Marching Through Peachtree wotp-2

by Harry Turtledove

  William braced himself for lightnings and thunderbolts and dragons in the air and all the rest of the extravagant wizardry northern mages had at their disposal. He didn’t know whether wizardry could win the day hereabouts. He did know nothing else was likely to, not for King Geoffrey’s cause.

  When darkness fell at noon the next day, hope surged in Roast-Beef William. When lightnings crackled through the darkness, he sent up prayers to the Lion God and the Thunderer. When the earth trembled beneath his feet, he cried out for joy, certain the sorcerers had found ways to do what Lieutenant General Bell could not.

  But the southrons didn’t flee their lines in wild disorder. They didn’t flee at all. The lightnings crackled, but few smote. The shaking earth didn’t shake their trenches to pieces and entomb the enemy soldiers in them. And the darkness that had fallen at noon lifted by half past one.

  When the mages attached to Roast-Beef William’s wing returned from the headquarters of the general commanding, they were in a sad state. They all looked thinner than they had on going off to serve Lieutenant General Bell. Their robes were limp and stained with sweat; the sharp reek of fear filled William’s nostrils.

  “In the name of the gods, what happened?” he demanded.

  “We were beaten,” one of the wizards replied in a hollow voice. His eyes were wide and staring, as if he’d seen things men were not meant to see. “The southrons beat us at sorcery. What is the the world coming to, when such a disaster can come to pass?”

  “I don’t know.” William was also troubled; if soldiers hadn’t beaten back King Avram’s armies, and if magic also looked like failing, what remained for the north? Not much. The words tolled like mourning bells inside Roast-Beef William’s mind. He asked, “What do we do now? What can we do now?”

  “Sir, I don’t know,” the mage said. “I haven’t any idea. All I know is, I want to go to bed and sleep for a year. If you’ll excuse me, sir…” He staggered off, not really caring whether William excused him or not.

  William knew he should have gone to see Bell again, to plan the next move for the Army of Franklin. He knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He might have been someone hesitating to enter a sickroom that held a loved one who would die soon-such images kept cropping up in his mind. Duty called, yes, but sometimes even duty did no good. What could he say now that hadn’t already been said? Bell knew what shape the army was in. Would he choose to let it perish? Even if he didn’t, how could he hope to save Marthasville?

  As far as William could see, none of those questions had answers he cared to contemplate. What do we do? What can we do? Wait for the death, burn the body, and then try to pick up the pieces. That was all he saw ahead.

  Two days later, the only thing that had changed was that the southrons were several miles closer to drawing their ring around Marthasville. Roast-Beef William had trouble caring even about that. He was sunk in such gloom when Major Zibeon came to his headquarters and said, “Lieutenant General Bell requests your presence at once, sir.”

  “He does, eh?” Roast-Beef William eyed Bell’s aide-de-camp with more than a little curiosity. “What does he need me for in such a tearing hurry?”

  “I couldn’t presume to say, sir,” Zibeon replied.

  “No?” William doubted that (and, doubting, wished Doubting George had chosen Geoffrey over Avram). Any aide-de-camp worth his boots had a pretty good idea of what his principal was thinking. “Well, I’ll come and find out.”

  “Thanks,” Zibeon said, as if Roast-Beef William were doing him a favor rather than obeying an order. William scratched his head. Bell’s dour aide-de-camp rarely wasted politeness on anyone but the commanding general, and sometimes not on him. But Zibeon went on, “Ride with me, if you care to, sir.”

  “I don’t mind if I do.” Roast-Beef William gave Zibeon a quizzical look. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “No,” Zibeon said, and said not another word till they got to Bell’s headquarters. Then he unbent enough to add, “You’ll see.”

  What Roast-Beef William saw was that Lieutenant General Bell was smiling. He wondered how much laudanum Bell had had. He would have thought that enough to make Bell happy would also have been enough to stop Bell’s heart. But the commanding general said, “Good day, William. I am convinced we finally have the southrons where we want them.”

  “Sir?” Roast-Beef William said in real astonishment.

