by Eric Flint
“The Lords of Admiralty hadn’t done, Saunders,” Admiral Boscawen said. “We were underway to the Mediterranean, and somehow found ourselves transported near Barbados. I am reliably informed that there is some sort of barrier that will not permit us to return. Any of us.”
“A barrier, sir?”
“A mountain range in the ocean. I have seen it, east of the Leeward Islands . . . I am not sure how far north it extends.”
“The world has become strange,” Saunders said, looking away from Boscawen, toward the mist from which Namur had emerged. To Boscawen it seemed that the younger admiral was apprehensive.
“We are still at war,” Boscawen replied.
“The French have the same problem as we do, my Lord. If we cannot return home, or receive help from there, they cannot either. We had planned to take six thousand soldiers up the St. Lawrence to take Québec and Montréal. Most of them . . . are not with us.
“We may be at war with something more dangerous than the soldiers of His Christian Majesty, My Lord. I don’t know what you have seen—”
“Let us be honest with each other,” Boscawen said, stepping closer to the rail. “Sir Charles. The navy’s lifeline runs from England and Ireland. Without ship’s stores, without powder and shot, without water and provisions, we might as well take our ships apart and use them for firewood.
“I had hoped to reprovision at Charles Town, or—I suppose—at Williamsburg, now that we have been driven this far north. But any help they can offer will be only temporary; the Atlantic plantations are not well-equipped to supply the Royal Navy. This is our greatest advantage, and if we cannot deploy at sea, it vanishes—no matter who the enemy might be.”
“The Royal Navy is not equipped for—”
“For what?”
“Sea monsters,” Saunders said. His face was stony, matter of fact. “Whatever you might choose to call them. None of us are equipped in any way to handle them. As for the French, My Lord, they cannot do so either; but we have more in common with them than with any . . . supernatural forces we face. We must make peace with them, and we must do it soon.”
“Neither you nor I are entitled to make peace with anyone,” Boscawen said. “To do so without the express orders of our king is tantamount to treason.”
Saunders took a moment to reply, and then said, “If Europe is inaccessible to us, my Lord, then our king is my executive officer, Prince Edward. And you, as the ranking naval officer in this changed world, are First Lord of the Admiralty. If you wish to call that treason and place me in irons, I humbly suggest that you do so now—but there are not enough ships and not enough admirals as it is. I think, sir, you are far more pragmatic and sensible than that.”
“First Lord of the Admiralty?”
“Pro tempore, if it please your Lordship. But yes.”
New York
Though he had not intended to end up in the West Indies, Admiral Boscawen had been taking Namur on station; accordingly, he was reasonably well equipped for most contingencies, including the opportunity to meet a royal prince. The dress uniform, including gloves and sash and his very best cocked hat, had been carefully packed aboard, and he was wearing it as he came down the gangplank onto the grimy dock of the city of New York. Jeffrey Amherst and an honor guard were there to receive him—but no royal prince.
The explanation for Prince Edward’s absence was a surprise to Sir Charles Saunders, but it was a shock for Boscawen.
“Let me be completely clear,” he said to Amherst, forcefully enough to convince the general that he was carefully leashing his anger—but quietly enough not to embarrass the man before his own subordinates. “You let the prince—who, by what Saunders tells me, might as good as be our king—travel into the interior? On an inspection tour?”
“I could scarcely refuse.”
“You were under no obligation to permit it, sir.”
“It was tantamount to a royal command. I imposed a suitable escort on the young man and sent Wolfe with him. Much to that . . . worthy’s . . . consternation.”
“I can well imagine.” Boscawen and Wolfe had taken Louisbourg together, after all, and the admiral had experience with Wolfe’s supercilious and arrogant nature. “But the prince . . . ”
“Our king, God save him,” Amherst answered, “led troops at Dettingen less than twenty years ago as a sitting monarch. The prince himself has been a naval officer aboard Sir Charles Saunders’ flagship for some time. You know, and I know, that at any time during that period, a single musket ball or a stray shot from a broadside could have killed him. I know,” he continued, holding up his hand as Boscawen continued, “that he is the only prince we have. But we can only shelter him so much. He is due to return shortly, and his firsthand observations will be valuable.”
“I do not like it, sir. I do not like it at all.”
“Your opinion is duly noted, my Lord. And you are more than welcome to express it personally to him when he returns to New York.”
The evening of Neptune and Namur’s arrival, the matter was resolved by the appearance of a messenger at Fort George. Amherst and his staff had brought out a wealth of records and ledgers, tracking the logistical requirements of His Majesty’s forces in North America. Whatever Boscawen had privately concluded regarding Amherst’s judgment in permitting the prince to be exposed to danger, he was impressed by the man’s exceptional attention to detail.
If this was the whole world, it was clear that Amherst had a good deal of it counted and sorted, which wholly appealed to Boscawen.
The messenger was not dressed at all like a soldier. Boscawen took him at first to be a courier de bois, one of the French trader/explorers who roamed the backwoods of New France; he supposed the man to be, perhaps, a captured prisoner. But he offered something resembling a salute to Amherst, who received it with diffidence.
