Parno's Gambit: The Black Sheep of Soulan: Book 3

by N. C. Reed

  “Take him and be damned for it,” he returned his sword to its scabbard.

  “Put it on the floor,” Chastain told him.

  “Come and take it you bastard,” Johnson growled out. “This is all you get without bloodshed. Blood that will grease your entry into the part of hell reserved for idiots and traitors. Smith?”

  “Sir?” the lieutenant was still with him.

  “Go and tell Bruckner to let this traitorous son-of-a-bitch have what he wants, which is the other traitorous son-of-a-bitch. There's no sense in him getting killed to no gain.”

  “Yes sir,” Smith replied, returning his own sword to its scabbard and moving to do as instructed.

  “Major, go with him and retrieve the Marshal,” Chastain ordered.

  “Yes sir,” Guilford was clearly reluctant but obedient nonetheless. He and several of his marines followed Smith to the study.

  “You almost convinced him Johnson,” Chastain mentioned.

  “Too bad for him I didn't,” Johnson shrugged. “He'll hang right beside you.”

  “You seem awfully sure of that,” Chastain snorted.

  “I took my orders directly from the Crown,” Johnson told him flatly. “The King himself gave me my marching orders. You're defying the King himself in doing this.”

  For the first time since making his decision Chastain felt uneasy.

  “Then why tell us he was sick?” he questioned.

  “King's orders,” Johnson shot back. “It was better than executing him for treason he figured. And before you say anything, yes there are several people in Nasil and the Army who are well aware of all this. At least one Provincial Governor has already been replaced and imprisoned as having been in on the whole thing. I suspect by now several others are rotting in a cell somewhere. But you won't rot, I imagine,” Johnson smirked. “You they 'll hang.”

  “We will see,” Chastain refused to allow his unease to show. Suddenly Therron McLeod burst into the room, Guilford right behind him. Bruckner and Smith went to Johnson's side and stood by him.

  “Captain Chastain, thank you,” Therron smiled widely. “I knew I could depend on you.”

  “Marshal,” Chastain nodded, feeling better about his actions now.

  “Kill them and we can depart,” McLeod ordered as he headed for the door.

  “Sir?” Chastain looked shocked.

  “Kill them,” Therron repeated. “I can't leave them alive to tell the rest that I've gone.”

  “Marshal, I'm not going to kill men who aren't resisting and are just following orders,” Chastain replied, unease flowering once more in his belly. “You're free and we will be taking you out of here. That's all that matters.”

  “Don't presume to tell me what matters!” Therron shot back at him, enraged. “Now kill them!”

  “No,” Guilford said flatly, replying instead of Chastain. “My men are marines, not murderers. There 'll be no killing of unarmed men by marines under my command. Sir.” Therron turned on him in a second.

  “How dare you defy me!” he thundered.

  “I dare when you defy the Rules of War we operate under,” Guilford replied easily. “Rules you are supposed to enforce as Marshal. Sir.” It was clear that he was adding the 'sir' as an after thought at this point.

  “Enough Major,” Chastain tried to take control again, now almost certain he'd screwed up but too far along to do anything about it. “Take the Marshal to the boats and secure his safety.”

  “Aye, sir,” Guilford nodded. A few short commands later his men were on their way to their boats with a still complaining Therron McLeod in their custody. Guilford made sure he was the last man to head to the boats, picking up an empty bottle as he went.

  “That's the man you freed, Chastain,” Johnson said once they were gone. “Make you feel better about yourself now?”

  “Shut up,” the naval officer growled, beginning to feel the enormity of what he'd done. “Don't try and follow us,” he warned.

  “Don't worry,” Johnson laughed harshly. “I won't. I look forward to hearing how you fare. Like I said, remember that I warned you when you feel the noose tighten around your neck you idiot.”

  Rather than reply Chastain turned and left, his stomach now roaring at him with unease. His mind was racing as he tried to settle his mind that he had done the right thing. If only Johnson had leveled with him before now none of this would have been necessary, damn him!

