by N. C. Reed
“But if we try to fight the war on a budget, we'll lose,” Parno objected.
“That is true,” Cho acknowledged. “The admonition to be aware of the cost in treasure is meant for the commander who takes his army into the field as an aggressor. For the present, you must survive, regardless of the cost in coin. If your kingdom falls then the cost will not matter anyway.”
“You're talking about later,” Parno said gently and Feng nodded.
“Indeed. You must be completely prepared before you step foot across either river to confront your foes in their own territory. All preparations must be made beforehand. Nothing can be left to chance or else you invite disaster. And remember this,” the older man warned grimly. “You are not alone in fervor for your home land. The soldier who fights only average well in a foreign land might well become a rabid animal in defense of his own. Do not assume that the mediocrity of your enemy will continue once you have invaded his home.”
“Point,” Parno nodded. “I've wondered more than once if the Nor haven't made a mistake in invading in the spring. Had they waited and come right before harvest, they could feed their army without worrying about such long lines of supply and communication.”
“One wagon of the enemy's supplies is worth many more of your own,” Feng nodded. “A wise stratagem. Tell me, why do you think he did not wait?”
“Time, I suppose,” Parno shrugged. “By attacking early in the spring, he has most of the year to press his attack. His army is less acclimated to the heat that we often face in summer, especially further south, so perhaps that was part of their thinking as well. But for me I think it's time. They want this to be over soon. Meant for it to be,” he added, thinking of the attack he had helped thwart at the Gap.
“Excellent,” Feng almost smiled. “You are now thinking as your enemy. In order to be assured of victory, you must know your enemy, young prince. You must know yourself as well. One who does so will almost always be assured of victory, providing he takes all things into consideration.”
“My 'invasion' will need careful planning,” Parno nodded. “I'd already known that, at least in theory, but you've given me something else to think on.”
“Good,” Cho Feng nodded again as the column halted to remount. “Remember that all things must be considered. You must have the moral law on your side as well. Your people must be prepared to follow you regardless of the cost. They must believe in their sovereign, and in the rightness of his actions. Believe to the point that they are willing to perish, if needed, to bring about his wishes.”
“I'm not the 'sovereign', Master Feng,” Parno grunted out as he mounted his horse. “My father is now, and one day my brother will be. I'm just. . .” he paused suddenly, his face a study of concentration.
“Yes?” Feng asked as the column prepared to continue their ride toward Nasil.
“I don't know,” Parno finally shrugged. “I started to say I'm just a soldier, but that's not really accurate, I suppose. I am the war leader, the Marshal of the Army,” he admitted. “I suppose the men have to have confidence in me as their commander just as they need that confidence in the King. I hadn't really thought about that, to be honest. I've been fortunate that the men I've led have followed me the way they have.”
“Not so fortunate,” Feng disagreed as he spurred his horse forward. “You have shared the same hardships as your men, including combat. You have led by example as well as by intelligence. That inspires confidence, young prince. You have also led them to victory. This too inspires the common soldier as well as the educated officer. But that success is also a trap that you must avoid falling into,” he warned.
“What do you mean?”
“Your men will grow to expect victory under your leadership,” Feng pointed out. “They will expect victory because they are confident in your ability to provide leadership that will place them in a position to be victorious over their foe so long as they do what is asked of them. Thus you must take great care, my prince, to ensure that your decisions provide them that opportunity. Setbacks and defeats will shake their confidence in you. Too many and it could break. That is to be avoided. Morale of the army is of great importance on the battlefield.”
“So I have to keep winning to keep winning,” Parno snorted.
“That is over simplified, but not incorrect,” Feng agreed.
“Right now I'll settle for surviving.”
*****
“The exercise looks good, sir,” Merrill noted. His own First Officer was in command of the Indina, an opportunity for him to gain some experience in command that freed Merrill to be with the Admiral.
“So it does,” Selvey agreed, his scope traversing as he examined his ships. “They are responding well to signals and keeping their formations. This is good. Discipline will often win the day with all else being equal.”
“We don't really expect things to be equal do we sir?” Merrill asked. “We do outnumber the Soulanie fleet by a goodly margin.”
“So we do,” Selvey nodded. “And that means little if those number are not employed effectively. We've learned in wars past that there is no substitute in battle for good planning and leadership, Mister Merrill. Hard lessons, learned at great cost in men, material, and treasure.”
Merrill nodded at that, aware of the lessons of wars past. That was something that current training was careful to emphasize so that those mistakes would not be repeated.
“Once we've defeated the Soulan fleet, what then, Admiral?” Merrill asked. “What are our orders after that?”
“We should not assume that we will be in any shape to pursue any course of further action once the coming engagement is decided,” Selvey replied flatly. “I expect we will have many wounded men and damaged vessels if the Soulanies have gathered sufficient forces to attack us. While we may be victorious, do not assume that the costs won't be harsh, Mister Merrill. But,” he lowered his glass to regard the younger man, “should we still be combat capable, then we will begin reducing whatever ships and fortifications remain from here north along their coasts while maintaining watch for the remainder of their fleet to approach and offer battle.”
