Vincent did not reply, but merely looked at the map.

"Marcus, your entire Seventh Corps will deploy to the left of Vincent, plus I want one division of your Fifth Corps as reserve."

"Andrew, what about the river to the south?"

"One division will have to handle it. I think, though, that he's focused here, his blood is up now. We've seen nearly all his warriors on foot-the horses are most likely being held to the rear. We'll have to trust that he doesn't try something to the south. I don't think he will."

Marcus nodded.

"Schneid, you extend your line to hook into Vincent's right, and Barry's reserve division will serve you."

"Andrew, they damn near got across just south of the powder mill early this evening," Barry objected. "I need that reserve."

"You'll have to make do," Andrew replied, and Barry nodded glumly. "Gregory, you and Pat will form to the rear of Vincent. Get your men reorganized, but be ready to act if we have another crisis."

Gregory smiled, relishing the role of acting corps commander, even though his unit was down now to little more than a reenforced brigade.

"Good luck, gentlemen. Now get back to your posts."

The room slowly cleared until finally he was left alone, except for Pat, still sleeping in the corner.

He looked down at the map, the decision made, but still agonizing if it was the right one.

Again that cold chill, and he blocked off the thoughts of his decision as if sensing that somehow this one could almost read his mind and thus steal his secrets. He stood up and went out the door. One moon was rising low in the eastern sky, the second one just starting to break the horizon.

The encampment was not still, even though it was past midnight. A low uncomfortable murmuring came from the hospital area, and to his right he could hear the sound of digging, men repairing the damage to the grand battery. Down in the valley, cries of the wounded could still be heard, lanterns bobbing up and down as men wandered the fields looking for their fallen comrades. Occasional rifle shots snapped out, pickets on the river edgy about any shadow, or from behind the lines Merki wounded being dispatched without pity.

From across the river came another sound, a steady unearthly howling, what he knew must be cries of rage, mourning, and the moans of their wounded. It was hard at times to realize that they felt pain as well. So easy to understand that with the rebs-after all, the same languages was spoken, the same God prayed to.

He couldn't feel pity, not for them, not when he still sensed the presence lurking. He couldn't weaken. He could sense the despair that was trying to force its way into his soul, a despair he knew it was all too easy to fall to. Tomorrow, tomorrow, the Merki could crack his army wide open and finish it before the sun set. He focused his thoughts.

"Tomorrow you'll get even worse, you bastard," he whispered defiantly.

Chapter 11.

Wincing and leaning on a pair of crutches, Jack Pe-tracci hobbled into the hangar. Chuck looked up from under the basket.

"Heard you're flying," Chuck said.

Jack nodded. "How's Olivia?"

"I think she'll make it," Chuck said, the relief in his voice evident.

"I'm sorry I wasn't over the factory to protect her."

Chuck came back up to his feet. "You've done your bit already. You don't have to fly this one today."

"Andrew asked me to."

Chuck sighed, wiping his hands. "I've rigged something special up."

"I heard about it."

"It's really simple to use. I've mounted a crude gun-sight to the front of your basket. Remember you have to be pointed straight at them. You'll be able to traverse it ten degrees to either side, but you have to be at the same height as them."

Jack nodded, watching intently as Chuck pointed the system out.

"Your range should be two hundred yards. I've mounted a real sensitive trigger in the nose-it should go off when it hits. But if it doesn't, there's a one-second fuse. You've got three of them, along with the harpoons. That's all I had time for. When you're ready, move the telegraph key to one, then two, and then three over there on the left, press down, and that's it."

The crew chief for Republic Republic came into the shed. "Hour and a half to dawn. We'd better get going." came into the shed. "Hour and a half to dawn. We'd better get going."

Jack sighed, motioning for help. Chuck and the ground chief lifted him into the basket, and he settled in.

"Take her out," he said.

The ground crew walked the aerosteamer out of its hangar. The thinning crescent of one moon was overhead, the other one twenty degrees closer to the horizon, and the first faint streak of approaching dawn just creased the horizon.

By the starlight he could see the twisted hulks of the two ships at either end of the field.

"Let's get on with it," he said.

Jack looked up to see Feyodor climbing in behind him.

"I told you to stay home. I'm taking this up with Danolov. He's the engineer for this ship."

"And Yuri was the pilot. Besides, if I stay down here I'll get drafted to fight along the river. That's too dangerous."

Feyodor climbed in without waiting for Jack's permission. He bent over to check the engine burner and then looked straight up at the exhaust, which was shimmering up into the hot-air bag.

"Full lift," he said, and the ground crew chief stepped back from the cab to watch his men on the ropes.

Jack raised his hand. "Clear."

The crew let go, and the crew chief saluted as the ship started to float up.

"Try not to get any holes in her," the chief shouted, and Jack absently waved a reply.

As they cleared the tops of the trees, Feyodor engaged the propeller, and with a push forward to the rudder, Republic Republic turned to port, heading down to Hispania, the still-burning factory below and to their right. turned to port, heading down to Hispania, the still-burning factory below and to their right.

By now he had expected to be grazing his horses on the far side of the distant ridge barely visible in the early-morning fog. The prayer to the sun was finished, and he looked out across the field and then back up at the Yankee aerosteamer overhead.

"Where are our own ships? I thought all the Yankee machines had been killed."

Sarg stood silent, unable to reply.

Tamuka fumed angrily. His ships were to be over the Yankee lines, to report to him if the cattle army was deployed differently. He scanned the line again with his telescope. It was obvious that most of the guns were still there, and he looked back up to the far ridge, able to see yet more barrels. More there than yesterday. Had the cattle concealed them beyond the far ridge? Did they have still more than they were showing?

