As Victor made his dispositions, his soldiers' dispositions grew cheerier by the minute. "Might even've been worth booting us out of bed so bloody early," a rifleman called to Radcliff.

"So glad you approve," Victor said.

"You won't get higher praise than that," Grigsby remarked.

Victor nodded. "Don't I know it!"

Spatters of musketry started up, off to the east, victor had sent reinforcements to his pickets during the night. He wanted his men to harass the redcoats if they chose the wrong roads and to leave them alone if they came along the ones he wanted. This was the tricky part. If the Atlanteans guided too openly, Howe would wonder why… wouldn't he?

Little by little, the gunfire faded away. Ulysses Grigsby sketched a salute. "Damn me if I don't believe you've brung it off."

"Well, we can hope so," Victor answered. He had his men and fieldpieces deployed the way he wanted them. He needed to make General Howe think he was ready to fight here, but not that he was excessively eager about it.

For that matter, he needed to make himself feel the same way. The spot Ulysses Grigsby had suggested looked good, but he wouldn't know it was till the fighting ended. And, if Grigsby had somehow contrived to play him false, it would prove to be not so good as it seemed. In that case, the English Atlantean's fate would prove less pleasant than Grigsby wished.

"Skirmishers forward!" Victor commanded. He had to look as if he'd just stumbled upon this position and chosen to fight here more or less on a whim. Soldiers sniping at the redcoats and trying to slow down and disrupt their advance would add a convincing touch.

Cavalrymen rode back through the advancing skirmishers "They're coming!" the riders shouted, and some added obscene embellishments on the theme.

Victor Radcliff surveyed the field. "I do believe we're ready to greet them properly," he said, and then, to Ulysses Grigsby's guards, "Take the gentleman back and keep him out of the way till we see how things develop. After that, we'll know whether he stabbed us in the back or we should pat him on his."

"Come along, you," growled the sergeant in charge of the guards.

"You're an endearing chap, aren't you?" Grigsby said. The sergeant looked at him as if flies buzzed around him in an open field. "No. Come on, I said."

"You certainly did." Grigsby came.

Victor eyed his men behind a stone wall. They shouldn't disconcert the redcoats. General Howe knew the Atlanteans liked to fight from cover when they could. Sometimes, they'd made English troops sorry. Others, the redcoats had managed to storm their positions in spite of everything. When the redcoats came to close quarters, their skill-and viciousness-with the bayonet gave them the edge.

More gunfire erupted up ahead. That had to be the skirmishers fighting a delaying action against the English. Yes, here they came, firing and falling back. The musketeers, who could shoot more quickly, helped keep the redcoats off the riflemen, who could hit from longer range.

"Come on! Come on!" Victor Radcliff waved his hat. "You can do it! The line's just ahead now!"

Most of the skirmishers took their place behind the stone fence. Some went off to the surgeon, either under their own power or helped by their friends. Brave banners from the Atlantean regiments fluttered in the morning sun.

And more brave banners appeared from out of the sun. It didn't seem that an English squad could march into battle without drums thumping and flags flying, much less a company or a regiment. Had trees sprouted flags in place of leaves, Victor would

have thought Birnam Wood was out looking for Dunsinane.

When General Howe and his officers spotted the flags marking the Atlantean position, they paused well out of rifle range and

methodically dressed their lines. Very faint in the distance, sergeants' angry shouts reached Victor's ears. He smiled. Underofficers seemed much the same regardless of army or uniform.

With his spyglass, he found General Howe. A slightly less gorgeously clad officer was talking to the English commander. The lower-ranking man pointed to the woods ahead and to either side of the stone fence the Atlanteans defended. Victor idly wondered if that was Richard Cornwallis or some other English officer who'd fought the French Atlanteans the last time around.

Whoever the Englishman was, General Howe didn't want to listen to him. Howe pointed to the Atlantean banners, then waved his hand. The spyglass didn't let Victor recognize expressions, but he had no doubt what that dismissive gesture meant. The English commander did it so well, he might have used it on the stage.

The other officer tried once more. This time, Howe's gesture seemed more imperious than dismissive Stop bothering me and carry out your orders-that was what he had to mean. The junior officer saluted and rode away. Whatever he was thinking, he perforce kept it to himself.

Howe's field artillery deployed. The men performed their evolutions with admirable speed and precision. Victor would have found them even more admirable if they weren't aimed at his men.

One after another, the English cannon boomed. A roundshot roared over the Atlanteans. Another smacked the fence they sheltered behind. Flying chunks of stone wounded several men.

Atlantean cannon posted by the fence thundered a reply. A lucky shot from one of them knocked a wheel off an English gun carriage The enemy field piece pointed at an odd angle, as if trying to stand up straight while drunk. Artillerymen rushed to repair the wounded cannon.

Another Atlantean roundshot plowed through several ranks of redcoats before finally losing its momentum. Victor heard those distant soldiers shriek. Their comrades dragged badly hurt men off to the surgeons and took their places without any fuss. The slaughter machine that was an English army tramped forward to the beat of the drum and the wail of the fife.

"Don't shoot too soon, you damnfool musketeers!" That had to be an Atlantean sergeant: no officer would have shown common soldiers so much scorn. The man went on, "You just waste powder and lead if you do! We can get more lead out of your thick skulls, but we really are low on powder."

A cannon tore another furrow in the English ranks. The redcoats closed up and kept coming. Riflemen opened fire on them. Those men could have won the war single-handed if only they reloaded faster. Since they didn't…

"Musketeers-be ready!" Victor shouted. That command wasn't in the manual of arms. The men knew what it meant all the same Victor hoped they did, anyhow. He'd yelled himself hoarse instructing them as they marched from their encampment to this position. Now… had they listened? Would soldiers pay attention when you tried to get them to do something they weren't used to doing?

"Musketeers-fire!" That wasn't Victor: several sergeants and officers yelled the same thing at the same time.

The muskets roared. Darts of flame spat toward the oncoming redcoats. A young fogbank of fireworks-smelling smoke rose above the stone fence in back of which the Atlanteans sheltered.

Surprisingly few Englishmen fell. The ones who didn't let out a cheer full of as much relief as ferocity. The fifes and drums picked up their rhythm. The redcoats double-timed toward the fence. At a shouted command, their bayoneted muskets lowered in a glittering wave of sharp steel.

Victor tensed. If things went wrong now, it would be embarrassing. Fatally embarrassing, most likely. And things went wrong all the time in war. Anyone who'd done any fighting knew that.

Why didn't the rest of the Atlanteans…? And then, all of a sudden, they did. He'd posted men and field guns in the trees in front of and to either side of the stone fence. All the banners stayed in plain view behind the fence. A well-disciplined Englishman like Howe might conclude from that that all the Atlanteans also stood behind the fence.