Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  She made a wry little shake of her head. “The environs got . . . unsettled.”

  “And those environs were?”

  Messier pointed to the side with his thumb. “Not too far from here, but outside the city’s limits.”

  “No one would have noticed anything except us,” said LaGèndiere. “But the results of the test could hardly be called correlation.”

  Messier chuckled. “Hardly that!”

  LaGèndiere shook her head again. “Unless we can improve our control, I’m afraid we’ll have to call the device an elemental perturbator rather than an elemental concatenator.”

  There was silence in the room—a small office not far from Boscawen’s own—for half a minute or so.

  “But you think you can manage that?” the admiral finally asked.

  LaGèndiere’s nod was firm; Messier’s . . . less so, but it was still a gesture of assent.

  “It will take a while,” said LaGèndiere. She gestured toward the diagram. “Fortunately, while the device is bulky it is not—will not be, I should say—especially heavy.”

  “Two hundred pounds, at most,” added Messier. “We can easily transport it along with all the parts and tools we need on a wagon drawn by two horses. And, of course, the mademoiselle and I will need a carriage for our own transport.”

  Boscawen frowned. “Do I understand that you propose to finish the design—experiment with it, actually; let us be honest here—on the journey itself.”

  “We have no choice,” said LaGèndiere. “Not if we wish to bring the elemental concatenator to Amherst’s forces in time.”

  Again, there was silence. Then Boscawen said: “And you are certain that you need this—this—thing. You cannot simply conjure up the magic by . . . by . . . ”

  The Frenchwoman’s smile was so wide it was almost a grin. “By chanting spells and waving wands and suchlike? No, Admiral, we can’t.” LaGèndiere nodded toward Messier. “He can explain it better than I can, if you want the theoretical technicalities. But the gist of the matter is this: The way that magic is seeping into our new world—pouring in, in some places—is channeled by the existing . . . What should I call them?”

  She looked at Messier. “Philosophies, perhaps?”

  “Too—ha!—philosophical a term,” said Messier. “Call them thought patterns.”

  “Thought patterns, then. The problem we face, Admiral, is that the thought patterns of Europeans—at least, Europeans of our class—has been heavily shaped over the past few centuries by what we French call the Lumiéres.”

  “The illuminated ones,” Boscawen translated, in what was almost a murmur.

  “Men such as Spinoza,” Messier said. “Copernicus, Montesquieu, Diderot—your own John Locke and Isaac Newton.”

  “It has been a veritable movement in European thought and letters for at least two centuries now,” added LaGèndiere. “The Italians sometimes call it illuminismo; the Germans, the Aufklärung. I don’t believe you English have a specific term for it, but ‘enlightenment’ would be suitable.”

  Boscawen looked back down at the diagram. “And whatever value this—ah, thought pattern might have in a world governed solely by natural laws and reason, it does not suit this new world we’re in very well at all.”

  “Let us say rather that it can often get in our way,” qualified Messier. He smiled. “It is not always a hindrance, Admiral. After all, firearms still work—for the most part, anyway—and the making of such mechanical contrivances is still largely a European monopoly. What is necessary is for us to adapt the emerging magic to our own thought patterns. Hence—”

  “The elemental concatenator,” his French compatriot finished for him. LaGèndiere rapped her knuckles on the table. “We may not be able to use magic in what you might call a direct manner, Admiral Boscawen, but we can devise ways to channel its forces using our own technological ways of seeing the world.”

  “Mechanical magic, you’re saying.” Boscawen scratched his jaw for a moment. “Thaumaturgical machines that anyone can use.”

  “Ah . . . ” said Messier.

  LaGèndiere shook her head. “I am afraid not, Admiral. Just as only a small number of natives and people of African descent can apply the forces of magic—at least, in an effective manner—the same is true of we Europeans.”

  “There are only a few of us who are really adept at this, even using contrivances like the alchemetical compass or”—Messier pointed to the devise drawn on the diagram—“the elemental concatenator. I comprehend the abstract and theoretical issues rather well, but I am inept at applying that knowledge.”

  He turned to LaGèndiere and gave her what amounted to a little bow. “Quite unlike Mademoiselle Catherine.”

  The realization of what Messier and his young French companion truly intended was finally clear to Boscawen.

  “You plan to be the operator of this device—in battle!—not simply its designer,” he accused LaGèndiere.

  The mademoiselle had a distinctly smug expression on her face. “I prefer to think of myself as the gunner.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  LaGèndiere stared at him. In the end, it was the admiral who looked away.

  That evening, following a private dinner to which he had invited the two French scholars, Boscawen raised another issue.

  “If the two of you insist on haring off into the wilderness in order to test your elemental concatenator in an actual battle, who will maintain the supply of specie here in New York? I don’t believe Alexander can do it on his own, especially since you will be taking the alchemetical compass with you.” The admiral shook his head. “You will understand that, given the nature of the project, I want as few people as possible to know the origin of the gold and silver I’m using to sustain the navy.”

  Messier grunted. “Sustain half the economy of New York as well, from what I can see.” He drained his wine glass and set it down on the dining table.

