Rally Cry (4 page)

Andrew brought them up and focused.

"Well, that is the damnedest," he whispered softly.

If this was reb cavalry, then they sure as hell were scraping the bottom. The man wore a beard that came near to his waist, with long shaggy hair curling down past his shoulders, and which, even more curious, was topped by what appeared to be a conical iron helmet. His dirty white tunic, which looked as if it had a high clerical collar to it, was buttoned off to one side.

The man didn't even have boots; his lower legs were covered with rags, wrapped cross-hatched with strips of leather. And
Hawthorne was right—the man was indeed carrying a spear.

In front of
Petersburg he saw deserters coming in almost daily, but at least they still were carrying guns and had a semblance of a uniform.

Andrew handed the field glasses to O'Donald, who started to laugh.

"Faith and upon my soul!
So there is the vaunted reb cavalry."

As if realizing he was being watched, the lone horseman turned his horse about, and kicking it into a trot he disappeared from view.

"Old men and children in the trenches, and now cavalry carrying spears on draft horses.
Won't those poor sots ever give up?"

Still laughing, he handed the field glasses back.

"He might look comical, major, but this could prove serious."

"And how so?"

"Those low hills there. Whatever it was you were laughing at could be going to get help right now. If they have a single section of artillery handy, all they need do is position themselves up there and shell us into surrender."

O'Donald fell silent and turned to look back down the deck.

"Too much of a cant here to deploy my guns to respond."

"Exactly," Andrew replied. "We'd better get my men ashore immediately and dig in. Get your men moving and bring those Napoleon field pieces of yours topside. That lifeboat there should be enough to ferry them ashore."

Andrew looked back to where Vincent still stood.

"Son, you'd better help me on with that sword," he said softly.

"Colonel, with the captain's compliments he wants you back aboard ship."

"Damn it all, what now?" Andrew turned on the messenger and saw that it was Bullfinch, the young ensign who had first led him aboard ship.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the captain did not confide that in me," the boy said meekly.

"All right.
Just give me a minute."

Andrew quickly surveyed the ground around him. One thing could certainly be said for the men of his regiment— six months of siege work in front of
Petersburg had taught them how to dig. A triangular outworks forming a perimeter a hundred yards across at the base was already laid out in the dark loamy soil. It was already several feet deep on the two sides facing inland. O'Donald's men were finished with the first gun emplacement, commanding the apex of the line, and were now turning their attention to flanking position. One twelve-pound Napoleon had already been ferried out and emplaced. Looking back to the ship, he could see that the second weapon was being lowered over the side.

It must have been one hell of a wave that pushed them this far in, Andrew thought, as he looked at the damaged hull resting in less than ten feet of water. Even as a nonsailor Andrew had realized another curious fact about the place they had come to rest: there was no tide.

And there was the question of the sun. His timepiece was useless after the soaking the storm had given it, but somehow the day had seemed awfully damn short. Besides that, from the ship's compass the shoreline ran due east to west, and he could recall no such coastline south of
New York
.

"Keep the boys at it, Hans," Andrew shouted, and following the ensign, he waded into the near-tropical warmth of the ocean and accepted the helping hands of two sailors aboard the ship's launch. Seconds later they were alongside the
Ogunquit,
and with the help of a sling, Andrew was deposited back on deck.

There was a look of anxiety on Tobias's face, something that Andrew actually found to be pleasing.

"What is it, captain?" Andrew asked coolly.

"Colonel, can you climb the rigging?" And so saying he pointed up to where the shrouds to the mainmast still clung to the shattered maintop, thirty feet above the deck.

"Lead the way."

This was something he would never have worried about once, but since the loss of his arm, Andrew found the prospect somewhat frightening—though he'd never admit it in front of this man.

Tobias scrambled up ahead of Andrew, almost as if taunting him. But all thought of insult died as he finally reached the shattered platform.

. "One of my men spotted the first contingent. I thought you should take a look."

Fumbling for his field glasses, Andrew looked off to the distant horizon.

Through a gap in the hills it seemed as if an ocean of men were swarming toward them.

"There must be thousands of them," Tobias whispered.

At the head of the column rode a contingent of several hundred horsemen, followed by what appeared to be an undisciplined horde, which, after clearing the gap, spilled out in every direction.

"My glass has more power than your field glasses," Tobias offered.

It took a moment for Andrew to brace himself and focus the awkward telescope. He trained it upon the head of the column, and a gasp of amazement escaped him.

It looked like an army out of a distant dream. At the head of the column rode half a dozen men carrying square banners mounted upon crosspoles. The lead banner portrayed crossed swords of red on a white background, looking vaguely like a Confederate battle standard; the next was of a horseman with a double-bladed ax above him. The others had the appearance of stylized icons, being the
portraits of men in what Andrew felt was
a near-Byzantine style.

The horsemen, most looking like the scout they had seen earlier on the beach, carried spears. Some had shields slung over their shoulders, and most of them were wearing conical helmets, festooned here and there with fluttering ribbons. A number of horsemen in the column looked as if they were wearing rough plate armor. The heavily armored warriors rode in a tightly clustered group around a portly, bearded man in gold-embossed armor, who rode beneath the horse-and-ax standard.

