But the horror of it he had never imagined. Twice he had been forced to retreat and had seen the streets choked with the dead and dying. Was this all his
fault,
was his dream madness for ever listening to the Yankee's talk?
Oh, how wonderful their words had sounded, words such as freedom, independence, liberty. But never had they told him of the blood, and the killing, the burning and the dying.
He had staked his belief on them, and now he would die.
The roar of battle thundered closer and closer. Kal looked around at his fellow conspirators and smiled grimly.
"When the mouse bites the cat, he should expect to lose more than his tail," and pulling out a dagger, he headed for the door, determined to kill at least one noble before they cut him to pieces.
"All company officers to the front!"
Andrew roared, and turning, he raised his field glasses to look back at the city.
God in heaven, he thought, looking in stunned amazement at the panorama of madness before him. As if a curtain had been pulled back, the storm had suddenly lifted, revealing Suzdal, in all its agony, a quarter mile away.
The area about Ivor's palace was in flames, the crackling roar lighting up the sky, while the screams of thousands came down before the wind.
Turning on his horse, Andrew looked back down the road, and his heart swelled with pride. The men had double-timed most of the way, and there had been few stragglers, so determined were they to reach the city in time.
Gasping for breath, the officers came up, gathering around Andrew's horse.
"This is going to be a tough nut to crack, gentlemen," Andrew said coldly, raising his field glasses again for another view.
"All right, the boys aren't trained in city fighting, so here's what we'll do. We can't let the men get separated and cut off into small groups, and once in there it'll be impossible for me to control the fight the way I can in the field.
"We'll attack in column of fours, just as we're lined up now. Companies A through D will follow me straight up the road through the gate and move toward the main square of the city. Companies E, F, and G, you're under Mina. Once you're through the gate I want you to break left, get up on the walls, and work your way around to the main road that runs straight through the city from east to west. Once you've worked your way over, start pushing up the road. Company J and K, you'll hold in reserve at the gate. O'Donald, bring the gun forward. You'll lead off by clearing the gate area,
then
fall in as support for the attack up to the square.
"Now tell your men to mark their targets. I know peasants will be hit in this—we can't help it. But for God's sake tell your men to try to know what they're shooting at first."
"You're leaving the north and east gates uncovered," Fletcher said.
"Exactly.
I want to leave them a way out of there. If we can set up a rout, they'll need a retreat. I'm hoping we'll trigger a panic and they'll run. It's going to be grim work, so be careful. If it gets too hot, pull back to the south gate.
"Understand?"
The men nodded their agreement.
"Artillery to the front!"
O'Donald yelled excitedly.
"All right, gentlemen, let's get ready."
Lashing their team, the gun crew galloped down the road, the infantry parting to let them pass.
"Uncase the colors!"
The chilling thrill washed over Andrew as the color bearers stepped to the front of the column. Behind them, five hundred bayonets snapped out of scabbards, rammers were pulled, and cartridges slammed in. Steel-tipped rifles came back up to shoulders, and grimly the men waited.
Dismounting, Andrew turned his mount loose. Drawing his saber, he stepped into the middle of the road, directly behind the limbered gun. Without looking back, he raised the sword high and pointed toward the city.
"35th
Maine
, at the double time forward!"
Down the slope toward the city they moved, gaining speed. O'Donald, roaring with delight, spurred his mount forward, screaming wildly at the gun crew, who clung desperately to the bouncing, careening limber. Never had he led a charge such as this, racing far ahead of the infantry.
The gates of the city were open before them. Onward they charged, galloping past still forms on the side of the road, and terrified refugees who leaped away at his approach as if he were an apparition.
A wild cry came up from the gate. An arrow snapped past.
"Battle front, unlimber!"
With skill borne from long years of practice, the gun crew turned from the road, the limber and gun skidding in the snow. Even before it had come to a rest the men swarmed off, heaving the gun free from its limber and turning it about to point straight at the gate.
"Spherical case shot, one-second fuse," O'Donald roared, jumping off his mount to join the crew.
The loader rushed up to the gaping maw of the gun, carrying a three-pound charge of powder and a shell that would explode two hundred yards downrange, cutting loose with a deadly hail of fifty musket balls packed inside.
A stream of arrows started to slam into the snow about the gun. The cartridge pushed in by the loader, he leaped clear as the rammer, leaning in on his staff, shoved the charge and shell home.
O'Donald grabbed a primer and stuck it in at the breech.
"A bit more to the left."
The men leaned on the wheels and angled the piece while O'Donald squinted down the barrel.
"Hold it. Stand clear!"
With a thunderous roar the Napoleon leaped back. An instant later the gateway filled with a lightning flash of fire.
Even as the gun fired, Andrew came rushing past, screaming hoarsely,
the
men now breaking into a charge.
He thought it must be his imagination, a desperate last wish that what was happening would somehow be prevented. Staggering from the sword wound to his arm, Kal backed against a wall, gasping for breath.
There was a pause, so others had heard a thunder as well, but it was only a second before the nobleman, screaming hoarsely, cut in again with his blade.
