Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

“Maybe I do,” Gremio said, quite sure he did. He took a deep breath, then continued, “Well, here’s something you may not know, Thisbe d- Sergeant. Once upon a time-”

“Before I got wounded?” Thisbe asked.

“Oh, yes, a long time before you got wounded,” Gremio answered. “Once upon a time, a long time before you got wounded, I told myself that if I ever met a girl who could do the things you can, I’d marry her on the spot.”

“Did you?” Sergeant Thisbe’s voice held no expression whatever. When Gremio tried to read the underofficer’s face, he found he couldn’t. The brim of Thisbe’s hat cast black shadow all across it, for the sergeant stared down at the muddy ground.

Gremio nodded. “That was what I said to myself, and I meant it, too. You can take it for whatever you think it’s worth, Sergeant.”

“It would be worth a lot, I figure, to a girl like that,” Thisbe said. “But I’m not so much of a much. I expect you could find half a dozen girls who knew more than a dumb soldier like me ever dreamed of, just by snapping your fingers.” The sergeant’s light, true tenor was uncommonly earnest.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” Gremio had to fight to keep anger out of his voice. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never given yourself enough credit, and I can’t figure out why.”

Thisbe still didn’t look up. The sergeant’s laugh seemed anything but mirthful. “You know me. You know where I am. Can’t you figure it out for yourself?”

“Well… maybe I can,” Gremio said.

“All right, then. And if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that’s about enough of that for right now. That’s too much of that for right now, if you want to know what I really think.” Thisbe’s yawn was theatrical, but probably no less real on account of that. “I’m going to wrap myself in my blanket and go to sleep. You ought to do the same thing.”

“Yes, so I should.” Seeing Thisbe yawning made Gremio want to yawn, too-not that he wasn’t already weary after a long day’s march. “Good night, Sergeant.”

“Good night, sir.” Thisbe’s blanket was worn, almost threadbare. Gremio had a thicker, finer one. Were things different, he would gladly have given his to the underofficer, or at least invited Thisbe to crawl under it with him. He remembered doing exactly that, back in the days before Thisbe was wounded. He could no more imagine doing it now than he could imagine chasing all the southrons back to their own part of Detina singlehanded.

His hat made a tolerable pillow. He’d long since stopped worrying about having anything fancier. He fell asleep almost at once, as he always did when the Army of Franklin was on the move. Tramping along all day would knock a man out even if he wanted to stay awake, and Gremio didn’t.

Horn calls pulled him out from under his blanket in the morning. He creaked to his feet, feeling elderly. Thisbe was already awake and sipping tea from a tin cup. The northerners called it tea, anyhow. Gremio didn’t want to know from what all leaves and stems it was really made. The southrons’ blockade kept much of the real stuff from getting into King Geoffrey’s harried realm.

Gremio fixed himself a cup of his own. Even with honey added, the brew was bitter and nasty. But it was warm, and some of those leaves helped pry his eyelids apart, the way real tea did. He said, “That’s better,” and drained the cup.

“Couldn’t hardly get by without something hot in the morning,” Thisbe agreed.

Colonel Florizel limped up. “We’ll be getting on the road soon,” the regimental commander said. “So far, it doesn’t look like the gods-damned southrons are stirring away from Summer Mountain. If we can get around behind ’em, we’ll bugger ’em right and proper.” He laughed loudly.

“Er, yes, sir,” Gremio said. Florizel stumped off, looking miffed that the barrister hadn’t laughed with him.

Gremio probably would have, if Thisbe hadn’t been standing there beside him. The sergeant sent him a reproachful look. “ I thought it was pretty funny, sir. I hope we do bugger the southrons.”

Had the sergeant not been there, Gremio would have laughed. He knew that. He also knew he had to say something, and did: “I didn’t think it was all that much of a joke. Besides, he shouldn’t have said it-”

“When I was around?” Thisbe asked. When Gremio nodded, the sergeant looked even more reproachful than before. “What’s that got to do with anything? I’m just one of the boys, and everybody knows it.”

“Right,” Gremio said tightly. “Shall we get the men ready to move, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.” If anything bothered Thisbe, no sign of it appeared in the sergeant’s face or bearing.

And the men did move. They might have moved faster if more of them had had shoes, but northern men were too stubborn to give in on account of something that trivial. As usual, no one begrudged Colonel Florizel his place on a unicorn. His wound wouldn’t have let him keep up on foot.

Ned of the Forest’s men were on unicorns, too, and seemed to be doing their job. Again, Gremio spotted not a single gray-clad southron rider. His guess was that the enemy really didn’t know where the Army of Franklin was. He knew a certain amount of hope on account of that. The last time the southrons had been so fooled was before the battle by the River of Death, more than a year ago now. If they could be tricked again… Well, who could say what might happen?

We’d better not mess things up, the way we did then , Gremio thought. The Army of Franklin could have surrounded Guildenstern at Rising Rock and forced him to surrender. They could have, but they hadn’t. And, in due course, they’d paid for the omission. General Bell was trying to make amends for that now. Maybe he would. Even a hardened cynic of a barrister like Gremio couldn’t help hoping.

“Form column of fours!” he yelled. The men obeyed. Before joining King Geoffrey’s army, Gremio hadn’t dreamt how important marching drill was. Soldiers moved in column, fought in line. If they couldn’t shift from one to the other in a hurry, they were in trouble. Getting caught in column was every commander’s blackest nightmare.

Up at the head of the brigade, horns ordered the advance. A moment later, Colonel Florizel’s trumpeters echoed the command for the regiment. The company had a trumpeter, too. The only trouble was, he wasn’t much of a trumpeter. His notes assailed Gremio’s ears.

“Let’s go!” Sergeant Thisbe shouted. Away the Army of Franklin went, heading south. General Bell dreamt of reaching the Highlow River. If he could do it, he would give King Avram an enormous black eye. He might remind the provinces of Franklin and Cloviston of their allegiance to King Geoffrey-and, more to the point, bring their men and supplies into the war on Geoffrey’s side, not Avram’s. That would make the fight in the east a whole different struggle.

Captain Gremio’s dreams were smaller. He would have been satisfied-no, by the gods, he would have been delighted-if the northerners could get around behind Summer Mountain and cut off the retreat of the southrons there. One bite at a time , he told himself. If we can do one thing right, more will follow from that .

Birds filled the sky overhead. They were flying north for the winter, flying north to escape the coming cold and snow and ice. Pointing to them, Thisbe said, “They’re smarter than we are-they’re going the right way for this time of year.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Gremio said, and beamed at the sergeant. Thisbe didn’t beam back.

Every so often, a soldier would take a shot at the stream of birds. Every once in a while, a crossbow bolt would strike home and a bird tumble out of the sky. The lucky soldier would run over and grab it and put it on his belt to cook when the army stopped that night-if some other man didn’t get it first. After Gremio broke up a couple of quarrels that were on the edge of turning into brawls, he ordered the men of his company to stop shooting at the birds.