“‘Only,’” Winter said. “It’s, what, three hundred miles?”
“Closer to four hundred.” Cyte shrugged. “It’s farther from here to Vordan City.”
With decent roads, and riverboats to supply us, and no enemy to block the path. But Winter didn’t say it. The truth was, if Janus wanted to go to Elysium, it didn’t matter if it was three hundred miles or a thousand. She would do her best to get there. What else can I do?
Eventually, the campfires of the Second Division came into view, and Winter was pleased to hear the attentive picket shout a challenge. Bobby answered, and they passed the sentries and into the rows of tents, a smaller version of the vast encampment around Vaus.
“Bobby, get Abby up first,” Winter said. “Tell her I want the Girls’ Own to shake out skirmishers and push north to the river, make sure we haven’t got any surprises waiting. Then get Erdine to get his men up and moving. They can lead their horses until it’s light enough to see properly. He’s to ford the river and scout the other side, and to make sure any enemy scouts don’t get close enough to see the crossing.”
“Yessir,” Bobby said, tugging the reins to turn her horse away.
“We’ll need to send someone to the Sixth. Tell General—” Winter struggled to recall the man’s name.
“General Ibsly, sir,” Cyte supplied.
“Right.” Ibsly. She’d met him, a nervous-looking captain of engineers thrust into responsibility by Janus’ mysterious judgments. Like so many others. “Tell him to send his cavalry north and have their colonel report to Erdine. His infantry should go first; we’ll bring up the rear. Oh, and tell Archer to get the wagon train moving and take it and the guns to Vaus. If we can’t bring them across the river, I’m sure Column-General d’Ivoire will find a use for a couple of extra batteries.”
Cyte nodded, saluted, and rode off. Winter headed for her own tent. Not that she’d have time to sleep, but at least she’d be easy to find when something went wrong.
Something went wrong, of course. It was probably impossible to get a column of nearly twenty thousand men and women out of bed, packed, and on the march in the small hours of the morning without something getting fouled up. All in all, though, the operation went remarkably smoothly. A captain in Ibsly’s Second Regiment got lost and led his battalion in among Sevran’s troops, causing no end of confusion, and a few uncooperative horses snarled the wagon train for a time. Winter improvised solutions—the lost battalion was told to simply follow along, and nearby companies were conscripted to lift the blocking wagons out of the way until their teams could be untangled. By one in the morning, a river of blue uniforms was flowing north, toward the Ytolin, and Winter let the porters strike her tent and climbed back into Edgar’s saddle.
The land sloped down to the river, then gently up again on the other side. The south bank was almost entirely farmland, irregular tilled fields surrounded by fences and hedges, which the soldiers hacked through rather than look for the gates. By moonlight, Winter could see that the other bank was hillier country, broken by small forests and the occasional bald hummock. Here and there she could see the glow of a fire at some isolated cabin.
The Girls’ Own, their loose formation spread out to cover the front of the march, had encountered no resistance on their way to the river. A few of the women had already gone across, wading through water deep enough that they had to hold their muskets and cartridge boxes over their heads. Erdine’s cavalry followed, the horsemen leading their unhappy mounts over the tricky footing of the riverbed. The first light of the new day showed Winter that they were forming up on the north bank, blue uniforms soaked to the armpits. She ordered the remainder of the Girls’ Own across, then called a conference of the rest of her infantry commanders.
Ibsly was there, rubbing his spectacles with his shirt, along with four of his colonels. Sevran, Blackstream, and de Koste stood in a bunch, as though they didn’t like being outnumbered by these strangers.
“Division-General Ihernglass,” Ibsly said, pushing his spectacles back onto his nose. “I’m glad you finally have a moment to explain things to the rest of us.”
“Is the whole column crossing the river?” Blackstream said. “There’ll be hell to pay if the lobsters catch us.”
“Did the First Consul tell you if he expected us to fight?” de Koste said. He sounded eager.
