Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  He tried to pull himself up, but his arms were too weak.

  There was another grating sound and the rope jerked down another inch. With a final lunge of despair he pulled himself up by the rope, and his right hand shot out and grabbed a bar.

  The world was starting to lose focus, as if he were looking down a long dark tunnel. Hanging now by one hand, he tore frantically at the rope about his neck. For a terrifying moment it wouldn't give.

  Suddenly the knot loosened. With a shriek he drew in a lungful of air, and another and another.

  Gasping, he worked feebly at the rope, loosening the knot. As he pulled the noose over his head, Vincent let go with his right hand and crashed to the ground.

  He wasn't sure if it was a minute or an hour until consciousness returned. His neck felt as if it were wrapped in fiery metal.

  With trembling hands he loosened the bonds that held his legs and, weak-kneed, came to his feet. The noose still dangled from the iron bar. Reaching out, he grabbed the barrier and pulled.

  The bar didn't move. Sobbing, he pulled again, and still it did not budge. Had he dreamed it in the final moment, and saved himself? Would he now have to face that horror again?

  Cursing wildly at his fate, he slammed the bar with his fist, and it gave back easily with a sharp grating noise.

  So it had moved! Eagerly the young soldier shook the bar several times. There were several inches of play in it, but a heavy lintel stone prevented it from popping all the way out.

  There had to be a way. He'd given up too easily. Had God sent him this sign after all, to use the gift of his mind to find a way out?

  Sitting back down, he let his eyes wander about the room looking for some possible way, for he now reasoned his death would not have been stopped if God had not wished him to somehow escape.

  An hour later he was ready. It had taken nearly all that time to quietly pry a leg free from the chair Sadler had been bound to. Taking a section of rope he had tied it to the loose bar, and then weaved the rope back and forth several times around a stationary bar and then back to the loose bar again.

  Whispering a silent pray he slipped the chair leg in between the ropes and then turn it like a windlass. The ropes started to coil, the slackness going out of them. After a dozen revolutions of the chair leg the ropes were now taut and resistance to his turning motion became harder. Pulling the leg towards his body Hawthorne now needed both hands, and after another revolution be was bracing his feet against the wall, the muscles of his arms knotting and straining.

  He felt as if he could not tighten the ropes any further and his prayer changed to a silent curse. A muffled groan escaped his lips, sweat beaded his brow and then ever so slowly he saw the loosened iron bar start to bend in the middle.

  "Dear God give me strenth," he whispered.

  The bar bent inward, a dusting of mortar drifted down, and then with a grating tear the bar snapped inward, popping out of its mount. With a loud clatter Vincent fell to the floor.

  Terrified he snatched up the iron bar and hunched down, staring at the door, waiting for a response from his jailers. For what seemed like an eternity he sat in silence, animal instincts coiling his muscles, ready to spring.

  There was no response and gradually he relaxed, stood up and and stuck his head out the window, to see that his cell was a good twenty feet off the ground.

  Tucking the bar into his belt, he set to work. A moment later Hawthorne wormed his way through the narrow opening. Grabbing hold of the rope, which was now tied to a well-secured bar, he quickly slid down the line, burning his hands in the process.

  Fortunately it was still dark, but in the east there was an ever so faint lightening to the sky. He wouldn't have much time. Looking up and down the narrow alleyway, he realized one direction was as good as another. Pulling the iron bar from his belt, he started out at a run.

  For several desperate minutes he feared he was completely lost, and would wander thus until, with the coming of dawn, the alarm would be raised. But turning the next corner, he was confronted by the wooden palisades of the city wall.

  For several minutes he peered at it cautiously. It seemed that no one was on the battlement.

  He hit the nearest ladder at the run and quickly scaled to the top. Another twenty-foot drop confronted him. Desperate, he looked for some way to get over the side.

  "Hey!"

  Startled, Hawthorne looked up. A guard was approaching him.

