But what Wolfe didn’t find amusing (in fact, mildly disconcerting), was the growing influx of spectators and morbidly curious. He had no clue how word of the upcoming battle could have spread so swiftly, until Churchill calmly mentioned something called the information age. Whatever that was.
And, oblivious to the chaos, two motionless armies of revenants stood like terracotta warriors from the reign of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, separated from each other by a span of several hundred yards. These undead waited quietly, patiently, completely unaware of the sights and sounds of the throng gathering along the sidelines.
To Wolfe’s further dismay, his revenants represented four formations of soldiers drawn from various periods of English history. Some of the uniforms and weapons he recognized, others he didn’t. Fortunately, a look at Montcalm’s army showed that the Frenchman had fared little better. To all appearances they were on equal footing. So, now he had to determine the best use of this hodgepodge of undead.
Putting his disgust aside, Wolfe approached Churchill and Eugene. He heard the generals share a laugh, even as they acknowledged him. “Does nothing ever intimidate you two?” Wolfe asked, a hint of irritation in his voice.
Churchill appraised Wolfe before smiling. “Relax,” he said. “This is hell. Even if you die you’ll come back. Eventually.” He waved an arm at the gathered crowds. “Think of this as a show for the masses.”
Wolfe frowned. “And what if I lose this rematch before these masses, sir? I have my pride.”
Eugene chuckled. “If you worry what people shall think of you if you fail, don’t. They don’t care. All they want is a good show. In time this will become a distant memory. Enjoy it for what it is. Entertainment.”
Wolfe snapped, “Easy enough for you, sir. It is obvious that you, men that I admire, have succumbed to this nightmare place and take what it offers in stride. I, sir, have not.” He pointed at the motionless revenants. “And what, pray tell, do I do with these?”
“Use them,” Eugene replied.
“Use them? I do not even know what era half of these things belong to.”
Churchill shrugged. “You have little choice, Wolfe. This was the hand dealt you. Surely you know a general has to make do, however unpleasant that is. Hmm. What have we here?” Reaching into his coat, Churchill produced a pair of binoculars and trained them on Montcalm. Turning the focus ring he said, “It appears our opponent has solicited help. I see another Frenchman. From his uniform I’d say he’s from the time of Napoleon. The other? Let’s see. Grey greatcoat. Hat. Massive beard. A gambling man would wager he’s from the Civil War.”
Eugene asked, “Which one?”
“The American. Wait, there’s a third. Hmm. Not sure, but I think he predates us, Eugie.”
“Let me see.” Eugene took the binoculars from the taller man. “That’s Count Tilly. I met him back in New Hell. He fought in the Catholic-Protestant wars back in the sixteen hundreds. He’s a good one.”
Churchill stroked his chin. “Tilly. Magdeburg. Yeah, he’s a mean bastard all right. Not sure of the credentials of the other two. Perhaps we should go say hello.”
Wolfe, his attention divided between the strange-looking binoculars and the banter between Churchill and Eugene, reacted sharply. “What was that? You want to say hello? To Montcalm? Are you serious, sir?”
Eugene shrugged. “Why not? Have you ever met the man?”
“No, I have not. What purpose would it serve?”
Eugene winked. “Well, you could always gloat. But on a serious note, I think it would benefit us to learn who our opponents are.”
Wolfe nodded, slowly. “Of course. You are right, sir. That makes sense.”
Churchill clapped him on the back. “It’s settled then. Come along.”
Montcalm quickly spotted their approach and, gathering his companions, hurried to intercept them. The groups slowed to a stop, facing off several paces apart.
In the ensuing silence, as each side measured the other, Wolfe realized Churchill and Eugene, great generals both, were deferring to him as commander. A lump settled in the pit of his stomach, a nervous reaction to this sudden and overwhelming show of confidence.
Montcalm, on the other hand, was anything but nervous. The general gracefully removed his tricorne and bowed. The men behind him nodded. Replacing his hat, Montcalm said, “Bonjour, Messieurs. How may we help you?”
