Authors: William R. Forstchen
A hospital orderly came up, led by the sergeant, and squatted down.
“How you doing, sir?”
Gregory looked at him, unable to form the words, to tell him to go away and tend someone else who needed him more.
The orderly held up his hand moving it slowly back and forth in front of Gregory’s face, watching intently.
“Can you see my hand, sir?”
Next he took Gregory’s hands, turning them over, pressing gently, watching Gregory’s reaction.
“You’ll do all right, sir. You got scalded. From the sound of your voice you might have taken some steam in. I’ll get some ointment, then the sergeant here can take you back to the river.”
Even as he spoke a courier came galloping up, crouched low in the saddle, reining in hard, a bloodstained doctor turning to face him. Words were exchanged. The courier saluted, reined about, then started forward, heading up to the front.
The doctor stepped back, shouting for his staff to form up. Gregory watched silently, sensing something as orders were given with hushed voices. The orderly never came back with the ointment as the men raced off. The doctor seemed to shrink visibly as he looked at his charges.
“Everyone listen up,” he shouted in Latin, trying to be heard above the incessant roar of battle. Gregory listened intently, unsure if he was hearing the words correctly. The doctor paused, crouching low as a flyer passed low overhead, smoke trailing from an engine, then stood back up.
“We have to evacuate this position now! Anyone who can move on his own, start heading for the rear immediately. If you have the strength to help a comrade do so. Let’s get going.”
He turned away. Gregory struggled to his feet, looking around. Men staggered up, others tried, then slipped back down. Far too many didn’t move at all and he could see there were nowhere near enough orderlies to move them all. He looked over at his sergeant.
“Give a hand with someone else; I can make it from here.”
“You certain, sir?” and he could sense a genuine concern that touched him deeply.
“Certain, Sergeant. Kesus be with you.”
“And the gods with you too, sir,” the sergeant hesitated, then looked back. “Sir, I’m sorry about your crew. My younger brother’s on one of them machines. Do you think he’s all right?”
“I pray so.”
The sergeant nodded, looked down at an unconscious man with a bandaged face, and, reaching down, he hoisted him, cradling him in his arms like a child, and started for the rear. Gregory went up to the doctor. At his approach the doctor’s eyes shifted to the star on his shoulder.
“Why are you pulling out?” Gregory asked.
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“We’re being flanked, cut off.”
“What?”
The doctor pointed to the north, and for the first time Gregory was aware of the roiling columns of smoke, punctuated by fires, and dull flashes of light. It was like a curtain stretching from horizon to horizon. He caught a momentary glimpse of a dark machine slowly moving up over a distant hill, dozens of dark towering forms behind it … Bantag; above them an aerosteamer was spiraling down in flames. The image reminded Gregory of a painting that terrified him as a child, in the great cathedral of Suzdal,
The Day of Judgment
, the world was in flames, the damned consigned into the hands of demons, who, of course, were of the Horde. It looked the same now. Turning to look back from where he had come, he could see the survivors of the assault pulling back, some of the men running headlong for the rear, others turning, trying to fight, going down under the hail of fire.
“Better get the hell out of here now,” the doctor said, turning to the operating table to scoop his instruments into a carrying bag. A lone ambulance was being loaded up with wounded.
“These men?” Gregory asked.
“Those who can’t walk are left,” the doctor announced grimly, and to his horror he saw an orderly drawing out a revolver. It was never spoken of, but all knew that orders were never to leave wounded behind for the Bantag if they couldn’t be evacuated.
Horrified Gregory stepped around the doctor and struggled to pull a man up.
“Leave him, he’s dying anyhow,” the doctor announced calmly.
“Like hell.”
Tears of pain and frustration streaming down his face Gregory grabbed a corporal who had lost a leg and was still unconscious, hoisted him, and started for the rear.
B
rakes squealing, the train glided to a halt. Wearily, Andrew stood up, looking down at his dress uniform, nervously brushing at a stain just below his breast.
“Long ride,” Hans groaned, sitting up from the narrow bunk where he had slept for the last hundred miles of the grueling seven-hundred-mile transit.
