Terrible Swift Sword (28 page)

"Our lord Qar Qarth believes that to be the case already."

"Then he is a fool," Tamuka hissed softly.

Stunned, Hulagar turned his mount back around. He pressed up to Tamuka's side, his hand reaching out and grabbing Tamuka by the high collar of his leather tunic.

"You go too far, shield-bearer of the Zan Qarth."

"You forget," Tamuka replied, "it is we who hold power as well. You forget that it is we who can decide even to remove the Qar Qarth himself if he is not worthy to rule, to clear the way for one who is better."

"I am the shield-bearer of the Qar Qarth," Hulagar hissed. "I alone bear that power. I alone am the Qarth of our brotherhood. It is I alone who can voice such thoughts, and then only in the silence of my own mind."

Tamuka pulled back from Hulagar's grasp.

"One night's push. Cut the enemy iron strips ten miles to the northeast, fifty miles to the southeast. Place them in the bag now."

"He has decided," Hulagar replied, "and I agree. We have won much. Though our numbers are great, still we must remember that after this war there will again be the Bantag, despite what promises you thought you created. Our warriors are falling from their saddles with exhaustion. There are no stars to guide us. How can they even known which direction to march in this darkness? You ask too much. Come the light of day, they will not be able to fight—scattered, in danger even of being attacked in turn.

"We must win this fight, but we must win it so that we can win the next one as well. You act like the lives of ten thousand, of fifty thousand, are of no difference in this war of cattle slaughter. Did you hear of the bill of the Vushka Hush?"

"Half dead," Tamuka said dryly, "but they did well."

"Yes, they did well."

Startled, Tamuka turned to see Jubadi drawing up beside them. He felt a moment of inner panic, ashamed that he should feel fear, as if his father had overheard an indiscretion.

Jubadi looked at him closely.

"My son said that you slaughtered one of their leaders," Jubadi said dryly.

Tamuka nodded.

"A strange role for a shield-bearer."

"He was in the way," Tamuka replied.

Jubadi smiled.

"Do not forget your other role, Tamuka."

Tamuka nodded, saying nothing.

"It is time to rest," Jubadi said, looking up at the night sky. Another bolt of lightning streaked overhead, dancing between the clouds. He gazed at it without moving, the rain matting down his flowing mane.

"War at night has never been our way. And when Worg speaks, it is not a time to fight either. Thus have been the words of our fathers."

"Against each other," Tamuka replied. "But against cattle?"

Jubadi looked back at Tamuka.

"We will finish them tomorrow; they are as exhausted as we."

"Let us hope so," Tamuka replied quietly.

Jubadi said nothing, and turned away.

"Burn what's left!" Hans shouted, pointing to an open-sided warehouse, crammed with tons of rations.

A shrill venting of steam slashed across his legs, a shower of sparks rising up behind him. He turned to watch as the train, wheels spinning for several seconds before getting traction on the wet tracks, started out of the depot, heading straight east.

Boxcars slipped past. In the lamplight he could see them crammed full with wounded. Half a dozen flatcars were at the end, each one packing two field pieces, their caissons left behind.

A sudden impulse seized him and he looked over at young Gregory, who stood beside him.

"Boy, I need you to get things organized. Get aboard that damned train. Get the troops straightened out once they get back to the Neiper."

"But, sir, I'm needed here."

"A hell of a lot of good you'll do me now," Hans growled. "Now get a move on ya!"

Gregory hesitated, looking at the train as it slowly clicked past.

"Move it!" Hans snapped.

Gregory saluted and ran to the side of the train.

"When you get back there," Hans shouted, "marry that girl I heard about!"

Gregory looked back, hesitated, then snapped off a sad salute and leaped aboard the last car as it rolled past.

Hans watched him wistfully, barely noticing lngrao, who had come up to stand beside him.

"Getting sentimental," Charlie said.

"He's got the makings of a good commander," Hans replied softly. "He deserves the chance."

Hans looked over at lngrao, who silently watched as the train disappeared into the mist.

