Never Sound Retreat (12 page)

Looking to the next ridge, he felt a swelling of pride at the sight of a full corps of infantry deploying, skirmishers to the fore, regiments in column, moving at the double time. A wounded horse whinnied pitifully to his right, and Hans turned about and rode up to the beast, which was lying on its side, its forelegs broken. A Bantag rider was sprawled in front of him, neck broken from the fall. Damn stupid charge, Hans thought, coming across the valley like that. Hundreds of them littered the field, a troop of his own cavalry now riding among them, doing the grim work of dispatching the crippled survivors. Hans drew his pistol, aimed it at the horse's head, and squeezed the trigger. So damn strange, he always felt far more pity for the animals caught in war. Maybe it was their innocence of all this.

A courier on a lathered horse, lashing the animal hard, galloped up to Hans, reining in hard to stop.

"Suppose they countercharged right now?" Hans barked, even as the courier handed over a message.

"Sir?"

"Suppose those bastards countercharge. You wouldn't get a mile before your animal broke down and you got left behind. Take better care of him."

"Sir. This is from the forward telegraph station. It just came in."

Hans unfolded the message, scanned it, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Pulling out a pad of notepaper, he jotted off a quick note and handed it back to the courier.

"Get this back, but son, take it easy, we have a long day ahead of us yet."

"Yes, sir!" The boy saluted, reining his horse around. He started to dig in his spurs and, aware of Hans's critical gaze, relented and simply urged his mount up to a slow canter.

The battery that had been shelling the road was starting to limber up, ready to move forward, and Hans trotted over to their commander.

"Send the battery back, Captain."

"Sir? We've got them on the rim, sir."

"Actually, Captain," Hans said grimly, "it's the other way around."

"Pat, we've just lost our telegraph connection to Port Lincoln," Schneid announced as he handed over the dispatch.

Swearing, Pat looked up at the Bantag airship that was droning lazily overhead, just outside of antiair-ship range.

"Bet it was that bastard up there."

"Another one, about twenty miles short of the Shenandoah, swooped down, cut off a couple hundred feet of wire, then took off again. But that's not the worst of it."

"Go on. It's been bad enough today already."

He was still mulling over the latest message from Andrew, reporting the breakdown of the blockade. It was something, so far, he had only shared with Rick; no sense in triggering a panic. And besides, even if the bastards were going to try something on him, lookouts on the high hills facing the sea would see the fleet hours before it came in.

"We just got a report in from McMurtry—the telegraph line is up again. Indications of a strong Bantag force moving behind our flank. Nothing sighted yet, but the forest about twenty miles north was all cut to hell with tracks. The patrol ran into a skirmishing screen and can't get farther in."

"So them Wandering People were right," Pat said quietly.

The gunfire to forward had slackened somewhat; the bastards were most likely taking a breather before trying again. Casualties had been light, fewer than five hundred so far today and at least, eight maybe ten times that number for them.

Hans was right; there was more, far more. The flanking force, how much? A umen? Even that could play hell if they fell on the bridge over the Shenandoah. Wouldn't be well supplied though—whatever they could carry—but enough to put up one day's good fight. No, if they were going to go through all that trouble, it would be three, maybe even five or six umens. And what would one day accomplish if they were flanking me here? Lose a corps, maybe half my force cutting out.

There was something more afoot. Far more. They want me to hold this position, that's it. They want me here, while they continue to swing all the way into my rear. Audacious, damn them, but it'll hit thin air if we can get out in time.

"Rick, start pulling out now. Alert Eleventh Corps to stay awake on their left; we'll be falling back on them before evening."

"We're getting out?"

"That's right."

"How far, Pat?"

"I think right back to the Shenandoah. Me bunions hurt, Schneid. They always hurt just before somethin' bad's about to happen. So get the lads moving."

"Colonel, will you look at that!"

