Never Sound Retreat Part 27

The smoke, which hung so thick that Pat, who was standing only a dozen feet away, was nearly invisible, drifted and curled. From out of the gloom a lone narga horn sounded, followed an instant later by dozens more.

The sound of it chilled Andrew's blood. It was the signal for the attack, the same in all the Hordes, an insistent braying, which started at the lowest note possible, then shifted quickly to a shrill, bloodcurdling wail.

A roaring erupted from the Bantag hidden in the smoke, a deep rhythmic chanting and then, piercing through the wild insane noise, there was the shriek of the steam whistles, followed by a low deep rumbling as the black land ironclads began their final attack up to the tree line.

"Bugler, sound the artillery signal to load!" Pat shouted.

The cry was picked up by the other batteries. Turning, Andrew shouted for the regiment concealed in the boulders above them to come down and deploy behind the barricade where the two shattered field-pieces lay.

A loader ran past Andrew, carrying the precious bolts sent by Ferguson, and Pat personally took the round, gently sliding it into the breech, then stood behind the gun, waiting.

Rifle fire again erupted from the front, bullets slashing the air. Standing behind the number one gun, Andrew waited expectantly.

"Target to the right!" Pat shouted. "Number three gun, take the first in line. We got the second!"

Andrew could barely make out a dark form where Pat was pointing, and then it seemed to emerge in an instant out of the gloom, black iron dark and menacing, the human skulls arrayed across the top of the machine standing out stark white, obscene. Ebony smoke billowed from its stack, steam jetting from its sides.

Pat, screaming for his crew to work faster, stood behind his piece, sighting down the barrel as the crew shifted the prolonge, two men on each wheel helping to pivot the gun.

The machine they were aiming at shifted in its path, turning slightly to come straight on, and its forward gun port popped open.

"Down!" Andrew screamed. Even before he could duck the ironclad fired, canister slicing through the gun position, sparks exploding where the iron shot slashed against the barrel and iron-rimmed wheels of the gun, cutting down half the crew. The wind of the canister swirled around him, he felt a plucking, a pull which jerked him around.

"Lucky you had it cut off," Pat shouted, looking back anxiously at Andrew.

Andrew felt for his left side and then saw where his empty sleeve, which he usually wore pinned up just under the stump of his arm, had been torn open. The stump, nicked by the canister ball, was bleeding, the pain of the blow causing him to gasp.

Pat turned back to his piece, continuing to sight down the barrel, shouting for several infantrymen to get up and replace the casualties.

He suddenly held both hands high.

"Stand clear!"

Taking the lanyard up, he stepped back from the piece, turned halfway around, then jerked the rope taut and pulled.

A jet of flame snapped up from the touchhole, an instant later the ten-pound breechloader leapt back half a dozen feet.

In spite of the incessant roar of battle Andrew felt as if he could actually hear the bolt shrieking down-range, a slightly different sound, which, being unique, made it noticeable. A split second later a burst of steam erupted from the land cruiser's smokestack followed by a fierce detonation, the machine bursting asunder, a blowtorchlike jet of flame searing out of the still-open gun port.

Awestruck, Andrew looked down the line of advancing cruisers. Showers of sparks soared up from nearly half the machines, the high, piercing whine of some of the bolts ricocheting off the ironclads echoing over the thunder. For a few seconds Andrew wondered if Pat had just scored a lucky hit through the open gun port and that Ferguson's weapon was a failure. Then a second land cruiser exploded, followed a few seconds later by two more. Several of the machines had lurched to a stop, steam pouring out of their stacks and he saw a hatch open on one of them, a shrieking Bantag flinging himself out the open door.

Wild cheering erupted along the line, counter-pointed by howls of dismay and confusion from the Bantag. But the majority of the machines continued to lurch forward. Pat shouted for another round.

Stunned, Ha'ark saw the first machine go up, explosions ripping down the line.

"Press in now!" he shrieked. "Press it in!'

Over the smoke Andrew saw the signal rockets soaring heavenward even as Pat fired the second bolt, destroying a cruiser at less than fifty yards range.

"Like shooting elephants!" Pat roared with delight as he called for a third round to be brought up.

