“Gods damn it, I didn’t send you out there to fail,” Bell said. He studied the map. “We have to strike a blow against their left. We have to. That will free up the glideway line, and we’re holding Marthasville on account of those lines.”
“An attack would be splendid, if we had the men to do it,” Roast-Beef William said. “But whence will you conjure them up, sir?”
“If we can’t do what we’d like to do, we’ll do what we have to do,” Bell replied. “You pull your men out of the fieldworks south of town, Lieutenant General. March them north and west through Marthasville till they outflank the end of the southrons’ line, which is-which has to be-unguarded, up in the air. Attack at dawn, roll them up, and send them back in the direction from which they came.”
“As easy as that, sir?” William said tonelessly.
“As easy as that,” Bell agreed, taking no notice of the way the wing commander sounded. “It will be a famous victory.”
“Sir,” William said, “my men fought their hearts out today. The ones who aren’t hurt are weary to the bone. Send them marching all through the night and you won’t get the best from them come morning.”
“I certainly will, because I have to,” Bell replied. “The kingdom requires it. Are you telling me it can’t be done? Do you want me to have to tell King Geoffrey it couldn’t be done?”
“No-o-o,” Roast-Beef William said, drawing the word out as long as he could. “I don’t say it can’t be done. But I do say the odds are steep against it.”
“It must be done,” Bell said. “I order you to try it. Once we hit the southrons in the flank, they’re bound to fold up. And Brigadier Benjamin will give you all the support he possibly can.”
“What am I supposed to be doing during all this?” Alexander the Steward asked.
“Hold the southrons away from Marthasville if Doubting George tries to come up from the south,” Bell answered. “In those trenches, you can do that.”
“I hope I can do that,” Old Straight replied. “I don’t have a whole lot of men left myself, you know, what with one thing and another.”
“We all have to do everything we can.” Bell’s gaze swung back toward Roast-Beef William. “Sunrise. Hit them hard. Roll them up. The kingdom is counting on it.”
The veteran wing commander let out a long, sad sigh. At last, after waiting much too long for proper subordination, he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, somehow contriving to make obedience sound like reproof.
“We’ll beat them,” Bell said. “We’ve got to.”
“We’ll do our best,” Roast-Beef William said. “And now, sir, if you’ll excuse me…” He sketched a salute to Bell and left the headquarters.
Alexander the Steward said, “If I’m going to hold the south-facing fortifications with the men of my wing alone, sir, I’d better get back there and spread them out as best I can.” He too gave Bell a salute and departed.
And that left the new commanding general for the Army of Franklin alone in the farmhouse with nothing but the haze of laudanum between him and the knowledge that his first attack had failed. He’d hoped to throw the southrons back into Goober Creek. Instead, his own men were back in the fieldworks from which they’d set out so boldly that morning-those who could come back to the works, at any rate. The knowledge of his failure hurt even more than his ruined arm and his missing leg, and the drug did less to ease that pain.
“We have to beat them,” Bell repeated. No one was there to hear him now, or to contradict him. It felt as if saying it were plenty to make it so. He laughed bitterly. If only battles were so easy!
He drank more laudanum to help him sleep. Even so, he woke up in the middle of the night. At first, he thought the noise he heard was rain pounding on the roof. He wouldn’t have minded that; it would have made moving harder for Hesmucet and the southrons. But what he heard wasn’t the patter of rain. It was the patter of feet: Roast-Beef William’s men tramping past by moonlight, to take their positions for the morning’s attack against James the Bird’s Eye and the southrons’ left.
Good old William, Bell thought drowsily. He may not think I’m right-he doesn’t think I’m right-but he’ll follow orders anyway, and follow them as well as he knows how. I wish all my officers were so reliable. He fell back to sleep with a smile on his face.
Even before sunrise, the distant racket of battle woke him: bowstrings snapping, firepots bursting, men screaming and cursing for all they were worth. That racket was the sweetest music Bell knew. When he cursed, it was in frustration because his wounds no longer let him take the field. He’d never felt more like a man than when risking his life and taking those of his foes. His injuries had robbed him of that forever.
Those injuries clamored for his notice, too. He reached out with his good hand and grabbed the laudanum bottle, which sat on a table next to his bed. Yanking the cork with his teeth, he swigged. Before long, the fire in his shoulder and in his stump would ease.
Even before it did, though, someone pounded on the farmhouse door. “Just a minute,” Bell shouted. Getting out of bed wasn’t easy. He had to position his crutches and then lever himself upright. He didn’t bother putting on his one boot, but hitched across the dirt floor on the crutches and his bare foot. He unlatched the door and eyed the runner waiting there. “Well?” he demanded.
“We’re driving ’em, sir,” the runner told him. “We’re driving ’em like hells, pushing ’em back like nobody’s business.”
“Ah,” Bell said. That felt as good as the laudanum now beginning to glide through his veins. “Give me the details.”
“Haven’t got a whole lot of ’em, sir,” the soldier answered. “I expect you’ll hear more later on. But I know for a fact there’s places where we’re shooting at the gods-damned southrons from the front and the back at the same time.”
“That’s good,” Bell said, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one came along. “That’s very good. If we can drive them to destruction, the entire campaign looks different.”
“Hope so, sir,” the runner said. “Plenty of good fighting-I’ll tell you that.” He saluted and hurried away.
Bell wished he were at the head of the wing attacking the southrons, not Roast-Beef William. Nothing made him feel more truly alive than roaring like a lion and flinging himself at the enemy. When his sword bit… Feeling steel pierce foe’s flesh had a satisfaction even feeling his own lance pierce a woman’s flesh couldn’t match. He muttered a curse under his breath. With all the laudanum he drank, his lance didn’t stand and charge the way it had before he got hurt, either.
That made him remember that attackers as well as defenders could get hurt. He forgot that whenever he could. Attacks went in. If they went in properly, they carried everything before them. So he’d made himself believe. It had always-well, almost always-worked for Duke Edward of Arlington and the Army of Southern Parthenia. It had worked for Earl James of Broadpath here in the east at the River of Death. It had worked there even if that fight cost Bell his leg.
That it had worked in those places and for those commanders because the said generals picked their spots and timing with care never entered Bell’s mind. To him, such things were of scant importance. Coming to grips with the southrons and hammering them-that was what really mattered.
His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He cursed again. For him nowadays, it was-it had to be-a purely ceremonial weapon. He still wanted to kill southrons, but anything that moved faster than a tortoise was safe from him. He couldn’t even duel if his honor was affronted. Who would fight a cripple?
Another messenger galloped up on unicornback. The man dismounted and hurried to the farmhouse. “We’re still pushing ’em hard, sir,” he said when Bell opened the door for him. “Gods-damned sons of bitches are digging like moles, though. Every time we drive ’em another furlong or two, bastards run up another set of earthworks and make us charge ’em. They’re usually good for a couple volleys before we reach ’em and clear ’em out, too. Makes the job expensive, but we’re doing it.”