Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  He looked around at the gathering crowd, seeing many of his comrades from the beginning. To one side he saw Gates, sketch pad in hand, as if he would actually turn out another newspaper, Bill Webster beside him, no longer the financial planner of the country, now again in the ranks for this fight. So many of the familiar faces.

  Several men came out of the villa carrying a table and set it up in front of the fire, and Gregory, now commander of the corps, one that wasn’t much more than a small brigade, came out, features set with a grim purpose. He climbed up on the table, extending his hands to silence the growing crowd.

  Andrew moved to the back of the group, Marcus beside him, old friends of the 35th moving up around them. He felt the old bonds again, comrades of such times together, and he felt the first glimmer of a returning strength, even though he knew with a dreadful certainty that it was finished, that come morning all was over. He looked about the group, their faces shining in the firelight, and he felt a bond of love and comradeship that for the moment transcended all pain.

  “I asked you men, my comrades, to gather around,” Gregory began, “because I wanted to talk with all of you. You brothers of mine of Third Corps, and all you others that now gather in to this circle.” He paused, looking out at the gathering, waiting for a moment as more and yet more came in from other parts of the line, drawn by curiosity, until more than a thousand had gathered around.

  “We have fought upon many a field, you and I,” he said, his voice carrying high and clear, “and tonight we know we are brothers. Our tradition goes back far into the misty past, our battles together many, starting with Antietam.”

  Andrew stirred, looking around at the few around him who had once stood upon that desperate field.

  “And then to Gettysburg, and the Wilderness. And then here at the Ford,” and the men of Rus nodded. He continued to recite the long list of honors, bringing them all closer together through the shared memory of pain and glory.

  “And now so few of us are left to face the greatest fight of all.”

  The men around him were silent. He lowered his head for a moment and then looked back up, eyes gleaming, head raised.

  “If we are marked to die, we are enow

  To do our country loss: and if to live,

  The fewer men, the greater share of honor.”

  Andrew stirred, looking over at Gates, smiling. Gregory, a Rus peasant, was reciting Henry V, and he felt a stirring within at the words.

  The young man’s voice cut through the night air like a clarion call. Those assembled were silent, faces raised, shining in the firelight.

  “This day is called the feast of Crispian:

  He that outlives this day and comes safe home,

  Will stand a tiptoe when this day is named,

  And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

  He that shall live this day, and see old age,

  Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,

  And say, ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian’:

  Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

  and say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ ”

  Andrew, stunned, looked out across the assembly, men standing transfixed, eyes shining, headings nodding, an electric like thrill running through all of them.

  “This story shall the good man teach his son;

  And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

  From this day to the ending of the world,

  But we in it shall be remembered…

  Gregory paused, lowering his head for a moment, and then looked back up, tears streaming from his eyes, his voice choked but clear.

  “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…”

  His words were barely a whisper, yet ringing and clear, many in the group joining in with him, reciting, Andrew, his voice choked, reciting as well.

  “For he today that sheds his blood with me

  Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile

  This day shall gentle his condition:

  And gentlemen in England, now abed,

  Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

  And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

  That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day!”

  The words soared out, as if defiantly flung to the world, and when they were finished a wild cheer thundered up, men pressing forward, crying, fists raised to the heavens, shouting their approval, their passion finding voice, words created so long ago leaping across time and space to give spirit yet again in an hour of desperate need.

  Head raised high, Andrew Lawrence Keane wept unashamedly, men pushing past him, not even aware that he was there, struggling to get closer to the center. Battle flags were pulled from the wall, held aloft, waved in the firelight.

  He backed away, standing alone at the edge, watching. Gates came out of the press, eyes shining. He came up to Andrew as if to say something and then couldn’t, just extended his hand as if to touch Andrew, and then he turned away and ran into the darkness back toward the city.

  Andrew looked up to the heavens.

  “Merciful God, please let them win,” he whispered.

  He turned and started to walk away.

  “Andrew.”

  He looked up and saw Pat standing in the shadows. Andrew went up to him.

  “Did you hear that?” Andrew whispered, still awestruck.

  Pat nodded clearing his throat. “Even though he was a bloody Englishman he had a way with words, he did.”

  “God, if only we could win tomorrow,” Andrew said, the euphoria still inside him, yet the cold reality pushing in, as if begging to seize hold again.

  “There’s someone here I want you to talk to,” Pat said, and he motioned for Andrew to draw farther away from the celebration.

  Andrew followed Pat into the darkness, and then he saw him and came up short.

  “Andrew Keane, is it not?”

  “Muzta,” Andrew whispered in reply.

  Chapter 12

  Dawn broke on the third day of battle. The chanting from down in the fog-cloaked valley rolled upward, sound distorted, echoing nearer, and then farther away.

  Andrew stood upon the crest of the ridge, looking down into the valley.

