Marching Through Peachtree

“Especially,” Gremio said firmly. He eased Thisbe down to the ground. “I’m going to look at the wound now. And then, Sergeant, I think you have a lot-a lot — of explaining to do.”

Thisbe let out a long, long sigh and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant General Bell nodded happily to his aide-de-camp. “By the gods, Major, I know where I’m going again.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Major Zibeon answered. “Where are you going? Is the Army of Franklin going with you?”

“It certainly is,” Bell answered. “The time has come for the Army of Franklin to return to the province from which it takes its name. Franklin has groaned under the southron yoke since the war was young. High time it should be liberated from the hated, hateful foe.”

“Er-yes, sir,” Zibeon said. “How do you propose to arrange that, sir?”

“How? I’ll tell you how. By marching straight to Ramblerton and taking it away from the enemy, that’s how,” Bell answered. “We can do it. We’re ahead of Hesmucet. What have the southrons got in Franklin? A few piddling garrisons, that’s all. Ned of the Forest’s riders have driven them mad. When a real army erupts in their midst, they’ll run like rabbits.”

Major Zibeon didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything at all. He looked from one map to another in Bell’s farmhouse headquarters, then turned away. He walked out into the cold rain, still without a word. He didn’t even shake his head. He simply walked away.

Bell started to call back his dour aide-de-camp. He didn’t. He let Zibeon leave. Calling him back would have meant wrangling with him, and Bell had had all the wrangling he could stand for a while. He felt as weary as a man bowed under the burden of twice his years. And his leg-or rather, the phantom still haunting the place where his leg had formerly dwelt-began to burn like fire.

The pain wasn’t real. How could it be, when the leg itself was gone a few inches below the hip? But, real or not, it hurt him. Not to put too fine a point on things, it tormented him. Cursing under his breath, he groped for his little bottle of laudanum.

He found it, pulled it from the tunic pocket where it hid-and dropped it. Had his left hand been in working order, he might have caught it. But, as far as movement went, his left hand-his whole left arm-was as much a phantom as his amputated leg. The bottle, the precious laudanum, thumped down on the rammed-earth floor.

Being made of thick glass, it didn’t break. Bell cursed in good earnest nonetheless. How the hells was he supposed to recover the drug for which his body screamed? For a whole man, it would have been the work of a moment. But then, a whole man wouldn’t have needed the laudanum so desperately as he did himself, and he was anything but whole.

Later, he realized he could have asked one of the young, hale sentries outside the door to retrieve the little bottle. That was later. At the moment, only two thoughts went through his head: I need the drug and I can do it myself, gods damn it. Mutilated or not, he remained as stubborn in his pursuit of independence as did the northern kingdom Geoffrey ruled.

And so Bell made his slow way over to the iron-framed cot on which he slept. He eased himself down till he was sitting on the floor beside it. Propping his crutches carefully against the cot, he stretched out at full length and began an inchworm’s progress toward the laudanum.

In fact, his progress was more like that of an inchworm which had been stepped on but wasn’t quite dead. Crawling didn’t go well, not with one good arm and one leg with which to work. He tried to roll, but his ruined left shoulder let out a horrible shriek at the very idea. He ended up hitching forward again and again while lying on his right side.

He felt like shouting when his questing fingers closed on the little bottle. He drew the cork with his teeth and poured down a long draught-a draught that would have sent him into oblivion a few months before. But his tolerance was more than it had been; even such a heroic dose took its own sweet time bringing him relief.

As always, the laudanum made him feel as if he were floating on air. But whatever he felt, in truth he remained on the floor. He had to hitch his way back to the cot in the same fashion he’d used to get the bottle. Then he pulled himself up onto the cot with his good arm. The strength that required was one more thing he didn’t think about. It was just something he had to do, and he did it.

Having done it, he lay there panting for a little while. Then he made one more urgent effort and sat up.

“Oh, by the gods!” he said. He hadn’t been down on a dirt floor for a while, or thought about what moving across one on his side and belly would do to his uniform. It was thoroughly filthy. I’m probably filthy, too, he thought.

He brushed at himself. Dust flew from his tunic and pantaloons in a choking cloud, as if his hand were an army on the road in a summertime drought. After a while, the uniform looked… less grimy than it had. He used his good arm and remaining leg to heave himself upright, then stood swaying till he got the crutches in position under his arms. That done, he went over to a chest of drawers, found a rag, and sat down at a table on which stood a pitcher of water. He wet the rag and daubed at his face. Before long, the rag, which had been white, turned the red-orange of the dirt floor. He dared hope that meant his face took on its normal color and appearance.

His hope was tested as soon as one of the sentries came in. The man didn’t stare or gape or point or exclaim, so Bell supposed he’d made himself at least tolerably presentable once more. You went through all that for the drug? he wondered. But he would have endured worse humiliations for the relief-and the pleasure-laudanum brought him, and he knew it.

“Sir, there’s a colonel of unicorn-riders, a fellow named Biffle, outside who’d like to see you,” the sentry said.

“Oh, good,” Bell said. “Yes, I’ve been expecting him. Send him in, by all means.”

“I’ll do it,” the sentry said. “Don’t you go anywhere, now.”

As if I could, Bell thought as the soldier went outside. Colonel Biffle came in a moment later. He was a tall, solidly made man with a high forehead and a long black beard. He wore a uniform so old and faded, it might almost have been southron gray. Saluting, he said, “Good to see you looking so hale, sir.”

“Thank you.” Bell didn’t feel particularly hale, and doubted he ever would again, but he inclined his head at the compliment. Then he asked, “And how is Ned of the Forest?”

“He’s very fine, thank you kindly, and about two days’ ride east of here with all his riders,” replied Colonel Biffle, who was one of the famous northern officer’s regimental commanders. “We had ourselves a busy time out in the east by the Great River, so we did.”

“Yes, I heard about some of that,” Bell said. “You smashed up a southron army twice your size in Great River Province-”

“Three times our size, sir, easy,” Biffle said with a reminiscent grin. “Smashed ’em up and made ’em run for Luxor with their tails between their legs. And we raided Luxor our ownselves, and almost nabbed the southron general commanding in his bed, but the son of a bitch managed to sneak away in his nightshirt.” He had a rustic northern accent. By all accounts, Ned of the Forest’s was thicker still. But neither Ned’s accent nor his unsavory past as a serfcatcher had kept King Geoffrey from promoting him to lieutenant general, though he’d begun the war as a common soldier.

Bell nodded. “I heard something about that, yes. And I heard something more about your raid down into Cloviston-wasn’t there a place called Fort Cushion, on the Great River?”