-= 233 =-
Charleston, South Carolina
Mister Black whirled as the church doors exploded into so many wooden shards. A horseman materialized from the cloud of dust, a darker shade of grey against the morning sky. The rider charged, whirling a sack over his head like a bola. This he flung at Black's head, arcing high over the pews. The fallen angel dodged and the sack thumped to a stop by Bast's body.
Tom Heyward saw a figure near the altar raising a weapon. Assault rifle flashed through his mind and he dove off of Death's back moments before the weapon spoke.
Undeterred by such a pathetic display of firepower, the pale horse clambered up the steps to the altar and knocked the figure down. Rather than pursue his advantage, Death raced down the narrow hall leading to the back.
“Quite an entrance, Thomas!” Black smiled. “What are you doing here?”
“I've been asking myself that for twelve years, Black,” Tom replied from behind the safety of his pew. “And I finally found the answer.”
“Oh?” Black waved at his gunman, who unsteadily rose to his feet. “And what's that?”
“God sent me.”
The angel's smile faded. “I doubt that very much, Thomas.”
“Doubt is what got us into this, Black. You thought He abandoned you. Me?” Heyward chuckled and slowly rose. “Much the same.”
“When angels are cast from heaven, they become devils,” Black replied. “As you should know.”
Heyward thought of Jess - and Anne Whiting for that matter - and his eyes narrowed. “The only devil in this room is you.”
“Oh, don't be so modest. You don't think I know what you did to make the New Yorkers chase you?” Black chuckled. “Look in the mirror, Thomas and you will see my face.”
“All I see is a nightmare that I've yet to wake from.” Tom glanced at the gunman. “Who's your friend?”
“Him? I'd say he's your wake up call. Light a candle. Let Thomas see your face.”
The figure shouldered his rifle and obeyed, using his lighter on one of the altar candles then holding it high. Heyward's eyes widened.
The figure was his junior by just over ten years, slim with short black hair and grey eyes. He wore a black uniform with silver trimming. On his right sleeve he wore a red armband with the Carolina Federation's symbol inside a white field: a swastika.
“That's....,” Tom spluttered. “That's...” He felt a roaring behind his ears.
“Just like looking in a mirror?” Black pointed at the doppleganger. “This is what you become 150 years from now. As you can see, I've already won.”
Heyward - the other Heyward - smiled and saluted. The hated Nazi salute, stiff arm raised to the sky.
“Thomas, do you know what happens when two different realities collide? When only one can be true?”
Tom knew. Jess told him once in a dream. Reality itself turned against the aberration, destroying everything and everyone to do with the old timeline. The roaring, like a great storm, grew louder.
“I'll leave you to talk,” Black said and left in Death's wake.
*******
Twin forts guarded the land side approach to Charleston's peninsula. Forty-five feet high, the circular stone towers flew the Federation banner. John Preston, studying the position from behind rocks a hundred yards away, noticed bonfires burning from both offering fitful light against the gloomy clouds.
The forts flanked the one road leading out of the city and the only smooth approach a hostile army could take. Several cannon pointed down the road awaiting the eventual arrival of New York militia. Narrow, twenty foot walls completed the barrier running from tower to river on each flank. Torches lit these as well.
“I don't see how we're going to get around them,” John told his wife. “A diversion maybe. Or perhaps...”
“Follow me,” Cassie replied. She stared intently at the wall for a moment, then pointed to the left, away from the towers. Hempstead Hill, small, round, lifeless and wet rose from the marsh.
If anyone on the distant walls noticed the two, they made no sign. Soon they stood ankle deep in the fetid morass, dead tendrils of grass brushing socks and breeches. Cassie pointed straight ahead where the wall met Charleston Creek. “We can use the hill for cover, then scale it there.”
John frowned. “Did you bring a grapple and rope?”
“No, sir.” Before he could question further she ran forward, eager to be out of the marsh as soon as possible. John shook his head and grinned despite himself. This Cassandra Preston he'd almost never seen. Confident and determined, with Tom's present tied to her back, she kept one eye on the torchlights along the wall and the other on the open ground in front of her.
”Johnny!” she hissed from forty yards away, crouched almost double.
“Coming.”
In time they made it to the wall. Cassie threw herself against the cold surface, and her husband did likewise. Silence except for whispering wind and the faint gurgle of the creek. This part of her plan he understood. The wall would be lightly defended here, if at all. An army simply couldn't function here without getting bogged down and inviting counterattack. Anyone with enough boats to control the river would just go around anyway.
“How are we going to get over?” he asked softly.
She gave him a hard little smile. “The wall here's damaged. The ground's too wet. See the cracks?”
He did indeed, but.... John looked up and imagined a piece of masonry landing on her head.
“Would you rather swim?” she snapped.
“No.” His ankles and feet had somehow combined the most disagreeable qualities of being cold, both numb and stinging.
