Terrible Swift Sword

by William R. Forstchen

  "You're saying we're going to lose this one," Andrew replied, trying to hide the weakness in his voice.

  Hans looked over at him and smiled wearily.

  "This time be prepared for anything, son. Be prepared to lose here, at Wilderness, even Suzdal. Be prepared to go into the woods after everything is gone- All they need is to beat this army once, and we have no reserves. Oh, I know the Roum are drilling, but they've only had six months, and half of their divisions will be armed with smoothbores since we can't make the rifles fast enough."

  "You really believe this, don't you?" Andrew asked quietly.

  Hans, his features set hard, came closer to Andrew.

  "You've got the touch of the gods on your fori head," Hans said, "a killing god who's never known defeat. Perhaps the taste of defeat is occasionally good for a man—too much victory leaves him weak in certain ways.

  "Maybe it's how I trained you. I'm cautioning you that it won't be easy this time around. You'll have to think like you never have before, because if the army starts to unravel it will be you alone who cat pull it back together. The Rus are exhausted from four years of war—they won't have the same wild eyed fervor they did back the first time. I think the Merki will know that and play upon it. This one is going to be hell."

  "And you're telling me that you've lost hope."

  "I'm just far too tired of it all," Hans said, and as he did so Andrew for the first time truly realized that his friend was getting old. There was the slightest catch of frailty in the sergeant's voice. "You know, I thought that by now I'd have retired out. I was thinking of heading west, out to California, there was good land there—maybe marry and set up a business, a tavern or something."

  Andrew laughed softly.

  "You, a shopkeeper? You're a soldier, Hans; hell I imagine you've been a soldier since the beginning of history, and a hundred years from now you'll still be one. You're the eternal sergeant."

  "I'm only human, Andrew."

  "Somehow, those people back there"—and Andrew pointed behind him—"think differently, both of you and of me."

  "That's the problem, Andrew, I'm not."

  "And myself?" "You can't afford to be anything other than what you are; that's what I trained you for, that's what fate cast you to be."

  "Small comfort," Andrew whispered. "It's not my job to comfort you anymore, you're beyond that. Let any frailty show in what's coming, and it'll all unravel. God help us, we're going to need that from you."

  "And you, sergeant," Andrew whispered. Just who do I turn to now? he wondered, his insides feeling numb. Just where do I continue to find my strength?

  "I'll try," Hans whispered. "I'll put on the bravado. I'll continue to knock their heads together when it's needed, I'll fight to my last breathe, but this time, Andrew, I'm starting to feel the cold chill of their coming for us and .. ." His voice drifted away into silence as he turned and looked back out across the parapet.

  The thin shriek of a whistle, muffled by the storm, disturbed his thoughts, and he looked over at Hans. "That should be them." He looked back over at Hans. A bitter gust of wind came up, driving a cold thread of water down his back. It set him shivering. "Damn it, son, I came out here to drag you back in before they arrived! There's going to be hell to pay now."

  Hans reached over, and with a clumsily gruffness threw his arm around Andrew's shoulder, turning him away from the trenches and back into the driving storm. A vent of steam came swirling out of the mist, filled with the damp smell of wood smoke. Lik a ghostly shadow of a fire-breathing dragon stirring out of the past, the engine drifted into view, th bells ringing weakly against the voice of the storm. Just beyond the railroad siding Andrew could see the low silhouette of the blockhouse complex, whic: was serving as his field headquarters. It was an ill lighted and smoke-filled place, and he steered instead for the single passenger car behind the engine. Beyond this was a row of flatcars, burdened down with twelve-pound field pieces fresh from the mills. Six flatcars, laden with twelve guns, their caissons and limbers, a weeks' worth of casting for NapoIeons. Damn, there simply weren't enough guns.

  Gaining the car, he looked it over with affection. It was the presidential car, covered with the usual Rus wood carvings, its side emblazoned with a Gilbert Stewart-like representation of the signing of the Constitution of Rus. He could pick himself out i the group, standing beside Kal, both of them slightly larger than life-size. Larger than life-size, that's what they want to believe in.

