Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

"I want you to see what's coming," Andrew said. "Tell me if it looks like anything you've ever seen."

  He already had a strange suspicion, but immediately pushed the thought aside; it was simply too absurd.

  Racing ahead, all dignity forgotten for the moment, Andrew rushed to the entryway of the fortified position.

  "Hans! Sound assembly!" Andrew roared.

  The clarion notes of the bugle and the long roll of the drum sounded. With the first note, Andrew felt a shiver run down his back. Suddenly the racing panic in his heart stilled; a crystal clarity of vision came over him.

  The encampment exploded into action. Men raced to pull on their jackets, snatch up muskets, and sling on cartridge boxes.

  Following the lead of the infantry, O'Donald called for the two pieces already ashore to be wheeled into their emplacement. Then he led his command to fall in by the men of the 35th.

  Within seconds the old ritual, which they had acted out hundreds of times before, was played out: the ranks forming, muskets being grounded, the men dressing the line. Then when all were in place each company snapped to attention, their company commanders turning and coming to attention when all was in order.

  A hush spread across the field, and in the silence, they all heard for the first time a distant sound which every veteran knew: the sound of an army advancing in their direction.

  Andrew surveyed the line of five hundred men who were his, and the eighty men of O'Donald's command behind them. Every other time, it had been easy enough to explain what they were about to face; orders from above would tell him where the rebs were, and whether he was to hold or attack. There'd be a couple of comments about the honor of the regiment and the pride of being from Maine, and then they would move in.

  But this was different. Heaven help them all, what could he say? He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. The men started to look uneasily at each other, while in the distance the rumble of the approaching host grew louder and louder.

  There was no brigadier above him now, nor regiments falling in to either flank. This time he was alone, just as at Gettysburg, and the decision was his.

  "Uncase the colors!" Andrew roared.

  A stir went down the line as the standard-bearers lowered their staffs. Men to either side rushed out to pull off the flag casings. In the faint afternoon breeze the blue flag of Maine snapped out. It was followed seconds later by the shot-torn national standard; emblazoned upon its stripes in gold lettering were the names of a dozen hard-fought actions which the regiment had survived with honor.

  The men looked to each other, some eagerly, others pale with nervousness; uncasing the colors usually meant action was in front of them.

  "Look to those colors, boys!" Andrew shouted, and as one each man's gaze turned to the standards they had followed across countless fields of action.

  Andrew knew it was a rhetorical flourish, but he had to start somewhere, and for the men of his regiment—of any regiment— the shot-torn flags were symbols of pride and honor.

  "There is a lot I cannot explain to you now," Andrew continued. "You'll see things you might not believe or understand at first. All I ask is that you obey my commands. Just trust me, lads, as you have on every field of action. Follow my orders, and I'll see all of us through this."

  He fell silent. This wasn't the typical flag, Maine, and the Union speech. He sensed their uneasiness, but there wasn't time to explain further.

  "Companies C through F, deploy to the east wall. H through K, to the west wall. I want A and B, with the colors, in reserve in the center. Major O'Donald! To me, please! Now fall into position, boys!"

  The encampment became a wild explosion of movement as the formation broke and men ran to their positions.

  "What is it, colonel?" Pat said, coming up to join him.

  "Look, Pat, I can't explain the situation now—I still don't understand it myself. We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go up to your emplacement and watch the show."

  The two commanders, trying to appear outwardly calm, strode across the encampment area. They reached the battery where O'Donald's twelve-pound brass Napoleons were deployed.

  "They're getting closer," Pat whispered. "God, it sounds like thousands of them."

  "There are."

  "Here they come!" came a shout from an excited private down the line.

  A lone horseman, bearing the crossed-sword standard, crested the hill a half mile away. Within seconds he seemed to be engulfed in a human tide as thousands of infantry poured over the hill around him. Farther to the left, the advancing column of horsemen appeared.

  "Worst damn reb infantry I've ever seen," O'Donald sniffed. "No lines at all—must be local militia."

