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  "I'll get working on it, General Hans."

  "All right, then, gentlemen, I think it's time we all got a little sleep. It's damn near dawn," Kal said, barely suppressing a yawn as he came to his feet.

  As he stepped out into the chilled morning air, Kal stretched and looked about the foundry compound.

  A scattering of low clouds drifted past, catching the first red glow of dawn.

  "Weather's changing," Kal said. "It feels like the first touch of late summer in the air."

  "Like late August out on the prairie back in America," Hans said quietly. "My favorite time of year—the high heat of summer starting to drift away. You'd wake up one morning and there'd be the first scattering of frost on your blanket. It might be a hundred that afternoon, but at least you knew the season was changing."

  "Harvest time soon," Kal said quietly, "and here we're in the middle of a war."

  "General Hans!" The voice floated down from above.

  Looking up, Kal saw the lookout atop one of the foundry chimneys waving excitedly.

  "They're gone! The ships are gone!"

  "What in hell do you mean, they're gone?" Hans shouted.

  Hans, with O'Donald behind him, raced over to the side of the chimney and started up the open ladder.

  "Damn it all, general," Kal shouted, "snipers!"

  "They couldn't hit the broad side of a barn at this range," O'Donald laughed.

  A puff of shattered brick exploded alongside of him, and with a curse he urged Hans to move faster. The two climbed up to the fifty-foot height, pushing their way into the small lookout post secured to the top of the chimney. Grabbing the lookout's telescope, Hans swept the western horizon.

  "Can't see the river," he whispered, "but there's no smoke, and that ironclad anchored off the mouth of the Vina is gone."

  "Give me that," O'Donald snapped, and reaching over he grabbed the telescope out of Hans's grasp.

  "You know you need glasses," O'Donald quipped. For a long minute he swept the city, barely visible from the top of the chimney, and then shifted his gaze to the Cartha lines dug in to the north and south.

  "It looks awful quiet," O'Donald finally said. "They've got their campfires going and the tents are still there, but I don't see much of anything else."

  "Mortar fire," Hans announced quietly.

  "Mortar round coming in," the lookout shouted, leaning over the side of the box.

  The cry was picked up across the complex of factory buildings, and everyone out in the open looked up and to the west.

  O'Donald leaned back in the box, watching the round arc up higher and higher. The distant boom of the discharging gun washed across the morning sky. The round seemed to hover nearly overhead and a little in front.

  "It's going to be close," the lookout whispered fearfully.

  A faint whistle was suddenly audible, growing louder by the second. Unable to move aside, O'Donald sat in awed silence and watched as the round came tumbling down, fuse sparkling against the dark blue sky.

  "Close, real close," Hans announced. Standing up, he leaned over the side of the box.

  "Kal, the rest of you, get the hell out of there!"

  The round shrieked in, crashing through the roof of the foundry directly below the chimney. Hans and O'Donald looked at each other, waiting, counting off the seconds.

  "A dud," O'Donald hissed, letting his breath out.

  The two looked at each other and started to laugh.

  "I think if I'd had a chew in my mouth I would have swallowed it," Hans said softly.

  Leaning back, he looked out over the enemy lines.

  "They're pulling out," O'Donald said sharply.

  Hans nodded, and standing up, he leaned back over the box.

  "Father Casmar."

  From out of a bomb-proof shelter built next to the factory, the black-clad prelate appeared.

  "Father, you sure know how to make one hell of a prayer."

  "What do you mean, son?"

  "They're pulling the fleet out and some of their forces. Andrew's on his way back!"

  An exuberant shout went up from the group below.

  "Let's get back down," Hans said. "We've got some planning to do."

  Smiling, O'Donald slipped through the bottom of the hatch, pausing to gaze back up at the lookout.

  "Son, you can keep this job," O'Donald said with a rueful shake of his head.

  The silence was a blessing. Looking aft, only a light plume of smoke was rising against the early-evening sky from the smokestacks.

