by Eric Flint
In the moment, Edward resolved to do none of those things. He called to his groom to bring his mount.
Paul Revere stood with the men from Massachusetts and Connecticut, their ranks deployed well behind the British regulars. He saw the warriors advancing across the field and wondered when—or if—the general would order the colonials to advance.
“Why don’t they fire?” someone said from the ranks.
“Waste of ammunition,” Colonel Gridley said. “They have to come closer. A great deal closer.”
“They’ll only have one volley,” Revere said. “Then it’ll be bayonets.”
“I agree. But I don’t think the regulars will have any problem with that. The natives can do all the shouting they like, but they’re no match for cold steel.”
“You would think that the general would want us to be helping with that,” Revere answered. “We’ve been fighting natives for a hundred years.”
The comment hung in the air for a few moments, then Gridley turned and put a hand on his junior’s shoulder and led him aside.
“You know very well why we’re standing here rather than over there,” Gridley said quietly. “I don’t intend to have a policy debate with you in front of the men. General Amherst is relying on his regulars for this fight. We’re here because we came here, not because he wants us here.”
“You’ll forgive me for saying so, Colonel, but that’s a damn waste of good talent.”
“I agree. But this is neither the time nor the place—”
“Truly? Begging your pardon, sir. But when will it be the time or place? This is our land the natives want to take back. The general and his fine troops just got here, to fight a war against the French—and we’re not even fighting that war anymore. The men of Massachusetts-Bay and Connecticut and Rhode Island and New York, and all the rest of the colonies, have civilized this land, planted and settled and built, and the savages want to tear that all down. Why shouldn’t we want to fight for it?”
Gridley took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “How do you expect me to answer that?”
“I’m not sure, Colonel. But if the savages come anywhere near us, orders or not, the men will want to fight for their country—and their king.”
“Our king is far away.”
“No,” Revere said, pointing toward the camp, from which a rider was approaching at a gallop, followed by several others. “Our king is right here.”
Gridley turned away and walked over to meet the rider, who stopped and dismounted.
“Your Highness,” Gridley said, bowing. “How may I be of service?”
“Colonel—Gridley, is it? And Captain Revere.” Edward smiled. “Revere and I are well acquainted. Tell me, Colonel. Are your troops ready to fight?”
“Never more ready, sir. But General Amherst has ordered us to wait in reserve.”
“I . . . ” Edward looked away. The sounds of musket fire and a cloud of smoke rolled away from where the regulars were deployed, waiting for the leading native warriors to reach them. “When you are called forward, I will go with you.”
“Highness, I . . . cannot, I am not sure I can guarantee your safety. General Amherst—”
“I will be responsible for my own safety, Colonel Gridley. Make sure your men are ready to advance.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked back to his mount.
Gridley looked aside at Revere.
“Well, Captain,” he said, “you may get your fight after all.”
The regular infantryman in His Majesty’s service understood that for musket fire to be effective, he and all his fellows had to fire at once; the volley would assure that some bullets would at least strike their target. They followed the manual of arms: load the ball; pour the powder; ram; take aim, and on command fire all at once. Good infantrymen could manage several volleys a minute; while one rank fired, the other would retire and prepare for its next shot.
The natives charged toward the British line, seemingly heedless of the danger that awaited them. Most of the troops, while regulars, had never faced this sort of attack, but their training held them to the rigid sequence of loading, readying and firing, doing the job that men to their left and right were doing at the same time. The officers had prepared them to see a foregone conclusion: mangled bodies on the ground, felled by the murderous fire . . . but when the smoke cleared, most of the attackers were still coming, unaffected by the first volley. Some of the native warriors had been struck down by the gunfire, but nowhere nearly as many as should have been.
A second volley by the next rank met with similar results.
Officers raised their swords and shouted, “fix bayonets!” There was scarcely time to do so before the first of the attackers reached the British lines. Beyond, the regulars could see elaborately dressed natives beginning to walk, almost casually, toward the line of battle.
From their vantage, astonished, Amherst and Wolfe watched as the natives continued to advance into the vicious melee with the regular troops. More and more were emerging from the trees; soon the British would be outnumbered.
“Wolfe,” Amherst said. “Go take charge of the colonials. It appears they will be needed after all.”
“Someone has already made that decision,” Wolfe said, pointing toward them. The men of the colonies had begun to advance toward the fight, in something only vaguely resembling a formation. Their muskets were slung behind them, but with axes, cutlasses and even cudgels in their hands, they were well prepared for a fight. In the van, the two generals could make out a small group of mounted men, swords drawn, charging forward.
“If Gridley advanced without my orders—”
“No, General,” Wolfe said. “I do believe that is the prince.”
The fighting was brutal and chaotic. There was little semblance of formation on the part of the colonials, and soon the regulars were fighting in the same manner; each dealing with the man in front of him, and then the next man, and so on, paying no heed to the overall situation. Shots rang out, sometimes felling a Briton or a native, but often simply going awry, an echo above the din of the battle, smoke rising and drifting away.
