Terrible Swift Sword (22 page)

A broad mole, the beginning of an earthen dam, was already stretching out into the river, the ends of it protected by a heavy wooden wall, which even as he watched was pushed forward another couple of feet. The mole was aswarm with workers, hundreds of them, carrying wicker baskets on their shoulders. When they reached the end of the mole they dumped the rocks and dirt over the top of the barricade and then returned.

The workers were human—Carthas.

Sickened, Andrew looked at the men around him who were gazing at him, awaiting his pronouncement.

He called for a telescope, then waited as an aide brought one up. He extended the instrument and laid it down on the rampart wall, then crouched down for a better view than the field glasses could provide. Along the embankment dozens of Merki guards stood, bows and muskets poised, with half a dozen field pieces trained on the ever-growing dam, ready to pick off anyone who hesitated. Even as he watched a man threw his basket aside and leaped into the river at a run. He had barely made it into the water before he tumbled over. Guards appeared from behind heavy wooden barricades spaced along the mole, cracking whips, driving their chattel back to their task.

Raising the telescope slightly, he saw a long serpentine line of men and women stretching up over the embankment, weaving their way out to a low hill, a fair portion of which had already been carved out. They swarmed like thousands of ants.

"How far out would you say it is?" Andrew asked, not taking his eye from the telescope.

"A good thirty yards or more," Barney said quietly.

"Further up the river, sir," an aide said. Turning the telescope, Andrew pointed the instrument to the spot where the officer had pointed.

A couple of hundred yards above the ford another embankment had gone up along the bank of the river. Behind it Andrew could barely make out what appeared to be a long boom of logs, as well as several roughly made boats, each one with several boulders inside.

He stood back up and leaned against the parapet, trying to gather his thoughts.

"You say you first heard something around midnight?"

Barney nodded.

"It's two hundred and fifty yards across," Andrew said. "Thirty yards in six hours—maybe eight."

"They could get halfway across by tomorrow morning."

"The tighter they squeeze the river, the faster the current," Pat interjected. "They'll hit a point where as fast as they dump it in, it'll just get swept away."

"That's what the log booms and boats are for," Andrew said, pointing further up the river.

"Christ, it must of taken a hell of a lot of work to drag them things right over the mountains and down here."

"They've got the manpower," Barney said coldly.

"Get the mole out as far as it'll go, then push all of that into the river. Sink the boats across the rest of the opening, and create a logjam behind it."

"They'll be able to cross right downstream, getting below our heavy belt of fortifications," Barney said nervously. "If the dam holds for a couple of days, the entire front right down to the sea will be unmasked."

"God damn it!" Andrew snapped, picking his field glasses back up for another look.

"A simple plan, except for one thing," Pat said quietly.

Andrew lowered his glasses and looked over at the artillery man.

"You'll have to kill them."

Pat reached into his pocket and pulled out a plug of tobacco, then proffered it.

Nodding, Andrew bit off a small chew, the biting sting of the chew setting his already rapid heartbeat to racing.

He raised his glasses again to look back at the mole and the endless, bedraggled chain of slaves working upon it.

"They're Cartha," Andrew said. "They're prisoners of those devils."

"They're working for the enemy," Pat replied. "It's us or them, now."

Andrew looked at Barney, who stood expectantly, his features pale.

"Mr. Barney."

"Sir?"

"Order the batteries to open fire; first round canister, then switch to case and solid."

The gunners standing alongside their weapons looked over at Andrew.

"Do it!" Andrew shouted. "If we don't, the Merki will be in our lines!"

The battery officers stepped up to their pieces and shouted commands with quavering voices.

The first gun kicked back. Andrew raised his glasses. The water before the mole sprayed into a foam. More guns started in. Bodies started to collapse, and the sound of high, piercing screams rent the air.

Panic broke out along the mole, the prisoners dropping their baskets and turning to run.

A snap of fire erupted from the battlement along the far bank, sweeping down dozens who were now caught between two fires.

"God damn their black souls!" Pat cried, pounding the rampart with clenched fists.

Bodies carpeted the mole. Andrew watched in silence, praying that it was finished, but in his heart he knew it was not. Merki appeared from behind their protective barriers, their arms working up and down, whips lashing out. The panic subsided and gradually the work resumed, the tortured victims running down the length of the mole, dropping the contents of their baskets and then running back. A burst of several shells bracketed the mole, tumbling a knot of men over and sending a lone Merki down. There was a moment of hesitation and then another Merki appeared, cracking his whip, driving the prisoners back to their task.