  The narrow bay was aswarm with ships, the galleys lined up along hundreds of yards of beach, bobbing gently in the light swell entering the bay from the south. Along the shoreline, men by the thousands were stretched out, or washing themselves, their laughter rolling across the water like the cry of distant birds. It was the first break he had allowed since leaving Roum three and a half days before. The crews had been rowing half on, half resting since then, and even Marcus, eager for battle, had agreed that an overnight rest was needed ashore, now that they were approaching the last leg of their journey. There had been no sign of Tobias so far, but the mouth of the Kennebec had been empty, with recent signs of an encampment. It could only mean that their approach was now known. Maybe as early as tomorrow they would make contact.

  Looking back south, he saw the Antietam rounding the edge of the bay, moving slowly. Directly behind it the Republic of Rus wallowed at the end of its tow line.

  "That's seven since we left," Andrew said quietly, looking over at Bullfinch.

  "You expected it, sir," Bullfinch replied, trying to force a cheerful tone.

  "I reckon I did, but still I'd have liked to go in with everything we had."

  "When you're fighting ships," Bullfinch said, trying to sound like an old hand, "you lose more of them from breakdowns, the weather, and just plain old accidents than you ever lose in a fight.

  "Still, it's a wastage that hurts," Andrew replied softly.

  He fell silent, leaning against the pilothouse, grateful for the silence, and the lack of motion beneath his feet. The wind from the south had died down and the ocean had turned as flat as a woodland pond. For the first time since leaving Roum he felt that his stomach was finally settling down. Emil had even managed to force some meat broth into him at noon, and it had stayed in place.

  "Do you suggest any changes in the plan?" Andrew asked, finding it surprising that he was looking to a twenty-two-year-old boy for guidance.

  "The old Nelson and Perry tradition," Bullfinch replied with a smile. "Close in fast and fight it out. Cromwell has all the advantages. His guns will have the range, and I would guess that he's built ships that will have the speed as well. Our only hope is to run in sharp and hard, with the ships in line abreast, the galleys protected to the rear. We'll try to ram him, but ramming is a hell of a lot harder than you think. If you don't hit him at an almost perfect right angle the boats will tend to simply slide off each other. At close range we should have the advantage of quicker reloading, and we'll just try to pump a shot through a gun port. Believe me, sir, if a seventy-five-pound ball gets inside an armored gun deck there isn't much left to tell about afterward."

  "Have you ever been in action against another ship?" Andrew asked, realizing that he had never asked the boy before.

  Bullfinch suddenly looked sheepish.

  "Ah, no, sir," he said quietly.

  Andrew smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  "Afraid?"

  "Of course not, sir."

  "I was petrified," Andrew said quietly as if sharing a dark secret. "The only thing that saved me from making a complete fool of myself was old Hans Schuder. My company captain got killed right in front of me, ten minutes into my first fight as a new lieutenant, and I was damn near set to run when suddenly Hans was beside me, whispering advice. Funny, a lot of people said I behaved like a hero, but I'll tell you, when it comes to Antietam I can't remember a damn thing other than Hans and the captain lying there dead. />
  "And I'll tell you something else—I'm still scared to death every time I go in. I'll be counting on you, son, when the shooting starts. This will be my first sea battle as well."

  "Don't worry, sir," Bullfinch said, his voice slightly shaky. "You'll do all right."

  Andrew smiled.

  "Thanks for the encouragement."

  Andrew climbed up into the open hatch to the pilothouse and stepped down into the narrow box. Squatting down, he peered through the narrow slit as the Gettysburg, commanded by John Mina and armed with one of the captured fifty-pounders, slowly steamed past, fifty yards off the bow. In the gathering twilight it had a dark, sinister look. The range was equal to close rifle fire or double canister with land artillery, yet this was the distance they would most likely fight it out at, like two lumbering knights of old, smashing at each other with maces.

  Looking down through the open hatch into the gun deck, he grabbed a ladder rung, and lowered himself into the open space below. It felt a mite ludicrous being this tall in such a cramped ship. Even with his feet on the deck his head was still up in the hatchway.

