Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America (51 page)

We came into a lightly forested, complex terrain. The wind, for which we had prayed so fervently and which we had so eagerly welcomed, became a nuisance as the day progressed. Low clouds raced across the sky in gusts and gales, scouring old snow into the air and bringing fresh squalls. The Dutch army had fled before us, but we didn't pursue them; our objective was escape, not confrontation, and for a time the only fighting was sporadic, as we encountered straggling Mitteleuropan infantrymen and overwhelmed them.

But the Mitteleuropan commander was no fool, and as the snow impeded our progress he was busy rallying his troops in their fall-back positions. Our first hint of this was the sound of gunfire in the snowy haze to the east of us—I took it for just another skirmish, though Julian frowned and pressed his mount to greater speed.

In our eagerness to escape Striver we had allowed our forces to disperse somewhat, and now it seemed our vanguard had fallen into a trap. The sound of rifle fire swelled rapidly, and as we galloped toward it we began to see casualties flowing back on us in limping lines. Full battle ahead, one soldier warned us, "and the Dutch aren't running anymore, sir—they're standing fast!"

Julian established a rough command headquarters near the fighting and quickly or ga nized his staff. Scouts reported that the American vanguard had marched into a declivity on the road and come under sustained fire from protected positions; before they could entrench or retreat, shells exploded in their midst. They were falling back by companies, in a state of confusion.

Julian did what he could. He ordered his artillery up. He consulted his maps, and tried to anchor his lines securely, though the terrain was flat and un-suitable. Before long one of his adjutants announced that the sparse American right wing had entirely collapsed and the Mitteleuropans were rolling it up.

I could hear the artillery and the rifle fire—it was noticeably closer now.

Dutch shells began to fall perilously near to us. We were in danger of being overrun by our own troops, should the battle become a rout.

Julian barked ferociously at the Lieutenant who first counseled retreat. It was not at all certain that we could return to Striver safely—and then we would only be under siege again, with our numbers depleted and our provisions exhausted. Striver was a prison, and our whole purpose had been to break out of it. But more messengers arrived with increasingly bad news, and when a shell knocked down the crude shelter around us Julian finally admitted the impossibility of sustaining the advance. The Dutch had regained all their courage, and had checked us effectively, and there were no more pan-tomime weapons to throw at them.

The realization that his plan had failed drove Julian to his lowest ebb. He had been fed no more generously than the rest of us, and several times I had to stand beside him as he consulted with his adjutants, and take his arm to support him when his physical weakness crested. There was in Julian a fierce, almost supernatural strength; I had seen it sustain him through terrible battles before this one; but even that strength had its limit, which he seemed to have just about reached. "I'm cold, Adam," he whispered to me as the day advanced, "and the dead are all around—so many dead!"

"We have to extract all the survivors we can," I told him.

"So they can have the privilege of dying
later
 rather than
sooner,
" he muttered; but the admonition worked to brace him. He reached down into the deepest part of himself, as it seemed, and discovered there a last reserve of courage.

"Bring me the campaign flag," he told the nearest adjutant, "and my horse, and sound a general retreat."

I wish I could paint a word-picture vivid enough to convey the nightmare of our Retreat to Striver. I have neither the skill or the stomach for it, however.

It isn't that these images are lost to me, for they return, on a regular basis in my sleep, and I often awake sweating or shouting from their thrall. But I cannot bear to set them down on the page with minute fidelity.

Suffice to say that we rode through Tartarus with the Dev il at our backs, fighting all the way.

Days were short in Labrador at that time of year. The light we had greeted so optimistically at dawn grew thin and watery. Julian, still drawing on his deepest wells of strength, carried the battle pennon high and fought alongside the rear-guard. I fought beside him, on horse back, as we gave up land that hours earlier we had won and watered with American blood. Dutch bullets flew around us like lethal insects, and—as at the Battle of Mascouche, so long ago—Julian seemed, at first, invulnerable to them.

But only at first. He could not remain wholly unperforated, in a flurry of lead that made his campaign banner a tattered and illegible rag.

I was next to him when a bullet pierced the cloth of his uniform coat about the shoulder. The wound was not grave, but it numbed the arm; and the banner with its proud boast slipped from his grasp. The faded image of the Moon was trodden on by his horse's hooves as he slumped in the saddle.

