Fateful Lightning Page 34

  The encampment was not still, even though it was past midnight. A low uncomfortable murmuring came from the hospital area, and to his right he could hear the sound of digging, men repairing the damage to the grand battery. Down in the valley, cries of the wounded could still be heard, lanterns bobbing up and down as men wandered the fields looking for their fallen comrades. Occasional rifle shots snapped out, pickets on the river edgy about any shadow, or from behind the lines Merki wounded being dispatched without pity.

  From across the river came another sound, a steady unearthly howling, what he knew must be cries of rage, mourning, and the moans of their wounded. It was hard at times to realize that they felt pain as well. So easy to understand that with the rebs—after all, the same languages was spoken, the same God prayed to.

  He couldn’t feel pity, not for them, not when he still sensed the presence lurking. He couldn’t weaken. He could sense the despair that was trying to force its way into his soul, a despair he knew it was all too easy to fall to. Tomorrow, tomorrow, the Merki could crack his army wide open and finish it before the sun set. He focused his thoughts.

  “Tomorrow you’ll get even worse, you bastard,” he whispered defiantly.

  Chapter 11

  Wincing and leaning on a pair of crutches, Jack Petracci hobbled into the hangar. Chuck looked up from under the basket.

  “Heard you’re flying,” Chuck said.

  Jack nodded. “How’s Olivia?”

  “I think she’ll make it,” Chuck said, the relief in his voice evident.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t over the factory to protect her.”

  Chuck came back up to his feet. “You’ve done your bit already. You don’t have to fly this one today.”

  “Andrew asked me to.”

  Chuck sighed, wiping his hands. “I’ve rigged something special up.”

  “I heard about it.”

  “It’s really simple to use. I’ve mounted a crude gunsight to the front of your basket. Remember you have to be pointed straight at them. You’ll be able to traverse it ten degrees to either side, but you have to be at the same height as them.”

  Jack nodded, watching intently as Chuck pointed the system out.

  “Your range should be two hundred yards. I’ve mounted a real sensitive trigger in the nose—it should go off when it hits. But if it doesn’t, there’s a one-second fuse. You’ve got three of them, along with the harpoons. That’s all I had time for. When you’re ready, move the telegraph key to one, then two, and then three over there on the left, press down, and that’s it.”

  The crew chief for Republic came into the shed. “Hour and a half to dawn. We’d better get going.”

  Jack sighed, motioning for help. Chuck and the ground chief lifted him into the basket, and he settled in.

  “Take her out,” he said.

  The ground crew walked the aerosteamer out of its hangar. The thinning crescent of one moon was overhead, the other one twenty degrees closer to the horizon, and the first faint streak of approaching dawn just creased the horizon.

  By the starlight he could see the twisted hulks of the two ships at either end of the field.

  “Let’s get on with it,” he said.

  Jack looked up to see Feyodor climbing in behind him.

  “I told you to stay home. I’m taking this up with Danolov. He’s the engineer for this ship.”

  “And Yuri was the pilot. Besides, if I stay down here I’ll get drafted to fight along the river. That’s too dangerous.”

  Feyodor climbed in without waiting for Jack’s permission. He bent over to check the engine burner and then looked straight up at the exhaust, which was shimmering up into the hot-air bag.

  “Full lift,” he said, and the ground crew chief stepped back from the cab to watch his men on the ropes.

  Jack raised his hand. “Clear.”

  The crew let go, and the crew chief saluted as the ship started to float up.

  “Try not to get any holes in her,” the chief shouted, and Jack absently waved a reply.

  As they cleared the tops of the trees, Feyodor engaged the propeller, and with a push forward to the rudder, Republic turned to port, heading down to Hispania, the still-burning factory below and to their right.

  By now he had expected to be grazing his horses on the far side of the distant ridge barely visible in the early-morning fog. The prayer to the sun was finished, and he looked out across the field and then back up at the Yankee aerosteamer overhead.

