Chapter 4

At Sargasso Station

The train had arrived at Sargasso station when General Mayhew woke with a start. He was roused from his slumber by the low whine of the brakes and the mild lurch when the train had come to a stop. Behind him in the aisle, he could hear one of his aides whispering orders to subordinates before dismissing them abruptly. Without skipping a beat, he went to check on the General, but, seeing him awake, saluted, and made his way to the compartments clearly eager to be elsewhere. He knew the man, one Lt. Major Wenck, who on most occasions was the very figure of composure. "Very unlike him," the General muttered, limbering up. Craning his neck slowly--it was a bit stiff--he took in his surroundings before lighting a cigar. "Almost to the front," he muttered, "can't blame him."

It was rare for the General to travel in style, rarer still in wartime, no less so for taking the Peninsular, famed for its luxury as well as its length, whose rail stretched as far South from the coasts of Rosalia all the way North to the mountains of Dacia. It was a model of Electrodyne Technology, running on a mixture of electricity and steam and was as modern as it was fast. Excepting that the war imposed certain privations upon the liner, with furnishings ranging from expensive Rosewood tables to leather seats still slick with polish, the ride was luxurious indeed. Between the crystal lamps and the baroque, swirling facade of First Class, the General was in rare luck in spite of the conflict.

Save for five cars at the head of the train, many compartments were replaced with freight and amenities were laconic with officers stationed in front and soldiers packed in the rear. As for those cars, the proprietor considered it a poor investment to strip them cost-for-cost but to preserve them for future use. The Generals, the proprietor said, may dispose of them as they saw fit--an indulgence they took no small advantage of.

With the war already a few weeks in, the necessities of state ate at the edges of this fine specimen of industrialization. The train, to the proprietor's great consternation, was one of the first things to be commandeered by the Army, being the only train to complete the journey along the length of Vieux Rosalie, and was repurposed to ferry troops.

The arrangement was itself a novelty. Straddling three countries, there was some dispute as to how each of these sponsors would benefit from its convenience. A group of able administrators had struck upon the idea of holding the rail in common while holding the liners in private, all three being allies of a sort, the issue having been resolved through the exchange of diplomatic notes. Since the Peninsular was run by a Dacian company, the train would be run by Dacia while the other two would field their own liners upon the same rail with the requisite compensation to private ownership held in trust in lieu of a victory.

The shrill whistle of the barker echoed outside as he directed the station hands and his calls could be heard from within the train. From his seat by the window the General saw the heads of the staff--about five in total--in formal dress at the station gates arrayed to receive the General, while the rest, threadbare in their patience, dispersed to see to the locks.

"A bloody nuisance," the Mayhew muttered, "they didn't have to go this far."

It was no secret that Mayhew was a famous General and while all men took heart with a small dose of theatrics, Mayhew himself could never get used to the treatment. He was a Dacian, no other, and a citizen besides. Among the Grandees he was the most strange for wearing his egalitarian pretensions on his sleeve. "They've probably got the whole town behind them, too." Sinking slightly into his seat, Mayhew took a puff from his cigar. Low, audible whispers punctuated the fine light and milling silence of that Spring morning, "almost like a dream," Mayhew told himself, fully aware of the irony.

He thought again of the campaign. Heretofore, the Silmerian Armies had seen to it to emphasize the eastern Theatre where Latia and the Auxilliaries were operating and with good reason: where the weight of operations resides, there resides the decision. Now that Silmeria was bogged down in an interminable exchange at the Latian frontier, it was a common supposition that the Emperor would seek to open a new front to knock either Lorraigne, her puppets, or Rosalia out of the war. The likely line of approach would be through the Wetern Parnasses or a wide sweep through the sea after a rapid and audacious march west. In either scenario, the belligerents expected that the new line would stretch West by Southwest, emanating from a base established north of the Parnasses. It was only a question where the weight would land.

His mind drifted back to the scene in the Arletine. "We must at least try," Mayhew insisted to himself although the Court had adjourned a fortnight prior. He made it a point to call upon Marshal Collins thereafter, to insist on an advance through the Western Gate. Standing in Collins' office over a table-sized map of Rosalia during an otherwise quiet afternoon, Mayhew had thought that his cause was lost in the sea of competing voices. The Marshal had previously acquiesced to a defense but not an advance. The decision arrived at in the Conference, according to the Marshal, must and will stand--this was not for Mayhew to question. But he had to try--the North was special to him this way.

"I've had it up to here with your theatrics, Mayhew," the Marshal retorted, "you may be a General now but you've never outgrown your love of a fight!" Sitting there with his pince-nez and littered sheafs, Collins bore the air of a beleagured official, deep into his work, with little patience for discussion. "An advance through the Parnasses is out of the question. It will open up new difficulties and alientate our business partners. We've discussed this before. Unless Montferrat agrees to mobilizing on our side, our hands are tied. Any attempt to intimidate the Duke will only result in saddling our allies with the costs of a new campaign. They may very well side against us if we push them too far."

