Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  “I confess the same, General Amherst. But here we are. Your sovereign and my sovereign are not here, are not accessible, and are unlikely to ever weigh in on any decisions we might make. We can make a truce, certainly. But we must go beyond that if we are to share a battlefield as allies.”

  “Allies?”

  “Yes. Our enemy is this vicious Seneca, Guyasuta, and the—unearthly—things that his campaign has brought forth.”

  “I thought it was the comet that brought forth these things. From what Lord Boscawen has told me, there are unearthly events and beings coming into the world far from where Guyasuta is based.”

  “I think this is a matter of definitions, General, no more.”

  “I think,” Amherst said, “this is a matter of perception. You might say that it doesn’t matter when it comes to defeating Guyasuta—and you are correct, sir. If our decision is to make this native our principal enemy, and we bend our efforts to defeating him, then we will, I trust, ultimately prevail. But that does not make us safer in our beds. Where Guyasuta stood, another—most likely many others—will take his place.”

  “And?”

  “If this is a war, General, and we are presumed to be on one side and the unnatural is on the other, then it is that we must prepare to fight—not just in New France or in New York, but everywhere in the world. Otherwise . . . ”

  Montcalm ran a finger along the edge of his uniform, smoothing down an unruly thread. “Otherwise, General, our arrangement would be a completely temporary one, and soon we would return to a situation which we would both find more amenable: trying to kill each other.”

  “You are very direct, General Montcalm. You do not mince words.”

  “Would you prefer that I did?”

  “No, by no means. I prize honesty and despise sophistry. It is a characteristic which is very—”

  “French.”

  Amherst smiled. “I do not impugn you personally, General. It is more the habit of diplomats and ministers than military leaders; your forthrightness does not surprise me. Still, your point is well taken. For me to consider your nation to be something other than the enemy is a Rubicon I have difficulty crossing.”

  “I would agree, except that my nation may now be New France and the rest of French North America. Your nation may now be the Atlantic plantations and the Caribbean possessions.”

  “My king—”

  “And my king are in a different world. If there is any sovereign prince in our world, it is the man who sits before us.”

  “You flatter me, General Montcalm,” Prince Edward said, the first words he had spoken during the entire conversation.

  “I merely state facts.”

  “What are the facts?” Edward said. “If I am . . . the only sovereign prince, sir, what does that mean for you and your nation?”

  “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

  “Who is your king, General?”

  “Louis, the fifteenth of his name.”

  “Reigning from another world, as you put it. If you never hear another word from him, who will be your king? Perhaps your ‘nation’ will choose you to be king?”

  “Absurd.”

  “Someone else, then.”

  “I regret to say that there is no one else.”

  “Except me.”

  Montcalm was silent. He appeared to be ready to say something but held back. For the first time during the entire interview, Montcalm looked uncomfortable.

  “Another Rubicon, I suppose,” Amherst said.

  “General,” Prince Edward said, “Alea iacta est. The die is cast. We are not going home, and we are not simply extensions of our homelands. As much as I might prefer otherwise, it will be necessary for me to choose either to take on a crown or walk away from it forever.”

  “I understand, Highness,” Montcalm said, inclining his head. “It is a felicitous matter that British subjects here in North America have the possibility of this choice. Regrettably, French subjects do not.”

  “Except me.”

  “You state the obvious, Highness. Do you think I do not know this? Do you think I have not reached this self-same conclusion? I trust that you are not suggesting that I am dull-witted.”

  “No, of course not. I—”

  “Of course not,” Montcalm interrupted, very slightly agitated—enough to commit the unpardonable breach of protocol. “Of course not. But France and England have been rivals and enemies for seven hundred years. You ask me to turn away from it in a moment. And—Mother of God!—even if I can come to terms with such an idea, I should have to convince my countrymen that they must do the same.

  “Do you know what some of them will say, Highness? Our ancient enemy gives up nothing; we give up ourselves. Why would we do this? And I beg you, do not tell me we have no choice. As long as there is powder and ball, as long as there are churches of the True Faith, as long as we have our own language, we have a choice.”

  “You would wage war on us? I beg your pardon, General Montcalm,” Amherst said. “In the end that is a losing proposition. Surely you must see that, and if you do not, there is nothing more we can discuss.”

  Montcalm closed his eyes and pinched his nose.

  “Well?” Prince Edward said.

  “Merde,” Montcalm said. “I beg your pardon,” he added, without opening his eyes. “I am not suggesting that we are looking to prolong the war. I am not suggesting anything except that it is not—what is the English phrase?—cut and dried.”

  “Did I suggest that it was?”

  Montcalm opened his eyes and let his hand drop to his lap. “In not so many words, yes. It is impossible to erase all distinctions with a wave of the royal hand. It will take time.”

  “While we wait, General, Guyasuta is preparing his next assault. He sent Flying Heads against the Iroquois, and summoned Stone Coats to destroy Fort Duquesne, and Dry-Hands to overwhelm Johnson Hall. God only knows what will come next.