Winter held up her hand. “One at a time, please. Yes, we’re crossing the river, and yes, I think there’ll be fighting. I want the Sixth to go first, but not to push forward until the rest of us are across. Use the time to rest and dry out, because once we move, we’re going to move fast. The cavalry will try to keep Dorsay’s scouts from spotting us, but word will get out eventually. The closer we are when that happens, the better.” She outlined the plan Janus had explained, at least as far as it pertained to her column. Ibsly took off his spectacles and began to polish them again, and Blackstream sucked a breath through his teeth.
“That’s a hell of a toss of the dice,” the old colonel said. “If Dorsay gets wind of this early, he can pull his entire army over the river and concentrate against us. He’d have us two to one.”
“This is the assignment Janus gave us,” Winter said. “I haven’t let him down yet, and I don’t intend to start now. We’ll move as fast as we can and hit the bridge with everything we’ve got.”
“That’s right,” de Koste said. “You should have faith in the First Consul.”
“I’d have a little more faith if we could bring our guns with us,” Blackstream said dourly, then shrugged. “As you say, sir. My boys will be ready to cross.”
“And I’d better get my men ready,” said Ibsly, putting his spectacles back on. He hesitated. “This is quite an honor, isn’t it? That Janus has given us this responsibility.”
The part of Winter that had never quite stopped being a ranker told her that “honor” was something officers gave to men they were about to get killed. But Ibsly looked nervous enough, so she only smiled and nodded.
“A great honor,” Ibsly repeated, as he moved off.
“General?” Sevran said as the others departed. “A word?”
“What is it?” Winter said.
The sky was lightening now, from dark gray to the faintest of blues, and one horizon was beginning to glow in anticipation of sunrise. The Girls’ Own was still crossing the river, the soldiers in good spirits judging by the way they laughed and splashed one another as they went. On the other side, some of them had stripped off their jackets and trousers to wring out. Whistles from among the cavalry were answered with good-natured profanity.
“Blackstream’s not wrong,” Sevran said quietly. “I’ve been at this long enough that I get itchy whenever someone starts talking about flank marches and surprise arrivals. It never seems to go quite according to schedule.”
“All we need to worry about is making sure our piece does,” Winter said. “Besides, this is Janus we’re talking about, not some idiot who happened to grow up with the king. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Of course. I just think it would be prudent to keep a reserve ready. In case things don’t go according to plan.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Winter said, a little more dryly than she’d intended. “Now, I believe you have a regiment to attend to.”
“Yes, sir.”
—
The April air was still chilly, but at least the sun was out, the weak morning rays struggling to dry the damp uniforms of the men and women who’d crossed the Ytolin. With the cavalry fanning out ahead of them, the column moved out, Winter ordering the bands to keep up a fast, encouraging tune while the vanguard set a rapid pace. The Girls’ Own took the lead, as usual, ready to send out a skirmish screen if they ran into the enemy.
The early stages of the march were uncontested, however, and it wasn’t until nearly noon that riders came back from Colonel Erdine to report t
hat his scouts had engaged the Borelgai. Even this turned out to be only cavalry patrols, content to fire a few shots from their carbines and withdraw in front of the Vordanai horsemen. Erdine’s dispatches assured Winter that no Borelgai scouts would get within sight of the infantry column.
“There they go,” Cyte said quietly, riding beside Winter just behind the Girls’ Own.
Winter looked at her quizzically, but Cyte only closed her eyes for a moment and held up a hand. Winter concentrated, and a moment later she heard it, too. Under the tramp of boots and the chatter of voices, there was a nearly subsonic rumble, like thunder in the far distance. It grew with every moment and every step Edgar took to the west, a deep, irregular grumbling. The sound of guns, far off, echoing over the hills and across the river. Marcus is starting his attack. So far everything seemed to be on schedule, though she was glad she’d insisted on the early start.
The soldiers in the column heard the guns, too, and the atmosphere in the ranks changed. The shouts and laughter gradually died away, replaced by muted, businesslike conversations. During their infrequent rest breaks, she saw soldiers checking and rechecking their cartridge boxes or making sure their bayonets were loose in their sheaths. A young woman—possibly one of the recruits from Talbonn—stood with her face screwed up and on the verge of tears as she strained to go through the manual of arms in front of an unsympathetic-looking sergeant. Other Girls’ Own soldiers were checking the thin daggers almost all of them kept concealed somewhere in their uniform; in the event of capture, they were for escape or, worse come to worst, suicide if the alternative was unbearable.
