Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

One by one, the cooks nodded. “We’ll take care of it, Captain. Don’t you worry,” said the one who liked to talk. “Pretty good, a regimental commander who tells us we can forage however we want.” The rest of the cooks nodded again.

One of them added, “Sergeant Thisbe already said the same thing.”

“That’s a sergeant. This here is a captain. Them’s two different breeds, you bet, like unicorns and asses,” the mouthy cook said.

Gremio wondered whether officers were supposed to be unicorns or asses. He didn’t ask. The cook was all too likely to tell him. What he did say was, “If Sergeant Thisbe told you it’s all right, it is. You can bet on that.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the talkative cook agreed. “Thisbe, he’s got his head screwed on tight. Probably why he never made lieutenant.” He didn’t look a bit abashed at smearing officers. With the Army of Franklin falling to ruins, what was Gremio going to do to him? What could Gremio do that the southrons hadn’t done already?

“Sergeant Thisbe has been offered promotion to officer’s rank more than once, but has always declined,” Gremio said stiffly.

The cooks looked at one another. None of them said a thing, not even the mouthy one. Gremio turned away in dull embarrassment. They hadn’t embarrassed him; he’d done it to himself. If Thisbe was a good soldier (and Thisbe was) and if Thisbe didn’t want to become an officer (and Thisbe didn’t, as Gremio had admitted), what did that say about officers?

It says officers are asses , Gremio thought. Feeling very much an ass, he went off to eat his meager and unappetizing supper.

He was cleaning his mess tin when Thisbe came over to the creek to do the same thing. Scrupulous as always, Thisbe saluted. Gremio answered with an impatient wave. “Never mind that nonsense,” he said. “Nobody’s going to worry about it now.”

“All right, sir,” Thisbe said equably.

“What’s this I hear about your saying it was all right for the cooks to gather food any which way they could?” Gremio inquired.

With an anxious look, Thisbe asked, “Was I wrong, sir?”

“Not so far as I’m concerned,” Gremio answered. “I told them the same thing.”

“We’ve got to keep eating,” Thisbe said. “If we don’t eat, we can’t march and we can’t fight. We might as well lay down our crossbows and shortswords and give up, and I’m not ready to do that.”

“Neither am I.” But Gremio thought of Jamy. How long could his men keep marching without shoes? Not forever; he knew that too well. Remembering Jamy made him ask, “How are your feet, Sergeant?”

“Not bad at all, as a matter of fact.” Sure enough, shoes much newer than Gremio’s covered and protected Thisbe’s feet. The underofficer explained, “I found this dead southron, a little short fellow. His shoes were some too big on me even so, but I stuffed some rags into the toes, and they’re all right now-a lot better than the ones I had.”

“Good. That’s good. Nice somebody’s taken care of, one way or another,” Captain Gremio said. “I wish all our men were that lucky.” His laugh held nothing but bitterness. “I wish a lot more of our men were lucky enough to still be here.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Thisbe nodded. “Sir, can we fight another battle now? If we have to, I mean?”

“Depends on what you mean by a battle-and on what Lieutenant General Bell wants us to do,” Gremio answered. “We can fight plenty of these rear-guard actions-and we’ve got to, to keep the southrons from running over us like a brewery wagon on a downgrade. But if the Army of Franklin lines up against everything Doubting George has got… if that happens, we’re all dead.”

Thisbe nodded once more. “That’s about the way I look at things, too. I just wondered whether you were thinking along with me again.”

That again warmed Gremio. “When we get back to Palmetto Province, Sergeant…”

“Who knows what will happen, sir?” Thisbe said. “We have to worry about getting home first of all, and about whether home will even be worth getting back to if…” Now the sergeant’s voice trailed away.

“If?” Gremio prompted. But that wasn’t fair; that was making Thisbe say something Gremio didn’t want to say himself. With an effort of will, he forced it out:

“If we lose the war.”

No one but Thisbe could have heard the words. Gremio made sure of that. Even so, mentioning defeat came hard, despite all the disasters the Army of Franklin had already seen. Just imagining the north could lose, imagining King Avram could rule all of Detina, felt uncommonly like treason.

So Gremio thought, at any rate. But when he said so, Thisbe faced the idea without flinching. “We’ll pick up the pieces and go on, that’s all,” the sergeant replied. “What else can we do?”

Win . Gremio wanted to say it, but found he couldn’t. With the Army of Franklin broken, with Duke Edward of Arlington penned up inside Pierreville north of Nonesuch, what did his side have with which to resist the oncoming southron armies? Not enough, not from what he could see.

“Sergeant-” he began.

Thisbe held up a hand. “This isn’t the right time, is it, sir?”

“If it’s not, when would be?”

“After the war is over.” Thisbe looked around, too, before adding, “I don’t reckon it’ll be too much longer.” Another pause, and then the sergeant said, “I’d kind of hate to get killed now, when dying won’t make the least bit of difference one way or the other.” A laugh, of sorts. “That’s probably treason, too.”

“If it is, they’ll have to crucify me next to you,” Gremio said. They smiled at each other. With a grimace, Gremio went on, “Sometimes dying can make a difference even now. Not about who wins and loses-I think that’s pretty much over and done with. But if you can help some of your friends get away safe… Well, what else is a rear guard for?”

Sergeant Thisbe looked as unhappy as Gremio felt. “You’re right, sir. You usually are.” Gremio shook his head. He felt as empty-as emptied — of good answers as of everything else. Thisbe ignored him. “But even though you are right, I still think it’d be a shame.”

“Oh, so do I. I don’t want to get killed. I’ve never been what you’d call eager for that.” From somewhere, Gremio dredged up a wry smile. “I’ve known a few men who were, or seemed to be.” Bell, gods damn him. Getting mutilated-getting mutilated twice-didn’t satisfy him. No, not even close. He had to cut off his army’s leg, too .

By the way Thisbe nodded, the underofficer was also thinking of the commanding general. Thisbe went back by the fires, got out a blanket, and made a cocoon of it. Around a yawn, the sergeant said, “Maybe it’ll look better in the morning.”

Following Thisbe toward what warmth they had, Gremio doubted that. He doubted it would ever look better for King Geoffrey’s cause. But he was also too weary to see straight. He rolled himself in his own blanket, using his hat for a pillow. “Good night, Sergeant. Maybe it will. It can’t look much worse, can it?”

With the winter solstice close at hand, nights were long and cold. Gremio woke well before sunrise. He wasn’t much surprised to find Thisbe already up and gone. He also wasn’t much surprised to find Ned of the Forest prowling around on foot. Ned’s eyes threw back the dim red light of the campfires like a cat’s. Men’s eyes weren’t supposed to be able to do that, but Ned’s did.

“Who’s in charge of this here regiment?” he demanded of Gremio.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Gremio gave his name and rank, adding, “At your service, sir.”