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  “Perhaps you yourself could . . . ” LaGèndiere started to say, before her sentence trailed off.

  Boscawen shook his head. “As you said yourself, the use of magic—even transmitted through mechanical means—requires a certain aptitude. Which I do not have any more than Monsieur Messier.”

  She nodded. “The problem you face is that the two people I can think of who would most suit your purpose would be Minerva and her friend Absalom. From what you described of your encounters with them, both have in their different ways an affinity for magic.”

  Boscawen’s grimace was pronounced. “Put the financial fate of . . . well, everyone, in the hands of negroes? That seems most unwise, Mademoiselle LaGèndiere!”

  “Not as unwise as placing that fate in the hands of such as Governor De Lancey,” LaGèndiere retorted.

  “There would actually be some advantages, Admiral,” said Messier. “The two negroes you speak of are, like all such, outside the environs of power and influence. They would not be in a position on their own to engage in massive specie manipulation. Some, to be sure—but so what? Whatever gold and silver they embezzled from you—if ‘embezzle’ is even an applicable term—would be fairly small. Not enough, I think, to have a noticeable effect on New York’s commerce. And if that’s the case—”

  He shrugged. “As the Bible says, thou shalt not muzzle the kine that treads the grain.”

  Boscawen thought about it for a few seconds, draining his own wine glass in the process. “I see your point. But what would stop them from seeking an alliance with someone in New York who does have access to power and influence?”

  Before either Messier or LaGèndiere said anything, Boscawen answered his own question. “Not likely, I grant you, since any such person of power in New York would almost certainly have been implicated in the slaughter of innocent black people in the troubles twenty years ago. The navy has a far better reputation with New York’s negroes than any other white people in the city.”

  He set the empty wine g
lass down. “I will consider the idea further. In the meantime, can you see to it that I have a large supply of specie before you leave?”

  “Yes,” said LaGèndiere. “Transmutation does not go quickly, but now that we have experience with the process, we should be able to provide you with . . . ”

  She looked to Messier. “What do you think? Another two hundred guineas?”

  “At the very least,” replied the Frenchman. “At a guess, more like two hundred and fifty. It’s not as if we can charge off all that soon anyway, what with the other preparations we need to make.”

  Relaxed, now, the admiral settled back in his chair. “More wine?” When both Messier and LaGèndiere nodded, he rang a little bell to summon a servant. After the wine was brought and poured, and the servant had left the room, Boscawen shook his head. The gesture was one of bemusement more than anything else.

  “I have to say I’m a little astonished at the readiness with which the city’s merchants have been willing to accept our specie as—literally, not figuratively—good coin. Not one of them has so far raised any questions or doubts at all.”

  “It’s not really as surprising as all that, Admiral,” said Messier. “Do you recall what Mademoiselle Catherine said about thought patterns?”

  “Yes. Quite well.”

  “You are seeing another manifestation of it here. After the eruption of trade around the world these past few centuries, your average European—at least of the dominant and governing classes—have just as much faith in money as they do in mechanical matters.”

  “More, I’d say.” That came from LaGèndiere. Smiling, she reached for her glass. “It’s like that aura of kingship that is said to envelop Prince Edward. Call it the ‘aura of Mammon,’ if you choose.”

  Boscawen made a face. “Hardly that! It’s all being done in a good cause. No, let us rather think of it as . . . ” Grasping for a suitable term, he sipped at his wine.

  “Midas’ mesmerism?” LaGèndiere suggested.

  “Better, certainly. But still not . . . ”

  “Midas’ charisma?” was her next suggestion.

  “Splendid!” said Boscawen.

  Chapter 46

  Every man will do his duty

  The British camp had built some defensive works, though there was nothing like a fort—but Amherst was not expecting a siege. Guyasuta was not a European general, nor had he even been trained as a soldier; formation and assault was not how the savages fought. Apart from other considerations, there should have been no question of the outcome.

  But, as Amherst well knew, there were other considerations.

  The troops were roused while it was still dark, while the nearby forest seemed full of encroaching, threatening trees. The pickets were alert, hearing scattered war-cries in the darkness; somewhere out of their sight, native troops were preparing to attack. Their plans, and their intentions, were unclear; but as Amherst emerged from his tent, having had little in the way of sleep, he saw a pair of soldiers approaching, a native held between them.

  “General,” one of the soldiers said, saluting, as the other grasped the native’s arm more tightly.

  “What is this?”

  “A spy, sir,” the soldier answered. “Or a turncoat. He claims to have information for you.”

  “Indeed.” Amherst placed his hat on his head, and looked at the native—a young man, dressed as a scout—trousers and vest, moccasins, and painted face and arms designed to conceal him in foliage and underbrush. The man seemed fearless, meeting Amherst eye-to-eye in the light of flickering torches that pushed back the pre-dawn darkness. “Does he speak English?”

  “I do,” he answered. “You are the chief of the whites?”

  “I am General Amherst. If you have something to say, then say it.”

  “I am Donehogawa, once of the village of Ichsua. I have walked the paths of the forest in the war-band of Guyasuta, who calls himself Chief of Chiefs, Scourge of the Pale Ones, Beloved of the Gods. I have come to give you warning, Chief Amherst.”

