Chapter 8: Winslow

Johnny Hoth listened to his sergeant run down the report after the last Harn attack against the Winslow garrison. To call it bad news was giving bad news a terrible reputation. "Eighteen dead, Captain, thirty-one walking wounded. A dozen of those, sir, pretty bad."

"And the civilians?"

"They made the difference, Captain, but they paid for it. They took maybe twice as many casualties as we did, including Mayor Short and the Constabulary colonel commanding the local militia."

Johnny looked up at the sun.

It was well past mid-day; the Harn probably would come one last time, the first thing in the morning. His eyes roved over the town, or rather the portion of the town still left to the defenders, less than a third of what they'd started with. Maybe a thousand civilians were still alive, perhaps two thirds of them under arms, counting the frontier wives and older boys. Three hastily formed companies of regulars, the odds and sods remnants of the more than three dozen companies that had mustered the day before yesterday. And Johnny Hoth, the senior officer left alive. Who would have thought?

The last thing Major Marlar had done before he died was name Johnny a captain -- otherwise Johnny would still be a lieutenant. No one would have obeyed a lieutenant, not even the troopers. A captain now -- that made the difference. Or had until this last attack.

"Even the sniping has stopped, Captain," the sergeant reported, seeing the direction of Johnny's gaze. "Along about sundown they're goin' to have a big feast, followed by some hellacious singin' and partyin'. About midnight or a little after, they'll bed down. At dawn..."

"Yeah."

He had, Johnny thought, barely more than two thousand effectives, and if he so much as stubbed his toe, they'd fall apart. And there were maybe twenty thousand Harn out there, and more, it appeared, coming every little while. Tomorrow when the sun was full up, they'd all be dead.

A little later, Johnny walked the line of wounded men, stretched out against one of the inner walls. A wall that provided a little shade and not much more protection against the Harn. It was about all the comfort they could provide for the wounded, though. Johnny had a hard time looking at them, knowing all too well what would happen to them tomorrow when the Harn took the town.

Did he have the courage to order these men and women murdered where they lay, before the Harn came amongst them? His expression didn't change, but inwardly he quailed. There had to be something else! Some other option! It wasn't for him, but if he could keep these people alive he'd jump into a furnace. However, no matter what he did, no matter what any of them did, tomorrow was going to be the end!

A few feet away someone crouched next to one of the wounded, holding a dipper to the man's lips.

"Damn your eyes!" a gravel voice tried to roar, a pale shadow of its former self. "I'm tired, not wounded! Too much damn sun! And I can pour water down my own gullet!"

Johnny stopped and stared, unbelieving, at the man with the distinctive voice. "General Syrian? Sir?"

The man leaning against the wall looked up and saw him. He looked back at Johnny for a long second before grinning. "Hoth. John Hoth! You were in my tactics class three, no four years ago, back at the Academy."

"Sir, yes! God, General! I'm so glad to see you!"

The other snorted in derision. "Why would that be, Mister Hoth?"

"I mean, you're a general!"

"I'm a retired general. And a damn medical retirement on top of it! I'm not fit." The old man laughed bitterly. "Damn straight I'm not fit!"

He hitched himself up a little, waving his hand. "Thirty years ago, Mister Hoth, I could run from here to Capitol City and back and hardly breathe hard. Twenty years ago, Mister, I could march any man in my command into the ground. Ten years ago..." He sighed. "I could barely keep up with recruits ... Now..." He closed his eyes and after a second Johnny thought he'd fallen asleep.

Instead, the other opened his eyes up again. "You were looking to pass the job off, eh? Mister Hoth?"

Johnny didn't even have to think. "No, sir. Major Marlar told me I was in command. I'm in command, General. But, gosh, sir, all I have are three troop sergeants, one of them older than you, sir."

"Thank you so very much, Mister Hoth!" The other stuck out his tongue rudely and Johnny tried not to take offense. He wondered if the other had taken leave of his senses. Was the old general senile?

"You want someone to talk to," the general said with sudden insight, "don't you?"

"General, sir, yes. I'm vexed, sir."

"Son, you're surrounded, outnumbered and about to be massacred any second. Vexatious, I'm sure."

