Read Online Terrible Swift Sword by William R. Forstchen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William R. Forstchen
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field pieces fresh from the mills. Six flatcars, laden with twelve guns, their caissons and limbers, a weeks' worth of casting for NapoIeons. Damn, there simply weren't enough guns.
Gaining the car, he looked it over with affection. It was the presidential car, covered with the usual Rus wood carvings, its side emblazoned with a Gilbert Stewart-like representation of the signing of the Constitution of Rus. He could pick himself out i the group, standing beside Kal, both of them slightly larger than life-size. Larger than life-size, that's what they want to believe in.
Gaining the steps to the car he climbed up, struggling to control the weakness in his legs. The door above him was flung open.
"Hans, what the hell are you doing, letting him run around like this?"
"Doctor Weiss, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, without Hans playing nursemaid."
"Like hell," Emil sniffed angrily, coming out onto the platform to help him aboard. "You're as pale a ghost."
Emil pressed his hand to Andrew's forehead, a clucking noisily he led Andrew into the car, while shooting a chilly stare of reproach at Hans.
The stuffy warmth of the room was a shock, and he felt the perspiration beading on his forehead. His hand shaking, he started to fumble with the buttons of his old and worn army overcoat.
"Let me give you a hand."
Andrew looked down as Kal—President Kalencka--stepped up to him, the crown of his stovepipe hat barely at eye level.
"One hand a piece for both of us; we should be able to manage this," Kal said cheerily, looking up into Andrew's eyes.
" I 've got a packet of letters from Kathleen, the last one pressed into my hand not four hours ago," Kal said, as he dextrously worked the buttons loose, while Hans helped Andrew slide the rain-sodden wool jacket off.
Andrew looked around bleakly, and nodded his greeting to the group. Overhead, scurrying across the roof of the car, he heard the footsteps of the telegrapher, hooking into the line, followed seconds later by the rattle-tap of the telegraph key in the small office in the forward part of the car, tapping out the connect signal, reestablishing communications for this small group, the architects of human resistance against the unmeasurable might of the Hordes.
"You've lost weight, Andrew."
Well, you certainly haven't put much back on yourself, you thick-headed Irishman," Andrew replied, forcing a smile.
Pat O'Donald came up, grasping Andrew's hand. They both looked at each other appraisingly. Pat's recovery from the stomach wound had taken far longer than expected, a process not helped by his sneaking out whenever possible to violate Emil's injunction against vodka. There was a standing order to every tavern keeper in Suzdal to refuse service, an order that had resulted in at least one bar's being broken up by an explosion of Pat's less-than pleasant temper when denied strong drink.
"You had us worried, me bucko," Pat said, helping Andrew over to the conference table in the forward end of the car. "That damn doctor"—he looked over at Emil—"wouldn't allow a one of us to come see you."
"Quarantine serves two purposes," Emil replied defensively, "to keep the disease from spreading, and to protect the patient from fumble-fingered visitors pawing at him and breathing their drink-laden breath in his presence."
Pat mumbled a good-natured curse in Emil's direction and went around the table to settle back into his seat.
Andrew looked around at the rest of the smiling group.
"John, how's the family?"
"Well sir, first baby on the way."
John Mina said the words matter-of-factly, the way he always did when talking of anything beyond his work as Secretary of Commerce and Industry, the logistical genius behind the organization of an industrial state to support a modern army.
"Dimitri, how are things in Roum?"
The old soldier, chief of staff to Vincent Haw thorne's Army of the Roum Alliance, came stiffly to attention even as Andrew motioned for him to relax.
"As
Gaining the car, he looked it over with affection. It was the presidential car, covered with the usual Rus wood carvings, its side emblazoned with a Gilbert Stewart-like representation of the signing of the Constitution of Rus. He could pick himself out i the group, standing beside Kal, both of them slightly larger than life-size. Larger than life-size, that's what they want to believe in.
Gaining the steps to the car he climbed up, struggling to control the weakness in his legs. The door above him was flung open.
"Hans, what the hell are you doing, letting him run around like this?"
"Doctor Weiss, I'm quite capable of looking after myself, without Hans playing nursemaid."
"Like hell," Emil sniffed angrily, coming out onto the platform to help him aboard. "You're as pale a ghost."
Emil pressed his hand to Andrew's forehead, a clucking noisily he led Andrew into the car, while shooting a chilly stare of reproach at Hans.
The stuffy warmth of the room was a shock, and he felt the perspiration beading on his forehead. His hand shaking, he started to fumble with the buttons of his old and worn army overcoat.
"Let me give you a hand."
Andrew looked down as Kal—President Kalencka--stepped up to him, the crown of his stovepipe hat barely at eye level.
"One hand a piece for both of us; we should be able to manage this," Kal said cheerily, looking up into Andrew's eyes.
" I 've got a packet of letters from Kathleen, the last one pressed into my hand not four hours ago," Kal said, as he dextrously worked the buttons loose, while Hans helped Andrew slide the rain-sodden wool jacket off.
Andrew looked around bleakly, and nodded his greeting to the group. Overhead, scurrying across the roof of the car, he heard the footsteps of the telegrapher, hooking into the line, followed seconds later by the rattle-tap of the telegraph key in the small office in the forward part of the car, tapping out the connect signal, reestablishing communications for this small group, the architects of human resistance against the unmeasurable might of the Hordes.
"You've lost weight, Andrew."
Well, you certainly haven't put much back on yourself, you thick-headed Irishman," Andrew replied, forcing a smile.
Pat O'Donald came up, grasping Andrew's hand. They both looked at each other appraisingly. Pat's recovery from the stomach wound had taken far longer than expected, a process not helped by his sneaking out whenever possible to violate Emil's injunction against vodka. There was a standing order to every tavern keeper in Suzdal to refuse service, an order that had resulted in at least one bar's being broken up by an explosion of Pat's less-than pleasant temper when denied strong drink.
"You had us worried, me bucko," Pat said, helping Andrew over to the conference table in the forward end of the car. "That damn doctor"—he looked over at Emil—"wouldn't allow a one of us to come see you."
"Quarantine serves two purposes," Emil replied defensively, "to keep the disease from spreading, and to protect the patient from fumble-fingered visitors pawing at him and breathing their drink-laden breath in his presence."
Pat mumbled a good-natured curse in Emil's direction and went around the table to settle back into his seat.
Andrew looked around at the rest of the smiling group.
"John, how's the family?"
"Well sir, first baby on the way."
John Mina said the words matter-of-factly, the way he always did when talking of anything beyond his work as Secretary of Commerce and Industry, the logistical genius behind the organization of an industrial state to support a modern army.
"Dimitri, how are things in Roum?"
The old soldier, chief of staff to Vincent Haw thorne's Army of the Roum Alliance, came stiffly to attention even as Andrew motioned for him to relax.
"As
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