Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  "Go on—what is it?"

  "It would be best for you if this humble servant, in the service of the lord, be allowed to live permanently among the bluecoats. Then I could watch them for you throughout the day and night. It was I who first suggested the gift of the glass objects wishing to help my lord. My presence there will mean you will have a loyal spy, who might be able to bring other such things as well, and perhaps learn the secret of their powder.

  "I am nothing but a stupid ignorant peasant, so they will trust me more readily. Far better I perhaps than one of your nobles or household who would perhaps arouse their suspicion."

  He heard a sharp intake of breath from Mikhail, who stepped forward to speak.

  "It is I who should do this instead," Mikhail said rapidly. "This stench-dripping fool is too ignorant for such a task. Better a noble of breeding and intelligence, my brother."

  Ivor looked from one to the other and smiled softly.

  "The idiot is right," Ivor said evenly. "One who looks as stupid as he will not arouse their mistrust. I therefore decree that only he alone shall be allowed to learn then-speech for now."

  And besides, Ivor thought, he is my man, and would not dare to use such knowledge against me.

  Kal breathed an inner sigh of relief.

  "Their language—is it difficult?" Andrei asked curiously.

  "Most difficult indeed," Kalencka replied, rolling his eyes. "A speech not fit for the tongue of any noble Rus."

  "Then learn it yourself, damn you," Ivor retorted, " and learn it well."

  "Only to serve my lord," Kalencka replied, bowing low.

  "You answer only to me," Ivor replied. "If I hear that you are within a hundred paces of Rasnar at any time I will have you flayed alive, and your daughter and wife held for the coming of the Tugars."

  Kal could not hide his trembling at the threat, and Ivor chuckled darkly.

  What frightened him even more, though, was the look of open hatred Mikhail gave to him. He had guessed right on that one, sensing the noble's plan when he had insisted personally on riding with him back to the city, pumping him for information all the way.

  "A good plan, yes, a good plan," Ivor mumbled, looking curiously at his brother and then back to the trembling peasant.

  "And mark this well," Ivor said darkly. "Say but one word of the Tugars to them and I'll not kill you on the spot but will save you and your family instead for their festival of the moon passing."

  "Never would I do such a thing," Kal whispered.

  "Let it be known to all others as well," Ivor said sharply, looking to his speaker of decrees who stood in the corner. "Let it be known by all that whoever attempts to tell the bluecoats of the Tugars will be saved for the festival as well."

  Ivor leaned back in his chair. Perhaps Rasnar was right about how the Tugars would feel regarding these bluecoats. He could use them for more miracles like the glasses he held in his hands, but in the end they would go to the pits, thus granting exemptions to others that would beg him for such things when the time came.

  "Bring their Cane before me tomorrow morning," Ivor growled. "Now leave me."

  And standing up he put the glasses back on and strode from the room, peering about and gasping with amazement.

  As Kal withdrew, still bowing, he spared a quick glance to Mikhail, who was looking straight at him.

  Do not growl at the wolf so loud that he might hear, Kal thought nervously, for he will never forget the challenge.

  "All right then, boys, look sharp now, the colonel's expecting you to act like the soldiers you are. You men of Companies A and B have been selected for this honor—now live up to it."

  Vincent tried to push his narrow chest out even farther as Sergeant Schuder stopped in front of him, gazed for a moment, and then with a snort of disgust continued down the line.

  Vincent breathed a sigh of relief. For. some reason the colonel no longer terrified him—in many ways he looked on his one-armed commander as a father—but Schuder was more like the old schoolmaster at Oak Grove, ready to explode with Old Testament wrath at the slightest provocation.

  From the corner of his eye Vincent saw Keane approaching, with Dr. Weiss riding alongside and Major O'Donald and Kal walking in front of them.

  Keane reined his mount up in front of the company and looked the ranks over.

  "All right then, lads," Keane said softly, as if addressing a group of friends about to embark on an afternoon stroll.

