Marching Through Peachtree wotp-2

by Harry Turtledove

  Andy stiffened. A very minor noble-a mere baronet-he had more than minor pride. “Pardon me for existing, sir,” he said icily.

  “I’ll think about it.” George’s voice remained gruff. But then he relented: “I’m sorry, Colonel. I’m truly sorry. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “It did not sound that way,” Andy observed.

  “I know. I am sorry,” George said, and explained the visit he’d just had from Hesmucet.

  “He goes off to have adventures and leaves you behind?” Andy said when he was done. “I don’t blame you a bit for being upset, sir.” His adjutant was fiercely loyal.

  George knew he’d tried his best not to deserve such loyalty. “I do apologize,” he said again. “I had no business barking at you.”

  “Never mind, sir. Never mind,” Colonel Andy replied. “Can you do anything to get him to change his mind?”

  “I doubt it,” Doubting George said. “If I wore his boots, I daresay I’d do the same thing, and leave it up to some other sorry son of a bitch to handle whatever else needed handling. But I’m the sorry son of a bitch in question, and I suppose that’s why I barked.”

  “Terrible. Just terrible.” Andy stroked his beard. “Did he tell you what forces you would have?”

  “No, but I can make a good guess: whatever he doesn’t want and whatever I can scrape up,” George answered.

  “Terrible. Just terrible,” Andy repeated. “We have to keep this from happening.”

  “Only thing I can think of that would do it would be to beat Bell up here-beat him and take his army off the board altogether,” George replied. “I don’t believe it’s likely, though.”

  “Why not?” With his plump cheeks and angry expression, Colonel Andy resembled nothing so much as an indignant chipmunk. “We’ve licked the Army of Franklin whenever it would give us battle.”

  “That’s why not,” Doubting George replied. “I don’t think Bell has any intention of giving us another crack at him. I think he’ll keep on running and hope we keep on chasing him.”

  “Cowardly son of a bitch,” his adjutant said with a distinct sniff.

  “No, not Bell.” George shook his head. “You can call Bell a great many things, but he’s no coward. He’s finally figured out that one traitor isn’t worth two southron men, that’s all, and that what the northern bards have to say about it doesn’t mean a thing. It took him a lot longer than it should have, but he’s got it now.”

  Andy sniffed again. “He’s pretty stupid.”

  This time, George nodded. “He is pretty stupid. Brave and deadly-and stupid. He’s like a hawk on somebody’s wrist. Point it at prey and it will go out and kill. But ask it to figure things out for itself? No.”

  “Only Geoffrey did,” Andy said.

  “Only Geoffrey did,” Doubting George agreed. “Of course, Geoffrey is pretty stupid, too, if anyone wants to know what I think. He had a perfectly good general in charge of his army here, and sacked him for no good reason.”

  “He wanted a general who would go out there and fight,” Colonel Andy said.

  “Be careful what you want-you may get it,” George said. “Before he put his fighting general in there, he still had Marthasville, and the Army of Franklin was still a real army. Now Bell’s running around trying to make a pest of himself with what he has left, and there isn’t enough left of Marthasville to talk about. Brilliant change of command, wasn’t it? Just fornicating brilliant.”

  Andy smiled. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re too sorry about that.”

  “Who, me?” Doubting George said.

  * * *

  Rain poured down out of a leaden sky: surprisingly cold rain that soaked Rollant and the standard he bore and turned the red clay of southern Peachtree Province into red glue. He slogged on, one step after another, pulling each foot out of the mud in turn and then setting it down again. Every so often, he stepped off the road to scrape muck off his boots with some grass or a shrub.

  The southron army’s asses and unicorns couldn’t do that. Not only did they struggle more than the footsoldiers, they also chewed up the road worse. One stretch was almost like soup. “I wish they wouldn’t send the beasts and wagons down the same road we use, not in this weather,” Rollant grumbled.

  “Wish for the moon, while you’re at it,” Smitty said.

  “Thanks, friend. You always know how to make me feel better.”

