Men of War

Chapter Eight

“Hans, time we got moving.”

It was Ketswana, his towering bulk filling the doorframe. First light was tracing the horizon, dawn still more than an hour off. Engines were already warming up on the airstrip, distant voices echoing.

“Come on, Vincent, let’s roll.”

The boy was fast asleep, curled up on the coat, his oversize riding boots still on, making him look even more like a child who had insisted upon falling asleep in his play uniform. Vincent stirred, and then was bolt upright, a brief instant of panic until he realized where he was. Hans said nothing, understanding. Old instincts from the field. “Everything all right?” Vincent asked a bit too loudly.

“Just that it’s time.”

“Right.”

Ketswana came back into the room carrying a wooden plank. Two steaming tins of tea were on it, along with pieces of hardtack topped off with slabs of cold salt pork. Hans blew on the rim of the cup between gulps of the scalding brew, then quickly consumed the cold breakfast.

Vincent was up, eating a bit more slowly. Gregory Timokin came in.

“Everything’s ready, sir,” he announced to Vincent. “We better get up to the front.”

Vincent nodded and started for the door, taking his cup of tea with him. He stopped by Hans’s side.

“Not much at sentimental good-byes, Hans.”

“Nor I.”

Vincent chuckled. “Sure, Hans. See you in a week.”

“You too, son. Gregory, don’t let him bang his head.” Gregory smiled and offered Hans his hand. Hans took it gently, and even then Gregory grimaced from the pain.

“Wish you were coming along, too. It’d be like the Ebro all over again,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Once was enough,” Hans lied. “Besides, I like flying."

Vincent started out the door, then stopped.

“Save a little glory for me, will you?” he asked light-heartedly.

Hans laughed softly.

“And for God’s sake please come back.” And now there was a note of concern in his voice. Before Hans could reply, he was gone.

“Everyone seems to think we’re going to get killed, my friend,” Hans said to Ketswana.

“Not us, we’re immortal. As long as I’m with you, you’re safe.”

Finishing his tea, Hans left the cup in the hut, stepped outside to relieve himself, then started for the flight line. More and yet more engines were turning over, warming up. Crews were loading into the cargo compartments, and Ketswana mentioned that nine men, after the flight over from Suzdal, absolutely refused to get back in. Volunteers from the ground crews had replaced them.

All around them was a bustle of activity. They passed several Hornets revving up their engines, a crew chief shouting obscenities in Rus. A wagon clattered past, again the smell of kerosene. With a thousand men working as ground crews, most of them pressed into service and only given a couple of days training, it was a near miracle, Hans realized, that the entire place hadn’t exploded with some darn fool having smuggled in a box of matches for a smoke, or from the accidental discharge of a gun.

They passed an Eagle, the ten Chin gathered in front of it, squatting around a bucket of steaming grits and a smaller bucket of tea. They didn’t even notice their commander passing, and continued to chatter in their singsong voices. A ground crew trotted past, carrying coils of ropes, and then several boys darted around Hans, lugging skins filled with water to be loaded on board a ship.

“The training pays off here,” Hans said. “There was part of me thought Varinna mad to think it could be pulled off, but here it is. Men, equipment, fuel, food, ammunition, all of it coming together in this place.”

“They know it’s this or defeat,” Ketswana replied. “We know as well that this is something special, a new thing, something we will always remember.”

It was hard to sort out which flier was which in the darkness, and finally they had to grab one of the ground crews to guide them to Jack’s ship. As they approached the aero-steamer, Hans was glad to see that Gates’s Illustrated had finally been put to a good use, enough copies had indeed been found to paper over the front and sides of the cargo compartments to block out the wind.

Ketswana started for the crew compartment under Jack’s ship.

“I thought you were on number thirty-nine,” Jack observed.

“Didn’t like the pilot.”

“Suppose something happens to me,” Hans interjected. “You’re to take over, remember?”

Ketswana laughed.

“And suppose something happened to me on the other ship. Where would you be? No, I stay with you, my friend.”

Hans wanted to argue but he could see Jack standing by the ladder to the forward compartment, arms folded, grinning.

