Rally Cry (54 page)

Pointing forward, Muzta spurred his horse into a canter and started into the city.

This is where it is best to finish it all, Andrew thought, coming back from the line formed down on the eastern road. Reining in his mount, he leaped off, then slapped Mercury across the rump and sent him free.

Stepping up to the national and state flags, he looked up at them lovingly, as if they were some final link to back home.

Home, he thought, letting his memories drift to golden autumn days, hazing with smoke and warmth, and to the dark clouds of winter, surf pounding on the rocks, snow swirling down, deadening the world in its muffled blanket.

If only he could see
Maine
but one more time. To have Kathleen by his side, to walk through the woods, his old border collie leaping through the high grass before him.

Stirred from the memories, he looked back up to the flags, which snapped in the breeze. He could not pick a better symbol to die beneath. Like many who had fought in countless wars before; he almost believed that the spirits of all those who had fought beneath these standards might somehow still linger within them, watching their comrades on this final field of strife.

Antietam
was when he had first followed them, new flags glinting in the sun.
And then through Fredricksburg and Chancellorsville to those four hours at
Gettysburg where he had first led.
Then on into the Wilderness, Cold Harbor, to
Petersburg, and then at last to here.

Johnnie was most likely here somehow. At least, no more would there be the dreams. Perhaps now Johnnie would rest easy, his brother at his side to tell him no longer to be afraid.

The last of the fleeing populace streamed past, and in the distance the horde came forward at the charge.

Andrew unsheathed his sword.

"All right, let us show them how men from
Maine
can die!

"First rank, present, fire!"

Grabbing hold of the dangling lanyard,
Hawthorne pulled, the rope giving easily in his hand. The basket seemed to drop out from under him. Instantly he realized he was releasing too much gas, but there was no way to push the opening closed. As more and more gas spilled out, the basket fell with ever-increasing speed.

He'd fall short of his goal, he could see that now. The balloon, still spinning in the wind, came rushing down. Climbing up into the ropes, "
Hawthorne hung on and closed his eyes.

With a bone-numbing crunch the basket hit, the still partially inflated balloon streaming out, dragging him over rocks and tree stumps until finally all was still.

Staggering out of the wreck, he looked about.

There was no one around. But they must have seen him pass.

Reaching into the basket, he pulled out a fifty-pound barrel and raced past the collapsing envelope. Hitting the side of the hill, he scrambled three-quarters of the way up and briefly looked around. This was as good a spot as any, he reasoned.

Turning back, he scrambled down the slope, pulled out the other barrel, along with the pick and shovel, and staggered across the field and back up the slope again, gasping for breath.

Throwing the barrel down, he raised the pick and started to slash at the ground wildly. Within minutes he was soaked through from the effort. He ripped off his jacket and tossed it to the ground. Pausing, he looked back westward, and the sight of the city in flames spurred him on. Angling the hole in, he continued to work, cutting the ground, spading the soil and rocks out, till finally he had to crawl in on hands and knees, wrenching rocks out with his bare hands till blood poured from them.

Hoping that he had cut the hole far enough in, Vincent grabbed the first barrel and punched a hole in its side. Bending over, he jammed the barrel in, scooping out a handful of powder and sprinkling it about the sides of the hole. Taking the next barrel, he punched another hole, this time shoveling several handfuls of powder into his jacket. Next he started grabbing rocks, some weighing hah
⁷
as much as himself, and shoved them in around the barrels.

Taking the scoops of powder from his jacket, he worked a trail out from the hole and then for several feet beyond. There wasn't enough, he realized suddenly. Dammit, he thought, I should have pulled out more. But it was too late now for that.

Going over to his jacket, he reached in and pulled out the container of matches.

He heard a rock tumbling down the slope behind him.

Whirling about, Vincent saw a Tugar not a dozen feet away, caught in the open as he tried to sneak up from behind.

Hawthorne
grabbed for his pistol, dropping the matches.

The Tugar did not move.

"I know what it is you are doing," the gray warrior said evenly.

"Then watch me do it,"
Hawthorne shouted. Whirling about, he pushed his revolver straight into the powder and fired.

With a flash the open powder ignited. Shouting, the Tugar leaped forward, even as
Hawthorne scrambled away. Reaching the trail of fire, Qubata threw his body on it, trying to smother the flames. An instant later the ground seemed to lift straight up, hurling the old warrior aside like a broken doll. Knocked down by the concussion,
Hawthorne curled up, covering his head as a column of dirt and boulders soared more than a hundred feet into the sky and came raining down. Deafened, he staggered to his feet.

Nothing, dammit.
Nothing had happened!

There was a low groan from farther down the slope. Staggering, bleeding from burns and slivers of jagged rock, the boy half walked, half crawled to the torn body of his enemy and rolled him over.

"I would not have killed you," Qubata whispered. "Once I could kill, but no longer. I just wanted to stop you, to hold you and stop you from killing my people."

Stunned,
Hawthorne sat down heavily and looked into the old Tugar's eyes.

"It should have never been this way," Qubata whispered. "We were wrong. Perhaps we could have changed things together.

"I'm sorry, young man, sorry that..." His voice slurred away and was still.

