Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  Standing waist-deep in the Neiper, he ducked down and went into the drainpipe. He felt as if he were going to lose his last meal on the spot. Crouching low, he scurried in, moving quickly, the man behind him following.

  He thanked God the shortage of bronze had prevented Emil from having the last section cast, which would have hooked in at the end of the brick section and taken the sewer straight out into the Neiper. The whole scheme would have been impossible then.

  He finally let go of his breath and inhaled.

  That was it, dammit, and he doubled over. Cursing, he spit the vomit out of his mouth, nodding grimly as he listened to the man behind him gagging as well.

  Pausing, he pulled out a match and held his breath. One of Emil's assistants had said something about gases that could explode, but the hell with them—he'd be damned if he'd crawl up a quarter mile of sewer blind. He struck the head and it flared into life. Lifting up the lantern, he lit the wick and then continued on.

  With lantern held forward, he took off at a slow run, doubled over in the narrow passage. A hole appeared straight overhead, under the bastion. He prayed his men would stay quiet, and prayed as well no one directly above was using it. If I ever get out of this, he thought darkly, I'll never joke about falling into an outhouse again.

  Reaching a turn in the pipe, he looked back. The long line of men were behind him, mumbling curses. Another lantern flared up. A hundred in so far, and they still hadn't been spotted.

  He pressed on, counting off the paces.

  A small pipe went off to the right. They were inside the city.

  As he continued on, more pipes kept branching off into the new sections of the city. He hit eight hundred paces and stopped.

  It was impossible to tell if the men were still coming up. He had hoped to get a thousand into the city this way, but if they only got five hundred they'd be lucky.

  He looked up.

  Could I have missed the damn thing?

  Going slower, he pushed on. A square brick line went off to his left, half the size of the one they were in. This had to be it.

  Grimacing, he went down on his hands and knees and scurried in, sliding in the damp muck.

  Overhead he saw the square opening going up.

  He put the lantern down, stood up, and hit the wooden barrier. Bracing his feet, he shoved hard, and the barrier broke upward. Grabbing hold of the side, he pulled himself up through the privy hole into the bathroom of the 35th's barracks.

  Leaning half out of the hole, he pulled his revolver out and found that he was laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  The room was empty and dark.

  By Jesus, if I'd been sitting here, he thought, I'd have died of apoplexy.

  He came up out of the hole and turned to pull the next man up after him.

  "You and the next man, give a hand up to the others."

  With revolver still out, he slipped out of the bathroom and into the barracks hall. Pausing, he pulled off his filth-covered jacket and threw it aside.

  The building was ghostlike, empty. The cots were in their long orderly row, beds made as if the regiment had simply stepped out for an evening drill and would be returning shortly.

  Going down to the end of the corridor, he peeked out the door.

  The town square was like a ghost village. Nothing stirred; all the buildings were dark.

  Turning, he ran back down the corridor and into the bathroom, which was filling with men.

  "Get the first party formed up in the barracks hall, and uncork your muskets. Grab some sheets, wipe your locks clean, and load 'em up. Now move it!"

  He felt it was going far too slow; it seemed an eternity between each man coming out of the hole.

  "The signal rockets, sir," a man gasped, coming up out of the hole pushing a tar-covered canvas bag ahead of him.

  O'Donald took the bag and tore it open. He pulled out the three rockets, carried them into the next room, and laid them out on a bunk.

  Nervously he paced back and forth as the room gradually filled. He knew the stench must be unbearable, but since they all smelled equally bad, it was becoming hardly noticeable.

  "Someone's coming."

  O'Donald crouched low, moved up to one of the windows, and cautiously peeked out.

  "Jesus, they're Merki!"

  Four of the towering creatures were moving up across the town square. In the dim shadows he could see them looking about, moving casually, their deep guttural conversation punctuated by sharp barking laughs.

  Suddenly one of them paused. His head turned, looking straight at the barracks.

  O'Donald froze, not daring to move.

