Terrible Swift Sword (20 page)

"We are not needed here. The Yankees were not so foolish to offer resistance in the mountains, as I had hoped. Now let us go to where it will be decided." Nudging his mount into a canter, Jubadi Qar Qarth turned and rode down out of the high hills, moving toward the northwest behind his advancing cloud of skirmishers.

"Remember what Bobbie Lee once said?"

Andrew lowered his field glasses and looked over at Hans, who was leaning against the side of the high watchtower, chewing meditatively on a plug of tobacco and keeping his hands busy by whittling with a pen knife on a frayed stick.

"It's good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it," Hans replied quietly.

Andrew sighed, passing the glasses over to Hans and readjusting his spectacles, which he had pushed up onto his forehead.

"Funny, he was saying it about us when we went in at Fredericksburg. It must of been a grand sight for him."

"He wasn't stuck where we were. I remember it as

"Hell," Hans replied, taking the glasses and adjusting the focus. He then scanned the vast columns moving down toward the opposite bank of the Potomac.

The Merki maneuvered with a cold precision that filled him with admiration, coming forward in a vast checkerboard pattern, blocks of a hundred by ten deep, all mounted, each block riding horses of the same color, the umens screened a mile forward by skirmishers riding in open order.

Behind the columns of warriors, limbered batteries, spread out in open order, came inexorably forward.

"Once more into the breach," Andrew whispered.

He leaned over the side of the tower and looked down at the ground nearly a hundred feet below. For as far as he could see to either side, the entrenchments, earthen forts, and redoubts were lined with men, shouting excitedly and pointing out across the broad open river.

The telegraph key behind him started to clatter and he turned to watch as the boy copied the information down, tore off the sheet, and handed it over.

"From Barney down on the coast. Reports standards of four umens."

Hans grunted an acknowledgment and continued to scan the enemy line.

"But still nothing from the right," he said. "We've had them in sight since dawn and the left wing of their advance ends right here, less than halfway up our line. But their skirmishers are moving down the entire length of the Shenandoahs, screening straight back to the west."

"And?" Andrew queried.

"It's too pat. You know that as well as I do."

"Hans, it's over fifty miles of open prairie between here and the Shenandoah Hills. You can't hide a damn thing on them. We've counted fifteen umen standards so far, so it looks like it's coming straight in here."

"Could be an advance in echelon, refusing their left. I just wish I had one of them damned air machines," Hans snapped, nodding to where two Merki ships were ranging far behind to the rear of their position, and staying up high enough to keep out of the range of ground fire.

Andrew said nothing. Shading his eyes, he looked back out toward the enemy line.

"Getting across the river is going to be hell," Andrew said. "We've got thirty guns trained on this ford."

Hans nodded.

"They're coming straight in at our strongest point, and they know it."

Andrew watched the vast wave as it continued its advance. Suddenly the slow steady advance of the vast checkerboard formation quickened to a trot.

"By Jesus, I think they're going to charge!" O'Donald hissed, puffing hard. He had stuck his head up through the hatchway onto the platform, and was slowly climbing up to join them.

Andrew looked back over at Pat.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Came down to check on a reserve battery moving up," Pat said sheepishly, realizing that his excuse for coming up to the front was a slim one at best.

Andrew gave him a sharp look of angry reproach, then looked back at the Merki line.

"One damn hit on this tower and our entire command is gone," he said coldly.

A puff of smoke from across the river interrupted his thoughts. Long seconds passed until a faint concussion washed over the river. A geyser of water shot up in the middle of the turbulent water, and the shot skipped lazily on, slamming into the high mud bank.

Gunners in the battery down below looked up at Andrew expectantly.

"Let's get back down. I think the show is about to start."

This was the part he hated, but there was really no other way around the situation. Going to the side of the platform, he stepped into a small wooden cage. He then waved to the men below, who unhitched the rope from its stays and, running it through a windlass, quickly lowered Andrew back down to the ground. At the same time Hans and Pat made their way down the ladder. It was a convenience Mina had rigged up for Andrew, but he still felt rather foolish being hoisted up and down the watchtower like a sack of grain.

