Men of War Page 8

  “Why are you pulling out?” Gregory asked.

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “We’re being flanked, cut off.”

  “What?”

  The doctor pointed to the north, and for the first time Gregory was aware of the roiling columns of smoke, punctuated by fires, and dull flashes of light. It was like a curtain stretching from horizon to horizon. He caught a momentary glimpse of a dark machine slowly moving up over a distant hill, dozens of dark towering forms behind it … Bantag; above them an aerosteamer was spiraling down in flames. The image reminded Gregory of a painting that terrified him as a child, in the great cathedral of Suzdal, The Day of Judgment, the world was in flames, the damned consigned into the hands of demons, who, of course, were of the Horde. It looked the same now. Turning to look back from where he had come, he could see the survivors of the assault pulling back, some of the men running headlong for the rear, others turning, trying to fight, going down under the hail of fire.

  “Better get the hell out of here now,” the doctor said, turning to the operating table to scoop his instruments into a carrying bag. A lone ambulance was being loaded up with wounded.

  “These men?” Gregory asked.

  “Those who can’t walk are left,” the doctor announced grimly, and to his horror he saw an orderly drawing out a revolver. It was never spoken of, but all knew that orders were never to leave wounded behind for the Bantag if they couldn’t be evacuated.

  Horrified Gregory stepped around the doctor and struggled to pull a man up.

  “Leave him, he’s dying anyhow,” the doctor announced calmly.

  “Like hell.”

  Tears of pain and frustration streaming down his face Gregory grabbed a corporal who had lost a leg and was still unconscious, hoisted him, and started for the rear.

  Chapter Four

  Brakes squealing, the train glided to a halt. Wearily, Andrew stood up, looking down at his dress uniform, nervously brushing at a stain just below his breast.

  “Long ride,” Hans groaned, sitting up from the narrow bunk where he had slept for the last hundred miles of the grueling seven-hundred-mile transit.

  Andrew nodded, vainly trying to stretch the kinks out of his back.

  “Ready for this?” Hans asked, standing up and, with an almost fatherly gesture, brushing some soot off Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Not sure. Almost feels like going into a battle.”

  “It is, and maybe just as dangerous.”

  There was a final lurch of the cars, then a blast of the whistle. Looking out the window, he saw an expectant crowd waiting in the hot early-morning sunlight. A military band, sounding tinny, struck up “Battle Cry of Freedom.” He stepped out onto the back platform, looking around. A small delegation was waiting, but his eyes were focused on but one group, Kathleen and the four children. Madison, his oldest, broke free and rushed forward with delighted cries, the twins following. Kathleen, dressed for once in a civilian dress, the traditional Rus smock and blouse, with her red hair tucked under a kerchief, looked absolutely delightful, their youngest son in her arms, looking at him wide-eyed. It had been over half a year since he had last seen him, and the boy had obviously forgotten though he did smile tentatively as Andrew stepped off the back of the car, Madison tugging at his pants leg, Jefferson and Abraham grabbing the other. She came forward, leaning up to kiss him.

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I am.”

  Looking down the length of the platform, he saw anxious families swarming around the three hospital cars that made up the rest of his express train, the first casualties back from the front since the disaster in front of Capua.

  “There’s no one here,” she whispered. “He didn’t come down.”

  Though he was not one for pomp and ritual, the fact that the president had not come to meet him, or at least have an honor guard, was a clear enough indication of the mood. It was also a very public and visible statement by his old friend that there was serious trouble ahead.

  “Colonel. How was it?”

  He turned to see Gates, editor of Gates’s Illustrated Weekly, standing expectantly, pad of paper in hand, pencil poised.

  “No comment for now, Tom.”

  “Come on, Colonel. I’m running an extra on the battle, and there’s precious little information out other than a partial casualty list and rumor that it was bad.”

  “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Is it true you’ve been summoned back by Congress to report before the Committee on the Conduct of the War?”