Andrew swung the glass around to the swarms of infantry. They looked like true medieval levies armed with an insane assortment of spears, swords, clubs, and pitchforks.

Andrew looked over to Tobias, who wordlessly returned his gaze.

"Captain—just where in God's earth
are
we?" Andrew whispered.

"... I don't know," Tobias finally admitted.

"Well, dammit, man, you'd better figure it out, because we sure as hell haven't landed in
South Carolina
!"

Andrew started back down from the maintop and jumped to the deck, Tobias following him.

"Get Dr. Weiss up here!"
Andrew Shouted, heading for the rail.

"What are you going to do, colonel?" Tobias asked.

Andrew turned on the captain, but found himself completely at a loss for words.

"Can you get this ship afloat again?" he finally asked.

"Where's the tide?" Tobias asked in a whisper, drawing closer. "If we had beached at low tide there might have been a chance—but where's the bloody tide? And besides, there's a hole down belowdecks big enough to ride a horse through."

"Then figure something out, because we sure as hell don't want to stay here!"

"Wherever here is," Emil retorted, coming up to join Andrew.

Together the two went into the lifeboat. Before it had even reached shore, Andrew leaped out, Emil puffing to keep up:

"What is it, colonel?"

"I want you to see what's coming," Andrew said. "Tell me if it looks like anything you've ever seen."

He already had a strange suspicion, but immediately pushed the thought aside; it was simply too absurd.

Racing ahead, all dignity forgotten for the moment, Andrew rushed to the entryway of the fortified position.

"Hans! Sound assembly!" Andrew roared.

The clarion notes of the bugle and the long roll of the drum sounded. With the first note, Andrew felt a shiver run down his back. Suddenly the racing panic in his heart stilled;
a crystal
clarity of vision came over him.

The encampment exploded into action. Men raced to pull on their jackets, snatch up muskets, and sling on cartridge boxes.

Following the lead of the infantry, O'Donald called for the two pieces already ashore to be wheeled into their emplacement. Then he led his command to fall in by the men of the 35th.

Within seconds the old ritual, which they had acted out hundreds of times before, was played out: the ranks forming, muskets being grounded, the men dressing the line. Then when all were in place each company snapped to attention, their company commanders turning and coming to attention when all was in order.

A hush spread across the field, and in the silence, they all heard for the first time a distant sound which every veteran knew: the sound of an army advancing in their direction.

Andrew surveyed the line of five hundred men who were his, and the eighty men of O'Donald's command behind them. Every other time, it had been easy enough to explain what they were about to face; orders from above would tell him where the rebs were, and whether he was to hold or attack. There'd be a couple of comments about the honor of the regiment and the pride of being from
Maine
, and then they would move in.

But this was different. Heaven help them all, what could he say? He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. The men started to look uneasily at each other, while in the distance the rumble of the approaching host grew louder and louder.

There was no brigadier above him now,
nor
regiments falling in to either flank. This time he was alone, just as at
Gettysburg, and the decision was his.

"Uncase the colors!" Andrew roared.

A stir went down the line as the standard-bearers lowered their staffs. Men to either side rushed out to pull off the flag casings. In the faint afternoon breeze the blue flag of
Maine
snapped out. It was followed seconds later by the shot-torn national standard; emblazoned upon its stripes in gold lettering were the names of a dozen hard-fought actions which the regiment had survived with honor.

The men looked to each other, some eagerly, others pale with nervousness; uncasing the colors usually meant action was in front of them.

"Look to those colors, boys!" Andrew shouted, and as one each man's gaze turned to the standards they had followed across countless fields of action.

Andrew knew it was a rhetorical flourish, but he had to start somewhere, and for the men of his regiment—of any regiment— the shot-torn flags were symbols of pride and honor.

"There is a lot I cannot explain to you now," Andrew continued. "You'll see things you might not believe or understand at first. All I ask is that you obey my commands. Just trust me, lads, as you have on every field of action. Follow my orders, and I'll see all of us through this."

He fell silent. This wasn't the typical flag,
Maine
, and the Union speech. He sensed their uneasiness, but there wasn't time to explain further.

"Companies C through F, deploy to the east wall.
H through K, to the west wall.
I want A and B, with the colors, in reserve in the center. Major O'Donald! To me, please! Now fall into position, boys!"

The encampment became a wild explosion of movement as the formation broke and men ran to their positions.

"What is it, colonel?" Pat said, coming up to join him.

"Look, Pat, I can't explain the situation now—I still don't understand it myself. We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go up to your emplacement and watch the show."

The two commanders, trying to appear outwardly calm, strode across the encampment area. They reached the battery where O'Donald's twelve-pound
brass Napoleons were
deployed.

"They're getting closer," Pat whispered. "God, it sounds like thousands of them."

"There are."

"Here they come!"
came
a shout from an excited private down the line.

A lone horseman, bearing the crossed-sword standard, crested the hill a half mile away. Within seconds he seemed to be engulfed in a human tide as thousands of infantry poured over the hill around him. Farther to the left, the advancing column of horsemen appeared.

"Worst damn reb infantry I've ever seen," O'Donald sniffed. "No lines at all—must be local militia."

O'Donald turned to his men.

"Load case shot, four-second fuse!"

"Wait on that," Andrew said softly.