  “Sir,” Guilford's voice came to him from the steady growing dusk. “We're making a mistake,” the major tried one last time.

  “We've already made it if it is one,” Chastain shrugged. “And you're just following orders, Major. I'm the one this will fall on,” he added fatalistically.

  “Not if Johnson is telling the truth,” Guilford shook his head. “It. . .it feels like Johnson was telling the truth, sir. I don't like the casual way the Marshal ordered us to kill the lot of them, either. ”

  “We didn't kill them and that's what matters,” Chastain told him. “Now lets get to the boats. We need to be going. And not a word of our destination until we're on our way.”

  “Sir,” Guilford nodded. He tossed the bottle he'd been holding back toward the beach and moved toward his boat even as he bellowed commands to his men.

  Twenty minutes later the boats were on their way back to the ships. Chastain sat in silence the entire way, having been smart enough to place the Marshal in another. It would likely be bad enough that he had the man aboard Halifax before it was all said and done.

  One hour later still all boats were back aboard and tired sailors heaved anchors up as others dropped sails. Marines lent a hand on the oars and soon the three ships were moving away from the coast and picking up speed.

  “Captain, you shouldn't have defied me,” the Marshal just had to come up on deck. “Those men are traitors.”

  “I remain unconvinced of that Marshal,” Chastain replied calmly. “I've done my duty as I saw fit, which was to free you and support your return to Nasil. I will not kill unarmed men who serve the same flag I do when they're guilty of no crime other than following orders. Those same men would be executed for not following orders, so execution for following them is the height of unfairness. Your quarters are satisfactory I hope?” he changed the subject.

  “They will do,” Therron nodded. “Where are we bound?” he asked.

  “You wanted to go to Norfok, Marshal, so we're bound for Norfok,” Chastain replied. “Unless you'd rather head for Moble?” he asked, almost hoping the answer was yes.

  “No,” the reply was emphatic. “No, Norfok is better. I can secure transportation and possibly assistance from there and head back into Soulan through the mountains. So long as I can get through the passes before winter I'll be fine. How long you estimate until we can reach our destination?”

  “Depends on the winds, sir,” Chastain shrugged. “We will catch southerlies this time of year at least part way and that will speed our voyage, but as the wind dies away we 'll have to 'tack' more and more and that will slow us some. Using the oars will help, but we can't use them around the clock. We don't have the manpower. We will use them during the daytime hours so we can make the best use of that extra speed. If all goes well, we should be in Norfok in four weeks, give or take.”

  “Four weeks,” Therron sighed. “I'd hoped for quicker,” he said.

  “We may make it quicker but I doubt it,” Chastain shrugged. “We 'll do the best we can, but we're at the mercy of the weather once we're northbound. And we have to be wary of Imperial Fleet presence.”

  “The Imperial Fleet is a joke,” Therron scoffed.

  “Large Imperial Fleet off the Sunshine Coast at last report,” Chastain said evenly. “They don't sound very funny to me, sir. Word was that Admiral Semmes was taking the combined fleet minus the Gulf Squadron against them as soon as they could be assembled. Probably happened by now but we've been at sea for three weeks already and we'd had no word when we sailed.”

  “I saw the repor
ts,” Therron nodded. “Trust me Captain, the Nor do not have a fleet that can stand against southern ships.”

  “I'll have to it seems, Marshal,” Chastain smiled dimly. “We're heading that way regardless.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  -

  General Gerald Allen reined in his horse at the top of the small rise, raising a glass to his eye to survey the valley below him.

  His command had been in the field for six days now, two of which he'd spent getting in behind the Nor lines. He was now looking for a suitable target for his men. Scouts were out prowling the countryside even now to get the lay of the land.

  “Looks clear, sir,” his second, Brigadier Sam Walters said.

  “So it does,” Allen nodded, returning his glass to its case. “Anything from our scouts as yet?”

  “No sir, not yet,” Walters shook his head. “What are your plans, sir?” he asked.