  O'Donald turned to his men.

  "Load case shot, four-second fuse!"

  "Wait on that," Andrew said softly.

  O'Donald turned back to Andrew.

  "Now look, colonel, darling—my boys here know their business."

  "Pat," Andrew said evenly, "I am the senior officer on the field. Trust my judgment on this. You'll see for yourself once they get closer."

  Andrew forced the slightest of smiles, not wishing to appear an autocratic commander. The artilleryman paused for a brief moment, and then called for his men to hold.

  "Colonel, if they're militia, we can break them up real quick before they get into musket range."

  "They don't have muskets," Andrew said quietly.

  "What?"

  "Just watch."

  The host continued to swarm forward, the cavalry keeping pace with the infantry. Gradually, out of the swarming mass, individual forms started to take shape.

  "What in the devil are they?" Pat gasped.

  "Damned if I know," Andrew said, still trying to smile.

  A loud murmur started to break out in the ranks, men crying out in confusion at the sight before them.

  "You're the history professor," Emil said, coming up to join the two commanders, "so please help me retain my sanity and tell me what they are."

  "I was hoping you would know," Andrew replied. "We couldn't have been blown all the way to Arabia, and they look European, not black or eastern."

  "Well, what they're carrying looks straight out of the Middle Ages to me," Emil replied. "Damn it all, look at those weapons and armor! Those things are museum pieces!"

  "I know, doctor," Andrew murmured, "I know."

  Just what in hell was he facing? He still couldn't figure it out. For all the world he felt as if he were facing a host straight out of the tenth or eleventh century.

  "Over there on the crest of the hill! Are my eyes deceiving me?" Pat exclaimed.

  Several teams of horses came into view.

  Andrew found himself breaking out into a nervous laugh.

  "It's their artillery, Pat. Catapults—they're bringing up catapults."

  The three officers looked at each other in dumbfounded amazement.

  "I guess whoever they are, they mean business," Emil replied.

  "He's right, colonel. That isn't any friendly town council coming out to greet us."

  Andrew merely nodded, watching as the host continued to deploy. There was no real order to it. From out of the cavalry column half a dozen horsemen broke away and started to canter across the field in front of the peasant mob. Distant shouts echoed up, and, still several hundred yards out, the enemy army came to a halt.

  A loud chant suddenly went up, drifting on the late-afternoon breeze.

  From out of a high-wheeled cart traveling with the cavalry there appeared several men, dressed in long flowing robes of gold and silver. Each carried a smoldering pot on the end of a length of chain. Swinging the pots over their heads, they started to walk down the length of the line. As one, the thousands of men fell to their knees.

  "They're blessing themselves," Pat whispered, and even as he spoke he made the sign of the cross, most of the men in his command following suit.

  Raising his field glasses, O'Donald scanned the line.

  "L
ooks like they're doing it backward, though," he mumbled as if to himself.

  "We'd better do something, colonel, darling," Pat said, looking over to Andrew, "for as sure as I'm damned to hell, I think those beggars will charge once the blessing gets done."

  "All right, then," Andrew said softly. "Load solid shot and set to maximum elevation."

  "Why, that will put it clear over the hill."

  "Just do as I say, but have that canister ready in case I'm wrong."

  Without waiting for a response, Andrew turned and strode back to the center of the encampment.

  "35th Maine, fix bayonets!"

  The old sound that was the prelude to battle rattled out as five hundred bayonets were snapped out of their scabbards and locked into place.

  "Companies C through K, prime and load!"

  Hundreds of rammers were now pulled. Charges were bitten open, and powder and shot slammed in.

  "Companies A and B, load blank charges only and deploy behind the artillery!"

  Nervously the men looked to their commander, wondering what he was planning.

  "C through K, you will fire only on my command! I want all weapons at shoulder arms. I'll personally shoot any man that levels a rifle before my command!"

  The regiment was silent, almost numbed by the bizarre spectacle before them.

