He nudged the flanks of his mount, a Bantag warhorse, the saddle far too big, the animal as exhausted as he was, and therefore docile. They slowly weaved their way through the wreckage of the rail yard east of the city. A string of boxcars still burned fiercely, thick oily smoke tumbling skyward, the air heavy with the smell of burning meat. Bantag rations. He preferred to think that it was salted beef, taken from the bisonlike herds that roamed the steppes in this part of the world, or even salted horse. The idea that they might actually slaughter humans, salt them down, and package them the same way his own army prepared rations was too horrid to contemplate.
The wind shifted, the black cloud enveloping him for a moment, and he gagged on the smell. He nudged his mount again, cleared the smoke, and reined in for a moment. A knot of Chin were gathered around a shed by the side of the track. They were shouting, cursing. He drew closer. Three Bantag had been cornered inside, all of them wounded. They were dying slowly under the kicks and blows.
Hans spotted one of his own men, a Chin in uniform, and roared at him to finish the wounded off. The soldier saluted, drew his revolver, and pushed his way through the crowd. Hans rode on, barely noticing the crack of the pistol behind him.
Discarded equipment littered the rail yard, broken rifles, an upended box of cartridges, an overturned caisson, shells lying on the ground, a fieldpiece on its side, a stack of saddles smoldering, bundles of arrows, smashed-open barrels leaking oil, kerosene, flour, what even smelled like the rice wine of the Chin, and everywhere bodies, Bantag and human. All of it was illuminated by the lurid red glare of the city burning, a glow so bright he could have easily read one of Gates’s papers, reminding him of the night Fredericksburg burned just prior to the assault.
The troops he had brought in were hard at work. Each man was now in charge of a unit of ten, sheperding them along, organizing details to pick up discarded equipment that might be useful, a group of them on their hands and knees picking up cartridges spilled from an ammunition box. One sergeant, a survivor of the escape from the factory prison the year before, had his men broken into two-man teams. One man was supposed to stand stock-still while the second man rested the barrel of a Bantag rifle on his shoulder, aimed, and shot. It looked ludicrous but the damn idea actually worked, enabling the diminutive and emaciated Chin actually to use the enemy weapons. They gleefully fired away, sniping at a scattering of Bantag who still lingered on the far side of the rail yard.
If he had the time there was enough captured artillery here to field several batteries, but the thought was absurd. They might get one or two shots off, but anything beyond point-blank range was hopeless. Down deep he knew the entire idea was next to hopeless. It was one thing to come swooping in as they did, trigger a rebellion, and overwhelm the local garrison. If they ever had to face a disciplined umen of Bantag warriors, it would be a massacre.
The trick was to keep moving, to roll them up before they had time to react. He had to keep moving in spite of his exhaustion.
He rode around a line of half a dozen flatcars on a siding A couple of hundred Chin were piled on board, half of them armed with the precious revolvers carried in on the airships, others simply carrying makeshift spears, poles with a knife strapped to the end. As he rode past the engine he recognized one of his comrades, yet another survivor of the prison.
“Ready to go back?” Hans asked.
The old man flashed a grin.
“I know this machine. Remember ride to there.” He gestured off to the south, where half a dozen miles away they had holed up after the escape. “I run it good.”
Hans leaned up, shook the man’s hand, and rode on.
Four trains were lined up, four engines pulling a total of thirty flatcars and boxcars, all of them crammed with over fifteen hundred Chin. The vast majority knew damn little of what they were doing. A day ago they were slaves, knowing that they’d live only as long as they could work. Now they were loaded aboard trains heading east, straight into the heart of the Bantag realm. If they had any sense about it at all, they undoubtedly knew they were going to die. He could see the fear and resignation with many, torn away from a numbed life, but a life nevertheless. A few were afire with the desire for revenge, clutching the pistols given out, holding them up as Hans passed, making him nervous. Several men had already been killed by accident.
Reaching the forward engine, he returned the salute of Seetu, one of Ketswana’s men, who overnight had been promoted from sergeant to commander of an expedition. “Ready?” Hans asked.
Seetu nodded eagerly.
“All the engines are fired up. A couple of these Chin worked the rail line, so they know how to run the engines and what’s ahead.”
“Remember. Until it’s full light, take it slow. If anyone up there’s thinking, they’ll have broken the track. At each junction or station you pass, make sure you cut the telegraph line. Round up any Chin you meet; if you capture any more trains, take them along.”
“We’ll go all the way to Huan.”
Hans said nothing.
“This is gonna be the hard part, Seetu. I want you to get as far forward as you can. But remember, they might cut you off from behind once you pass. If you can get thirty or forty miles up that track and start tearing things up, it’ll buy a couple of days for the men here to get organized.” Seetu said nothing.
“Son, I won’t lie. There isn’t much hope you’ll get through this one. They’ll most likely lay a trap, let you pass, cut the rail ahead and behind, then box you in and finish you. Try and spot that, stop, then slowly pull back, tearing up track, burning bridges as you go. If they do trap you,” he hesitated, “well, take as many of the bastards with you as you can and smash everything up good and proper.”
“I was dead anyhow a year ago,” Seetu replied. “Every day you gave me since is extra gift from the gods. Hans, I’m not stopping. Expect to see me in Huan tomorrow.” Hans leaned up and shook his hand.
He rode on. Strange how we all feel that way, he thought. You come back from the grave and after that, well it’s a gift. Hans turned his mount back and slowly trotted out of the rail yard, weaving his way past a skirmish line of Chin moving through the still-burning ruins of a Bantag encampment of wooden barracks.
So they were even giving up their yurts. Strange, the vast circular buildings were wooden replicas of their tents. Yet another changing over to human ways. The Chin were little better than a swarming mob, led by half a dozen of his soldiers, who were desperately shouting orders, trying to create some semblance of organization.
It was the shock of the air assault, the riot of the tens of thousands in Xi’an, that had won this fight, Hans realized. Sheer numbers had dragged the Bantag down. He wondered how many were still lurking out beyond the city and the surrounding warehouses and encampments.
As if in answer to his question a rifle ball slapped past. There were shouts ahead, a flurry of pistol shots. He rode on.
Reaching the base of the eastern wall, he gingerly rode around mounds of Bantag killed trying to retake the city. A damned stupid assault. They should have just sat back, waited for reinforcements, then shelled the place until the defenders panicked. Stupid arrogance to attack like that.
Riding along the wall, he reached the northern side of the city. In the glare of the inferno the airfield was clearly silhouetted. The machines were lined up, engines turning over. Jack, spotting his approach, slowly walked up.