After the relentless noise of the bombardment the sudden calm was unsettling. His ears, the ringing diminished now to background hiss, struggled to pick out the noise of the approaching British. In that cloud of smoke, somewhere, they’d be crossing the East River now — God knows how many landing boats, sputtering across the water.
‘Ready yourselves, men!’ he shouted across the silence. ‘Check your weapons, check you have ammo supplies to hand! It goes far too quickly, gentlemen!’
He looked out again at the featureless wall of white drifting on the breeze. He cursed that today of all days the weather was so still. Any other time, a stiff Atlantic breeze would have already whisked away much of the smokescreen.
‘Sergeant Freeman!’
‘Sir!’ his voice returned from further up the trench.
‘Are you ready for a scrap?’
‘Ready, sir? Been ready all mornin’, Colonel. Now ah’m just gettin’ downright annoyed they takin’ so long.’
He heard a ripple of nervous battlefield laughter make its way along the men.
Devereau smiled. Good man, that Freeman.
Then he heard it … the faint droning put-put-put of a chorus of engines coming from somewhere out there on the river. He reached for his revolver, unclipping the holster and wrapping his gloved hand round its grip. He pulled it out a little too quickly. It caught and he nearly dropped it on the ground. But he didn’t.
The Confederate next to him made a face. He’d spotted the fumble and offered Devereau an understanding nod. Luckily none of the other lads had seen.
He sighed. Last thing his men needed to witness was just how scared their colonel felt.
He could hear the engines more clearly, and make out now, amid the swirling smokescreen, the faintest outline of a dozen flat-topped landing rafts approaching. He’d seen the South use these before: huge rafts with raised side-panels that dropped down as it beached. Each of these landing rafts was capable of transporting an entire company of men.
Good God … twelve hundred men, two whole regiments, in the very first wave?
He found himself momentarily robbed of breath.
Steady yourself, Colonel.
He filled his lungs. ‘Wait until they drop the ramps, men!’ he bellowed. ‘Then we’ll give ’em hell!’
A defiant cheer rippled down the trench.
Much closer now he could make out detail on the landing rafts, the fluttering of company colours above, the outline of an officer standing beside the helmsman at the back of each craft. He heard the pitch of the engines drop and then, finally, a clatter and hiss as one after the other the dozen large landing rafts rode up the shingle and out of the water, grinding to a halt.
He could hear the muffled voices of British officers barking orders behind their raised metal panels. Readying their men for the disembarking. Several nervous shots were fired from the trench, sending sparks flying off the panels.
‘Hold your goddamned fire!’ roared Sergeant Freeman.
Devereau’s mouth was dry.
Any second now.
He could hear the chorused voices of men down the slope. They huzzahed at something being said to them, a roar of confidence. The roar of veterans certain that this little skirmish was going to be over before the last of the swirling smokescreen had blown away.
Then he heard a bugle blowing.
Simultaneously all twelve landing rafts dropped their panels. They swung down heavily and crunched on to the shingle, forming ramps. Devereau found himself transfixed at the sight of so many of them — swarms of blood-red tunics and white helmets — surging down off their rafts.
‘FIRE!!!!’
CHAPTER 77. 2001, en route to New Chelmsford
They passed through a small town — East Farnham, another rural town: one main street lined with shops selling farmer’s supplies, hardware and tools. One town hall and a church, and clapboard homes and picket fences.
They were getting used to the occasional sideways glances from beneath the brims of felt hats and lace bonnets, curious glances at their grubby and unfamiliar clothes and at Bob in particular. Liam wondered whether they thought he was some prototype design of eugenic.
Speaking of which — he spotted a couple more of the lobotomized leviathans, hefting bales of animal fodder off the back of a delivery wagon. Their lumbering movement was almost robotic, like poorly operated machinery. Again he marvelled at their size: ten … eleven foot tall, and perhaps eight foot from one rounded mass of shoulder across to the other.
‘Could we not stop for the night in this town?’ grumbled Lincoln. ‘My feet feel like they’ve been pulled through a knothole backwards!’
Liam nodded sympathetically. He felt every bit as exhausted. Fifteen miles on firm hard tarmac was enough of a hike, but across ploughed fields of thick, freshly turned soil, meadows of tall knotted grass, through woods deep with spongy leaves hiding gnarly roots ready to trip you up, he was just as spent.
They had about another sixteen miles to go. That’s what Bob had said the last time he’d pestered the support unit for an estimate.
‘Aye, I suppose we could do that. We’ve got another whole day and a bit to get us there. And that’s not so far for us to do tomorrow.’
They had no money on them to pay for lodgings, not that he could see anywhere that looked like an inn or a hotel. But a barn, a shed, an outhouse would be more appealing for a night’s sleep than some open field.
He turned round to tell Bob they were going to find somewhere on the edge of this town to stop for the day. Even though it was still only mid-afternoon, they all needed a rest and there was more than enough time for one.
But Bob had stopped in his tracks. He was a dozen yards behind them, frozen like a statue and staring listlessly up at the clear blue sky.
‘Uh … Bob? You all right?’
‘I think he’s receiving,’ said Sal.
Liam looked around. Could have picked a better bleedin’ place. His odd behaviour was attracting yet more curious stares from the townsfolk crossing the narrow main street. He sauntered casually back and tugged on Bob’s sleeve.
‘Hey, big fella … you’re spookin’ the locals, so you are.’
Bob ignored him, busy catching and collating the tachyon particles winking invisibly into sub-atomic existence in the air around them.
‘Your friend all right there, young man?’ asked a lady, clutching a basket. She stopped mid-stride and peered out from her bonnet, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ said Liam. ‘Just a little tired, ma’am.’
She nodded and passed by, casting one more curious glance back at them before crossing the high street.
‘Uh, Bob …? How about we just walk a little while you’re doing the message thing? You’re attracting attention.’
Bob remained rooted to the spot.
‘Bob?’
Finally he blinked awareness back into his glazed eyes and looked down at Liam.
‘Liam,’ he said. ‘I have just received a message from Madelaine.’
Liam’s eyes widened. ‘Well?’
Bob frowned at his flippancy. ‘Negative. The message does not indicate she is well.’
The other two joined them now. ‘Was it Maddy?’ asked Sal.
‘Affirmative. A partial message. The signal has been corrupted slightly. Message content is as follows: archway is un … tack … roceed to coordinates as fast as … freakin’ well can. Will watch for … with p … hole probe. Will ope … oon as … ee you.’
Liam looked at the others. ‘She sounds stressed. That’s never a good sign.’