Read Online Hope Renewed by David Drake, S.M. Stirling - Free Book Online
Authors: David Drake, S.M. Stirling
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slung it over your left shoulder with the tied-together ends at your right hip. He grunted a little as it settled down, shrugging until it rode properly; you could wear blisters the size of a cup if you didn’t adjust it just right.
An officer and bugler came down the main hatchway. The brassy notes of Full Kit and Ready to Move Out sounded, loud through the dim crowded spaces. The troops erupted in cursing, crowding movement, all but the most experienced veterans— they’d gotten ready beforehand. Minatelli grinned at his squad.
“Happy now?”
It was a lot easier to put your gear on when a couple of hundred others weren’t trying to do the same, and that in a hold packed with temporary pinewood bunks.
Saynchez snorted. He was a grizzled man in his thirties, one of two in the squad who’d been out east with the 24th the last time. He’d also been up and down the ladder of rank to sergeant and back to private at least twice; it was drink, mostly.
“We goin’ east fer garrison, er t’fight?” he asked.
“Messer Raj didn’t tell me, t’last time he had me over fer afternoon kave n’ cakes,” Minatelli said dryly.
He wouldn’t be looking forward to garrison duty, himself. Some preferred it; in between active campaigns Civil Government infantry were assigned farms from the State’s domains, with tenant families to work them. You had to find your own keep from the proceeds, minus stoppages for equipment. Provided your officers were honest—which Major Felasquez was, thank the Spirit—the total came to about the same as active-service cash pay. About what a laborer made, with more security and less work. But it sounded dull , especially to a city boy like him, and he hadn’t joined up to be bored.
Mind you, some of the fighting in the Western Territories had been more interesting than he really liked. He remembered the long teeth of the Brigade curaissiers’ dogs, the lanceheads rippling down, sweat stinging his eyes, and the sun-hot metal of the rifle as he brought it up to aim.
“Word is,” he went on, relenting, “that t’wogboys is over the frontier. Messer Raj’s bein’ set out to put ’em back.”
Saynchez shaped a silent whistle. Minatelli looked at him hopefully; the far eastern frontier with the Colony was only a rumor to him. Saynchez had been with the 24th when Messer Raj whipped the ragheads and killed their king.
“Them’s serious business,” the older private said. “Them wogs is na no joke.”
“Messer Raj done whup ’em before,” one of the other soldiers said.
“Serious,” Saynchez said softly. “Real serious.”
Minatelli slung his rifle. The bugle sounded again: Fall in.
A locomotive let out a high shrill scream from its steam whistle. Its two man-high driving wheels spun, throwing twin streams of sparks from the strap-iron rails beneath. The long funnel with its bulbous crown belched steam and black smoke, thick and smelling of burnt tar. Behind it eight iron-and-wood cars lurched against the chain fastenings that bound them together. They were heaped with coal, and heavy. It took more wheel-spinning and lurching halts before the train finally gathered way and rocked southward through the city towards the Hemmar Valley and the long journey east.
Raj’s hound Horace snarled slightly at the train. He ran a soothing hand down the beast’s neck, clamping his legs slightly around its barrel. Other riders were having more trouble with their animals. Hounds tended to have good nerves; it was one of their strong points. They also tended to do exactly as they pleased whenever they felt like it, but everything was tradeoffs. Horace moved forward at a swinging walk, stepping high over the rails, his plate-sized paws crunching on the cinder and crushed rock of the roadbeds.
More coal trains pulled out, building up the reserves at the stations farther east along the Central Rail; barges lay beside the dock, heaped with the dusty black product of the Coast Range mines.
An officer and bugler came down the main hatchway. The brassy notes of Full Kit and Ready to Move Out sounded, loud through the dim crowded spaces. The troops erupted in cursing, crowding movement, all but the most experienced veterans— they’d gotten ready beforehand. Minatelli grinned at his squad.
“Happy now?”
It was a lot easier to put your gear on when a couple of hundred others weren’t trying to do the same, and that in a hold packed with temporary pinewood bunks.
Saynchez snorted. He was a grizzled man in his thirties, one of two in the squad who’d been out east with the 24th the last time. He’d also been up and down the ladder of rank to sergeant and back to private at least twice; it was drink, mostly.
“We goin’ east fer garrison, er t’fight?” he asked.
“Messer Raj didn’t tell me, t’last time he had me over fer afternoon kave n’ cakes,” Minatelli said dryly.
He wouldn’t be looking forward to garrison duty, himself. Some preferred it; in between active campaigns Civil Government infantry were assigned farms from the State’s domains, with tenant families to work them. You had to find your own keep from the proceeds, minus stoppages for equipment. Provided your officers were honest—which Major Felasquez was, thank the Spirit—the total came to about the same as active-service cash pay. About what a laborer made, with more security and less work. But it sounded dull , especially to a city boy like him, and he hadn’t joined up to be bored.
Mind you, some of the fighting in the Western Territories had been more interesting than he really liked. He remembered the long teeth of the Brigade curaissiers’ dogs, the lanceheads rippling down, sweat stinging his eyes, and the sun-hot metal of the rifle as he brought it up to aim.
“Word is,” he went on, relenting, “that t’wogboys is over the frontier. Messer Raj’s bein’ set out to put ’em back.”
Saynchez shaped a silent whistle. Minatelli looked at him hopefully; the far eastern frontier with the Colony was only a rumor to him. Saynchez had been with the 24th when Messer Raj whipped the ragheads and killed their king.
“Them’s serious business,” the older private said. “Them wogs is na no joke.”
“Messer Raj done whup ’em before,” one of the other soldiers said.
“Serious,” Saynchez said softly. “Real serious.”
Minatelli slung his rifle. The bugle sounded again: Fall in.
A locomotive let out a high shrill scream from its steam whistle. Its two man-high driving wheels spun, throwing twin streams of sparks from the strap-iron rails beneath. The long funnel with its bulbous crown belched steam and black smoke, thick and smelling of burnt tar. Behind it eight iron-and-wood cars lurched against the chain fastenings that bound them together. They were heaped with coal, and heavy. It took more wheel-spinning and lurching halts before the train finally gathered way and rocked southward through the city towards the Hemmar Valley and the long journey east.
Raj’s hound Horace snarled slightly at the train. He ran a soothing hand down the beast’s neck, clamping his legs slightly around its barrel. Other riders were having more trouble with their animals. Hounds tended to have good nerves; it was one of their strong points. They also tended to do exactly as they pleased whenever they felt like it, but everything was tradeoffs. Horace moved forward at a swinging walk, stepping high over the rails, his plate-sized paws crunching on the cinder and crushed rock of the roadbeds.
More coal trains pulled out, building up the reserves at the stations farther east along the Central Rail; barges lay beside the dock, heaped with the dusty black product of the Coast Range mines.
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