Down: Trilogy Box Set (47 page)

Near Drancy, Garibaldi halted the column and motioned for John to ride to his side. The time had come for the two groups to split.

“Farewell, my friend,” Garibaldi said. “I pray you will find your lady and I fervently hope both of you may return to the Earth to live out your days in peace and love.”

“Thank you, Giuseppe. It’s been an honor to know you. Stay safe out there.”

And that was it. Both of them were soldiers at heart and soldiers like them kept their emotions dry and checked.

John rode off with Antonio, Simon, Caravaggio, and his squad of fifty men, all of them pushing their horses to their limits. Halfway to Sevran, the higher ground materialized and to the south the squad briefly stopped to ogle the distant clash at Drancy.

“I can’t tell who’s winning,” John told Antonio.

“May both their herds be thinned,” Antonio said.

“Look over there,” Simon said. “Our army is in position, waiting to finish off the Germans. Then they’ll turn toward Paris and feed Maximilien to his guillotine.”

“Italia and Francia united,” Caravaggio said proudly, “under one leader, our Garibaldi. And it is only the beginning I think.”

“Come on,” John said. “There’s no time for speeches.”

Fifteen minutes later they were snaking uphill to the top of the wooded hill overlooking the German camp. When they got to the summit they dismounted, tied their horses, then crept to the flat observation point where the trees were sparse.

He saw it immediately. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The camp was still there, unchanged from his previous reconnoiter but there was something else, something that hit John like a hard punch to the gut.

Surrounding the camp to the north and the east, less than a mile from their hilltop position, was a vast army, larger than the combined French and German ones.

“Who the hell are they?” John asked.

Antonio pulled out his spyglass and let out a low whistle. “This is a problem, for sure.”

“More Germans?” John asked.

“Worse,” Antonio said. “You see those flags? Russians.”

Simon joined them on their bellies. “That Barbarossa’s a sly one,” he said. “He must’ve done a deal with the czar.”

“Anyone I’d know?” John said, turning his telescope back to the German position and trying to zero in on Emily’s wagon.

“His name’s Stalin,” Simon said.

John pulled the scope away from his eye and shook his head. “Christ. Bad pennies keep turning up here, don’t they?”

Caravaggio crawled over to them. “What can we do now?” he asked. “If we enter the camp, an alarm will be sounded and Russians will come.”

John located Emily’s wagon. There were guards by the door but no sign of her.

“Give me a minute to think,” he said, getting up and wandering back into the woods.

Further delay was intolerable. Emily was so close. Unimpeded, he could be by her side and holding her in his arms in minutes. But leading his men into the camp was going to end badly for everyone. He knew that. There was one option, one option only, and when he was completely convinced he called his friends over.

“What will you have us do?” Caravaggio asked.

“I need you to take the men and ride faster than you’ve ever ridden before.”

John stayed alone on that hill for hour after hour, well into the afternoon, staring through his spyglass so intently he developed a splitting headache. If Emily was in the wagon she didn’t show herself. The Russian army stayed largely in place but riders left and entered their encampment heading to and from the direction of the French and German forces. He could only assume that the Germans were saving the Russians as a reserve force if they needed them to topple the French. Or perhaps Barbarossa had the same idea as Garibaldi—vanquish the French in the field and then take Paris, in his case, with the help of the Russians.

He heard riders coming fast behind him and he hid behind a large tree until he saw it was Antonio, followed by Simon and Caravaggio.

“Success?” John asked, as Antonio dismounted.

“Listen,” Simon said.

Soon John heard the squeaking wheels of heavy carriages making the sweetest music he’d ever heard. Then Garibaldi appeared at the top of the hill and John helped him off his horse.

“I see you couldn’t live without me,” the old man said, clasping John’s shoulders. “Show me the damned Russians then.”

John took him to the clearing, helped Garibaldi to his stomach and gave him the telescope.

“This is not good, not good at all,” Garibaldi said. “I wonder what Barbarossa promised the czar? I had hoped I would come to deal with Stalin well in the future when I had consolidated more power.”

