Rally Cry (45 page)

"The humans pull back, and are ready. Even now I can promise you that across that field," and he pointed southward, "
they
are pulling back. Tomorrow morning they will be at the next village, and then beyond that we will have to force our way through the twin passes. If they are allowed to group there we'll pay by the thousands to force our way through."

"He's right," Muzta said riding up to Alem's side. "I will follow Qubata's advice, with or without your agreement, and I should remind you," the Qar Qarth said, drawing closer, "that I prefer my warriors to fight without some superstitious dread that is utter foolishness."

"Must I remind my Qar Qarth that it is unwise to tempt the spirits,"
Tula said evenly, his shadowy form barely visible in the moonlight.

"I know,
Tula," Muzta snapped back, "and if we lose, then you will have yet another excuse to find blame with me. As keeper of the left, you will lead the flank march tonight, but by the spirits of my fathers, you'd better ride hard," Muzta said coldly.

"When last I fought here," Qubata said, looking over at
Tula, "there was a road going up into the hills above the first pass that I told you about. It must lead somewhere.

"I'm leading this attack myself, just to make sure," Qubata continued, looking over at
Tula with disdain. "I know that terrain. It's just a question of turning their position and perhaps we can still destroy them in the field."

Tula
growled darkly and stalked away while Alem looked at the group gathered around him. This final insult he would remember, and if indeed the cattle should somehow stop them, he knew quite clearly now where he could lay the blame.

"I shall tell my people," Alem said coldly.

"We move at once," Qubata roared, "before the sun sets I want the walls of Suzdal in sight!"

He felt tight, nervous, as if an inner sense were warning him of some lurking danger. Unable to snatch a brief moment of sleep,
Hawthorne came to his feet.

Damn, it was starting to rain. So now he had taken to cursing as well. Cursing, killing, even knowing his wife before they had been rightfully married—what had become of him,
Hawthorne wondered sadly.

The campfire had simmered down, now hissing as the light cold drizzle drifted down, blanketing the exhausted army in a gradually rising mist. There was a dull brightening to the east. Dawn would be coming soon.

"So my captain cannot sleep?"

Hawthorne
went over to the fire and squatted down while Dimitri, who had so obviously lied about his age to join, poured a hot cup of tea into a cup and handed it to his commander.

"Something doesn't feel right, Dimitri,"
Hawthorne said quietly.

Dimitri looked at
Hawthorne, stroking his gray beard, his old weather-creased face breaking into a smile.

"That is why I like you so much and will listen to you, my captain. I hear others talk. Their Yankee captains always say everything will be fine. You do not play such games as if we were children.

"And yes," Dimitri said quietly, "something feels hot right. I know Tugars. They are not foolish folk. Five days we have slipped away at night. Tonight is the sixth. I fear tonight they are following close behind."

"Get the rest of the company up. I want all the men on picket line,"
Hawthorne said quietly. "I'm going back to see our colonel."

Tripping through the underbrush,
Hawthorne finally saw the low flickering of a fire and came into the circle of light.
Rossignol, who only short months before had been a sergeant, was resting against a tree, sipping a cup of tea.
Hawthorne came up and saluted.

"Sir, it might sound funny, but something doesn't feel right. I've ordered my entire company to stand to arms for the rest of the night."

Vince Rossignol nodded wearily and came to his feet.

"Word just came up from Hans. He's feeling the same way. We're letting the men sleep till dawn,
then
pulling back to the pass at first light."

Rossignol looked up at the sky, which was now covered by dark, lowering clouds.

"Damn rain—if it starts closing in, these flintlocks will be useless. I wish the hell I had—"

"Tugars!"

Hawthorne
whirled about. There was the dull report of a musket, another round snapped off, and then the nerve-tearing high ululating roar of the Tugars, so similar to the rebel yell, thundered up around them.

"Jesus Christ!" Rossignol cried, and then staggered backward, a look of disbelief on his face. His hands grasped feebly at the shaft buried in his chest, and then as if his legs had turned to sacks of water, he sank down and was still.

"Captain!"

