Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "And of course we will fight to save what is ours," Andrew said softly, "as you would do as well. Both you and I are trapped in this battle, which if the world were different would not have happened. Yet my offer still stands. If we win, I think your people are going to need a place to escape to."

  "And after all of this I still have to ask why."

  "Because, by God, it is the way I am. I'll not sit back and watch people get slaughtered by those animals. We can use you as well. We'll need people who know ships, who helped in the rebuilding of the Ogunquit, who once they escape the Merki pits will be willing to fight to save their families from such a degrading death.

  "And besides," he added quietly, "if we do win, do you honestly think you can ever go home again anyhow? The Merki will slaughter all of you the moment they get their hands on you. For that matter, even if you win they will slaughter you anyhow. All of you are living in a dream if you think that after this war is done and if we are destroyed, the Merki will suffer you to live with the knowledge and weapons you have gained. I can guarantee you that if we are defeated, there will be three smoking ruins—Rus, Roum, and Cartha for good measure."

  Andrew tried to control his voice, but his cold anger at what these people had managed to accomplish, even though they were forced into it, left him with a sense of bitterness. Cromwell was still afloat, most of the railroad to Roum was wrecked, either back on land or with the endless miles of twisted rail and flooded locomotive engines now on the bottom, and long rows of bodies lay on the beach.

  "I have other things to attend to now," Andrew said, the lines on his face tightly drawn.

  Baca looked at him, and then to Andrew's surprise he stepped forward and extended his hand.

  Andrew hesitated and then reached out, the Cartha grabbing him by the forearm.

  "I believe you to be a warrior with honor," Baca said, and then drew back.

  Andrew nodded a reply and started to turn away.

  "Keane."

  Andrew looked back.

  "We captured your city of Suzdal over twenty days ago."

  Stunned, Andrew looked at his staff, who stood around him as if struck.

  "You did not know, then?"

  "No."

  "Some of your people let us in."

  "Mikhail, that damned bastard," John hissed.

  "Yes, that was the one. We held half the city, your people the other half. When your leader refused to surrender, Cromwell threatened to bum the rest of the city down. Then suddenly your army slipped away, falling back to the place with many brick buildings."

  "Why have you told me this?"

  Baca shrugged.

  "I have a home too. If it fell into the hands of the enemy I would want to know."

  "It already is in the hands of an enemy," Andrew said quietly.

  Baca nodded.

  "I know. I am sorry for both of us."

  Andrew hesitated, and then turned and walked away.

  "You might have the beginnings of an alliance," John said.

  "I wish the hell they'd thought of that two years ago," Vincent replied.

  "We let them know what we were doing back at the very beginning, the summer before the Tugars came," Andrew replied. "Perhaps we missed our chance then, to offer what we could to help them."

  "We were too damn busy trying to stay alive ourselves," John interjected.

  Andrew realized that John's argument was valid, but inwardly he berated himself. If he had only planned better, perhaps all of this could have been avoided.

  "They're still damn Carthas," Marcus said, shaking his head, "and it was a pleasure destroying them today. So don't even suggest I take those illborn bastards in after this war is over."

  "My dear Marcus," Andrew said, shaking his head, "I daresay they wouldn't want to have anything to do with you."

  Marcus looked over at Andrew, who broke into a grin.

  "John, get over here, I want the rest of the news. What do we have left?"

  "In good condition?"

  "Anything that will fight."

  "There are two ironclads, the Gettysburg and the President Kalencka, that came through fairly well intact. Four more are in various states of destruction. The Maine will never fight again—she's ready for the junk heap. The other three have gun decks shot apart, and one of those is shipping water and has a cracked boiler.

  "There's also our Quaker boat. Dimitri had them push the second engine at top speed to get up here, and it's damn near shaken the whole thing apart. That boat's out of the fight as well."

