Never Sound Retreat (17 page)

"What about Pat's army, or troops coming up from Roum?" Bates asked.

"Even if Pat can break through," Hans replied wearily, "he'll be forced to drive westward, to try and break through toward Roum. Trying to link up with us won't solve anything other than to put both of us into the trap. Remember, interior lines. Ha'ark can pivot and turn, facing each threat as it develops."

Hans traced out the lines on the map again. "Pat pivots south toward us, Ha'ark cuts him off from Roum. Pat drives toward Roum, Ha'ark can still keep us in the bottle."

"But if we go south, that takes the pressure off Ha'ark," Flavius interjected. "By going north, we'll force him to divert some of his strength to block us."

Hans nodded and took another sip of tea, raising his head to look at the skirmish, which was broadening out across the valley. A mounted Bantag unit of regimental strength came up out of a curtain of ground fog, facing a scathing volley from a dug-in

line of infantry.

"True. But again, remember the Antietam campaign, South Mountain. One damn Reb division dug In at the passes tied up most of the Army of the Potomac for an entire day. All Ha'ark needs to do is divert four or five thousand troops, and we'll bleed ourselves while being the diversion you talked about. Gentlemen, this army is not a diversion. My goal is to have as much of it as possible so it can fight again."

A gentle gust of wind, damp and cooling, swirled through the encampment from the west. Hans raised his head, sniffing the wind. It reminded him of days out on the prairie, the first scent of rain coming down out of the Rockies after endless days of scorching heat.

"And there is one final thing to consider here. Retreating is exactly what Ha'ark expects us to do, what he wants us to do, and damn him, that is exactly why we will not do it."

He looked back over at Ketswana, who nodded in agreement.

"We'll continue to retreat today, as if heading back into our defensive lines. At the same time I want all supplies that can be moved loaded up. We should be back to our defensive lines by late afternoon, and the men are to get some rest. As soon as it gets dark we begin to shift everything west, abandoning th line as we go. The following morning we break ou toward the southwest."

"Back out in the open?" Flavius asked.

"Exactly." He traced a line on the map, following the Green Mountains southwestward to where they finally dropped down to the sea.

"We make for Tyre."

"That's a Cartha town; they're neutral, sir," Bates said.

"It's the only port city on the east coast of the Inland Sea that our ships can get into. We take Tyre, and the hell with their so-called neutrality."

"They'll cut us off." Bates drew a line straight across the map from where the Bantag umens were advancing. "Pin us against the mountains."

Hans pointed toward the western sky.

"We'll have rain today, maybe even tomorrow. With luck, it'll keep their damn airships down.

"We'll form up tight, square formation, supplies, wounded in the middle, each corps its own square. And then we just move, take Tyre, and get picked up."

"By who?"

Hans smiled. "Bullfinch will get something there. He pulled me out before; he'll do it again."

"My God, sir, you're talking about evacuating three corps, nearly fifty thousand men."

"Actually closer to forty thousand. Bates, I'm detaching you and one of your divisions to head up Into the mountains. Act as if you're trying to break through; it should throw Ha'ark off for a while. You'll disperse out, raise hell, bushwhack. They might even detach some of their units to pursue you. In fact,I suspect Ha'ark is counting on the umens in front of us to be the force to strengthen him. We, however, will draw them in the opposite direction, away from the main fight."

"Our pickup, sir?"

Hans smiled sadly.

"I can't promise that, son. Fight as long as you can, then break into small units and head for the coast. I'll try and get some light ships in to pick you up."

Bates nodded.

"I won't leave you up there, Bates. We need to throw Ha'ark off, make him think there's some force coming up, and that's your job. Throw him off, then head west."

"But Bullfinch, sir?"

"He'll be there. I sent half a dozen mounted couriers north last night with the message for a pickup."

The roar of skirmish fire was building into long, sustained volleys, and the division forward was beginning to leapfrog back, men moving at the double. Just forward of where Hans was holding his meeting, a battery deployed opened up, lobbing its shells over the retreating line.

