Never Sound Retreat (29 page)

Now a wild cry went up from the Bantag side as their champion fell, and, by the hundreds, skirmishers rose from the grass and began to rush forward. The sergeant tried to pick up the colors and was hit, dropping to the ground, the colors clutched in his hands.

Andrew could sense that the fight for the colors was out of control, that regimental and corps pride would bring on a hand-to-hand struggle forward of his position, and in such a fight humans were bound to lose against their eight- and nine-foot foes.

"Sound recall, damn it!" he roared, turning to a bugler. "Sound recall!"

The bugler began the call, but the passion of the Third and its brother regiments was up as men surged down the hill, colliding in the open field with the advanced lines of Bantag warriors. Bantag artillery now turned on the struggle, pouring in shells regardless of losses to their own side.

A drummer boy, casting aside his instrument, leapt forward, darting low through the grass, weaving his way through the struggle. Falling atop the sergeant who was lying atop the colors, the boy pulled out a knife and slashed the flag free from its staff. Turning, he sprinted back through the melee, stumbling as a rifle ball spun him around. Coming back up, the boy limped up the slope, holding the flag high over his head. At the sight of his triumph the troops in the melee broke off the struggle and streamed back up the slope, cheering the drummer boy as he paused atop the breastworks and defiantly waved the flag.

Pat, still in command of the battery, had already ordered his guns swung about, and, as the last of the troops withdrew, he sprayed the grass with canister. With the barrels of the guns depressed, the rounds cut through at knee height, so that it looked like a giant scythe had swept half an acre in an instant, the grass blown high in the air to swirl about, bodies of Horde warriors and the few Republic soldiers caught in the whirlwind, disintegrating under the spray of iron.

"It's nothing but damn artillery ammunition!" someone shouted, and, turning, Andrew saw a panting crowd of soldiers kneeling by one of the three boxes, a sergeant, using his bayonet like a crowbar, had torn the lid off.

Andrew went over and looked in the box and saw twenty wooden containers stacked inside, the standard shipping sheath for fixed rounds of powder charge and a ten-pound shell.

"We got cut to ribbons for this shit?" the sergeant roared with disgust.

Andrew started to turn away in confusion, wondering what madness drove Petracci to risk a precious airship simply to drop three boxes of shells when one of the soldiers stood up, holding a sheet of paper.

"This was inside the box, sir. Better look at it."

Andrew snatched the sheet of paper from the soldier, ducking as a mortar run crumped nearby. He scanned its contents—it was a handwritten note from Chuck Ferguson. Grinning, he stood again.

"Get that box up by those caissons. One of you men pull out a shell and come with me. Sergeant, find the other two boxes and get them over here. Now!"

Andrew darted across the slope to where Pat was still working his three guns. Andrew grabbed him by the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him into the boulders. Pat reluctantly followed. Reaching the boulders, Andrew ducked and showed Pat the sheet of paper.

"It's from Ferguson. He's had three boxes of artillery ammunition dropped in on us."

"What the hell for?" Pat roared. "Three boxes aren't worth ant piss to us compared to what we need."

"Look at this," Andrew shouted, and as he handed the paper to Pat, he motioned for him to uncase the shell.

Pat pulled off the lid of the shell container and let the round slide out. "Damn thing feels light; what the hell is this?" Then his voice trailed away as he held the round and looked back at the sheet of paper explaining its use.

"Son of a bitch! This will give us something to play with now!"

"You're going to have to wait," Andrew shouted. "It says three hundred yards is maximum range. Make it a 150. Let them get up in a group. I want this to hit all at once!"

Grinning, Pat nodded.

"How many rounds do we have?"

"Three boxes—I guess sixty—so you have to make them count."

"I'll pick out my best crews. It's going to be tough, Andrew. They'll be right on top of us."

"I know, but at least we have something."

A thunderclap ignited to their right as another caisson blew, the blast slashing through the woods, knocking down dozens of men.

Andrew looked over the boulder and saw the enemy land cruisers relentlessly pushing up the slope, now less than eight hundred yards away, swarms of infantry moving with them. The thirty land cruisers had stopped and were now bombarding the hill, while farther back on the plains and in the ruins of the village mortar crews were relentlessly at work.

The bombardment was beyond anything Andrew had ever endured, surpassing even Hispania for its intensity. These were not Merki firing cannons they barely understood; the enemy before him were disciplined and well trained, their fire coming in with frightful accuracy.

