Terrible Swift Sword (21 page)

Lost in thought, he barely acknowledged the shouts as he crossed through the second line to the log huts that served as his headquarters complex. Reaching the log cabin that served as his field headquarters, he went inside, his two friends following. He motioned for the telegrapher and other staff people to leave, then shut the door behind them.

"Of course we'll proclaim it a great victory, but it was the most asinine thing I've seen!" he snarled, collapsing into a chair.

Hans, going over to a side cabinet and pulling it open, produced a bottle of vodka and several glasses. Andrew waved him off, but Pat, grinning and ignoring Andrew's warning gaze, took the offered drink.

"Now, don't be doctorin' me, Andrew darlin'," Pat sniffed. "The hole in the belly is long since healed."

He grimaced slightly as the first shot went down, and then a cheery smile lit his eyes. Hans, after pouring a second drink for himself, sat down on the table opposite Andrew's chair.

"Now
will you believe me?" Hans asked, his tired eyes fixed on Andrew.

"Fifteen umens, maybe twenty-five positioned here," Andrew replied.

"Leaving maybe twenty-five elsewheres."

"No sign of them on the right flank," Pat interjected. "This is as far up as they've come."

"And their pickets are pushing up the north slope of the Shenandoahs right now. By tomorrow night they'll be a hundred miles to the northwest, far beyond our flank.

"We still have a watch post hidden in the woods all the way out to the right," Andrew replied. "If they come that way you'll have more than a day's warning. We can shift our reserve divisions up to you in under six hours."

Hans was silent.

Andrew sat back and looked at Hans with a weary smile.

"I have three corps, forty-five thousand men, to cover over a hundred miles of front. You've got a full corps on your end already, Hans. If trouble brews on your side, we can move Pat's corps over your way."

Pat looked up from his drink.

"That'll strip the capital naked," Pat said quietly. "I thought we'd decided to keep that reserve in case of the worst."

"It might
be
the worst," Hans replied. "But damn it, Andrew, you know better than that. Always reinforce victory, but never commit a single man to a defeat. If we lose the right flank, by Gott don't send Pat up. You'll need his men to hold the Neiper."

"So you want me to leave one corps, fifteen thousand men, to cover nearly a hundred miles of front, and put two corps on the far right?"

Hans nodded.

"You could have repulsed that last attack with five hundred men—one regiment, not an entire brigade. What they did was just a demonstration; they knew they couldn't get across, but they wanted us to think that they damn well intend to try."

Andrew sat in silence, staring at his old mentor's drawn features.

There just wasn't enough; nowhere was there enough. He had found a damn near impregnabl position—at least as long as the river was up until the beginning of summer—but the line was so damn long he simply didn't have enough to cover it all. Something in his guts was telling him that Hans was right, to risk it all and put his strength on the right. He had half a dozen ironclads holding the river's mouth, so there was no possible way for the Merki to bring up boats to ferry their warriors across.

Yet he still had to picket the long stretches of front that extended for miles, for to leave them entirely naked was to court disaster. All the Merki needed to do was to get several hundred to swim across at night against an unguarded point, and within hours they could open a breech, throwing a pontoon bridge across to secure the position.

He had calculated and recalculated this problem for months. They had to hold here, or enemy artillery would be lining the Neiper.

"It stands," Andrew said quietly, looking straight into Hans's eyes. He suddenly felt a cold chill, as if somehow he had set off down a path from which there could no longer be any retreat.

Hans forced a smile.

"It's a tough decision either way, son," he said softly.

"Is it the right one?" Andrew whispered.

Hans cocked his head slightly, a frown crossing his features.

"And what did I tell you when you were the young captain?"

"Not so young anymore," Andrew reminded him.

"Make your decision and then live by it," Hans said, the hint of a fatherly tone in his voice.

"You made the best one you could. If it had been me instead of you, I might have made the same."

He hesitated for a moment, then poured another drink. Hans looked over at Pat, who in an uncharacteristic display of abstinence put his hand over his glass.