Running over to the side of the earthen battlement, he climbed up onto the top of the rampart and raised his field glasses. They were less than a mile away now, the undulating wall of horse warriors coming forward at a steady pace, horsetail standards to the fore, a strong skirmish line riding in advance a half-mile ahead. An advance line of scouts, who sat motionless on the far bank of the river a quarter-mile away, suddenly stirred to action, leaping up to stand atop their saddles, half a dozen of them raising red standards up high and waving them.

"They're marking the position of the ford," Andrew announced, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice at this display of cold professionalism.

The column of warriors started to shift so that three regiments of the checkerboard formation closed the space between them, presenting a front three hundred riders across.

Andrew could sense that all eyes were upon him. He looked over at the brigade commander in charge of the redoubts facing the ford and nodded without comment.

Within seconds the high clarion call of dozens of bugles cut the air. All along the earthen ramparts riflemen sprang to their positions, resting the barrels of their weapons along the wall. Gun commanders stepped behind their pieces, sighting them yet one more time, though they had practiced here for months in anticipation of this first moment.

Distant horns echoed and a faint drumming could now be heard, like the rumble of an approaching storm on the summer horizon. The line of skirmishers hit the opposite bank of the river, sliding down the muddy slope, their mounts neighing and kicking as they splashed into the still icy river.

"Hold your fire!"

The command echoed up and down the line. The men are following the drill so far, Andrew thought—no sense wasting good shot on a couple of hundred of the enemy when in another minute thousands would be in range.

The skirmishers pressed into the river across a broad front, those beyond the limits of the ford quickly sinking and turning their mounts about to struggle back to shore. The skirmishers within the half-mile front of the ford pressed in, raising red Hag-tipped lances up high, marking the path of the advance.

"Damn aerosteamers!" O'Donald announced, and Andrew turned to look over his shoulder to where O'Donald was pointing.

Three of the ships were coming down out of the north.

"Observation," Hans replied, not even bothering to turn back. "See our defenses in action."

The thunder was growing louder, washing across the river in waves. He could easily pick out individual riders now with his field glasses, and the sight of them sent a chill down his spine. The riders sat tall, bows in hand, burnished helmets glistening, human skull standards marking the lines. The commanders rode forward with scimitars raised, flickering in the red light of the afternoon sun. It was like the old time again, and suddenly Andrew's knees started to feel weak. God, it was starting all over again.

The first rank hit the edge of the river bank and went over the side, funneling in between the red pennant markers.

A scattering of shots echoed along the line, and angrily Andrew looked up as a sergeant ran along the battlement cursing at the top of his lungs. But the discipline held: The men waited, the few who had fired looking sheepishly about while they furtively reloaded.

The first line surged into the water, followed seconds later by another and yet another. Like small boats plowing into a sea the horses breasted the waters, churning the river into foam, slowing in their advance and yet still pushing on.

"Coming straight damn in!" O'Donald chuckled, rubbing his hands with glee. Stepping away from Andrew, he went over to the nearest gun and shouldered the sergeant aside. He grabbed the lanyard and leaned over for a second to check the aim. Satisfied, he stood back up.

The advance reached into mid-river, the water rising up over the stirrups of the riders, who silently urged their mounts on. An eerie silence settled over the field, neither side giving voice, the only sound the neighing and splashing of the horses.

A dozen ranks were now in the water, well over several thousand riders, and still they surged onward. The mounts were starting to rise back out of the river, some in water only as deep as their forehocks.

Andrew suddenly realized that he had been holding his breath, unable to exhale, the tension building to the exploding point.

The brigade commander leaped atop the rampart and raised his arm up, holding an oversized pistol to the heavens.

The first horse reached the opposite bank not fifty yards below them, struggling to gain a footing on the greasy slope.

A dull thump snapped through the air and the brigade commander leaped back down, the flare shell rising up over the ford.

Across a front a quarter mile long it seemed as if the very earth had exploded, as twenty-five hundred rifles and thirty field pieces fired almost simultaneously.