“The future’s here today,” John said. “I’m just glad you were able to get the carriages up the hill.”

“We hitched extra horses and at that, barely made it. It’s time to see if your new cannon really have the range you claim.”

“I think you’ll be impressed. What’s the chance the Russians have developed similar or better long-range artillery?” John asked.

“I would have heard rumors if it were so.”

“I hope you’re right.”

The dozen cannon had to be shoehorned to fit on the narrow overlook and while John would never advocate this kind of crowding of assets, if Garibaldi was correct about the Russians’ capabilities, they’d be well out of range of conventional artillery.

John personally packed twelve barrels with powder and loaded in the lugged projectiles. With the help of his designated crews of gunners he elevated them into firing position and conferred with Garibaldi.

“When you give the order, Giuseppe, I’ll send the first round downrange and see how we’re doing with aim and distance. If anything I want to overshoot. I don’t want anything falling short onto the German camp.”

Garibaldi tipped his hat and said, “Fire at will, sir.”

John lit the charge to the touchhole of the first cannon and held his breath until the powder caught. With a flash and an air-cracking boom, the cannon fired. Three seconds later there was a crash in the outer reaches of the Russian troop concentration. Through his spyglass, John saw men down and soldiers scattering in panic.

“Good shot!” Caravaggio shouted. “Paint the French grass with Russian blood.”

John directed aiming adjustments down the line and told the gunners to proceed. A dozen lethal loads crashed into the masses of troops. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The pieces were reloaded and another volley tore through the ranks.

John peered into the German camp through his spyglass. There appeared to be widespread alarm. Men were climbing onto wagons to try to get a view of what was happening around them and some were hitching horses to anything with wheels. Then the big man he’d seen dragging Emily to and from the tent a day earlier appeared at the wagon door and looked around.

John signaled his men and approached Garibaldi. “We’ve got enough rounds to keep the Russians busy for a while. I’m going down there now before they’ve got a chance to pull up stakes and move her.”

“Good luck to you. I will be waiting here to welcome you and your Emily then bid you adieu again.”

When John mounted his horse, Antonio, Simon, and Caravaggio did the same and the four men gave each other tense smiles.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” John said. “This is my war.”

“Your war is our war,” Antonio said. “We are together.”

Simon chimed in, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“I only want one small thing in return,” Caravaggio said with a glimmer in his eye. “I would like to kiss a live woman one more time, just one kiss from the lips of your lady and I will be rewarded for the risk of my neck.”

“Well, you can ask her yourself but I’ll be sure to put in a good word,” John said.

Himmler was in a panic.

In life, Himmler had achieved high military rank within the SS but he had been no soldier. In Hell he had ingratiated himself with the king with his organizational and political skills but, in truth, Barbarossa had always mistrusted a man who would not lift his sword in battle. That morning when Barbarossa had personally mounted his horse to ride against the French, he had sneered at his chancellor who looked even smaller from high up in his saddle.

“Do not look so worried, my chancellor,” the king had said. “Stalin is behind you, waiting in reserve. I will be in front of you, thrashing the French. You will be safe as a baby in swaddling clothes.”

But now he didn’t feel safe at all. Who was firing on the Russians? Did the French have a second army that was now outflanking their ranks? Should he order the soldiers left in the camp to stay in place? If not, which direction spelled safety and which spelled doom? Should he just take his personal guard and flee? Paralyzed with indecision he ran from wagon to wagon, accomplishing nothing.

Then fear pierced his heart like a dagger when he heard one of his men cry out from atop a wagon that a party of men on horseback were approaching from a nearby hill.

“Who are they?” he demanded.

The reply came, “I cannot say. They carry no flag.”

“Well organize a defensive line!” Himmler demanded. “And send riders to the king. Tell him we are under attack. Tell him to send troops.”

He was standing near the king’s lavishly decorated wagon which suddenly struck him as a poor place to be. Far better to hide in an ordinary wagon, and casting around for a suitable one, his gaze fell on Emily’s. His personal bodyguard of five strong men had been following him from place to place and now he ordered them to position themselves close enough to Emily’s wagon to be able to defend the door if need be, but not so close as to draw attention to it.

