Vincent said nothing. There was the flash memory of the charge, falling, falling away, seeing the flag bearer staggering past, all of it lost in smoke and fire.
“You were brave beyond the brave there, your honor.” Vincent, embarrassed, said nothing.
“Were you at Capua?” Vincent finally asked.
' “No, your honor. Well yes, but I was in the second regiment, the one that didn’t go in. Bless Saint Katrina for protecting me,” and as he spoke he grasped a small icon which dangled from a chain around his neck, and holding the image of the saint, he crossed himself three times. “And how do you feel about this?” Vincent asked.
“I go where ordered, your honor.”
“No. We’re in this together. How do you feel?”
“You Yankees.” Stanislaw chuckled. “Asking a peasant like me.”
“You are a citizen of the Republic,” Vincent said slowly. “You have a right to your opinion.”
Stanislaw smiled. “When this war is over, then I will be a citizen, but now I am a soldier who follows orders. That is what my nephew says.”
“You’re not happy with it?” Vincent pressed.
“Well, your honor. We seem to be driving around to nowhere. The Bantag, the Tugars, all the riders. They own the steppes. They are of the horse, we are not. I wish we could just let them have the steppes and they agree to leave us alone.”
“We know that can’t be,” Vincent replied.
“Yes, yes, I know. If wishes came true, mice would ride on cats.”
Stanislaw picked up Vincent’s empty tin cup, retreated through the open door of his ironclad. The encampment was now swarming with activity, the buzz of ten thousand men echoing, sergeants barking orders, snatches of conversation drifting; someone was even playing a fife, another an instrument that sounded hauntingly like a banjo. He was glad he had ordered that the march would start late, an hour after sunrise. It gave the men time to relax just a bit longer and have a solid breakfast before moving on.
Stanislaw came out a minute later with the cup refilled, carrying a second cup for himself and sat back down.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Vincent pressed while nodding his thanks for the refill and a second helping of bread and jam.
“Your honor, if we do make it to their rail line and from there to the Great Sea, then what?”
“Once there we set up a base for any ships that Hans and his men capture at Xi’an.”
“I heard the Horde riders have iron ships on that sea.”
“Yes.”
“Won’t the iron ships sink what we capture?”
“Maybe we’ll capture some of the iron ships at Xi’an.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We can still raise hell.”
“Suppose the Bantag bring up their own land ironclads to fight us. We shall have only what we carry with us.”
“It’s what we want,” Vincent replied. “If they bring their own ironclads in, we can fight them out in the open. We can have the battle to decide this. Defeat their ironclads, shatter their army here in the south, and keep their leader guessing, that is what we are doing. We want that fight, Stanislaw.”
“Then why do I feel like the mouse who is sent to pull the whiskers of the cat so that the old cat will chase him outside and then the others can eat. I wish right now I was one of the mice that was going to eat rather than the one that has to run.”
Vincent laughed.
“Back in Suzdal. Suppose they make peace. We heard the rumors of that, you know, just before we sailed. Poor Kal, we had many a drink we did in the old days, trading stories about our boyars.”
“We’ll win this fight before they can do anything that stupid.”
Stanislaw said nothing, then, looking beyond Vincent, he came to his feet and saluted.
Vincent looked over his shoulder and saw Gregory walking up the slope.
“Good morning, sir,” Gregory announced, coming to attention and saluting.
“Morning, Gregory. Everything in order?”
“All machines are warmed up except one. We’re going to have to leave it behind.” He nodded downslope to where a swarm of men were clustered around an ironclad, some of them arguing while others were lugging out shells. Several had torn open the hinges on the top turret and were starting to remove the steam Gatling gun.
“Cracked boiler, can’t be fixed out here. I’ve ordered it stripped.”
Vincent nodded. “Not bad so far, only two machines broken down.”
“That was yesterday. As we add up the leagues today, more will fail as I warned.”
“We’ll have enough when the time comes.”
Gregory said nothing for a moment, obviously disagreeing with Vincent’s assessment.
“Sir, my machines will be ready to roll in fifteen minutes. I think Third Corps is ready to move as well.”
Vincent smiled. He was being gently chided for taking the extra few minutes to talk with Stanislaw.
“Fine. Pass the word-fifteen minutes.”
Gregory saluted and started back down the slope to where his machine was parked.
“Ah, my nephew, such an officer.”
“That’s your nephew?”
“Couldn’t you tell?” Stanislaw laughed. “Someone had to come along to keep an eye on him.”
Vincent finished his cup of tea while Stanislaw disappeared back into his ironclad, shouting orders to the crew to get ready. Exhaust from the kerosene burners plumed from the smokestack, the safety valves for the steam lines popped several times, venting. The engine was hot and ready. A courier came up informing Vincent that the corps was formed. Looking round from his high vantage point, he saw the regiments forming into their loose block formations. Cavalry was already ranging outward in a vast circle a mile across, a few pops of carbine fire forward marking where a minor altercation was going on between outriders of the Horde and the advance pickets. Teams were hitched to the wagons, caissons, and limbers. Bugle calls signaled the call to form ranks, and drummers began to pick up the beat.
Vincent emptied the rest of his cup and climbed through the hatch into the already stifling heat of the lower deck of the ironclad. Slipping around the boiler and its attending fireman, he moved behind the gunner and assistant gunner, who, in the informality aboard ironclads, nodded their greetings since there was little room for anyone to snap to attention.
Stanislaw looked up from his driver’s seat and smiled, Vincent noticing a fresh bunch of wild prairie flowers bunched up and dangling by a string from the bulkhead, the brilliant reds and blues adding a gentle touch.
Going up the ladder into the upper turret, he squeezed past the breech of his steam Gatling gun, popped open the upper hatch, climbed half-out, and sat on the rim. Gregory, who was already in position, caught Vincent’s eye, and Vincent raised a clenched fist, pointing it forward.
A bugler, riding mounted beside Vincent’s machine, sounded the advance. The machine beneath him lurched, great iron wheels churning up clods of dirt and crushed grass as they started down the hill, moving to the fore, passing through the lines of infantry. Fording the shallow stream, they started up the next slope, moving past a lone cavalry trooper coming back, clutching a wounded arm, but still looking game, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
Vincent looked back, watching him ride through the blocks of infantry toward the medical wagons marked with their big green circles. The ten thousand men of the corps were all on the march, regimental columns deployed in a vast hole-square formation, rifle barrels catching the reflected glint of the morning sun so that the army looked as if fire was dancing across the ranks.
“Rows of burnished steel,” the words of the “Battle Hymn” came to him.
There are still moments, he realized, still moments when one can again glimpse the chimera dream of glory.
He didn’t even look back as he rode through the gate. Forgetting himself for an instant, for old habits die hard, he snapped off a salute to the guards standing to either side who had come to attention.