  Andrew faced the double rank of the two companies that moved up behind the field pieces.

  "I don't think they understand who we are," he said evenly. "If we can give them a good scare without bloodshed, we might be able to talk later. It'll be up to them, so when I give the command, aim high, and fire off a damned good volley. Then we'll see what happens."

  "One of them coming up, sir," Hans said, now standing beside Andrew, which he always did when there was the scent of battle in the air.

  A lone horseman carrying the crossed-sword standard started to gallop toward their line.

  "Hans, just cock that carbine of yours and keep an eye on him."

  Andrew climbed atop the gun emplacement and slid down the other side. The horseman drew closer. This was like something straight out of a Sir Walter Scott novel, he thought, complete to the armored knight coming to demand submission. But the man approaching him looked more like a ragged beggar than a knight. His armor was nothing more than a dozen heavy plates stitched onto a leather tunic. A sword was belted about his waist, and the heavy lance he carried glinted wickedly in the reddish light of the sun.

  Andrew spared a quick glance again to the sun. What was wrong with that thing? It looked much too big. He focused his attention back to the rider, who reined in a dozen paces away.

  The rider stood in his stirrups and scanned the encampment. Then he called to Andrew:

  "K kakomu boyaru vy podchinyaetes?" (What boyar do you serve?)

  Confused, Andrew could only shake his head.

  "Nemedlenno mne otvechayte! Boyary Ivor-i-Boros trebuyut bashey nemedlennoy sdachi." (Answer me at once! Boyars Ivor and Boros demand your immediate surrender!)

  Andrew extended his right hand outward.

  "I am Colonel Keane of the 35th Maine Volunteers, of the United States Army."

  The rider reined his horse back several paces.

  "Vy yazychnik, vy ne govorite po hashemv yazyku. Zavaytes!" (You are heathen—you do not speak our tongue. Surrender now!)

  In the man's tone Andrew heard a note of fear. There was something strangely familiar about the language and the uniform. Everything was like an object barely discernible in a deep and shifting pool.

  Suddenly he recognized a word from the man's speech. Somehow he had to reach this man.

  "O'Donald, get out here!"

  The men saw the towering redheaded Irishman clambering out of the gun emplacement, and reined his horse back several more paces.

  "You said you saw them making the sign of the cross?"

  "That I did, colonel."

  "Then do likewise."

  A look of solemn concentration came over O'Donald, and raising his right hand he made the sign of the Catholic faith.

  "Vy nad nami nasheetivayes!" (You mock us!) the horseman roared. Leaning forward, he spat on the ground, and swinging his horse about, he galloped back toward the waiting host.

  "I think we'd better get inside!" O'Donald roared, and grabbing hold of Andrew by the shoulder, he drew him back into the lines.

  "You made a mistake!" Emil shouted, trying to be heard above the roaring host.

  "How?"

  "Tell you later!" And shaking his head he went back to the medical tent.

  Andrew wanted to hurl a curse at him, but there was no time for it now. Suddenly he realized what the mistake was, and silently cursed himself for it.

  "Here they come, colonel," Hans shouted.

  Andrew turned.

  By the thousands the infantry started to swarm forward, the cavalry breaking into a canter and swinging wide toward the beach.

  "When I tell you, Pat!" Andrew shouted. "Companies A and B, present!"

  A hundred rifles came to the shoulder, aiming high into the air.

  Andrew looked toward the host. They were less than two hundred yards away. Just a few seconds more and . . .

  "Fire!"

  A sheet of flame and smoke snapped out, the thundering volley echoing across the field.

  The wild advance slowed, nearly halting.

  "Now, Pat! Let's scare the devil out of 'em!"

  Shouldering the gunner aside, O'Donald grabbed the lanyard and pulled.

  The Napoleon cannon leaped back, belching a tongue of fire and billowing smoke. The thundercap report echoed out across the field.

  The thick smoke cloud hung above them, so Andrew scrambled up the embankment for a better view. Cheering started to break out from the Union soldiers deployed down the line. A gentle breeze stirred across the field, lifting the curtain of smoke.