A rumble cut through the ground.

Hawthorne
looked up to where the charge had been set on the face of the dam. A section of wall more than thirty feet across suddenly gave way. The water exploded out.

Like a torn sheet of rotten canvas, the rupture grew with every passing second, spreading wider and wider, as thousands of tons of water ripped through the rock-and-earth barrier like a razor-sharp knife. Downward it cut as well, and seemingly within seconds it had slashed clear down to the bedrock. A thirty-five-foot wall of water, pushed by the billions of gallons behind it, exploded straight outward. Struggling,
Hawthorne came to his feet and tried to pull the Tugar's body clear.

But the torrent cut closer and closer.

"I'm sorry,"
Hawthorne said numbly, and turning, he staggered across the face of the dam, heading upward to the hill that anchored the north side, even as the earthen wall collapsed behind him. Reaching the protection of the hill, he threw himself down on the ground.

Water always did bring me trouble, he thought, trying to push the other thoughts away, but they would not leave.

So they might have become like me, and in the end I've become like them,
Hawthorne thought, his mind filled with torment.

Gathering speed on the downward slope, the wall of water, now two hundred yards wide and piling up to fifty feet or more in height, rushed forward, slamming against the side of the hills, exploding with fury, driving a howling wind before it.

The torrent turned in its channel, smashing due west, spreading out and heading straight for the lower city.

God will never forgive me now,
Hawthorne thought numbly. I've just killed tens of thousands by my hand.

"We're down to five rounds a man, colonel!" The last rounds fired from the Napoleons, O'Donald and his men fell in with the shrinking ranks of the 35th. Volley after volley of arrows slashed toward them, men seeming to collapse with each passing second, so that it appeared as if they would soon be carved away to nothing. The Tugars had learned not to charge guns, at least, their serried ranks holding on the far side of the square, archers packed three and four deep. The volley line which had held so long was now falling silent beneath the deadly hail.

As the fire slackened, a lone voice lifted up from the ranks.

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

We'll rally once again,

Shouting the battle cry of freedom . . ."

In an instant the song rippled down the line, the men raising their voices, shouting their defiance at the enemy as they clustered about the flag.

A cold shudder ran through Andrew at the sound of it. Once before, at Fredricksburg, he had heard them sing as they fought, but not since then.

The sound of their voices sent a cold chill running down his back, filling his eyes with tears, filling him with a final pride in this last moment for the regiment.

Never had he seen troops hold so well, not giving an inch, as the shrinking ranks slowly pulled in around the colors. The line had held like a rock, the men determined to die where they stood.

Andrew looked behind the lines. There was no more room for the masses of people to flee. Most of them were now on their knees praying, waiting for the end.

Hans came up to Andrew's side.

"Not much more we can do," Hans said grimly. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a stub of chewing tobacco, and bit off half, and held out the last tiny piece. Andrew took it, and Hans smiled with affection.

"Remember Joshua Chamberlain?" Andrew asked.

"Who from
Maine
wouldn't?"

"I taught with him at Bowdoin. He was in a fix like this once at
Gettysburg when the men ran out of ammunition. I guess I'll do the same as he did.
Can't do any worse."

Hans, raising his carbine up, chambered a round, then looked over at Andrew and smiled.

"Son, you're the best damn officer I ever served with," Hans cried.

Andrew stepped ahead of the ranks and pointed his sword forward.

The men looked at each other wide-eyed.

"35th
Maine
!
Charge, boys, charge!"

A wild fevered shout came up from the line, a sharp final angry release to die fighting.

The young flag bearer holding the
Maine
colors leaped forward, waving it wildly, and started to race madly toward the Tugar lines.

An arrow caught him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. At the sight of his fall the line simply exploded forward, Webster, the bespectacled banker, snatching up the colors and holding them high, leading the way. Down the line the Suzdalians, seeing what was happening, gave voice to an exuberant shout, not knowing if they were rushing to some still-dreamed-for victory or to death.

And so on across the square the charge of the 35th
Maine
and 44th
New York
surged ahead, still singing, heedless of losses. The Tugars who had been firing on them so confidently paused, confused by this final act of defiance, and then from behind they heard a growing thunder.

Not believing what he saw, Muzta, who had climbed to the roof of a building on the north side of the square to witness the final battle, stood in gape-mouthed awe.

Beneath the twin light of the moons he saw the dark wall surge up over the outer breastworks, which gave way beneath the rushing wave. His treasured Umens, which moments before had been pouring into the city, shouting with triumph, fled panic-stricken in every direction. But they could not outrace the power and weight bearing down the length of the valley, and screaming in terror, the host disappeared.

Like the hand of a giant, the wall of water smashed into the city with a thunder that shook as if the world were coming to an end, so that the building beneath his feet tossed and swayed.

The wave swept over and through the shattered walls, and as if a curtain were being drawn over the battle, the lights from a thousand fires simply disappeared, covering the entire lower city in a mantel of fog and hissing steam, so that within seconds the world was plunged into darkness.

"You were right after all, my friend," he said, awestruck, "as I knew in my heart you would be."

Climbing down off the roof, Muzta leaped to the street, and turning eastward, he started out of the city, his terrified staff streaming behind him.