Rally Cry (42 page)

"And the other supplies?"
Andrew asked patiently, realizing that his ordnance chief had long since gone over the edge of nervous exhaustion.

"Well, ah, sir, we're casting down that last load of lead right now. I've got near four million musket rounds, one hundred thousand more for our own rifles, and twenty thousand artillery rounds stored up. We're turning out a hundred thousand rounds per day, and five hundred artillery loads. The problem now is the powder mill is at maximum output—that's the weak point. We need over a ton of sulfur a day to meet it, and it's just not coming through. Otherwise I could do more."

"You've done well, John. I'm proud of you—no one else could have done it." The major nodded vaguely in reply.

And it's not enough, Andrew thought grimly, not half enough. In four hours at
Gettysburg his men had fired off over a hundred rounds per man. Four pitched battles would use up nearly everything they had. They needed time, desperately needed more time.

Still showing a calm self-assurance, Andrew looked over at his young telegrapher and nodded.

"As fast as the wire works are drawing we're stringing up ones," Mitchell said. "I've run four lines out to the main bastions from your command post in the cathedral. There's a line out to the foundry and powder mill, and back to the
Fort
Lincoln
switch-off as well. I'm also rigging one for the balloon and starting tomorrow will start stringing toward the ford. Beyond the ford we've got signal towers every two miles going straight out to the edge of the steppe. It'll give us plenty of warning. I'm also stockpiling a couple of miles of wire to be strung as needed, once the siege begins. We've got twenty operators trained. A couple of those Suzdalians have really good fists--one can do near twenty words a minute now."

"Good work, son. Keep at it."

Kicking his horse into a canter, Andrew started up the hill, and cresting the low ridge, he looked out at the drill field.

"All right, General Hans, how're they doing?"

Andrew smiled at his old sergeant, who wore the stars of a Suzdalian major general on his uniform, which still carried the old stripes of a sergeant major.

"Never thought I'd be a damned general," Hans growled.

"Well, we've all been giving ourselves promotions of late," Andrew said good-naturedly.

He could well imagine the envy his old comrades back home would have had at the rapid promotions that he had given out. Hans was corps commander, with three divisions of infantry and two battalions of artillery under him. The officers of the 35th, who were now taking orders from
Hans,
and several other sergeants had not minded too much, but O'Donald had chafed a bit with Hans making the decisions. Andrew half suspected that it had been settled "behind the barn," for both of them showed up one day sporting shiners and suddenly behaving like fast friends.

Houston and Sergeant Kindred of E Company had risen to control of the first and second divisions, while Sergeant Barry now controlled the third. Beneath them others had risen to command the six brigades and twenty-four regiments of four hundred men each in the field. The fourth
division was drilled and only waiting for its weapons, while
the fifth and sixth had already been formed. Nearly half the regiment was now slotted into command positions, but Andrew wished to retain a core of the old 35th as a rally point of professionals, under his direct command. At Kal's suggestion he had agreed to fill the ranks with veterans from the engagement at the pass, and now there were two hundred Suzdalians proudly wearing
Union blue.

The hundred and fifty thousand others that would fight had been organized into militia units, controlled mainly by Suzdalians. Several nobles and many of the old warrior retainers now commanded those formations under Kal.

Andrew settled back in the saddle and watched as the brigade that had fired a volley moments before now practiced shifting brigade front to right.

The right of the line stayed firmly anchored while the double line of sixteen hundred, extending for over three hundred yards, started to pivot like a giant gate, their blue regimental flags and white national colors snapping in the breeze. The left of the line was ragged, the men running at the double, while the distant shouts of the commanders echoed across the field.

"Not bad," Andrew said quietly. "Not bad at all, Hans."

"Could be a damn sight better," the sergeant growled, but Andrew could see the pride his old teacher felt for this new command.

"It's just they've never done it under fire," Hans said meditatively. "That's where we'll find out."

A distant shout disturbed their thoughts, and looking back, Andrew saw a courier galloping out from the city, slashing wildly at his mount and coming straight at them.

"I think," Andrew said quietly, "that we're about to find out."

Muzta reined in his mount and looked up at the wooden tower on the hill. Its lone occupant lay dead on the ground, several arrows in his chest.

Qubata stood over the man, looking meditatively at the corpse.

"What is this?" Muzta asked.

Qubata pointed to the red and green flags that lay on the ground beside the corpse.

"They know we're coming," the general said quietly.

"The man saw us from thousands of paces off, yet still he stayed, signaling, until we dropped him with a volley. Seeing us was not enough—he most likely got a fair count of us as well."

Muzta shaded his eyes and looked northeastward. Scattered clumps of trees gradually started to merge together as the ground rose higher, the distant hills given over completely to a forest whose leaves were streaked with red and gold.

His advance scouts were already lost to view, having galloped on.

"There, do you see it?" Qubata asked, pointing to a flash of red, waving back and forth.

"This tower signaled to that one, and beyond that hill must be another, all the way back to the ford, eighty times a thousand paces beyond. I would be willing to guess the word has already reached the city."

"Two days of hard riding to reach the ford," Muzta said quietly.

"They'll be waiting for us there," Qubata said evenly.

Muzta turned in his saddle as from over the hill
came
the standards of the Olkta, the ten thousand of the guard, first Umen of the Tugar host. The horsetail pennants fluttered by, commanders galloping past saluting Muzta with raised fists. Spread out behind them, a hundred warriors across, came the first of first, the elite guard of the Tugar horde.