  The man shouted something, and Hawthorne, desperate, merely shrugged his shoulders.

  The guard came right up alongside and started to speak.

  Suddenly his eyes grew wide.

  "Yankee!" the guard hissed.

  As if driven by animal instinct, Hawthorne slashed out with his iron bar, and with a sickening crunch the man's helmet collapsed inward.

  With a shriek, the man staggered backward, fell from the battlement, and was still.

  Shouts rose up from a watchtower farther down the wall. An arrow hissed past, missing Vincent by inches.

  Closing his eyes, he leaped atop the battlement and jumped.

  Hitting hard, he rolled away from the wall, and in an instant was up and running wildly toward the river. Another arrow snapped past. Vincent staggered and fell, and was up again, still running madly, a shaft sticking out of his thigh.

  He hit the muddy shore, and grabbing hold of a light skiff, pushed it out into the river. Leaping in, he took hold of the oars and started to pull madly. The shoreline dropped away, the faint outline of the city in the early-morning light drifting from sight as a turn in the river pushed him away from view.

  For what seemed like hours he rowed without stopping, unmindful of his bleeding hands and the agony of his throat. Finally as the terror subsided, he looked down at the wound. The shaft was buried in the fleshy part of his leg. Nerving himself, he tried to pull it out, but fell backward weeping from the pain.

  He spied a rusty fishing knife in the bottom of the skiff and used it to saw the shaft off near the wound, each cut an agony as the vibration fired every nerve in his leg. Taking off his shirt, he tore out a bandage and bound the wound tight, finally stemming the flow of blood. Then, picking up the oars, he started in again, driven by the fear that the hawk-faced priest would appear at any moment, carrying the snake basket and cackling with delight.

  The sun rose to its zenith and crossed the sky. Trembling with exhaustion, Hawthorne finally fell over and lay out to rest. But his rest was disturbed when in the distance he heard a thunder which grew ever louder.

  With his last ounce of strength, the boy pulled his head up and looked out over the water. The river was moving faster now, coursing between a series of steep hills. He could see a curtain of spray rising ahead . . . rapids. Looking back up the river, he saw a small vessel like a miniature Viking ship round a bend in the river, its oars rising and dropping rhythmically. So they had caught up after all, he thought numbly.

  The skiff started to pitch and roll with the current, but Hawthorne was beyond caring. Swooning, he fell back down, and the blackness washed over him.

  It had been a near thing, Andrew thought grimly as he walked across the square of the city. He did not even bother to acknowledge the bows of the residents who stopped to watch him pass. Since the fight by the river, word had spread about how the small detachment had met five times their own number and driven them back with great slaughter, and the mood of the city had changed overnight from wariness to outright displays of affection.

  Reaching the cathedral, Andrew pushed open the doors and stormed in.

  Two hours ago the regiment had been formed, rations issued, eighty rounds of ammunition per man passed out, the one piece of artillery with a full complement of horses limbered and ready.

  When he saw Ivor himself galloping down the road he thought that the confrontation would blow then and there, for surely the boyar had come to threaten retaliation for this action. Their stormy session the night before had not gone well for either, but to hi
s surprise the man had not come straight out and ordered him not to march.

  But Ivor reined in before him, smiling broadly, and told him the news. Andrew shouted for the regiment to stand down, and swinging his mount about he galloped back to the city, Kal, Ivor, and Emil following him.

  After seeing the results of what had been done, no one could now step him in his rage.

  He strode down the length of the cathedral, his hobnailed boots clicking loudly on the polished limestone floor.

  Approaching the altar, he saw Casmar.

  "Where is Rasnar?" Andrew shouted.

  Startled, Casmar looked back at him.

  "I want Rasnar now!" Andrew barked.

  "His holiness is in meditation," Casmar said nervously.

  "Get him now," Andrew snarled.

  "Keane, be careful," Kal, who had followed him, whispered nervously.

  "To the devil with caution," Andrew snapped.

