Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  The Bantag closed.

  Abe ducked, heard the hissing whistle of the blade slashing the air…and then the Bantag was gone, disappearing into the smoke, riding on.

  The ground started to rise. Grass gave way to rocky slope, and as he gained a few precious feet of altitude, the smoke seemed to miraculously part. He was above it, at the base of the butte. He reined in hard, turning, nearly losing his seat again as his mare’s back legs nearly collapsed.

  All around him was chaos. Troopers were coming up out of the boiling white ocean of smoke. Several were dismounting. Down in the confusion below he saw hundreds of men riding, most coming straight toward him, others veering off to the left and right. On both flanks a disciplined wall of riders were hemming them in, closing the ring. Rifle shots echoed, flashes of light in the swirling smoke.

  Another bullet zipped past, kicking up dust on the rocky slope behind him. He could see half a dozen Bantags less than a hundred yards off. One of them armed with a rifle had just, fired, aimed straight at him.

  The others had bows and were firing flaming bundles into the confusion.

  A bugler came up out of the smoke, hat gone, eyes wide with panic.

  Again the sense of detachment. Am I frightened? What the hell do I do?

  He stood up in his stirrups. “Major Agrippa!”

  Even as he shouted for his commanding officer, he realized the absurdity of the gesture. Wherever the damned fool was, screaming for him wasn’t going to help.

  “Bugler!”

  The man was kicking his mount, trying to urge him up the steep slope of the butte.

  “Damn you, bugler! Over here!”

  The bugler slowed, looking at him.

  “Over here, damn you!”

  He swung around, came up, and in a gesture that struck Abe as ridiculous he came to attention and saluted.

  “Blow recall! Blow it and keep blowing it!”

  The man looked at him as if he were speaking in an alien tongue. He wondered if he even understood English. He appeared to be Rus, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Recall!”

  There was a nod of recognition. The man spat, wiped his lips, and raised his instrument.

  At nearly the same instant Abe’s horse reared up again, this time shrieking in pain. It turned, trying to run in panic. He regained control, felt the limping walk and saw the fathers of an arrow, the shaft plunged deep into his mare’s chest, just inches from his right leg.

  The high clarion call of the bugle echoed, and Abe moved close to the man’s side. Standing in his stirrups, he pulled out the scimitar, which had been a gift of Jurak’s, and waved it back and forth over his head.

  More men were coming out of the smoke, looking around in confusion. Hearing the bugle call, they spotted an officer and started toward him.

  “Up the slope, men! Up the slope as far as you can ride, then dismount and set up a covering fire!”

  A sergeant major, obviously an old trooper, picked up the cry, riding back and forth along the rocky slope, repeating Abe’s command, urging individual men and small clumps of riders forward, driving them up the slope.

  The gatling crew came out of the smoke. The lead horse had its foreleg nearly shot off, blood spraying with every agonized step. The driver reined in, and the gun slewed around, nearly upending. It was obvious that there was no way in hell that it could go any farther. Abe rode down to them. “Unlimber that piece! Push it as far up the slope as possible.”

  He spotted a half a dozen troopers, following a lieutenant and moving in some semblance of order.

  “Lieutenant, have your men dismount. Get this gatling and ammunition boxes up the slope!”

  Without waiting for a reply he turned away. Riderless horses came out of the smoke. A flurry of shots erupted to his right, and he saw a score of mounted Bantags were coming up around the flank of the Butte, having circled round.

  God, if they are on the crest above, we’re dead.

  The sergeant major, who had been detailing off men looked up and saw the threat. Abe rode toward him.

  “You better get some men on top, sir!” he shouted. “I’ll feed them up to you as they come in!”

  Abe nodded, and the sergeant screamed for the knot of troopers gathering around him to follow the lieutenant.

  Abe started up the rocky slope, feeling a moment of anguish over the labored gasps of his dying mount, which seemed to somehow sense what still needed to be done before giving up.

