Rally Cry (28 page)

"What good could we do anyhow?" Tobias replied. "They are like cattle, just like the niggers back home who worked like cattle in the fields. If the niggers wanted their freedom so all-fired bad, why didn't they rebel when John Brown started it all? And it's the same with these lazy peasants."

"Last I heard," Andrew said slowly, "those men you call niggers had a hundred and eighty thousand brothers wearing
Union blue. After the battle of the Crater I saw their bodies carpeting the field from one end to the other."

All in the room could see Andrew bristling at Tobias.

"I call those men Americans, damn you," he said.

Tobias backed off.

"Are there any other comments?" Andrew continued, looking around the table, his voice still sharp from the encounter.

"There's the simple logistics of it all," Emil said, leaning forward. "No matter what our pride tells us, six hundred cannot stand before hundreds of thousands. We saw what their bowman did to poor Johnson. Hans went and paced it off later—a hundred and seventy yards that shot carried.

"Even with our rifles they'll close in enough to shoot and simply wear us down."

Andrew found himself nodding in agreement. His initial rage had cooled as the harsh realities of what they faced finally settled in. With only six hundred they'd be surrounded and smothered under a rain of feathered death.

"If we stay, it'll be almost certain death," Andrew said quietly, and the room was silent.

"I have never turned from a fight in my life. You and I have stood together on a score of fields, and never
has
the 35th run, and the record of the 44th Artillery is as honorable.

"If our deaths here would mean something, then I would order us to stay and fight. But what I wish in this will not be the deciding factor. I cannot order the brave men of this regiment to die, most likely for no purpose at all."

Tobias started to smile, but Andrew's look cut him off.

"If we stay, we'll have to fight Ivor and the nobles first, before we can even take a shot at the Tugars."

"If only the nobles would swing to our side,"
Houston argued.

"Even if they did, they'd be more hindrance than help. They're nothing but medieval horsemen armed with swords and lances. The horse archers of the horde would sweep them out of their saddles in the first charge."

"The peasants?"
O'Donald asked.

"It'd take years to get them ready."

"So you're saying that we pull out," O'Donald said disbelievingly.

"I said I would not order this regiment to stay. Near all of them are volunteers. They volunteered to fight the Confederacy; there was nothing in that agreement about fighting here. This is a different fight, and I feel they have the right to decide this issue for themselves. It is the only fair answer to this question."

Surprised, the officers looked around the table at one another.

"It's not to be taken lightly, so I'll give them a week. At the end of the week there'll be a vote by secret ballot. The majority will decide in this one, gentlemen, and I will live with that majority. That is all, gentlemen."

The room emptied, until only Hans was left.

"Well, old friend," Andrew said wearily, "I'd consider it an honor if you'd join me in a drink."

He filled two tumblers with the last drop of brandy in his possession.

"Did I do the right thing?" he asked, looking at the sergeant. Not since
Gettysburg had he asked that question of his old mentor.

Hans's features creased into the slightest of smiles.

"Son, it was the only thing you could do."

"Dammit, man, I want to stay and fight, maybe even try to persuade Ivor to join me."

"I doubt if he would."

"If he were alone without that bastard Rasnar I think he'd try."

"But he's not.'

"I've ruined it all," Andrew said dejectedly.

"Look at me, son."

Andrew tried to meet Hans' gaze but couldn't.

"I remember when you were nothing but a scared pup. Andrew, boy, you've become the finest soldier I've ever seen. You know how to kill when you have to, and a damn fine killer you are, a regular demon angel of a killer.

"But there's more to being a soldier than that. You love the men of this regiment as if they were your own flesh. It burns a man's soul to be like that—I've seen more than one officer go mad from it—but you've got the strength. You know how to lead these boys, to show them you respect them as men, and, God help you, when the time comes to spend their lives to buy what is needed.

"I thought your decision to fight a war to try and save
Hawthorne the
most noble
act I've ever seen, and the men loved you for it and would have died by the hundreds to see it done. Far too many armies forget that rule, to protect their own no matter what. When soldiers know their comrades will not abandon them, they'll fight the harder.

"But for this fight you can't ask that of them. You said it well before—their knights are useless, their peasants would be slaughtered. I think, son, this fight is beyond us."

"I feel like a coward."

Hans grabbed hold of Andrew's arm from across the table.

"You're the bravest officer it's ever been my privilege to serve. I think this one's a lost fight, Andrew. Maybe in twenty years, as Tobias said, we and our sons will be ready. But you can't throw away your life, or lead the regiment to its doom. Always remember, Andrew, the regiment must survive."

"Do you think the boys will vote to go?" he asked quietly.

"They might surprise you, son."

"You want to stay, don't you?" Andrew asked.

Hans smiled.

"I felt like I wanted to when I saw that evil bastard come riding in, but now ..." His voice trailed off.

"I'm afraid," Andrew whispered. "I saw that thing and I was afraid, and I'm afraid the men will think me a coward for not ordering us to stay and fight."

"It takes courage sometimes not to fight," Hans retorted. "Dammit, son, I'm so frightened out on the field sometimes I can't stop from shaking, it's just everyone else is frightened too and don't notice it."

