Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“We’re not staying here?” Graff said. “We bloodied their noses-no reason why we can’t do it again.”

“We can’t do it again because they’ll be ready for us,” Winter said. “Someone out there isn’t an utter fool. They won’t come in dumb next time. Either they’ll break out and come at us in loose order, like they should have in the first place, or else they’ll skirt the village entirely and go straight for the boats.” She thought for a moment. “More likely the latter. So we fall back to the quay.”

“If you don’t mind my saying,” Graff said quietly, “is that a good idea? We’ll have no cover at all. The lads are willing, but we won’t last if we have to go volley for volley with four companies.”

Winter nodded. “Bobby, you’re with me. We’re going to see what we can do about that.”

• • •

“Pull!” Folsom shouted, his deep voice echoing off the barges. “Wait, two, three, pull !”

He demonstrated with a massive effort on his own part, muscles standing out in his arms like corded ropes. Two dozen men behind him added their strength to the line, and the barge groaned and jolted another foot up onto the quay. The rear end was out of the water now, dripping brown mud into the river.

Winter stood with the casualties at the far end of the stone pier. There had been four of these: one ranker who’d taken an unlucky shot through a doorway and lost the top of his head, two men wounded by balls that had punched through their protective walls, and an unfortunate recruit who’d accidentally double-loaded his weapon after failing to notice a misfire. Packed with twice the normal load of powder, the musket had exploded, leaving the side of his face a lacerated ruin.

The dead man was covered by a tarp, while Graff did his best for the three wounded. They hadn’t done a precise count of the Khandarai dead, but Winter guessed there’d been more than eighty, plus however many they’d dragged away. For fifty men against two hundred, that was no poor result, militarily speaking, but standing beside the boy with the torn face Winter couldn’t help but feel like a failure.

She focused on the river instead. The sun was well up by now, and the morning haze had burned away, but if there were barges on their way back across Winter couldn’t see them. Bobby, standing at her shoulder, correctly interpreted her thoughts.

“It’ll be at least another hour, sir,” the boy said.

Winter nodded and looked away. Her gaze fell on the man who’d taken a ball in the arm. Graff had torn his shirt off and wrapped it round the wound as a makeshift bandage, winding a scrap of wood in the linen to keep it tight. Bobby, following Winter’s eyes, gave a little shudder.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Winter said. A flying splinter of clay had given the boy a cut on the shoulder. Winter hadn’t noticed the damp patch on his uniform until after the fighting was over.

“It’s nothing, sir. Honestly.”

Graff stood and came over to them. “Perkins will be all right, but Zeitman will probably lose the arm once we get him back to the cutters. Finn-” He glanced at the boy with the mutilated face. “That needs cleaning out, but he screams if I so much as touch him. He needs a proper surgeon.”

“You’ve done what you could,” Winter said. “Go take over loading detail.” The weapons they’d gleaned from the Auxiliaries lay in neat rows on the quay, all bright wax and polish. A group of Colonials was methodically cleaning the barrels and loading them, one after another, from a pile of captured ammunition.

There was a great crash from farther up the pier as Folsom’s team flipped the barge end over end, so that its flat, dripping bottom was exposed to the sky. Resting lengthwise, it overhung the quay by a few feet on either end. She’d chosen one that was four or five feet high and made of sturdy-looking wood. The sides would probably stop a ball, at least at long range, and it would take a few moments for any attacker who wanted to use his bayonet to scramble over. Combined with the boats tied to the dock on all sides, it would provide a reasonable degree of shelter from fire from the shore. It was the best she could hope for under the circumstances.

Finn touched his face where the metal shards had torn it and gave a little screech. Bobby jumped visibly. Winter laid a hand on his shoulder and conducted him away from the impromptu hospital, back toward the barricade.

“Sir?” Bobby’s voice was hesitant. “I don’t mean to be. . that is. . can I ask you a favor?”

“A favor?”

Bobby stopped. His voice was low enough that only Winter could hear. “If I ever get-hit, you know, and-”

“Stop,” Winter said. “Everyone knows that talking like that is the next best thing to asking for it. The Lord Above loves irony.”

Bobby winced. “Sorry, sir. But this is important. If-you know-can you promise me something?”

“Maybe,” Winter said.

“Don’t let them take me to a cutter,” Bobby said urgently. “Please. Take care of me yourself.”

“I’m not much of a surgeon.”

“Then. . Graff, or someone you trust. But no cutters.” He looked up at Winter, and his soft face was full of desperation. “Please?”

Winter would usually have given her word at once, and then broken it just as easily when the need arose. A lot of soldiers had that sort of feeling about surgeons. It was only natural, if you’d spent any time in a hospital or watched the men hobble out short an arm or a leg. Winter wasn’t fond of the medical men herself. But when it really came down to it, she suspected she’d rather live as a cripple than die a slow, agonizing death from a festering wound.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would have put this down to pre-battle jitters, the sort of thing Bobby would forget about tomorrow morning. But there was something disturbingly sincere in the corporal’s eyes, so Winter chose her words carefully.

“Graff isn’t a surgeon, either.” She watched the boy’s expression. “Let’s be clear about this. If it’s a choice between going to the cutter or into the ground-”

“I’d rather die,” Bobby said immediately. “Promise me.”

After a moment of hesitation, Winter nodded. “I promise, then. But you’d better not get yourself hurt, or I’ll have a hell of a time explaining myself to Folsom and Graff afterward.”

Bobby gave a weak chuckle. Winter tried to think of a way to dispel the grim mood that had descended, but was spared the necessity. There was a shot from the barricade, and a cry of “Auxies!” The quay was suddenly a chaos of rushing men. Winter heard Folsom’s voice rising above the din, shouting soldiers into line.

She patted Bobby’s shoulder again and pushed her way forward, until she was up against the sloping wall of the upside-down boat. It rose slightly toward the center, forming a shallow keel, but the top was still flat enough to see over. She saw Graff upbraiding a man carrying a smoking musket.

The situation wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, then. Looking up the quay, between the wall of boats on each side and into the village, she couldn’t see any obvious sign of the enemy. She pulled Graff away and asked for a report.

“Sorry about that, sir. He shouldn’t have fired.”

“False alarm?” Winter said hopefully. Every minute the Auxiliaries delayed was a minute less they’d have to wait for reinforcements.

“They were there, right enough, but only a couple. I saw three men, but there may have been a few more. Back amidst the houses, sort of skulking, like. Ferstein took a potshot and they all started running.”

“Scouts, then.” Winter chewed her lip. “He knows we’re not in the village, and that we’re barricaded in here. Maybe he doesn’t know that we’re waiting for the rest of the regiment to cross. Could be he’s waiting for reinforcements of his own.”