  He zigzagged up the rocky incline, passing several dozen men deploying on a narrow plateau. Several of them were firing and reloading, shiny brass cartridge casings scattered around them.

  He looked back. A score or more troopers were following him up the slope.

  He was momentarily aware, yet again, that bullets were smacking into the rocky ground, kicking up plumes of dust, exploding shards of rock. An arrow whistled past, striking sparks as it hit a boulder.

  He caught a glimpse of an adder, coiled up, hideous looking, head raised, mouth opened and ready to strike. An hour ago, the sight would have filled him with terror. He ignored it, riding within half a dozen feet of it, then pushed on.

  The slope seemed nearly vertical, and a narrow trail, a beaten path left by mountain goats, was the only way up. He felt naked, exposed as he looked down to his left.

  The entire panorama of the madness was laid out below. The fire was sweeping past either side of the butte. The ground back across nearly two miles was blackened, hot spots still smoking. Dozens of fire-charred bodies littered the plain, a ghastly sight. Dying horses, flesh smoking, staggered about, shrieking in agony. Curled-up bodies of dead troopers lay in the smoking ashes. A rippling explosion, sounding like a string of Victory Day firecrackers, detonated, followed by a dull whooshing explosion. One of the gatling limbers was burning. An ammunition wagon was upended nearby, its four horses still trapped in their traces, down on the ground, kicking and thrashing.

  The Bantags to either flank had drawn back to let the fire pass, but were now circling back in. Down at the very base of the butte a wild melee was being fought, the most daring of the attacking host having pressed right into the middle of the smoky confusion. Abe could see the flashes of scimitars rising and falling.

  The trail ahead switched back yet again, and directly above he saw the crest. His poor mount, gasping for breath, blood frothing, struggled the last few feet.

  He heard the click of a rifle being cocked, and looked straight up into the muzzle of a gun.

  “By all my ancestors,” Togo gasped, “get up here, damn it!” He lowered his weapon and disappeared. Seconds later Abe heard the gun go off.

  He pushed the last few feet, came over the crest, and saw Togo leaning over the other side of the butte, which at its crest was less than thirty yards across.

  “They’re coming up from behind!” Togo shouted, even as he levered in a fresh round, leaned over, and fired again.

  Abe swung off his mount. Uncasing his carbine, he grabbed a bandolier of ammunition secured behind the saddle.

  The next trooper in line came up behind him, and before he was even dismounted he had his revolver out, leveled it, and fired, dropping a Bantag who was trying to ride up onto the crest.

  Abe looked back down the trail. More than a dozen men were still following.

  “Come on!” he screamed.

  He loaded his weapon, turned, and started toward Togo. The sergeant screamed something incoherent in Japanese. Abe wanted to ask Togo how the hell he had gotten up to the top of the butte ahead of everyone else, but kept silent.

  He gained the edge on the other side and looked down. Several hundred Bantag had circled in behind the butte, which acted like a wall, blocking the fire that was sweeping along with the wind to either flank. Some of the Bantag were trying to ride up, but their horses were simply too big and cumbersome to mount the slope; that was the only thing that had saved the troopers on top from already being overrun.

  Most of them were dismounting, startin
g up through the rocky ground, climbing hand over hand.

  Togo fired again, and Abe clearly saw the bullet smash into the upraised forehead of his target, blood exploding, Togo grunting with delight.

  Abe lowered his weapon, took aim, and then, amazingly, he found he simply could not squeeze the trigger. He had his target clearly in sight, a young one, frame not yet filled out, bow slung over his shoulder, face down as he climbed, not even aware that death was closing in.

  “Lieutenant?”

  He gladly turned away, looking back. A corporal had gained the crest. “Where the hell do you want us?”

  “Over here. Drive those riders back.” He turned away from the crest. “Sergeant Togo, deploy the men out on this line as I feed them in!”

  He ran back to the other side. For a second he felt a wave of horror.

  Two hundred feet below was pure chaos, no sense of command. The smoke from the fire around the base of the hill was beginning to clear, replaced by yellow-gray puffs from carbine fire.