  Gazing down from a thousand feet, Jack Petracci leaned out the cab, engine throttled back to idle, propeller thumping over lazily. To the east the red disk of the sun was breaking the horizon, bearing with it the threat of another day of scalding heat. He looked back at Feyodor and smiled grimly.

  They had agreed upon their plan. As they floated southward in the predawn light he was not even sure if he would find the army still there. The telegraph lines had been cut in the breakthrough, the track overrun. At the first sight of the fires burning low along the ridge, the forms of men gathered around them, he had almost wept with relief.

  But as he circled out over the lines he could see that all hope was gone. Where divisions had stood two days before, broken remnants of brigades now stood. Troops were on the move, shifting into the center, as if Andrew had somehow guessed the intent of the Merki, a guess which Jack could see was right. Centered in the valley, a vast block had been drawn up, tens of thousands, their standards and spear tips visible through the ground fog, which even as he watched was starting to melt away. To either flank, other units were drawing up, ready to strike to north and south, but the main assault was poised to drive straight east, as if driven by an instinct which had propelled the hordes about the world for thousands of years, to perpetually ride toward the rising sun.

  Tamuka Qar Qarth stood up tall in his stirrups, watching as the wisps of fog started to burn away. He would wait a bit longer. There would be no smoke, no fog, today. He wanted the cattle to see clearly what was coming up out of the valley, ten umens arrayed in battle order. He felt a certain confidence as he looked up the long slope, sensing the presence of Keane, sensing the growing knowledge that all was finished, and he laughed.

  Andrew turned and looked at his
corps commanders, who were gathered around him.

  “It will be here. I want every regiment, every company that can be spared, here. If we are to die, let it be together on this ground.”

  He looked around the circle, at the men whom he had been with for so long, and smiled.

  “And we are but warriors for the working day,” he said with a smile, and Gregory nodded.

  A courier came riding up, handed down a sheet of paper to Andrew from the bundle in his arm, saluted, and rode on down the line.

  Andrew smiled. It was Gates’s Illustrated, reduced now to a single sheet, upon the front a crude etching of Gregory giving his speech, the words he had spoken written underneath, printed in Rus and Latin, upon the back of it a rough quick etching of the battle standard of the Army of the Republics. Already he could hear others back in the line reciting the words, cheers rising up.

  “Gentlemen, I have never been so proud of this army and of you as I am at this moment. No matter what happens here this day, whether we win or lose, we shall be remembered. If we achieve victory, it will be, as Gregory said, a day to remember, an anniversary on which to turn back our sleeves and show our scars of honor.”

  He hesitated, his voice lowering.

  “And if at the end of this day we meet again in another world, we shall look upon each other and smile, our fellowship continued in a far better place, I am sure. In the world we leave behind we shall not be forgotten, for we have started something here that will never end. Our spirits will come back, and we shall be millions, who will rise up and call our names once more. The dream we have for this world, the dream some of us once fought for upon another world, can never die. It will exist as long as man exists, a dream of freedom, of equality, of liberty. That has always been worth dying for, and I promise you that dream shall never die.”

  A horn sounded in the valley below, its brazen cry rising up, echoing, others joining in.

  “God be with you all this day.”

  He turned and walked back across the field, the army waiting, a cheer starting at the center of the line where the 35th and 44th were drawn up, their flags held high.

  “Keane, Keane!”

  The shout started to race to either side, spreading outward, rising in the still morning air till it rolled like thunder.

  He came before the colors, looked up, and saluted, the cheers still echoing, and turned to stand in front of the line, drawing out his saber.

  From the far side of the ridge the thunder of the charge came in.

  Kathleen stood by the open flap of the tent. To the southeast the battle was plainly in view, smoke rising up into the heavy morning air, the thunder of artillery crashing across the hills. The vast field of wounded around the tents was quiet, those who were able sitting up or standing to watch in silence. A steady trickle of new casualties was already coming back.

  A man brushed past her coming out of the tent, a Roum soldier, leaning on the shoulder of a Rus artilleryman, each helping the other, muskets over their shoulders, heading back into the fight, the one trailing a bloodstained bandage behind him. Others were rising up, a growing river of them moving painfully back into the line.

  “How can we lose?” she whispered. “How can we ever lose?”

  And yet as she watched she saw the dark clouds of arrows rising up into the heavens and pouring back down, smothering the line under, and ever so gradually the sound of musketry diminishing, the chants of the Merki growing louder and yet louder.

  She reached into her apron and felt the cold handle of the revolver, remembering that she would have to save the last round for herself.

  The high piercing shriek of a whistle cut the air, and she watched as a long train came through the switchyard, whistle tied down, the train slowing for a moment as it switched into the main line heading south. Long boxes draped in canvas were piled upon the flatcars, and soldiers stood at the ends of the cars, shouting.

  She looked around the tent and saw Emil behind her, cleaning his spectacles as if he were about to settle down and read.

  “Catch the train, go to him. I think he’d want you beside him.”

  She turned back to the old doctor.