  “Send runners to Generals Coe and Vaughan, Sam,” Allen ordered rather than reply directly. “Pass the word we'll rest here for an hour. Men to take lunch and see to their horses. Pass that word as you go, please.”

  “Yes sir,” the man nodded and kicked his horse into action, galloping down the line. Behind him, Allen pulled a map from his pocket and made some rough calculations in his head. If he was accurate then they should be about . . . .

  “You wanted to see us Gerry?” Coe's voice broke his train of thought.

  “Yes,” he nodded, holding his map for them to see. “If I'm right, we're about here,” he stabbed a spot on the map. “We're less than a day's ride from the river, about here,” another stab. “What say we ride over to the river, send out scouts to see if the enemy is using it, and then make our way north from there for two, maybe three days ride?” he asked, looking at the other two.

  “I'm for it,” Coe nodded, examining the map. “Might see some action.”

  “I like it,” Vaughan agreed. “The Marshal and General Davies are both concerned about those boats the Nor used at Lovil. If they're using them then we might see them along the river. Even if we can't do anything about it we can at least send a party back to warn the Marshal they're on the way.”

  “That's what I had in mind,” Allen agreed. “I'd really like to know what's over there, too.”

  “It's not yet noon, hardly,” Coe pointed out. “Might be we could make it before dark if we push,” he suggested.

  “I'd rather get an early start in the morning,” Allen disagreed after a brief pause. “I'd rather us not run into something near or after dark. If we're on the move by first light then we can be there early afternoon, especially if we make a little more headway today. Maybe ride a quarter of the way today, and the rest in the morning, say,” he looked at the other two.

  “That would give us plenty of light if we did find something,” Vaughan nodded. “And we're far enough from the lines that we shouldn't hit a force larger than we can handle if we have to.”

  “True that,” Coe agreed. “Well, lets send out scouts in whatever direction you think best, give the men say, thirty minutes to eat and rest their horses, and then what? Ride until maybe two hours before dark? We probably won't want to make a fire so when it gets dark it's dark sure enough for us.”

  “Good plan,” Allen liked it and agreed at once. “See to it,” he ordered and Coe nodded before setting off to send the scouts out.

  “Be nice to catch those boats out of the water somewhere and burn them to ashes,” Vaughan said quietly. “Kill their crews too.”

  “It would indeed,” Allen nodded. “And it would be a big help to the Marshal to know that at least some of the boats were out of play, too.”

  “Maybe we'll get lucky,” Vaughan smiled suddenly, and Allen decided that he wouldn't want Wilton Vaughan smiling at him like that. No sir, he wouldn't want that at all.

  “Maybe we will.”

  ~*~

  Captain Lucas Silven was disgusted. Technically it was now Commodore Silven, but Silven didn't much care and he had his doubts that the Navy would honor Stone's brevet promotion anyway.

  His disgust came from how slow the going was as he and his men poled their way up the Tinsee. Or down.

  “Damn this country,” he cursed for the umpteenth time since taking to the cursed River Tinsee. Whoever heard of a river that flowed south to north, and damned if the southerners didn't have two of them only few miles apart.

  The river was strong in places and while it wasn't so strong as the Ohi, at least for the most part, they were poling against the river all the time. At least on the Ohi they had been able to use the current somewhat in crossing. Here they were fighting for every inch. As a result, his timetable of three weeks to reach the Army was starting to look wildly optimistic.

  And impossible.

  “Lucas, we are not making any kind of time here.”

  “Tell me something I don't know, George,” Silven resisted the urge to snarl. Captain George Stenopolous was a good man and a good sailor. It wasn't his fault that Silven's plan was going to hell in a hand cart.

  “We've been at this for two weeks already and we're not even half-way there,” Stenopolous persisted. “At this rate, it will be fall by the time we reach the Army.”

  “I am aware of the time, Captain,” Silven ground out. His patience wasn't that good. “There's not a damn thing we can do about it except keep going. This current is a lot stronger than it looks and the river isn't always shallow enough to pole the boats.”