  Bell nodded. “Just so. They think to trap us here. By the gods, I shan’t allow it. We shall break out from this prison in which they seek to contain us and then strike with all our strength at the glideway line-the single glideway line-that keeps them fed and supplied. What can they do when they start to starve? Run back to Franklin with their tails between their legs, that’s what.”

  “That is… a most ambitious plan, sir,” William said at last.

  “But it will work!” Bell said. “Claws of the Lion God, it will work. If we can hit them one good lick…”

  Slowly, Roast-Beef William nodded. Bell wasn’t thinking about abandoning Marthasville. He was thinking about attacking the enemy. As long as he thought about the attack, the abandonment wouldn’t bother him. Under other circumstances, that would have horrified Roast-Beef William. As things were, it left him more pleased than otherwise. If the Army of Franklin didn’t get out of Marthasville, before long it wouldn’t be able to get out of Marthasville.

  And so, with another nod, William said, “I think you have a good plan there, sir. We should commence without delay.”

  “See to it, then,” Bell said-he wasn’t, and never would be, any sort of military administrator. “Draft the necessary orders for my signature.”

  “Yes, sir,” William said resignedly. I should have expected this, he thought. “I suppose you’ll want to destroy whatever supplies we can’t take with us.”

  “Indeed,” Bell said, which meant he hadn’t thought of that for himself. “Take care of all the details. That’s why I rely on you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you so much, sir.” But then Roast-Beef William shook his head. Don’t put his back up. He’s doing what needs doing. If too much of the work falls on your shoulders, then it does, that’s all.

  “We’re going to make Hesmucet wish he never came so far up into Peachtree Province,” Bell declared. “He’ll rue the day-see if he doesn’t.”

  And the general commanding had some chance of being right. William could see as much, see it very clearly. The odds were still long, but they were better than they would be if the Army of Franklin stayed here in Marthasville and waited for doom to fall on it. “Give me pen and paper, sir,” Roast-Beef William said. “I’ll get to work on those orders right now.”

  Lieutenant General Bell laughed. “That’s the man I knew I had. The gods-damned southrons will be sorry yet.”

  “Here’s hoping you’re right, sir,” William said. “Where’s that paper? I want to make sure this is done the way it ought to be.”

  * * *

  Gremio touched a torch to a pile of crates. As they began to burn, he said, “I wonder what’s in these.”

  “Wait a while and see what they smell like,” Sergeant Thisbe suggested.

  “No time,” Gremio said. “We’ve got a lot more burning to do. And do you know what else? It’s more fun than I thought it would be.”

  “Fun? I don’t know about that,” Thisbe said. “What I do know is, we’ve got to do this, or else the southrons will march into Marthasville and use everything we couldn’t take with us.”

  “Me, I’m just glad we’re getting out of Marthasville,” Captain Gremio said. “I thought we’d stay penned up here till the southrons took us.” He paused to set another fire.

  “Sounds like Lieutenant General Bell’s got himself another idea.” Thisbe started a new fire, too. He looked at the incendiary madness all around, as Gremio was doing. “Between the southrons and us, there won’t be a whole lot of Marthasville left after all this is done.”

  “Good,” Gremio
said, which made the sergeant send him a startled look. He explained: “Better we don’t leave Hesmucet anything much to get his hands on.”

  “Something to that, sir, I suppose,” Thisbe said, “but it’s hard, it’s mighty hard, on the people who live here.”

  To the seven hells with the people who live here, Gremio thought callously. He couldn’t see that the folk of Peachtree Province or Satrap Brown had done anywhere near enough to help the Army of Franklin defend this vital town. But he didn’t say that out loud; he’d seen that Sergeant Thisbe was more inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt than he was himself unless he was paid to do so.

  “Come on, you men!” Colonel Florizel boomed to the regiment as a whole. “If we’re going to deny the enemy these goods, let’s not shillyshally around. Let’s make a fire the foe will remember to the end of his days.”

  Something like wonder in his voice, Thisbe said, “The colonel’s having a good time.”