  “Tom, why don’t you just back the hell off,” Hans snarled.

  “I need something, anything,” Tom pressed, ignoring Hans.

  “Gates,” Hans snapped, “I remember how you peed your pants at Gettysburg, you were so damn scared, and hid behind the Seminary building till I dragged you back out. Why don’t you print that.”

  Andrew shook his head at Hans, feeling sorry for Gates, who stood abashed, face turning red.

  “Your first fight, Tom. We all peed ourselves at one time or another,” Andrew said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s all right.”

  He guided the editor off to one side.

  “Look, Tom, it was bad, very bad. In short, they tore us apart, but for the moment you can’t publish that.”

  Tom looked at him, obviously torn between his old loyalty to his colonel and the demands of his new profession.

  “Let me report to the president first. Come over to my place later in the day, and I’ll tell you everything I can. Is that fair?”

  Tom nodded. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that this place is going wild with rumors. There’s talk that if it’s true we lost at Capua, that Congress will vote that the Chin ambassadors sent by Jurak are to be formally received and given the offer of cease-fire.”

  Andrew sighed and lowered his head.

  “Andrew, be careful going in there. That’s not the only rumor floating around town this morning.”

  “What then?”

  “Senator Bugarin is calling for Rus formally to secede from the Republic, establish its own state again, and make peace with the Bantags.”

  “Damn all,” Andrew hissed.

  It was, of course, illegal according to the Constitution. Given the experience back on his home world, he had written a clause into the document strictly forbidding secession unless three-quarters of Congress, and all the voting citizens, agreed to a new Constitutional convention.

  “I told you before we should have hung every last boyar after the revolution before the Merki War,” Hans announced, having come up to join the conversation. “Bugarin was in with that crowd then.”

  “He was formally absolved,” Andrew replied sharply, “and remember, he is a senator of the Republic.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Hans snarled, letting fly with a stream of tobacco juice.

  “Flavius, the Speaker of the House, is hopping mad, too,” Gates continued. “With word that Marcus is missing and presumed dead, a hell of a lot of pressure is on him now to stop trying to be even-handed and think more like the senior representative from Roum.”

  “He’s also now the next in line to the presidency,” Hans announced.

  Andrew found himself wishing he could block this all out. He had left the battlefield less than a day ago; too much was flooding in too quickly.

  “I’ve got a carriage waiting for us,” Kathleen announced, breaking in. “Tom, let Andrew meet with the president, then they’ll most likely make a joint statement. Why don’t you come over after dinner.”

  Andrew could not help but smile at the way she could switch on the charm when needed, and the publisher finally relented, backing away and darting off to catch a lieutenant who was being carried off the hospital car on a stretcher.

  Kathleen led the way, Madison grabbing her father’s hand and chattering away, Andrew replying absently to her conversation. Reaching the carriage, she pried the children loose from thei
r father and handed the baby over to a nurse, who led them away, Andrew waving good-bye as the carriage lurched forward, feeling guilty about his role as a father who was never home and was now too preoccupied to offer them any attention.

  They drove past the long row of ambulances drawn up by the station. There was a time when he would have insisted upon stopping, getting out to talk to the men and their families, but he could so clearly sense the mood. In spite of the brilliant sunshine it felt as if there was a dark shadow over the city. Official censorship or not, news was clearly out that the offensive had turned into a bloody disaster.

  Reaching the inner gate, they passed into the old city of Suzdal, and for a brief instant he relaxed, enjoying yet again the exotic medieval flavor of the city. Though this section had been twice destroyed in the wars, each time the residents had built it back as it was, though somehow the woodwork now seemed more crudely done and hurried, as if the pace of the new world he had created would not allow time for the ancient Rus art of woodcarving as it was once done. The old gaily painted window frames and decorative designs were gone as well since the lime for whitewash and the lead for paint were both designated as precious war materials.

