Men of War Page 24

  “Two hundred more men now won’t make a difference here.”

  He was simply too numb to order, to roar out the order to go. He looked up, half-broken inside, appealing to Jack to understand.

  “We’ll all die doing this, Hans.”

  Hans chuckled in spite of his pain.

  “Jack, don’t you get it?” he whispered. “That day on the Ogunquit, the day we left Earth forever and came here. We died. You know, I bet back home, somewhere up there on the coast of Maine, they’ve got a statue with all our names on it. We died. We died but then the good Lord caught us as we fell and dropped us here. Maybe this is purgatory, maybe this is the punishment for our sins. I don’t know anymore. But I was in their prisons; you weren’t. I know that there is the key to our victory.”

  “They’re ready for us by now.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. But we’ll never have a better chance than at this moment. Tomorrow will be too late. Jurak will react, and it will be too late. Jack, today we can either win or lose this war.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “It’s up to you. Yesterday evening I ordered you to do it.” He paused, struggling to catch his breath. “I don’t have the strength to order you. I’m simply asking you.”

  Jack stood up.

  “Oh, God damn it all, thank you very much, Sergeant Schuder, for the guilt.”

  Hans looked up and couldn’t help but smile.

  “One more push,” Hans whispered. “That’s all I ask, and then you can call it quits. Then we can rest.”

  * * *

  It was surprisingly quiet. Standing atop the low ridge, Vincent Hawthorne shaded his eyes, looking to the rising sun. He knew they were out there, the haze of dust rimming the horizon in a vast arc to the north, around to the east and south showed that they were out there.

  It had been a sleepless night, curled up by the side of his ironclad, waiting for an attack that never came. They had the advantage on that score. The bastards could decide if and when to attack; they’d most likely pulled back and slept the night through while he and his men had stayed alert throughout the hours of darkness.

  Stretching, he scratched the back of his neck. Two days down here and I’m lousy, he thought with disgust. Forgotten just how lousy the army could get, and he wondered which of his crewmates in the ironclad had passed the damned little critters over to him.

  “Your honor, some tea?”

  It was Stanislaw, driver of his ironclad, who in spite of his years in the army still hadn’t shaken the honorific given to boyars. The man was easily twice his age, drafted out of the locomotive engineers to serve on the front line.

  Vincent gingerly took the tin cup, holding it by the edges, blowing on the rim, took a sip. One of the true advantages of serving with the ironclads, he realized, hot tea, drawn off from the boiler water at any time, even though it tended to have an oily taste, plus plenty of rations since the men always seemed to manage to “borrow” a few extra boxes of salt pork, hardtack, and for this expedition some precious jam, butter, and even a few loaves of bread that were almost fresh.

  Stanislaw produced a great hunk of the bread, slathered with jam and butter, and Vincent eagerly wolfed it down, squatting in the grass while he ate.

  All around him, farther down the slope of the knoll, the army was coming awake, bugles sounding, men milling about, gathering around smoking fires made with twisted-up bundles of dried grass and the ubiquitous dried chips from the bisonlike creatures and woolly elephants that wandered the plains.

  Mounted pickets had pushed out from the earthen wall fortress encircling the camp, making sure no Bantag skirmishers had crept up during the night, and men were wandering outside the fortified position to relieve themselves. Vincent wrinkled his nose. Whenever you had ten thousand men camped in one place, it didn’t take long truly to stink the place up.

  “Think we’ll fight today, your honor?”

  “Don’t know, Stanislaw. It’s their choice. They’re mounted, we’re not. They’ll pick the time and place.”

  Stanislaw reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of dried applies, offering one to Vincent, who nodded his thanks.

  “As long as we got St. Katrina with us”—he reached back and affectionately patted their ironclad—“we’ll give them a hell of a fight.”

  “You like your ironclad?”

  “Oh, at first no, your honor. I remember when you Yankees first came.” He chuckled softly. “I thought you were devils the first time I saw the steam makers, the locomotive you made that went from your fort up to Suzdal.”

