Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  "Second rank, fire!"

  Another sheet of flame slashed out.

  "First rank, fire!"

  Stepping back, Andrew saw yet another regiment and then another rushing up the road, their battle standards snapping in the wind.

  And then from down across the river came a staccato burst, the water about the ford churning and splashing as the Ogunquit, having rounded the bend of the river to reveal its position, slammed a deadly salvo into the flank of the advancing line.

  He looked back to where the 2nd Novrod stood pouring in their deadly volleys, driving back the Tugar toehold. Men in the line were dropping as the fire support from the enemy shore poured in around them.

  The 4th Suzdal, forming now to the right of the Novrod position, suddenly added in its weight as well.

  Yet still from the far bank, wave after wave of Tugar infantry swarmed forward.

  They were smashing them, smashing them hard, but they had over a hundred thousand and he had but ten thousand. He looked over to where Black was reforming the shattered remnants of his regiment.

  They can afford to loose soldiers and I can't, Andrew thought grimly.

  Andrew turned to look eastward. It had been hours, he thought, but the sun was not more than two handspans above the trees. It was going to be a long hard day, and remembering he was no longer a line officer but commander of an army, he stepped back from the volley line, the staff that had been following him sighing with relief that their battle-maddened commander was still alive.

  "It'll be a long day, gentlemen," Andrew said, looking at their nervous faces, "a long day indeed."

  "Call them back," Qubata said evenly.

  Muzta turned in some surprise to look at his battle commander.

  "We're pushing them hard," Muzta said grimly.

  "And we're bleeding rivers of blood. Half the Olkta Umen is smashed. Call them back."

  "Perhaps you are right," Muzta replied, and nodded to the nargas sounders, who gave voice to their long trumpets.

  Ever so gradually the roar of battle on the opposite side of the river dropped away. Muzta could not help but feel a surge of pride in his warriors. Not one broke ranks, not one showed his back as they withdrew across the river and with bows raised continued to pour in sheets of arrows.

  The enemy fire slackened, punctuated only by the bellow of artillery, which had rendered the riverbank into a torn confusion of shattered trees and smashed bodies.

  A shout of defiance rose up from the other side, and then drifted away.

  "We know now that most of their weapons, except for those carried by the blue-clad Yankees, cannot reach beyond sixty paces, to our hundred and twenty. It is senseless to keep feeding our warriors into this bottleneck."

  "But we have bled them as well," Muzta said evenly.

  "That at least was good. But here our great strength is like a long spear, with only the tip able to fight. We must get around them."

  Muzta looked out across the river.

  "Here is the only place we know to cross," Muzta said.

  "Then we must find another. Tonight I will send the three Umens of Tula and the two of Zan northward. They will stay far back from the river, sending down only scouts to check until a place is found to cross."

  Muzta looked to the western sky, where the light of the everlasting heavens hung low on the horizon. It had indeed been a long day.

  "My Qarth."

  Muzta looked up to see Argun, commander of the Olkta, sitting astride his blood-covered mount.

  "We did all that we could," Argun said wearily. "These are not cattle that we face—they seemed possessed by demons from the underworld."

  "Yet still we will feast upon them," Muzta said evenly.

  He looked at Argun, wanting to ask, yet he could not.

  The commander, however, knew, and his face contorted with pain, he shook his head.

  "Garth, your youngest," he whispered, and then turned his mount away.

  Muzta walked away from his staff, and even Qubata left him alone. Watching the setting of the sun, he could only pray that the most beloved of his sons would cross the sky without fear of demons to rest in the place of light; and the Qar Qarth of the Tugar horde cried alone.

  "It's as you feared, Andrew," Hans said, shaking the rain from his poncho and then sitting down at the rough table which besides the cot and two chairs was the sole furniture in the staff tent.

  "They've turned our right. About thirty miles upstream. The bastards found that upper ford. Our scouts stayed hidden, and counted at least ten thousand before pulling back."

  "I wish we could have covered it," Andrew said grimly, "but if we had, our army would have been split. If they forced us here, the units farther up would have been cut off."

