Dearest Martha, there's a town called Lenalune six miles west of the river where we crossed. I don't know if it still exists. I don't know if the people there will open their doors to five hundred soldiers who smell like smoke and blood and the stink of dead men we fought this morning. The civilians are gone, sent through the tunnels last night while I played chess with a dead general and pretended to consider handing them over to the engines.
Silas would have known what to say to to them. These people we ask for favors. But Silas died in his sleep last night from a wound he got saving the people we sent south, and the words are mine to find now.
Yours in all things and whatever comes after,
Hughes.
-----
The column forms on the south bank of the Chestatee in a gray line that stretches from the ford to the willow break, and I stand on a flat rock where they can see me and tell them what's happening next because they deserve to hear it from me and not from rumor.
"We're not going south." I let that land before I continue, because half the men in this column assumed we'd follow the civilians toward Sutter's Ford and the other half haven't thought past the next five minutes. "The civilians went through the tunnels last night. They're hours ahead of us on the south road, and if we follow them we bring Breckinridge's cavalry down that same road right behind us. Every mile we march south is a mile of hoofprints pointing directly at two hundred people who can't run and can't fight."
Nobody speaks, and four hundred and eighty-seven soldiers stand in wet boots on a muddy bank, waiting to hear the part that comes after the bad news.
"We go west. There's a township called Lenalune six miles into the hill country, and if the reports are right it's got roofs and wells and enough ground to put us under cover. We draw Beauregard's attention away from the civilians by going in the opposite direction, and we find somewhere to put our wounded down before we lose more of them to the road."
I look at the faces in front of me, the ones that are still here, the ones that made it across the river with me this morning, and I don't let myself count the gaps where faces used to be.
"I won't dress up our situation. We've got two days' rations, forty rounds per man average, one golem held together with spit and Decker's prayers, and a hex-cannon with nothing left to shoot. We lost a hundred and forty-four people today. We lost Lieutenant Vane." My voice doesn't crack on his name because I won't let it, not here, not in front of soldiers who need their captain to sound steady. "What we've got is each other and the fact that we're still breathing, and that's going to have to be enough."
Mercy stands to my left with Mama Thunder on her shoulder, empty and heavy, the cut on her cheekbone crusted black in a line from the bone below her eye to the corner of her jaw. Phelps stands to my right with his notebook open to a page of casualty figures because Phelps always has the casualty figures ready. Clementine is already among the wounded, checking dressings and tourniquet tensions with the efficiency of a woman who's been patching soldiers since before half these boys were born.
Column status at the Chestatee, by the numbers: five days under siege, six hours of forced march, a river crossing in water cold enough to stop a man's heart if he stayed in it long enough. Morale: Shaken. The explosion at the fort put steel in them for the run south, but steel cools fast when the running stops and the adrenaline burns off. Most of 3rd Company's cartridge paper soaked through at the ford, which means two hundred muskets are decorative until the paper dries. Rations: two days at full issue, three if we cut to half and accept the hit to morale that half-rations always bring. Wounded: twenty-eight stretcher cases, forty walking wounded, four critical that Clementine says won't see tomorrow without surgery and a stable surface. Fatigue: critical. These men have been running on adrenaline and fear for six hours, and both of those fuels burn out the moment the immediate threat drops below the horizon. Combat effectiveness: fifty-five percent on a generous estimate, and I'm being generous because the honest number would make Phelps close his notebook.
"Forced march," I say. "Double time where the ground allows it. We move fast, we move quiet, and we don't stop until we're under a roof or the sun goes down."
「Rally Troops: Activated. Morale +15 to all units within range. Duration: 4 hours (forced march).」
The warmth spreads from my sternum through my arms and out into the column, soldier by soldier. It isn't temperature. I've never been able to explain what it is. A private in the second rank straightens his back without knowing why. A corporal adjusts his grip on his musket and the white-knuckle tension in his fingers eases by a degree. It isn't chaplains' magic, with scripture and light and invocations. It's quieter than that, and the result is the same. Men who were ready to sit down in the mud and stop moving are standing upright and looking west with a stubbornness in their eyes that wasn't there a moment ago.
"Move out," I tell the column, and six hundred boots turn west.
◇ ◆ ◇
The hill country south of the Chestatee is hard terrain for a healthy army and brutal terrain for a broken one.