  "Kal here," and he pointed to the peasant standing beside him, "indicates we can make a peaceful arrangement with these people. I'm trusting all of you to do your duty. I want those people out there to see the type of soldiers we are. But one mistake and it could go badly for the lot of us. I expect this to go smoothly, and it's important we don't show the slightest trace of fear. So look and act like soldiers, no matter what you see. If things should turn ugly, you are to fire only on my command, or Sergeant Schuder's. Any questions?"

  "Colonel, just where in hell are we?" Vincent could tell by the defiant tone that it was Hinsen.

  Keane reined his mount around and came up to stand directly in front of Hinsen. With a cold look, the colonel stared down at the private.

  "That is what we are going to find out, private," he said sharply. "Let me worry about that. You're new to this regiment, private, so I'll let it pass this time. But the veterans among you know that the 35th has always seen its way through, no matter what was put in front of us.

  "Now, are there any other questions?"

  The men were silent.

  "All right, then. Major O'Donald is senior in command until I return." As he spoke he looked over to where Captain Cromwell and his crew stood. Vincent instantly sensed that there was some conflict brewing there, the way the two men looked at each other.

  "Sergeant Major Schuder, get the men moving."

  Hans stalked down the length of the line, sparing a cold glance for Hinsen, to the head of the column.

  "Uncase the colors," Schuder roared, in his best parade-ground voice.

  The staffs were lowered for a moment and then raised up again, revealing the shot-torn national standard, and alongside it the dark-blue flag of Maine, snapping in the morning breeze, the blue turned almost lavender by the reddish light of the sun.

  "Company, right face! Forward, march!"

  As one the hundred soldiers turned and started for the sally port. Andrew galloped down the length of the line, to fall in the lead, while a single caisson and field piece clattered into position at the end of the column.

  "Sergeant Dunlevy, if there's trouble," O'Donald roared, "give 'em a whiff of double canister," and the artillerymen shouted lustily as they passed before their commander.

  The tiny column passed through the sally port, and over a wooden bridge spanning the moat.

  Vincent looked around nervously at the open field ahead. Thousands of peasants stood upon the far hills, while ranging out to either side came several hundred horsemen. Schuder had already told them that if there was trouble, they'd simply form a square and fight their way back. But they were only a hundred strong, with a single field piece, while whatever it was they were facing numbered in the thousands. He knew that somehow the colonel was putting on a show of bravado, but it didn't do anything to make him feel any less nervous.

  "Musicians, give us a song. 'Marching Through Georgia.' "

  The single drummer rolled a flourish, and the fifer started the tune.

  "All right, you men, sing, damn you," Hans shouted. "At the top of your lungs now."

  "Ring the old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song."

  Vincent fell into the step of the tune, a new favorite with the troops, even though it was about Billy Sherman's boys, and the column's step fell into a rhythmic swing.

  "Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee—hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes men free."

  The tiny column crossed the open field of waist-high grass, and cresting the top of the hill, they stepped out onto a rutted roa
d that wove along the side of the ridge.

  For Vincent the view beyond was breathtaking, and filled him with a deep longing for home and the woods of Maine. The valley before him was covered with towering stands of birch, mingled with what looked like spruce, stately white pines, and an occasional maple. From the vantage point of the crest, Vincent looked back out toward the sea, and to the west he could see distant hills beyond. The middle of the valley before him was cut by a broad meandering river that curved and wove through the valley, emptying into the freshwater sea a dozen or so miles farther up the shore.

  The column pushed on, "Marching Through Georgia" being replaced by "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and then for good measure "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

  The men sang with a will, as much to brace up their own courage as to impress the horsemen around them.

  As the minutes passed and the trail turned down toward the river, the open fields gave way to stands of towering timber.

  The march was soon into its second hour without a break, and the sweat coursed down Vincent's back. But the colonel would not call a halt, as if to show the watching columns weaving along on either side the toughness of his men.

