Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

“So I’ve heard,” Bell said. “If I hadn’t been wounded in that fight, I daresay I would have been a part of it.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Ned said. “Thraxton the Braggart wanted to get rid of all of his officers, too, and we all wanted to kill him.” By the way Ned’s hands folded into fists, he meant that literally. Bell remembered stories he’d heard while recovering from his amputation, and what Ned had said not long ago. After a moment, the scowl fading from his face, Ned went on, “Thraxton got his way, on account of he’s pals with King Geoffrey-you’ll know about that, I expect. Thraxton got his way, all right-but the army was never the same again. Meaning no disrespect, sir, but it may be just as well you can’t get rid of ’em all.”

“I find that hard to believe-very hard, as a matter of fact,” Bell said.

“I’m telling you what I think,” Ned of the Forest answered. “If you don’t care for what I think…” He didn’t go on, but something nasty sparked in his eyes. If you don’t care for what I think, to the hells with you , had to be what he meant.

Even full of anger as Bell was, he hesitated before provoking Ned. He shrugged a one-shouldered shrug instead. “Maybe,” he said grudgingly.

“What are you going to do now?” Ned asked, adding, “Sir?” as an afterthought.

“We have to keep moving south,” General Bell answered. “John the Lister got away this time. When I catch him, though, I’ll make him pay.”

“My bet is, he’s heading toward Poor Richard,” Ned said. “I know that part of Franklin-I know it right well.” He spoke with great assurance. He’d fought all across Franklin and Cloviston and Dothan and Great River Province ever since the war began. Without a doubt, he knew them more intimately than most officers could hope to. He went on, “Some places around there, if the southrons dig in, they’ll be mighty hard to dig out.”

“Will John know those places?” Bell asked.

“If he doesn’t, somebody in his force will,” Ned said. “Plenty of traitors wearing southron gray.” To a soldier who followed King Geoffrey, a northerner who stayed loyal to Avram was a traitor. A fair number of men from Franklin and even more from Cloviston had chosen Avram over Geoffrey. They fought their own small, bitter war with Geoffrey’s backers in addition to and alongside of the larger struggle waged between the main armies of the two rival kings.

“Plenty of traitors to good King Geoffrey still in blue,” Bell muttered. “If my commanders had done what they were supposed to-”

Ned of the Forest held up a hand. “Plenty of people-plenty of people with fancy uniforms on-are natural-born fools. I don’t reckon anybody could quarrel with that. But you have to remember, there’s a sight of difference between a natural-born fool and a traitor.”

“Maybe,” Bell said, even more grudgingly than before. “By the Lion God’s claws, though, I wish you’d been at my van and not harassing the southrons’ rear. You’d have blocked the road down to the Trumpeteth River and Poor Richard the way it should have been blocked.”

“I hope I would,” Ned said. “But it takes more than magic to let a man be two places at once. If I hadn’t been harrying the southrons, they could’ve moved quicker, and they might’ve got out of your trap before you could spring it.”

He was right. Bell knew as much. That didn’t make his words any more palatable, though. “Bah!” Bell said: a reply that didn’t require him to admit Ned was right. Realizing he needed something more, he continued, “I trust, Lieutenant General, you will lead the pursuit of the southrons now.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Ned answered. “I’ll send the boys after ’em. I’ll do it right this minute, if you want me to.”

“No, let it wait till the morning,” Bell said. “Your unicorns are worn, and so are my pikemen and crossbowmen. No point to a strong pursuit unless we’re fit to fight.”

“My boys are always fit to fight,” Ned of the Forest declared. “If yours aren’t, too bad for them.” Having had the last word, he got back onto his unicorn and rode away, the beast’s hooves kicking up dirt at each stride.

Bell started to growl at him, to order him to come back and explain himself and apologize. He left the order unspoken. He was as brave a soldier as any who served King Geoffrey. No one without great courage would, or could, have stayed in the field after the wounds he’d taken. But even he didn’t care to antagonize Ned of the Forest.

“We’ll get them,” Bell muttered. “If we don’t catch up to them on the road, we’ll get them in Poor Richard. John the Lister might have slid by me once, but he won’t do it again.”

Where railing at his subordinate commanders hadn’t done a thing, that did help ease his wrath. All I need is another try, he thought. All the north needs is another try. We can still lick those southron sons of bitches. We can, and we have to. And so, of course, we will.

He went back into his pavilion. A folding chair waited for him. With a weary sigh, he sank into it and leaned his crutches against the iron-framed cot nearby. With his one good hand free, he fumbled for the laudanum bottle. He pulled it out, yanked the stopper free with his teeth, and took one more long swig.

Little by little, the latest dose of the drug washed through him. He sighed. At last, he had enough laudanum coursing through his veins to stop worrying quite so much about what might have been. He felt much more alive with the mixture of opium and brandy than he ever had without it. There were times when he felt his mutilations were almost worthwhile. Without them, he never would have made the acquaintance of the wonders of laudanum, and he couldn’t imagine living apart from it, not any more he couldn’t.

But not even laudanum’s soothing influence altogether stifled his rage against the men who had let him down. How many times do I have to give the command to advance? he wondered. What can I do when they refuse to listen? I can’t charge the gods-damned southrons myself, not on one leg. He had charged them, many times. The catapult stone that had smashed his thigh by the River of Death was the reason he went on one leg these days.

“Next time,” he muttered. “We will get them next time.” Then the huge doses of the drug he’d taken overwhelmed even his laudanum-accustomed frame. A wriggle and a scramble shifted him from the chair to the cot. He twisted into a position that put the least weight on his bad shoulder and his stump, closed his eyes, and slept, dreaming of blood and victory.

“Here you are, sir,” the gray-robed scryer said, standing up from the stool in front of his crystal ball so Lieutenant General George could take his place.

“That’s true. Here I am.” Doubting George sat down. John the Lister’s image, tiny and perfect, stared out of the crystal ball at him. George said, “So you’re on your way to Poor Richard now, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” John answered. “By the Thunderer’s beard, I’m glad to be past the traitors, too. I thought they’d cooked our goose at Summer Mountain.”

“Never give up,” Doubting George said. “Till they kill you, you’re still in the fight. And after that, make ’em worry about your ghost.”

“Haven’t seen any ghosts on the battlefield, sir,” John the Lister said. “It’s the live sons of bitches who worry me. If Bell pursues hard, I could still wind up in trouble.”

“What can I do to help you?” Doubting George asked.

“Another ten thousand men would be nice,” John replied. George chuckled. He’d made many such wry remarks himself.

But this one, unfortunately, he couldn’t answer with more than a chuckle. He said, “I’d send them to you if I had them, but I don’t. Do you know how much trouble I’m having pulling garrisons out of towns and off of glideway lines here and down in Cloviston?”