  "Don't do this," Casmar said, his voice full of concern.

  "If you don't find him, I'll look for him myself!" Andrew barked.

  "I will go announce you," Casmar replied, shaking his head, and turning, he started for the side door.

  Impatiently Andrew stood waiting for only the briefest moments, and then followed Casmar.

  "Keane, don't!" Kal cried.

  Without comment Andrew kept on his course. Pushing the door open, he stalked down the long corridor. At the far end he could see Casmar turn and look back, an expression of fear on his face. Andrew kept on relentlessly. He came up to the priest, who stood by an ornately carved door. Pushing the priest aside, Andrew slammed the door open and stepped into the room.

  For once he saw the prelate completely taken aback. Rising from behind his desk, Rasnar stood motionless, looking nervously to where Andrew's right hand rested lightly on his holster.

  "No, I won't kill you," Andrew snapped. "At least not yet."

  "And why the act of mercy?" Rasnar replied, quickly regaining his composure and settling back behind his desk.

  "Because as I am a liege to Ivor, he would be blamed, so you are protected for the moment."

  "Really, Ivor should learn to keep his dogs on a tighter leash."

  "I just got one of my boys back," Andrew said coldly, coming forward to rest his hand on Rasnar's desk.

  "Yes, how fortunate for you. Perm has been kind to him."

  "He told me how one of your priests tortured him, how your animal hiding in his gold robes blew out my man's brains and tried to force Hawthorne to reveal the secret of gunpowder."

  "Delirious ravings," Rasnar said smoothly.

  "I'll believe my boy before I'd ever listen to your twisted superstitious lies."

  Rasnar did not respond. With a steady hand he reached over to a pot and poured himself another cup of tea.

  "I'd offer you some," Rasnar said evenly, "but I think it is time for you to leave."

  "I just want you to know that as far as I am concerned, the game between you and me is out in the open. You tortured two of my men, your plottings caused me to lose ten others in battle, and I half suspect that fight in the tavern was triggered by your people as well."

  "Of that, at least, I am innocent," Rasnar replied.

  "I don't care for your explanations. You have a truce with me for right now—I'll grant you that for the sake of Ivor. But if but one of my men disappears, if there is an accident of any kind, if a roof tile should fall on someone or a man gets knifed in a bar fight, I'll be in front of this church at dawn the next day. I'll blow in the doors of this building and bayonet every man inside. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Really, you are quite dramatic," Rasnar said, his composure slipping at the open threat that had been laid.

  "Now we both know it's in the open between us. I know you for an enemy and you know me. Outside this building I'll acknowledge your position and keep the peace with my men, who God knows would tear this place apart with their bare hands if the truth got out. I'll acknowledge you and respect your customs, but by heaven, man, you'd better respect mine, and from your pulpit there had better not be another word claiming we are devil spawn, or I'll show you just what hell I can create."

  Trembling, Kal looked over to Andrew, horrified by what he had just translated. He had been tempted to soften the words, but Andrew had told him beforehand that if he suspected the altering of a single phrase he would drum him out of the camp.

  "Yes, we know each other now," Rasnar replied. "Now get out of my church, you infidel!"

  Andrew came to attention and smiled sardonically.

  "Good day to you, your holiness. I apologize for interrupting your meditations." Snapping a salute, he turned and walked out of the room. Stopping at the door, he winked at Casmar, who stood wide-eyed at the exchange, and then went on out into the hallway.

  "That was madness," Kal hissed, nearly running to keep up with Andrew as they stepped back out into the street.

  Stopping, Andrew looked at the man and smiled. Exhaling noisily, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  "You people hide your animosities in maneuverings, and plots within plots. We New Englanders are far more direct. We say it directly and up front, and the devil take the hindmost. It'll keep him off balance for a while. He's not used to dealing with that, and I daresay he will back off for the time being."

  "I can only hope so, Keane. His holiness is a dangerous enemy."

  "Maybe so," Andrew said quietly. "Now let's go back and see that boy."

