Harry Turtledove: Marching Through Peachtree

A nasty, frowzy crew , would have been the first thought of anyone seeing Gremio’s company-or, very likely, any company in the Army of Franklin. But a second thought would have followed hard on its heels: these men can fight .

Florizel limped out in front of the regiment. He carried a folded sheet of paper, and ostentatiously unfolded it to draw the men’s attention. A nice bit of business , Gremio thought, resolving to use it in the courtroom one day.

“Men of Palmetto Province!” Florizel boomed. “We were first in our rejection of that gods-damned maniac who calls himself King Avram and sits in the Black Palace in Georgetown like a hovering vulture, waiting for the north to die so he may feast on our dead flesh and crack our bones. Now once more his wicked armies advance on us, and we must be among the first to throw them back.”

They raised a cheer. Gremio found himself cheering, too. He wondered why. They’d all had countless chances to be maimed or killed. Now Florizel was telling them they were about to get more. And, instead of cursing him, they cheered. If they weren’t utterly mad, Gremio had never heard of anyone who was.

“Men of Detina! Brave men! Patriots!” Florizel went on. “There are two gaps through which the cursed southrons might attack us. We shall beat them back from both. We shall not let them ravage Peachtree Province. We shall not let them steal from us the great city of Marthasville. The gods love King Geoffrey. Our cause is just. Provincial prerogative forever!”

“Provincial prerogative forever!” the men shouted. Gremio’s voice was loud among them. The Army of Franklin was in good spirits, if nothing else. However much that would help in the fight against Hesmucet, Joseph the Gamecock had it working in his favor.

Lieutenant General Bell reached for his crutches. Getting out of a chair was a struggle for a man with one leg and one good arm, but he managed. The trick was to lunge forward and upward, gain momentary balance, get one crutch under his good arm for a second point of support, and then get the other crutch under his bad arm, under the worthless piece of flesh and bone that hung from his shoulder but would never be good for anything again.

Oh, it’s good for something, he thought as he swung himself forward and ducked his way out of his pavilion. It’s good for causing me pain . The shattered shoulder still felt as if it had melted led poured into the joint. It hurt even worse than the stump of his leg, and the festering in his thigh had almost taken his life, there after the fight by the River of Death. He remembered the stink of the pus after they’d drained it. The chirurgeons assured him that was all over now.

They assured him of that, yes. But why did he still hurt, then?

Why, in the end, didn’t matter so much. That he still hurt… that mattered. He paused, steadied himself on his crutches, and used his good hand to extract the bottle of laudanum he always carried with him. Bringing the bottle up to his mouth, he extracted the cork with his teeth. He swigged. Laudanum wasn’t made to be swigged; it was made to be taken by the drop. Bell didn’t care. Drops didn’t come close to making his torment retreat.

Spirits and distilled poppy juice: fire and night going down his throat together. After a little while, he grunted softly and said, “Ahhh!” The pain didn’t disappear; it never disappeared. But it receded, or, more accurately, he floated away from it. The laudanum didn’t make him sleepy, as it did with many men. If anything, it left him more awake than ever. But it did make him slow, so that he often had to grope for a word or an idea.

All around him, the Army of Franklin’s encampment bubbled like a pot left unwatched on a cookfire. A squadron of unicorns trotted off toward the south. A column of men tramped away, heading southeast. Joseph the Gamecock was doing everything he could to hold back General Hesmucet’s bigger army.

Everything he could to hold it back, yes. Lieutenant General Bell muttered something his bushy beard and mustaches fortunately swallowed. He’d never been one for hanging back. He wanted to go at the enemy, not try to keep him away from a city. What kind of war was that?

Joseph’s kind of war : he answered his own question. He muttered again, rather louder. A sentry gave him an odd look. He glowered back. The man dropped his eyes.

His aide-de-camp, a dour major named Zibeon, came up to him and asked, “What do you need, sir?”

Now there was a question with a multitude of possible answers. A new leg was the first that sprang to Bell’s mind. An arm that works followed almost at once. Not far behind ran a way to banish pain without slowing my wits to a crawl . And, outdistanced by those three but still galloping hard, came a command due my station .

But Zibeon couldn’t give him any of those things. The first two would have taken a miracle from the gods, and the gods doled out miracles in niggardly wise these days. The third would have taken a miracle among the healers-more likely, but not much. As for the fourth, that lay in King Geoffrey’s hands. Lieutenant General Bell found himself not altogether without hope there.

“Fetch me my unicorn,” Bell said. That Major Zibeon could do.

That Major Zibeon plainly did not want to do. “Sir, wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a buggy?” he asked.

“No,” Bell snapped. So far as it went, that was true. Bell would not be comfortable in a buggy. He wouldn’t be comfortable anywhere, probably not till they laid him on his funeral pyre. He might perhaps be less uncomfortable in a buggy, but he had no intention of admitting that to his aide-de-camp. “My unicorn is what I asked for, Major, and my unicorn is what I require.”

Zibeon’s long, sad face got longer and sadder. “Sir, if you were to fall off the beast, the result would be unfortunate for you. It would also be unfortunate for the kingdom, if I may take the liberty of saying so.”

“Fall off?” Bell echoed in tones of disbelief. “Fall off? How in the seven hells can I fall off the gods-damned beast?” He gestured toward his pinned-up pantaloon leg. “You’ve got to tie me aboard the miserable animal to get me to stay on at all. Does a lashed-on sack of beans fall off an ass’ back? My name isn’t George, Major, but I doubt it.”

The laudanum took the edge off his temper, as it took the edge off his torment. It would have left most men as insensitive as they were insensible. Bell, now, Bell reached for his swordhilt, although, considering his mobility, he would have had a better chance trying to brain any foe with a crutch.

With a sigh, Major Zibeon yielded. “Let it be exactly as you say, Lieutenant General.” He raised his voice, shouting for a serf.

The blond groom fetched the unicorn in short order. Bell clambered aboard the splendid white beast, disdaining help from either the blond or his aide-de-camp. He wasn’t weak, even now. Certain parts were missing, sure enough, or didn’t work as the gods intended, but what remained in working order still worked well. He tolerated the straps that did indeed make him feel like a sack of beans. Without them, he could not sit the unicorn.

Another general who’d served in the Army of Southern Parthenia was known as Peg-Leg Dick these days. But he’d lost his leg below the knee, and had enough left to grip a unicorn’s barrel as he rode, even if the peg stuck out at an odd angle and made him instantly recognizable. Bell’s leg was off only a few inches below the hip. He would never have a peg. He would never be able to stay on a unicorn without help, either.

But, once helped, he could ride. He set spurs-well, spur-to the beast. It bounded away, leaving Zibeon and the serf groom behind. For a moment, Bell felt almost like the man he’d been before the fights at Essoville and the River of Death. For a moment, he felt free and strong and able. Maybe the laudanum let him forget his wounds a little longer than he would have without it.