Andrew nodded, vainly trying to stretch the kinks out of his back.
“Ready for this?” Hans asked, standing up and, with an almost fatherly gesture, brushing some soot off Andrew’s shoulder.
“Not sure. Almost feels like going into a battle.”
“It is, and maybe just as dangerous.”
There was a final lurch of the cars, then a blast of the whistle. Looking out the window, he saw an expectant crowd waiting in the hot early-morning sunlight. A military band, sounding tinny, struck up “Battle Cry of Freedom.” He stepped out onto the back platform, looking around. A small delegation was waiting, but his eyes were focused on but one group, Kathleen and the four children. Madison, his oldest, broke free and rushed forward with delighted cries, the twins following. Kathleen, dressed for once in a civilian dress, the traditional Rus smock and blouse, with her red hair tucked under a kerchief, looked absolutely delightful, their youngest son in her arms, looking at him wide-eyed. It had been over half a year since he had last seen him, and the boy had obviously forgotten though he did smile tentatively as Andrew stepped off the back of the car, Madison tugging at his pants leg, Jefferson and Abraham grabbing the other. She came forward, leaning up to kiss him.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
Looking down the length of the platform, he saw anxious families swarming around the three hospital cars that made up the rest of his express train, the first casualties back from the front since the disaster in front of Capua.
“There’s no one here,” she whispered. “He didn’t come down.”
Though he was not one for pomp and ritual, the fact that the president had not come to meet him, or at least have an honor guard, was a clear enough indication of the mood. It was also a very public and visible statement by his old friend that there was serious trouble ahead.
“Colonel. How was it?”
He turned to see Gates, editor of
Gates’s Illustrated Weekly
, standing expectantly, pad of paper in hand, pencil poised.
“No comment for now, Tom.”
“Come on, Colonel. I’m running an extra on the battle, and there’s precious little information out other than a partial casualty list and rumor that it was bad.”
“You’ll have to wait.”
“Is it true you’ve been summoned back by Congress to report before the Committee on the Conduct of the War?”
“Tom, why don’t you just back the hell off,” Hans snarled.
“I need something, anything,” Tom pressed, ignoring Hans.
“Gates,” Hans snapped, “I remember how you peed your pants at Gettysburg, you were so damn scared, and hid behind the Seminary building till I dragged you back out. Why don’t you print that.”
Andrew shook his head at Hans, feeling sorry for Gates, who stood abashed, face turning red.
“Your first fight, Tom. We all peed ourselves at one time or another,” Andrew said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s all right.”
He guided the editor off to one side.
“Look, Tom, it was bad, very bad. In short, they tore us apart, but for the moment you can’t publish that.”
Tom looked at him, obviously torn between his old loyalty to his colonel and the demands of his new profession.
“Let me report to the president first. Come over to my place later in the day, and I’ll tell you everything I can. Is that fair?”
Tom nodded. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that this place is going wild with rumors. There’s talk that if it’s true we lost at Capua, that Congress will vote that the Chin ambassadors sent by Jurak are to be formally received and given the offer of cease-fire.”
Andrew sighed and lowered his head.
“Andrew, be careful going in there. That’s not the only rumor floating around town this morning.”
“What then?”
“Senator Bugarin is calling for Rus formally to secede from the Republic, establish its own state again, and make peace with the Bantags.”
“Damn all,” Andrew hissed.
It was, of course, illegal according to the Constitution. Given the experience back on his home world, he had written a clause into the document strictly forbidding secession unless three-quarters of Congress, and all the voting citizens, agreed to a new Constitutional convention.
“I told you before we should have hung every last boyar after the revolution before the Merki War,” Hans announced, having come up to join the conversation. “Bugarin was in with that crowd then.”
“He was formally absolved,” Andrew replied sharply, “and remember, he is a senator of the Republic.”
“Yeah, sure,” Hans snarled, letting fly with a stream of tobacco juice.
