Harry Turtledove - Marching Through Peachtree

Bell’s head went back and forth, back and forth, like that of a caged animal. “I don’t know, gods damn it. I just don’t know.”

The comparison to a caged animal, unfortunately, was all too apt. “Will you lose Marthasville, sir, or will you lose Marthasville and your army?” William inquired. “That’s the only choice you have left.”

“I can’t leave Marthasville,” Bell moaned. “I don’t dare leave Marthasville. What will King Geoffrey say if I do?”

“What will the king say if you don’t?” William returned. “What will he say if you’re trapped here with your army?”

“Go away,” Bell said. “This is not a choice I have to make on the instant, and I do not intend to.”

“Yes, sir,” Roast-Beef William replied, polite again. “But don’t take too long-there, I beg you on bended knee. If the manacles close around us, I don’t think we can break free of them.”

“Go away,” Bell said again, and William went.

Men marched to and fro through the streets of Marthasville. Roast-Beef William looked on the activity as he would have looked on the thrashings of a man about to die of smallpox: they seemed dramatic, but in fact meant nothing. The man would die; the city would fall. William didn’t know when and he didn’t know how, not yet. Of the thing itself he had no doubts whatever.

He rode back to his own headquarters, which he kept as far from that of Lieutenant General Bell as he could. He still hadn’t forgiven Bell for sending him up to Jonestown without enough men to do the job required of him. Bell had thought he could not only hold the southrons but drive them back. But Hesmucet’s army had proved larger and stronger than Bell imagined.

I was the one who had to pay the price for his mistake, Roast-Beef William thought as he dismounted from his unicorn. I had to pay for it, and I got blamed for it. Otherwise, he would have had to blame himself, and it’s plain he’s not very good at that .

A couple of wizards in long blue robes came out of the house William was using and hurried up the street in the direction from which he’d come. “Where away so fast?” William called after them.

One of the mages condescended to turn around. He answered, “Lieutenant General Bell has summoned us, sir. He aims to strike yet another blow against the gods-damned southrons.”

“Does he?” Roast-Beef William said. The wizard nodded, then hustled off down the street. William started to hurl another question after him, then decided not to bother. Here, for once, he completely approved of whatever Bell tried to do. The southrons had too many men, too many engines, to make charging into battle against them a good bet. Bell had needed four stinging defeats to see as much, but Roast-Beef William was glad he finally had. In magecraft, though, where the balance of power lay wasn’t nearly so obvious.

Maybe we’ll get some good out of this, William thought. It would be nice if we got some good somewhere. We haven’t seen much lately .

All he could do was send orders to his men to keep them alert in case the southrons in front of them tried to storm Marthasville. He wasn’t sure they could hold back the southrons, but he did intend to try.

“Four lost battles,” he grumbled, though no one was listening. Even after he’d been driven out of Jonestown, Bell had struck at the southrons again, this time east of Marthasville. That hadn’t worked, either. Roast-Beef William shook his head. Bell seemed to have a hard time learning some lessons.

William braced himself for lightnings and thunderbolts and dragons in the air and all the rest of the extravagant wizardry northern mages had at their disposal. He didn’t know whether wizardry could win the day hereabouts. He did know nothing else was likely to, not for King Geoffrey’s cause.

When darkness fell at noon the next day, hope surged in Roast-Beef William. When lightnings crackled through the darkness, he sent up prayers to the Lion God and the Thunderer. When the earth trembled beneath his feet, he cried out for joy, certain the sorcerers had found ways to do what Lieutenant General Bell could not.

But the southrons didn’t flee their lines in wild disorder. They didn’t flee at all. The lightnings crackled, but few smote. The shaking earth didn’t shake their trenches to pieces and entomb the enemy soldiers in them. And the darkness that had fallen at noon lifted by half past one.

When the mages attached to Roast-Beef William’s wing returned from the headquarters of the general commanding, they were in a sad state. They all looked thinner than they had on going off to serve Lieutenant General Bell. Their robes were limp and stained with sweat; the sharp reek of fear filled William’s nostrils.

“In the name of the gods, what happened?” he demanded.

“We were beaten,” one of the wizards replied in a hollow voice. His eyes were wide and staring, as if he’d seen things men were not meant to see. “The southrons beat us at sorcery. What is the the world coming to, when such a disaster can come to pass?”

“I don’t know.” William was also troubled; if soldiers hadn’t beaten back King Avram’s armies, and if magic also looked like failing, what remained for the north? Not much . The words tolled like mourning bells inside Roast-Beef William’s mind. He asked, “What do we do now? What can we do now?”

“Sir, I don’t know,” the mage said. “I haven’t any idea. All I know is, I want to go to bed and sleep for a year. If you’ll excuse me, sir…” He staggered off, not really caring whether William excused him or not.

William knew he should have gone to see Bell again, to plan the next move for the Army of Franklin. He knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He might have been someone hesitating to enter a sickroom that held a loved one who would die soon-such images kept cropping up in his mind. Duty called, yes, but sometimes even duty did no good. What could he say now that hadn’t already been said? Bell knew what shape the army was in. Would he choose to let it perish? Even if he didn’t, how could he hope to save Marthasville?

As far as William could see, none of those questions had answers he cared to contemplate. What do we do? What can we do? Wait for the death, burn the body, and then try to pick up the pieces . That was all he saw ahead.

Two days later, the only thing that had changed was that the southrons were several miles closer to drawing their ring around Marthasville. Roast-Beef William had trouble caring even about that. He was sunk in such gloom when Major Zibeon came to his headquarters and said, “Lieutenant General Bell requests your presence at once, sir.”

“He does, eh?” Roast-Beef William eyed Bell’s aide-de-camp with more than a little curiosity. “What does he need me for in such a tearing hurry?”

“I couldn’t presume to say, sir,” Zibeon replied.

“No?” William doubted that (and, doubting, wished Doubting George had chosen Geoffrey over Avram). Any aide-de-camp worth his boots had a pretty good idea of what his principal was thinking. “Well, I’ll come and find out.”

“Thanks,” Zibeon said, as if Roast-Beef William were doing him a favor rather than obeying an order. William scratched his head. Bell’s dour aide-de-camp rarely wasted politeness on anyone but the commanding general, and sometimes not on him. But Zibeon went on, “Ride with me, if you care to, sir.”

“I don’t mind if I do.” Roast-Beef William gave Zibeon a quizzical look. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No,” Zibeon said, and said not another word till they got to Bell’s headquarters. Then he unbent enough to add, “You’ll see.”