Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  Several sailors came out of an open gunport carrying buckets. They ran to the side of the ship, leaned over, filled the buckets, and passed them up to men standing atop the gundeck.

  “Grab hold, damn you!” Jack roared, and the men responded.

  Feyodor edged the throttle back up. The aero-steamer moved forward down the length of the ironclad, the sailors adding their muscle, pulling on the ropes, more grabbing hold. Jack edged the elevator forward, and the cab hovered above the iron grating of the gundeck. A sailor came up alongside and threw a bucket of water straight in at Jack, soaking him. Steam and smoke swirled around. Another bucket splashed along the bottom, and then another, putting the fire out.

  Sailors grabbed hold of the cab, steadying it, pulling it down to rest atop the ironclad. The ship’s captain stood alongside, as awestruck as his men.

  “Load us up quick!” Jack shouted, choking on the steam and smoke. “We’ve got two ships after us!”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “Dead.”

  The captain grabbed hold of the first can of kerosene and hoisted it up. Jack passed it back to Feyodor, who dropped it into one of the brackets to either side of his legs.

  Jack looked down and saw that most of the bottom of the basket was scorched black, and several holes had been burned clean through. He grabbed a bucket of water and poured it down to make sure the fire was out. A sailor pulled on the side of the basket and stood back, holding up a four-foot-long Merki arrow, a scorched bundle of straw tied to the head.

  Jack stood up to stretch, and one foot went through the bottom of the basket. He pulled it back up, steadying himself, suddenly realizing that he had a terrible need to relieve himself. He’d have to wait.

  “The message galley came up with this load of kerosene yesterday. I thought the captain was insane when he told me what you were going to do.”

  “Well, dammit, I wouldn’t have had to if your damn admiral hadn’t gone gallivanting off to the south.”

  “Admiral Bullfinch was doing his duty,” the captain shouted back defensively. “And you’re crazy if you think we could have cut ten miles inland to that place. We’d have been wiped out.”

  “Well, I lost a good ship doing it.”

  “I’m sorry,” the captain said. He pulled a flask out of his pocket, looked at it for a moment, and then, as if reaching a decision, passed it over. “Keep it.”

  Jack nodded his thanks.

  “Aerosteamers!”

  Down on the main deck a sailor was pointing to the north.

  “How far?”

  “A mile, maybe less.”

  “Hurry it up!” Jack shouted, grabbing a tin of kerosene from a waiting sailor and dropping it into his section of the cab. Reaching up, he pulled the exhaust vent closed; the load of fuel now firmly anchored the aerosteamer to the ironclad.

  “How many, Feyodor?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I’ve got two,” and he grabbed another one.

  “Twenty! Let’s go!”

  “Cast us off!”

  The captain stepped back from the cab.

  “Cast away all lines!”

  He came to attention and saluted.

  “Good luck to you.”

  ‘Goddammit,” Jack growled, forgetting to return the salute.

  Feyodor, without waiting to be told, pushed the throttle full forward, the propeller humming up to a blur, while Jack pulled the elevator stick back to his stomach as he sat back down.

  Yankee Clipper II started forward, the cab dragging across the deck.

  Reaching the end of the gundeck, the cab started to slip down the sloped side of the ship, and in a moment of blind panic Jack looked aft, expecting to see the propeller slam into the deck.

  The nose of the ship started to angle up, and the tip of the propeller nicked the deck, splinters howling, and then they were up, moving slow, their former buoyancy replaced now by a heavy sluggish action. They turned slowly over the water.

  “Throw that damn gun overboard.”

  “Like hell! We’re going to need it.”

  “If they’re above us, we’re dead. Throw the damn thing over.”

  Cursing, Feyodor grabbed the small one-inch cannon, pulled it up out of its mount, and tossed it into the sea. The ship rose up, responding, helped as well by the gathering heat inside the now tightly sealed hot-air bag.

  “Where are they?”

  “A shadow’s moving over the ironclad.”