  “Well, why not?” said Gremio, who was having a good time himself. “Doesn’t this take you back to the days when you were a boy, starting fires and raising hells for the sport of it?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Thisbe admitted.

  “You’re too responsible now, that’s why,” Gremio said. “You’re far and away the best sergeant I’ve ever known. If you’d let me put you up for a-”

  “Sir, I don’t want a promotion,” Thisbe said firmly, and Gremio had to give it up again.

  His long, thin face lit by the hellsish glare of burning supplies, Brigadier Alexander the Steward stalked among the men of his wing. “Hurry it up there!” Old Straight called to the soldiers. “Set the fires and then form up to move out of Marthasville. We’ve still got a hells of a lot of fighting ahead of us.”

  Alexander’s tone went further to reassure Captain Gremio than any of the orders Lieutenant General Bell had given lately. Those orders, as Florizel had read them out, seemed an odd mixture of defiance and desperation. Gremio had trouble figuring out whom Bell was defying, the enemy or the gods themselves. The cause for the desperation, however, seemed obvious enough.

  “Douse torches!” Colonel Florizel shouted. “Form up!”

  Instead of dousing his torch, Gremio threw it onto a fire already burning. Sergeant Thisbe’s joined it a moment later. Officer and underofficer grinned at each other. Gremio called, “My company-form up!”

  “Get moving!” Thisbe echoed. “You know what needs doing. Do it and don’t make a fuss about it.”

  As the sun rose, the Army of Franklin marched out of Marthasville to the northwest, the only gap remaining in the line the southrons were throwing around the city. Gremio didn’t know how many men General Hesmucet had close by. That worried him. But the southrons evidently doubted they had enough for a successful attack on Bell’s army, for it escaped without incident.

  Seeing land that hadn’t been fought over was something of a relief. “Pretty good country,” Colonel Florizel allowed. “Not so nice as around Karlsburg, back in Palmetto Province, but pretty good even so.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gremio nodded. “But do you see how many of the serfs’ huts are standing empty? Most of the blonds have run off to the southrons.”

  “Gods damn them, and gods damn that wretch of a King Avram,” Florizel said. “How are the lords around these parts going to make a crop now?”

  “They probably won’t,” Gremio answered. “But I don’t think Hesmucet cares. Do you?”

  “Do I care?” Florizel said-whether sardonic or obtuse, Gremio couldn’t tell. “Gods-damned right I care. This is my kingdom. Of course I care what happens to it. It’s that son of a bitch of a Hesmucet who doesn’t care.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gremio said resignedly. He looked back over his shoulder at the great columns of smoke still rising from Marthasville. Either a few soldiers remained behind setting still more fires or the ones already set had spread from abandoned supplies to the city itself. Gremio wondered how hard the southrons would try to put those fires out. Not very, unless he missed his guess.

  “Where do you suppose we’ll go, sir?” Sergeant Thisbe asked after they’d marched for a while.

  “South, I suppose,” Gremio replied. “I don’t know just when, but I’d think we’re going to have to do that. If we strike at Hesmucet’s glideway line, maybe his army will starve and break up.”

  “That would be a splendid victory,” Thisbe said.

  “So it would.” Gremio didn’t tell the sergeant he found it unlikely. He found any hope of victory unlikely. Saying as much would have discouraged those who might be more optimistic, though, and so he held back. The men had enough trouble keeping their spirits up as things were.

  Well before noon, southron unicorn-riders began dogging the Army of Franklin. They didn’t attack; they just hung close. Gremio waited for the aggressive Bell to order his own riders to drive them away. Those orders didn’t come. What does that mean? he wondered. Did Bell think his unicorn-riders couldn’t drive back the southrons? Or was he so desperate to get away from Marthasville that he didn’t want to waste time fighting? Whichever the answer, Gremio didn’t think it boded well for his force.

  When he cautiously remarked on that, Florizel said, “I doubt the southrons will bother us much for a little while. They’ll be too busy with Marthasville, don’t you think?”

  Gremio clicked his tongue between his teeth, considering. “You could well be right, sir,” he said.