  "Well, by the time they get down here it'll have bought us nearly five days' time, and that's what this was for."

  "At a price of three hundred dead, and nearly seven hundred wounded. That's ten percent, Hans," Andrew replied grimly. "The 1st Suzdal Regiment is a skeleton."

  "And we've got fifteen hundred more muskets and fifteen artillery pieces from the factory," Hans stated evenly. "It's worth the price."

  "What time is it?" Andrew asked.

  "Nearly midnight."

  "If they force the road tonight they might be here on our flank by noon," Andrew said meditatively, looking at the rough map spread out on the table.

  "All right, we'll break position here in two hours. We'll pull back five miles to here," and he pointed to a small field that was bordered on the north with open fields, to the west by the river, and to the east by heavy woods.

  "Can we chance an open-field fight?" Hans asked cautiously.

  "They won't be up to us for hours—we'll dig in through the village and put the artillery hub to hub. Hold them till nightfall, then pull back to the next village"—he looked at the map for a moment—"to Tier. I want a message sent down to Kal to bring up several thousand workers and they'll dig positions there for us."

  Hans stood up and then, as if against his better judgment, looked back at Andrew.

  "You know that if they flank us down there, we'll lose everything?"

  "We need time," Andrew said wearily. "I know the risk, but by heaven we need more time."

  "Battalions, fire!"

  Fifty guns, resting nearly hub to hub across a front of a hundred yards, fired in unison, sweeping the field, breaking yet another formation of Tugars before they had advanced fifty yards out of the distant woods. Regrouping, the charge swarmed forward, the enemy shrieking and yelling.

  "Load canister!"

  "Smash 'em up, that's what I say," O'Donald shouted, looking at Andrew. "Smash 'em up. By God I haven't seen anything like this since we broke Pickett's charge!"

  Sitting astride his mount, Andrew watched with field glasses raised. This was the fifth charge they'd broken in less than three hours. Only once had the Tugars got close enough to use their bows. From over by the river the Ogunquit's guns added their weight, sweeping the field at an oblique, adding yet more to the carnage.

  The woods to the right were heavy with smoke as Tugars kept pushing farther and farther, trying to find his flank. One full division was in there already, a brigade of another moving in to form an angle.

  Excitedly O'Donald looked up and down the line as, one after another, gun and battery commanders raised their hands to signal they were ready.

  O'Donald put his fist up.

  "Battalions, fire!"

  A thousand iron balls swept downrange. Sickened, Andrew turned away as the advancing line simply disappeared. The charge faltered, and turning, the Tugars started to stream to the rear.

  "Load solid shot!" O'Donald cried.

  "Let them run," Andrew said quietly.

  "Those man-eating bastards, we can still kill some more!" O'Donald shouted.

  "They're brave warriors nevertheless. For heaven's sake, we broke them. Besides," Andrew added hurriedly, "we need to save our ammunition."

&nbs
p; Looking to the west, Andrew was relieved to see that in another hour darkness would come. So far the Tugars had shown no desire for night action. He'd wait a couple of hours, disengage, and pull back to Tier to slow them again tomorrow.

  Maddened with rage, Qubata rode across the corpse-strewn field. Five days they had been stopped at the ford. For five days more each day had been the same. In the morning the humans would be gone. Formations would be pulled in, scouts sent up, and then yet another village would be in their path, with heavy woods anchoring their right flank, and the river with its damn gunboat the left. At least we've learned what their wheeled weapons can do, he thought grimly. From four hundred paces away he had nearly been killed, the warrior next to him decapitated by a shot from one of their weapons. Charging straight in on them was madness.

  Twice Tula had been sent out in the afternoon to flank wide. Waiting through the night, he'd swept in at morning light only to find that the enemy were gone.

  Whoever this human was, he was good, Qubata thought grimly. He wished that the man could be taken alive, for surely he would be a pet worth speaking to; perhaps he could even be trained to serve. If not alive, he hoped that at least he could eat of the man's brain and heart.