Winter was pleased to see that there was no depression or panic, just a calm assessment of possibilities. Only the Girls’ Own and Sevran’s Second Infantry Regiment had seen serious fighting. The other two regiments, and Ibsly’s entire division, were mostly reinforcements culled from the west and south. This is a hell of a way to be thrown into your first battle.
Just when she was getting ready to order the column back to the march, a half dozen horsemen cantered up, with Erdine himself in the lead. The cavalry colonel was in fine form, hair golden in the midday sun under his broad hat, his colorful plume bouncing gaily as he rode. He waved to Winter, controlling his mount with an effortless ease she envied.
“General!” he said. “I’m pleased to report that we’ve pushed the Borels back to their main line, not that they made much of a fight of it. As best we can tell, they don’t know this is anything more than a cavalry probe, but that’ll change as soon as we come over this next ridge. They’ve got a dozen guns on high ground.”
Winter felt a chill. A dozen guns? A full battery waiting for them didn’t sound like the token defense Janus had promised. “Any infantry?”
“Skirmishers and cavalry were all we saw. But there’s plenty of dead ground for them to hide in.”
Winter nodded. “Bobby, get the regiments formed up and ready to march. Cyte, with me; we’re going to have a look. Colonel, can you lead us to a decent vantage?”
“Of course, sir. Follow me.”
They’d halted in a lightly wooded valley, where the road that more or less followed the course of the river took a dogleg to the north to cut across a stream and get around a long ridgeline. Erdine led them up the hill, ignoring the rough terrain. Cyte was a good enough rider that Winter felt like she and Edgar were holding the party back, though the gelding’s calm pace meant that he could step over the rocks and fallen branches easily enough. In a few minutes they reached a spot where the spindly birches and oaks thinned out, and Erdine dismounted. Winter and Cyte followed him onto bare rock, breaking out of the tree line on the back of an enormous boulder.
It was, as promised, an excellent view. The Ytolin winked and glittered off to the left, and Winter could see the roofs of the town of Gilphaite. Clouds of smoke were visible there, the whitish billows of powder smoke and the black columns that rose from burning buildings. The artillery was still clearly audible, along with an occasional distant crash as solid shot plowed into a wall.
The all-important bridge was not visible, however, because the ground to the north of the river rose into a hill and blocked her view. It was more of a gentle roll in the ground than a steep height, fenced pastures green with new grass and fields still mostly brown and muddy. As Erdine had said, there were a dozen guns deployed on its crest, arranged in three-gun half batteries separated by several hundred yards.
Between the ridge on which they stood and the hill was a long, flat stretch, perhaps a mile and a half across. At the moment it was occupied only by scattered groups of cavalry, some still ahorse, others dismounted and crouching behind isolated trees or hedgerows. Puffs of musket smoke, like tiny balls of cotton, showed when each man fired his weapon, followed moments later by the distant crack of the shot. On the lower slopes of the hill, someone was firing back. Winter brought up her spyglass and saw figures in muddy red uniforms, similarly hunkered into cover.
For all the energy the cavalry and skirmishers put into the long-range firefight, the inaccuracy of their weapons at distance meant that this was the kind of combat that could be kept up all day without more than a few hits on either side. Winter counted the shots from the hill and tried to estimate the number of enemy skirmishers. A couple of hundred, maybe? Unlike the Hamveltai, who’d been repeatedly thrown off by the loose-order tactics of the Vordanai volunteers, the Borelgai army had been well schooled in such matters by endless brushfire conflicts in its colonies south of Khandar and had developed its own doctrines to counter them. It’s not going to matter, though, if they haven’t got a lot more men back there.
