“There, another one!”
Pat looked, not sure for a moment what he was seeing. It was darker on the far shore, and then he saw where Rick was pointing. Two Bantag were standing, fully exposed. They were holding something. It was a mortar … and they flung it over the side of their fort and down into the mud of the riverbank. And then, without any ceremony they turned and simply walked away.
All along the riverbank he could now see them, not just a few, but hundreds upon hundreds, climbing up out of the trenches, still chanting, then walking off into the darkness.
Suddenly a flare ignited on the far shore and in the flickering light he saw a mounted Bantag, war helmet off, white mane catching the light. The Bantag was holding the flare and Pat looked at him mesmerized.
He felt a strange stirring within, as if this one could somehow reach into his soul and touch his heart. There was no hatred, only an infinite sadness.
“It’s over,” a voice seemed to whisper inside.
By the light of the flare he saw a rider moving down into the river, holding a white flag aloft, in his other hand waving what appeared to be a piece of paper.
“Send someone down to get that,” Pat shouted.
The rider reached midstream and waited, and a minute later a mounted artilleryman galloped into the shallow river, approached the messenger, and took the paper.
At the same instant the flare was thrown heavenward. He traced its flight as it bisected the Great Wheel, which even then was rising in the east. It fell into the water, and all was darkness.
Pat, unable to speak, simply looked over at Rick and smiled, though in his heart he sensed, at that same moment, that something was lost forever as well.
Andrew Lawrence Keane, his wife riding beside him, rode into the Great Square of the city. The entire populace was out cheering his arrival, chanting his name, but he ignored the tribute.
He saw Father Casmir standing on the steps of the White House, and as Andrew reined in his mount, Casmir made the gesture of taking off his skullcap and offering the traditional Rus bow, right hand sweeping to the ground.
Andrew smiled and dismounted. He started to raise his hand in a formal salute, then remembered he was no longer in the army and instead he simply held it out. Casmir took it.
“Welcome home, Colonel Keane.”
Andrew did not know what to say. The courier, a young priest, had arrived at his retreat, a country house on the edge of the Great Forest, near the old Tugar Ford, only that morning. Breathless, he had announced that Father Casmir insisted that he return to the city immediately.
All Andrew’s questioning would not budge the youth, who insisted he was sworn to a vow of silence. The only news he would divulge was that Kal had emerged from his coma and asked for him as well.
Leaving the children under the protection of several young men from the 35th who had gone with him into exile, he rode south, back to the city along the old ford road, Kathleen insisting that she come along, too. The ride with the silent priest and Kathleen was a flood of memories … the battles around the Tugar Ford, the first skirmish in the woods against a raid by boyars, the ambush of the Tugar column just north of the city. As they cleared the lower pass he was stunned to see thousands outside the gates, lining the road.
There had been no cheering, only an awed and respectful silence. As he passed, all offered the old traditional bow of the Rus, bent at the waist, right hand sweeping to the ground. He wanted to ask but sensed all had been told to wait, to let Casmir explain.
He looked into the eyes of the Metropolitan of the Rus.
“I will never forget the night that I, a young priest, ran barefoot through the snow to where you and your men were camped below this city,” Casmir began, his voice echoing across the plaza, and Andrew realized that this was all part of some elaborate ceremony.
“I knew you Yankees were voting that night whether to stay and fight the Tugars or to take ship and leave and seek safety. I came bearing the news that we, the people of Suzdal, had rebelled against the boyars and wished to fight the Tugars as well.
“Colonel Keane, you could have turned your back upon me at that moment. You could have left, but you decided to stay and to fight for our freedom.
“Those men that were with you that night,” and his voice faltered, “how few now remain.”
Casmir paused, and Andrew saw the emotions and felt a knot in his own throat.
“You did not leave us, Andrew Keane. It was we who left you.”
Andrew wanted to say something, embarrassed. He felt the touch of Kathleen’s hand on his shoulder, stilling him.
“We left you. You tried to teach us that though you fought to give us freedom, we ourselves must have the strength to defend it. When you rode out of the city, alone, we finally learned that.
“My friend, I now beg you. Pick up your sword again. Take command of the armies. Be Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane once more.”
As he spoke the last words the chanting resumed, “Keane, Keane, Keane.”
Stunned, Andrew was unable to respond for a moment.
“What about Bugarin, the vote for an armistice?” Kathleen asked.
“Those buggers. We loaded them onto a ferry across the river. They’re packing it on the road west of here,” Emil announced, coming down the steps to join them.
At the sight of him Andrew brightened, reached out, and grasped his hand.
“It started down at the factories,” Emil continued. “Oh this priest might deny it, but his monks were organizing it. By yesterday evening the entire city was on strike. They cut the telegraph lines repeatedly, blockaded the Capitol and the White House. The poor damned Chin representatives didn’t dare set foot outside for fear of getting torn apart.”
“They didn’t overthrow the government, did they?” Andrew asked.
Emil smiled.
“Let’s call it vox populi. Some of the senators got a bit roughed up, maybe a couple of them were told that if they voted the wrong way, they might not get reelected because they wouldn’t live long enough to make reelection. But the people of Suzdal made it clear they would fight to the end rather than go down, and communicated that real clear to the Roum as well.”
“What did Bugarin do?”
“It came to a head last night. He tried to order some ruffians he had rounded up to fire into the crowd gathered right here. They lined the steps, and then Casmir here steps out, arms extended, and tells them to aim at him first.” Andrew looked at the priest, unable to speak.
“That finished it. There was a bit of roughness, a few black eyes, busted ribs, broken arms, and a few lads singing soprano, but the people of this city took the White House. I declared Kal competent to resume office. There was talk of a treason trial and that was it, ten senators and a couple of congressmen quickly resigned and got the hell out of town.”
“My role is somewhat exaggerated,” Casmir intervened. A wild cheer rose up in the square, laughing, belying Casmir’s statement.
“I doubt that,” Andrew cried, trying to be heard above the roaring of the crowd.
“You know, Andrew. Maybe it’s a good thing for a Republic to clean house occasionally and throw out a few cowardly senators now and then.”
Andrew said nothing, shaking his head with disbelief. “Flavius, and the shot at Kal. Who did it?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever really know, but if my sacred vows did not prevent it, I’d bet on Bugarin even though he vehemently denied it.”
“I’d like to see Kal,” Andrew said. “He is the president, and he alone can appoint the commander of the army.”
“I told you he would say that,” Emil interjected as he led the way up the steps and into the White House.
Following Emil, he could not contain himself any longer and asked the question that had been tearing his soul apart ever since he had let go of the mantle of command.
“Any news from the front?”