Altered America (13 page)

             
We’re circling the volcano when the laughing fades, replaced by an eery silence. The airplane starts to feel like a funeral parlor, three mourners bidding farewell to their life’s purpose. I look back at Gandry and he’s crying again. I don’t laugh this time. Myrna looks out into the empty sky, pretending she can’t feel my eyes prodding her.

             
“So what do we do now, Queen?" I ask. It’s an honest question, not meant for deep consideration.

             
“Damned if I know," says Myrna a little harsher than she intends. “Go back to our normal lives."

             
I think about clarifying, telling her I was just asking about where we’d land. Gandry didn’t give me the chance. “Normal lives? Rodrigh and I have been doing this since we graduated high-school—thirty years ago. There’s no normal life to go back to." It was true. Both Gandry and I were drafted for our athletic skills, not much room for four-foot-tall athletes in college, it was a logical choice. And what now? Are we expected to settle down and start families at forty-eight years of age?

             
“Don’t take that tone with your Queen," Myrna says.

             
“My Queen? No need for queens anymore. There’s no work to be—”

             
BBOOOMMMM!!
The sound is thunderous and deafening. It yanks us from celebration. The plane shudders like a cold kitten.

             
“What the hell was that?” Queen Myrna asks.

             
Climbing to the back, I can see through a window the plumes of smoke bellowing from Mount Oblivion. Red molten rock starts oozing its way towards the valley. Something strange catches my eye. A wide flow of lava snakes down a gentle slope. The fiery red river is streaked with dark cobalt as if the earth itself is regurgitating the poison. The smiles of a thousand elf-spirits turn to frowns. To hell with the elf-spirits! If our ancestors had paid attention, five-hundred years of shadow-conflict could have been avoided.

             
The cabin goes quiet again, but this time it’s not like a funeral. It’s the kind of silence you hear after someone tells a joke, the three of us trying to figure out the cosmic punchline. I can tell we’re all thinking the same thing when I look over at Myrna. She’s not smiling, but her eyeballs glisten with anticipation, the black plumes of Oblivion reflect in their beauty. Over my shoulder Gandry is rocking back and forth with a blank stare, clutching his axe tightly to his chest. I didn’t even know he brought it on board.

             
“You know the Leps will say the eruption was due to
their
magic. They really believe in that luck nonsense,” Myrna says.

             
“I bet Malto doesn’t believe in luck anymore.” I make a chopping gesture across my neck. Myrna laughs. I laugh with her. Not at my joke; I laugh because the eruption wasn’t due to their luck, but ours.

The Loyalist Washington

by Owen Morgan

London, 1759

              Lord Philips dipped a quill pen into the ink well. Just as he brought the pen nib to the ledger the door to his office swung open. The squeal of unoiled metal made his arthritic hand jump and droplets of blue-black ink cascaded along the page. He fixed his Aide-de-Camp with his one good eye. “Damn you. Don’t you know how to knock?”

             
Captain Samuel Fitzroy, all red coat and powdered wig, stood in the doorway, a dispatch case tucked under his right arm. “Sorry, My Lord. I’ve gathered together the list of Colonelcies for your approval. You will, perhaps, recall from our discussion of last—”

             
A tired
harrumph
from Lord Phillips cut him short.  “All right, bring it here.”

             
The captain placed the list before him and stood to attention. Lord Philips ran an aged finger down the list. “I recognize most of the names, but who the devil is George Washington?  Some militia captain or other?”

             
The captain cleared his throat. “He’s a Virginian, and—”

             
Lord Phillips brought a frail hand slapping down on the desk, making the ink well jump. “Damn it, Samuel. He’s a colonial. Good at fighting Red Indians no doubt, but you’re telling me that someone in London would have me approve his appointment over those of regular Army officers?”

             
The captain nodded. “Yes, he did fight the Delaware, and the Shawnee. But he also served as aid-de-camp to General Braddock, during what the colonials insist on calling the French and Indian War. He’s really quite gifted.”

             
Lord Philips sat deeper in his plush chair. “Yes they are all
quite gifted
, and most of them have connections in parliament if not at court. What is there to this...” he peered down at the list, “George Washington to recommend him
politically
?”

