A battery came clattering past, and O'Donald rode up to it and pointed to the position.
It was Dunlevy's unit, and Andrew struggled not to feel anything. Better that a few die here than that the three thousand in Kindred's command get torn apart.
They'd need infantry support, he realized, and from out of the battle smoke a unit that still held to a square formation came into view. It would have to be them as well.
Andrew galloped over to the shattered unit.
"Who's in command here?" Andrew shouted.
"I guess it's me, sir."
Andrew felt his heart go cold. God, why does it have to be this way?
he
thought, feeling sick at what he was doing. But he could not change a command because of a personal feeling, no matter how strong.
"You're doing good, son," Andrew said calmly. "I'm promoting you here and now to colonel."
Hawthorne
's expression did not change. In Andrew's eyes the boy seemed to have aged twenty years since he last saw him, laughing with childish delight as the balloon went up.
"
Hawthorne, fall in by Dunlevy. You are ordered to hold this position until the rest of the army has pulled out of the pass. They have to come down that one narrow road before you. The artillery should force them to keep their distance until they fan out through the woods.
Son, if you break before then, Kindred will be lost—for that matter, they'll roll us up completely before we get to the city.
Do you understand me?"
"Yes sir. In other words, hold to the last man."
Andrew was silent.
"The
Ogunquit
will support your flank. There's a lot of firepower on that ship. I'm leaving the decision to you
When you feel we're free of pursuit, break for the river. The
Ogunquit
will pick you up.
"I'll see you at sundown,
Hawthorne."
The boy saluted.
Andrew started to turn his mount about,
then
paused. Leaning over, he extended his hand, which
Hawthorne grasped.
"God bless you, son. Don't worry about your wife and child. I'll personally look after them."
"God be with you,"
Hawthorne replied calmly, his voice sounding distant and detached.
Releasing the boy's hand, Andrew galloped off, feeling cold inside, even as he blinked back the tears.
Hawthorne
turned back to the line and forced a smile for Dimitri.
"Can you swim, Dimitri?"
"I can learn very fast," the peasant said.
"Very fast indeed."
"Let's hope you'll have time to learn."
"Keep moving," Mina shouted. "The tools, for heaven's sake, take the tools!"
Gangs of laborers raced in and out of the building, sweeping up anything that could be moved. A train whistle shrieked, and stepping to the doorway Mina watched as the
Bangor
pulled out from the powder-mill siding, boxcars stacked with barrels, the hopper cars filled with raw charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter which could still be processed by hand back in the city.
Leaving the building, Mina scaled up the chimney ladder. Gaining the top, he hung on with one hand and looked northward. The rain had died away with a rising breeze from the west, driving before it the pillars of smoke that rose up from the pass. From horizon to horizon he could see hundreds of fires as Fletcher's men pulled in, burning everything that could not be moved. The burning had been going on for days, a pale of smoke rising over Rus from outlying regions all the way up to the border marches of Vazima, forty miles away. Nothing would be left to the enemy. Every barn received the torch, fields not yet harvested were burned, wagons that could not be moved were smashed, the supplies within dumped into the road. Thousands of tons of so desperately needed food went to the torch because time had simply
ran
out. At least the Tugars would find nothing to help them when they came.
The river road was packed with soldiers streaming back toward the city. The gates to the inner wall had already been closed, as the retreating units moved straight from the road to their prearranged positions behind the massive earthen breastworks.
From out of the east gate of the city thousands of militiamen streamed forth, taking their positions. To John Mina it looked as if the world were slipping into total insanity.
Wagons came streaming in from every direction, laden with the harvest from distant fields, their crews lashing wildly at the horses. All seemed madness and confusion. Below him the
Bangor
let loose with a shrieking whistle and started down to the city.
He looked about at all that he had
created,
a small empire of industry that back home would have been a source of envy. All that he had done was about to disappear, and weeping bitter tears, John started to climb back down, to help with the final loading.
The pass cleared, Andrew sighed with relief. Some semblance of order was finally coming as Kindred's men, extracted from their difficult position, came streaming past, moving at the double back toward the city.
It had been a difficult moment pulling them out of the line. Only O'Donald's skillful use of artillery, which it appeared the
Tugars
had come to fear, kept them at a distance as the hard-pressed regiments pulled back from their lost position in the passes.
The
enemy were
mainly on foot, and the artillery, still leapfrogging back, kept them at a distance. Thank God their cavalry, bottled up before the pass, wasn't on his back now.
Cresting the next hill, Andrew saw the city several miles away. Turning in the saddle, he realized that the distant clap of artillery from the pass had suddenly gone quiet. He waited for a moment and then, turning his mount, fell in at the rear of his army.
He'd brought the city eleven days of time. He could only pray that the price had been worth it.
"Now!
Now run for it!"
Hawthorne screamed.
Throwing down their muskets, the line broke and started to run madly for the river fifty yards away.
He paused for a moment before Dunlevy.
"Don't have a chance, boy," the artilleryman said, holding his side. "I'll give 'em a farewell gift. Now move your ass out of here!"
Hawthorne
grabbed the man's hand, and choking back tears, he broke into a mad run. Dimitri, who had been waiting for him, fell in alongside.