  “Seems like an eternity ago.” Vincent smiled.

  “Then I was drafted to work laying track to Kev, and from there on to Roum. That was work.”

  “What did you do before we came?”

  “I was gardener for the wife of my boyar Garvilla.”

  The name somehow registered. One of the boyars who had tried to overthrow the government before the Merki came, Vincent realized.

  “Oh, he was a devil he was, but his lady wasn’t. She liked the flowers I grew.”

  He sighed, and Vincent realized that yesterday he had noticed fresh wildflowers tied in a bundle next to where Stanislaw sat down below.

  “Well, there was no room for flower growers and gardeners in this new world you Yankees made. Machines and more machines. So I realized that I, Stanislaw, could either lay rails or drive the machine that rode them. I had a nephew who was the driver of one of your new locomotives, and I got him to let me be his fireman. I learned and soon had my own machine to drive.”

  He sighed.

  “I named her St. Katrina, same as our big machine of war here. She is the patron saint of gardens. She protected me.” He shook his head.

  “Though I wish she’d protected me more and kept me with my steam engine on rails rather than this black thing on wheels that crawls around on the ground.”

  “Why didn’t you stay with the locomotives?”

  “Ah, my nephew. He went with these machines and said I was lucky and wanted me with him. He said it would be glorious and perhaps some woman would look upon me with favor in my new black uniform, and I’d finally have a wife. Foolish me, I went.”

  Vincent tried not to smile for Stanislaw was decidedly ugly—head far too big for his body, a vast misshapen lump for a nose, and he was completely bald. And yet, there was a gentleness to his smile, a certain quiet sparkle in his eyes that was touching.

  “I was at Rocky Hill, you know,” Stanislaw announced proudly, “in one of the older machines that ate coal rather than the burning oil. That was a good fight.”

  Vincent said nothing. There was the flash memory of the charge, falling, falling away, seeing the flag bearer staggering past, all of it lost in smoke and fire.

  “You were brave beyond the brave there, your honor.” Vincent, embarrassed, said nothing.

  “Were you at Capua?” Vincent finally asked.

  ' “No, your honor. Well yes, but I was in the second regiment, the one that didn’t go in. Bless Saint Katrina for protecting me,” and as he spoke he grasped a small icon which dangled from a chain around his neck, and holding the image of the saint, he crossed himself three times. “And how do you feel about this?” Vincent asked.

  “I go where ordered, your honor.”

  “No. We’re in this together. How do you feel?”

  “You Yankees.” Stanislaw chuckled. “Asking a peasant like me.”

  “You are a citizen of the Republic,” Vincent said slowly. “You have a right to your opinion.”

  Stanislaw smiled. “When this war is over, then I will be a citizen, but now I am a soldier who follows orders. That is what my nephew says.”

  “You’re not happy with it?” Vincent pressed.

  “Well, your honor. We seem to be driving around to nowhere. The Bantag, the Tugars, all the riders. They own the steppes. They are of the horse, we are not. I wish we could just let them have the steppes and th
ey agree to leave us alone.”

  “We know that can’t be,” Vincent replied.

  “Yes, yes, I know. If wishes came true, mice would ride on cats.”

  Stanislaw picked up Vincent’s empty tin cup, retreated through the open door of his ironclad. The encampment was now swarming with activity, the buzz of ten thousand men echoing, sergeants barking orders, snatches of conversation drifting; someone was even playing a fife, another an instrument that sounded hauntingly like a banjo. He was glad he had ordered that the march would start late, an hour after sunrise. It gave the men time to relax just a bit longer and have a solid breakfast before moving on.

  Stanislaw came out a minute later with the cup refilled, carrying a second cup for himself and sat back down.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Vincent pressed while nodding his thanks for the refill and a second helping of bread and jam.

  “Your honor, if we do make it to their rail line and from there to the Great Sea, then what?”