             
“There are rumblings of discontent within the colonies, My Lord. We would do well to have one of the colonial elite in the regular establishment. There’s a letter attached to the list signed by the king granting you discretion to make such an appointment.”

             
“Mmm... I shall think on it. Send in Admiral Collins. I have other matters to attend to at the moment.”

Virginia Frontier, 1759

             
A fierce wind lashed the tent of Colonel of Militia George Washington. He brooded over the tattered and inaccurate map spread out on his camp desk. A voice drew him away from his tactical musings.

             
“Begging your pardon, sir.”  William, a private in the Virginia militia, leaned through the tent flap. Washington beckoned him enter.

             
The fifteen year old militia man snapped a salute. “Sir, there be a representative of the commander of the regular forces to see you.”

             
Washington let out a sigh. “They’re probably going to saddle me with another General Braddock. When will those upper class Englishmen learn the differences between European and frontier warfare?  I know how to fight, and I’m as loyal to the British Empire as any son who hails from Britain’s shores.” He rolled up the map and pushed it inside a leather tube. “Send him in forthwith.”

             
A broad-chested individual wearing the red coat of a regular officer entered the tent and gave a curt nod. “Good evening, sir. May I introduce myself? I’m Captain Jeffery Windsworth, aid to General Horrocks.”

             
“Have my letters provoked a response from London after all this time?”  Washington inquired.

             
“Indeed, sir. I have the happy task of informing you of two notable events.”

             
Washington clasped his hands behind his back, his face unreadable. “What then is the first piece of auspicious news?”

             
Captain Windsworth smiled as he unrolled a vellum scroll, and read aloud:

             
“GEORGE THE THIRD, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom, and His other Realms and Territories King, Defender of the Faith—

             
To George Washington Esq.

             
WE hereby appoint you an Officer in His Majesty’s Army

             
With Seniority of the 24
th
, August, 1759

             
WE reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage and Integrity do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in our Army. You are, therefore, carefully and diligently to discharge your Duty as such in the Rank of Colonel or in such other Rank as We may from time to time hereafter be pleased to promote or appoint you to, and you are in such manner and on such occasions as may be prescribed by us to exercise and well discipline both the Inferior Officers and Non-Commissioned Members serving under you and use your best endeavor to keep them in good Order and Discipline, and We do hereby Command them to Obey you as their Superior Officer, and you to observe and follow such Orders and Directions as from time to time you shall receive from Us, or any other your Superior Officer according to Law, in pursuance of the Trust hereby Reposed in you.

             
IN WITNESS Whereof we have hereunto set our hand and Seal at Buckingham Palace in the City of London this 3
rd
day of April in the Year of our Lord 1759.”

             
The Captain then stepped forward and clasped Washington’s hand. “Congratulations, sir. And may I add to the
foregoing
that General Horrocks is recommending to London that your Virginians be made a Royal Regiment, with you as its colonel.

             
Washington smiled for the first time during their exchange. “That’s excellent news, Captain. Thank you for bringing it to me.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have to advise the officers and men of this Royal Virginia Regiment of their new status.”

Boston, 1775

             
Alfred Silversmith—banker, ship-owner, and politician—steepled his fingers under his three chins. “You do not find this undertaking beneath your dignity, Colonel?”

             
Washington kept his face imperturbable, a skill most needed when dealing with elites. “Nay, sir, I’ve heard about this mob of Whigs, stirring up the locals. I don’t believe that a farmer or labourer will take up arms and disturb the King’s Peace.”

             
“When do you strike out with your Royal Virginians?”

             
“An hour before sunrise. The general wants me to be up to Concord, lest those farmers become possessed by some fever.”

             
Silversmith leaned forward and whispered, “Do you think Governor Thomas would object to a little wager?”

             
“Considering he, as Governor, has enforced the Massachusetts Government Act, I would dare say he is up for any wager.”

             
Silversmith let forth a veritable thunder of laughter. “Oh, yes, I dare say you are right, my dear Colonel, but to the matter at hand. I am prepared to wager three guineas that you will put the rebels to flight with no more than a single volley.” He then signalled a servant for a glass of sherry.

