“Because you ordered a maximum effort toward the assaults on the walls,” answered Logan, his face set like stone. “Maximum means maximum, in my view. Besides, Blacklock has only two day’s supply—”
“Four, at half rations,’ interrupted Roundy. His face was as crimson as a ripe tomato.
“General, we all agreed that the best way to resupply the army was to force the issue and take the city. We failed. Now we have a starving army, getting weaker every day.”
“Are you suggesting we retreat? With victory within our grasp?”
“Victory is not within reach and is farther away each passing hour. I fear that we waited too long. Retreat is no longer possible. The men could not make fifty miles before they gave out.”
“I thought a man could live three weeks without food. A man could go a long way in three weeks.”
“Unfortunately, General,” said Colonel Garner, “that is not correct. A man who is conserving his strength, sedentary, might last three weeks. But a man who is marching or fighting needs food or he soon becomes too weak to do more than simply exist.”
General Roundy stared at the map, as if it might give him inspiration. But the map remained silent.
The siege was not over that day. Five days later, it still continued. But enemy attempts to breach and storm the wall became even more desperate as they continued to result in failure. Attacks were launched every night. One massive attempt was made in broad daylight. Some almost succeeded. All failed, but each came closer to success. Pitched sword-duels on the battlements were signs of how the contest was gradually favoring the attacker.
The town guns fell silent, with only a few shells remaining. But they had given a good account of themselves. They had silenced the Prophet’s cannons and caused a terrible toll among the foot soldiers. Armorers worked frantically, making more gunpowder bombs and even compounding more gunpowder. Nevertheless, they could not long continue. Supplies were running out. Arrows, crossbow bolts, and even stones were becoming hard to find. Engineers began breaking down walls to get missiles for use by catapults, and even enemy cannon balls were hurled back from whence they came.
But the enemy was weakening, too. Rachel was standing next to Samuel when he opened a small capsule that had recently adorned a pigeon’s leg. “It’s from Slim,” he said. He scanned the tiny writing, eyes squinting. “Blast these old eyes.”
“What does he say?” Rachel asked. She knew that Slim was a commander of horse troops now patrolling south of Stonegate, protecting farms and towns.
“Good news,” said Samuel. “The enemy made a sortie with about eight thousand pikemen toward Loveland.” He paused and stared across the noisy room. “They must have been trying to capture supplies.”
“Yes. And?” asked Rachel, hand over her mouth. She knew that Loveland was only weakly defended.
“Slim stopped them. The Haven artillery shredded them, and the horse troops caused them heavy losses when some units scattered. The enemy force is retreating…”
“Oh, good,” said Rachel. Samuel was still reading with wrinkled brows. “But what else? There must be something.”
“Yes. They took prisoners. Some haven’t eaten in three days.”
†
The Prophet’s army had lost about one-third of its strength but still outnumbered the defenders two to one. This battered force required tons of food per day, and the supply lines had been choked off. Don’s campaign was working.
Scattered groups of enemy soldiers began spreading out by night, foraging for something to eat. They could often evade the horse troopers, but the Diné scouts had the training and night vision to intercept most of them.
The end came with quiet steps of spirited horses, as five riders began cautiously approaching the Gate of Weeping. Three were middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper beards. A young man, almost beardless, carried a staff to which was tied a white sheet. Another teenage youngster bore a bugle. The party stopped every fifty yards as they crossed the killing field before the walls, and the notes of a bugle sounded. Unburied bodies lay on all sides, forming a grim and silent audience.
Carla watched, unable to look away. The archer company commander shouted, “Hold your fire. Pass the word.”
Shouts came at intervals along the battlements, “Hold your fire.”
The commander turned to Carla. “The honor is yours, Carla,” he said, smiling. “Go find Marshall Allen and tell him the enemy wants to parley.”
†
Don did not witness the surrender of the main army. He did, however, accept the sword of General Blacklock at the mostly deserted enemy base camp. The camp was lightly defended by about two thousand foot soldiers, still convalescing from dysentery. The screen of Diné scouts had allowed a messenger to pass through the lines, bringing the news of the surrender of the main army. He must have realized that further resistance was futile, even though his camp had plenty of supplies.
The general and his party were escorted, under a flag of truce, to Don’s command tent, a mere five miles away. He received them courteously. They all assembled in a circle before the tent after the party had dismounted and their horses led away.
“I am General Blacklock, headquarters commander of the Prophet’s army,” said the older man. He was sweating, though his voice was firm. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
“My name is Donald of Fisher,” said Don. “I command the cavalries of Stonegate and Haven. This is Señor Reuben Ramos, commander of the Sonora Lancers.” They shook hands and spent a few minutes sizing up each other, as their aides exchanged names.
“I have heard much of you,” said Blacklock. “I fear we greatly underestimated you. What terms do you offer for the surrender of myself and my men?”
“You will be disarmed and will be allowed to return to your homes,” said Don. “Officers will be allowed to retain belt knives and their personal mounts. We will allow you to take sufficient food for the return journey. All armor and military equipment will be confiscated.”
