Never Sound Retreat Part 21

"So are theirs. It is a matter of will now. We must break their will. Bring them up, d.a.m.n it! Bring them up. Keane is in that pocket and I want his head. Once he is dead, they'll crumble. We must crush him tomorrow!"

Chapter Ten.

"He's picked his positions well," Andrew said as he swept the next ridge line with his field gla.s.ses.

"Aye, d.a.m.n b.u.g.g.e.r, looks like b.l.o.o.d.y Cold Harbor. You'd think he studied under Lee."

Andrew nodded as he focused on the outer line. The Bantag were well dug in, the forward trench an ugly swath of black earth zigzagging across the open fields. In front of the trenches abatis were in place, while farther up the slope, behind the front line, was a second line of fortifications, earthen forts s.p.a.ced every half mile, the dark snouts of artillery pieces projecting out of embrasures.

Where the railroad line had once pa.s.sed, only the roadbed was left, the crossties and track torn up, the material used to strengthen the Bantag defensive line.

"It looks like this all the way from the sea right up into the forest," Pat announced. "Six miles of it."

"Any land cruisers?"

"We've seen smoke plumes down toward where Junction City is." He pointed off to the southwest. "My guess is they're holding them in reserve, ready to s.h.i.+ft in whatever direction we try to attack. The problem is we had a patrol by the sea just report back in. They could see where Fort Hanc.o.c.k was and said there's dozens of s.h.i.+ps coming in even now."

"His second wave up from Xi'an."

"That's what I figured as well."

"Another three, maybe four umens," Andrew whispered, remembering the old ratio that an attacking force, hitting a fortified line needed odds of at least four to one in their favor at the point of attack in order to have any hope of success, and even then one could count on losing a quarter to a third of the a.s.saulting column. If Ha'ark managed to bring three more umens in, there was no hope of their getting through, and the swarm closing in from behind would tear them apart.

Andrew sniffed the air and looked over at Pat. Pat said nothing, merely pointing across the shallow valley to where a plume of smoke was rising. Andrew focused on the smoke and swore softly. A dozen bodies were suspended from a wooden tripod, dangling head down, while several Bantag were tending a fire, an impaled human body slowly turning on a spit.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds started doing that yesterday, as soon as we got here and began deploying. Tossed a few sh.e.l.ls at them to stir things up, but as soon as they see one of our guns fire, they dive into a bombproof and come back out laughing. Wrong thing for them to do; it's just getting the boys' blood up for some killing."

Andrew nodded, looking toward his own line, which was dug in along the crest line, the men resting behind a shallow wall of breastworks which had been thrown up during the night. Most of the men were behaving like veterans, grabbing sleep whenever there was a chance. The few that were awake sat in quiet groups around smoldering fires, frying up some salt pork, drying out clothes, or cleaning their weapons. He could see they were worn, nearly two weeks of hard campaigning had taken a toll, uniforms were filthy, tattered, an occasional elbow or knee showing. He could sense an almost professional detachment on their part, and it was now impossible to distinguish between the veterans of Hispania and the new recruits who had joined the ranks since.

"Look like we did coming out of the Wilderness," Pat said, and his comment again conjured the worst of memories.

"And before Cold Harbor," Andrew replied. "We were never the same after Cold Harbor, and that's what Ha'ark's offering us over there, another Cold Harbor."

Still looking over at the Bantag lines, Andrew strolled along the crest, glad that the driving rain of the last three days had finally abated. A cold breeze was coming down from the northwest, driving the last wisps of clouds before it, the sky overhead a canopy of crystal blue. The narrow stream in the valley below was still swollen and muddy, but he could see where, in the last few hours, it was already starting to recede.

"How deep?" Andrew asked.

"Fordable in most places," Pat replied.

Andrew sighed, again training his field gla.s.ses on the enemy line. The same view, he thought, that the Merki saw when they came up on us at Hispania, forward line of entrenchments, heavier fortifications farther up the slope with artillery. And now it's us doing the attacking.

"Any chance around the flank?" Andrew asked.

Pat shook his head.

"They picked their spot well. Get into the forest, it's a tangle in there. Must have been a big fire swept through there twenty, thirty years ago, mad jumble of fallen trees, second growth springing up, precious few trails. We could push infantry through, but our wounded, the wagons." He shook his head.

"I managed to get a few scouts up around the flank, and they say it'd be a ten-mile march, single file in places, before we could even deploy. The head of that stream comes out of a stretch of bogs. A few regiments of infantry up there could play h.e.l.l with us."

"So it's straight in then," Andrew sighed.

"Looks that way."

Andrew nodded, feeling trapped into a maneuver he never dreamed he'd be forced to commit to. By this time tomorrow the Bantag pus.h.i.+ng up from behind would be pressing in. If he was not out of the pocket by then, it was over. He might be able to hold for two, three days, but all the time more and yet more of their eastern army would press forward while his own precious supply of ammunition was expended.

"When do we attack, Andrew?"

"Three tomorrow morning."

"A night attack. It'll be chaos."

"For both sides. It's our only chance, our only chance."

Feeling as if every bone in his body had been shaken loose by the thousand-mile train ride, Major General Vincent Hawthorne stepped down from the train, accepting he salute of the honor guard drawn up by the side of the track.

Stepping away from the guard, he looked up the track. A line of a dozen trains, over a half mile long, was up ahead, troops piling out of boxcars, artillery crews cursing and struggling with makes.h.i.+ft ramps pushed up against flatcars in order to maneuver their fieldpieces off.

"Vincent!"

Hawthorne turned, smiling, as Marcus rushed up, slapping him on the shoulder. The Roum general seemed to be such an anachronism, still wearing the old traditional breastplate armor, leather kilt and sandals, short sword strapped to his left hip, but on his right hip was a holster for a modern revolver, and a Sharps carbine was slung over his shoulder.

"How is it here?" Vincent asked, following Marcus to where their mounts waited. Suppressing a groan, Vincent swung up into the saddle.

"Madness," Marcus said with a chuckle. "Had a bit of a flare-up this morning, probing attack, but we held."

"Wanted to see if they could push us back. Must mean he's getting reinforcements in."

"What I thought."

"Any land cruisers?"

"None; he's keeping them hidden."

Vincent trotted alongside the track, weaving his way around columns of troops as they formed up under their colors.

"Wish we had a few days to get these men rested," Vincent said as he pa.s.sed a regiment from Sixth Corps, the men struggling to help unload half a dozen boxcars stacked with wooden cases filled with small-arms ammunition. "Some of these boys have been on trains for d.a.m.n near a week."

The dull thump of an artillery round detonating erupted on the ridge ahead, followed seconds later by three more exploding down the side of the slope.

"Must see the smoke from all the trains," Marcus said.

"Any flyers?"

"Too much wind, just one early this morning. Nothing since."

Vincent edged his mount around a tent city that was going up alongside the track, green crosses painted on the canvas to mark them as the hospital clearing area. A rail crew was busy on the far side of the makes.h.i.+ft hospital, laying a section of track for a new siding.

Coming to a low rise, he slowed for a moment to look back, the sight filling him with awe. More trains were coming in from the west, streams of smoke and steam whipping ahead of them, driven by the chilled wind. All the way back to the horizon they kept on coming, carrying a corps and a half of reinforcements, supplies and the precious special weapons of Ferguson.

Yet again he thought of Lee's famous quote, and, looking over at Marcus, he smiled. "It's good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it."

"I just want to get Andrew and the rest out of this trap and get the h.e.l.l out of here."

Vincent urged his mount forward dropping back toward the tracks and then up the long gentle slope past where men of Fifth and Tenth Corps had been digging in for over a week. Riding through the sally port of an earthen fort dominating the ridge, he dismounted and climbed to the top of a signal tower that rose thirty feet high in the middle of the parade ground. Marcus followed him up. Taking a pair of field gla.s.ses offered by one of the signalmen, he scanned the enemy lines.

He whistled softly as he looked across the open prairie.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's been busy," Marcus said.

Vincent nodded, looking for any sign of a weak point along the triple line of entrenchments facing Kim. He carefully scanned the line, hope fading with the realization that the line of fortifications was cunningly laid, with interlocking fields of fire so that any point of attack would be enfiladed by earthen forts dug in along the distant heights. Raising his gla.s.ses, he scanned the far horizon. On a distant ridge he could just barely make out a dark zigzag line of earthworks.

"Are those the opposite lines facing Colonel Keane?"

"Yes, sir," the signalman replied. "You can just make out their fortifications along the ridge. The ground drops down from there, so we can't see beyond, but we did see signs of smoke earlier today. We think they were from trains, but we couldn't be sure."

"Ha'ark's land cruisers?"

"Seen half a dozen earlier today deploying behind their lines directly ahead, nothing else."

"Junction City, anything there?"

The signalman pointed toward the southeast. "Can't see where the town was, sir, the hills block it, but we did see smoke, like from engines."

The signalman leaned over the railing, squinting, then pointed.

"There, sir."