“Kinda logical actually,” Jack announced. “I’ll get you in. Besides, the boys know what to do; the company commanders are all briefed.”

“All right, go on, get in,” Hans said, and Ketswana gave a final wave before ducking under the airship and climbing aboard.

“How is everything?” Hans asked.

“One more machine down. Engine caught fire about an hour ago when they started it up, and part of the wing burned. This takeoff in the dark, a bit tricky.”

“I know. It’s a balance. Would have preferred to come in at dawn, but that meant night flying, and most of these boys would have gotten lost or wound up in Cartha or back in Suzdal. We’ve got to get down with enough daylight to get the job done.”

“Then we better get moving.”

Jack climbed the ladder first and a moment later one of the ground crew, who had been sitting in the forward cab watching while the engines ran on idle, scrambled down the ladder. Hans ascended into the cab and climbed into the copilot’s seat, suddenly aware again of the lingering stench from the previous day’s bout with airsickness. He wondered if there was something perverse about pilots, and they took a secret delight in the smell. For a moment he was worried that his stomach would rebel, leaving him without a breakfast. Opening the side window he stuck his head out and took a gulp of air.

“Let’s hope everyone’s on his toes,” Jack shouted. “I taxi out first, then each airship down the line follows. We circle out to sea and form up, then head out from there.” Opening up both speaking tubes, he blew into them. “Topside. Bottom side, hang on, we’re heading out.” Hans caught some moans and a burst of laughter from below. Ketswana actually was enjoying himself. Any chance to get into battle, in a land ironclad, aerosteamer, if need be crawling through a cesspool, it didn’t matter to him, as long as he could kill Bantag.

Jack took hold of the throttles, edging them up until all four engines were howling. Finally, the ship lurched forward.

“We’re heavy, damn heavy, and no wind to help us lift off.”

He spun the wheel, closing the hot-air-bag vent atop the center air bag. They reached the center of the landing strip, following a ground crewman holding a white flag aloft, which stood out like a pale shimmer in the early-morning light. Hans felt as if somehow the machine was beginning to feel lighter, and he mentioned it to Jack.

“The center bag, depending on outside temperature, provides several hundred pounds of lift. Hell, I’ll make an airman of you yet. You seem to have the feel for it. Starboard throttles idle, keep port side at full.”

Hans put his hands on the throttles, Jack quickly guiding him, then letting go as he turned the wheel for the rudder. With ground crew helping, the airship slowly pivoted and lined up on a faint glimmer of light, three lanterns at the end of the field marking the takeoff path. The crew chief held his flag aloft, twirled it overhead, and let it drop while running to the port side to get out of the way.

“Here goes, full throttles, not too fast now … that’s it.” Hans fed the fuel in, the caloric engines slowly speeding up. They held still for what seemed an eternity, then started forward again. The takeoff seemed longer than the day before, the ship slowly lurching and bouncing, bobbing up once, settling, then finally clawing into the air. The three lanterns whisked by underneath, Jack holding the ship low to gain speed, the hot exhaust going into the center air bag, heating it up even more, lift increasing. He banked gently to starboard, and in the darkness Hans sensed more than felt the ocean open out beneath them. Jack continued his slow climbing turn, the top gunner reporting a second, third, and fourth ship lining up behind them. As they spiraled upward Hans wondered how anyone could see where the other ships were, but as they completed one full circle and the eastern horizon came back around he saw several airships clearly silhouetted against the red-purple horizon.

The air was gloriously still, reminding Hans of the sensation of sliding with skates on the first black ice of winter when he was a boy. They went through another circle and another, the ships spiraling up like hawks, slowly climbing on a summer thermal, soaring into the dark heavens.

The vast world spread out below them, faint wisps of ground fog now showing dark gray, the second of the two moons slipping below the western horizon, to the east the sky getting brighter. Each turn took them farther out to sea, the coast receding, part of the plan in case watchful eyes on the ground had somehow reestablished communications during the night.

“Losing another one,” Jack announced, breaking the silence, and he pointed to where a ship, streaming smoke from one of its engines, was breaking away, heading straight back to the airfield.

