S.M. Stirling: Island in the Sea of Time

"Christ," she whispered. We can't run. They'd be all over us like flies on cowshit . And if they stood…

Even at a hundred yards' distance, the muzzles of the cannon looked big enough to swallow her head as the crews unhitched them and wheeled them around.

William Walker laughed, despite the nagging ache in his shoulder. "Oh, how surprised you must be, Skipper," he chuckled. "What a sad end to the day. How fucking tragic . Christ, this feels even better than I thought it would!"

He turned to his men, hand around the stock of the rifle, letting it fall across his shoulder. "We'll move off to the right, away from the ridge," he said. "When they break, we'll move in and take a new place for the guns. And get those fools ahead of us out of the way!"

The gun crews were busy, grunting with effort as they rammed the grapeshot down the barrels of the bronze fieldpieces. His men were drawing off to one side with him, except for the ones he'd sent forward to get the tribal levy out of the way-it was tempting to just fire anyway, but that would be really bad politics. He chuckled again at the thought.

It was never easy to get the Sun People fighting men to give way, but they'd all acquired a healthy superstitious dread of gunpowder weapons. A minute, and they were backing away from the American line; then they turned and ran, to get out of crossbow range as fast as they could. The Nantucketers didn't fire, although the growing mass of Fiernan archers and whatnot up on the slope to his left did. The retreating warriors halted behind the guns, panting and glaring. Walker called one of the chiefs over.

"Take some of your men and put them right behind the guns," he said. "Men not afraid to hear a loud noise and see their enemies slain. My crews will need help pushing them forward after each few lightning bolts. I and my sworn men will go there"-he pointed to the right-"to attack when the foe runs. When we do, your men will push the guns forward quickly."

That way they could move down the ridge in bounds, and it wouldn't take too many forward leaps before the whole Nantucketer-Fiernan army disintegrated; they were still at it hammer-and-tongs with the Sun People force attacking their front.

He walked over to where Ohotolarix waited. That put him nearly three hundred feet away from the guns, and to their side-a perfect vantage point. He laughed again as the Americans ahead went flat, and the linstock came down on the first cannon's touchhole.

BAMMMMMM . A long plume of off-white smoke, and the gun leaped back.

Screams up ahead, as shot tore into the backs of the prone Americans-fewer hit than if they'd been standing up, but enough, enough. The crew leaped to reload, the second gun waiting until they were halfway through.

"Lord," Ohotolarix said, tugging at his arm-the sound one, fortunately. "Lord, isn't that the fire-dropper?"

Walker's head came up. The ultralight . He snarled and unslung the flintlock, thumbing back the hammer, then cursed as his left arm wobbled a little. "You," he said to one of his men. "I'm going to brace this on your shoulder. Don't move, or I'll turn you over to Hong."

He smiled a little, to show that it was a joke… but the man went pale anyway. Control your breathing , he told himself. This thing's got good sights, and he probably can't hit anything with those bombs anyway - no real bombsight, he'll have to go by fast or I'll get him. God damn, I wish I had the Garand. Breathe in. Breathe out .

He waited. The arrow shape grew, coming in straight and level. Fool . He adjusted the Mauser-style sights and led it off, the way he would a flying duck. Squeeze gently …

Crack . The ultralight wobbled, nearly heeled over into the ridge.

Walker threw his hands into the task, reloading, pushing with his thumb until the wad went forward, slapping down the slide, cocking the hammer, and priming the pan. When he looked up he almost lost the target, because the aircraft hadn't pulled up into the shallow arc he'd anticipated.

"What's the crazy bastard-no, you idiot, pull up, pull up-"

Crack . He thought he'd hit this time too, but it didn't matter, the kamikaze fool was going to- What did I do to deserve this? Why's an American ready to do this to me, for Christ's sake ? he thought, helpless resentment paralyzing him for an instant. Then:

"Oh, Jesus, the ammo in the limbers with the cannon, there's better than a hundred rounds. Down, down, everybody down ."

He threw himself to the earth. It said much for the discipline he'd imposed that more than half obeyed without even pausing to think. Walker felt the earth rise and smash him in the face like an enemy's fist. When he rose, there was nothing left but a crater, and his dulled ears heard the screams of the survivors running or crawling away from its fringes.

"Lord, lord, what shall we do?" someone was asking.

William Walker drew himself up, climbing to his knees and then his feet, spitting blood and ignoring the ringing in his ears. A quick glance showed him the Americans and Fiernans were almost as stunned, but that wouldn't last. And Bastard… for a wonder, Bastard wasn't far away. He fumbled his canteen free and croaked:

"Get me the horse." He groped inside for the handset, and clicked it on.

"Walkerburg, come in. Come in, Walkerburg."

"Here, boss."

"Operation Bugout, Cuddy," Walker said into the microphone.

"Ah… roger, boss."

Walker grinned mirthlessly at the note he caught. "And remember, Cuddy-I'm the one who knows the rendezvous point."

"Sure, boss. See you on the road. Out."

Walker turned to his native followers: "I mean to leave this land and cross the water, seeking a new kingdom. Who among you comes with me?" he said harshly, his voice hoarse and throat sore.

The men before him were fewer, but they gave a low growl at his words.

"Lord, we are your handfast men," Ohotolarix said, a note of protest in his voice. "We have eaten from your board, taken weapons from your hands, our blood is sworn for yours. Lead us anywhere-even to the Cold Lands beyond the sunset and the grave."

"Right," he replied. Touching, you fools . "This battle is lost. Now those who would follow me, follow. We'll have to fight to do it."

Slowly, wearily, he began to climb aboard the horse. They just might make it off the field before the enemy caught them-Daurthunnicar was still there with the reserves, after all.

"Orders? Ma'am, orders?"

Marian Alston shook her head in wonder. "The poor brave bastard," she whispered.

"Orders, ma'am?"

That brought her back to herself. She looked northward; the surviving enemy were running as fast as their feet could take them. "North, and then we do to them what they were going to do to us. Runner! Notify Commander Rapczewicz that the enemy is broken on this flank and I'm swinging in on them. Commit the reserves-general advance, and pursuit when they break."

The Americans were climbing to their feet, gazing in an awe almost as great as their allies'. "Hard pounding, this," Alston murmured under her breath. A chilly feeling of purpose filled her. "We shall see who pounds the hardest."

"I thought… I thought vengeance would feel better," Swindapa said quietly, looking at the mound of dead. "But I just feel… like it's over."

Rain clouds scudded across the low plain, dimming it even more than the early-autumn twilight. The battle was breaking up into clumps of men who stumbled with fatigue, blundering into each other and hacking in a weary frenzy. Bands of the Earth Folk and their American allies pursued easterners. Some fled in blind panic, wailing; others stood shield to shield and retreated toward the woods to the southeast. The wounded screamed and moaned, calling for their friends; those farther gone toward the waiting darkness called for their mothers, whether they were Sun People, Fiernan, or Nantucketer. Thrashing around the wreckage of chariots, horses added their louder note to the agony that sounded across trampled stubble and muddy pasture. The chill air kept the smell down, a sickly sewer stink under the whetted wind.