Conflict and Courage (29 page)

The gate guards
were young, little more than boys, part of the first crop of lads
taken from their mothers when Fort was first overrun by Murdoch’s
convicts nine years before and trained and indoctrinated in
Cocteau’s infamous ‘boys’ battalions’.

They nodded to
the old man as he passed. Arthur was surprised and realised that
one of the regulars must have told them of his visits to the
encampment to help the unfortunate ex-convicts who inhabited the
hovels and shacks near the river.

Doctor Arthur
had instigated his philanthropic mission four years before as a
cover to hide the real reason he went down the hill, not that he
was not needed, the population was aging and, as the years passed,
more and more men were finding it difficult to feed and clothe
themselves.

After Lord
Regent Sam Baker had watched his medical ministrations for a number
of months for signs of an ulterior motive and found none, he had
shrugged his shoulders and told his men to leave Doctor Arthur
alone. If he wanted to waste his time looking after the elderly and
expendable that was his concern, as long as it did not interfere
with his duties at Fort. Arthur took pains to make sure it never
did.

Arthur Kurtheim
was a member of a select group of men committed to the overthrow of
the present government and the establishment, in its place, of a
free and more gentle society where slavery was no more and women
were respected.

They understood
that, with things as they were, there was a limit to what they
could do. They were few in number and secrecy was of the essence.
This afternoon Arthur made his way as usual to the tavern. It was
owned by an individual called Tom, a taciturn ex-con and founder of
their resistance group.

Tom was an
ex-soldier from Pierre Duchesne’s regiment and had been one of the
guards detailed to escort the women captured during the Battle of
the Alliance to the beachhead. Tom had taken a fancy to one of the
stolen women, a pretty little thing with sun-gold hair who, unlike
most of the others who had cried as they were shoved aboard the
boat, had marched proudly up the gangplank, head erect, refusing to
be cowed.

Tom had wanted
to help her but, as a lowly private, such a female was way beyond
his means. So it had proved. The woman had been claimed by one of
the most cruel and sadistic officers of the regiment. Back in his
newfound Lordship, Pierre Duchesne had ‘encouraged’ this officer to
leave his employ and a disconsolate Tom could only watch as she
went with him.

With the hope
that he might try to find her, Tom had approached Lord Pierre
Duchesne and ‘requested’ a similar dismissal and Pierre had granted
it with the proviso that he keep in touch and pass back any
information about Fort that came his way.

That had been
the start of it. Realising, shortly after his arrival at the
encampment, that both soldiers and sailors were inclined to talk
ill-advisedly when in their cups, Tom made haste to open a tavern
and began to feed information to his ex-Lord.

He found the
woman he was looking for, at least he found her grave-marker. She
had not long survived the sadistic attentions of her owner whose
only punishment had been a hefty fine.

At that point,
an angry Tom had decided he had to do more and began sounding out
various acquaintances to find out if there were others who felt as
disgusted as he was. Doctor Arthur Kurtheim had been his third
recruit.

The Fort ‘cell’
had contacts with another group of like-minded in the Gardiner
Lordship to whom they passed information and escaped slaves up the
line on their way to the northern continent. Only Tom was in touch
with this group through an intermediary named Sam, a barge river
man who plied his trade between Fort and Lord Gardiner’s castle
beside the river. Since its founding, the ‘Resistance’ had managed
to repatriate to the north some twenty slaves.

The four who
met that afternoon in the tiny chamber above the taproom were Tom,
Arthur, old Kurt and Marcus Kushner.

The latter
should have been on manoeuvres with his regiment but a broken arm
sustained in practice had meant a six-week hiatus with light duties
in the barracks.

It was Tom who
began the proceedings after he had carefully checked the bolts on
both the outer and inner doors.

“Any news from
the regiments Marcus?”

The young man
shrugged, “except that they’ve gone and expect to be away for at
least a month, nothing.”

“They’re
definitely in Brentwood?” queried Arthur.

