Two more deadly volleys from the southrons broke the charge before it came to hand to hand. Gremio looked for Florizel, wondering if one of those crossbow quarrels had stretched him dead in the dirt. Somehow, the regimental commander still stood, but only a forlorn corporal’s guard stood with him.
“Sir, they won’t leave a one of us alive if we stay here much longer,” Sergeant Thisbe said urgently.
“If Florizel orders me to die here, then die here I shall,” Gremio answered. Thisbe was more practical than that, as sergeants had a way of being. If he stayed, it was only because Gremio did: another species of madness, without a doubt.
At last, even Florizel saw it was hopeless. He ordered the men back toward the works from which they’d erupted. Those who could, obeyed.
Lieutenant General Bell scowled at his wing commanders. Roast-Beef William and Alexander the Steward gave back the exhausted stares of men who had seen too much fighting that day. Bell didn’t care how battle-weary they looked. He cared about nothing except the results of that fight.
“You failed me,” he growled. “Your men failed me.”
“Sir, we did everything we could,” Brigadier Alexander said.
“That’s the truth-the whole truth and nothing but,” Roast-Beef William agreed. “The southrons were there in numbers too great for us to move them. We tried. We did everything we could, everything we knew how to do.”
“You failed me,” Bell repeated. “Your men have turned craven, on account of cowering too long in trenches. They didn’t, they wouldn’t, push the attack with the spirit required to destroy the enemy.”
“Sir, that is not true,” William said. “They fought as bravely as any men could fight-look how many dead and wounded we left on the field.”
“If they had fought bravely enough, we would have won,” Bell said. “We should have won. We didn’t win. What have you got to say for yourselves?”
“Sir, if you’re going to attack an army that’s bigger than your own, you’ve got to know the odds aren’t on your side,” Old Straight said.
“But I had to attack. King Geoffrey insisted on it. That’s why Joseph the Gamecock isn’t commanding any more,” Bell said. The misfortune that had befallen his army couldn’t possibly have been his fault. “The soldiers just didn’t put enough into it. Otherwise, they would have won.”
“Do you want to throw away the whole army, then?” William asked.
“No! I want to drive back the southrons. We have to drive back the southrons,” Bell said. “If we don’t, they can cut the glideways to Marthasville one by one till they hold the town in the palm of their hand.”
“They’re already doing it,” Brigadier Alexander said. “That move to extend their left flank means they’re sitting on the glideway path to Julia. We’ll get no more supplies from the west.”
“Then we have to drive them back,” Bell declared. “It’s as simple as that.”
“Saying it’s as simple as that,” Roast-Beef William remarked. “Doing something about it won’t be so easy, I’m afraid. When you sent us south against Doubting George, you didn’t leave Benjamin the Heated Ham very many men. He may be able to hold back James the Bird’s Eye-but, on the other hand, he may not. He surely hasn’t got the numbers he needs to attack.”
Bell took the laudanum bottle from his tunic pocket and raised it to his lips. Maybe the drug would shield him from things he didn’t care to contemplate. Resentment in his voice, he said, “Hesmucet has no trouble attacking wherever he pleases.”
Patiently, William answered, “Hesmucet has more men than we do, sir. It’s in the nature of things that he can do a good deal we can’t.”
Brigadier Alexander added, “The one thing wrong with attacks is that they’re expensive even when they succeed-and a lot more expensive when they fail.”
“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.