Never Sound Retreat (15 page)

The forward wave of Bantag skirmishers had retreated to the bottom of the shallow valley which separated the two ridges, ducking behind the embankment of a meandering stream for cover. Puffs of smoke erupted, one of the gunners with the battery doubling over and collapsing.

Fire reopened along the line as some of the men concentrated on keeping the Bantag skirmishers in the valley suppressed, while others raised their sights on the advancing waves coming down from the opposite slopes. Mortar fire rained down along the line, the Bantag gunners quickly bracketing the trench, driving the men to ground. The line of land cruisers continued its relentless advance, sparks flying from the armor as rifle fire bounced off.

"So that's their new weapon."

Vincent turned, amazed, as he stiffened to attention and saluted.

"You look like you've had a rough day, Hawthorne."

"Nearly 50 percent lost from First Division, sir. I never should have pushed them that far forward."

"You didn't know what they had. I'd have done the same to try and relieve the fort."

Bullets fluttered past the two as Andrew raised his field glasses and studied the line of land cruisers.

"Just like Hans described them. How'd the twenty-pounders do against them?"

"We let them close to two hundred yards, and the rounds still bounced off," Vincent announced sadly. "I'm sorry, sir, we lost the entire battery I ordered up. One in the first skirmish, the other three when I tried to make a stand."

Andrew nodded, saying nothing. It was a gamble Vincent had to take.

"So we won't stop them here."

"No, sir, just slow things down a bit."

Andrew looked back to the northwest, toward Junction City. In the dim light of evening he could see a railroad crew working to off-load the two heavy thirty-pound and one fifty-pound muzzle loaders he had brought from Port Lincoln. A team of horses was already hooked to one of the guns and moving through the main street of the depot, heading east, to position the gun in the earthen fortress outside of town. He looked back at the land cruisers, judging their speed.

It'd be dark by the time the cruisers reached town. Would Ha'ark press the attack? Undoubtedly. Ha'ark must realize that in twelve hours he might be able to bring up thousands of reinforcements from three different directions.

Vincent had bought enough time to bring the heavy guns up; there was no sense in risking the men in their current position any longer.

"That's him!" Vincent announced.

On the next ridgeline Andrew could see a white horse standing out in the twilight. Raising his field glasses, he studied the rider intently. Ha'ark slowed, turning his mount, and raised his field glasses as well.

Curious, Andrew thought. Same as the Merki Qar Qarth Tamuka, the projection of thought. He felt as if this one, as well, was looking into his mind, a vague sense of presence which had troubled him a number of times over the last few months becoming crystal clear at last. This one was different, lacking the primitive rage of Tamuka. There was, instead, a clear, calculating coldness, as if, in some ways, he was looking at a mirror of himself.

He felt as if he were on a stage, that he had to act, to project something. But what? And he knew even as he cast through his thoughts that this one was probing, sensing all. Show nothing, he realized, reveal nothing at all, neither rage nor fear. Strange how different this was. With Tamuka it was a matching of rage, of primal hatreds; here it was a matching of thought, of intellect, as if all that was happening was like moves on a chessboard, point and counterpoint, a planning of moves, a grasping of the shifting plans of the other, and then a recasting of coldly calculated plans yet again.

You won this opening move, Andrew thought. There was no sense in trying to conceal that.

Andrew lowered his field glasses, and the bond snapped.

"Come on, Vincent," he said calmly. "Let's get the boys back into the fortress line. It's going to be a long night."

The more complex the plan, the quicker it will fail, Jurak thought yet again as he rode through the smoke-choked forest, his horse gingerly stepping around the piles of dead, shying nervously as a human, gasping with pain, rolled over and started to raise a revolver. Half a dozen shots from his staff flung the man back down. Passing a casualty station, he tried to ignore the piles of limbs, the low moans of the wounded, and the stench of the funeral pyres.

It had cost too much, far too much already, fifty thousand dead and wounded and today was supposed to be the end of it, the closing of the door behind the humans. But the Qarth commander of his flanking attack could not resist the fight. He had to attack where the reserves were, rather than swing but half a day's march farther out. Rather than crash through to the road, sever all retreat, then fight a defensive holding action, he had attacked the enemy reserves instead. Granted, he had hurt them, but the claims that their entire corps had been destroyed was foolishness, a lie to cover his mistake.

Ha'ark would have had him executed for his stupidity and most likely would have when the time came, but he had resolved that problem by getting himself killed leading a final desperate charge.

