But it had that advantage, and made the most of it. And Ned’s unicorn-riders came hurrying back-on foot, as dragoons-as soon as the trap was sprung. Not only that, but Ned’s commander of engines, a captain named Watson who seemed improbably young, got a couple of repeating crossbows placed in the roadway where they bore on the southrons. Those weapons put out even more quarrels, and quarrels that flew farther, than the southrons could manage with their quick-shooters.
Beset from front and flanks, the southrons did just what Gremio would have done in their boots: they fell back. And as they fell back, hungry, barefoot northerners dashed forward-not to push them back farther still, but to plunder the corpses they’d had to leave behind.
Gremio was no slower than anybody else. He pulled a pair of shoes-solid, well-made shoes, shoes that would last a while-about his size off the feet of a southron trooper who wouldn’t need them any more. He stole the trooper’s tea and hard biscuits and smoked meat, too. If he could have got his hands on some indigo dye, he would have also taken the man’s tunic; it was thick wool, better suited to this cold, nasty weather than his own. But he didn’t, and didn’t want to get shot for wearing gray. Even after knocking the southrons back on their heels, he knew he was all too likely to get shot for wearing blue.
Ned of the Forest was as happy as he could be in his present circumstances, which is to say, not very. Everything had gone perfectly when the rear guard he led taught Hard-Riding Jimmy’s troopers a sharp lesson: no matter how good they were, they couldn’t have everything their own way. Everything had gone perfectly, and what had it accomplished? It made the Army of Franklin’s retreat a little more secure, and that was all.
“Huzzah,” Ned said sourly. That meant Bell’s force might make it back to Dothan or Great River Province, and not be altogether destroyed in northern Franklin. An improvement, without a doubt, but how large an improvement? Not large enough, and Ned knew it.
Colonel Biffle rode up to him in the dismal winter woods. “We’ve driven them back, sir.” He sounded pleased and excited.
“Well, so we have, Biff.” Ned sounded anything but. “Next question is, how much good will that do us?”
Biffle’s long face corrugated into a frown. After a moment’s thought, he said, “It’ll do us a lot more good than if they’d busted through.”
Ned of the Forest had to laugh at that. “I can’t even tell you you’re wrong,” he admitted. “But are we going to win the war because we gave Hard-Riding Jimmy a black eye? Are we going to win anything that’s worth having?”
He watched Colonel Biffle’s eyes cross as the regimental commander worked on that. Biffle wasn’t used to thinking in such terms. He was a man you pointed at the enemy and loosed, as if he were a crossbow quarrel. Again, he paused before answering. At last, he said, “Well, we’re still here to try again.”
“I can’t say you’re wrong about that, either.” Ned looked south. “And, unless I miss my guess, we’re going to have to if we hang around here much longer. Jimmy won’t like getting poked. He’ll send more men forward, and we won’t have such an easy time suckering them into an ambush. I’d say it’s about time to leave. We’ve bought the army a few hours, anyways. That’s the most we can hope for these days.”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle suddenly blinked several times. He frowned again, though this time for a different reason. “Gods damn it! It’s starting to rain. Got me right in the eye.”
He was right. It was starting to rain and, with scarcely any warning, to rain hard. “Good thing this held off till we drove the southrons back,” Ned said. “We’d have looked a proper set of fools, wouldn’t we, if we’d tried shooting at those bastards with wet bowstrings? Good thing we didn’t.”
Before he’d got out of the woods, his unicorn was squelching through mud. Big, fat, heavy raindrops poured down. With all the trees bare in winter, nothing slowed down the drops. Ned pulled his broad-brimmed felt hat down low on this face to keep the rain out of his eyes. That helped, a little.
The regiment of footsoldiers who’d helped in the ambush came out of their cover and retreated along with his unicorn-riders. Ned waved to their commander, who nodded back. The fellow was only a captain, but he’d done his job well, and without fuss or feathers. “Get your boys moving,” Ned called to him. “We’ll keep the southrons off your back.” He had the more mobile troops, and owed the footsoldiers that much.
“Thank you kindly.” The captain touched the brim of his own hat, which was also pulled down low. He handled the withdrawal with the same unfussy precision he’d used against the southrons. One of his company commanders, a sergeant who’d managed to shave amazingly well considering the sorry state the Army of Franklin was in, also proved very competent. By the way the captain and the sergeant sassed each other without heat, they’d served together a long time. They might almost have been married. Ned hid his amusement. He’d seen such things before.
At the moment, he had business of his own to attend to. “Captain Watson!” he called. “Come here, if you please.”
“What do you need, sir?” the young man in charge of his engines asked.
“I need you to trundle your repeating crossbows south down the road a little ways and give Hard-Riding Jimmy’s men a proper hello when they start coming after us again,” Ned answered.
Watson frowned. “I would, sir, but…”
“But what?” Ned of the Forest asked ominously. He wasn’t used to having Captain Watson tell him no. Watson was the fellow who did whatever needed doing. But then Ned thumped himself in the head with the heel of his hand, a gesture of absolute disgust. “Oh. The rain.”
“Yes, sir. The gods-damned rain,” Watson agreed. “It’s not as hard on the skeins of a repeating crossbow as it is on an ordinary bowstring, but they do lose their… their pop, you might say, when they get wet.”
“I knew that. I know that. I just wasn’t thinking straight.” Ned still sounded-still was — angry at himself for forgetting. “Never mind moving ’em, then. It won’t work. Have to try something else instead.” He thought for a little while, then nodded to himself. “That might do it, by the Lion God’s tail tuft.”
“You’ve got something, sir. I can see it in your eyes,” Watson said, a certain gleam coming into his own.
“Trip lines,” Ned said. “We string a few of them between the trees on either side of the road, the southrons come swarming up to get their revenge on us, and then they go flying. Unicorns break their legs, maybe some riders break their necks. And a good driving rain makes trip lines work better, not worse, on account of they’re harder to spot.”
“Yes, sir!” The gleam in Captain Watson’s eyes grew brighter. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Ned said. “It’s got nothing to do with engines.”
“Oh, sir, it’ll be my pleasure,” Watson said with a jaunty grin. “And you know I’ve got plenty of ropes. I need ’em to pull the engines and wagons. I can set up the trip lines, and I’ll enjoy doing it, too.”
“All right. See to it, then.” Ned of the Forest nodded decisively.
He himself rode north, leaving Watson to do what he’d said he would. At the edge of the woods, he waited. Before too long, Watson came out with the last of the engines, unicorn teams straining to haul them up the increasingly soupy road. Catching sight of Ned, Watson waved and nodded. Ned waved back.
The long retreat went on. After trying and failing to make a stand at the Smew River, Lieutenant General Bell seemed to have abandoned all hope of holding the southrons. All he could think to do was fall back as fast as he could and stay ahead of Doubting George’s men. Ned of the Forest would have reckoned that more contemptible if he’d had more hope himself. Since he didn’t, he found it harder to quarrel with the commanding general.