"Funny," Andrew said, a strange detachment to his voice, "since
Antietam, I haven't been afraid—in fact, I almost love it. That is,
till
now, and," his voice dropping, "when I sleep."

"Let's see what the boys decide," Hans said softly.

The two fell into silence. Gradually Andrew's head lowered onto the table. Finally Hans stepped around to Andrew's chair, and picking him up, he gently laid the young officer on his cot, removing his spectacles and putting them on the sideboard.

"You've done well," Hans said softly, "but I don't want you dying for a fight you can't win."

Scarlet with embarrassment,
Hawthorne stood before Kal, unable to raise his eyes from the floor, while Andrew stood circumspectly to one side.

"I should be angry with you," Kal said in a cold, even voice.

"Yes sir."

"My only daughter," Ludmilla sobbed. "To think a mother should raise her little girl to be like this."

Tanya moved closer to
Hawthorne, and protectively his arm went over her shoulder.

Kal looked at the couple. They both looked so young, and his memory went back to a similar meeting long ago. His glance slipped over to Ludmilla, and the common memory was shared in their eyes, and they smiled shyly at each other.

Perhaps it was for the best after all, Kal thought sadly. Tanya had not yet been born when the horde last came, but her older brother, Gregory, had, and it had been Rasnar himself who had chosen him for the moon feast table.

Maybe there were only days left, and no matter what, a year at most, let his little girl have her happiness, to know a brief moment of joy before the end.

His eyes started to cloud with tears. Walking around the rough-hewn table, he extended his arms, embracing both of them.

Hawthorne
raised his eyes to look at the peasant.

"You are my son," Kal said hoarsely. "I was proud of you, and the first time I met you I thought in my heart that you would be a fitting son. Now love each other, for it is the gift Kesus gives most abundantly to youth."

Kal stepped back from the two.

"Now sit and eat, my son," Ludmilla said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Tanya, come help."

Leaning over,
Hawthorne kissed Tanya lightly on the forehead. Smiling, she dashed over to Kal, hugged the burly peasant fiercely, and then went into the next room.

Hawthorne
looked back at Andrew, who smiled at the young corporal. It still amazed him that the young Quaker, of all the men in his regiment, had been the first to get a girl into trouble. But somehow this was different. The love the two showed for each other was obvious to any who saw them together. He breathed an inner sigh of relief. It could have gone far worse.

"There should be a marriage,"
Hawthorne said softly, coming to sit next to Kal.

"In the church?"
Kal asked.

"If that is your wish and custom."

Kal spat on the floor and shook his head.

"We have no preacher with us,"
Hawthorne said, and he turned and looked at Andrew, who still stood in the back of the room. "Sir, I was kind of hoping you would say the words."

Flustered, Andrew looked at Kal.

"Sir, we haven't a preacher, and I was thinking you're sort of like the captain of a ship here."

"I think it'd be all right," Andrew replied lamely.

"My house would be honored," Kal interjected, beckoning for Andrew to sit, now that the formalities were over with. "But we can speak of that later.

"I heard your announcement at parade this morning," Kal said, "and I am confused. You are the leader. I thought you decided what was to be done."

"The boys have the right to decide for themselves," Andrew replied. "It is our way for things like this. Back on our world they volunteered to fight for a cause. This cause now is different, and I cannot order them to fight unless they agree to do so first."

"You Yankees," Kal said, shaking his head.

"It is our way, my friend."

"And what do you think will be done?" Kal asked nervously.

"We'll stay,"
Hawthorne said.

Andrew smiled and patted the boy on the shoulder.

"Let's wait until the votes are in."

"I have three things to say," Kal said, lowering his voice, "and that is why I asked you to come to my cabin with
Hawthorne, so it would seem that you were here because of our little family situation."

Hawthorne
started to blush again, and good-naturedly Kal patted him on the shoulder.

"Why the need for secrecy?"
Andrew asked. "You come to my cabin nearly every day."

"Because I'm advising you to seal your camp off today, to allow no one in or out.
I heard your order forbidding your troops to go to Suzdal. But you must not allow anyone to enter."

"Why?"

"Because there will be spies to learn of your decisions."

Andrew nodded in agreement.

"Next, you can expect Ivor and the other boyars to strike you, and strike hard."

Andrew nodded sadly.

"It is what I expected."

"Do you plan to do anything?"

"No."

"But if you moved first against him, you would stop this attack which might destroy you."

"It is not my way," Andrew replied grimly. "I will not fight a war unless it is forced upon me. The men will vote on staying or leaving at the end of the week."

"And how do you think the vote will go?"

Andrew looked at
Hawthorne and sadly shook his head. "They'll vote to leave, I'm almost sure of that. If the
majority do
that, then all of us will go."

There was a look of panic on
Hawthorne's face.

"Don't worry," Andrew said, patting him on the arm. "If we leave, those who have helped us, such as Kal and your new family, will be asked to go with us."

"I am still of the house of Ivor," Kal said evenly, "and I cannot leave my people. My daughter and wife I would send with you, but I would stay."

Andrew looked into Kal's eyes, and knew there was no arguing, for if the roles were reversed he would do the same.

"Rasnar will not let you leave," Kal stated softly. "He desires the powers you have—he covets them to make the church stronger than the boyars."