Men of War

Chapter Four

Brakes squealing, the train glided to a halt. Wearily, Andrew stood up, looking down at his dress uniform, nervously brushing at a stain just below his breast.

“Long ride,” Hans groaned, sitting up from the narrow bunk where he had slept for the last hundred miles of the grueling seven-hundred-mile transit.

Andrew nodded, vainly trying to stretch the kinks out of his back.

“Ready for this?” Hans asked, standing up and, with an almost fatherly gesture, brushing some soot off Andrew’s shoulder.

“Not sure. Almost feels like going into a battle.”

“It is, and maybe just as dangerous.”

There was a final lurch of the cars, then a blast of the whistle. Looking out the window, he saw an expectant crowd waiting in the hot early-morning sunlight. A military band, sounding tinny, struck up “Battle Cry of Freedom.” He stepped out onto the back platform, looking around. A small delegation was waiting, but his eyes were focused on but one group, Kathleen and the four children. Madison, his oldest, broke free and rushed forward with delighted cries, the twins following. Kathleen, dressed for once in a civilian dress, the traditional Rus smock and blouse, with her red hair tucked under a kerchief, looked absolutely delightful, their youngest son in her arms, looking at him wide-eyed. It had been over half a year since he had last seen him, and the boy had obviously forgotten though he did smile tentatively as Andrew stepped off the back of the car, Madison tugging at his pants leg, Jefferson and Abraham grabbing the other. She came forward, leaning up to kiss him.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

Looking down the length of the platform, he saw anxious families swarming around the three hospital cars that made up the rest of his express train, the first casualties back from the front since the disaster in front of Capua.

“There’s no one here,” she whispered. “He didn’t come down.”

Though he was not one for pomp and ritual, the fact that the president had not come to meet him, or at least have an honor guard, was a clear enough indication of the mood. It was also a very public and visible statement by his old friend that there was serious trouble ahead.

“Colonel. How was it?”

He turned to see Gates, editor of Gates’s Illustrated Weekly, standing expectantly, pad of paper in hand, pencil poised.

“No comment for now, Tom.”

“Come on, Colonel. I’m running an extra on the battle, and there’s precious little information out other than a partial casualty list and rumor that it was bad.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

“Is it true you’ve been summoned back by Congress to report before the Committee on the Conduct of the War?”

“Tom, why don’t you just back the hell off,” Hans snarled.

“I need something, anything,” Tom pressed, ignoring Hans.

“Gates,” Hans snapped, “I remember how you peed your pants at Gettysburg, you were so damn scared, and hid behind the Seminary building till I dragged you back out. Why don’t you print that.”

Andrew shook his head at Hans, feeling sorry for Gates, who stood abashed, face turning red.

“Your first fight, Tom. We all peed ourselves at one time or another,” Andrew said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s all right.”

He guided the editor off to one side.

“Look, Tom, it was bad, very bad. In short, they tore us apart, but for the moment you can’t publish that.”

Tom looked at him, obviously torn between his old loyalty to his colonel and the demands of his new profession.

“Let me report to the president first. Come over to my place later in the day, and I’ll tell you everything I can. Is that fair?”

Tom nodded. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that this place is going wild with rumors. There’s talk that if it’s true we lost at Capua, that Congress will vote that the Chin ambassadors sent by Jurak are to be formally received and given the offer of cease-fire.”

Andrew sighed and lowered his head.

“Andrew, be careful going in there. That’s not the only rumor floating around town this morning.”

“What then?”

“Senator Bugarin is calling for Rus formally to secede from the Republic, establish its own state again, and make peace with the Bantags.”

“Damn all,” Andrew hissed.

It was, of course, illegal according to the Constitution. Given the experience back on his home world, he had written a clause into the document strictly forbidding secession unless three-quarters of Congress, and all the voting citizens, agreed to a new Constitutional convention.

“I told you before we should have hung every last boyar after the revolution before the Merki War,” Hans announced, having come up to join the conversation. “Bugarin was in with that crowd then.”

“He was formally absolved,” Andrew replied sharply, “and remember, he is a senator of the Republic.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hans snarled, letting fly with a stream of tobacco juice.

“Flavius, the Speaker of the House, is hopping mad, too,” Gates continued. “With word that Marcus is missing and presumed dead, a hell of a lot of pressure is on him now to stop trying to be even-handed and think more like the senior representative from Roum.”

“He’s also now the next in line to the presidency,” Hans announced.

Andrew found himself wishing he could block this all out. He had left the battlefield less than a day ago; too much was flooding in too quickly.

“I’ve got a carriage waiting for us,” Kathleen announced, breaking in. “Tom, let Andrew meet with the president, then they’ll most likely make a joint statement. Why don’t you come over after dinner.”

Andrew could not help but smile at the way she could switch on the charm when needed, and the publisher finally relented, backing away and darting off to catch a lieutenant who was being carried off the hospital car on a stretcher.

Kathleen led the way, Madison grabbing her father’s hand and chattering away, Andrew replying absently to her conversation. Reaching the carriage, she pried the children loose from their father and handed the baby over to a nurse, who led them away, Andrew waving good-bye as the carriage lurched forward, feeling guilty about his role as a father who was never home and was now too preoccupied to offer them any attention.

