Rally Cry (41 page)

At last the village was behind him, and he reined his mount around.

Horrified, he looked at the carpet of dead and dying and back to his warriors who continued to stream away northward.

"How can this be, Qubata?" the scout asked weakly.

"It seems the cattle have learned to fight at last," the old warrior replied grimly.

He watched as from the woods a blue-clad line emerged, while to their left men dressed as Rus peasants came pouring out, shouting ecstatically.

There was nothing he could do now, Qubata realized. To fight now would perhaps kill some of them but to no final purpose. But as he watched and pondered what had been done, he learned. They would have their first victory, but never would it be so cheap again.

From out of the blue-clad lines a single man emerged on horseback. He turned and gestured to his men, and then looked back at Qubata.

So that must be him, Qubata thought grimly. Not as good as a Tugar foe, but at least a foe who knows how to fight.

Qubata stood in his stirrups, and raising his arm, he let out a fierce yell.

From across the field the human held up his hand in reply.

"We go home, my foolish scout," Qubata said grimly, "but when we return we'll know not to think of them merely as cattle any longer."

Andrew watched as the Tugar turned and galloped back up the road, disappearing from view.

Around him was a scene of wild ecstasy. Discipline in the Suzdalian ranks gave way as the men shouted with glee, holding their weapons aloft, taunting the lone rider as he disappeared.

Hans came up, grinning, and looked at Andrew.

"Too easy," Hans said.

"It'll be our last cheap victory," Andrew replied sharply. "That leader had some caution. He made a mistake, but I don't think he'll do it next time, dammit."

So now the secret was out. He would have preferred that the Tugars not understand what they were facing until the main battle was joined. Surprise would be everything, and he had been forced to show his trump card in the opening hand.

"At least it'll boost our morale," Hans said. "Perhaps it's worth it for that alone."

"Let's hope we don't pay for it later, my friend."

Extending his arm with a dramatic flourish Casmar waited while two acolytes rolled up his sleeve. There was an expectant hush as the crowd, packed into the square, stood transfixed.

Emil stepped forward and held up a thin sliver of a needle. Nodding, Casmar first blessed the old doctor and then blessed the hand that held the needle.

Before the prelate even had time to react the needle jabbed him and was withdrawn.

A low cry of amazement came up from the audience.

"It was simple," Casmar shouted, "and thus the pox sickness will not strike all who are treated such. As your leader, my faithful flock, I now order you all to do the same. All churches throughout the realm will be open, and there the doctor and those who are his appointed assistants will help save you all. I also order that at the end of ten days, any who has not such a mark of holiness upon his shoulder be driven out of the city."

Blessing the crowd, Casmar stepped aside for Kal, who now climbed the great platform that had been erected before the church.

"Even mice may slay a dragon if enough of them can spit fire!" Kal roared, and the tension broken, the crowd erupted into wild cheering.

Andrew, standing beside the podium, looked over toward the gutted ruins of the palace.
From its high parapets hung dozens of Tugar bodies.
It had turned his stomach to allow such a thing, but he knew that it was needed to show the people that the enemy could be killed. What had troubled him the most was the break in Suzdalian
discipline.
The men had gone completely out of control and slaughtered every wounded Tugar in a mad frenzy of killing. Yet he knew as well what his own reaction would have been if places had been changed.

So now they had finally faced each other, Andrew thought to himself while Kal spoke to the crowd, stirring their morale up. What worried him most was the gray one. If he was no fool, they would be ready for the challenge. The element of surprise was now lost forever.

"I am not ashamed of you," Muzta said quietly, pointing to a cushion next to him.

Wearily Qubata sat down, taking the drink that his chieftain offered.

"You should not have defended me before the council," Qubata replied grimly. "It only weakened your position further."

"I can afford it," Muzta said good-naturedly, "especially for the sake of an old friend. Now tell me what you think."

"As I told the council, they do not behave as cattle any longer. Their machines are deadly. The large weapons that they had hidden on the hill could throw flashing explosions over a thousand paces, and smaller balls of iron just as far.

"But it was the discipline that worries me the most. They did not run about aimlessly as cattle have always done. No, these came forward in lines. They would discharge their weapons, fill them up, march forward,
then
fire them again. I watched the blue-coated ones, the Yankees—they fought with as much discipline as our own warriors."