Near the front of the company,
Hawthorne leaped over the mangled bodies that filled the gateway. Ahead, by the glare of the burning palace, he could see the warriors running in panic up the street.
Dear God, he prayed, let them keep running, let them keep running.
He barely spared a glance for the carnage all about him. The streets seemed choked with dead and dying, peasants, warriors, and nobles piled indiscriminately atop one another. Fifty, a hundred yards up the street they pushed, meeting no resistance, while always at the lead were the colors and Colonel Keane, his hat gone, sword raised high, as if he were an avenging angel, with the demon of Sergeant Hans running by his side.
Suddenly the fleeing warriors slowed and stopped, coming up against a crush of men who were heading back down the street to meet the new attack.
Andrew stopped and looked back.
"Spread that company across the street!"
As a corporal it was now his job to help, and following Sergeant Barry,
Hawthorne guided the ranks into a double line while behind them Company B drew up in the same formation.
"Front rank, take aim . . . fire!"
"Second rank!"
Hawthorne brought his rifle up and pointed toward the still-charging warriors. How can I?
his
mind screamed at him. Dear God, not again.
"Take aim!" He steadied his hand, drawing a bead on a noble who, screaming and shouting, was driving his foot soldiers forward.
He closed his eyes.
"Fire!"
The gun slammed into his shoulder.
"Company B, six paces forward!"
Hawthorne
opened his eyes, and through the tears saw that the noble was gone. Perhaps he had missed the man and he had run away.
Hawthorne prayed.
Reloading, he waited.
"Company
A
, six paces forward!"
He stepped forward, rifle raised.
"Both ranks, take aim, fire!"
"Company B, six paces forward!"
Like a machine, he tore cartridges, his face smeared with powder. He felt as if in a dream, caught up in some devil-made machine, whose gears turned and turned, bringing him forward, and spitting broken bodies out the other side.
Slowly they advanced up the street, stepping over the dead and dying, the snow beneath their feet now churned into a pinkish slush that splattered their uniforms.
Ahead the street suddenly broadened out into the main square.
"C Company forward, A to reserve!" Andrew roared.
Pausing for a moment,
Hawthorne looked down at the ground, and recoiled with horror. Nahatkim's face looked up at him, a soft smile on the old man's bloody features.
A bitter hatred coursed through
Hawthorne's blood. They had killed that gentle old man, and he screamed with a crazed animal frenzy, his cries mingling in with the wild shouts of the regiment who raged at the carnage about them, and now added to it with every volley.
"
A and
D companies to the front," Andrew cried. "Form to the right of line!"
Pushing up the street, Hawthorne stepped into the square, and racing with his command the regiment shook out into a four-company front over fifty yards long.
The enemy had been driven back halfway across the square, stunned by the sudden onslaught, while to the left could be heard the growing rattle of musketry as Mina pushed his men up the flank.
There was a growing sense of desperation from the milling crowd in the middle of the square.
"They're gonna charge," Barry roared. "You can smell it, they're gonna charge!"
"O'Donald, get that gun up here!" Andrew shouted, looking back down the street to where the artillery piece was stalled by the sheer mass of bodies in their way.
"Here they come!"
"
Present.
. . fire!"
A scathing volley swept the square, but storming over the bodies the warriors pressed forward, screaming hoarse cries of rage.
"Independent fire at will!"
Furiously
Hawthorne rammed another charge home. He felt as if
all the
world were suddenly slowed, his arms made of lead. Ever so slowly he pulled the rammer out and fumbled for a percussion cap.
The wall of shouting, raging men came closer, closer.
He brought his rifle up, pointed, and squeezed.
The face of a man not ten yards away exploded in blood.
"O'Donald, the gun!"
It sounded as if Andrew's shouts came from a million miles away.
Relentlessly they came forward.
A dark shield seemed to fill the world in front of
Hawthorne. Bayonet lowered, he met the charge and thrust in.
His blade skidded off the shield. Over the rim he could see the wild eyes of a man intent on killing him.
An ax came down, and he leaped to the right. Gun raised
high,
he drove in, the bayonet catching his man in the throat.
And then another body filled the world before him, and then another, while all the time he screamed as if one possessed, no longer caring if he lived or died.
"They're running, they're running!"
Incredulous, Kal staggered to his feet. The noble who had been so intent upon killing him but a moment before seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
All up and down the street, doorways were flung open, people pouring out, armed with whatever they could grab.
Stunned, Kal looked about. Never had he seen his people thus, fire in their eyes, a look of triumph raising them to exultation.
"To the square!"
Kal cried.
"Death to the nobles!"
And his cry was picked up, echoing and reechoing above the nightmare which was now turning to hope.
"You've got to hold," Andrew roared.
They were no longer firing, for the pressure was too great to give his men a chance to reload. He knew that sword and shield against bayonet would win out, but they had to hold, and link up with Mina, who from the sound of battle was pushing in from the west.
Turning, he looked at Hans.
"Bring up the reserve!"
Saluting, the sergeant ran off.
"O'Donald, where the hell are you?"
And as if in answer the red-whiskered major came storming up to his side.
Drawing his revolver, he emptied the six chambers in a matter of seconds.