Rally Cry (16 page)

Coldly Rasnar walked past the group and up to the bow of the ship to stand with several knights who had obviously decided to stay near a holy man in this time of supernatural peril.

Ivor and the rest of his knights, however, wandered about the deck, looking at every fixture, pulling on the cables, hefting the belaying pins, and gathering around the single field piece, mounted on chocks amidships.

Word of the voyage had obviously spread about the kingdom. Down from the hills flanking the river came an unending stream of peasants and horse-mounted landholders, their shouts of wonder and dismay echoing across the flowing brown waters of the Neiper as the ship steamed past.

Seeing that he had an audience, Ivor went back to the quarterdeck and ordered his banner to be shown, at the sight of which the crowds lining the river bowed, sweeping the group with their right hands.

He stepped into the pilothouse, repeatedly pulled on the whistle, and then stepped back out again. Taking his standard, Ivor waved it to and fro so that all ashore knew that their lord had control of the scream maker.

Bemused, Andrew settled against the railing and watched as the dark muddy waters of the Neiper flowed by. The landscape was in many ways so like home. Dark heavy pines hugged the shore, giving way to pastures and fields of wheat already ripened and ready for harvest.

The difference, though, was in the farms. There were no homesteads here, the well-ordered holdings of hardworking Mainers that he was so used to. Instead the homes of the peasants were clustered together in small villages, the buildings rough-cut log cabins, adorned with the usual Suzdalian carvings. Each village surrounded a more massive log cabin, sometimes two, even three stories in height, the obvious mansion of the landholder, flanked in turn by a small stone or wooden chapel topped by the lightning bolt of Perm pointing up to the heavens.

"You know, Andrew, it reminds me somehow of the South."

Andrew turned to see Kathleen leaning against the rail, shading her eyes to the morning glare and looking out over the water.

"Strange—the land looks a lot like
Maine
to me."

"Oh, the land, I think it reminds me more of Indiana, right on the edge of the prairie. I went there once with my father, when he worked for the railroad. Kal told me that only a day's ride west and south of here the terrain opens out into open lands that go on forever.

"But I was thinking more about the farms," Kathleen continued. "Back home every man owned his own plot, no matter how miserable, and usually the pride showed. Here it's like the plantations, one man living in luxury and the rest in grinding poverty."

The thought troubled him. As the boat edged in close to shore, preparing to round the next bend, he saw how most of the peasants were barefoot, or simply had rags tied about their feet, which were laced up with leather thongs. Their clothing was nothing more than a simple oversized shirt that came down to the knees and was held at the waist by a strand of rope. All the men were bearded, the few old men sometimes having beards that reached nearly to the waist. The women were similarly dressed, occasionally offsetting their features with a brightly colored kerchief to cover their hair, while the younger girls would use a bright strip of cloth as a belt, to tighten their loose shifts about their waist.

All of them stood fascinated, shouting with terror as Ivor continued to pull the whistle.

Cries of "Yankee, Yankee," echoed from the shore as the boat drifted past, and Andrew waved good-naturedly, the more daring waving back timidly in response.

As they rounded a bend in the river a shout of delight came up from the men on the deck, and Andrew could hear Kathleen's gasp as the city of
Suzdal came into view, its golden church domes shimmering in the reddish light of the early-morning sun.

"Why, it looks like something out of a fairy tale," she cried delightedly, and Andrew found that he could only agree. Though he had now been to the city a half-dozen times it still filled him with wonder, this city so unlike anything he had ever beheld before.

Passing the southside parapets, the
Ogunquit
raced down the length of the city, the wooden walls looking out over the river lined with thousands of spectators whose shouts nearly drowned out the ever-continuing blasts on the whistle.
From battlement walls brightly colored pennants snapped in the wind, matching the bunting of the
Ogunquit,
giving to the event a holiday air.

For Andrew it seemed especially pleasant this morning, since a rising breeze out of the west was blowing the city's stench in the other direction.

Dozens of wharfs lined the quay, and Tobias steered the
Ogunquit
toward the longest, which projected fifty yards or more out into the river.

