Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  Thrilled, Hawthorne looked around. To the east the great foundry and mills were working full-blast, billows of smoke swirling from their chimneys. To the north of the foundry stood the powder mill, its great wheel turning to drive the wooden hammers and grinders. Below it stood the long sheds where the powder was taken, there to meet the sheets of cartridge paper and lead shot, to be turned into prepared rounds and packed into boxes holding a thousand rounds. In a separate building dozens of women sewed cloth bags and filled them with powder for the artillery rounds, stacking them up on a waiting flatcar to be hauled back to the magazine within the city.

  From the south he heard a whistle and saw an engine, hauling a dozen cars, come rattling through the southside switching yard, passing the old Waterville with three empty cars.

  Below him, the work on fortifications continued, the outer walls, now twenty feet high, completely surrounding the city.

  There was a thundering rattle of musketry punctuated by the boom of a dozen artillery pieces firing in salvo. Looking over to the drill fields, Hawthorne felt a cold chill at the sight of a full brigade of Suzdalian troops, sixteen hundred men, standing in a battle line nearly three hundred yards long. Smoke drifted up from the field, the distant shouts of the participants echoing up at the demonstration of power they had just performed. Thousands more stood to either side, watching the demonstration, their cheers joining in.

  He turned to look north and east. The distant hills seemed to rise ever higher, one atop another. The passes seven miles away were clearly visible with the field glasses, and he could see the lines of fortifications that had been laid out. From the hills above the passes he could see the swirling smoke from the boiling fires that were refining down the sulfur for powder.

  But the warlike preparations did not hold him as much as the splendid beauty of the rolling countryside showing the first hazy colors of autumn. Stands of oak and maple were already showing the first reds and yellows, the birch shimmering in the warm afternoon light, while in the fields Fletcher's harvesting machines and thousands of workers labored to bring in the harvest.

  Looking farther north he could almost make out the clearing that had been cut around the ford, thirty miles away. From the ford he could see the high watchtower that had been built, and even the waving of the semaphore flags, most likely signaling to the line of towers that had been built west and south as watch stations. Swinging his glasses to the west, he saw the distant steppe opening out before him, until sky and land seemingly blended into one. He let his gaze linger for a moment, trying to discern a smudge of either clouds or dust on the horizon.

  A muffled groan disturbed him, and turning, he looked back to see Hank sitting hunched over in the bottom of the basket.

  "Something wrong?" Hawthorne asked.

  "Nothing, nothing at all," Hank said weakly.

  "You look a bit peaked, my friend."

  "It'll pass," Hank said weakly.

  A light gust swirled around them, swaying the basket, and Hank groaned.

  "Hank," Hawthorne said quietly, "I've got a question."

  Groaning, Hank put his head between his hands.

  "You've never flown one of these things before, have you?"

  "I just sat on the ground and watched," he moaned as another gust set the basket spinning and twirling.

  "Just what the hell is Hawthorne laughing about up there?" Andrew asked.

  "Beats me, but I sure am jealous of the boy," Emil said, looking heavenward.

  "Well, Emil, maybe when this war's over, Hank there can start a business and give you a ride," and walking over to his mount, Andrew swung into the saddle, his staff rushing to join him.

  "Let's get started," Andrew said, spurring his mount, and the group galloped down the east road and out through the main gate.

  The outer fortifications rose up several hundred yards beyond the wooden walls of the city. Six months in the trenches of Petersburg had taught Andrew and his men how to dig in, and under their supervision a massive earthen wall had been raised, encompassing the entire city. At each corner, bastions had been built, rising ten feet higher than the walls. If cut off, they could still hold, their bunkers stockpiled with ammunition and rations. Riding down the line, the group passed through the heavily fortified northern gate, crossing the bridge traversing the thirty-foot dry moat. Beyond the gate the open fields beyond were covered with row after row of sharpened stakes, brush entanglements, and trip holes.