The ground rises and falls in long ridges covered with scrub oak and blackberry thickets that grab at uniforms and tear exposed skin. The trail is a cart track made for single wagons moving at the speed of an ox, and it switches back on itself every quarter mile as it climbs the ridges and drops into the hollows between them. The mud is ankle deep in the hollows where the rainwater collects, and the footing on the ridges is loose shale that turns under boots and sends men sliding into the man behind them.
Terrain assessment: ridge country, repeated elevation changes of eighty to a hundred feet per ridge. Cart track, single wagon width. Mud in the hollows, loose shale on the ridges. Movement penalty: severe. March pace down to a mile and a half per hour from the three we'd manage on flat road, and that's the men who can still walk at regulation. The stretcher bearers are managing closer to one. Every ridge costs us ten minutes we don't have and energy we can't replace, and there are four more ridges between us and the plateau where the map says Lenalune sits.
Gospel takes point. The golem walks with a list to the left where the damaged shoulder joint has thrown off its balance, and steam leaks from the bad shoulder in a thin white thread that marks our position for anyone with eyes and elevation. Decker walks beside the golem with his tool bag and his prayer book and one hand on Gospel's leg plating, reading the vibrations through the iron, feeling for heat and strain the way he's done every day since we left the Blackwater.
"She's running hot," Decker tells me when I fall back to check. His face is gray with exhaustion and the grease on his hands has mixed with dried blood from a cut on his palm that he hasn't had time to bandage. "The shoulder joint is grinding metal on metal. If I don't pack it with lubricant in the next two hours, the friction's going to crack the bearing housing, and if that cracks the whole arm comes off."
"Can she make six miles?"
"She can make six miles if I keep pressure on the shoulder and we don't ask her to fight anything heavier than a stiff breeze." He pats the iron leg with his open palm, two quick taps, the unconscious habit of a man who's spent years talking to machines that can't answer. "She'll get us there, Captain, and she won't enjoy a minute of it."
Gospel status: operational but degraded. Steam pressure at forty-five percent and dropping with every ridge. Shoulder joint compromised, metal on metal, two hours until the bearing housing cracks if Decker can't pack it. Left-side list growing worse on uneven terrain. The golem that held the ford this morning and faced down eight hundred Confederate cavalry is limping through hill country with a mechanic's hand on its leg and a prayer book in his pocket. Readiness: Fatigued, approaching Exhausted. One engagement away from catastrophic joint failure.
Behind Gospel, the column stretches back along the cart track in a line that bends and curves with the terrain, downhill fast and uphill slow. The soldiers who can still march at regulation pace are at the front. Behind them comes what's left of the supply train, two handcarts loaded with everything we brought across the river: ammunition, medical supplies, and the tool kits Decker needs to keep Gospel upright. Behind the supply train are the walking wounded who can manage the pace if someone stays beside them and keeps them moving. And at the rear, the stretcher cases, twenty-eight soldiers being carried by men who are too tired to carry themselves, let alone someone else.
The stretcher bearers rotate every quarter mile. Four men per stretcher, one at each corner, and they switch out with fresh carriers in a cycle that Phelps organized with the logistical precision that would have made Silas proud. I catch myself thinking that and my throat closes for a second before I swallow it back down.
Silas should be here. He should be walking beside me with his notebook open and his spectre whispering tactical assessments in his ear and his face doing that thing it did when he was working through a problem, the slight narrowing of the eyes and the tilt of his head to the left as if he was listening to a voice nobody else could hear. Which he was. The spectre went with him when he died, and I don't know where spectres go when their hosts stop breathing, and I don't have time to wonder about it right now because the column is slowing on the third ridge and the men at the rear are falling behind.
Third ridge and the column is coming apart. 1st Company at the front is a hundred yards ahead of 3rd Company at the rear, and the gap widens every time the trail switchbacks. The stretcher bearers are stumbling. Two of them went down on the second ridge when the shale gave way, and the stretcher they were carrying tipped sideways and Private Harkin hit the ground screaming because his broken ribs shifted when he landed. Clementine got him stabilized, but stabilized means he's alive and conscious and in more pain than he was five minutes ago, and the four men carrying him are slower now, checking their footing twice before each step. Morale in the rear company: Shaken and getting worse. The men at the front can't see the men at the back, and the men at the back can see nothing but the ridge ahead of them and the blood on the stretcher and the trail getting steeper.