"Here they come!"

The cry erupted from the infantry deployed around them and, looking up, Andrew saw the wall of Bantag warriors surging forward at the run, their long-legged strides consuming nearly a dozen yards a second.

The charge surged up over the low barricade in front of the battery. A Bantag, rifle held high, leapt atop the gun, only to collapse as Pat, jumping backwards, fired a revolver into his face.

The sound of the Bantag charge slamming into the line echoed across the hill. Rifles were fired at point-blank range, counterpointed by the dull, sickening thwack of clubbed muskets crushing in skulls, m.u.f.fled reports of pistols cracking when pressed straight into the body of a hated foe.

Men went down, kicking, struggling on the ground, the fight around the battery degenerating into a mad brawl, giant-like Bantags laughing with wild hysteria, swinging their rifles like clubs, diminutive humans darting out of the way, stabbing bayonets into the legs, stomachs, groins of their opponents.

The impact of the charge hurled the line back from the guns. Andrew, pushed back by the crush, heard a hoa.r.s.e cry, someone shouting his name, and saw a Bantag towering above him, looking down with triumphant glee. Raising his pistol, he fired, but the warrior kept on coming, rifle raised high, already arcing down. Clumsily, Andrew rolled to one side, striking the rocky ground face first, his gla.s.ses shattering. The blow struck the ground next to him, the metal of the gun's b.u.t.t plate kicking up sparks.

Rolling over, he aimed straight up at his now hazy tormentor and fired, emptying off all five shots before the giant collapsed backwards. Staggering to his feet, he felt someone grab him by the shoulder, pulling him back out of the melee. It was his guidon bearer, the pennant gone.

Gasping for breath, Andrew allowed himself to be dragged out of the fight and into the protection of the boulders, where riflemen stood, firing down into the bitter hand-to-hand struggle.

"Your gla.s.ses, sir?"

Andrew nodded, fumbling to his breast pocket where he kept a spare pair, and the boy helped him pull them out and put them on.

Squinting, Andrew looked around, ducking low as a Bantag burst out of the swirling confusion, rushing straight at them. His guidon bearer calmly drew his revolver and put three shots into the warrior so that he crumpled up and collapsed at Andrew's feet.

A shrieking whistle sounded to Andrew's right, and he saw an ironclad lurching through the press, moving up to the edge of the trees, its cannon firing a burst of canister at point-blank range, sweeping a dozen men off the boulders above Andrew.

"The guns! We've got to take the guns back!" Andrew roared.

Tossing aside his revolver, he drew his sword and held it aloft.

"Who's with me?"

He started down the slope into the rear of the battery area, the men swarming around him.

"Keane to the rear!"

The cry erupted around him and Andrew was startled as soldiers swarmed about him, elbowing him out of the way of the charge, men stepping in front of him, turning about, pushing him back toward the boulder.

"I'll stop if you retake those guns!" Andrew cried.

Physically restrained by half a dozen soldiers, Andrew could only watch as the charge surged back around the guns. He caught a glimpse of Pat, standing by one of his precious pieces, holding a sponge staff, using it like a quarterstaff, roaring with delight as he crushed a Bantag's skull.

He's having a good time, Andrew realized. He's enjoying this madness.

The countercharge swept through the guns, pushing the last of the Bantag over the barricade, and in an instant Pat was back at the gun, screaming for the infantry to help him swing the piece around. In spite of the rifle fire still sweeping it, the crew stayed in position, pointing the gun straight at the land cruiser less than twenty yards away, which was slowly pivoting, while a charge of Bantag swept past the machine and pressed into the woods.

Pat screamed for the men to stand clear and jerked the lanyard. The bolt struck the side of the land cruiser, drilling a hole straight through and into the boiler, which exploded.

The Bantag, who had only been pushed back a few dozen yards, continued to pour fire in, dropping half the men who had helped swing the gun about.

"Nothing more to do here!" Pat shouted, and, pointing to the boulders, he led the way up the slope, pushing Andrew ahead of him.

"h.e.l.l of a fight, Andrew, d.a.m.n h.e.l.l of a fight!" Pat roared.