"Julian!" I called out.

He turned to the sound of my voice, an apologetic expression on his face.

Then a second bullet struck him, and his mouth filled with blood.

After dark, the Dutch were in no hurry to chase us—they knew where we were going, and would be content to "mop us up" at their leisure. Thus some fraction of the army that had marched out of Striver arrived back by moonlight, battered and hungry, and took up positions along their old defensive lines. And in the town itself, Dr. Linch—the only one of our physicians to have survived the attempted break-out—set up a diminished version of his old field hospital. His only supplies were a handful of knives and saws, a few bottles of medicinal brandy and liquid opium, and some needles and thread scavenged from the ruin of a tailor's shop. He boiled water over a stove in which he burned scraps of broken furniture.

He looked at me vaguely when I brought Julian to him. His own exhaustion had just about overcome him. I had to remind him of the urgency of his work, and of the necessity of saving Julian's life.

He hesitated, then nodded. I carried Julian into the shell of the old field hospital, past corpses piled like cords for a bonfire. Linch examined Julian's wounds by lantern light.

"The shoulder is only a flesh wound," he said. "The wound to his face is more serious. The bullet tore away a part of his cheek, and two of his molars are shattered. At that, he's lucky it wasn't worse." He paused and smiled—it was a mirthless, bitter smile, such as I hoped never to see again. "I'd say he might recover, if we had food to give him, or real warmth, or shelter."

"Will you sew his cheek, in any case?"

"No," said Dr. Linch. "There are men whose suffering is more intense, and they deserve my attention—and don't mention the name Comstock, as if
that
 had any claim on my sympathies. If you want him sewn up, Adam Hazzard, do it yourself. You've assisted me often enough. You know how it's done."

He gave me a needle and thread and left a lantern for me.

Julian remained insensible with shock as I worked on him, though he moaned once or twice. It was not pleasant to press a threaded needle through his lac-erated skin—to dab the blood away in order to judge my own work—and then do it again—and yet again—until a rough seam drew the tissues together, effectively if not handsomely. I could do nothing about his cracked and shattered teeth except, at Dr. Linch's suggestion, to pack the damaged area with cotton. Much blood was spilled during this exercise. It covered my clothing; and the loss of it left Julian breathless.

Dr. Linch, returning, gave him a weak preparation of opium. I sat with Julian through the dark hours, and stoked the stove when the night wind cut too close.

In the morning the shelling resumed with fresh vigor, as if the Dutch meant to punish us for the impudence of our attempted escape. Or perhaps they were just anxious to finish the work of killing us, and get on with their regular business.

Julian spat clotted blood until noon. His distress was palpable, but he couldn't speak. Eventually he gestured for a paper and pencil.

I kept these items with me habitually, as a writer should,
⁸³
and handed them to him.

He wrote, in quavering capitals, a demand for

MORE OPIUM.

I went and canvassed Dr. Linch, but the news I carried back to my friend's bedside wasn't good. "There's very little opium left, Julian. The doctor is reserving it for the worst cases."

MORE, wrote Julian.

"There
is
 no more—can't you hear me?"

He was an awful sight, twig-thin, linen-white, his injuries brown with stale blood, blood congealed on his dusty yellow beard. His eyes rolled in their sockets.

I SHOULD HAVE DIED, he wrote.

But after a while he slept.

The next day our surviving troops retreated to their final defensive position, in a close perimeter around the town. The noose had fully tightened on us, in other words. The word "surrender" was mooted about; but it had not yet come to that ... not while there were still trail-crackers to eat ... but those wouldn't last long.

I softened hardtack in water until it was soggy and dropped small morsels of it into Julian's mouth, which was the only way he could eat in his present condition. He took some nourishment that way, but refused it when the pain became intolerable.

I asked him whether he had any orders for the men.

NO ORDERS (he wrote)

NOTHING LEFT

WHY WOULD THEY WANT MY ORDERS?

"Because you're their commander, Julian. Even if our attack didn't succeed, the men recognize it as a noble attempt—better than they could have made without you."

FAILURE

"The Dutch were reinforced. It's no one's fault we couldn't overwhelm them. It was a glorious effort—it will be remembered as such."

