Terrible Swift Sword

by William R. Forstchen

  "Twenty-third Roum," Dimitri said quietly, turning in his saddle to look at the train, "moving up to join 4th Corps reserve at Suzdal."

  Vincent nodded absently. Five hundred good troops for the crucible of the Potomac front.

  Vincent cursed silently, looking over at Dimitri, as if somehow the old Rus general were to blame.

  "Just how the hell am I to form up two new corps, when the Colonel keeps bleeding off trained regiments as fast as I can turn them out?"

  There had been a flurry of angry telegrams over the detachment of the 23rd and 25th to augment a full division of Roum troops at the front.

  "You've got sixty-two other regiments in training," Dimitri reminded him, "plus the other thirty regiments of Marcus's corps."

  "And less than a third of mine have weapons, and Marcus's are still ten percent under."

  He shook his head, watching the train straining under its burden.

  "At least the Roum have manpower to give; we're at the bottom of the barrel otherwise."

  Thank God for the Roum, Vincent thought, as the train slowly gained headway up the long slope.

  The manpower reserves they'd offered were finally starting to kick in. By midsummer, if we survive that long, he mused, the Roum army will outnumber the Rus, and then keep right on growing. His own 6th and 7th Corps would field twelve brigades in six divisions. Thirty-two thousand men, just under the total strength of the original Rus army that had met the Tugars.

  The current Rus army fielded nearly a hundred and twenty regiments, with an average strength of five hundred, and over fifty batteries of artillery.

  Every available man from sixteen to forty-five who didn't have a skill needed in industry was under arms at the front. Two of the four divisions in Suzdal were manning the factories, with a fifth detached division working on the rail lines or in the other factories. The Roum troops were forming up another division for the 4th corps, so it would have at least a standard combat size of three field divisions with a total of thirty regiments. All those not fit to serve were in the fields and factories, ready to be called as militia. It was as bad as the Confederacy— there simply wasn't anyone left. Without the Roum, the war would already be lost.

  Andrew had already discussed with him the long-term political implications of that, if indeed there was a future. With the Roums having a three-to-one population advantage, the alliance had to be kept firmly intact, otherwise there could come a day when the forces of Roum might again pick up the habits of their distant ancestors and march out on the road of conquest.

  But for right now the quality of Roum troops was marginal compared to the Rus who had fought through two wars, and had experience over four years of tutelage with the men of the 35th and 44th. Those who had survived were veterans.

  If anything, it was Roum resources, he felt, that would decide the survival of the Republic even more than the men. Back beyond the tracks, out in the river Tiber, the new harbor area was swarming with activity. A coastal lighter had just tied in, laden down with several hundred tons of refined sulphur, all of it destined for the powder mill hidden above Hispa-nia or for the balloon works, for conversion into the sulfuric acid which, when combined with zinc, would create hydrogen gas.

  Several galleys were out in the river, practicing rapid turns. In the one brief sea war fought since their arrival, galleys had been proven to be far too vulnerable to a good short-range musket volley, but they still served their purpose of harrying the Cartha coast, gathering intelligence, and picking up the thousands of refugees.

  Other ships were tied in, bearing foodstuffs, hogs and cattle still on the hoof, cordage from the vast hemp fields that rose up out on the far eastern inarches, silk for the balloons taken from every noble's wardrobe, and traded for even into the southeastward lands of Khata, soon to be overrun by the Bantag.

  Coal had been discovered below Capra to the south, and dirty colliers moved the precious rock up the coast, where along the east bank of the river a coking plant was converting the stone for use in the new blast furnace.

  Beyond the furnace was the copper and wire-works, spinning out the desperately needed strands to fill the insatiable need for yet more telegraph lines and the millions of percussion caps required for muskets and shells. Next to that stood a tanning yard for accoutrements: belts, cartridge boxes, shoes, saddles, harnesses, right down to the patches that held the flints for the old muskets still in circulation. In Hispania, back up the line, mercury was being processed for the fuses and percussion caps, and a reserve rail maintenance shed had gone up, complete with all the tools required for the repair and overhaul of locomotives and rolling stock. In Cilcia, the fine sands along the beaches had been found to be superb for the making of field glasses, and next to that a bottle-making plant had quickly risen. The containers would be filled with wine from the presses, and preserved fruits and condensed milk to be used for the sick and wounded.

  Inland, at Brindisia and Caprium, the oil wells were turning out several barrels of refined coal oil a day to power the airships, plus other products such as lubricant for the locomotives and the dangerously explosive benzene.

  The locomotive drifted past, following the path laid out along the Appia Way, climbing slowly up over the last series of hills and then gaining speed as it clicked its way northwestward toward Hispania, then on to the Republic of Rus beyond.