"That's all of them," Charlie said sadly. "I'm sorry about the others."

"You got out what you could," Hans replied.

"I lost half the corps artillery today—three batteries of Napoleons, twenty of the four-pounders."

"You stopped the Vushka."

"Half our artillery to tear up an umen? At that rate we'll finish off eight umens and they'll have thirty left."

Hans turned away. Again there was the flutter, the lightness, the streak of pain.

He started to bargain with himself yet again: Not now, just let me get us through this.

"We still need eight more trains," Hans said, looking back at Charlie as if by voicing the wish, they would suddenly appear.

He looked up at the sky, a slash of lightning streaking the heavens. A gust of heavy rain swept past, lifting his poncho and drenching his legs.

"What time?"

Charlie shook his head.

"Must be past midnight."

Six hours, then.

He started to turn away, but Charlie grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him around.

"Someone's getting left behind," Charlie said. "You know it, I know it. Someone's got to cover the retreat. We'll never pull everyone in, load them, and get out. You can smell the beginning of a panic around here already."

Hans nodded.

From the break up to the north he had been pulling the men in all night, what was left of two and a half divisions. Concentrating them at the depot, loading them on the trains, and running them east and out of the pocket being formed by the Vushka on the north and the mass of the Horde to the south. Only two brigades had left. Come dawn, it might be chaos.

"We'll get them out. Pass the word, I want all units formed up within the hour along this track. Abandon the entire line," Hans said quietly.

"Abandon the line! What if they come through?"

Another slash of rain came down, the cold wind driving it into a near horizontal sheet.

"This stuff is heaven sent to cover us," Hans said. "I doubt the filthy buggers will attack at night in this. We're going to march the boys straight east to meet the trains as they come in. At dawn the Merki will close the pocket, and with luck we'll be on the other side. Now move it!"

lngrao, breaking into a grin, saluted and ran off.

Hans fumbled in his pockets for a chew. He pulled out the small end of a plug, and cursed. It
would
be at a time like this that he'd run out. He put the last bit back in his pocket.

"Two hours to dawn."

Andrew nodded and said nothing.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and he gave a silent prayer of thanks.

Crouching low, he peered into the driving mist, the waters of the Potomac washing over his boots.

He could hear them on the other side, their shouts echoing. They were still at it, even though the waters must already be rising from the all-night storm.

A snap of light erupted on the other side, the spray of canister ripping across the river, the shot slamming into the mud-caked walls behind him.

They had yet to make their move. The night and the weather, at least for this moment, had agreed to help save his army.

"Let's go," Andrew whispered. He turned and struggled back up the slippery slope, mud-caked orderlies half pulling, half pushing their commander hack over the wall.

Barney stood before him, barely visible in the storm.

"You know what to do now," Andrew said.

"Keep up the firing till an hour before dawn. Spike the guns, and get the hell back to the rail line."

"I don't think they'll move till dawn. It's simply too dark to try and run the rafts down."

"For my sake, I hope so," Barney said, forcing a grim laugh.

Andrew clapped him on the back.

"See you at the Neiper," Andrew said. Returning Barney's salute, he went off.

Returning to his headquarters he kept his poncho on. It was an old Union Army issue, the one-size-fits-all. Whoever had approved the design must have been a dwarf, Andrew thought coldly. For anyone over six feet the poncho barely came to mid-thigh, and the wet wool of his trousers clung to his spindly legs.

He looked around the cabin. All the maps, and his personal effects, had been loaded. He went to the back room and the telegrapher looked up anxiously.

"Any word?"

"Short on trains at Bastion 60. As per your orders, they're spiking four batteries and pushing them off the cars to get the last regiment out."

"Wait a minute." He held up his hand as the key started to chatter again.

He tapped out a quick reply and looked back up.

"Bastion 60 telegraph station is shutting down. The last train is pulling out now. All men are loaded."

Andrew nodded, and the telegrapher looked back at his tear sheet.