"I have, General, a few more than a fourteen hundred civilians left from the town, something like eight hundred troops, about a fifth of whom are wounded to some degree. If we stay here, General, we're dead."

"So, leave," the general responded, warming to the task.

"Yes, sir. That's my plan. Except, the Harn aren't stupid; they'll be ready for us. And then it will happen anyway, away from cover."

"Quicker that way," the general opined. "They'll have their blood up. For most of us, they'll just kill us. Not as many left to torture, after."

"Sir, I'm vexed about Fort South."

General Syrian shook his leonine head. "You have ten, twenty thousand Harn around you. You've seen them; I've seen them. Fort South is dead, Mister Hoth, they're all dead. Just like we're going to be."

"Sir, four weeks ago we passed a column of reinforcements for South through here. Quiet, like. They didn't camp close to town; they were too afraid that too many of the men would run. Three thousand men, General."

General Syrian sat up bolt upright. "Three thousand, you say?"

"Yes, sir. I'm thinking that maybe the Harn decided to attack something easier instead. Winslow."

The general's eyes were bright. "Three thousand?" he repeated the number again, unbelieving. "But they were afraid they would run? So, first year troops. Probably, knowing the bastards back at Capital City, gutter sweepings. Useless. Still, Colonel Randall -- now there's a hard man! Hard! The Harn won't find it easy to surprise him! Nor cheap to fight!"

The former general looked at the young officer. "So, you're vexed. North or south. Go south and if Randall is already dead -- so are you. Go north, well, that won't be a surprise! They'll be ready for that! You'll be dead for sure. A simple decision, Mister Hoth. North, you die. South -- you probably die. Still, the better bet."

General Syrian laughed again, as bitter as ever.

"Of course, there is the problem of unwanted guests. If you show up with an extra thousand mouths to feed, Randall isn't going to be able to hold," the general told Johnny.

Johnny wasn't fazed by the math; if a thousand of them were still alive at Fort South it would be counted as a great victory.

"General, I came out here two years ago; Colonel Felter commanded then. He told me to my face, that he was sorry, but he had more than sufficient cavalry troop commanders. He told me he didn't need me.

"I don't know squat about infantry and he wasn't about to send good men out under someone untrained. So I was made a stores officer." Johnny met the older man's eyes. "It took my father the better part of a year and who knows how much money to get me back as a cavalry troop commander."

The old man laughed. "That must have made you real popular with the other troop commanders."

"About as you'd expect," Johnny replied. "But I do know stores now and I was careful, General. I've got them all."

"All, Mister Hoth?"

"The garrison's food and arms stores. There." He waved at a low building a hundred yards away. "On the first day, Major Marlar said we had to have a strong point; so I built him one, centered on the logistics."

The general was silent for a long moment, and then looked at Johnny, his voice wintery bleak. "Mister Hoth, it's truth time: I remember names and faces. It's a trick I learned as a junior officer. I almost never forget one or the other. It's a trick, you understand? Except for your name and face, I don't remember anything else about you from my class. I suspect, Mister Hoth, one of us was asleep in my class. Listening to you, I suspect it was me."

He sighed. "I'm not very proud of my last few years of service, Mister Hoth. I did spend more of it asleep than awake."

"General, you taught me a lot about tactics; more than anyone else."

The old man nodded his thanks. "Son, when you're a young buck like yourself, you worry most about serious injury or dismemberment. It's your worst fear. Then you get a little older and start a family. That's when you start worrying about getting killed. You're afraid of not being there for the ones you care about. Then your kids grow up, your wife dies -- you look out at the world and you start worrying if the new generation is up to snuff. You worry that they won't be able to handle the load. Of course we make damn sure we don't look in the mirror to see who it is that really can't handle the load.

"You know what to do, Mister Hoth. You do it. And when it comes time for that last little thing -- that's when you think of me. There are a couple of dozen of us old farts here; we'll sit around and swap stories. And then we'll do what we have to do. Don't you worry about us. We'd be honored to serve."

Not too much later, the youngest troop sergeant came up to Johnny. "Captain, the civ's are getting stirred up. They want to know what's going to happen."