Never Sound Retreat (10 page)

"Relax, gentlemen," he said, while puffing the new cigar to life. "The day's only started."

"Hard astarboard!"

Squinting through the narrow view slit of the armored bridge, Bullfinch tried to see through the clouds of smoke obscuring the ocean. As
Petersburg
slowly pivoted, he caught a momentary glimpse of
Ironsides,
flames pouring out of her gun ports, yet still the ship fought, turning to ram the Bantag ironclad on its port side.

A thundering jar rang through his ship, followed a second later by high, piercing screams. Pulling open the hatch which led down to the main gun deck, he stuck his head below. Another shot had blown clear through the starboard side of his ship. Men twisted in agony, torn apart in the shower of iron and wooden splinters. It was the third shot to pierce their side.

He closed the hatch, trying to block out the horror of what he had just seen, and returned to commanding what was left of his fleet.

"Damn it all to hell, I can't see anything!" Reaching up, he popped open the hatch to the unprotected flying bridge.

"Sir!"

He ignored the protests and scrambled up the ladder and out into the open, grateful for the cooling breeze after having spent five sweat-drenched hours locked up inside the armored command bridge. A rifle bullet snicked past, and, looking toward the monitor which they were aiming for, he saw several Bantag snipers arrayed along the top of the gun-house. Answering fire came from his own contingent of marines firing out of the gunports and the Bantag dropped. Going to the starboard side, he leaned over the railing of the flying bridge and was horrified to see the damage inflicted on his beloved ship. The entire side was shredded, pieces of armor buckled and bent at right angles. He turned away to scan the rest of the battle.
Roum
was still in the fight, as was the turreted ironclad
Fredericksburg.
 

Another bullet snapped past, plucking at the coat-tails of his uniform. Cursing, he ducked low and looked back to port.
Ironsides
was down at the bow and listing heavily. Two Bantag ironclads were off its stern, both of them pouring in a broadside at nearly the same instant.
Ironsides
visibly shuddered from the blows. It seemed to hang in the balance, then ever so slowly rolled up on its port side. Its propeller was still turning as it continued to go over, men scrambling out of the gun ports. An instant later the ship disappeared in a thunderclap explosion. Sickened, Bullfinch lowered his gaze, ignoring the snap of a bullet striking the deck by his feet, half-wishing the damn thing had hit him.

Petersburg
lurched beneath his feet, the entire ship j recoiling as the massive hundred-pound Parrott gun forward fired on the Bantag ship a hundred yards ahead. The shot struck directly amidships, and he had the grim satisfaction of seeing some damage done as the solid bolt sliced through the enemy armor and plowed into the interior of the ship. He looked around at the battle. Three ironclads left—the enemy had lost three, but there were still eight in action. The two that had finished off
Ironsides
were now turning toward him, looking like ugly black beetles crawling across the sea. If his ships had one advantage in this fiasco, it was better engines. They had speed, and that was it.

From the corner of his eye he saw the gun ports of the enemy ship directly ahead swing open, and he flung himself down on the deck. An instant later the broadside of four guns fired. A shower of sparks and debris erupted around him as the heavy bolts slammed into the side of his ship. From the renewed screams and curses below he knew at least one of them had again penetrated.

"Sir!"

One of his bridge crew was sticking his head up from the armored bridge below. "They've dismounted the forward Parrott, sir!"

"Damn all to hell!"

He stood back up, scrambled down below, and looked over at his signal officer. His voice tightened. He could not believe what he was about to do, but there was nothing left.

"Signal the fleet. Disengage, withdraw to the north," he whispered.

The crew looked at him, stunned.

"Damn it, do it now! We're beaten. We've got to save what's left!"

Feeling somewhat dizzy, Hans Schuder walked up the gangplank, grateful to be off the damn courier ship which had brought him from Port Lincoln. Crews were already busy behind him off-loading crates of ammunition for the twenty-pounder guns.