  Vincent looked at the forlorn souls sitting in the boxcars and hunched down atop supplies lashed to the flatcars. They looked smart enough, uniformed in white calf-length trousers and hobnailed sandals, with leather thongs crosshatching up to the knee. Their tunics, patterned on the Union Army sack coat, were dyed a dark tan—almost like Confederate butternut, Vincent thought—and their felt hats were broadbrimmed and the same color as the tunics. Some of the officers still sported the uniform of the old legion that had long since been disbanded, their burnished breastplates and crested helmets standing out as a strange incongruity for a modern army. Some of the men were wearing packs, but the majority were burdened down with the ubiquitous horse-collar blanket roll slung over the left shoulder, adding to their appearance as rebel troops. The regiment was one of the few Roum units armed with Springfield rifles, a fact which made him curse inwardly. It'd been hell getting the best weapons, and now they were being pulled out of his hands.

  Unlike the Rus, they would not be fighting on their home soil, with an enemy at the gate. These men were traveling to a distant land over six hundred miles away. Though all the Roum knew what would happen to them if Rus should fall, still he wondered how well these men would fight when the time came and the first Merki charge came screaming in.

  A memory flashed into his head for a moment: He was again holding the pass while the rest of the army retreated, a wall of Tugars on foot advancing at the run, chanting their deep guttural cries, the nargas shrieking, drums rolling, human skull and horse-tail standards held high. Blades flashing in the mist and smoke, the thunder of their advance like an approaching storm.

  He looked back at a line of recruits, practicing to form into regimental square, and sergeants, some of them Roum but most of them Rus, bellowing out commands. The sun was out, breaking through the spring morning mist—a fine gentle day, in such contrast to the dark thoughts that clouded his soul.

  They looked good enough, for men who had been at it for several months. How would they react when death was racing down at two hundred yards a minute?

  "Did we ever look like that?" Dimitri asked, as if reading Vincent's thoughts.

  Dimitri smiled softly. "Most of us couldn't tell our left from our right back when the old 5th was first formed. So you tied hay to one foot, and straw to the other. Hayfoot, strawfoot, that's how you drilled us."

  "It's hard to remember now," Vincent said quietly.

  "And your own Yankees, did they ever look like that?" Dimitri said, looking over at Vincent like a father who, all so quietly, was seeking to reassure a nervous son.

  Vincent let a thin smile crack his fea
tures. God, how long ago had it been? The time before was actually starting to blur a bit. Yes, he must have looked like that once, a scared child, unsteady with amusket, not even sure if he could shoot, let alone stab someone.

  The first killing? Novrod, the guard on the wall when he escaped. Funny, they were allies now, part of the same Republic.

  The riot in the square was next, then the wars and blowing the dam. Fifty thousand had he killed with that? Maybe seventy or eighty. The morning after you could walk across the Neiper on Tugar corpses, the river was so thickly choked. The stench of death had hung in the air for weeks, and the banks of the river were still littered with skeletons.

  "No, Dimitri," he whispered. "I can't remember ever looking like that."

  "But you were. Perhaps even the Colonel himself looked like that once, a scared recruit on the point of tears."

  Hard to imagine, Keane a new recruit, a lieutenant. The 35th once a mob of frightened, excited boys going to see the elephant for the first time, many of them wetting their pants when the first bullet whistled past.

  "They'll learn when the time comes. The same way you did, the same way we did."

  "Let's hope so, Dimitri; if they don't it'll be all our asses in the fire. The rebs at least took prisoners. One mistake with the Merki, and all of us are dead— all of us____"

  His voice trailed off, a cold, distant look in his eyes. He nudged his mount forward, passing the regiment in square, snapping off salutes to the waiting officers, who came to rigid attention at his passing. Dimitri and the rest of his staff trotted behind him. Riding down the length of the field, he drew up before the brigade practicing large-unit tactics for the first time. Some of the faces were familiar. There was even an old hand from the 35th, a brigade commander now. Behind him fluttered a triangular flag, red with a white cross, for the 1st Brigade, of the 2nd Division.

  It was a touch from the old Army of the Potomac, corps badges. The Greek cross for the new-formed 6th, and he looked over his shoulder at his own guidon-bearer proudly holding the square gold cross flag on a dark blue field, marking the presence of the corps commander.

  Strange that it would be the cross for my unit, he thought, and he had a flashing memory of the dead Merki hanging in the forum. But the men of the 35th, remembering the old ways, had insisted upon their new army's carrying the same emblems of old.

  "Strayter, good to see you."

  Roger Strayter gave a friendly salute in reply. There had been a little getting use to for Roger. He had been an old hand in the 35th, having served with the regiment since Antietam, a deep furrow in his cheek a souvenir from Fredericksburg. They had known each other vaguely back in Vassalboro, Maine, and Roger had been something of a village roustabout, ready for a good prank. He doubted if Roger even remembered once chasing him down the street, threatening to thrash the "little Quaker boy." He wasn't going to remind him.

  Roger had proven his mettle as a regimental commander and was now doing it again as a brigadier, but Vincent could sense the faintest touch of resentment in this towering six-foot giant with broad shoulders taking orders from a diminutive warrior who barely weighed in at a hundred and twenty.

  "First day of brigade drill, isn't it?" Vincent asked.

  Roger nodded, looking slightly nervous.

  "Well, don't let me stop you then."

  Roger turned away to face his regimental officers.

  "Again! And god damn it, Alexi, your boys have got the furthest to run, so keep them in line!"

  The men saluted and raced back to their command.

