Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

"So he really did it," Andrew whispered.

  Looking back to the road between Ostia and Roum, he saw a long antlike column moving southward.

  "Damn them, they're getting away," he whispered.

  A flicker of light snapped up inside the city. Swinging around, he saw a flashing column of smoke rising up from the flaming ruins of the palace.

  Long seconds passed and then a fluttering boom, like distant thunder, rolled across the plain.

  Torn, he looked back to the harbor. He could still cut some of them off. But his gaze returned to the palace.

  "Just a little farther, men, just a little farther!" Andrew shouted, pointing his sword toward the city. "Now move it!"

  He urged his men on as they started down the broad open slope.

  "Quick march, quick march!" Andrew shouted.

  At every step his command seemed to melt away, men stumbling, dropping into the high wet grass, some gaining their feet and staggering on, others looking up in anguish, so close to the end and yet unable to continue.

  If they face me now, there'll be hell to pay, he thought.

  But there was a dark desperation to it now. Every minute could spell the difference.

  The clatter of musketry started to rumble. Mercury faltered, shaking.

  A moment of concern filled him for his old comrade, and reining in, he leaped down from the horse.

  "Someone get that saddle off!" he cried, and falling in with his men he pushed on. The regiments were mingled together. The identification now was only one of sheer physical strength to endure the end of the forced march in less than thirty-six hours.

  All equipment was gone except for muskets, ammunition, and canteens. Everything else had been dropped miles before, during the long rain-soaked night.

  Gaining the outer works of the Cartha, Andrew scrambled up on the embankment for a better look. The palace was a ruined shell, flames pouring out of it.

  He must have made his stand in there, he thought coldly. Damn that boy, he would fight to the end like that. A knot of men from the 35th swept past, regimental flag and the old national colors held high. Andrew leaped down from the breastworks and fell in beside them, his hat gone, hair rain-soaked and plastered to his brow, sword held high.

  Gasping for breath, he continued the pace, fearing that at any second a line of Cartha musketmen would appear on the shattered battlements to block his advance.

  "For the breach!"

  The men were starting to break into a run, staggering with their last ounce of strength, some now racing forward to somehow claim the honor of being first in.

  It was a foolish madness, but Andrew felt it seize him as well, the end of nearly seven days of heart-tearing fear.

  The first man gained the top of the rubble, holding his musket high in triumph. A flag went up over the parapet, the Suzdalian soldier waving it. A ragged cheer went up from the exhausted men.

  Scrambling up over the parapet, Andrew saw a scattering of bodies. The streets were empty. Climbing down into the street, he paused for a moment. It could still be a trap.

  "Skirmishers forward!"

  But the discipline would not hold, not now, not after all they had endured. The men pushed forward, running down narrow alleyways, guided by the towering beacon of smoke in front of them.

  Andrew caught up, shouldered his way forward. A shout started to echo up, and scattered knots of people appeared, holding up their hands, racing forward to embrace him. Andrew pushed his way through, pressing on. The alleyway started to broaden out, and without warning he found himself standing at the edge of the forum.

  The vast square was a field of carnage. Hundreds of torn bodies littered the pavement. The sound of shouting and gunfire echoed from farther on, down by the docks. He hesitated for a second and then turned and ran for the steps of the palace.

  "Skirmish line across the square. Take the Senate building on the far side. Thirty-fifth Maine to me!"

  The men started to fan out, a knot of blue-clad soldiers spreading out around Andrew.

  "Merciful God," he whispered, slowing as he climbed the steps. The building was a burned-out shell.

  Reaching the top of the steps he looked into the smoke-shrouded inner courtyard.

  Feeble cries rose up out of the carnage. Wounded and dying Carthas, numbed with shock, looked up with fear in their eyes. The men of the 35th moved in cautiously, kicking weapons aside.

  "Thirty-fifth Maine!" Andrew shouted as he stepped into the courtyard, climbing over the smoldering rubble.

  Picking his way through the ruins, he pushed into the building. The carnage was shocking, even to his battle-hardened eyes.