"And there was no chance you could have turned the battle?" Muzta asked quietly.

"None, my Qarth.
My pride roared within me to somehow rally my warriors and charge. But my old sense told me not to. I had learned much by watching and felt it more important to ponder such things, and come back at another time."

Muzta breathed an inner sigh of relief. The warriors who had returned were loud in their complaints against Qubata, but he could see that his old friend had behaved correctly.

"And what is your plan against them?"

"Use our discipline. We have great numbers, and greater mobility. We must advance in the Cuma, the line formation with waves of arrows covering our advance. We must not rush straight into them, but rather pin them down, and then lap around their sides, where our speed will count.

"Finally—and I know this will hurt the pride of our warriors—those who fight before the lines of men must do so on foot."

"On foot?"
Muzta
asked,
the surprise in his voice evident.

"On foot, my Qarth.
Three warriors can stand in the place occupied by one horse warrior. I saw as well that when one is on horse his target is much bigger. Many fell from their mounts when they were shot and others about them became tangled in the confusion and hurt. On foot we might have fared better."

"This will go hard."

"It is as I see it, my Qarth."

"Then it shall be done as you say," Muzta said quietly. "You did not see any of their city or what they had done?"

"I sent the scouts down the west bank of the river after we pulled back. They reported great fortifications going up around the city, and in the hills beyond, buildings that poured smoke. And you might not believe this—I doubt it myself— but one scout claimed to have seen a dragon of metal, snorting smoke. Tied behind it
were
long boxes, and the dragon was pulling them across the field."

Qubata gave a quizzical look as if somewhat embarrassed for giving such a report, but Muzta listened without comment.

"As you said earlier, many of the Rus cattle carried the weapons like the one brought back by the Namer."

"Yes, my Qarth."

"So they are making them even now," Muzta said quietly.

"That is why we must move hard and fast, Muzta," Qubata said excitedly. "We must leave some of the warriors here to protect the clans, but bring the rest forward quickly. We could send a hundred thousand against them, and still leave another hundred thousand to come up with our women and children. I fear every day that passes will make them stronger."

"And us weaker," Muzta replied, nodding his head in agreement.

"It's the most amazing damn thing I've ever seen," Andrew gasped, walking around the contraption with open-mouthed amazement.

"We saw a lot of those things during the
Peninsula campaign in '62," Hans said, eyeing the balloon with open mistrust.

On the last return of the
Ogunquit
two new cargoes rested below decks. The first had caused wild rejoicing. The Carthaginians had tobacco, and the news was greeted with wild celebration. There was also half a dozen tons of zinc, which Tobias had traded for, not seeing any immediate need for the metal, but bringing it along nevertheless. Almost immediately Hank Petracci, a private from A Company, had come forward with a suggestion for using the zinc which Andrew could not refuse, despite its bizarre nature.

Hank had run away with a circus and traveled with it for several years before the war. He claimed that he could make an aerial balloon and inflate it by using zinc and sulfuric acid. Andrew had not hesitated, seeing the immense value in having a balloon for reconnaissance, and had given permission.

Word of the project had spread throughout the city when Andrew put out an order for all silken gowns to be commandeered. Avoiding yet another religious controversy, Casmar opened up the massive nave of the church as a sewing floor for the balloon, thus dispelling yet another possible crisis.

Taking the zinc brought back from the Carthaginians, Hank had the blocks shaved down into a mass of slivers. Andrew had given him an allocation of the precious sulfur which Hank cooked and then laid out in the sun, to be turned into something that
Ferguson called sulfur trioxide.

Next the concoction was mixed with water to make sulfuric acid. Early in the day Hank had at last brought the massive envelope out into the square, and hooked it to a canvas hose which was connected to a large sealed box. The box was packed with zinc shavings, over seventy gallons of concentrated sulfuric acid was poured in, and the box was sealed shut. Less than two hours later the balloon hovered above them, ready for its first voyage.

Open-mouthed, O'Donald wandered about the contraption. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cigar of Carthaginian tobacco and fumbled for a light.

With a wild shout, Hank leaped forward and knocked the match from O'Donald's hand.

The artilleryman started to bristle at the fiery young private, but
Hawthorne immediately stepped between the two.

"Major, there's hydrogen gas in that thing. One spark and we'll all be flying."

"Most likely straight to hell," Kal said nervously, looking at the smoking box and the silken envelope which floated overhead.

