“Not enough room on the tower,” Adrian explained. “Every damn sub-chief in the tribe is trying to fit himself up there alongside Prelotta.”
He gestured at the ladder. “Come on. Let’s watch it from atop our own wagon. The view won’t be as good, but at this stage of the battle it doesn’t really matter.” He put practice to words, scrambling up ahead of Helga. Over his shoulder: “Not at any stage, really. No maneuvers, here. Just hammer back at them when they charge—and try to plug the breaches.”
“Breaches,” muttered Helga, as she climbed up after him. “Why don’t I like the sound of that word?”
Even before she reached the top, however, a new sound arrived which perked up her spirits. The first volley of Adrian’s arquebusiers, firing on the advancing Confederates. Helga knew it was Adrian’s men who were shooting, not the Reedbottoms in the wagons. The long-barreled two-man arquebuses had a distinctly different sound from the squat guns of the tribesmen.
It was a very ragged volley, naturally. Adrian’s men were scattered all around the laager, two teams to each interstitial shield. The men and the officers commanding them were too spread out to be given coordinated firing commands. So they had been ordered to fire as soon as the enemy in front of their own guns reached “close range”—which, for Adrian’s men, was defined as fifty yards.
Still, she was impressed by how closely the guns went off. Adrian’s Fighting Band, unlike the tribesmen, had quite a bit of experience using firearms in a battle. Prelotta, on the other hand, had commanded his people not to fire until the Vanbert infantry was at point-blank range—and had then added the most bloodcurdling threats regarding the way he would punish warriors who violated the rule.
Which, of course, had been half pointless. As she climbed onto the wagon top, Helga could already hear the duller booms of the tribesmen’s guns going off. At least fifty guns, she judged.
Adrian was none too pleased, that was obvious. He was scowling fiercely, and as soon as Helga came next to him. exclaimed: “Stupid bastards! They can’t hit a barn at fifty yards with those guns.”
“That army’s a lot wider than a barn,” said Helga soothingly. “Even taller, when you figure in the depth of the ranks and the range of the bullets.”
She was soothing herself, she suspected, even more than her lover. From atop the wagon, the view of the oncoming Confederate army was . . .
Impressive. Let’s call it that. Since the only alternative is “terrifying” and it’d really wreck my dignity to start pissing in public.
“Terrifying” was a lot closer to the truth. To begin with, Tomsien’s army was huge. Flank to flank, not counting the cavalry, the lines covered over two miles of front—much wider than the laager itself. And that was only the first two brigades, each of which was three ranks deep. Behind, separated by a space of not more than thirty yards between them, came two more blocks of brigades. In theory, thirty thousand men in all—coming relentlessly toward a force half their size. It wasn’t even so much the numbers which gave that sense of irresistible power as it was the incredible degree of organization. Tens of thousands of men, marching forward into battle as if they were all cogs of a single machine.
In practice, Vanbert brigades were usually understrength. But Tomsien’s would be less so than usual, because the Triumvir had had the time—and certainly the prestige and the money—to have built them up. There were at least twenty-five thousand men in that army, counting infantry regulars alone. Helga didn’t have the experience to make a good assessment of Tomsien’s cavalry, but she thought they had to number another five thousand at the very least.
Against them, Adrian and Prelotta had about ten thousand Reedbottoms, most of them in the wagons; a thousand or less of Adrian’s Strikers—Helga saw that he was holding them in reserve not far from the central compound—and a few hundred gunners of the Fighting Band scattered throughout the laager at the shields. Beyond that—
She scanned the area. What a menagerie. Perhaps five or six thousand cavalrymen from all the other tribes, maybe half of them Grayhills. From what she could see at the distance, someone—probably Esmond—seemed to be bringing some degree of organization to the Grayhills clustered toward one side of the laager. But the rest of the tribesmen were just whatever routed bands had managed to find refuge with the Reedbottoms. Stragglers and deserters, for all practical purposes, who didn’t look to have any more fight in them than so many whipped curs.