Two Hornets came up, climbing far more steeply than the Eagles, soaring upward, their escort but also a signal that the last of the Eagles was off the ground.

“Any count?” Jack asked, calling up to the top gunner, whom Hans truly pitied, stuck atop a flammable bag of hydrogen in an exposed Gatling mount. It was also his job to crawl around atop the bag and plug any holes shot through it in a fight. No silk umbrellas had been issued to the crews for this flight-the weight considerations had ruled it out-but even with such a device for jumping the top gunner rarely made it, since as soon as a ship caught on fire the heavy weight of the gun plunged the man straight down into the burning bag.

“Hard to count. I figure at least thirty ships are up, sir.”

“Well try and get me the right number,” Jack snapped. “Damn. If we only got thirty up, we’ll be slaughtered.” Jack sighed, looking over at Hans.

“We go with what we got even if it’s only one at this point,” Hans replied absently, straining to catch a glimpse of the ground east of Tyre. Dawn was just breaking down there; Vincent would most likely be kicking off his move. Hans thought he could catch glimpses of smoke, a flash of light.

They continued through their final turn, the aerosteamer coming out of its gentle banking climb. Jack leveled them off, commenting that they were up over three thousand feet and climbing. The air was noticeably cooler, still calm and smooth. There was a glimpse of an airship several hundred feet lower, passing directly beneath them, the gunner looking up and waving. Jack lined up the compass on a southeasterly heading, pulled the elevator back slightly higher, pitching the nose upward. Tyre was now off the port side, a dozen miles away, impossible for Hans to see in his starboard seat.

“We level out at nine thousand, should be able to catch the current coming out of the west. That’ll help us along a bit. Now remember, Hans, this is all from memory. I’ve only been there twice, so the charts aren’t good.”

“I trust you.”

“You’ve got to; there’s no one else.”

The climb continued and gradually, through the glass view port between their feet, down in the position of the forward Gatling mount, Hans spotted the coast as they headed back to shore.

“Take the wheel, hold it steady for me on this heading,” Jack ordered. “Watch the compass, but also line up on some feature on the horizon. Also you can use the sun, but remember it keeps shifting, so don’t follow it around.” Hans tentatively put his hands on the wheel.

“That’s it, just hold it steady. Let me ease back a bit on the throttles-we need to conserve fuel.”

The steady thump of the engines, the vibrations running through the ship, changed pitch, and though still loud, the change was a blessed relief. Still, there was the sensation of gliding on ice. The beautiful light of the dawning sun suddenly exploded across the horizon, flooding the cabin with a deep golden glow.

With the plane’s nose pitched high, he felt as if he were climbing to the heavens and was filled with a deep abiding peace. The moment was worth holding on to and savoring. He looked sideways, Jack had settled back in his chair, eyes half-closed, and his hands were off the controls, arms folded across his chest. There was a momentary fear, and Jack smiled.

' “Hans, actually it’s not all that hard. Just keep the heading, as we clear through nine thousand feet, the mercury in that gauge in the middle will tell you when, ease the nose down slightly. That’s a while off, just relax and hold course.” And he closed his eyes.

He felt suddenly as if he was alone in the ship, a joyous sensation, piloting it through the upper reaches of the sky. What waited ahead was forgotten for the moment, all of it washed away … and he was content.

“Andrew.”

The dream had been of long before, of Mary. Long before her betrayal, long before all the pain when it had all been so innocent, so fresh and alive, walking hand in hand along the shore. Even in the dream he had been cognizant of the fact that he had one day found Mary with another man while he was still in Maine, that Kathleen was the center of his life now, but still there was such a pleasure in seeing his first true love again in spite of all the pain she had given him. Kathleen’s gentle touch stirred him from the memory, and he felt a pang of guilt as he looked up into her worried eyes, as if afraid she could somehow sense what he had been dreaming.

“What time is it?” he whispered.

“Just before dawn.”

He heard a distant rattle of musketry and was instantly awake.

“What is it?”

“I was at the hospital in the church when it started, and came back here. I don’t know.”