“How likely do you believe that to be?” Merrill was mostly successful in keeping the disdain from his voice.
“How likely would we be to marshal any available forces to oppose an enemy at our door, Captain?” Selvey asked in return, and noted with satisfaction the red creeping up Merrill's neck and face. Good.
“Point taken, sir,” Merrill acknowledged the hit. “I didn't mean that they would not-”
“Sails!” a cry from above them cut off the rest of Merrill's reply. “Sails west! Many ships west!”
Selvey immediately turned his glass toward the west, scanning the horizon. Nothing.
“They are still too far to be seen from the deck,” he said at once. “Get a qualified officer aloft at once to surveil them and get an accurate count as soon as possible. I want a breakdown of the ship classes and numbers as soon as they are in view. And signal the fleet to begin closing up! We cannot meet them strung out in squadrons like this. Move man!” he stressed as Merrill seemed to freeze for an instant.
“Right away, sir!” Merrill stammered and ran to carry out his orders.
*****
“Enemy in view, Admiral,” Nettles reported, much more calmly than his counterpart among the Imperial Navy.
“So I hear, Mister Nettles,” Semmes nodded, taking up his own glass as he ascended to the command and observation deck of the Wabash. “Can our lookouts spot our northern and southern forces?”
“Not as yet, sir,” Nettles admitted. “Doesn't mean they aren't there, however,” he added hopefully.
“Have the steward release green smoke, Mister Nettles,” Semmes ordered far more calmly then he actually felt. “They should be able to see it clearly in these conditions I should think, and close in when they do.”
“Right away, Admiral,” Nettles nodded and began issuing orders to runners waiting along the
edge of the deck. Below decks the stewards would be maintaining the stove, the only source of fire still burning aboard other than the torches used by the artillerymen to light their pitch rounds once battle was joined. Dumping sponges and cloths soaked with green dye onto those glowing coals would send a stack of green laced smoke into the air, alerting the other ships that Wabash and her sister ships were in contact with the enemy.
If they were close enough to see it, that is.
Forward, the chase ballistas were loaded with large bolts also soaked in pitch or designed to carry lengths of chain intended to tear sails and rip lines from masts on enemy ships. Battle at sea was one of finesse until the actual exchange of fire started. At that point things devolved into a dirty backstreet brawl that would see a terrible toll in both men and material. Below the decks of each ship physicians and surgeons were standing by to treat the wounded that would certainly result from the coming battle.
Along the rails Soulan Marines gathered, arbalests in hand, prepared to engage enemy sailors and marines as their ships passed each other in combat. Other marines waited along the decks to either repel boarders or to board enemy ships themselves, swords still sheathed for the moment. Few of them had seen real action and most were scared though their discipline held. The few experienced men among them were grim faced with determination. They knew that no amount of skill would spare them from the misfortunes of naval warfare that could see an errant ballista bolt or arbalest bolt glance off an iron stay or railing and puncture leather armor that could never hope to withstand such force.
Long-bowmen gathered around small torches with arrows drawn, waiting for the time when they would be within bow-shot of the enemy when they would light their arrows and loft them toward the wood and canvas of enemy vessels, hoping to do more damage to the enemy than the enemy would do to them.
Through all of this Semmes maintained his composure, watching the enemy forces as they moved on the horizon and occasionally checking north and south for signs of the rest of his ships. He hoped he had not erred in his battle plan. The one squadron around the Wabash would not last long against the combined I
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
-
Tinker was working on a piece of chain mail, repairing a link that had begun to rust and was threatening the integrity of the mesh metal 'net' that it's owner hoped would protect him from an arrow or a sword tip. Chain mail wasn't used by everyone, despite its protective value, simply because it was heavy and difficult to maintain. The soldier who owned this particular vest had obviously tried to keep it in good shape, but weeks in the field had left it weakened in one spot despite those attempts.
As he finished replacing the damaged link the soldier, a career sergeant in the 1st Heavy Infantry, continued to cast dispersion on the Army High Command.
“And for that matter, we should be attacking right now instead of wallowing in this mire,” the heavy muscled swordsman was saying. “This kind of camp is just begging for dysentery or cholera. You can't keep this many men in a camp this long and not get hit with disease o' some kind I'm tellin' ya.”
“So it is said,” Tinker nodded neutrally as he crimped the new wire together and placed it on the small anvil he used for such things. He carefully wrapped a piece of softer wire around the joint, then took a piece of burning coal from a small bowl and laid it over the metal vest. Soon, smoke was rising from the anvil as the wire melted, effectively welding the link closed. While not as good, nor ultimately as strong as if it had been welded in a forge, the repair work would make the vest considerably stronger than it had been with the damaged link still in place.
“And it's true, too,” the sergeant nodded firmly. “I've seen it more than once and yet we never seem to learn,” he shook his head. “You'd think that the Army would put that into the officer's training manuals as many times as we've had to learn it the hard way.”
“Perhaps it is there,” Tinker shrugged gently, removing the vest from the anvil and allowing it to cool. “It may simply be that there is no effective choice for the moment but to maintain the defensive posture the Army has assumed and that means keeping camp.”