  Smitty grinned. Water dripped off the brim of his hat-and off the end of his beaky nose. “Your wish is my command, your Corporalship, sir. As a matter of fact, your command is my command.”

  “I’d command you to stop your nonsense, but I know better than to waste my breath,” Rollant said.

  “Only proves you’re married, I’d say.”

  “You know I am.” Rollant pointed at Smitty. “And I know you’re not. So what do you know about it?”

  “Just watching my ma and pa,” Smitty answered. “But they’ve been together thirty years now without killing each other, so I expect they’re doing something right.”

  Rollant had trouble arguing with that. A few minutes later, traffic on the road didn’t merely slow; it stalled altogether. “What the hells is going on here?” Rollant demanded irately, and he was far from the only one. As he stood there, the mud tried to suck him down into its cold, wet, slimy maw. Lieutenant Griff sent a man forward to see if he could discover what had gone wrong. The fellow sensibly trotted along on the grass by the side of the road, not in the roadway itself.

  He came back by the same route. “There’s wagons up ahead stuck in what looks like a bog, sir,” he reported to Griff. “It’s so deep, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were crocodiles in it.”

  “Well, why aren’t people going around?” Griff asked.

  “A lot of ’em are trying to haul out the wagons,” the soldier replied. “They aren’t having much luck, though.”

  “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Sergeant Joram asked. “Stand here in the mud and drown?” It must have been doing its best to pull him under, too.

  Before long, a southron captain who was so muddy he might have been dipped in rust-colored paint ordered Griff’s company forward. “You men can lend a hand on the ropes,” he said.

  That was when Rollant found out what underofficer’s rank was really worth. As corporal and standard-bearer, he stood around with Lieutenant Griff and Sergeant Joram and the other men with stripes on their sleeves. The common soldiers sloshed down into the bog-and the messenger had described it accurately-seized the long ropes fastened to the front end of the lead wagon, and pulled like men possessed.

  I’ve still got just as much chance of getting killed as anybody else, he thought. More chance than most, because I bear the standard. But the rest of a corporal’s job looks a lot better than a common soldier’s.

  Try as they would, the mud-streaked men in gray couldn’t shift the wagon. Then a mage on an ass muddy all the way to the belly rode up. The captain who’d summoned Griff’s company recognized him. “That’s Colonel Albertus!” he said. “He’s called the Great, thought gods know why.” He raised his voice: “Colonel Albertus, can you help us, sir?”

  Albertus reined in. Most of the time, Rollant judged, he would have been an impressive man, with a long, pointed gray beard; a long, pointed nose; and piercing black eyes. At the moment, he resembled nothing so much as a drowned billy goat. His voice was deep and resonant: “I shall do what I can.”

  “Sounds more like a circus mountebank than a proper wizard,” Sergeant Joram said behind his hand.

  “Well, let’s see what he can do,” Rollant answered, and the sergeant nodded.

  Colonel Albertus fixed the lead wagon with those piercing eyes and began to chant. He made pass after pass, his fingers writhing like so many serpents. The wagon began to twitch and shake. After a moment, it tried to rise, but was held in place by the sucking power of the mud. Albertus paused for a moment to curse, then incanted harder than ever.

  �
��By the gods, maybe the old bastard can bring it off after all,” Joram said.

  “I hope so,” Rollant said.

  With a horrible squelching noise, the wagon did pull itself free of the encumbering mud. The weary soldiers who’d been trying to get it out raised a cheer-which cut off abruptly when, instead of stopping just above the bog, the wagon continued to rise till its dripping, mucky wheels were a good ten feet off the ground.

  The men on the ropes who’d been closest to the wagon started to rise into the air, too, till they let go and fell back into the mud. Some of them squawked. Some cursed. Some did both at once. Rollant didn’t blame those last. Albertus the so-called Great had produced a sorcery more successful than it might have been. And, as with a lot of sorceries, this one, proving more successful than it might have been, was at best useless and at worst a help to the enemy.

  “Well, Colonel, what in the hells are you going to do now?” demanded the captain who’d summoned Albertus. So much for respecting a superior officer, Rollant thought. But wizards were officers by courtesy, to let them order common soldiers around. Real fighting men, as he’d seen before, disdained them.

