Alternate Generals (11 page)

"Lord Raglan requests and desires that you seize the guns, Sir Robert," the galloper said. "Immediately."

Lee's brows rose. At least the order was decisive—ambiguous, but not vague. "I repeat, sir:
which
guns? The enemy has a good many batteries in this vicinity."

The messenger flung out a hand. "
There
, sir.
There
are your guns."

Lee's face settled into a mask of marbled politeness. "Very well, Captain. You may assure Lord Raglan that the Brigade will endeavour to fulfill his command."

Whatever it means
, he added to himself. He looked north. Up the valley, with massive batteries on either side of it swarming with Russian troops, more guns and earthworks at the head of it, and huge formations of Russian cavalry and infantry in support. Then his eyes swung back to the Sapone Heights before him, running east and west from the mouth of the valley.

"Messenger," he snapped, scribbling on his order pad as he gave the verbal equivalent. "Here. To Sir Colin, with the Highland Brigade: I request that he be ready to move rapidly in support." The man saluted and spurred his mount into a gallop. "Captain Byrd, the Brigade will deploy in line, with the 22nd Maryland in reserve. Immediately, if you please. The horse artillery battery will accompany us this time."

The regiments shook out to either side of him; he reached out, trying to feel their temper. It reassured him. The men had beaten a superior force that morning; they had a tradition of victory.
If men believe they will conquer, they are more than halfway to doing so.

This time they were going to
need
every scrap of confidence they could wring out of their souls. He looked left and right, drew his saber again, and sloped it back against his shoulder.

"Brigade will advance at the trot," he said quietly.

Bugles rang, shrill and brassy. The long line of the formation broke into movement, shaking itself out with the long ripple of adjustment that marked veteran troops. Ahead lay the long valley, and the first ranging shots from the Russian batteries on either side came through the air with a ripping-canvas sound—old-fashioned guns, but heavy, twenty-four and thirty-two pounders. Shot ploughed the turf, and shells burst in puffs of dirty-black smoke with a vicious red snap at their hearts. One landed not twenty yards to his right, and a section of the orderly front rank of the 1st Virginia was smashed into a bubble of chaos: writhing, thrashing horses screaming like women in labor but heartrendingly loud; men down, one staggering on foot with his face a mask of red and an arm dangling by a shred.

"Steady there, steady."

The voice of a troop commander, sounding so very young. The troopers opened their files to pass the obstacle and then closed again, adjusting their dressing to the regulation arm's length.

"Not up the valley, for Christ's sake!" That was the British colonel.

"Of course not," Lee snapped, letting his irritation out for a moment. Did the man think he was a complete idiot?

"Brigade will wheel to the right," Lee went on. Gallopers fanned out, and bugles sounded. That was a complex maneuver, with so many men in motion. "Right, wheel."

To his left, the 1st Virginia and the Lexington Hussars rocked into a canter. To his right, the Charleston Dragoons reined in, checking their pace. Smooth and swift, the whole formation pivoted until it was facing the junction of the valley with the Sapone Heights—where neither the Russian batteries nor the captured British guns could fully bear on the North Americans.

Not fully
was a long way from not bearing at all, and as the Russian gunners perceived their target he could see muzzle flashes from the heights ahead, and from the batteries behind him came the wailing screech of shells fired at extreme range.
Time to get us across the killing field
, he thought, consciously relaxing his shoulders and keeping his spine straight and easy in the saddle.

"Charge!" he said.

The bugles cried it, high and shrill. This time there would be no retreat, and every man in the Brigade knew it. The troopers were raising their screeching cheer again, a savage saw-edged ululation through the rising thunder of thousands of hooves and the continuous rolling bellow of the Russian barrage. Men leaned forward with their sabers poised, or gripped the reins in their teeth and readied a revolver in either hand. The enemy were closer now; he could see the figures of men as they sweated at their guns. Closer, and they were loading with grapeshot. His face was impassive as he steadied Journeyman with knees and hands; the iron rain would not turn aside if he crouched or screamed. A riderless horse went by, eyes wild and blood on its neck from a graze that had cut the reins.

