Men of War (16 page)

“I did,” she hesitated, “calculations. I think it is possible to do, but the chances? It is win all or lose all.”

Andrew stood up and went over to her side, the others gathering around him. He stood silent, scanning the map, then the plan written out, and finally the calculations. It was the details of the plan Vincent had forwarded to him just prior to the assault. He looked over at Vincent; there was the slightest flicker of a smile tracing the corners of his mouth.

“Impossible,” Webster announced sharply, breaking the silence.

Andrew looked over at Hans and saw the eyes of his comrade shining brightly, and he felt a stab of fear, knowing what it undoubtedly meant.

“I rejected this idea out of hand less than a week ago,” he finally announced.

“That was a week ago,” Varinna replied. “Today is today, the day after a defeat. Just minutes ago I heard you admit that we shall lose the war. If we are to lose the war, then this plan should go forward.”

“Why?” Emil asked, leaning over the table to study the lines on the map. “I think anyone who goes on this, particularly the airship operation is doomed to die.”

“Because it won’t matter then,” she announced smoothly. “The men who go would die anyhow if they stay home. If they go and die, and lose, then it is the same. If they go, and die, but change the path of the war to victory, then it is a sacrifice that is worth it.”

Andrew marveled at her cold precise logic, which cut straight to the heart of the matter.

As if from a great distance he could hear the grandfather clock chiming the hour—it was midnight.

All waited for him to speak. He was torn. He so desperately wanted to grab this, to cling to it, to see it bring them to a change in fate. Yet he feared it as well and all that it suggested and held, especially for Hans.

“This is what I’ve dreamed of all along. I say go,” Hans finally said, breaking the silence. Andrew turned, looking into his eyes again.

Andrew finally nodded.

“We do it. Start preparations at once.”

* * *

Who was it? Kal stirred uncomfortably, the pain was numbing but he had known worse, losing an arm, the beatings old Boyar Ivor, might his soul burn in hell, had administered.

Yet who did it?

He opened his eyes. His wife, sitting at the foot of the bed, roused from her sleep and started to get out of the chair. Her features were pale, heavy cheeks looking.pasty in the candlelight.

He motioned for her to sit back down, but she was already at the side of the bed.

“Water, my husband?” she whispered.

He started to shake his head, but the pain was too much.

“No, nothing.”

“I made some broth, beef, your favorite.”

“No, please.”

He looked around the room.

“Emil?”

“He left. Said I was to fetch him if you wanted.”

“Where?”

“He’s at the colonel’s home.”

“Ah, I see.”

He knew she would not relent with her attentions until she could do something, so he finally let her pull the blankets up, even though the night was so hot. He remained quiet, staring at the candle as she finally settled back into her chair and picked up her knitting which had fallen to the floor when she had dozed off.

Why would Emil be at Andrew’s? Were they planning something?

Not Andrew. Never Andrew. In the beginning he could have so easily become boyar himself. No one would have objected, least of all me, he reasoned. I was just peasant, he was already officer, like a noble and he was the liberator. Instead he propped me up, trained me, made me the president.

But was that so I could always follow what he desired. Bugarin said as much, that a Yankee could never rule for long, so he had chosen a dumb peasant to be his shield. He wondered on that thought for a moment. There was a certain wisdom to it, for in the end never did I go against what Andrew desired; therefore, in a way he did rule without all the bother of it.

“Not Andrew,” he whispered.

She stirred, ready to get up again and he allowed his eyes to flutter shut. She settled back down in her chair.

Bugarin? Logical. Blame it on Flavius. I’m dead, Flavius is killed by the mob, Bugarin becomes president and then boyar again. So guard against Bugarin. But it just might have been Flavius after all. Yet if I had died, we would not have lived an hour in the city of Suzdal.

Who then?

I have lost Congress. Bugarin has the votes of those who want an end to it. The Roum congressmen are in terror, lost with the news of Marcus’s death. If I continue the war as Andrew wants, then they will block it, splitting the Republic. If I try to stop it, what will Andrew do?