"All positions east of here are abandoned and cleared. The two trains coming down from number 60 should switch through the line back home within the hour. Some Merki managed to cross ten miles west of here, but were stopped short of the rail line. Everybody on our front is out, except for Barney's two regiments. That's all, sir."

"Shut it down and let's get going."

The telegrapher gave an appreciative nod and tapped out a quick message. Seconds later he ripped the key from the line and gingerly picked up the wet batteries. He set them in a carrying case.

"Ail set, sir."

"Then let's go," Andrew said.

Stepping back out into the storm, he gave a last look around.

"A year of planning," he whispered, and with a quiet curse of self-reproach climbed into the waiting car.

His staff sat huddled around the smoking stove, the room thick with the smell of wet wool. More than one of the young officers was already asleep, curled up between piles of equipment.

"Let's go home," Andrew whispered. Seconds later the train lurched forward, moving up the spur line to the main switch yard and the road back to Suzdal.

"What the hell do you mean, you can't get another train up there?" Pat roared, standing over the sta-tionmaster as if he were ready to kill him.

"We had several washouts from the rain, undermined the tracks. One ten miles down, the other behind the trains coming out. It's tied the line up. It'll take a couple of hours to fix the break. We've got to run the six trains coming out past here, clearing the track, before we can send anything back down the line."

"God damn it!" Pat roared, his fist crashing down on the table. The station master leapt backward in shock.

"While you sit here, Schuder and damn near three brigades are waiting."

"We're working on it," the stationmaster gasped.

"Do something!"

"I've got a son up there!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Don't you think I'm trying to do something?"

"Unload the trains up there, and back them up the line."

"We thought of that," the stationmaster replied. "There's still the break behind them to fix as well. They'd only back up ten miles and wait anyhow. Backing up, they'll have to go slow. The tracks are a mess as is—damn frost's barely out of the ground in these woods. Pushing all those cars will most likely mean a derailment. It's quicker to fix the washouts, clear the line, and then go straight in. Believe me, we've thought of it."

Pat looked at the man who stood before him,

frightened at Pat's rage and yet filled with frustrated anguish as well.

"Do what you can," Pat said, and stalked over to the rain-streaked window to look outside.

The siding was a sea of chaos. Rain was slashing down in sheets. On either side of the rail thousands of dejected men sat in huddled groups, pushed off their train, which was waiting to go back up the line and bring the rest of their comrades out.

"Six lousy trains," Pat said, looking at the engines lined up, the rain hissing against their sides, clouds of vapor rising around the engines. The lead train was packed with fresh troops—two regiments, ready to form a front if need be to protect the pullout.

He looked up the line, picturing in the darkness the men laboring to shore up the last section of track.

He looked back at the clock ticking on the wall. Six hours ago he'd been in Suzdal, and now he was stuck out here in the middle of the line, halfway between the Neiper and the front, just fifty miles from getting in. He felt impotent.

The distant cry of a whistle cut the air. Pat tore the window open and leaned out.

Coming out of the mist, a headlamp appeared.

"They're coming in!" he shouted. Both he and the stationmaster rushed to the door.

The first engine rolled past, illuminated for a moment by the bonfires that smoldered along the side of the track. The cars were packed with troops, the look of defeat on their faces. Behind it came the second train, and then the third.

Pat looked up at the clock ticking on the wall.

"Get ready to switch us through!" he shouted.

Splashing through the mud, he ran to the siding while the fourth train rolled through the station. He leaped up into the cab of the first train, waiting to go back in.

"Get ready to move!" he shouted.

The sixth train passed at a crawl. From the last car on the train Gregory leaped down. Sliding in the mud and seeing Pat, he ran up to the side of the car.

"We barely got it passable," Gregory shouted. "The line's bumpy as hell. By the time you get down there, the other breaks should be cleared."

"Get up here!" Pat shouted. "Guide us back!"

Without hesitating, Gregory climbed aboard the engine and grasped the mug of hot tea offered by the fireman.

"I thought the rain was sent by Kesus," Gregory gasped. "Stop them damned aerosteamers. But it's playing hell with the washouts on the track."