Marching Through Peachtree wotp-2

by Harry Turtledove

The sun beat down on him. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it, doing his best to fight the muggy summer heat of Peachtree Province. He’d always thought Parthenia had vile summer weather-and, as a matter of fact, it did. But Peachtree Province was worse.

  What there was of the breeze came out of the west. When George inhaled, he wrinkled his nose. He knew what that stench came from: unburned southron bodies, still lying in front of the works on Commissioner Mountain they hadn’t been able to take. “If the enemy won’t make them a pyre,” he said, “the least they could do would be to get them under the ground.”

  “Bury them, the way the blonds used to do with their dead before we taught ’em better?” Colonel Andy’s lip curled with distaste. “I don’t know about that, sir. Do you really think the gods would accept it?”

  “Better than leaving dead men on the field to bloat and stink, wouldn’t you say?” Doubting George asked.

  Again, his adjutant remained unconvinced. “Burying’s unnatural. Fire purifies the soul.”

  “I-” George stopped and coughed. If he said he doubted that, he would find himself in a theological argument with Andy. He had neither the time nor the energy for any such thing. Besides, in the general run of things, he didn’t doubt it. If he fell in battle, he wanted to be burned. But even burial struck him as preferable to being ignored by everyone save the carrion birds.

  Andy looked toward the south. “Here comes General Hesmucet, sir.”

  Hesmucet reined his unicorn to a halt. As Doubting George stiffened to attention, he reflected that the general commanding rode more like a tradesman than a noble. Then he laughed at himself again. That was true, but it would have counted against Hesmucet much more heavily in the blood-conscious north than in the south, where what a man could do mattered more than who his grandfather was. This is the side you chose, George thought. Make the best of it.

  After descending from the unicorn and tying it to a tree, Hesmucet said, “If the weather holds, we’ll be able to do some more against the bastards.”

  “That’s true, sir,” George agreed. “Do we have a bridgehead on the west bank of Snouts Stream? I’ve heard it, but I want to make sure it’s so before I go out and celebrate.”

  “It’s so,” Hesmucet answered. “Now we have to figure out how to make the most of it-and how to keep the traitors from wrecking it before we can.”

  “The more we press them, the likelier they are to break,” George observed. “If we can slip some unicorn-riders over to the far side of that stream and turn them loose, that might give Joseph something new to think about.”

  “Well, so it might,” the commanding general allowed. He called for a runner, then told him, “Fetch Marble Bill here. If we’re going to talk about unicorn-riders, we might as well have their commander listening.”

  He probably would have come up with that for himself, Doubting George thought. He’s a solid general. No matter how he tried to hide it, even from himself, not being in command hurt.

  Brigadier William-more commonly Marble Bill, because of a pale complexion and a nearly expressionless face-was not a brilliant commander of unicorn-riders. The traitors had a couple of those: Jeb the Beauty, who served Duke Edward of Arlington so well in Parthenia, and grim Ned of the Forest here in the east. But Marble Bill was a competent commander of unicorn-riders. After some of the unfortunate officers who’d led southron unicorns into battle, competence was not to be despised.

  Hesmucet said, “Doubting George here had himself a notion.” He didn’t try to take credit for it himself, as a lot of high-ranking officers might have done. After spelling it out for Marble Bill, he asked, “What do you think? Can we do it?”

  “I don’t know for certain.” The brigadier’s voice gave away no more than his face did. After a moment, he went on, “Finding out might be worthwhile, though. I probably ought to take my riders across Snouts Stream by night, to keep the enemy from knowing they’re there till they start moving.”

  Definitely competent, George thought. Hesmucet said, “I’ll have Major Alva lay down a confusion spell for you, if you like.”

  To George’s surprise, Marble Bill shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “The traitors will be looking for magecraft, I expect. Even if they can’t pierce it, knowing it’s there will put them on the alert.”

  Very definitely competent, Doubting George thought. He asked, “Can you move a couple of regiments over tonight?”

