“We hold the center of the country. The enemy hold a block in the northeast and portions of the south coast. They also hold an excellent port, Marsai, situated in a stretch of country that’s strongly clerical and antigovernment, yet instead of shipping their troops from Errif to Marsai, the rebel generals are bringing them in by air to Bassin du Sud. That indicates—”
He traced a line north from Bassin du Sud. There was a railway, and what passed in the Union for a main road, up from the coastal plain and through the Monts du Diable to the central plateau.
“Name of a dog,” Vincen said. “An attack on the capital?”
“It’s the logical move,” Jeffery said. “They’ve got Libert, who’s a competent tactician and a better than competent organizer—”
“A traitor swine!” someone burst out. The anarchist . . . well, not really leader, but something close. De Villers, that was his name.
Jeffrey held up a hand. “I’m describing his abilities, not his morals,” he said. “As I said, they’ve got Libert, Land help with supplies and transport, and thirty to forty thousand first-rate, well-equipped troops in formed units. Which is more than anyone else has at the moment.”
There were glum looks. The Unionaise regular army had never been large, the government’s purge-by-retirement policy had deprived it of most of its senior officers, and most of the remainder had gone over to the rebels in the week since the uprising started. The army as a whole had shattered like a clay crock heated too high.
“What can we do?” Vincen asked.
“Stop them.” Jeffreys finger stabbed down on the rough country north of Bassin du Sud. “Get everything we can out here and stop them. If we can keep their pockets from linking up, we buy time to organize. With time, we can win. But we have to stop Libert from linking up with the rebel pocket around Islvert.”
“An excellent analysis,” Vincen said. “I’m sure the Committee of Public Safety will agree.”
That produced more nervous glances. The Committee was more selective than the mobs who’d been running down rebels, rebel sympathizers, and anyone else they didn’t like. But not much. De Villers glared at him, mouth working like a hound that had just had its bone snatched away.
“And I’m sure there’s only one man to take charge of such a vital task.”
Everyone looked at Jeffrey. Oh, shit, he thought.
* * *
“What now, mercenary?” De Villers asked, coming up to the staff car and climbing onto the running board.
“Volunteer,” Jeffrey said, standing up in the open-topped car.
It was obvious now why the train was held up. A solid flow of men, carts, mules, and the odd motor vehicle had been moving south down the double-lane gravel road. You certainly couldn’t call it a march, he thought. Armies moved with wheeled transport in the center and infantry marching on either verge in column. This bunch sprawled and bunched and straggled, leaving the road to squat behind a bush, to drink water out of ditches—which meant they’d have an epidemic of dysentery within a couple of days—to take a snooze under a tree, to steal chickens and pick half-ripe cherries from the orchards that covered many of the hills. . . .
That wasn’t the worst of it, nor the fact that every third village they passed was empty, meaning that the villagers had decided they liked the priest and squire better than the local travailleur or anarchist schoolteacher or cobbler-organizer. Those villages had the school burnt rather than the church, and the people were undoubtedly hiding in the hills getting ready to ambush the government supply lines, such as they were.
What was really bad was the solid column of refugees pouring north up the road and tying everything up in an inextricable tangle. Only the pressure from both sides kept up as those behind tried to push through, so the whole thing was bulging the way two hoses would if you joined them together and pumped in water from both ends. And they’d blocked the train, which held his artillery and supplies, and the men on the train were starting to get off and mingle with the shouting, milling, pushing crowd as well. A haze of reddish-yellow dust hung over the crossroads village, mingling with the stink of coal smoke, unwashed humanity, and human and animal wastes.