Fateful Lightning Read online

  The train slowed, passing in front of the building, and with a rendering crash slammed into the last car of the train ahead, lifting it up into the air, knocking it sideways. Chuck fell forward, his hands hitting the hot firebox. Barely noticing the pain, he pulled back, scrambled into the tender car, and leaped up on top.

  “Clear the canvas!”

  Men on the cars behind him came back up to their feet, ripping the canvas back from one car after another. Behind them the second train slid to a stop, and behind that one the third, crews already working on the protective covers.

  He turned to Theodor as he released the break.

  “Fuses are set at one thousand yards. Set Elevation at one thousand yards as planned. Run to the next train, make sure it’s twelve hundred, and on the last train eight hundred. Now move! Make sure the wire gets connected between the trains. If it fails to set ’em off, have the individual crews fire them!”

  Theodor leaped from the train and ran back up the line.

  “Ferguson!”

  Chuck looked over his shoulder and saw Andrew climbing up into the cab of the engine.

  Chuck ignored him and turned back forward.

  “Ferguson, what the hell are you doing?” Andrew shouted. “Their charge is coming in!”

  “Sorry, sir,” Chuck said, his voice almost boyish. “I’ll explain in a minute.”

  “Damn you, Ferguson,” and Andrew stepped to the back of the tender, looked down the length of the train, and fell silent in awe.

  Chuck cupped his hands. “Everybody clear from the rear of the train! Everybody clear and get down!”

  Chuck leaped down on the first car. The side facing the approaching charge was armored up to waist height. A heavy canvas covered a protruding barrel beside him, and two men were working to clear it. The next ten cars down the line were now fully cleared of canvas and crews were working at the elevation cranks, the rocket launchers slowly pointing skyward. Bolted to each of the cars were racks, six tubes high and twenty-five long, filling the flatcars from one end to the other, a hundred and fifty rockets per car, thirty-two carloads behind three trains.

  “One thousand yards and ready!”

  The crew of the first car stood up and leaped from the car, running toward the rear, their action causing the infantry that had stood gawking to fall back. Down the length of the train the other crews jumped off, running.

  Chuck looked forward, raising his field glasses.

  The crest of the ridge blocked the view for several hundred yards down the slope, but beyond for well over a mile back into the valley he could see them clearly, the massed formation of mounted umens a half mile across, advancing straight toward him at the gallop. The elevation difference, dammit!

  He did a quick calculation. Directly on the crest forward he saw the first line of the charge coming into view. It was too late to change things now.

  “Duck, you bastards!” Chuck screamed, and he looked back at Andrew.

  “Better get down, sir,” he shouted with a grin, and he reached over to a wooden control box and flipped the lid open. Inside was a brass key connected to half a dozen telegraph batteries.

  He crossed his fingers and pressed down on the key.

  There was a moment, a brief instant, when he felt as if his heart would stop, but it was only for a second.

  With a throaty roar the first rocket slashed out of its launch tube, rising upward, trailing a plume of fire and smoke, shrieking with a banshee scream. An instant later a long salvo started to flash down the length of the train, six rockets a second rising up from each car, the other two train loads igniting as well, thirty-two cars in all, over a hundred and eighty rockets a second.

  The thunder of their rising filled the air, the unearthly screaming of the rockets drowning out even the thunder of their launching, the flatcars rattling on the tracks, leaping up and down. For second after second their long plumes rose heavenward, nearly all flying true, yet some others turning straight up, or arcing back over the train, or skimming low across the ground and smashing straight into the front rank, which was still advancing.

  A car on the second train went up with a thunderclap roar, half a carload detonating at once from a rocket that exploded in its tube, setting off a chain reaction, loads going off in every direction.

  And yet still the salvo continued.

  Andrew stood awestruck, not even bothering to duck, mouth open in wonder, forgetting all else, watching with a growing elation as over four thousand rounds soared upward, arced over, and started to plummet down upon the Merki horde.

  “Jesus and Perm!” Jack gasped. “That idiot’s done it!”

  Looking straight down, he saw the wall of fire rising upward from the sides of the trains, the ground instantly blanketed with smoke, sheet after sheet of fire rising upward. The first volley reached apogee off to his right and then started to curve downward, still trailing sparks and smoke, the salvos spreading out, covering nearly half a mile of Merki advance.

  Snaps of light started to detonate over the Merki line, first one, an instant later another, and then in the blink of an eye hundreds of detonations. Seconds later the sound washed over him, a continual thunderous roar, joining in with the shrieking screams of the rockets still leaping from the launchers.

  A high piercing shriek snapped by the balloon, but he didn’t even notice.

  Shouting with maniacal joy, he watched as four thousand rounds of case shot smothered the Merki charge, the world below disappearing from view in a boiling caldron of fire and smoke.

  Tamuka Qar Qarth reined in his terrified mount. For the first time in his life he felt truly terrified as well. The world ahead had suddenly disappeared, the air around him filled with the mad howling of demons.

  It had to be a machine, part of his mind was screaming, another damned Yankee machine, but the shrieks of the rockets drowned out all other thoughts, as if the riders of the night sky had come down in judgment, the ancestors falling from the heavens, either in damnation or now to join the cattle in vengeance upon their own.

