Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho'(though) the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho'(though) the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Charge of the Light Brigade
"CHAAAAAARGE!" cried the King, holding his sword aloft and leading by example.
There had once been a time, in more savage eras, when the King would have had to be the biggest and toughest bastard in the land, in order that he might be able to hang onto his crown while every other bloke with land and a gullible militia was trying to prise it from his grasp. But generations of peace and misguided genetic theory had done away with that.
Then again, even if he'd been eight feet tall with muscles like mahogany, I doubt he would have lasted very long against Barry's counter-attack. The King was barely halfway to the vicar and our army was still internally debating whether or not to follow when Barry waved a hand and a great pillar of white light slammed down. The silhouette of a rapidly skeletonizing human form was visible writhing painfully for a few seconds too long for comfort before the light faded, leaving nothing of the king but a black stain and a few extremely well-maintained teeth.
Longstreet: You know what's gonna happen? I'll tell you what's gonna happen. Troops are now forming behind the line of trees. When they come out, they'll be under enemy long-range artillery fire. Solid shot. Percussion. Every gun they have. Troops will come out under fire with more than a mile to walk. And still, within the open field, among the range of aimed muskets. They'll be slowed by that fence out there, and the formation - what's left of it - will begin to come apart. When they cross that road, they'll be under short-range artillery. Canister fire. Thousands of little bits of shrapnel wiping the holes in the lines. If they get to the wall without breaking up, there won't be many left. A mathematical equation... But maybe, just maybe, our own artillery will break up their defenses. There's always that hope. But that's Hancock out there, and he ain't gonna run. So it's mathematical after all. If they get to that road, or beyond it, we'll suffer over fifty percent casualties. But, Harrison, I don't believe my boys will reach that wall.
