Never Sound Retreat Part 16

With both engines turning over and revving up, the ground crew untied the cables holding the airship, a dozen of them moving to the upwind side to hold on to the wing.

Bakkth slammed the throttles forward, the low whir of the engines shifting upward into a steady high-pitched hum. The airship lumbered down the valley, the ground crew trotting alongside the upwind wing, holding on to it in order to prevent the airship from tipping up.

Ha'ark watched, feeling as if he was witnessing something from ancient history rather than his own world as the ungainly craft slowly continued down the valley, laboriously gaining speed. The slowest of the ground crew started to fall behind, letting go on the wing. Bakkth waved from the c.o.c.kpit and the rest of the crew released, the wing began to tilt up from the crosswind, but Bakkth had enough forward velocity so that the aileron provided sufficient counterthrust. The airship crept off the ground, Bakkth feeding in full rudder, but even as he turned the crosswind started to drive the ship across the narrow valley.

Ha'ark held his breath as the ship barely cleared the downwind ridgeline, skimming over the top off the hills. The second ship started off, the same routine repeated, but as it cleared the ground the upwind wing soared up, the downwind wing tearing into the turf. The ship rolled over onto its side and plowed into the ground. The airbag tore open followed by a flash of blue fire. Seconds later the two bombs on board detonated with a thunderclap roar Ha'ark looked up and saw that Bakkth, crabbing into the wind, was heading south toward the mountains, which barely showed on the horizon in thej clear morning air. "My Qar Qarth."

It was the commander of the ground crew, down on his knees, ready to accept punishment for the destruction of yet another ship.

"Get the next one up," Ha'ark snarled. "I need to know what is happening to the west as well!"

With a flourish of his cape he stalked away. Fumbling in the pouch dangling from his belt, he pulled out a plug of tobacco and bit off a chew. He had rendered his opponents blind, cutting them off, but now he was equally blind. There was fighting in the pa.s.ses to the south, reports of sighting the guidons of two different corps and the blue flag with golden chevrons, the flag of Schuder, pressing their way through the pa.s.ses. Yet he sensed something amiss there.

Would Hans be so obliging as to come into the trap, or would he suspect that if the schedule worked as planned, that half an umen armed with modern weapons and ten land cruisers would soon land behind him?

Then there was Keane to the east. A prisoner had revealed that before dying, that Keane had gone back Into the trap. Why? He should have sent his young a.s.sistant in and he himself should have gone west to organize the breakout. Strange and troubling.

Ha'ark paced in silence. Three more days and the additional umens would be up. Then there would be the strike force available to crush Keane, then Hans, and from there to march in triumph on Roum and Suzdal beyond. For with two-thirds of their army destroyed, the Horde would be impossible to resist.

Sergeant Major Hans Schuder bit off a chew of tobacco and, standing up in his stirrups, made no pretense of concealing the part of his anatomy that was hurting the most as he rubbed his backside.

A rifle ball fluttered past. Ignoring the shot, he spit out a stream of tobacco juice.

"h.e.l.l of a march, Ketswana," he growled, offering the plug to his friend, who was walking beside him. Ketswana bit off a chew and nodded in agreement as his powerful jaws started to work on the plug.

"Now remember, don't swallow it this time, d.a.m.n it. You look ridiculous when you puke."

The staff around them chuckled but fell silent at Ketswana's threatening gaze. A colonel from the forward part of the ma.s.sive corps-sized square broke away from the line and trotted back to Hans.

"Skirmishers report they're building up in a gully up ahead."

"Well, let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds come on," Hans announced. More than two hours back he had seen dark columns dismounting ahead of them, the warriors appearing to leap into the ground, while their horses we driven to the rear.

Still standing in the stirrups, he raised his field gla.s.ses to study the ground around him. The mountains to the west blocked the moisture coming in off the Inland Sea so that the land reminded him of the Texas panhandle and high prairie east of the Rockies. Some rain had come from the storm of the last three days so that the parched gra.s.s seemed to explode back to life. The knee-high prairie gra.s.s was an oceanof green, wavery in the strong breeze coming out of the west. To the east, half a mile away, was the block formation of Seventh Corps. Each side of the block was made up of a brigade, with two brigades in reserve in the center. The men marched in columns of fours, the front and rear of the block moving forward in two double ranks s.p.a.ced ten yards apart, so that the formation was a square nearly six hundred yards to a side.

