Chapter 11 Xenophon
Chapter eleven
Xenophon
Soldiers lunged to new positions as trees burst into flames, cannonballs slammed into buildings and hillsides, and mud and blood peppered General Roderic Calder, Lieutenant Rushing, and Corporal Foley.
They scrambled up the wooded embankment leading to the demolished artillery unit, while archers and infantry took up their new positions.
Gripping a young birch trunk, Roderic twisted over his shoulder to survey the battlefield.
The vast number of corpses was appalling, the heavy casualties favoring the larger force.
The taste of blood and ash lingered in his mouth, but Roderic’s heart leaped at a sight that might turn the tide.
With most of the oil fires extinguished, Garcia gave the order to charge.
A broad line of enemy soldiers poured into the bog, hundreds of men wide.
They surged forward while rank after rank splashed in behind them until, about halfway across, their forward momentum stopped.
The rows piled in on each other like a logjam.
Calder’s sharpshooters opened fire. Archers loosed their arrows, some still carrying flames, into the mass of Republic soldiers.
“General, it’s working!” Rushing exclaimed, hope radiating from his scruffy face.
“If only he’d started with a full charge.” Roderic couldn’t allow himself relief—not yet, not with thousands of his troops already lost.
“Sir, look!” Foley pointed in a different direction, away from the swamp. The Stonevale cavalry had mounted a full-scale charge, not at the enemy’s rear, but at its eastern flank. They would still do damage, but the move bordered on foolhardy.
“I haven’t given the signal.” What optimism Roderic might have fostered withered into dread. “You didn’t blow the call.”
“No, sir.” Foley raised his horn. “Only for the infantry earlier.”
“With all the blasting noise, he probably couldn’t hear,” Rushing offered. “Look at all those engulfed rooftops. They might have been forced from the warehouses.”
“Come on,” Roderic said, raising his gaze up the hillside. “We’ll have a better view from the top and discover Colonel Pickering’s fate.”
Planting a muddy boot into a foothold, Roderic reached a gloved hand to the next tree and pulled.
Loose pebbles rolled from under his steps as he sought purchase on the steep incline.
Rushing and Foley found the climb easier than a man of his age.
At least Garcia no longer considered this position worthy of the bombardment that blasted other locations.
Broken tree trunks and shattered cannons—both the antiques and the twenty-first-century models—dominated the crest in smoldering bits.
The unmoving corpses and scattered limbs of men and women who’d served under his command left him sick and hollow.
A cough drew his attention, and Roderic rushed around the dead and debris to a mostly intact M777 howitzer.
Several wounded soldiers took refuge around its extended tripod base.
One was an elderly man with silver eagles on his shoulders.
“Colonel Pickering.” Roderic reached him first while Rushing and Foley checked on the others.
“Well, General, we didn’t last long.” He coughed again. “Neither shall I, I’m afraid.”
Roderic drew a bandana from his pocket, poured a trickle of water from his canteen, and mopped Pickering’s face. His left leg lay at an unnatural angle, and blood blossomed across his uniform, a protruding piece of shrapnel at its center.
He could have asked why it took them so long to set the range or why they hadn’t focused their fire on the enemy’s big guns, but the point was moot. Nothing would change what happened, and laying blame on the dying colonel would be dishonorable.
“You put a hole in their ranks before they got to you, and that’s what counts,” Roderic said instead.
“How goes the battle?” Pickering asked, squinting at the general. Smoke clouded the sky, and the noise of combat roared in their ears.
Roderic stretched up, scanning the battlefield.
The Republic infantry bogged down in the marshy creek bed fell in droves, while McKinley’s cavalry made a dent in Garcia’s flank.
But an entire brigade or more had taken a route around, including most of the enemy’s vehicles.
That meant the Iron Army’s supplies were intact and its cavalry retained its full force.
His heart sank as he realized he would not score the decisive victory he’d hoped for.
No saving Verdancia. No sending the enemy packing with its tail between its legs.
No stepping stone to the throne. Would his father be disappointed in him? Ashamed? Angry at his failure?
Still, they were delivering an unexpected blow, bloodying their noses and giving their young recruits nightmares.
General Garcia would send word to Irons of the heavy resistance he faced before reaching a single Verdancian target.