Hans shrugged good-naturedly and tossed the shot down. Standing, he went over to the corner of the room and hoisted up his Sharps carbine, which in spite of his general's rank was still his weapon of choice.

"I best be going back up the line to my position."

A flurry of shots echoed up from outside, then just as quickly died away.

"Never forget it, Andrew Lawrence Keane. Win or lose this one, but never doubt that you can command. Even if we should lose out here, if af terwards you ever doubt yourself, then,
Mein Gott,
you and everyone that follows you will die. I'd never forgive you for that when we meet in the next world."

Andrew came to his feet, suddenly filled with the desire to embrace his old friend, but he decided against such an outward show of emotion.

There was so much that he wanted to say, but a look from Hans stilled his voice. Nothing needed to be said; nearly eight years of serving together had taught each the finest nuances of the other, the slightest gesture conveying far more than words could ever gather and express.

"Take care, Hans."

"I'll see you after it's all over," Hans said. He turned in the doorway and started out.

"After it's over, you old Dutchman, the drinks are on me!" Pat shouted, his voice a bit too loud.

Hans looked back, a thin smile lighting his graying features. He shot a stream of tobacco juice against the side of the cabin.

"You'll do well, son," he said, his voice barely heard, and then he was gone.

*
* *

"Colonel Keane."

Groaning, Andrew opened his eyes. A young orderly stood over his bed, holding a kerosene lamp in one hand.

"What is it?" Instantly he was awake, sitting up from his cot.

"Barney wants you, sir."

"Trouble?"

"You better come see, sir," the boy said, a touch of nervousness in his voice.

Standing up, he tugged at his rumpled uniform, motioning for the orderly to help him on with an overcoat.

The cabin was chilly, the fire in the stove having flickered down. A couple of the staff officers were sitting at the long map table, heads resting on their arms and snoring lightly.

Andrew went over and nudged one with his boot.

The boy stirred, then with a muffled curse sat straight up.

"Sorry, sir, dozed off."

"Obviously," Andrew said quietly.

Andrew looked over at the clock in the far corner of the room. Just before five; dawn in an hour and a half. The line should be standing, too, in another half-hour.

Going out of the cabin, he looked about. Shaduka was near to setting, its face casting a dull red glare along the battlements.

"Where's Barney?"

"At his command post," the orderly replied, pointing the way.

The early air was sharp, mingled with the scent of an army encampment: the usual smells of sweat, horses, badly cooked food, human waste, raw earth. The scent of home, Andrew thought.

The ground was damp with dew. Overhead the Great Wheel stood out dramatically in the high western sky, its fainter stars washed out by the moon but dramatic nevertheless.

Gaining the sally port he entered the fort, crossing the narrow parade ground and climbing the steps up to the battlement. Barney was leaning against the wall, but came to attention at Andrew's approach. Pat, who had yet to return to Suzdal, looked over at Andrew and nodded.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," Barney said nervously, "but I wanted you to hear this."

Andrew wanted to comment that the man could have called his division commander first, and then from there their old sergeant, Barry, who was now a corps commander, and so on up the chain of command, but he stopped himself from going into a petulant rage. Sometimes chains of command were a certain path to disaster.

"What is it?" Andrew asked, pulling the high collar of his jacket up to keep out the chill.

"Barney's right, Andrew," Pat said. "Just listen for a moment."

Andrew cocked his head, leaning over the battlement, the men around him hushed.

There was a faint, steady rumbling, the sound of hammering, and a murmur of voices, barely audible above the rippling tumble of the river as it flowed over the rocky ford.

"It started around midnight, sir. There've been several shots and once we heard a scream; it sounded human, sir. It's been giving me and the boys quite a stir all night."

Andrew looked over to the east. The sky was starting to modulate into the first indigo hues of dawn, but it was still deep night.

"Have the men stand to."

