Never Sound Retreat Part 8

"Sir, only one regiment, the Third Roum HeavyArtillery. Garrison troops, older men, disabled veterans."

One day's, warning, Andrew thought bitterly, one day and we could have a division, two divisions waiting for him, tear him apart right on the beach if he tried to land.

"Vincent, how many trains are in the yard right now?"

"Fifteen, I think, sir. There's another twenty up on the Shenandoah, and ten, maybe twelve down on the southern front."

"I want the line cleared of all traffic coming east from Roum past Junction City. Get that signal out right now. You're to take two divisions of Fifth Corps, run them up to Fort Hanc.o.c.k now. Get them there. If you get there ahead of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, start digging in, meet them on the beaches. I'll alert Marcus back in Roum to release Tenth Corps and move it up to support. I'll hold one division here in case they go for a landing here or to the east. We can make up another brigade from the men in the supply units."

"What about Hans and Pat?"

What to do there? They had to be alerted, but should he order a pullout right now? Twenty train-loads to move a corps, and that meant abandoning a fair part of their supplies. Pull back the four corps under Pat, the three under Hans. Once that started rolling, it would be impossible to stop. And there was the chance, still the chance, that the lookout was wrong, that all Ha'ark had on the sea was eight or so ironclads and some lighter support ships. But he never would have made the effort to build them unless he wanted to use the sea for offensive operations.

Everything now was tied to a single ribbon of track. Ten corps, over two hundred thousand men, thousands of tons of supplies, all of it to be moved on two strips of iron. It was always the inherent weakness in this new type of war, everything in the end was tied to a twin ribbon of iron that could so easily be cut.

What do to? First priority was to move to try and hold Fort Hanc.o.c.k. There was only a single regiment of garrison troops there, a battery of thirty-pound rifles, muzzle loaders from the last war. Useless against what Ha'ark might have. Get Vincent moving, then see where the blow hits and figure the next step from there.

"I want the first train moving within the hour, Vincent. I'm counting on you. Now get moving!"

There was the slightest flicker of a smile. The boy had what he wanted again, a field command. Saluting, he turned and ran, calling for his orderlies, who had been waiting at a respectful distance to follow him.

"Can Petersburg Petersburg fight?" Andrew asked, shifting his attention back to Bullfinch, who had stood silent, head lowered. fight?" Andrew asked, shifting his attention back to Bullfinch, who had stood silent, head lowered.

"I lost half my crew, sir. We not only have to repair the damage, we have to add more armor, another three inches at least. The added weight, sir . .." His voice trailed off, and he sadly shook his head.

"No, sir. She's finished."

"Then strip the guns out. We're going to need them here. If we have time, pull the armor off as well and be prepared to scuttle her."

Startled, Bullfinch could not reply.

"I'm sending you back to Roum, Mr. Bullfinch."

"Roum, sir? The fighting's here," he hesitated. "Are you relieving me of command, sir?"

Andrew tried to laugh, but the chuckle sounded false, hollow. "Lincoln once said that if he fired every general who lost a battle he wouldn't have anyone left.

"I'm not sure of this yet, Bullfinch, but you might be needed more there in a couple of days. I want you to get on the first train heading out to Junction City. Take your staff with you. If that's where Ha'ark hits, then get yourself back to Roum."

"Sir, if you're relieving me of command, just tell me, sir, straight out."

Andrew stood up and smiled.

"It's not victory that defines us, son, it's how we handle defeat. You've only started to fight in this war. Now get on that train, I'll forward your orders out later."

"Sir . . ." he tried to look Andrew in the eyes, but couldn't, lowering his head.

"You did the best you could. Now let's get ready for what comes next. Take your staff and get out of here."

Bullfinch finally looked up.

"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

Saluting, he departed, following Hawthorne. Once again Andrew sat down on the piling, his gaze wandering to the ship.

"We're in it this time, aren't we."

Emil approached him, ready if need be to withdraw if Andrew indicated.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Andrew stirred.