Farther up the road the roar of battle continued, even though night had fallen and most of the warriors had stopped advancing, fearing the night spirits of the forest more than Yankee weapons. But the Yankees did not fear such things and were fighting to squeeze the last of their men out of the trap that should have been so firmly shut.

They were bloodied though, crippled and in retreat. But it was not total victory, and he was not pleased.

"Sir, we've lost all touch with Junction City; the telegraph line was cut this morning by an airship. As fast as we'd repair a break, a new one was cut."

Unable to suppress a groan, Hans Schuder eased out of the saddle and slipped to the ground next to the table where the field telegraph was set up. The captain in charge was tracing out the cuts on the map, talking excitedly, his features ghostlike in the glare of the kerosene lamp.

"When was the last report and from where?"

"A train taking our wounded to Junction City stopped ten miles short of the town just before dusk. The crew reported a large number of Bantag infantry moving toward the track and clearly visible fighting around the town. The engineer backed the train out. The report just came in."

Sighing, Hans settled down stiffly onto a stool next to the table. Cursing, he rubbed his backside, wondering why anyone would be fool enough to like horses. The captain looked at him, then reached into his haversack and pulled out a flask. Grateful, Hans took a long sip and passed it back.

"Any word from Colonel Keane?"

"Only this, sir. The line was up for a few minutes just before four o'clock, then went down again for good."

The captain passed Hans the telegram, and he held it close to the light, squinting to read the roughly printed Cyrillic lettering. Damn, we should have taught these people English or German, he thought, rather than the other way around. The language problem was proving to be difficult now that more than half the troops were from Roum and insisted on using Latin. He finally passed it over to the captain to read.

"Hans. Am moving to Junction City. First reports indicate heavy force landing at Fort Hancock with a dozen or more land cruisers. I believe . . ." The captain looked up from the sheet of paper. "The line went dead there, sir."

Believe, believe what? Hans thought. So now what? Sighing, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes. From the south he could hear a scattering of rifle fire, punctuated by the occasional boom of a fieldpiece. We're twenty miles forward of our defensive line. Nearly forty miles from there back to the railhead, then two hundred miles up to Junction City. By this time tomorrow the Bantag could be twenty, thirty miles up that line, tearing up track.

"How many trains do we have at the railhead?" Hans asked.

The captain shuffled through some papers. "Ten, sir."

Ten trains for three corps. It was starting to look like the Third Corps debacle all over again. Eight, maybe ten umens pushing us from the south. Ha'ark between us and the other forces at Junction City. Even if Andrew holds the town, Ha'ark could push south, tearing up track, then close in on me from behind blocking the passes through the Green Mountains. But if I close in on him, he can always withdraw to the coast, maybe even leapfrog and land somewhere else.

It didn't look good, not good at all.

"Well, Captain," Hans said wearily, "we've got our heads in the noose and a bare arse sticking up waiting to get kicked."

The captain said nothing.

Ha'ark will expect me to fall back, Hans realized. In fact, he's begging me to. So do what he doesn't expect and do it now.

Hans finally looked at the captain and smiled. "Come on, son, you've got a busy night ahead of you.",

"We press the attack," Ha'ark snarled. "We press it."

Angrily he paced back and forth in front of his commanders, pointing toward the city, which was clearly illuminated in the valley below. Even as he spoke the shriek of a distant train whistle echoed across the valley.

"I know the warriors are tired, they have fought superbly, but the plan was to seize that junction by nightfall. It is now two hours past the sun setting, and they still own it!"

"My Qar Qarth, it is night," a voice whispered in the dark.

"Of course it is night!"

"We have never fought at night, my Qar Qarth."

"Damn all," Ha'ark roared. He turned, his gaze fixing on the commander of the land cruisers.

"You, at least, will lead the land cruisers into the attack, will you not?"

The commander of the cruisers looked around sardonically at the others. "Of course, my Qar Qarth," he replied formally, the flicker of a smile creasing his features. "My warriors are not cowards."

Ha'ark whirled back on the others, some of them gazing with outright hatred at the cruiser commander for uttering the foulest of insults.

"We trained to fight at night, though you did not believe we would. These spirits you fear will scoff at you, the same way they now scoff at the Merki and the Tugars for losing to the human scum."

He stopped, staring at each in turn.

"We move at once. Those of you who do not follow are cowards!"

Chapter Seven

The high, shrill cry of the steam whistles sent a shiver down Andrew's spine, the cry echoing from where plumes of sparks marked the advance of the land cruisers moving toward Junction City.

