“No, sir. Brigadier Otho’s shot, too-shot dead.” Again, the runner didn’t seem to want to leave Bell in any doubt.
“Oh,” the general commanding repeated, this time on even more of a falling note. “Well, by the Lion God’s fangs, who is in command in the center?”
“A colonel from Palmetto Province, sir-a man named Florizel,” the runner answered. Florizel? Bell scratched his head. He’d heard the name-he was sure of that, but he could barely put a face to the man. He had no idea what sort of officer Florizel was. A live one, he thought. The runner, meanwhile, went on, “He says everything’s all smashed to hells and gone up there. From what I saw, sir, he’s right.”
The news couldn’t be good, not if a colonel was trying to command a wing. “Can we get help from the right or left, put the men where they’ll do the most good?”
“For Gods’ Sake John’s been shot dead, too, over on our right,” the runner said. “Florizel talked with men who saw him die.”
“Oh.” Bell was getting tired of saying that, but he didn’t know what else he could say. “What about Benjamin the Heated Ham, then, over on our left?” That was the only straw he had left to grasp.
“I don’t know, sir,” the runner replied. “I wasn’t over in that part of the field, and I can’t tell you what happened there.”
Bell didn’t know, either, not in detail. He did know the men on the left wing hadn’t broken into the southrons’ trenches, which wasn’t the best news in the world, or even anything close to it. With a sigh, he said, “I’d better find out, then.”
“Will you send me again, sir?”
“No.” Bell shook his head. “You’ve gone into danger once already.” The runner didn’t seem to know whether to look indignant or grateful. After two or three heartbeats, gratitude won. Lieutenant General Bell called for another runner.
“Yes, sir? What can I do for you?” This one sounded as eager as the last. The general commanding explained what he required. The runner saluted and hurried off toward the left wing.
Bell cocked his head, listening to the fighting ebb. He growled something his thick mustache and beard fortunately muffled. By the sound of things, his men had given everything they had in them. Even if the left had soldiers to shift to the center, could they revive the fight?
All he could do was wait till the runner came back. It seemed like forever, but this young man didn’t take much longer than the other one had. “Well?” Bell demanded when the fellow reappeared. “Is Benjamin breathing?”
“Yes, sir,” the messenger answered, “but John of Barsoom and Hiram the Cranberry are both dead, sir, so he’s got two brigades commanded by colonels. And that whole wing’s been shot to pieces.”
Oh seemed inadequate: that was more bad news than it could bear. Instead, Bell said, “What the hells happened?”
“The way Benjamin tells it, sir, the southrons’ right gradually sticks out. As the wing went forward, heading in toward the center, John the Lister’s men enfiladed them. That put them in trouble even before the enemy started shooting at them from the front.”
“Why didn’t Benjamin suppress the enfilading shots before he went through with the rest of the right?” Bell asked.
“I can’t tell you that, sir, not for sure. You’d have to ask him,” the runner replied. “But I did see that part of the field, and I saw the bodies lying on it. I’d say he tried, but found out he couldn’t.”
He tried, but found out he couldn’t. It sounded like something a priest would say before lighting a funeral pyre. And how great would the pyres be after this fight? For once, even Bell, who seldom counted the cost in a battle, shied away from thinking about that.
“Anything else for me, sir?” the runner asked.
“Eh?” Bell had to call himself back to the here-and-now. “No, never mind. You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.” The youngster saluted again and left.
Bell stared after him like a man suddenly realizing he was trapped in nightmare. The commanding general shook his head, as if trying to wake. He opened his mouth, starting to say, “No!” but checked himself at the last instant.
Seeing the motion, the nearest runner asked, “What are your orders, sir?”
What are your orders? It was a good question. Bell wished he had a good answer for it, or any answer at all. With his right and left wings smashed, with his center thwarted, what could he do? What could the Army of Franklin do?
“Sir?” the runner asked when he didn’t say anything.
He had to respond. The youngster was starting to stare. But all that came out was, “I have none.”
“Oh,” the runner said, in the same sort of tone Bell had used on hearing of disaster.
“I’ll wait for more news to come in.” Bell tried to put the best face on things he could. “Then I’ll decide what we need to do next.”
“Yes, sir.” The runner sounded relieved, perhaps hoping the situation wasn’t so black as he’d believed a moment before.
Maybe it wasn’t. On the other hand, maybe it was. Lieutenant General Bell reached for the laudanum bottle again, longing for the haze the drug could put between him and the pain of reality.
Messengers from the front came back to him, some on foot, others on unicornback. Their news was all the same: the northerners were pulling back from the forwardmost positions they’d won, back to lines they might hold if John the Lister’s men counterattacked. One of the runners said, “Some of the men on our left wing, sir, they’ll building breastworks out of bodies.”
“Are they?” Bell said tonelessly, and the soldier nodded. Bell muttered, then bestirred himself and waved to his own corps of runners. “Order my wing commanders here,” he told them. “We will confer, and decide how to take up the attack in the morning.” That the Army of Franklin would take up the attack in the morning he had no doubt.
Colonel Florizel was the first wing commander to arrive. He slid down off a unicorn and limped up to Bell. Saluting, he said, “Reporting as ordered, sir. We have done everything flesh and blood can do. You may rely on that.”
“Very well, Colonel,” Bell said. “Are you badly hurt there?”
“This is an old wound, sir,” Florizel answered. “I went through everything today without a scratch, though I lost a mount. I aim to offer up a lamb to the Lion God for thanksgiving. I can’t tell you how I got through-seemed like the crossbow bolts were thick enough to walk on.”
“Can you go forward at sunrise?” Bell asked.
Florizel shrugged. “I don’t have much to go forward with, sir. If you give the order, we’ll try.”
Before Bell could reply, Benjamin the Heated Ham came riding up from the left. Bell asked him the same question. Benjamin shook his head. “Go forward? Not a chance, sir. If the southrons strike us, I’m not sure we can hold our ground. We’ve been shot to pieces. I don’t know how else to say it.”
Last of all, Brigadier Stephen the Pickle, a sour-faced man not far from Bell’s age, rode up from the right. He looked even more sour when Bell asked him if he could attack in the morning. But he answered, “I have a couple of brigades that haven’t gone into the meat-grinder yet, sir. If you want to throw them at the southrons, they’ll advance. But I don’t know how many of them will come back again. Those lines are solid.”
“Muster your men,” Bell said. His wave encompassed the three wing commanders. “Muster your men, all of you. Care for the wounded. Pile up the dead and make them ready for the fires. We will go forward.”
“Care for the wounded?” Benjamin the Heated Ham exclaimed. “Half the time, we can’t even drag them back out of range. The southrons are too gods-damned alert and up too close for that. They shoot anybody who tries to save a comrade or a friend.”