“My Lord,” Amherst said, “this is one of Major Rogers’ men. We have at our command a small contingent of highly skilled . . . irregular soldiers. They are quartered at Albany, His Royal Highness’ destination.”
“I see.”
“Well, man. Let’s have your report.”
“I was directed to come with all speed to report to you, General,” the man said. “Prince Edward and General Wolfe do not intend to directly return to New York. They have other business among the Iroquois. His Highness has been . . . reinforced.”
“By what?”
“By . . . the Highland Brigade, if the General pleases.”
“They were decimated at Carillon last summer! How could they . . . ”
Amherst stopped suddenly, surprise crossing his face. He looked from the ranger to Admiral Boscawen, then back to the ranger.
“You mean to say,” he said quietly, “that the Scotsmen have somehow . . . manifested?”
“They have been there since the battle, General Amherst. They seem to have materialized—and they now follow Prince Edward’s command.”
“And what has he ordered?”
“The Iroquois report that some force they do not understand has extinguished the Onondaga Council Fire. There was some indication that the Highlanders wished to seek out the cause of that event.”
“Are the Iroquois now our enemies?” Boscawen asked.
“I cannot say, My Lord,” the ranger answered. “We once counted the Iroquois as our friends, but the war with the French has divided them. Some of the western tribes threw in their lot with the enemy, but the Fire was considered to be neutral territory, where hatchets could be buried, and graves could be covered. The French are not behind this event, so Major Rogers says.”
“Is he a reliable source?” Boscawen asked Amherst.
“Without question.”
“Then who is the enemy?”
“If I were to answer simply, my Lord, I would have to say that our enemy might well be the future.”
Chapter 29
We are in a world where there are stone demons
Pennsylvania Colony
Eve
n by the time he was able to convey the story in his biography, years later, Edward was still not completely certain of the details. The rangers had begun to be accustomed to the unusual . . . the supernatural, he supposed. The men of the 40th left their apprehensions behind within the firm structure of their military training, following orders rather than trying to make sense of what was happening before their eyes.
General Wolfe scribbled it all in his personal journal, a leather-bound commonplace book he carried with him. Edward was not sure what he wrote, and never later found out.
Duncan Campbell, the ethereal leader of his company of Highlanders, informed him that they—as beings from the Beyond, he presumed—could feel the presence of other such intruders, and felt it an affront to His Majesty’s person; accordingly they would convey him to the site with all dispatch. Sir William Johnson could wait: the enemy, whatever or whoever it was, came first. The land seemed to slip beneath them as they walked and rode—in short order it became necessary to cover the horses’ eyes so that they were not unnerved by the mode of travel, which was like a dream.
If it had been the Scotsmen’s choice, there would have been no rest and certainly no sleep—but the living members of the troop, both human and equine, required both. Thus, in the dark woods they made camp, the sleepless Highlanders keeping watch, and nothing troubled them—at least until the moon was high.
There was a disturbance at the outskirts of the camp of which the prince was only apprised when the subaltern of the 40th appeared at the entrance to his tent, touching his hand to his cap and imploring the royal pardon.
“There is a soldier who wishes to convey his respects to Your Highness,” the subaltern said.
“A soldier?”
“He claims to have escaped . . . Your Highness, I think it best that he tell you himself.”
“Present him then, and ask General Wolfe to attend me.”
The man touched his cap and departed. Presently another man, clearly somewhat worse for wear, appeared, and gave a perfect salute. He had no hat or wig, and his uniform showed evidence of rough travel. His face was impassive, but Edward could see fear in his eyes.
“At your ease,” he said. “I understand you have a report to make.”
“If . . . if it please Your Highness,” the man said. “Private Kenneth MacArran, recently posted to Fort Pitt at the forks of the Ohio.”
“‘Recently’?”
“The fort . . . Highness, the fort has been overthrown. I escaped with my life, along with a few others.”
“Are you a deserter, MacArran?”
“If I were, Highness, I would not seek to report to you. I did not desert my post. There is no post to desert. It was destroyed by . . . ”
At this, MacArran reached up and touched his hand to his forehead, covering his face.
Before he could continue, General Wolfe came in behind him, saluted, and took up a position behind the young soldier, who removed his hand from his face and looked from Wolfe to the prince, not sure what to do next.
“Tell your story from the beginning, MacArran,” Edward said. “Omit no detail. Do your best, young man.”
“Three nights ago,” he began after a moment, “everything was as it had been for some months—very quiet, since we took the place from the French. A fine fortress it is, Your Highness . . . or was. The watch reported movement in the wood, and then—they began to come. Great tall soldiers, taller than a man, and like . . . like nothing I had ever seen.
“I was not on the watch, so I only saw them when they forced their way through the gate. Musket fire was useless against them, only chipping bits off their sides, like flint. They were not men—they were made of stone, and yet they walked and fought as men.”
“Stone men?” Wolfe said, as if refusing to believe.