"I still can't believe you got all this together," Andrew said, looking at Hank with open admiration.

"I wish it could be bigger, sir, but silk around here was real scarce," Hank said. "I figure she'll take two hundred and twenty, maybe two hundred and forty pounds at most. I think it just might take Hawthorne and me up together."

Excitedly,
Hawthorne turned to Andrew, like a young boy eager for parental permission for a youthful adventure.

"Mr. Hawthorne, you're a brevet captain of Suzdalian infantry—I need you out there more than hanging up in the clouds.
And besides, son, why aren't you with your unit drilling them?"

The other officers chuckled. To their amazement the diminutive
Hawthorne had turned into one of the best drill masters for the ever-growing Suzdalian army. It seemed that in some strange way his gentle voice, the reputation he had for having escaped
Novrod,
and his marriage to Kal's daughter made him an object of deep respect among the army.

A number of men from his first command were now serving as sergeants and even as officers among the three divisions that had so far been trained and outfitted.

"Sir, my command is serving guard duty on the wall, not a hundred yards away,"
Hawthorne said stiffly.

"Well, I daresay it would certainly impress them to see their young officer flying," Andrew said indulgently. "Go ahead and try it out. But take care—we wouldn't want anything to happen to the father of that beautiful little girl!"

The men laughed as Vincent beamed at the mention of his new daughter. Leaping into the basket slung beneath the balloon, he gave his friend Hank a conspiratorial wink.

"All right, cast the support lines free," Hank ordered. The Suzdalian ground crew, going about with great self-importance, followed the orders of this young Yankee whom they half believed was actually a wizard.

Lines freed, the balloon still remained on its launch platform in the middle of the square. With a dramatic flourish, Hank started to untie sandbags strapped around the edge of the basket. With two bags left, the balloon ever so slowly started to rise into the air.

"And now Professor Petracci will show you feats of aerial daredeviltry never before seen or imagined in all of Valdennia," Hank shouted in his best circus-barker voice as the balloon started heavenward.

Startled cries echoed over the city as the swaying basket rose higher and higher, clearing the great cathedral tower.

"Dimitri,
Petra!"
Hawthorne roared, waving to his men, who stood gape-mouthed on the dockside wall. Seeing their young commander, the men jumped up and down excitedly
pointing, and then strutting with obvious pride that they served a Yankee who could even fly.

The rate of climb started to slow, as the weight of the tether rope slowed its ascent.

"Stand clear!" Hank roared, as he cut another bag loose, which crashed into the square below.

Higher and higher the balloon rose, until finally at five hundred feet it reached the end of its tether and slowly bobbed and turned.

"I never thought old Keane would let me come,"
Hawthorne cried excitedly.

"You've got the flying bug in your eyes, my friend. I could see that the first time you wandered by my laboratory," Hank said expansively, "and so I thought,
Here's
one that Professor Petracci had better take under bis trusting wing," and the two friends laughed.

Thrilled,
Hawthorne looked around. To the east the great foundry and mills were working full-blast, billows of smoke swirling from their chimneys. To the north of the foundry stood the powder mill, its great wheel turning to drive the wooden hammers and grinders. Below it stood the long sheds where the powder was taken, there to meet the sheets of cartridge paper and lead shot, to be turned into prepared rounds and packed into boxes holding a thousand rounds. In a separate building dozens of women sewed cloth bags and filled them with powder for the artillery rounds, stacking them up on a waiting flatcar to be hauled back to the magazine within the city.

From the south he heard a whistle and saw an engine, hauling a dozen cars, come rattling through the southside switching yard, passing the old
Waterville
with three empty cars.

Below him, the work on fortifications continued, the outer walls, now twenty feet high, completely surrounding the city.

There was a thundering rattle of musketry punctuated by the boom of a dozen artillery pieces firing in salvo. Looking over to the drill fields, Hawthorne felt a cold chill at the sight of a full brigade of Suzdalian troops, sixteen hundred men, standing in a battle line nearly three hundred yards long. Smoke drifted up from the field, the distant shouts of the participants echoing up at the demonstration of power they had just performed. Thousands more stood to either side, watching the demonstration, their cheers joining in.