  "Thirty-fifth Maine!"

  From out of the smoke he saw a shadowy form emerge. Cocking his revolver, he stepped forward.

  A Suzdalian private emerged, blood streaming from a chest wound. Another man climbed out from behind a pillar, his hair scorched, his eyes hollow, filled with a vacant distant stare.

  Andrew continued to push in.

  "Vincent!"

  A feeble shout went up. More and more shadows rose up, coming forward.

  "Colonel Keane."

  Dimitri came forward, his face white with rain-streaked dust.

  Coming to attention, he saluted. Andrew brushed the salute aside and grabbed the man by the shoulders.

  "My God, you're still alive," Andrew said, finding that he was shaking.

  "I guess we are, sir," Dimitri said, his voice coming far too loud. "They laid some barrels of powder up when we holed up in the back and then blew 'em off."

  Numbly, Dimitri looked around.

  "Vincent?"

  "What was that, sir?" Dimitri shouted. "They blew 'em off, and then nothing. We was waiting for the next charge, and now you're here."

  Dimitri reached down, fumbling at his uniform, brushing it off. "Where's the general?" Dimitri shouted hysterically. "I can't find the general!"

  "Somebody take care of him," Andrew yelled, and patting Dimitri on the shoulder he wandered into the back of the palace.

  "Vincent, goddammit, Vincent, where are you?"

  Soldiers looked up at him numbly, some with dazed foolish grins, others beyond caring, yet others caught in the pain of dying, or already still in death.

  "I said I'd hold till relieved."

  Andrew turned. For a moment he couldn't even recognize him. The boy's face was puffed and torn, blood seemingly seeping out from every pore. Yet he knew it was he with Marcus by his side, still holding a musket.

  "Goddam you!" Andrew cried. "You scared the hell out of me."

  "We scared the hell out of ourselves," Vincent said, trying to force a smile out and then grimacing from the pain.

  "Fifth Suzdal along with the second and third Novrod batteries reporting, sir."

  Andrew shook his head.

  "You certainly have a way of turning up alive," Andrew said. "Damn, if this ever happens again, I think I'll just let you handle the situation and not worry about it."

  Vincent shook his head in disagreement.

  "Sir, I think next time I'll just stay home."

  Andrew looked over at Marcus.

  "Excuse me, sir, he's an old friend."

  "And I'm just the ruler of another country," Marcus said dryly.

  "I meant no insult," Andrew said stiffly.

  Marcus smiled.

  "I'm alive because of him," Marcus said, breaking into a smile. "You can take as long as you want."

  "Where did they go?" Vincent asked.

  "I'm damned if I know. I saw them pulling out. There's still some fighting down by the docks."

  "Fighting?" Vincent asked, his voice edged with excitement. "I thought they had us. We were back into this corner of the palace when they blew off that charge, then nothing."

  Pushing past Andrew, Vincent raced into the courtyard, Marcus and Andrew following behind him. Gaining the steps of the palace, Vincent drew up short, looking back excitedly at the other two.

  "I told you they'd fight!"
Vincent shouted, pointing out into the square.

  A huge mob was swarming across the square, and at the sight of the three a tremendous shout went up.

  "They fought for you," Vincent cried, gazing back at Marcus with a look of triumph in his eyes.

  "The trick will be now to sort out who did and who stayed at home," Marcus said, his features even.

  "Go ahead and try it," Vincent retorted with a mischievous grin. "Just remember that when your own Senate and legion turned against you, they didn't."

  Wearily, Marcus shook his head.

  The crowd pushed forward, and several knots of people shouldered their way up the steps.

  Vincent felt a wave of revulsion at the sight of what was left of Petronius, but said nothing as the corpse was hurled onto the steps. Another group came forward, and at the sight of their burden he turned cold.

  A dead Merki was nailed to a cross, followed a moment later by two more. Vincent saw Julius leading one of the groups. Their gaze held for a moment, and Julius nodded grimly. Struggling under the weight of their burden, they pushed the crosses up, anchoring them in place with piles of rubble.