  A lush open field opened up on the left, spreading down from the road to the broad muddy river swirling by. To their right a tumbling stream cascaded down from the hills, and at a rickety wooden bridge over the narrow waterway Keane finally called a ten-minute halt in ranks.

  Taking off his hat, Vincent looked around, admiring the view. It was a lovely peaceful spot, with cattle grazing in the field, herded by wide-eyed peasants who stood motionless, staring at the strange procession.

  The stream passed by with a merry, soothing sound of dancing lightness, its waters reflecting the curious reddish light of the sun, twinkling and sparkling like liquid rubies.

  The brief rest passed all too quickly, and the column pushed on, leaving the tranquil spot behind. The road continued northward, past yet more open fields and stands of heavy timber. A village appeared on the road ahead, and marching through, Vincent was appalled by the disgusting squalor of the place, so unlike the neat, whitewashed villages of Maine. Filthy barefoot children stood in the doorways of the log huts; women who he felt might be only twenty-five or thirty, but looking as if they were fifty, stood silent at their passage.

  A single large structure of logs, two stories high and covered with ornate carvings, dominated the rude square in the center of the town, and from its windows a number of women dressed in colorful robes watched as the column passed.

  "The local grandee," Bill Webster said. Vincent looked over at the nearly bald private, whom Vincent found to be an intelligent pleasant fellow.

  "Everyone in squalor except for the nobles," Vincent replied coldly.

  "My pop's a banker," Webster replied, "but he did it on his own, same way I plan to. It don't look like that applies around here."

  Vincent was silent, not wishing to pass judgment, but as they left the village behind, he could not help but feel uncomfortable with what he had seen.

  The road continued on, until straight ahead the woods rose up in what appeared to be a solid wall of massive pines, the road through them the slenderest of ribbons. A number of horsemen galloped ahead, cutting in front of the column.

  "If there's gonna be trouble," Schuder shouted out, "this is as good a place as any. So look lively, boys."

  The horsemen, who had kept their distance at the start, had seemed to take nerve. While most held back, here and there a mounted warrior pressed down to within a dozen yards of the column, expression openly hostile. Occasional shouts, which were obviously threats, were hurled in their direction, but with Schuder constantly pacing and repacing the length of the line, no one dared to respond.

  From the corner of his eye, Vincent saw one warrior, far bigger than the rest, who kept arguing with the men about him, and then looking back to the column.

  His mount alone was enough to give Vincent the shakes. The horse was bigger than a Clydesdale, and with each toss of its head, it revealed twin rows of yellowed teeth that seemed designed for nothing more than biting somebody's arm off.

  The warrior was a huge barrel-chested man with a glistening blue-black beard that spilled over his chain-mail shirt and reached nearly to his waist. As if he knew Vincent was watching him, the warrior raised up his right arm and waved a double-headed ax in the young Quaker's direction.

  Vincent quickly looked away, and there was a round of hoarse laughter. The axman started to angle his mount in toward the column.

  The woods closed in on either side, and through the trees Vincent could see the man tailing him not half a dozen paces off. He knew there was going to be trouble, as sure as if he were back home and turning the corner he had suddenly spied the Pellegrino brothers waiting to beat on "the Quaker sissy."

  The woods opened back out again, revealing the river off to their left. Ahead, just to the side of the road, Vincent could see a knot of horsemen, looking toward the black-bearded warrior who galloped up to join them.

  Vincent watched the group warily as he marched past, and it felt as if all of them were gazing in his direction and talking darkly. The lone horseman broke away and trotted straight toward Vincent.

  The horseman reined up, brushing his mount against the frightened private, forcing him to step back. A gruff laugh erupted from the other horsemen, who started to trot down toward their comrade. Suddenly it seemed as if dozens of mounted riders were streaming out of the treeline to join the knot of men moving toward the column.

  Vincent pushed grimly forward, trying to conceal his trembling.

  "Ty Ostanovis pered vashim nachal' stvom." (You there, stop for your betters,) the axman roared, cutting his horse directly in front of Vincent, who came to a stop and looked up at the towering form above him. Behind him the rest of the column cluttered to a halt.

