Never Sound Retreat (32 page)

Timokin sagged against the front armor, gladly accepting a canteen of water offered by his sergeant. Uncorking it, he upended the canteen, pouring half of it over his head, then took a long drink.

"We sure beat the hell out of them," the sergeant announced, sliding to the ground beside him.

Timokin, remembering Keane's expression, looked across the field at the dark host on the distant ridge.

"It's only just started," Timokin sighed.

"Ship oars."

Admiral Bullfinch, not waiting for the launch to reach the dock and tie off, leapt for the gunnel, and up onto the wharf. A shell, slicing the air high overhead, shrieked out into the bay, a geyser of water mushrooming off the bow of his ironclad. He didn't even bother to look back. It was nothing but light field artillery, its threat like that of an insect attacking an elephant.

"So, Bullfinch, you finally decided to show up."

Bullfinch looked into the eyes of Sergeant Major Hans Schuder, not sure if the opening comment was a reprimand or not. In the twilight he could see that Schuder was exhausted, features drawn, eyes red-rimmed. He waited for the blow, ready to accept the blame.

"You're here, that's all I wanted Bullfinch, you're here." Hans extended his hand. "You got me out last time; I knew you'd do it again."

"Sir, I'm sorry, I . . ." His voice trailed off and he lowered his head.

"We've all lost fights, Bullfinch. Lord knows I've lost my share."

Bullfinch looked out across the bay, where one of his steam transport ships was dropping anchor, and then back to the city. In the shadows he could see armed patrols in the streets.

"The Cartha?" Bullfinch asked.

"I think I just started a war with them." Hans sighed. "I asked permission for us simply to evacuate through here. They refused and barred the city gates."

He chuckled softly.

"Funny what a battery of twenty-pounders can do as a persuasive tool. A dozen shots and they threw in the towel, but the half dozen ships that were here hightailed it out. I guess they've run back to Cartha with the report."

"Kal was worried about that, but my orders were if this was where you were heading, I was ordered to blow down the walls if need be to get you out."

Hans exhaled noisily.

"Relief hearing that, but there was no place else to go."

Bullfinch wanted to ask, but was afraid to. There was something about the look in his eyes.

"Miraculous, sir," Bullfinch finally ventured. "I mean 150 miles, no line of supplies, fighting all the way through. Sherman's march through Georgia was a romp in comparison to what you did, sir. Coming down the coast we picked up some of your men from Bates's command. They said you had up to fifteen umens on you."

"We counted eighteen all total."

Bullfinch hesitated.

"How bad is it, sir."

"I've got thirty-one thousand men with me, Bullfinch, nine thousand of them wounded. I started with nearly fifty."

"Merciful God."

Hans turned away, and Bullfinch could see that the sergeant was struggling to control his emotions.

"I thought they had us yesterday. They completely broke the square of Seventh Corps, overran it. God, it was a damned nightmare, the screaming, men panic-stricken, trying to get into our square, chopped down, swept by our own rifle fire and canister. We had to fire into them, had to."

His voice trailed off, and he spit over the side of the dock.

"We finally cut our way through; I left close to ten thousand men back there." He nodded toward the open steppe.

"Walk or die," he said, sighing. "Walk or die."

Hans stepped away from Bullfinch, his gaze fixed on the western horizon as twilight drifted in around him.

"I'll have fifty ships up by morning," Bullfinch announced. "We can start pulling you out then."

"Evacuate?" Hans asked.

"I thought that was the idea."

Hans spit again and shook his head.

"We've got this town—it's ours. The Cartha are in the war now, like it or not."

"What the hell are you talking about, sir?"

"Bullfinch, we're keeping this town."

"Sir?"

Hans forced a smile. "We hold this town, it'll force the Bantag to stay here, too, covering their flank. It's the jumping-off place for a second front for us. Hell, Ha'ark flanked us. Now let's threaten to flank him. We have the sea and this port to cover the flank of Roum. You keep the supplies up, and we'll hold this place till hell freezes. Get my wounded off, but the rest of us stay.

"I paid for this place with blood, and this is where we'll finally make our comeback, damn it."

Chapter Fourteen

Ready to collapse from exhaustion, Andrew hesitated by the door into the hospital railroad car, braced himself, then opened it and stepped in. Kathleen looked up with a start and silently slipped down the corridor, all but collapsing into his arms. He winced as her arms swept around him, and she drew back.

"You're hurt," she gasped.

He pulled her back into his embrace.

"Scratch. I've had worse."

In spite of his feeble protests she forced him into a chair and, kneeling before him, unbuttoned his tunic. He was suddenly embarrassed. It'd been weeks since he had bathed, and now nearly three days without sleep.

"I stink; I'm covered with lice."

"I'm a doctor, remember." As his jacket came off she held it between thumb and forefinger and tossed it toward the door of the car. Next came the tattered shirt, and, motioning for a nurse to bring a basin of water, she started to wash the stump of his arm, which had been torn open by the shell fragment.