Cassie held his gaze a moment, then nodded and began her treacherous ascent slinking up the wall like a....
“Like a spider,” he said before following.
A loud cheer greeted them as John cleared the parapet to crouch, panting, on the wall-walk. He whirled and drew his sword, but the defenders didn't cast one eye in his direction. Their attention was drawn to the drums of the Carolina Guard. Rank upon rank left the city to form up between the two towers. Very little fanfare, though some fool in one of the towers wasted a charge by firing his cannon.
Seeing those black and red infantrymen ... hurt. A part of Preston still belonged with those men. He'd trained many of them. Now they would fight without him, and he wasn't even sure who he wanted to win.
Someone in the front ranks blew his trumpet, a brazen challenge to the distant New Yorkers who John saw forming up a mile or so up the peninsula. His eyes narrowed as he studied their formation, looking for obvious weakne...
”Johnny!”
Cassie glared at him from half way down the inside of the wall. He took one last look at the two armies and followed.
*******
Major Roger Whiteaker looked through his spyglass. “They are playing into General Heyward's hands,” he told his commander. “They mean to defend their town.” Not that he blamed them, no matter how misguided the effort.
Colonel Charles Leyton had yet to recover from whatever malaise he picked up from Heyward. He simply looked ahead with a vaguely approving smile, both hands clasped on the saddle horn.
“Do you have any orders, sir?” Whiteaker asked, despairing of an answer. Not receiving one he looked up and down the front line. He'd served with most of these men since the last British war. “Honor guard!” he roared. “Flags!”
He patted Leyton's wrist. “Wait here, Charles. I'll talk some sense into these Carolinans, then we'll deal with Heyward.” His commander smiled faintly.
Surrounded by four men, two bearing the American and New York flags, Whiteaker rode into the killing zone in front of the two forts. Four cannon slowly swiveled to track his progress while several hundred soldiers in black and red waited with muskets poised and steel cannisters sitting on the ground in front.
What are those? Whiteaker wondered. Any further speculation was cut off when a Carolinan shouted a command, and their entire front rank dropped to one knee and aimed.
“Respects, Major,” murmured one of the guards. “I think they're going to fire!”
“Nonsense. They won't dare fire on a parley. See? Here they come.” He nodded as another party rode out. “Halt!”
“Reginald Barcer, Colonel, Carolina Guard,” the larger man said with a thick accent.
“Roger Whiteaker, Major, Third New York Cavalry.” They exchanged salutes. “Colonel, we have a common enemy. Gene...”
“Funny you should say that, Major!” Barcer drawled. “Only enemies I see 'round here are your boys!”
“I assure you Colonel, our intentions are not hostile. We are pursuing...”
“Strange. Were they not hostile when you were raiding in the west? How about when y'all seized Columbia? Did you think we wouldn't take that as 'hostile'?”
Whiteaker grimaced. “I take your point, Colonel. However , we are not here to take Charleston.”
“No? Why are you here?”
“We are pursuing a criminal. General Heyward.”
“The general's not been 'round here since last winter. Last I heard, your Congress was clearin' him of wrong-doing.”
“Actually, that's not correct. He's currently wanted for...”
Barcer indicated the distant cavalry regiment. “It takes several hundred to catch one man, Major? It takes the capture of one of our border towns to take him? What kind of fool d'you take me for, sir?”
“Colonel, I am telling you the truth.”
Barcer replied by drawing his sword. “You may consideh yourself a prisoner of the Federation, sir! We'll let Governor Moultrie decide if you're telling the truth!”
Swords flew out of their sheath on all sides. Whiteaker actually edged his horse backwards, startled. “You would break a truce!?”
“I agreed to no truce,” Barcer replied. “You will surrender, sir!”
“I will not! Colonel, is there someone else I can speak with? I tell you, General Heyward is even now threatening...”
“Amos?”
“Fine. Let me speak with Amos.”
Barcer sidestepped out of the way to reveal Amos. Amos: a common soldier. With a pistol. He fired.
Whiteaker's sword fell from lifeless fingers. He gripped his stomach and stared dumbly at the gushing blood. It didn't really hurt. Cold. He felt... “Colonel?”
Barcer didn't see, nor did he care. Carolinan and New Yorker fought as he slowly slid off his horse into darkness.
Three hundred yards away, Colonel Charles Leyton snapped out of his trance. “Roger?” he asked, staring at the distant melee. The New Yorkers fled, the American standard bearer joining Whiteaker on the ground. “Roger!”
The Carolinans retreated to their lines. Leyton galloped forward. “Roger!” They'd broken a parley. They'd killed his adjutant. ”Major!”
“Protect the colonel!” shouted someone. The entire regiment, first in bits and pieces then as a mass, swarmed after their commander. As the thundering hooves and sense that his men were with him penetrated Leyton's grief, shock yielded to rage.
”CHARGE!!”