They drove past the long row of ambulances drawn up by the station. There was a time when he would have insisted upon stopping, getting out to talk to the men and their families, but he could so clearly sense the mood. In spite of the brilliant sunshine it felt as if there was a dark shadow over the city. Official censorship or not, news was clearly out that the offensive had turned into a bloody disaster.

Reaching the inner gate, they passed into the old city of Suzdal, and for a brief instant he relaxed, enjoying yet again the exotic medieval flavor of the city. Though this section had been twice destroyed in the wars, each time the residents had built it back as it was, though somehow the woodwork now seemed more crudely done and hurried, as if the pace of the new world he had created would not allow time for the ancient Rus art of woodcarving as it was once done. The old gaily painted window frames and decorative designs were gone as well since the lime for whitewash and the lead for paint were both designated as precious war materials.

The carriage finally reached the great square of the city, going past the cathedral, Kathleen making the sign of the cross as they did so. He was tempted to stop, to go in and see if Casmir, the Holy Metropolitan and head of the Rus Orthodox Church, was there, for he knew that the priest would be his staunchest supporter to the bitter end, and at this moment he needed to hear some form of encouragement. But the white banner was not flying over the central onion dome, meaning that the holy father was elsewhere, most likely at the military hospital to help as the first wounded came in.

The carriage turned across the square, the scene of so many triumphal parades, and the place where twice he led the old 35th into battle, first against the Boyar Ivor, and then in the final charge against the Tugars. Memories rushed back of so many who had marched or fought across this square and were now but dust, and Kathleen, as if sensing his mood, reached over and squeezed his hand again.

“Remember the first time we went for a walk here?” she said, as if trying to divert his thoughts from more melancholy contemplations.

He smiled, looking into her eyes, remembering that first wondrous day together, when they had visited the court of Ivor then roamed the city till dusk, having no idea, as yet, of the terror of the hordes.

Straight ahead was the White House. A strange blending of the old and the new, the former palace of a boyar, with all its ornate and intricate stone carvings, high narrow windows, and fairy-tale domes, whitewashed by order of the president in imitation of the legendary place where Lincoln had once resided. He could see a crowd gathered near the steps, a twin line of infantry drawn up to clear the way. A color guard was waiting, bearing the flag of the Republic, and as the carriage stopped at the base of the steps they came to attention. Andrew and Hans stood up, each of them saluting the colors as they stepped down to the cobblestone pavement. A small band of half a dozen drummers and fifers now sounded ruffles and flourishes and then went into “Hail to the Chief.” At the top of the steps the president, Andrew’s old friend Kal, appeared, wearing his traditional black frock coat and stovepipe hat, beard cut like Lincoln’s, always a slightly absurd sight since he stood barely five and a half feet tall, yet touching nevertheless in its respectful imitation of a legend from another world.

Kal slowly came down the steps, the small crowd of bystanders respectfully silent, the few soldiers in the group coming to attention and saluting, civilian men and boys removing their hats and one old woman making the sign of the cross.

Andrew, curious, watched, knowing that protocol demanded that he ascend the steps, not forcing the president to come down to greet him. But Kal had never stood on such foolish protocol, and normally would have been at the station, eager to embrace his friend in a traditional Rus bear hug and kiss. The fact that he had not done so indicated so much to Andrew, and it was such a strange paradox for Andrew had so often lectured the old peasant on the dignity of office and the precedents that needed to be set. Now they were caught in that very game.

Kal stopped midway down the twenty steps, hat still on, and there was a long pregnant pause.

“Don’t push it,” Kathleen whispered.

Finally, Andrew climbed the steps, trying not to let his fatigue and stiffness show. He came to attention and saluted, Kal nodding a reply but no embrace or even a slap on the shoulder. The effect was immediate, whispers running through the crowd of onlookers. Behind the president Andrew caught a glimpse of several senators, all from Rus, one of them Vasily Bugarin.

“Let’s go inside to talk,” Kal finally announced.

Andrew nodded in agreement, saying nothing. There was a moment’s hesitation as Kal looked over at Hans.

“I want my second-in-command with me,” Andrew said, and Kal turned without comment, leading the way up the stairs.

Andrew looked back at Kathleen, who flashed a smile and turned without comment, getting back into the carriage. He felt guilty, not having said more, not feeling more, and that realization was troubling. His feelings were almost an abstraction, a memory, as if he had become so brittle inside that there was no room at the moment for the love and devotion he knew he should feel for his family.

Though it was still early morning, he was glad to step through the ornately carved doors and into the cool dark interior of the executive mansion. Once out of sight of the crowd he hoped that Kal would drop the role and show some warmth, but there was no relenting as the president led the way down the corridor, past the old audience chamber of the boyar and into a side room which served the president as his office.