The grape blasted great swaths through the attackers, and the long war-scream took on an edge that was pain and fear and fury combined. Blades and glaring faces edge up around him, and then they were among the guns. Lee saw a man splash away from the very muzzle of a fieldpiece, and then he was urging his mount up and over in a fox hunter's leap, over the limber of a cannon. A gunner struck at him with a long ramrod, glaring, an Orthodox cross hanging on his naked hairy chest. He threw up his arms with a yell as Lee cut backhanded at him, and then the commander was through. He reined in sharply, wheeling the horse in its own length. Byrd and his other aides drew up around him . . . no, Carter was gone, and Rolfe was white-faced and clutching a shattered arm.

"See to him," Lee said. The wind was blowing the smoke of the barrage away. "To the regimental commanders—"
or their successors
, he thought, the losses apparent as the struggle around the guns died down tore at him "—dismount the 1st Virginia, the Hussars, the Dragoons and prepare to hold this position until relieved. I expect a counterattack soon. The Maryland Lights to remain mounted in reserve. At once, gentlemen!"

This was a good position. If the Highlanders arrived in time . . .

The Englishman beside him began to speak. There was a
crack
, and under it a distinct thudding sound. "By God, sir, I think I've been killed," he said with wonder in his voice, pressing his hand over a welling redness on his chest.

"By God, sir, I think you have," Lee blurted. The British colonel slumped to the ground.

Too many good men have died today
, Lee thought grimly, and began to position his dismounted troopers.
I hope there was a reason why.

"Get those guns set up," he snapped. "You"—he pointed at the captain in charge of the field guns—"split up your crews, use volunteers, and see if you can turn some of these pieces around. We can expect a counterattack far too soon."

"By God, Sir Robert," the white-bearded man in the kilt said, removing his bearskin in awe. "Ye've held harrrd, nae doot o' it."

Dead men gaped around smashed cannon; fallen horses were bloating already, adding to the sulfur stink of gunpowder.

"We are most heartily glad to see you, Sir Colin," Lee said hoarsely. He looked northward. The Russians were streaming back as the thin red line of the Highland Brigade advanced. What was left of the 1st North Americans stood about, too stunned to react as yet. Stretcher bearers were carrying men back towards the waiting horse-drawn ambulances.

"Aye, we'll no have trouble takin' the valley now. We enfilade their whole position, d'ye see. 'Twould hae been nae possible if ye'r men hadna taken an' held this position. A direct attack—" He nodded to the open
V
of the valley. " 'Twould hae been a Valley of Death."

The bagpipes squealed out; the sound of glory and of tears.

"It is well that war is so terrible," Lee whispered. "Or we would grow too fond of it."

—So, Alkibiades, was that your voice I heard last night, singing bawdy love songs in the street outside my door?

—In truth, Sokrates, I can't quite remember everything about last night. I think I was looking for the courtesan Artemisia's house. But I'm sure you won't begrudge me this celebration when I tell you what the occasion was. I leave tomorrow for Susa, for the Great King's court!

—Oh, to seek high office, I assume?

—Indeed so! I've decided it's time for me to follow in the family tradition. Wasn't my father a general? And my uncle Perikles was almost governor, before he was exiled—and you know those charges were false.

—Judging from last night, the only troops I'd consider you qualified to lead would be a company of naked dancing girls, or an army of satyrs with phalluses for spears.

—Why do you always have to be so critical, Sokrates? Haven't you been telling me for years that I should be more responsible to my civic duties instead of wasting all my time in drinking and debauchery? Now when I'm finally trying to get an important post, you say I'm not qualified. It's really not fair, you know.

—But what makes you think you're qualified to be a general? Why should the Great King appoint you to lead his Athenian troops? I mean, apart from the bribes you plan to spend.

—Why, my heritage, of course! You know my father was one of the generals in command of the invasion of Sicily, when we conquered Syracuse. And I'm an Alkmainoid on my mother's side, and no other family has more illustrious ancestors. Why should I do any less than they did?