Vincent trained field gla.s.ses on where the signalman was pointing, slowly scanning back and forth. A wavery puff of smoke appeared for an instant, then he lost it. He braced his elbows on the wooden railing and found the smoke again. He started to count and after several minutes lowered the binoculars.

"Twenty, at least twenty of them coming up." He sighed.

"I counted twenty-four, sir," the signalm added softly.

Vincent looked to the west, where his own troop were still unloading, realizing that the smoke from the trains must be clearly visible to Ha'ark.

"Marcus, he knows we're going to attack," Vincent said. "We have to attack, d.a.m.n it, and he's bringing the cruisers up to meet us."

He silently scanned the lines, counting the red pennants of Bantag regiments fluttering in the breeze, his attention focusing on the north.

"I reviewed your plan for the breakout," Vincent said. "It's d.a.m.n good."

"Thank you, sir, I know," Marcus said, and Vincent looked over at the Roum general, who was twice his age. A flicker of a smile was on Marcus's features. There had been a time when he had been in terrified awe of this man who seemed like a legend from the time of the Caesars. The fact that Marcus had undoubtedly wanted Vincent's approval of the plan momentarily caught him off guard.

"Your Tenth Corps, with what's left of Fifth Corps in reserve, should continue to hold the line here. Sixth Corps will spearhead the attack, followed by Fourth Corps."

"I disagree with that," Marcus replied. "They're rested. Let Roum have the honor of this attack."

"If we pull them off the line, even after dark, Ha'ark might guess our plans. Please, Marcus, we'll need Tenth Corps to cover this front," he hesitated, "especially if things go wrong. The pride of Roum aside, we both know Sixth Corps is a veteran unit and there are half a dozen Roum regiments serving with it, Marcus."

Marcus said nothing for a moment.

"I'll agree to Tenth Corps in reserve and holding the position here, but I lead the attack. I've studied the ground, I know the plan."

Vincent again s.h.i.+fted his attention to the position in front, and, to Marcus's obvious surprise, nodded in agreement.

"You lead the flanking attack, I'll command from here," Vincent announced.

Marcus studied Vincent carefully.

"Why? I thought you'd put up an argument over that point."

"There's still one piece to this puzzle," Vincent replied absently, then fell silent as he focused his thoughts.

One more piece to make it work. The question was, what was Andrew preparing to do? He pondered the possible alternatives. Andrew's men would be exhausted after weeks of unrelenting combat. Their supply of ammunition would be limited. Andrew would most likely go for an attack straight in, there was no hope of a flanking maneuver through the forest; if he tried that, all the wagons loaded with his wounded would be left behind. He'll attack, maybe as early as tonight, and Vincent's attention fixed itself on that thought as he continued to examine the enemy line.

Our own attack won't be ready until tomorrow morning, Vincent realized. Until then, Ha'ark's attention has to be focused, not only away from our own flanking attack, but from Andrew as well. As he contemplated what had to be done, he felt a dark coldness in his soul at the price that would have to be paid.

It's just as I suspected, Ha'ark thought as he scanned the opposite line, shading his eyes against the late-afternoon sun. The reports had been coming in for an hour or more that an attack was building. An artillery round fluttered overhead, detonating with a thunderclap roar, spraying the air around him with fragments. Ignoring the screams of pain of one of his staff, whose arm had been torn off, he continued to study the line. Heavy planks were being laid across the top of their breastworks, another battery was moving into position, the crew unlimbering their guns on open ground, and now some troops were. moving out of their trenches, running down the slope with axes, cutting aside the sharpened stakes blocking the way.

The d.a.m.n fools were going to attack frontally.

Grinning, he slipped his field gla.s.ses back into their carrying case and waited.

"Just remember you're the best d.a.m.n b.l.o.o.d.y regiments in the whole b.l.o.o.d.y army!" Vincent roared as he cantered the length of the column.

Dismounting, he turned his horse over to an orderly. A regimental band was playing "Gary Owen" the sound of it striking him as such a bizarre incongruity, an Irish drinking song, adopted by the cavalry serving in the Army of the Potomac, and somehow transported here, to this time and place, the tune picked up by the pipers recruited from the descendants of Irish who now served in the ranks, such a strange completion of a circle, he thought.

Drawing his saber he walked up to where the shot-torn standards of Second Division, Fifth Corps stood, the flag bearer looking at him nervously.

"Scared, son?" Vincent asked softly.

"Honestly, sir," the young soldier replied. "Scared to death."

"It'll be over soon enough, just stay with me, that's all I ask."

A horseman galloped to the front of the column and reined in beside Vincent.

"Marcus, what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" Vincent snapped.