“That's true,” the sergeant agreed reluctantly. “There's no doubt they outnumber us by a right smart. And damn me if they don't fight better'n they ever have, heathen bastards,” he added bitterly.
“Your own men are fighting well, too,” Tinker reminded him.
“That they are,” the sergeant perked up a bit. “The new Marshal made sure o' that, now, didn't he? Takin' the whoreson cavalry right into the lion's den so to speak. Was good to see that bunch do some fightin' for a change.”
“You don't care for the cavalrymen?” Tinker asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Ah, they got their place, sure,” the sergeant waved a dismissing hand. “But how hard can it be to ride a horse all day?” he asked in near derision. “Ain't a one of 'em could last out a day in the infantry,” he added proudly.
“I suppose that would be accurate,” Tinker said with a straight face, thinking of how tough the Prince's soldiers were, cavalry or not. “Still, fighting from horseback can't be easy.”
“Not against other horsemen prob'ly,” the infantryman admitted. “But against a man on foot he's a right terror.” Tinker could hear the truth behind the sergeant's declaration. He had the foot-soldier's fear of a cavalry charge, and rightly so.
“I would think that is accurate,” Tinker nodded and held the vest up, examining the work. “I think this should do nicely,” he said to the sergeant, handing the equipment over for inspection. The man took the vest and made his own examination, nodding sagely at the work.
“Can't hardly tell where it was done,” he said approvingly as he handed over the two coins the Tinker had charged him. His prices were, in fact, far cheaper than many of the others and his work superior to most of them. It made him very popular with officers and enlisted alike.
“A grand compliment indeed,” Tinker smiled. “And I thank you for your patronage,” he bowed slightly.
“Ain't a better man in camp for this kind o' thing to my knowledge,” the sergeant said earnestly. “I'd rather trust you with it than some o' the idiots we got in our unit, and that's the truth.”
“You aren't well cared for by the Army?” Tinker asked carefully. “I would think they should be taking great good care of their fighting men, especially now.”
“Oh, we do fine,” the sergeant nodded absently. “Better now thanks to that new Marshal, to be sure. But the quality o' work you put out is high and above the average fella in the service battalion, don't doubt it. I could likely have got this fixed there for free, but I reckon a man gets what he pays for, and my life might depend on this thing,” he shook the mail vest. “Worth it to me to pay for better.”
“I can imagine that,” Tinker smiled. “I am relieved to hear that you are in good care, however,” he cast his line carefully so as not to alert the fish.
“Can't really complain, especially in a camp such as this,” the sergeant waved a hand around them. “Ain't as good as bein' in barracks, but the Army rarely slides in makin' do for us. And like I said, the new Marshal has shook things up a good bit. A lot o' officers that was being right harridans to the men have calmed down a bit since Lord Parno took over. He don't cotton to such foolishness, ya see? They knows it, too, so they've taken to bein' a bit more gentlemanly of late. Glad for it, myself,” he added almost as an afterthought.
“Surely they weren't mistreating the men they lead into battle,” Tinker commented casually. “That would be foolishness to my way of thinking.”
“You'd think the idiots could see that, would ya not?” the sergeant replied. “But there's a good many of 'em that's from 'high' families, and to them we're on the same level as their family servants. Man like the last Marshal, he might have encouraged that kind o' thinkin', but not this new one. Men like him, too, I'm here to say. And it said a lot about him that he led that cavalry battle, too. Old Marshal wasn't never in hearing of t
he front lines and there Lord Parno was, out in the enemy's front door. Well, side door, as it were,” he grinned.
“I've heard good things about him,” Tinker nodded. “It is good to know that the men respect him so well. I arrived here expecting to find things in much worse shape,” he admitted, since that was true.
“Likely would have been, not for the new Marshal,” the sergeant admitted. “Well, I better get back, I reckon,” the man straightened again. “Thanks again, Tinker. Know you're busy.”
“Never too busy for you, my friend, or for any of your mates. Ensure they know that. Some of us are highly appreciative of your service, and especially at times such as these.”
“I'll do that,” the man promised and then was off, back to his unit. Tinker cleaned away the slight mess he'd made working, considering what he had learned. The attitude change in the officers would be good news for the Prince, but the fact that it had been necessary would not be.
Still, his brother's actions now made it possible for Parno McLeod to make inroads with the Army's rank and file by merely treating them correctly in the first place, something that would not have been possible without Therron McLeod's slip-shod management of the Army of Soulan during his tenure as Marshal. His musings were interrupted by the approach of another potential customer.
“Good day, my friend,” he smiled. “How can I serve you today?”
As he looked at the helm offered him by a young officer, Tinker pondered how he could 'fish' this one.
*****
“All squadrons signal that they are closing in, sir,” Merrill reported as he joined Selvey on the command deck. “And Commander Rickett is aloft to spy out the enemy numbers and composition.”
“Excellent,” Selvey nodded, his own glass still fixed on the western horizon. “We should have plenty of time to reform. We'll meet them as a single unit, and that-”
“Sails!” the cry came again, cutting off Selvey's comments. “Sails to the north, off the starboard bow! Many sails!”