William Forstchen - Men of War

The Bantag rider turned and disappeared, leaving the standard behind.

Gregory came to his side, and Vincent turned to face him.

“I hope this was worth it,” Gregory whispered.

Vincent’s gaze swept the wreckage, the tangled mounds of dead. All he could do was lower his head and cry.

“Pat!”

“It’s started?”

Instantly, he was awake, sitting up in his cot. All day long he had been anticipating the attack. Praying in fact that it would come, come before someone finally got through from the west with the orders to stand down or he finally made the suicidal gesture and attacked instead. Rumors had been floating through the army ever since Pat had dropped the telegraph lines and all trains from the west had ceased to arrive.

Only that morning Schneid had come back up to the front, personally bearing a report that rioting had erupted in Suzdal and Roum.

Rick stood in the doorway of the bunker, the sky behind him glowing with the colors of sunset.

“Where are they hitting?” Pat cried, stumbling up from the steps and out onto the battlement.

He was stunned by the silence. There were no guns firing, not even the usual scattering of shots between snipers. Then he heard it, a strange distant keening.

He stepped up onto a firing step and cautiously peered over. He saw though that men were now standing up, some atop the earthworks, fully exposed, and not a shot was coming from the other side.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I’m damned if I know. It started an hour or so ago. This weird chanting. I thought they were getting themselves built up for the assault. I figured to let you sleep as long as possible, though, and waited. Well, this chanting kept on going and going and then about five minutes ago I saw the damnedest thing.”

He suddenly pointed across the river.

“There, another one!”

Pat looked, not sure for a moment what he was seeing. It was darker on the far shore, and then he saw where Rick was pointing. Two Bantag were standing, fully exposed. They were holding something. It was a mortar … and they flung it over the side of their fort and down into the mud of the riverbank. And then, without any ceremony they turned and simply walked away.

All along the riverbank he could now see them, not just a few, but hundreds upon hundreds, climbing up out of the trenches, still chanting, then walking off into the darkness.

Suddenly a flare ignited on the far shore and in the flickering light he saw a mounted Bantag, war helmet off, white mane catching the light. The Bantag was holding the flare and Pat looked at him mesmerized.

He felt a strange stirring within, as if this one could somehow reach into his soul and touch his heart. There was no hatred, only an infinite sadness.

“It’s over,” a voice seemed to whisper inside.

By the light of the flare he saw a rider moving down into the river, holding a white flag aloft, in his other hand waving what appeared to be a piece of paper.

“Send someone down to get that,” Pat shouted.

The rider reached midstream and waited, and a minute later a mounted artilleryman galloped into the shallow river, approached the messenger, and took the paper.

At the same instant the flare was thrown heavenward. He traced its flight as it bisected the Great Wheel, which even then was rising in the east. It fell into the water, and all was darkness.

Pat, unable to speak, simply looked over at Rick and smiled, though in his heart he sensed, at that same moment, that something was lost forever as well.

Andrew Lawrence Keane, his wife riding beside him, rode into the Great Square of the city. The entire populace was out cheering his arrival, chanting his name, but he ignored the tribute.

He saw Father Casmir standing on the steps of the White House, and as Andrew reined in his mount, Casmir made the gesture of taking off his skullcap and offering the traditional Rus bow, right hand sweeping to the ground.

Andrew smiled and dismounted. He started to raise his hand in a formal salute, then remembered he was no longer in the army and instead he simply held it out. Casmir took it.

“Welcome home, Colonel Keane.”

Andrew did not know what to say. The courier, a young priest, had arrived at his retreat, a country house on the edge of the Great Forest, near the old Tugar Ford, only that morning. Breathless, he had announced that Father Casmir insisted that he return to the city immediately.

All Andrew’s questioning would not budge the youth, who insisted he was sworn to a vow of silence. The only news he would divulge was that Kal had emerged from his coma and asked for him as well.

Leaving the children under the protection of several young men from the 35th who had gone with him into exile, he rode south, back to the city along the old ford road, Kathleen insisting that she come along, too. The ride with the silent priest and Kathleen was a flood of memories … the battles around the Tugar Ford, the first skirmish in the woods against a raid by boyars, the ambush of the Tugar column just north of the city. As they cleared the lower pass he was stunned to see thousands outside the gates, lining the road.

There had been no cheering, only an awed and respectful silence. As he passed, all offered the old traditional bow of the Rus, bent at the waist, right hand sweeping to the ground. He wanted to ask but sensed all had been told to wait, to let Casmir explain.

He looked into the eyes of the Metropolitan of the Rus.

“I will never forget the night that I, a young priest, ran barefoot through the snow to where you and your men were camped below this city,” Casmir began, his voice echoing across the plaza, and Andrew realized that this was all part of some elaborate ceremony.

“I knew you Yankees were voting that night whether to stay and fight the Tugars or to take ship and leave and seek safety. I came bearing the news that we, the people of Suzdal, had rebelled against the boyars and wished to fight the Tugars as well.

“Colonel Keane, you could have turned your back upon me at that moment. You could have left, but you decided to stay and to fight for our freedom.

“Those men that were with you that night,” and his voice faltered, “how few now remain.”

Casmir paused, and Andrew saw the emotions and felt a knot in his own throat.

“You did not leave us, Andrew Keane. It was we who left you.”

Andrew wanted to say something, embarrassed. He felt the touch of Kathleen’s hand on his shoulder, stilling him.

“We left you. You tried to teach us that though you fought to give us freedom, we ourselves must have the strength to defend it. When you rode out of the city, alone, we finally learned that.

“My friend, I now beg you. Pick up your sword again. Take command of the armies. Be Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane once more.”

As he spoke the last words the chanting resumed, “Keane, Keane, Keane.”

Stunned, Andrew was unable to respond for a moment.

“What about Bugarin, the vote for an armistice?” Kathleen asked.

“Those buggers. We loaded them onto a ferry across the river. They’re packing it on the road west of here,” Emil announced, coming down the steps to join them.

At the sight of him Andrew brightened, reached out, and grasped his hand.

“It started down at the factories,” Emil continued. “Oh this priest might deny it, but his monks were organizing it. By yesterday evening the entire city was on strike. They cut the telegraph lines repeatedly, blockaded the Capitol and the White House. The poor damned Chin representatives didn’t dare set foot outside for fear of getting torn apart.”

“They didn’t overthrow the government, did they?” Andrew asked.

Emil smiled.

“Let’s call it vox populi. Some of the senators got a bit roughed up, maybe a couple of them were told that if they voted the wrong way, they might not get reelected because they wouldn’t live long enough to make reelection. But the people of Suzdal made it clear they would fight to the end rather than go down, and communicated that real clear to the Roum as well.”