"Phelps." I don't raise my voice, and he's three steps behind me where he's been since we left the river. "Close that gap. Get the rear files to pick up the pace or get the front to slow down. I don't want more than fifty yards between the head and the tail."
"On it, Captain." Phelps drops back along the column at a jog, and I hear him issuing orders in the calm steady voice of a man who processes the world in numbers and distances.
◇ ◆ ◇
We crest the fourth ridge and I glass the terrain ahead through Lincoln's Resolve. The scope picks up the next hollow, thick with blackberry and wild apple, and beyond it the fifth ridge, and beyond that the ground levels into what the map calls the Lenalune Plateau. I can see cleared land in the distance, fields that someone has been working, rows of green at this range. And beyond the fields, the suggestion of rooftops. Gray wood and fieldstone, small buildings clustered around a crossroads, with two low hills rising behind them.
Lenalune exists, and that's more than I was willing to bet on an hour ago.
"Captain." Clementine appears at my elbow, breathing hard from climbing the ridge. Her hands are wet to the wrists with blood that isn't hers, and the front of her apron is stained dark in patterns I've learned not to examine too closely. "Private Alden in the rear. The leg wound from the river crossing reopened and he's lost enough blood that he can't stay conscious on the stretcher. I've tied it off twice and it won't hold. He needs a table and a fire and tools I don't have in my kit, or he bleeds out inside two hours."
"How many more in the same condition?"
"Four critical that won't last the day without surgery. Eight more that I'd call urgent if I had the luxury of using that word for anything less than actively dying." She wipes her hands on a section of apron that's already ruined and looks at the distant rooftops through narrowed eyes. "That the town over there?"
"That's the town, and we'd better be welcome in it."
"Then I need a kitchen table and a steady surface and I need them inside the hour, and if that mayor turns us away I'm going in with my scissors and she can argue about it with Mercy."
◇ ◆ ◇
Lenalune is smaller than the map suggested and larger than I expected.
It sits in a shallow valley between two hills that rise about a hundred and fifty feet above the valley floor, steep enough on the outer faces to discourage cavalry and gentle enough on the inner faces to allow farming right up to the tree line. The village itself is maybe sixty buildings along a single main road that runs east to west, with a dozen smaller roads branching off to the north and south. Fieldstone foundations, wood-frame construction, slate roofs on the buildings that can afford them and thatch on the ones that can't. A church at the west end with a bell tower. A general store. A smithy. A mill on a creek that feeds into the Chestatee somewhere downstream.
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Defensive assessment, because I can't stop thinking in those terms even when I'm asking for charity: the two hills provide natural observation points and the steep outer faces would slow a cavalry charge to a walk. Single road in from the east means a bottleneck any defending force could hold with twenty men and a few felled trees. Water source is the creek, which runs year-round based on the size of the mill wheel. Fields provide open sight lines to the east and south. Weaknesses: no walls, no fortification, thatch roofs that would catch fire from a single incendiary round. This valley wasn't built for war and it shows.
Three years of war and the place hasn't been touched. Too small, too far from the main roads, too poor to bother with. That won't last.
The sentries spot us from the east hill. Two men with hunting rifles behind a low stone wall, and they watch our column descend into the valley with the careful attention of men who've been told to watch for exactly this. One of them fires a signal shot into the air, a single crack that echoes off the hillsides.
By the time I reach the eastern edge of the village with Mercy and Phelps flanking me and Gospel standing behind us, twelve feet of battered iron and leaking steam, there's a reception committee blocking the main road.
Twenty men with rifles and shotguns, standing in a loose line with the informal discipline of a militia that's never been tested and doesn't want to be. They're farmers and tradesmen in work clothes carrying weapons that were old before the Fracture started. A man in his forties with a blacksmith's arms holds a double-barreled shotgun at port arms and watches us with the hard suspicion of someone who's already decided that nothing good comes from the east.
And in the center of the line, a woman.
Somewhere between fifty and sixty, tall and lean from decades of working land, with gray hair pulled back under a sun-faded bonnet and a face that's been weathered by wind and decisions in roughly equal measure. She isn't carrying a weapon. She's carrying a ledger book, pressed against her chest with both arms, and she stands in the center of the road with the posture of someone who owns every inch of it.