The tearing sound of a volley erupted behind Andrew, and he looked up the slope into the forest.

"Sounds like things are opening on the other side. Pat, you're in charge here. Get a messenger to me once those damn land cruisers start moving again. I'll be on the other side."

Andrew scrambled out of the boulder field, calling for his staff. Mounting, he started up the steep slope, weaving through the forest, flinching as shells crashed through the trees. Smoke was billowing where part of the woods, in spite of the driving rain of the previous days, had caught on fire. Wounded men were crawling up the slope, trying to get to the reverse side, and he could sense a growing demoralization. Reaching the pinnacle of the hill, he reined in for a moment, moving around an artillery crew who were busy felling trees to open up a field of fire, one of the guns already in play. Someone had ordered the lightly wounded and a reserve regiment to build breastworks around the pinnacle and they staggered about, ducking whenever a shell screamed in.

A medical officer came up to Andrew and saluted.

"Their cavalry is pressing in, units armed with rifles; they're dismounting and pushing up the slope."

"Any artillery?"

"We saw a couple of batteries, but I don't think they're in play yet."

As if in challenge to the major's words a shell thundered in from the southeast and exploded in the treetops. The major looked up at Andrew and shrugged.

"Where's Emil?"

"Down there, sir. There's a ravine running down the east slope. That's where's he's putting the wounded."

Andrew saluted and rode off, picking his way through the forest, passing hundreds of wounded men who were hunkered low against the barrage.

The ground suddenly sloped off sharply, massive boulders blocking his way. He spotted the green-cross flag of the hospital corps and rode toward it. A makeshift operating theater had been erected under a canvas awning, and Andrew saw Emil at work. Unable to ride farther since every foot of ground was occupied by a wounded man, Andrew dismounted, making his way through the forlorn wreckage of battle. Orderlies moved through the press, passing out water, one crew operating on an anesthetized patient right on the ground. Horrified, Andrew realized they were cutting off the man's arm and he saw a pile of bloody limbs lying in a shallow pit.

Feeling light-headed, Andrew turned away, a sharp memory coming back of waking up in a barn, Emil sitting by his side, breaking the news that he had just taken off his arm. Again there was the strange sensation, the ghost arm, as Emil put it, that he could still feel his left arm, his hand. A blood-splattered stretcher bearer bumped against Andrew, not even bothering to look up, cursing as he shouldered Andrew out of the way.

"Andrew."

Emil, stepping away from the operating table, taking his surgical mask off, motioned for him to come over. Andrew hesitated until Emil stepped out from under the awning. Another shell rumbled overhead, smashing into the trees, exploding, screams erupting in the woods as a severed trunk crashed down into the hospital area.

"Damn it, Andrew. If we were fighting the Rebs, I'd tell you to surrender."

Andrew said nothing, looking around at the chaos, wondering how many of these men still might be able to fire a weapon. More shells arced overhead, most of them coming from the opposite side of the hill, the reverse slope and ravine at least offering some protection. But the batteries on the south side were starting to fire straight in.

"Can't you get some counterbattery down on those bastards?" Emil snapped.

"Pat threw nearly all our guns on the north and west sides—that's where the main attack is coming in. You're going to have to hang on."

"Colonel Keane!"

Andrew looked back to see one of Pat's orderlies at the edge of the ravine, standing next to his guidon bearer.

"General O'Donald said they're moving up!"

"I've got to go."

Emil nodded wearily.

"Last war I said I'd never touch a knife again; I can't take much more of this Andrew."

"None of us can take much more." Andrew sighed.

Patting Emil on the shoulder he scurried out of the ravine and, mounting, made his way back to the pinnacle. The artillery battery on top of the hill was now fully engaged. The slope directly below was blocked by the trees, but the open ground beyond was visible, and the crew was pouring its fire down on a mortar battery, which was shooting back at them, blanketing the top of the hill with fire.

A thunderous roar erupted below, smoke swirling up from the concentrated volleys of thousands of rifles firing at once. Andrew pressed down the slope, the woods around him alive with the hum of bullets, shells, and shot. As the trees began to thin out, he could see the embattled line, masked by smoke, men standing, kneeling, crouching behind shattered trees, casualties streaming back up the hill.

Dismounting, Andrew tossed Mercury's reins to Pat's messenger, ordering the boy to find a safe spot, and, drawing his revolver, he went down the slope, his guidon bearer dismounting and following in his wake.