  "Care for a little hunting?" a gruff voice called.

  For the first time since he joined the regiment, Vincent was glad to see Sergeant Schuder, who pushed to the front of the crowd. The horseman remained immovable, looking down at the men with disdain. Vincent could see that Keane, the color bearers, and the musicians had come to a halt. Keane sat motionless, Dr. Weiss by his side, neither one bothering to turn around and watch, as if such a display were beneath their dignity.

  With a dramatic flourish, Schuder cocked his Sharps carbine and scanned the sky with such a determined expression that the bearded axman paused and looked up to the sky.

  Several raucous crows passed overhead, cawing loudly. In one fluid motion Schuder snapped the weapon to his shoulder. The gun exploded.

  End over end, a broken body tumbled from the sky to land on the side of the road, a dozen yards away. The black-bearded warrior gave a shout of terror, his horse rearing up wildly. For a second Vincent thought that both rider and mount would tumble over onto him. The warrior swung his mount around and galloped back to his comrades.

  Schuder eyed him meditatively as he cocked his piece and slid in another round.

  "Prettiest shot I ever made," Schuder mumbled, after spitting a stream of tobacco juice toward the discomforted warrior.

  "All right, damn you, close up," Schuder roared. "We ain't got all day."

  Kal came up to stand by Schuder's side.

  "Mikhail your enemy," Kal whispered.

  "Yeah, well, any time he wants," Schuder retorted, and fixing Mikhail with his gaze, he spat another stream of juice. Turning, he started back up the road.

  "Thanks, sergeant," Vincent said as Schuder passed him.

  Schuder turned and gazed at the private for a moment.

  "You did well, lad," Schuder mumbled, and then, double-timing, he ran ahead to report to Keane, who throughout the affair had not once bothered to look back.

  The horsemen gave the column a wide berth, but still continued to ride parallel. Vincent could not help but shoot a quick glance toward Mikhail, who glowered back darkly.

  Vincent swallowed hard, and
bracing his shoulders he doggedly marched on, joining in as Schuder called for another round of "Marching Through Georgia."

  The trail continued to weave its way around low tree-clad hills and gloomy dales thick with the scent of pine, to rise up to pass through an open field that was covered shoulder-high with sunflowers in full bloom.

  After yet another bend, the road curved sharply down again toward the river, running along the edge of a sharp ridge. Keane reined his mount in and paused.

  Vincent breathed a sigh of relief. They'd been marching hard, and the sweat-soaked wool trousers of his uniform were chafing his legs raw. Perhaps Keane would give them a brief halt again.

  The colonel urged his horse forward after a moment, and wearily Vincent stepped forward, but after a dozen paces he saw why the colonel had stopped.

  It was something straight out of a fairy tale, and in spite of the discipline the men could not help but voice their amazement.

  Kal, falling back through the ranks, pointed forward.

  "Suzdal. Suzdal!"

  The wooden walls of the city rested on a series of hills reaching down to the very edge of the river in a great arc that finally swung back up over the hills and away from view.

  Great log structures three and four stories high crowded in one upon the other in what appeared to be a mad jumble. As the tiny column drew closer, Vincent could not help but exclaim over the wood carvings adorning all the buildings and walls.

  Dragons carved out of entire logs and painted with every color of the rainbow twisted and swirled atop the battlements, wrestling with giant bears ten feet tall. Dwarflike creatures seemed to have popped out of the ground like toadstools, their wooden eyes gazing unblinkingly at the tiny column of blue. Other carved creatures like giant totems now lined the road, and Vincent had to suppress a shudder of fear. They stood eight to ten feet high. They appeared to be great hairy creatures, with open leering mouths and fangs that to Vincent's eyes almost seemed to be dripping with blood.

  He noticed Kal gazing at the men closely, a sudden look of worry on his face. Something was bothering Kal. He managed to catch the man's gaze. The peasant, noticing him, broke into a smile and came up alongside.