The
Ogunquit
let fly with a concentrated broadside, sweeping the Tugar line which was closing in from the north. But those who were now charging up from the south came roaring onward.
He felt as if he
were
running in mud, his limbs pumping, but maddeningly the ground went by all too slowly.
There was a crack behind him.
Hawthorne looked over his shoulder and saw the light gun leap completely over as its triple load of canister slashed into the horde, which overran the position. Dunlevy, waving a gunstaff, disappeared from view.
Men were splashing into the river, the crew aboard the
Ogunquit
screaming wildly, heaving lines in toward shore. A flight of arrows slashed past, churning the water. Dimitri stumbled and fell.
Hawthorne
stopped, grabbed the man, and pulled him up.
"Leave me," Dimitri cried, holding his leg. "Leave me!"
"Like hell,"
Hawthorne roared, and near carrying his friend he crashed into the river.
Still holding Dimitri, he floundered, came up, and leaped forward again. Arrows rained down about him as he held his burden with one hand and, kicking wildly, pushed farther away from shore.
A line shot out from the ship, and grabbing hold, he hung on to Dimitri as a sailor pulled him toward the ship.
Flights of arrows slammed into the
Ogunquit;
it looked like a giant porcupine stuck full of quills.
All about him in the water, more than a hundred men clung desperately to lines.
"Stay in the water!" someone shouted from above. A shudder ran through the ship as the single propeller dug in, swinging the vessel stern first back out toward the middle of the river. Still holding Dimitri,
Hawthorne clung to the line, suddenly wondering why he always seemed to get in trouble every time he got near water.
The great boat swung about, pointing its bow downstream, thus acting as a shield for those clinging to the starboard side.
More lines went over the side, and boats were lowered away. Some even jumped over the side, desperate to reach men on the point of drowning. Powerful hands grabbed hold of
Hawthorne and yanked him into a lifeboat, along with Dimitri. Sputtering and choking,
Hawthorne leaned over the side, gasping for air, as the boat was lifted back up out of the water. Pulled out on deck, he
staggered,
his legs trembling and weak.
Dimitri looked up at him wanly.
"So I finally learned how to swim," the peasant said, struggling for breath.
Holding back his tears,
Hawthorne looked about. There were far fewer than a hundred survivors. Eight hundred from two regiments and a hundred from the battery, and these were all that were left.
He had to keep control, he thought grimly. Turning, he walked astern and gained the quarterdeck.
Tobias looked at him tight-lipped.
Hawthorne
saluted.
"Colonel Hawthorne, commander 5th and 11th Suzdal, reporting," he said weakly.
"You were in charge of that?" Tobias asked, pointing back upstream to where thousands of Tugars now swarmed, streaming southward.
The battery along the deck cut loose with another volley, now that the rescue was completed, their shot smashing into the enemy ranks, which pushed on regardless of loss.
"Yes sir, I was,"
Hawthorne said quietly.
"How old are you, boy?" Tobias asked.
"Eighteen, sir."
"Damn me, that was the stupidest damn thing I've ever seen back there," Tobias growled.
Hawthorne
stiffened.
"And also the bravest," he finally added grudgingly.
"Thank you for your support and rescue,"
Hawthorne stated evenly. "I shall make note of it in my report."
"The hell you say.
A report from an eighteen-year-old boy, no less."
"Sir, I am Colonel Hawthorne now. I paid for that title back there, and by God, sir, I expect to be treated with the respect due my rank."
Still shaking his head, Tobias looked appraisingly at the hundred-and-twenty-pound youngster, who stood before him soaked to the bone.
"I think you could use a drink, son."
"I think, sir, maybe I could,"
Hawthorne replied, fighting vainly to hold back his tears.
"Here they come!"
Malady looked up from the cabin of his engine and gazed to where his fireman pointed.
A dark band of horsemen swung into view along the far bank of the Vina. Urging their mounts forward, they swung out wide from the battlement walls, charging across the dried riverbed, which since the building of the dam had been reduced to a mere trickle of a stream.
"Where the hell's Mina?" Malady roared.
"Still back at the powder mill the last I saw," the fireman cried.
"Damn that man."
Slamming the throttle down, Malady spun the wheels of the
Bangor
until they finally caught with a lurch, and the train, which had been backing down to the protection of the wall, jumped forward. The train started up the hill, gaining speed as Malady held the throttle wide open.
Not easing up an inch, he let the train roar through the curves, the boxcars behind him shaking and rattling.
From out of a side gulley a dozen Tugars came galloping up and reined in their mounts next to the track.
Staring with open-mouthed amazement, they pointed and gestured wildly at the approaching engine.
One of them leveled his bow and fired it straight in at the engine, the steel point striking sparks as it skidded off.
Laughing, Malady hauled down on the whistle, and roaring with fear the Tugars desperately hung on as their mounts kicked and reared.
"Look out, you bastards," Malady screamed as he raced past, giving them a rude gesture. Hitting the next turn, he saw several dozen peasants racing across the field trying to get back to the city. Malady slowed the engine, holding the whistle down. Leaning out of the cab he gestured wildly.