At the Queen's Command (50 page)

“Some thinking needs doing.” Nathaniel turned away and paced off, heading toward a barrel of water that had been filled from Sutler’s Creek. Another man offered him a dipper, but Nathaniel waved it away, then plunged his head into the barrel. The cold water shocked him, then he came up and shook his head, spraying water all over.

Major Forest was right, of course. Nathaniel knew he didn’t fit well within society’s sense of order. That was why he spent so much time outside of it. Society looked askance at his carrying-on with Rachel—even though they knew that she was rightfully his. The hypocrites turned his stomach, and the less he had to do with them, the more he liked it.

Jumped-up idiots play-acting at soldiery, like Langford and Rivendell, were worse. Scolds might whisper about him, but those fools would get men killed. Nathaniel had already heard from various sources that Rivendell doubted most all of what they’d reported about du Malphias. He’d attributed their claims to “a certain Colonial propensity for hysteria when the subject of war with Tharyngia is at hand.” Rivendell had cheated and stolen. Given three bullets and a choice of targets between Rivendell and du Malphias, Nathaniel would just as soon shoot Rivendell twice.

Major Forest was pretty much the only officer he’d met that he thought deserving of rank. Nathaniel checked himself. Owen Strake merited that honor, too. Both men thought a lot about how to win, not what they’d do after they won. Owen had his scars; Forest, too, obviously. If he had to guess, Nathaniel figured Rivendell’s body would have fewer blemishes than a newborn baby’s behind.

As much as he hated the thought of taking orders from someone else, his problem with Forest’s offer went deeper. He could take orders from Forest. He had before—though he had been much younger—and respected the man enough to assume any service he asked was a service needed doing.

What he didn’t want was being responsible for men, and for their feeling beholden to him. Nathaniel could take care of himself. Always had done, likely would do until the day he died. He’d already forgotten things Caleb Frost would need to learn if he was going to live. There wasn’t any way, as Forest had said, that they’d be able to teach the men everything, and Nathaniel wasn’t sure there was a way to even teach them
enough
.

He looked up as Caleb shouted for joy. He’d reached the top of the cliff. A few men below applauded; a couple threw caps in the air. Most of the hard men ignored his victory and, if he got chosen, many of them would figure it was because he was Forest’s nephew.

Nathaniel knew that wasn’t true. Caleb was a smart young man and a good shot. He was a leader, too. He stood up there on the cliff, urging on his college friends. The other men had come in by themselves, or in small clumps. Caleb had brought a squad and had them gamely doing things some of them likely never imagined doing.

“And like as not, they’re the ones who end up dead.” Nathaniel ran his hands back along his scalp, squeezing out barrel water, feeling it run down inside his leather shirt. That was the real trick of it. If men died, he’d end up carrying them with him forever. He’d do for their families what he’d done for Grannie Hale. He was sure he’d be thanked a lot, be told it wasn’t his fault, but there would be those glances that told him otherwise.
Cuz ain’t nobody, given a chance to shift blame off the sainted dead, won’t do it.

He hugged his arms around himself. There was the final point. If he didn’t go, if he didn’t lead, he’d still feel responsible. If any of them died, he’d think they wouldn’t have had he been there. He didn’t want responsibility, but he saddled himself with it anyway.

“I am pure-D doomed.” He shook his head again, then smiled. “Least ways Kamiskwa ain’t here to see this.”

Nathaniel walked back over to Forest. “I got me one condition.”

Forest raised an eyebrow.

“You pick Caleb, he’s my Lieutenant. You take his squad, Makepeace Bone leads it.”

The Major watched him warily. “Making Caleb your Lieutenant will not keep him out of danger.”

“I know that, but means I have his smarts working for me. And you’re gonna be most like putting orders in writing, which he’s better at deciphering than I’s ever going to become.”

“I’ll need time to think on this, Nathaniel. I favor your proposal at the moment. I’ll decide in the time it takes for you to climb that cliff. Don’t give me too long to change my mind.”

Nathaniel laughed and kicked off his moccasins. “Step aside boys. Coming up for to show you how this oughtta be done.”

Most men did part, though Rufus Branch made it his duty to get in the way while doing his best to pretend he was ignoring Nathaniel. Nathaniel darted around him, pulled on three pouches of stones and the two sticks as rifles.

