Sections of the city down in the lower northern half were ablaze as well, driving yet hundreds of thousands more to the protection of the upper city.
A small section of wall not yet consumed stood out darkly, the eastern stone gate beneath the wall still shut.
A knot of men from O'Donald's command stood about the gate, their four-pounders deployed across the road, and at Andrew's approach O'Donald came limping up.
"They drew back off and then we saw this knot of Tugars come up waving a white banner," O'Donald said. "Shot a couple of them, but they simply stood there. Finally we realized they wanted to talk, so I called for a cease-fire and sent a message up to you."
"All right, then," Andrew said wearily, "let's go up and find out."
Climbing up atop the gate, Andrew looked out over the flame-lit field. To the north he could see all of the new city given over to flames, which even now were starting to subside, the wooden walls to the old city shrouded from end to end with fire. Long sections had already collapsed in, leaving large gaping holes in the line. Beyond the new city, shadowy blocks of Tugars numbering in the tens of thousands stood poised for the final assault.
Calling for a torch, Andrew held it aloft as Hans and Casmar came up by his side, followed a moment later by Emil, who climbed up the ladder, his uniform soaked nearly to the shoulders with blood.
"The one called Keane—is he now present, with the holy leader of Suzdal, and the healer of the Yankees?" the Namer of Time shouted, coming forward.
"We are here."
"I am the Namer of Time. Once I rode to your city and was insulted by you. Now I have come as I promised under the rule of my lord Muzta Qar Qarth, master of all Tugars and cattle."
"What is it that you want?" Andrew said coldly.
"The submission of all the cattle of Suzdal and of the Yankees. Behold, your armies have been driven from the field, their corpses filling the bellies of our warriors. Your flimsy walls of wood to the north burn down to mere kindling. Your defiance is at an end, and in our mercy we now offer you terms."
"Go on then," Andrew replied, wishing somehow that perhaps there was still hope, even though he knew such dreams were vain.
"I speak now to the holy one, and not to the Yankee who has created this tragedy. The people of Suzdal are to surrender immediately to the horde. Your city will be destroyed for your act of defiance, but we will spare you, exacting tribute of five in ten for punishment. But the rest of your people will be taken to new places and there allowed to build again.
"For your Yankees we offer life as well. But you will become the pets of the horde. Those with skills we will give tasks to according to their abilities. But we demand, as is our right, the knowledge to stop the pox sickness.
"If you refuse, none shall be spared, all shall go into the feasting pits. Know as well that your defiance will cause the death of yet millions more from the pox. These are our terms. If you refuse, know that the city shall be ours. Be not fools, for surely you know that you have lost."
Sick at heart, Andrew looked at his companions.
"It has come to what I always feared it would," he said softly. "We tried as best we could, but their numbers were just too many."
Casmar looked at Andrew, putting his hand on the young officer's shoulder.
"Yet you showed us how to be men," the prelate replied, a gentle smile lighting his features.
"If you wish to surrender, your holiness, I will accept it."
The priest stood silent for several minutes as if lost in prayer.
"No," he said softly, finally breaking the silence. "No, I think not."
"There are hundreds of thousands who could live," Andrew said weakly.
"Live to be cattle again. Live so again boyar and church will grow in its corruption, squabbling, feeding their own people into the pit. I'd rather that for this final night we showed those creatures outside that men were not meant to be slaves. Let our people be consumed in the fire together, pure at the end, men and women no longer beasts. That will be something the Tugars will never forget. Perhaps word of what we have done will spread with the Wanderers and give hope to others. We have hurt them sorely here. In their hearts they must know that we represent a change in the order of this world, and to submit would only show that in the end we were weak, the cattle they expect us to be.
"No, I will not order my people to go into the pits without a fight. God bless you now, my son," the prelate said, making the sign of the cross over Andrew. "If you wish to take your people with you and leave aboard your ship, I shall understand. Perhaps then you can carry on your struggle somewhere else."