  “Once there we set up a base for any ships that Hans and his men capture at Xi’an.”

  “I heard the Horde riders have iron ships on that sea.”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t the iron ships sink what we capture?”

  “Maybe we’ll capture some of the iron ships at Xi’an.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “We can still raise hell.”

  “Suppose the Bantag bring up their own land ironclads to fight us. We shall have only what we carry with us.”

  “It’s what we want,” Vincent replied. “If they bring their own ironclads in, we can fight them out in the open. We can have the battle to decide this. Defeat their ironclads, shatter their army here in the south, and keep their leader guessing, that is what we are doing. We want that fight, Stanislaw.”

  “Then why do I feel like the mouse who is sent to pull the whiskers of the cat so that the old cat will chase him outside and then the others can eat. I wish right now I was one of the mice that was going to eat rather than the one that has to run.”

  Vincent laughed.

  “Back in Suzdal. Suppose they make peace. We heard the rumors of that, you know, just before we sailed. Poor Kal, we had many a drink we did in the old days, trading stories about our boyars.”

  “We’ll win this fight before they can do anything that stupid.”

  Stanislaw said nothing, then, looking beyond Vincent, he came to his feet and saluted.

  Vincent looked over his shoulder and saw Gregory walking up the slope.

  “Good morning, sir,” Gregory announced, coming to attention and saluting.

  “Morning, Gregory. Everything in order?”

  “All machines are warmed up except one. We’re going to have to leave it behind.” He nodded downslope to where a swarm of men were clustered around an ironclad, some of them arguing while others were lugging out shells. Several had torn open the hinges on the top turret and were starting to remove the steam Gatling gun.

  “Cracked boiler, can’t be fixed out here. I’ve ordered it stripped.”

  Vincent nodded. “Not bad so far, only two machines broken down.”

  “That was yesterday. As we add up the leagues today, more will fail as I warned.”

  “We’ll have enough when the time comes.”

  Gregory said nothing for a moment, obviously disagreeing with Vincent’s assessment.

  “Sir, my machines will be ready to roll in fifteen minutes. I think Third Corps is ready to move as well.”

  Vincent smiled. He was being gently chided for taking the extra few minutes to talk with Stanislaw.

  “Fine. Pass the word—fifteen minutes.”

  Gregory saluted and started back down the slope to where his machine was parked.

  “Ah, my nephew, such an officer.”

  “That’s your nephew?”

  “Couldn’t you tell?” Stanislaw laughed. “Someone had to come along to keep an eye on him.”

  Vincent finished his cup of tea while Stanislaw disappeared back into his ironclad, shouting orders to the crew to get ready. Exhaust from the kerosene burners plumed from the smokestack, the safety valves for the steam lines popped several times, venting. The engine was hot and ready. A courier came up informing Vincent that the corps was formed. Looking round from his high vantage point, he saw the regiments forming into their loose block formations. Cavalry was already ranging outward in a vast circle a mile across, a few pops of carbine fire forward marking where a minor altercation was going on between outriders of the Horde and the advance pickets. Teams were hitched to the wagons, caissons, and limbers. Bugle calls signaled the call to form ranks, and drummers began to pick up the beat.

  Vincent emptied the rest of his cup and climbed through the hatch into the already stifling heat of the lower deck of the ironclad. Slipping around the boiler and its attending fireman, he moved behind the gunner and assistant gunner, who, in the informality aboard ironclads, nodded their greetings since there was little room for anyone to snap to attention.

  Stanislaw looked up from his driver’s seat and smiled, Vincent noticing a fresh bunch of wild prairie flowers bunched up and dangling by a string from the bulkhead, the brilliant reds and blues adding a gentle touch.

  Going up the ladder into the upper turret, he squeezed past the breech of his steam Gatling gun, popped open the upper hatch, climbed half-out, and sat on the rim. Gregory, who was already in position, caught Vincent’s eye, and Vincent raised a clenched fist, pointing it forward.