"Emil, it might be worse than the Potomac."

Emil sighed and sat down on a piling across from Andrew.

"Those poor boys in that boat. Never could understand why anyone would be crazy enough to join the navy. Samual Johnson was right."

"What was that?" Andrew replied absently.

"Samuel Johnson. Said a ship was like a prison, with the added factor that you could drown. The wounds some of those boys had. Ghastly." He shook his head sadly. "d.a.m.n all wars."

Andrew said nothing, still staring at the ship as if it represented the shattering of all that he had planned and hoped for.

"Andrew, we've got twelve hundred wounded up in the hospital, just arrived from the eastern front. Should I get them out?"

Another factor he suddenly realized. If they were about to be cut off, what of the wounded, a train that could haul two hundred stretcher cases could move two regiments instead. But if they were cut off?

"One train, the serious cases. We need to get Fifth Corps in position first. I'll release two more trains to you if they hit us where I think they will, so you can get the rest out."

"I better get back to the hospital."

"Fine, Emil. I'll keep you posted."

"Andrew?"

He looked up into his old friend's eyes as Emil stood up and came to his side.

"You haven't lost yet," Emil said quietly, and then, with hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, he walked away.

Haven't lost yet.

All he felt now was numbness. A wondering if he had gone to the well one too many times. Ten d.a.m.n years of this, dear G.o.d, he thought, ten d.a.m.n years, and it never seems to end.

Again there was the dream, the memory of Maine,to escape back to another time, another place of peace, tranquillity. Once it had just been a company, then a regiment. From there to a corps, an army, now armies, and always the same, a right decision brought victory, but even then, at such moments there was the fresh-turned earth, the sightless eyes gazing at the heavens, the harvest of death.

Johnnie. How old would Johnnie be now, the baby brother dead at Gettysburg. Same age as Hawthorne and Bullfinch? No, my G.o.d, a year older than them. Hard to imagine that, the dead innocent boy might have lived to become the cold proficient killer like Hawthorne, or the shaken, frightened admiral who could never believe in the prospect of defeat and now confronted it in all its horror.

More stretchers were coming off Petersburg, Petersburg, but these did not require a rush to an ambulance, but rather the slow walk to the graveyard on the edge of town, where hundreds of dead from this new campaign were already being laid to rest. The army was so organized in its grim business that the graves were already dug. but these did not require a rush to an ambulance, but rather the slow walk to the graveyard on the edge of town, where hundreds of dead from this new campaign were already being laid to rest. The army was so organized in its grim business that the graves were already dug.

How many have died under my command, he wondered . . . The price of victory? A hundred thousand? No, more likely two hundred thousand by now. Every day yet more dead, and now the lives of two hundred thousand more hung in the balance.

Strange, he could remember the stories about Grant and Sherman . . . how when Sherman came to understand the full enormity of what would be required to win that his nerves broke and he went home, hiding for months in his house, unwilling to return to face the task until finally ordered back. And Grant, the d.a.m.n butcher who could send men into the slaughter of Cold Harbor, but supposedly became ill at the sight of blood, and could not even eat a piece of meat unless it was cooked clean through.

He could sense his men looking at him, solitary, sitting alone on the end of the pier, lost in thought, staring at the ship. What show do I have to put on for them now? Confidence, always the game; let them see you fearless, confident. There was a time, he knew, when he could play it so well. At Fredericksburg, during the charge on Mayre's Heights, turning his back to the enemy fire, walking backwards, shouting encouragement, yet terrified of the bullet he was convinced would strike between the shoulder blades. Or pacing the line at Gettysburg after Colonel Estes went down and he took command. Even at Hispania, when all seemed lost, waiting in the line with his men for the final charge. This was different now. The fighting hundreds of miles away, no heat of the moment, no frightful grim joy of battle to sweep one up and thus transport a commander to fight beyond his own fears.