"And not a single diplomat to argue on our behalf?"

"Rosalia has already sent a delegation. It is of no use to us to go about bullying the Duke's officers into siding with us," having said that, the Marshal held Mayhew's eyes with a glare, "and I would caution you not to go bellowing gods knows what into the ears of all and sundry--you already know how precarious our alliance is. Lorraigne may be on our side now but they will use this to justify a withdrawal quite likely in the near future."

"Ten divisions."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Give me ten divisions and I will make this problem go away. Ten. Six of Dacian, Four of Foederati.

"Out of the question. You were allocated five and that is all you will have."

Mayhew sighed and arched himself over a map table in disbelief. "Ten. You know we need this now more than ever."

The Silmerian Offensive caught everyone by surprise. The late buildup of troops on the Western edge of Silmeria had been worrying but within treaty limits. It was dismissed by all pundits as defensive in nature, meant to scare the Rosalians into silence. It was when SIlmeria went from billeting soldiers to sending them illegally across the border that all bets were off, this unthinkable result being, according to them in hindsight, the effect of the 'real forces of war', forcing the hand of Silmeria into opening a second front. It helped little that it was, above all else, a Silmerian claim.

"Seven and no more. Five of Dacian, two of Foederati."

"I cannot hope to defend the gates without ten."

"You pin your hopes on a nightmare and expect a miracle? Then a miracle you shall need: seven. I'll inform the Quartermaster and see I can have the reallocation approved. Maker knows I have better things to do."

In the event, Mayhew received the allotted seven Divisions and five more from the Rosalians on trust. To his surprise, he was promoted to Lieutenant General for this purpose in spite of Collins' questionable confidence--a sign, he thought, of his superior's recognition and congratulated himself on being able to communicate the urgency of his cause, the condescension of the whole of Arlington be damned. Regardless, the matter having been decided, he saw no need to press further and was disinclined to pry.

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Reaching for his cane, he noticed that the murmurs, until then barely audible, were now in heated discussion. Just as he got up, his aides-de-camp came in from the neighboring car. As Lieutenant General, he was entitled to two aside from his staff: Lt. Major Wenck and Lt. Major Albright. Both had served with him in at least two campaigns and a litter of minor scuffles on the side. Yana Albright was a specialist in intelligence while Wenck had served in the Dacian General Staff prior to being reassigned. In true Dacian fashion, the most recent appointments to the line were left out to dry and as specialists were so placed in order to learn the art of command, surviving on a diet of cunning, good sense and pluck--qualities indispensible to any General.

"Status?" asked Mayhew as the two approached.

Saluting, Albright began, "we have a problem, sir."

"Go on."

"Due to some difficulties loading the troops, it will take the 17th and the 19th another day to arrive."

"What's causing the delay?"

"It appears we did not anticipate the load due to mobilizing on short notice. With all rolling stock headed to the eastern front, we've encountered a supply bottleneck affecting transport."

"I take it we know what is causing it?"

"Mostly munitions although we've already arranged for the arsenal to be supplied from neighboring districts per SOP. Apparently, there were not enough munitions in Central Dacia to feed the surprise deployment. However we do expect to remedy the deficit shortly. The munitions will be shipped with the 17th and 19th and our deployment should be completed within the week.

"Excellent. No news on the additional units from Rosalia?"

"No, sir. but Major Wenck should be better informed."

Turning to Wenck, Mayhew said, "Well?"

"We have received a communique, sir, from the Rosalian Chief of Staff that a number of divisions--five in total--should be transported to Sargasso in short order."

"Expected time of arrival?"

"None, sir. The alloction was provided on pledge as part of Rosalia's diplomatic 'communique' regarding their stance on the SIlmerian advance."

"Anything else?"

"There is the matter of the Rosalian official who arrived ahead of us."

"And who might that be?"

"One Col. Clairaut, sir," replied Wenck, who paused, and seeing the General's irritation, ventured, "he apparently arrived in a passenger car with his staff prior to our arrival. It seems he's been here a whole week."

"Very good. Inform M. Clairaut that we will be seeing him shortly. Wenck, I want someone to establish Headquarters. The Court expects an open line promptly and they're eager we do not disappoint. We will also need lodging for the troops. Ask the Mayor if there are facilities available for the officers. I want the troops billeted and the camps established in short order. Yana, you will come with me. Dismissed."

It was early dawn when the train arrived and the town was half asleep blanketed in mist. In the distance, the clouds rested upon the mountainside as the sun, not quite roused, rose lazily upon their peaks and cast a feeble light upon the range. Then there was a low crack, groan and thunder as the tip of a glacier tumbled headlong into the valley, the crash scaring the crows into fight. Stepping out of the car, the first thing Mayhew noticed was the cold and then the crisp air and bracing wind of the valley. A station hand in a frock saluted him as he passed, and Mayhew nodded. he paused for a while to catch his bearings and stifle his shivering--it was poor form to present himself before the welcome company looking like a nervous wreck.