It was c.u.mbersome and slow-moving; they were making barely a mile and a half an hour, but no cavalry could ever hope to break through as long as the men held. Between his block, made up of Second Corps, and that of Seventh Corps, marched Eighth Corps, a half mile to the rear. If any of the three blocks ran into problems, the other two could turn and move to support.

He had once read that Marshal Ney did the same thing during the French retreat from Moscow, moving his corps in square in the final days of the retreat to the Niemen, thus holding off the hordes of Cossacks swarming around him. So far, it was working here as well, though if the Bantag ever managed to get four or five batteries in front of them, there'd be h.e.l.l to pay. His own artillery was only carrying the ammunition available in its caissons, enough for one hard hour of fighting, and then that was it.

Turning his attention forward, he saw thousands of riderless horses half a mile beyond the gully, lone warriors trailing ropes attached to the reins of six to eight mounts. He studied them for a moment. It was impossible to count but there had to be at least an umen dismounted and deployed into the gully a quarter mile ahead.

A steady patter of fire was erupting forward, the skirmishers moving two hundred yards ahead of the square, stopping, kneeling in the gra.s.s, firing, reloading and then sprinting forward half a dozen yards before firing again. Puffs of smoke rippled from the gully, not enough to indicate that a Bantag formation fully armed with rifles was waiting, but enough to cause damage nevertheless.

Men started to drop from the forward line, and Hans looked away as regimental surgeons were forced to make a horrible decision. If the man could keep up, he was allowed to rest in one of the precious ambulances while the wound was bandaged over, but if it was too serious, a dose of morphine was administered, someone helped the soldier to reload his weapon, and he was left behind with half a dozen rounds of ammunition. Throughout the three long days of marching they had so far endured, the worst part was looking back to where a distant line of Bantag trailed them. There would be occasio puffs of smoke as a wounded man with still enou fight in him would take down one or two of his fo before being finished off.

As for the wounded who were unconscious wh left behind . . . Hans did not even want to think about that. Once, when fighting the Comanche in Texas, he had killed a gut-shot comrade rather th leave him to the tender mercies of Indians who were almost as good as the Bantag when it came to inflicting torture. It still haunted him.

As he surveyed his lines he could see where more than one knot of soldiers were hiding a wound comrade, dragging him along. So far he had turned a blind eye, but if the main body of the Bantag came up, he knew what he would have to order everyone to do . . . march on your own or die.

More puffs of smoke erupted from the gully. Studying the line, he could see Bantag arms rising over the edge of the gully, moving rhythmically up and down . . . Good, the ones carrying rifles were only armed with muzzle loaders rather than rapidfire breechloaders.

A minie ball buzzed past Hans, smacking into a supply wagon moving behind him. Sitting back down in the saddle, he urged his mount forward, cantering up to the forward line. The men continued their relentless advance, a steady eighty yards a minute. Blades of gra.s.s shot up in the air as bullets hummed in low through the gra.s.s, and Hans did not know whether to laugh or swear at a young private who was taking deliberately high steps as if he could dance over the bullets plowing across the prairie.

Officers moved back and forth behind their regiments, some shouting for the men to keep moving, others, the older hands, calmly praising the men, urging them forward as much by as example as by command.

A soldier in front of Hans collapsed into the gra.s.s, cursing, holding his stomach. The line continued on. He looked up as Hans rode past and then at the medical orderlies who would decide his fate. Grimfaced, he struggled back to his feet and staggered hack into the line, clutching himself with one hand, hut still holding on to his rifle.

The forward advance swept through the line of skirmishers, who rejoined the ranks. At a shouted command from the division commander the front two ranks brought their rifles down from shoulder arms to charge bayonets, the blades flashing in the sunlight, the forward line of the column now bristling with a hedgerow of steel. Looking over to where the Seventh Corps was advancing toward the gully, he saw the same display and felt a ripple of pride at the precision of their movements, as if they were advancing on parade.

A dark wall suddenly rose up from out of the gully along a front of nearly a quarter mile, an instant later the sound of thousands of bows being discharged rolled over the square, and the advance slowed, men instinctively looking up. From the corner of his eye Hans saw the shadow of the steel-tipped rain racing across the prairie, blocking out the sun. The arrows seemed to hover overhead, then came whistling down, smashing into the square. Scores of men fell, screaming and cursing.

He was tempted to order the forward line into a charge, but from farther up along the gully to his right and in the ground between his formation and Seventh Corps, a line of mounted warriors surged out of the gully, looking like wraiths rising up out of the earth, screaming their death chants. If he charged forward, the square would be broken open by the thousands of mounted warriors swarming in on either flank, but if he continued to move at the same pace, the arrow volleys would tear his square apart.