He could sense the edge of panic from the troops deployed along the wall of the earthen fort guarding the eastern approach into town. A volley erupted from the two bastions flanking the tracks heading south out of town, sparkles of light snapped from the fields beyond, marking where Bantag skirmishers were advancing.

"Get some flares up," Andrew announced. The rocket-launching team deployed in the middle of the fort sent the first flare aloft. Bursting, the flare slowly began to descend, suspended beneath a small parachute. Rifle fire crackled along the line as men started to pick off the line of Bantag skirmishers caught in the glare. Flares erupted all along the line, showing that the Horde was attacking in force, coming in from the east, southeast, and south. An attacking column was already across the rail line farther south, moving at the double to envelop the town from the west.

"I'm going to make a try at it, sir!"

Andrew looked back to the ensign and his ship's crew that had come up with the fifty-pounder taken from
Petersburg.
Seconds later the gun ignited with a roar, kicking back half a dozen yards, the gout of flame blinding Andrew. The crew swarmed around its gun, a score of infantrymen joining in to help manhandle it back into position. The shell detonated directly in front of the land cruiser that was bearing down on the fort. One of the thirty-pounders deployed into the next bastion fired, its round striking the front armor of a cruiser. A hot white glare of sparks erupted, a ragged cheer going up from the men around Andrew, until the next flare revealed the machine was still lumbering forward. 

Pacing nervously back and forth, Vincent at his side, he watched as the row of machines slowly closed in. The land cruisers started to return fire, shells detonating along the battlement walls. At six hundred yards the third shot fired by the fifty-pounder struck squarely on the front armor of the machine coming straight at them. Again there was the explosive flare of light as the shell detonated . . . and still the machine came on.

"Sir, let's try to enfilade the one farther down the line!" Vincent shouted, pointing to one of the machines that was inexorably closing in on the southern bastion. "Maybe the side armor isn't as thick."

Andrew nodded, and Vincent sprinted over to the gun crew, pointing out their new target. Cursing and shouting the crew heaved its gun around, the ensign looking over at Andrew.

"More than double the range again, sir." "Try it!"

The first shell plowed a furrow just forward of the cruiser. Rifle fire was crackling all along the battlement line, Bantag skirmishers pressing in close, picking off two of the rammers working to reload the heavy gun.

Andrew stood beside the piece, watching, taking all in. The four land cruisers approaching straight toward the fort were now less than three hundred yards away, switching from shell to canister, the shrieking rounds swirling over the fortress wall while rifle bullets crackled past.

The fifty-pounder kicked back yet again, followed an instant later by a flash of sparks on the side of the land cruiser. A plume of steam and smoke erupted from the machine which seemed to lift into the air as a series of explosions detonated inside the cruiser, tearing it apart.

Wild cheering swept the battlement walls, the ensign urging his men to train their gun on the next cruiser. Andrew turned to Vincent. "Sound the retreat. Send up the signal." Vincent nodded, disappearing into the shadows, and as the first notes of the bugle call sounded, the ensign turned in surprise toward his commander. "We got one of the bastards," he shouted. "Why retreat now?" Andrew pointed to where four advancing land cruisers were down to less than two hundred yards.

"You'll get off one more shot before they're over us!" Andrew shouted, trying to be heard above the cacophonous roar of rifle fire, the detonation of shells, and the crumping thump of mortar shells that were beginning to rain down into the fort. "Spike your gun, and let's get out of here." Four rockets soared straight up, green flares igniting, the prearranged signal to begin the retreat.
Vincent came up to Andrew's side, leading a horse, and Andrew clumsily swung into the saddle, heading for the fortress sally port.
By the light of the flares to the south he saw that the Bantag column that had crossed the rail line was continuing to move to the west.

"They're flanking outward," Andrew shouted, "most likely moving to cut the rail line west of town."

Infantry poured out of the fort heading back toward the town, and in the darkness behind them came the triumphal roaring of the Bantag host.

Bugle calls to the south marked where the defenders of the southern bastion were pulling out as well and by the light of a final flare he saw a land cruiser creep up the side of the fortress, then crash down inside, a swarm of Bantag following behind it.

Troops moved past Andrew at the double, officers shouting the names of regiments to rally in their stragglers. From the rail yard on the north side of town train whistles shrieked. In the hours since the landing half a dozen trains had come up from the west, dumping off their supplies and troops twenty miles to the west, where a reserve line was already being dug. The trains were then rushed to Junction City, allowing Andrew to evacuate the two divisions of Fifth Corps to the west, while keeping the trains he had used earlier in the day for moving Pat's troops back from the Shenandoah.

