Never in all his years had he seen such fury in attack. Not even at Antietam when six times the rebs had charged across the cornfield, their casualties stretched out in rows from the devastating volleys that greeted them.
"Ammunition is almost out!" an aide shouted, pointing back to the magazine, where men were hurriedly pulling out boxes laden with cartridges and packed artillery rounds.
Looking back over the wall, he saw something that left him speechless.
From out of the Tugar formation a double line came running forward, their long legs bounding in ten-foot strides. Leaping into the moat, they scrambled up the wall, just south of the bastion, shouldering aside the warriors in front of them. In their hands they carried muskets.
They've figured out how to use them, Hans thought, feeling sick with the shock of what was unfolding.
As one the enemy gained the top of the wall. Hundreds of muskets were lowered, pointing straight down at the defenders, who were still in double line, grimly holding on.
A sheet of fire washed out from the Tugar line. A hundred or more casualties tumbled back from the breastworks. In an instant the regiment holding the line broke and started to run at the sight of the Tugars who now bore weapons like their own.
A storm of ax-wielding warriors came over the wall, charging through the Tugar musketmen, who clumsily reloaded their pieces.
Several artillery pieces in the bastion swept them with canister, knocking down dozens, but still they held. Another volley slashed out, ripping over the heads of the ax warriors sliding down inside the breastworks, tearing gaping holes in the Novrodian regiment which was attempting to regroup. The line broke apart from the blow, and, panic-stricken, headed for the rear.
The militia who had surged up to plug the hole stood dumbfounded at the sight before them, and with wild cries of consternation started to flee.
Hans watched grim-faced as within seconds a hole two hundred yards wide was cleaved into his position.
"The other side too," someone shouted, and racing down the bastion line, Hans came up to the northwest corner. Down by the river road he saw another hole, even bigger than the first, with Tugar musketmen swinging outward, their fire punching the defenders back.
From over by the river the Ogunquit was pouring out broadside after broadside into the flank of the charge, but still the enemy pushed in regardless of loss.
Hans walked over to the telegrapher.
"Signal back to headquarters," he said quietly. "Low on ammunition, am abandoning the northeast bastion, suggest entire outer line be evacuated."
Hans turned away from the wide-eyed signaler and looked around at his staff.
"Spike the guns, and let's get the hell out of here before it's too late."
Horrified, O'Donald leaped atop the armored car for a better view as the train, backing up the track, came to a halt.
From the outer breastworks to the inner wall, the Tugars were swarming in by the thousands. There was no hope of going forward, as thousands of panic-stricken men streamed past, pushing in a giant seething mass through the eastern gate by his side to reach the supposed safety of the inner city.
O'Donald ripped open the hatch and stuck his head into the car.
"Tear open the sides and get the guns out of here," he screamed.
Jumping down, O'Donald ran down the length of the car, yanking off the bolts that held the collapsible side in place. The men inside pushed outward, and the side of the car dropped out.
Grabbing hold of ropes, the gun crew swarmed out, pulling on the Napoleons. The pieces were edged out and clattered down the car side, which was now a ramp.
The men struggled to control the one-ton monsters which crashed into the mob streaming past, crushing a number of refugees. No one stopped to help the fallen in the mad flight.
Racing past the Bangor, O'Donald prepared to climb atop the other armored car. But he saw it was useless to try—the mob was pressing in too tight around the train.
"Spike the guns and get the hell out!" O'Donald shouted to the Suzdalian crew, who abandoned their weapons and, falling in with the Napoleon crews, started to maneuver the weapons to safety on the other side of the eastern gate.
"Malady, let's get the hell out of here!" O'Donald shouted, climbing back into the cab.
"Just let me shut her down," Malady shouted. "I'll be along in a minute."
O'Donald grabbed hold of his hand.
"Don't do anything stupid," the artilleryman said, staring straight into the burly engineer's eyes.
"Who, me? Get the hell out of here, you dumb Irishman."
Sensing something, O'Donald pulled the revolver out of his holster, tossed it over, and disappeared into the swirling retreat.
Grabbing a heavy wrench, Malady jumped from the cab and rushed to the front of the train. Climbing onto the coupling he disconnected the engine from the forward car, which had held the heavy Napoleons. Then he climbed atop the engine and swung the wrench down, smashing the steam safety valve into a mass of twisted metal.
Climbing back aboard the cab, he grabbed hold of his Suzdalian fireman by the scruff of the neck and heaved him bodily off the train.
"Can't take this ride, son," Malady shouted.
Opening the steam valve wide open, he let the pressure build, waiting as the panic-stricken mob stormed past. Finally the first Tugar came charging by, mingled in with the crowd, and then another and finally a surging mass.
He released the brakes and opened the throttle a notch. The Bangor lurched backward, gaining speed, while with each passing second the pressure in the boilers continued to build.
Malady leaned out of the cabin, looking past the wood tender and armored car.
A solid line of Tugars, in discipline ranks, were coming forward at the double.
"I'm going with you, Bangor! Malady roared as the train smashed into the enemy line like a hot razor cutting through ice.
With a revolver in either hand the engineer fired away, roaring with delight.
