there?”
General Guildenstern looked down his long, pointed nose at George. “Eager, aren’t you?” By the way he said it, he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
But George didn’t care how he meant it. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “If we’ve got ’em down, we ought to kick ’em.”
Instead of answering right away, Guildenstern took another swig of spirits. “Ahh,” he said, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gray tunic. “That’s the real stuff.” George could only nod; Franklin was famous for the spirits it distilled. After yet another gulp, something kindled in Guildenstern’s eyes. It didn’t look like something pleasant. George hoped he was wrong, but—again—he doubted it. His superior said, “So you really want to go after Thraxton the Braggart, do you?”
“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant General George didn’t hesitate, no matter what the gleam in General Guildenstern’s eye meant. “If we chase him, we’ll catch him, and if we catch him, we’ll lick him.”
“Here’s what I’ll do, then,” Guildenstern said. George leaned forward. He was sure he wouldn’t get everything he wanted. For him to have got everything he wanted, General Guildenstern would have had to set the army in motion day before yesterday, or even the day before that. Guildenstern breathed spirituous fumes into his face, fumes potent enough to make him marvel that the commanding general’s breath didn’t catch fire when it passed over the flame of the rock-oil lamp on the table. “I’ll give you half the army, and you go after Thraxton with it the best way you know how. I’ll follow behind with the rest.”
“Half our army is smaller than the whole of his,” George said slowly. “Not a lot smaller, mind you, but it is.”
“So what?” General Guildenstern answered, airily once more—or perhaps the spirits were starting to have their way with him. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times: my guess is that he’s hightailing it for Stamboul.”
“I’m still not sure you’re right about that, sir,” Doubting George said, in lieu of some stronger and less politic expression of disagreement.
“So what?” Guildenstern repeated. That struck George as a cavalier attitude even for a cavalier. But then the commanding general went on, “Suppose I am wrong. Suppose Thraxton the Braggart’s lurking in the undergrowth just outside of town here. Suppose he hits you when you come after him.”
“I am supposing all that, sir,” George replied. “I don’t suppose I like any of it very much.”
“By the gods, why not?” Guildenstern said. “You said it yourself: half our army isn’t much smaller than all of his. Suppose he does attack you. Don’t you think you can keep him in play till I come up with the rest of our troopers? Don’t you think we can smash him between us, the way you’d smash a hickory nut between two stones?”
Now Lieutenant General George was the one who said, “Ahh.” He took a pull at his own glass of spirits. Maybe Guildenstern wasn’t the best general in the world (as long as Duke Edward of Arlington kept breathing, Guildenstern surely wasn’t the best general in the world). But he wasn’t the worst, either. The move that flanked Thraxton the Braggart out of Rising Rock had been his idea. And this ploy here . . . It puts me in danger , Doubting George thought, but it gives me the chance to show what I can do, too . . . if Thraxton really is hanging around not far north of here . George nodded. “That just might do the job, sir.”
“I think so myself,” Guildenstern said complacently. “How soon can you have your half of the army ready to move?”
“Sir, I can put them on the road tomorrow at sunrise,” George answered. “I know you’ll be ready to follow close on my heels.”
He knew nothing of the sort. And, just as he’d expected, the commanding general looked appalled. “That strikes me as too precipitate,” Guildenstern said.
General Guildenstern looked down his long, pointed nose at George. “Eager, aren’t you?” By the way he said it, he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
But George didn’t care how he meant it. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “If we’ve got ’em down, we ought to kick ’em.”
Instead of answering right away, Guildenstern took another swig of spirits. “Ahh,” he said, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gray tunic. “That’s the real stuff.” George could only nod; Franklin was famous for the spirits it distilled. After yet another gulp, something kindled in Guildenstern’s eyes. It didn’t look like something pleasant. George hoped he was wrong, but—again—he doubted it. His superior said, “So you really want to go after Thraxton the Braggart, do you?”
“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant General George didn’t hesitate, no matter what the gleam in General Guildenstern’s eye meant. “If we chase him, we’ll catch him, and if we catch him, we’ll lick him.”
“Here’s what I’ll do, then,” Guildenstern said. George leaned forward. He was sure he wouldn’t get everything he wanted. For him to have got everything he wanted, General Guildenstern would have had to set the army in motion day before yesterday, or even the day before that. Guildenstern breathed spirituous fumes into his face, fumes potent enough to make him marvel that the commanding general’s breath didn’t catch fire when it passed over the flame of the rock-oil lamp on the table. “I’ll give you half the army, and you go after Thraxton with it the best way you know how. I’ll follow behind with the rest.”
“Half our army is smaller than the whole of his,” George said slowly. “Not a lot smaller, mind you, but it is.”
“So what?” General Guildenstern answered, airily once more—or perhaps the spirits were starting to have their way with him. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times: my guess is that he’s hightailing it for Stamboul.”
“I’m still not sure you’re right about that, sir,” Doubting George said, in lieu of some stronger and less politic expression of disagreement.
“So what?” Guildenstern repeated. That struck George as a cavalier attitude even for a cavalier. But then the commanding general went on, “Suppose I am wrong. Suppose Thraxton the Braggart’s lurking in the undergrowth just outside of town here. Suppose he hits you when you come after him.”
“I am supposing all that, sir,” George replied. “I don’t suppose I like any of it very much.”
“By the gods, why not?” Guildenstern said. “You said it yourself: half our army isn’t much smaller than all of his. Suppose he does attack you. Don’t you think you can keep him in play till I come up with the rest of our troopers? Don’t you think we can smash him between us, the way you’d smash a hickory nut between two stones?”
Now Lieutenant General George was the one who said, “Ahh.” He took a pull at his own glass of spirits. Maybe Guildenstern wasn’t the best general in the world (as long as Duke Edward of Arlington kept breathing, Guildenstern surely wasn’t the best general in the world). But he wasn’t the worst, either. The move that flanked Thraxton the Braggart out of Rising Rock had been his idea. And this ploy here . . . It puts me in danger , Doubting George thought, but it gives me the chance to show what I can do, too . . . if Thraxton really is hanging around not far north of here . George nodded. “That just might do the job, sir.”
“I think so myself,” Guildenstern said complacently. “How soon can you have your half of the army ready to move?”
“Sir, I can put them on the road tomorrow at sunrise,” George answered. “I know you’ll be ready to follow close on my heels.”
He knew nothing of the sort. And, just as he’d expected, the commanding general looked appalled. “That strikes me as too precipitate,” Guildenstern said.
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