  "He still saved our hides," Andrew said, shaking his head and looking over at their savior. Though he had not said anything to Baca, he could well imagine the disgust and rage the Carthas must have felt when they realized that Cromwell had abandoned them and thrown away the battle to run from an illusion.

  "The other six boats that went into the battle are out there," John said quietly, nodding out toward the sea.

  "We captured two Cartha boats, both with flooding engines and gun decks in ribbons. Eight are on the bottom, and the other two are burned-out wrecks on the beach. I was inside one of them, Andrew—our shot tore those things apart from one end to the other. Cromwell built the Ogunquit damn solid, but I guess he never figured on the gunboats facing seventy-five-pound shot."

  "What about galleys?"

  John shook his head.

  "Maybe thirty out of our entire fleet are still in shape to sail. Another fifteen or so were beached and we might be able to fix them up. The good news is that we captured thirty Cartha galleys fairly well intact. There are a hell of a lot of boats still wallowing around out there—the damn things don't really sink. I'm trying to organize some salvage crews to go out and pull them in."

  "What can we put under oars by tomorrow morning?"

  "Tomorrow morning, colonel? Hell, it'll take a couple of days to sort this out. Sir, we lost damn near half our rifles out on that water today, and half our field artillery as well. As for the rest, most of the rifle and small-caliber artillery powder we've got left is soaked."

  "I'm pushing off before first light tomorrow. That will put us off the Neiper by dusk."

  "To do what, sir?" John said coldly. "He's still got the Ogunquit and maybe four or five gunboats. Hit those two boats with those heavy guns of his and you'll have nothing. It's going to take me a day to bring up the supplies from our last anchorage just to make sure we have enough food for everybody, including those Carthas you want to feed.

  "Give me three or four days," John said, his voice almost pleading. "We can strip the rail off a couple of the ruined ships, we can build up the sides of the two we've got left and then try it."

  "I don't have the time!" Andrew shouted, turning on John. "He'll have a whole day ahead of us back off of Suzdal. Give that bastard three or four days and he can repair his damage as well. He could build a battery on shore, he could do damn near anything. Goddammit, I'm keeping the pressure on!"

  "With what?"

  "With what I've got, with what you're going to give me by dawn."

  "And just what the hell are you going to do when you get there?"

  "I don't know," Andrew shouted, regretting his words even as he roared them out.

  Shaking, he turned away from the group, raging at his loss of control, but struggle as he could he found he simply could not get his composure back.

  He felt as if he were in a desperate struggle to keep from dissolving into tears. The pressure of this insane struggle had simply not let up from the moment the telegram had arrived, shattering all his hopes, no, his fantasies, that somehow they could prepare and in the end the threats of the outside world would pass away from him.

  He looked out at the ocean of wreckage floating before him. In the gathering shadows he saw a group of Rus soldiers wading in, towing a raft stacked with yet more bodies. Men gathered around the group and pulled the bodies off, taking them up off the beach and dropping them down in the long line waiting for burial.

  Just what
the hell am I going to do now? What's happening in Suzdal?

  He knew they were looking at him, waiting for answers.

  All he could hope for was to protect the galleys, run them up close to the Neiper and get the men the hell off, and then fight it out with the Ogunquit.

  And checkmate, an inner voice told him. He couldn't think beyond that; the word kept screaming at him. Cromwell, in spite of all that was wrong within him, in spite of all the wrong that he had created, would win, and he would die a useless sacrifice.

  He could feel himself starting to shake. Would they see it, he wondered, or would the darkness hide this final humiliation? Yet inside he knew what was happening. He was starting to break apart at last. Part of him screamed to let go, to start laughing, crying, to turn and run away. The other part was barely hanging on, as if he were sliding down the side of a piece of glass into the darkness, struggling to maintain control just a bit longer.

  "Sir, do you have any orders?" John said, as if pressing in.

  Damn him, he knew what it was like, he had seen John being used up by his own orders. Couldn't the man see he was being used up as well?

  Andrew turned to look back, fighting to somehow speak.