  “I’ll see you later,” he whispered. “You don’t want to be here for what’s next.”

  She grabbed hold of him, hugging him fiercely, then turned and ran toward the train as it continued slowly through the switchyard. As she came up alongside the last car, a soldier looked down at her, and she held her hand up.

  “You don’t want to come with us,” he shouted. “We’re heading to hell.”

  “Keane, I’m Colonel Keane’s wife, I want to be with him.”

  The soldier leaned over, extended his hand, and lifted her off her feet, even as the train started to gather speed again.

  Winded by the run, she sat down on the bed of the flatcar as it swayed and rattled down the track, the engine forward still shrieking, two more trains behind her doing the same.

  The first two charges had broken at the crest, the Merki infantry dropping by the thousands, yet ever so slowly the line started to buckle back from the ridge, Merki archers sending sheets of arrows in.

  Vincent Hawthorne stood with the tiny knot of what was left of the 7th Suzdal, Dimitri at his side.

  He felt somehow purified, as if the dark sickness of war had left his soul. He would fight now, and he knew with a sad finality that he would die here, but he would die with the men he loved.

  The words of Andrew still rang in his ears, telling him what he had been searching for all this time, an understanding of why he would fight and die this day. It had nothing to do with hatred, though he knew he could hate what his enemies did. He would fight now for a promise of what could be, even if he no longer was alive to see it. He believed now that there would be generations born that he would never know, and would never know him, who might live in freedom and in peace for what he sacrificed this day. For that he was content.

  As he looked to the south he could see that to the flank of the grand battery the line was broken clean open, Merki already fanning out into the rear, turning southward to roll up the rest of the line, turning toward him to destroy what was left of his line as well. It would not be long now. The flag bearer beside him suddenly crumpled up, collapsing wordlessly to the ground.

  Vincent reached down and picked up the banner of the 7th Suzdal.

  Directly below in the valley he saw the heavy block formation of horse-mounted Merki start to move forward at a walk, nargas cutting the air with their brazen cry, hundreds of drums setting up a bone-chilling beat.

  To his right the line started to fall back toward the line of trains, and his command followed, the Merki infantry shadowing them. They crossed over the first line of open track and then climbed over and onto the second line, a dozen trains parked along its length. Battle flags went up, tied off to smokestacks and guard rails, glass shattering as men moved into passenger cars. As he climbed atop a flatcar he looked down the line, seeing that they were now so pitifully few, a thin line waiting for the final blow. To the right of the trains he saw the center of the line formed around a ruined villa, the flag of the army and the 35th and 44th flying alongside. He knew that’s where Andrew was taking his stand, along with the men of Third and Fourth Corps. He was tempted to go over to them, to die at Andrew’s side.

  But no, his duty was here, with his men, the men he had trained, the men he had taken as peasants and slaves and turned into soldiers and comrades.

  It was as good a place as any, and he planted the flag in the middle of the car, his men gathering around, and waited for what was coming.

  Tamuka Qar Qarth, his heart beating with a fierce joy, stood tall in the stirrups, looking up at the ridge, as the cattle started to withdraw. They were doing the same as yesterday, pulling back to the line of trains, the cars and engines barely visible. He pointed his sword to the left, to where a ruined building of limestone stood back a short distance from the crest of the ridge, flags flying above it. H
e knew with a final certainty that Keane was there. And above all else he wanted to see Keane die.

  Chuck Ferguson leaned out of the cab of the engine. In the valley below they were already starting their advance. He cursed madly. But for a few minutes more, damm it to hell, but for a few minutes more!

  It had taken hours to move the train from the factory to north of Hispania. Barry’s men had finally sealed the breach, but sections of track had been damaged, and more than half a dozen times small units of Merki had put up a fight to block their way. In the corner of the cab he saw Andre, the train engineer, dead. Never again would Andre play his favorite ballad about the boyar’s daughter.

  Still holding the whistle down, he ran the train forward at full throttle, wounded on the track ahead scattering. Around a shallow curve, a Napoleon was still half on the track, its crew bodily lifting the weapon up and pushing it off the roadbed, cursing wildly as the train thundered past.

  Chuck looked back down into the valley. The head of the charge was already moving forward, a thousand yards away, he estimated, and he cursed madly, tempted to slam the brakes on now but deciding not to, realizing the front of the advance was aiming half a mile ahead.

  The curve straightened out, and directly ahead he saw a ruined building, flags atop it, a long line of trains farther ahead and on the same track.

  He released the whistle, giving three short blasts, and slammed the throttle back, the fireman putting his foot up against the side of the cab and leaning with all his weight against the brake. The wheels beneath him started to shriek, sparks raining out, and he grimaced at the thought that if they ever made it out of this the wheels would most certainly be out of round and have to be reground, and the thought made him laugh.

  The train continued to slide forward, the last car on the train parked straight ahead coming closer and closer. A line of infantry drawn up across the track scattered, the men on the last car leaping down, shouting a warning.