  “Where are our own ships? I thought all the Yankee machines had been killed.”

  Sarg stood silent, unable to reply.

  Tamuka fumed angrily. His ships were to be over the Yankee lines, to report to him if the cattle army was deployed differently. He scanned the line again with his telescope. It was obvious that most of the guns were still there, and he looked back up to the far ridge, able to see yet more barrels. More there than yesterday. Had the cattle concealed them beyond the far ridge? Did they have still more than they were showing?

  It was impossible to tell. All he had to go on at the moment was the angry sense of defiance that Keane so clearly showed, a rage that was coldly shocking, creeping into his own soul. It had a strength far greater than Vuka’s. Vuka had been weak, not even aware that his thoughts were being touched, the fears evident. This one somehow knew that the tu of the shield-bearer was looking and shouted a defiance in return.

  It was troubling.

  He looked back at his own lines.

  The remains of ten umens were now in the rear, their numbers more than halved, the survivors demoralized, shaken, talking darkly about cattle who were truly possessed by demons. Rumors already had spread of headless cattle that would spring up and still fight, of cattle that crushed with bare hands, of cattle that simply refused to die and submit, as all cattle had in the past.

  He had kept them isolated. Ten fresh umens were now ready for today’s fight. Extra water bags had been issued to the warriors, but already he could tell that that would not be enough, the day already hot.

  There was a stirring. He looked north. A yellow signal flag fluttered on the far horizon, the message writer next to him watching the distant flag, raising his own to repeat the message for confirmation. A flutter in reply indicated that the message had been received correctly.

  The flag waver turned to Tamuka with a grin. “A regiment of the red horse has gained the eastern shore of the river ten leagues north. Request another umen.”

  Tamuka nodded, hesitated.

  A single regiment, perhaps a front of but a hundred paces. He had only three mounted umens in reserve, none with remounts. He cursed silently. Nearly a million horses to his army, and the nearest not in use now grazing ten leagues to the rear, others as far back as the last river and even beyond it.

  Damn them.

  Last evening he had been forced to detach two full umens to go back nearly to the place where Vuka was buried to protect the home yurts, cattle raiders from out of the forest having killed more than three thousand of the women and children.

  He pondered the message. A single regiment. He looked forward again.

  “Our cloud fliers arrive.”

  He turned to look back to the west, and on the horizon he saw the three ships, small dark circles in the sky, still a half hour away.

  No. The main battle would be here. A breakthrough was possible by the middle of the morning.

  “Order the bombardment to begin,” he announced.

  “But our cloud fliers,” Sarg said. “First let them see. There will be smoke.”

  “The guns can stop firing after the cloud fliers are over the line, but till then let us smash them down. Order it to begin now.”

  “Has the ball begun?” Pat asked hoarsely, lifting his head as the crashing of the first Merki volley rolled across the plain.

  Andrew looked back at him, still stretched out in the corner of headquarters where he had fallen asleep during the staff meeting. He had not awakened Pat, delegatin
g the reorganization and deployment to the rear of Fourth Corps to one of his own staff officers. Fourth Corps might be finished as a fighting entity, but he still needed Pat as second in command and chief of artillery.

  Pat groaned, his joints cracking as he sat up and looked around.

  “I guess I dozed off. What time is it?”

  “Half hour past dawn, a little after five.”

  “I’ve got work to do. Why the hell did you let me sleep?”

  “You needed it after yesterday.”

  “My corps—where is it? I’ve got to get back to the trenches.”

  “They’ve been pulled to the rear into reserve. They’re off the front today.”

  “Well, I need to get to them.”

  Andrew shook his head, bringing over a cup of hot tea and two pieces of hardtack sandwiching a slab of salt pork.

  Pat took the tin cup, grimacing slightly from the heat, holding it gingerly at the seams, and took a long drink.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m taking you off Fourth Corps. I want you with me."

  “Why? Did I do something wrong?” Pat asked.