But those who had emptied their baskets and started to run back to shelter were not yet done with. A Merki appeared, then crouched low against the shelling and pointed back. The prisoners stopped and, reaching down, began to pick up the fallen bodies, dragging them back. Yet more dropped, and yet more appeared. A life for a single basket of rock and dirt.

Along the enemy rampart human bodies now started to appear—Merki standing up for a moment to hold up corpses, waving them tauntingly. One held a limp form up, while another sliced out with his scimitar, hacking an arm free and waving it aloft.

"The bloody bastards!" Pat snarled. "We're giving them their rations!"

Unable to contain his rage, Pat grabbed a rifle from a soldier nearby, shouldered the weapon, drew careful aim, and fired. The Merki with the arm suddenly ducked down.

"My eye isn't as good as it used to be."

Andrew turned away from the methodical carnage and looked over at Barney.

"Pass the word down. Batteries to keep up a slow, deliberate fire; it'll slow them down. Detail out some of our best sharpshooters and have them go for the guards. Otherwise, no one else is to shoot."

"What about night?" Barney asked.

"We can rig up the guns with marker sticks, so they can be aimed in the dark," Pat replied. "By the time they get halfway out the range will be nearly point blank for canister, and it'll be hell out there."

Tossing the telescope to an aide, Andrew turned away from the battlement and stalked back to his headquarters.

"Gently . . . That's it, a bit more to the left now!"

Trembling with excitement, Chuck Ferguson stepped back from the shed, watching intently as the crew, hanging on to the side cables, walked the aer-osteamer out of its hanger. The engineers' cabin, a simple wicker-basket affair, was strapped underneath and riding on a wheeled carriage.

Already he could see one major error in his plans. In the future he'd have to figure out a way to make the sheds rest on a giant turntable, so the hanger could be turned directly into the wind. There was only the slightest of breezes this morning, but it was enough to force the crew to struggle to keep the precious silken sides from scraping, and possibly tearing on the side of the hanger.

The midsection of the aerosteamer emerged, with Jack walking anxiously alongside the engineers' cabin and Feyodor behind him, making sure the propeller didn't touch the ground. As the tail end of the balloon emerged, Chuck motioned for the crew to let it windmill around. The tail porpoised for a moment, then stabilized.

For the first time, he now had the chance to look at the entire aerosteamer by the light of day. He stepped back. The lines appeared symmetrical, but it was hard to tell for sure. The frame seemed taut enough, but figuring stresses on it was somewhat beyond him. He hated to admit it, but this project was definitely going to be trial and error. The only problem was, an error would most likely prove to be fatal for whoever was aboard.

"All right, Feyodor, crank her up!"

The mechanic waved an acknowledgment, and leaning over into the small boiler he lit the pilot light. Everyone held their breath as the Suzdalian struck a match, even though Jack had assured the crew that since hydrogen was lighter than air, if there were any leaks the gas would go straight up and not down.

Chuck waited patiently for the boiler to heat up, stepping around to the side to check the middle bag, which would soon be filled with hot air. The silk sides hung loose, and then ever so imperceptibly started to flutter and grow taut, stretching out from the frame.

"It's starting to get lighter!" Jack shouted.

Chuck looked once more to the high watchtower. The pennant atop it was barely fluttering. When Chuck had caught the watchman's attention, the man waved down that all was clear, not a Merki ship anywhere in sight.

Turning, Chuck ran up to Jack's side.

Jack grinned and stepped over to the wooden frame that held the engine. Mounting directly behind the wicker engineers' chairs, he grabbed hold of the side and pushed down. Releasing his hand, the aer-ostemer floated back up again.

"The balance is working out perfectly. It's just starting to get positive buoyancy. Just another couple of minutes, and we're ready."

Chuck looked into Jack's eyes.

"Scared?"

Jack tried to force a smile.

"So scared I'm glad I shit first before coming out here," he whispered in English.

"Let's just check the controls one more time," Chuck announced. Going over to the chief engineer's chair, he climbed in, and the aerosteamer sank back down on the wheels beneath the engine. Grabbing hold of a wooden lever with his right hand, he pushed it to the left and right, then looked over his shoulder to watch the rudder action. With his right hand he pulled another lever back and forth, then nodded in approval.

"The up-and-down rudder, left-and-right, are just fine. Now get in here, Jack."

Petracci climbed into the forward seat, while Chuck climbed into the one facing aft, toward the engine. Feyodor eyed him suspiciously.

"Just running through things one more time," Chuck said cheerfully. He reached over and checked to see that the fuel was full on, then grabbed hold of the throttle and cranked it down two notches. Ever so slowly the cylinders started to crank over, helped along at first by a quick push to the flywheel.