Within seconds the call to arms had sounded down the length of the line and echoed off into the distance. It was impossible to hear the noise from the other bank anymore, as men, grumbling and shouting, came to their posts to join the forces that had been tensely manning the line since midnight. He had been told that Merki tradition, like Tugar, was to abstain from night action, but the Tugars had finally broken that custom with near disastrous results in the Battle before the Pass.

The minutes seemed to drag out. An orderly came up with a hot mug of tea and a slab of cheese-coated bread. Andrew sipped the scalding brew leaning against the rampart, watching as the faint light started to rise like a curtain. The second moon rose to the southeast, its crescent now a couple of days from new.

The middle of the river was in hazy view. Wisps of fog drifted down with the current, the banks shrouded with hovering mists. The far bank was still shadowy, but it was obvious that somehow it had changed. Dim forms were visible, moving in and out of the mists. He raised his field glasses but the light was still too dim, the fog blocking the view.

Cursing quietly, he drained off the rest of the mug and motioned for the orderly to bring another cup for Barney and himself.

The sky to the east continued to brighten, turning scarlet. A lone nargas sounded from the far bank, followed seconds later by a rising thunder of drums and horns. Shadowy forms stirred, and then a low, bone-chilling howl echoed from the southern shore. A dissonant chant, rising and falling, the words indistinguishable but ever growing in volume.

"Prayer to the sun?" Andrew speculated. The professor in him was suddenly curious. Mohammedans prayed at dawn—was it the same here?

The chant continued to rise and fall, reaching a crescendo that coincided with a thin shaft of red light slicing across the steppe as the dull red orb of the sun broke the horizon.

The fog took on the appearance of pink foamy candy, obscuring the far bank, swirling and shifting. The full disk of the sun was at last above the horizon, its heat already radiating.

"A warm day coming up," Barney said.

"It'll burn this fog off quick."

Andrew trained his glasses back on the opposite shore. The fog shifted for a moment. Hundreds were on the far shore, indistinct forms shifting.

"People?" Barney whispered.

Andrew looked over at him.

"Your eyes are better than mine," Andrew replied, never quite sure if he saw better with his spectacles on or off when he was using a telescope or the field glasses.

"I think they're people," Barney said coldly.

"Don't shoot!"

The command from a high-voiced sergeant pulled Andrew's attention around.

Half a dozen men and women came splashing out of the mist, wading thigh-deep into the ford, waving their arms, their distant cries barely heard.

"What the hell?" Barney whispered.

The six continued into the river, running with the terrible, nightmarish slow motion of those wading through water. Andrew grabbed the field glasses back.

The water sprayed up around them, followed a couple of seconds later by the rattle of musketry. Four of them pitched over, thrashing and kicking. Andrew watched through his glasses, their features barely distinguishable, but he could sense the terror in their faces.

Another one tripped over, a long shaft sticking out of her back, and then the last went down, barely a quarter of the way into the river. Several Merki emerged from the mist, racing into the water and grabbing the nearest bodies.

A flurry of musket fire ripped down the line, the water around the three Merki splashing from rounds striking. One of the Merki spun around, grabbing its shoulder, and a defiant cheer rose up from the Rus. Two others continued in, scooping up the four bodies, one of which still struggled weakly.

"Breakfast," Pat said angrily.

The two retreated into the thinning mist, dragging their victims. Men continued to fire, and in annoyance Andrew looked back down the line as officers shouted for the men to save ammunition.

"It's starting to lift," an orderly whispered, his voice taut with excitement.

As if a curtain were being pulled back from a stage, the fog swirled into thinning wisps of smoke. Andrew felt his stomach tighten, and with clenched jaw he stood in silence. A growing murmur of curses rose up around him.

On the far bank, across the entire width of the ford, a heavy line of breastworks had gone up during the night, and in the ever-brightening light hundreds of shovels and picks could be seen, flicking up over the side of the earthen walls for a second, dirt flying and then disappearing again.

Yet that was not the sight that disturbed him. They could dig all they wanted to on the other side—it really wouldn't make any difference, unless it was the Rus who wished to attack.

"The bloody bastards," Barney snarled, and Andrew nodded in silent agreement.