The room was simply appointed, as was typical of the old Kal. Icons of Perm and Kesus, the half-pagan manifestation of Orthodoxy which had been transplanted to this world dominated the far wall, with smaller icons of a variety of saints, some of them men of the old 35th and 44th New York, surrounding the centerpiece. The other walls were covered with maps studded with red and blue pins marking the situation on the western front, where remnants of the Merki were raiding, the coasts of the Inland Sea and the shadowy war which had resumed against Cartha, and the Eastern Front from which he had just come. In the center of the room was a battered oak table around which a dozen straight-backed chairs were set. Andrew was delighted to see the Holy Prelate Casmir sitting at the far corner, the priest coming to his feet as Andrew came in.

“Good day to you, Andrew,” he said in fairly good English, and Andrew smiled, taking off his old kepi hat with a show of genuine respect. Across from him was Vincent Hawthorne, a mere shadow of a ghost, his uniform hanging loosely on his narrow frame, still sporting the Phil Sheridan look of pointed goatee and mustache.

Without comment Bugarin took a chair next to Casmir, and Kal beckoned for Andrew to sit next to Vincent, Hans taking the chair to Andrew’s right while Kal sat down next to Bugarin.

Andrew was tempted to voice a protest, to ask to be allowed at least to freshen up and get a bite to eat before going into this meeting and then somehow get a few minutes alone with Kal to probe out what was going on, but a cold look from Kal stilled his protest, and as he sat down he made do with a cup of tea that Casmir made a point of pouring for the two new arrivals. The prelate then insisted upon a prayer which ran on for five minutes and which placed a heavy emphasis on his thankfulness for the safe return of Andrew and Hans, the need for divine guidance and strength in the trials to come.

As the three Rus made the sign of the cross Andrew raised his head and stared straight at Kal.

“Andrew, we need an honest report of what happened out there and why,” Kal said, opening the meeting without comment or one of his usual witticisms designed to break the tension.

“I’ve never been anything but honest with you, Mr. President,” Andrew replied coolly, deciding to be formal and avoid the use of the informal nickname of Kal.

Strange, he thought, you were once a peasant, a storyteller and jester for the Boyar Ivor, hiding your cunning behind the mask of a fool in order to protect your family and yourself when the Tugars came, hoping against hope to thus spare your daughter from being sent to the slaughter pits. Hawthorne, who is now your son-in-law, taught you about the ideals of a Republic, it was you who triggered the rebellion, and for years afterward I taught you all I know about how to rule and wrote the very Constitution which put you in power.

Andrew could not help but feel a flicker of resentment now, the mentor who found himself outranked by a student, but was this not as it should be, he told himself. Across all these years I kept demanding that the military must answer to the civilian, and here now are the results.

“Andrew, please tell us what happened,” Casmir interjected. “The entire city is in turmoil with fear, some are even claiming the front has collapsed and the Bantags will be at the gates.”

“No, they haven’t broken through, the front is the same is it was before the attack.”

“In other words you did not gain a single inch of ground,” Bugarin interjected.

Andrew shifted his gaze to study the senator. It was rumored that he had tuberculosis; his skin was almost china white, laid flat against the bones of his face. Dark eyes seemed to burn like coals as he returned Andrew’s look. In spite of the senator’s current stance Andrew found he did have a certain amount of respect for the man. He had avoided the infamous “Boyars’ Plot” to overthrow the government before the Merki War and had briefly commanded a regiment and then a brigade before Rus was evacuated. Stricken with illness he left the army and was immediately elected senator.

Yet, in the last year protest against the war had increasingly centered around him, first as a general concern about the progress of the fight, and then increasingly as a voice of separatism and mistrust of the Roum and their ability to fight. That was the one thing Andrew could not comprehend, this damnable wedge being driven between Rus and Roum. If it succeeded in splitting them apart, the Republic would fracture, and they would all die. How men with the intelligence of Bugarin could not see that was a mystery.

“If you are asking if we held the opposite bank of the river,” Andrew replied. “No.”

“What are the total losses?” Casmir asked. “I want to know the human cost first.”

Andrew sighed, looking up for a moment at the ceiling.

“At least twenty-seven thousand five hundred men killed, wounded or captured out of the forty thousand who crossed the river. Just over nine thousand wounded made it back; all the rest of the casualties were lost.”

“Merciful Perm bless them,” Casmir intoned, making the sign of the cross.

“And equipment?” Kal asked.

“Every ironclad engaged was lost, that’s fifty-three machines. Nineteen light aerosteamers and eleven heavy machines lost as well. Eight field batteries lost, and almost all the equipment for three corps along with two regiments of engineering and pontoon equipment, three corps field hospitals, and somewhere around fifty regimental stands of colors.”

Kal blew out noisily and leaned back in his chair.

“How, damn it?” Bugarin cried. “What did you do wrong?”

“Just tell us,” Kal said, cutting Bugarin off.

“It was a trap,” Andrew said. “Plain and simple. This new leader, Jurak, is different. I fear that the world he came from is far more advanced than mine. He has a better grasp of how to use the new weapons being created, his army is transforming itself into something far different that what we faced with the Tugars and Merki.”

Andrew drew in a breath; the room was silent except for the ticking of a small wooden clock on the wall near Kal’s desk. He remembered that the clock was the same one Vincent had carved for him long ago before even the Tugars had come.

