Harry Turtledove - Marching Through Peachtree

“And why not, if I fought it well?” Logan demanded. He was a proud man, and he had done his duty and more than his duty. Hesmucet would have to handle him carefully.

He said, “My main reason, Brigadier, is that you are not a professional. Meaning you no disrespect, but I find it easier to deal with men who have been through Annasville, as I have.”

“Plenty of them, on both sides of this war, have proved themselves to be idiots,” Logan said tartly.

“True enough, your Excellency, but you could also say the same for officers who haven’t been through the military collegium,” Hesmucet replied. “I am pleased to have you as a brigade or division commander. As a wing commander… I’m sorry, Brigadier, but no, not permanently.”

However proud he was, Logan took it like a man. “It’s your army, General. You will have your way here. If you think I’m going to tell you I’m happy about it, you’re mistaken. And now, sir, if you’ll excuse me…” Saluting, he spun on his heel and strode out of the headquarters.

“You did the right thing, sir,” Fighting Joseph said. Approval from him was the last thing Hesmucet wanted. Striking a pose, Fighting Joseph went on, “Now you can consolidate your forces. An army of only two wings-led by your two senior commanders-would surely be more efficient than one of three.”

And it would double the size of the force you command, which is what you’ve got in mind, Hesmucet thought. Aloud, he said, “I find myself reasonably satisfied with the command arrangements as they exist at present.”

“Do you indeed, sir? Do you indeed?” From Fighting Joseph’s tone, Hesmucet might have expressed a fondness for scratching his backside in public or eating with his fingers. More scornfully still, Fighting Joseph said, “And who could possibly replace James the Bird’s Eye?” Who but me? he all but shouted.

“If you must know, I had in mind Brigadier Oliver,” Hesmucet replied.

Now Fighting Joseph frankly stared. “Oliver? You must be joking… sir. I hope you’re joking. Oliver the blond-lover? Oliver the gods-drunk? Oliver with his right arm gone? Lion God’s twitching tail, it’d be like putting a cross between Bell and Leonidas the Priest in charge of a wing.”

“No.” Hesmucet shook his head. “Oliver’s pious, but he knows soldiering as well as he knows the gods. And he’s not brash and rash, the way Bell is. He thinks before he moves.”

“I agree,” Doubting George said. “Before the war, I thought Oliver was a horrible windbag, and I wished he would quit blathering on about loosing the blonds from the soil. But that is King Avram’s policy now, so we all needs must follow it. And Brigadier Oliver is a more than capable soldier, as the commanding general said.”

“Giving that wing to such an untried man-and a junior untried man-is an outrage when senior officers are available,” Fighting Joseph insisted. “Not only an outrage, but also a gross injustice.”

“I’m sorry, General, but I don’t agree,” Hesmucet said. “Brigadier Oliver will have that wing.”

“Disgraceful.” Fighting Joseph drew himself up to his full height, which was perhaps an inch less than Hesmucet’s. In a voice like thunder, he said, “If that is your final decision, I cannot abide the insult, and must offer my resignation from King Avram’s service and from this, his host.”

Without a doubt, he thought Hesmucet would find him indispensable and would knuckle under to that threat. Without a doubt, he had never so badly misjudged a situation-which, with Viziersville on his record, was saying a great deal. Hesmucet had all he could do not to chortle with glee. “Lieutenant General George, you are my witness,” he said. “Fighting Joseph has tendered his resignation.”

“Yes, sir,” Doubting George agreed. “I heard him do it.”

“And you shall also be my witness that I accept the said resignation, effective immediately,” Hesmucet went on.

“Yes, sir,” George repeated. “I will so testify, at need.”

Fighting Joseph first looked as if he didn’t believe his ears, then as if he didn’t want to. “How-how dare you?” he spluttered. “How do you think you can manage this army without me?”

“I expect I’ll manage,” Hesmucet answered. “And, since you’ve resigned, it’s not your concern anyway. A good evening to you, General. I trust you will make a splendid success of yourself in civilian life.”

Still looking as if he’d been hit in the head with a rock, Fighting Joseph, having fought for the last time, stumbled out of Hesmucet’s headquarters. Hesmucet found a jar of spirits and poured a mug for himself and one for Doubting George. Though he’d lost James the Bird’s Eye, his men had held Bell’s, and he was rid of Fighting Joseph. He wondered which of those would prove the bigger victory.

“Bell had his chance,” Lieutenant General George told his brigadiers. “He had it, and he couldn’t do anything with it. Now it’s our turn, by the gods, and we’ll see how well he likes that.”

“That’s right,” Absalom the Bear rumbled. The big man went on, “The traitors have played games with us for too long. I don’t believe they’ve got the men to play games any more.”

“We’ve got Brigadier Oliver pushing up to our left,” George said. “Now Hesmucet is going to stretch this wing up toward the right, toward the glideway link with Dothan Province and the one with northern Peachtree Province. Once we’ve got those in our hands, too, how’s Lieutenant General Bell going to feed Marthasville?”

“That’s simple, sir,” Brigadier Brannan said. Doubting George’s commander of siege engines paid close attention to logistics. His handsome face twisted into a thoroughly nasty grin. “He won’t. Those bastards will starve, and then we’ll clean ’em out.”

Absalom shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s how it’ll happen. When we move against the glideway lines to Dothan and to the north of Peachtree Province, Bell will have to come out against us, to try to knock us away. Then we’ll lick him, and what can he do after that? Not fornicating much.”

“I think you may be right,” Doubting George said. “Bell isn’t the sort of man who’s going to let himself be shut up in a place and stand siege. What he wants to do is get out there and attack.”

“Look how much good it did him these past couple of days,” Brannan said. “Of course he’ll want to go out and try it again.”

George shrugged. “He’ll just think he had bad luck, or that his soldiers let him down. Attacking is what he knows how to do. It’s all he knows how to do. If you send a carpenter out to try fixing something, of course he’s going to hammer nails into it, even if it’s a blanket with a rip and not a board at all.”

“Let Bell come,” Absalom said. “Let him come, and we’ll pound nails into him.”

“We’ll pound nails into the boards of his funeral pyre,” Doubting George said. “The beauty of our position now is, we don’t have to try to break into Marthasville. We can do the traitors every bit as much harm by stretching out past them. And when we do, they have to come out against us and attack our fieldworks. We don’t have to try to break through theirs.”

“I like that,” Absalom the Bear said. “We’ve had to go up against too many of their earthworks. It might as well be their turn for a while. And I’ll tell you something else: the men will like it, too.”

“That’s a fact,” Brannan agreed. “If you’re trying to fix wool or rock or water, a hammer’s not the right tool for the job.”

“We’re the ones with the tools for the job now,” George said. “Let’s get moving and do it. Some of Brigadier John the Lister’s men will fill in on our left as we shift.”