  Intermingled, swarming in around them, were scores, a hundred or more Bantags, most using scimitars, some armed with bows, a few carrying old bolt-action rifles from the war.

  A war, he thought. Damn it, this is war.

  Several dozen troopers broke from the flank of the butte, trying to ride around it to the west, instinctively heading back the way they had come. From around that side a score of Bantag charged. In seconds it was over, blades flashing, bodies tumbling, all the troopers dead.

  Amazingly, the bugler he had ordered to blow the recall was still at it. But no one else was left out on the burnt plain except for the dead and dying.

  As more troopers rode up the slope, the sergeant below grabbed men, pushing them up.

  “Who’s in command here?”

  It was Agrippa, gaining the crest on foot, face puffy and scorched, breathing hard, eyes dilated.

  For a second Abe looked around, caught off guard, waiting for someone else to answer. Then he looked back. “I am.”

  “I’ll take over, then. Get these men mounted and ready to follow me. I’ve lost my mount, so find one for me as well.”

  The bugle below fell silent. He looked back over. The man was falling out of his saddle, a Bantag rider withdrawing his scimitar from the trooper’s back.

  “Lieutenant, do you hear me, mount up.”

  “Where did you say we’re going, sir?”

  “We’ll go down the other side and break through. Now follow orders!

  The sergeant major down below was heading up the slope, pushing the last of the survivors before him.

  “Did you hear me, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir, I heard you.”

  “Then do it.”

  Abe stared at him. “Why?”

  “What did you say, Lieutenant?”

  “Why, sir? What the hell are you going to do once we get down there?” He pointed down at the prairie. Clusters of Bantags were riding over the smoldering ground they had just retreated across, casually dispatching the last of the wounded, while to the flanks and rear a circle of skirmishers were closing the net in tight. A knot of troopers had gained a small ravine, but were quickly being annihilated as scores of Bantags swarmed in on them, heedless of loss.

  “We’re going to get the hell out of here, Lieutenant. We’ll go down that slope.” He pointed to the west.

  “Sir, there’s hundreds of Bantags down there, and we don’t have more than sixty up here.” As he spoke he indicated the skirmish line deploying along the rim of the butte. One of the men was already dead, head blow off by a well-aimed shot, but the rest were pouring out a steady rate of fire.

  A corporal, every inch the professional, was pacing the line, crouched low, offering encouragement, pointing out targets, cautioning the men to make every shot count. He paused in his work, looking straight at Abe. His gaze spoke volumes. The corporal had heard every word. He simply shook his head, nodded down to the plain below, then drew a finger across his throat.

  Abe took a deep breath, turned, and faced the major. “May I suggest, sir, that we stay here. Most of the battalion is dead, sir. We go down there, and we won’t get half a mile before they finish us off.”

  “What? What the hell did you just say. Lieutenant?”

  “With all due respect, sir. We are on the high ground. Up here we can secure the flanks for the men still down below. Ride back down and we’re all dead, and the gatling position down on the east slope will be wiped out as well.”

  “We’re dead if we stay here,” Agrippa cried and pointed back to the east.

  The distant riverbank that they had been riding toward was swarming with hundreds of Bantags.

  “They’re coming!” Agrippa cried, shifting his gaze to the troopers, who had slowed in their firing and were watching the confrontation. “Mount up and let’s get moving before it’s too late.”

  “They’ll slaughter us if we go off this hill.”

  “Mount, damn you, get mounted!”

  Abe looked back down at the base of the slope. Not a single guidon was in sight. Out on the plain he saw a Bantag galloping off, triumphantly holding the yellow flag with the crossed sabers of the battalion, flame-scorched, waving it over his head as he raced toward the ford.

  “Mount, Lieutenant, and that is a direct order. I don’t give a good damn who your father is. Now get these men moving!”

  Abe turned back. “No, sir.”

  “What?”

  “No, sir, and I don’t have time for this. We’re staying here. This is the only defensible ground we have. The Bantag didn’t want this fight. They aren’t going to stay. We just have to hang on!”