"Gentlemen, that's our plan. We've got a lot to do today. I'll have your orders drawn up. Now get moving."

He studied the group as they saluted. He could see that most of them were not convinced, shocked by his unorthodox move. As the assembly broke up officers calling for their staffs, who had been watching quietly at the edge of the circle, Hans looked over at Ketswana.

"They don't like it, my friend." Ketswana said.

"They don't have to. Just as long as they do it."

"This message you sent."

Hans motioned Ketswana to draw closer.

"We won't know if it got through till we get to Tyre. If the ships are there, the message got through. If not . . ." He shrugged his shoulders.

Ketswana shook his head and laughed.

"I always knew you were a madman."

"That's why we'll win."

Andrew was off the train before it had even come to a full stop. Word had already been sent up from the telegraph station twenty miles west of Port Lincoln and a long row of ambulances was waiting. Emil pushed his way through the crowd of stretcher bearers, grabbed hold of Andrew, and guided him up to the porch of the station.

"Emil, I'm all right."

"Like hell you are," Emil snapped, forcing him to sit down. He took off Andrew's glasses, examining his eyes, then put his ear to Andrew's chest.

"Breathe deeply."

Andrew did as ordered, knowing he wouldn't escape until Emil was satisfied.

Next he took Andrew's hand, and, for the first time, Andrew muttered a protest, wincing as Emil ordered him to flex it.

Opening his black medical bag he pulled out a jar of ointment and smeared it on Andrew's face and hand. He started to bandage the hand, Andrew protesting that he needed it to write.

"Get someone to take dictation. You were lucky, Andrew, damn lucky."

Andrew told him about the sacrifice of his staff, first to protect him from the exploding boiler, then the rush to the next train.

"Stanisloff, Kal's nephew, is dead." Andrew sighed.

Emil paused in his work and looked back at the flatcar, where more than twenty bodies were stretched out.

"He saved my life. I think he's the one who knocked me down and covered me when the boiler burst."

Andrew leaned back and closed his eyes, struggling for control. It was one thing to break down in the dark, another to do it now, the sense of panic hanging in the air, thick and palatable as the scent of death.

"Oh God," Andrew whispered. "How many have died like that for me?"

"It's not just you, Keane," Emil said softly while snipping off the end of the bandage. "It's the Republic, it's winning this war. That's what he died for. He couldn't get us out; you can. That's what he died for. So you can get all of us out."

"Thank you for the guilt, good doctor."

Emil patted him on the shoulder. "Anytime it's necessary, Andrew, anytime."

"What's happening with Pat?"

"Telegraph line just came backup. Near thing, almost got flanked, but managed to pull back to their depot. The first trains are coming returning with the wounded."

He paused. "Hell of a fight for him yesterday. Ha of Eleventh Corps overrun. Five thousand dead an< wounded."

A booming explosion erupted, shattering the windowpanes behind Andrew, a geyser of dirt soaring up less than a hundred feet away, just behind the last car of the train.

"What the hell?" Andrew shouted, standing up.

"Just their damn ironclads," Emil announced. "Put a few shells in the hospital a half hour ago. Most of their shooting is damn poor though."

"Ironclads here?"

"Apparently moved up during the night. The hundred-pound Parrott is keeping them back, though just an annoyance more than anything else at th moment."

Andrew stood up and walked to the side of the station. Shading his eyes from the early-morning light, he looked out to sea and saw four ships lying a couple of miles offshore. A jet of smoke erupted from one and long seconds later a tower of water shot up a couple of hundred yards short of what was left of
Petersburg.
 

"They think she's still worth something, so that's where most of the fire's been directed."

Andrew stood silent, still not quite able to grasp] that in twenty-four hours so much had been reversed.

Emil joined him, offering a flask of vodka.

"You haven't slept. Take a drink, and let me give you something for the pain. You need some rest."

Andrew looked down at Emil and shook his head.