The river lifted up in a blinding spray of foam. Screaming horses rose heavenward, bodies tumbled over, ranks disintegrated as the hailstorm of iron and lead slashed into flesh and bone.

In an instant the muddy river took on a pinkish hue, the slaughtered shrieking in pain, the rumble of the shattering volley echoing across the river.

There was a strange moment of near silence along the line, as all paused to look at what they had accomplished by the simple pulling of a trigger, the yanking of a lanyard. Excited commands suddenly echoed out, and the clattering of thousands of ramrods slamming charges home rattled along the breastworks, as officers and noncoms excitedly urged the men on. Gun crews leaped to their pieces, swabbed out the bores, and pulled the sponges out. Loaders stepped up with powder charges and double tins of canister. There was the metallic clang of the rounds being shoved home, the sight of rammers leaping aside, the sound of gun commanders shouting for the crews to stand clear.

Individual shots started to ring out in a staccato punctuation. The best-trained fired first, followed seconds later by the growing roar of hundreds of weapons discharging nearly simultaneously.

O'Donald, shouting a joyful curse, yelled for his crew to stand clear, and with an emphatic pull jerked the lanyard of the Napoleon, sending a spray of nearly two hundred canister balls into the disintegrating ranks.

"Cease fire," Andrew said quietly, looking over at the brigade commander who nodded in agreement. The command was picked up and echoed down the line by bugle call. A desultory fire continued for a brief interval, O'Donald getting off one of the last shots after raising the elevation of his piece to spray the far bank with canister.

As the smoke lifted, a wild cheer rose up from the line. The ford was jammed with bodies, already spreading out, tumbling over in the current, and floating downstream in a swirl of muddy water and blood.

"Hundreds, we must of killed hundreds of the filthy buggers!" Pat exulted, coming back to stand by Andrew's side. The far bank was swarming with the survivors, who struggled out of the water, dragging their wounded with them.

"Why cease fire now?" Pat asked. "It's still canister range out there."

"Save the ammunition," Hans replied. "Save it for when we'll really need it."

"Hell, we smashed the bastards up right good!" O'Donald shouted, and his cheery cries were echoed by the thousands who lined the tops of the ramparts, as they shouted their defiant taunts at the enemy.

A distant whistling cut through the air and, looking up, Andrew saw a black dot dropping away from the belly of one of the aerosteamers, followed seconds later by two more dropped from the other ships.

The concussion of an explosion washed over the line. Looking to his right, Andrew saw three snaps of flame rising heavenward a couple of hundred yards away. The second bomb hit closer, tearing out a section of battlement and lifting a gun into the air. The third seemed to hover straight overhead, growing larger, its ugly scream rising in pitch, to pass over the fortress and explode along the muddy bank of the river, sending a torrent of mud erupting half a hundred feet into the air. The Merki aerosteamers turned about to run back to the south.

"Damn pains in the bloody ass," O'Donald sniffed. "It ain't a decent way of fighting."

Andrew turned and looked over at Hans, who had not even bothered to watch the bombing. His attention was still fixed on the other side of the river.

"They know damn well better than to have done that. The Tugars did it at the Battle of the Ford, and we choked the river with their bodies."

Andrew nodded in agreement. If anything, they had just proven this position to be completely unassailable. Not a single rider who had come within fifty yards of the north shore had lived to tell of the experience.

The riders on the opposite bank were drawing back, some shaking their fists in anger at the taunting jeers that still echoed along the line. All along the broad southern plain the advancing lines had halted just beyond the range of artillery, the riders sitting motionless. The sheer mass of numbers was stunning to behold as rank after rank drew up, standards marking formations, a vast pale of dust rolling across the plains.

Andrew nodded to Hans and Pat, then turned away and climbed down off the rampart. Waving his aides and staff aside, he stalked across the narrow confines of the earthen fort and out the sally port to the rear. Crossing the killing ground between the main line and the reserve position, he followed the trail through the series of entanglements until he'd gained the sally port into the next line. There the reserve troops who were standing atop the wall to watch the action cheered him as he approached.