It was a hell of a way to supply the southern front, Hans thought. Move everything by train to Port Lincoln, unload the trains, load the supplies into one of the four light steamers that moved back and forth between Port Lincoln and Brunswick, unload the boats at Brunswick, load up the wagons then haul the supplies and distribute them along the 130-mile front. There had been talk of trying to build a port facility on the eastern shore of the Inland Sea, but the effort would have required a massive dredging operation and the cutting of a road over the Green Mountains, which ran like a jagged spine from the northeast, up nearly to Junction City and for several hundred miles to the southwest. The rail line, which they had been promised by Congress over a year ago, was still forty miles short of the defensive position, slowing inching its way over the mountains behind him.

The harbor area had the feel of barely controlled insanity that was typical of any supply head. Drivers swore at their teams, cracking whips, arguing with each other as they maneuvered through the foul, muddy streets. Crates of supplies were piled up haphazardly along the dock; bored guards stood about, leaning on their weapons, not caring much about anything other than when their watch was finished; harassed young officers ran back and forth all looking so self-important, as only a quartermaster officer could look. He could sense that the trail of youngsters on his own staff were looking around disdainfully, hoping that Hans would explode and start some solid chewing out, but at the moment all he wanted to do was get to his headquarters, a long twenty-mile ride away.

He sifted through the dispatches which had been handed to him before the ship even properly tied off. Pat was still holding out at the first fallback line, and the battle had been raging since dawn. News from Bullfinch nearly three days old, indicated nothing new. The troubling fact was a strong push by several umens up along the western coast of the Great Sea. Patrols had come in this morning indicating they were less than fifty miles out and closing. It could mean that by this time tomorrow action would be joined on his front.

Three umens . . . again he felt blind. There was no telling just how many Pat was facing, though he now claimed that twelve umens had been identified. It could still be a ruse. Three now to the south here. That would be the forward screen, pushing the pickets back, masking what might be coming from behind.

This war was taking on a scope he had never imagined possible, fighting on diverse fronts over five hundred miles apart. Something was not yet in place, he could sense that. Ha'ark still had something waiting, but there was nothing that could be done about that until the Bantag leader showed his hand.

Tomorrow he would order troops forward to engage the advancing units. Might as well take them as far forward as possible. After all, it was always a game of forcing them to trade lives for land. The more land they were forced to take by frontal attacks, the more we'll bleed them white.

And yet... He sensed that Ha'ark knew this game three moves before they were even made. The campaign, so far, was going as they assumed it would. Attack on two fronts, but we hold the key to that. We have the ocean, we can shift back and forth by rail while they are separated. Ha'ark would never be so foolish as to run his war that way. There had to be another part to this puzzle . . . but what was it?

"Your ship is ready, my Qarth."

Ha'ark walked own the gangplank to board the battle-scarred ironclad. As he stepped on board he could see the grins of delight of his warriors. There was a time when they had felt dishonored for having their horses taken away, to be replaced by a thing of iron, steam, and smoke. But today they had tasted victory, and that had changed everything.

"We are honored by your presence, our Qar Qarth."

Ha'ark acknowledged the salute.

"I am honored to be among you. You have done well today."

He could see the effect his words had. There was a time when so many of them had viewed him with, at best, wary caution. He was, at least by outward appearance, the fulfillment of prophecy, the Redeemer sent to save the race in its hour of crisis, but there had yet to be a true testing by blood. This triumph, this making of Yankee engines which could then defeat the humans, had now, in the minds of those who fought at sea, become proof of that prophecy.