  “No. You did everything right.”

  “But Fourth Corps…”

  “It doesn’t exist as a corps anymore, Pat. You took the brunt yesterday. You’ve got less than three thousand left.”

  “God, I had twelve at dawn.”

  “You did what had to be done. Now you’re running artillery and staying as my second.”

  Pat nodded glumly, shocked by the destruction of the unit he had poured so much work into. He sighed and then started into the sandwich, his teeth cracking the hard bread, chewing noisily, and Andrew walked outside the headquarters to watch the beginning of the bombardment. The trenches below were already wreathed with the detonation of shells, earth geysering up from solid shot. The ten guns he had left on the line started up a rapid fire in return. Each gun was to fire at the beginning as quickly as possible to simulate the action of a full battery, adding their smoke. A single regiment from Second Corps was now occupying the entire front, ready to keep any Merki skirmishers back and to set fire to bundles of damp straw to add to the smoke. Quaker guns, logs painted black or bronze, had been set up along the forward line, their snouts protruding out from the earthworks where yesterday real guns had been emplaced.

  Perhaps they’d be more cautious today in coming across, Andrew thought, stretching out the bombardment, using up more ammunition than they could afford, wasting it on an abandoned line. The price of yesterday’s assault was readily apparent. Down to the river they had retrieved their wounded and dead. But from the beginning of the east bank and at points nearly a half mile beyond the entrenchments the ground was carpeted with bodies. Few wounded were left. The men had seen to that grisly task with a vengeance, bayoneting or shooting any Merki that were still alive. He tried not to let it bother him, remembering the photo of the burial mound.

  When they came on again it wouldn’t be pleasant. Already there was the beginning of the faint sickly sweet smell, and as he looked to the east he could sense that today would be even hotter than yesterday.

  Good. Let them see what’s waiting. He remembered how Stonewall Jackson had a fetish for cleaning up a battlefield that his troops might assault across, not wanting them to see what might very well soon happen to them. Well, today the Merki would see.

  “Hot day for a fight.”

  Andrew looked back as Pat came walking out the door, his gait stiff, as if every muscle in his body were crying out.

  “Getting too old for this,” Pat said, and he looked to the south. “Merciful God, is that where we fought?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Killed a parcel of the bastards, didn’t we?”

  “They’ve got something like three hundred thousand more.”

  The two ducked as a round screamed overhead to detonate in the rail yard behind them, a cry of agony rising up seconds later.

  “Going to be a long day,” Pat said.

  Andrew looked up as a thumping noise grew louder and saw Republic turning to run to the west.

  “Good luck,” he whispered, knowing that yet again he was sending someone out to die.

  He could hear Feyodor chanting a soft prayer, and though he was a good Methodist he was tempted to join in the prayer to Perm.

  This time there was no backing off. Either three Merki ships would be down or he would be down, and even if he survived it would be far behind their lines.

  He pulled his revolver out to check the load. Two rounds would be saved.

  He crossed over the long columns of the Merki umens, the sea of faces turning up to watch his passage, scimitars flashing, defiant chants rising up, taunting him to come down.

  He didn’t even bother to lean out of the cab to give a derisive wave. He was too focused on what was ahead.

  The three ships were at different altitudes, one almost at ground level, the second at his own, several thousand feet up, the third angling up a thousand feet higher.

  He watched intently, calculating. Go for the top one and the low one goes straight through. Go for either of the other two and the top one comes down.

  He decided, nervously opening and closing his fist, perspiration beading up under his goggles.

  The ships were getting bigger, coming on, one staggered above the other. He started to pull up slightly, as if going for a climbing match against the topmost ship. The Merki aerosteamer raised its nose even higher, continuing to climb.

  “Oh Perm, in our hour of need, heed our prayers to thee.”

  “Shut up and get ready.”

  He pulled the elevator full back, nose climbing.

  “Dump the hot air!”

  Feyodor reached up and grabbed hold of the release cord, pulling it full open.

