly.

  He lay back, and felt more water on his chest and opened them to see Gregory kneeling beside him, his eyes full of an almost motherly concern.

  Andrew smiled weakly.

  "I'll be all right, son."

  "Drink some of this, sir."

  Andrew brought his head up and started to gulp down a cup of water.

  "Slowly," Emil snapped. "Drink it fast and it could kill you."

  He let the water run over his parched tongue, glide down his throat. He felt his stomach knot up, and he struggled against the nausea, fighting to keep the precious liquid inside his body.

  Think, dammit, don't let the weakness take you. He closed his eyes, wanting to drift into sleep.

  Vincent, what about him?

  Startled, he sat up. Emil was gone; Gregory and Bullfinch were sitting by his side.

  "Did I fall asleep?"

  "Only for a couple of minutes, sir," Bullfinch said.

  "The telegram said nothing about Hawthorne," Andrew said. "We can't waste any time."

  Taking the tin cup in Gregory's hands, Andrew slowly drained the rest of its contents, his stomach accepting it, every drop soaking straight into his body.

  "Let's get moving," Andrew said, coming to his feet.

  "Now Andrew," Emil said, coming back to his side.

  "Don't 'now Andrew' me. We've still got Hawthorne and his men in that city. I know that boy. He said he'd hold until relieved, and by God he'll do it. Every minute is precious."

  He walked over to Mercury's side and saw that his old friend was played out, flanks lathered with dried sweat.

  "Bugler, sound the advance."

  The clarion call went out, was picked up, and resounded off into the distance. Curses and groans filled the air as men struggled back up. Knots of men paused, bending over and picking up prone forms which they moved out of the high grass and over to the side of the road.

  "I'm sending out an order to detail one man for every five who are down,". Emil said with a tone that indicated he wouldn't accept any debate. "If they can get tent halves up for shade and we leave water behind, we'll save most of them. Otherwise they'll die out here."

  Andrew nodded an agreement.

  "Come on, Mercury, you and I will walk for a while."

  Without looking back, Andrew started off, leaning on the saddle, willing one foot in front of the other.

  The dream returned, Kathleen running before him, laughing, her naked body white, cool, inviting, her breasts rising and falling with each step, and he laughed at the foolishness of her running naked like this in the middle of steppe. It was snowing and she was running without any clothes on. Just how insane was that woman?

  I'm riding again, he thought. The movement was slow, languid, as if she were beneath him, and then she was gone.

  Vincent was looking at him with his old eyes in a boy's body. The boy was dripping with water.

  "You told me to report to you at sundown, sir."

  But no, that was during the war. Which war? It was the Tugars, wasn't it, or was it Gettysburg? No, that was Johnnie, dear Johnnie lying dead. Vincent wasn't even in the regiment then. It had to be the Tugar war.

  "Why are you so wet, Vincent? You're in the damn city."

  Wet. I'm wet.

  He opened his eyes. It was dark. My God, have I gone blind?

  There was a flash. Startled, he looked back, pulling out his revolver. Another flash in the twilight. There was laughing, splashing.

  I am wet. He looked down and saw the dark water swirling about his legs.

  "Where in hell am I?"

  "It's the river, sir!"

  Gregory was beside him, splashing water up at him as if he were a child.

  Grinning dumbly, Andrew looked about in the gathering darkness. By the thousands men were wading into the coolness, laughing, scooping up handfuls of the precious liquid, falling over.

  "How long?" Andrew whispered.

  "What, sir?"

  "I remember you making a lean-to, pouring water on me."

  "Several hours back, sir," he said quietly. "At least I think so."

  "Well, I'll be damned," Andrew whispered.

  There was another flash of light, and he saw the fork of lightning on the far horizon to the west, and the first faint scent of a cooling breeze washed over him.

  "Thank God, it's going to rain," Emil laughed, coming up by Andrew's side and with a dramatic flourish falling down to sit chest-deep in the river.

  "Oh, my hand to God," he sighed.

  Dumbfounded, Andrew looked around, and giving himself over, he collapsed into the water by Emil's side.

  "Worst march I ever made."

  "We most likely lost two, maybe three thousand from the heat," Emil said. "They're strung out on the road all the way back to Hispania. This rain, though, will save most of them."

  "What's that?" Andrew asked, pointing to a flickering glow on the southeastern horizon.

  "Didn't you notice that before?"

  "Dear doctor, all I remember seeing is my naked wife running around in the snow," Andrew said with a sigh.

  "You really were sun-struck."

  "Guess I was."

  "We've been seeing that for the last half hour. It's Roum."

  "Then someone is still fighting in there," Andrew said, coming back to his feet.

  "It certainly looks that way."

  "Bullfinch."

  "Here, sir."

  "Any more messages?"

  "They're hooking into the line now, sir."

  "Well, get up there and be quick about it."

