Chapter 9 The Cypress Gambit
Chapter nine
The Cypress Gambit
Northwest Verdancia, the same evening
General Roderic Calder sat on a folding stool, knees set wide, outside his tent in a pasture two kilometers from Bethel Springs.
Frogs croaked out their songs, accompanied by katydids and crickets.
The height of the grass and the profusion of saplings testified to how long the cattle had been absent.
He poured another cup of coffee and set the tin pot back in the embers of a low-burning campfire.
Dusk hung in the sky like a curtain waiting to fall.
Roderic checked his pocket watch: 7:50 p.m.—almost time.
He took a moment to study the sterling silver heirloom, which still kept perfect time after nearly two centuries.
Etched on the cover flew the proud falcon, a jagged mountain as its backdrop.
Flipping the timepiece over, he read the inscription—By Honor, We Rise.
He tucked it back into his uniform pocket.
“General, sir!”
Straightening, Roderic glanced up at his adjunct trotting through the rows of tents, his boots flattening any grass that still dared raise its head amid the orderly chaos of ten thousand soldiers, their mounts, and machinery.
Only then did he notice the laughter, insults, and murmured conversations of the camp, the whinnies and clangs, as a thousand tendrils of smoke rose in tight swirls into the darkening sky.
Lieutenant Jerry Rushing slid to a halt, snapping a quick salute. His sun-kissed ginger curls wilted with sweat around an angular jaw rough with stubble. “I’ve got the latest scouting report.”
The young officer thrust a small scrap of paper at Roderic, who unrolled it.
“They’re camped fifteen miles north of here, following the old highway route, just as you predicted, sir.” Rushing’s breath heaved, causing Roderic to wonder how far he’d run with the missive in hand.
“Excellent news, Lieutenant.” Roderic tucked the note into a pocket. “Round up the senior officers. It’s time to put our plan into action.”
A thunderous boom split the calm air, accompanied by a column of fire and a broad cloud of smoke. A few pebbles, splinters, and ashes rained down on the camp, startling the horses and drawing gasps of awe from the troops. “The bridge?” Rushing asked as he gaped at the fireball.
“I sent a demolition team as soon as we arrived,” Roderic said, and took another sip from his tin cup. The campfires and the last ribbon of red in the west were now the only light. The general glanced at Rushing. “My officers?”
“Yes, sir! Right away.” Snapping out of his blast-induced trance, the lieutenant rushed off to collect Calder’s senior staff.
Roderic tossed the last dregs of his coffee into the fire, making it sputter, sending sparks fleeing.
He wasn’t worried about disturbing the locals; Bethel Springs had been deserted for years.
Now it was nothing but crumbling buildings with tattered billboards, a sad reminder of an era long since lost.
In the next few minutes, he’d be making the most significant decisions of his lifetime—more monumental than choosing a wife or a career, both of which had been picked for him. But Lord Thorne Calder wasn’t here to call the shots this time. Success or failure rested on Roderic’s shoulders alone.
One by one, the colonels and majors opened stools, taking seats around the campfire, albeit not too close. They needed the light; the heat they could do without.
When the last one arrived, Roderic spoke to them with the authority of his rank and the title he was heir to.
“Gentlemen, the moment of truth lies before us. General Garcia’s force—eight times our own—has been spotted.
They will overtake us on the morrow, but we will have laid a trap that will, at worst, cripple them, and, at best, end this war before it’s begun.
The bridge was just destroyed, and they’ll be forced to cross the Cypress Creek swamp. ”
“What about General Longstreet?” asked Major Hawk-Eye McKinley. He was a big man, around forty, with a large family back in Stonevale. Roderic found him to be a competent field officer, if a little cautious. Prudence had its place, only not here and now.
“We’ve received no word from Longstreet,” he replied calmly.
“His forces will either arrive from Marchland or they won’t, but we can’t wait.
This is the moment to strike. If we do not, there’ll be no other opportunity to stop the Iron Army’s advance on Tupelo, and eventually Marchland and Stonevale—even Nelanta.
It’s now or never, gentlemen. We either go down in history as heroes, like the Spartan Three Hundred, or as cowards like Neville Chamberlain, who appeased and conceded, allowing a tyrant to grow nearly too powerful to contain. ”
His officers stared at him with blank eyes.
