boy. It’s a reporter. A ‘war correspondent,’ here to compete with that milksop Russell.”
“No, sir—” The boy shook his head. “He’s white-haired, sir, not a young man. And he’s not dressed like a reporter. He says he’s come from the government offices at Whitehall, and his credentials look right...I mean, so far’s I can tell, and they must’ve to the others or he could never have gotten so far within the camp...”
“A ‘government observer.’” Brown snorted. “You tell him I am conducting a God-damned battle and haven’t time to hold his little hand.”
“He said—” The aide cleared his throat, looking truly miserable. “Sir, he said if you declined to speak with him, I was to give you this.”
“This” was a single sheet of dirty notebook paper, folded in half, trembling with the tremors that ran through the aide’s hand. Not credentials, Brown thought, curious in spite of himself. Not a letter of introduction. A personal note, quickly scrawled. What could possibly be put into a personal note that would prompt him to change his mind and allow this intruder into his tent? He was curious enough to reach out his hand and find out.
The paper read, “You can talk to me right now. Or I can talk to Russell and you can read about it next week with everyone else. Your choice.”
Brown stared at the scribbled words and felt his collar constrict around his throat. Damn government observers. Damn William Howard Russell, and damn the God-damned Times. “Where is he?”
The aide looked surprised. “Uh, waiting outside, sir.”
“Just outside?”
“No, sir, after he gave me the paper he found himself a place by a campfire. Mr. Russell offered him a drink.”
He would. Brown damned Russell and the Times again, out loud this time, then tossed the dirty paper at the nearest brazier. “Bring him in here.” He sank onto the chair behind the desk. “Then clear out. But stay close; we’ve a war to fight once I finish talking with whatever pretty-boy Whitehall’s inflicted on us this time.”
The aide saluted and backed away, and General Brown stared at the flame licking along the edge of the grime-streaked paper.
Damn Russell. Damn Delane of the Times , who had sent his young reporter to bivouac with Her Majesty’s Army in Scotland and send home first-hand accounts of the monster war. Russell was a soft little sniveling man whose accounts dwelt heavily on the “inhumanity” of Army practices and Army discipline. The soft and sniveling British public had reacted with predictable horror, and now London was awash in a public outcry over the treatment of its soldiers. As a result, the officials who ran the country from their Whitehall offices had inflicted more than one “government observer” upon Brown. Each was more damnably annoying than the last, tugging upon Brown’s sleeve and bleating platitudes while Brown was trying to win a war.
A war that was all Whitehall’s fault in the first place, for it was Whitehall that had created the Wellington monsters. A proper Army of proper Englishmen hadn’t been good enough for the office clerks who ran the government. Blasted penny-pinchers had decided they would rather not give honest pay for honest work, and instead focused their efforts on creating— creating, through confoundedly unnatural means—regiments of monsters that didn’t have to be paid and could stand even worse food and shelter than a human soldier.
Perhaps the first “special battalion” had been a necessity, Brown admitted grudgingly in the privacy of his thoughts. Perhaps Wellington would not have managed to defeat old Boney without them, though Wellington had been heard to say that his brave lads would have won Waterloo even without monstrous help. Brown further conceded that once Britain had at its disposal a battalion of enormous ape-men wielding battle axes, it would have been foolish not to put them
“No, sir—” The boy shook his head. “He’s white-haired, sir, not a young man. And he’s not dressed like a reporter. He says he’s come from the government offices at Whitehall, and his credentials look right...I mean, so far’s I can tell, and they must’ve to the others or he could never have gotten so far within the camp...”
“A ‘government observer.’” Brown snorted. “You tell him I am conducting a God-damned battle and haven’t time to hold his little hand.”
“He said—” The aide cleared his throat, looking truly miserable. “Sir, he said if you declined to speak with him, I was to give you this.”
“This” was a single sheet of dirty notebook paper, folded in half, trembling with the tremors that ran through the aide’s hand. Not credentials, Brown thought, curious in spite of himself. Not a letter of introduction. A personal note, quickly scrawled. What could possibly be put into a personal note that would prompt him to change his mind and allow this intruder into his tent? He was curious enough to reach out his hand and find out.
The paper read, “You can talk to me right now. Or I can talk to Russell and you can read about it next week with everyone else. Your choice.”
Brown stared at the scribbled words and felt his collar constrict around his throat. Damn government observers. Damn William Howard Russell, and damn the God-damned Times. “Where is he?”
The aide looked surprised. “Uh, waiting outside, sir.”
“Just outside?”
“No, sir, after he gave me the paper he found himself a place by a campfire. Mr. Russell offered him a drink.”
He would. Brown damned Russell and the Times again, out loud this time, then tossed the dirty paper at the nearest brazier. “Bring him in here.” He sank onto the chair behind the desk. “Then clear out. But stay close; we’ve a war to fight once I finish talking with whatever pretty-boy Whitehall’s inflicted on us this time.”
The aide saluted and backed away, and General Brown stared at the flame licking along the edge of the grime-streaked paper.
Damn Russell. Damn Delane of the Times , who had sent his young reporter to bivouac with Her Majesty’s Army in Scotland and send home first-hand accounts of the monster war. Russell was a soft little sniveling man whose accounts dwelt heavily on the “inhumanity” of Army practices and Army discipline. The soft and sniveling British public had reacted with predictable horror, and now London was awash in a public outcry over the treatment of its soldiers. As a result, the officials who ran the country from their Whitehall offices had inflicted more than one “government observer” upon Brown. Each was more damnably annoying than the last, tugging upon Brown’s sleeve and bleating platitudes while Brown was trying to win a war.
A war that was all Whitehall’s fault in the first place, for it was Whitehall that had created the Wellington monsters. A proper Army of proper Englishmen hadn’t been good enough for the office clerks who ran the government. Blasted penny-pinchers had decided they would rather not give honest pay for honest work, and instead focused their efforts on creating— creating, through confoundedly unnatural means—regiments of monsters that didn’t have to be paid and could stand even worse food and shelter than a human soldier.
Perhaps the first “special battalion” had been a necessity, Brown admitted grudgingly in the privacy of his thoughts. Perhaps Wellington would not have managed to defeat old Boney without them, though Wellington had been heard to say that his brave lads would have won Waterloo even without monstrous help. Brown further conceded that once Britain had at its disposal a battalion of enormous ape-men wielding battle axes, it would have been foolish not to put them
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