God help me, Andrew thought. So this is the ending of it, that cold premonition of long ago now at hand. How he had fought to delay it, and in his soul he feared that with this vain hope of freedom he had led not only his regiment to final doom, but all the people of Suzdal as well.
"We stand by you to the end," Andrew said softly.
"If we gave them the secret of vaccination, they'd use it just to breed more cattle," Emil said, trying to come to some accommodation with his code of saving life.
Casmar nodded for Andrew to give a reply, and feeling numb with remorse and yet fired with a rising hatred, he stepped back to the battlement.
"You'll have us when we're dead," Andrew roared. "We'll pile our corpses into the fire to keep them from you. If you want the city, come take it over the bodies of your warriors."
The Namer shook his head, stunned with the response.
"Then what is written in the soul of the sky must be," the Namer replied, "and I shall search for your liver when this is done.
"And to the one called Keane, my lord wishes you to know that the Yankee cattle named Kathleen shall be brought before his table when the battle is done!"
"God damn you to hell!" Andrew screamed, reaching for his revolver. Pulling the weapon, he shouted with incoherent rage as the Namer galloped off before Andrew could fire.
His companions stood silent, horrified. Finally Andrew turned back to face them, his features wooden, lifeless.
"Prepare the men," Andrew said coldly. "Form the 35th and our artillery in the square. That's where we'll make our final stand."
"I told you they would answer such," Qubata said evenly, looking over at Muzta, who sat grim-faced as the Namer galloped back up to his side.
"I want the city leveled by morning. Take prisoners when possible to fill our pots later—too much meat has gone to waste already," Muzta said coldly. "Let us finish with them, for they are a damnation to this world."
"In your inner heart you know I am right," Qubata said gently. "This never should have happened."
"Yet it has," Muzta roared. "I have lost three times ten thousand dead, and twice as many wounded. I want them to pay."
"And bleed ourselves to the edge of extinction?" Qubata replied.
"It is nearly done, my Qarth," Tula cried. "Now let me finish it!"
Wearily Muzta nodded his head, and as Tula galloped off to the north, the nargas signaled for the storm to be unleashed.
"In your inner heart you know I am right," Qubata again whispered.
His features drained, Muzta merely looked to his old companion and forced a smile.
"Perhaps too much has happened here today to go back to what I wish might have been. Your time has passed, my friend. Now stay with me through this night."
"And the woman?" Qubata asked, as if in an afterthought.
"What of her? I shall at least gain some pleasure when I feast upon her brain."
"To take a bitter vengeance on a worthy foe who fought merely to save the lives of his people? Venting your rage on someone who is innocent—will that change this?"
"Yes!"
"She could teach us much about healing, perhaps even revealing how to stop the pox, But more than that, she is worthy of our respect, as is Keane. My Qarth, if that is what you truly wish, then I am sad for you. I will serve by you tonight, but Muzta, I can no longer even call you my fr
iend."
Muzta turned and started to say something, but his words were drowned out by the rising thunder of battle.
The northern half of the host started to sweep forward, and within minutes were crashing over the charred walls. The screams of hundreds of thousands rose up from the city as the Tugars, roaring with triumph, pushed inward.
"Keep a ring to the south," Muzta commanded, "I want everything else poured in through the breach. I want no more lives wasted against any walls that still stand.
"Now let's go in there and finish this slaughter," Muzta said, his voice edged with what Qubata knew to be a deep sadness.
Chapter 20
Horrified, Hawthorne turned to look back into the pit of hell. The entire northern sky roared with the conflagration, and still they came on and on, till Tugars, fire, and the endless stream of refugees blended into one sustained nightmare that drove him to the edge of reason.
He had given up all hope of keeping his command together in the fear-choked rampage. All order was breaking away as the terrified masses filled the streets southward so that it was impossible to move. The Tugars, unrelenting in' their fury, pushed them ever back, slaying as they advanced.