"Come on, you bastards!"
The engine careened up the track, slamming into a body of mounted warriors, the armored car derailing from the impact.
Hundreds of Tugars swarmed over the crippled dragon, slashing at it with swords and axes, clambering into the cab of the engine as pistol shots still rang out.
In an instant all disappeared in a swirling mass of steam, fire, and exploding metal.
At the gallop, Muzta, with Qubata at his side, angled his mount up the side of the parapet, the horses dancing skittishly over the bodies. Gaining the top, he reined in for a moment, exulting at the view.
For hundreds of yards to either side, his army was sweeping forward.
A deep hollow roar washed over him, and looking to his left he saw an outward-rolling cloud of steam and fire. Grim-faced, Muzta watched as the white shadow of death swept away, revealing a massive hole in the line. The battle paused for a moment, and then his host pushed on toward the eastern gate.
"Magnificent!" Muzta screamed, watching as hundreds of archers now turned their fire away from the enemy and, kindling burning brands, started to launch an unending stream of fire against the wooden walls of the inner city.
"Make sure the catapults are dragged forward," Muzta cried. "Position them all along these battlements and on that corner fort," and as he spoke he pointed to the northeast bastion, where a horsetail standard now fluttered in the evening breeze.
"It's magnificent, Qubata, magnificent."
But the old warrior was silent, looking grimly at the thousands who lay upon the field, the price for this madness.
"Let us go forward and draw some blood," Muzta cried, pointing to a swarm of militia fighting desperately to get through the narrow northeastern gate.
"Get him out of here now!" Kathleen cried to her assistant, standing next to the litter held by four stretcher bearers. "Take him to Dr. Weiss—he's in the main cathedral."
"Come with us now," the girl pleaded.
"In a minute," Kat
hleen said, trying to be heard above the unbelievable uproar outside the hospital. "I can't leave this man here till I'm finished," she said, pointing back to a young Suzdalian clutching his shot-torn leg. "He won't make it if I don't stop the bleeding. Get Kal back to safety!"
Kal tried to say something, raising his head from the Utter. Quickly Kathleen knelt down and kissed him on the forehead.
"Tell Andrew I'll always love him," she whispered.
Turning away, she returned to the table, and talking softly, she eased the wounded soldier into his sleep and started to work.
"Clear a way," Andrew cried, trying to force through the terrified mob.
At the head of the column he felt helpless, unable to move forward as thousands streamed past him. The 35th had formed a rough line before him, sorting out the broken regiments rushing in, sending them up to the wooden walls of the inner city, which were already engulfed in flames.
"Andrew!"
Through the gate Hans came into view, blood streaming down his face.
Andrew dismounted and pushed up to his old friend.
"You can't stop it out there," Hans said, leaning over his horse and gasping for breath.
"I thought maybe we could save those men still outside."
"If you send what's left of our reserve, they'll get swallowed up. We're going to need them in here."
Andrew looked at Hans, realizing the final difference between the two of them. He would still risk whatever he had to try to save his men. What he had done to Hawthorne still haunted him. Hans, however, could stand by when need be and make the sacrifice.
"You can't do anything for them. Those that can make the gate will have to do it on their own."
"Let's take a look, then," Andrew said, trying to still his inner anguish.
Gaining a ladder to the wall, the two climbed up and stepped out onto the wooden battlement, even as an unending stream of fire arrows whistled down about them.
The area about the gate for a hundred yards across was a horrifying knot of soldiers and militia desperately seeking safety, the Tugars pushing in from all sides.
"Get the 35th up here," Andrew cried. Moments later the blue-clad men came scrambling up onto the wooden battlement and started to pour in a scathing fire on the ring of warriors pushing in on the terrified circle of men.
Casualties started to tumble from the battlement as, unmindful of their losses, the regiment fought to keep the pressure off their retreating comrades.
The knot about the gate grew smaller and smaller, the Tugars pressing in hesitating at last beneath the deadly rain of rifle fire, delivered by seasoned veterans who could not miss, so compacted were the lines of their enemies below.
Toward the back of the mob Andrew saw a litter and instantly recognized who was being carried. With the litter barely through the gate, the portal was finally slammed shut. The walls were now roaring with flames, the aged wooden logs igniting under the incessant sheets of fire arrows poured into them. Already some of the men were giving back from the heat and smoke that engulfed them.
Horrified, Andrew watched while knots of survivors who had not gained safety fought with a final desperation as the Tugars closed in for the kill.
Rushing from the battlement, Andrew reached the street and saw the litter being carried forward with the crowd.
Pushing his way through, he stopped the litter and leaned over.
"Kal, my friend," Andrew cried, looking at the gaunt-eyed man before him. Andrew looked over the blanket and saw the emptiness where Kal's right arm should have been.
"Kal," and kneeling down he touched his friend gently.
Stirring, Kal looked up and tried to force a smile.
"This wound will do wonders for my career as a Yankee politician," Kal said wanly. "Now our people will have two one-armed candidates for president."
Andrew could not help but force a smile, realizing that Kal could still somehow joke, even as the world came crashing down about them.