  “Yes, sir,” was all Marble Bill said in reply to that. A lot of officers-both General Guildenstern and Fighting Joseph leaped into George’s mind-were given to boasting and bluster. Hearing one give a simple, matter-of-fact answer was refreshing. As if thinking of Fighting Joseph were enough to conjure him up, he strolled over and nodded casually to Hesmucet and George in turn.

  “Then do it,” Hesmucet said with the air of a man coming to a decision. He turned to George and to Fighting Joseph. “I’ll want more soldiers from both of you to help build up the bridgehead.”

  “You’ll have them,” George said, imitating Marble Bill’s brevity.

  Fighting Joseph, by contrast, struck a pose. “My brave men are always at your service, sir, and at the service of the kingdom,” he declared.

  He meant it. George was sure he meant it. As far as Fighting Joseph was concerned, he selflessly served Detina. As far as any outsider was concerned, Fighting Joseph worried first about himself, and grabbing more power and glory for himself, and about everything else afterwards… long afterwards. It seemed painfully obvious to everyone who served with him and tried to command him.

  “I’m so glad to hear it,” Hesmucet replied now.

  “Tell me what to do, and I shall do it.” Fighting Joseph struck another pose. George fought down a strong urge to retch.

  “All right,” Hesmucet said. “This is what you’ll do, then-you’ll move in support of Lieutenant General George’s men and-”

  “You want me to do what?” Fighting Joseph demanded indignantly. His ruddy face got ruddier, till it almost reached the high color of Roast-Beef William’s. “You want me to move in subordination to another wing commander?”

  “Lieutenant General George has more men, and more men in the vicinity, than you do.” Hesmucet spoke in reasonable tones. “To me, that means he should be the one with the main responsibility and you the one with the secondary responsibility.”

  Fighting Joseph rolled his eyes up to the heavens. “By the Thunderer’s shaggy beard, how many more such insults must I endure?”

  “I don’t see that you’ve endured any,” George told him. “If our positions were reversed, I’d certainly subordinate myself to you.”

  “No one understands me,” Fighting Joseph groaned, as if he were an avant-garde artist-or perhaps a six-year-old in a temper. He stormed away from his fellow generals. George wondered if spanking his backside would do any good. Unfortunately, he had his doubts.

  General Hesmucet sighed. “He is brave,” he said, and he might have been reminding himself as well as the officers with him. “He is brave,” he repeated, “but he’s also gods-damned difficult. One of these days…” He kicked up some dirt with his right boot, as if kicking the obstreperous Joseph out of the army.

  But, as Doubting George knew, Hesmucet couldn’t simply dismiss Fighting Joseph. Joseph’s seniority entitled him to high rank somewhere: if not here, then somewhere farther west. Hesmucet might not want him here, but King Avram didn’t want him anywhere closer to Georgetown. In that contest, Hesmucet was bound to lose.

  The general commanding sighed again. “You gentlemen know what I want from you now. George, if Fighting Joseph positively disobeys my command, I want to hear about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said. If Fighting Joseph gave Hesmucet enough spikes to crucify him, the general commanding would, no doubt, shed nary a tear. George himself wasn’t enamored of working alongside Fighting Joseph, and wouldn’t have been brokenhearted to see him go, either.

  “Brigadier William,” Hesmucet s
aid, and Marble Bill stiffened to attention. Hesmucet went on, “Remember, if we can get your unicorn-riders either through the traitors’ line at Snouts Stream or around the end of it, Joseph the Gamecock will have to pull back. That will give us Hiltonia, and Ephesus, too.”

  Saluting, Marble Bill said, “You know I’ll do everything I can, sir.”

  “Good.” Hesmucet nodded. “Up till now, from what the prisoners say, our friend Joseph the Gamecock has kept morale up in the Army of Franklin by making his retreats out to be strategy: he tells his men he’s luring us deeper and deeper into Peachtree to destroy us. If he loses Hiltonia, if there’s only the Hoocheecoochee River between us and Marthasville, that story will start wearing thin.”

  “I understand what you want of me, sir,” Marble Bill said. Hesmucet looked to Doubting George, too, and doubtless would have looked to Fighting Joseph were he still there. Doubting George nodded.