"It's infected, but I think we got it in time," she whispered, and Andrew suppressed a groan as she washed the wound with disinfectant.

"It's going to need stitches." "Not now. Things to do, but I wanted to see you first."
He looked back up the corridor.

"How is he?"

"Not good. Running a high fever."

"I want to see him."

"So, Dr. Keane, how's our wounded hero?"

Andrew looked up to see Emil come through the door, followed by Pat.

"Emil, how the hell could you let him wander around like this," Kathleen snapped.

"Well, Kathleen darling," Pat interjected, coming to the protection of his friend. "It's been rather hard pinning the colonel down long enough, what with fighting a withdrawal from the Shenandoah, attacking the Bantag, holding out on Rocky Hill, then directing the retreat back to here."

"Let me see Vincent," Andrew said.

Kathleen looked back up the corridor as if ready to argue with him, then nodded. Taking a blanket, she draped it over Andrew's shoulders and motioned for him to follow quietly. Pat and Emil fell in behind, and though she started to raise an objection, Emil's gesture for her not to debate the point silenced her.

Stretchers lined both sides of the car, and Andrew moved slowly, reaching out, taking hands as he passed.

"Licked 'em good, didn't we, sir ... the old First Corps didn't let you down did it, sir . .. don't worry, sir, we'll win this yet."

Andrew nodded, unable to speak, slowly moving to the back of the car, following Kathleen as she opened the door into a private room, then stepped out a minute later.

Andrew stepped in and, at the first sight of Vincent, he felt his throat tighten. The diminutive general seemed to have shrunk, looking like a wasted child. Father Casmar was by his side.

"Sir, how are you?" Vincent whispered.

Andrew drew up a chair and sat down by the bunk.

"Damn all, Vincent." Andrew sighed. "Marcus told me about the charge. Why, son? Why did you do that?"

"It was the only way, sir. Had to fix Ha'ark's attention, make him think we were coming straight in. Would you have ordered the charge and then stayed behind?"

Andrew shook his head, unable to reply.

"And you said I was a dumb mick," Pat interjected. "Vincent Hawthorne, I think you're madder than I am."

"How you doing, Pat?"

"Hell of a fight." He looked over at Casmar. "Sorry, Your Holiness."

Casmar smiled. "Damn it; heard a lot worse since I joined the army."

Pat smiled and relaxed. "Well, damn me, Vincent, you should have seen my guns tear 'em apart. And them ironclads of that boy Timokin. Lord, what a charge."

"Wish I'd been there."

Andrew reached out and took Vincent's hand, surprised at how frail it seemed.

"You did well, son. I knew I could count on you. It was worth it, Vincent. Not for me, for Pat, or Emil. We got four corps out of the trap. It wasn't the Potomac this time."

"And Hans?" "Wire just came in from Roum; Bullfinch got to him, they're on the coast."

Vincent sighed and laid his head back on his pillow, his features tightening.

"Kathleen?" Emil hissed.

"Gentlemen, please leave," Kathleen ordered.

Vincent started to tremble, struggling to sit up. Kathleen reached out with firm hands, forcing him back down.

"Don't leave me," he gasped.

"I'm here, son," Andrew whispered.

"Sir, I'm scared."

Andrew put his hand on Vincent's forehead, pushing back a lock of sweat-soaked hair.

Vincent's gaze locked on Kathleen.

"Mama?"

Andrew closed his eyes. How many times had he heard that cry. The wounded, who in daylight would stoically hold on, not crying, not struggling, but in the night, would call for their mothers, the oldest of soldiers, and the youngest boys, in their fear, their pain, dreaming of a soothing hand, the gentle touch in the night.

"Here, son," Kathleen whispered.

She took his hands in hers and, leaning over, softly began to pray.

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord . . ."

Andrew drew back, tears streaming down his face, stunned by the anguish he felt for the boy he had used up, the frightened young Quaker who had become the coldest of killers and was now a frightened boy again.

He was stunned as well by this other side of Kathleen. In his eyes she was, and always would be, the beautiful young Irish lass, red hair, sparkling green eyes, the lilt of a brogue when anger or passion flashed.

And now, she seemed almost Madonna-like, the soothing mother, not just of their children but of so many frightened boys who stood upon the final threshold.

A hand touched him on the shoulder. It was Emil, and Andrew withdrew. Walking the length of the car, he stepped out onto the rear platform, breathing deeply of the cold night air. There was still a war on, artillery fire flashing along the ridge, Marcus directing the bombardment that was covering their final loading up. An hour before dawn the remaining guns would be spiked, the crews loading onto the last train, and then the pullback to where new lines were being prepared, two hundred miles to the rear.