Even as she helped him to get his trousers and jacket on he heard the hard clatter of hooves on the cobblestone pavement below his window, a rider reining in, the horse blowing hard, the messenger shouting to the guards at his door. He looked out the window and saw one of his staff, a young Roum lieutenant, another one of old Marcus’s innumerable “nephews,” leaping from the saddle and running up the steps of the front porch, to pound on the door below.

From the next room one of the twins stirred, crying softly, and Kathleen looked to Andrew. He nodded, and she left as he stepped out into the dim hallway and went down the stairs. He could see the shadow of the messenger beyond the glass panes of the door and called for him to enter. The boy came in, stiffly snapped to attention, and saluted, speaking so rapidly in Latin that Andrew had to motion for him to slow down.

“Sir. There’s gunfire in the Congress halls. It’s reported that the Speaker is dead and Bugarin has declared himself to be acting president.”

Andrew sighed wearily, leaning against the wall. Poor Flavius. Most likely went to meet Bugarin alone and died for it, he thought.

“Andrew!”

Emil came through the door, breathing hard.

“Andrew, they’ve taken the White House!”

“What? I was just there.” He paused, trying to remember. He had sat up with Kal till after midnight. The president was still drifting in and out of consciousness but apparently on the mend. But that was four hours ago.

“Well it was just stormed by some of the old boyars,” Emil gasped. “Bugarin’s proclaiming that he is president.”

“If Flavius is dead, then he is,” Andrew said quietly, staring off, eyes no longer focused on the messenger or Emil.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Just that. The Constitution places Bugarin fourth in line of succession. The president is still incapacitated. Flavius wanted to avoid the crisis but not be declared acting president. Bugarin wants it, and with Flavius dead he has it.”

“And you’ll let him take it?”

Andrew said nothing.

“Andrew, at this very moment, that bastard’s most likely proclaiming an armistice, passing the order for the armies to stand down.”

“I know.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Do? My God, Emil, what the hell have I been doing here for the last ten years? We didn’t want to be here. We didn’t want to get dragged into this war. Damn near all the men of our lost regiment have died in this godforsaken hellhole.”

He turned away and backed up to the staircase. “Kathleen, get the children up.”

“Why, Andrew?”

“We’re getting them out of here for the moment.”

He looked back at the young Roum staff officer.

“Get down to the office of Gates’s Weekly. Find Gates, let them know what’s happening, round up some men if you can to hold that position, and don’t let anyone you don’t know into this part of the city.”

He looked up to the top of the stairs where Kathleen was standing, ushering the children out of the bedroom.

“Take the children over to the armory of the Thirty-fifth. They’ll be safer there.”

“Where are you going?”

He reached over to the stand by the door and, taking his sword, clumsily snapped it on, reluctantly allowing Emil to help.

“I’m going to the White House.”

“Why, for God’s sake? Bugarin will kill you.”

Andrew shook his head.

“No. There’s too many old veterans still with him to allow that. We’re going to have a talk.”

“What?”

He paused, looking into his office, where framed over his desk were his two most prized possessions, his commissioning papers as colonel of volunteers, signed by Lincoln, and his Medal of Honor won at Gettysburg, presented by Lincoln as well. Going over to the display case he tore it open, taking out the medal, holding it reverently in his hands for a moment before clumsily pinning it on and heading out the door.

Several more men had come on horse, others were gathering in the town square that looked so strangely like a small piece of New England transported to this alien world.

One of his orderlies, as if reading Andrew’s mind, was leading Mercury out from the stable behind the house. Andrew mounted, Mercury moving easily beneath him, two old companions who had been together for over a decade. Word was spreading rapidly, and from the clapboard houses lining the square he could see the last few of his old companions who were in Suzdal coming out, Webster fumbling to button a uniform that was far too tight among them. From the northeast corner of the square a small detachment came into view, moving at the double … they were boys, cadets serving in the 35th Maine, which was now a training regiment, the West Point of the Republic, the boys too young to be pressed into action at the front. One of them proudly carried the regimental standard. Emil came up by Andrew’s side, having taken a horse from one of the couriers.