"Bugler! Sound double time!" Hans roared.

The bugler next to him raised the call, which was picked up and echoed by the other buglers in the square, officers responded, shouting for the square to pick up its pace. Hans looked anxiously about, oblivious to the second volley of arrows thundering down around him. Sections of the line bulged, spread out, gaps opening up between regiments. The mounted warriors on his right flank continued to pour out of the gully, urging their horses into a charge.

Masterful, he realized, force us to stop in the open, then get swept by the concealed fire in the gully.

"Keep moving!" Hans roared. Spurring his mount forward he pushed through the line, raising his carbine high, Ketswana beside him screaming with maniacal glee.

Hans galloped down the front of the line, pointing toward the gully, shouting, urging the slow-moving charge forward.

The gully was less than a hundred yards away, sections of his line, unable to take the strain of the double-time advance, broke into an all-out charge. Hans turned his mount about, trying to recall them, but could see it was too late, as the entire line burst forward. At nearly the same instant the Bantag charge on his right swept in, most of them going down from well-timed volleys delivered at thirty yards or less, but part of the enemy attack lapped in around the gap created by the forward part of the square breaking forward.

"Bugler. Signal the reserve units!"

Hans turned and saw the riderless horse following him. Ketswana was still beside him, though, shouting something, but Hans could not hear him. He spurred his mount back toward the center of the square, dodging around a Bantag warrior who came straight at him, blade hissing over Hans's head. Ketswana leapt onto the back of the Bantag's horse and cut the warrior's throat, sending him tumbling from the saddle.

One of the reserve companies was already rushing forward to seal the gap and try to cover the right flank of the advancing charge. Shouting, Hans fell in by their side as they rushed forward at the double. Directly ahead a thunderous volley erupted, as the charge swept up to the edge of the gully, delivering fire down into the ma.s.s of Bantag at nearly point-blank range. The Bantag, however, did not give, firing their bows back, arrows striking with such force that they were driven clean through a man's body.

A cannon detonated to his right, and, surprised, Hans saw where a battery, acting without orders, had ventured out from the back end of the square, deployed, and was firing canister into the flank of the mounted charge, sweeping down dozens of warriors. Working feverishly the gun crews tore open the breeches, slammed in tins of canister, powder bags, closed the breeches, and fired again, shattering a line of Bantag who tried to turn to meet them.

The break in the line seemed to waver as if ready to peel back in on itself as thousands of Bantag surged around the flank, but the disciplined wall held, front two ranks presenting bayonets, while the rear two ranks fired into the milling swarm at nearly point-blank range.

The front line still held to the edge of the gully, pouring a devastating fire straight down into the thousands of archers. Bantag warriors tried to surge forward and up, but were beaten back down. One desperate Bantag lunge made it up to the lip of the gully, cracking the line open for a moment. Wounded, screaming soldiers were dragged down into the gully, where they were torn apart. A reserve regiment dashed forward, sealing the hole, while a battery swung about, dismounted their guns, then pushed them forward right up to the firing line. Hans trotted up behind the guns, cheering the crews on as elevation screws were cranked up, depressing the barrels down. Breeches were popped open and double loads of canister slammed in. Nearly half the crews were dead or wounded within seconds, and then the four guns recoiled, spraying nearly a thousand iron b.a.l.l.s into the dense-packed ranks of the Bantag below. To Hans it seemed as if a giant's hand had smashed through the Horde, picking warriors up, tearing their bodies to shreds, and flinging them to the far side of the narrow ravine. There was a moment of stunned silence in the gully, the gunners, helped now by infantrymen who had cast aside their rifles, rolled the guns up again while breeches were popped open and fresh charges slammed in, gunnery sergeants screaming for the men to forget about swabbing the barrels before reloading.

As a powder charge was slammed into the second gun in line, a hot spark in the barrel ignited the round, a blast of fire blowing out the back of the gun, tearing the arm off the loader. The other three guns fired again, and the surviving Bantag in front of the battery broke and started to scramble up the opposite slope of the ravine.

Wild, hysterical cheering erupted along the line as the enraged men of Second Corps grimly set to work, slaughtering the Bantag on the opposite side of the ravine less than a dozen yards away. The three guns were rolled up yet again, turned now to fire down the length of the ravine in either direction. The opposite slope became nearly impa.s.sable as desperate warriors tried to claw their way out over the bodies of the dead and dying who were tumbling back on top of them. Hans heard another salvo of artillery and saw where a second battery had deployed on the left flank just outside the square and was sweeping the gully in the open stretch toward where Seventh Corps was engaged in the same desperate struggle. In the hole created by the battery in front of Hans his own infantry now started to slide down into the ravine, slashing at the wounded with bayonets, then turning to pour in a flanking fire while the artillery above them continued to tear into the now panic-stricken mob.

