Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

“If you find the fellow whose unicorn did it, you have my permission to pick a fight with him,” Gremio said gravely.

Ludovic pondered that. Like the weather on a changeable day, he brightened and then clouded up again. “How the hells am I supposed to do that, Captain? Gods-damned unicorn didn’t leave any gods-damned calling card, you know. Not except the one I stepped in.”

Snickers ran up and down the long files of marching men. Gremio said, “No, I suppose not. In that case, you’d better just slog along with everybody else, don’t you think?”

“You aren’t making fun of me by any chance, are you, sir?”

“Gods forbid, Ludovic.” Gremio had to deny it, even though it was true. A free Detinan who thought himself mocked would kill without counting the cost. An apology would have made Gremio lose face. A simple denial didn’t.

Ludovic nodded, satisfied. “That’s all right, then,” he said, and marched on without complaining any more about his filthy foot.

When the Army of Franklin camped that night, the southrons’ fires brightened the horizon to the south. “They’re waiting for us,” Gremio said as he seared a chunk of beef from one of the cows from the herd that shambled along with the army. It wasn’t very good beef-it was, in fact, vile, odious beef-but it was ever so much better than no beef at all.

“We knew they would be.” Sergeant Thisbe, searing another gobbet of that odious beef, didn’t sound worried. The only time Thisbe had ever sounded worried was about going to the healers after taking that wound in southern Peachtree Province. Other than that, nothing in army life that Gremio had seen fazed the underofficer. “We’ll lick ’em.”

“Of course we will.” Gremio couldn’t very well deny it, not in front of his men. Colonel Florizel had wanted his company commanders to make the men believe the war was still winnable. Gremio didn’t know whether it was or not. No matter how much he doubted it-and that was almost enough to make him his own side’s Doubting George-he couldn’t show his doubts. He understood why not: if the men thought they couldn’t win, why would they want to risk their lives for King Geoffrey?

“Poor southrons’ll be sorry they ever heard of Poor Richard,” a trooper declared.

A few men from the Army of Franklin had deserted. The ones who remained still kept plenty of fight. Maybe returning to the province for which the army was named helped. Maybe they were just too stubborn to know they were beaten. Whatever it was, Gremio didn’t want to disturb it. He wished he had more of it himself.

Thisbe pulled the ragged, sorry beefsteak from the flames. The sergeant sniffed at it and made an unhappy face before taking out a belt knife and starting to haggle off bite-sized chunks. “Better than nothing. Better than your belly rubbing up against your backbone,” Thisbe said.

“Yes, that’s true.” Gremio cut a bite from his own beefsteak. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed… and chewed, and chewed. Eventually, with a convulsive gulp, he swallowed. “Not a whole lot better than nothing,” he said.

“I think it is.” Thisbe, as usual, was determined to look on the bright side of things. “When you’re empty, you can’t hardly do anything. You feel all puny and sickly. It’s not a wonderful supper, gods know, but it’s a supper, and any supper is better than no supper at all.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong. I was thinking the same thing a little earlier, in fact.” Gremio didn’t want to argue with Sergeant Thisbe. He wrestled another bite of meat down his throat. “Now I know why so many men in the company have no shoes. The drovers have been butchering them and called the shoeleather beef.”

Thisbe did smile at that, but then grew serious again. “I wonder what they’re doing with the hides of the cattle they’re killing. If they’re just leaving them for scavengers, that’s a shame and a disgrace. The Army of Franklin must have plenty of men who know how to tan leather. Maybe they could make shoes, or at least patch the ones that are coming to pieces.”

“That’s a good idea. That’s a hells of a good idea, as a matter of fact.” Gremio made fewer bites of the rest of his beefsteak than he should have. A couple of times, he felt like a small snake trying to choke down a large dog. When at last he swallowed the final bite, he jumped to his feet. “I’m going to find out whether we’re doing anything like that-and if we aren’t, why not.”

He hurried to Colonel Florizel’s pavilion. The regimental commander was gamely-which did seem the proper word-hacking away at a slab of meat no finer than the one Gremio had eaten. When Gremio explained Thisbe’s notion, Florizel paused, swallowed with no small effort, and then said, “That is clever. I have no idea what we’re doing with the hides. We should be doing something, shouldn’t we?”

“If we have any sort of chance to, we should, yes,” Gremio said. “If you don’t know, sir, who would?”

“Patrick the Cleaver, I suspect,” Florizel answered. “He sticks his nose into all sorts of things.”

The other side of that coin was, I can’t be bothered sticking my nose into all sorts of things . Calling Florizel on it would have been worse than useless. Gremio saluted and said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll speak with him.”

“I hope something comes of it.” Colonel Florizel did mean well, as long as he didn’t have to put himself out too much. He was a brave leader in battle. Gremio wished he were a better administrator, but Gremio, a barrister himself, highly valued organization in others.

He’d never spoken to Patrick the Cleaver before, and wondered how much trouble he would have getting to see the wing commander. He had no more than he’d had seeing Colonel Florizel. As he had with Florizel, he explained himself. “This is your notion, now?” Patrick asked him.

“No, sir,” Gremio answered. “My company’s first sergeant thought of it. H-uh, his-name is Thisbe.”

“It’s a good notion, indeed and it is,” Patrick said. “My hat’s off to you, Captain, for not being after claiming it for your own.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Gremio said.

“No, eh?” The brigadier eyed him. “Plenty could, the which is nobbut the truth.”

“I don’t steal,” Gremio said stiffly. From anyone but Thisbe, he might have. From the sergeant? Never.

“Well, good on you,” Patrick the Cleaver said. “If you’re after giving this sergeant the credit, you might also be thinking of giving him lieutenant’s rank to go with it.”

“Sir, I tried to promote the sergeant during the fighting south of Marthasville, for bravery then,” Gremio said. “Thisbe refused to accept officer’s rank. I doubt anything has changed… his mind since.”

Patrick chuckled. “Sure and there are sergeants like that. Most of ’em, I think, are fools. The army could use officers o’ their stripe-better nor a good many of the omadhauns giving orders the now.”

Thisbe had reasons for declining that Patrick the Cleaver probably hadn’t contemplated. Gremio saw no point in discussing those reasons with the wing commander. He asked, “Is there any chance of doing what the sergeant suggested, sir?”

“By the gods, Captain, there is that,” Patrick answered. “Once we’re after driving the gods-damned southrons from Poor Richard, I’ll see to it. You may rely on me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gremio believed him. Patrick was one of the youngest brigadiers in King Geoffrey’s armies, but he’d already acquired a reputation for reliability to go with his name for hard fighting. Gremio said, “May I ask you one thing more?”

“Ask what you will,” Patrick said. “I do not promise to answer.”