Ropes snaked out and were quickly secured to the massive pilings, and with a rattling crash the anchor dropped free for added insurance. The crew below damped down the boilers and a heavy vent of steam lashed out, sending the Suzdalians on the dock racing backward, while for good measure Ivor continued to give repeated blasts to the whistle.

"I'll be glad when he's finished with that thing," Kathleen mumbled. "Almost drove me
mad,"
and Andrew smiled in agreement.

"I'm required to be his guest for a feast," Andrew said. "Rather than wait for our visit to the rest of the city, would you care to join me?"

Kathleen looked at Andrew and smiled sadly.

"Are you merely asking me to be your escort for a state function, or is there more to it, Colonel Keane?"

Taken aback by her directness, Andrew hesitated. He found himself fascinated by the sad gentle smile lighting her features, and the way the reddish light of the sun tinted her soft wavy hair. There was a tightening to his throat at the sight of her, but in a moment his normal rigidity returned, for he could see the barrier she was again putting up about herself.

"Either way that you wish it," he finally replied.

Next to them the gangplank rattled down, and Ivor strolled down it first, waving to the crowd with a dramatic flourish, to the cries of admiration from his people for his obvious bravery at having ridden upon a Yankee machine.

"Best be going," Andrew said nervously, extending his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, looking into his eyes as if searching for something.

"Don't get too close to me, Andrew," she whispered. "I can't allow that ever to happen." She took his hand, and together they walked down the gangplank and on into the city.

"Just fascinating," Kathleen exclaimed as they turned another corner and found themselves in a narrow street lined with shops devoted to leatherwork. The cries of the merchants dropped to a curious murmur at the sight of two Yankees approaching. Andrew was starting to realize that his having only one arm was a source of some mystical wonder to them. Several women had come up to him, touched his empty sleeve, and then bowed low, making a blessing sign.

But even more curious for the crowd was the woman by his side, her hoop-skirted dress drawing an unending stream of excited comments. Kathleen had shown a gentle understanding, repeatedly stopping so that curious women could touch the crinoline dress and exclaim over the fabric. Andrew could not help but laugh when one old woman, bent with age, had come up, her curiosity so strong that she had actually lifted the hem of Kathy's dress, pointing and shouting excitedly at the arrangement beneath. The nurse had turned scarlet at the display, as half a dozen women were immediately on their knees, looking under the dress, talking eagerly to each other. Andrew finally had to drag Kathleen out of the circle of women which had gathered around, the old crone and her friends following them for several blocks obviously intent on getting another look. Finally Andrew was forced to offer a copper penny to bribe the woman and her friends into leaving.

The day drifted into midafternoon, and the mere thought that it would soon be over tugged hard at Andrew. The feast at Ivor's palace had started to turn into yet another raucous affair. But fortunately he had an excuse to leave, explaining that he desired to show Miss O'Reilly the sights of the town.

For that matter his own curiosity had been aching as well, for in all his previous visits he had come straight to the palace, taken care of the necessary negotiations, and immediately ridden back to the encampment. For the first time since their arrival in this strange world he felt he was truly having a day off to explore, and to experience the
company of a woman as well
, something unknown to him since the start of the war.

There had never been time for such a thing before—at least, that had been his excuse before the war. In the company of women he had always found himself tongue-tied. Too self-conscious about his lanky frame, towering height, and decidedly bookish appearance, Andrew had found it near impossible to make such acquaintances. Well-intentioned friends had of course tried to help with introductions, but somehow they had never seemed to develop.

There had only been one woman of importance—Mary. It was the year before the war. Their courtship had been brief but passionate, with an engagement and promise of marriage in the spring of '61. He had believed in her more than anything else in the world, her every word never doubted, her promises of what would happen when they were married a thrill beyond imagining.

Only weeks before the wedding there came a night when he had planned to work on lessons, but unable to stop thinking about her, he had set off instead for a surprise visit to her home. He knew Mary's parents were away, but they trusted him and would not object to his being in the house with her alone. The front door was ajar, and with the mischievous intent of startling her he stepped in.

There came a sound from her bedroom, an all too unmistakable sound, gentle cries that until that moment he dreamed would only be shared with him alone. Though filled with loathing for stepping into that room, still he had to know— and then wished he had never done so, for the sight of her in bed with another still haunted him.