  The tension released, Andrew actually found himself relaxed. Hawthorne would survive, but the boy had been through a nightmare. It was a miracle he had been spotted clinging to the overturned skiff and fished onto shore.

  Thank God he was safe, the only good news to happen after the tragic losses of the last three days. It was too bad about Sadler. He had been a good soldier, joining the regiment along with his brother Chris back in the early days of '62. He'd have to talk to Hawthorne about that, for to tell Chris the truth would most likely drive him to murder the first priest he laid eyes on.

  For the good of the regiment he'd have to ask Hawthorne's silence about most of the things that had happened, but he knew the boy would understand.

  Climbing the steps of the palace, Andrew returned the bows of the guards with a salute and ventured in. Ivor was there to greet him, smiling with eagerness to hear what had happened. The beefy-faced boyar had actually laughed when Andrew had first told him what he planned to say. Of course, it would help him, Andrew realized, to have a vassal who was an outsider and thus not intimidated by the priests.

  Smiling at Ivor, he stepped past the boyar and entered a narrow windowless room.

  Wild-eyed, Hawthorne tried to sit up as the door opened.

  "It's all right, son," Andrew said softly. "You're perfectly safe now."

  Feverish, the boy sank back on to the bed.

  "How is he?" Andrew asked nervously, looking at Emil.

  "He'll pull through all right." He patted Hawthorne on the shoulder. "The neck will heal nicely, but he'll be dam hoarse for a while. His hands are badly torn, and I think he's even cracked his ankle. We'll get that arrow out shortly. But I want this place scrubbed down first and my instruments boiled."

  "Hawthorne, you're in the best of hands with old Doc Weiss here. He'll have you up and around in no time. Just settle back and get well. Kal here said he'd be honored if when you're feeling a bit better you'd stay with them so his wife and that lovely daughter of his can look after you. I want you to start practicing your Russian with them, and that's an order."

  Tears filling his eyes, Hawthorne looked beseechingly at Andrew.

  Gently Andrew sat down on the side of the bed.

  "What is it, son?"

  "Colonel . . ."

  "Go on, you can tell me. I'm proud of you, boy, and I don't blame you for talking to try to save Brian's life. It was a noble act on your part, and braver still that you chose death rather than risk the lives of your comrades. I'm promoting y
ou here and now to corporal for how you handled yourself."

  Hawthorne started to shake his head, the tears coursing down his face.

  "No, I can't," he whispered.

  "Why?"

  "Colonel, I—I killed a man."

  Andrew was silent. Why did it have to be this way? He had hoped for the sake of this young Quaker that in battle he would never know if a bullet he fired had actually struck a man. But for his first test Vincent had been forced to do it in the worst possible way—up close, looking into the eyes of the man he cut down.

  The memories came back. How many had he killed like that up close? Ten at least since coming here. And then there was that reb boy in the Wilderness. He'd shot him so close that the boy's uniform had been scorched, and then for an hour the enemy fire had been so heavy that he had been forced to lie beside the youth, watching the life slowly ebb out.

  God, was that all he was good for now, killing, and leading others in killing? He tried to force the thought away.

  "I think God would understand why and forgive you," Andrew said gently, holding Hawthorne's hand.

  But would God ever understand my own sins and the passion for battle? he wondered sadly.

  Chapter 8

  Awakening in the hour before dawn, Andrew was surprised to feel the crunch of a light frost on the ground beneath his feet as he stepped out of his cabin.

  It was April back home, the fifteenth of the month, he thought as he looked heavenward. As he watched, a fiery meteor crossed the sky, and for a brief moment he thought it must be a portent of some kind, even as he chided himself for such superstition. Was his war still going on back home, or was it over by now, and Lincoln working instead on binding up the wounds of the nation?

  Funny, he realized, he was thinking less and less of home in these last two months. They'd been remarkably peaceful, and with that peace the men had turned to their various projects with a will.