  “We’ve given ’em a present,” the regimental commander said. “They’ll take it. Why wouldn’t they? It’s sitting there for ’em, all sweet and juicy as a blond wench with her legs open.”

  “And losing it hurts us,” Gremio added.

  Colonel Florizel nodded. “And losing it hurts us,” he agreed. “We’d better cut their army off from its supplies, or Geoffrey’s badly wounded.”

  “You… don’t usually talk like that, sir,” Gremio said. And the last time I talked like that, you came as near as near can be to calling me a coward. I had to try to get myself killed to make you change your mind.

  “I’m not blind,” Florizel answered. “I know we needed to hold Marthasville. I know we didn’t do it. I’m not stupid, either, no matter what a highfalutin’ barrister might think.”

  “Sir, I’ve never said anything of the sort,” Gremio insisted.

  “I know you didn’t. I never said you did,” Florizel told him. “I said what you were thinking, and I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

  He used words as precisely as if he were a barrister himself. Gremio said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. You’ve led this regiment well, and I’ve never thought otherwise.” That was the truth, too, even if it wasn’t altogether responsive.

  “You wouldn’t be breathing if you had run your mouth,” Florizel replied. Gremio looked for an answer to that, found none, and decided it might have been just as well.

  As he’d expected, the Army of Franklin swung back toward the southeast, the direction of the glideway line that kept General Hesmucet and the southrons fed. The Army of Franklin was for the time being making do without a glideway line; the countryside was rich and fertile, and the soldiers had no trouble keeping themselves fed.

  Juices sizzled as a fowl-a fowl that had probably belonged to a loyal northern farmer-cooked over a fire. Turning the stick that spitted the bird, Sergeant Thisbe said, “If we can feed ourselves off the country here, why can’t the southrons do the same?”

  Gremio started to give that a flip answer, but stopped with the words unspoken. “Good question,” he said after a pause. “The only thing I can think of is, there are a lot more of them than there are of us. Of course, they also have a proper baggage train, and we don’t.”

  “We burned ours in Marthasville,” Thisbe said.

  “We can move faster without it.” Gremio put the best face on things he could.

  “Yes, and we can start starving faster, too.” But Thisbe lifted the fowl from the flames. He blew on it, then
drew his knife from its sheath and started carving. Handing Gremio a leg, he said, “You fancy the dark meat, don’t you?”

  “Right now, I fancy anything that’ll keep my stomach from bumping up against the notches on my backbone,” Gremio answered. He ate the hot flesh, savoring the grease from the skin. Somebody else had a pot full of turnips boiling over another fire. Gremio got a tin plate piled high with them. He ate and ate, then blissfully thumped his belly. “Do you know what, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir. What?” Thisbe spoke with his mouth full: he was still demolishing his plateload.

  “Those turnips needed salt,” Gremio declared.

  “You’re right,” Thisbe agreed. “But I’m still better with ’em than I would be without ’em.”

  “Can’t quarrel with that,” Gremio said. “Can’t quarrel with anything, not any more.” He yawned. “Can’t do anything much right now except roll over and go to sleep.” He wrapped himself in his blanket-much more to hold mosquitoes at bay than to keep him warm-and did just that.

  When the army started marching again the next morning, it kept on going southeast. Without a baggage train to delay it, it did move faster than the southron force. General Hesmucet didn’t seem much interested in pursuit, anyhow; maybe Marthasville was enough to satisfy him. Gremio hoped so. He’d had enough fighting against long odds to suit him for a while-for the next hundred years, come to that.

  Bell passed well south of Marthasville on his way east. Gremio knew at once when the Army of Franklin returned to land that had seen war already this campaigning season. How long would the swath of war, the gouge of the Lion God’s claws, scar Peachtree Province? If not for generations, he would have been astonished.

  He was astonished when Bell passed over the glideway line with no more than a few hasty spells from the sorcerers. “What’s the point of that?” he asked anyone who would listen to him. “Even southrons can put things to rights in a hurry.”

  But Colonel Florizel, for once, had an answer that satisfied him: “I hear we’re heading east into Dothan to rest and refit, and then we’ll come back and hit the southrons a proper lick.”