It was impossible to tell. All he had to go on at the moment was the angry sense of defiance that Keane so clearly showed, a rage that was coldly shocking, creeping into his own soul. It had a strength far greater than Vuka's. Vuka had been weak, not even aware that his thoughts were being touched, the fears evident. This one somehow knew that the tu tu of the shield-bearer was looking and shouted a defiance in return. of the shield-bearer was looking and shouted a defiance in return.

It was troubling.

He looked back at his own lines.

The remains of ten umens were now in the rear, their numbers more than halved, the survivors demoralized, shaken, talking darkly about cattle who were truly possessed by demons. Rumors already had spread of headless cattle that would spring up and still fight, of cattle that crushed with bare hands, of cattle that simply refused to die and submit, as all cattle had in the past.

He had kept them isolated. Ten fresh umens were now ready for today's fight. Extra water bags had been issued to the warriors, but already he could tell that that would not be enough, the day already hot.

There was a stirring. He looked north. A yellow signal flag fluttered on the far horizon, the message writer next to him watching the distant flag, raising his own to repeat the message for confirmation. A flutter in reply indicated that the message had been received correctly.

The flag waver turned to Tamuka with a grin. "A regiment of the red horse has gained the eastern shore of the river ten leagues north. Request another umen."

Tamuka nodded, hesitated.

A single regiment, perhaps a front of but a hundred paces. He had only three mounted umens in reserve, none with remounts. He cursed silently. Nearly a million horses to his army, and the nearest not in use now grazing ten leagues to the rear, others as far back as the last river and even beyond it.

Damn them.

Last evening he had been forced to detach two full umens to go back nearly to the place where Vuka was buried to protect the home yurts, cattle raiders from out of the forest having killed more than three thousand of the women and children.

He pondered the message. A single regiment. He looked forward again.

"Our cloud fliers arrive."

He turned to look back to the west, and on the horizon he saw the three ships, small dark circles in the sky, still a half hour away.

No. The main battle would be here. A breakthrough was possible by the middle of the morning.

"Order the bombardment to begin," he announced.

"But our cloud fliers," Sarg said. "First let them see. There will be smoke."

"The guns can stop firing after the cloud fliers are over the line, but till then let us smash them down. Order it to begin now."

"Has the ball begun?" Pat asked hoarsely, lifting his head as the crashing of the first Merki volley rolled across the plain.

Andrew looked back at him, still stretched out in the corner of headquarters where he had fallen asleep during the staff meeting. He had not awakened Pat, delegating the reorganization and deployment to the rear of Fourth Corps to one of his own staff officers. Fourth Corps might be finished as a fighting entity, but he still needed Pat as second in command and chief of artillery.

Pat groaned, his joints cracking as he sat up and looked around.

"I guess I dozed off. What time is it?"

"Half hour past dawn, a little after five."

"I've got work to do. Why the hell did you let me sleep?"

"You needed it after yesterday."

"My corps-where is it? I've got to get back to the trenches."

"They've been pulled to the rear into reserve. They're off the front today."

"Well, I need to get to them."

Andrew shook his head, bringing over a cup of hot tea and two pieces of hardtack sandwiching a slab of salt pork.

Pat took the tin cup, grimacing slightly from the heat, holding it gingerly at the seams, and took a long drink.

"Thanks."

"I'm taking you off Fourth Corps. I want you with me.

"Why? Did I do something wrong?" Pat asked.

"No. You did everything right."

"But Fourth Corps . . ."

"It doesn't exist as a corps anymore, Pat. You took the brunt yesterday. You've got less than three thousand left."

"God, I had twelve at dawn."

"You did what had to be done. Now you're running artillery and staying as my second."

Pat nodded glumly, shocked by the destruction of the unit he had poured so much work into. He sighed and then started into the sandwich, his teeth cracking the hard bread, chewing noisily, and Andrew walked outside the headquarters to watch the beginning of the bombardment. The trenches below were already wreathed with the detonation of shells, earth geysering up from solid shot. The ten guns he had left on the line started up a rapid fire in return. Each gun was to fire at the beginning as quickly as possible to simulate the action of a full battery, adding their smoke. A single regiment from Second Corps was now occupying the entire front, ready to keep any Merki skirmishers back and to set fire to bundles of damp straw to add to the smoke. Quaker guns, logs painted black or bronze, had been set up along the forward line, their snouts protruding out from the earthworks where yesterday real guns had been emplaced.

Perhaps they'd be more cautious today in coming across, Andrew thought, stretching out the bombardment, using up more ammunition than they could afford, wasting it on an abandoned line. The price of yesterday's assault was readily apparent. Down to the river they had retrieved their wounded and dead. But from the beginning of the east bank and at points nearly a half mile beyond the entrenchments the ground was carpeted with bodies. Few wounded were left. The men had seen to that grisly task with a vengeance, bayoneting or shooting any Merki that were still alive. He tried not to let it bother him, remembering the photo of the burial mound.

When they came on again it wouldn't be pleasant. Already there was the beginning of the faint sickly sweet smell, and as he looked to the east he could sense that today would be even hotter than yesterday.

Good. Let them see what's waiting. He remembered how Stonewall Jackson had a fetish for cleaning up a battlefield that his troops might assault across, not wanting them to see what might very well soon happen to them. Well, today the Merki would see.

"Hot day for a fight."

Andrew looked back as Pat came walking out the door, his gait stiff, as if every muscle in his body were crying out.

"Getting too old for this," Pat said, and he looked to the south. "Merciful God, is that where we fought?"

Andrew nodded.

"Killed a parcel of the bastards, didn't we?"

"They've got something like three hundred thousand more."