  The single Merki broke away from the group and started to come toward the building.

  "I'll kill any man who shoots," O'Donald whispered. "Use your bayonets!"

  He shifted his gaze to the men crouched on the floor beside him.

  The one Merki continued to advance toward the barracks and reached the stairs. The others called to him, and for long seconds O'Donald listened as they spoke hurriedly to each other. He drew his head back, slowly standing up against the wall beside the window. Suddenly the rest of the group started to come forward, stepping up onto the long veranda. O'Donald slipped his sword out of its scabbard.

  The Merki filled the window, leaning over and pressing forward to look in.

  O'Donald swung around and slammed his sword forward, driving it straight through the window and into the Merki's face.

  "Bayonets!" O'Donald shouted, crashing through the window in a shower of glass. Still hanging on to his sword, he staggered forward. The Merki fell back, a howl of startled pain escaping his lips.

  The rest of the Merki stood transfixed. Crashing through the double doors and through the windows, the men swarmed out, bayonets lowered. Another Merki went down under a swarm of bayonets. O'Donald leaped over the porch railing even as one of the Merki turned and started to run with a long-legged gait. Angling in low, O'Donald dived for him, and saw the flash of steel as his enemy pulled his scimitar free. The two tumbled over, O'Donald rolling away as the blade slashed down. A shadow swept past him, and a loud shriek tore across the square as a Suzdalian stood above the creature, leaning in with his bayonet, driving it deep into the Merki's chest.

  The Merki continued to shriek even as O'Donald leaned up and slashed its throat.

  O'Donald came back to his feet. There was a moment of silence which seemed almost haunting, and then came a distant cry in Merki.

  "We can't wait!" O'Donald hissed. "Grab the rockets. Tell Johnson he's in command here. Any more men coming through should hold in reserve to cover our path. All you men, follow me!"

  At a run, O'Donald turned and raced across the side of the barracks and down the street.

  "All of you gather round," Ferguson said, and Andrew looked up to see the six ship captains, all of them Roum, come forward to stand in a tight circle around the engineer.

  "Before we get started on this," Andrew said, "I want to ask everyone a last time. I know you men volunteered for this job, and all your crew are volunteers as well. You can still change your minds, and by God I won't think the less of you for it."

  He looked around at the group, and they shook their heads.

  "I'm after my vengeance for what he did to us," one of the men growled, and the others nodded.

  Andrew looked over at Marcus.

  "You didn't order any of these men, did you?"

  "Damn near every one of the captains volunteered. I simply chose the best."

  Andrew shook his head at what was being offered to him by the Roum.

  "All right, Ferguson, you talk, I'll translate."

  Ferguson nodded.

  "Gentlemen, this thing is called a spar torpedo. I've taken the poles we used to hold up the forward corvuses and mounted them to the six light galleys behind me. Attached to each of the poles is a twenty-five-foot boom, now raised up. When it's lowered, it will fall through a slot I've cut in the front of each of your v
essels.

  "Attached to the end of each boom is a barrel," and he paused to point at the ship directly behind him to illustrate his point. "When that boom is dropped, the barrel on the end will be under five feet of water.

  "Now inside each of those barrels is a hundred and fifty pounds of gunpowder and one of these."

  He held up a Springfield rifle, the barrel sawed off just above the lock.

  "The working end of this gun is full of powder and stuck into the main charge. The back end is sealed off inside a small chamber so the hammer can strike down cleanly. There is a rope attached to the trigger, which is already cocked. That rope will go through a piece of cork pushed into the barrel and then to the outside and straight back to your hand.

  "All you have to do is row up to your target."

  The men chuckled grimly, and Ferguson smiled.

  "The key thing to remember is that you've got to slow down just before you get there and then lower the boom. Don't drop it hard—it might set the charge off on the surface. The barrel is weighted down with lead, so it will sink. Come up to your target and slow up even more. Hit him too hard, you might bust the barrel, and that's it. So slow down when you feel the barrel hit the side. Then yank the rope hard.