  Albertus gave the wagon a distinctly wall-eyed stare. The stare he sent the contemptuous captain was something else again. Rollant was glad it wasn’t aimed his way; a poisonous snake might have aimed that sort of look at its prey the instant before it struck. “I shall endeavor to repair matters,” the mage said in a voice as coldblooded as a serpent.

  If he put the captain in fear, that worthy hid it very well. “You can endeavor all you gods-damned well please,” he snarled. “You wouldn’t have to if you’d done it right the first time.”

  “And if you splendid soldiers had done everything right the first time, this cursed war would have been over year before last,” Colonel Albertus retorted. The captain sputtered and fumed, but he kept quiet, because the wizard had spoken self-evident truth. Albertus’ smile didn’t show fangs, but it might as well have.

  Turning back to the wagon, Albertus began another spell. This one sounded less imperious, more cautious, than the one he’d used before. Its results seemed less dramatic, too. Rollant approved of that; high drama and trouble were intimately associated in his mind. When Colonel Albertus called out a word of power and pointed at the uncannily floating wagon, it seemed more a request than a command.

  And the request got results, too, where the earlier command had only caused a new and more spectacular problem. Little by little, the wagon drifted down till its wheels rested on the air a few inches above the mud from which it had been rescued.

  Albertus gave the captain of footsoldiers an icy bow. “Now your men should be able to push and pull the wagon to drier ground,” he said.

  “Go ahead and try it, boys,” the captain called. Cautiously, some of the soldiers took hold of the ropes and began to pull. Even more cautiously, others got behind the wagon and pushed. They all let out a cheer when it moved forward far more readily than it had while stuck in the mud.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” the captain told Colonel Albertus. But he couldn’t resist getting in another dig: “Now do you suppose you can get the rest of ’em out of the muck without sending ’em halfway up to Mt. Panamgam?”

  The mage aimed a harried look his way. “I shall bend every effort to that purpose.”

  His efforts could have used a bit more bending. His first spell with the second wagon failed to get it out of the mud. The captain let out a loud, scornful snort. Colonel Albertus kept on incanting. When at last the wagon did emerge, it rose only two or three feet into the air. The men could push and pull it forward without much trouble.

  Albertus’ spells went better still on the third and fourth wagons. He’d learned what needed doing by then, and he did it. Those wagons came out on the first try and rose only a foot or so above the surface of the mud. Not even the captain could complain. All he said was, “Appreciate it, Colonel.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re welcome,” Albertus the Great said. He scrambled aboard his ass as if he’d never mounted it before and rode off down the road.

  By the time Colonel Nahath’s regiment made camp, Rollant felt about ready to drop. His men had a hells of a time starting fires, even though the rain had eased off by then. Wet fuel and wet tinder made things difficult. At last, the squad got a couple of smoky blazes going. “Wish we had a mage along now,” Rollant grumbled. “He’d have set us up in a hurry.”

  “Either that or he’d have burned down half the gods-damned province trying,” Smitty said. Rollant nodded. Mages could bungle things, sure enough, and often did.

  He sat down on the wet ground. His tunic and pantaloons were already soaked; a little more water made no difference. To his surprise, the trooper named Gleb sat down next to him. Gleb’s face still showed the marks of their fight. He supposed his own did, too. Did Gleb want another try? If he did, Rollant was ready to give him one.

  But all Gleb said was, “Ask you something, Corporal?”

  “You can ask,” Rollant said roughly. “I don’t promise to answer.”

  Gleb nodded. “All right. That’s fair enough.” He still hesitated. Rollant gestured impatiently, as if to say, Come on. Words spurted from Gleb in a rush: “How was it you were able to lick me when we tangled?”

  To Rollant, the answer to that was plain as the sun in the sky. “How? I didn’t dare lose, that’s how.”

  By Gleb’s frown, that made less sense to him than it did to Rollant. Of course, he’d never been a blond. He proved that by continuing, “But how could you beat me? I mean, you’re, uh, not a proper Detinan, and I am.”