The man tying the rope around his waist commented on the extra pouch of stones. “You only need two.”

“Well, Rufus, he’s carrying an extra stone or two. Ain’t no reason I shouldn’t.”

Men laughed, and someone made the mistake of trying to slap Rufus on the belly. That man landed on his butt with a split lip, but had the sense not to get up right away.

Nathaniel began his climb. It came easy at the start, with hand-and footholds having been worn deep by boys who’d played on the cliffs for years. About twenty feet up a nice ledge afforded a view of the ocean past Temperance, and one could spot sails rounding the headland easily.

After that it got a bit trickier, but Nathaniel had long since learned the secrets of climbing. Never hug the rock, never get too spread out, and do all the lifting with your legs. Sudden moves, especially with stones swaying and sticks clacking, would throw a climber off balance more sure than a gallon of whisky drunk in a minute. And the fall from a cliff was worse than the fall from an alehouse stool.

Once he got past halfway, things became easy again because fewer climbers had made it that high. He ranged a little to the east, away from the quarry-side, and once he’d cleared some crumbling rock, made the run up fairly quickly. He climbed over the top and stood—even though he wanted to lay down and pant—and untied the belay line himself.

Major Forest cupped a hand to his mouth. “Glad to have you with us, Captain Woods.”

Makepeace slapped him on the back, and Caleb offered him his hand as men below cheered and a couple fired off their guns. No bullets came close, but that was because Rufus wouldn’t have dared do anything where folks could see, what with Makepeace above him and with his new Hill breech-loading rifle close by his side.

Nathaniel shook Caleb’s hand. “You done right well, Caleb.”

The younger man blushed. “Just hope my uncle thinks so. We, the boys and me, we want to go, do our part.”

“Iffen he does choose you, be an honor to serve with you.”

Caleb threw him a salute. “Yes, sir, Captain Woods.”

Nathaniel hesitated. “I ain’t thinking it’s right me having the same rank as Captain Strake.”

The younger man frowned. “Technically you don’t. I mean, you’ll be commanding the same number of troops as he does, doing the same things his troops do but in the command structure you’d only be a Subaltern.”

“A what?”

“It’s kind of a half-Lieutenant, and no Norillian trooper would have to obey your orders. It’s because you’re Colonial Militia.”

“So, by that thinking, your uncle, he’s below Captain Strake?”

“Yes.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Don’t seem right being as how one man stops a bullet good as the next.”

“Well, we are, after all, only redemptioneers.”

“Uh huh. I reckon there’s going to have to be some mind-changing along about that.” Nathaniel patted Caleb on the shoulder. “You go and get the rest of your men on up here, Mr. Frost. Show them Branches and Casks that reading don’t slow you down none.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nathaniel laughed, not sure he’d ever get used to being called “sir” in that manner; and positive he never wanted to get to liking it. He headed along the path that ran around the top of the quarry and north, down a hill to the creek.

Another man, medium height, lean build, rose from a stump and fell in step with him. “Nathaniel.”

“Justice.”

“How is it you ain’t killed Rufus Branch yet?”

“Well, I reckon he’s just smart enough to not rile me when I’m in a cutting mood.”

Justice Bone nodded. “I amember a time you did cut him.”

Nathaniel nodded. Back when they were all young, with Rufus being three years older than Nathaniel, and Justice two years younger, Rufus had taken to pounding on Justice for some offense or other. Nathaniel had taken exception to that, and one cut with his knife had sent Rufus running long enough to get Justice home and his scalp sewed up.

“He had it coming.”

“Heard tell he was saying he hoped you was going to head out with the troops. Said lots of strange things could happen to a man in battle.”

“Did he now?”

Justice nodded. “Noticed he and Zachariah Warren spent a long time whispering and drinking together afore Warren headed south Monday.”

“Good thing to know.”

“Might have even seen some money change hands.”

Wasn’t hard to figure out in which direction, since Branch never had any, and Warren had far too much.

“I’ll watch my back.”

“You do that, Captain. I will, too.” Justice Bone nodded solemnly. “Time comes to settle accounts, Rufus will have his paid in full.”