  Ferguson walked back away from the men and pointed the sawed-off gun at the shore and pulled the trigger.

  A tongue of flame shot out.

  He looked back at the group.

  "That's all there is to it," he said quietly. "It'll blow a hole right through the bastard. Hitting him with a hundred and fifty pounds underwater will be like hitting him with half a ton of powder on top. He'll go down like a rock."

  "What going to happen to us?" one of the captains said.

  Chances are you'll be blown out of the water as well," Ferguson said softly. "As far as I know, it's only been done by a surface boat once before, by a Lieutenant Gushing, back in our old war. He sank a reb ironclad doing the same thing.

  "And he lived," Ferguson said softly, "along with most of his crew.

  "That's it sir," Ferguson said.

  "How much powder do we have left for the guns?"

  "I left three rounds per gun, sir. Everything else is with your ships."

  Andrew looked back at the group around him.

  "The two ironclads will go in first. With luck, they'll draw the fire, and also they'll scout the river. The rest of us will follow in single file. The Ogunquit is the main target. If we get that, then anything left will be used against Cromwell's other ironclads. The river's fairly wide by the old fort we had there, and I would guess that's where he'll be.

  "Now let's move!"

  The captains turned and went back to their ships.

  Andrew paused for a brief second and looked over at Marcus.

  "Remember, what your people are doing here is more than enough. If we fail, get the hell out!"

  Marcus smiled sadly and then turned away.

  Andrew went down to his ship, where the crew was already waiting, the captain grabbing hold of the railing and climbing up ahead of him. Smiling, the men reached over the side and pulled Andrew aboard.

  Ferguson came up alongside and started to climb in as well.

  "Like hell, Chuck!" Andrew shouted.

  "Thought I'd come along for the ride."

  "What, and lose my best damn engineer? Now get back on that beach."

  Ferguson looked up at him angrily.

  "Goddammit, sir, sometimes I wish I had a little less brains."

  Andrew laughed.

  "That's just about what it takes to do something like this!" Andrew said. "Now step aside!"

  The Roum captain shouted a command, and the hundreds of men who had been standing along the shore rushed down into the water, pushing on the sides of the ship.

  With a creaking groan the vessel was backed out into the sea.

  Nervously, Andrew looked up at the long pole, which creaked and swayed, the barrel on top hanging above him with a dark menace. The oarsmen started to pull, and the vessel slipped out into deeper water.

  The six ships formed up and started forward, and from farther out the two ironclads came in, cutting in front of the line. A light breeze fluttered across the water, and looking up, Andrew saw the line of clouds moving across the sky, the stars appearing behind them as if a curtain were being rolled back.

  The ocean started to brighten, and then as if the stage lights had been struck, the first of the two moons appeared, flooding the ocean with a ruddy glow.

  "Move it, goddammit!" O'Donald shouted.

  The men spread out to either side, racing up the steps of the inner city gate. The first musket went off, the bullet smacking the pavement by his feet.

  Pat stood before the arched gate, watching as his men hit the top of the battlement. A body tumbled over, crashing to the hard stone pavement. A flurry of shots rang out. A deep-throated horn sounded.

  "They know, dammit! Send up the signal!"

  The gate before him swung open.

  "Let's go!"

  O'Donald charged through the opening, his men following.

  A musket shot rang out, and the man next to him tumbled over. With sword raised, O'Donald ran forward, crossing through the empty rail yard, rushing toward the drawbridge for the main track.

  A volley of shots snapped from the bastion to either side, and more went down.

  A rocket slashed behind him into the night sky, bursting red.

  "That's the signal! They've lost the surprise!" Kal shouted.

  "Stay on the track, by column charge!" Hans screamed.

  Leaping to the front of the formation, he started up, racing through the darkness, cursing the fact that crossties never seemed to be laid so one could conveniently run from one to the next.