Colonel Arnett, Thirty-third Roum, of the First Brigade, First Division, Eleventh Corps had felt uncomfortable all day. He was, he realized, on the extreme left of the line. Granted, it was the reserve fallback position, and the battle being fought by First and Ninth Corps was eight miles up ahead. Strange, not a sound of the conflict could be heard, though if one put his hand to the ground, he could feel the land shivering from the battery fire. From the lookout tower the woods on the horizon were wrapped in smoke so that it seemed as if one was gazing into the fiery pit of Hades.

He looked to where the private was pointing. A few rabbits were bounding out of the woods, followed by what passed for deer on this world, gray shaggy things with a wide spread of antlers. More and yet more animals came bounding out of the forest to his left, running in panic. Flights of birds soared out of the woods, darting madly between the trees.

Funny, it reminded him of something, but what?

A single rifle cracked, followed by two more shots. One of the pickets out of the edge of the woods surrounding the fort was shouting something. Some of the men lining the breastworks were laughing at the sight of all the animals running through the clearing and were raising their weapons, looking at Arnett and waiting for permission to take a shot at dinner.

"Sir!"

It was Sergeant McDougal. He was one of the few men who had come through with the old Forty-fourth and never managed to reach a commission, just plain drunkenness and disorderly behavior always kept relegating him back down to the ranks. Even being a sergeant was almost more than he could handle.

"What now, McDougal?"

"Chancellorsville, sir! Chancellorsville!"

"What the hell are you talking about . . ." And then the realization hit. The regiments flanked by Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville reported the same things just before the Rebs hit, animals bounding panic-stricken out of the forest . . . fleeing ahead of the mile-wide line of the Confederate attack.

"Bugler, sound assembly!" Arnett roared, and it was the last command he ever gave as, an instant later, a sniper bullet smashed into his forehead.

McDougal caught the colonel as he fell, saw that he was dead, and dropped him. McDougal took a quick look around. The Thirty-third was well dug in on a low hilltop. Though drunk, he still knew how to fight, and, running to the parapet wall, he saw the black-clad host storming out of the forest and into the cleared firing lanes cut around the position. Bullets snicked through the air above him, a geyser of dirt erupting from the battlement wall by his side.

Laughing, he looked back at the men of his regiment, most of them green boys who'd never heard a shot fired in anger. The call of the bugle was no longer needed as the men raced to the battlement walls, fumbling to sling on cartridge boxes. Though only a regimental sergeant major, he took one look at the Roum lieutenant colonel who was second-in-command and knew that the old patrician was out of his element.

The Bantag leapt forward, shouting their deep soul-searching death cries. McDougal could see some of his own men already stepping back off the firing line, ready to flee.

Drawing his revolver, he leapt on top of the breastworks and, laughing, pointed the revolver at the advancing charge.

"Stand and fight, you sons of bitches," he roared. "We're all going to die, so let's go down fighting!"

Whipping his horse, Vincent Hawthorne urged it into one final desperate surge. He could see the messenger coming down off the crest a mile ahead, galloping hard, and the urgency of the rider already told him what he had dreaded to hear, though the thumping of the guns in the distance was indication enough of what was happening.

Overhead one of the damn airships was moving lazily to the southeast, toward the ocean. Even as he watched it, there was a puff of smoke, and several seconds later he heard the scream of the light shell as it came in and detonated fifty yards away. He continued to urge his horse forward, finally reining in as the messenger approached, motioning for him to swing around and ride alongside. The messenger turned his horse about and fell in on Vincent's flank.

"They're coming!" he shouted.

Even as the messenger screamed his warning Vincent reached the crest of the hill and reined in hard.

Fort Hancock, which guarded the narrow harbor two miles beyond, was wreathed in smoke. Flashes of light told him that the fort's guns were still firing, but he knew already there was precious little the fort's thirty-pounders could do against the forces arrayed before it.

Sighing, he looked back across the open prairie he had just crossed. The first regiments of infantry were visible in the distance, four, maybe five miles away. Another two hours before they'd be up, and by then it would be far too late.

"Sir, did you get our last message? We got no reply, the line went dead. I was told to come look for you."

"No. I saw where the telegraph wire's been cut as I came up," Vincent replied. "Damn airships."