  Qubata turned in his saddle and stared grimly at Alem.

  "Shaman, I care not if the night spirits are pleased, displeased, or screaming with rage. I want this army moved tonight."

  Alem shook his head grimly.

  "Tugars do not ride or fight at night. It causes a curse."

  "Then tell your prattle-spouting underlings that you've talked to the sky and they have given a pledge not to curse us."

  The priest crossed his long shaggy arms and sat silent.

  "Listen, shaman. You know and I know that your powers are a hoax. Old customs work when all observe them, for when Tugar fought Merki, or Uzba, or any of the tribes of the people, he wanted it done in the light, so all could see his prowess of arms.

  "But we are fighting men who do not care for glory. I will not waste my warriors again like this," and he pointed to the hundreds of bodies that lay about, ghostlike beneath the pale glow of the twin moons overhead.

  "The humans pull back, and are ready. Even now I can promise you that across that field," and he pointed southward, "they are pulling back. Tomorrow morning they will be at the next village, and then beyond that we will have to force our way through the twin passes. If they are allowed to group there we'll pay by the thousands to force our way through."

  "He's right," Muzta said riding up to Alem's side. "I will follow Qubata's advice, with or without your agreement, and I should remind you," the Qar Qarth said, drawing closer, "that I prefer my warriors to fight without some superstitious dread that is utter foolishness."

  "Must I remind my Qar Qarth that it is unwise to tempt the spirits," Tula said evenly, his shadowy form barely visible in the moonlight.

  "I know, Tula," Muzta snapped back, "and if we lose, then you will have yet another excuse to find blame with me. As keeper of the left, you will lead the flank march tonight, but by the spirits of my fathers, you'd better ride hard," Muzta said coldly.

  "When last I fought here," Qubata said, looking over at Tula, "there was a road going up into the hills above the first pass that I told you about. It must lead somewhere.

  "I'm leading this attack myself, just to make sure," Qubata continued, looking over at Tula with disdain. "I know that terrain. It's just a question of turning their position and perhaps we can still destroy them in the field."

  Tula growled darkly and stalked away while Alem looked at the group gathered around him. This final insult he would remember, and if indeed the cattle should somehow stop them, he knew quite clearly now where he could lay the blame.

  "I shall tell my people," Alem said coldly.

  "We move at once," Qubata roared, "before the sun sets I want the walls of Suzdal in sight!"

  Chapter 17

  He felt tight, nervous, as if an inner sense were warning him of some lurking danger. Unable to snatch a brief moment of sleep, Hawthorne came to his feet.

  Damn, it was starting to rain. So now he had taken to cursing as well. Cursing, killing, even knowing his wife before they had been rightfully married—what had become of him, Hawthorne wondered sadly.

  The campfire had simmered down, now hissing as the light cold drizzle drifted down, blanketing the exhausted army in a gradually rising mist. There was a dull brightening to the east. Dawn would be coming soon.

  "So my captain cannot sleep?"

  Hawthorne went over to the fire and squatted down while Dimitri, who had so obviously lied about his age to join, poured a hot cup of tea into a cup and handed it to his commander.

  "Something doesn't feel right, Dimitri," Hawthorne said quietly.

  Dimitri looked at Hawthorne, stroking his gray beard, his old weather-creased face breaking into a smile.

  "That is why I like you so much and will listen to you, my captain. I hear others talk. Their Yankee captains always say everything will be fine. You do not play such games as if we were children.

  "And yes," Dimitri said quietly, "something feels hot right. I know Tugars. They are not foolish folk. Five days we have slipped away at night. Tonight is the sixth. I fear tonight they are following close behind."

  "Get the rest of the company up. I want all the men on picket line," Hawthorne said quietly. "I'm going back to see our colonel."

  Tripping through the underbrush, Hawthorne finally saw the low flickering of a fire and came into the circle of light. Rossignol, who only short months before had been a sergeant, was resting against a tree, sipping a cup of tea. Hawthorne came up and saluted.