“We will need teams and wagons to transport the food and the wounded,” said Blacklock.
“Agreed,” said Don. “Some will have to be tried for their war crimes, so I do not offer blanket amnesty.”
The general paled visibly at that comment, and he hesitated a long minute. “I will certainly be tried somewhere,” he said. “It might as well be here as in Prophet City.”
“You mistake my meaning,” said Don. “Unless you personally authorized some atrocity, I will grant you the status of an honorable prisoner of war.”
“Very well. I offer my surrender and that of my forces under arms,” he said. He withdrew his sword and offered it to Don, hilt first.
At that moment, as Don accepted the richly decorated blade, the scene shifted subtly. He had prayed, fought, and dreamed for this day. Now it seemed almost unreal. A weight that he did not know he had been carrying was somehow lifted from his back. He straightened and said, “I accept your sword and your surrender. Kindly join me in my tent, and we can discuss the details. I want to offer you and your party refreshments.”
General Blacklock turned to his followers and ordered them to give up their swords. They obeyed, some with ill-concealed anger. As they found seats around the folding table, Colin and Philip offered them a choice of hot tea or cool ale. They exchanged polite conversation for a few minutes. Both Don and Blacklock exchanged compliments, then the table fell silent.
Colin then gave the general the written orders that Don’s staff had prepared, and they carefully discussed the demobilization. All matters completed, the defeated leaders rose to take their leave. Donald made one concession. “General Blacklock, you and your senior commanders may retain helms and mail armor, and you may re-arm yourselves with a sword. I want you to be able to defend your persons, in case of unpleasantness from your own soldier
s.”
The general nodded his thanks and departed with what remained of his dignity.
†
Don spent two days overseeing the disarming process. One notable capture was the enemy paymaster with several heavy chests full of gold and silver coin. That trove, together with whatever coins had been confiscated from the prisoners, was sent south to Stonegate under heavy guard. The enemy quartermaster officer was cooperative, and they were able to compile a good estimate of how much food and water would be needed for the long walk back to the Prophet’s realm. A wagon train, loaded with food for the main body of prisoners, was sent south toward Stonegate.
Reuben Ramos agreed to remain in command to insure that the enemy lived up to the terms of the surrender. Don took the road to Stonegate in response to a request that he attend a conference. Philip, Colin, Scott, Crispin, and Rowan came with him. It was still not safe for him to ride alone. There was a chance of armed enemy remaining at large. Balek Brown had not been captured, for one, and there had been reports of Raiders in the hills to the west.
They passed several groups of Diné scouts and saw disarmed stragglers walking north on the road, obviously heading toward the enemy camp. They seemed to present no threat, so they allowed them to proceed.
The fields and lowlands along the Cash River were littered with the detritus of an occupying army. Smoke hung in the air from a hundred campfires, and throngs in untidy groups stood in sullen silence. Many were in long queues around supply wagons, apparently waiting to be fed. As they drew nearer and the walls of Stonegate came into view, Don was glad to see that they seemed little the worse for the enemy bombardment.
There were teams of enemy soldiers gathering the fallen from the battlefield before the walls. Armed members of the levy, spears ready, were overseeing the mournful labor. As they neared the gate, they saw numerous dimples in the granite walls, where enemy cannons had left their mark. In a few spaces, the battlements had been broken, giving the walls the appearance of a grin with missing teeth.
A few people noted the gold trim on Don’s helm, and he received a few salutes from soldiers and waves from citizens, but their entry into the city was little noticed. Everyone had other concerns. They met several wagons leaving, no doubt people returning to their homes.
The streets were still jammed, but rooms had been saved for them in the Quill and Sword, though the common room was still functioning as a hospital. Battle scars were covered with board patches, since more than one cannon ball had hit the building, but it still stood, defiantly. Don met Slim there and congratulated him on his leadership. Slim seemed uncomfortable with the praise and seemed somber rather than jubilant. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, and new lines had appeared on his weather-beaten face.
†
The council meeting was not held in the lore-house this time. It was convened in the council chambers in the citadel in the heart of the city. Don arrived late, accompanied only by Philip. He still had the stench of battle on his clothes. He had doffed his helm and armor, but his padded tunic still bore the ruddy half-moon pattern where links had left traces of rust. He felt out of place with the decently dressed leaders assembled there. He sat where he was directed, and Philip took a side chair, just behind him and next to Lore-master Duncan. Across the table sat Mayor Sheridan of Hightower. The polished conference table was nearly bare, but the marshall and mayor both had a few scrolls at their elbows. Naturally, the Council of Five was there, which included Rachel. Her teeth flashed in a bright smile for him, but the other faces were stern and set. Thomas of Longmont, one of the councillors, had not arrived from the field, but Don understood that he would try to attend.
Lord Billings, the mayor, opened the meeting. “There are some pressing matters facing us,” he said. “I will be attending a memorial service to honor the fallen this afternoon, and I hope that most of you will be attending.” He paused and looked around the table. He seemed to hesitate as his gaze fell on Don, and his jaws tightened. Then his attention was directed toward Samuel who limped into the room and took a seat in one of the side chairs.
