1901

5

L UDWIG WEBER, A private in the kaiser’s Imperial 4th Rifles, gripped his usually clean and well-oiled Mauser with an unholy fervor and wished he were someplace else than this city of hell. Sweat dripped down his face for many reasons. First, it was hot, and his uniform wasn’t intended for the steamy weather. Second, he had just survived his first encounter with an armed enemy intent upon killing him, a fact that also accounted for the dirty and smudged condition of his rifle. Third, he was only a few hundred yards away from the sea of flame that seemed to be consuming the city of Brooklyn.

What a change, he thought. Was it only a year ago that he, a teacher of English in a private school just outside Munich, had been conscripted to serve the Prussians in the Imperial Army? God, what had happened to him? First they took away his dignity and made him a private soldier, an automaton, a nobody, and then they taught him how to march and kill for the glory of the emperor and the Reich.

Then they took him away from his home and placed him in a large, cramped, oceangoing vessel where he spent almost two weeks in unwashed and unwanted intimacy with thousands like him. The passage had been horrible, and he’d spent much of it covered with puke. The whole ship and its human cargo smelled of shit and piss. If he hadn’t vomited so much from seasickness, the unholy stench generated by his comrades would have made him ill. Was this why he had educated himself? He was twenty-two years old. Would his life end here?

To consummate his problems, a vengeful god had also given him to Corporal Kessel. Otto Kessel was an illiterate and hulking blond-haired brute who hated with a passion anything better than himself. He was a bully, a sadist, a murderer, and a rapist. Weber had heard with horror of Kessel’s so-called adventures in China where, apparently with the blessings of senior officers, he had behaved like a pig, rutting and killing. Weber found it difficult to believe that anything like Otto Kessel existed on an earth that God made.

Worse, Kessel hated Weber. Or did he love him? For the two months since Kessel’s assignment to the company, Weber was the primary focus of Kessel’s actions. He bullied him verbally, punched him and kicked him when he thought he could get away with it, and robbed him whenever any relative or friend sent Weber something of value. Whenever possible, of course, Weber would try to avoid Kessel, particularly when Kessel was drunk, which was a good deal of the time. Weber could see that the other officers in the company, especially Captain Walter, were puzzled by Kessel, but since they had no reason to do otherwise, they largely ignored him.

On board the ship, Kessel had tried to molest Weber, and the thought of it made him even more nauseous. Weber recalled a time during the voyage when, thinking himself safe and alone on a secluded part of the deck, he’d suddenly found himself imprisoned in the man’s immense arms while Kessel’s hands roamed and groped his body. The chance sound of approaching voices made Kessel release him and depart. Weber was fully warned now and even more careful. He tried to never be alone.

However, his and everyone else’s spirits lifted when they splashed ashore on the clean, sandy beaches of America. Their landing was unopposed, although rumors spoke of places where skirmishes had been quickly won.

Once ashore they’d quick-marched down country roads in what Weber realized was the direction of New York. The fact that they were tired and cramped from their time on the ship was of no concern. Their destination was an urgent one. They could all see from the lines of gray-clad soldiers that thousands of others were also involved. For the first time he realized this was an invasion and not a raid.

After several hours of hard marching, a brief pause for water turned into several minutes, and Weber realized the entire exhausted and hungry company was alone. Up front he could see Captain Walter and the other officers and senior noncoms talking animatedly. He edged himself closer and could see that the captain, a young man only a few years older than he, who seemed to be really quite a decent sort, was getting agitated. Then it dawned on him. They were lost.

“Hey, asshole!” Kessel yelled behind him. “Get your sweet butt back to the squad.” Weber sighed. It was an opportunity that he had to take no matter what the consequences. He dusted himself off and walked up to the knot of men, came to attention, saluted, and announced himself.

“Captain, Private Weber requests permission to speak, sir.”

Captain Walter looked annoyed, the other officers looked shocked, and the company first sergeant looked as though he would strangle him. One major rule for survival was to not piss off Sergeant Gunther.

“Not now, Private,” the captain said gently. The first sergeant moved as if to propel him back to his place, and he was aware of the utter silence behind him. Not even Kessel had anything to say. No one in the Imperial Army spoke to an officer, particularly one with as exalted a rank as a captain, without first being ordered to.

“Sir,” Weber persisted, a slight note of panic growing in his voice. “Please excuse my impertinence, sir, but I teach English. I both read it and speak it fluently.” To his relief, he saw a flicker of interest in the captain’s eyes and continued. “I also have studied much about this area and have relatives here.” As a youth he had spent a summer in New York with an aunt and uncle, but he saw no reason to divulge that information at this time. “If you are looking for a quicker way into the city, I may be of assistance.”

Captain Walter blinked and smiled slightly. “A quicker way? Yes, that’s one way of putting it.” Weber saw the others relax and take their cue from the captain. Yes, Weber was right. They were lost.

In a few words and gestures and with only a quick look at the inadequate maps the captain had, Weber guided them in the correct direction and they soon caught up with other German columns. When he was certain they were no longer lost, he asked the captain if he should return to his squad.

“Do you really read and write English? I mean the English the Americans speak?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well then, you are the only one in the entire company who does. I will be damned if you are going back to any squad. I need you here. First sergeant! Have this man transferred to my headquarters. I don’t care what regulations say, I now have another clerk.” Then he laughed. “No, make him the company translator.”

The first sergeant cuffed him on the shoulder and parted his mouth in a gap-toothed leer that might have once been a smile. “Good lad. When the captain’s happy, everyone’s happy.”

And so am I happy, Weber thought, and a hearty fuck you, Corporal Kessel.

The happiness had lasted until about two hours ago. For a couple of days they stood perimeter guard while the ships in the harbor unloaded their cargoes. Then, when the perimeter got too tight, they were ordered to advance from the docks farther into the city itself. They were not going to do anything but expand their area a few dozen blocks to alleviate the cramping of men and supplies. But unlike the march into Brooklyn, where the crowds had seemed stunned and cowed by the presence of armed, marching soldiers, this slight move was resisted.

When the Germans moved out in skirmish formation to clear the streets and nearby buildings, the shouting began, and crowds gathered with astonishing quickness. From rooftops and windows the obscenities and challenges were hurled, along with an occasional and inaccurately aimed brick or bottle. Nevertheless, the populace retreated, albeit cautiously, as the soldiers advanced.

Soon, however, the soldiers were confronted by barricades. Wagons and other conveyances were turned on their sides and stacked in the streets with people behind them. To Weber’s horror, he could see that many Americans were armed with rifles and shotguns.

The Americans opened fire when the Germans were about a half block away. The exposed German infantry ducked and tried to take cover under the hail of bullets, most of which went wild. Even so, there were casualties. A man next to Weber went down with a scream. Weber saw a large hole in the man’s leg and blood gushing onto the ground.

“Fire!”

The order came and Weber obeyed. He shouldered his Mauser and began pumping bullets into the barricade, which seemed to explode in splinters and chaos. There were screams and howls of pain and rage as people were hit.

“Fall back!”

Why? Weber thought. Despite the fact that he didn’t want to be here, his blood was up. Those stupid people had tried to kill him! How dare they? Didn’t they know he meant them no harm? And now they had to be killed. How foolish they were to even try to stop the Imperial German Army. My God, he thought, I am beginning to sound like a soldier.

When the Germans reached their original starting point, Weber understood why they had been ordered to fall back as he heard the warships opening up with their great cannon. He realized that it was much better to let the big guns chew up the barricades than to storm them in the face of rifle fire. Along with the others, he exulted as this ultimate display of German might raged against the enemy.

Of course it had never been anyone’s intent to burn the city; it was just another example of how things race out of control when people start killing each other. It hadn’t taken long for Weber’s pride to turn to horror as he watched the flames roar through the crowded buildings. He waited in vain for the fire brigades to come and put them out even after the bombardment had finally ceased. How naive, he thought. There will be no fire brigades. The clean and lovely city of Brooklyn -no, it is called a borough now-will burn until the fires run out of things to burn.

For the rest of the day and the night he and the others watched in stunned disbelief while Brooklyn was largely destroyed. Their horrified eyes saw sights that they would never forget. They saw the tightly packed brick buildings erupt with people carrying whatever they could, often just bundles of clothing, sometimes not even that, as they tried to flee. They saw the eager flames lick at and take the tardy, turning them into running, screaming torches. They saw panic as the Americans trampled the slow and the weak in their efforts to get out of the way of the implacable and malevolent fire.

At one point, Weber may have cried. He didn’t know. He saw the captain and realized that the man also felt the sadness of the terrible event.

But he didn’t see Kessel. He looked around and saw the others from his old squad, but not Kessel. He asked one of his friends, who said he hadn’t seen their corporal since the order came to fall back from the barricade.

Good grief, Weber thought. Could Kessel have been killed? He grinned slightly at the thought of such rough justice. What a tragedy for mankind. Perhaps now the bastard is roasting in the fires of Brooklyn in preparation for the eternal fires of hell. For the first time, Weber felt some relief. Perhaps something good would come of this awful incident.

As Molly Duggan slowly regained consciousness, the first thing she became aware of was the pain that racked portions of her body. Then she noticed she was lying on a cold floor in a strange room. She forced her eyes open through her swollen lids and looked about. Where was she? She tried to roll over onto her side, and the pain in her groin caused her to gasp.

Then she remembered. She and her brother, Cormac, had gone beyond the barricades to harass the stupid Germans with their pointed helmets. Cormac, at twenty, was four years older than she and her caretaker following the recent death of her father. Cormac was a wild one; the idea of tormenting an armed army was lunacy, but Cormac convinced her and a number of others to join in the wildness.

With whoops and hollers they approached the cowlike Germans and threw rocks and horseshit at them, then laughed when the hurled turds struck home. It stopped being funny when the Germans started moving on them with their bright bayonets flashing in the sun. The tormentors had run back to the barricades, where, with an unladylike leap to the top of an overturned wagon, Molly yelled an obscenity she’d heard an angry customer in her father’s butcher shop exclaim over the price of a cut of meat. Cormac looked shocked, then laughed.

In a burst of sound the world ended and Cormac’s head exploded in a froth of bone and gray meat as the Germans opened fire. Molly screamed and fell off the wagon she was using for a platform as more gunfire swept the crowd, now trying to run from the barricade that had once seemed so strong. German soldiers, firing from the waist, clambered over it and the crowd scattered. Molly took shelter in a storefront that was empty and being rebuilt. As the Germans prowled the streets, looking for more prey, she hid behind a counter, not daring to breathe.

She heard footsteps crunching on the debris of the building and closed her eyes, as if the act would render her invisible. Suddenly, she was jerked upward by her long brownish red hair, and she found herself looking into the grim, ruddy face of one of the largest men she had ever seen. He said something in a guttural voice, which she took to be German. When she shook her head, he slapped her, dragged her to a back room, threw her to the floor, and, while standing on her wrist, laid aside his rifle and pack.

She screamed and tried to struggle, but it was no use; he was much too large and so much stronger. He laughed and hit her until she was barely aware of him ripping her clothes and arranging her for his convenience. She screamed again when he forced himself inside her, and he hit her again.

For a while she lay there, half conscious, in shock and pain, hoping he was gone. He wasn’t. When he returned, he was more than a little drunk and even more vicious as he repeated the performance, punching her and slapping her as she tried to writhe away. Finally, he hit her hard and she lost consciousness.

But now she was conscious and remembered his savagery. She curled herself into a fetal ball and tried to think. She still was wearing some of her clothes, and the rest, although torn, were lying about. But where was the German? Could she move enough to escape? She sniffed the air. What was burning?

Molly got to her hands and knees. For a moment she was dizzy, but it passed. The pain in her face, her breasts, her ribs, and her thighs did not go away, but she realized it could be endured. She sniffed the smoke again. If something nearby was burning, then any pain she might be feeling had to be ignored!

She reached out for the rags of her clothing and lurched to her feet, relieved to find she could stand. She arranged herself as best she might and started to walk to the front room of the store. The mumbling sound of a human voice stopped her. Carefully, she peered in. There was her German. Fear and nausea nearly overcame her; then she realized the German, squatting on the floor with his back to her, was soddenly drunk. His rifle was on the other side of the room. There were two empty bottles by his haunches, and he was swaying back and forth to an unheard rhythm.

He was also between her and the door, and the smell of smoke was getting worse. She glanced about and saw some workmen’s tools, including, thankfully, a hammer. She grasped the hammer in both her small hands and, as hatred and rage overwhelmed her, brought it down on the German’s head. In her pain she stumbled and her aim was bad. Although she struck only a glancing blow on his forehead, she still heard the sound of something crunch and felt the German’s blood spray her. He growled like an animal and tried to get up. She swung from the waist and hit him above his left eye. He screamed and grabbed his face and she hit him again, this time squarely on the forehead. He dropped like a sack of meal. With horror, she saw that his eye was dangling from its socket and appeared to be staring at her. She hit him a couple more times, until her fury was replaced by the realization that she had better get out of there. But to where?

Her mind told her that her once-tidy world had become fearful indeed, and all the memories of home and security were gone. Cautiously, she reached for the German’s rifle and picked it up. It was much heavier and more ill balanced than she expected, and she thought about leaving it. But then she grimly recalled that she’d been raped twice this day and had no inclination to have it occur again. She hadn’t the foggiest idea how to use the damn thing, but it was a fearsome-looking weapon, and the bayonet looked absolutely evil.

She experimented for a moment and found she could handle it in one arm with a degree of ease. Then, clutching her tattered clothes to her with one hand and the rifle with the other, she headed out the door. She must get away from the flames she could now see advancing. She had taken but a few steps when she realized she hadn’t made arrangements with Father Connelly to bury Cormac. She looked back at the churning smoke and fire that seemed to be moving closer down the abandoned streets, and sadly realized that there would be no funeral, and that Father Connelly was doubtless prudently running away as well. Good-bye, dear Cormac, she thought. She would leave him behind along with the dimming memories of a father who’d brought them from Ireland to a new world that was supposed to be clean and safe. God damn the Germans.

Patrick Mahan took steady aim at the man who held the knife to Katrina’s throat. Cautiously, carefully, he tried to gauge the situation and ignore the look of stark terror on Katrina’s face. How foolish they’d been to think that three men and a woman were safe once they’d cleared the mobs. Three bandits had leaped from the bushes and clubbed down the two servants, smashing their skulls, before anyone had a chance to react. In a motion that seemed to take forever, Patrick had reached for his revolver while kicking at the thug who grabbed at his leg. Finally the pistol came free and he shot the man in the face.

But now they were at an impasse. He had the gun and they had Katrina.

“Let her go,” he said with as much firmness as he could muster.

“Fuck you!” said the man with the knife. “Give Charley there the gun and you both can leave.”

Patrick almost smiled at the incongruity of the request. Give them the gun? Trust them? Not bloody damn likely. He turned the revolver on Charley, who was inching toward the horses. Had Katrina packed another gun in the bags? Patrick didn’t think so, but he was uncertain.

He gestured to Charley. “Take whatever you want and let the girl go. Then you can leave.”

The man with the knife laughed. “You got it all wrong. We’re taking what we want and the girl. If you’re lucky, you’ll find her later when we’re through fucking her and release her. And don’t wave that goddamn gun around like you’re actually gonna shoot. You won’t take a chance on hitting the bitch.”

The knife man was right. But if Patrick let them leave, then all he could do was follow them and try to get a clear shot before they got too far away. Charley had the horses and was now rummaging through the saddlebags. Shit, Patrick thought, if they ride off and leave me on foot, I’ll never be able to follow, and God help Katrina. He could see by the look on her face as her eyes followed the byplay that she was aware of this as well.

Until the moment the bandits had attacked, the trip from New York had been relatively uneventful. Once they had crossed the Harlem River, it had been almost a pleasant ride in the country with Katrina and the two servants. He had found the young woman-she was younger than he-to be both pleasant and intelligent. In point of fact, she was extremely intelligent. Almost better, he discovered she had a wicked sense of humor. He enjoyed her company, however strange the current circumstances.

Now she stood a good chance of dying a violent, degrading, and painful death if he couldn’t come up with some way of resolving this brutal dilemma.

“Hey,” yelled Charley, “lookit this shit. Pretty boy is a sojer. Lookit the uniforms.”

The knife man looked at the blue uniform held up by Charley. “That true, hero? You a soldier? You gonna fight the Krauts?”

“I am trying to report for duty, yes. Now let her go and let us go on.”

The knife man sneered. “Then why ain’t you wearing the fuckin’ things? Know why? ‘Cause you a deserter!” He laughed. “Now I know what you and your woman are doin’. Shit, you’re runnin’ away. You ain’t gonna do nothin’ about me and Charley ‘cause you’ll get hung for desertin’ if you do.” He found this very funny and laughed loudly.

“I am not a deserter,” Patrick said grimly. “And I will kill you if you don’t let her go.”

The knife man used his other arm to give Katrina’s breast a painful, hard squeeze, which caused her to utter a small scream before she was able to stifle it. “Hero boy, we’re gonna ride out of here on your horses and, when we’re far enough away, we’re gonna take turns ridin’ your other mare.” He thought that witty and laughed again, as did Charley, who by now had the horses over by Katrina and the knife man. “And, like I said, when we’re through we’ll leave her for you to find.” He slid his hand from Katrina’s breast and let it wander down below her belly.

With a scream that came from the bowels of hell, the devil emerged from the bushes by the trail. In this case, Satan took the form of a half-naked woman, her hair singed frizzy, her face red and burned where it wasn’t bruised blue. She hurled herself forward with, instead of a pitchfork, a rifle and a long bayonet.

Charley turned and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could utter a sound, the bayonet entered his throat and came out the back of his neck. He fell to the ground as the rifle did an obscene dance with his body. As the knife man turned to face this new threat, Patrick raced the few steps that separated them and yanked Katrina away before the knife man could gather his shattered wits. Patrick jammed the revolver in the knife man’s side and pulled the trigger twice, with thunderous explosions. The knife man howled and fell to the ground as dead as Charley.

The sudden silence was as shocking as the violence. “Are you all right?” Patrick finally and inanely asked Katrina. She stammered that she was.

“Where’d she come from?” asked Patrick. The apparition was facedown on the ground, her back heaving as she moaned and sobbed, hollering for her father and someone named Cormac.

Katrina knelt beside the woman’s side. “She’s hurt rather badly. She’s very young, only little more than a child.” She put an arm around the sobbing girl’s shoulder and tried to comfort her. After a bit, she succeeded, and the girl calmed down enough to volunteer that her name was Molly and she had no idea where she was.

As Katrina helped Molly fix her clothing into something resembling decency, she also took stock of the girl’s injuries. She determined that neither the burns nor the bruises, although unsightly, were as serious as she had at first thought. Then the girl moved and her torn skirts parted. Katrina saw the additional bruises on her inner thighs and quickly realized what had happened.

“We will have to take her with us,” she said grimly. “She’s in no shape to be left alone.”

Patrick had the rifle and was examining it. “A bright, shiny German Mauser. I wonder how she got it.”

Molly Duggan raised her head and fixed him with a glare of hate through her swollen eyes. “I took it off a German. Hope I killed the fooker.”