"It's hell down there," the messenger said. "They've got some damn big guns."

Through the eddies of smoke he could see a half dozen ironclads sitting almost stationary less than a hundred yards offshore, pouring their shot into the fort. He had expected to see that, but it was what was going on along the shore a couple of miles south of the bay that filled him with awe . . . and fear.

Chapter Six

If ever he had felt a moment of triumph, it was here, at this moment. Ha'ark wished that others, who had known him before, could see him thus, those who had scoffed at him, those who had felt themselves his betters because of their blood, and not because of what they had accomplished as he had now accomplished.

The galley he was in raced toward the rocky beach, maneuvering at the last second to slow its forward movement. It was a point of honor that he must be first, so that the legend would be fed, to grow in its telling. As the boat slid up onto the beach it stopped with a sudden lurch, and, losing his balance, he fell forward off the boat, landing on his hands and knees on the muddy shore.

He could hear the gasps, the cries of some that an ill omen had occurred. His mind raced and then, smiling, he dug down into the mud with his hands, and stood up, holding his arms high.

See, my warriors!" he roared. "I seize this world with both hands!"

A wild triumphal roar erupted, and the warriors, eager to join him, leapt from the sides of the boat, into the muddy water, wading ashore. Casting the dirt down he turned to struggle up the slippery ledge to the high firm ground beyond, hiding his delight as some of his soldiers scrambled to pick up as a lucky talisman the mud he had dropped.

Dozens of boats beached to either side of him, each one disgorging eighty warriors, who raced up onto the open ground and began to spread out in open order, pushing a line forward toward the low ridgeline beyond. The airship overhead had already signaled that the nearest forces were still an hour or more away. Surprise had been nearly complete. His greatest fear had been that Keane would have received enough warning to block him. He did not yet have the ships that could land directly on a defended beach, and all his plans would have been for naught.

To his right, just beyond artillery range, the enemy fort was still under attack. Maybe the fools would be stupid enough to try and stay, for if they lingered much longer, his ground troops would cut off their escape and thus acquire rations for the evening.

More and yet more ships came in, disgorging their regiments, while one of the precious flat-bottomed steamships edged its way to shore, dropped a forward ramp, and the first battery of artillery was pushed ashore. Hundreds of warriors, armed with picks and shovels, were busy cutting a road through the ledge, and within minutes the battery was up off the beach, horses hitched to the caissons and then lashed forward.

Raising his field glasses, he could see a small cluster of riders on the far ridge. Was it Hans?

He focused in on them. No; if it was Hans, he would know. There would be that sense of defiance, that damnable defiance. If he could sense anything from this one, it was fear. Good, very good.

Two airships came in low over the hills and, rim-ning with the breeze, swept over the ocean, then turned into the wind. Dripping down, they approached one of the galleys, from which a small red balloon was flying. The first airship passed over the galley, snagging the balloon, and it soared up, cans of fuel dangling from the end of the line, which was quickly hauled up. The second airship moved into position, another balloon went up, to be snagged as well. The warriors around him watched the show with awe and looked with admiration at Ha'ark. Yet again he had shown them a new thing, a way of keeping the flying machines above them for yet more hours. It was so simple, Ha'ark thought, and yet so wondrous to them. Once their position was secured a station would be established and the airships landed.

His attention now shifted to the center of all his plans. A steamship moved in close to shore, and, as its whistle sounded, the towline astern of the ship was cast off. The four barges behind slowed to a stop. Galleys moved in on either side of the barges, lines were cast over, and the ungainly craft towed slowly the last hundred yards to the beach, galleys and barges sliding up onto the muddy shore.

The bow of the first barge dropped forward. Puffs of smoke swirled up in a black cloud, and, with its whistle shrieking, the first land cruiser edged off the barge, its great wheels sinking deep into the mud. Troops carrying heavy planks leapt from the galleys and ran up in front of the cruiser, throwing the boards down in front of the machine. He held his breath, waiting. The land cruiser edged forward, the middle drive wheels leaving the barge. The boards underneath cracked under the weight, sinking. The machine remained stationary for a moment, steam and smoke pouring out of it, and then ever so slowly it edged forward, heading toward the opening cut in the ledge. The land cruiser reared up as its front wheels dug into the embankment. It rose higher, and yet higher, its forward gun pointing to the heavens. Wheels spinning, it seemed to hang in midair, then cleared the ledge, slamming down onto the hard ground of the open steppe.