After several minutes that felt like hours, Revere looked up to see a man a few feet away who was dressed more ornately than the others. He was a sachem, perhaps, or a shaman: he didn’t know the distinctions among savage tribesmen, as they rarely walked the streets of Boston. The man had a disturbing smile, and his left hand appeared thin, almost skeletal, with sinew or cord wrapped in between the fingers and around the wrist.
As their eyes met, the sounds of the battle seemed to become dim and distant, as if a shroud of fog had been spread around where Revere stood.
Come here, the shaman said, and beckoned with the malformed hand, curling each finger in turn. Revere stood up straight, his short sword held at his side, unable to look away.
He took one step forward and then another. The sounds and sights of the battle were almost out of reach now.
This is where your story ends, pale one. This is your fate, and the fate of all of your people. The world belongs to us.
Your cities will burn and your farms will be laid waste. Your roads will be covered with underbrush, and in a generation, no one will know you were ever here. The Great Spirit will not even be able to find your bones.
Though he knew he was being compelled, Revere could not resist. He thought of everything that had happened in his life, as if it were a story-book laid out before him: his youth in Boston’s North End, his brothers and sisters and extended Hitchborn family; his struggles with his father over his profession and his own faith; his father’s death, and his time in the provincial army; his return to Boston to take up the silversmith’s trade, and his marriage to Sarah . . . dear Sarah . . . their whole life was ahead of them.
No, the shaman said. Your whole life is behind you.
A few steps further, and Revere knew he was almost in reach of the shaman’s extended hand. He could see nothing now but the hand: it was
a skeletal appendage, bound to the stump of the shaman’s wrist, and it shone like brightly polished silver except that the light hurt his eyes. He could make out every curve, every articulation of the hand that reached for him as he stood, transfixed, waiting for its touch—
And then he saw the shaman stagger, blood spouting from his neck and upper chest. The horrible hand fell to the savage’s side, and he slumped forward, almost in slow motion, to the ground, landing scarcely a foot from where Revere stood.
And as suddenly the sound and sight and smell of battle returned in a rush that made Revere stagger. He looked up to see the mounted figure of Prince Edward, bloodied sword in hand, silhouetted against the sun, though to Revere’s suddenly clearing vision he seemed more like an armored knight, a great and noble figure.
At Revere’s feet was the sprawled body of the shaman who had spoken to him.
“Welcome back,” the prince said.
No, Revere thought, looking at the corpse. Your story ends here. And the Great Spirit will search in vain for your bones.
Chapter 47
It cannot be undone
Against the fierce counterattack by the colonials, the natives retreated into the forest. Shouted orders by officers kept the British soldiers, regular and colonial, from pursuing, and with the sun high in the sky the British found themselves masters of the field.
Amherst came into Prince Edward’s tent without introduction or leave. He saw Captain Revere being attended to; the colonial stood, shrugging away the man attending to a wound. The prince did not, but looked up at the general.
“You are dismissed,” Amherst said to Revere, who saluted. But Edward put a hand on his sleeve.
“No, Captain. Remain, if you would. How may I be of service, General?”
“Prince Edward, you have shown yourself to be reckless and foolhardy. I cannot adequately explain my anger at your behavior.” Amherst clenched his fist. “You could have been killed—and for no reason.”
“I think Captain Revere would disagree, sir.”
Amherst looked from Revere to the prince. “I am sure the captain appreciates your effort, Highness. But he is one among many—as am I. You are the only person of royal birth in the New World. If Revere is slain, if I am slain, there will be men to replace us. If you die, there is no one. Why do you not understand that? Must I have you confined?”
Edward stood to face Amherst. The two men were about the same height, but Edward was younger, a trifle less heavy—he had the lithe grace of youth.
“I defy you to do so, General. We will see who will refuse the order.”
Amherst did not reply at once, but instead rubbed his forehead with his right hand.
“I cannot serve in my current capacity if my orders are not obeyed, sir. And you are an officer in His Majesty’s armed forces, seconded to my command. By entering this battle in direct violation of my orders, even if you acquitted yourself with exceptional valor, you should be subject to a court-martial. Perhaps you can clarify for me why I should not pursue one.”
Edward’s expression seemed to convey shock at such a suggestion, but it changed as he met Amherst’s eye.
“The colonial troops drove the savages off the field,” Edward said. “I ordered them into battle, which—in my opinion—you should have done, rather than leaving them idle . . . nonetheless, upon reflection, you are correct, General Amherst. Regardless of my intentions, I subjected myself to unnecessary personal risk.”
“I am glad that Your Highness realizes that.”
Revere, who looked very uncomfortable, offered another salute and left the tent. Edward did not prevent him, and Amherst simply ignored the young officer. Once the colonial had left the tent, Amherst said: “I welcome Your Highness’ advice on what I am to do in this circumstance. I do not wish to have this particular conversation again.”
“I understand, General. But it ill befits me as a sovereign, even a sovereign-in-waiting, to cower within my tent while brave men are fighting and dying. I will not expose myself to unnecessary risk in the future, but I will not remain concealed in camp.”