  "The orders stand."

  "You mean we move out before dawn?"

  Andrew nodded his head.

  John looked as if he were about to speak, and then with a muffled curse he turned and stalked away.

  The rest of the group stood silent, waiting for the encouraging comment, the smile, the burst of confidence upon which they would always draw as if taking a bit of his life away to fuel theirs.

  "That's all, gentlemen," Andrew said softly, and the men turned and started to walk away.

  Vincent hesitated and then came over to Andrew.

  "What is it, sir?" Vincent said quietly.

  Andrew tried to force a smile.

  "Nothing, son, nothing at all."

  "Like hell, sir," Vincent replied.

  Startled, Andrew looked into Vincent's eyes.

  "You're played out, sir, I can see that."

  Andrew turned away and started to walk down to the water's edge.

  Vincent came around to walk beside him.

  "Mr. Hawthorne, you have other business to attend to. Go help Marcus with getting his ships and people organized."

  "He can do it himself," Vincent replied softly. "And don't order me away, sir, because I'll refuse."

  "So you've picked up insubordination along with your other habits," Andrew snapped.

  Instantly he regretted his words. He could see the pained expression in the boy's eyes, as if he had taken a child and whipped it.

  "I'm sorry, son," Andrew gasped. "I didn't mean it," and he put his hand on Vincent's shoulder.

  "It's all right sir," Vincent whispered. "I deserved it."

  "What's happened to you?" Andrew said softly.

  "It's not me I'm worried about, sir," Vincent replied. "It's you."

  "So we're each worried about the other."

  Vincent shook his head, forcing a sad laugh.

  "I've admired you, wanted to be like you, since the day I joined the 35th," Vincent said softly.

  Andrew felt himself drawing back and away.

  "And you don't need to hear that childish hero worship now, Colonel Keane," Vincent said hurriedly. "It's just I wanted you to know I think I understand what's happening inside you."

  Andrew looked away. He felt as if he should now force the usual smile, shake his head, and say that everything was just fine and for Vincent to run along.

  "After what I've seen," and he paused, "and what I've done, I know it's like a cancer inside me, slowly consuming me. I think of the men who've died because I said do this, or go this way. I think of the men, and yes, even the Tugars, I've killed, and God help me, the hatred I've learned.

  "It's just, sir, I wanted you to know you've done all right."

  Andrew smiled sadly and looked over at Vincent.

  "Tell that to the people out there," he sighed, nodding toward the sea. "Tell that to whatever we've got left back in Suzdal, and tell that to the men who are going to die tomorrow evening because frankly I've been beaten."

  "I could tell you that you've done your best," Vincent replied, "and I know no matter how often I told you, you still wouldn't believe me. When something goes wrong, you always blame yourself first. I think we're alike in that way, sir. We look at the mistakes in our lives, the real ones and the imagined ones, and we torture ourselves, wishing somehow we could go back, to relive them, to somehow make it all right again."

  "And we can't," Andrew whispered.

  "We never do anything completely right, sir," Vincent said. "No one, not even my hero Andrew Lawrence Keane, does it all right," and he chuckled softly.

  "I think, sir, you are even regretting letting this small weakness show in front of a very junior officer. You're thinking the proper commander is alone, always acting confident, hiding his fears."

  Andrew looked back at Vincent.

  "Just this once it's different, sir. It doesn't change how I feel about you. I'll never speak of this to anyone. When this moment passes it will be as if it never happened. And sir, it does not affect the confidence I'll always have in you whether we win or lose."

  "It's just there's no room for mistakes," Andrew said, struggling to stay silent even as he blurted out the words. "Tomorrow night I'll go in with a gunboat to face him again," and he fell silent.

  After what had happened aboard the Suzdal, the mere thought of going back aboard another boat like that sent a shiver of fear through him. How was he ever to face that again?

  "We'll see what we can do, then," Vincent said softly.