“I’ll stay here,” she said. In the training camp, Janus had repeatedly impressed on her the importance of senior officers not leading from the front. “Cyte, go back to Abby and tell her to send me up a dozen runners. She’s to take the Girls’ Own over the ridge and push that skirmish line back, right over the top of the hill if she can.” She pointed to the road, which emerged from the woods at the north end of the rocky ridge and crossed the open space toward Gilphaite. “The Sixth Division should deploy astride the road, with the rest of the Second behind. Push forward to a mile or so from their line.” That would be extreme range for the Borelgai guns.
“Sir!” Cyte saluted and vanished into the underbrush. Winter turned to Erdine.
“Colonel, you’ve done well. As soon as Abby gets in place, pull your men back and get them re-formed. Then ride around the north end of the enemy line, past the hill. The map says there’s another road there, heading for the coast. Get sight of it if you can and tell me if anything starts moving in either direction.”
“Of course, sir.” Erdine saluted, then swept off his hat and bowed. Winter rolled her eyes as he turned away and went back to her spyglass.
A quarter of an hour passed, and the skirmishers in the valley kept up their long-range dispute. A rustle in the brush behind Winter turned into a loose column from the Girls’ Own, muskets shouldered as they pressed through the undergrowth. One of them shouted at the sight of Winter, and they all saluted as they went past. Winter acknowledged them with a nod, and found Abby bringing up the rear, as usual preferring to stay on foot.
“Sir,” Abby said, gesturing to a small crowd of young women who came up behind her. “The messengers you wanted.”
“Thanks,” Winter said. She waved at the panorama. “What do you think?”
Abby frowned momentarily. “I think they’d better have something up their sleeves, or else we’re going to be presenting those guns to Janus by sundown.”
Winter smiled. “Go and get them. But don’t push too hard if it turns out not to be that easy. I’ll send Ibsly in behind you.”
“Tell him to hurry up, or there won’t be anything left for him to do,” Abby said, and followed her soldiers, crashing down through the underbrush.
Winter looked over her messengers. Most of them were very young—some
of the girls couldn’t be older than fourteen or fifteen. The Girls’ Own’s policy of accepting recruits without asking too many questions meant they got their share of women who weren’t big enough to handle a long-barreled musket, but Abby had become good at finding uses for everyone. Fear and determination looked back at Winter from every face, along with quite a bit of acne.
“Form a queue,” she told them. “Whoever’s at the front, start running as soon as I’ve finished the message, no questions. Understand?”
They chorused assent and set to organizing themselves. Commanding a battle like this, watching from a distant vantage point, was a new experience for Winter. She’d always been down in the action, close enough to smell the powder smoke and hear the whine of bullets. Two divisions was too big a force to control that way, though, and she forced herself to ignore the tiny voice at the back of her mind that told her staying at such a far remove seemed cowardly.
It’s not your job to risk your life, Janus had told her. That’s what the rankers are there for. I know that sounds callous, but it’s an inevitable truth. Think of it like this—there’s nine thousand of them and only one division-general. You have to be able to see the battle as a whole and be the calm voice when everything goes to hell.
The Girls’ Own pushed out of the woods, across the flat ground. They formed a “line” only in the loosest sense, operating in pairs separated by ten or twenty yards, so they covered a very broad front. Erdine’s horsemen were withdrawing in good order, returning to their mounts and forming up in the rear, while the Girls’ Own walked past them and took up the fight with the Borelgai skirmishers on the hill. One woman in each pair would drop to one knee, aim, and fire, and then reload while the other repeated the procedure.
Unlike Erdine, Abby wasn’t content to bang away at long range. Her small units leapfrogged from cover to cover, keeping up a steady fire as they advanced. The closer they got, the more accurate their fire became, and red-coated figures on the hill began to fall. The return fire grew more dangerous as well, of course, and the Borels had the advantage of height. Blue-uniformed bodies dribbled out behind the advance, some lying still, others walking or crawling to the rear. Casualty teams, made up of more of the girls too young to shoulder a weapon, rushed from place to place, leaving some where they’d fallen and hoisting others up for removal to safety.
The Guns of Empire Page 8