“I do not know how I can protect you.”
“So be it. If it is God’s will that I die, then . . . I die. But if I am to be king, I must have not only the obedience of my subjects, but also their respect.”
“And you will not be deterred from this course, even though you are irreplaceable.”
“No, General. I will not. I will be obedient to your orders, but I will not be left behind.”
The sachem stood unmoving, looking straight ahead, his expression neutral. A few feet away, Guyasuta squatted by the fire, looking at the flames flickering in front of him.
“Tell me how many Dry-Hands died today,” Guyasuta said, without looking at him.
“Three,” the sachem answered.
“Three,” Guyasuta repeated. “And tell me, Brother, where the white men’s prince lies dead. And where General Amherst’s corpse can be found.”
“They are not dead, Brother.”
“No,” Guyasuta said. “They are not.” He stood up, taking a branch and placing it in the flames until it caught fire, and lifted it so that it cast flickering shadows across the dark clearing.
He walked to stand in front of the sachem.
“It was not my order that you attack the whites, Brother,” Guyasuta said. “Many of our people are still making their way here; we were not ready to attack.”
“You say.”
“And what do you say? What moved you to attack before I ordered it?”
“The whites were weak,” the sachem said. “The servants of the Onontio did not come to the aid of the others. I saw the chance for glory; I saw no need or reason to wait.”
“It was the deed of a fool.”
“You say,” the sachem repeated.
“I say,” Guyasuta said, holding the flaming brand high, etching the profile of the shaman in light and dark. “I say, and I lead. I have quenched the fire of the Covenant. I have gathered the tribes to do what must be done—to drive the whites from the lands of the Great Spirit. Your rash act threatens our success. The ghost shirts worked—”
“Some of them worked.”
“Most of them did just what Sganyodaiyo said they would. We only lost because you launched the assault too early, before we had assembled enough men.”
“It is done,” the sachem said, still looking straight ahead, impassive in the face of Guyasuta’s anger. “It cannot be undone.”
“But you can be prevented from making such mistakes again.”
“I am not afraid of your anger,” the sachem said. “Or your fire. If you take my life, my sons will take yours.”
“I will not take your life,” Guyasuta answered. “And as for your sons, they may watch as I exact my justice.”
He raised his torch in the air, and the sachem heard gasps from those watching, scarcely visible, out of the firelight. He looked at Guyasuta, who was looking in the air over his right shoulder; the shaman’s gaze moved there, and he saw something round, bearing the vague features of a human face. It glowed weirdly with an inner light, filling the sachem with a sense of dread.
“Its hunger needs to be met,” Guyasuta said. “You will serve admirably.”
“My sons—”
“Let them try and seek justice,” Guyasuta interrupted. “The mission is greater than you, and greater than them.”
Without another word, he walked away, leaving the sachem to deal with the Floating Head. It was only then that the sachem at last moved—but he was already too late.
Revere located Prince Edward in the large medical tents set up near the base of the hill. It was not a scene for the faint of heart: the English had held the field, but at a cost—and those who paid that price, and were not already dead, showed the effects of the battle.
The prince was seated beside one of the young soldiers; his back was turned to Revere as he entered the tent. The patient was being attended by a chirurgeon who—thankfully—l
ooked to be sober.
Revere came close, but remained a few feet away so as not to intrude. After a few seconds, Prince Edward noticed his presence and rose.
Revere made a leg. “I beg your pardon, Highness. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“I’m merely taking a moment to visit,” Edward said. “The chirurgeons seems to have this well in hand. Were you looking for me?”
“By your leave, Highness, yes I was.”
“Let’s step outside,” Edward said, gesturing toward the tent entrance. They stepped out of the sick tent into the bright late-afternoon sunlight.
Edward removed his hat and wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
“I—I’m not sure how to explain, Your Highness. I wanted to seek you out—I wanted to thank you personally for saving my life. I am not sure how I can adequately express my appreciation. You risked great personal harm to be there, at the very moment when I—”
Edward smiled. “I will not dismiss it or say that it was nothing. My grandfather the king fought on the battlefield of Dettingen many years ago, and saved a few lives and, I’m sure, had his life saved during that battle. Saving a fellow soldier from death is no small thing. But I was just doing my duty.”
“Surely you had more important matters—”
“What, than saving your life?” Prince Edward laughed, and reached out and placed his hand on Revere’s shoulder. “If General Amherst had his way, I would have remained in the camp, and that duty would have fallen to someone else—or perhaps no one else.”
“I don’t understand. The general didn’t order you to lead us forward?”
“Not a bit. And he threatened me with court-martial.”
“I heard him do so, Highness. I would think you might find that a mortal insult.”
The prince dropped his hand to his side and shrugged. “Personally, I thought it was rather an affront, Captain. But as a sworn man in His Majesty’s Forces, I am obliged to obey the orders of my superior. And I did act against orders. But you, and the other colonials, acquitted yourselves with honor and skill. The regulars were not sure what to do when their first volleys had little effect, but you men showed that you knew what to do in close combat with the savages. I think your troops won the battle.”
