Marching Through Peachtree wotp-2

by Harry Turtledove

  “Keep pelting those unicorn-riders with your bolts,” he called to his men. “If we can get ahead of the traitors…”

  But Brigadier Spinner’s unicorn-riders understood what he wanted as well as he did himself. Spinner wasn’t Ned of the Forest. A man fighting him didn’t always have to look out for an unexpected stroke from a startling direction. What false King Geoffrey’s commander of unicorn-riders did here was unsubtle and obvious. That didn’t make it ineffective.

  Every time George’s men had to stop and fight made him fume and curse. “Gods damn it,” he growled, “they’re liable to get away again.”

  * * *

  Joseph the Gamecock couldn’t have been more disgusted if he’d been pickled in bile. He’d known the southrons would sooner or later find a way around his position on the east bank of the Hoocheecoochee. But the report that Doubting George had crossed the river still infuriated him, for he hadn’t expected it to happen nearly as soon as this.

  For a couple of hours after the first word came in that his right flank had been turned, he’d done his best to believe it was a mistake, a scout seeing what he feared he would see regardless of whether or not it was really there. But no such luck. Men in gray really had crossed the river, and he would have to respond or see the Army of Franklin smashed between hammer and anvil.

  Men in blue fell back to the western bank of the river, marching over the foot bridges his miles of field fortifications had protected. Glideway carpets transported siege engines and other essentials over yet another bridge. The retreat went as smoothly as such things could. Why not? Joseph thought bitterly. We’ve had practice falling back.

  When the last man and the last glideway carpet had come over the river, Joseph turned to his mages and spoke in harsh tones: “All right, gods damn it, now make sure the southrons can’t follow hard on our heels.”

  “Yes, sir,” the mages chorused, and began to incant. The bridge over which the glideway carpets had passed was the first to feel their sorcery. Flames licked along the timbers supporting it. With a rending crash, it fell into the Hoocheecoochee. The spell made the timbers keep burning till they were altogether consumed, even though they were wet.

  The foot bridges went next. Their timbers burned as thoroughly as had those of the glideway bridge. Those timbers rested on stone piers. The magic shook the piers back to their constituent stones and scattered those along the bottom of the river.

  “That seems to have worked well enough,” Joseph said grudgingly.

  “Yes, sir,” one of the mages replied. “The enemy won’t be able to use the bridges, and he’ll be hard pressed to get across the river at all.”

  “He’s already across the river, gods damn him,” Joseph the Gamecock snapped. “Do you think we’d be doing this if he weren’t?”

  “What I meant, sir, was-”

  Joseph cut off the mage (if he’d had sword in hand, he might have used that, too). “I don’t care what you meant. Why didn’t any of you wonderful wizards warn me this was about to happen?”

  “We aren’t infallible, sir,” the sorcerer said stiffly.

  “Really? I never would have noticed,” Joseph the Gamecock said. The wizard winced and turned away.

  Mounting his unicorn, Joseph rode up toward the head of the Army of Franklin. A few men snarled at him as he went by. He didn’t blame them. They were free Detinans speaking their mind. Had he been in their place, he would have snarled at the commanding general, too.

  Another unicorn came up alongside of his after he reached the front of the column. He made himself turn his head. When he saw who’d joined him, he breathed a silent sigh of relief: it was Roast-Beef William, not Lieutenant General Bell. Instead of carping at him for retreating again, William only asked, “What are we going to do now, sir?”

  “What we’ve been doing all along: try to hold the southrons out of Marthasville,” Joseph answered. “What hasn’t change. Why hasn’t changed. How…” He cursed under his breath. “How just got harder.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roast-Beef William said. “The Hoocheecoochee was the last real line we had defending the city.”

  “I haven’t given up hope,” Joseph said stubbornly. “I don’t intend to, either. Marthasville has a solid set of forts around it, and there’s high ground north of Goober Creek. The southrons will have to cross the creek before they attack the city. When they do, I intend to hit them in the flank. It’ll be the first decent chance I’ve had to attack since Fat Mama, and I don’t intend to let Bell take this one away from me.”