  “Going down hard. Hang on!”

  The two aerosteamers straight ahead were pitching up higher in an attempt to outrace his climb.

  He slammed the elevator full forward.

  “Keep that speed at full bore.”

  The nose of Republic went down, crossing through the horizon, the pitch dropping down and speed increasing as he went through a forty-five-degree dive and then into a sixty, aiming straight ahead of the lowest ship, which was continuing to move straight on in.

  He could not help but admire the courage of the crew in the lowest ship, who were obviously putting themselves in the position of bait to give an advantage to the upper two.

  He saw a dark form moving atop the ship. “Jesus Christ, they’ve got someone on top!” Jack shouted.

  The Merki, standing in a small basket, swung a swivel gun up, pointed straight at Jack, and fired. Most of the shot screamed to port, but a round of grape cracked into the forward hydrogen bag, a spar cracking from the impact.

  “Son of a bitch! Why didn’t we think of that?” Feyodor shouted.

  “Hang on.”

  He continued the dive, pushing the nose farther forward, bracing the elevator stick with his knees, and leaned forward to look down the gun sight.

  He swung it slightly to starboard, judging the distance. The front of the Merki ship filled the sight. Three hundred yards. A few more seconds.

  “Pull the heat vent closed,” Jack shouted. It’d be a minute or more before he needed the additional lift, but when he did it had to be there.

  The center of the ship was in the sight, the Merki working with a rammer, reloading his gun.

  He put his hand on the telegraph key, sparing a quick look down to check that it was over the first terminal. He looked back down the sight.

  He pressed the key down, completing the circuit.

  He wasn’t really sure what to expect, and in the first instant it scared him to death. A rocket, strapped to a swivel mount below, flared to life, shooting out of its launch tube. The bottom of the basket was protected by a thin layer of tin. The rocket snapped forward, racing straight down at the Merki ship, flame and smoke blowing out the rear, and a curse started to form, for
surely it would burn a hole right through the bottom of his own ship.

  Directly behind the Merki gunner there was a flash of light even as Jack pulled back hard and slammed the rudder over full to port, still keeping the nose down.

  The explosion of the ten-pound charge ripped the bag open, spraying it with grapeshot and burning pitch. A fireball leaped up, and as he started into his turn he leaned over to see the Merki ship collapsing into flames.

  “Mother of Perm!”

  Screaming, Feyodor was standing up, backing into Jack, the basket swaying, and he looked over his shoulder.

  A harpoon was dangling out of the bottom of the bag, directly behind the propeller.

  He waited for what seemed like an eternity for the explosion to hit, and then the harpoon started to fall again, a broken piece of rope trailing behind it. To the rear of the ship he saw a smoking board tumble off the aft end and fall to the ground.

  Still shaking, he looked back forward. The nose was still down, the ground now only a few hundred feet below.

  “The harpoon hit, but the rope broke. We’re all right.”

  “It could still be burning!” Feyodor shouted.

  “If it was, we’d be dead. Now shut up!”

  He started to pull back hard on the elevator, sparing a quick glance at the mushroom of fire racing out over the steppe as the Merki ship impacted. Coming yet lower, he saw his shadow racing far ahead, another shadow moving across it to the rear at a right angle headed south.

  He continued the dive then pulled back hard, fearing for an instant that though he knew the characteristics of his old Yankee Clipper, he had misjudged how this ship would handle.

  The nose started to swing up, even as they continued to drop and then started to level out. The ground came racing up, the ship cutting an arc, the basket sweeping a dozen feet above the ground, the ship running full out, and then it started up into a climb.

  He looked at his shadow, seeing the shadow of the Merki ship moving to the south. He pushed the rudder to starboard and started into a spiraling climb, nose now passing through thirty degrees. He realized he was rising a bit too slow; the harpoon hole in the hot air section was letting the lift escape. As he turned he saw the Merki ship leveling out, fifty feet off the ground, now alongside.