Such a conclusion was reasonable. It was logical. Unfortunately for the redcoats, it was also wrong. Dead wrong.

Musketry and canister tore into the English soldiers from both flanks. The soldiers in back of the wall abruptly stopped shooting high on purpose. Muskets weren't very accurate under any circumstances, but they could hit more often than they had been.

How the redcoats howled! Victor whooped and flung his hat in the air and danced an ungainly dance-his side of it, at least- with Blaise. "They haven't learned one damned thing since General Braddock's day!" he shouted to anyone who'd listen. "Not one damned thing!"

"How do they ever win battles, let alone wars?" Blaise asked.

"Because they're brave," Victor answered. "Because other people are just as stupid as they are. But not today, by God!"

"No, not today," Blaise agreed. "They can't get through, and they can't get away, either."

The redcoats tried charging the stone fence. If they could smash the Atlanteans there, they would fight on their own terms once more, not on Victor Radcliff's. Several scorching volleys showed them they couldn't. Dead and wounded men lay drifted in front of the fence. And the galling fire from right and left kept costing them more casualties, and they were altogether unable to answer it.

"General Howe's down!" somebody shouted. The news blazed up and down the Atlantean line, fast as a quick-burning fuse.

"It is like Braddock's battle!" Blaise exclaimed. Marching blithely into a trap, General Braddock had nearly killed English hopes in Atlantis along with most of his own soldiers. Victor and the English Atlanteans he led were the ones who'd got the red-coats' remnants away from the French Atlanteans. Who would extricate this batch of redcoats? Anyone at all?

"Punish them, boys!" Victor shouted. "Make them pay for all they've done to us!"

Whooping with delight, the greencoats did. They'd won skirmishes over the winter, but never before a pitched battle against the English. Considering all the close fights they'd lost the year before, they had a lot to pay back. They did their best to settle the debt all at once.

English trumpets blared. The foot soldiers stopped trying to force their way over the stone fence. That was plainly impossible, which hadn't kept them from going on with the attack. Only the trumpeted order to pull back ended the self-inflicted torment. Victor admired the redcoats' discipline more than their common sense.

They sullenly re-formed their ranks and began to march away. "Do we pursue, sir?" Habakkuk Biddiscombe asked.

Victor's first impulse was to say no. He didn't want to throw away the fine victory his men had already gained. But the English soldiers had to be more rattled than they seemed… didn't they? If he pushed them, they'd go to pieces… wouldn't they?

He decided he had to find out. The only thing better than a fine victory was a great victory. If you were going to get one, you had to take a chance now and then. "Yes, by God, we do pursue!" he exclaimed.

"Thank you, sir!" the cavalry officer exclaimed, a broad grin spreading across his face. "I was afraid I'd have to… do something insubordinate to get that order out of you."

To thwack you with a big stick, was what he had to mean. Victor grinned back. "Well, you've got it. Now make the most of it."

"We'll do that very thing, General." Biddiscombe started shouting orders of his own. Victor Radcliff realized he knew exactly what he intended to do. How long had he been working that out? Since the moment he first saw this position, chances were. Well, good. Officers needed to think ahead.

And that reminded Victor of something. He called for a runner. When the young man appeared before him, he said, "My compliments to Mr. Grigsby's guards, James, and they may release him. It seems plain enough that he didn't purpose betraying us to General Howe."

"Right you are, sir." James sketched a salute and darted away.

Victor wished for that much energy himself.

Horsemen and field guns went after the retreating redcoats. So did the foot soldiers who'd pummeled them from the trees. And-Victor watched in amazed delight-damned if the redcoats didn't fall to pieces right before his eyes. In the space of a few minutes, an army turned into a panic-stricken mob. Men threw away packs and muskets to flee the faster.

"Will you look at that?" Victor said to Blaise. "Will you look at that? We've whipped them! They've never been beaten like this, not in Atlantis. I don't know when they last got beaten like this back in Europe."

"What do we do now?" Blaise asked.

"I'll tell you what," Victor answered. "Custis Cawthorne must be in France by this time. We make sure he knows about it. And we make sure he lets the French hear about it. If they help us, our chances go up. France's navy has got better, a lot better, since the last time she fought England."

Blaise was more immediately practical. "No, no. I mean, what do we do with all the prisoners we are taking? What do we do with all the muskets and things the redcoats throw out?"

"Oh." Victor felt foolish. Yes, what he'd talked about also needed doing. But what Blaise talked about needed doing right away. "We especially need to round up bayonets. With a little luck, we'll never run short of them again. And we need to see if we've captured any supply wagons. The ones they make in England are better than any we have here."

"I will give those orders." Blaise hurried away.

Victor whistled softly. The whole war had just changed. He hadn't yet proved that, generalship being equal, Atlanteans could match Englishmen in the open field. But, if the Atlanteans had even slightly better generalship, they could not only match the redcoats but beat them.

"I told you so."

For a moment, Victor thought the words came straight from his own spirit. Then he realized Ulysses Grigsby had come up beside him. He nodded. "Yes, Mr. Grigsby, as a matter of fact, you did."

That took the wind out of Grigsby's sails. With a wry chuckle, he said, "How am I supposed to stay sore at you when you go and admit something like that?"

"Plenty of people would think it was easy," Victor assured him.

"I hope I know what gratitude's worth." Ulysses Grigsby hesitated, then plunged: "And speaking of which, your Excellency, any chance you might reward me in specie instead of paper? You didn't get something small from me, you know."

"I do indeed, and I would be glad to give you specie if only I had any to give." That wasn't the full truth, but Victor didn't think the other man needed to know everything about how the Atlanteans financed their war. He went on, "I will put the question to the Atlantean Assembly. If the Conscript Fathers choose to reward you in the fashion you request, no man will be happier than I."

"Oh, one man will, I reckon." Grigsby jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Gold and silver, they last. Who knows what Atlantean paper will be worth ten years from now? Meaning no disrespect, General, but who knows if it'll be worth anything ten years from now?"

"Our best chance to have it at par with specie is to win this war against England," Victor said. "Thanks to you, Mr. Grigsby, we're far closer to that goal than we were at this hour yesterday."

"Damn right we are. That's why I want specie." Grigsby had the simple rapacity of a red-crested eagle. Victor didn't care why the other man had warned the Atlantean army. As long as he had, nothing else mattered.

The sun was going down in crimson glory over the Green Ridge Mountains when several grinning Atlanteans led an English subaltern carrying a flag of truce into Victor Radcliff's presence. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant…?" Victor asked, though he supposed he already knew the answer.

"My name is Fleming, General-John Fleming,'' the young Englishman said. "I have the honor to convey General Cornwallis' compliments to you, and to ask if your side, having prevailed today, would be gracious enough to return General Howe's body for proper interment."