  "Sir, it might sound funny, but something doesn't feel right. I've ordered my entire company to stand to arms for the rest of the night."

  Vince Rossignol nodded wearily and came to his feet.

  "Word just came up from Hans. He's feeling the same way. We're letting the men sleep till dawn, then pulling back to the pass at first light."

  Rossignol looked up at the sky, which was now covered by dark, lowering clouds.

  "Damn rain—if it starts closing in, these flintlocks will be useless. I wish the hell I had—"

  "Tugars!"

  Hawthorne whirled about. There was the dull report of a musket, another round snapped off, and then the nerve-tearing high ululating roar of the Tugars, so similar to the rebel yell, thundered up around them.

  "Jesus Christ!" Rossignol cried, and then staggered backward, a look of disbelief on his face. His hands grasped feebly at the shaft buried in his chest, and then as if his legs had turned to sacks of water, he sank down and was still.

  "Captain!"

  Instinctively Hawthorne ducked. He heard the slash of steel whisk over his head, and then a thunderous howl of pain.

  Looking up, he saw a Tugar towering above him, sword in hand, stepping jerkily, and then crashing down. Dimitri stood over the form, his bayonet still jabbed into the Tugar's back.

  Another form came crashing out of the woods. Dimitri stepped low and lunged in hard, catching the creature in the stomach, sending him sprawling.

  "Captain, do something!" Dimitri roared.

  Dammit, Rossignol wasn't supposed to die! Johnson, the second in command, and May of Company A had both been wounded and sent back. He was the only Yankee left in the entire regiment who could command.

  Dimitri stepped back and looked at Hawthorne.

  Wild shouts rose up around him, the woods seemingly exploding with struggling forms, the war cries of the Tugars mingling with the steady screams of fear and panic at the surprise.

  "Son, do something, anything," Dimitri said quietly, grabbing hold of Hawthorne and looking him straight in the eyes.

  As if coming from a dream, Hawthorne nodded. All he could see were Dimitri's eyes.

  "Bugler!"

  "Here, sir!" A terrified boy came up to his side.

  "Blow the rally cry! Blow it for all you're worth! Dimitri, as t
he men come in, let's start forming a square, and get those colors uncased!"

  Coming from his tent, Andrew looked at the woods to the east, where the sound of a growing battle rumbled across the field.

  From forward, several scouts came galloping in.

  "They're on the other side of the field," a scout shouted. "Thousands of them coming up out of nowhere!"

  Dammit! An aide came rushing up, buckling Andrew's sword about his waist, while another led up Mercury, struggling at the same time to saddle the horse.

  Hans came galloping up, reining his mount in.

  "They've smashed into our flank. It sounds like Houston's division is starting to give way! And this rain, Andrew—if it gets any heavier, the muskets will start misfiring."

  "So they've finally hit before dawn," Andrew said, looking across the mist-covered fields. "That general finally learned and broke their usual routine."

  Andrew swung up into his saddle. The field pieces forward started to bark out as the first shadow forms came charging out of the mist.

  Andrew reined around to watch.

  At least this position was a strong one forward, but if they were on the flank he'd be rolled up in an hour.

  With every passing second the roar of battle on the right grew louder and louder.

  "Hans, if our right's been turned, get up to Houston and pull him out. We'll hold the front here with Barry's division and the artillery. Kindred's division I want in reserve. Position them to cover the passes two miles back. If they've flanked us this bad, they might be trying to spread clear around to our rear. Now move it!"

  Grinning with satisfaction, Muzta watched his warriors streaming up to the front. The enemy right was crumbling, and as the light of early morning spread across the mist-covered fields he could sense that Qubata's plan was working. Now all that remained was for the old general to continue his sweep and close the trap.

  "Keep moving!" Hawthorne yelled. "Hold this square! You've got to hold!"

  They had drilled for this out on an open field, beneath pleasant skies. Now they were doing it for real, through a light stand of forest, the rain coming down, and Tugar archers and charges of ax-wielding warriors pressing in on all sides.