Bell liked the sound of that not a bit. He would even rather have seen Count Thraxton the Braggart; he and the luckless Count Thraxton, at least, both despised Joseph the Gamecock. But what he liked wasn’t going to matter here. With a grim nod, he said, “I am entirely at your service, your Grace.” If he could be brave facing the enemy, he could be brave facing his own side, too.
Even on this chilly day, a bee buzzed by Bell’s ear. He shook his head and the bee flew off. The hives around the town had helped give it its name. General Peegeetee’s expression, though, could have curdled honey. He said, “Where is the rest of your army, Lieutenant General?”
There it was. Bell had known it was coming. He said what he had to say: “What I have, sir, is what you see.”
Peegeetee’s expression grew more sour, more forbidding, still. Bell hadn’t imagined it could. The marquis blurted, “But what happened to the rest of them? I knew it was bad, but…”
“Sir, the ones who survive and were not captured are with me,” Bell said.
“By the Thunderer’s big brass balls!” Marquis Peegeetee muttered. “You cannot have left more than one man out of four from among those who set out from Dothan in the fall. It is a ruin, a disaster, a catastrophe.” When it came to catastrophes, he knew exactly what he was talking about. He’d been in command at Karlsburg harbor, where the war between Geoffrey and Avram began. He and Joseph had led the northern forces at Cow Jog, the first great battle of the war, down in southern Parthenia, which had proved that neither north nor south yet knew how to fight but both had plenty of brave men. And he’d taken over for Sidney the War Unicorn after Sidney bled to death on the field at the Battle of Sheol, a hellsish conflict if ever there was one.
“We made the southrons pay a most heavy price, your Grace,” Bell said stiffly.
“They paid-and they can afford to go on paying,” Peegeetee said. “But what of this army?” He shook his head. “This army is not an army any more.”
“We can still fight, sir,” Bell insisted. “All we need to do is refit and reorganize, and we’ll soon be ready to take the field again.”
“No doubt.” This time, General Peegeetee’s politeness was positively chilling. “I am sure your host-your small host, your diminished host-can defeat any enemy army of equal or lesser size.” He did not sound sure of even so much, but continued before Bell could call him on it: “Unfortunately, my good Lieutenant General, Doubting George’s force is now about five times the size of yours. You will correct me if I chance to be mistaken, of course.”
He waited. Bell thought about protesting that the southrons surely could not have more than four times as many men as he did. He might even have been right to claim that. But what difference would it make? Four times as many men or five, Doubting George had far too many soldiers for the Army of Franklin to hope to withstand.
When Bell kept silent, Peegeetee nodded to himself. As calmly and dispassionately as if talking about the weather, he remarked, “King Geoffrey is most unhappy-most vocally unhappy, you understand-about the manner in which this campaign was conducted.”
Again, a hot retort came to the tip of Lieutenant General Bell’s tongue-came there and went no further. He was unhappy about a whole great raft of things Geoffrey had done, too. Once more, though, what difference did it make? Geoffrey was the king. Bell wasn’t. All he said was, “By the gods, General, we tried as hard as mortal men could.”
“Have I tried to deny it?” Peegeetee replied. “No one denies your valor, Lieutenant General, or the valor of the men you lead-those of them who survive. Unfortunately, no one doubts your lack of success, either.” He steepled his fingertips and looked past Bell’s right shoulder. “This now leaves you with a certain choice.”
“A choice?” Bell echoed, frowning in incomprehension. “What kind of choice?”
Marquis Peegeetee still didn’t seem to want to meet his eyes. “You may pay a call on the headsman, or you may fall on your own sword. This, I fear me, is the only choice remaining to you at the moment. A pity, no doubt, but such is life.”
For a moment, Bell thought he meant the words literally. Figurative language had always been a closed book to the man who led the Army of Franklin. Here, though, he found the key. “You mean his Majesty will sack me if I don’t lay down my command?”
“But of course,” Peegeetee told him. “As I say, I regret this, but I can do nothing about it save convey the choice to you.”
Bell thought about making Geoffrey dismiss him. That would show the world he thought he’d done nothing wrong. But what counted except results? Nothing. And what had come from this campaign? Also nothing, worse luck. Shrugging-the motion sent a wave of agony through his ruined left shoulder, making him long for laudanum-he said, “You may convey to his Majesty my resignation, and my readiness to serve him in any capacity in which he believes I may be of use.”
Peegeetee bowed in the saddle. “Your sentiments do you credit.”
“I want no credit, your Grace. What I wanted was to beat our enemies. Since that was denied me…” Bell shrugged again, not so much careless of the pain as embracing it. Once it had washed over him, he asked, “And who will succeed me in command of this army?”
To his surprise, Marquis Peegeetee looked past him again. “I am afraid, Lieutenant General, that that is not such an easy question to answer.”
“Why not?” Bell demanded. “Someone has to, surely.”
“Well… no. Not necessarily,” Peegeetee replied. “King Geoffrey plans to send part of your army to Count Joseph the Gamecock, who is gathering forces in Palmetto Province to try to hold off the southrons. Veldt, you know, fell to General Hesmucet a couple of weeks ago. His Majesty fears Hesmucet will turn south, aiming to join Marshal Bart in an assault against Nonesuch. The rest of your force here…” He shrugged, too, a dapper little shrug. “… will be able to carry on without the formal name of the Army of Franklin.”
Rage ripped through Lieutenant General Bell. “What?” he growled. “You’d gut my army to feed soldiers to that useless son of a bitch of a Joseph?”
With icy courtesy, Peegeetee replied, “It seems to me, Lieutenant General, that you are the one who has gutted your army.”
Bell ignored him. “Gods damn it, if I’d known Geoffrey was going to do that, I never would have resigned. As a matter of fact, I withdraw my resignation!”
“I am going to pretend I did not hear that,” the marquis said. “Believe me when I say you are lucky I am going to pretend I did not hear it. I told you his Majesty was disappointed in the Army of Franklin’s performance. I did not tell you how disappointed, and how… how wrathful, he was. If you fail to resign, he will sack you, Lieutenant General. And he will do worse than that. ‘Lieutenant General Bell, give me back my army!’ he cried when word of your sad, piteous overthrow before Ramblerton reached him. If he sacks you, you will go before a court-martial, one with membership of his choosing. Perhaps you will only see the inside of a prison. Perhaps, on the other hand, you will see a cross.”
“A… cross?” Bell said hoarsely. “He would do that to me, for fighting a campaign the best way I knew how? By the Thunderer’s strong right hand, where is the justice in this world?”
“A cross not for the fight, I would say.” General Peegeetee judiciously pursed his lips as he paused to find just the right words. “A cross for throwing away Geoffrey’s last hope east of the mountains-his last hope, really, of ruling a kingdom that amounts to anything.”
A tiny flicker of disdain, gone from his face almost-but not quite-before Bell was sure he saw it, said Peegeetee shared King Geoffrey’s opinion of Bell and of what he had-and hadn’t-done. That scorn hurt him worse than either his missing leg or his ruined arm. “Excuse me,” he said thickly, and fumbled for his little bottle of laudanum. He gulped, careless of the dose. Poppies and fire chased each other down his throat.