"Is there anything you can actually do at this moment?" Emil asked.

"We have to deploy toward Junction City, try and

slow them down, save as much of the line as possible."

"Rest first, Andrew. There'll be time enough later. Let some others do the worrying for a little while. I'll see to it."

Andrew felt a moment of surprise as he lay down on the cot in his office, surprised that he had, in fact, agreed to Emil's orders, and then there was nothing but silence and the nightmare of a boy dying in his arms.

Chapter Eight

"My God, Vincent, you look like hell."

Vincent Hawthorne smiled as he pulled up a chair by Ferguson's desk and sat down.

"Two days and nights on one of your trains will do it to you."

Vincent looked at his old friend closely. Ferguson seemed to have slipped even more since their last meeting; there was an almost translucent glow to his skin, a pale ghostly quality that he knew was typic of consumption victims.

Taking off his rain-soaked campaign hat and poncho, Vincent sighed with relief, gladly accepting the mug of hot tea Chuck offered.

"I have to be at the White House in an hour, but I wanted to see you first. It's actually the main reason I came all the way back here."

"I'm flattered."

Vincent smiled.

"You might not appreciate what I need and the timetable to deliver it."

"Something to stop the land cruisers."

"Exactly. Look, I took notes of everything I saw out there. Ranges we fired at, effect of weapons. I also know the reports on our own land ironclads. We're faster, but they'll kill our machines in a head-on attack." As he spoke he pulled a pad of paper out of his haversack and laid it on Chuck's desk.

"What's the latest? I've been locked up in here," Chuck asked absently, thumbing through Vincent's notes.

"Marcus is moving Tenth Corps up, reinforcing the survivors of Fifth Corps who are digging in west of Junction City. Ha'ark moved about eight miles west, then stopped, holding a ridgeline and the pass facing where First and Second Divisions of Fifth Corps dug in. He hasn't pushed any farther since."

"Why?"

"I think he's stretched. Burned up a lot of munitions taking Junction City, and pushing a frontal attack will cost too much. My bet is he has enough reserve supplies for one damn good fight, and he's waiting for reinforcements and additional supplies to come up first. Then he'll broaden his hold to the west and really lock the door shut on Andrew, Pat, and Hans."

Chuck laughed softly.

"So the Quaker guns I recommended scared him off from attacking?"

Vincent nodded uncomfortably. Any reference to his own Quaker upbringing, even unintentional, triggered a sense of guilt for the pacifist heritage he had abandoned in favor of war.

"We've got forty logs, painted black, with just their lake barrels exposed, the rest concealed inside covered bombproofs so their flyers can't see them from above. Damn, it's the same trick the Rebs used at Manassas. Never thought it'd work, but I could see Ha'ark studying our position and immediately afterward they started to dig in rather than attack."

"What about Andrew and Hans?"

"Not a word since we lost Junction City."

"They'll find a way out."

"Are you so certain of that?" Vincent asked quietly.

"And you aren't?"

"Between us?"

Ferguson nodded.

"It doesn't look good. Junction City was our major supply depot. We had it there to shift equipment either east or south as needed. Chuck, we lost enough ammunition and rations to keep half a dozen corps in the field for a month. We lost the equal of all the ammunition expended at Hispania. Pat and Hans have enough with them for four, maybe five days of sustained action, then it's going to get tight. If there's going to be a breakthrough, it's got to come from our side, not theirs." 

"And you want me to figure out how to smash their land cruisers in how long?" 

"It'll take a week to move up all of Tenth Corps and the men from Sixth Corps that were stripping off the western front. Then I'll attack, and I damn well better break through."

"Seven days?"

"It has to be then or never."

"Why?"

"Ha'ark landed three days ago but hasn't pushed out," Vincent said, pausing to drain the rest of his tea and gratefully accepting another cup from the small samovar by Chuck's desk.