  The charge around him ground to a halt, horses rearing in panic, throwing their riders, warriors covering their ears, howling in terror.

  He turned and looked back, seeing the smoke trails die and then the sparks of light, hundreds of them coming down, down directly over the center of the advancing horde. A red flash and puff of smoke ignited over the line, then, within seconds, thousands of explosions, silent at first, but the thunder started to build, growing louder into a sustained world-shattering cataclysm of destruction.

  Stunned beyond all comprehension, Tamuka watched the destruction of his umens, and then his horse bolted, breaking from the front of the van, pulling him back into the rear. Around him was mad confusion, riders caught under the salvo looking heavenward, roaring in terror, seeing the destruction behind them, unable to move in the press.

  A howling shriek filled the air, and Tamuka, terrified, looked up as a rocket seemed to come straight down out of the smoke, exploding before him with a thunderclap.

  The blow nearly lifted him from the saddle, and he reeled, aware that a frightening coldness had seized his arm. He looked down in horror to see blood spurting from his mangled hand. His horse, screaming, turned and bolted for the rear, Tamuka struggling to hang on.

  The panic took hold; the sight of Tamuka, horse rearing and bucking, riding to the rear finished anything that was left.

  Screaming in terror, the lines forward wavered.

  The last rocket leaped out and away, the thunder of the detonations forward roaring against the hills.

  An awed silence was the response. Many of the men were almost as terrified as their enemies, not understanding what had happened. A dawning realization started to arrive that whatever it was, it was destroying the Merki in the valley below, and a desperate cheer of hope started to rise up.

  Chuck jumped up and down like a small boy at a Fourth of July finale and then suddenly remembered his one other surprise. His two assistan
ts had finished pulling the canvas cover off the Gatling gun. Chuck reached down and opened the steam power line that was hooked back into the locomotive, then stepped behind the gun, aiming it straight at the Merki line on the ridge, which was milling about in terror.

  He pulled the trigger back.

  A single round snapped off, and then with a moaning hiss the gun seized up, steam pouring out in every direction.

  Chuck stepped back from the machine and shook his head.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

  Andrew, not even aware of the gun’s failure, still stood in awestruck silence as the clouds of smoke billowed around him.

  Chuck looked back at Andrew, grinning.

  “He hath loosened the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword,” Andrew said, his voice filled with awe.

  “At least the rockets worked,” Chuck said quietly.

  “If I ever say no again, tell me to go to hell.”

  “Can I have that in writing, sir?”

  Andrew threw back his head and laughed. He slapped Chuck on the shoulder and stood up on top of the launching car.

  “Soldiers of the Army of Republics,” he began, his voice sharp and clear, thousands of men looking to the trains, many of them now seeing Keane, who stood tall, sword in one hand, half-empty sleeve outstretched deliberately so that all would know who he was. Behind Andrew the flag bearers for the 35th Maine and the Army of the Republics stepped up to join him.

  “Charge!”

  He leaped from the car, striking the ground hard, losing his footing for a moment and then coming back up. Flag bearers came forward, standards of the 35th and the Army of the Republics by Andrew’s side, men streaming out of the trains to his left, the line to the right struggling to get under or over the still-smoking launch cars, cheering wildly. The cry went up all along the line.

  “Charge, men, charge!”

  The cry was a thunderous release of rage and frustration, and now of growing hope.

  Andrew swept forward, running hard, not even looking back, unaware that from out of the smoke a vast arc of men were rushing forward to the edge of the ridge. Forward, the line of Merki seemed transfixed, as if torn between the horror below in the valley and that before them. Riders turned, horses bolting. The Merki horde broke and started to run.

  A warrior turned, raising his bow, aiming straight for Andrew, and a musket shot lifted him from his saddle, Andrew not even aware of what happened. Men paused for a second, pouring fire in, and then rushed forward with empty guns, bayonets lowered.

  Andrew gained the crest of the ridge. And below he saw madness.

  Across a front of half a mile and to a depth of nearly a quarter, a caldron of smoke was rising upward. To either side and the rear, Merki by the tens of thousands were fleeing, heading to the river. Forward was a writhing sea of confusion, Merki no longer fighting but turning, trying to flee, warriors losing their mounts, falling to be crushed, a wild insane deafening cry filling the air.

  Directly overhead and not a hundred feet above, Republic came out of the smoke, a rocket detaching, arcing down into the confusion, exploding, and the sight of the machine coming out of the curtain of darkness added to the madness, riders crouching low in terror.

  Along the rim of the hill the army paused, men working feverishly, reloading their muskets. A spattering of musket fire rattled out, growing to a continuous concussion of sound, men firing into the packed mass, unable to miss, the grand battery to his left, which had continued to fire throughout the long minutes before, adding its weight. Along the ridge beyond the battery, Merki were now streaming back, running in panic after witnessing the destruction in the valley.

  Volleys continued to thunder out and across the ridge, and in the smoke Andrew could see that nothing was now in front except the dead, the dying, and those still trying to flee.

  “Push them into the river!”