  Vincent looked up at the bodies hanging above him. To his horror he saw that one was still moving, its terror-filled eyes looking down at him. It was too much to take, especially a death in that manner.

  He fumbled for his pistol to put the creature out of its anguish, enemy though it was.

  "No!" Marcus snapped.

  Vincent hesitated and turned his gaze away.

  "Let them hang there till they rot," Marcus shouted, and an angry roar went up in response.

  Vincent looked over at Andrew, who stood silent, looking up at the dying Merki.

  "Now you know who the enemy really is," Andrew said sharply, looking back at Marcus. "Now you know why we need each other, because they'll be back."

  "You'd better say something," Vincent prompted, looking back out at the crowd.

  "You've certainly cornered me this time," Marcus said with a cold smile.

  Nodding, Vincent drew back.

  Marcus looked over at him sharply and then turned to face the crowd.

  "As of today I reaffirm our alliance with Suzdal in the war against Cartha and the Merki horde they serve."

  He hesitated for a moment.

  "As of this moment, slavery is banished from Roum."

  "Glory hallelujah," Vincent breathed, his eyes shining with a childlike enthusiasm.

  "There—are you satisfied?" Marcus said.

  "More than satisfied," Vincent replied.

  "Damn you, boy, and I thought I could maneuver you like a playing piece on a board."

  "You've never dealt with a New England Quaker before," Vincent said innocently.

  The saying of the word "Quaker" caused his heart to knot, and he looked back at the cross and then to Marcus.

  "One last thing."

  "Go on, then."

  "Would you outlaw torture as well?"

  "Anything. Just don't bother me anymore, for right now I think I need a drink."

  Marcus, ignoring the cheers, went back up the steps, pausing for a moment to look at the ruins of what had once been his, and then disappeared back into the smoke.

  Vincent watched him leave.

  "Colonel Keane!"

  Vincent looked over his shoulder and saw a private from the 35th come up the steps.

  "What the hell is so all-fired important?" Andrew snapped, still smiling over the exchange between Vincent and Marcus.

  "Sir, I was in the Senate building. I saw this big scroll of paper pegged to the wall. I knew you had to see it."

  Andrew took the parchment and unrolled it, Vincent stepping over to join him.

  "Colonel Keane," it read in English. "You've got what's left of Roum. I and my friends will take Suzdal in exchange. I'll be certain to forward your regards to Kathleen and young Hawthorne's woman as well. Checkmate. Cromwell."

  "So now we know," Andrew whispered. "It's only just begun for us."

  Vincent turned away. Cocking his revolver, he went up to the cross, the Merki still looking down at him in anguish. The creature laid its head back, a high quavering chantlike song escaping its lips.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  He had intended it before as an act of mercy, but not now. Vincent watched with cold satisfaction as the Merki trembled sagging down on the cross. He cocked the revolver and aimed again.

  "He's dead, Vincent. Leave it be," Andrew said, coming up to his side.

  Smiling, Vincent squeezed the trigger anyhow, slowly emptying the revolver into the dead body on the cross.

  The rhythmic pounding of the steam engine below deck caused the deck to vibrate as the Ogunquit came back to life.

  Hot with anger, Cromwell turned to look back at the Merki. "We could have had him," he shouted.

  The crew scrambling across the deck preparing the ship for sea paused, stunned to see a human, a Yankee, scream in rage at a Merki.

  Hulagar said nothing. Vuka started to step forward.

  "You were wrong," Hulagar snapped, extending his hand for Vuka to stop.

  "How dare you berate me!" Vuka hissed in Merki. "And to do so in front of cattle!"

  "We could have taken the city. It just might have worked. You destroyed that. Tamuka has told me everything."

  Vuka looked over at his shield-bearer with cold hatred.

  "You are no longer my shield-bearer," Vuka growled.

  Tamuka smiled inwardly. He sincerely wished that he had left Vuka to his fate. The Merki horde would then have had another as Qar Qarth when Jubadi finally rode to the everlasting sky.