The driver held the whistle down in triumph, the high, piercing shriek sending a shiver down Ha'ark's spine. Farther down the beach the second cruiser was ashore, then a third, and a fourth. Whistles shrieking, they slowly started forward, infantry companies spreading out before the advance, artillery batteries falling in beside the cruisers.

The chant started somewhere forward, and in an instant swept the length of the line . . . "Ha . . . ark, Ha ... ark, Ha . . . ark!"

Grinning, Ha'ark waited as an orderly brought his horse. Mounting, he cantered over to the nearest land cruiser and, leaping from his mount, scrambled on top of the machine. Ha'ark motioned to the rifle in its scabbard, and an orderly drew it out and tossed it to him. He held it aloft, the sunlight rippling along the burnished barrel. Warriors who but short years ago would have charged with swords drawn, now held bayonet-tipped rifles aloft in reply.

"Ha . . . ark! Ha . . . ark! Ha . . . ark!"

Smiling, he looked back toward the rider on the hill.

"Ha . . . ark!"

The words floated in the late-afternoon air as Vincent lowered his field glasses. So that was him.

He tried to focus his thoughts, knowing all that Hans had told him. There were some of the Horde that could somehow sense the minds of others. Hans believed in it; so did Andrew. He now felt it as well, a probing, a taunting, a show of irresistible force that in his heart Vincent knew he could not stop.

Looking back down at the fort, he was horrified to see a column of men breaking out of the western sally port, running. They had waited too long. Bantag skirmishers were already deploying on their flank, pouring fire in.

He focused his glasses on one of them, watching as the Bantag fired, levered his breech open, slid a cartridge in, slammed the breech shut, capped the nipple, and aimed. Sharps pattern rifles, just like ours. Four, maybe five rounds a minute. He lowered his glasses and saw men dropping. The Bantag were good shots, hitting at two and three hundred yards. The knot of men thinned out, the strongest surging forward, running in panic.

The black-uniformed Bantag warriors charged, their long strides closing the gap at a frightening speed. The panicked regiment shied away, turning to the north, but there was no safety there, only a downhill run to the bay.

The messenger beside him was cursing, crying. Vincent ignored him. Looking back across the prairie, he saw a battery of guns, twenty-pounders, racing forward, still almost a mile away. Can we make the stand here, Vincent wondered, or should we pull back? Some of his staff was now gathered around him, looking in wide-eyed wonder at the army deploying from the beach.

Vincent turned and started barking out orders.

"Get that battery up here now! Then detail off the two closest regiments armed with Sharps to open out into a skirmish line and come forward." Vincent pointed at one of his men, and the orderly saluted and galloped off.

He pointed at the next one in line. "Get back to General Gordon, tell him to hold the rest of the division on the ridge behind us, and dig in! Then I want a message sent back to General Keane."

Vincent motioned for a message pad. Fishing a pencil out of his breast pocket, he jotted down a quick note—"Sir. The main invasion has hit here at Fort Hancock. Estimate two umens armed with modern weapons. Supported by eight ironclads, several hundred other ships. At least twenty land cruisers like one Hans described. Will try to delay them, await your orders."

After he signed his name he passed the dispatch over. "Ride like hell!"

Taking his field glasses up, he focused on the fort. Cursing softly, he watched as the last of the garrison was slaughtered. One of the Bantag, as if sensing that he was watching, held a man aloft by his hair while laughing and looking straight up at Vincent. With a flourish of his blade he sliced the man's throat, then lapped at the blood as it cascaded out.

Bitter cursing erupted around Vincent.

"They panicked and broke," Vincent said coldly. "They should have held the fort; we might have been able to get them out."