Angling down to the field of boulders he pressed to the front of the line, dodging between the rocks, cursing when a bullet smacked into a boulder to spray his face with stinging splinters.

A high, piercing whistle sounded from the field below, picked up and echoed all along the line by dozens more. A deep booming roar, the death chants of the Bantag, reverberated, and from out of the shadows he saw the charge press in.

Ha'ark watched in silence as the bombardment smothered Rocky Hill, wondering if there would be any organized resistance left by the time his land cruisers reached the edge of the woods. A constant stream of couriers galloped up with dispatches and replies to orders.

Jurak was closing from the south. Lead elements of his mounted rifle units were already deploying, and within another hour thirty thousand more warriors would be up.

Looking down at the map he could see the crisis building. The dozen land cruisers of the humans were but three miles away, moving with an estimated twenty thousand men. Looking to the northwest he could see their columns advancing, land cruisers, puffing smoke, crawling down the distant slope.

He looked again at Rocky Hill. It would be best to let Jurak bring up more of his troops, yet to ease off on the pressure now would give Keane time to recover. In an hour he could strengthen his position, dig in. Already the Horde had expended more than ten thousand shells in the bombardment, more than half of all his artillery reserves.

No, the attack had to go forward. If there was a chance to annihilate Keane, it was now.

Chapter Thirteen

"They're at 250 yards!" Pat roared. "Damn it, Andrew, we can't stand out here like this any longer! Let me open fire!"

Crouched behind an upended fieldpiece, Andrew felt as if he would go mad if the barrage did not lift. The land cruisers had stopped, tantalizingly out of range. Lined twenty-five across on the slope, they poured in sprays of canister and explosive shell, sweeping the edge of the forest, while Bantag warriors lying in the grass poured in a devastating rifle fire. Andrew could sense his own rifle fire breaking down, men remaining crouched behind whatever protection they could find, no longer shooting back.

The roar of battle had swept around to the western slope of the hill, and in momentary lulls he could hear thunderous volleys from the south.

The number four gun in the battery collapsed in on itself as a mortar shell detonated directly on top of the weapon, the entire crew going down.

"Pat, put some solid-shot rounds on the ironclads. But hold the special shot."

"Andrew, it's a waste of powder. We know that."

"Do it. We've got to lure them in closer!"

Pat motioned for a messenger to pass the word to the other batteries. The boy had barely made half a dozen yards when he went down. Two more messengers went out, only one making it to the trees.

Pat passed the word to the two remaining gun crews, who trained their weapons on the nearest cruiser. Seconds later there was a spray of sparks from the front of the ironclad, and, along the line, Andrew heard the bell-like ring of shot hitting and ricocheting off.

With the change from shell and canister to solid shot on the part of the batteries, the Bantag infantry, which had been kept low by the artillery blasts, started to push in closer, some of them sweeping to where the brutal fight for the colors of the Third Suzdal had been fought out.

This time they controlled the field. No troops would dare to stand and oppose them now. A charge erupted from the Bantag line, a knot of warriors following a red standard, half a hundred of them reaching the woods and storming up over a battery before they were finally swept away by a battered regiment deployed around the guns.

Smoke from the intense rifle fire again obscured the field, and reports started to come in from brigade and division commanders, claiming that ammunition was fast running out.

"Pass the word to cease fire," Andrew shouted. "Hold fire until they're right on top of us. Hold fire!"

Fire started to drop off, and after several minutes, the rifle fire of the Bantag slackened as well.

The smoke, which hung so thick that Pat, who was standing only a dozen feet away, was nearly invisible, drifted and curled. From out of the gloom a lone narga horn sounded, followed an instant later by dozens more.

The sound of it chilled Andrew's blood. It was the signal for the attack, the same in all the Hordes, an insistent braying, which started at the lowest note possible, then shifted quickly to a shrill, bloodcurdling wail.

A roaring erupted from the Bantag hidden in the smoke, a deep rhythmic chanting and then, piercing through the wild insane noise, there was the shriek of the steam whistles, followed by a low deep rumbling as the black land ironclads began their final attack up to the tree line.

"Bugler, sound the artillery signal to load!" Pat shouted.

The cry was picked up by the other batteries. Turning, Andrew shouted for the regiment concealed in the boulders above them to come down and deploy behind the barricade where the two shattered field-pieces lay.