  “All right then,” Hesmucet said. “Dismissed.” He got back onto his unicorn and rode away.

  George told Colonel Andy, “Draft orders to set our regiments in motion, as General Hesmucet requires.”

  “Yes, sir,” his adjutant replied. “Ah, sir, is Fighting Joseph really going to support us?” He looked around to make sure no one but George was in earshot before adding, “My guess is, he’ll support us like a commercial traveler skipping out on a farmer’s daughter after he’s put a baby in her belly.”

  “Heh,” George said. “Don’t I wish you were wrong?” A field-grade officer approached him. George nodded a greeting. “Hello, Colonel Nahath. What can I do for you today?” He had a warm regard for the regimental commander. Back in the desperate fighting by the River of Death, Nahath’s New Eboracers had fought back to back when the traitors tried a flank attack on Merkle’s Hill that came much too close to working.

  “I have a question for you, Lieutenant General,” Nahath replied. “You have a name for being a fair man, so I’m particularly interested in what you have to say.”

  “Well, you’ve flattered me and you’ve intrigued me,” Doubting George said. “Now you’d better ask your question, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nahath said. “I have a man in my regiment-in Lieutenant Griff’s company-who, up on Commissioner Mountain, took the company standard when the standard-bearer was hit, who brought it forward through everything the traitors could shoot at him, and who was the last man to leave the field. My question is, should I promote him to corporal?”

  “Lion God’s claws, Colonel, if you promoted him to lieutenant you’d get no argument from me,” George said. “Why do you even feel you need to ask?”

  “He’s a blond, sir,” Nahath replied. “Fellow named Rollant, escaped serf from Palmetto Province.”

  “Oh.” George kicked at the mud under his right boot. Every so often, his being a northerner by birth would up and bite him. That a blond might do such a thing had never crossed his mind. He plucked at his beard as he thought. At last, he asked, “If you did promote him, would the men obey him?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Colonel Nahath said. “That would be one of the things I’d have to find out. I know I don’t need your permission, precisely: there are other blond underofficers, though not a great many. But I did want your view on the matter before I acted.”

  “I appreciate that.” Doubting George plucked at his beard again. At last, with a sigh, he said, “Promote him, Colonel. See what happens. If he does the job, well and good. If not… he deserves the chance to fail, wouldn’t you say? I rather think he will, but he does deserve a chance.”

  “Deserves the chance to fail,” Nahath echoed. “That’s well put, sir. All right, then. I’ll do it, and we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Seems only fair,” George said. “After all, it’s not as if he’s an officer, or anything of the sort.”

  “There is a blond officer, you know,” Nahath said. Doubting George and Colonel Andy both exclaimed in astonishment, but the New Eboracer nodded. “By the gods, gentlemen, there is: he’s a major among the healers in the west.”

  “What will the kingdom be like if King Avram turns blonds into Detinans?” Colonel Andy asked.

  “It will be different,” George said. “It will be very different. Of that, there can be no doubt. But I will say this, and of it there can also be no doubt: Detina will be one kingdom. And that is how the gods intended it to be, and to remain.” His adjutant and Colonel Nahath both nodded.

  * * *

  Colonel Florizel said, “A great pity Leonidas the Priest got killed. We were lucky to have a wing commander on such good terms with the gods.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Captain Gremio replied. He wouldn’t argue with the leader of his regiment, but his own view of the situation was that a wing commander with an actual functioning brain would be a pleasant novelty. Piety, to him, went only so far as a military virtue.

  Florizel gave what was probably intended for an indulgent chuckle. “Ah, you barristers,” he said. “A lot of freethinkers among you.”

  “I believe in the gods, your Excellency,” Gremio protested. “There are days, I admit, when I have trouble believing the gods believe in me.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he should have left them unsaid. The first sentence was fine. Not even Florizel could complain about that. The second… No, he should have thought it and kept his mouth shut. “The gods believe,” the regimental commander said firmly. “And they have ways of showing people exactly what they believe.” He eyed Gremio, as if to say the gods were likely to believe he’d made a jackass of himself.