  Gaining the steps to the car he climbed up, struggling to control the weakness in his legs. The door above him was flung open.

  "Hans, what the hell are you doing, letting him run around like this?"

  "Doctor Weiss, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, without Hans playing nursemaid."

  "Like hell," Emil sniffed angrily, coming out onto the platform to help him aboard. "You're as pale a ghost."

  Emil pressed his hand to Andrew's forehead, a clucking noisily he led Andrew into the car, while shooting a chilly stare of reproach at Hans.

  The stuffy warmth of the room was a shock, and he felt the perspiration beading on his forehead. His hand shaking, he started to fumble with the buttons of his old and worn army overcoat.

  "Let me give you a hand."

  Andrew looked down as Kal—President Kalencka--stepped up to him, the crown of his stovepipe hat barely at eye level.

  "One hand a piece for both of us; we should be able to manage this," Kal said cheerily, looking up into Andrew's eyes.

  "I've got a packet of letters from Kathleen, the last one pressed into my hand not four hours ago," Kal said, as he dextrously worked the buttons loose, while Hans helped Andrew slide the rain-sodden wool jacket off.

  Andrew looked around bleakly, and nodded his greeting to the group. Overhead, scurrying across the roof of the car, he heard the footsteps of the telegrapher, hooking into the line, followed seconds later by the rattle-tap of the telegraph key in the small office in the forward part of the car, tapping out the connect signal, reestablishing communications for this small group, the architects of human resistance against the unmeasurable might of the Hordes.

  "You've lost weight, Andrew."

  Well, you certainly haven't put much back on yourself, you thick-headed Irishman," Andrew replied, forcing a smile.

  Pat O'Donald came up, grasping Andrew's hand. They both looked at each other appraisingly. Pat's recovery from the stomach wound had taken far longer than expected, a process not helped by his sneaking out whenever possible to violate Emil's injunction against vodka. There was a standing order to every tavern keeper in Suzdal to refuse service, an order that had resulted in at least one bar's being broken up by an explosion of Pat's less-than pleasant temper when denied strong drink.

  "You had us worried, me bucko," Pat said, helping Andrew over to the conference table in the forward end of the car. "That damn doctor"—he looked over at Emil—"wouldn't allow a one of us to come see you."

  "Quarantine serves two purposes," Emil replied defensively, "to keep the disease from spreading, and to protect the patient from fumble-fingered visitors pawing at him and breathing their drink-laden breath in his presence."

  Pat mumbled a good-natured curse in Emil's direction and went around the table to settle back into his seat.

  Andrew looked around at the rest of the smiling group.

  "John, how's the family?"

  "Well sir, first baby on the way."

  John Mina said the words matter-of-factly, the way he always did when talking of anything beyond his work as Secretary of Commerce and Industry, the logistical genius behind the organization of an industrial state to support a modern army.

  "Dimitri, how are things in Roum?"

  The old soldier, chief of staff to Vincent Haw thorne's Army of the Roum Alliance, came stiffly to attention even as Andrew motioned for him to relax.

  "As well as can be expected, sir," he replied, hill voice a little too loud.

  Pat chuckled and looked ove
r at the gray-haired Rus, who had volunteered as a private in Hawthorne's original company and had risen alongside the young Quaker to prominence.

  "You're sounding like an artillery man, Dimitri— a bit deaf and loud-voiced."

  Dimitri smiled and said nothing. Beside Dimitri was Julius of the Graca, a former slave of Marcus's household and now Consul of the Plebian Council. Andrew smiled at the man, who looked around a bit self-consciously. It was good politics of Marcus to send this man as a liaison. Far too much needed to be done in Roum to spare either him or Vincent, and the sight of a former slave representing Roum was heartening. The bicameral government of Roum--a senate for the patricians and a house for the plebs—was less than satisfying to the radical republican elements of Roum and Rus, but Vincent's plan, Andrew realized, was the best one for a quick transition to wartime emergency status while setting the groundwork for what would come later—if they ever pulled through this. Vincent had argued that the economic revolution of industrialism would soon render the patrician class all but obsolete, in much the same way that the House of Lords had atrophied in England. Though Julius was still a complete novice, lacking the far more cunning skill of Kal, he would learn soon enough. But for the duration of the present military emergency it was obvious that Kal and Marcus would have near dictatorial powers, with Andrew acknowledged as being above them in all things military.