An inch to the right Emil said. But one inch, and I would not have to worry about this. I would be standing before Perm and his glorious son Kesus, all cares forgotten. Yet Tanya would still be here, the grandchildren, their half-mad father Vincent.

Ah, now there is a thought. Vincent is the warhawk. Could he be the mask behind the mask?
Andrew would never do it, but Vincent was capable. If Bugarin tried a coup, Andrew would block it but might fall as well. Then it would be Vincent.

No. What was it Emil called it? A word for too much fear. But it was troubling, and he could not go to sleep.

* * *

The fact that he had asked for the meeting had caught him by surprise. Walking into the main hall of the Capitol Building he stopped, looking to his right toward his own chambers. The building was empty except for the lone military guard posted under the open rotunda. It had been started in the year before the start of the Bantag War. Though Keane insisted that construction must go forward in spite of the war, the less than half-completed dome was now covered with canvas.

He turned to his left and walked into the meeting chamber of the House of Representatives. Often he had heard the shouted debates coming from this room, and he found it distasteful, a rowdy mix of foreigners and lowborn peasants. At least the fifteen members of the Senate were, except for one or two, of the proper blood, even those from Roum, in spite of their being cursed pagans.

“Senator Bugarin. Thank you for coming.”

The chair behind the desk turned and the diminutive Flavius was staring at him. He was lean and wiry, a mere servant in the house of Marcus and now the Speaker.

Though he loathed the type, Bugarin could sense that Flavius was a soldier’s soldier, one whom the veterans who predominated in Congress could trust whether they were of Rus or Roum. And since the pagans were the majority, of course their man would control this half of Congress.

Bugarin said nothing. He simply approached the chair, waiting for this one to rise in front of a better. Flavius, as if sensing the game, waited, and then slowly stood, favoring his right leg, giving a bare nod of the head in acknowledgment of the man who controlled the other half of the legislators.

“I’ll come straight to the issue,” Flavius said in Rus, his accent atrocious to Bugarin’s ears. “We both know that poor soldier who was murdered today had nothing to do with the assassination attempt.”

“How do you know?” Bugarin asked politely.

Flavius extended his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “We might disagree on a great many things, but to assassinate the president. Never.”

“Are you saying he acted alone then?”

“You know precisely what I am saying. The boy was innocent. He should have been standing in these chambers receiving a medal rather than being hung by a Rus mob.”

“So you are saying we murdered him?”

“Damn you,” Flavius muttered in Latin, but Bugarin could sense what was said and bristled.

“The Republic is dying; we can still save it,” Flavius continued, gaining control of his temper.

“Republic? It is already dead,” Bugarin snapped. “It died when your soldiers ran at Capua, unable even to retake their own territory.”

“I had a brother with Eleventh Corps,” Flavius announced coldly. “If he is dead, he died fighting, not running. I’ve been a soldier most of my life, and I know my people. They are as good in battle as those from Rus. I wish I could strangle with my own hands whoever started these rumors, these lies about my people.”

“Understandable you would react that way.”

Flavius stopped for a moment, not sure of what to say next.

“If that is all you wish to discuss?” Bugarin asked haughtily.

“No, of course not.”

“Then out with it. It’s late, and I have other concerns.”

“Will you pull Rus out of the war?”

“My position is well-known.”

“And that is?”

“The war is unwinnable now. We must seek a way out.”

“And that means selling Roum to the Bantag?”

“Are you not contemplating the same deal with Jurak?” Flavius said nothing for a moment.

“You have spies as do I. I know that Marcus, before his death, was secretly meeting with the ambassadors before they were forwarded to the Senate. And remember, Flavius, the issues of war and peace rest with the Senate. The great colonel designed it that way, did he not?”

“There is nothing more to be said,” Flavius replied coldly.

Bugarin smiled.

“It was a feeble attempt,” Bugarin ventured just as he was starting to turn to leave.

“What?” And there was a cold note of challenge in Flavius’s voice.

“Just that. Too bad you missed.”

As Bugarin turned the sound of a dagger being drawn hissed in the assembly hall. Bugarin turned, dagger drawn as well.

