“I’ll manage!”
“Then… you may cling to me-this once-for the sake of the child! She may need you yet!”
The roar was all-consuming now, and the proa flipped onto its back. After that, there were only the terrified screams.
CHAPTER 29
New Scotland Dueling Ground
“ C ease independent fire!” Lieutenant Blair bellowed hoarsely at the top of his lungs. “Load and hold!”
All Dominion reserves had to be present now. The battle, since the despicable opening cannon fire against the Imperial bleachers, had raged for more than three hours, and attrition had taken a terrible toll on both sides. The troops were evenly matched in discipline and roughly so in equipment, but largely due to the Lemurian shields, now practically useless, the exchange had so far been in favor of the Imperials. Another mixed company of Marines had marched to join “Chack’s” line, delaying his plan but giving it twice the weight. No such reinforcements seemed available to the Dominion troops. Their infantry still had the advantage in numbers, but by only about two hundred men. That advantage was growing, however, because even as the Doms kept firing, the Imperial line had suddenly ceased. All became quiet there, except for the screams and the sounds of balls striking flesh.
“Battalion,” Chack yelled, his voice cracking, “prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by a bloodthirsty roar as nearly four hundred bayonet-tipped muskets were leveled at the enemy.
Seeing this, the fire from the Dominion line immediately slacked, and bloodied troops in now stained and dingy uniforms heard commands from their own officers. Some dumped powder charges on the ground.
“Battalion,” Chack roared again, “without cheering, without a sound- listen for The drums -charge bayonets!”
The block of Imperials and scattered Lemurians surged forward. Some did cheer, caught up in the moment, but not many. Sword in hand, Lieutenant Blair raced forward, pacing his men, slightly ahead. A flurry of Dominion musket shots staggered the front rank, and Blair himself spun to the ground, but somehow rose and continued on. The gap between the enemies narrowed quickly from an initial seventy yards to sixty, to fifty. Chack trotted behind the troops, surrounded by his own surviving Marines. Blas-Mar was there, bleeding from a neck wound, and Koratin was helping support her, his wild face stained with blood and gunpowder. O’Casey was beside him, a pistol in his hand and a gleam in his eye. When the loud Dom command of “Armen la bayoneta!” came, Chack didn’t even need it repeated. Just a little farther now.
“Drummers!” he shouted, when less than twenty yards separated the opposing forces, and a thunderous roll sounded around him. The block of infantry ground to a halt, spreading out quickly on the flanks. Ahead, he barely saw beyond the taller men that Blair had stopped, swaying, sword raised high.
“Take aim!” someone screamed. It might have been Blair.
“Fire!” Chack shrieked with everything he had. A single, tremendous, rippling volley slashed directly into the helpless Dominion troops, mowing them down like wave tops scattered by a Strakka wind. “Charge bayonets!” he bellowed again, and this time, the cheer was overwhelming. They slammed into the teetering Dominion troops like a spikebristling sledgehammer. Out of the corner of Chack’s eye, he saw one of his Marines advancing the Stars and Stripes, trilling like a defiant demon. The oddly similar Imperial flag went down, but was immediately snatched up by another man who seemed utterly oblivious to anything other than driving forward, flag held high. Ahead, through the slashing, stabbing bayonets, Chack saw the red banner of the enemy go down. It too rose again, but then went down to stay. A renewed roar swept through the Marines, and they drove forward even more fiercely than before.