  Roast-Beef William stroked his beard. “A bold plan, sir-no doubt of that. But have we got enough men to put garrisons into the forts around Marthasville and to attack the southrons at the same time? They outnumber us badly as things are.”

  “You needn’t remind me of that,” Joseph the Gamecock said bitterly. “I think the southrons sow dragons’ teeth and reap soldiers, the way the Mad Cuss did in the legend. But I don’t intend to use the Army of Franklin to hold the forts.”

  “What then, sir?” William asked, raising bushy eyebrows. “Shall we sow dragons’ teeth of our own, or make unicorn-riders of ghosts and shadows?”

  “Satrap Brown commands a militia,” Joseph said. “The son of a bitch doesn’t like me any too bloody well, and I mislike him, too, but I still have the power to impress those men directly into King Geoffrey’s service. They’ve spent the whole stinking war looking precious in their pretty uniforms and scratching their backsides. Now it’s time to find out if they can fight even a little bit.”

  Roast-Beef William looked dubious. He looked so very dubious, he might have practiced the expression in front of a glass. “I’d hate to put them into the line against Hesmucet’s men. The southrons are good soldiers, gods damn them, and they’re veterans. They’d go through raw militiamen like a good dose of castor oil.”

  “I don’t intend to put them into the line, only into the forts around Marthasville,” Joseph the Gamecock answered. “If I’m going to offer the southrons any kind of resistance at all, Lieutenant General, somebody besides my soldiers has to fill those places.”

  “Yes, sir.” Roast-Beef William still didn’t sound convinced. That worried Joseph. William, after all, was the man who’d written the tactical manual both sides used in this war. If he didn’t think well of Joseph’s plan, it was likely flawed.

  Almost pleading, Joseph said, “I’ve got to try something. If I don’t, the southrons will just walk into Marthasville. We can’t have that.”

  “No, we can’t,” William agreed. “Who would have thought, three years ago, that things could grow so desperate?”

  Anyone with an ounce of sense might have, Joseph thought. We knew from the start how badly the southrons outweigh us. But we were wild to hold on to our provincial prerogatives, and so we didn’t stop to count the cost when we followed Geoffrey and rebelled against King Avram. We’re counting the cost now, though.

  With every stride his unicorn took, Marthasville grew nearer. It wasn’t a great city, not compared to New Eborac in the south or to Old Capet here in the north. But Joseph had been in the field a long time, in the field or in small towns. Marthasville’s hostels and shops and temples made it look very grand indeed, a center of civilization in the middle of nowhere.

  He’d seen too much nowhere lately. He was sick of it. He was sick of the whole war. Had someone given him the chance to go off and sit on the sidelines-promising, of course, that everything would go well in his absence-he would gladly have taken it. The trouble was, no one could make promises like that. Joseph had been trained as a soldier. As long as his kingdom needed him, his sword remained at its service.

  And if that doesn’t make me a loyal northern man, gods only know what would. I’ve had nothing but insults and disrespect from King Geoffrey. They’re all I’ll ever get, as long as he is king. But I’ll put up with them for my kingdom and for my province. If I were a private man, though, I’d cut the liver out of that gods-damned son of a bitch.

/>   As often happened, a good dose of lese majesty made him feel better. He looked back over his shoulder at the men he commanded. They knew things weren’t going any too well. No one but an idiot could think that seeing the southrons on this side of the Hoocheecoochee was good news. Still, they seemed in good enough spirits. If he needed fighting from them, he would get all he needed. And if I had as many of them as Hesmucet has southrons, this would be a different war.

  But that reflection wasn’t what made Joseph the Gamecock look straight ahead once more. It also wasn’t what made him urge his unicorn up to a slightly faster pace. Along with all his marching men, he’d spied Lieutenant General Bell, tied onto his unicorn, coming up at a trot. Short of making his own mount gallop, Joseph couldn’t escape Bell.

  “Well, your Grace,” his wing commander rumbled, “what are we going to do now? This skedaddle is a disgrace, nothing else but. A disgrace, I say.”