Fires erupted along the rows of warehouses as hundreds of tons of rations, uniforms, medical supplies, limber wagons, bridging equipment, and millions of rounds of ammunition were put to the torch.

Andrew rode down the street, reining in for a moment as a firefight flared up when an advance company of Bantag somehow managed to break into the center of the town and were quickly swarmed under. There was a sense of panic in the air, but most of the men of Fifth Corps were veterans, and though frightened, knew what to do, officers and sergeants urging the men back toward the rail yard.

A clanging of bells caused Andrew to draw his mount over to the side of the road as half a dozen ambulances galloped past, the wagons filled with the seriously wounded.

Reaching the rail yard, he turned to look back at the town, which was engulfed with flames. Fighting raged on the main street as the last of the men from the south bastion provided a rear guard, holding back the Bantag skirmishers pushing in. He had counted on all coordination on the Bantag side breaking down, and so far his bet was working. Ha'ark should have worked more units around from the south to close in on the lightly held line to the west. There was a scattering of skirmish fire from that direction, but so far no major push, and the rail lines to the northwest and northeast were still open.

A shell passed overhead, detonating on the far side of the rail yard. Looking back to the southeast, he saw another flash of light, a gun on one of the land cruisers. Several more shots followed, one of them exploding in the rail yard, knocking down half a dozen men who were moving toward one of the trains. If a lucky shot should knock out a locomotive now, the retreat could still turn into a disaster.

Edging his horse through the crowd, he urged the men to hurry, ordering a battery crew to pull the breechblocks off their ten-pounders and abandon the guns.

The first train, loaded with wounded, lurched out of the depot, switching to the main line heading north and from there west, back to Roum. A second train followed as soon as the switch was cleared; survivors of First Division Fifth Corps piled on board.

The blocking force down in the burning town was buckling, the unit leapfrogging back a dozen yards, passing through a deployed line, which fired a volley, then fell back in turn. The third and fourth trains started out of the station, shells detonating on either side, shrapnel tearing into a cluster of men piled aboard an open flatcar.

"Vincent, you're heading out on the next train," Andrew shouted.

"Sir?"

"You heard me, son. I'm sending you west."

"Sir, I thought I was going back in to Port Lincoln, and you'd head west to coordinate the fight."

Andrew smiled and, reaching over, put his hand on Vincent's shoulder.

"I'd be a hell of a commander leaving Pat and the boys back in the pocket."

Vincent looked at him, and Andrew was pleased that Vincent offered no argument based on sentimentality or loyalty. He saw the logic of it and simply nodded his head.

Andrew pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and passed it over.

"These are your orders and authorization on my part to assume command of all forces to the west of the breakthrough. I wrote them out earlier."

"So you were planning this all along?"

"But of course."

They hunched low as a shell exploded less than a dozen yards away, blood spraying over the two from one of Vincent's staff, who was decapitated by the round.

"I don't know how Hans will react, but I think he'll make the right move. If so, put Bullfinch in charge. Set up that blocking force with Tenth Corps and the men you get out of here. As soon as I get Pat's forces back from the Shenandoah and reorganized, I'll try to break out. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're in charge over there. I'm counting on you to hold it all together. There's bound to be panic." He had to shout the last words as the fifth train thundered past them, whistle shrieking. A steady hum of bullets whistled overhead as the Bantag closed the ring, the forces to the east reaching the edge of the burning town, then pushing northward to sever the rail line heading back east.

Vincent reached over and took Andrew's hand.

"I'll see you in a week, sir!"

"Get going, son, and tell Kathleen . . ." The words trailed off. What the hell could he tell her. He tried to force a smile, then shook his head.

"Your train," Andrew said, nodding as the whistle of the sixth train sounded, signaling that it was pulling out.

Vincent slid down off his horse. He looked at the animal for a moment, patted it on the muzzle, then drew his revolver. Andrew looked away as Vincent shot the beast rather than let it fall into the hands of the enemy.

Dashing to the train, he leapt up onto the engine cab as, with wheels spinning, it started out of the station. The ring closing around the depot was now barely two hundred yards across. Andrew dismounted and started to draw his revolver. He looked into the eyes of the horse which had carried him, grateful that his beloved Mercury was still back at Port Lincoln.