  The carriage finally reached the great square of the city, going past the cathedral, Kathleen making the sign of the cross as they did so. He was tempted to stop, to go in and see if Casmir, the Holy Metropolitan and head of the Rus Orthodox Church, was there, for he knew that the priest would be his staunchest supporter to the bitter end, and at this moment he needed to hear some form of encouragement. But the white banner was not flying over the central onion dome, meaning that the holy father was elsewhere, most likely at the military hospital to help as the first wounded came in.

  The carriage turned across the square, the scene of so many triumphal parades, and the place where twice he led the old 35th into battle, first against the Boyar Ivor, and then in the final charge against the Tugars. Memories rushed back of so many who had marched or fought across this square and were now but dust, and Kathleen, as if sensing his mood, reached over and squeezed his hand again.

  “Remember the first time we went for a walk here?” she said, as if trying to divert his thoughts from more melancholy contemplations.

  He smiled, looking into her eyes, remembering that first wondrous day together, when they had visited the court of Ivor then roamed the city till dusk, having no idea, as yet, of the terror of the hordes.

  Straight ahead was the White House. A strange blending of the old and the new, the former palace of a boyar, with all its ornate and intricate stone carvings, high narrow windows, and fairy-tale domes, whitewashed by order of the president in imitation of the legendary place where Lincoln had once resided. He could see a crowd gathered near the steps, a twin line of infantry drawn up to clear the way. A color guard was waiting, bearing the flag of the Republic, and as the carriage stopped at the base of the steps they came to attention. Andrew and Hans stood up, each of them saluting the colors as they stepped down to the cobblestone pavement. A small band of half a dozen drummers and fifers now sounded ruffles and flourishes and then went into “Hail to the Chief.” At the top of the steps the president, Andrew’s old friend Kal, appeared, wearing his traditional black frock coat and stovepipe hat, beard cut like Lincoln’s, always a slightly absurd sight since he stood barely five and a half feet tall, yet touching nevertheless in its respectful imitation of a legend from another world.

  Kal slowly came down the steps, the small crowd of bystanders respectfully silent, the few soldiers in the group coming to attention and saluting, civilian men and boys removing their hats and one old woman making the sign of the cross.

  Andrew, curious, watched, knowing that protocol demanded that he ascend the steps, not forcing the president to come down to greet him. But Kal had never stood on such foolish protocol, and normally would have been at the station, eager to embrace his friend in a traditional Rus bear hug and kiss. The fact that he had not done so indicated so much to Andrew, and it was such a strange paradox for Andrew had so often lectured the old peasant on the dignity of office and the precedents that needed to be set. Now they were caught in that very game.

  Kal stopped midway down the twenty steps, hat still on, and there was a long pregnant pause.

  “Don’t push it,” Kathleen whispered.

  Finally, Andrew climbed the steps, trying not to let his fatigue and stiffness show. He came to attention and saluted, Kal nodding a reply but no embrace or even a slap on the shoulder. The effect was immediate, whispers running through the crowd of onlookers. Behind the president Andrew caught a glimpse of several senators, all from Rus, one of them Vasily Bugarin.

  “Let’s go inside to talk,” Kal finally announced.

  Andrew nodded in agreement, saying nothing. There was a moment’s hesitation as Kal looked over at Hans.

  “I want my second-in-command with me,” Andrew said, and Kal turned without comment, leading the way up the stairs.

  Andrew looked back at Kathleen, who flashed a smile and turned without comment, getting back into the carriage. He felt guilty, not having said more, not feeling more, and that realization was troubling. His feelings were almost an abstraction, a memory, as if he had become so brittle inside that there was no room at the moment for the love and devotion he knew he should feel for his family.

  Though it was still early morning, he was glad to step through the ornately carved doors and into the cool dark interior of the executive mansion. Once out of sight of the crowd he hoped that Kal would drop the role and show some warmth, but there was no relenting as the president led the way down the corridor, past the old audience chamber of the boyar and into a side room which served the president as his office.