  “Would you sooner have stood your ground with the enemy behind us as well as in front?” Joseph the Gamecock demanded. “Nobody would have got back to Marthasville in that case.”

  “They should never have got over the river in the first place,” Bell declared.

  “I quite agree,” Joseph said.

  Bell blinked. “Well, then…” His voice trailed off.

  “Unfortunately,” Joseph the Gamecock said, “we have to deal with what did happen, not with what should have happened. We should have attacked the stinking southrons outside of Fat Mama, but one of our wing commanders saw ghosts in the bushes and got a cold foot, and so the attack did not go in.”

  “Now see here, sir-” Bell began, he being the wing commander in question.

  “Oh, shut up,” Joseph told him. “When we go into position behind Goober Creek and when I see what we can do against Hesmucet, I may decide I want to listen to you again. Till then, no.”

  “What we can do against Hesmucet?” Bell jeered. “You won’t do anything but retreat. By the gods, sir, it’s all you ever do.”

  Joseph the Gamecock set a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Gentlemen, please!” Roast-Beef William said, edging his unicorn between Joseph’s and Bell’s. “When we quarrel, who gains? King Avram, no one else.”

  “There is some truth in what you say, Lieutenant General,” Joseph said. “Some-but not enough.”

  “Not enough, indeed,” Bell said. “We need a man in charge of this army, not someone who takes to his heels whenever the enemy comes near.”

  They both started reaching for weapons again. “You were the one who wouldn’t go forward when I needed you!” Joseph shouted.

  “Gentlemen!” Roast-Beef William said again. “I really must insist that you remember we are all on the same side.”

  “If certain people would act like it-” Joseph the Gamecock said.

  “Yes, indeed, if only they would,” Lieutenant General Bell broke in. They glared at each other.

  “We must all serve the north,” William said. “We can settle our differences once victory is ours. Until then, we have to work together.”

  “I serve the north, by the gods,” Joseph said. “In fact, I daresay my service to the north is more pure, more disinterested, than that of any other man in the army. The kingdom always comes first for me, not least because I-” He broke off. Because I despise the king might be true-in fact, certainly was true-but would gain him no points in this argument. “Because I was one of the first men out of Detina’s old army and into this new one,” he finished lamely.

  “We need a fighter at the head of our force, a true battler,” Bell said. “Then we’d show the southrons what our army can do.”

  “And if this army gets that kind of battler”-Joseph the Gamecock looked hard at Bell-“what the southrons will show him is that they have too many men and too many engines to be driven off as easily as he thinks.”

  “How would you know?” Bell retorted. “You’ve only gone backwards. You don’t know what we can do if we can go forwards.”

  “Yes, I do,” Joseph said. “We can throw the war away. If you go forward against a host bigger than your own, that’s what you do.”

  “Duke Edward of Arlington would not agree,” Bell sniffed.

  “I know Duke Edward, sir. We have our differences, but I will say that Duke Edward is a friend of mine.” Joseph the Gamecock fixed his unruly wing commander with a steady, scornful stare. “And I will also say one other thing: you, Lieutenant General, are no Duke Edward.”

  That got home. Bell quailed and went red under his swarthy skin. Using his good arm, he jerked his unicorn’s head away and rode off at something not far from a gallop. Joseph watched him go with considerable satisfaction. Roast-Beef William looked less happy. “That won’t do us any good, sir,” he said.

  “By the Lion God’s fangs, it did me a lot of good,” Joseph said. “I’m entitled to vent my spleen now and again, too.” He set a hand on his abdomen. He wasn’t quite sure whereabouts in there his spleen resided, but he was sure it had been well and truly vented.

  Somewhere not far ahead lay Goober Creek. If he could get the satrap to use his militiamen in the forts around Marthasville, that would free up the whole Army of Franklin to strike at the invaders. Hesmucet had come a long way. He’d had a lot of men killed or wounded, and was using a lot of them to guard the glideway line back to Rising Rock that kept his army fed and supplied. I can do him quite an injury, Joseph the Gamecock thought. I can, and, by the gods, I will.