  Vincent looked appraisingly at the long line. Three regiments were to the front in line, stretching across nearly four hundred yards, behind them two more regiments in column. The sight gave him a sharp thrill—at least the three regiments in front had muskets, which glistened in the morning sun. A wall of steel and flesh.

  "Brigade!" the command echoed down the line. "By the right in line"—he paused for a second—"wheel!"

  The man farthest to the right stayed anchored, the men to the far left breaking into a double-time run. Like a vast door on a hinge the line started to turn, swinging across an arc nearly a quarter of a mile across. The pivot continued and Vincent turned his horse about, riding in front and looking over his shoulder. He watched with a cold, appraising eye.

  A gap started to open between the 2nd and 3rd regiments, curses echoing across the field as staff officers raced about, trying to swing the hole closed. The gap widened, with the men at the edge of it trailing behind. The line started to curve and ripple like a taut string going slack. Over the commands echoed the thunder of feet, the rattling of accoutrements, the hoarse cries of officers. The 3rd Regiment started to lose all cohesion, turning into an inverted V. Vincent looked over at Roger, who was scarlet with anger. The two regiments to the rear, in column of company front, at least held together, the deep blocks turning sharply.

  At last the wheel was complete, stragglers were filtering back into the ranks, and all eyes were on Vincent, as if waiting for judgment.

  With Roger in tow he cantered over to the 3rd

  Regiment, where a Roum commander waited for the explosion.

  "It could be better," Vincent said, his voice carrying over the line.

  The commander said nothing.

  "A damn sight better!" Vincent snapped. "This is a goddamned parade field, and you can't even hold your regiment together! If a Merki charge should swing into the army's flank, god help us if you're on the end of the line and we're forced to refuse our flank. It won't be a parade ground, it'll be dust, smoke, and men dying, and you're going to have to do it perfectly or we're all dead. You bastards won't last five minutes in a fight."

  Angrily he jerked his horse around and rode off, Dimitri by his side. He rode in silence for some minutes and then finally looked at Dimitri.

  "Well go on, say it."

  "What should I say?"

  "That I've never lost my temper before, that I've always won through quiet explanation and example—I know what you're thinking."

  "You said it yourself, my general."

  "I want them to be ready to kill Merki, to kill all those damned bastards."

  He fell silent, cursing inwardly. Kill them all, that's what I want.

  "I can't stand the thought of those men fumbling, losing, making a mistake that could cost us."

  "Shouting at them is one way of doing it," Dimitri replied. "But I do remember, when you were my captain, you led far better the other way."

  Vincent wheeled in his saddle. He knew the old man was right. Something was giving way inside— he had somehow lost the gentleness that had once been there in such abundance. He had lost it pumping rounds into a tortured figure on a cross, and loving the sense of power it gave him. God help me, he thought, will I ever get it back?

  Or is there even a God to hear me?

  He said nothing, riding on in silence with Dimitri lost in thought riding by his side.

  Barely acknowledging the salutes of the various units that he rode past, he seemed to be floating in another world, a dark world of fire and war, his crisp uniform a mantle for this new embodiment of Mars.

  From out of the west gate of the city a cavalcade of horsemen emerged, riding hard. In the van Dimitri immediately recognized Marcus. The standard of the patrician consul, an eagle on a field of purple, fluttered behind him.

  Vincent reined in his mount, a twitch of excitement trembling across his cheek—something that Dimitri had noticed was becoming increasingly common.

  Marcus, his features grim, pulled up beside Vincent.

  "It's started—ten umens reported so far, moving towards the center of the Potomac front."

  "God damn," Vincent mumbled, edging his horse around to look back to where the brigade was again practicing a wheel.

  "Another three months before we're ready, and I'm stuck out here."

  "The front to the south of us?" Vincent asked quietly.

  "Still the same, nothing."

 
Vincent nodded almost imperceptibly.

  "They'll come straight on. They've got those damn airships and we don't. They'll know what we're up to, and we won't know a goddamn thing.

  "Damn them!" He slapped his thigh with a balled fist.

  "Anything else?"

  Marcus shook his head.

  "We stay here, get ready, and wait as planned."

  Vincent said nothing, but cursed inwardly. He had not wanted this assignment, but Andrew and Kal had forced it on him anyway. At least Tanya and the three children were safe here, six hundred miles from the front. No, he had not wanted this at all. Whatever was left of his soul had warned him against it, had counseled him to ask to be relieved of command, to work for his father-in-law at a desk job and contribute that way.

  But that counsel was barely listened to, and everyday he had stared at the body on the cross, the body he had so joyfully killed. Everyday now he rode across this drill field, shaping his corps. He was a major general in command, of the same rank as the men he had once read about in Harpers' Weekly: Hancock, Sedjwick, Pap Thomas of Chickamauga, little Phil Sheridan. He smiled inwardly, knowing that he had even taken on some of Sheridan's outward trappings. Gates' Weekly Illustrated had run a woodcut picture of him on its front page when his promotion had been announced, and he had taken a secret delight in the image, right down to the Sheridan-like beard. And he knew he had taken on something else as well: the unrelenting desire to unleash a killing machine against the Merki.