Never Sound Retreat (27 page)

The portable hydrogen generator sat in the middle of an open field. A cordon of unarmed infantry formed a circle a hundred yards wide around the airship and gas generator to keep any curious onlookers back, onlookers who might stupidly strike a match. At least the morning was damp. He hated filling a ship on a clear dry morning, when the chance for static electricity was higher.

The first two bags of the airship were filled. A ground-crew member was on top of the ship, carefully looking for any leaks, but the other two bags inside the gas cylinder were only half-filled. The crew was preparing to charge the second lead-lined tank with acid, the men moving cautiously as they unloaded the five-gallon bottles of acid from their packing cases. The acid was then poured into a hundred-gallon tank attached to the side of a lead-lined box a dozen feet long, and a half dozen feet wide by four feet high. The box was filled with zinc shavings. Once the tank was filled and the box sealed shut, a valve would be opened to allow the acid to pour into the zinc-filled box. Hoses attached to the top of the box snaked toward the airship, and Jack anxiously paced along the hoses, waiting, knowing he could not hurry his crew with the dangerous work.

The tank filled, the crew stepped back while the sergeant in command opened the valve. Seconds later Jack saw a flutter run through the hose as it gradually expanded, hydrogen coursing through it toward his ship.

Jack finally motioned for Feyodor to join him.

"Signal just came in from Marcus. They've crossed the stream; the offensive is on," Feyodor announced.

"Anything from Keane?"

"Just the report of the rocket barrage. Smoke plumes indicate Ha'ark's moving his land ironclads north, though. They might be moving to cut Keane off."

"Damn all," Jack snapped. "We should have been up hours ago. Getting those damn wings attached held everything up." He motioned toward the wings jutting from either side of the airship. Nervously, he walked around the ship yet again, double-checking the anchor points where the bilevel wings were joined to the frame of the ship. The damn things had worked, but that was back at the base in Suzdal and not after a transport of a thousand miles. The ship should have at least half a dozen more test flights before they even thought about going into action, but the rumble of artillery fire to the east was argument enough against that.

He looked at the three red-painted boxes stacked beside his ship and the canvas bundles attached to them. When Vincent had first briefed him on the mission, he had thought it madness, but now, with the report from Feyodor that the assault was on, he knew with a grim certainty that they would have to go in.

He wanted to swear at his crew, to urge them on, but the simple laws of chemical reactions dictated the pace of things now, and he stood silent, watching as his ship slowly filled with gas.

"Are you certain you saw land cruisers?" Ha'ark asked, not even bothering to look at the courier who had just galloped up to his headquarters.

"Yes, my Qarth. It was coming out of the woods."

Ha'ark motioned for the messenger to leave, and he was again alone in the bunker, staring at the map spread out on the table.

Both of the moves he was facing were audacious, surprising. Keane had broken through and had advanced half a dozen miles, and now this, more than an umen of their infantry, with land cruisers coming out of the forest from the northwest, driving down to link up with the breakthrough.

So the attack on the center was a feint, a trick to draw his attention.

Gazing at the map, he struggled with the calculations. His reinforcements were coming up fast but had been ordered to move toward his position facing the human armies which had closed from the west. It was increasingly obvious, though, that the action here had simply been a masterful diversion. They were trying to link up with Keane by attacking out of the forest to the northwest. Studying the map, he extended the lines of advance. If his reinforcements moved quickly enough, there was still time to engage and cut Keane off.

Stepping out of his bunker he mounted his horse. The commanders of his land cruisers and the reserve umens watched him attentively. Raising his rifle high, he pointed toward the northeast and urged his mount into a gallop.

Chapter Twelve

"Andrew, I think you better come up here and look at this."

Following Pat's lead, Andrew urged Mercury across a narrow valley of waist-high grass and up a gentle slope to where a skirmish line of dismounted infantry were deployed in open order, every fourth man waiting just behind the ridge, each holding the mounts of his comrades who were on the firing line.

"Rather hot up there, so you better dismount," Pat announced. Weary after long hours in the saddle, Andrew was glad for the assistance of an orderly, who reached up to help him get down. To his surprise some of Pat's staff had started a fire of knotted-up hunks of dried grass and as he walked past them, one of the couriers offered up a cup of tea, which Andrew gladly took.

Crouching low, he went up to the edge of the crest and peered over.

A heavy line of Bantag skirmishers was in the valley below, concealed in the grass, popping up to fire a shot, ducking low, then reemerging again to fire another round after creeping several yards closer.

Once again he was amazed by the change in their tactics. There was no insane rush here. Rather, a steady, methodical pushing. Dark forms littered the valley and distant slope, the wreckage of their retreat, dozens of bodies of the men of the rear guard dotting the field, a broad swath of grass, several hundred yards across, trampled down from the passage of the troops, artillery batteries, and more than two hundred wagons bearing the wounded.