“Monsieur Montcalm, I believe you have us at a disadvantage. You have met the Duke of Marlborough and his esteemed companion the Prince of Savoy. However, we have not had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your associates.” Wolfe nodded toward Tilly. “Though I understand you to be Count Tilly.”
Tilly, a bearded man of medium build and finely chiseled features, grunted.
Montcalm said, “The Count Tilly is a man of few words. Now, let me present Marshal Ney and General Longstreet.”
Ney, his fiery red hair blending with the ruddy sky above, merely nodded. Longstreet, however, stepped forward. Removing a clay pipe from his mouth, he said in a soft and controlled voice, “A pleasure, gentlemen. Mister Churchill, I have read of your campaigns and battles, and I wish to express my sincerest admiration for your exploits and career – the same admiration I extend to your compatriot, Prince Eugene of Savoy. Mister Wolfe, forgive me, but I know little of your military victories, though I trust they are substantial.” Stepping back, the pipe returned to his mouth and sweet smoke curled from its bowl.
An awkward pause ensued as Wolfe simmered at the subtle, if unintentional, slight. Wolfe decided he had seen enough, and turned to go.
Montcalm flashed a smile. “Be ready, Monsieur. Time grows short.” He pointed toward the crowd.
Wolfe followed Montcalm’s finger. A ten-foot-high hourglass rested on a pine table beside a rusted cube van. A mountain of sand formed a cone in the bottom half of the glass, the upper glass was nearly empty.
A man separated from the mass of spectators and approached. He was dressed in a British uniform not dissimilar to Wolfe’s own. As he neared he smiled widely and held out a hand. “Greetings, General Wolfe. You look rather sharp today.”
Wolfe shook the proffered hand. “And you are?”
“Arnott. General Benjamin Arnott. I see you require an extra body, and I come to offer my services.”
“Should I know you, sir?”
Arnott stepped back. “Not likely, sir. I fought some years after your – death.”
Wolfe frowned. Reminders of his death always left him chilled. Gesturing at the uniform he said, “You are British, obviously. Who were your opponents? The French? The Austrians? The Prussians?”
Arnott gave a slight, embarrassed shake of the head. “Nothing so illustrious. I fought the Americans during their war of independence. Miserable ingrates and turncoats that they were.”
Wolfe chewed his lip, wishing he had some knowledge of the military personnel who had existed after his time on earth. He looked to Churchill and Eugene for advice, but they had returned to the English lines. Hesitantly, he said, “Very well. I can use you, General Arnott.”
Arnott clapped his hands. “Good. What do I command?”
*
Wolfe stood with his back to the enemy, critically eyeing the revenants and contemplating their use. Eugene and Arnott stood apart, waiting patiently. Churchill studied the French through his binoculars.
Wolfe’s four undead formations included British musketeers from the eighteenth century, soldiers with whom Wolfe, Churchill and Eugene were passingly familiar. Beside them stood a battalion of Colonials, drawn from an era of British expansionism that existed well after Wolfe’s time. Beside the Colonials, on the far flank, stood a regiment of pike from the fourteen hundreds and, on the near flank, by Wolfe, some five hundred longbow men from the same era.
Wolfe, deciding his force would excel at defense, turned to Churchill. “Your thoughts on the enemy, sir?”
Churchill lowered the binoculars, letting them hang by a leather strap against
his chest. “Near as I can tell, they have two formations of muskets, one of men-at-arms and a lot of crossbowmen.”
Wolfe gestured for the binoculars. “May I look?”
Churchill raised the strap, careful not to disturb his powdered wig, and handed them over.
Wolfe, following the example of Churchill and Eugene, placed the strange instrument against his eyes. The image was blurry. “I cannot see very well, sir.”
Churchill leaned over and touched the focus ring. “Use your finger or thumb to turn this.”
Wolfe did so, and choked off a gasp as an image snapped into view, much sharper than any telescope from his era could produce. Idly he wondered how much more technology available in hell was beyond his experience and understanding.
A horn sounded. Wolfe lowered the binoculars and looked at the hourglass. The last sprinkling of grains had slipped through its neck.