  Andrew reined in his mount by the edge of the rail line as a train came thundering past. Malady, at the throttle of their newest engine, the Bangor, tooted a salute as the train thundered past and turned up toward the mills.

  "It's out here where it'll be decided, gentlemen," Andrew said quietly, pointing to the defensive works. "I plan only to try to delay them for a day or two up by the ford and down toward the passes. But it's here that we'll break them."

  Andrew paused for a moment and looked about, while wagons bearing the first of the harvest rumbled past on their way into the city.

  "How are we doing, Fletcher?"

  The rotund captain came up, pausing for a second to look at the piles of apples passing by in a wagon. Snatching two, he came up and offered one to Andrew, who took a bite.

  "Some of the wheat harvest is at last hitting the mills, but it'll still be weeks bringing it all in from the outlying districts. I've got several thousand head of cattle and twice as many swine penned in south of the city. First sign of trouble, we'll drive them into the city and start the slaughtering."

  "But how much is in so far?" Andrew asked.

  "Enough food for sixty days," Fletcher said quietly. "It'll be two months before we've got enough to carry us through the spring and the beginning of the next harvest. You've got a war to fight, sir, I've got to make sure that if we win, there'll still be enough food to feed us through till next summer."

  "I understand, Bob," Andrew replied evenly. "Just keep at it.

  "Mina?"

  The gaunt-eyed major came up to Andrew's side.

  "We're up to three hundred muskets a day, sir, a little over ten thousand to date," the officer started, his voice distant, almost mechanical. "We're getting twenty long rifles a day as well, just over five hundred so far. If I had another two months I might be able to turn out more rifles than muskets."

  "I can't promise that time, John," Andrew said quietly.

  "How about artillery?" O'Donald asked.

  "Three four-pounders a day now. The molds have been set for some nine-pounders, but that's more than two weeks away. Ninety pieces to date."

  "And the other supplies?" Andrew asked patiently, realizing that his ordnance chief had long since gone over the edge of nervous exhaustion.

  "Well, ah, sir, we're casting down that last load of lead right now. I've got near four million musket rounds, one hundred thousand more for our own rifles, and twenty thousand artillery rounds stored up. We're turning out a hundred thousand rounds per day, and five hundred artillery loads. The problem now is the powder mill is at maximum output—that's the weak point. We need over a ton of sulfur a day to meet it, and it's just not coming through. Otherwise I could do more."

  "You've done well, John. I'm proud of you—no one else could have done it." The major nodded vaguely in reply.

  And it's not enough, Andrew thought grimly, not half enough. In four hours at Gettysburg his men had fired off over a hundred rounds per man. Four pitched battles would use up nearly everything they had. They needed time, desperately needed more time.

  Still showing a calm self-assurance, Andrew looked over at his young telegrapher and nodded.

  "As fast as the wire works are drawing we're stringing up ones," Mitchell said. "I've run four lines out to the main bastions from your command post in the cathedral. There's a line out to the foundry and powder mill, and back to the Fort Lincoln switch-off as well. I'm also rigging one for the balloon and starting tomorrow will start stringing toward the ford. Beyond the ford we've got signal tow
ers every two miles going straight out to the edge of the steppe. It'll give us plenty of warning. I'm also stockpiling a couple of miles of wire to be strung as needed, once the siege begins. We've got twenty operators trained. A couple of those Suzdalians have really good fists--one can do near twenty words a minute now."

  "Good work, son. Keep at it."

  Kicking his horse into a canter, Andrew started up the hill, and cresting the low ridge, he looked out at the drill field.

  "All right, General Hans, how're they doing?"

  Andrew smiled at his old sergeant, who wore the stars of a Suzdalian major general on his uniform, which still carried the old stripes of a sergeant major.

  "Never thought I'd be a damned general," Hans growled.

  "Well, we've all been giving ourselves promotions of late," Andrew said good-naturedly.