Three years later, in the spring of '64, a colonel from another regiment told him that their division commander had stated, "That book-learning professor from the 35th has ice in his veins and fire in his soul for a damn good fight. Damn me, I think he knows nothing of fear, and pain doesn't scare him."

Andrew smiled inwardly at the memory of that. Perhaps after all it was Mary who had made him such a good
soldier,
for he could be icy cold with nerve, and yet have a passion to turn to destruction when need be. He had come to learn that a happy man does not rush into a war—it was only the youth filled with naivete and those who had already been hurt beyond caring and wished to somehow escape their sad empty fives that joined with eager intent.

"Why do you look so sad, Andrew?"

"Oh, nothing, Kathleen, nothing at all," he said quietly, trying not to look at her. Could she be touching him after all?
he
wondered. Could he ever trust another woman after what had happened? In his heart he doubted if he ever would.

"Just look at the beauty of this," she exclaimed, going over and picking up a finely wrought box for jewelry, its lid glowing with enamelwork portraying a warrior bowing to a lady dressed in shimmering robes of blue.

Andrew looked at the merchant and smiled, pointing to the box.

"Andrew, don't."

"Please—a little keepsake for giving me such a lovely day."

"I couldn't," she said shyly.

"But it's already been done."

Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar and flipped it to the merchant, not bothering to haggle.

Excited with such an offer, the merchant bowed back, and reaching beneath the table pulled out a gorgeous scarf of red embroidered with silver thread, indicating that it was a gift for the lady in return.

The merchant then pointed to the box and the figure upon it.

"Ilya Murometz," he said.

"Ilya Murometz?" Andrew replied excitedly.

Smiling, the merchant nodded as he took the box and scarf to wrap up.

"That's a name from old Russian folk legends," Andrew exclaimed, looking at Kathleen. "I remember reading about him in a collection of folk tales.
A fabulous character, one of my favorites.
So that proves it even more so. These people are medieval Russians, transplanted here the same way we were."

"But how?"

"That's the mystery we've still got to figure out."

The merchant held out the gaily wrapped package to Kathleen, who, smiling, took it, while behind him his entire family and staff of craftsmen bowed low at the honor of the visit, and the incredible sum in silver paid for their work.

"I think you paid too much," Kathleen whispered. "A couple of copper coins would have done just as well."

"I made a friend there. By evening this whole street will know of the purchase and think better of us for it."

"And charge outrageous prices the next time we come shopping here."

"I think of diplomacy, you think of shopping."

"Call it being a practical single girl living on her own."

They continued down the street, followed as usual by a curious crowd, so that Andrew felt as if he had an entourage. As they turned the next corner, two men from Company A strolled by, one of them with a woman, obviously of dubious morals, clinging to his arm. Instantly the men snapped to attention and saluted. Andrew looked at the young soldier with the girl; he nervously turned a deep shade of scarlet at the sight of Kathleen observing him thus.

"Enjoying the town?" Andrew asked.

"Yes sir," the two chorused.

"Well then, carry on, and stay out of trouble. Remember the boat leaves before dusk."

Without another word, Andrew strolled on, feeling slightly embarrassed for Kathleen. But he was surprised to hear her chuckle.

"I was tempted to ask the youngster if his mother would approve of his company, but I thought it'd be simply too cruel."

A bit shocked, Andrew looked over at her and was about to reply when a shout echoed down the street.

"Colonel Keane!"

Looking up, Andrew saw
Hawthorne running toward him. Out of breath, the boy stopped and saluted.

"There's trouble, sir. Major O'Donald and some of his boys got into a tavern brawl. A couple of our boys got busted up pretty bad, but one of theirs is dead, sir."

"Damn!"

"It's looking ugly, sir. The boys have barricaded themselves in the tavern. It's just down the street from the palace
on the main square. There's a regular mob growing outside. Soon as I heard what happened, I came looking for you, sir."

"Good work," Andrew replied. "A couple of the boys just went up the street. Tell them to catch up with me—I'm going back to take care of this. Rouse up anyone else you see and send them packing to me. Now move!"

Andrew grabbed hold of Kathleen's hand and at the run started back into the center of town. Within several blocks he started to hear the angry murmur of the crowd, until finally turning a corner into the square he was confronted by the sight of several hundred Suzdalians milling about.

"You stay here," Andrew commanded, looking at Kathleen.

"I'm going with you," she said defiantly. "Some of O'Donald's boys are hurt."

"I'm not taking you into that crowd."

"Stop being such a gentleman, Andrew Keane. Now let's go."

Andrew could not help but smile. Nearly a dozen men of Company A came filtering over to him from the edge of the square along with a group of O'Donald's command, obviously drunk and cast out from some other tavern in town.

"I want no shooting," Andrew snapped. "You
artillerymen,
keep those pistols holstered, and by God if one of you speaks a word I'll bust all of you straight into a month in the brig. Now let's go."

Near running to keep up, Kathleen followed Andrew across the square. She now saw him transformed, cold, determined, and yet somehow relishing the prospect of this challenge.

At the group's approach, the crowd gave back sullenly.

Even from the outside of the building Andrew could see that the tavern was a wreck. The heavy wooden door was torn right off its hinges, lying in the street. Stepping into the gloomy interior, he saw O'Donald and half a dozen of his men standing in a cluster in the corner of the room. O'Donald had his sword out, and all the men stood with pistols drawn. Ivor and a dozen armed guards stood in the middle of the room, the rest of the tavern packed behind them with angry onlookers.

"All right, what the hell is going on here?" Andrew snapped sharply, stepping between the two groups.

As one, near every man in the tavern started shouting at once.

"Goddammit, everyone shut the hell up!" Andrew roared. His command seemed to need no translation, and the room fell silent.

Andrew looked at Kal, who nervously stood by Ivor's side.

"Kal, tell me what happened."

"Keane.
There was a fight. A man of Suzdal is dead," and he pointed to the bar, where a corpse was laid out, the side of his head bashed in, with blood still oozing slowly from his shattered nose and his ears.

"He smashed up James," O'Donald growled. "That man started it."

"Later, Q'Donald," Andrew snapped, not bothering to look back at the major.

Kal pointed to half a dozen Suzdalians standing at the bar, one of them holding an obviously broken arm. A member of the group gestured toward O'Donald's men and started shouting.

"He claims O'Donald and his companions started a fight for no reason," Kal stated. "The Yankee lying on the floor then hit Boris, the dead man, with a broken chair leg."

Ivor and the assembly growled darkly as the man spoke.

Andrew looked back at O'Donald.

"Well, what's your side?" he asked, a note of disgust edging his voice.

"It's a lie, colonel darling. We
was
having a nice sociable drink. I even stood those blackguards a round, I did. Then one of them tried to pick Jamie boy's
pocket,
and that after we'd stood 'em a drink! So Jamie punched him one. A beautiful blow it was, right to the jaw. Then that Boris fellow was on him with a knife. Well, we all set to, trying to pull that thieving bastard back. Jamie got stuck, but by the saints he still had the strength to pick up a chair leg and send that devil sprawling. Well, we cleaned them out of here, and before you could shake a stick this mob starts to form outside crying for blood."

Dammit, Andrew thought darkly. O'Donald was a regular lightning rod for trouble. He knew the major most likely wouldn't try to lie to him, but his reputation for trouble had been known in the division long before they had embarked.

"Well, it's a hell of a mess now," Andrew snarled, and walking over to their side he knelt down by James. Kathleen was working feverishly on him, trying to stanch the blood flowing from an ugly knife wound in his side. A froth of blood gurgled from the man's lips.

"How is he?"

Kathleen looked up at him.

"They punctured his lung. I can't tell how bad the bleeding is inside. We've got to get him back to Dr. Weiss."

"All right, make a stretcher from one of those busted tables. Let's get him out of here."

Ivor started shouting darkly at Kal.

"Ivor says that a man of Suzdal died by your men. The man who did it must die now!"

Andrew turned and looked straight at Ivor. He had to handle this one carefully. Seeing a back room, he pointed to it. Ivor and Kal following, the three went into the room and closed the door.