Hans wanted to shout for the battery commander to cease fire out of fear of hitting their comrades in the ravine when he saw some gunners loop a heavy rope around the trail of one of the guns. As men from one of the infantry units grabbed hold of the rope, the gun crew pushed their piece up over the lip of the gully. The gun skidded down into the ravine, dragging the infantry with it as it slid down the blood-soaked slope, crushing the bodies of the Ban-tag underneath its iron-shod wheels.

The crew leapt down, picked up the trail, and swung the gun about, screaming for the infantry who were widening the breach to fall back.

At point-blank range the load of double canister poured straight into the flank of the Bantag still trapped in the now-open grave. This final blow triggered a panic, warriors down the entire length of the line breaking, clawing up the slope to get out of the way, hundreds of them falling back as volley fire was delivered at point-blank range. Hans drew back from the line and looked over to where Seventh Corps was fighting, his chest tightening when he saw that part of the square was breaking in, a dark stream of mounted warriors pouring into the breach.

Another one of his batteries was outside the protection of the square, deployed and firing case shot to try to break up the attack on their comrades in Seventh Corps. More artillery fire opened, and he saw where several batteries from Eighth Corps, which had been marching half a mile to the rear, had galloped forward and unlimbered in order to sweep the ground between the Second and Seventh.

The forward part of Seventh Corps line was recoiling from the edge of the ravine, and dark shadows of arrow volleys soared up to come arcing down into the middle of the square.

Hans looked forward again. The Bantag they had been facing were still fleeing in panic, rifle fire continuing to sweep them as they ran across the open prairie. Standing in his stirrups he could see where the cavalry charge to his right had broken and was falling back as well.

He edged over to the battery commander.

"Good work!" he roared. "Now turn your guns about, hammer the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in front of Seventh Corps!"

Turning about, he caught the eye of a colonel in command of one of the reserve regiments. The officer ran up and saluted.

"Get your men deployed on either side of this ravine, then drive toward Seventh Corps. You've got to flank the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out there."

The colonel, grinning, held his sword aloft, shouting for his regiment to follow. As the colors swept past Hans saw they were the old Fifth Suzdal, the regiment Hawthorne had once commanded.

"Bugler, I need a bugler!"

A boy, face blackened with powder smoke, ran up to Hans's side.

"Sound halt!"

The command was picked up and echoed across the square. Hans stood tall in his stirrups, hoping that his division and brigade commanders could see him. He pointed his carbine toward Seventh Corps.

"At the double time!" he roared.

The square, which had been advancing southwest, turned, and started toward their beleaguered comrades to the east. Hans wanted to order a charge, but knew the formation would never hold. Though they had soundly thrashed the umen deployed in front of them, there were still enough mounted warriors to the west who could prove to be a problem.

At least five minutes, Hans thought, before we can relieve Seventh Corps, and he chafed at the slowness of the advance, watching as the men of the Fifth Suzdal sprinted forward, pausing to fire a volley into the gully, driving the Bantag who were still concealed farther back, then moving forward again. The batteries from Eighth Corps, masked by his own advance, limbered up and pushed obliquely into the closing s.p.a.ce between the two formations, while the main body of Eighth Corps relentlessly moved toward the other flank of the collapsing square.

Sickened, Hans watched as the entire forward edge of Seventh Corps was swarmed under by the Bantag charging up out of the ravine, the exposed lines to either side curling back toward the center in a desperate bid to reestablish a line.

An explosion ripped across the face of the square, throwing the Bantag charge back into the ravine.

"That's the stuff!" Hans roared. "Use the artillery on them, d.a.m.n it!"

Whatley apparently had deployed his five batteries in the center of the square. The Bantag charge seemed to disappear as salvo after salvo slammed into their advance, grinding it to a halt.

Fifth Suzdal was less than a hundred yards away from the engagement, with Bantag pouring up out of the ravine that was becoming a death trap for them as well. To Hans's amazement, a lone gun, drivers lashing the straining horses, clattered by on the opposite side of the ravine, the piece that had been manhandled down into the gully only minutes before. The gun crew swung out alongside Fifth Suzdal, unlimbered, and began to spray canister into the Bantag who were pulling back, triggering them into flight as well.