He might call for negotiations. No. Irons had plenty of opportunities to negotiate before mounting this unprovoked war.
They were mosquitoes. The Iron Army was a bear.
“It’s going well,” he told Pickering. Forcing a smile, he said, “You should see our warriors, charging bravely into battle, mowing down the enemy with precision.” Roderic would keep up the pressure until Garcia pulled back.
Then he’d gather his survivors, regroup, and disappear into Verdancia’s forests.
Maybe he could lay another trap before the invaders reached Tupelo.
There, the roads forked—one leading east toward Stonevale and the other south, toward Marchland.
They’d taken heavy casualties and lost their artillery, but not their ability to inflict damage.
Kneeling beside his father’s friend, Roderic rested a hand on his shoulder. “It has been a privilege to serve with you, Colonel Pickering. Rest assured that your name will hold a place of honor in Highcrest Hall for generations. I wish I had something to ease your pain.”
“Don’t worry about me, Roderic. I can’t feel a thing anymore.” His eyelids drooped closed, his jaw falling slack. The old man rattled out a final breath and drifted into history.
“General Calder.” The sharp alarm in Rushing’s voice had Roderic rocketing to his feet.
That’s when he heard it. His marksmen no longer fired from the trees. “Binoculars!”
Lieutenant Rushing thrust them into his hands.
Examining the scene below, he noticed the archers no longer fired arrows.
He whipped his view around to the cavalry attack.
The expansive Iron Army’s rear ranks were enveloping them like an amoeba engulfing a food particle.
Zeroing in on the forces massing in the swamp, he saw movement as troops pushed their way through the bodies of their dead.
“Mother of Ruin,” he swore. “We’re out of ammunition.” The realization that the enemy army possessed far more soldiers than his had bullets and arrows to shoot at them chilled Roderic to the bone.
“Foley.”
The lanky lad sprang to attention. “Sir?” His face radiated unwavering trust, ready to obey any command Roderic uttered. Only one order remained.
“Sound the call. Xenophon.”
Foley’s dusky countenance darkened with disappointment. “Y-yes, sir,” he stammered. But once the mouthpiece touched his lips, he blew without hesitation, the horn’s powerful blast cutting through the afternoon sky like a blade. He repeated the call three times to ensure it was received.
Roderic checked the field through his binoculars again. His troops were on the move. The first wave of the Iron Army’s infantry was pulling out of the bog onto the bank. It was time to go.
“Can these wounded soldiers be moved?” he asked.
“I can walk,” reported a young woman in an artillery uniform. Though bleeding from her arm, head, and side, she scrambled to her feet.
“Leave me,” panted an older private, a militiaman from Stonevale, no doubt. “I’ll slow you down, and General Calder mustn’t fall into enemy hands. I can play dead, and they might leave me alone.”
Calder took a beat to salute the private. “You’re an honorable, brave man. When the enemy has passed, I’ll send back medics for any survivors they find. Hold on as long as you can.”
“Yes, sir.” He returned the salute, then sagged back against the side of the howitzer.
“Let’s go.” Roderic knew there must be other survivors along the ridge. Surely. If they could, they’d follow the directive to retreat and regroup back at their campsite. Speed was of the essence.
The Bethel Springs ghost town burned, so they’d have to head south before turning east, avoiding roads and open fields.
He hoped Garcia would see to his wounded and dead rather than send his whole force in pursuit.
If that were the case, the remnants of Fort Calder’s forces would have to scatter and slowly make their way back to Stonevale.
Quickly and quietly, Roderic’s tight group worked their way down the back side of the artillery ridge.
Gunfire and cannon blasts pierced the air sparingly as the fighting wound down and the race to escape began.
About the time they reached level ground, the whines of motorcycles grew near.
Roderic halted, raising a hand for his party to follow him, crouching behind a clump of brush.
Enemy cyclists whizzed past them—two, four, six, eight—then quiet.
Standing, Roderic pointed, and they followed in close formation.
Rushing gripped an officer’s sidearm in his right hand, a Bowie knife in his left.
Foley, a machete dangling from his belt, clung to his bugle.
The artillery woman had picked up a spear from somewhere and used it as a walking stick with her good hand.