"So far Ha'ark's army at Junction City is just a blocking force—there's not enough strength there yet for a hard-hitting offensive strike against dug-in positions. I saw the fleet. He had about a dozen steamships besides his ironclads. The rest were sailing ships and galleys. Four days to get back to Xi'an for the galleys, maybe five. This blasted weather's been god-sent for keeping their airships down, but it gave them a stern wind for back home. A day to load up, then five days back. If we haven't rolled him back and made a breakthrough, he'll have four more umens landing in seven or eight days, all with modern equipment. Maybe some more land cruisers, too, maybe even a locomotive engine and some rolling stock so they can start using our rail line as well."

"And then he can turn and crush Andrew or Hans while holding you back," Chuck sighed.

Vincent nodded.

"I'm going back in three days, Chuck. Figure something out by then and give it to me."

"You're asking the impossible."

"And you've always come through before."

Stifling a cough, Chuck looked down at the notes and scanned them again.

"Come back tomorrow," he said wearily. "I've already had some ideas in the works. You sure the numbers you've got here are accurate? The reason I'm asking is that I can figure out the kinetic energy of a fifty-pound bolt hitting at the range you specified, but if the range is off, even by fifty yards, what I cook up might not work."

"I sacrificed a hell of a lot of men to make sure I got it right."

Chuck stared at the papers as if he could sense the blood that had been spilled to get them to him.

"Tomorrow; come back tomorrow."

Sighing, he leaned forward, struggling to cough, and Vincent could see he was too exhausted even to clear his lungs anymore.

"Chuck, I wish I didn't have to do this to you,"

Vincent whispered, putting his arm around his friend's shoulder, "but if you can't solve this one, we might lose it all."

"Pat, how are you?"

Pat turned about and saw Andrew approaching. He started to salute, then, ignoring all protocol, he went up to Andrew and slapped him on the shoulder, drawing back a bit when Andrew winced from the pain.

"You know, Andrew Lawrence Keane, you look like you've been to hell and back." "Something like that."

"Why half your face's pink as a baby's arse."

Andrew tried to smile, but the pain of it stopped him.

"The hand?"

"Lost some skin. Emil's making me keep the bandage on, said I might lose it to infection if I don't, then where the hell would I be."

"Retired on pension, me bucko, no hands to hold a glass with, frightening thought."

Andrew had seen more than one veteran like that, and the thought had frightened him enough to obey Emil's orders to keep the sterilized bandage on, in spite of the difficulty and discomfort. "How's it going? I thought I'd come up to see." Pat pointed back to the bridge across the Shenandoah. On the far side, there was a continual roar of musketry, while batteries lining the riverbank to their left poured a stream of fire into the woods on the eastern shore a quarter mile away.

A battery of ten-pounders came onto the far end of the bridge, moving slowly as it rattled along the narrow-planked siding that ran alongside the track.

"Here comes the last train," Pat announced. From out of the forest a plume of smoke showed, the train edging onto the bridge, pulling a dozen flatcars piled high with rails that had been torn up during the retreat, with wounded and dead riding on top of the piles of iron.

"Except for Eleventh Corps getting overrun, we haven't left any dead for the bastards," Pat announced coldly.

Four shells arced in from the forest, dropping into the river on either side of the bridge, followed a moment later by four more. The battery nearest to Andrew shifted its fire, ranging into the woods, probing for where the enemy battery was most likely deployed on the road. A signal rocket rose up from the opposite bank, bursting high over the river.

"Now pour it on!" Pat roared.

A column of blue-clad troops appeared on the far end of the bridge, moving at the double, a final line of skirmishers closing in behind them, moving backwards, faces still turned toward the advancing Horde. When the back of the column was barely fifty yards out onto the bridge, the red banner of a Bantag umen appeared at the edge of the woods, a concentration of warriors filtering out of the trees along the riverbank. Showers of arrows and a scattering of rifle fire erupted from the eastern shore.

A dozen batteries lining the side of the river to Andrew's left opened up in a thundering salvo, exploding shells blanketing the far bank, while men armed with Sharps rifles and the detachments of snipers carrying Whitworths added to the covering fire. Nevertheless, men in the retreating column

dropped by the dozens, their comrades slowing down to pick up their casualties as they pulled back. "Come on, damn it, come on," Pat roared.