  He had noticed a curious thing that his men had created. He had always refused to promote himself, feeling it to be a foolish bit of vainglory, while Hans, Pat, Vincent, and more than forty others had been elevated to brigadier general or above by his orders. Yet he was still a colonel. But of late they had worked around that behind his back. There were lieutenant colonels to be sure, but, if promoted to regiment command, Hans kept the man's rank the same until he moved up to brigade command and earned his first star as a brigadier. There was but one colonel now in all of Valennia. So the title of colonel, like it or not, had been changed to the highest rank.

  Andrew looked over at Bullfinch, sporting an eye patch like a pirate of old. The boy had recovered completely from his terrible wounding in the battle of Saint Gregory, as the great encounter between the two fleets was now known, referring to the local name for the point off of which the two fleets had clashed. He had to admit that, horrible though the wound was, it had made the boyish lieutenant into an almost rakish-looking character, who had his hands more than full with the Rus girls who seemed to be forever following the young admiral of the fleet. We damn near all seem to have earned a wound or two in our profession, Andrew thought dryly.

  Next to him was father Casmar, prelate and supreme court justice, wrapped in simple black robe without adornment and nodding a smile.

  "Your health is improving?"

  "Thank you, father, I'm feeling better."

  "When word came of your illness," Kal saw approvingly, "Father offered a high mass everyday for your recovery."

  "Your prayers carried their strength to me." Andrew replied openly.

  "To be honest it was a prayer for all of us, for without you, my dear friend, we would truly be lost"

  Andrew did not reply, unable as always to say any thing in response to such a statement.

  In the far corner of the room Andrew saw Chuck Ferguson, with Jack Petracci by his side. The young engineer, the driving force behind so many of the technological innovations, was as bright-eyed asalways, as if ready to spring yet more miracles upon them. He thought back to young Chuck as he had been in the early days of the war, the old war with the Army of the Potomac. He had felt the man to be the least likely of good soldiers. More often than not he was on sick call, recovering from yet another bout with one of the myriad of camp illnesses. When not in the hospital he had struggled along on the march, and by the end of the day, more often than not, sergeant Barry or one of the others was carrying his musket. And yet he had doggedly refused to quit. More than once Andrew had offered him a place in the rear with a quartermaster unit, and Chuck had always replied indignantly that he would do his part. Thank God he had stayed and survived, Andrew thought, as he smiled at the soldier who, since coming to this world, had not fired a shot in anger but had done more than perhaps all of them put together to save them from the feasting pits of the enemy.

  Lastly there was Hamilcar, who seemed almost to be standing in the shadows. Kal and Hans had objected loudly to his being present, but Andrew had insisted. Only seven months ago this man had been an enemy who had come close to defeating them. And yet now he might be one of the keys to winning. Nearly forty thousand Cartha had been relocated to Suzdal, settling down along the coast on the frontier between the Republic and Roum. Their raids back to their homeland, to rescue their people, were a constant harassment of the enemy and a valuable source of information. He wanted Hamilcar to fully realize that his people were being accepted into the alliance, that technically Cartha was now considered an allied city under enemy occupation. Of course if Marcus had come it would have been impossible, so deep was the enmity between Roumand her former enemy. Though Hamilcar's hatred of the Merki was now evident, Andrew knew for certain that the man's grasp of Rus was rudimentary at best, and he would not be around after this initial session, when maps and other secret information were laid out on the table.

  "Gentlemen, we've got a long couple of days ahead of us," Andrew said quietly, "so let's get started.