  Jack looked back to see the sailors. Some were standing, pointing straight up, others scattering, pushing to get into the gunports. The captain stood alone, revolver drawn, pointing it straight up and firing.

  Swinging around to the east, putting the wind at their back, Yankee Clipper II raced off, two Merki ships above and only a hundred yards astern.

  Reining in hard, Tamuka Qar Qarth came to the top of the rise, a shout of exultation escaping him. Turning, he looked back to the line of warriors riding up behind him and pointed forward.

  “There they are!”

  At last, dammit, at last, the long chase finished.

  He leaped down from his mount, stretched, pulled the water bag from his saddle, and took a deep draft. Grabbing a small bucket clipped to his saddlebag, he poured the rest of the water into it and held the bucket up to his horse, which drank the water greedily.

  His standard-bearer rode up beside him, followed seconds later by the silent ones, the message riders, and Sarg. The old shaman was swaying from exhaustion.

  To the north he saw the long line of riders, stretching to the far horizon, coming up over the crest with a splendid precision. To the south, on the other side of the iron rail tracks, the view was the same. He had wanted it that way. A full umen, ten thousand riders, to appear at once covering a front of five leagues, to show the cattle the precision and control of the horde.

  He let the bucket drop and pulled the far-seeing glass out of his saddlebag. He uncapped the lens and slowly swept the river line half a league away. The silent ones moved cautiously forward, watching the other side, ready to react if a single puff of smoke snapped out.

  Advanced scouts and maps drawn by the aerosteamer pilots had already told him how they were deployed, and now he could see for himself.

  He looked north, seeing the sharp-cut riverbank of the eastern shore, bluffs rising up to fifty feet high, the walls sheer, gradually dropping down. Straight ahead was their small city, limestone walls shining dull red from the afternoon sun. And then the long section of flat bottomland, the ground rich, green, slashed from north to south by earthworks, the low hills curving eastward, then marching back down to the river. This side of the riverbank was higher than the other only along this stretch. He looked to the south, noticing where the hills on the other side finally came back down to meet the river and then continued south, disappearing in the afternoon haze.

  “The chart reader of the Tugars said that it was here that they cross the river,” Sarg said. “This is the first town of the Roum. North of here the banks are too steep, to the south are the hills, and on the east side there is river bottom swamp and marsh down to the sea.”

  Tamuka nodded. Leaning over, he scooped up a handful of water that his horse had left in the bottom of the bucket and wiped the dust from his face.

  “Keane chose his ground well,” Tamuka whispered, turning to look back at the enemy line. At Kev he could have attacked anywhere along a full day’s ride of front, the land west rich, laced with streams for water to feed his army. Here the front would be narrow, no room to flank, water scarce. He would threaten, the north flank, with luck perhaps even succeed, but it would be here, and it would be bloody.

  But at least it was here, a final decision. If they broke the line there was no place for the cattle to run except to the open steppe, where they would be ridden down.

  He looked up at his chart master and snapped his finger. The scribe dismounted, uncased the parchment scroll, and rolled it out at Tamuka’s feet. The Qar
Qarth motioned for the clan Qarths and commanders of five who were riding with him to dismount. The warriors gathered around, Tamuka kneeling down by the chart and pointing.

  “We are here. The last great river we crossed is this line here, two days of battle riding behind us, eight days of march by yurts.”

  He pointed to the blackened sections drawn in east of the Kennebec, then to several thousand square miles of ground burned fifty miles to the west of the river, and then finally to the half-dozen-mile line burned just west of the Sangros.

  “This is the grass these animals burned.” Several of the warriors growled angrily at the sacrilege.

  “Except for those of the umen of the white horse and the Vushka Hush, we have left all remounts back behind the river.”

  The commanders nodded.