The column reached the middle of the bridge, the smoke hanging thick along the riverbank so that it was all but impossible to see the far shore.

"They're rushing the bridge!" an observer posted in a signal tower shouted.

A break in the smoke allowed Andrew to catch a glimpse of the far shore. A column of Bantag were coming forward at the run. The retreating regiment was now three-quarters of the way across. Pat paced back and forth, cursing, shouting for the men to keep moving.

A volley of shells screamed in from the opposite shore, one of them hitting the signal tower, knocking the log structure over, a second shell striking and dismounting a ten-pound Parrott muzzle-loading cannon sited beside the tower.

Pat strode back to his command bunker, Andrew following. An engineering officer came to attention at their approach and saluted nervously. "You ready?"

"Yes, sir."

The retreating column still had a hundred yards to go, and Pat continued to swear as the unit, colors still held high, lurched forward. A knot of men rose up out of the battlements flanking the bridge and dashed out, crouched low, reaching the column and grabbing hold of the wounded, helping to drag them back.

More fire started to come down as the Bantag maneuvered additional batteries into place on the far shore, the river valley echoing with the ever-increasing thunder of the cannonade.

The head of the retreating column reached the safety of the west bank, the formation breaking up as men leapt into the protection of the trenches. The last of them finally got across, and the bridge was cleared, except for the advancing mass of Bantag.

"Now watch this!" Pat announced with a grin, and he nodded to the engineering officer, who knelt, picked up a wire, and touched it to a galvanic battery.

An instant later an explosion erupted in the middle of the bridge, just ahead of the advancing Bantag. Planks from the bridge soared up, plunging down into the river, but only part of the roadway was blown. Startled, Andrew looked over at Pat. "All right, sound the retreat!" Pat shouted. Bugles echoed along the line of entrenchments. Batteries fell silent, groups of men got up out of the trenches and started to run.

"Pat?" Andrew asked, stunned that they were abandoning the position.

"Just a moment, Andrew, in a moment." The westerly breeze blew the smoke clear of the bank and in a couple of minutes the far shore was visible. The advancing column of Bantag had stalled in the middle of the bridge and then came the spine-chilling braying of nargas signaling an attack. A roaring column of Bantag stormed onto the bridge, charging at the double.

"Keep falling back!" Pat shouted. More men poured out of the trenches, running for the rear. A battery was hooked up to caissons and began to pull out of the line.

"Pat, what the hell are you doing?" Andrew cried. "We can still hold them here!"

Pat grinned, shaking his head.
"
A few more seconds, Andrew."

The forward column of Bantag already out on the middle of the bridge stood and began to surge forward, squeezing around the destroyed section of bridging by leaping over to the side of the bridge carrying the train tracks. The bridge for nearly two hundred yards of its length was packed with the dark-uniformed Horde, who were screaming wildly.

The head of the column was down to less than 150 yards from the western shore. A scattering of rifle fire from men still in the trenches was cutting into them, but as quickly as a warrior dropped another leapt forward, gaining five or ten more feet, while on the eastern end of the bridge the pressure continued to build as yet more warriors swarmed onto the bridge.

"All right, give it to them!" Pat roared.

The engineering officer picked up a second wire and touched it to the battery.

An explosion started on the eastern bank, dropping a section, then raced down the entire length of the bridge. Pilings were sheared in half, crossbeams exploded into splinters, the deck of the bridge erupted into flames as barrels of kerosene and benzene strapped directly under the bridge flooring burst into fireballs that soared heavenward.

To Andrew it seemed as if a thousand voices were joined together in a single cry of terror and unspeakable pain. Even though they were the enemy, he felt a surge of pity as the attacking column was consumed in fire as they plummeted into the river, burning, crushed by tree-sized timbers, or blown apart by the force of the explosions.