  At the moment, he believed that, too. Muttering excuses under his breath, he walked down the trench line, in theory to see how the men of his company were positioned but in fact to get away from Colonel Florizel. After he’d made good his escape, he started really doing what he’d pretended to do when he left. Florizel’s regiment had the bad luck to be holding the stretch of line where the southrons had forced their way across Snouts Stream. That meant his men, along with everyone else in the regiment, had to stay especially alert, lest the enemy come swarming at them in great numbers.

  Cautiously, Gremio stuck his head up above the parapet and peered east toward the southrons’ bridgehead. A hundred yards away, a southron officer’s head popped up above his parapet at the same time. Each man saw the motion from the other. Both men ducked. A moment later, feeling foolish, Gremio looked up again. So did the southron. Gremio waved: he despised southrons in general, but had nothing against specific southrons in particular. After a brief hesitation, the enemy officer waved back.

  He must feel the same about me as I feel about him, Gremio thought. It was an odd notion. More often than not, southrons were simply the enemy to him. How could they be human beings? They were fighting him and everything he held dear. Every once in a while, in spite of everything, one of them insisted on reminding Gremio of his humanity.

  In the end, though, how much did that matter? Not a great deal. If he comes at me, I’m going to try to kill him regardless of what I think about him. Battlefield reality could be very simple.

  A little farther east, behind the southrons’ entrenchments, they’d thrown a couple of bridges across Snouts Stream. Gremio didn’t like that at all. It meant Hesmucet’s men could reinforce their bridgehead whenever they pleased. He wondered where Joseph the Gamecock would find reinforcements in case the northerners needed more men in a hurry. He didn’t know. He hoped Joseph did.

  “Anything unusual, sir?” Sergeant Thisbe asked him.

  “Nothing much,” he answered. “A southron and I were playing peekaboo with each other for a little bit, you might say.”

  “Peekaboo?” Thisbe echoed.

  Gremio mimed sticking his head up, looking, ducking down, and then looking again. The sergeant laughed. “Peekaboo,” Gremio repeated. “That bastard in gray was doing just the same thing.”

  “All right.” But Thisbe’s smile slipped. “Do you think we can throw the south
rons back across the stream?”

  “No,” Gremio said bluntly. “We’ve tried a couple of times, and paid the price for it. The ball’s in their court now. We’re just going to have to hold them back as best we can. We ought to be able to do that.”

  “Oh, too bad,” Thisbe said. “I thought the same thing myself, and I was hoping you would tell me I was wrong.”

  “I wish I could,” Gremio answered. He had the feeling that Colonel Florizel still believed they could throw the southrons back. That worried him; if the colonel, or those above him, tried to act on that belief, a lot of good northern men were going to end up dead-and, worse yet, dead for no good purpose. Gremio himself, he knew, might easily end up among their number. He disapproved of that idea with all his orderly soul. He was, to some degree, willing to die for his kingdom, but only if his death would actually do the kingdom some good. Dying in a fight foredoomed from the start struck him as wasteful.

  Thisbe said, “I wish the southrons hadn’t got this bridgehead.”

  “So do I,” Gremio replied. “We were all so pleased when we threw them back from Commissioner Mountain. And we should have been-that thrust would have killed us had it gone home. But this bridgehead…” He scowled. “It’s like an ulcer, or a wound that festers instead of getting better. We can die from this, too, even if it takes longer.”

  “That’s how my father died,” Thisbe said quietly. “He laid his leg open with an axe, and it never healed up the right way no matter how the healers and the mages tried to fix it. The flesh just melted off him, and after a while he couldn’t live any more.”

  “Things like that happen,” Gremio agreed. “My mother and father are well, gods be praised, or they were last time I heard from them, but I know you can’t count on anything. If I didn’t know that beforehand, this gods-damned war would have taught me plenty.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thisbe said. “If I were the southron general, I’d either try to find a way through with those men already on this side of Snouts Stream, or else I’d use them to keep us busy here while I did my mischief somewhere else.”