“They had a new model of land ironclad. Heavier armor and with that the knowledge to keep back out of range of our own ironclads and rocket launchers. There was a new airship, twin engine, faster than our Eagles and almost as fast as the Hornets. Also, they have a new type of gun, like our Gatling, slower firing but still deadly.”

“Didn’t you anticipate any of this?” Bugarin asked.

“Not directly,” Andrew had to admit.

“What do you mean ‘not directly’?”

“As commander I had to assume that things would change with their new leader. Also, that they undoubtedly would have new weapons. Jurak, however, was shrewd enough to keep all his cards hidden until we were fully committed, then he unleashed them all in one killing blow.

“Tactically, as well, he presented a new front. I would estimate that at least five of his umens were armed with better rifles, but beyond that they had obviously trained as much as we had. These were not Horde warriors charging blindly-they came on with a skill and purpose we haven’t seen before.”

“What actually happened,” Kal interrupted. “Tell me that.”

“We launched the assault following the plans I reviewed with you the week before the attack. Losses in the first stage were less than anticipated, just over two thousand killed and wounded. Six hours into the assault our advanced column was within striking distance of their main depot, five miles east of Capua, when the counterattack struck.”

“And you did not anticipate that they would counterattack?” Bugarin asked sharply.

“Of course we expected a counterattack,” Andrew replied, trying to keep the weariness and frustration out of his voice. “All of the hordes were masters of mobile warfare and knew enough to keep a mobile reserve positioned behind their lines, either as a force to seal a break or as reserve to deliver the final blow.”

“So why were you not prepared?” Kal asked.

Andrew hesitated for a moment, surprised by the coldness in Kal’s voice.

“We were prepared. Ninth Corps led the breakthrough supported by the First Ironclad Regiment. Eleventh Corps followed next, anchoring the left flank, while elements of two other corps crossed to anchor the right flank and provide reserves. The Second Ironclad Regiment was held in reserve for the follow-up advance once the pontoon bridges were laid and we felt we had achieved a breakthrough.

“What surprised us was the sheer number of ironclads in their reserves, reports estimate there were upward of two hundred compared to fewer than a hundred of ours, of which we committed only fifty in the first wave, the number of new aerosteamers, their introduction of a machine gun, and finally the tactics of concealment and concentration of ironclads in large striking columns.”

“In other words, you were caught unprepared,” Bu-garin pressed.

Andrew said nothing, and Hans finally interrupted.

“No plan ever fully survives first contact with the enemy, and in war no one can ever prepare for all eventualities.”

“You were against this offensive, weren’t you, Hans?” Kal asked.

Now it was Hans’s turn to hesitate.

“Yes, he was,” Andrew said. “The responsibility is mine.”

There was a long silence again, and Andrew half wondered if Kal, for a variety of reasons, would ask for his resignation and turn command over to Hans. That was indeed part of the reason he had insisted that Hans leave the front and return to Suzdal with him. There was even a bit of a wish that indeed such a decision would be made, relieving him of all that was pressing in.

“The retreat, I heard it was a rout,” Bugarin said, breaking the silent tension.

“Yes, there is no denying that. The river was at our backs, the men quickly realized that the enemy was breaking through on both flanks and rolling the line up with the intent of creating a pocket. Yes, they ran, ran for their lives as even the best troops will.”

“So they ran,” Bugarin continued. “Ninth and Eleventh Corps ran, troops primarily made up of men from Roum.” So that was it, Andrew now realized, and he felt a flicker of anger. No senator from Roum was present.

“I don’t see Tiberius Flavius, Speaker of the House, present here,” Andrew replied coolly. “As Speaker, isn’t he entitled to be here as well, Mr. President?”

“This is an informal discussion,” Kal replied.

“It seems more like an inquiry by the Committee on the Conduct of the War,” Hans snapped.

“I wasn’t asking you for comment, Sergeant,” Bugarin growled.

Hans started to stand up, but a look from Andrew stilled him.

“I will accept no aspersions on the gallant soldiers who crossed that river, whether they were Rus or Roum,” Andrew said, his voice cutting through the tension.

It was impossible for him to try and explain now all that had happened. Though he would not admit it here, the army had indeed broken, the worst rout he had seen since the disaster along the Potomac.

It was almost like Hispania in reverse, his army disintegrating, falling back to the river a disorganized rabble. But in this room, under the cool gaze of Bugarin and Kal, that was impossible to explain. How to explain the exhaustion, the fighting out of the army as an offensive weapon? He knew that to try and explain that now would be an admission of defeat.

Yet was this not defeat? He could admit to the loss of the battle at Capua and take responsibility for it. Yet was this the beginning of the end he wondered? Would the army continue to disintegrate and fall back, or was there some desperate way to wring one last victory out of the situation and save what was left?

“Why did you let the vice president go into the attack against my orders?” Kal asked.

Andrew was silent. The memory of the broken body of his old friend, carried back across the river by men from the 11th, was still too fresh.

“I could not stop him,” Andrew replied sadly. “He insisted that he go forward with ‘his boys,’ as he called them. I understand that was part of the reason for the rout. When the counterattack was launched he was caught by the opening barrage of rockets and killed instantly. Word quickly spread through the ranks …”

His voice trailed off. Still hard to believe that Marcus was dead. Yet another part of the political equation he had not anticipated.