Still leaning out of his open chair, Chuck looked straight up to where the exhaust stack rose up into the bag overhead. There was a good four feet of clearance around the stack, and he could see the wavy shimmer of heat soaring upward. Pulling down on a heavy red cord he saw blue sky appear directly overhead on the top side of the bag, and yanking down on the black rope with his other hand the aperture closed.

"All set!" Chuck announced.

Jack leaned out of his chair and looked down to the ground just a couple of feet below.

"We're starting to get lift."

"Feyodor, give me that bottle of vodka."

The mechanic reached into his tunic and pulled the bottle out, passing it up.

Leaning out of the cab, Chuck swung it down against the bottom frame of the engine.

"I christen thee the
Flying Cloudl"
he roared, laughing with delight at having named his creation after a McKay clipper ship.

"Now cast off fore and aft! Jack, give her full up-rudder!"

"Colonel Ferguson, it's against orders!" Feyodor shouted.

"Hang the goddamn orders, I'm taking her up!"

Before Feyodor could stop him, he pulled the throttle wide open.

The gently turning blades shifted in seconds into a blur, the clearing echoing with their hum, which was counterpointed by the excited shouts of the crew. The hundreds of men and women who had worked months for this moment cheered wildly as the nose of the
Flying Cloud
started to pitch up.

The first seconds were pure exhilaration, but they quickly turned into pure terror as Chuck realized that the aerosteamer, though rising at the nose from the thrust of the engine, was at the same time dropping at the tail.

"Down rudder, Jack!"

Petracci, looking over his shoulder, his eyes wide with fear, slammed the rudder forward. A shudder passed through the ship and the nose started to come back down, the tail rising heavenward. At the same time the ship was gaining forward speed, moving across the narrow clearing hacked into the forest.

"Left rudder!"

"God damn it,
I'm
the aerosteamer engineer!" Jack shouted, "I know what the hell I'm doing!"

The nose reached the horizontal position and started to pitch down again, while at the same time the ship started to turn. Jack pulled the up-rudder back, but for long seconds the nose continued its forward pitch. Finally it slowed, hesitated, and then started back up, the only thing saving them being the fact that the ship was rising up vertically from the hot air, and was now almost twenty feet off the ground.

"It takes time to react!" Chuck shouted, trying to be heard above the roar of the engine and propeller. "Push it down again before you want it to level out."

Jack nodded, even as the ship continued its swing around the clearing, and started to aim straight back toward the fifty-foot-high hanger. "Shit!"

The nose of the aerosteamer continued to climb, pointing higher and yet higher into the air, and Chuck suddenly realized he had forgotten something else. If he ever got back he'd have to install belts for the chairs, to keep from falling out. Letting go of the throttle he hung onto the side of the wicker chair, looking over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching hanger. The ship continued to climb, propeller humming, the crowd below now silent, looking up gap-mouthed as the aerosteamer seemed to skim straight up the pitched roof of the building and then continue on into the sky. A wild cheer erupted.

The high, towering trees beyond started to drop downward, and still they climbed, the nose seemingly pointing straight up. Ever so gradually, Jack eased the up-rudder forward so that the tail rose up and the nose dropped back down. The clearing fell astern.

Jack looked back over his shoulder at Chuck, who was staring at him, unable to speak.

"Just took a little getting used to," he said, his eyes still wide with terror.

Chuck reached into his jacket, pulled out a small flask, and passed it over.

Jack took a long pull and smiled weakly.

"You know I hate ballooning," he whispered.

"Well, you're the only poor bastard on our side that knows how," Chuck replied, trying to keep the shaking out of his voice.

He took the flask back and drained off the rest of the vodka, then settled back for a moment to let the racing of his heart drop away. And for the first time he looked around.

It was wondrous.

Already he could see as far as Hispania, and a toylike train crossing the Sangros River beyond it. The air was crisp and sharp, and the red sun hung just above the eastern horizon. The dividing line between the steppe and the forest marched off to either side, the fur-clad hills giving way to the vast sweep of open grasslands, the low folds of ground still buried in deep shadows.

A distant cry came up from below, and looking straight down Chuck saw the powder mill, hundreds of workers pouring out, pointing up excitedly, shouting with joy that at last their side was in the air as well.

"How high?" Chuck shouted.

"Five, maybe six hundred feet."

"Keep pointing her north into the wind."

Jack nodded, gingerly working the controls. The ship continued to porpoise and swing from side to side for some minutes, until Jack gradually learned that the slightest correction would get him where he wanted to go.

Working the red-and-black rope, Chuck kept an

eye on the ground, gauging the rate of rise and fall, while Jack kept the nose steady on the horizon.