  “He is your enemy as well. He is far more your enemy than I am—than General Amherst is. You must believe me, General Montcalm—my Lord Marquis. France has always been the enemy. It has fought my country, given succor to traitors to my realm, joined in alliances in support of a religion that undermines the laws of England. If things were different, seeking alliance with France would be the last thing I would choose. But things are what they are. I appreciate your difficulty. Please appreciate mine.”

  “Are we going to have the help of the French, do you think?” Prince Edward asked, after Montcalm and his colleagues had taken their leave.

  “No,” Wolfe said, before Amherst could answer. He earned an angry glance, but continued, “I’m sorry, Highness. But the Frenchman is stubborn and does not see the truth in front of his face.” He sniffed. “I am unsurprised.”

  “You jump to conclusions, Wolfe.”

  “I state the obvious, General Amherst.”

  It was silent for several moments, and at last Prince Edward said, “Who has the right of it? Will the French go their own way and continue the war against the crown—against me? Or will we reach terms with them?”

  “They will go their own way,” Wolfe said.

  “No,” Amherst said. “Montcalm is more rational than that.”

  “He is a Frenchman.”

  “What does that mean?” Amherst said.

  Wolfe sniffed again, but did not add anything to his statement.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Amherst continued. “I assume you’re suggesting that because Montcalm is French that he can’t come to any rational conclusion. What an obviously stupid insinuation.” Wolfe bristled, but he went on. “What is it that Montcalm said? France and England have fought each other on and off for seven centuries. If we’re so bloody smart and they’re so bloody irrational, why haven’t we beaten them in this war? Is it sheer luck that they have survived?”

  “What would you have me do? Scale the heights of Québec and attack the walls? Really, General. If it had not been for the comet, this war might
be over by now.”

  “You cannot know that for sure. And it doesn’t matter. We’ve had the comet and are dealing with the consequences. We will make friends with the French, and we will defeat the savage who seeks to destroy both of us. And you will play a part in it.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “For a start, you are going to make friends with the marquis. Find out what might be needed to bring him back to the table.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You, General Wolfe. Because if you can reach an understanding with him, anyone can.”

  New York

  “I hope the admiral is not making a mistake,” said Gustavus, as he and Lieutenant Pascal watched Neptune sailing toward the Narrows and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. In the man-o-war’s wake came a small fleet. Some of them were warships but most were civilian craft hired to transport British troops.

  Pascal pursed his lips. He shared his slave’s apprehensions, but didn’t feel entitled to express them aloud. Most—almost all, except for some marines—of the ground forces available to Boscawen were aboard those transports, now under the command of Admiral Saunders. If the unrest that Gustavus told him was simmering among New York’s black population started coming to a boil, Boscawen would be unable to maintain control of the city without calling on Governor De Lancey to mobilize the militias. And if that were to happen, the outcome was unpredictable—in the lieutenant’s opinion, at any rate.

  New York’s militias were poorly disciplined and prone to committing outrages, but in times past they could be counted upon to suppress slave rebellions. That, for the simple reason that the militias were fairly well-armed, and the slaves generally had nothing at their disposal save tools and kitchen implements.

  But Gustavus had told him that there were some among the city’s black folk who had gained magical powers; significant magical powers, in some cases. If he was right, and given the changed circumstances produced by what people were coming to call the Sundering, the balance of power might have significantly shifted.

  Pascal understood the logic of the admiral’s decision. Boscawen had become convinced that peace had to be made with the French in order to deal with the greater peril emerging from the western hinterlands. “Making peace,” however, had many aspects, some of them contradictory to each other. Extending an olive branch with one hand was usually reinforced by making threatening gestures with the other. So, he would send Saunders and his fleet, along with most of the soldiers at his disposal, to the recently captured fortress at Louisbourg. From that station, close to the entrance to the St. Lawrence seaway, they could threaten the French at Quebec and Montreal.

  Sound logic, on its own terms—but would those terms remain in place?

  There was no way to know yet. They could only hope for the best.

  Chapter 42

  We are fighting forces of nature

  Western New York

  When the war band of Guyasuta reached the village, the braves and their war-chief were already armed and waiting. Among the Seneca and the Cayuga, it was a matter of posture: even if no one else was watching, the Great Spirit was watching—and the meeting, which might be a confrontation, was about protecting the village on the one hand, and establishing dominance on the other.

  The war-chief did not know who had come to his village, but he recognized the emblems of Seneca men, as well as those of the “new tribes” beyond the Ohio. He had heard about them, and about their chief, who now stood before him: Guyasuta, a Seneca, who had turned his back on the Longhouse and—it was said—sought its destruction. But for the war-chief, it was a simple matter: foreigners, even men of his own extended tribe, had come to his village, heavily armed.

  Guyasuta did not even speak for himself.

  “Hail, great warriors,” a shaman said, stepping forward in front of the newcomers. The war-chief immediately was on edge, feeling almost a revulsion: the man kept one of his hands concealed beneath his ceremonial cloak, and his smile was disturbing.

