Marching Through Peachtree

“Yes, sir,” Roast-Beef William said. What went through his mind while he got out the polite words was, Oh, if I weren’t leaving, I’d tell him to his face what an idiot he is. The Sorbian army didn’t ruin the Grand Marshal and his host when he marched west. The Sorbian winter did. TheKingdom ofSorb has the worst winters in the world.PeachtreeProvince has some of the mildest winters in the world. Where are the blizzards to wreck Hesmucet’s army? If you have one up your sleeve, you’d better pull it out pretty gods-damned soon.

“Again, good luck to you, and I hope the southrons stay far away,” Bell said.

“Thank you, sir,” William replied. “So do I. May I ask you something?” He waited for the general commanding to nod, then put his question: “Now that I’m leaving, are you going to name Patrick the Cleaver wing commander in my place?”

Bell didn’t hesitate for a moment. “No. He’s a good fighting soldier, and brave as they come, but I don’t think he makes a suitable wing commander. Besides, even if I thought he did, even if I proposed it, King Geoffrey would never approve the appointment. We’ve already talked about the Cleaver’s memorial. The king doesn’t forget something like that.”

He was bound to be right. He didn’t have much of a sense for politics in the broader meaning of the word, but a shrewd understanding of the way the king’s mind worked went a long way toward making up for the lack. Roast-Beef William also noticed one other irony: Bell’s description of Patrick the Cleaver might have been a description of himself. Of course, Bell had been given command of not just a wing but an army. And, having got high command, he’d proceeded to prove he wasn’t suitable for it.

Well, that’s King Geoffrey’s worry now, William thought. He wantedBell in command, and he got him, and everything that went with him. I wonder when he’ll take Joseph the Gamecock off the shelf again and see if he can repair the damage.

William left the farmhouse. He swung up into the saddle of his unicorn to ride away from the Army of Franklin. As he booted the beast into motion, he felt as if he were escaping a sinking ship. But he shook his head a moment later. The only way to escape the sinking ship, he feared, would be to flee King Geoffrey’s kingdom altogether. The clouds gathering over the north looked very black indeed.

I can’t run away, Roast-Beef William thought. I’m a soldier. My duty is to fight for my king and my kingdom, to fight as long as I can and as hard as I can. I may lose-I likely will lose-but I have to try. He rode off to the west to do what he could to hold back the building storm.

Captain Gremio sipped from a tin cup of what the cooks called tea. He made a horrible face. Even with plenty of honey slopped into it, it was bitter enough to pucker his mouth. “Gods, that’s vile,” he said.

Sergeant Thisbe, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside him, took a cautious sip of his own. He nodded. “Couldn’t be much worse. Whatever roots they’re using, they’d better use some different ones the next time… Why are you drinking more of it, sir?”

The company commander put his free hand on the left side of his chest. “Why? Because no matter how foul it tastes, it’s making my heart beat faster and my eyes open up, that’s why. Maybe the cooks know something after all.”

Thisbe took another, more experimental, sip, then nodded again. “I suppose you’re right. It’s still nasty, though.”

“If it wakes me up and gets me going, I don’t much care how nasty it is.” Gremio drained the cup. “I suppose the blonds drank tea from roots like these all the time back in the old days.”

“I’m sorry for them if they did,” Thisbe said. “The gods really must have hated them.”

“Ha!” Gremio said. “If only you were joking. After all, what did the gods bring them? The gods brought them us, that’s what. And, since the gods love us, they must have hated the blonds. Stands to reason, eh?”

“Makes sense to me, sir.” Thisbe finished his own cup of tea and then made as if to retch. Gremio laughed, though that really wasn’t fu

“March along aimlessly. Forage as much as we can. Skirmish with the southrons if we happen to bump into them,” Gremio answered. “I can’t imagine anything more exciting. Can you?”

Thisbe gave back an uncertain smile. “If you don’t like what we are doing, what do you think we should be up to?”

“Defending Marthasville,” Gremio said at once. “If we’d kept on trying to defend the place instead of attacking an army twice our size, we might still hold it.”

“Well… yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “But it’s a little too late to worry about that now, isn’t it?”

“No, indeed,” Gremio answered. Thisbe looked puzzled. The company commander explained: “It’s much too late to worry about that now.”

“Er, yes.” Thisbe’s grin was uncertain, too. Somewhere not far away, a sergeant from another company started shouting at his men, getting them up and ready for another day’s march, no matter how aimless. Thisbe also climbed to his feet. “Form up, you lugs!” he shouted. “If you think you’re going to be lazy all day, you can gods-damned well think again.”

Gremio’s bones creaked when he rose. When he walked off behind a bush, his left foot felt cold. Examination showed the sole of his left shoe was staring to separate from the upper. He muttered something nasty under his breath as he buttoned his fly. He couldn’t even complain about something like that, not out loud, not when a fair number of the men he led had no shoes at all.

Geese mournfully honked overhead as the Army of Franklin got on the road again. Pointing to them, Gremio said, “I wish I could fly north for the winter, too. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about a lot of things.”

Thisbe gave him a quizzical look. A couple of soldiers started honking. As such things had a way of doing, the raucous noise spread through the whole company. “What in the damnation is wrong with your men, Captain?” Colonel Florizel demanded.

“Why, nothing, sir,” Gremio replied. “They aren’t down at all, and they still have plenty of pluck.”

“Oh. Good. Glad to hear it,” Florizel said vaguely. Thisbe sent Gremio a horrible look. He tipped his hat to the sergeant. Thisbe snorted. That tea must be rotting my brains, Gremio thought.

He tramped along the back roads of southern Peachtree Province. When he went through a muddy stretch, he had no doubt that his shoe was starting to come apart. Again, he kept his curses quiet and private.

“Where exactly are we going, sir?” Sergeant Thisbe asked as Gremio squelched along with mud between his toes.

“Good question, Sergeant. Excellent question, in fact,” Gremio replied. “At the moment, though, I don’t even know where approximately we’re going, let alone exactly. This isn’t the first time you’ve exposed my ignorance, either. Shall we consult with Colonel Florizel, or shall we try to retain our touching, simple faith that the general commanding has some idea of what we’re doing?”

“Er-whatever you like, sir,” Thisbe said.

“In my dreams, Sergeant, but nowhere else,” Gremio said. “So”-he bowed-“what is your pleasure?”

“Well… never mind, sir,” the sergeant answered. “I suppose we’ll both find out.”

“I suppose we will.” Gremio bowed again, as if impersonating a very punctilious nobleman. “Now I do hope you won’t ask any awkward questions about what we’re going to do when we get there.”

Thisbe gave him an odd look. “I wouldn’t think of it, sir. Are you feeling all right?”

“But for one sloppy foot and that touching, simple faith I was telling you about, I’m fine, Sergeant, though I do thank you for asking.” Gremio bowed yet again.