As the ship cast off he walked up to the bow, signaling to his guards that he wanted to be alone. In the twilight it seemed as if the water of the harbor had disappeared, to be replaced with iron, steel, wood, and sinew. After the victory of the morning the vast flotilla had come down the final bend of the river, and the sight of his creation filled him with awe. More than five hundred galleys, powered by a hundred thousand Chin cattle, would transport three umens of troops into battle, then return to pick up three more. More than a hundred Chin sailing ships would transport thirty batteries of artillery, twenty mortar batteries, and the thousands of tons of food, supplies, and ammunition needed by his army. Six of his ironclads were already ranging far forward, driving back any surviving Yankee ships so that no prying eyes might see, while overhead ranged ten of his airships. As the paddle wheel of his flagship churned the water astern to foam, he looked aft. The towlines were taut, the ship straining, and then, ever so slowly, it lurched forward. The first barge started to move, followed seconds later by the second, third, and fourth. It was cumbersome and slow but they were moving at last. The other five steamships were already moving, each of them pulling a string of barges as well, the barges which contained his guarantee of victory.

Chapter Five

Pat O'Donald looked at the report just handed to him by a sweat-drenched courier.

"It's from McMurtry," Pat announced as he handed it over to Rick Schneid.

"Wandering Folk in the forest report dismounted Bantag on flank, twenty miles north of the farthest outposts. Should I deploy farther north?" Rick read.

"What do you make of it?" Pat asked.

"We've got scouts a good fifteen miles out on the flank who have seen nothing. These Wandering Folk, I don't trust them. They won't fight with us on our side, they just hide. Why would they help us now?"

The battery behind them opened with a salvo, and Pat watched as shots impacted a mile down the road, scattering a mounted unit. The smoke of the guns hung heavy in the gloomy forest. A gust of wind whipped through the trees overhead, carrying with it a plume of smoke and ash. The day before, the woods north of the road had caught fire and were still burning.

"Did you talk to any of these people?" Pat asked, looking over at the courier.

The courier shook his head. "No, sir. I believe General McMurtry talked with them, though. I was simply given this dispatch and ordered to get it down to you."

Tom McMurtry was a good man, Pat thought, part of his old battery, coming up through the ranks to command a division in Schneid's corps. He was now on the extreme left, ten miles away. But damn it, the report was vague.

Pat sat back down at his field desk and unrolled the well-worn map. They had fallen back twenty-five miles in the last three days, pulling out in late afternoon. The units which had fought leapfrogged back through the two corps which had fallen back the day before. This would give the units a day to rest and refit before becoming the front line again. The positions had been surveyed months before, fields of fire cleared, earthern forts and breastworks already dug. So far it had been a lovely killing match, almost too damn simple. Once pressure built up too much on the flanks all he had to do was pull out, fall back, and make them pay again.

But what was this report of a flanking force farther out? He looked at the courier.

"Were you there when McMurtry talked with them?"

"Like I said, sir, I'm not sure if he talked with them. I did see a couple of them at headquarters," the orderly replied. "They're a queer lot; never could trust them."

And damn frustrating as well, Pat thought. There were tens of thousands of them living in the northern forest, descendants of those who had fled generations ago into the woods rather than submit to the demands of the Hordes. Those humans who stayed behind had been mandated by their Horde masters to hunt them down. The old prejudice, no matter how illogical, still held, and there was barely a man in the army who thought the Wanderers to be worthy of consideration. Many half feared that they might even be possessed by demons.

Andrew, over Kal's misgivings, had sent repeated entreaties to them to join in the rebellion, and always there had been a refusal, a desire simply to be left out of the war. Pat could maybe see their point. They had survived for hundreds of years by going far enough north to avoid the Hordes, and most likely believed that the rebellion would end in the same way any other attempt at throwing off the yoke of the Hordes had ended, in total annihilation. Yet if ever they were needed, it was now.

Was this an accurate report, he wondered, or was it a trick, a Bantag slave sent in to lure a detachment deeper into the forest, where it might be cut off. If there was a weakness to the defensive lines, Pat realized, it was the northern flank. The damn forest was all but impenetrable, but if they were successful in getting an umen or two far enough north, then swinging around, it might mean getting cut off.

"We can't ignore it," Rick said, leaning over to point at the map where McMurtry had sketched in the reported location.