“We thought it
strange,” Marcus admitted, “especially if the rumours are true and
we are to aid the Larg with their attack on Argyll in the summer.
That’s only barracks’ gossip though, most of the men don’t believe
it.”

“We believe the
rumour is true,” put in Tom.

“Perhaps you
should break a leg as well as your arm,” suggested Kurt, “unless
you want to enjoy an extended visit to the north.”

“I’ll keep that
in mind.”

“Any word about
your sister?” asked Tom at this point, real concern in his
voice.

“Nothing,” was
Marcus’s despondent reply. “I know she was taken south with some
other girls by van Buren but nothing else.”

“We’ll keep
looking,” promised Tom.

“I’d appreciate
that.”

Tom turned to
Arthur.

“You got
anything?”

“Yes and, as
usual, I haven’t written anything down.”

The others
nodded understandingly. One never knew when one of the guards would
decide to instigate a search of both person and quarters.

“Start at the
beginning,” instructed Tom, “Kurt here will take notes.”

The elderly
Kurt drew pen and ink towards him. His was the neatest hand amongst
the four and he possessed the added advantage in that he was noted
down in the public records as being virtually illiterate, so if the
document passed into the wrong hands, he would not be suspected as
the author.

“I got this
from my usual source,” Arthur began with a wry grin. He had
cultivated the friendship of the secretary to the Lords’ Conclave,
the man who took the minutes of all their meetings. The secretary
was quiet and industrious but had one vice, drink. When inebriated
he would tell the listener, any listener, anything they wanted to
know. Lord Sam Baker was well aware of this, there was little he
was not interested in and as a precaution, the secretary was not
permitted to venture past the gates of Fort proper. It was a mark
of Arthur’s acting skills that he was trusted to be a friend of the
man. Baker believed that any information he let slip would go no
further.

Arthur drank
with him once a week, at least the secretary drank and Arthur
sipped the indifferent ale and let him ramble on.

“I’ll start
with Fort then move on to the rest.”

Kurt readied
his pen.

“The coronation
is to go ahead, date not confirmed but soon. The Lords have been
ordered to attend and to bring all their children who have reached
six years in age.”

“Baker’s going
ahead with the betrothals then?”

“It appears
so,” was Arthur’s terse reply, “it’ll draw the Lords together for a
while, long-term implications, well my guess is as good as
yours.”

“Go on.”

“Lady Anne’s
health continues to give me concern. If she survives the birth I’ll
be surprised.”

The faces of
the listeners grew sad at this news. Anne was held in quiet
affection by certain sections of the population.

“This month’s
slave market has been cancelled. I cannot find out why, but none of
the Lords appear unduly concerned.”

“Did you
ask?”

“My drunken
informant didn’t know anything, so whatever the reason, Baker and
Co are keeping it on a need-to-know basis. The unfortunate Andrew
Snodgrass has reappeared and has been given quarters, substantial
ones.”

Kurt’s head
rose at this.

“Can you
arrange a conversation with Snodgrass?”

“I’d need a
reason,” Arthur raised his hands in a helpless gesture, “unless he
sickens and comes to me.”

“You could give
him something, make him ill,” ventured Marcus.

Arthur threw
him a withering glance.

“Let me
continue will you? Time’s getting on.”

“Smith was
absent from the Conclave, word is he’s on his last legs. Baker is
rubbing his hands together with glee at the thought of another
Lordship to control and Gardiner has turned cattle rustler.
Duchesne complained he was violating his border and Gardiner argued
the animals were his and had strayed on to Duchesne lands.”

“What did Baker
do?”

“Nothing ‘cept
to tell him not to do it again.”

“I bet that
went down well.”

“He’s trying to
keep Gardiner sweet,” surmised Tom, “anything else?”

“The Lords had
a serious and lengthy discussion about what they called the
‘critical point’.

“Critical
point?”

“My source was
near to passing out when he began to talk about it and if you can
make sense of his garbles, it’s a list of numbers. I hope I can
remember them right. Here goes, seventeen thousand, seventeen
thousand five hundred, fourteen thousand, eight thousand, fourteen
thousand and twenty-three thousand. The critical point is the
fourth one. Oh and Lord Raoul van Buren was looking mightily
pleased with himself, claiming he had the solution.”