  Without lowering his tomahawk, the war-chief took a step forward, remaining otherwise very still. His eyes flicked from the shaman’s face to his concealed hand and back.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “We look for a pledge, Brother,” the shaman answered.

  “Oh? Who seeks our loyalty?”

  “The great war leader Guyasuta.”

  “Guyasuta turned his back to the Seneca,” the war-chief said. “He sought his fortune in the Ohio Country. Why would we choose to follow him now?”

  “Brother.” The shaman affected a world-weary voice, as if he was lecturing a young brave. “You must see that the world has changed. It truly would be far easier if you pledged your loyalty.”

  “My clan and my village make no pledge lightly. Not to Guyasuta, not to anyone.”

  “Of course not,” the shaman answered. “It would be a great disappointment if you did. But that being said, Brother, it is important that you understand the stakes.”

  “I understand the stakes.”

  “No,” the shaman said. “I don’t think you do.” He withdrew his arm from within his cloak, and the war-chief’s eyes were at once focused on the spectacle: a shriveled, blackened hand that had been bound by cords to the stump of his left wrist.

  “Oniate,” the war-chief whispered, and the shaman’s smile became broader.

  “Brother,” the shaman said, “I mean to ask you if you understood what the stakes were for you.”

  “I am the war-chief.”

  “Brother, if you do not choose to offer the fealty of your village, it will be reduced to dust. You become no more than an obstacle.”

  “If you seek to use that profane thing on me,” the war-chief said after a moment, “you will never have the loyalty of my braves or my village. And you will pay for it, personally, with your life.”

  “You’re threatening me?” The shaman laughed, then spat at the feet of the war-chief.

  If he had been a more patient man, the war-chief might have been willing to let the insult pass. But patience was not a part of a war-chief’s skill set. Without a moment’s hesitation he leapt forward with a vicious swipe of his axe. But the blade did not strike bone or flesh. The shaman was far faster, dodging aside and placing his withered hand on the war-chief’s neck.

  A yellow-green light exploded from the place he touched, and the warrior cried out and crumpled to the ground. Several braves jumped forward as he fell, but the shaman turned aside from his victim and held up his hand.

  “Be very sure, Brothers,” he said. “Who will be next?”

  Albany

  Amherst looked up from the map he was studying to see a young lieutenant waiting to be acknowledged. He appeared to be out of breath as if he had run a long way.

  “Well,” Amherst said. “What is it?”

  “A troop of soldiers is approaching, General.”

  “What sort of troops?”

  “Colonials, sir,” he said. “General Wolfe has already ridden out to meet them.”

  “Wolfe?” Amherst tossed the dividers he was holding down onto the map. “He has no use for colonials. Have my horse prepared.” He swept out of the tent before the lieutenant could answer.

  From across the meadow he could see Wolfe, his angular chin lifted in the air, his hand stretched out, pointing away from the camp. A colonial officer stood before him, clearly angry.

  As Amherst approached, Wolfe lowered his arm and turned to face him. Amherst did not speak until he had dismounted, tossing the reins to a subaltern.

  “General,” Amherst said.

  “General.”

  “Please be so good as to introduce me.”

  Wolfe did not seem particularly interested in doing so, but he cleared his throat and said, “General Amherst, I present Colonel—” he tinged the word with distaste. “Richard Gridley of Massachusetts Bay Colony. He appears to have some—men—in his company.”

  “Colonel,” Amherst said, nodding to the colonial
.

  “General Amherst.” Gridley offered a salute. “It is my honor to inform you that I have some six hundred soldiers from our colony that I wish to place at your service.”

  “Soldiers,” Wolfe said, which earned a glare from Gridley.

  Amherst ignored him. “You have a commission from your governor, sir?”

  “I do, sir. In view of the—events—our governor felt that we would be of use here.”

  “You are most welcome,” Amherst said. “You may find that things have changed somewhat.”

  “They have changed for us as well, sir. Captain Revere and I have seen a great deal and are eager to provide you with what intelligence we can. The French—”

  “Yes,” Wolfe said. “The French.”

  “Has something changed with the French, sir?”

  “Oh, yes,” Amherst said. “Yes, indeed.”

  Before sitting in conference with the colonials, Wolfe asked a moment of Amherst’s time.

  “General,” Wolfe said almost as soon as he arrived. “I do not see the point of receiving, much less encouraging, these—”

  Amherst stood patiently, waiting for Wolfe to finish his sentence.

  “—men,” Wolfe finally said.

  “You don’t think much of these colonials, do you, Wolfe?”

  “Regrettably, sir, I do not. They are unreliable, badly trained and of dubious loyalty, General Amherst. Given the threat we face—”

  “Given the threat we face, Wolfe, we need every man we can manage. I don’t think the colonials are any less reliable in the face of that than our regular troops.”

  “I disagree, obviously.”

  “And you are wrong, obviously. You have seen even more than I have, Wolfe. Haven’t you become convinced yet that we are facing something that is no more susceptible to well-drilled fighting men than the efforts of these fellows from Massachusetts? What do you think is going to happen here?”