Shaking his head he turned and walked away, letting the horse go, shouting for his staff to follow. Reaching the cab of the last train, he climbed on board and looked back out at the closing circle. This was going to be a near thing. The rocket signal crew was waiting on the first flatcar.

"All right, send them up!" he shouted.

Half a dozen rockets soared into the air, detonating over the two trains waiting for the last units to pull in. A final volley erupted along the contracting line, the men turning and running. The engineer behind Andrew eased the throttle in, the train lurching forward. Men scrambled along the sides of the flatcars, leaping up, turning to help injured comrades while others, reloading their weapons stood up, firing over their heads. Looking back down the street he saw a land cruiser lumbering into view, turning slowly to bring its gun to bear.

The land cruiser's gun fired straight up the street. An instant later a shuddering blow shook the train. Andrew was startled when someone slammed into him, and he fell back into the wood tender as a burst of steam exploded around him.

"Stay down!" The voice was high-pitched, filled with fear, and he felt a body on top of him. Covering his face with his hand, he felt a wash of heat as the steam from the boiler washed over him.

Someone grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him. The world went dark for an instant and he felt a surge of fear, wondering if he was blind, until he realized that a blanket had been thrown over his head. He felt arms wrapping around his legs and he fell out of the cab, more hands grabbing hold of him, dragging him back from the engine. The blanket was pulled off and he looked up, still unable to see, his glasses covered with steam.

"Sir, sir, are you all right?"

Unable to reply, he could only nod.

"Get him out of here!" he heard someone scream.

Trying to shout a protest that he could still walk, his words were ignored as half a dozen men grabbed hold of him and started to rim. He heard a hoarse, howling scream—a Bantag war cry. Something banged into the knot of men carrying him, pistol shots rang out, hands wrapped around his waist, fell away. The crowd around him surged forward again, running hard, racing to catch up to the next train which was pulling out of the station.

"It's Keane, it's Keane!" The cry was repeated over the shouts, screams, yells, the crackling of rifle fire, pistol shots, grunts of pain, and the rising ululation of the Bantag Horde pressing in around them.

He heard the shriek of a train whistle, the rumbling clang of train wheels nearby, and suddenly he was lifted, other hands reaching out to grab him and an instant later he felt the vibration of the train wheels beneath him as the last car shifted through a switch.

"I'm all right, damn it!" he roared, and the men holding on to him let go. Wiping his jacket sleeve across his glasses while they were still on, he looked back. Several of his staff, who had been carrying him, were staggering alongside the car.

More than a hundred men, having jumped off the disabled train, now surged around the back of the last train out of Junction City as it slowly started to pick up speed.

Andrew went down on his knees, reaching out, grabbing one of his orderlies by the hand, pulling him up. Horrified, he realized that the boy's skin was peeling off as he jerked him on board. Dimly he could see the boy's scalded face and realized that the boy was screaming.

Rifle fire was erupting on all sides, men running by the side of the train, staggering, dropping, and seconds later disappearing into the dark horde that was in pursuit.

Andrew, still kneeling, reached back out, grabbing someone by the shoulder. The soldier lost his footing, fell, and Andrew felt as if he was going to slip off the flatcar. Other hands reached out, grabbing the soldier, hoisting him on board . . . and then suddenly there was no longer anyone running alongside.

A man standing above Andrew grunted, doubled over, and pitched headfirst off the car. Someone else collapsed over Andrew, screaming, his rifle going over the side. Rifle fire was sweeping the car from three directions. Andrew tried to stand up but two men were instantly on top of him, swearing, holding him down, one of them falling silent an instant later, his blood splattering over Andrew's face.

Clearing the yard and the final switch which turned the train northeast and back toward Port Lincoln, they continued to pick up speed. Several shells shrieked in, one of them exploding directly overhead so that more men on the car went down.

Rifle fire continued to snap past, faring up again as the train thundered past an advance element of Bantag who had tried to sprint over the hills northeast of town and back down to the track ahead of the train. Finally they were clear, and Andrew regained to his feet.

Horrified, he looked around. Nearly every man on the flat car was dead or wounded. To his amazement the boy on his staff whom he had pulled on board was by his side, strips of his skin dangling from his hands.

"Sir, are you all right?" he asked.

Andrew motioned for him to sit down.

"You scared the hell out of us, sir. We didn't think we'd get you out."

"Just be still, son."

The boy was obviously in shock, and Andrew eased him back down onto the flatcar bed. The boy's face was swelling, his breathing labored.