“Going to the White House now is madness, Andrew. If Bugarin has indeed seized the government, he’ll kill you on sight.”

Andrew felt a building rage.

Webster came running up, breathing hard.

“Is Kal all right?”

“We’re not sure,” Emil replied.

“Damn all, Andrew, this has gone too far. Seize control of the government now. The men will follow you!”

He delivered the last words with a rhetorical flourish that echoed across the plaza, and a cheer went up in response.

Andrew reined Mercury around hard, his steely gaze silencing the group. Turning, he headed toward the southeast corner of the square, saying nothing as Emil urged his Clydesdale-sized mount up beside him.

As Andrew rounded the corner onto the main street to the great plaza and the White House beyond, he saw that the street was already filling. He rode past the boarded-up theater, a tattered post hanging from the side billboard announcing a performance of King Lear. It caught his attention for a moment, the strangeness of watching Shakespeare performed in Russian on this alien world. The Roum soldiers stationed in Suzdal had been fascinated by Julius Caesar, since the real Caesar was from a time on Earth long after their ancestors had been swept to this world. He remembered as well a final night just before the start of the Merki War and the performance of Henry V.

He rode past, following the broad open boulevard flanked on both sides by ornately carved log buildings three and four stories high, the few older ones that had survived the fires and wars still adorned with gargoylelike images of Tugars. The crowd moved uneasily as he passed; there were no cheers today. Nor was there anger … rather it seemed to be an exhaustion of spirit and soul. It was easy to spot veterans, for nearly everyone was very old, very young, or female, veterans standing out as men on crutches or with empty sleeves. Those that could came to attention and saluted as he passed, but he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Are you going to fight them?” Emil finally asked, and Andrew said nothing.

“The men are with you. You know that?” Emil nodded behind them. He didn’t need to turn; he could hear the steady tramping of the cadets, the voice of Webster shouting out orders, urging even the veterans by the side of the road to fall in and “support their colonel.”

They passed the office of Gates’s Illustrated Weekly. The publisher was in the street, mounted, waiting, apprentices, printers, the rest of his staff pouring out, some of them carrying rifles or pistols. Gates fell in on Andrew’s flank.

“I thought the press was supposed to be neutral,” Andrew quipped. “What ever happened to the pen being mightier than the sword?”

“Like hell we’re neutral,” the publisher snapped angrily. “He has some senators with him, all of them armed.”

“Any troops?”

“No organized units. But there are some men, a few old boyars and former men-at-arms mostly. I knew we should have killed all of them after that last rebellion.”

“What happened?” Andrew asked.

“Flavius is dead. I know that for a fact; one of my reporters was in the building when it happened. Bugarin didn’t do it, though, at least not by his own hand. Again, it was like the shot at Kal. We don’t know. But once it happened Bugarin rounded up some followers and made straight for the White House. Apparently a few shots were fired there.”

“Kal?”

“No idea. But word is Bugarin dragged in one of the justices and Casmir.”

“So he’s getting himself sworn in,” Emil replied. “If he’s president, we’ve got to fight them, Andrew.”

“I realize that,” Andrew said quietly.

Sometimes the hardest thing was to do nothing, Hans had told him, and he smiled at the thought.

The great central plaza of the city of Suzdal was directly ahead, already filling with the citizens of the city. As he rode to the edge of the square a buzzing hum rose up from the crowd. Behind him Andrew heard Webster shouting for the company of cadets to move forward at the double and clear a path.

Andrew reined in sharply, then turned Mercury sideways. He looked back down the street and saw that several hundred men were now with him. Behind them a crowd was pressing up the street to watch the drama.

Drama, so much history and drama in this square, he thought. The first time we marched in. The day the envoy of the Tugars arrived. The charge against the boyars’ army and then the stand against the Tugars in their final assault. Grand moments, too, the victory parades, the first reading of the Constitution I penned myself, its public ratification and the declaration of the Republic and the inauguration of President Kalenka.

Now this.

He held his hand up, motioning for Webster to stop.

“I want this formation to halt and ground arms,” Andrew said. He spoke softly but firmly.

Webster looked up at him, confused.