  Staggering his pace, he pressed on, running full out, his hat flying off, the color-bearer keeping pace beside him.

  Musket fire rattled out along the wall. There was a sharp flash, and a slash of canister screamed overhead, slamming into the men behind him.

  "Don't stop!"

  He heard the hollow sound of wood under his feet. They were crossing the moat, and he noticed that it was getting brighter out.

  Damn, the sky was clearing. He cursed inwardly. And directly ahead, the drawbridge was up, the heavy wooden barrier closed, the last half of the moat gaping before him.

  The men behind him kept pressing in.

  There was nothing else to do, so he leaped forward, landing between two sharpened stakes.

  Screams were echoing around him. In the ghostly light he saw one of his men writhing, a stake in the bottom of the moat driven clear through his body.

  "Come on!" he screamed. "Hit the wall!"

  Another shot rang out, and a man standing above him on the bridge seemed to disappear over the side. Scrambling forward, he started up the side of the moat. The top of the bastion seemed an eternity away. He could see musketmen lining the crest, leaning over, pointing their weapons straight down.

  Flashes of light rippled along the wall. Men beside him desperately tried to crawl up, were hit, and tumbled back down. A flag-bearer charged past, screaming hysterically, colors held high, and made it halfway up the slope. He pitched forward, driving the Rus flag into the earthen wall.

  Hans looked back to the long column stretched out on the bridge. It was breaking up, canister slashing through them. A terrible knot of men continued to spill over the edge of the bridge, falling, leaping into the moat, pushing past their impaled comrades. Others were spreading out from the far end, sliding down the sides of the moat. A flurry of rockets soared up from the battlements, illuminating the vast field. Looking back, he saw the column going back for hundreds of yards into the darkness, the men bunched up, still pushing forward.

  "It's a disaster!" someone screamed.

  Hans looked around, trying to gauge his chances. All surprise had been lost. The attack had gone forward like an arrow striking at one point. But the way in was closed. They were being slaughtered.

/>   Sick at heart, he started to slide back down the bastion slope, oblivious to the bullets snapping past. The city was lost now forever. There was no sense in slaughtering what was left of his army before the fortification which he had helped to make impregnable.

  "Bugler, bugler to me!"

  Hans staggered through the mad confusion trying to find a way to signal the retreat and get his men out before they were all murdered.

  "Bugler to me!"

  "Over there!" someone shouted, rushing past Hans and pointing back to the base of the bridge.

  Pushing back through the men, he found the bugler, lying spread-eagled on the ground, face buried in the mud.

  "Get out of here!" Hans roared. "Retreat!"

  Men looked at him, and released from the madness, they turned and started to run back out of the moat, sliding up the steep sides, the Cartha musketmen hitting them, sending them pitching back into the gully.

  There was a loud rattling behind him. Turning, he looked back in dumbfounded amazement. The drawbridge was crashing down!

  The bridge slammed across the moat, the impact buckling it in the middle.

  "Charge!"

  As if a dam had suddenly burst open, the men charged forward, screaming with battle rage. Bodies continued to rain down from the trestle. Hans ran back across the moat, scrambling up the side and shouldered his way into the flood. They crossed through the cut in the earthen walls, the Cartha above raining shot straight down, and then suddenly he was on the inside.

  "Twenty-second Suzdal, the next gate!" Hans shouted.

  The men, already drilled, continued straight forward, unmindful of the losses on their flanks. The standard of the 1st Kevan burst through the cut, the men behind the flag-bearer swinging out to either flank, broadening the breach.

  "Keep moving!" Hans roared, standing by the opening, pointing his carbine forward.

  "Sorry we were late."

  Hans turned to see O'Donald leaning against the side of the bastion, looking over at him with a wan smile.

  He drew closer and wrinkled his nose.

  "You smell ghastly," Hans shouted.

  O'Donald nodded slowly.

  "The Merki are already in the city. I've left a blocking force up by the barracks, with orders to hold the road open into the center of town."