  “And sometimes we're having to carry them where the water goes from one extreme to the other,” Stenopolous reminded him.

  “I'm aware of that too, George,” Silven sighed. “What would you suggest we do about it?” he asked with exaggerated patience.

  “I'm not sure there is anything we can do short of having wagons enough to haul the boats overland. Which we don't have and can't get,” he added tiredly. “I'm sorry. That's not much help, but I don't see a solution other than keep going, like you said.”

  “Is Major Greeley still bitching about how slow we're going?” Silven changed the subject. Major Wilhelm Greeley (and wasn't that a mouthful!) commanded the short battalion of cavalry that Stone had assigned to assist the boat crews and guard their train and supplies. He had complained from day one about anything and everything he could find. They were too slow; they had too much of a baggage train; his men were not guards; the boats crews obviously didn't know what they were doing.

  That last one had stung Silven into a verbal altercation with Greeley just five days into the journey as the Captain (maybe Commodore) had told Greeley to feel free to show them how it was done. Greeley had responded that it wasn't his job to move the boats, to which Silven had replied 'then shut the hell up.'

  Since that time the two had barely managed to coexist. Actually working together simply wasn't going to happen. Greeley wasn't going to cooperate any further than he thought necessary to keep himself out of trouble, and Silven wasn't going to listen to any more of his mouth.

  Impasse.

  The result was strained and barely correct relations between the boat crews and the horse soldiers as they tried to make their way down (up) river to where General Wilson was waiting for them. Probably somewhat impatiently by now Silven realized. But try as he might he could not speed things up. They were literally going as fast as they could possibly go.

  “What is the hold up this time?” the unwelcome sound of Greeley's nasal whine cut into Silven's thought process. He looked up to see the cavalry officer sitting his horse, flanked by two men that followed him most everywhere. Bodyguards, Silven assumed.

  “There's no hold up, Major,” Silven replied evenly. “Boats are still moving, we're just fighting an especially strong current. Makes for difficult going.”

  “You're said that since we started,” Greeley said/whined.

  “It's been true since we started,” Silven grated. “This river is flowing against us. Not a thing I can do about that. We're going as fast as we can and I'm well aware t
hat it's not fast enough to suit you. Tough cookies. This is all there is for now. Hopefully we'll hit some wider, slower water further down, but until we do, this is what you get.”

  “It's a shame you aren't under my command,” Greeley almost preened even as he sneered. “I'd have this rabble of yours beat into shape in no time.”

  “Yes, because you've done such an excellent job with your own that the only assignment General Stone could trust you with was to carry our luggage,” Silven replied without pause. Greeley's face almost purpled in rage and Silven felt sorry for the horse as Greeley roughly turned the mount and spurred him savagely away. The horse lunged forward and Silven laughed as Greeley was almost tossed from his saddle.

  “Gawd! I'd have give a month's pay to see that bastard hit the ground and his horse run away!” Stenopolous was guffawing right beside Silven. The brevetted Commodore allowed himself and his contemporary another minute to laugh at the inept cavalry commander then turned serious once more.

  “We need to find a way to move faster,” he told Stenopolous.

  “Other than getting 'Greasy' to pull the boats with his horses, I got nothing,” the other man shrugged helplessly. The nickname had arisen among the sailors because of the hair tonic Greeley coated his hair in every morning, resulting in it being slicked down on his head.

  “I'd say we can forget that,” Silven said ruefully. “Be thinking, George,” he urged. “We need to pick up the pace.”

  “I will,” Stenopolous promised. “I just don't see what we can do.”

  ~*~

  “We 'll make camp around here,” Allen declared, looking at the surrounding area. “There's water and it's fairly isolated. A good place to picket horses and make a cold camp. We set double guards tonight as well. We're in occupied territory so we can't afford to take chances. I want us in the saddle at first good light and moving toward the river. I'd like to be there before noon if we can, but certainly by early afternoon. We need time to establish whether we should stay or make camp elsewhere.”