Reaching the square, he looked around, dazed. Drawn across the great square stood the last remaining formations, in the center the men of the 35th and O'Donald with his four Napoleons.
Staggering, he was swept along with the surging mass of humanity. Perhaps he could still get to Tanya and the baby. At least Andrew had allowed them to be moved into the cathedral for the end. Weaving through the crowd, he reached the lines of the 35th, collapsing with exhaustion, Dimitri, clutching the flame-scorched standard of the regiment, the only one left to his command.
"Your regiment, boy?" Hans said, coming up and pulling him to his feet.
"Gone. I lost contact with them down by the docks."
"You did what you could, son," Hans said evenly. "Find a rifle and get in the line."
"Is this it, then?" Hawthorne said numbly.
Hans merely nodded in reply and pushed his way through the press, roaring for the people before him to clear the square.
Leaving Dimitri with a knot of Suzdalians from a dozen different regiments, Hawthorne pushed his way into the
cathedral, looking desperately about. A service was going on, Casmar at the altar, but his words could not be heard above the wild shrieks.
Pushing his way forward, he kept screaming for Tanya. A young acolyte came up to him. Grabbing hold of Vincent's sleeve, he pulled the boy down a packed corridor, opened a door, and guided him in.
In the narrow room he saw Kal look up at him, Tanya, the baby, and Ludmilla by his side.
Kal's eyes were questioning. Hawthorne shook his head sadly and sat down by the old peasant's cot.
"We gave them a fight they'll never forget," Kal said weakly, reaching out and taking Hawthorne's hand. Tanya, kneeling down beside him, said nothing, trying to hide her fear.
"It's just this damn fire I fear," Kal said weakly. "I've always been afraid of fire. Must have been from seeing their roasting pits when I was a boy."
"The entire lower city's in flames," Hawthorne said softly.
"I always told Ivor he should make ways to stop fires. Seemed like every twenty years most of the city would burn. The stupid fat man never could see the sense of building cisterns. Ah well, so now it'll burn once and for all."
"The wind out of the west is stirring it up," Hawthorne said, as if by talking the fear of the moment could go away. "At least the flames aren't coming this way—they're blowing straight over the Tugar camp. I heard some of their tents have caught."
"Let 'em get water from the dam," Kal mumbled. "Hell, at least something I built will be left."
Suddenly Hawthorne stood up and looked about the room. Grabbing hold of Tanya, he kissed her for a long lingering moment.
Nothing was said, but both understood what the parting meant.
"God keep all of you," he whispered and then pushed out the door.
Going through the door, he made his way down the corridor, and finding a narrow doorway, he pulled it open and raced up the stairs two at a time, till reaching the top he stepped out breathless.
"Colonel Keane?" he cried, looking about.
The few staff members there shook their heads and pointed back down into the square.
Hawthorne went to the eastern side of the tower and looked out. Flames from the city were racing straight eastward, lighting the sky. Across the entire lower half of the city, down to the dry banks of the Vina, Tugars by the tens of thousands were pushing forward, pouring in through the gaping holes in the defensive line.
Turning, Hawthorne looked straight up. Petracci's balloon still dangled overhead, its lone occupant leaning over, his terrified cries lost in the uproar.
Hawthorne leaped to the steps and raced back down. Pushing his way through the crowd, he forced his way back out into the square. Seeing several of Andrew's staff, he called to them, asking for the colonel, and like their comrades above they simply pointed out to the square.
"Find him!" Hawthorne shouted. "Have him meet me where the balloon is launched!" The men looked at him as if he were mad, but several started off in search.
Shoving his way through the crowd, Hawthorne made for the center of the square. A walk that before would not have taken more than a couple of minutes now seemed to take hours. At last he reached the platform, the men of the 35th anchored around it, the Napoleons flanked to either side.
"Help me get Hank down," Hawthorne shouted, pointing heavenward.