They were among the enemy now, even Chack. He realized sickly that this fight had devolved into an “open field melee” such as General Alden had always warned him against-but the American Marine had also told him that any sane enemy would break in the face of a charge like the one they’d delivered. Even the Grik would have broken; he’d seen it before. The Doms were being slaughtered, and they’d recoiled, stunned by the surprise volley and the ferocity of the attack, but they didn’T break-and now the fighting filled the dueling ground with desperate individual combats, like hundreds of duels themselves. Alone on the field, Chack didn’t have a muzzle-loading musket. As always, he carried his trusty Model 1898 (dated 1901) Krag, but with the fighting so close, he was afraid to fire it. He’d foolishly drawn a load-out of precious smokeless, high-velocity, jacketed rounds, seeing himself as standing back and knocking off enemy officers. Silva had always told him that velocity didn’t necessarily equal penetration, but he just didn’t know if the jacketed bullets changed all that. Better safe than accidentally shooting through an enemy and hitting one of the “good” guys. The heavy musket balls were already doing enough of that, he feared. The ’03 bayonet on the end of his rifle worked just fine, however, and it was black with drying blood all the way to the guard and dripping with fresh. Melees like this were a last resort-a failure, Pete had inferred-but at least they’d practiced for them, and the Imperial Marines seemed to know their business too.
Corporal Koratin went down, taking Sergeant Blas-Mar with him. Chack fought his way to them, but O’Casey beat him there, firing pistols as fast as he could grasp them and pull the triggers. His last one misfired and he threw the whole tangled bundle of pistols into the face of a man while he went for his cutlass. Chack saw Blair dragging himself along the ground. He did shoot a man preparing to bayonet the Imperial in the back. Then the fighting carried him along and he saw Blair no more.
A towering man, evidently an officer, with dark skin and flowing black mustaches loomed before Chack. Even as he brought his bayonet up, the man slashed down with a heavy sword, cutting through the top handguard of the Krag and slicing into the steel of the barrel between the rear sight and the barrel band. The hard steel proved too much for the sword, however, and more than half the blade broke off and stuck into the ground. Chack almost dropped the rifle and his hands stung with the force of the blow, but he brought it back up and drove his bayonet into the man’s belly.
“Monos Demonaicos!” The man gasped, and Chack thrust again, higher, riding the weapon down as the man fell. “Mi Dios!” screeched the officer as Chack twisted his rifle and pulled the bayonet clear, “Estoy viniendo!” Blood fountained from the man’s mouth.
Something struck Chack’s left shoulder, driving him to his knees. It had to be another sword, he thought, belatedly rolling away from the blow. He knew he was cut, maybe badly, and only the tough rhino-pig armor had saved him from being hacked in two. He brought his rifle up and there was nothing on the other side but sky, so he shot the man in the face. A hand grabbed him and jerked him up from the bloody slurry the dueling grounds had become, and to his amazement, he recognized the Bosun.
“What’s the matter with you?” Gray demanded, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. “Rootin’ around on the ground like a private soljer, when you’re s’posed to be in charge o’ this mess!” Gray was physically dragging him out of the press.
“Wha-what are you doing here?”
“We finished our little chore. Can’t get to the ship-Frankie’s on his own-so we decided to help you finish this.”
“Where’s Cap-i-taan Reddy?”
“With Jenks.” He nodded toward the far side of the field. “The whole Imperial Guard, two hundred of ’em, is fixin’ to hit the Doms in the ass.” He paused. “You done good.” Without warning, he flung Chack to the ground. “Have a look at him, Selass. If ten percent o’ that blood he’s wearin’ belongs to him, he’s a goner.” Selass knelt beside him, covered with blood as well, blinking terrified concern.
“But… I’m fine,” Chack protested. He gestured at the fighting, still close by. “Blas-Mar, Koratin, all the others… they’re still in there!”
Gray looked at Stites, who’d replaced his BAR with a Springfield and bayonet. “Relax,” he said, “we’ll fish ’em out. God knows why, but the Skipper wants live ’Cat heroes out o’ this fight, not dead ones. You stay put!” His gaze swept across the other Lemurian wounded who’d crawled or been dragged from the fighting. “You fellas keep him here, got that?” With only a muttered “Gettin’ too old for this,” Gray opened his bolt and checked his magazine before he and Stites plunged back into the fighting.
The Imperial Guard finished it. There were barely two hundred living enemies, almost all exhausted and