Roderic forgot that, while experienced military men, most hadn’t access to libraries such as the one at Highcrest Hall, nor the inclination to read the histories.
Yet he was determined that his name would be recorded in a book that others would study for generations to come.
That book would not label Roderic Calder a coward.
“So, we proceed with the plan without him, with only our ten thousand?” asked Colonel Dexter Pickering, the pallor of terror veiling his face.
The old gent, a friend of Lord Thorne’s, had been awarded his rank through political connections and had never seen actual combat.
Roderic feared he might suffer a heart attack before fighting began.
“That’s correct, Colonel.” Roderic pinned him with a hard stare.
“Before dawn, you will each lead your brigades to their appointed places so that we may spring our trap once the Iron Army is bogged down in mud to their balls.” He unfolded a smudged, worn paper map and motioned for the others to gather around.
Eager Lieutenant Rushing flicked on a flashlight and aimed it at the map.
“Pickering, establish your artillery on this eastern ridge.” Roderic tapped the spot. “Then have your troops cover the cannons with netting and branches, in case General Garcia sends a reconnaissance balloon ahead. Surprise is vital to the success of our ambush.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Pickering stammered, swallowing hard. His bony hand tugged at his collar, but, to his credit, the old man didn’t faint.
Roderic doled out other assignments before getting to McKinley.
“It’s imperative you hold your cavalry in reserve until you hear the bugle signal.
You’ll be attacking the enemy’s rear once the majority have become mired in the marsh.
See here?” He pointed to a section of the deserted town.
“There’s a long row of warehouses, a perfect spot to hide horses, motorcycles, and jeeps.
You’ll need to start moving into place early, as it’s on the north side of the blown bridge. ”
“Yes, sir.” McKinley gave him a smart nod. “We’ll be ready to jab them in the ass.”
“My forces will be hiding in the marsh, like Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox. Nobody so much as sneezes until I give the signal—got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Roderic would have preferred their response had been more enthusiastic.
“General, sir?”
He glanced up at another major, who appeared to be about to vomit, his dark skin blanched like a seashell. “Yes, Williams?”
“Well, General Calder, sir, it’s just that we’ll all be trapped in the swamp too—except for the artillery and cavalry. Our ability to move will be hampered as much as our foes’. I just think—”
“You think, Major Williams?” Calder stood, looking down at the quivering officer under his command. “Your job isn’t to think, but to obey orders. Rushing,” he called, looking about for his adjunct.
“Here, sir!” He snapped to attention.
“Get Corporal Foley to help you distribute the oil barrels to these fine brigade leaders.”
“Yes, sir.” With a salute, he spun on his heel and rushed off, bellowing, “Foley!”
“Oil barrels?” Williams had not vomited—not yet anyway.
“Everyone will take their positions—not in the waist-deep Cypress Creek sprawl, but on the scattered solid mounds where the cattails and willows grow. Stay low and out of sight. At the first sound of approaching vehicles, you’re to pour oil into the creek.
Once enough enemy soldiers are wading through, our archers—under your command, Williams—will loose flaming arrows into the marsh.
True, retreat will be hazardous at best. Let us hope they’ll be the ones retreating. Any more questions?”
The officers exchanged troubled glances, then returned blank stares to Roderic.
“Very well. Get a good sleep. We strike camp at 0400. Dismissed.”
“What about me?”
Roderic turned to spy his driver, Sergeant Latrice Brant, a solemn look on her brown face.
A black tail of narrow braids fell down her back from beneath her cap.
In her mid-thirties, a woman’s curves filled out her uniform.
And although she was attractive, he couldn’t recall once having seen her smile.
“When we strike the camp, you, the quartermaster, and some of the supply personnel will remain here with my Humvee, the ambulances, rations, and sundry pieces of equipment. Just because you all are noncombatants doesn’t mean you aren’t important.
Should anything go terribly wrong, take the Humvee and race as fast as you can to get word to my father.
” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Well, and the other generals, the queen, and whoever else needs to know. Can I count on you for that?”
“Yes, sir, General,” she answered in a solemn tone. “You can always count on me.”