Ferguson had even thought of how to manage that. The last locomotive to back down the track would pull a hooked plow behind it, tearing up the track, twisting the rails so that Ha'ark would be forced to advance slowly, repairing the track if he ever hoped to keep his army supplied.

In the darkness he could see the last of the wounded being loaded on the cars in front of him while on the siding a battered ironclad, the name
Saint Malady
stenciled on its side, edged up a ramp onto a flatcar, the ironclad's commander standing anxiously by his machine, shouting orders. On the other side of the train he could barely see Petracci and his copilot, supervising the loading of their airship's wings, all that could be salvaged of their ruined machine, which had crash-landed after dropping a Bantag airship.

"Smoke?"

Andrew nodded, accepting the cigar Pat offered. Sitting down on the steps of the car platform, Andrew was grateful as Pat gently readjusted the blanket draped over his shoulders.

"If's all so different now." Andrew sighed. "Perpetual war, no end in sight, new machines and yet newer machines." He pointed toward Timokin and his ironclad.

"No more cavalry charges, no more volley lines shoulder to shoulder," Pat replied sadly. "At least not against those damn smoke-eating monsters."

"It saved our asses, though," Andrew said. "Hell, another half hour and they'd have overrun us."

He shuddered at the memory of it ... the Bantag bursting into the forest, falling back up the hill, trees crashing down around him, the high, ululating screams of the enemy slashing forward with the bayonet, driving toward the pinnacle of Rocky Hill, and the huddled wounded on the east slope, then the charge of the ironclads breaking into the rear of the Bantag host.

"You two sound like you'll miss the old way of killing," Emil snapped. "It's just killing to me."

"No alternatives anymore," Andrew replied. "We have to keep on going. The retreat buys time yet again, trade space for time. God willing, the weather will help, autumn rains, winter snow, maybe the fighting won't start up again till next spring, give us time to build a new army yet again."

"And he'll build a new one as well," Emil replied.

"The way of things back home, and here," Pat said. "Keeps us employed, it does."

"Sometimes I think you really are one sick son of a bitch," Emil snapped angrily.

Pat laughed sadly.

"Keeps me from going crazy with all of this, dear doctor."

Emil nodded, embarrassed over his outburst and, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulled out a flask and handed it to Pat.

"We might call this a defeat, but you two fought like avenging angels, you did."

Pat raised the flask, looking to the east, as if offering a salute to the fallen, and took a long drink.

"Andrew."

Frightened, he looked up at Kathleen. Sighing, she stepped down from the platform and, taking the flask from Pat's hand, took a long drink and sat down.

"Vincent?"

"Asleep."

"Thank God," Emil sighed.

"Fever's breaking, but oh, Andrew, that boy's torn up terribly. I don't know if he'll ever walk again."

"At least he'll live," Andrew said.

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Sir."

Andrew looked up and saw a messenger standing, holding a telegram. Somehow he could sense that the news was bad, and, reaching up, he took the slip of paper. Opening it, he fumbled in his pocket for a match. A light flared beside him as Pat held a sputtering match so he could read.

"Merciful God," Andrew whispered.

He looked over at his friends, tears in his eyes.

"Chuck Ferguson's dead. He passed away in his sleep an hour ago."

"Oh God, no." Pat sighed and, lowering his head, walked off into the darkness.

Kathleen stood up, shaking, her arms going around Andrew.

"What are we going to do now?" she whispered. "Without him, what are we going to do?"

"We'll live, we'll find a way to live through this," Andrew whispered. Holding Kathleen tight, he looked to the east and the glow of fire on the horizon.

"One hour," Ha'ark snarled bitterly. "One hour difference and we would have had him."

Jurak stood before his commander, defiant in spite of the burst of outrage.

"Eight of their umens should have been destroyed, and yet now word comes that even Hans will most likely escape. We should have crushed Keane and been marching on Roum, following their panic-stricken retreat. We should have ended this campaign before winter in Roum, perhaps even Rus itself. Now winter will stop us, all because you could not come up fast enough."

"You ask too much, Ha'ark," Jurak snapped. "You've taken a damn mob of illiterate barbarians and raised them through a thousand years of change. Six months will give you the time to finish that change. Come spring another dozen umens will be armed, there'll be a hundred land cruisers, with rails connected all the way back to our factories. You yourself said this war started too early."

"But now they know," Ha'ark said bitterly. "Keane now knows what he faces. In six months, what will he do as well? You should have killed him; then it would be different."

"Four of their umens are shattered, Ha'ark. They cannot replace that. We love eleven, but we can replace them. We will grind them down and win."

Ha'ark finally nodded and, leaving his lieutenant, stepped out of the command bunker and looked to the west.

He could sense they were pulling back, that come dawn the line would be empty.

You can run, but I will follow, he thought coldly. And in the end, there will be no place to run to, and then I will finish it, finish it as I should have finished it yesterday. As I will finish it tomorrow.