  He could well imagine the envy his old comrades back home would have had at the rapid promotions that he had given out. Hans was corps commander, with three divisions of infantry and two battalions of artillery under him. The officers of the 35th, who were now taking orders from Hans, and several other sergeants had not minded too much, but O'Donald had chafed a bit with Hans making the decisions. Andrew half suspected that it had been settled "behind the barn," for both of them showed up one day sporting shiners and suddenly behaving like fast friends.

  Houston and Sergeant Kindred of E Company had risen to control of the first and second divisions, while Sergeant Barry now controlled the third. Beneath them others had risen to command the six brigades and twenty-four regiments of four hundred men each in the field. The fourth division was drilled and only waiting for its weapons, while the fifth and sixth had already been formed. Nearly half the regiment was now slotted into command positions, but Andrew wished to retain a core of the old 35th as a rally point of professionals, under his direct command. At Kal's suggestion he had agreed to fill the ranks with veterans from the engagement at the pass, and now there were two hundred Suzdalians proudly wearing Union blue.

  The hundred and fifty thousand others that would fight had been organized into militia units, controlled mainly by Suzdalians. Several nobles and many of the old warrior retainers now commanded those formations under Kal.

  Andrew settled back in the saddle and watched as the brigade that had fired a volley moments before now practiced shifting brigade front to right.

  The right of the line stayed firmly anchored while the double line of sixteen hundred, extending for over three hundred yards, started to pivot like a giant gate, their blue regimental flags and white national colors snapping in the breeze. The left of the line was ragged, the men running at the double, while the distant shouts of the commanders echoed across the field.

  "Not bad," Andrew said quietly. "Not bad at all, Hans."

  "Could be a damn sight better," the sergeant growled, but Andrew could see the pride his old teacher felt for this new command.

  "It's just they've never done it under fire," Hans said meditatively. "That's where we'll find out."

  A distant shout disturbed their thoughts, and looking back, Andrew saw a courier galloping out from the city, slashing wildly at his mount and coming straight at them.

  "I think," Andrew said quietly, "that we're about to find out."

  Muzta reined in his mount and looked up at the wooden tower on the hill. Its lone occupant lay dead on the ground, several arrows in his chest.

  Qubata stood over the man, looking meditatively at the corpse.

  "What is this?" Muzta asked.

  Qubata pointed to the red and green flags that lay on the ground beside the corpse.

  "They know we're coming," the general said quietly.

  "The man saw us from thousands of paces off, yet still he stayed, signaling, until we dropped him with a volley. Seeing us was not enough—he most likely got a fair count of us as well."

  Muzta shaded his eyes and looked northeastward. Scattered clumps of trees gradually started to merge together as the ground rose higher, the distant hills given over completely to a forest whose leaves were streaked with red and gold.

  His advance scouts were already lost to view, having galloped on.

  "There, do you see it?" Qubata asked, pointing to a flash of red, waving back and forth.

  "This tower signaled to that one, and beyond that hill must be another, all the way back to the ford, eighty times a thousand paces beyond. I would be willing to guess the word has already reached the city."

  "Two days of hard riding to reach the ford," Muzta said quietly.

  "They'll be waiting for us there," Qubata said evenly.

  Muzta turned in his saddle as from over the hill came the standards of the Olkta, the ten thousand of the guard, first Umen of the Tugar host. The horsetail pennants fluttered by, commanders galloping past saluting Muzta with raised fists. Spread out behind them, a hundred warriors across, came the first of first, the elite guard of the Tugar horde.

  Muzta's heart swelled with pride. For more than a circling such show had been mere ritual. Not since Onci had the Olkta ridden to war. Then it had been their sires; now the sons were in the ranks, and Muzta saw his own three, born to his first-chosen, gallop past, waving gaily. Muzta looked sternly at them for showing such disrespect.

  "They are young and excited with the chase," Qubata said, as if apologizing. "Just as you once were."

  Muzta turned to Qubata and smiled.

  "Was I really that bad?"

  "You were an eagle," Qubata said, smiling.