“And your own actions?” Bugarin asked. “Did you personally try to rally the men?”

Hans bristled yet again; there was a certain tone to the statement, an implication. Andrew did not respond for a moment, never dreaming that someone might actually question his own behavior under fire.

Kal was the first to react. With an angry gesture he cut Bugarin off.

“This is an inquiry,” Kal snapped, “not an inquisition.” There was a flicker of eye contact, and Andrew felt at least a small sense of relief. Some of the old Kal was still there and was not comfortable with the way things were going.

“I’m willing to answer,” Andrew said, breaking the silence. He looked past Kal, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ll admit here that going under fire again left me nervous, though it did not affect my judgment. I crossed to the east shore and stayed there until it was evident that the north flank had completely caved in.”

“Why didn’t you call up reinforcements?” Bugarin asked. “Always reinforce victory, never reinforce defeat,” Andrew shot back.

“Wasn’t the defeat perhaps in your own mind?”

“I think that after more than a decade of campaigning I know the difference,” Andrew replied sharply. “Any unit, even First Corps, would have broken under the pounding inflicted on the left and center. As to a counterstrike, I have to ask with what?

“Three corps went into that assault. I have a total of three left to cover all the rest of that front from the tangles of the Northern Forest down into the mountains of the south. That was our total offensive striking power. If that was blunted, there was nothing left.”

“In other words, as an offensive force in this war, the Army of the Republic is finished,” Bugarin replied sharply, staring straight at Kal.

Andrew inwardly cursed. It was exactly what he did not want to admit to but had now been maneuvered into saying.

“And if the Bantag now launch a counterattack?” Bugarin pressed. “Can you stop it?”

“We have to stop it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“There is no alternative,” Andrew snapped.

“Perhaps there is.”

“There is no alternative,” Andrew repeated, his voice sharp with anger. “We cannot make a deal with the Bantag; that will divide us and in the end kill all of us. We must fight if need be to the bitter end.”

Bugarin stood up and leaned over the table, staring directly at Andrew.

“You have been nothing but a disaster to us, Keane. We have fought three wars, hundreds of thousands have died, and now we are trapped in a war that we are losing. Beyond that we are trapped in an alliance with an alien people who can’t even defend their own land. As chairman of the Committee on the Conduct of the War, I hereby summon you to give a full accounting of this disaster.”

With barely a nod of acknowledgment to Kal, the senator stalked out of the room. Casmir, rising from his chair, motioned for Kal to stay and hurried out after Bugarin.

Andrew sat back down, realizing that Kal was staring at him coldly.

“Now you see what I am dealing with here,” Kal announced. “You’d better prepare yourself for what you’ll have to face over the next couple of days.”

Andrew nodded. “Kal, you at least know the boys out there tried their damnedest to win.”

“I know that, Andrew, but it doesn’t change the fact that nearly twenty thousand more families lost a son, or father, or husband. How much longer do you think we as a people can take this?”

“Until we win,” Hans replied coolly.

“Define victory to me when we are all dead,” Kal whispered. “Andrew, we have to find a way out of this war.”

“Kal, there’s only one way,” Hans inteijected.

“You, old friend, are a soldier, and that is the path you must see to victory,” Kal replied, his voice filled with infinite weariness. “I, as president, am forced to consider alternate means. I might not like them, I might not even trust them, but I do have to consider them, especially when Bugarin has rallied a majority of senators.”

Andrew looked over at Vincent, who nodded. That bit of news was a shock. If Bugarin held the majority, the Senate could force the issue to a vote at any time.

“Kal, we can’t surrender. Nor can we allow the Republic to split. Jurak is obviously outproducing us. Any agreement, even a temporary cease-fire, will play to his hand.”

“I hear that from you, Andrew. From Bugarin I hear threats of breaking the Republic apart if need be to end the war. From the Roum representatives I hear complaints about our supposed suspicions regarding them. From Webster I hear that the economy is tottering into collapse. Tonight, as the casualty lists come in, I will sit and write letters until dawn, sending my regrets to old friends who’ve lost a loved one.”

His voice seemed near to breaking.

He lowered his head, put on his stovepipe hat, and slowly walked out the room, moving as if the entire weight of the world was upon him.

Andrew, Hans, and Vincent stood respectfully as he left. Andrew sighed, settling back in his chair and looking over at Vincent, who smiled weakly.

“Hawthorne, just what the hell is going on back here?” Hans asked, going around to the side table and taking the pot of tea from which Casmir had poured earlier and refilling his own cup. Taking a fruit vaguely resembling an apple but closer in size to a grapefruit, he settled into the chair Kal had occupied, pulled a paring knife from his haversack, and began to peel off the thick skin from the fruit.

“It’s madness here,” Vincent began. “Kal is losing control of Congress, which is fracturing between representatives of Rus and Roum. The Roum bloc is claiming the war is not being pressed hard enough to expel the invader from their soil. Beyond that there are some who are claiming it is deliberate in order to cut down the population and thus establish an equal balance in the House.”