Arnott announced, “Showtime.”
Churchill looked askance at the general. “A touch eager, are we?” His heavy brow knit into a ‘v’ of wrinkles. “Arnott … Arnott? You know, I’ve read as much military history as I could get my hands on since arriving here, and I don’t ever recall coming across a Benjamin Arnott.”
Arnott shrugged. “I was no big player in the war.”
Wolfe, closely following the exchange, said, “Well sir, as your capabilities are an unknown quantity, you will command the pike.”
Arnott frowned briefly before nodding. “Understood, General. The pike it is. What are my orders?”
Wolfe pondered that. They would be most effective against the opposing men-at-arms. “Hold steady for now. Montcalm made the first move when we fought last time, let us see if he will do so again.” Moving to Eugene he said, “Sir, I would ask you to command the muskets.”
The French-born Austrian smiled grimly. “With pleasure, Wolfe.” Eugene set out after Arnott, both departing for their respective positions.
Wolfe approached Churchill. Handing over the binoculars, he said, “I would have you command these Colonials.”
Churchill raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you would assign me the longbow men.”
Wolfe managed a thin smile. “That would be a grave error of judgment on my part, sir. No, I am satisfied with the longbows. They will match up well against the French crossbows. You and General Eugene will duel the French with your musket formations.”
Churchill grinned and jerked a thumb at his contingent. “These Colonial British have a rifle called the Lee-Metford. Unlike our muskets, they hold more than one bullet and they have superior range. Montcalm may have a surprise coming his way.” He paused and straightened, scanning the French ranks with his binoculars from one end of the line to the other. “Montcalm’s men are giving directions to their revenants. I see movement. They’re on the march.”
“We had better see to our men, then.”
Churchill chuckled. “Easy, General. We have ample time.”
Wolfe turned. “What do you mean?”
“Have you seen a revenant march? They are undead, remember? Their motor skills are, to put it mildly, lacking. They’re coming, all right, but at this rate we could enjoy a nice cup of tea well before they reach us. Well, a cup a tea, anyway. Can’t vouch for its taste.”
Wolfe, however, was not convinced. “Look, General, if our side received a formation of troops like the Colonials, wouldn’t it be safe to assume the French may –”
At that precise moment, a curling cloud of white smoke erupted from a French formation, followed by the staccato reports of rifle fire. Bullets whizzed past, one buzzing by Wolfe’s ear like an angry hornet.
Churchill, unfazed and untouched, lowered his binoculars. “Damnation, Wolfe. You’re right. Well, so much for outgunning them with the Lee-Metfords. Who are those guys?”
Wolfe, shaking his head, said to Churchill, “It would appear we are evenly matched, sir.”
Churchill, eyes yet fixed on the French, said, “I would agree. Ah, I have determined our opponent: Legionnaires.”
“Romans? I thought they used spears.”
“Pila. The Romans used pila: six foot long javelins. But these are not Romans. They are French mercenaries. And Wolfe, there’s something else. They’re using multi-shot rifles, like our Colonials.”
“So?”
“Well, do you find it strange they have not yet fired a second volley?”
Wolfe crossed his arms. “Yes. That is strange.”
“It has apparently baffled the French, too. At this moment they argue furiously among themselves. However, I believe I have the answer.”
“And that is?”
“It is possible these revenants can only comprehend one command at a time. They are undead, after all.”
Wolfe pondered that. He knew no more of the inner workings of the undead than he did of hell, but Churchill’s idea was oddly plausible. “So, by your reasoning the Legionnaires must receive repeated orders to fire. They lack the capacity to extrapolate.”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“Therefore, by your reasoning, the Legionnaires must still be stationary, having been given the order to fire and not an order to advance, while the balance of the French army approaches, having been given the order to march and not to fire.”
Churchill scanned the French lines. He lowered the binoculars. “You have a knack of complicating something simple, Wolfe, but the answer is yes.”
Wolfe clapped his hands. “Then let us get to work before Montcalm and his crew figure that out.”