"So damn little to go on. Damn telegraph."

The line up to the left flank had repeatedly failed, and Pat was tempted to let fly with a stream of imprecations. But now was not the time. Andrew had lectured him often enough on that. The worse it got, the calmer he had to appear if he was to run an army. Once he got excited it'd race down through the ranks and unsteady even the lowest private. Andrew could play that role for him before, but now he had four corps under his direct control and had to act the part himself.

"Rick. Pull a battalion of the cav attached to your corps. Order it north, if need be to the north pole. I want this checked out now."

He looked up at the sun which was just clearing the trees to the east. It was going to be a hot day, he could sense that already, made worse by the fires and the fighting in the woods. By noon the boys would be suffering.

An inner voice was whispering a warning to him, to leapfrog back to where Third and Eleventh Corps were dug in ten miles to the rear. That would put them within ten miles of the railhead in case they had to get out fast.

He looked back at the map. But this was such lovely ground, a straight north-south ridgeline rising five hundred feet out of the valley below. Firing lanes cut, we could pile up twenty, thirty thousand of the bastards down there and not take a scratch. There was no position this good short of the Shenandoah River. Orders were to bleed them white, and besides, he hated to give up ground without a fight.

"Are we pulling back?" Rick asked.

Pat pulled another cigar out, bit off the end, and stoked it to a bright red glow. The roar of battle forward redoubled, and he could see the swirling clouds of smoke rising out of the forest ahead.

"Good ground here; let's make them pay for it."

"Sir!
Petersburg
is coming in!"

Andrew looked up from the pile of reports spread across his desk. Even though Vincent was his chief of staff and had unlimited access, part of him wanted to offer a rebuke for the way he had burst into the office. And then the full import of what Vincent was saying hit him.

"Petersburg?
What the hell is it doing here?"

"It looks all shot to hell, just came out of the fog a few minutes ago."

Andrew was out from behind his desk in an instant, heading for the door. The last of the morning mist coming off the ocean was dissolving into long, wispy streamers. At any other time or place he would have been out watching the sunrise for mornings like this. Fog breaking up over the sea as the first light of dawn hit so reminded him of home.

His stomach knotted as he saw the ironclad, sides blackened and flame-scorched, drawing into the bay. He knew he should wait in his office—it was undignified as commander to go running down to the dock just because a ship was coming in—but he was drawn nevertheless, struggling to keep his pace down to a calm walk. It was obvious that word had already spread through the port. Soldiers were pouring out of warehouses, shading their eyes to look down to where the irconlad was coming in. Even the crews in the rail yard had stopped work and were heading to the wharves.

"She's flying an admiral's pennant, sir. If Bullfinch is back, we've lost the blockade," Hawthorne said anxiously. Andrew knew it was best not to reply, for to do so would betray his own fears.

He lost sight of the ship for a moment as he walked between two long rows of warehouses. He could hear the men inside shouting that he was passing by. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that hundreds of men were now following him, anxious to hear the news.

"Andrew!"

From out of a side street Emil came up, puffing hard, and fell in beside him.

"Saw it from the hospital window; I have the ambulances coming to take off the casualties."

Andrew nodded, saying nothing. As he turned the corner around the last of the warehouses
Petersburg
stood plainly in view, water foaming beneath its stern as the ship backed engines to ease its way up against the dock. Several hoses snaked out of open gun ports, water pulsing out from pumps working below.

He slowed for a moment. The entire starboard side of the ship was a shambles. He quickly counted five holes that had been driven clean through the armor siding.

"My God, sir," Hawthorne whispered, "they cut her to ribbons."

Cries of astonishment rippled through the crowd as they pushed forward to look at the wreckage of the Eastern Fleet's flagship. The bent and mangled side hatch door opened, and the deck crew streamed out, scrambling along the side of the ship, catching lines tossed from the wharf.