  A bugler, riding mounted beside Vincent’s machine, sounded the advance. The machine beneath him lurched, great iron wheels churning up clods of dirt and crushed grass as they started down the hill, moving to the fore, passing through the lines of infantry. Fording the shallow stream, they started up the next slope, moving past a lone cavalry trooper coming back, clutching a wounded arm, but still looking game, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

  Vincent looked back, watching him ride through the blocks of infantry toward the medical wagons marked with their big green circles. The ten thousand men of the corps were all on the march, regimental columns deployed in a vast hole-square formation, rifle barrels catching the reflected glint of the morning sun so that the army looked as if fire was dancing across the ranks.

  “Rows of burnished steel,” the words of the “Battle Hymn” came to him.

  There are still moments, he realized, still moments when one can again glimpse the chimera dream of glory.

  * * *

  He didn’t even look back as he rode through the gate. Forgetting himself for an instant, for old habits die hard, he snapped off a salute to the guards standing to either side who had come to attention.

  The suit felt uncomfortable, the only civilian suit he had, stitched together by Kathleen, a black coat typical of what was worn back on Earth, at least what had been in style when they left, an unbleached cotton shirt of standard army issue, and black trousers. There was no longer a sword dangling from his belt, though he still had a pistol in a saddle holster. Behind him, in a wagon owned by Gates, rode his wife and the children, following them rode Webster, who had resigned from the government as well, and his young family.

  In a way this whole thing felt so damnably foolish, a show play of bluff. The resignation had actually caught Bugarin and his followers off guard; they had expected a coup attempt. He had to go all the way. If he had stayed in the city, it would have somehow conveyed that he was still in the game, waiting down the street for the delegation to come and beg for his return.

  He knew that would not happen. Even as he rode out of town the Republic was disintegrating into chaos. The Roum senators and congressmen were packing up to head for home, furious over the murder of Flavius and loudly announcing that they were going to seek a separate peace. It was as if a race was on, for Bugarin was announcing the same intention as well, and the Chin ambassadors sent by Jurak were even then receiving the offer of terms to take back to their master.

  H
e, in turn, had presented them with a dilemma. Vincent was now supposed to be in command, but he was beyond reach. Next after him was Pat, but Pat had apparently cut the telegraph lines to the front, or something was blocking the line just out of Roum. What if they announced a ceasefire but nobody listened?

  Mercury stepped onto the bridge over the Vina River, and he looked to his right and the valley choked thick with factories, rows of brick houses. The dam farther up the river was barely visible in the smoky haze. Strange how after ten years it looked far more like Waterville, Lewiston, or Lowell than the medieval city of the ancient Rus. The city he was riding out of was already a memory of an age passed. This was the new Suzdal, if it should survive the madness of its frightened leaders.

  Word must have passed that he was leaving. From out of the foundries, rail works, boiler works, gun factories, construction yards, he could see thousands of workers filling the streets, looking his way.

  He wondered sadly what it was he had actually tried to create for them. A generation ago they were born, lived, and died on the estates of the boyars, their lives short and brutish, ignorant and filled with fear.

  What did they now have? Sons, fathers, brothers, husbands dead or at the front. Twelve hours of laboring in the heat, smoke, and grime of the war factories pouring iron, making steel, casting guns, making machines of war and yet more machines of war. Endless labor and still early deaths but now from consumption or accidents or simple exhaustion.

  He wondered if Rousseau was right, and the thought made him smile for an instant, the mind of the professor still there, ready with the random thought of philosophy even in the darkest moments. Yet he had hoped that they would see, that all would see that this was a generation called to the highest sacrifice, that it had to bear the horrible burden so that someday their children, their grandchildren would never know the fear, the filth, the degradation, not just of the hordes, but of slavery and the horror of war.

  He realized that he had slackened the reins on Mercury and his horse, as if reading his thoughts, had stopped so that he might look from the bridge and contemplate what he had tried to accomplish and where he had failed.