Harry Turtledove - Marching Through Peachtree

Hesmucet glared at him. He’d led troops himself in that fight, but he hadn’t taken Funnel Hill south of Proselytizers’ Rise-the defenses there turned out to be stronger than he and Marshal Bart had believed. To be reminded that his subordinates had done what he hadn’t stung. If he showed the sting, though, he gave Fighting Joseph what he wanted.

And so he said, “I’m sure you’ll do your best.” He pointed westward. “Going through the Army of Franklin won’t be so neat or so cheap as stealing a march on it would have been, but we do what we have to do, not always what we want to do.” I have to put up with you, for instance, not least so King Avram doesn’t have to do it on the other side of the Green Ridge Mountains .

Fighting Joseph peered west, too. So did Doubting George. Fighting Joseph coughed once or twice before remarking, “Those are formidable works the traitors have there.”

“I know,” Hesmucet said. “They set their serfs to digging like moles. If we can force them out of their trenches, though, the advantage swings to us. You and Lieutenant General George will try tomorrow at sunrise.”

Faced with a direct order, Fighting Joseph said the only thing a soldier faced with a direct order could say: “Yes, sir.”

When Hesmucet glanced toward Doubting George, his second-in-command nodded and also said, “Yes, sir.” He added, “I hope we’ll have as much magecraft as possible supporting the attack.”

“You will,” Hesmucet promised. “Now go ready your men.” The two generals saluted again and rode off toward their own encampments. Hesmucet called for two more runners. “Fetch me Colonel Phineas and Major Alva,” he said.

The mages arrived together, both of them aboard asses; for some reason Hesmucet had never been able to fathom, wizards made shockingly bad unicorn-riders. “Good day, sir,” Phineas said. He was round-faced and plump and bald as a turnip. He’d been senior mage in the army since General Guildenstern commanded it. He was excellent at keeping track of things, but, like a lot of southron sorcerers, only moderately good at actual conjuration.

“Good day, Colonel,” Hesmucet returned, every bit as formally. Getting the most out of Phineas involved taking him seriously, or at least seeming to.

“What can we do for you, sir?” That was Major Alva, his young voice cracking with eagerness. He was tall and skinny, with a beard still patchy in spots and with a shock of panther-black hair that wouldn’t lie flat no matter how he greased and combed it, but that stuck out in all directions like the springs from a skinned sofa. He’d been Lieutenant Alva till a few months before, but he was the most potent southron mage Hesmucet had ever found. Phineas kept track of things. Alva did things, and liked doing them.

“We are going to have another try at Viper River Gap tomorrow,” Hesmucet told him. “We want to take Caesar away from the traitors. Anything you can do in the sorcerous line would be appreciated.”

Colonel Phineas coughed a couple of loud, formal coughs. “If you could have given us more notice, General, we might well have been able to offer you assistance of a more comprehensive nature.”

“No doubt you’re right, Colonel,” Hesmucet said. “But you will, I trust, understand that war is not a business where we know everything ahead of time. If James the Bird’s Eye had broken into Caesar a couple of days ago, I wouldn’t be worrying about attacking the place now, would I?”

“Most disorderly,” Phineas said disapprovingly. Phineas was good at disapproving of things, less good at approving of them.

Alva said, “Don’t worry, sir. I expect I can come up with something.” He ignored the existence of every other mage in Hesmucet’s army. Considering his strength as compared to that of the other mages, Hesmucet didn’t blame him. Leaning toward the commanding general, he asked, “What have you got in mind, sir? Shall we try scaring the northerners out of their shoes, the way we did at Funnel Hill, or doing something to help our men move forward?”

“Let’s see what we can do to help our side, Major,” Hesmucet answered. “Fine as your spells were at Funnel Hill, they didn’t shift the enemy so much as I would have liked. The northerners are traitors, but they’re Detinans, too, same as we are. They don’t scare easily.”

“Right you are, sir.” Alva was an easygoing fellow, if he deigned to notice you at all. Hesmucet took a certain amount of pride in being able to draw the wizard’s attention. Alva turned to Phineas. “That variation of the befoggery we were talking about the other day…”

“On that scale?” Phineas looked dubious. He often did. The way his face settled into the expression like a fat man sinking into a soft, comfortable hassock proved as much. Shaking his head, he went on, “It’s too much for any one man, yourself included, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid, sir,” Alva said, which made Phineas splutter and turn red. Alva blithely pushed ahead: “I can set it up and leave parts of it for squadrons of mages to put into operation.”

He casually assumed himself to be worth whole squadrons. By the way Phineas grunted, he assumed Alva was worth them, too, but he didn’t like the idea. “ Can you set it up in that fashion?”

“Of course I can.” Now Alva sounded certain, infuriatingly certain. “Same principles of division of labor that go into a well-run manufactory. I create, the others duplicate. Should be easy.” Phineas looked appalled at that. Alva didn’t seem to notice. He turned to Hesmucet. “Do you want to know what we’re talking about, sir?”

“No,” Hesmucet told him. “I want to know what you’ll do, and when. How is your business.” Alva beamed at him. He chuckled, a bit self-consciously. More than half by accident, he’d said the right thing.

Rollant had several extra sheaves of crossbow quarrels clipped to his belt. He was far from the only man in Lieutenant Griff’s company to take such a precaution. Despite that, he wasn’t unduly astonished when Griff singled him out: “Don’t you know that’s contrary to regulations, soldier?”

You wouldn’t pick on me if my hair were black , the escaped serf thought. Aloud, he said, “Yes, sir.” He made no move to divest himself of the extra crossbow bolts. Lieutenant Griff didn’t ask him to, either. The company commander had got it out of his system by complaining. Rollant sighed. Sure enough, he was a lodestone for such gripes.

Trumpets blared. “Come on!” Griff yelled. “Form up! Nobody’s going to say this company doesn’t pull its weight in the regiment.”

So far as Rollant knew, no one had ever said any such thing. Griff always needed something to be unhappy about.

Colonel Nahath, the regimental commander, surveyed his men. “We’re going to break into Caesar, boys. There aren’t enough traitors in front of us to stop us. There aren’t enough traitors in the whole wide world to stop us. We’re good New Eborac men, and there isn’t anything at all in the whole wide world that can stop us.”

The soldiers raised a cheer. Lieutenant Griff added, “Remember, men, we got to the top of Proselytizers’ Rise. If we can do that, may the Thunderer smite me if we can’t do anything.”

Beside Rollant, Smitty murmured, “Oh, he’s right, no doubt about it. All we need is for the northerners to botch another spell, and we’ll just walk into this Caesar place.”

“We can lick the traitors,” Rollant said. That was why he’d taken King Avram’s silver: to hit back at the liege lords who’d held him down just as men with dark hair had held down his ancestors since their ancestors came ashore on the beaches of the Western Ocean.