FOOLISH

NO ONE TO REMEMBER

WE WON'T LEAVE HERE ALIVE

"Don't say so!" I pleaded with him. "We will go home—we must! Calyxa needs me—she's having problems with the Dominion. Perhaps that Deacon from Colorado wants to torture her. Also, she's—that is—I haven't told anyone yet, Julian, but—she's going to have a child!"

He stared at me. Then he took up the pencil and paper again.

YOUR CHILD?

"Of course my child!—what else would it be?"

He wrote, after another pause,

GOOD NEWS

CONGRATULATIONS

WOULD SMILE IF I COULD

OF COURSE YOU'LL GO HOME

"Thank you, Julian. You'll come home with me, and we'll see that baby born. You'll be its uncle, in effect; and you can hold it on your knee and feed it mashy apples if you like."

GODFATHER?

"Yes, if you'll accept the nomination!"

CLOSE TO GOD AS I'LL GET, he wrote, and then laid back against the wooden slats that served him as a bed. His eyes closed, and his wounds seeped pinkish fluids.

The next day looked to be our last, despite the optimism I had tried to impress upon Julian. The shelling of Striver intensified. The Dutch barrages reached every part of the town, and I was often bathed in plaster shaken from the ceiling while I tended to Julian's needs.

His adjutants and ju nior col o nels had stopped begging him for orders—he was too badly hurt to lead, and anyway there were no useful orders to give.

The Army of the Laurentians, Northern Division, had become a sort of automaton, firing reflexively whenever a target presented itself. That couldn't continue—our last supplies of ammunition had been tapped.

It was a cold day, clear and windless. Julian slept fitfully whenever the cannonade permitted; and I slept, often enough, on the chair beside him.

I was awake, however, and Julian was asleep, when a freshly-promoted Lieutenant rushed into the room. "General Comstock!" the man exclaimed.

"Quiet, Lieutenant—the General's napping, and he needs his rest—what's the matter?"

"Sorry, Col o nel Hazzard, but I was sent to report—that is, we've seen—"

"What? Some new Dutch outrage? If our defenses have collapsed there's no need to trouble Julian Comstock about it. He's in no position to help, though he would, if he could."

"It's not that, sir.
Sails
!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"
Sails,
 sir! We've sighted
sails,
 coming down Lake Melville from the east!"

"Dutch sails?"

"Sir, it's hard to be sure, but the lookouts think not—in fact it looks like Admiral Fairfield's fleet! The Navy has come for us at last, sir!"

I found I couldn't speak. There is a species of
release from fear
 that in its effect is as unmanning as fear itself. I covered my face with my hands to conceal my emotion.

"Sir?" the Lieutenant said. "Aren't you going to tell the General?"

"As soon as it's confirmed," I managed to say. "I wouldn't like to disappoint him."

But I couldn't wait for an adjutant's word. I left Julian sleeping and climbed up to the top of the hospital.

The hospital, in better days, had been a Dutch shop, with apartments overhead, located at the shoreward end of Portage Street. It had lost its roof in the battle, and the second story had become an open platform, exposed to the elements. It afforded a good view of the harbor. I stood in the empty casing of a shattered window, gazing off across the lake.

The sails hove into view soon enough. Without a spyglass I couldn't discern the colors they were flying, and I feared some new Mitteleuropan attack despite the Lieutenant's encouraging words. Then the outline of the nearest vessel began to seem familiar to me, and my heart fluttered a little.

She was the
Basilisk
—the beloved
Basilisk
—Admiral Fairfield's flagship.

I was grateful, and I addressed my prayerful thanks to the slate-gray sky and the surging clouds, or what ever lay beyond them.

Lake Melville was too salt to freeze entirely, but fringes of ice had formed at the edges of it, and the Navy couldn't anchor as close to shore as they might have liked; but there were gaps of open water where her boats could freely move. An advance party quickly gauged the extremity of our situation, and communicated details to the
Basilisk
 by signal-flags; and before long that ship, along with the others of the fleet, began to fire shells which flew above Striver and dropped into the Dutch lines with telling accuracy. The bombardment was continuous; it drove the Mitteleuropans back a mile or more from their forward entrenchments; and the sound of it was what finally woke Julian from his profound sleep.