  Nodding a greeting to the gun crew, Andrew climbed into the hatch leading down into the powder room and ever so slowly lowered himself down. At least when the ship was still he had mastered getting up and down between the decks.

  The dimly lit powder room was empty, the boy topside with the gun crew. Working the sliding latches, he slipped through the double doors into the engine room.

  "So, Emil you're up and around," Andrew said, walking between the piles of firewood to where the two engines rested in silence, the only sound the faint hissing of steam and the dull clanging of a fireman stoking the blaze in one of the engines to keep a head of steam up in case of an emergency.

  "Good place to make a hot cup of tea," Emil replied. "Care for one?"

  Andrew hesitated.

  "It's a good herbal mix, my own concoction. It'll do you good."

  Without waiting for an answer, he nodded to the fireman, who pulled out a mug, stuck it under a water discharge line, and drew off a near-boiling cup of water. Emil pulled out a small pouch, opened it, sprinkled in some leaves, and swirled the cup around.

  "Go on, Andrew."

  Andrew raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.

  "Like peppermint."

  "Seems the same. I never saw a plant like it on earth, but I guess it serves the same purpose."

  Andrew took another sip and smiled as the warmth hit his almost empty stomach.

  "Captain touring the ship the night before battle?"

  "You know I always do that," Andrew replied. "Even when I was still a company commander, I'd stay up with the men."

  "I think there's some sort of naval superstition that a captain, or admiral, whatever the hell it is you are, would do that only if he thought they were going into a desperate fight with little hope of winning."

  "This one has too many unknowns to it," Andrew replied. "With the Tugars we knew what our weapons could do, and what they could do. We won't know a damn thing until after we start fighting this one."

  "Well, there's only one way to find out," Emil said evenly, "and we should have that answer soon enough."

  "So you're telling me to stop worrying."

  "I'm always telling you that. It's bad for the stomach and the heart. Your nerves are going to kill you someday."

  "Death by that's the least of my worries, good doctor," Andrew replied, shaking his head and laughing softly.

  "Maybe you should try to get some sleep, son."

  "In a little while, Emil," Andrew replied. "By the way, this is good tea. My stomach is feeling better already. I'll just take a last walk around."

  Putting down the cup, Andrew went over to the aft ladder and ever so slowly climbed back up to the main deck. A dinghy was pulling up alongside the Suzdal from out of the shadows. Ferguson climbed out, and the boat turned back into the night and rowed away.

  "How's the Republic?"

  Ferguson looked around with a start, vaguely saluted aft, and then, seeing Andrew, saluted again and came up to join him.

  "Am I supposed to ask permission to come aboard and to salute the colors at night?" Ferguson asked.

  "Oh, it's just Bullfinch and his naval traditions," Andrew said. "It beats me. Let's just call this an army ship for now and forget about it. Now tell me about the ship."

  "A bent driveshaft on the left engine."

  "Damn, that's the second one."

  "I know," Ferguson replied glumly.

  "Can she still move?"

  "It won't be much use in a fight. Maybe three miles an hour with the helm all the way over and the one engine going at full speed."

  "So that's another one out of the fight."

  "Well, I do have an idea, sir," Ferguson said, his oil-covered face lighting up into a smile. "I remember reading about it in Harper's Weekly back when we were all in Virginia. The rebs had gained a bit of an upper hand on the Mississippi river, and some fellows made a Quaker boat that really put the fear of God in the Johnnies."

  Andrew smiled.

  "A Quaker boat, you say."

  "I've got the stuff at hand to make one out of the Republic. Who knows, it might just work. We could have it ready by morning."

  "Well, give it a try."

  "I already am. I have some people working on it right now," Ferguson replied with a delighted grin. "Hell, maybe we should put General Hawthorne in command."

  Andrew knew Ferguson meant no disrespect, but the comment still bothered him.

  "You're doing fine, Ferguson. Now get some rest."