Looking to the northwest he could see wagons spread out across the open steppe, swaying white dots moving in a sea of green, surrounded by a disorganized trail of the walking wounded. Flanking columns protected the wagons, fire rippling along the lines where knots of Bantag warriors on foot harassed the retreat. The entire column was pushing toward a village nestled against the flank of a high conical hill. Advanced elements of Eleventh and First Corps were already approaching the town, where a firefight was brewing. Farther back toward the northwest horizon, three red rockets flashed then dropped away, the signal that was being sent up from the relief column, guiding him toward safety. The signals had started shortly after dawn, causing him to shift his retreat away from the west to the northwest. But they were too far away yet, at least six or seven miles distant from the head of his column.

A trooper came staggering off the firing line behind Andrew, clutching his chest, a comrade helping him into the saddle, mounting behind him, and leading the man away.

"Off to our right," Pat said, drawing Andrew's attention back to the fight. "Over there!"

Andrew put his cup of tea down and accepted Pat's field glasses. Raising them to his eyes, he focused where Pat was pointing, then looked back at his own retreating lines.

A bullet nicked past in the grass by his side, tracing a line through the green stalks, which popped into the air around him. A Bantag wagon was on the far ridge, and seconds later a puff of smoke appeared behind it.

"Damn mortars," Pat snarled, as the high, piercing shriek of an incoming whistled over their heads, the round detonating a hundred yards behind them.

Andrew continued to study the dark masses moving toward his flank. Land cruisers ... it was hard to see how many, and he patiently tried to count the puffs of smoke, losing track after thirty when a gust of wind swirled the dark column together.

The cruisers were advancing in line, Bantag infantry deployed behind them in columns.

"Three miles, I'd make it," Pat said. "They'll hit the village just about the time our wagons push through. We've got about an hour at most before they hit us.

"Their rear guard's coming up fast." Pat pointed to the south and southeast. Andrew could see the dark columns of mounted warriors cresting the distant hills.

"They've got an airship up as well," Pat announced, tapping Andrew on the shoulder and pointing out the small dark cylinder moving up behind the column.

Sighing, Andrew handed the glasses back to Pat and slid down from the edge of the slope, curling up when a mortar round crumped down less than a dozen feet away, spraying him with dirt.

Startled, he looked over at Pat, who was grinning weakly as he brushed a spray of mud and grass off his uniform.

"Damn mortars. They can drop a round into a barrel."

The next shell detonated on the crest, and, seconds later, a shower of rounds exploded along the ridge. The last of the wounded were staggering off the crest, and Pat motioned for the skirmish line to start pulling back.

"They're going to get between us and the relief column," Andrew said, pointing to the south, where the first of the land cruisers was coming over the crest line, several miles away.

"I know, damn it. Andrew, you know what we might have to do."

Andrew looked at Pat and shook his head.

"We're talking about thousands of wounded, Pat, who can't move without help."

"We're also talking about the survivors of four corps."

"If they stay, I stay," Andrew snapped angrily.
"I
'll not have it said I left those boys behind to die, not with a relief column less than two hours away."

Another mortar round screamed in, and Pat fell forward, pushing Andrew to the ground, the concussion of the explosion lifting them up.

Pat stood back up, motioning for their staffs to get moving. Orderlies, leading their mounts, came up, and Andrew climbed back into the saddle, struggling to calm Mercury as two more rounds bracketed them.

Andrew beckoned for his staff to gather around him, the men looking up nervously as another mortar round shrieked overhead.

"We're stopping on the high ground," Andrew shouted, pointing to the conical, tree-clad hill across the valley. "We dig in there and hope that Vincent can break through. All of you ride, get to Schneid, tell him to abandon the attack on the village and get up onto the hill. Start digging in, and also try to push some couriers through to Vincent."

As he spoke he pointed beyond the hill, where, on the horizon, puffs of smoke still lingered from the signal rockets.

The last of the skirmishers came running down the slope, leaping to their mounts. "They're almost on us," one of them shouted. "You better get moving!"

His staff galloped off, only his personal orderly remaining, holding his guidon.

"Pat, see you on the hill," Andrew shouted, as he spurred his mount forward, galloping down the long slope, approaching the rear of the retreating column on the next ridge. Urging Mercury on, he weaved his way through the lines of wagons, which had backed up while negotiating their way down a steep embankment and across a swift-flowing stream. He tried to block out the screams of the wounded inside the wagons as they bounced down the slope.

"Andrew!"

Gaining the shore, Andrew leaned forward as Mercury bounded up the embankment and reined in next to Emil.

"We're getting cut off by the land cruisers," Emil announced. "Word just came back."

"I know." He pointed toward the conical hill. "Try and get the wounded into the woods up there. Get the horses unhitched from the teams and have the wagons upended as barricades."

"You know you could push on without us," Emil said.

"Us?
Who the hell is
us?"
 

Emil smiled.

"Keep them moving!" Andrew shouted.