Instinctively
Hawthorne ducked. He heard the slash of steel whisk over his head, and then a thunderous howl of pain.

Looking up, he saw a Tugar towering above him, sword in hand, stepping jerkily, and then crashing down. Dimitri stood over the form, his bayonet still jabbed into the Tugar's back.

Another form came crashing out of the woods. Dimitri stepped low and lunged in hard, catching the creature in the stomach, sending him sprawling.

"Captain, do something!" Dimitri roared.

Dammit, Rossignol wasn't supposed to die! Johnson, the second in command, and May of Company A had both been wounded and sent back. He was the only Yankee left in the entire regiment who could command.

Dimitri stepped back and looked at
Hawthorne.

Wild shouts rose up around him, the woods seemingly exploding with struggling forms, the war cries of the Tugars mingling with the steady screams of fear and panic at the surprise.

"Son, do something, anything," Dimitri said quietly, grabbing hold of
Hawthorne and looking him straight in the eyes.

As if coming from a dream,
Hawthorne nodded. All he could see were Dimitri's eyes.

"Bugler!"

"Here, sir!" A terrified boy came up to his side.

"Blow the rally cry! Blow it for all you're worth! Dimitri, as the men come in, let's start forming a square, and get those colors uncased!"

Coming from his tent, Andrew looked at the woods to the east, where the sound of a growing battle rumbled across the field.

From forward, several scouts came galloping in.

"They're on the other side of the field," a scout shouted.
"Thousands of them coming up out of nowhere!"

Dammit! An aide came rushing up, buckling Andrew's sword about his waist, while another led up Mercury, struggling at the same time to saddle the horse.

Hans came galloping up, reining his mount in.

"They've smashed into our flank. It sounds like
Houston's division is starting to give way! And this rain, Andrew—if it gets any heavier, the muskets will start misfiring."

"So they've finally hit before dawn," Andrew said, looking across the mist-covered fields. "That general finally learned and broke their usual routine."

Andrew swung up into his saddle. The field pieces forward started to bark out as the first shadow forms came charging out of the mist.

Andrew reined around to watch.

At least this position was a strong one forward, but if they were on the flank he'd be rolled up in an hour.

With every passing second the roar of battle on the right grew louder and louder.

"Hans, if our right's been turned, get up to
Houston and pull him out. We'll hold the front here with Barry's division and the artillery. Kindred's division I want in reserve. Position them to cover the passes two miles back. If they've flanked us this bad, they might be trying to spread clear around to our rear. Now move it!"

Grinning with satisfaction, Muzta watched his warriors streaming up to the front. The enemy right was crumbling, and as the light of early morning spread across the mist-covered fields he could sense that Qubata's plan was working. Now all that remained was for the old general to continue his sweep and close the trap.

"Keep moving!"
Hawthorne yelled. "Hold this square! You've got to hold!"

They had drilled for this out on an open field, beneath pleasant skies. Now they were doing it for real, through a light stand of forest, the rain coming down, and Tugar archers and charges of ax-wielding warriors pressing in on all sides.

He now had two regiments under his command, the 3rd Suzdalian being swept into the ranks of the 11th as step by step he gave back, holding the right flank from completely collapsing.

Finally the last of the woods gave out into open field. A mile away he could see an endless stream of troops pouring down the road southward.

And then behind him came the sound that struck terror into the heart of any soldier. There was gunfire to the rear, back toward the passes. The enemy was behind them.

"Charge them, charge them!" Qubata roared, standing in his stirrups.

He had not forgotten what he had seen before when crossing into the pass months before. It had taken hours to find it in the dark, but he had reasoned that the side trail that went into the hills must go somewhere. Swinging wide in the darkness, he had driven his warriors forward through the night, until at last they had stumbled upon the narrow road. Pushing hard through the light of early dawn, Qubata knew he was on the right path as they crested up over the hills and then turned westward toward a burned-out village and the flank of the pass beyond.

There would be resistance—he had expected that as the line of fortifications loomed up before him. But by the spirits of his forefathers, if he could drive down out of these hills, the pass would fall and the enemy would be cut off from any hope of retreat.