  VII

  Having crossed the Hoocheecoochee, Rollant had hoped for a sudden, triumphant descent on Marthasville.

  He’d pictured southrons marching through the city in a grand and glorious procession, as they’d done in Rising Rock at the end of the previous summer. But what he’d pictured didn’t happen. The traitors’ army remained between that of General Hesmucet and Marthasville. Whenever the southrons sent scouts to probe at the enemy’s defenses, they got a warm reception.

  “We ought to be doing more,” he told Smitty one morning as the two of them heated tea over a campfire.

  “Nothing I can do about it-I’m just an ordinary fellow, ordinary as they come,” Smitty answered. “But now that you’re a high and mighty corporal, you could probably stroll right up to Doubting George or General Hesmucet and tell ’em what’s on your mind. They’d hop to it, I bet.”

  “It’s a good thing I already know you’re a chucklehead,” Rollant said. “If I didn’t, I’d figure you were trying to get me into trouble.”

  “You’re a blond,” Smitty said. “How much more trouble do you need? — and is that water boiling yet?”

  Rollant looked into the saucepan he was holding over the flames. “Not quite,” he said, and then, “You know, there’s a lot of people I’d want to belt, if they went on and on about how I’m a blond.”

  “Sorry, your Corporalship, sir,” Smitty said, his mocking style, as often happened, making it hard for Rollant to tell how serious he was. “I take it all back. You’re right-having yellow hair’s no trouble at all for you.”

  “Gods damn it, I didn’t mean that.” Rollant wondered if he’d ever had a day in his whole life go by where being a blond wasn’t a trouble in one way or another. He didn’t think so. “What I was trying to say was, you mostly don’t give me trouble on account of what I am. If you talk about it, I don’t mind so much.”

  “Oh.” Smitty thought that over, then grinned. “You say the sweetest things, darling.” He blew Rollant a kiss. “But I bet you tell them to all the Detinans.”

  That left Rollant’s cheeks hotter than the water, which had begun to boil. He took the saucepan away from the flames and poured its contents first into Smitty’s mug and then into his own. Both had ground tea leaves and sugar waiting for the hot water. Stirring the tea gave Rollant an excuse not to do anything else for the next minute or two. At last, he asked, “How did you get to be such a nuisance?”

  “I work hard at it,” Smitty said, not without pride. “Just ask my father and my mother and my two
older sisters and my older brother. If my other older brother was still alive, you could ask him, too.” He held up a hasty hand. “I didn’t have anything to do with him dying, though. It was the coughing fever.”

  Rollant gallantly tried to get back to talking about what he wanted to talk about: “We ought to push the traitors harder. If they go all the way back into Marthasville, we ought to lay siege to ’em. If they don’t, we ought to make ’em stand and fight instead of sneaking away again.”

  “Didn’t your mama ever rap you on the knuckles for being an impatient little brat?” Smitty said. “We’re just now getting the whole army, not just part of Doubting George’s Wing, over the Hoocheecoochee. Joseph the Gamecock wrecked all the bridges. We’ve especially got to get one for glideway carpets across the river. Once that happens, I expect we may fight a bit.”

  “I suppose so,” Rollant said. “But the more time we spend getting ready, the more time the traitors have to dig more trenches of their own. Whenever we come at the ones they’ve dug in, they make us pay for it.” He also ground his teeth when he thought of blond serfs doing the digging for the northern soldiers.

  “That’s part of the game,” Smitty answered. “The idea is to get around the bastards’ flanks and hit ’em where they aren’t dug in, or else to make them try to hit us when we are dug in instead.”

  “It would be nice,” Rollant said wistfully. “It doesn’t seem to happen very often, though, does it?” He swigged at his tea. It would have been better with some spirits poured into it, but pried his eyes open even as things were.

  Sergeant Joram happened to be walking by. He glowered down at Rollant. “Are you suggesting, Corporal, that the traitors have better officers than we do?”