  "Then let us climb this eyrie for a look," Muzta replied. Grabbing hold of the ladder, he scaled upward. Reaching the top, he looked back toward the west, and his heart soared at the sight.

  A dozen Umen were spread out before him, the serpentine columns stretching back to the far horizon. A hundred and twenty thousand Tugars riding in disciplined formation, their blocks of a hundred riders wide by a hundred deep checkerboarding the vast open steppe.

  "Magnificent, simply magnificent!" Muzta cried, looking over at Qubata, who stood with arms crossed, watching the advance.

  "As beautiful as Onci," the old general said reflectively, his blood stirred at the sight.

  Looking back over his shoulder, he gazed at the gradually rising forest.

  "And all of that," he said evenly, pointing toward the host, "we must funnel up into those hills, and finally to a single road across the only ford available. That's where they'll be waiting for us."

  "The Olkta will force us a way," Muzta said evenly.

  Galloping down the long serried ranks, Andrew looked appraisingly at the division drawn up in the early-morning light.

  Ten thousand at his command, he thought to himself. He could remember when Reynolds, his old corps commander, had ridden by in much the same manner, corps battle standards, staff, and couriers riding behind him. He could remember the sense of wonder at such power, and envy as well.

  So now he was doing the same, the men in the ranks looking to him as he had once looked to Reynolds.

  The three divisions were in full fighting gear—muskets shouldered, a hundred rounds in pockets and cartridge boxes. Blanket rolls were slung over their shoulders, rough haversacks of hide or burlap dangling from their hips holding seven days' rations. They were the most godawful-looking infantry he had ever seen, nearly all the men still wearing the old traditional oversized shirts, cross-hatched leggings, and burlap-wrapped feet of Suzdalian peasants, but they were still soldiers, and their pride showed as they burst into spontaneous cheering at his approach.

  Waving a salute, Andrew continued on down the line past the fifty artillery pieces, which would be set up under O'Donald's command, while the rest were held in reserve or on Tobias's ship.

  Finally reaching the head of the column, Andrew turned to look back one last time.

  Is this how Grant or Bobbie Lee felt? he wondered coldly. There was the cold thrill of it all, that set his heart to pounding, but now there was the terrible responsibility as well. Always before there had
been someone above him, to tell him to hold such and such a place, or to march or to retreat. Now it was he alone. A single mistake and in a moment all could be lost. In his old war they had been spurred forward with cries of victory or death. But all knew that even if the battle was lost there was still the prospect of an honorable surrender. Here the old hollow cry was bone-chillingly real. If he made a mistake now, not only his army but all who had entrusted their lives to him would die as well.

  He looked over toward the city walls, where thousands stood to watch the departure.

  He had not wanted to start the war this way. But the Tugars had forced his hand, coming up far earlier than even his worst fears had imagined.

  They had to buy time, to delay the Tugars not just for a day or two but for a week, two weeks if possible. Every day meant more guns, more powder, and most important, the desperately needed food that was still coming in from the fields.

  He had to buy time, and the buying would come with his preciously small army.

  His staff gathered around him, some grim-faced while others, especially the young division and brigade commanders, bright-eyed and beaming with delight at the prospect of leading such numbers into a fight.

  From over by the river the Ogunquit's whistle sounded as the ship started upstream to the ford. Aboard were the men of the 35th as an advance guard, along with the four Napoleons and a dozen four-pounders which would be kept aboard the ship, to serve as a floating battery to cover the ford.

  "All right, gentlemen, let's get this army moving," Andrew said quietly. With wild shouts of delight the officers galloped off to their commands, looking somehow ludicrous atop the slow Clydesdales.

  Andrew looked down at Mina, Kal, and Fletcher by his side.

  "Gentlemen, I'm buying you time with blood. Do you understand that? Time with blood. Now make the most of it," and he spurred his mount forward.

  Shouted commands echoed across the field, drums started to roll, colors were uncased.

  "Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys . . ."