Rally Cry (21 page)

When he saw Ivor himself galloping down the road he thought that the confrontation would blow then and there, for surely the boyar had come to threaten retaliation for this action. Their stormy session the night before had not gone well for either, but to his surprise the man had not come straight out and ordered him not to march.

But Ivor reined in before him, smiling broadly, and told him the news. Andrew shouted for the regiment to stand down, and swinging his mount about he galloped back to the city, Kal, Ivor, and Emil following him.

After seeing the results of what had been done, no one could now step him in his rage.

He strode down the length of the cathedral, his hobnailed boots clicking loudly on the polished limestone floor.

Approaching the altar, he saw Casmar.

"Where is Rasnar?" Andrew shouted.

Startled, Casmar looked back at him.

"I want Rasnar now!" Andrew barked.

"His holiness is in meditation," Casmar said nervously.

"Get him now," Andrew snarled.

"Keane, be careful," Kal, who had followed him, whispered nervously.

"To the devil with caution," Andrew snapped.

"Don't do this," Casmar
said,
his voice full of concern.

"If you don't find him, I'll look for him myself!" Andrew barked.

"I will go announce you," Casmar replied, shaking his head, and turning, he started for the side door.

Impatiently Andrew stood waiting for only the briefest moments, and then followed Casmar.

"Keane, don't!" Kal cried.

Without comment Andrew kept on his course. Pushing the door open, he stalked down the long corridor. At the far end he could see Casmar turn and look back, an expression of fear on his face. Andrew kept on relentlessly. He came up to the priest, who stood by an ornately carved door. Pushing the priest aside, Andrew slammed the door open and stepped into the room.

For once he saw the prelate completely taken aback. Rising from behind his desk, Rasnar stood motionless, looking nervously to where Andrew's right hand rested lightly on his holster.

"No, I won't kill you," Andrew snapped.
"At least not yet."

"And why the act of mercy?"
Rasnar replied, quickly regaining his composure and settling back behind his desk.

"Because as I am a liege to Ivor, he would be blamed, so you are protected for the moment."

"Really, Ivor should learn to keep his dogs on a tighter leash."

"I just got one of my boys back," Andrew said coldly, coming forward to rest his hand on Rasnar's desk.

"Yes, how fortunate for you.
Perm has been kind to him."

"He told me how one of your priests tortured him, how your animal hiding in his gold robes blew out my man's brains and tried to force Hawthorne to reveal the secret of gunpowder."

"Delirious ravings," Rasnar said smoothly.

"I'll believe my boy before I'd ever listen to your twisted superstitious lies."

Rasnar did not respond. With a steady hand he reached over to a pot and poured himself another cup of tea.

"I'd offer you some," Rasnar said evenly, "but I think it is time for you to leave."

"I just want you to know that as far as I am concerned, the game between you and me is out in the open. You tortured two of my men, your plottings caused me to lose ten others in battle, and I half suspect that fight in the tavern was triggered by your people as well."

"Of that, at least, I am innocent," Rasnar replied.

"I don't care for your explanations. You have a truce with me for right now—I'll grant you that for the sake of Ivor. But if but one of my men disappears, if there is an accident of any kind, if a roof tile should fall on someone or a man gets knifed in a bar fight, I'll be in front of this church at dawn the next day. I'll blow in the doors of this building and bayonet every man inside. Do I make myself clear?"

"Really, you are quite dramatic," Rasnar said, his composure slipping at the open threat that had been laid.

"Now we both know it's in the open between us. I know you for an enemy and you know me. Outside this building I'll acknowledge your position and keep the peace with my men, who God knows would tear this place apart with their bare hands if the truth got out. I'll acknowledge you and respect your customs, but by heaven, man, you'd better respect mine, and from your pulpit there had better not be another word claiming we are devil spawn, or I'll show you just what hell I can create."

Trembling, Kal looked over to Andrew, horrified by what he had just translated. He had been tempted to soften the words, but Andrew had told him beforehand that if he suspected the altering of a single phrase he would drum him out of the camp.

"Yes, we know each other now," Rasnar replied. "Now get out of my church, you infidel!"

Andrew came to attention and smiled sardonically.

"Good day to you, your holiness. I apologize for interrupting your meditations." Snapping a salute, he turned and walked out of the room. Stopping at the door, he winked at Casmar, who stood wide-eyed at the exchange, and then went on out into the hallway.

"That was madness," Kal hissed, nearly running to keep up with Andrew as they stepped back out into the street.

Stopping, Andrew looked at the man and smiled. Exhaling noisily, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

"You people hide your animosities in maneuverings, and plots within plots. We New Englanders are far more direct. We say it directly and up front, and the devil take the hindmost. It'll keep him off balance for a while. He's not used to dealing with that, and I daresay he will back off for the time being."

"I can only hope so, Keane. His holiness is a dangerous enemy."

"Maybe so," Andrew said quietly. "Now let's go back and see that boy."

The tension released, Andrew actually found himself relaxed.
Hawthorne would survive, but the boy had been through a nightmare. It was a miracle he had been spotted clinging to the overturned skiff and fished onto shore.

Thank God he was safe, the only good news to happen after the tragic losses of the last three days. It was too bad about Sadler. He had been a good soldier, joining the regiment along with his brother Chris back in the early days of '62. He'd have to talk to
Hawthorne about that, for to tell Chris the truth would most likely drive him to murder the first priest he laid eyes on.

For the good of the regiment he'd have to ask
Hawthorne's silence about most of the things that had happened, but he knew the boy would understand.

Climbing the steps of the palace, Andrew returned the bows of the guards with a salute and ventured in. Ivor was there to greet him, smiling with eagerness to hear what had happened. The beefy-faced boyar had actually laughed when Andrew had first told him what he planned to say. Of course, it would help him, Andrew realized, to have a vassal who was an outsider and thus not intimidated by the priests.

Smiling at Ivor, he stepped past the boyar and entered a narrow windowless room.

Wild-eyed,
Hawthorne tried to sit up as the door opened.

"It's all right, son," Andrew said softly. "You're perfectly safe now."

Feverish, the boy sank back on to the bed.

"How is he?" Andrew asked nervously, looking at Emil.

"He'll pull through all right." He patted
Hawthorne on the shoulder. "The neck will heal nicely, but he'll be dam hoarse for a while. His hands are badly torn, and I think he's even cracked his ankle. We'll get that arrow out shortly. But I want this place scrubbed down first and my instruments boiled."

"
Hawthorne, you're in the best of hands with old Doc Weiss here. He'll have you up and around in no time. Just settle back and get well. Kal here said he'd be honored if when you're feeling a bit better you'd stay with them so his wife and that lovely daughter of his can look after you. I want you to start practicing your Russian with them, and that's an order."

Tears filling his eyes,
Hawthorne looked beseechingly at Andrew.

Gently Andrew sat down on the side of the bed.

"What is it, son?"

"Colonel . . ."

"Go on, you can tell me. I'm proud of you, boy, and I don't blame you for talking to try to save Brian's life. It was a noble act on your part, and braver still that you chose death rather than risk the lives of your comrades. I'm promoting you here and now to corporal for how you handled yourself."

Hawthorne
started to shake his head, the tears coursing down his face.

"No, I can't," he whispered.

"Why?"

"Colonel, I—I killed a man."

Andrew was silent. Why did it have to be this way? He had hoped for the sake of this young Quaker that in battle he would never know if a bullet he fired had actually struck a man. But for his first test Vincent had been forced to do it in the worst possible way—up close, looking into the eyes of the man he cut down.

The memories came back. How many had he killed like that up close?
Ten at least since coming here.
And then there was that reb boy in the Wilderness. He'd shot him so close that the boy's uniform had been scorched, and then for an hour the enemy fire had been so heavy that he had been forced to lie beside the youth, watching the life slowly ebb out.

God, was that all he was good for now, killing, and leading others in killing? He tried to force the thought away.

"I think God would understand why and forgive you," Andrew said gently, holding
Hawthorne's hand.

But would God ever understand my own sins and the passion for battle?
he
wondered sadly.

Awakening in the hour before dawn, Andrew was surprised to feel the crunch of a light frost on the ground beneath his feet as he stepped out of his cabin.

It was April back home, the fifteenth of the month, he thought as he looked heavenward. As he watched, a fiery meteor crossed the sky, and for a brief moment he thought it must be a portent of some kind, even as he chided himself for such superstition. Was his war still going on back home, or was it over by now, and Lincoln working instead on binding up the wounds of the nation?

Funny, he realized, he was thinking less and less of home in these last two months. They'd been remarkably peaceful, and with that peace the men had turned to their various projects with a will.

The Methodist meeting house across the green was nearly finished; there was even a steeple waiting for the bell, which was the big cause of excitement this morning. The town hall was up as well, and the boys had even concocted a baked-bean-and-ham supper in it the night before, complete with a band, singing, and dancing.

Kathleen had danced the evening away with him, but still there was that wall between them as if both were wary of the possible hurt the other might offer. The Suzdalians had even been drawn into the celebration, and a number of the men had female escorts for the evening.

A sizable community of a hundred or more huts had sprung up outside the earthen walls, housing merchants and twoscore families who had moved down from the city to offer their skills and services to the regiment.

In this quiet time, which Andrew had come to love so much, he walked down
Gettysburg Street
listening and thinking. The camp was as happy as could be expected. The young single men had seemed to adjust the easiest. Two had already asked for the right to marry, and he now found himself in the uncomfortable role of being something of a father, telling them to wait and let the courtship develop a little longer.

Among the hundred and fifty or so men who were married, some with children back home, it had been far worse. A day did not go by when a grim-faced soldier did not come to him asking if there was any hope of ever seeing
Maine
again. He had kept up the lie, offering assurances which he doubted would be true, hoping only that in time they would come to accept whatever strange fate it was that had cast them here.

There'd been three suicides, all of them married men, despondent over their fate. Ten others were now confined to the hospital, sitting quietly throughout the day, talking softly to themselves, or to imagined loved ones. Kathleen treated them with loving care, hoping to lure them back, but in his heart Andrew knew there was little hope; they had found a gentle world in their thoughts and would most likely dwell there for the rest of their lives.

He pushed the thoughts aside as reveille echoed in the morning air. From the cabins curses and groans cut through the early-morning chill, and Andrew smiled at the familiar sounds. He'd always found those who could not wake up easily to be a source of amusement, realizing that to such men, a man who could awake instantly, feeling refreshed, was somehow unnatural.

The camp came alive with the morning routines, which he watched and participated in with quiet satisfaction. With morning parade and breakfast soon out of the way, the various companies set off to their appointed tasks. New projects had sprung up almost overnight. A small quarry for limestone, opened by Company B, was now operating on the other side of the river, while H Company was nearly finished with building its first raft for the ferry service to support the operation.

At least Tobias had found a task as well. Two weeks ago he had pulled out and sailed down the river to go explore the freshwater sea and had not been heard from since. Of course, Andrew was worried, but at the same time felt a sense of relief that the quarrelsome captain was out of his hair for a while. Anyhow the showing of the American colors would do no harm.

"Colonel, sir.
The men should be ready for you now."

Roused from his thoughts, Andrew looked up to see Captain Mina of E Company standing before him expectantly. He looked especially dapper this morning, his dark thin mustache freshly waxed, his uniform neatly pressed.

"Well then, John, let's go see what you've got."

Together the two strolled out the gate to what was now called the
Mill Stream Road
and started up the hill. Every time he came up this way Andrew found it amazing how much farther back the forest kept retreating because of the unending harvest of wood. Rounding the first bend in the road they came past a pile of fresh-cut boards, still oozing resin. A loud continual rasping cut the crisp morning air.

Smiling, Andrew paused for a moment to watch
the sawmill
in operation. If anything could remind him of
Maine
it was this. The building had yet to be framed, the rough logs of its skeleton still
bare
to the weather. There was a good head of water this morning coming down the chute and the ten-foot overshoot wheel turned easily. The driveshaft was an oak beam engaged directly to the wheel. From there a leather drive belt provided power to a five-foot circular sawblade, on the main floor of the building.

Logs were snaked into the back of the mill, straight out of the pond which was still growing and spreading out in the narrow gorge behind the mill. Andrew watched as a team of men guided the log onto the cutting table, strapped it into place, and started to push it forward. A shower of sawdust suddenly kicked up as the blade bit in with a rasping whine.

"How goes it this morning,
Houston?"

The captain turned around beaming, and as usual his excitement over this pet project was unlimited.

"It's a-growing, sir,"
Tracy said, beckoning for Andrew to come in and have a look around. "We're rigging up a power winch line off the wheel," and leading the way he started down the ladder to the lower floor. The clatter of the wheel and the shrieking of the blade echoed like thunder as
Houston pointed about and shouted.

"One of my boys is almost finished cutting the blocks out now. If we had the right tools I'd have it done by now. But Dunlevy says he's too busy on other projects, and we should be happy about getting the blade, and that's that."

Andrew could see
Houston wanted his support to shift the blacksmith back under his command, and smiling, he shook his head.

"Dunlevy gave you your blade—-now he's under John here for a while," and John smiled with good-natured rivalry at his friend.         

"All right.
Well, at least I can tell the boys I tried,"
Tracy said with mock dejection. "Anyhow, we'll rig up a winch here off the main driveshaft, and when we need a new log, we hook the cable on, I push down on this lever here, which engages the gears, and in it comes, saving my boys a lot of sweat. The tough one, which won't be finished for a week yet, is mounting the cutting bed to a sprocket. Once that's in, then the boys won't have to feed the log in by hand. The sprocket will simply push the bed, with the log strapped to it, and a nice even plank will be cut out as easy as pie."

"Good work," Andrew said enthusiastically, clapping
Houston on the shoulder.

"Now if only I could get all the water I need. It was bad enough when Fletcher got that dam of his done and started to build up a head of water and wouldn't release any down to me. But now you, John," and he pointed an accusing finger at Captain Mina. "That dam of yours is taking forever to fill
.
"

"Look, do you want my products or not?" John said quickly. "You need me if you want to expand this second-fiddler operation."

"Second fiddler is it!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please," Andrew said, holding up his hand. "We both need each other here, remember. I want John's operation with full water as quickly as possible —we all need what he can produce. Once that's done, you'll have all the water you need.
All right?"

"You heard him, John,"
Tracy replied. "Once that dam of yours is filled, don't hold back on me. We've all got to use the stream."

"All right, all right, but colonel, sir,
my
men are waiting for you. Besides, Private Ferguson is just dying to show you his new plans."

Refusing a hand, Andrew made his way back up the ladder and leaving
the sawmill
continued up the hill. A hundred yards farther up
they
paused for a moment to watch Fletcher's operation. Even as the mill operated
a crew of carpenters of his company were
busy putting up siding provided by
Houston. This was one place that had to be protected from the rain.

The millstones were small ones, less than three feet across. They were temporary affairs until a couple of boys from B Company could turn out full six-foot stones of granite, which would take at least another month.

But for the Suzdalians it was still a wonder. Every day there was a steady stream of people, most on foot, some driving small wagons laden with bags of freshly harvested wheat, lined up outside the mill waiting for their grain to be ground into flour.

By agreement with Andrew and Ivor the rates were simple enough—one-tenth of all grain ground was kept as payment, and as a result the regiment would soon have fresh bread, for one of O'Donald's boys had been a baker and even now was supervising the construction of several ovens to handle the demands of the regiment.

Passing on up the hill, they came out upon the latest addition to the mill stream's industries. The furnace and attached forge were small, with only a ten-foot wheel for now. But Mina was already talking about expanding it over the winter and building a great twenty-foot wheel by spring.

Smoke was billowing out from a brick chimney, and with each turning of the wheel there was a loud rush of sparks as the bellows driven by the waterwheel pumped in a fresh draft of air.

This project had been the most complex to date, requiring in one way or
another the
labor of half the regiment to get it ready. Nearly a hundred men had been busy felling wood for weeks, and following the lead of several charcoal makers from the north country of
Maine
had soon cooked up hundreds of bushels of charcoal of at least passable quality.

The men of B Company had worked across the river, cutting limestone with the few tools available, crushing it with hammers to serve as a flux which would draw off the nonmetallic parts of the ore to form a brittle glasslike slag.

Finally there'd been the mining of the ore. A site had been located farther up in the hills, and fifty more men had labored intensively using the few picks available to cut the ore into workable chunks and then haul it back down the hill.

Others had worked at building the dam, which now was nearly twelve feet high and would finally rise to twenty-two feet to power the larger wheel already planned to replace the temporary ten-foot one now in place.

Still others had helped to fashion the bellows from two whole cowhides, and the huge earthen ramp to the top of the furnace, where the crushed lime, charcoal, and ore were dumped in for the cooking-down to the final product.

The Suzdalians at least had brick kilns located upriver from the town, and in trade for ten dozen bushels of Fletcher's wheat and several thousand board feet from the sawmill a sufficient quality had been purchased, transported downriver, and packed up to the hill to make the furnace.

Andrew had already noticed a creeping inflation starting to set in as far as prices went with the Suzdalians, and he resolved that a brick kiln would be a major priority, since there was always a need to supply the mills, and the growing town of Fort Lincoln.

"We're ready when you are, sirs," one of Mina's men called as the officers approached.

A regular delegation was waiting for them, including representatives from the Methodist committee, who after intense negotiations had finally won approval for the first casting to be used as a bell for their chapel.

Today's runoff would be modest; Mina had calculated it to be about five hundred pounds of iron, which as soon as it had cooled would be turned over to Dunlevy and his crew of apprentices. A mold for the bell had been fashioned from clay, and when enough iron had been amassed it would be remelted and poured in.

As Andrew looked around he realized that nearly half the regiment was here, since so many had participated in getting this project started. Their pride and excitement was evident in their looks of eager anticipation as Andrew approached.

"Colonel, sir," a grimy private said, stepping forward and saluting, "me and the boys working this here mill would appreciate a couple of words from you."

Andrew looked over at John, who smiled broadly. It was a common joke with the regiment that the professor, whose job before the war had been talking, somehow got tongue-tied when asked to give a speech to the men.

Andrew looked around at the men and smiled good-naturedly.

"I'm proud of all of you," he said. "Proud that you're Union men tested in battle, the finest regiment in the Army of the
Potomac," and with that the men cheered at the mention of that most famed army of the war.