  The cry rose up, and the army started down from the crest, men leaping forward, battle flags forward.

  He started into the charge and felt a hand on his arm.

  He turned and looked back, ready to shake the restraining grip off.

  “I don’t want to lose you now,” Kathleen said. “A commander should direct from here.”

  He felt the battle fury in him, the desire to drive them all the way back to the river and see it to the end.

  She looked up at him pleadingly.

  And he felt the fury die away.

  He stopped, watching as the colors of the 35th went forward, flanked on one side by the red and white stripes of a flag he had once fought for so long ago, and in a way still did fight for, the old national colors flanked by the flags of Rus and Roum and the Army of the Republic.

  They swept down the slope and disappeared into the smoke. He felt her arm go around his waist, and he pulled her close beside him.

  “Well, you dark devil, will you look at that!” Pat O’Donald shouted, looking over at Muzta. The two of them were standing transfixed as the Merki host turned and started for the rear.

  Muzta turned and faced Pat.

  “Let me go.”

  Astonished, Pat could not reply.

  “My horde is down there, all that is left of it. You heard what I said to Keane, of my hatred of the Merki. Let me go now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish to save my people.”

  Pat laughed darkly, looking over at the sentry who had orders to shoot Muzta if he so much as made a threatening move. Muzta had made the same offer to Andrew, an offer which was refused when Andrew realized that Muzta had undoubtedly seen just how truly weak they now were.

  “Human, I will strike a bargain with you.”

  “And that is?”

  “I will fight the Merki and not just pull my people out of the fight.”

  Pat looked at him in astonishment, and Muzta grinned coldly.

  “The Merki still might rally at the river. My horde is there,” and he pointed to a block of warriors drawn up just beyond the range of the northern grand battery.

  “You have but a handful of a hundred or more here, and your wounded are behind us. My son in there as well,” he continued, and he pointed back to the hospital area to the rear. “In their madness they might flee this way and slaughter all of them in vengeance. I will stop them.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “I expect nothing, but I wish to die with sword in hand, fighting those who have always been my enemy, even before you.”

  Pat looked up at the Tugar, remembering the sight of Kathleen running into Andrew’s embrace, young Vincent beside her, freed by a strange act of chivalry from this hated foe.

  He looked back into the valley. Though the stampede of the horde was moving straight back toward the river, still others were running blindly, some moving up the slope, and all too quickly they could learn that this section of the line was all but defenseless.

  “There’s my horse,” Pat said.

  Muzta grinned.

  “Tell Keane I believe he is a warrior after all,” Muzta said. “Perhaps even you and the others as well.”

  He ran to Pat’s mount and leaped to the saddle, the horse nickering at the strange but yet somehow familiar scent and feel of the one now riding him.

  Muzta jerked the reins around and started the horse forward, moving faster, scrambling up over the side of the parapet and then started down the slope, weaving his way through the deadfalls. Pat shouted an order to hold fire and stood grinning.

  “By Jesus I actually hope he does make it,” Pat said, leaning on the parapet to watch.

  Muzta reached the bottom of the hill, riding hard. The block formation of Tugar infantry, which had turned to watch the destruction, now noticed who was approaching, and a deep guttural cheer rose up to greet him.

  Pat raised his field glasses to watch. Muzta had taken a sword from a warrior, was standing up in his stirrups, speaking. A deeper cheer sounded, and the block turned, spreading outward, some moving ba
ck toward the river and the line of the Merki retreat, others moving along the edge of the slope back to the east. Merki, not yet comprehending, rode toward them. Arrows snapped out, Merki going down.

  “I’ll be damned,” Pat roared, passing the word to hold fire along his front. The Tugars swept forward and in their movement blocked the hospital from any last attack.

  Tugars started to edge up the hill, sweeping eastward, their joyful shouts ringing up, as once again, they fought against a foe they understood, a foe already in panic, a foe they could take glory from in killing.

  He looked at his watch. It was still an hour before sunset, but the world was dark. From the western horizon to far eastward the sky was green-black, thunderstorms marching in from the west. Already a cold wind was whipping in, the flags behind him standing straight out, snapping.

  He looked back across the valley. The stench was now being driven away, and the air was almost breathable again.

  Occasional musket shots still sounded as lone Merki refused to surrender and were hunted down. He had passed the order shortly before noon that surrender was to be accepted when offered, for to his amazement he had seen warriors throw down their weapons and go to their knees, heads lowered, as if they had reached the conclusion that fate had turned her back upon them and death was now unavoidable.

  The frenzy of the last three days had been such that many were more than willing to comply with this final wish of a hated foe, but many more had seen enough of killing, and prisoners by the thousands were being herded to the rear.

  He looked back across the river.

  A warrior was upon the opposite bank, a rider beside him holding a white flag, waving it back and forth. Andrew nodded, and an orderly tied a dirty towel to the tip of his sword and waved it overhead. The warrior and his flag bearer started forward, his horse splashing up spray, moving gingerly to weave its way around the corpses.

  They gained the opposite bank and stopped a dozen feet away. The warrior looked straight at Andrew and began to speak, his voice low, his words incomprehensible, and then he stopped, the flag bearer translating in broken Rus.