“Mr. Webster, you are secretary of the treasury and no longer a soldier of rank with the Thirty-fifth, but I expect you to obey my orders nevertheless. Halt and stand at ease.”

Webster still did not react.

“William. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

Reluctantly Webster turned and shouted the order. There was a tense moment, several of the men shouting their refusal, but the order was finally carried out. He caught a glimpse of Kathleen in the crowd and forced a smile to try and calm her fears.

“Mr. Gates, you might as well come along as a member of the fourth estate. Emil, well I just want you along as well. Once you get the chance, go inside to check on Kal.”

He saw the colors of the 35th Maine hanging limp in the still morning air. A gentle nudge with his heels, and Mercury edged forward to the head of the column, where the color-bearer stood. The boy came to rigid attention at Andrew’s approach. He looked down and smiled at him.

“Son. do you know the responsibility you have?”

“Yes sir, the souls of the men who died beneath these colors”-he nodded up at the blood-soaked folds-“they float about us now. Their spirits live in the flag.”

The answer caught Andrew off guard and he stiffened. Of course the boy would believe that, he was from Roum. Two thousand years ago their soldiers believed their dead gathered about the standard of the legion.

Was Johnnie now here, Ferguson, Mina, Malady, Whatley, and Kindred, so many others?

Slowly he raised his right hand, eyes focused on the flag, his mind filled with all that it represented. He saluted the colors.

Quickly, before the men could see the emotion that was about to flood out, he turned Mercury about with a nudge of his heels and a whispered command, picked the reins up, and quickly urged the horse to a slow canter. Emil fell in behind him, the doctor cursing under his breath since he hated to ride.

The crowd gathered in the great plaza parted at Andrew’s approach; he could hear his name echoing across the square. As he passed they closed in behind him, surging forward toward the White House.

It was really nothing more than an oversize log structure, typical of ancient Rus, window shutters painted with gay designs, wildly fantastic ornamentation adorning the corners and steeply pitched tile roof. At Kal’s insistence the entire thing had been whitewashed, since after all that was the house a president lived in, a house painted white.

He wondered if poor Kal was still alive in there. His old friend, his first real friend on this world, had changed so much in the last year. It was almost as if a dementia, an exhaustion, had broken him. He at times wondered if Kal had simply been too gentle, too filled with compassion to be a president. Every single death at the front told on him. Barely a day went by when he was not in the cathedral at noonday, attending yet another memorial service for the boy of a friend, an old drinking comrade, or simply because he felt that a president should be there when someone mourned a life given for the Republic.

Andrew remembered how shocked he had been the last time he saw Lincoln, face deeply etched, eyes dark and sunken. When Lincoln noticed the empty sleeve, just a quick sidelong glance, then looked back into his eyes, he felt as if the president was filled with a fatherly desire and prayer that Andrew would be spared from any more agony in service to his country. That was Kal, even more so, and all the man wanted now was for the killing to stop.

And there was the paradox of war, that there were times that in order to save lives the killing must go on.

He reined in by the steps of the executive mansion. A cordon of troops ringed the last few steps into the building, the crowd nervously edging up on the lower level. Emil suddenly blocked his view, swinging his mount in front of Andrew'.

“Doctor, just what the hell are you doing?” Andrew whispered.

“Damn all, Andrew, there could be a sniper in any of those windows up there.”

“I know that, Doctor; now kindly move. The last thing I want at this moment is to see you get hurt.”

Emil reluctantly drew his mount around beside Andrew, but he continued to look up at the building, squinting.

Andrew was motionless, and the seconds dragged out.

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“Just waiting,” Andrew snapped, his tone making it clear that he didn’t want to talk.

The crowd was pressing around him, an old woman tugged at his leg, he looked down, she spoke too rapidly in Rus for him to understand, her voice drowned out by the rising clamor of the anxious crowd.

Finally, a captain came out the front door, leaving it open, stepped through the cordon of guards, walked down the steps, smartly snapped to attention, and saluted. Andrew recognized him as the officer in charge of Kal’s personal guard.

“Colonel, sir?”

“Good morning. Captain.”