  By the thousands the peasant host were streaming to the rear, many in their panic throwing aside their pitchforks, clubs, and spears. It was a total and complete rout!

  Grinning, Andrew looked down at O'Donald.

  "Told you it'd work!"

  "Aye, a grand sight it is!" O'Donald laughed.

  Andrew let the men cheer themselves hoarse, as he strode down the line, complimenting them on their steadfastness. Even better than a victory was a victory won with no bloodshed on either side.

  "Well, let's leave the next move up to them," Andrew said philosophically, walking back to the artillery emplacement.

  "I think they have already decided their next move," Hans said coldly. He pointed off toward the left flank. The three wagons with the catapults atop them were being pushed forward. The rest of the peasant host had finally stopped running at the crest of the hills a half mile away, where they waited.

  Fascinated, Andrew watched as the firing arm of the first catapult was cranked back. The arm snapped up, the crack of the weapon echoing across the field. Seconds later the other two machines discharged as well. Large stones soared upward, tumbling end over end until they seemed to hover nearly motionless in the sky.

  It was like watching the mortar shells back in the trenches, Andrew thought, and he could see that all three rounds were going off to his left.

  The three projectiles reached the apex of their flight and, tumbling end over end, smashed into the Ogunquit.

  Dammit, they were going to smash up the ship!

  "All right, Pat," Andrew said dejectedly. "Looks like they won't stay scared. Take their artillery out."

  "What I've been waiting to hear!" Pat shouted. "Load solid shot!"

  His gunners set to with a will, ramming home the cartridges and twelve-pound balls, while the gun-layers swung the two artillery pieces around.

  Pat stepped behind each of the two pieces, sighting down the barrels and giving quick commands to raise or lower, and to move the weapon to one side or the other.

  "Fire on my command!" he roared. "Number one, fire!"

  The gun seemed to literally leap in
to the air, kicking back several paces.

  "Number two, fire!"

  The shots screamed downrange. One struck the cart hold-nig the first catapult, splitting it right down the middle, and the weapon flipped off the back. The second machine suddenly collapsed on itself in an explosion of splinters and coiling rope.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, pierced only by a distant shriek of agony. All resolve vanished, and the entire host melted away in a wild stampede of terror.

  "Well, that should be the last of them," O'Donald pronounced proudly, patting the hot barrel of his gun.

  "I don't think so," Andrew replied grimly, as he turned and walked away.

  Just who the hell are these people? he wondered. Though reluctant to admit it, he did recognize one word the envoy had spoken, and that had aroused in him a terrible, impossible suspicion.

  The man had said "Boyar." And he realized that Emil had noticed O'Donald's mistake, that to these people the big Irishman had made the sign of the cross backward. Could he somehow be in medieval Russia?

  He turned and looked back. Where were they, and just who in hell were these people?

  "Patriarch Rasnar, I did not ask for a religious interpretation. I want answers, not doctrine! Could this be like the Primary Chronicles? Yet more men coming from the tunnel of light?"

  With a snort of disgust, Boyar Ivor came to his feet, kicking the coals of the fire so that a shower of sparks rose heavenward. Turning away with an angry curse, he stormed off into the darkness.

  "But this is a religious matter—it has nothing to do with the Chronicles," Rasnar roared, his flowing robe of gold and silver embroidery swirling out about him as he followed after his boyar.

  Boyar Ivor turned to face the man. How he hated him. For fourteen years, since the death of his father, he had been locked in a never-ending struggle of power with this so-called holy man. Rasnar's thin ascetic face, wrapped in a bushy black beard that matched his dark-circled eyes, drew closer.

  His father had stripped the church of its temporal powers, but the balance was a precarious one, for the rule of steel was constantly offset by Rasnar's manipulation by fear of destruction and damnation. Yet each needed the other to maintain control over the peasants. Steel and fear to keep them in line for when the dread from the west came again.