—Well, then, suppose your father was a physician, and his father a physician before him. Would this family tradition qualify you to treat illness? Or would you first have to study the craft of medicine before patients could entrust themselves to your care?

—Please, Sokrates! None of your tricky questions, not after last night! My head is aching enough already, without dialectic.

—Then you tell me, my young friend, just how is being a general different from being a physician? Isn't a general responsible for the lives of the men under his command, just as a physician is responsible for the lives of his patients? Isn't victory in battle the proper object of his skill, just as health is the proper object of the physician's craft?

—Yes, but the state has never expected every man to be a physician. Traditionally, though, every citizen is supposed to serve in time of war: either as a hoplite on the battlefield or a rower in the fleet. When the Spartans revolted after the great earthquake, why, didn't you answer the governor's summons, didn't you buckle on your armor and pick up your shield to go put down the insurrection? But if I recall correctly, your real trade is cutting stone, as your father's was.

Besides, you know quite well that generals have always been chosen from the best families in the state. My father never had any particular training in the craft of war, and the governor never had any complaints about his service. And in the time of his father and yours, all Athens' generals were chosen by the Assembly on the basis of their family connections.

Just consider as an example the great general Miltiades, who repulsed the first Persian invasion at Marathon! Most of the Athenians wanted to hide and wait behind the city walls, but not Miltiades! He led the entire army out to meet the Persians on the battlefield, and he pushed them back into the sea! But wasn't Miltiades simply chosen as the representative of his family and tribe? So why should you think I would do any worse?

—If arrogance were the only qualification for leadership, Alkibiades, my young friend, then I'd have every confidence in your success!

But I think your own example will serve to demonstrate my point, after all. For in the first place, if the victory at Marathon proved Miltiades was such a great general, what did his failure at the siege of Paros demonstrate? You can't have it both ways. You'd hardly choose a physician who kills one of his patients for each one he cures, would you?

—I don't think that's really a fair argument, Sokrates. In a war, you have to consider not only your own general's skill, but the opposing commander's as well.

—Indeed you should! But again, your example serves only to illustrate my own point. At Marathon, Miltiades managed to defeat an enemy commander no more skilled than himself. But ten years later, when the Persians invaded again, he and all the rest of the Greek commanders were defeated in turn by a general who was a real expert in the craft of war.

—No, Sokrates, I think your example serves to prove my point, instead! Because I'll agree with you that Mardonios was an able general. Yet why was he chosen for his command? For his family connections! Because he was both a nephew and a son-in-law of the Great King.

—Ah, but you see, it isn't Mardonios I refer to at all.

—What do you mean, Sokrates? Is this one of your tricks again? Every schoolboy with his pedagogue wiping his nose can tell you that Mardonios was the Persian general who led the invasion of Hellas.

—Oh, it was Mardonios up on the white horse where every man could see him, I grant you that much. But the real credit should have gone to another general, a stranger—a barbarian, in fact—who was no more a part of the Great King's family than you are. But I see you doubt me. Would you care to hear the story as I heard it, myself?

—If it means no more of your questions, I certainly do.

—Well, then, have you heard of a man named Dikaios, son of Theokydes?

—That's another question, I'll point out. But wasn't he a traitor?

—An Athenian exile, yes, who turned informer. He came back after the war, to reclaim his property. I knew him then, when he was an old man and I was a young one. I'll say this for Dikaios—he'd become a man of importance among the Persian King's advisors, but still he returned to claim his ancestral house and land in Athens. By the way, you might meet his sons when you go to the court at Susa—Dikaios had a Persian wife and his sons hold high office now.

Be that as it may, this is what he told me:

After his first invasion force was defeated so soundly by Athens at Marathon, the Great King Dareios was more determined than ever to subjugate all Hellas to his rule. He knew that if he didn't, the men of all nations in his empire would consider him weak and plot more insurrections against him. So he began to assemble a great army for the purpose, but as we know, he died before his preparations could be completed.