“Come on you lowborn bastard,” Bugarin snarled. “Spill blood here and show what a lie this place is.”

Flavius was as still as statue, dagger poised low. Finally, he relaxed, letting the blade slip back into its sheath.

“Yes, it’s true I know not who my father is. My bastardy is of birth, not of behavior.”

Bugarin tensed, ready to spring, but knew that before he even crossed the few feet that separated them the old veteran would have his blade back out and buried to the hilt. Forcing a smile, Bugarin stepped back several feet.

“It will be settled soon enough. I think the question is now, who will betray whom first.”

“As I assumed, Senator,” Flavius said with a smile.

A
ndrew slowed as they rode past the station, reining in his horse for a moment to let the long string of ambulances pass. The hospital trains had been coming in throughout the night, more than three thousand men over the last week, and with each casualty unloaded a new story was blurted out about the disaster at Capua.

In the predawn darkness he knew no one would recognize him. In the past he would have stopped to talk with the wounded as they were off-loaded, offer encouragement, but not this morning. On this of all mornings there were other things to be done before the sun rose.

Hans, riding beside him, bit off a chew and passed the plug over to Andrew, who nodded his thanks and took a bite of the bitter tobacco.

They rode in silence. Hans, slumped comfortably in the saddle, carbine cradled in one arm. Andrew looked over at him, wondering, wanting to say so much but not sure how to say it.

“Hans?”

“Yes?”

He sounded so relaxed.

“Are you afraid?” Andrew whispered.

Hans smiled.

“A slave doesn’t have the luxury to be afraid. Remember, I was a slave, and then I was freed, at least in body. I wonder if this is how Lazarus felt, having seen what was beyond and then returning.”

He shook his head, as if the dark thoughts of the years of imprisonment weighed him down.

“Every day I’ve had since has been a gift. Now it’s time to pay for the gift.”

“I wish it was different.”

“I know, son. It’s all right, though,” Hans said soothingly. “You were the one that had to make the decision to do this and now bear the responsibility for our lives. This might very well be the hardest command decision you’ve ever made.”

Andrew nodded.

“Once we take off, the commotion will certainly be noticed. and you’ll have to tell Congress. If we lose”—and he chuckled—“well, there goes the last hope I guess.” Andrew didn’t want to think of that alternative yet. It would mean every single airship and ironclad was gone. Without them, Jurak would slice through the Capua line like a hot knife through butter. As it stood now, if he second-guessed what was truly up, he might do it anyhow.

“Damn tough decision,” Hans said, “and here you were worried if you’d lost your nerve.”

“Just before we went in at Capua, I lied to you, Hans.”

Hans chuckled and spat. “You mean about willingly sacrificing me if it meant victory.”

“Yes, I’ve sacrificed too many. I still think I should go on this one, not you.”

“Can you speak Chin?” Hans asked. “How about the Bantag slave dialect, or even Bantag for that matter?” Andrew sighed and shook his head.

“Well that kind of settles it, doesn’t it?”

“I know.”

“Andrew. Sometimes it’s the staying behind and doing nothing that’s the hardest thing of all.”

They stopped as a diminutive switching engine, one of the old 4-4-0 models wheezed past them, pushing a flatcar loaded with two freshly made ten-pound breechloaders. “I’ve been thinking on that, too,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“The doing nothing.”

Hans chuckled. “Actually, my friend, given my choice, I’m glad I’m going rather than staying here and dealing with this snake pit of politics.”

Andrew could not help but smile as they urged their mounts forward after the train passed.

Once clear of the yard they rode up through the rows of roughly made brick homes that housed the thousands of workers who labored down in the valley of the Vina River.

Past one of the burial mounds of the Tugars they continued their climb up the hill, Hans stopping for a moment to watch the inferno of steam and smoke cascading up from the foundry as a new batch of molten iron was released from its cauldron.

“It’s almost beautiful,” Hans exclaimed, pointing to the towering clouds of smoke caught and illuminated by the first light of early dawn. Andrew found himself in agreement. It made him think of the school of artists back on the old world, who worshiped the beauty of nature and painted the scenery of the Hudson River valley.