  He nodded appreciatively to the young steward who came out of the tiny galley next to the telegraph office, bearing a trayload of heavy earthenware mugs, filled with the traditional Rus brew of dark fragrant tea. The steward looked over at Emil, who gave an approving nod, before setting a mug down before Andrew.

  "Off that damn broth, at last," Andrew said with a sigh.

  "Just be careful," Emil replied. "Not too much. And be sure to eat something with it."

  Andrew felt no need to argue with the doctor, as a second steward deposited a wooden tray of dark bread, liberally spread with a thick coating of fresh cheese. It was a rare treat for the Rus, since the first war had killed off most of their livestock, which after three years were just starting to get their numbers back up. Kal always made it a point of spreading a table that was no better than what the common working families of Rus enjoyed, and more than once Andrew had found nothing more than bread and butter that bordered on being rancid on his plate.

  "It keeps us from becoming boyars," Kal would remind them. It was also damn good politics, Andrew realized as well.

  Andrew wrapped his hand around the mug, letting the warmth seep in, and, raising it to his lips took a sip, a smile of contentment crossing his features.

  It was the first tea he had tasted in nearly a month. This had been his second bout with typhoid, and this time he had half believed it was going to kill him.

  He took another long sip, the tea jarring his senses awake. Setting the mug down, he looked around the table.

  "John, why don't you start with an overview of things."

  John Mina pulled open a folder and looked up at the group. The papers in his hand were never really neccessary, for the facts and figures danced through his mind without ceasing.

  "Production is slowing somewhat. It's what we talked about before. Morale is down. It's been nearly three years nonstop, and two major wars with a third on the way. Our illness rate was up, for starters."

  "To be expected in the winter," Emil said almost defensively, "and still a whole hell of a lot less than if we hadn't put in clean water and sewers."

  "No one's doubting your efforts, doctor," Kal said gently. "We couldn't have accomplished what we have without your work."

  "I was just pointing out a fact," John replied. "Nothing more, doctor."

  Emil said nothing, but Andrew could see that his old friend somehow took disease as a personal affront.

  "For artillery we have three hundred and ten light four-pound guns, a hundred and twenty twelve-pound Napoleons, and twelve guns of the new ten-pound Parrott-rifled pieces, firing percussion shells.
"

  "For the navy and coast defense we've got forty-two of the seventy-five-pound carronades, twenty long seventy-five-pounders, the captured pieces from Cromwell's fleet, and fifty of the swivelmounted four-pounders for the galleys.

  "We've mounted sixty of the four-pounders and a dozen Napoleons on carriages with high elevation to use against the balloons; in a pinch we could remount them for ground work.

  "We're turning out just under two hundred Springfield-type rifles a day, and another two hundred smoothbores of the old flintlock variety on the old assembly line in Rus. The Roum works are just starting up a couple dozen smoothbores a day, and two four-pounders a week. That should really pick up in the next month."

  "Totals?"

  "Just under twenty thousand percussion rifles firing our old .58-caliber minie balls, another forty thousand flintlocks converted to .69-caliber minie ball rifles, and thirty thousand flintlock smoothbores. If we hadn't lost nearly eight thousand guns in the naval battles we'd be in a lot better shape."

  "It's not bad," Andrew said. "Enough for sixteen divisions, five and a third corps, along with garrison troops and home guard militia."

  "Still, that will only leave us ten divisions for this front," Andrew replied. "We need to keep a full corp of three divisions stationed in Roum, in case they hit from that direction, and a corp in reserve in Suzdal to move either east or west. That's sixty thousand men for a hundred miles of front. They'll still outnumber us nearly six to one out here."

  "Another month will give us another corp," John replied.

  "Barely trained," Hans interjected, and he looked over at Dimitri.

  "We have nearly forty thousand men in training." Dimitri said. "Not more than ten thousand have weapons at the moment—the field batteries are practicing with logs mounted on wagons. It'll be at least two months before the 7th Corps can be sent up."

  "They won't give us the time—we heard the reports from Hamilcar." Andrew said, nodding over to the Cartha commander, who, though he had learned some Rus, turned inquisitively to his translator at the mention of his name.