Muzta's heart swelled with pride. For more than a circling such show had been mere ritual. Not since Onci had the Olkta ridden to war. Then it had been their sires; now the sons were in the ranks, and Muzta saw
his own
three, born to his first-chosen, gallop past, waving gaily. Muzta looked sternly at them for showing such disrespect.

"They are young and excited with the chase," Qubata said, as if apologizing. "Just as you once were."

Muzta turned to Qubata and smiled.

"Was I really that bad?"

"You were an eagle," Qubata said, smiling.

"Then let us climb this eyrie for a look," Muzta replied. Grabbing hold of the ladder, he scaled upward. Reaching the top, he looked back toward the west, and his heart soared at the sight.

A dozen Umen were spread out before him, the serpentine columns stretching back to the far horizon. A hundred and twenty thousand Tugars riding in disciplined formation, their blocks of a hundred riders wide by a hundred deep checkerboarding the vast open steppe.

"Magnificent, simply magnificent!"
Muzta cried, looking over at Qubata, who stood with arms crossed, watching the advance.

"As beautiful as Onci," the old general said reflectively, his blood stirred at the sight.

Looking back over his shoulder, he gazed at the gradually rising forest.

"And all of that," he said evenly, pointing toward the host, "we must funnel up into those hills, and finally to a single road across the only ford available. That's where they'll be waiting for us."

"The Olkta will force us a way," Muzta said evenly.

Galloping down the long serried ranks, Andrew looked appraisingly at the division drawn up in the early-morning light.

Ten thousand at his command, he thought to himself. He could remember when Reynolds, his old corps commander, had ridden by in much the same manner, corps battle standards, staff, and couriers riding behind him. He could remember the sense of wonder at such power, and envy as well.

So now he was doing the same, the men in the ranks looking to him as he had once looked to Reynolds.

The three divisions were in full fighting gear—muskets
shouldered,
a hundred rounds in pockets and cartridge boxes. Blanket rolls were slung over their shoulders, rough haversacks of hide or burlap dangling from their hips holding seven days' rations. They were the most godawful-looking infantry he had ever seen, nearly all the men still wearing the old traditional oversized shirts, cross-hatched leggings, and burlap-wrapped feet of Suzdalian peasants, but they were still soldiers, and their pride showed as they burst into spontaneous cheering at his approach.

Waving a salute, Andrew continued on down the line past the fifty artillery pieces, which would be set up under O'Donald's command, while the rest were held in reserve or on Tobias's ship.

Finally reaching the head of the column, Andrew turned to look back one last time.

Is this how Grant or Bobbie Lee felt?
he
wondered coldly. There was the cold thrill of it all, that set his heart to pounding, but now there was the terrible responsibility as well. Always before there had been someone above him, to tell him to hold such and such a place, or to
march
or to retreat. Now it was he alone. A single mistake and in a moment all could be lost. In his old war they had been spurred forward with cries of victory or death. But all knew that even if the battle was lost there was still the prospect of an honorable surrender. Here the old hollow cry was bone-chillingly real. If he made a mistake now, not only his army but all who had entrusted their lives to him would die as well.

He looked over toward the city walls, where thousands stood to watch the departure.

He had not wanted to start the war this way. But the Tugars had forced his hand, coming up far earlier than even his worst fears had imagined.

They had to buy time, to delay the Tugars not just for a day or two but for a week, two weeks if possible. Every day meant more guns, more powder, and most important, the desperately needed food that was still coming in from the fields.

He had to buy time, and the buying would come with his preciously small army.

His staff gathered around him, some grim-faced while others, especially the young division and brigade commanders, bright-eyed and beaming with delight at the prospect of leading such numbers into a fight.

From over by the river the
Ogunquit's
whistle sounded as the ship started upstream to the ford. Aboard were the men of the 35th as an advance guard, along with the four Napoleons and a dozen four-pounders which would be kept aboard the ship, to serve as a floating battery to cover the ford.

"All right, gentlemen, let's get this army moving," Andrew said quietly. With wild shouts of delight the officers galloped off to their commands, looking somehow ludicrous atop the slow Clydesdales.

Andrew looked down at Mina, Kal, and Fletcher by his side.

"Gentlemen, I'm buying you time with blood. Do you understand that?
Time with blood.
Now make the most of it," and he spurred his mount forward.

Shouted commands echoed across the field, drums started to roll, colors were uncased.

"Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys . . ."

The song was started by the first regiment in line, and soon echoed down the ranks.

It sounded strange in Russian, but the words still brought tears to Andrew's eyes.

"Shouting the battle cry of Freedom, It's the
Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah, Down with the Tugars, and up with our flag, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom ..."

And with Andrew riding alone at the head of the column, the
army passed beneath the walls of Suzdal and on up
the road to the north.

On through the growing warmth of morning, past the heat of noon, and on into the gentle cool of evening the grim-faced regiments advanced, leaving the two passes behind. Past open fields they streamed, where peasants stood and watched for a moment, then hurriedly returned to their tasks of bringing in the harvest. Laborers stepped aside to let the army pass and then returned to their tasks of digging yet more lines of defense.

Two miles every hour, fifty minutes of
march
followed by ten minutes of break, and then stiff-legged back up again for yet two miles more.

Stopping at every signal tower, Andrew would hear
the
latest report. Thirty towers
overrun,
then thirty-one
and
thirty-two. He knew that with the fall of each signal position another man was dead, staying to the last to deliver
the
information so desperately needed.