  “There is not enough grass here. Thus I command that except for the Vushka, the umen of the white horse clan, and four umens of the gray, all umens are to ride up to their position here and dismount, sending their horses to the rear. A relay of twenty thousand horses of the blue clan will be used to transport heavy water skins up from the last great river, or whatever small streams we find to here, and then back until we’ve breached their line.”

  There was an angry growl of dissent from those who had heard for the first time that they were to be on foot.

  Tamuka looked up at the circle that stood above him.

  “Merki do not fight on foot,” Haga, senior Qarth of the black horse clan, snarled.

  Tamuka stood up to face him.

  “If we keep our horses here, in a week they will die,” he said. “There is not enough food for them, or water. There is barely enough food and drink for our warriors—already we are eating the flesh of our mounts. Water at least will be eased once we secure a section of the river they now control.”

  “He speaks wisely,” Gubta said.

  “What care of it is yours? You will continue to ride.”

  “We fought on foot in the first battle that turned their line,” Gubta said.

  “And it crippled you.”

  “We won nevertheless, and ate cattle till we choked on the grease.”

  Haga, unable to reply to Gubta, looked back at Tamuka and said, “All the umens should be up by tomorrow. The following day let us ride—many will die, but we will cross the river and be into the fertile lands beyond, our horses fat again, our bellies distended from the feasting after victory.”

  Tamuka smiled as if in agreement. “And too many will die.”

  He pointed back to the river line. “This side of the riverbank here is higher than theirs. They have given it to us, and I will use it. Five days behind us come all our cannons—already I have sent twenty thousand of our remounts back to move them both day and night. Let us bring them up, and mount them wheel to wheel along the river. I will have them all fire as one, slaughtering the cattle, and only then shall we cross. Fewer of our warriors will die to these animals, and we shall laugh as we see them die by the machines they themselves created. I will not show the stupidity of a Tugar and rush my warriors into a battle not yet ready to be fought.

  “I will send three mounted umens to the north, to probe into the woods, to force him to cover that side, and then the rest of us shall go straight in here,” and he pointed to the plain south of Hispania.

  Haga nodded slowly in agreement. “You speak wisely, Tamuka. You have combined the ka of your warrior to that of the tu, and it has given you a powerful wisdom.”

  “I have had the meat of one of the horse-riding cattle salted,” Tamuka said. “I would be honored, Haga, if you would join me in the eating of its heart tonight.”

  Unable to reply to the honor, Haga bowed low.

  “Let my warriors lead the first attack,” the Qarth of the black horse clans said.

  “The lead position shall be yours,” and Tamuka smiled, hiding the terrible concern locked within, not revealing just how difficult he knew it was going to be, now that he was shorn of the ability to move his army quickly. Compounding it all was not just the fighting, but the simple question of keeping his mounts and warriors alive and fit until the battle was joined and finally won.

  “I guess that’s him,” Andrew said, lowering his telescope and pointing to the knot of Merki on the distant hill a couple of miles from the far side of the river.

  Andrew nodded to the Rus engineer standing at the corner of the bastion. The old man hesitated and then connected the wire to the telegraph battery.

  Two-hundred-pound charges detonated at either end of the bridge, benzene barrels strapped to the powder igniting into fireballs. Slowly, as if not willing to die, the bridge started to sag down, and then with a rush it plummeted into the riverbed.

  Andrew swung his telescope up to watch the group of warriors, one of them stepping forward several feet, hands coming to rest on his hips.

  “That’s it, you bastard,” Andrew said, chuckling softly. “We’ve got all the powder in the world to waste.”

  Powder. It reminded him of what he had to decide, but not now.

  “They came up damn fast,” Pat said dejectedly, as if he had somehow failed in his delaying actions.

  “Ten days from Kev to here, three hundred miles,” Andrew replied, trying to sound unconcerned, “but they’re strung out all to hell. It’ll be five days, a week, before they’re ready, and by then their belts are going to be damn tight.”