Mayor Agnes Harwell doesn't need an introduction.
「Liberator's Gaze: Agnes Harwell, Mayor of Lenalune. Alignment: Lawful Neutral. Loyalty: Lenalune (100%). Disposition: Hostile/Cautious. Note: Will not respond to threats. Responds to honesty and fair dealing.」
I stop twenty feet from the militia line and I don't draw anything and I don't raise my voice. Behind me, four hundred and eighty-seven soldiers are strung out along the cart track in a line of exhausted men carrying wounded men, and if this woman says no, I don't have a plan that doesn't involve begging.
"My name is Captain Hughes Granthem, 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry, Federal Army," I say. "We fought the Iron Confederacy at Fort Independence this morning. We held the walls against twelve thousand dead and then we blew the fort to rubble behind us rather than let Beauregard have it. I've got twenty-eight soldiers on stretchers who'll die without surgery, forty walking wounded who need rest, and four hundred men who haven't eaten since yesterday." I keep my hands visible and my voice level and I tell her the truth because the Gaze says she'll know if I don't. "I'm asking permission to enter your town. I'm asking for shelter, water, and whatever medical facilities you've got. We'll pay for supplies and put soldiers to work on anything that needs doing while we're here. We don't intend to stay long. A few days to patch our wounded and rest the column, and then we're gone south and out of your valley."
Harwell studies me for a long moment. Her eyes move from my face to the column behind me, taking in the stretchers and the blood-stained uniforms and the walking wounded leaning on each other and the single damaged golem standing in the road with steam leaking from its shoulder. She looks at Mercy and the empty cannon. She looks at Phelps and his notebook. She looks at the soldiers in the rear of the column who've sat down in the road because their legs have quit and they can't stand anymore.
"You're Federal," she says, and it isn't a question. Her eyes are on the uniforms, the blue wool faded and filthy but still recognizable.
"Yes ma'am, we are."
"Federal Army hasn't done much for the hill country in three years, Captain."
"Federal Army told us to hold a fort and die in it, Mayor. We held the fort. We're still working on the dying part." I hold her gaze because this woman reads weakness in a turned head and hesitation in a blink. "I'm not here to tell you the government's going to save you. I'm here because my soldiers need help, and you're the closest door."
Her expression shifts, a flicker behind her eyes that I can't read, recognition and calculation fighting for the same space. "I've been turning people away for a month, Captain. Refugees from Porter's Creek and Millhaven and half a dozen places the Confederacy has rolled over since spring. Turning them away because this valley feeds eight hundred people and not a soul more, and every mouth I take in is a mouth I'm taking from someone who was here first." She tightens her arms around the ledger. "You're asking me to feed nearly five hundred soldiers. Soldiers burn through rations faster than anything on two legs, and you know that as well as I do."
"I understand exactly what I'm asking, Mayor." I don't break eye contact because every second of this conversation is a negotiation whether we're calling it one or not. "I'm not going to lie to you about what's behind us. Breckinridge's cavalry watched us cross the river this morning. If they pick up our trail west, they could follow it here, but that's an if, not a when. Lenalune is small and off the main roads, and the Confederacy's got bigger concerns right now than chasing a beaten column into the hills." I pause, because the next part matters. "But if they do come this direction, I'll make sure you know in time to get your people out. That's a promise I can keep, and I don't make ones I can't."
"And if they follow you here?" Harwell's voice drops half a register. "If Breckinridge's cavalry rides into my valley because they followed your bootprints through my hills? You'll warn me, you said. Warn me to do what, exactly? Pack eight hundred people onto the road with whatever they can carry and hope there's somewhere left to go?"
"If it comes to that, yes. And I know that sounds close to nothing, Mayor, because it is close to nothing. But it's more warning than Porter's Creek got, or Millhaven, or any of the other places the Confederacy rolled through this spring." I don't look away from her. "I'm not selling you safety. I'm asking to buy time, for my wounded and yours both. A few days under a roof and then we're moving south and your valley goes back to being too small and too quiet to bother with."
The militia line shifts. The blacksmith glances at the woman next to him. One of the sentries on the hill lowers his rifle by a degree.