He turned to look north and east. The distant hills seemed to
rise
ever higher, one atop another. The passes seven miles away were clearly visible with the field glasses, and he could see the lines of fortifications that had been laid out. From the hills above the passes he could see the swirling smoke from the boiling fires that were refining down the sulfur for powder.

But the warlike preparations did not hold him as much as the splendid beauty of the rolling countryside showing the first hazy colors of autumn. Stands of oak and maple were already showing the first reds and yellows, the birch shimmering in the warm afternoon light, while in the fields Fletcher's harvesting machines and thousands of workers labored to bring in the harvest.

Looking farther north he could almost make out the clearing that had been cut around the ford, thirty miles away. From the ford he could see the high watchtower that had been built, and even the waving of the semaphore flags, most likely signaling to the line of towers that had been built west and south as watch stations. Swinging his glasses to the west, he saw the distant steppe opening out before him, until sky and land seemingly blended into one. He let his gaze linger for a moment, trying to discern a smudge of either clouds or dust on the horizon.

A muffled groan disturbed him, and turning, he looked back to see Hank sitting hunched over in the bottom of the basket.

"Something wrong?"
Hawthorne asked.

"Nothing, nothing at all," Hank said weakly.

"You look a bit peaked, my friend."

"It'll pass," Hank said weakly.

A light gust swirled around them, swaying the basket, and Hank groaned.

"Hank,"
Hawthorne said quietly, "I've got a question."

Groaning, Hank put his head between his hands.

"You've never flown one of these things before, have you?"

"I just sat on the ground and watched," he moaned as another gust set the basket spinning and twirling.

"Just what the hell is
Hawthorne laughing about up there?" Andrew asked.

"Beats me, but I sure am jealous of the boy," Emil said, looking heavenward.

"Well, Emil, maybe when this war's over, Hank there can start a business and give you a ride," and walking over to his mount, Andrew swung into the saddle, his staff rushing to join him.

"Let's get started," Andrew said, spurring his mount, and the group galloped down the east road and out through the main gate.

The outer fortifications rose up several hundred yards beyond the wooden walls of the city. Six months in the trenches of
Petersburg had taught Andrew and his men how to dig in, and under their supervision a massive earthen wall had been raised, encompassing the entire city. At each corner, bastions had been built, rising ten feet higher than the walls. If cut off, they could still hold, their bunkers stockpiled with ammunition and rations. Riding down the line, the group passed through the heavily fortified northern gate, crossing the bridge traversing the thirty-foot dry moat. Beyond the gate the open fields beyond were covered with row after row of sharpened stakes, brush entanglements, and trip holes.

Andrew reined in his mount by the edge of the rail line as a train came thundering past. Malady, at the throttle of their newest engine, the
Bangor
,
tooted a salute as the train thundered past and turned up toward the mills.

"It's out here where it'll be decided, gentlemen," Andrew said quietly, pointing to the defensive works. "I plan only to try to delay them for a day or two up by the ford and down toward the passes. But it's here that we'll break them."

Andrew paused for a moment and looked about, while wagons bearing the first of the harvest rumbled past on their way into the city.

"How are we doing, Fletcher?"

The rotund captain came up, pausing for a second to look at the piles of apples passing by in a wagon. Snatching two, he came up and offered one to Andrew, who took a bite.

"Some of the wheat harvest is at last hitting the mills, but it'll still be weeks bringing it all in from the outlying districts. I've got several thousand head of cattle and twice as many swine penned in south of the city. First sign of trouble, we'll drive them into the city and start the slaughtering."

"But how much is in so far?" Andrew asked.

"Enough food for sixty days," Fletcher said quietly. "It'll be two months before we've got enough to carry us through the spring and the beginning of the next harvest. You've got a war to fight,
sir,
I've got to make sure that if we win, there'll still be enough food to feed us through till next summer."

"I understand, Bob," Andrew replied evenly. "Just keep at it.

"Mina?"

The gaunt-eyed major came up to Andrew's side.

"We're up to three hundred muskets a day, sir, a little over ten thousand to date," the officer started, his voice distant, almost mechanical. "We're getting twenty long rifles a day as well, just over five hundred so far. If I had another two months I might be able to turn out more rifles than muskets."

"I can't promise that time, John," Andrew said quietly.

"How about artillery?"
O'Donald asked.

"Three four-pounders a day now.
The molds have been set for some nine-pounders, but that's more than two weeks away. Ninety pieces to date."