“That’s insane.” Andrew sighed. “Damn all, who the hell could even think that?”

“And the-Rus side?” Hans asked.

“Well, you heard it straight from Bugarin. The Roum can’t fight and the burden is resting on the old army of Rus. We lost tens of thousands pulling their chestnuts out of the fire last winter and now, in this last battle, they panic again.”

“Never should have named them the Ninth and Eleventh Corps,” Hans said. “It was unlucky with the Army of the Potomac, and the same here.”

“Funny, even that legend is spreading around,” Vincent said, “some of the Roum claiming it’s a jinx we deliberately set on them.”

Andrew could only shake his head in disbelief.

“So the bottom line?” Andrew asked.

“Word is the Senate will vote a resolution today asking for your removal from command.”

There was a quick exchange of looks between Andrew and Hans as the sergeant cut off a piece of peeled fruit and passed it over to Andrew.

“It won’t happen of course. You’ll stay, and there’ll be a staged show of support for you, but the mere fact that it happens will weaken your position.”

“Figured that, but what’s the real game?”

“Far worse. With Crassus dead, and no vice president, the Roum representatives are increasingly nervous. Speaker Flavius is next in line but remember he isn’t of the old aristocracy of Roum. He was once a servant in the house of Marcus who rose through the ranks, was disabled after Hispania, and found himself in Congress.”

Andrew nodded. He had tremendous admiration for Flavius. A true natural soldier. If he had not been so severely wounded, he undoubtedly would have risen to command a division, or even a corps. His selection as Speaker had been something of a surprise, but then the House was dominated by old veterans, both Roum and Rus from the lower classes. But he didn’t have the blind support and instant obedience Marcus could command. Marcus could merely snap his fingers, and all would listen. Flavius lacked that, and though he was now but a heartbeat away from the presidency, Andrew knew he could not stem the growing friction between the two states of the Republic.

“Bugarin will hold hearings about the battle at Capua. He’ll declare the war lost and push for a cease-fire.”

“An agreement with the Bantag?” Hans asked. “Damn all to hell I keep telling you, Andrew, we should be shooting those Chin envoys they keep sending through.”

“I can’t. Congress specifically ordered that we receive them and pass them along.”

“And they’re nothing but damned spies.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Andrew snapped hotly.

Hans settled back in his chair, saying nothing at the tone of rebuke and frustration.

“Are there the votes for a cease-fire?” Andrew asked.

“No, not yet, but the real maneuver is to break the Republic. Reestablish an independent state of Rus, cut Roum off, and pull the army out.”

“And after the Bantag crush Roum they’ll be at our gates.”

“You know that, I know that,” Hawthorne replied, “but for a lot of folks here, any offer of peace, even if but for six months or a year, with the boys back home, and the crushing work in the factories eased off … well that seems all right with them.

“Bugarin’s already floating around a plan to build a fortified line at Kev, claiming that even if the Bantag did betray the agreement, without having to worry about Roum or holding Tyre, we’d have more than enough to stop them.”

“They’re fools,” Hans cried, his anger ready to explode as he glared at Vincent.

“Yes, but remember I’ve been stuck back here since last year being your liaison, so don’t blame me for the bad news.”

Andrew could see that being cut out of the action was still wearing on Vincent but on the other side his exposure to all the administrative work as chief of staff was seasoning Hawthorne, training him for a day when, if they survived, he would take the mantle of control.

“You should go into the factories,” Vincent said. “I’m in there damn near every day now, trying to keep production up. They’re hellholes, old men, women, children as young as eight working twelve-hour shifts six days a week. Emil is pitching a fit, about conditions. Tuberculosis is up, and a lot of the women working in the factory making percussion caps are getting this strange sickness; Emil says it has something to do with mercury, the same as with hatters.

“There’s shortages of everything, especially since we’re feeding nearly a million Roum refugees who lost their land. A lot of folks are getting by on gruel and watery soup with a hint of meat dipped into it. The prosperity we saw building two years ago is completely out of balance now. A few folks, mostly old boyars and merchants are getting filthy rich on the war industries, but the ordinary workers are slipping behind.”

“So get Webster in, have them figure out some new kind of tax. Hell, he’s the financial wizard who figured it all out in the first place,” Andrew said, always at a loss when it came to the finances of running a war.

“He’s trying, Andrew, but these same people have the ears of Congress and block any changes in the taxes. We cobbled together an industrial war society. The Union could take it back home; we had two generations of change to get used to it. The Confederacy didn’t, and remember how they were falling apart. Well, it’s the same here. We’re producing the goods but barely hanging on, in fact it’s slipping apart. Rebuilding the railroads after last winter’s campaign, and the buildup for this last offensive meant too many other things were not done. Webster said it’s like pouring all the oil we have on only half the machine. Well, the other half, the installations, morale, political support, they’re all seizing up and falling apart.”

Andrew did not know how to reply. During the early spring, after his recovery from the wound, he had tried to understand just how complex it had all become, attending meetings with Webster that would go half the night. He’d demand more ironclads, locomotives, better breechloaders and flyers, and ammunition, always more ammunition, and Webster would repeat endlessly that it meant scrimping on something else equally important if they were to keep the machine of war running.