  As patiently as he could, Rollant said, “You’ve seen me fight the traitors, haven’t you?”

  Gleb nodded again. “Well, yes.”

  “I did that all right, didn’t I?” Rollant asked. Gleb nodded once more. In some exasperation, Rollant said, “Those bastards are Detinans, aren’t they? If I can fight them, why the hells can’t I fight you?”

  “I don’t know.” Gleb’s broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “They’re the enemy. You’re supposed to fight them.”

  Rollant tapped the stripes on his sleeve. “You know I almost had to get myself killed before they’d put these on me, don’t you?” This time, Gleb’s nod came much more slowly. Rollant persisted: “And you know why, too, don’t you? On account of I’m a blond, that’s why. You know all about that.”

  The trooper muttered something. Rollant couldn’t make out what it was. Just as well, he thought. Then Gleb said, “It wasn’t like I thought it would be.”

  “I’m trying to tell you why, gods damn it,” Rollant snapped. “I had to work so hard to get these stripes, I don’t want to lose them. If you licked me, I likely would’ve lost them. And so you would have had to kill me to make me quit. Is that plain enough for you?”

  “Oh,” Gleb said. Maybe he got it. Maybe he didn’t. Rollant didn’t much care one way or the other. As long as the Detinan took his orders and gave him no trouble, what Gleb thought didn’t matter to him.

  He wondered how much Gleb actually did think. Not much, unless he missed his guess. That didn’t matter, either, not unless his stupidity endangered the men around him-or it led him to something like picking a fight with a corporal who also happened to be a blond.

  But I don’t happen to be a blond, Rollant thought. I am a blond. I happen to be a corporal. That’s how Detinans see it, anyway.

  How Detinans saw it, though, didn’t matter so much to him, not any more. Regardless of how even Detinans in King Avram’s army with him looked at the world and at him, certain facts no one could deny. Here he sat, wet and miserable, in the middle of an invading army in the middle of Peachtree Province. He wore a gray tunic and pantaloons like everybody else’s. He got paid like everybody else, too. And that he’d come here with weapons to hand, ready to kill any Detinans who didn’t agree with his comrades and him, went a long way toward proving how much had changed since he was first grudgingly
allowed to fight.

  After the war, everybody’s likely to try to forget blonds did some of the fighting for King Avram, he thought. That’s the sort of thing ordinary Detinans won’t want to remember. They can go back to thinking we’re “just blonds” if they forget. Well, we can’t let that happen.

  “Gleb,” he said, “looks like we’re a little short on firewood. Chop some more.” He waited to see what the soldier would do.

  “All right, Corporal,” Gleb replied, and went off to obey the order. Slowly, Rollant nodded to himself. Sure as hells, some things had changed.

  XII

  “What the hells is Bell playing at?” General Hesmucet demanded, going over the reports the scouts brought in about the Army of Franklin’s movements. “If he keeps going in this direction, he’ll be all the way down to Caesar by the time he’s through. That’s where this campaign started, near enough.”

  Doubting George perched on a stool in the farmhouse Hesmucet was using for a headquarters. Hesmucet wondered how many farmhouses he’d used for temporary headquarters since the war began. He couldn’t have guessed, not even to the nearest dozen. When the war finally ended, if it ever did, he intended to stay away from farmhouses from then on.

  George said, “One thing Bell’s doing: he’s making you dance to his tune instead of the other way round. You imposed your will on Joseph the Gamecock. You haven’t done that with Bell-if you leave Marthasville out of the bargain, of course.”

  “Oh, of course,” Hesmucet said dryly. “No one would want to talk about Marthasville at all. Bell didn’t care one way or the other what the devils happened to it.”

  “That’s not what I meant, sir, or not exactly,” Doubting George said.

  Whatever he’d meant, he had a point, or at least a good part of one. As long as the southrons kept chasing Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin all over southern Peachtree Province, Hesmucet couldn’t do what he really wanted to: make the north regret ever starting a war against King Avram. If I can march to theWesternOcean, that will prove Geoffrey’s king over nothing but air and brags, he thought. I can do it. I know I can.