“Welcome, Lord Samuel,” he said. “We can make room for you at the table.”
“Thank you,” replied Samuel. “I will be more comfortable here.”
“Very well,” agreed Billings. “I must begin by thanking our loyal allies, such as the forces of Diné, Hightower,and Haven, and, of course, the Sonora Lancers. Without their assistance, this siege would still be in place, and the outcome in serious doubt.
“However, we must also discuss an unfortunate decision and determine our best course of action. No doubt, you realize what I am referring to, Lord Donald.”
Don was puzzled. What is he talking about? “Actually,” said Don, “I am not sure what you mean, Lord Billings.”
Billings’ face turned bright red, but he controlled his voice and spoke with little inflection. “Really?” he said, after a pause. “What could you have been thinking? I understand that you agreed that General Blacklock and his entire force could simply return home. Who gave you the authority to decide that?”
“I suppose that it is no secret that I made strenuous objections to Mayor Billings,” snapped Mayor Sheridan. “These evil invaders have slain scores of my men, and you tell them they are free to go? I don’t think so.” He punctuated his statement by a loud slap as he brought his palm down on the table. “Didn’t you think we might want to hold them for ransom? Certainly, the generals should be put on trial and hanged, if nothing more.”
Don sat frozen, stunned for a moment. Perhaps I was too hasty. I should have discussed the matter with the leaders, no doubt. “Let me say this,” he said, finally. “The enemy troops at the northern camp had never directly fought against anyone but me and my troops. My forces surrounded them and forced their surrender. It never occurred to me that you would question my decision.”
“Didn’t you think that we might have some ideas about this?” asked Marshall Allen. “Who do you think you are?”
“I am the commander of allied forces in the field,” said Don. “As you very well know.”
The room fell silent for a moment which allowed all present to hear a knock on the polished doors. They all looked toward a dusty figure striding into the room. It was Thomas of Longmont. “My apologies, Lords,” he said. He nodded toward Rachel. “And Lady. I only just arrived.”
“I am glad you are here, Thomas,” said Billings. “We were just expressing our displeasure at the actions concerning the surrendered enemy forces.”
Thomas sat next to Rachel with the other councillors. “What is the nature of your displeasure?” he asked.
Billings repeated the gist of the conversation. “We were just insisting that justice demands reparations. Our citizens are demanding revenge, and Donald’s decision denies them that.”
“Worse, it sets a precedent for how we should deal with the prisoners who did attack Stonegate,” said Mayor Billings. “It makes it harder to do what many believe should be done.”
“What would that be, Mayor Billings?” asked Rachel. She sat up straight, nostrils flared. “Do you plan to execute them all?”
“Of course not,” answered Billings. “The generals and senior officers should be put on trial. Not the common soldiers. General Logan will pay for the Glenwood massacre, for example.”
“But there are those of us who think that none of them should simply be allowed to go home,” said Marshall Allen. “They must be taught to fear us, so this will never happen again.”
“I have always had the view,” said Thomas, “that Stonegate should be fierce in battle, but merciful in victory. The vast majority of these enemy soldiers were conscripted against their will. They had no choice. The False Prophet is our enemy, not them.”
“We can’t afford the luxury of weakness,” shot back Allen. “You Christians always preach weakness.
Oh, yes, I know about your secret meetings. But the Prophet understands one thing and one thing only. He understands strength.”
“So what has been suggested?” asked Lore-master Duncan.
“I know you are one of them, too,” said Allen. “I am as tolerant as anyone, but we can’t afford pity. So don’t tell me to turn the other cheek.”
“Sometimes weakness is strength,” said Duncan. “But we Christians deserve more than tolerance. We have a right to have our voices heard. Now, what revenge do you want?”
One of the councillors spoke. Don did not know his name. He had the look of a merchant, with expensive clothing of soft weave. “Some things suggested are not fit for a lady’s ears.”
“What things, Councillor?” demanded Rachel.
“It would not be seemly…” began the councillor.
“Lady Rachel,” said Allen. “It has been suggested that all who bore arms shouldn’t depart without paying a price. They, ahem, should not go home with their masculinity intact. I shouldn’t say more.”
“Lord Allen,” said Rachel. “Don’t be coy with me. I and my family raise cattle and horses. I understand exactly what you mean. Shame on you for even considering such a thing. That would make us even more monstrous than the Prophet. Do you think our brave allies would ever again support a people capable of such a barbaric act?”
“Now, I understand your sensibilities, Lady Rachel. Yet you, also, are letting your religious beliefs taint your judgment. But they must be taught to fear us.”
“May I speak?” asked Lore-master Duncan.
“Yes,” answered Allen, “You have demanded it, so speak. We need to find a way forward. And quickly.”
Duncan stood and walked to the foot of the table and addressed the group. “Let me say that if you are seriously considering reprisals against these men, that all our allies need to be involved in the decision.”
The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2) Page 36
