Harry Turtledove - Marching Through Peachtree

Captain Gremio was no general. Gremio hadn’t been a soldier at all before the war, or a domain-holding noble-the closest peacetime equivalent-either. But, like so many others, he’d had plenty of experience since the fighting began in Karlsburg harbor more than three years before.

He said, “These are splendid works, and I hope Hesmucet tries to storm them. He’d bloody his southron nose, the way he did at Commissioner Mountain.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Thisbe said. “But even though he lost on the mountain, he got that little bridgehead over Snouts Stream, and look at how much trouble he caused with it.”

Had Hesmucet not got that bridgehead, the Army of Franklin might well have still been defending the line of the mountain and the stream. Gremio gave Thisbe a half mocking bow. “Very neat, Sergeant,” he said. “You agree with me in your first two words, then proceed to show I’m wrong. Very neat indeed.”

Thisbe turned red. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Gremio told him. “You got me fair and square. I wish I could do so well in front of the judges a lot of the time.”

“Now you’re joking with me, sir,” Thisbe said. “I don’t much care for that.” He was, as so often, almost painfully serious.

“No such thing. I meant every word of it.” Gremio raised his hand above his head, pointing to the mountain beyond the sky, as he would have in a lawcourt. “By the Thunderer, I swear it.”

“All right.” Thisbe looked back over his shoulder. “Are we supposed to make a stand with our backs to a river? If the southrons do beat us here, it would go hard for us.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Gremio said. “But do you really think Hesmucet can storm us out of this position?”

The sergeant considered. “You’re probably right, sir. You usually are, from everything I’ve seen.”

Now Gremio felt himself blushing. “That’s kind of you, Sergeant-kinder than I deserve, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“No, sir,” Thisbe said. “If ever there’s somebody who knows what’s what, you’re the one.”

“If I knew what was what, would I be here ?” Gremio asked with a wry laugh.

That made Thisbe laugh, too, but, as usual, his answer was thoughtful: “I suppose it depends on how important you think this is for the kingdom.”

If we don’t win here, or at least keep the southrons from winning, Geoffrey won’t have a kingdom, Gremio thought. Since he didn’t feel like voicing words of ill omen aloud, he replied, “When we were coming down out of the hill country towards the Hoocheecoochee, I could see Marthasville.” He craned his neck. “Can’t quite do it now, but I know the place is there. Maybe that makes this pretty important business after all.”

“I think so, too, sir,” Thisbe agreed.

“What sort of spirits are the men in?” Gremio asked. “You’ve got stripes on your sleeves, not epaulets on your shoulders. That puts you closer to an ordinary man than I could ever… Are you all right, Sergeant?”

Thisbe had suffered a coughing fit, and went even redder in the face than he had before. “I’m sorry, sir,” he wheezed when he could speak at all. “I swallowed wrong then, and almost choked. Most ways, I’d say, you’re closer to an ordinary man than I could ever be.” Before Gremio could argue with that, Thisbe went on, “I think your ordinary soldier dislikes a sergeant more than an officer, in the same sort of way that a serf is liable to dislike an overseer more than a liege lord. The sergeant is the one who makes sure he does what he’s told, after all.”

“Mm, I shouldn’t wonder if there was something to that,” Gremio allowed. “All right, Sergeant, you’ve made your point.” He put on a severe look. “As I’ve said, I do wish you’d let me offer your name for promotion.”

“No, thank you, sir.” As usual on this subject, Thisbe’s voice held not an ounce of doubt. “I’d sooner just be what I am. I’d much sooner just be what I am.”

“I bow to your wishes.” Gremio suited action to word. The sergeant smiled and began a motion in return, but arrested it before it was well begun-not quite an answering bow, but something on that order. Gremio said, “It’s plain that, once upon a time, you were a fine gentleman.”

“I was not!” Thisbe said hotly. “Never once! The very idea!”

He sounded so irate, Gremio didn’t ask any of the questions he might have otherwise. King Geoffrey’s army held more than a few nobles fighting as common soldiers, either from sheer love of adventure or because they’d disgraced themselves and couldn’t claim the rank that should have gone with their station. It had occurred to Gremio that his sergeant might be such a man. If he was, though, he didn’t intend to admit it.

And now he went off in what Gremio couldn’t help but recognized as a huff. The company commander kicked at the brick-red mud in the bottom of the trench. Even though he had the right to make such comments to Thisbe, he wished he hadn’t done it. He didn’t want the sergeant angry at him. The company won’t run smoothly if he is , Gremio told himself. But there was more to it than that. He didn’t want Thisbe angry at him because he liked and respected him, and wanted him to be as much of a friend as their different ranks would permit.

“By the gods, if I ever found a woman who suited me as well as Thisbe does, I’d marry her on the spot,” he muttered.

Getting married, though, didn’t stay on his mind for long. For one thing, he knew of no women-except perhaps a few loose ones-within miles. For another, a troop of southron unicorn-riders trotted past the Army of Franklin’s entrenchments right on the edge of catapult range. A few engineers let fly at them. Most of the stones and firepots went wide, but one smashed a rider and his unicorn like a boot descending on a cockroach.

After that, the southrons did a better job of keeping their distance. But they had accomplished their purpose. Gremio saw that clearly. By reminding the northern commanders they were there, they kept Joseph the Gamecock and Brigadier Spinner from loosing the northern riders to harry the enemy supply line. It was long, stretching all the way back to Rising Rock, and it was tenuous, but none of that mattered if the northerners couldn’t mount a serious attack on it. And, by all the signs, they couldn’t.

Gremio sighed. More and more these days, the war was coming down to demonstrations of what the north couldn’t do. That was no way to win it. We’re right, though, he thought. A moment later, he laughed at himself. A man in the lawcourts might be right, too. How much good did that do him if the judges ruled he was wrong? None whatsoever, as Gremio knew too well. Like any barrister, he always thought he was right. Everyone once in a while, some idiot panel of judges had a different-and no doubt erroneous-opinion.

Brigadier Alexander, the new wing commander, came marching through the trenches. Gremio approved of that. Leonidas the Priest had been a brave and pious man, but hadn’t much concerned himself with his soldiers’ mundane, day-to-day needs and concerns-or perhaps he simply hadn’t cared to get his fancy vestments dirty. Alexander strode up to Gremio, who stiffened to attention and saluted.

“As you were, Captain,” the senior officer said. Gremio saw how he’d come to be called Old Straight-he was tall and lean and very erect. And, when he spoke, his words were straightforward, too: “How, in your view, can we best beat back the stinking southrons? What can we do that we aren’t doing now?”

“Having twice as many men in the trenches wouldn’t hurt, sir,” Gremio replied.