The soldier looked up at him, obviously a bit confused. “Captain, President Kalenka, how is he?”

“Sir, he is still alive. I have placed a double detachment of guards at his door, two officers in his room armed as well.”

“And they’re good men?”

“Sir, I picked them,” the captain announced, hurt by the implication.

Andrew stared at the young officer, gauging him, then nodded.

“And his condition?”

The captain drew closer, coming up to Andrew’s side, the crowd drawing back slightly.

“Not good I’m afraid, sir; the fever’s coming back, his wife says.”

“Damn all,” Emil mumbled.

Andrew nodded, lifted his gaze, staring again at the building.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Sir, is there anything else?”

“Has Bugarin been sworn in as acting president?”

“Yes sir. Sir, I was ordered by one of his people to remove the guard from President Kalenka and place them around the room Bugarin is in.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes sir, I most certainly did.”

“As colonel in command of the army, I am giving you a personal order, Captain. You are to guard Kalenka with your life.”

“I would do it anyhow, sir.”

“No matter what orders you receive afterward my order to you right now comes first. President Kalenka is to be protected at all cost.”

“I will die before anyone harms him, sir,” the young captain replied fiercely.

“Good, son. Now please go inside and announce to Mr. Bugarin and Metropolitan Casmir that I request to see them, out here.”

This order he announced with raised voice, the command echoing out over the crowd. The square grew hushed.

The captain saluted, hurried inside, and long minutes passed. Finally he returned, alone.

“Colonel Keane, Mr.,” and he hesitated for a second, “Acting President Bugarin says that you are to report to him inside.”

Andrew stiffened.

“As commander of the army I request a public meeting, here in front of the citizens of Suzdal, and tell him I will wait here all damn day if necessary.”

The captain scurried back, and Andrew pitied him, caught between two fires.

“Andrew, are you going to do what I think you’re doing?”

Andrew looked over at Emil and smiled.

The bell in the church tower tolled, marking the passage of time, and finally someone appeared in the door. It was Metropolitan Casmir. He turned, looking back into the White House, obviously shouting something that was unintelligible, then turned and strode down the steps, black robes billowing. He stopped several steps above Andrew, raised his staff, and looked out at the crowd, then made the sign of blessing. Instantly there was silence, everyone going to their knees, blessing themselves. Remaining mounted, Andrew was at eye level with him.

“Has Bugarin been sworn in as acting president?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, Andrew.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “It was your own Constitution that forced me to do it. Kal, I’m not sure if he will survive. Marcus is dead, Flavius is dead. Bugarin is next in line. The Constitution requires it; I had to bless the ceremony.”

Andrew knew instantly from his tone that Casmir loathed what he had to do.

“Since you are the chief justice, I request that you initiate an investigation into the attempted assassination of the president and the assassination of the Speaker. I doubt seriously if the executive branch will do so. I doubt as well if you could muster the votes in the Senate to remove Bugarin.”

“I will do everything I can, both as a justice and as a priest.”

There was a stir in the crowd. Casmir looked back over his shoulder. Half a dozen guards were in the doorway.

“I told Bugarin I would denounce him as a coward if he didn’t come out to meet you,” Casmir whispered.

Andrew could not help but chuckle.

“Are you going to overthrow him?” Casmir asked, and Andrew sensed the conflict in his friend’s voice.

He said nothing, watching intently as Bugarin appeared in the doorway, strangely wearing the stovepipe hat of Kal, which to this world had become the ceremonial symbol of the president. The guards, all of them older senators, came down the steps, Bugarin in the middle of the group.

They stopped behind Casmir.

Andrew stared at him intently. There was a defiance, but he could sense the fear as well. Was this the man who could engineer not just the assassination of the Speaker but the attempt on the president as well? Did he believe so passionately that the war must end that he would kill, or was he just a pawn as well?

Regardless of what Andrew suspected about how Bugarin had come to power, he was at least for this moment the president of the Republic.

With deliberate slowness Andrew raised his hand and saluted. A hushed whisper ran through the crowd. It was an acknowledgment, they all knew that. He could sense the tension easing out of Bugarin, but there was still a wariness. He heard a mumbled curse; it was Emil who remained defiant, unable to bring himself to salute.