"Jesus, we forgot all about that fool," one of the men said. Grabbing hold of the windlass, several men started to wind in the cable. Twirling and spinning, the balloon came back to earth, straining out on the breeze so that it almost hit the highest spire of the church. Downward it came, largely ignored by the multitude in the square, so intent were they on the doom sweeping up from the north.
At last the balloon dangled directly overhead. Hank climbed over the side and leaped out, collapsing on the platform.
"I've been up there sixteen hours," he gasped. "You bastards forgot about me. I thought for sure that some burning brand would hit it and blow me apart!"
"Have you ever seen one of these things flown in free flight?" Hawthorne demanded.
"Are you mad?" Hank said faintly. "I'm never going up in that thing again. It could kill you."
"Then, dammit, get out of my way," Hawthorne shouted.
Looking around, Hawthorne could not see Andrew or Hans. Then the hell with it—he'd do it with or without orders.
Leaping off the platform, he saw O'Donald and pushed his way up.
"O'Donald, do you have any barrels of powder with your guns?"
"A couple of hundred pounds tied to one of the limbers."
"I need a hundred pounds now!"
"What the hell for? I'm going to pack the guns with it and blow them apart when we run out of shot."
"Just give me the powder," Hawthorne shouted desperately. "I'll tell you about it while we're loading."
"Captain, we can't leave them," Bullfinch, the young first officer, pleaded.
"It's lost, dammit," Tobias shouted. "It's all lost. So what the hell good is there in staying? I told that Keane a year ago he was a fool for staying here. With this ship we could have carved out our own empire without fear of these Tugars. But no, the damn fool wants to go and free these Suzdalians, like another Lincoln freeing the niggers.
"The hell with him. Now cast off the line. We're pulling out while we still can."
Bullfinch looked about at the men on deck. Tobias had shrewdly allowed his Suzdalian gun crews to bring their families aboard the night before, and he could sense that all of them, now seeing a way out, would follow the captain.
"With this ship we'll go back to those bastards down south and make ourselves kings. Now let's go."
"You can go to hell," Bullfinch snapped, heading for the gangplank. "I'm staying here. I'd r
ather die now than live with the shame you'll bear."
Bullfinch stepped down the gangplank. A young private from the 35th came out of the crowds lining the dock and raced for the gangplank.
"I'm going with him," the private cried.
"Who the hell is that?" Tobias roared, standing alongside the field gun trained down the gangplank, which he had used to keep the mob back.
"Private Hinsen, sir!"
Tobias smiled.
"Come aboard, private. I need men like you!"
Grinning sardonically at Bullfinch, Hinsen shoved his way past and leaped aboard the ship.
The lines were cast off, and the lone officer stood in silence as the Ogunquit, making steam, turned out into midchannel. With the river foaming under its stern the Ogunquit turned southward and disappeared from view, pushing its way past the dozens of ships, packed with refugees, that were making for the inland sea.
"You're a madman, God bless you," O'Donald shouted, passing up a pick and shovel.
"Just tell Keane if you can find him."
"I'll try, but not much luck on that now. It's your decision and mine, and I say do it!"
"You have any matches?"
"What a damned question at a time like this," O'Donald roared, pointing to the conflagration. Fumbling in his pockets, he pulled out a container of lucifers.
"Just a moment," and reaching into another pocket he pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and started to strike a light.
"Don't!" Hawthorne cried.
"Already done, laddie," as the flame snapped to light. Puffing cheerily, O'Donald looked back to the north.
"Might as well enjoy it while I can," he said grimly. "Goodbye, laddie, and good luck. Blow 'em to hell."
Pulling out a knife, he cut the tether line and passed the blade up to the young pilot. As the balloon started up, O'Donald unholstered his revolver and tossed it into Hawthorne's outstretched hands.
The balloon, burdened to its limit, hung motionless. A single sandbag remained on the side, and Hawthorne cut it away.
Rally Cry Page 43