He tried the wagon door and finding it locked, he pounded on it.

“Who is there?” Andreas called out.

“It is Chancellor Himmler, you fool, open the door!”

Emily was sitting up, chained to the bed. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

“There is an attack,” Himmler said, red in the face and sitting on a wooden stool. “Everything is under control.”

“It doesn’t look like anything is under your control.”

“Be quiet, just shut your mouth.”

Though scared she hid her fear behind an icy smile. “It looks to me like you’ve come in here to hide under my skirt.”

“I said, shut up!”

John was galloping hard, coming straight at the perimeter of the German camp. Seemingly uncoordinated musket fire ripped into his squad, dropping two men riding behind him. They still had a small supply of hand grenades and plenty of musket and pistol-shot but when they started down the hill, he ordered them to limit fire to point-blank, man-to-man action since he couldn’t risk Emily getting hit by stray bullets or shrapnel. So with swords drawn and the sound of nearby Italian cannon fire in their ears, they swept into the camp.

Some Germans ran but others fought. John and his companions were soon slashing away at necks and shoulders and arms. As they got closer to the center of the camp, the fighting thickened and intensified.

“Watch out,” Simon screamed and John looked up to see a soldier launching himself off a wagon top. The man managed to grab John’s waist as he flew by, pulling him off his horse.

John’s foot caught in the stirrup and he was dragged upside down for several feet before he shook free. Lying on his back, the flying German pounced on him with a knife in hand.

Simon dismounted and rushed over to help but in the few seconds it took him to get there John had already broken the attacker’s wrist and planted the man’s own knife deeply in his throat. John’s horse was long gone but Emily’s wagon wasn’t far and he preferred to stay on foot to navigate the maze of tents, campfires, and caravans.

Caravaggio and Antonio also dismounted and followed closely behind while the rest of the Italian squad dispersed to deal with German defenders and snipers. In the army, this kind of mad dash through an enemy position was called running and gunning but John, sword in hand, was running and slashing, determined to make it to her wagon.

Finally it was in sight.

“Is that the one?” Antonio shouted.

“Yeah,” John replied. “Three over from that big painted one.”

And as if to confirm its identity, five brawny, stony-faced soldiers took up position at the wagon door and pointed short-barreled muskets.

“Get down!” John shouted and belly flopped. A volley hissed over his head. He turned to see if anyone was hit. Simon was still on his feet. His left arm was red with blood but he kept on coming, angered by the pain.

“I hate bloody Germans!” he screamed as he rushed the five soldiers with his good sword arm.

John, Antonio, and Caravaggio joined in and before the guards could even begin to reload, the soldiers were bludgeoned and bloodied, a threat no more.

John pushed and pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge. Then he put his shoulder to it and the wood splintered.

He was inside.

The curtains were drawn and it took a moment for his eyes to accommodate to the dim light.

A giant of a man was standing there blocking his way but he saw her on the bed, chained at the wrist. A small man with a moustache sat beside her, holding a pistol to her head.

Time stood still.

All movement froze.

All the cannon fire and battle cries around them were muted.

They were the only two people in this insane world.

And then she smiled, a beautiful, radiant smile, the first approximation of sunlight he’d seen since arriving in Hell.

“John. It’s you.”

“Sorry it took me so long.”

Andreas took a menacing step forward. Antonio entered the wagon and swore at the brewing stalemate.

“Your friends here speak English?” John asked.

“I do,” Himmler answered. “Not a step closer or I’ll shoot her.”

“Take it easy, pal,” John said. “No one’s shooting anyone, all right?”

“Another live one?” Himmler said. “How extremely interesting. Tell me your name.”

“It’s John Camp.”

“Put down your sword, Mr. Camp. Have your friend behind you do the same.”

John threw his down with a clatter and when he asked Antonio to toss his weapon aside, the young man grumbled and complied.