  “What sort of warning?”

  “Guyasuta, Chief of Chiefs, and his brother Sganyodaiyo, have called forth much evil medicine to further their cause against the whites. Though they say this is blessed by the gods, I know that some of it is an abomination. I will no longer serve that cause.”

  “Why are you serving it in the first place? And, again, what warning do you bring?”

  “I had no choice.” Donehogawa’s shoulders seemed to slump ever so slightly. “Guyasuta sent a Dry-Hand shaman to my village, and those warriors who would not follow the Chief of Chiefs were touched by the Dry-Hand medicine. I chose not to die, Chief Amherst.

  “Sganyodaiyo has brought a medicine to the warriors of Guyasuta. Many of them wear what he calls a ghost shirt, which he says will ward off the bullets from the whites’ guns. I do not know if this is true—but if it is, it places you all in danger. It is well known that you whites cannot fight without your guns, so his warriors can easily overwhelm you.”

  Amherst began to reply, then realized that the young native might well be trying to make him angry—perhaps to show that he was not cowed by being made a prisoner.

  “Do you have such a garment?”

  Donehogawa shrugged free of his captor and pulled aside his vest to reveal a plain muslin shirt, off-white and unadorned by decoration.

  Amherst stepped forward and took a bit of the cloth between his fingers. “Guyasuta says that this can stop bullets?”

  “He says that a warrior wearing it cannot be harmed by the white man’s guns.”

  “Do you believe this?”

  “Many warriors believe it,” the young man said. “They say that medicine’s power grows by the strength of belief.”

  “Shall we see if you believe in it? I am sure that there are enough men in this camp who would be eager to find out.”

  To his credit, the young native did not waver or look away; but he did not respond.

  “And what do you want, young man? You have said why you have left Guyasuta. What do you want from me?”

  “I want to live, Chief Amherst. I want to live in the new world that the Great Spirit has made. Guyasuta thinks there is no room for whites. But I think there is enough room for all.”

  “How do I know you can be trusted?”

  “You have my oath. And I want to live,” he repeated. “If I do something not worthy of your trust, you can put me to death. You have the hatchet in your hand, mighty chief.”

  “I will think about what you have said. Confine him,” he said to the soldiers, who took hold of the native’s arms again.

  “What is my fate?” Donehogawa said, as Amherst began to turn away.

  He looked back at the native. “For now,” Amherst replied, “you have your wish.”

  As the first rays of the summer sun peeked over the hills to the east, catching the tips of the bayonets and the brass decorations of the soldiers’ uniforms, groups of wildly painted natives began to emerge from the trees. The close ranks of British soldiers held their fire, waiting for the native warriors to come into range of their muskets. Behind them stood their officers, swords drawn, preparing to give the order.

  Amherst and Wolfe watched the deployment from the hill behind the British lines. “There are shamans coming behind the warriors,” Amherst said. “The ones without axes or rifles. The troops are ordered to target them whenever possible.”

  “Don’t let them get close enough to touch anyone,” Wolfe said. “Those are the ‘dry-hands’ of which I spoke. Nasty.”

  “They can be killed by bullets, I assume, unless these ‘ghost shirts’ are truly effective.”

  “You don’t believe what the informant told you?”

  “I believe that Guyasuta has given these shirts to his warriors, but I don’t believe that they will have any effect. And I see no reason to share this information with the men: they should have no cause to believe that the savages have some . . . supernatural protection. If belief makes truth,
there is no reason to engender such belief.”

  “That is somewhat irrational, if the General pleases. The idea that what people believe changes reality—”

  “Truly, General Wolfe, is there anything rational about floating monsters? About ghosts of Highlanders and stone warriors? What about this war—this world—remains rational?”

  “There is nothing to be gained by adding to it. Sir.”

  Amherst’s hands tightened on his horse’s reins, but he forced himself to relax them. Wolfe’s tone was mildly arch and superior, but he had a point. Someone, somewhere, had to decide to put a mark in the ground and decide to exercise reason in the face of . . .

  “Soldiers must fight the war that is in front of them, not the one drawn up on a map or written in orders. There are floating monsters, and ghosts, and stone warriors—and there is still the honor of the Crown and the duty to king and country. Every man will do his duty.”

  “Or die trying.”

  “Yes,” Amherst agreed. “Or that.”

  Prince Edward stood outside his tent, listening to the shouts of the officers and the war-whoops of the natives as they emerged onto the battlefield. He had remained away from the encounter at the urging of General Amherst.

  We have many soldiers, Highness, he had said. But only one prince.

  His grandfather had been in the van at Dettingen while king. Whatever else could be said of him, George II was a brave man: he had not remained behind in his tent while his troops were exposed to danger. Of course, he had adult sons and young grandsons, so that if he fell Britain would still have a king. But even with that fig leaf—that there were no others with royal blood in the world—it troubled Edward that he was (in his mind) cowering while loyal men exposed themselves to danger.

  If Amherst’s forces prevailed, then it would be remembered that he had been away from danger. If the natives overwhelmed them, he would have to fight for his life nonetheless—or flee—or die in his tent.