Andrew scrambled with him up into the boulder field. Looking to his right he saw where the enemy charge had pushed back his entire line, firing erupting in the woods farther up the slope. Where the battery stood, the Bantag infantry had regained the outer side of the barricade and were now trading fire with the survivors in the boulder field.

"At least we stopped their cruisers!" Pat shouted with glee. "Must have killed fifteen, maybe twenty of 'em."

"But they're in the woods now," Andrew shouted, leaning against a rocky outcropping, gasping for breath. "If help doesn't break through, we're finished. Ammunition's almost gone."

"Then it'll be the bayonet," Pat said with a grin, his voice edged with the mad hysteria of someone who was intoxicated with fighting.

"Here they come again!" Through the smoke Andrew saw the charge swarming in once more.

"This is it!" Marcus shouted, reining his horse in by Timokin's ironclad.

Grinning, the young major saluted. "We'll see you at the top of the hill."

"Don't outrun your infantry support," Marcus cried. "Let the infantry clear the guns. Save our surprise for the hill beyond."

"Yes, sir!"

Marcus returned the salute and reined his horse about, galloping off to supervise the positioning of the batteries deploying along the hill.

Timokin leapt back into his machine, closed the hatch, and slammed the latch shut, locking it in place. Squeezing his way around the fireman, he looked at the pressure gauge, which was hovering near the red line as his ironclad, having labored over the top of the crest now began to roll down into the narrow valley. Watching the gauge, he saw it start to edge back down. The fireman, fire poker in hand, nodded and grinned.

"How's she holding up, Andrei?"

"Running like a clock she is, and still a quarter ton of coal left." He motioned to the bunker alongside the boiler. It was a suggestion Timokin had offered, and Ferguson had readily agreed to, mounting the coal bunkers from floor to ceiling on either side of the boiler, thus acting as additional armor. It also made it easier for the fireman to fuel the machine in the tight quarters. All he had to do was pull open a chute door and the coal spilled into the firebox. Closing the chute, he could then rake the coal out over the fire.

Tapping the gauge, Andrei opened a valve, letting more water into the boiler, the temperature dropping momentarily as half a dozen more gallons flooded in through the pipes. Seconds later the pressure gauge again began to climb as the water flashed to steam.

Timokin slapped him on the shoulder and edged forward to where the gun crew waited, their ten-pounder withdrawn from the port, which was slammed shut. Stepping up behind the engineer, he crouched to peer out the driver's open hatch.

"Little more to the right, Nikolai. Let's aim for that battery."

"Right it is, sir."

The engineer, grabbing hold of the wheel with both hands, slowly turned the wheel. Lining up on their target, Nikolai turned the wheel back.

"Streambed ahead!" Nikolai shouted. "Hang on."

The machine lurched into the narrow creek, Timokin grabbing hold of a hand strap bolted to the inside bulkhead, glad that he was wearing an iron helmet as he slammed against the side of his ironclad. Looking back, he saw his fireman cursing, rubbing his left arm where he had most likely banged it against the red-hot boiler.

The ironclad dug into the far bank, crept up the embankment, and surged forward. Popping open a side viewing port, Timokin saw that the rest of his line, save for one machine which appeared to be hung up on the creek bank, was pressing forward, infantry moving behind the ironclads, using their metal bulk as protection from the battery fire on the ridge.

"We'll give them canister at three hundred yards," Timokin announced, and his gun crew leapt to work. A high-pitched ping banged against the front of the ironclad, followed in seconds by dozens more, sounding to Timokin like hail striking against gla.s.s.

"Masks down!" he shouted, reaching up and pulling down his chain-mail mask, which he had pushed up over his helmet. A thunderclap boom echoed through the ironclad, staggering Timokin backwards. The head of a bolt ricocheted back and forth inside the ironclad, striking a glancing blow off Timokin's helmet.

Another boom slammed through the ironclad, tiny pieces of metal spraying off the right side, sweeping the inside of the machine, one of the gunners screaming a curse as he grasped his arm. For a second Timokin thought they'd been breached, until he looked over and saw the bulging dent just aft of the gun position, the metal shining brightly.