  The room was simply appointed, as was typical of the old Kal. Icons of Perm and Kesus, the half-pagan manifestation of Orthodoxy which had been transplanted to this world dominated the far wall, with smaller icons of a variety of saints, some of them men of the old 35th and 44th New York, surrounding the centerpiece. The other walls were covered with maps studded with red and blue pins marking the situation on the western front, where remnants of the Merki were raiding, the coasts of the Inland Sea and the shadowy war which had resumed against Cartha, and the Eastern Front from which he had just come. In the center of the room was a battered oak table around which a dozen straight-backed chairs were set. Andrew was delighted to see the Holy Prelate Casmir sitting at the far corner, the priest coming to his feet as Andrew came in.

  “Good day to you, Andrew,” he said in fairly good English, and Andrew smiled, taking off his old kepi hat with a show of genuine respect. Across from him was Vincent Hawthorne, a mere shadow of a ghost, his uniform hanging loosely on his narrow frame, still sporting the Phil Sheridan look of pointed goatee and mustache.

  Without comment Bugarin took a chair next to Casmir, and Kal beckoned for Andrew to sit next to Vincent, Hans taking the chair to Andrew’s right while Kal sat down next to Bugarin.

  Andrew was tempted to voice a protest, to ask to be allowed at least to freshen up and get a bite to eat before going into this meeting and then somehow get a few minutes alone with Kal to probe out what was going on, but a cold look from Kal stilled his protest, and as he sat down he made do with a cup of tea that Casmir made a point of pouring for the two new arrivals. The prelate then insisted upon a prayer which ran on for five minutes and which placed a heavy emphasis on his thankfulness for the safe return of Andrew and Hans, the need for divine guidance and strength in the trials to come.

  As the three Rus made the sign of the cross Andrew raised his head and stared straight at Kal.

  “Andrew, we need an honest report of what happened out there and why,” Kal said, opening the meeting without comment or one of his usual witticisms designed to break the tension.

  “I’ve never been anything but honest with you, Mr. President,” Andrew replied coolly, deciding to be formal and avoid the use of the informal nickname of Kal.

  Str
ange, he thought, you were once a peasant, a storyteller and jester for the Boyar Ivor, hiding your cunning behind the mask of a fool in order to protect your family and yourself when the Tugars came, hoping against hope to thus spare your daughter from being sent to the slaughter pits. Hawthorne, who is now your son-in-law, taught you about the ideals of a Republic, it was you who triggered the rebellion, and for years afterward I taught you all I know about how to rule and wrote the very Constitution which put you in power.

  Andrew could not help but feel a flicker of resentment now, the mentor who found himself outranked by a student, but was this not as it should be, he told himself. Across all these years I kept demanding that the military must answer to the civilian, and here now are the results.

  “Andrew, please tell us what happened,” Casmir interjected. “The entire city is in turmoil with fear, some are even claiming the front has collapsed and the Bantags will be at the gates.”

  “No, they haven’t broken through, the front is the same is it was before the attack.”

  “In other words you did not gain a single inch of ground,” Bugarin interjected.

  Andrew shifted his gaze to study the senator. It was rumored that he had tuberculosis; his skin was almost china white, laid flat against the bones of his face. Dark eyes seemed to burn like coals as he returned Andrew’s look. In spite of the senator’s current stance Andrew found he did have a certain amount of respect for the man. He had avoided the infamous “Boyars’ Plot” to overthrow the government before the Merki War and had briefly commanded a regiment and then a brigade before Rus was evacuated. Stricken with illness he left the army and was immediately elected senator.

  Yet, in the last year protest against the war had increasingly centered around him, first as a general concern about the progress of the fight, and then increasingly as a voice of separatism and mistrust of the Roum and their ability to fight. That was the one thing Andrew could not comprehend, this damnable wedge being driven between Rus and Roum. If it succeeded in splitting them apart, the Republic would fracture, and they would all die. How men with the intelligence of Bugarin could not see that was a mystery.