But this situation was different. To be truly alone, to confront one's own fears in silence. To calculate and recalculate, always knowing that in those grim calculations a mistake meant two hundred thousand dead, a war lost, the dream destroyed, and in the most intimate sense, Kathleen and the children dead as well.

He felt as if his knees had gone to jelly as a surge of fear tore into his heart Kathleen, the children. Yet again the enormity of it all reduced to the simplest terms, the survival of those whom he loved the most.

He finally looked away from the ship and saw them, the staff, the youngsters who but a short time before were peasants in the fields, craftsmen in shops, some of them even the sons of Boyars and patricians, now wearing Union blue, waiting for him to decide.

Wearily he stood up and he could sense their antic.i.p.ation, ready to spring forward to fulfill his orders, hoping, praying for that moment of distinction, of glory that would make their names, their memories shine.

Glory . . . such a strange concept. How I dreamed of it myself, how I still believe in it. Yet it masks the grim reality, that in the end we are doing a butcher's job. Both sides, a butcher's job, and we mask it with banners, uniforms, honor, and glory. For to believe otherwise leads in the end to madness, and in this war, the baring of one's own neck to the butcher of the other side.

He approached them, slowing to step around the bodies that were being unloaded from Petersburg. Petersburg. Without a word he motioned for his staff to follow and slowly walked back up the hill to wait for what would come next. Without a word he motioned for his staff to follow and slowly walked back up the hill to wait for what would come next.

Leaning back in the saddle, Hans silently cursed all horses. It was one thing to go galloping after the Commanche when one was thirty-five, but chasing the d.a.m.n Horde when one was pushing into the mid-fifties was something else. And the d.a.m.nable horses were simply too big, size of Clydesdales back home, he thought, as he drew his left up out of the stirrup and rubbed the old wound, which was aching. Uncorking his canteen, he took a swig of water, swished it around, and spit it out, clearing the dust, then soaked his bandanna and wiped the grime from his face and the back of his neck. A troop of cavalry trotted past, pushing on to the next pa.s.s, where a flurry of rifle fire marked the forward line as a dismounted regiment worked its way up to the crest. A battery of ten-pounders to his left opened up, firing high to drop sh.e.l.ls over the ridge onto the road beyond. Raising his field gla.s.ses, he watched the forward signal unit, which, with a flutter of flags, was pa.s.sing back word to the battery as to its accuracy. Apparently the range was good because the battery set to with a will.

Looking to the next ridge, he felt a swelling of pride at the sight of a full corps of infantry deploying, skirmishers to the fore, regiments in column, moving at the double time. A wounded horse whinnied pitifully to his right, and Hans turned about and rode up to the beast, which was lying on its side, its forelegs broken. A Bantag rider was sprawled in front of him, neck broken from the fall. d.a.m.n stupid charge, Hans thought, coming across the valley like that. Hundreds of them littered the field, a troop of his own cavalry now riding among them, doing the grim work of dispatching the crippled survivors. Hans drew his pistol, aimed it at the horse's head, and squeezed the trigger. So d.a.m.n strange, he always felt far more pity for the animals caught in war. Maybe it was their innocence of all this.

A courier on a lathered horse, lashing the animal hard, galloped up to Hans, reining in hard to stop.

"Suppose they countercharged right now?" Hans barked, even as the courier handed over a message.

"Sir?"

"Suppose those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds countercharge. You wouldn't get a mile before your animal broke down and you got left behind. Take better care of him."

"Sir. This is from the forward telegraph station. It just came in."

Hans unfolded the message, scanned it, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Pulling out a pad of notepaper, he jotted off a quick note and handed it back to the courier.

"Get this back, but son, take it easy, we have a long day ahead of us yet."

"Yes, sir!" The boy saluted, reining his horse around. He started to dig in his spurs and, aware of Hans's critical gaze, relented and simply urged his mount up to a slow canter.

The battery that had been sh.e.l.ling the road was starting to limber up, ready to move forward, and Hans trotted over to their commander.

"Send the battery back, Captain."