A vent of steam escaped as the engine shut down and the ship gently bumped against the dock. Men lining the wharf were besieging the deck crew with questions. Andrew looked over at Vincent, and a nod was all that was necessary. Vincent scrambled onto the top of a piling, drew his revolver, and fired it into the air. Instantly all eyes were on him.

"All right, you damn bastards!" he roared. "You're behaving like a mob of schoolgirls. Now get the hell back to work."

The men looked at him wide-eyed. In the background the clang of an ambulance bell sounded as a white, canvas-covered wagon turned onto the main street leading to the dock.

"Listen, men," Vincent continued, softening his tone. "It's obvious they've had a fight here. Now clear away so we can get your wounded comrades to the hospital. I promise you we'll send a messenger with news around to all the units once we find out what's happened. We've got to stay calm. So get back to work; there's a job to be done."

The men, talking excitedly, reluctantly broke away from the wharf and started back up the hill, leaping aside as the first of half a dozen ambulances pulled up at the edge of the dock. The deck crew threw a gangplank across and the first stretcher came out, carrying a man who had lost both legs just above the knees.

He was in a daze, blinking in the light. Andrew stepped aside and for an instant the wounded sailor was looking at him. Andrew reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"You're home now, son," he whispered. The sailor tried to say something, but Emil was shouldering Andrew aside, placing a hand on the sailor's forehead, and urging the stretcher bearers on.

Andrew watched in silence, hiding his emotions as the stream of wounded were unloaded, men missing limbs, faces scorched and blackened, blood-soaked bandages wrapped over the gaping wounds torn into their bodies by shell and flying splinters. The walking wounded came next, hobbling down the gangplank, some of them trying to salute, but Andrew just motioned them on.

Finally Bullfinch appeared, hesitating as he reached the edge of the gangplank as if he was a schoolboy returning home with a report of his failure.

Andrew motioned for him to join him, returning his salute as he stepped onto the dock. Together they started to walk down to the far end of the wharf.

"We lost, sir," Bullfinch finally said, his voice thick with emotion. Andrew looked down at the diminutive admiral, who, like Hawthorne, was only twenty-seven.

"Tell me about it." Andrew listened in silence as his admiral described the disaster.

"I'm sorry, sir," Bullfinch finished, and as he choked out the words he finally broke down, lowering his head. Andrew put a hand on his shoulder, knowing the anguish, remembering his own failure when Third Corps was cut off, the debacle of the retreat back to the Neiper, and his dread of having to face Kal.

He looked at the ruins of
Petersburg,
and the full import of what it signified finally started to sink in. Ha'ark had jumped the level of technology, making ships and guns that could not only match, but exceed human output. The uneasy foreboding that had haunted him was coming to pass—Ha'ark was no longer imitating, he was leaping ahead. Ferguson could run all his calculations, they could upgrade their guns, their armor, and maybe for the moment regain balance, but the distinct advantage the Republic had maintained ever since the wars began, that they could count on superior weapons, was finished. He could sense that in the men who had stood by the dock. For years they had fought, bled, and died, first with smoothbores, then with rifled muskets, and now breechloaders, knowing they would have the edge. The damage to
Petersburg
was grim evidence that it might never be the same again.

Yet that was a question looking months, even years, into the future. It was what this victory implied for the moment that he had to focus on.

"Sir, I sent my executive officer ahead to tell you. Didn't you know?"

Andrew shook his head. "This is the first word we've received."

"My god," Bullfinch gasped. "I saw airships heading north—they must have sunk
Defiant.
I thought you'd have at least a day's warning."

"Of what?"

"My other ships? Haven't any reported in, sir?"

"You're the first ship we've seen in days."

Bullfinch looked as if he had been struck a mortal blow.

"We got separated during the night.
Roum
was listing heavily, falling behind. Their airships were over us nearly constantly, dropping bombs. Sir, they could be up here by late afternoon."

"You mean they've broken the blockade?"