"A terrible thing, this cold," Mayhew said, barely stifling a sneeze. He was more used to warmth, having aged in southern climes and waged camapaigns in southern theatres. The North, however, was his home and was eager to see it prosper. It was with some consternation, then that he noticed that no one else was shivering.

"Would you prefer an overcoat, sir? You have been advised to wear some protection. I could have one fetched for you." suggested Albright, smiling helpfully.

At this Mayhew took offense. The cold was no impediment to him he muttered, not to himself at the very least. Being Dacian, the cold of the mountain range should have been a part of him and looking around he noticed that among the the train staff there was not an overcoat in sight. The hands were threadbare and the staff were in morning coats and simply dressed. It irritated him that he should be shivering but being the wiser, he asked for the coat and thanked Albright for her consideration. "I could use a cup of something right about now."

"Patience, sir. Wenck is busy confirming our arrangements with the Mayor."

"Doesn't the cold bother you in the least?"

Albright smiled. "Not at all, Sir. Worry not, we'll have that coat soon."

In spite of the cold, Mayhew's thoughts were curdling. Wenck had good cause for worry. As far as observers are concerned, the Silmerians were in heated battle with the Lorraignes North of the Parnassid frontier. The Lorraignes, having borne the weight of the SIlmerian advance have retreated west, towards the famed Montaigne line--a belt of fortresses connected by extensive trenches that dotted the hillside. The Silmerians, having been goaded into an attack have incurred heavy losses against these defenses. In response, they have put up earthworks ostensibly to prevent a counterattack. To Rosalian eyes, this was incontrovertible evidence that SIlmeria now posed an indelible threat to their frontier. It was, after all, in the nature of battle to seek its level, and, having been rebuffed at first instance against stern opposition, would find, as with water, the nearest sluice. It was the unfortunate case that the minor nations that dotted the countryside now presented such an opening and their neutrality, though sacred, was now merely a greater temptation. Mayhew shook his head at the prospect.

Turning to Albright, he asked, "What can you tell me about the latest from Silmeria?"

"You mean the fortifications, sir? It could be anything. The staff believes it could be a staging ground for an advance futher West or further South. The Silmerians still have access to the North Sea and so can make a hook at the Lorraigne rear in spite of the Montaigne. It can also mean they have designs upon Rosalia although this is old news."

"Very clever, these Silmerians. They could either attack Rosalia or Lorraigne with the most important fact being their freedom of choice. With fortifications they're secure no matter which direction they choose."

"We're anticipating a southward swing but there are those who believe it is wholly defensive."

"Do they expect Fifth Columns?"

"We think. The Lorraignes have not been too kind to SIlmerian minorities in the west heartland.

"And Montferrat?"

"Quiet, for now."

"Ah," Mayhew said in a hopeful tone, "if only!"

"Pardon, sir?"

"A bagatelle. If only the Duke would agree to an alliance." Mayhew mused and then said pointedly, "has Montferrat changed its stance?"

"No sir. And if they did, it was never vocal"

"What do you mean?"

"They're dithering, sir. It appears that their leadership will be 'crossing the floor', so to speak."

"They mean to bandwagon?"

Albright shrugged, "Rumors. That was, ostensibly, why M. Clairaut's mission was sent in for. We received the information from his delegation, after all."

"Can we invite the man to chat, Albright?"

"Not immediately. He had already informed us that he will be unavailable until the 31st. He has been sending his communiques to us from the Montferrat capital."

"Not bad. I hope the gentleman does not disappoint."

The air was still as the two officers waited upon the coat and the chill cut Mayhew close. The worst part of the issue was his injury. His leg, which had sustained in his younger years a wound from musket fire was aching throughout the ordeal. Shifting the weight of his feet on his cane, he fidgeted slightly. Falling to thought, he ventured on a question, "don't you find it strange that Montferrat has remained quiet throughout all this? What do you think the chances are that they'll side with Silmeria?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I mean, suppose Montferrat sides with Silmeria, that would solve all our problems, dont' you think? I suppose that--"

"Sir, your coat!"

An orderly approached with a thick greycoat in hand and Mayhew, disturbed from his reverie, accepted it gladly.

Having received the coat and put it on, Mayhew and his aide made for the entrance of the station. It was an old affair, the terminal, with half the structure exposed to the elements and rustic inasmuch as such stations go--nothing like the Grand Central Station of Rosalia with its marbled style and crystal windows or the stately Dacian Capital Station with its wrought-iron gateworks. But appearing now before the welcome committee--he was right and at least half the town was behind them--he felt the same warmth one would feel in a much belated homecoming. And between the mottled, bespectacled party and the band's awkward tune, he felt at home in spite of the cold.

"You know Albright, it has always been my dream to do something for Dacia. I have fought for the Estates for far too long. It was about time I came home and did something."

Nodding vaguely, Albright replied, "Of course, sir. Until Major Wenck returns, we shall have time before we can retire. Might I suggest we inspect the troops?"

"Very well," Mayhew said, "let's see to that, shall we?"