*
It took three successive volleys from the Colonial revenant’s rifles before Montcalm and his team caught on and raced back to their formations, arms waving and fingers pointing.
The first two Colonial volleys tore into the French Legionnaires, causing much damage but few deaths. A long look by Wolfe through the binoculars determined that the dead had sustained head wounds. Armed with this knowledge, Churchill issued a series of precise commands to the comprehension-challenged revenants, and gave the order for the third volley. This produced the desired results. Heads exploded. Bodies dropped. Advantage, British.
Leaving Churchill, Wolfe joined his longbows, walking in that calm, determined stride expected from powerful men, the kind of nonchalance in the face of enemy fire that resulted in so many battlefield deaths among high-ranking officers. Except, in this case, Wolfe had little to fear. This wasn’t some historic conflict fought on the fields of Europe. This was a silly little rematch, a skirmish between undead soldiers who could barely grasp one-word commands.
A heavy thrum, the sound of bowstrings released under high-tension, alerted him to danger. Wolfe instinctively dropped to the ground. So much for nonchalance.
Twisting his neck, he watched a cloud of incoming bolts slam into his silent formation of longbowmen. Many along the front row lurched a step back, the leather fletching of deeply embedded bolts protruding from their decaying bodies. Others dropped to the ground, bolts piercing heads, mouths and eyes. Throughout all this, not a sound was uttered, not a scream or cry of pain.
Unnerved by the eerie silence, Wolfe leapt to his feet and shouted, “Nock arrow.” The revenants slowly, painstakingly reached down to pluck standing arrows embedded in the ground and fit them to their bow strings.
Wolfe pointed at the enemy crossbowmen and raised his arm. “Aim.”
Silently they obeyed. Even undead, the revenants remained masters of their craft, and single-mindedly understood the role expected of them: they knew no other.
Wolfe dropped his arm. “Release.”
The deep drone of unleashed bow strings punched the air, its reverberating hum not unlike a swarm of angry bees.
Fascinated, Wolfe watched the mass of arrows rise high into the ruddy sky before arcing into a deadly descent.
A chorus of oohs and ahhs drifted up from the spectators.
The arrows slammed into the crossbowmen, driving many to the ground. One landed by Montcalm’s feet. The French general loo
ked up, startled, and shook his fist at Wolfe.
Wolfe held his finger and thumb an inch apart. “That close, you bastard,” he mumbled. Viewing the results, he was disappointed by so few deaths. He knew his revenants would be hard-pressed to exclusively target heads until the enemy was within range for a decent horizontal shot. Still, with the maddeningly slow pace of the revenants, he knew his side could manage two or more volleys to each volley from the enemy crossbowmen. Another advantage, British.
Once again Wolfe commanded, “Nock arrow.” Maybe this time they would strike Montcalm, whose death would put an end to this farce.
An unexpected hue and cry rose among the spectators.
Wolfe paused, looking their way. Many among the crowd were on their feet pointing, jumping and gesticulating wildly. Unsure why, Wolfe examined the French forces. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The French men-at-arms continued their slow advance as General Longstreet fiercely stalked the formation, unsuccessfully encouraging the undead to advance faster. The French muskets had engaged, the uneven pop of their fire drifting across the battlefield.
Moments passed while Wolfe waited. Eugene’s contingent failed to return fire. Stepping several paces away from the longbow men to capture an overall view of his lines, Wolfe cursed, suddenly understanding why the crowd had reacted.
Arnott!
Wolfe was betrayed by the late-comer to his cadre.
The British pikemen under Arnott were rolling over the thin red line of Eugene’s formation from behind, their steel-shod weapons tearing into undead bodies and punching through undead heads. Eugene, caught unaware, now struggled to reposition his revenants in a vain attempt to repel the assault, their slow response making the task nearly impossible.
Churchill, hearing Eugene’s frantic shouting, was slowly refusing a portion of his own flank, turning his lines to face the pikemen and support his friend. However, this repositioning left the balance of his Colonials facing the enemy, with no commands to guide them, and exposed to the weapons of the Legionnaires. Advantage, French.
Lawyers in Hell Page 24