Pushing on across the open fields, he passed columns of regiments, the front ranks breasting through the high grass, the men staggering forward at the double. Equipment littered the line of retreat, blanket rolls, backpacks, empty canteens, even bayonets and scabbards had been tossed aside, the troops stripped down to rifle, cartridge box, and their tar-covered haversacks which had been filled to overflowing with ammunition before the last of the ordnance wagons had been turned over to the wounded.

At the rear of the columns, exhausted and wounded soldiers struggled to keep up, comrades helping them along.

Spurring Mercury on, he started up the hill, pausing occasionally to glance back. The front of his column had already broken off the attack and was recoiling up the west and northwest slope of the hill. Pausing at a rocky outcropping, Andrew looked back along the line of retreat and saw his flanking units contracting, moving at the double. Pat's guidon stood out at the rear of the retreating column, positioned now by the stream, where the last of the wagons was crossing, a battery deployed by the guidon, firing at the line of Bantag infantry cresting the low ridge where he had been twenty minutes before.

Andrew urged Mercury farther up the slope where the ground began to steepen. He passed a clump of trees, a scattering of pines, with dozens of exhausted men sprawled under their shade. Edging his way around more toward the northern flank of the hill, he passed a rocky outcropping of boulders, some of them the size of small houses. A brigade of infantry streamed around him, the men deploying into the boulder field, Schneid galloping past below them, shouting directions, pointing out where the retreating brigades were to dig in. A battery of ten-pounders clattered up the slope, horses foaming, panting. The gunners swung their teams around, unlimbering the pieces directly forward of the boulders. The battery forge wagon came to a halt, exhausted gunners pulling picks and shovels from the back of the wagon and starting to dig in, while other gunners, armed with axes, attacked the nearest trees. A decimated infantry regiment came up the slope, their commander ordering the men to help with the building of the breastworks. Groans and curses echoed through the column, but the men set to work, knowing that a dug-in battery might very well decide whether they lived to see evening.

A wild shout erupted from the boulder field, followed by cursing and laughing as several of the men darted back out, followed by one of their comrades, who was holding a decapitated but still-writhing snake by its tail.

Andrew felt a shiver of horror. If there was one thing he was truly terrified of, it was snakes, and he suddenly realized that this rocky hill was most likely a haven for them. He stared at the soldier, who was teasing his comrades with his trophy. The soldier looked up at Andrew.

"Makes a great dinner, sir."

A ripple of laughter swept the regiment, and Andrew wondered if the terror he felt was evident.

Trying to smile, he turned his horse aside and continued on across the west flank of the hill. The column of land cruisers, which he had sighted from the last ridge and lost sight of crossing the valley, were again in view, far closer now, moving to the north, parallel to his line and just beyond artillery range. Dark columns of Bantag infantry moved with them, looking like some sort of living entity, a vast, threating multilegged creature, the sunlight glistening off their weapons. Horse-drawn batteries, limber wagons, caissons, and mortar units all moved with the columns.

Angling around to the north side of the hill, he saw Schneid's guidon and rode up to join the corps commander, who was standing next to a battery watching as the gun crews maneuvered their pieces into place, caissons and ammunition wagons deploying into the tree line.

"How's it going here, Rick?"

"Don't have much time, Andrew." He pointed to where the line of land cruisers were deploying into open formation. Bantag skirmishers darted ahead of the lumbering machines, engaging the thin line of blue waiting for them at the base of the hill and in the village, which was now wrapped in flames.

"Any sign of Hawthorne?"

"Haven't you heard, sir?"

"What?"

"Vincent's down. A courier just come through."

"Oh God." Andrew sighed. "How bad?"

"The courier didn't know. He led a charge to fix Ha'ark's attention on the center, while Marcus moved into the forest with Sixth and Fourth Corps. The attack we saw last night. The courier said word was it was pretty bad, shot in the hip."

So that was the fight from last night, Andrew thought. And it'd be like Vincent to lead it, hoping Ha'ark would see him. Damn.

Schneid, taking the cigar from his mouth, pointed off to the northwest.

"At least six miles out, caught sight of a column engaged a few minutes ago."

Andrew accepted Rick's field glasses and saw the smoke, antlike figures moving on the distant hills.

"Two, three hours at least." Andrew sighed. "Damn, so close, so damn close."

"And they're fifteen minutes away," Rick interjected, pointing back down the hill.

The battery before the rocky outcropping opened up, even while their infantry assistants dragged freshly cut logs up and stacked them in front of the guns. The woods behind Andrew echoed with shouts, the ringing of axes, the men working feverishly to throw up some protection. Over in the rocky outcropping teams of ten and fifteen men struggled with boulders, stacking them into breastworks.

More guns opened up around the western slope of the hill and as the first rounds hit the columns, the Bantag, moving as if guided by a single hand, began to spread out. Andrew lowered his field glasses to watch, awed by the precision of the maneuver.

"Four umens, forty thousand warriors." Rick sighed. "They're moving slow, you can see that, even some straggling. They must have forced-marched through the night."