“They were made of stone, sir, I swear it!” The young man looked anguished, as if his story was not believed—and under normal circumstances it would have been dismissed. “We have—we had—a few Seneca at the fort, Your Highness,” he continued, speaking to the prince. “They called them Genonskwa. Stone Coats. The Indians fled as fast as they could manage and told us to do the same.
“They did more than just slay the soldiers, Your Highness. They tore apart the fort, stone from stone. And they spoke a chant. I can still hear it.” He covered his ears with his hands. “I can hear it—and the screams—”
This time, heedless of the presence of a prince of the blood and a general in His Majesty’s army, the man broke down, hands over his face.
Prince Edward stood and took hold of the man’s elbow and steered him to sit beside him, a gesture that was completely divorced from royal hauteur. Wolfe’s expression showed what he thought of it, but Edward ignored him. The young man had lost any semblance of military dignity, and it took a few minutes for him to gain control of himself.
“So,” Wolfe said, after Edward had beckoned him to another seat, “Fort Pitt has fallen to stone demons.”
“So it seems. I should like to ask,” Edward said, “now that we are in a world where there are stone demons—do they come of their own accord, or did someone send them?”
“The French would want Fort Pitt destroyed, just as we wanted Fort Duquesne destroyed before it. Tell me, Private MacArran,” he said to the young man who sat uncomfortably at the right of Prince Edward, “when these stone demons attacked, were there any Frenchmen with them?”
“No, sir,” the man said. “Only Indians.”
“What sort of Indians?”
“I am no expert at telling the bastards apart, begging Your Highness’ pardon,” he said, “but they weren’t the same sorts that were within the walls. They say that the Indians in the Ohio Country are their own tribe now. They call themselves Mingo, and they pay no heed to the Covenant Indians.”
“Covenant—” Edward began, but Wolfe said, “the Iroquois, Your Highness.”
“Ah. So Fort Pitt was destroyed by demons sent by renegade Indians from the Ohio country. That is an additional complexity, I suppose. Though not for our Highlanders.”
“Is this the threat they seem to perceive?”
“I suspect so, General. And when we have rested, I expect that we will be going to meet them.”
By the time dawn had arrived the next morning they were traveling as before, the world passing by as if projected by a magic lantern; Campbell had warned them not to step too far away from the rough circle of Highlanders for fear of being left behind.
Sometimes the Scotsmen sang. It was somewhat discordant, harsh soldiers’ songs of battle and lost loves and missed opportunities, made even more difficult by the certainty that their battle was lost, their love was a thing of the past, and the only opportunity that presented itself was the chance to serve and—perhaps—redeem themselves on behalf of the prince who had promised them rest. The situation was so tense and surreal that those among the troop who still drew breath had little to say to each other.
Late in the day, when the irregular, rough hills had begun to cast long shadows, the strange mode of travel halted. They found themselves in a wide clearing—what appeared to be a cleared hard-packed dirt road, stretching east to west.
Duncan Campbell presented himself before Prince Edward.
“They are coming,” he said. “Ye can feel it in the earth.”
Edward glanced at Wolfe, who nodded. Beneath them, they could feel a small, regular shuddering in the ground, enough to make the horses snort and neigh. Wolfe called the men to order, but Campbell held up his hand.
“This is our fight, General,” he said. “Should we prevail, there is nothing for you to do. Should we fail, you should be ready to leave as quickly as possible.”
“We are no cowards, Major Campbell.”
“I did not say you were, sir,” Campbell replied. “But this is beyond your ken. Musket and sword will not harm these. Yon lad—” he gestured toward MacArran, who was standing with the men of the 40th—“can tell you the truth of it. We will turn the tide of
the enemy in the king’s name, or you will have to make other plans.”
Wolfe appeared ready to make a sharp reply, but the prince nodded to Campbell, and he thought better of it.
And suddenly, the ghostly figures of the Highlanders faded away, leaving the rest of the travelers alone in the dusk.
Moments later, they began to see large human-shaped figures coming down the road. They moved slowly and deliberately, walking in step four abreast, looking like tall Indian braves. Instead of showing any sign of war decoration, their skins bore scales, like great stone snakes. The faces were fierce and devoid of expression.
“Form skirmish line,” Wolfe said, not taking his eyes off the advancing forces. He exchanged a glance with Prince Edward, wondering if he was thinking the same thing: where the hell are the Scotsmen?
The regulars and rangers formed a line abreast; each had his musket shouldered and aimed. The stone Indians continued to advance, four by four, coming closer and closer—
And just as the Highlander ghosts had vanished, they materialized once again in the path of the oncoming enemy. There was a far-off skirl of bagpipes and a banshee chorus as the ethereal Scotsmen collided with the stone demons. The Scots had been almost transparent, like wisps of dull fog, but in the impact they transformed, glowing brighter than day, more like sheets of flame, white and blue. Had they been men and not spirits, the stone figures might have overwhelmed them, but it was clear to the prince and the general that the fight was taking place in some way, in some realm that they could not see.
The men stood, transfixed and silent, watching the battle take place a hundred yards ahead of them where the stone Indians had stopped and now seemed to be crumbling and melting as the shades of the Scotsmen passed through them in unstoppable waves.
