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"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."
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"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."
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"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."
"Of course we are," Bell said heartily. "We'll lick them right out of their
boots. Once we do that, we can count the cost."
Joseph the Gamecock, that old cheeseparer, had counted the cost before he
tried to buy his battles, and so he'd never spent the men winning them would
have taken. Bell didn't care if he bankrupted himself winning the first.
Everything after that would just have to take care of itself.
"Keep hitting them," he told the messenger. "That's the order. We've got to
keep hitting them, no matter what."
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