Men of War (31 page)

Stanislaw came out a minute later with the cup refilled, carrying a second cup for himself and sat back down.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Vincent pressed while nodding his thanks for the refill and a second helping of bread and jam.

“Your honor, if we do make it to their rail line and from there to the Great Sea, then what?”

“Once there we set up a base for any ships that Hans and his men capture at Xi’an.”

“I heard the Horde riders have iron ships on that sea.”

“Yes.”

“Won’t the iron ships sink what we capture?”

“Maybe we’ll capture some of the iron ships at Xi’an.”

“And if we don’t?”

“We can still raise hell.”

“Suppose the Bantag bring up their own land ironclads to fight us. We shall have only what we carry with us.”

“It’s what we want,” Vincent replied. “If they bring their own ironclads in, we can fight them out in the open. We can have the battle to decide this. Defeat their ironclads, shatter their army here in the south, and keep their leader guessing, that is what we are doing. We want that fight, Stanislaw.”

“Then why do I feel like the mouse who is sent to pull the whiskers of the cat so that the old cat will chase him outside and then the others can eat. I wish right now I was one of the mice that was going to eat rather than the one that has to run.”

Vincent laughed.

“Back in Suzdal. Suppose they make peace. We heard the rumors of that, you know, just before we sailed. Poor Kal, we had many a drink we did in the old days, trading stories about our boyars.”

“We’ll win this fight before they can do anything that stupid.”

Stanislaw said nothing, then, looking beyond Vincent, he came to his feet and saluted.

Vincent looked over his shoulder and saw Gregory walking up the slope.

“Good morning, sir,” Gregory announced, coming to attention and saluting.

“Morning, Gregory. Everything in order?”

“All machines are warmed up except one. We’re going to have to leave it behind.” He nodded downslope to where a swarm of men were clustered around an ironclad, some of them arguing while others were lugging out shells. Several had torn open the hinges on the top turret and were starting to remove the steam Gatling gun.

“Cracked boiler, can’t be fixed out here. I’ve ordered it stripped.”

Vincent nodded. “Not bad so far, only two machines broken down.”

“That was yesterday. As we add up the leagues today, more will fail as I warned.”

“We’ll have enough when the time comes.”

Gregory said nothing for a moment, obviously disagreeing with Vincent’s assessment.

“Sir, my machines will be ready to roll in fifteen minutes. I think Third Corps is ready to move as well.”

Vincent smiled. He was being gently chided for taking the extra few minutes to talk with Stanislaw.

“Fine. Pass the word—fifteen minutes.”

Gregory saluted and started back down the slope to where his machine was parked.

“Ah, my nephew, such an officer.”

“That’s your nephew?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” Stanislaw laughed. “Someone had to come along to keep an eye on him.”

Vincent finished his cup of tea while Stanislaw disappeared back into his ironclad, shouting orders to the crew to get ready. Exhaust from the kerosene burners plumed from the smokestack, the safety valves for the steam lines popped several times, venting. The engine was hot and ready. A courier came up informing Vincent that the corps was formed. Looking round from his high vantage point, he saw the regiments forming into their loose block formations. Cavalry was already ranging outward in a vast circle a mile across, a few pops of carbine fire forward marking where a minor altercation was going on between outriders of the Horde and the advance pickets. Teams were hitched to the wagons, caissons, and limbers. Bugle calls signaled the call to form ranks, and drummers began to pick up the beat.

Vincent emptied the rest of his cup and climbed through the hatch into the already stifling heat of the lower deck of the ironclad. Slipping around the boiler and its attending fireman, he moved behind the gunner and assistant gunner, who, in the informality aboard ironclads, nodded their greetings since there was little room for anyone to snap to attention.

Stanislaw looked up from his driver’s seat and smiled, Vincent noticing a fresh bunch of wild prairie flowers bunched up and dangling by a string from the bulkhead, the brilliant reds and blues adding a gentle touch.