"Your Kathleen saved my life," Kal whispered. "She is a good doctor."
"Kathleen? Did she get out of there?" Andrew asked, his voice choked with fear.
"Surely," Kal whispered, his voice growing hazy as he started to drift off. "She said she'd be right behind me."
The peasant tried to say something more, but blessed unconsciousness swept over him.
"Get him to Doc Weiss at the cathedral," Andrew said.
The party continued on their way. Numbly he stood up and looked at the now closed gate.
"You've got to get back to your post, son," Hans said softly, his hand resting on Andrew's shoulder.
"Damn them all," Andrew whispered hoarsely.
Terrified, she looked up at the towering presence coming through the door.
Feebly a.wounded Suzdalian came to his feet, raising a musket.
With a backhanded blow the man's head was swept away, the Tugar roaring with delight.
More and more poured in, laughing, shouting, their swords rising and falling mechanically in a frenzy of killing.
She looked down at her patient, his leg half off, arteries still spilling blood which she had been racing to stem.
At least he'll never know, she thought, releasing her hand from where she had been tying off a knot.
In silence she waited for the end, the Tugars seeing her, but paying no heed yet as they joyfully continued with the butchery.
A roaring bellow filled the room, even as a Tugar, grinning wickedly, started to advance toward her. Startled, she jumped at the sound. A Tugar dressed in armor of gold stood in the doorway. As one the warriors in the room bowed low, fear in their eyes.
The golden-armored warrior advanced down the length of the hospital room, looking at the carnage and the still-living men lying in their cots, waiting stoically for the end.
The Tugar came up to Kathleen and stopped, looking down at her, his teeth glinting in the firelight. Looking back over his shoulder, he spoke rapidly, and a bent-over warrior with graying arms and mane came up to his side.
"Are you a healer?" Qubata asked.
Startled that a Tugar could speak Russian, Kathleen merely nodded in reply.
Qubata pointed to the man lying on the table.
"You are attempting to heal him?" he asked softly.
"For you people to slaughter?" Kathleen said coldly. "I'll let him bleed to death first. It's more merciful."
"I promise him his life," Qubata replied. "I give him my exemption. Now heal him."
Kathleen, trying to still the shaking of her hands, went back to her task, hooking loops of thread over arteries, tying them off quickly, cutting back more, tying off again.
Finally most of the leg was cut away. Grabbing hold of the saw, she cut through the bone, and picking the scapel back up, she sliced away the last of the flesh.
Pushing the limb aside, she bent over, grabbed hold of the extended flaps of flesh, folded them in, and stitched the wound shut.
Finished, she looked back up and started to tremble.
"You are a Yankee woman," Qubata announced evenly. "I know no one of this world who could do what you have done, not even among our own people."
"Because you're too busy with butchering instead," Kathleen snapped back angrily.
"I have heard many reports from the people of Vazima who fled from your Yankee commander, Keane. They say he had a Yankee woman. Are you she?"
Kathleen remained silent.
Qubata slowly nodded his head, then spoke to Muzta.
Muzta, looking about the room, said something to Qubata in reply and started to leave. Stopping at the door, he pointed at Kathleen, spoke a short command, and then stepped back out into the battle.
"What did he say?" she asked nervously.
"Just that there is much good meat here," Qubata replied evenly.
"And myself?"
"You as well," Qubata replied softly.
The sound of battle gradually ebbed with the setting of the sun, so that Andrew, sitting in the jam-
packed square with his staff, thought for a moment that he was going deaf, for how else could it now be so quiet.
Drained with exhaustion, he stood up and looked around. An expectant hush had fallen over the men as they looked at each other uneasily.
Mitchell came out of the cathedral, a note in his hand.
Taking the paper, Andrew scanned the contents, then handed it over to Hans.
"Let's go hear what they have to say. Hans, your holiness, would you please come with me as well. Tell Emil to join us too," he said evenly, going over to his mount.
The three started down the jam-packed street, lit by the soaring fires consuming the outer wall. At their passage, all fell silent, looking up numbly at their leaders. The streets were now clogged with women, children, the old and infirm. Many of them were weeping, searching through the confused ranks. Others, finding a loved one still alive, clung desperately to his side.
"What do we have left?" Andrew asked.
"The three forward divisions are just about shattered. Many units lost sixty, even seventy percent," Hans replied. "Most of the artillery on the outer wall is lost. We have the one division in reserve and a battalion of guns. That's about it."
"Militia?"
"Broken, Andrew. Most of them are searching now for their families. They'll fight when the time comes, but not with any organization. It'll be street-by-street with them, nothing more."
"So we have three thousand men in one intact division and maybe another four thousand disorganized men lining the walls."
"That's about it. As near as I can figure, we broke at least ten of their large block formations, but they have at least five, maybe ten, in reserve."
"Well, we gave them a hell of a fight at least," Andrew said dryly. "But it's not enough, just not enough."
Coming to the edge of the wall, Andrew was stunned by the massive inferno consuming their final line of protection along the northern half of the city. Already some sections were caving in amid showers of sparks that rose upward on the westerly breeze.
Rally Cry Page 42