“Flavius, the Speaker of the House, is hopping mad, too,” Gates continued. “With word that Marcus is missing and presumed dead, a hell of a lot of pressure is on him now to stop trying to be even-handed and think more like the senior representative from Roum.”
“He’s also now the next in line to the presidency,” Hans announced.
Andrew found himself wishing he could block this all out. He had left the battlefield less than a day ago; too much was flooding in too quickly.
“I’ve got a carriage waiting for us,” Kathleen announced, breaking in. “Tom, let Andrew meet with the president, then they’ll most likely make a joint statement. Why don’t you come over after dinner.”
Andrew could not help but smile at the way she could switch on the charm when needed, and the publisher finally relented, backing away and darting off to catch a lieutenant who was being carried off the hospital car on a stretcher.
Kathleen led the way, Madison grabbing her father’s hand and chattering away, Andrew replying absently to her conversation. Reaching the carriage, she pried the children loose from their father and handed the baby over to a nurse, who led them away, Andrew waving good-bye as the carriage lurched forward, feeling guilty about his role as a father who was never home and was now too preoccupied to offer them any attention.
They drove past the long row of ambulances drawn up by the station. There was a time when he would have insisted upon stopping, getting out to talk to the men and their families, but he could so clearly sense the mood. In spite of the brilliant sunshine it felt as if there was a dark shadow over the city. Official censorship or not, news was clearly out that the offensive had turned into a bloody disaster.
Reaching the inner gate, they passed into the old city of Suzdal, and for a brief instant he relaxed, enjoying yet again the exotic medieval flavor of the city. Though this section had been twice destroyed in the wars, each time the residents had built it back as it was, though somehow the woodwork now seemed more crudely done and hurried, as if the pace of the new world he had created would not allow time for the ancient Rus art of woodcarving as it was once done. The old gaily painted window frames and decorative designs were gone as well since the lime for whitewash and the lead for paint were both designated as precious war materials.
The carriage finally reached the great square of the city, going past the cathedral, Kathleen making the sign of the cross as they did so. He was tempted to stop, to go in and see if Casmir, the Holy Metropolitan and head of the Rus Orthodox Church, was there, for he knew that the priest would be his staunchest supporter to the bitter end, and at this moment he needed to hear some form of encouragement. But the white banner was not flying over the central onion dome, meaning that the holy father was elsewhere, most likely at the military hospital to help as the first wounded came in.
The carriage turned across the square, the scene of so many triumphal parades, and the place where twice he led the old 35th into battle, first against the Boyar Ivor, and then in the final charge against the Tugars. Memories rushed back of so many who had marched or fought across this square and were now but dust, and Kathleen, as if sensing his mood, reached over and squeezed his hand again.
“Remember the first time we went for a walk here?” she said, as if trying to divert his thoughts from more melancholy contemplations.
He smiled, looking into her eyes, remembering that first wondrous day together, when they had visited the court of Ivor then roamed the city till dusk, having no idea, as yet, of the terror of the hordes.
Straight ahead was the White House. A strange blending of the old and the new, the former palace of a boyar, with all its ornate and intricate stone carvings, high narrow windows, and fairy-tale domes, whitewashed by order of the president in imitation of the legendary place where Lincoln had once resided. He could see a crowd gathered near the steps, a twin line of infantry drawn up to clear the way. A color guard was waiting, bearing the flag of the Republic, and as the carriage stopped at the base of the steps they came to attention. Andrew and Hans stood up, each of them saluting the colors as they stepped down to the cobblestone pavement. A small band of half a dozen drummers and fifers now sounded ruffles and flourishes and then went into “Hail to the Chief.” At the top of the steps the president, Andrew’s old friend Kal, appeared, wearing his traditional black frock coat and stovepipe hat, beard cut like Lincoln’s, always a slightly absurd sight since he stood barely five and a half feet tall, yet touching nevertheless in its respectful imitation of a legend from another world.
Kal slowly came down the steps, the small crowd of bystanders respectfully silent, the few soldiers in the group coming to attention and saluting, civilian men and boys removing their hats and one old woman making the sign of the cross.