He knew that wasn't true, but at least they would have taken down more of the bastards before they died. The last knot of men were finally cornered down on the beach. Sickened, Vincent watched as some of them turned their weapons on themselves rather than face the final horror. The Bantag were butchering the corpses, hacking off limbs and strapping the dangling arms and legs to their backpacks before moving on, the action reminding him of his own men tying a dead chicken or a slab of freshly butchered pork to their belts in anticipation of dinner.

The battery was drawing closer. He could hear the shouts of the drivers, the major in command reining in beside Vincent and snapping off a salute. The major looked toward the valley below where the invasion force was fanning out and starting to advance, his jaw dropping in amazement.

"Major. Deploy right here! Aim for the nearest land cruiser."

"What, sir?"

"The land locomotive. The black thing down there belching smoke, damn it!"

Still mounted, Vincent waited impatiently as the first gun came up the slope, its crew cursing, shouting, urging the tired horses on for a final burst of effort. The first gun skidded around, its crew jumping off the caisson, those who had come up on foot, gasping for breath after the final run.

The team outriders urged the horses back down the slope once the gun was unhitched, placing the caisson behind the slope to protect it from direct fire. One of the gunners flipped the lid of the caisson open, looked back at the gun sergeant, and waited for orders. The rest of the gun crew maneuvered their weapon into position, the sergeant working the elevation screw down.

The major of the battery looked over at Vincent and pointed at one of the land cruisers, which was wreathed in a black cloud of smoke. Vincent nodded.

"Solid shot!"

The command was passed down to the sergeant, who shouted to the loader at the caisson. The loader pulled out a bolt, his assistant hoisting out a wooden box containing the powder bag. The lid of the box was torn off and the bag slid out. The two ran to the gun as the sergeant stepped clear. The round was shoved into the breech, the powder bag going in behind it, and the breech was slammed shut and the primer set.

The battery commander was already dismounted, standing by the gun, carefully studying the land cruiser with his binoculars.

"Range twenty-eight hundred yards!"

Vincent could not help but smile as the sergeant stepped away from the gun and, shading his eyes, studied the target for a moment before nodding in agreement with his young commander's estimate of range. Moving back behind his gun, the sergeant cursed the crew soundly as two men, holding the prolonge pole jutting from the back of the gun trail, moved the weapon slightly to the right. Two men on each of the wheels strained to pivot the gun until the sergeant, with a shout, held up both arms straight overhead, signaling that he was satisfied with how the weapon was aimed.

Stepping back from the gun, he picked up the lanyard, ignoring the crew of the next three guns, which were swinging into position on his right.

"Stand clear!"

The gun crew stepped away from the wheels and trail.

The sergeant jerked the lanyard. With an explosive roar the gun leapt back, a ten-foot tongue of flame erupting from the muzzle as the twenty-pound bolt burst clear of the barrel and thundered downrange. Vincent fixed his attention on the land cruiser, counting off the seconds. A plume of dust erupted fifty yards to the left. Not bad for a first shot, he thought, but the major, obviously embarrassed, roared at the crew as they swabbed the bore and reloaded. The second and third guns joined in, followed a minute later by the fourth gun of the battery.

Plumes of dust erupted around the land cruiser, one of the solid bolts striking a Bantag infantryman, who simply disintegrated in a spray of blood.

The range closed to just over two thousand yards, and still the land cruiser advanced. Bantag infantry swarmed forward, and Vincent looked anxiously over his shoulder. A long line of skirmishers, advancing at the double quick, were coming up the slope behind him, the first of the men, panting for breath, coming up to Vincent's side and saluting.

"Colonel Petrovic, sir, Seventh Kev reporting!"

"Colonel, you see your targets. Try and keep their infantry back."

The colonel looked wide-eyed at the host deploying before them, nodded grimly, then, shouting orders, urged his men forward. A bullet fluttered by overhead. Surprised, Vincent looked back across the field and saw that some of the Bantag skirmishers were already opening up at nearly a thousand yards. Either it was damn stupid or they really believed they could hit something, and for an instant he wondered if some of them were armed with Whitworth sniper guns.