Men of War (24 page)

“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.”

H
ans had told him he would enjoy it, and he was right. He had never liked horses all that much. An officer was expected to ride, and so he did, but trying to keep a comfortable seat aboard a monster the size of a Clydesdale was impossible, especially after the wound to his hip.