Chapter Fifty-One

May 24, 1764

Government House, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

P
rince Vlad made no attempt to hide his surprise. He’d been awakened by an urgent message from Lord Rivendell. The Military Governor took two pages of painfully pretty handwriting to request an urgent meeting. Vlad called together Count von Metternin, Major Forest, and Captain Strake. At the stroke of ten, Chandler ushered Rivendell into the Prince’s office. Langford trailed in his wake, carrying two journals and several rolled maps.

Rivendell bowed deeply. He still wore red and gold, but linen garments which were more in keeping with Temperance’s fashion sense. “Thank you, Highness, and you, Count von Metternin. I trust you have not spoiled my surprise.”

The Kessian bowed and clicked his heels. “As we discussed over dinner last evening, I am merely honored to bask in your genius.”

“Of course you are.” Rivendell made directly for the model. “I have been devoting much time to thinking, gentlemen, thinking of a way to crack this nut. I’ve decided to call it the Fortress of Death. Brilliant, ain’t it? Ain’t it?”

Rivendell then hesitated, tapping his teeth with a finger. “Perhaps it should be ‘du Morte’ to honor the Tharyngians. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, von Metternin? Note that, Langford. No matter. Cannons on all sides, no way for us to build a ship and keep it on station, many things here, save for a singular vulnerability.”

The Prince peered closely at the model. “What would that be, Johnny?”

“The cliffs, Highness.” Rivendell beamed. “None of you thought of the cliffs. You see, we send an elite force of men scaling these cliffs, and using ropes and grapnels, they can be inside the fort, capture this corner, and turn the guns on the inner compound. Sweep the northern walls—we take them, and the fort is ours. Brilliant, ain’t it? Ain’t it?”

Von Metternin clapped. “Bravo!”

Vlad shook his head. “A bold stroke, Johnny, very bold, but where could we find soldiers who could make that climb? It would have to be in the dark, or so close to dawn they could not be seen. Yes, Major Forest, you have something to say?”

The Mystrian officer nodded. “Begging your pardon, Highness, I have two companies of Mystrian Rangers. One from Fairlee, one from the Northlands. My men could do it.”

Vlad smiled. “Excellent.”

Rivendell laughed. “Major, with all due respect, I have the perfect warriors for the job. The Fourth Heavy Horse. Horses can’t go up that cliff, so we’ll dismount ’em and let them climb.”

The Prince chuckled lightly. “You jest, of course, my lord. Your cavalry has no experience scaling cliffs, do they?”

“Don’t need it, Highness, don’t need it.” Rivendell sniffed. “These are the finest young men from the finest houses in all of Norisle. They’ve been defending the realm since 1066. They shed their blood in the Holy Lands and have fought the Tharyngians for centuries. They have the finest of breeding, upbringing and education. If I tell them to go up those cliffs, they will…”

“Fall back down again like the prats they are.” An older man with thinning hair and disdain etched deep into his features flipped a coat off and draped it over Chandler’s arms. “Dick Ventnor, Highness. Count von Metternin, Major Forest, I believe. Owen.” His boot heels clicked crisply on the wooden floor as he made haste to the model. “Excellent, much as I imagined from reading your report, Highness.”

Rivendell bowed. “Duke Deathridge, a pleasure.”

“Straighten up, Johnny. You look every bit the popinjay.”

Vlad glanced at Owen. The man’s face had become an impassive iron mask. “Duke Deathridge, we were given to suppose your ship would not be here for a week.”

“True, but the wager was whether or not I would be here, not my ship. Langford will pay my man when he arrives, Johnny. A packet boat overtook us, so I transferred to it, coming with the latest dispatches.” The dark-eyed man stared at the model. “Southwest is a trap, of course. North is the only true avenue of assault. Cliff is a nice idea, but the cavalry would never make it. The Fourth has a hard enough time climbing out of bed.”

“You impugn their honor, sir.”

“And you would use them like tin soldiers, Johnny, but you cannot reset them for play when things do not turn out as you wish.”

Vlad pointed to Major Forest. “We have two companies of Mystrian Rangers, sharpshooters, and hand-picked men who can and will make that climb.”

Deathridge nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Two full companies?”

“Yes, Duke Deathridge.”

“Fully capable woodsmen, Robert? The best Mystria has to offer?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be leading them?”

Forest smiled. “I still have a thumb, so I will be leading them.”