  He lowered the telescope, which he had been resting on the walls of the earthen bastion, and handed it over to Emil, who climbed up on the firing step to take a look. The bastion of the northern grand battery was dark, gloomy, roasting hot, the only air circulating through the firing ports, the overhead ceiling of logs and earth giving him a claustrophobic sense as if he were somehow in a tomb. In the darkness he could see his corps commanders, Barry of the First, Schneid of the Second, Mikhail Mikhailovich commanding the three-brigade division of what had once been the Third, Gregory as his chief of staff standing behind him. Pat, still up on the firing step, was second in command of the army and commander of both Fourth Corps and the artillery reserve, and then Vincent of the Sixth and Marcus of the Seventh, also commanding the Fifth, which was guarding the south of Roum and picketing the southern end of the Sangros River.

  “It’s only an advance line out there,” Andrew said. The men looked through the firing ports, Marcus and Vincent leaning over to gaze through the open shutter door for a twelve-pound Napoleon. “We can expect the bulk of the army to be up by tomorrow.”

  “Think they’ll attack?” Andy Barry asked, rubbing the stubble of his beard, the scar from a Tugar arrow furrowing the dark skin under his left eye.

  “It’s possible. That’s what they’ve done in the past—launch a forward probe to fix our attention, and then go for the maneuver to the flank. I doubt they’ll try south of here. We command the river channel, and they’d have to build boats to get through the swamps, and there isn’t a stick of lumber except by the coast, where we’ll keep an eye on things.

  “I’m thinking it’ll be north, and that’s you, as we already discussed,” Andrew said, nodding to Barry.

  Andrew looked back down at the map, illuminated in the gloom by an overhead lantern. Two divisions out of three of Barry’s First Corps were strung out along the river up into the forest, scouts ranging far to the west of the Sangros in the forest to watch for any flanking maneuvers through the woods. The third division was still working in the musket and Springfield rifle factories in Hispania; they would remain there until the fighting actually started and then would serve as a mobile reserve, waiting aboard five trains kept in the rail yard. The artillery works in Roum had already been shut down, the men transported back up to the front, their standing in the lines now more important than the few additional Napoleons or three-inch rifles they could still turn out. The powder and percussion cap works, it was decided, would continue to function even after the battle began.

  “Rick, you’ll hold from Hispania down a half mile into the val
ley.”

  Schneid nodded, looking up at Andrew with a grin. “If they hit here the river will be red.”

  “I hope they come straight at you,” Andrew said, doubting that they would. Hispania, sitting up on the bluff, was a near-impregnable fortress.

  It was in the center that he knew the show would start, and he traced out the line to be held by Pat’s Fourth Corps, stretching directly across the center of the valley, with the heavy division that had been Third Corps deployed a half mile to their rear as reserve. On their left flank anchoring up to the grand battery of fifty guns positioned at the southern end of the bowl would be two divisions of Vincent’s corps, one division in reserve, and behind them as strategic reserve was one division of Marcus’s Seventh, the other two divisions holding the line farther south. He was worried about the two new corps, having debated throwing Marcus to the north to hold the flank, but had decided against it, wanting his best-trained veterans to protect that position. Both the Tugars and the Merki had preferred the turning of the flank anchored in the woods; this time there would be veterans dug in and waiting if they should try it again.

  Marcus’s reserve division was deployed at the switching yard built behind the grand battery. A second line of track had been built from Hispania, running parallel to the line going to Roum, which curved behind the hills, both rail lines tying into a just-completed switch yard and turntable. Using it, a mobile reserve could be moved in a matter of minutes and dropped off at any point along the six-mile rear line. Andrew realized with the building of it that it might be his only hope to counter the interior lines the Merki would occupy if they ever broke into the valley and forced him back to the surrounding hills. But if they wanted the valley they were going to have to pay for it, and he hoped that the decision might be made right there.

  “The bastards are leaving,” Emil said, nodding toward the distant ridge.

  Andrew went back up to the firing step and took the telescope back. It was hard to see, the setting sun silhouetting the enemy commander in sharp relief.