The pinging continued as bullets slammed against the ironclad from front, left, and right. A round singing through the open view port forward whistled past the engineer's head.

The engineer reached up, slamming the large view port shut, so that a narrow slit two inches wide and a foot across was now the only outside view offered.

Timokin stepped back, waiting, looking aft to where the fireman hovered over his gauges, feeding in more steam as they crept up the slope.

"Two hundred and fifty yards!" Nikolai shouted.

"Open port, stop engine, run her out!"

The ironclad hissed to a stop as the forward gun port swung open and Timokin, squatting, bent over to sight along the barrel.

"Bit to the right, more, more." The two men on his left labored at the pulleys hooked to the naval gun carriage, the gun slowly swinging.

"Hold, stand clear!"

Timokin stepped back as the gun sergeant yanked the lanyard attached to an oversize gun trigger. The trigger snapped back, the hammer slamming down, driving a firing pin into the rear of the ten-pound bra.s.s cartridge.

With a roar the gun recoiled, the noise inside the ironclad deafening in spite of the wads of cotton stuffed into every man's ears.

Smoke filled the chamber, the men coughing and gasping as the four gun layers, set two each on the pulleys attached to each side of the carriage, ran the weapon forward as the sergeant yanked the breech open and pulled the sh.e.l.l casing out. He stepped back as a corporal slammed another round in. The sergeant stepped back, sighting down the barrel, and Timokin caught a glimpse of their target. Half the Bantag around the gun were down.

"Stand clear!"

The gun kicked back again, and then yet again, as a third round tore across the ridge.

Stepping back from the gun, Timokin climbed up the narrow ladder into the top turret. Resting on one elbow he reached overhead, pulled the latch for the opening to the topside, and pushed the lid open, a rush of steaming hot sulfurous air swirling up around him. Sticking his head out, he looked straight up the slope. The battery directly ahead was out of action, nearly every gunner down, horses piled up around a caisson.

Looking to his left he saw where several of his machines were already charging forward, infantry swarming up the slope, men dropping from mortar fire, and rifle fire crackling along the ridge.

Bullets zinged past. Ignoring them, he watched as his fourth round, aimed at the next battery to his left, tore in. Horses fell, screaming.

Stepping back down he braced himself on his elbows. Sticking his foot out he felt it brush against Nikolai's helmet. He kicked him three times between the shoulder blades, the signal to go forward. He heard the order shouted back to Andrei and, with a jarring lurch,Saint Maladyrumbled into the attack.

Sticking his head out, he watched as his charging line crawled up the slope. Cheering erupted behind him and, looking back, he saw the column behind him deploying into open order line, the men breaking into a run, sweeping up the hill.

He was tempted to uncover his weapon but waited, watching as the charge rushed ahead, the men leaping through the high gra.s.s. A mounted battery galloped across the stream behind him, drivers lashing their horses as they struggled up out of the creek bed.

An explosion erupted on his right, and he looked over to see one of his ironclads, theIron Fist,exploding. Stunned, he saw where a Bantag battery, partially concealed by its position on the reverse slope, had fired into the side of the ironclad at nearly point-blank range, tearing it open.

Stepping down, he put his foot on Nikolai's right shoulder and tapped him three times, the signal to turn. Even as his machine started to lurch into position, the Bantag gun fired again. His machine lurched back as the shot struck the front shield. A scream erupted from below and he held his breath, but they continued to push forward.

Even before he could line up on the gun, an infantry charge, following the regimental colors, swept up over the gun, bayonets flashing in the sun as they tore into the gun crew. Seconds later he saw an infantryman triumphally waving a sponge staff overhead, and, stepping down, he reached to tap Nikolai on the left shoulder. Something felt different, and, letting go of his hold up in the top turret, he slid down, his feet landing on a body.

Nikolai sprawled back in the cabin, at least what was left of him. The deflection shot, slashing across the face of his machine, had cut through the view port, fragments from the round nearly decapitating Nikolai. Blood was splattered across the inside; the gunnery corporal was still frantically trying to wipe it off his chest and arms. The gunnery sergeant was now in the driver's seat.

"Reload case shot, percussion fuse!" Timokin roared at the corporal, pointing at the open gun breech.