  Going over to Mercury, Andrew swung into the saddle, the horse nickering as he pulled him up from drinking and rode back up to the riverbank. Pulling out his field glasses, he trained them on the horizon, hoping somehow he could see something. It was still nothing but a shimmering dance of light.

  "How far have we gotten?" Andrew asked, looking over to Gregory.

  "Just over thirty miles, sir. It was a hell of a march."

  "Then it's thirty to go?"

  "About that, sir."

  "Andrew, I hope you're not thinking what I think you are," Emil said, coming up to his side.

  "Pass the word," Andrew shouted to his staff. "Two hours' rest. Maybe that storm behind us will catch up. We'll march in the rain—at least it'll be cool."

  "Not a night march, Andrew. Half your army will be down by dawn."

  "Those are the orders," Andrew snapped, and Emil, seeing th
at it was useless to argue, walked away with a muffled curse.

  "Sir, we just got a message in," Bullfinch shouted, running back to stand by Andrew.

  Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out a pack of matches. He struck one and held it up, cupping the flame in his hand against the growing breeze.

  "Hispanic Station reports Kennebec River crossing under attack. Forces unknown. Line west went dead twenty minutes ago."

  Merciful God, they're behind us," Andrew whispered. Suddenly it all became clear, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place at last. He had been played for a fool.

  He looked back to the west. They could be back in Hispania late tomorrow morning. The wood supply in Hispania was low, but they could still run fifteen or twenty trains back. It'd be at least another half day, more like a day, to get back to the bridge. And then what? he thought angrily. I'll be running from one end to the other and doing nothing but killing my troops for nothing.

  He looked back to the east. If I force-march it, I'll be there by noon tomorrow. Maybe half the men will be ready to fight. The Carthas will be rested. I don't even know if I'm doing any good going that way. I can always send Barry's detachment up the line to find out what happened.

  "We've been led down the garden path, Emil," Andrew said woodenly, handing the telegram down to his friend, who struck a match to read the message.

  "I've got a suspicion there's more to this than meets the eye," Emil replied coldly. "That Cromwell always was a sneaking bastard."

  "Sometimes being a sneaking bastard is a good quality, especially in war."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "There's nothing I can do behind me now," Andrew said. "If we've lost the bridge and our connection back home, we've lost it. Running back won't do a damn thing. I'll send Barry with a couple of trains up the line to find out what happened. Send a courier back up the road to Hispania. All men who fell out on the march are to marshal back to that city. They're out of the fight for here. Get Kindred to go back with them and organize a scratch brigade."

  "His asthma is killing him in this heat and dust," Emil said with a worried tone.

  "It's a wise move."

  "Andrew, if he diverted some of his strength to hit the bridge, why didn't he take it out before we crossed?"

  "Because he wanted us to cross."

  "What the hell for? He could have had Roum that way."

  "I couldn't figure it out before," Andrew said softly. "Keeping the telegraph line open even as he surrounded the city. Not sending a force out to delay us. Not blowing the Kennebec bridge as the first act.

  "He never wanted Roum," Andrew whispered. "The bastard's after Suzdal."

  Chapter Nine

  "And I will have to ask, what has happened to our army?"

  "The line's been cut, senator," Hans growled darkly. "That's all I can tell you."

  "I suspect that you know far more than you're willing to tell us," Mikhail said with a gloating smile.

  Hans struggled not to tell him to go to hell or better yet challenge him to a one-on-one shootout.

  "Senator, we have that one telegraph line going east, that's it. The line got cut, somewhere between Siberia Station and the Kennebec River. As soon as I know anything more, I'll inform the president."

  "And this Senate," Mikhail shouted.

  "Senator, as commander of the Suzdalian army I answer to the president," Hans retorted. "I am here only upon his request."

  "I am certain that Colonel Keane has everything under control," Senator Petra said, looking over at Hans with a friendly smile. "It is most likely a temporary inconvenience. It could even be from the lightning storms, which I have been told will disrupt this telegraph machine."

  "Temporary inconvenience," Alexander sniffed. "Our army goes galloping off, to support an ally we don't need, and now this. I knew something would go terribly wrong from our president's ambitions."

  "He's right," Mikhail replied. "Go out into the merchants' quarters and ask them if they like these sharp-nosed traders from Roum. I tell you, this railroad project of Kal's is going to destroy all of us. We have wasted labor and resources that could have gone elsewhere. Our people live in hovels since the war. Build them houses, not a railroad. What has it given us? If it was not for this railroad we would not have sent off our sons to fight in a war that is not our concern. The building of it is ruining us, and will bring in foreigners who will steal all of our money and make us bankrupt."

  "First of all, I find Mikhail's sudden concern for housing the people to be truly a change of heart," Boris said with a sarcastic sneer. "We need the Roum," he shouted angrily. "They have three times the men that we do. They have the metals we need for our army. We need these things if the Tugars should come or, Kesus preserve us, one of the southem hordes should march in our direction."