Marcus pulled
the sheet of closely written notes towards him and regarded the
list of numbers in confusion.

“Van Buren has
the solution?” Tom asked, “and he is the one who is collecting and
buying up all the females under thirty he can find. There must be a
connection. What does that tell us?”

Marcus raised
angry green eyes. “It tells us everything we need to know. I say
these numbers are projected population levels, we know they have
been worrying about them and the ‘critical point’ is when us men
from the
Electra
die and before van Buren can breed enough
replacements. That is where my little sister is and I can do
nothing to help her.”

He brought his
hands to his face and began to sob bitter tears.

Tom placed a
comforting hand on his shoulder and looked at Arthur, “I suspected
it was something like this,” he said, “but there is little that can
be done. Van Buren guards these compounds he has built as if his
life depended on it.”

“He ranged
through this area a while back recruiting guardsmen. Word is he’s
looking for more. Perhaps we can get a man in there.”

“Someone
trustworthy,” warned Kurt.

“I’ll go,”
offered Marcus.

It was gentle
Arthur who provided the words to stop him.

“No lad, you
can’t go, you’d stand out like a sore thumb, you’re far too young
and the regiment will miss you. It must be one of us ex-cons.”

“If they’re
setting up a baby factory,” mused Arthur, “he’ll need doctors,
nurses. I wonder.”

He remembered
his talk with lady Anne’s young maid.

“I’ve got an
idea,” he said.

“There’s the
hour bell,” announced Kurt, “opening time soon.”

“Time for me to
go as well,” announced Arthur, “I’ve got a clinic up at Fort.”

“I’ll leave the
marker in the usual place when it’s time for the next meeting,”
agreed Tom, rising to his feet and the resistance ‘cell’ dispersed
to more lawful pursuits.

Later that
evening Dr Arthur placed a request with Sam Baker.

Sam eyed the
old man, an amused leer on his scarred and saturnine face.

“Fancy your
chances with her? A grope up her skirts when she’s bending over the
patients?”

“I need an
assistant,” protested Arthur, careful to keep his face as bland as
he possibly could, “I’m getting on a bit and need a strong young
girl to do the lifting and carrying.”

Sam Baker
rocked back on his heels.

“So there’s
life in the old dog yet,” he guffawed, slapping Arthur on the back
with enough force that the old man staggered and almost fell.

“I want to
train her as a nurse,” Arthur insisted, recovering his balance.

“Go on then,”
Sam Baker was in a magnanimous mood, “you can have her, I’ll send
the ownership documents over tonight.”

Sam turned on
his heels and strode away, chuckling to himself.

Arthur was
content. It was a beginning.

* * * * *

Aoalvaldr the
Larg picked his careful way through the numerous sentries that
guarded the huge Largan, the pre-eminent Larg, their ultimate
commander, the one with the power of life and death over all.

It was good to
be back, his exile over at last. As he approached, the Largan and
his advisors eyed him up and down, appraising him, assessing
him.

Aoalvaldr came
to a halt and genuflected, cowering down until his belly reached
the floor and pressing his nose into the hard packed soil.

“You may rise
Aoalvaldr,” intoned the closest advisor.

Aoalvaldr did
so, not too slow, not too fast, being careful to ensure that his
gaze was centred not on the old Largan’s face but on his paws, as
befitted one recalled to his service after many seasons’
disgrace.

“We have
considered what you have proposed,” was the Largan’s ponderous
announcement, “Bvdmaldr?”

A dark-hued
male, which was even larger than the Largan stepped forward.

“Our revered
Largan has decreed that the time is indeed right. The information
you, Aoalvaldr, have sent indicates this. The Largan agrees with
you. If we do not assert ourselves now, it will be too late. Your
exile is therefore at an end and you will take your place amongst
us once more.”

“We are to
attack the north?” ventured the daring Aoalvaldr.