A loader ran past Andrew, carrying the precious bolts sent by Ferguson, and Pat personally took the round, gently sliding it into the breech, then stood behind the gun, waiting.

Rifle fire again erupted from the front, bullets slashing the air. Standing behind the number one gun, Andrew waited expectantly.

"Target to the right!" Pat shouted. "Number three gun, take the first in line. We got the second!"

Andrew could barely make out a dark form where Pat was pointing, and then it seemed to emerge in an instant out of the gloom, black iron dark and menacing, the human skulls arrayed across the top of the machine standing out stark white, obscene. Ebony smoke billowed from its stack, steam jetting from its sides.

Pat, screaming for his crew to work faster, stood behind his piece, sighting down the barrel as the crew shifted the prolonge, two men on each wheel helping to pivot the gun.

The machine they were aiming at shifted in its path, turning slightly to come straight on, and its forward gun port popped open.

"Down!" Andrew screamed. Even before he could duck the ironclad fired, canister slicing through the gun position, sparks exploding where the iron shot slashed against the barrel and iron-rimmed wheels of the gun, cutting down half the crew. The wind of the canister swirled around him, he felt a plucking, a pull which jerked him around.

"Lucky you had it cut off," Pat shouted, looking back anxiously at Andrew.

Andrew felt for his left side and then saw where his empty sleeve, which he usually wore pinned up just under the stump of his arm, had been torn open. The stump, nicked by the canister ball, was bleeding, the pain of the blow causing him to gasp.

Pat turned back to his piece, continuing to sight down the barrel, shouting for several infantrymen to get up and replace the casualties.

He suddenly held both hands high.

"Stand clear!"

Taking the lanyard up, he stepped back from the piece, turned halfway around, then jerked the rope taut and pulled.

A jet of flame snapped up from the touchhole, an instant later the ten-pound breechloader leapt back half a dozen feet.

In spite of the incessant roar of battle Andrew felt as if he could actually hear the bolt shrieking down-range, a slightly different sound, which, being unique, made it noticeable. A split second later a burst of steam erupted from the land cruiser's smokestack followed by a fierce detonation, the machine bursting asunder, a blowtorchlike jet of flame searing out of the still-open gun port.

Awestruck, Andrew looked down the line of advancing cruisers. Showers of sparks soared up from nearly half the machines, the high, piercing whine of some of the bolts ricocheting off the ironclads echoing over the thunder. For a few seconds Andrew wondered if Pat had just scored a lucky hit through the open gun port and that Ferguson's weapon was a failure. Then a second land cruiser exploded, followed a few seconds later by two more. Several of the machines had lurched to a stop, steam pouring out of their stacks and he saw a hatch open on one of them, a shrieking Bantag flinging himself out the open door.

Wild cheering erupted along the line, counter-pointed by howls of dismay and confusion from the Bantag. But the majority of the machines continued to lurch forward. Pat shouted for another round.

Stunned, Ha'ark saw the first machine go up, explosions ripping down the line.

"Press in now!" he shrieked. "Press it in!'

Over the smoke Andrew saw the signal rockets soaring heavenward even as Pat fired the second bolt, destroying a cruiser at less than fifty yards range.

"Like shooting elephants!" Pat roared with delight as he called for a third round to be brought up.

"Here they come!"

The cry erupted from the infantry deployed around them and, looking up, Andrew saw the wall of Bantag warriors surging forward at the run, their long-legged strides consuming nearly a dozen yards a second.

The charge surged up over the low barricade in front of the battery. A Bantag, rifle held high, leapt atop the gun, only to collapse as Pat, jumping backwards, fired a revolver into his face.

The sound of the Bantag charge slamming into the line echoed across the hill. Rifles were fired at point-blank range, counterpointed by the dull, sickening thwack of clubbed muskets crushing in skulls, muffled reports of pistols cracking when pressed straight into the body of a hated foe.

Men went down, kicking, struggling on the ground, the fight around the battery degenerating into a mad brawl, giant-like Bantags laughing with wild hysteria, swinging their rifles like clubs, diminutive humans darting out of the way, stabbing bayonets into the legs, stomachs, groins of their opponents.

The impact of the charge hurled the line back from the guns. Andrew, pushed back by the crush, heard a hoarse cry, someone shouting his name, and saw a Bantag towering above him, looking down with triumphant glee. Raising his pistol, he fired, but the warrior kept on coming, rifle raised high, already arcing down. Clumsily, Andrew rolled to one side, striking the rocky ground face first, his glasses shattering. The blow struck the ground next to him, the metal of the gun's butt plate kicking up sparks.

