He drew his watch and opened the cover. "Synchronize, please. It's 1900 at. . mark." There was a subdued clicking as stems were pressed home. "Two and a half hours to full dark. Colonel Dinnalsyn, move your guns out now. All battalions will be on their way by 19:30. I expect the artillery preparation to begin at 20:15 and the troops to go in at 20:30. It's only a kilometer and the Scouts have the paths clearly marked, so despite the night march that's plenty of time. Questions?"
There were only one or two, technical matters. The plan was simple-startlingly simple. It's the strategy on this one that's complicated, he thought.
"Then it's all settled bar the fighting. May the Spirit of Man be with us, Messers."
"It is," someone said softly. "The Sword of the Spirit of Man."
Embarrassed, Raj cleared his throat and nodded curtly. The Companions slapped fists in a pyramid of arms and moved away. Junior officers moved in to study the sand table for a few moments, then returned to their units.
Raj walked down the shoreline; it was hard here, rocks lacing the clay of the bank. The barges and rafts were beached as high as human muscle and dogs dragging at the ends of lariats could move them. They weren't planning to go any farther on the water. Many of the men were preparing escalade ladders: simple balks from the rafts, with crosspieces nailed along them, a spike at the top to hold the pole against the sloping surface of an earth berm, and cross-braces at the bottom to keep it from turning. Not very heavy-they hadn't far to go. One standard part of Civil Government training was carrying logs cross-country, units competing against each other-it taught teamwork on a very practical level.
The rest of the men were waiting, some double-timing or stretching under the direction of their platoon officers, getting out the kinks and stiffness of the long crowded voyage. Raj stopped now and then, calling a man by name or slapping a shoulder.
"Ensign Minatelli," he said to one very junior officer. The man's under-strength platoon was twisting their torsos with their rifles held over their heads.
"Sir," the young westerner said, bracing to attention. The men froze. He saluted with a snap.
"No names, no pack drill," Raj said easily. Serious, but that's all to the good, he thought appraisingly. Lower middle-class, not a social grouping you found many of in the Army and certainly not in the officer corps, but that was less of a disadvantage in the infantry.
"Ready for your first engagement at commissioned rank?" he said.
"Lot more to worry about, sir," the young man blurted. His sincerity was transparent.
Raj nodded. "The mental comfort level goes down as the rank goes up," he said. "If you take your work to heart. Carry on, son."
He walked on, to where detachments of the 5th were snapping the bridles of their dogs to a picket line. The cavalry troopers straightened, but they didn't come to attention; there was profound respect in their stance, but no formality.
"Bwenya Dai, dog-brothers," Raj said.
He smoothed a hand over the neck of one bitch-dog; it turned and snuffled at him, then licked its chops, satisfied at the scent of Army that marked ultimate pack-boundaries to a military dog.
"Nice beast," he said sincerely. Descotter farmbred, about a thousand pounds, lean and agile-looking but with powerful shoulders and chest. "Fifteen hands?"
"Ah, the best, that Pochita is, ser," the corporal said. "Frum m'own kin's ranchero. Fifteen one, seven years old."
"Robbi M'Telgez," Raj said. "Southern edge of Smythe Parish, yeoman-tenants to Squire Fidalgo? Near Seven Skull Spring?"
"Yesser." M'Telgez visibly expanded a little. " 'Tis true we're attackin' t' wog supply base, ser?"
Raj nodded. "A little stroll in the cool evening, and then we collect everything but Ali's underwear. The wogs may not like us helping ourselves, though."
The troopers grinned; catching the scent, the tethered dogs behind them showed their teeth in a distinctly similar expression.
"Carry on," he repeated.
Suzette was waiting beside Harbie and Horace. Seven thousand dogs would take up an intolerable amount of space in the strait confines of the badlands-that was why the operation was going in on foot-but he and his senior officers needed the extra mobility. Raj swung into the saddle and watched the last of the artillery moving out, teams disappearing into the canyon southward. Dust smoked up behind them, but not too much. Later in the summer it would have been a kilometer-high plume. Another reason to send the men in on foot and by widely separated paths.
"This is it, isn't it?" Suzette asked softly.
Raj nodded. "If it works, it's all over bar the shouting. If not. ." He shrugged. "Well, we won't have to worry about that."
"And if it works, there's Barholm. Raj, he'll kill you the minute he doesn't need you any more."
Raj laughed, full and rich. "My sweet, at the moment that is the last thing on Bellevue I'm worrying about." I'm not worrying about anything. The operation was underway, and now all he had to do was deal with the unexpected; think on his feet and use his wits. He felt loose and easy, mind and body working together at maximum efficiency.
His face went blank. "Anyway, I'll have left some accomplishments behind, something that was worth doing."
Suzette touched his elbow; they'd reined a little aside from the bannermen and messengers. "Raj, speaking of things left behind. . there's something you should know, just in case."
* * *
The boatman shivered. He was naked save for his loincloth and covered in soot mixed with tallow, the smell of the grease heavy about him. Ahead the little galley stroked its oars again, then came alongside. He could just see it in the growing dusk, the water lighter where the oars curled it into foam. Their careful stroke went shush. . shush. . through the night.
The Army officer lit the slowmatch and gave him a salute before vaulting over to the galley. It turned and stroked rapidly back upstream. He knelt on a burlap sack folded on the rough timbers of the raft and took the steering oar. It twisted in his hands, the familiar living buck of the Drangosh, the substance of all his days. He'd never steered a cargo like this before, though. The whole surface of the raft was covered with kegs of gunpowder, lumpy under the dark tarpaulin that covered them, outline broken by palm-fronds and branches. Iron hooks and spikes stood out all around the square vessel, anchored in the main balks.
The current was fast here in midstream, the banks just lines in the darkness to left and right. Somebody had to steer, though; otherwise the raft might swirl in towards the banks. He worked the oar carefully, never letting the end break free of the water. From a distance, in the dark, the raft would look like just another piece of river trash caught in the current. The fuse hissed.
There. Lights on the east bank, to his left. The wog camp. A scattering to his right: the ruins of Gurnyca. He bared his teeth. He'd had kin there, before the press-gang enlisted him in the Army. That was why he'd volunteered for this-though the thousand gold FedCreds and the land and the tax exemption for him and his family didn't hurt. But you had to live to enjoy those; revenge was a dish you could eat in advance.
And that Messer Raj. The priest is right. The Spirit was with him, you could see it in his eyes. For the Spirit, all men were the tools of Mankind.
A string of lights across the water: sentinel-lanterns along the wog pontoon bridge. Much bigger barges than the ones they'd used to build their own bridge up at Sandoral, with real prows and neat planking. The torches were oil-soaked bundles of rag on the ends of long sticks of ironwood, fastened to the railing of the roadway every fifteen meters or so. He crouched lower, tasting sour bile at the back of his mouth. There was a sheathed knife through the back of his loincloth, but that was for himself if he looked like being captured.