  Drawing away, Andrew walked forward to the bow of the ship and looked out across the waters into the Inland Sea.

  Most likely tomorrow, the day after at the latest, it would be decided. Though I know so damn little, still it will be in my hands, he thought.

  A cool breeze whipped across the water, and the Suzdal ever so slowly started to shift around on its anchor line, turning to meet the wind cutting down from the northwest.

  The water on the bay started to cross-cut into a light chop, the gentle waves from the south now countered by the wind coming in nearly the opposite direction.

  Damn, it would have to do this to me now, he thought, and he wondered if somehow it was an omen.

  Jubadi Qar Qarth reined in his mount before the flame-scorched remnants of the blockhouse and dismounted. Behind him the vast array of the Vushka continued to thunder past, line after line, a hundred across, breaking the silence of the night with their thunder. Jubadi looked back, his heart swelling with pride. He knew he should be back at Cartha, but this campaign would be short, only thirty days, and if something occurred, the courier line that stretched across a thousand miles would let him know before three days had passed. Though he dreaded to consider it, the great monster that even now was being carried along the coast by ship could return him in but a day if need be.

  Beneath the light of the Great Wheel he saw Suvatai emerge from the blockhouse. The commander of the Vushka barked out a greeting and, bowing low, beckoned for his Qarth to enter the building.

  "It wasn't even a real fight," Suvatai said, the glow of a torch reflected in his wolflike grin. "Our advance scouts were able to ride right through the position."

  Suvatai beckoned toward the dozen flame-scorched bodies, which like all bodies that had been burned were curled up into tight balls, their contorted faces locked in the grimace of death.

  "How many total?"

  "Not more than fifty, my Qarth. We lost nearly a hundred, though."

  "If that is the start, Suvatai, it had better be the end of it. I will not tolerate such casualties against cattle."

  "Somehow their guns are different from the ones Cromwell made. They shoot twice, nearly three times as far. We advanced as we had been trained, spread out, so their cannon could not cut down more than one or two. We stopped an arrow's flight distance and dismounted. Suddenly our men began to drop one after the other. We charged�
�that's all we could do."

  Suvatai nodded back out through the door where the barrow had already been raised.

  "They shoot farther? How can that be? The guns look the same."

  Suvatai handed over a captured musket. Curious, Jubadi examined the weapon closely but could see no difference.

  "The bullets are different, though," Suvatai said. "Here, this was dug out of one of our wounded."

  He handed over the shot, and Jubadi held it up to the torchlight.

  "It is bent from hitting our warrior, but see, it is not round, it is pointed at one end, and flat at the other and hollowed out. Somehow that must make the bullet fly farther and hit harder as well. Some of the wounds are ghastly— big enough to put one's fist into."

  They keep changing things too fast, Jubadi thought darkly. Now all they had trained for in fighting the Yankees would have to be changed again, all because of this misshapen piece of lead.

  He stuck the bullet into his kit pouch.

  "How far ahead are our scouts?"

  "Maybe three hours' ride."

  "And any sign of resistance behind here?'

  "None, my Qarth. They had at best five thousand here, spread along this line they were building."

  "How long is it?"

  "It stretches from the sea to the high hills within the forest, well over a day and a half s swift ride. In sections it is quite formidable, great earthen forts, deep trenches with holes and stakes before the trenches to break our charge. But it is only partially done. Of course, I chose a weak spot here where they had yet to dig to come through."

  "Give them a year and this could be a problem," Jubadi said quietly.

  "They won't have a year, my Qarth," Suvatai replied.

  Jubadi nodded absently. But another two or three umens and he would feel far more secure in this move. Damn the Bantag, they were stretching him far too thin as it was, forcing him to cover all the passes, to keep strength with the horde itself, which only now was crossing into Cartha territory, and to occupy the city as well. But it could not be helped.

  "Less than three days and it will be over with," Suvatai said confidently.

  "Let us hope you are right," Jubadi replied.

  "Are you hungry, my Qarth?"