"We got two ways of climbing and dropping!" Chuck shouted. "I think we can beat those bastards to hell, in that category at least."

The engine continued to chatter along, though all the time he had an eye on it. They had once run it for six hours straight without a hitch, but if it should fail now he wondered if they could stay aloft long enough to drift out over the steppe before landing.

The air was decidedly cooler, made even more so by the steady rush of wind around them. Yet another thing he had not planned for, and as he started to shiver he cursed himself for being so shortsighted.

A slight buffet ran through the ship, and Chuck felt his stomach tighten.

"Wind's picking up slightly," Jack announced, and Chuck could see a slightly green look on the face of his engineer.

"Feeling all right?"

Jack swallowed hard but said nothing.

"Well, maybe we ought to swing back in."

A visible look of relief crossed Jack's features, and with significantly more skill than he had displayed only a half hour before he maneuvered the ship into a gentle turn.

"We're way too high!" Jack shouted. "Maybe two thousand feet or more."

Amazed, Chuck spared the time for another look around.

It was godlike. On the southern horizon he could see the shimmering band of the inland sea, over seventy miles away, and far out over the steppe the distant smudge of two engines pulling their long trains westward. A vast flock of birds, heading north with the advancing spring, winged by, making the wide diversion around the lumbering creature that had risen to join them. Chuck laughed with childlike delight.

"A little more drop!" Jack shouted.

Berating himself for having lost sight of his task, Chuck pulled the red cord full open, leaning out of his chair to look straight up into the hot air bag and the hole of blue at the top.

The nose started to drop slightly, and with power still on Jack eased the ship into a dive, the wind picking up. Chuck looked back over Jack's shoulder and saw the clearing, which at first seemed impossibly small for such a big ship to land in, swarming with antlike creatures.

"I think we're going down a little too fast!" Chuck shouted, and before Jack could even respond he'd pulled the vent shut. But the ship continued to drop.

Jack started to ease the nose back up, yet the downward drop continued. With growing panic, Chuck realized that he must have spilled out nearly all the hot air left, and it would take several long minutes for it to build back up again.

"Bring it up!"

The ship continued to drop, even as the nose rose high and yet higher.

Chuck leaned out of his chair to peer over Jack's shoulder.

His friend's hands were white-knuckled on the controls, in a death grip, and his eyes were wide with fear.

The nose continued to rise, reaching horizontal and then pitching upward. The edge of the forest raced up, shooting past the nose. Chuck felt as if his heart were about to burst as he looked aft and saw the high-tipped trees spearing upward, then brushing astern by not half a dozen feet.

The ground continued to come up, and the nose continued to climb. The tail settled, and then with a lurch the ship slowed, the propeller pointing skyward, the hot air bulging the bag back out. Ever so gently the tail continued downward, coming to hover not half a dozen feet off the ground, crews racing to grab hold of the dangling tow lines.

"Kill the engine!" Jack shouted.

Chuck reached over and slammed the throttle shut even as Jack pushed the up-rudder forward. With tail now restrained by several dozen men, the nose started to come ever so slowly down. Dangling cables hanging from the sides of the ship were snagged, and with a barely perceptible bump the aerosteamer settled back to the ground.

"I think we need a little practice," Chuck whispered.

"It was nothing," Jack replied, stepping down from the ship to admiring cheers from the workers. He looked around with a weak smile, acknowledging their admiration, then promptly leaned forward and vomited.

Legs rubbery, Chuck climbed out of his chair and looked a bit sheepishly at Feyodor, who stood in silent rage at having been cheated out of the maiden flight.

"Mass production of aerosteamers, and training of engineers, starts today," Chuck announced.

Even as the crowd cheered Chuck felt his knees go weak, and he sank down to the ground.

He had done it, he had flown like a bird, and the trembling passed. Looking up at the ship, he silently analyzed what they had done right, and even more importantly what they had done wrong.

Let the heat control altitude, the propeller speed. Hover up till clear, slowly drop back down to land. It was that simple.

He looked over at Feyodor and smiled.

"Go get a couple of leather belts."

Feyodor looked at him coldly.

"Damn it all, man, go get the belts! I don't want you falling out of your chair! We're going back up in ten minutes."

A grin of delight creased Feyodor's face and he raced off.

Jack looked over at him weakly.

"Get your legs back, Jack. I'll be back in a half hour and then it's your turn again."

"I should have kept my mouth shut about hydrogen," Jack groaned. "No one would have been the wiser, and I'd be safe on the ground."

"Hell, you're the master aero-engineer," Chuck retorted. "If Andrew was to hear I flew he'd skin me alive, so you'd better get used to it. You'll be in battle with these soon enough. You're the lucky one."