  Andrew found the slightest of smiles crossing his features. The boy was looking up at him, and yet he had to keep remembering that Vincent Hawthorne was no longer a boy. He had helped to turn him into a man, if learning to become a remorseless killer was what a man should learn.

  Somehow he had hoped for better for Vincent, as if he were a replacement for his brother Johnnie.

  "Yourself, Vincent," Andrew asked gently. "What has happened to you?"

  "I'd rather not talk about it now, sir," Vincent said evenly.

  "They finally got to you, didn't they? One too many killings and suddenly that's all you could do in return."

  "I almost felt pity for Cromwell," Vincent said. "There's a terrible hidden anguish in that man. And then I saw all that had come out of that, the men of my regiment lying dead in the palace, the taunt about your wife and mine, and then finally that Merki hanging on the cross like some sick caricature of a barbarian Christ.

  "Yet where was my God? That Merki looked down upon me for pity, yet he would have torn my family apart in front of me with no more remorse than I would have for a venomous insect under my boot. Where was my God, sir, the God who since we came here I believed kept whispering to me, holding the sinfulness of killing before me, calling to me to find some better way?

  "I remember reading the transcendentalists, Emerson, Longfellow, who talked about all of us being part of a greater soul. And there was that Merki looking down, the mob howling at his torment, and the strength of his dying arms was nourished out of our own blood and flesh.

  "If there is a God, how could He have ever created a place like this? How could He make a place where to survive we must murder or be murdered in turn?

  "The world is madness, sir," Vincent whispered.

  "And we're both lost in it," Andrew replied, putting his hand on Vincent's shoulder.

  Vincent looked up at him.

  "Maybe somehow we'll both find a way out of it," Andrew sighed. "Come on, son, you'd better find Marcus, and I've got to help get things moving."

  The two turned and started back up away from the beach.

  "Thank you, Vincent," Andrew said quietly.

  "Thank you, sir," and drawing back, he saluted.

  Andrew nodded in understanding, and returned the gesture. Vincent hesitate
d for a moment and then stepped off into the shadows.

  "Colonel Keane, sir?"

  Andrew looked about and saw Ferguson standing nearby.

  "What is it, Chuck?"

  "I didn't want to disturb you, sir," Ferguson said, "but something just hit me and I could damn well kick myself for it. I feel like a complete ass for not thinking of it before."

  "Go on. Chuck, what is it this time?"

  "Can I see your revolver, sir?"

  Andrew reached down to his holster and pulled the weapon out. The weapon was still wet, and he could imagine O'Donald, who was such a perfectionist about weapons, shivering at the sight of one of the few precious revolvers in all of Valennia being treated in such a manner.

  Ferguson took the weapon and held it up.

  "See that you fired a couple of rounds, sir."

  "At a passing ironclad," Andrew replied, chuckling at the memory.

  "So what is this all about, Chuck?"

  "This, sir," and he slipped a percussion cap off the nipple of an undischarged chamber and held it up, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm.

  "This, sir, is the answer to all our problems."

  Chapter Nineteen

  "The Merki will be on the other shore by early evening," O'Donald shouted. "I don't give a good damn if Cromwell is here or not, I'm leading that attack in."

  Kal, feeling as if he were being torn apart, sat in his chair. The day had been one of hopes crashed, rising up again, and then crashed yet again.

  During the previous evening they had swept out of their lines, driving the light screen of Cartha pickets back into the city, regaining all the outer countryside held over the last month. Novrod militia had swelled their ranks, and a sense of triumph was in the air.

  And then in the morning word had come that the Ogunquit and four of the gunboats were back at the mouth of the Neiper. For four agonizing hours he had felt that it was truly over, that Cromwell had defeated Andrew and had returned to secure his prize. Compounding that were the reports of the advance of the Merki. Wilderness Station had been abandoned that morning, and one scout had braved a mad swim across the Neiper, under the eyes of a patrolling galley, to report that their outriders were closing in.