Harwell opens the ledger. She holds it at arm's length and squints at a page covered in columns of numbers, meticulous record-keeping that keeps a town alive through a war by knowing exactly how much grain is in the storehouse and how many jars of preserved fruit are in the cellar and how many chickens are still laying and how many won't be laying come winter.
"Labor won't cover it," she says. "Five hundred soldiers will empty my granary in two weeks flat. My people can grow it back in a season if nobody burns the fields, but grain in the storehouse right now is grain I can't replace before spring. I need a hundred and twenty dollars for grain and dried stores, another thirty for lamp oil and medical supplies from my stock, and your soldiers work my fields and my mill and my smithy from sunup to sundown alongside my people, same labor, same hours. That's not a negotiation, Captain. That's the cost."
A hundred and fifty dollars. More than half our treasury for a few weeks of half-rations and a roof. Two hundred and eighty dollars in the war chest, and that money was supposed to buy ammunition and recruits and the thousand small purchases that keep an army breathing. Against that: Private Alden bleeding out on a stretcher fifty yards behind me, four more who won't see morning without a table and a surgeon's tools, and four hundred soldiers who can't march another mile on empty stomachs and four hours of sleep spread across five days.
"Done," I say. "Phelps will have it counted out within the hour."
Harwell nods. Her shoulders drop half an inch and the ledger comes down from her chest to her side. "I can shelter your wounded in the church hall and your able-bodied in the barn and any private home that volunteers a spare room, and I won't force anyone to volunteer. My kitchen table and my lamps and clean water for your surgeon, but the medicines I'm selling you are what I've got and there isn't more. Your wounded settle for whiskey and a piece of leather to bite."
She closes the ledger with a snap that echoes off the fieldstone walls on either side of the road.
"And when your soldiers are patched and your column is rested, Captain Granthem, I expect you gone. South, west, wherever you're going, but gone from this valley before whatever's chasing you catches up. And if your scouts see gray uniforms on those ridges before you're ready to march, you tell me first, not last. Because I've kept this town alive for three years by knowing when to hold ground and when to pack a wagon, and I won't have that decision made for me by a man I've known for five minutes."
「Virtue & Reputation: +10 (Honest Negotiation). Honored 70/100.」
"You'll know before I do, Mayor. I'll have scouts on that ridgeline by morning."
"See that you do." She turns to the blacksmith. "Josiah, open the church hall and the barn. Marta, get the quilts from the storehouse. Reverend Polk, I'm going to need your kitchen table for something you'll want to pray about afterward." She turns back to me with the expression of a woman who's made a decision she can't unmake and doesn't intend to regret. "Bring your wounded in first. The ones who can walk can wait."
◇ ◆ ◇
Lenalune lets us in.
Not all at once and not without hesitation, but it lets us in. The church hall gets the stretcher cases, twenty-eight soldiers laid out in rows on the wooden floor between the pews while Clementine takes over the minister's kitchen table and two oil lamps and begins the work of keeping men alive with a bone saw and a flask of whiskey and the steady hands of a woman who knows when prayer helps and when it's just noise. Private Alden goes first. I hold him down while Clementine ties the tourniquet above his knee and tells him to bite the leather strap, and the sound his teeth make on the leather when the saw goes through bone is a sound that joins the collection I'll be hearing in my sleep for the rest of however long I've got left.
Wounded status after first triage: Alden is alive, minus a leg below the knee, and Clementine says the stump is clean and the bleeding's controlled. Three of the four critical cases stabilized once she had a flat surface and enough light to work by. The fourth, Private Gerald, died on the table while Clementine was working on his chest wound, and she didn't stop moving when it happened, just pulled the sheet up and called for the next stretcher because stopping means the next man bleeds out while she grieves for the last one. Walking wounded: thirty-six of forty cleared for light duty within forty-eight hours. The other four need rest and time and dressings changed twice a day. Stretcher cases: twenty-seven remaining, stable, none critical. Morale among the wounded: Steady. A roof and dry straw and the sound of a surgeon working nearby does more for a wounded man's resolve than any speech I could give.
The barn gets the bulk of the soldiers, four hundred men filing into a structure that smells of hay and horses and cow manure, and not one of them complains because it's dry and it's out of the wind and there's straw to sleep on that's softer than anything they've touched since the Blackwater. They collapse where they stand, dropping their packs and their muskets and going down on the straw without bothering to pick a spot. Most of them are asleep before they're horizontal.