Going up the ladder into the upper turret, he squeezed past the breech of his steam Gatling gun, popped open the upper hatch, climbed half-out, and sat on the rim. Gregory, who was already in position, caught Vincent’s eye, and Vincent raised a clenched fist, pointing it forward.

A bugler, riding mounted beside Vincent’s machine, sounded the advance. The machine beneath him lurched, great iron wheels churning up clods of dirt and crushed grass as they started down the hill, moving to the fore, passing through the lines of infantry. Fording the shallow stream, they started up the next slope, moving past a lone cavalry trooper coming back, clutching a wounded arm, but still looking game, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

Vincent looked back, watching him ride through the blocks of infantry toward the medical wagons marked with their big green circles. The ten thousand men of the corps were all on the march, regimental columns deployed in a vast hole-square formation, rifle barrels catching the reflected glint of the morning sun so that the army looked as if fire was dancing across the ranks.

“Rows of burnished steel,” the words of the “Battle Hymn” came to him.

There are still moments,
he realized,
still moments when one can again glimpse the chimera dream of glory
.

* * *

He didn’t even look back as he rode through the gate. Forgetting himself for an instant, for old habits die hard, he snapped off a salute to the guards standing to either side who had come to attention.

The suit felt uncomfortable, the only civilian suit he had, stitched together by Kathleen, a black coat typical of what was worn back on Earth, at least what had been in style when they left, an unbleached cotton shirt of standard army issue, and black trousers. There was no longer a sword dangling from his belt, though he still had a pistol in a saddle holster. Behind him, in a wagon owned by Gates, rode his wife and the children, following them rode Webster, who had resigned from the government as well, and his young family.

In a way this whole thing felt so damnably foolish, a show play of bluff. The resignation had actually caught Bugarin and his followers off guard; they had expected a coup attempt. He had to go all the way. If he had stayed in the city, it would have somehow conveyed that he was still in the game, waiting down the street for the delegation to come and beg for his return.

He knew that would not happen. Even as he rode out of town the Republic was disintegrating into chaos. The Roum senators and congressmen were packing up to head for home, furious over the murder of Flavius and loudly announcing that they were going to seek a separate peace. It was as if a race was on, for Bugarin was announcing the same intention as well, and the Chin ambassadors sent by Jurak were even then receiving the offer of terms to take back to their master.

He, in turn, had presented them with a dilemma. Vincent was now supposed to be in command, but he was beyond reach. Next after him was Pat, but Pat had apparently cut the telegraph lines to the front, or something was blocking the line just out of Roum. What if they announced a ceasefire but nobody listened?

Mercury stepped onto the bridge over the Vina River, and he looked to his right and the valley choked thick with factories, rows of brick houses. The dam farther up the river was barely visible in the smoky haze. Strange how after ten years it looked far more like Waterville, Lewiston, or Lowell than the medieval city of the ancient Rus. The city he was riding out of was already a memory of an age passed. This was the new Suzdal, if it should survive the madness of its frightened leaders.

Word must have passed that he was leaving. From out of the foundries, rail works, boiler works, gun factories, construction yards, he could see thousands of workers filling the streets, looking his way.

He wondered sadly what it was he had actually tried to create for them. A generation ago they were born, lived, and died on the estates of the boyars, their lives short and brutish, ignorant and filled with fear.

What did they now have? Sons, fathers, brothers, husbands dead or at the front. Twelve hours of laboring in the heat, smoke, and grime of the war factories pouring iron, making steel, casting guns, making machines of war and yet more machines of war. Endless labor and still early deaths but now from consumption or accidents or simple exhaustion.

He wondered if Rousseau was right, and the thought made him smile for an instant, the mind of the professor still there, ready with the random thought of philosophy even in the darkest moments. Yet he had hoped that they would see, that all would see that this was a generation called to the highest sacrifice, that it had to bear the horrible burden so that someday their children, their grandchildren would never know the fear, the filth, the degradation, not just of the hordes, but of slavery and the horror of war.

He realized that he had slackened the reins on Mercury and his horse, as if reading his thoughts, had stopped so that he might look from the bridge and contemplate what he had tried to accomplish and where he had failed.