“I wish to see President Kalenka now,” Emil announced, addressing his statement to Casmir and emphasizing the word president.

“I’ll see to it, Emil,” the prelate replied, “and you are under my personal protection.”

Emil looked over at Andrew.

“Just a second,” Andrew whispered.

“For what? To see you kiss his bloody boot?”

Andrew ignored his friend’s defiance.

“May I inquire of the acting president if there are any orders for the army in regards to operations both offensive and defensive.”

He said the words slowly, deliberately, so that all could hear.

“All offensive operations are to cease. I am asking for a cease-fire immediately. We will end this senseless war.”

Again the ripple of voices erupted in the square. This was the moment. The crowd was confused. There was a ripple of cheers, but it lacked depth and enthusiasm. He could hear the rustling of arms back across the square, a muffled order, most likely Webster telling the men there to get ready.

“Sir, if you are ordering me to have the army stand down, I cannot obey that order.”

There was an expectant hush.

Andrew slowly reached down to his side, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. One of the senators started to raise a pistol, cocking it. Casmir turned to face the senators, shouting for them to remain still.

Andrew carefully drew out his sword, a ceremonial blade given to him by Kal and the Congress in recognition of their victory over the Tugars. He made it a point of now saluting with the blade, hilt drawn up before his face, blade vertical, but as he did so he looked up toward the flag gently fluttering atop the White House.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself for what would come next.

Quickly he inverted the blade in his grasp, fumbling slightly with his one hand since he was nervous.

With hilt pointed toward Bugarin he tossed the sword onto the steps so that it clattered by Casmir’s feet.

“I hereby resign my commission with the Army of the Republic,” he cried, voice carrying to the farthest corners of the plaza. “I retire to private life and shall leave this city and the Republic.”

The crowd fell as silent as the grave. Bugarin looked at him startled, unable to react.

Andrew took a deep breath; to his surprise, he felt as if a horrible burden had been lifted.

He half turned his horse away from Bugarin. In his mind the man simply no longer existed.

Andrew looked at the crowd, the upturned faces.

“I gave ten years to this country,” he shouted, his voice echoing. “We came to this world, more than five hundred of us. Over four hundred of them are dead, dying to give you freedom. In those ten years of service and sacrifice, I have learned something.”

He waited a moment, the crowd in the square as silent as the tomb.

“You cannot give freedom to anyone. Each man, each woman must earn it themselves, and then guard it from others who would take it away. Guard it from the hordes, guard it from those who would bow again to the hordes.” As he said the last words, he nodded toward the White House.

He looked straight back at Bugarin.

“I am now a private citizen and as a private citizen I say this to you. I expect the health of our beloved President Kalenka to be guarded at all cost. If he should die, for whatever reason, you will have to answer to me personally.”

Bugarin blanched at the direct threat but said nothing. With a deliberate show of contempt, Andrew turned his back without waiting for a reply and again faced the crowd.

“To those who were my friends, who fought for freedom, I thank you. As for the rest.” He hesitated remembering Davy Crockett’s famous farewell statement. “Well, I pity you, for if you surrender, you will surely die. Farewell.”

With head held high he started to ride back toward his home and felt a lightness within he had not known in years. He had done his duty, he had wrestled with the desire to take it all, an act he knew he could have done. He had not stained himself, and he had not destroyed the Republic. If the Republic was doomed to die, it would be other hands that destroyed his dream and not his own. By doing nothing more at this moment he felt that he had performed one of the most important duties of his career.

As he passed the spell around him broke, voices erupting, some shouting for him to stay, others calling to fight, others shouting that the war was over. Gates, riding by his side, looked at him, gape-mouthed.

“What about the war?” Gates finally asked.

Andrew smiled.

“They have three days down in Tyre before word can ever get to them. It’s beyond my control now.”

“God protect Hans and Vincent.” Gates sighed.

“Yes,” Andrew replied, lowering his head. “God protect us all.”

“Where are you going?”

“North; I’ll leave the city tomorrow.”