“You want to understand disenchantment with this war, go into the factories at two in the morning and you’ll see. There have even been rumors about strikes to protest the war and conditions.”

“It’s that or the slaughter pit,” Hans growled, cutting another piece of fruit and this time tossing it to Vincent.

“It’s been what, more than six years since this city was the front line,” Andrew said wearily. “We’ve taken well over a hundred thousand more casualties in this war. I can understand people back here grasping at any straw that’s offered.”

“In fact even the good news from the western front seems to be hurting us,” Vincent said.

“What’s that?”

“Sorry, I guess you didn’t hear. We got reliable intelligence that Tamuka was kicked out by what was left of the Merki Horde following him.”

“That bastard,” Hans growled. “I hope they made him a eunuch or better yet killed the scum.”

It was rare that Andrew heard a truly murderous tone in Hans’s voice, but it flared out now. It was Tamuka who first held Hans prisoner. He could see his friend actually trembling with pent-up rage at the mere mention of the name.

“What happened?” Andrew asked.

“You know that the skirmishing has died off on the western frontier. So much so that I’m recommending relieving a division posted out there and shifting it over to the eastern front. A couple of weeks back a small band of people came into our lines, refugees from what apparently are folks descended from Byzantine Greeks living to the southwest. They said that a umen of the Merki came to their town, killed most of them, but the survivors witnessed a big blowup, the bastards were killing each other and a one-handed Merki who was the leader was driven out of the band.”

“That’s got to be him,” Hans snarled. “Even his own kind hated him. And he wouldn’t have the guts to die with some honor rather than run.”

“The rest of them took off, riding west; the one hand, with maybe a score of followers, rode east.”

“I wonder where to?” Andrew mused.

“Straight to hell I hope,” Hans inteijected.

“Word got back here, and Bugarin said it shows that we will now have more than enough troops to defend ourselves.”

There was a long moment of silence, and yet again he was troubled by all the changes he and his men had created here. Industrialization was the only hope for survival in their war against the hordes, to stay ahead of them in technology and use that to offset their skill and numbers. But ever since the arrival of Ha’ark and Jurak, their hope for that edge was disappearing, and in many ways had clearly been lost in front of Capua. Though on his old world, America had embraced technology and what industrialization could provide, he knew there was a dark side to it, the teeming noisome hellholes around the factories, children laboring in smoky gloom, the mind-numbing dullness of a life of labor. He could balm his conscience with what the alternative was, but for most peasants what had happened in their lives?

Ten years ago they waited in dread for the arrival of the Tugars but resigned themselves to that fate, knowing that but one in ten went to the slaughter and then the Horde rode on and the cycle of life continued the dread of the return twenty years-a lifetime, away. Though he could not truly comprehend it, he could indeed see where some might say the old ways were preferable to what they had now.

Through the high window he could hear a stirring outside, distant shouting, and he froze for an instant, wondering if indeed there was already rioting in the streets over the defeat at Capua. He stared off, unsure of what to do next.

“Andrew, we have to end this war,” Vincent announced.

“You talking surrender, too, boy?” Hans asked, his voice icy.

“No, hell no,” Vincent replied. “But it’s my job to tell Andrew and you what is going on at the capital. Hell, I’d rather be at the front than here. I know what you two saw at Capua. The difference here is that since this campaign started no one in Rus, except for the soldiers, has seen a Bantag, except for those raiders around Kev. All they know is the hardship and shortages without seeing the enemy face-to-face. Those damn Chin ambassadors are talking sweet words, and some are listening, and then the rumors get spread out.”

“My people, are they working on the ambassadors?”

Andrew found it interesting how Hans referred to the three hundred Chin whom he had led out of captivity from Xi’an as “my people.” In a way they had become his own personal guard. There was even a Chin brigade now, made up of those who had escaped during the winter breakthrough into Ha’ark’s rear lines, and shortly they would go to the front. In a way they were Hans’s personal bodyguard, his status with them as liberator raising him to a godlike position in their eyes. It was his idea to make sure they were put in contact with the human ambassadors representing the Horde.

“I have their reports waiting for you,” Vincent said. “Sure, they admit that if they fail to return with a peace agreement their entire families will be sent to the slaughter pits. Some have even whispered it’s all a crock what they’re saying but none will do so publicly out of fear that word will get back to Jurak. But this Jurak is shrewd, damn shrewd. His last messenger said they would offer to stop the slaughter pits, the same as the Tugars did.”

“Damnable lie,” Hans cried. “I was there; I saw what they did.”

“The Tugars stopped,” Andrew said.

“We haven’t heard from them in years; they might very well be back at it,” Hans replied.

“I’m not sure. They learned our humanity-that changed it.”

“And you believe this Jurak?” Hans asked heatedly. “Of course not. He and I both know one clear point. This is a war of annihilation. After all that has happened, it is impossible for this world to contain both of us. Anything he offers is the convenience of the moment to buy breathing time, to split us apart.”

“I wish we did have a year’s breathing time,” Vincent interjected.