Rolling over, he aimed straight up at his now hazy tormentor and fired, emptying off all five shots before the giant collapsed backwards. Staggering to his feet, he felt someone grab him by the shoulder, pulling him back out of the melee. It was his guidon bearer, the pennant gone.

Gasping for breath, Andrew allowed himself to be dragged out of the fight and into the protection of the boulders, where riflemen stood, firing down into the bitter hand-to-hand struggle.

"Your glasses, sir?"

Andrew nodded, fumbling to his breast pocket where he kept a spare pair, and the boy helped him pull them out and put them on.

Squinting, Andrew looked around, ducking low as a Bantag burst out of the swirling confusion, rushing straight at them. His guidon bearer calmly drew his revolver and put three shots into the warrior so that he crumpled up and collapsed at Andrew's feet.

A shrieking whistle sounded to Andrew's right, and he saw an ironclad lurching through the press, moving up to the edge of the trees, its cannon firing a burst of canister at point-blank range, sweeping a dozen men off the boulders above Andrew.

"The guns! We've got to take the guns back!" Andrew roared.

Tossing aside his revolver, he drew his sword and held it aloft.

"Who's with me?"

He started down the slope into the rear of the battery area, the men swarming around him.

"Keane to the rear!"

The cry erupted around him and Andrew was startled as soldiers swarmed about him, elbowing him out of the way of the charge, men stepping in front of him, turning about, pushing him back toward the boulder.

"I'll stop if you retake those guns!" Andrew cried.

Physically restrained by half a dozen soldiers, Andrew could only watch as the charge surged back around the guns. He caught a glimpse of Pat, standing by one of his precious pieces, holding a sponge staff, using it like a quarterstaff, roaring with delight as he crushed a Bantag's skull.

He's having a good time, Andrew realized. He's enjoying this madness.

The countercharge swept through the guns, pushing the last of the Bantag over the barricade, and in an instant Pat was back at the gun, screaming for the infantry to help him swing the piece around. In spite of the rifle fire still sweeping it, the crew stayed in position, pointing the gun straight at the land cruiser less than twenty yards away, which was slowly pivoting, while a charge of Bantag swept past the machine and pressed into the woods.

Pat screamed for the men to stand clear and jerked the lanyard. The bolt struck the side of the land cruiser, drilling a hole straight through and into the boiler, which exploded.

The Bantag, who had only been pushed back a few dozen yards, continued to pour fire in, dropping half the men who had helped swing the gun about.

"Nothing more to do here!" Pat shouted, and, pointing to the boulders, he led the way up the slope, pushing Andrew ahead of him.

"Hell of a fight, Andrew, damn hell of a fight!" Pat roared.

Andrew scrambled with him up into the boulder field. Looking to his right he saw where the enemy charge had pushed back his entire line, firing erupting in the woods farther up the slope. Where the battery stood, the Bantag infantry had regained the outer side of the barricade and were now trading fire with the survivors in the boulder field.

"At least we stopped their cruisers!" Pat shouted with glee. "Must have killed fifteen, maybe twenty of 'em."

"But they're in the woods now," Andrew shouted, leaning against a rocky outcropping, gasping for breath. "If help doesn't break through, we're finished. Ammunition's almost gone."

"Then it'll be the bayonet," Pat said with a grin, his voice edged with the mad hysteria of someone who was intoxicated with fighting.

"Here they come again!" Through the smoke Andrew saw the charge swarming in once more.

"This is it!" Marcus shouted, reining his horse in by Timokin's ironclad.

Grinning, the young major saluted. "We'll see you at the top of the hill."

"Don't outrun your infantry support," Marcus cried. "Let the infantry clear the guns. Save our surprise for the hill beyond."

"Yes, sir!"

Marcus returned the salute and reined his horse about, galloping off to supervise the positioning of the batteries deploying along the hill.

Timokin leapt back into his machine, closed the hatch, and slammed the latch shut, locking it in place. Squeezing his way around the fireman, he looked at the pressure gauge, which was hovering near the red line as his ironclad, having labored over the top of the crest now began to roll down into the narrow valley. Watching the gauge, he saw it start to edge back down. The fireman, fire poker in hand, nodded and grinned.