  "As you wish, Zan Qarth," Tamuka replied.

  "I will draw your blood for this insult," Vuka snapped.

  "You cannot," Hulagar replied sharply. "Tamuka saved your life—it was spoken so by your brother Mantu, who survived. You now owe him your life in return. By the law of your own blood, you cannot challenge him until such debt is returned."

  Vuka turned back to face Hulagar.

  "Nor me," Hulagar said evenly. "I am shield-bearer to your father. It is forbidden for a son to challenge his father, his brothers, and his bearer."

  Vuka, impotent with rage, stood motionless.

  "Do not shame yourself in front of us, and the cattle." There was almost a note of pleading in Hulagar's voice.

  His features dark with blood, Vuka turned away and stalked to the rear of the ship.

  Cromwell, who had watched the exchange, uncomprehending of the words, could see nevertheless that something was seriously wrong between the son of the Qar Qarth and Hulagar. He knew as well that the wrath would be shifted to him before all of this was done.

  "There is nothing more to be said," Hulagar announced. "We did not lose too many. We have lured the Yankee army east, now we turn west to the real prize."

  Without waiting for a response, Hulagar walked away, going up to stand beside Vuka at the stern rail.

  "Not too many," Hamilcar snapped. "Two thousand dead and wounded, half of that from that mob that damn Merki triggered."

  "And two heavy guns lost," Cromwell replied. "Along with twenty ships lost along the Roum dockside. I don't like this—it leaves them something behind. Either we should have taken the town and held it as I had hoped, or fired it to the ground and left them nothing. We did neither."

  "They are cut off now. At least we know Hinsen took care of that."

  "He would," Cromwell replied. There was something about him that had always made him feel uneasy. It was good to have him out of the way.

  Walking over to the starboard railing, he looked back at the shoreline. The last of his ships were pushing off from shore.

  Checkmate, he thought with a smile.

  The note was a good parting gesture, a little something to get under Andrew's scalp, to make him reckless. But he almost regretted the other part. There was something about Vincent that still haunted him. At least he would never laugh. Even when he knew the boy had somehow unders
tood, he had not laughed. The thought troubled him but for a moment. Something started to stir, a memory coming up. Just what was it? Vincent had left him, that was all he could recall now. There had been something else then, but all he could remember was waking up later, the sour taste of vomit still in his mouth.

  He forced the thought away.

  In less than a week he'd be in Suzdal. That was being prepared as well, and for the first time in days a smile of delight crossed his features, the disappointment of before washed away, along with the dark foreboding.

  Chapter Ten

  "We are certainly in one hell of a mess," Andrew said.

  The mood in the room was subdued, the exhaustion still evident on all their faces.

  "Doc, why don't we start with you. I want to know the condition of our men."

  Emil shook his head.

  "The 5th and the two batteries are skeletons. Eighty-five percent casualties for the regiment, and the numbers are almost as bad for the batteries. They're out of the war."

  Emil paused, looking over at Vincent. His face was swollen and pockmarked. But what worried him was the eyes. There was a coldness to them now that was disturbing. Andrew had told him about the incident with the Merki. Something had gone dreadfully wrong with the boy, but there simply wasn't time to talk to him now.

  "For the rest of the army, I've never seen a march like that one," Emil continued. "It was worse than the Gettysburg Campaign, and it certainly rivaled anything old Jack ever did. As near as I can reckon, nearly a hundred men are dead, almost all from the heat. We lost some more, the usual accidents, falling off trains, accidental discharge of weapons, or killed last night in a tavern brawl."

  Emil looked over at Marcus.

  "When soldiers from different sides get together," Marcus replied, with Vincent translating, "especially after the events of the last week, there's bound to be some tension."

  Emil shook his head in disagreement and continued.

  "The entire army should have at least three more days of rest before you can even think of moving them, Andrew. They're played out. At least a thousand of them will be laid up for a week. Try anything before that and those men will get sick by the thousands. As it is, you can thank your lucky stars the Carthas weren't in the mood to put up a fight."