             
Washington smiled. “Since the French never ‘put them to flight’ with a single volley, I’ll accept your wager.”

             
A servant appeared a moment later with the sherry. Silversmith raised his glass in salute. “I would wish you luck, my dear Colonel, but I doubt you will need it.”

Four miles outside of Boston, 1775

             
Washington surveyed the tricorne-hatted men who fanned out on either side of the column. If the rebels wanted to take potshots at his Virginians, then his irregulars would see the rebels driven-off or killed. He knew all too well the minutemen would not stand in the middle of the road and meet his regulars toe-to-toe.

             
The long dirt ribbon, which passed for a road between Boston, Lexington, and Concorde, slowed his march and allowed the rebels time to gather. No doubt, the local rabble rousers would make
good
use of that time to gather their strength. Every hedge, stone wall, bridge, and copse of trees was now a potential ambuscade.

             
Musket fire heralded the day. Beyond a quilt-work of fields and farm houses, the reports echoed. Lieutenant Phelps rode up to Washington and saluted. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to take a platoon up the road to support the Loyalists.”

             
“No, Lieutenant, take half-a-dozen mounted men and ride for the battle. Determine the enemy’s disposition and strength. Then report back with all haste.”

             
Phelps’ jaw dropped for a second, but he saluted, wheeled his horse about, and galloped to the head of the column. Washington watched as he gathered the riders and made his way past the cluster of farms.

             
Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, a recent arrival from England, swatted flies away from both himself and his mount. “Blast, I thought I left those bloody horse-biters back in North Carolina.”

             
“One never leaves flies or rats behind. They are always with us.” Washington trailed off into deep thought. “Briggs, how best do we deal with such disaffected fellows?”

             
“A sharp lash sir, but only one stroke. We must end this here and now, lest the other colonies throw in with New England.”

             
Fifteen long minutes passed. Washington turned to Briggs with the intention of sending more riders out, but before he could issue the order Phelps and four riders appeared around a bend in the road. Phelps waved the other riders away and made for Washington.

             
Ashen and perspiring, Phelps reigned in his horse. “Permission to report, sir?”

             
“Calm yourself, Lieutenant, and tell me what you have witnessed.”

             
“I counted a good fifty rebels with another forty approaching from the north. The Loyalists have a strong position and are holding the next stretch of road, but they are in danger of being flanked.”

             
Briggs cut in, “Begging your pardon, Colonel. Let’s send in five companies along with the rest of the irregulars.”

             
Before Washington could reply, Phelps toppled from his horse. Washington turned and roared over his shoulder, “Fetch my surgeon now!”

             
Arriving with all due haste, the surgeon pulled away Phelps’ red coat to reveal a crimson rose spreading across his white jacket. Washington shut his eyes and cursed himself for not noticing the man’s wound earlier.

             
“Briggs,” he hissed through his rotten teeth. “Take the companies and the irregulars and sweep this rabble from the road.”

             
Briggs wheeled his charger about and bellowed orders. At once, a sea of Redcoats rose from the surrounding fields. The light company, trained at Washington’s insistence in frontier warfare, together with their irregular counterparts, formed a skirmish line ahead of the main body, while several companies of dragoons from Boston covered the flanks.

             
The Royal Virginians marched forward, their white trousers now soiled by the mud churned up from the movement of hundreds of men.

             
Washington left Phelps with his surgeon and rode to the head of the column. The men raised their hats cheering as they recognized their colonel. As the Royal Virginians wheeled to the northwest, the number of volleys increased to two per minute.

             
A sergeant next to Washington cleared his throat and grinned. “Sounds like them Massachusetts boys want to have themselves a fight.”

             
Washington ignored the comment, keeping his eyes on the road. Greyish-white smoke wafted through a thicket of trees near a bridge. He noted the skirmishers with their hatchets and pistols moving into the wood. The Royal Virginians maintained their discipline, not speeding their steps.

             
An excited lieutenant called out, “Look, sir, to your left.”

              A dozen rebels—some with muskets, others with axes or pistols—shot out of the concealing wood.  One man managed to make it to the edge of the river before a ball knocked him clear off his feet. His hat tumbled down and floated on the slow water, moving downstream like a swan.