His own square was now less than two hundred yards away, hemming in the Bantag cavalry who had been cutting into Seventh Corps' western flank, so that the mounted warriors were now caught between two walls of fire, while the guns from Eighth Corps sealed off the box.

Within seconds the enemy attack disintegrated. Some of the warriors tried to charge the guns, but were mowed down by a well-timed salvo delivered at less than fifty yards. Others turned to try and ride back down into the ravine and scramble up the other side, but the clutter of bodies was so thick that the horses balked and their riders were slaughtered.

Wild cheering erupted from Second Corps as it pressed its attack in. As the wave of Bantag withdrew the line of fieldpieces of Seventh Corps swept the retreat, finally switching from canister to case shot. Some of the gunners raised their sights, plowing shot into the packed horses, which were being held for the surviving warriors who had fought dismounted. For one warrior to hold a string of six to eight frightened horses was nearly impossible and after half a dozen volleys the herd was running in panic, scattering in every direction.

Hans watched the panic and was tempted to call upon the three regiments of mounted infantry. If they swept forward, they could slaughter thousands of the scattered, leaderless Bantag fleeing on foot, but a quick look to either flank showed where formations still mounted were rallying. If he sent his mounted units in now, they might get caught up in the frenzy, go too far, and be cut off. And besides, the horses would be needed for something else.

As the thunderous roar died away Hans slumped back in his saddle. Riding up to the edge of the ditch he felt a surge of pity for the hundreds of horses trapped in the carnage, many of them still alive, thrashing in agony, or crying piteously. Individual rifle shots rippled along the line as the surviving Ban-tag and their crippled mounts were dispatched.

Breaking clear of his square, Hans trotted over to Seventh Corps, relieved to see Ketswana emerging from the thinned ranks of Fifth Suzdal and followed by his ever-diminishing band of Zulu warriors.

"Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine killing Bantag like this!" Ketswana roared.

The ground in front of Seventh Corps, up to the edge of the gully, was carpeted with blue-clad bodies, dead and dying Bantag heaped on top of them, casualties of the final counterattack.

Hans edged his mount to the edge of the square and, unable to ride farther because of the carnage, dismounted.

"Whatley, where is he?" Hans asked, spotting a stunned colonel who was bent double, gasping for breath.

The colonel looked up at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head.

Hans moved into the square, stepping aside as Ketswana raised his revolver and shot a Bantag who was feebly trying to raise his blade to cut at Hans.

Spotting a corps guidon he moved toward it, cursing himself for the act of dispatching his own guidon north with Bates, hoping that it might fool some Ban-tag scouts into believing he was with the northern feint. It made it d.a.m.n difficult now to be spotted.

Lying on the ground beside the guidon was Jack Whatley, pipe clenched between his teeth, clutching what was left of his right leg, which was shattered just below the knee.

"How is it, Jack?"

"Hurts like h.e.l.l, worse than the one I took at Gettysburg."

"Just rest easy, Jack."

"Hans, shouldn't we stop here for the day? The boys just had one h.e.l.l of a fight. Worst than Spotsylvania, almost as bad as Hispania. They need a break."

Hans shook his head.

"It's just past noon, Jack. Six hours of daylight left. We can make another ten miles. Maybe get ahead of what's coming up behind us."

"We're going to lose a lot of boys doing this, sir. A day here and we might be able to patch some of them up enough to move."

Hans said nothing, knowing that Jack was not talking about himself.

Silently he looked around at the shambles of the corps.

Three, maybe four thousand dead and wounded in the few furious moments of the battle, maybe another five hundred to a thousand in my own square.

Rifle fire still rippled from the flanks and forward, where skirmishers were again deploying. Though they had shattered maybe two umens in the fight, there were thousands of warriors left, some of them still running, but many were forming up again just beyond artillery range.

Going over to a limber wagon, he climbed up and raised his field gla.s.ses, sweeping the horizon, focusing in on the northeast. It was hard to tell, it was almost as if he sensed rather than actually saw a dark line on the horizon. Twenty, maybe twenty-five miles? How many?

Hans climbed down.

Hans sighed and knelt by Jack, putting his hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Jack," he whispered. "They need a field hospital and Dr. Weiss, and we don't have either. There's more of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds closing in from the northeast. We have to keep moving."

"Good G.o.d, Hans, you're talking about leaving a thousand or more men behind."

Hans sighed. "If a man can hang on to a horse, we'll dismount half our mounted units, but he has to be able to ride."