“Keane …”

It was a distant cry, a lone voice, sending a shiver down his spine, reminding him of the moment of triumph at Hispania, his name a cry of victory.

Someone else picked it up, a woman, closer, standing in the open doorway into the rifle-barrel works. She took the kerchief off her head and waved it. The women around her joined in, the name echoing across the valley, accompanied by the cry of a modern age, a locomotive whistle, then another, then the whistles of the factories.

Embarrassed by the outpouring, he did not know what to do. There was the temptation, to be sure, and he sensed that at this instant it would be all so easy.

Washington at Newburgh
, he thought.
But that was easier—the stakes were not the choice between life or annihilation—it was an abstract, an ideal that Washington preserved. Or was it
?

The thoughts raced through his mind. How easy it would be even now to turn Mercury about, point toward the city, and surely they would follow. And then what?

He could sense Kathleen, and looking over his shoulder, he saw her gazing at him, eyes filled with pride.

“Don’t you think it’s time we pushed on?” she asked softly.

He smiled. Her words were enough.

Without saluting, without looking back, he rode out of Suzdal and headed north toward the great woods.

* * *

Stretching wearily Jurak stepped down from the car, taking the dispatches that a courier pressed into his hand. He scanned through them, taking particular note of the last one that had just been relayed up all the way from Huan.

Yankee aerosteamers report, leaving Xi’an. Sighted by station at Chu-lin. Heading east.

Chu-lin? It was the town where Ha’ark had staged maneuvers last year to show the superiority of the new weapons to the clan chieftains. Nearly a third of the way between Xi’an and Huan.

It had to be Hans. So he was going all the way. The airships most likely could get to Huan, but it was doubtful if any would ever be able to get back. This was the desperate bid, not just to disrupt his supplies but to destroy everything.

Brilliant … and insane madness.

He skimmed through the other dispatches. The transport carrying thirty new land ironclads was at Camagan and was off-loading already.

He jotted down two quick notes in the clumsy block print of the Rus and handed them to the telegrapher. Parked a hundred yards north of the track, three aerosteamers were waiting, the fastest of the new twin-engine designs, propellers spinning lazily. At his approach the pilots came stiffly to attention.

“Which one do I fly in?”

“Mine, my Qar Qarth.”

He nodded, walking up to the pilot. Strange, most likely five years ago this warrior was horse-mounted, illiterate, never dreaming of what would be.

Jurak slowly walked around the machine, inspecting it. He felt a slight knot in his stomach. He had never much cared for flying, but on the old world it was in vast cavernous six-engine transports, capable of spanning continents to disgorge hundreds of assault troops. Now it was a flimsy hybrid, a sausagelike hydrogen airship with wings tacked on for lift and wheezing steam engines for power. The only factor that even allowed this damn thing to fly was the lighter gravity of this world, and even with that it could barely stagger aloft.

Taking a deep breath, he reached up and pulled himself into the cockpit and strapped into the narrow forward seat, the pilot climbing up to sit behind him.

“My Qar Qarth, the umbrella pack is what you are sitting on. Hook the harnesses over your shoulder. If I tell you to get out, do it quick. You then pull the rope on your left side.”

Jurak nodded as he followed the pilot’s orders.

“The gun between your feet, my Qarth. You are responsible for shooting that. The hand crank on your right side fires it.”

Jurak knew a bit more about this, having sketched out the designs of it more than a year ago, a primitive crank-powered machine gun.

“Are you ready, sire?”

“Ready.”

Within seconds both engines were at full power, and the machine slowly lurched forward, bouncing and rolling over the rough grassy field, and finally lifted, heading due west into the morning breeze.

The pilot banked the machine, passing over the locomotive that had carried him two hundred miles back from Capua during the night. As they leveled out, flying low, less than a hundred feet off the ground, he caught a glimpse of one of his two escorts turning sharply, cutting in to come up on their left side. Below, hundreds of Chin slaves stopped their labors for a moment, faces upturned to watch.