*         *         *

Andrew could feel a cold terror rising in his heart. Thank God he had sent Kindred's division back, reinforcing the single brigade he had left as a reserve in the pass. But could they hold?

A roaring crescendo came up behind him, and even through the mist and drizzle he could see the dark clouds of musket smoke rising up two miles to his rear.

From out of the woods to his right the last of
Houston's division came out of the woods, the darker forms of Tugars pouring out behind them.

So far they'd got most of the units out. For in the confusion the Tugar attack had come not as a hammer blow but rather as a series of ill-timed waves.

"We've lost at least two whole regiments up there!" Hans roared, galloping back from the right, O'Donald at his side.

Andrew nodded grimly.

Hans reined in and looked southward, mouthing a silent curse, and Andrew could see the old sergeant grimly survey the situation.

"If Kindred
breaks
, we're trapped."

"We're pulling the hell out of here," Andrew said. "
Kindred's
got to hold the pass. I'm abandoning this position. If we get through, we're pulling straight back to Suzdal. I thought we could hold in the pass for several more days, but it's too late now. Send word to the city that time has run out and to abandon the mills. Now move it."

Hans shouted to his staff, and in seconds couriers went racing off in every direction.

"O'Donald, start leapfrogging the batteries back."

His face lined with fatigue, the artillery commander saluted and, roaring commands, raced down the line. Minutes later half the guns were racing to the rear. The Tugars forward, sensing the breaking of the position, swarmed in, shouting with glee.

Andrew sat motionless, trying to appear outwardly calm. Long experience had told
him
that a fighting retreat was always far harder than an advance. Now it truly rested upon him. Panic was in the air. Several of the regiments streaming past were more like mobs than fighting units, and he let them pass; there was no hope of rallying them now. The enemy was pressing in from the right not two hundred yards
away,
and pulling back across the field he could see the last organized formation, a solid square of men moving at the double. Suddenly they would stop, a volley would ring out, and then they would push on. As the last of
Houston's division streamed in, the remaining guns of O'Donald's command came off the line.

O'Donald did not pull them out limbered up, but ordered instead that they be pulled back by ropes, while the gunners reloaded on the move. Pausing for a second, the weapons were fired, and then moved back thirty or forty yards to be fired again.

Arrows slashed in around the guns, and with crews wiped out, half a dozen were finally abandoned, but the Tugars, leery of charging straight in on the artillery, were kept at bay.

Moving back with the guns, Andrew nearly cried with relief when from out of the smoke of battle he saw where O'Donald had placed a full battalion of thirty-six guns in the reserve breastworks.

Reaching their protection, the other battalion leapfrogged back to form yet another defensive line across the southernmost pass.

The readied battalion fired a double load of canister, smashing a Tugar charge that was pressing in not a hundred yards away.

The northern pass was less than a half mile away as they pulled back once more. By God, Kindred
was
holding, Andrew saw, as smoke billowed up from the hill several hundred yards up the slope.

But now they'd have to get him out as well—otherwise when the last of the retreat pulled through it would be Kindred who'd be flanked in turn.

Grimly Andrew looked around, and stopping in the village just north of the pass he knew what would have to be done. For a moment he considered giving it to the 35th as it streamed past. He tried not to let his emotions decide the issue. For several seconds he weighted the two sides and then ordered the regiment on. He would need that core of professionals later; now was not the time to sacrifice them.

"O'Donald, one battery stays here! We need time!" Andrew shouted, pointing to the breastworks, prepared earlier by Kal's work crews.

O'Donald nodded in agreement. They had to buy time now for Kindred to get out.

"I'll take care of it," O'Donald shouted.

"O'Donald, order somebody else—you're pulling back with me."

"But colonel darling, I can't—"

"You can," Andrew said grimly. "I need you. I'd stay myself, but heaven help me I can't either. Now order somebody to stay! They have to hold till we're out of the pass, all of us. We'll signal the
Ogunquit
to lay down support as well. Once the rest of the army's clear, tell the men to spike the guns and make a break for the river. Now do it!"