Gospel stands at the east end of the village facing the direction we came from, steam still leaking from the bad shoulder. Decker has already pried the shoulder plate off and is elbow-deep in the joint mechanism with a pot of rendered goose fat that a farmer's wife brought out when she saw what he was doing. She didn't ask why the golem needed grease. She saw a broken machine and a tired man trying to fix it and she brought what she had. Nobody told her to. Nobody asked.
Mercy finds a corner of the barn and sits with Mama Thunder across her knees and falls asleep in under a minute, her back against the wall and her boots still on and both hands wrapped around the empty cannon barrel. The cut on her face needs stitches and she needs food and she needs about three days of sleep, and she's going to get the stitches when Clementine's done saving lives and she's going to get the food when someone brings it and she's going to sleep until somebody wakes her or the shooting starts, whichever comes first.
I sit on the church steps in the last light of the day and write the names of the dead in my field book. All one hundred and forty-four of them. It takes an hour because some of them I have to ask Phelps about, and some of them nobody knows because they went into the fort when the magazine blew and there wasn't enough left afterward to put a name to.
The Lieutenant gets the first line. I write his name and his rank and the cause of death and the date, and then I write what the field book doesn't have a column for.
He was the smartest man I ever served with. He died in his sleep from an infection in a wound he got saving people who'll never know his name. The spectre that lived in his skull for six years went wherever spectres go, and I don't know if that's a comfort or a cruelty, and I don't suppose it matters now.
I close the book and the light is going and the village settles around me with the sounds of an army learning how to rest: the murmur of conversations too tired for volume, the clink of tin cups at the village well, the creak of the barn door as soldiers come and go.
A boy of about ten approaches from the main road carrying a bowl that steams. He stops at the bottom of the church steps and holds the bowl out with both hands and says nothing, just stands there with the offering extended the way his mother showed him.
Potatoes and turnips and pieces of something that might be rabbit, in a broth thick enough to hold a spoon upright. It's the first hot food I've had in three days and it's the best thing I've ever eaten, and I sit on the church steps and eat it while the boy watches with the serious attention of a child who's been told the man he's feeding is important without understanding why.
"Thank you, son," I tell him when the bowl is empty.
He takes the bowl and runs back down the road toward a small house at the west end of the village, and a woman steps out of the doorway and puts her hand on his head when he reaches her and looks at me across the distance for a long moment before she goes back inside.
I write one more line in my field book, not a name this time but a note to myself. Lenalune took us in. Remember this. Remember what it cost them. The boy's mother sent her son out with a bowl of stew she could have fed her own family with. The farmer's wife gave up goose fat she'd been saving. The mayor sold us grain she can't replace before spring and opened her church to men who might bring cavalry down on her valley. Remember all of it.
Then I close the book and go inside the church to check on Clementine's patients, because Private Alden is alive and missing a leg below the knee and somebody should be there when he wakes up and discovers what the war has taken from him this time. That's the help I can give right now, and it isn't enough, but it's what I've got.
The war will still be there in the morning.
=== CAMPAIGN STATE: YEAR 3, DAY 2 (EVENING) ===
Location: Lenalune Village (Hill Country, 6 miles west of Chestatee Ford)
Virtue & Reputation: Honored (70/100) [+10 Honest Negotiation with Lenalune]
Treasury: 130 Dollars (150 paid to Lenalune for grain, stores, and medical supplies)
Army: 487 soldiers (2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry "Garryowen")
- 1 War Golem operational: Gospel (damaged, shoulder under repair, ~45%)
- 1 War Golem salvageable: Big Greta (abandoned south bank, core intact, recoverable)
- 2 War Golems destroyed: Old Faithful (magazine blast), Temperance (artillery)
- 1 War Golem stripped: Lazarus (chassis in fort ruins)
- 1 Hex-Cannon: Mama Thunder (0 shells remaining)
Morale: Recovering (42/100) [Shelter secured, stabilizing]
Supplies: Low but stable (2 weeks half-rations purchased from Lenalune; labor supplements active)
Wounded: 27 stretcher (stable), 40 walking wounded (36 cleared for light duty in 48hrs), 1 amputation (Alden), 1 KIA on table (Gerald)
Civilians: 0 (All evacuated)