“It’d be a year’s breathing time for him, too, and never at the price of losing the Roum.”

“Andrew!”

Surprised he looked up to see Kathleen standing in the doorway, face red, breathing hard, as if she had been running.

“What’s wrong?” and for an instant he thought it was something with the children.

“You’re all right, thank God.”

“What?”

“Someone just tried to assassinate Kal!”

Andrew was out of his chair, followed by Hans and Vincent. He suddenly realized that the clamor outside the building had risen in volume, and with the door open, the shouting in the corridors was audible as well.

“Where is he? Is he all right?”

“In his quarters; Emil was sent for and I followed.” Furious that he hadn’t been told immediately Andrew pushed through the growing turmoil in the hallways, shoving his way past the crowd in the old audience chamber and back around to the rear of the building and the private apartments. Andrew caught a glimpse of Tanya, Kal’s daughter and Vincent’s wife. Crying she ran up to Vincent, who swept her up under his arm, shouting questions.

Andrew forced his way through the troops assigned as the presidential guard and into the bedroom. Emil looked up angrily from the side of the bed and for a moment Andrew froze at the sight of the black frock coat, covered with blood, lying crumpled on the floor, the battered stovepipe hat beside it, just above the brim an ugly blood-soaked gash cut along the side. Kal, eyes closed, features pale, was lying on the bed, the pillow beneath him stained with blood, his wife kneeling on the other side, crying hysterically, Casmir behind her, hands resting on her shoulders.

For a flash instant he remembered a nightmare dream of years ago in which he had seen his hero, Abraham Lincoln, in the same pose, dead from an assassin’s bullet.

“Out, all of you out!” Emil shouted.

Andrew did not move.

Emil rose from the side of the bed and came up to him.

“Please, Andrew, I need his wife out of here; if you go, she’ll follow with the others.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Emil said wearily. “Casmir said they were walking across the plaza when a shot was fired from atop the church. Thank God at the same instant someone called his name and he started to turn. The ball creased his head. He might have a fractured skull, I’m not sure, but I’ve seen worse who lived.”

“But he’s unconscious,” Vincent said nervously.

“Hell, you’d be, too, if someone cracked the side of your head like that. Like I said, I’m not sure if it’s fractured. I just want quiet in here, so please leave.”

Andrew nodded, withdrawing, motioning for Casmir to follow. The priest gently guided Tanya out with him, her cries echoing in the hallway, creating a dark tension that was ready to boil over as everyone was asking who and why.

Andrew caught the eye of the captain of the guard and motioned him over.

“Secure this building, Captain. Six guards on this door, then sweep the building, everyone outside, send them home or, if they live here, they’re to go to their rooms and stay. Send a messenger over to the barracks of the Thirty-Fifth, mobilize them out, secure a perimeter around this building and Congress.”

“There’s no need to surround Congress.”

It was Bugarin, features flushed with excitement. “Senator, as commander of the military I am responsible for security, and I ask you not to interfere.”

“And it sounds like it could be the start of a coup to me, Colonel.”

“Follow your orders, Captain,” Andrew snapped. “Report back to me within a half hour.”

“I said there is no need for this now.”

Andrew finally turned back to face Bugarin.

“I’ll be the judge of that, sir.”

“The culprit has already been caught.”

“What?”

“And hung by the crowd outside; it was a Roum soldier.”

“Merciful God,” Andrew whispered in English.

Though all urged him to launch the attack, still he refused, counseling calm, the gathering of strength before the final unleashing of the storm.

“As your own ancestor Vigarka once declared, ‘When the portal of victory appears open, gaze twice before entering.’ ”

Jurak saw several of the clan leaders nodding in agreement, chant singers who stood at the back of the golden yurt exchanging glances of pleasure that their new Qar Qarth could so easily quote from the great history of the ancestors.

“We know we have destroyed three of their umens,” and as he spoke, he pointed to the Corps commanders’ guidons hanging from the ceiling of the great yurt, shot-torn and stained regimental flags by the dozens clustered around them.

“That leaves but three on this front; surely our twenty-five umens can overwhelm that,” Cavgayya of the 3rd umen of the black horse replied.

“Yes, we can overwhelm that, but why spend so needlessly of our sacred blood. More than fifty thousand yurts mourn their sons and fathers from the war before the great city of the cattle. Though we won this battle, still another fifteen thousand mourn. Our seed is not limitless like that of the cattle; each of your lives is precious to me.”

Again he could see the nods of agreement. Ha’ark had been a profligate with the lives of the Bantag. It wasn t just the fifty thousand before Roum, it was another seventy thousand casualties to bring the army to Roum, nearly a third of their total strength of warriors lost. Yes, he suspected he could break through even this evening, but let it simmer just a bit longer, he reasoned. Keep the pressure on with raids, shows of strength. And most of all let the dozens of new ironclads, that even now were being sent to Xi’an and from there shipped across the Great Sea, come up to the front. Then he would launch the final push.

But perhaps that might not even be necessary, he thought with a smile. Their will is cracking.

“There shall be time to finish this war forever and with but a few more drops of blood compared to the buckets spent already.”