"Sir? We've got them on the rim, sir."

"Actually, Captain," Hans said grimly, "it's the other way around."

"Pat, we've just lost our telegraph connection to Port Lincoln," Schneid announced as he handed over the dispatch.

Swearing, Pat looked up at the Bantag airship that was droning lazily overhead, just outside of antiair-ship range.

"Bet it was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d up there."

"Another one, about twenty miles short of the Shenandoah, swooped down, cut off a couple hundred feet of wire, then took off again. But that's not the worst of it."

"Go on. It's been bad enough today already."

He was still mulling over the latest message from Andrew, reporting the breakdown of the blockade. It was something, so far, he had only shared with Rick; no sense in triggering a panic. And besides, even if the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were going to try something on him, lookouts on the high hills facing the sea would see the fleet hours before it came in.

"We just got a report in from McMurtry-the telegraph line is up again. Indications of a strong Bantag force moving behind our flank. Nothing sighted yet, but the forest about twenty miles north was all cut to h.e.l.l with tracks. The patrol ran into a skirmishing screen and can't get farther in."

"So them Wandering People were right," Pat said quietly.

The gunfire to forward had slackened somewhat; the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were most likely taking a breather before trying again. Casualties had been light, fewer than five hundred so far today and at least, eight maybe ten times that number for them.

Hans was right; there was more, far more. The flanking force, how much? A umen? Even that could play h.e.l.l if they fell on the bridge over the Shenandoah. Wouldn't be well supplied though-whatever they could carry-but enough to put up one day's good fight. No, if they were going to go through all that trouble, it would be three, maybe even five or six umens. And what would one day accomplish if they were flanking me here? Lose a corps, maybe half my force cutting out.

There was something more afoot. Far more. They want me to hold this position, that's it. They want me here, while they continue to swing all the way into my rear. Audacious, d.a.m.n them, but it'll hit thin air if we can get out in time.

"Rick, start pulling out now. Alert Eleventh Corps to stay awake on their left; we'll be falling back on them before evening."

"We're getting out?"

"That's right."

"How far, Pat?"

"I think right back to the Shenandoah. Me bunions hurt, Schneid. They always hurt just before somethin' bad's about to happen. So get the lads moving."

"Colonel, will you look at that!"

Colonel Arnett, Thirty-third Roum, of the First Brigade, First Division, Eleventh Corps had felt uncomfortable all day. He was, he realized, on the extreme left of the line. Granted, it was the reserve fallback position, and the battle being fought by First and Ninth Corps was eight miles up ahead. Strange, not a sound of the conflict could be heard, though if one put his hand to the ground, he could feel the land shivering from the battery fire. From the lookout tower the woods on the horizon were wrapped in smoke so that it seemed as if one was gazing into the fiery pit of Hades.

He looked to where the private was pointing. A few rabbits were bounding out of the woods, followed by what pa.s.sed for deer on this world, gray s.h.a.ggy things with a wide spread of antlers. More and yet more animals came bounding out of the forest to his left, running in panic. Flights of birds soared out of the woods, darting madly between the trees.

Funny, it reminded him of something, but what?

A single rifle cracked, followed by two more shots. One of the pickets out of the edge of the woods surrounding the fort was shouting something. Some of the men lining the breastworks were laughing at the sight of all the animals running through the clearing and were raising their weapons, looking at Arnett and waiting for permission to take a shot at dinner.

"Sir!"

It was Sergeant McDougal. He was one of the few men who had come through with the old Forty-fourth and never managed to reach a commission, just plain drunkenness and disorderly behavior always kept relegating him back down to the ranks. Even being a sergeant was almost more than he could handle.

"What now, McDougal?"

"Chancellorsville, sir! Chancellorsville!"

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about . . ." And then the realization hit. The regiments flanked by Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville reported the same things just before the Rebs. .h.i.t, animals bounding panic-stricken out of the forest . . . fleeing ahead of the mile-wide line of the Confederate attack.