  "How long will you hold these false demons up to us?" Mikhail laughed. "Ten years from now this clique of our president will still be scaring us in our sleep with Tugar talk. They're gone, and the southern hordes have their own preserves."

  "Gentlemen, if I may interrupt," Hans said, his voice cold with sarcasm.

  "When we are finished," Mikhail retorted.

  "I have business elsewhere, and I must assume at least some of the members of this august body can understand that."

  "You are dismissed, if your business is so urgent," Mikhail said, waving his hand toward Hans as if he were an annoying fly.

  Bristling, Hans stood up and stalked out of the room.

  O'Donald stood by the doorway, his red beard matched by the anger in his features.

  "Kal wants you now," O'Donald whispered, grabbing Hans by the arm.

  The two officers marched down the corridor, their countenances so grim that all stood back at their passage, the hallway echoing with anxious comments as they passed. Reaching the door to Kal's chamber, they walked in, O'Donald slamming the door shut behind him.

  "A telegram just came in," O'Donald said. "Kal wants you to see it."

  Without bothering to knock, O'Donald opened the door.

  I got him for you," O'Donald announced.

  Wearily Kal looked up from the desk. Kathleen stood in the comer of the room, her features sharp.

  "Kathleen, darling," O'Donald said nervously, "you shouldn't be up and about like this. What would the colonel be saying now?"

  "Shut up, you dumb Irishman. I'm fully capable of getting about."

  "Dumb Irishman is it, the lass says." O'Donald laughed, falling back into English. "And herself an O'Reilly before she took the name of Keane."

  "Will both of you please be quiet," Kal said, coming to his feet.

  O'Donald winked as Kathleen angrily shook her head.

  "Now if we've settled this little quarrel," Kal said, "perhaps I can get Hans's opinion on this message."

  Kal handed a scrap of paper over to Hans, who quickly scanned the document.

  "It's a fake," Hans said.

  "Why?"

  "I find it impossible to believe that Andrew actually walked into a trap as this thing says, that he was killed and the army crushed."

  "The telegrapher said it had the proper code word opening and closing the message."

  "Whoever sent this could have tapped into the line and found that out easy enough. I know Andrew. He can be a regular killer demon in battle. But he's got a level head to him."

  As he spoke, Kal could detect the note of pride in Hans's voice.

  "The colonel trapped and defeated," O'Donald snapped coldly. "It's a goddam lie, it is.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he added quickly.

  "My feelings as well," Kathleen replied, but the fear in her voice was evident.

  Sheepishly he looked over at her.

  "If I'd known about this message, Kathleen, I'd never have made light with you. Please forgive me."

  She came over to Pat's side and put her hand on his arm. Kal watched her closely. He had brought her here to break the news, praying that Hans would confirm it as a lie. Her fe
atures were pale, almost translucent.

  "Kathleen darling," O'Donald whispered, "please will you sit down."

  Wearily she nodded as he helped her over to a chair and then with an uncharacteristic gesture kissed her lightly on the forehead and took her hand.

  "He's tougher than the lot of us," O'Donald said, trying to force a smile.

  "I talked to the telegraph operator," Kal said quietly. "He says that the operator didn't have the list of anyone on the line, whatever that is."

  "The signal each man sends is slightly different. A good operator can smell that out," O'Donald stated.

  "Then why send it?" Kal asked. "If we could read through it?"

  "Well, sir, maybe they thought we'd fall for it."

  "Doubtful," O'Donald replied. "That Cromwell isn't that much of a fool."

  "Foolish in one area, though," Hans said. "It proves they have the bridge and at least cut the army off from us."

  "A brilliant move," Kal said, walking over to look at a map hanging on the wall. "They've cut the army two hundred miles in the rear."

  He traced his finger along the map to Roum.

  "If I were Andrew," Hans said, coming up to stand by Kal, "there's only one thing I'd do now. He has to push into Roum and at least secure that base."

  "Taking him farther away from us," Kal said quietly, looking over at Hans.

  Kal let his finger trace down the coast of the Inland Sea from Roum back toward Suzdal. He paused and looked back at Hans.

  "We're nearly defenseless here," Kal whispered.

  "Damn him, that's it!" Hans snapped. "He could move everything back this way. I've worried about that, but always assumed that we'd keep the rail line open and shift our forces if Cromwell tried it. I never expected him to actually get behind us like this and knock out the bridge. Andrew and I expected he'd try to block us going up, never heading back."

  "How long if they should try and move this way?" Kathleen asked.

  "Even with the wind against them, four days, maybe five for the steam ships."

  "Fifty-pound guns," O'Donald said darkly. "They'd cut a hole in the harbor wall in an afternoon with those. It'll be murder, it will—they can lie a hundred yards off and blast us to ribbons. If our army's cut off, they could bring their entire force this way and land virtually unopposed."