  “You are relieved, Lieutenant, and by God, I’ll have you court-martialed for direct disobedience of my commands.”

  “Go ahead,” Abe shouted, “do whatever you damn well please, but these men stay here! Your mad charge got them into this mess. I’ll not see the rest of them slaughtered because you panicked.”

  Several of the men on the firing line, including the corporal, were looking at them.

  Abe stepped closer, trying to regain control of his emotions. “Listen, Major. We can hold this position. Now pull yourself together and help me to lead these men.”

  “Be damned. Now mount up.”

  Before he fully realized what he was doing, Abe swung his carbine around and pointed it at the major.

  “Sir, if I hear one more word from you, I will blow your damn head off. You got us into this mess with that damn stupid ride straight into an ambush that my scout warned you about. Now stay exactly where you are and shut the hell up.”

  In spite of the roar of battle Abe felt as if he were trapped in a world of silence. He could see the corporal standing upright, staring at them. Togo, with a half dozen men gathered around him, was directing fire down the north slope, securing the flank, not aware of what was going on behind.

  Agrippa started to reach for his revolver.

  “Don’t, sir. I am not playing a game. Touch that weapon, and you are dead.”

  Agrippa looked at him, mouth gaping open like a fish that had been speared and dropped into the bottom of a boat. His eyes darted back and forth, settling at last on the corporal.

  “Over here,” he gasped, and the corporal reluctantly approached.

  “Remove that weapon from this man and place him under arrest,” Agrippa hissed.

  The corporal looked back and forth between the two, and then his gaze shifted beyond them.

  “Goddamn, what the hell are you people doing?”

  It was the sergeant major Abe had grabbed at the bottom of the hill, pushing a dozen men on foot in front of him. Crouching low until clear of the edge of the butte, he stood up, slowly moving toward the two officers.

  “Sergeant major, arrest this man,” Agrippa hissed.

  The sergeant hesitated.

  “Sergeant, we are staying on this hill,” Abe announced. “Major Agrippa wants us to charge back down and make a break to the west. It will m
ean abandoning our comrades still down below. I have tried to reason with him, and he refused. So either he backs down now, or I shoot him.”

  The sergeant major cautiously approached the two, the entire group breaking their tableaulike poses when a high arcing arrow hissed down, striking the ground between them, and then went skidding off.

  The staccato roar of the gatling ignited, and Abe shifted his gaze for a second to the sergeant.

  “Deployed on the plateau just below us,” he announced. “We managed to get a couple of thousand rounds up with it. The men are digging in.”

  “Sergeant! Get the men mounted.”

  The sergeant, moving with steady purpose, stepped between Agrippa and Abe and faced the major. Taking the officer’s revolver out of its holster, he stuck it into his own belt.

  “Sir, you’re injured, sir. I think you need to lie down.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “I can see you’re badly burned, sir. Corporal, get something to drink for the major here.”

  “I’ll have all of you court-martialed,” Agrippa cried.

  “Sir, will you look over there,” the sergeant replied, speaking softly, as if sharing a few kind words with a friend.

  The major turned, looking to where the sergeant pointed.

  The revolver in the sergeant’s hand flashed upward. Agrippa fell, sprawling in the dust. The sergeant stood above him, holding the pistol by the barrel.

  “Damn,” he whispered, “I think a ball just grazed the major.”

  He looked back at Abe and wearily shook his head.

  “You were right, sir, but damn it, your ass and mine are in the fire once he wakes up.”

  Abe could not help but smile. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Look, sir. I think most all the other officers are dead. The damn bastards tore into anyone with a guidon following. I think we got about a hundred men all mixed up down there and up here, but by God if we keep our nerve, we can hold. They’re already pulling back.”

  Abe had been so preoccupied with Agrippa that he had forgotten about the battle raging around them. He looked back to the east. The Bantag along the riverbank were holding their position. He could see them moving about, clustering around a rider coming in bearing a guidon.