Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  She snorted. “The stress pushed my talents up a notch,” she added. “I fled to London, half-mad, and found a place to hide. The bastard hired detectives to follow me, one of whom was alarmingly good. Luckily, I had a few allies of my own by then. I faked a marriage and vanished, leaving a mocking note for the nobleman. He thought I had good reason to keep everything a secret too now, so he called off his dogs.”

  “But you didn't get married,” Raechel said. “How did you fake it?”

  “I had some help,” Irene said. “Suffice it to say that, shortly afterwards, I was recruited by British Intelligence.”

  She smirked. “And the nobleman in question was killed by the French, a few years later,” she added. “I believe his wife was killed too.”

  Raechel frowned, unsure what to say. How much of the story was actually true?

  “All of it,” Irene said. Raechel flushed and slammed her shields back into place. “I’ve left out a few details, but the basic outline is accurate.”

  She looked up, meeting Raechel’s eyes. “I have done a great many things I’m not proud of,” she added. “And they were necessary. You’ll have to ... lower yourself to do the same, if you want to survive in this world. Trying to sweet talk Fredrick is barely the icing on the cake.”

  “It wasn't easy,” Raechel said. “And we were interrupted ...”

  “Maybe you can pick it up again later,” Irene said. “If you still want to, that is ...”

  Raechel flushed. Irene’s advice had covered a multitude of subjects her aunt would have flatly denied existed, if Raechel had had the nerve to ask. She hadn't even thought about some of the different ways to please a man, or herself, until Irene had mentioned them. Now, it was clear that Irene had done them herself. It had been the only way to survive and prosper in her world.

  “There's something else I should tell you,” Irene warned. She held up a dainty hand. “Do you know Geoffrey Norton, Barrister-At-Law?”

  “No,” Raechel said. The name was unfamiliar. Besides, she’d never been encouraged to have any dealings with lawyers. “Who is he?”

  “A friend,” Irene said. “A stout, study Englishman. Works for the Royal College. He loves me, more deeply and truly than he knows. I like him too, more than I care to admit. But if he knew what I’d done, even after I came to work for the Crown, he’d be revolted.”

  “Men have married widows before,” Raechel pointed out.

  “Everyone knows that widows are respectable,” Irene said. “Men can be quite funny about certain matters.”

  “I know,” Raechel said.

  “If you want to keep learning, you may find yourself cut off from polite society forever,” Irene warned. “Really, you need a whole new identity, one you can discard at will.”

  “It isn’t polite,” Raechel said, automatically. The thought of being permanently separated from her aunt and uncle wasn't a bad one. “And I’m not going to stop now.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I do wonder just why the French committed so many magicians to the invasion,” Colonel Jackson said, as he moved his knight forward. “Didn't they know they risked terrible losses?”

  “I dare say they thought they didn't have a choice,” Gwen said. She frowned, stroking her chin contemplatively. Jackson was a good player, better than her. “Victory in the Battle of Dorking would have allowed them to make peace on excellent terms.”

  “Perhaps,” Colonel Jackson said. He watched as she moved a pawn forward, then pushed his bishop across the board, opening up a whole new angle of attack. “But we would have worn them down, regardless.”

  He looked up. “Unless you have other secret weapons hidden in Cavendish Hall?”

  Gwen shrugged. Olivia probably counted as a secret weapon, although there wouldn't be many dead bodies around for her to animate. The French understood the dangers of leaving dead bodies lying around as well as the British. But then, the government might have been secretly collecting and storing dead bodies, just in case. They’d done worse during the Swing.

  “The French are a lion,” she said, as she moved her own knight back. “We’re a whale. Each one is supreme in its own environment, but unable to come to grips with the other.”

  “Interesting concept,” Jackson said. He seemed more inclined to give thought to her words than most of the men she met. “Do you think ...?”

  He broke off as a voice echoed through the hull. “Man for action,” it bellowed. “Man for action!”

  Gwen rose, feeling a trickle of alarm running down her spine. There had always been a danger of encountering a French squadron on the voyage, although Captain Bligh had taken pains to reassure the more nervous passengers that the French would be hard-pressed to find the convoy, let alone muster the force to attack it. Gwen gritted her teeth as she glanced around for Irene and Raechel, then remembered that they were still in their cabin, reading files and discussing their plans for New York. A handful of crewmen rushed past the door, their leader bellowing orders as they passed. Gwen glanced at Jackson, then headed to the ladder. She had to know what was going on.

  “My men aren't equipped for fighting at sea,” Jackson muttered, as he followed her. Gwen was silently grateful she was wearing trousers rather than a dress. “They’ll be sitting ducks if a French squadron gets into gunnery range.”

  You should be with them, Gwen thought. She wasn't surprised that Jackson had chosen to sail on Duke of India, rather than one of the cramped troopships, but it wasn't a decision she could support. And you might be needed there.

  Captain Bligh turned to look at her as she led the way onto the bridge. “Get off my bridge,” he snapped. “A battle is about to take place.”

  “She’s a sorceress,” Jackson pointed out, before Gwen could say a word. “She might be very useful.”

  The Captain eyed him darkly, then nodded. “Seven French warships, heading right towards us,” he ordered. “Some bastard must have given them our projected course.”

  Or they had a magician looking for us, Gwen thought. It wouldn't be easy, locating a convoy of ships in the middle of the ocean, but the French might have managed to do it. Or they might just have had an immense stroke of luck.

  She peered into the distance, watching as the French ships came into view. They had to have been spotted from the mast, she realised; the lookout would have seen them long before they were visible to anyone on deck. The ships looked nasty, she thought, although they didn't look to be purpose-built steamships. No doubt the French had hazarded most of their iron warships on crossing the English Channel.

  Which makes sense, she told herself. Outfitting an ironclad for crossing the ocean is far harder than building ships to cross the water to England.

  “Sailing ships,” Jackson commented. “Your guns should be able to make mincemeat out of them, Captain.”

  “They’ll have a layer of armour,” Bligh countered. “A lucky shot could be fatal for us - or for them.”

  He turned to bark orders to his crew. The squadron was separating into two formations; the warships proceeding onwards to meet the foe, the freighters and troopships hanging back. It puzzled Gwen until she realised that, if the engagement went badly, the other ships would have a chance to scatter before the French chased them down. A handful of them might even make it to New York.

  “They’re forming a line,” Jackson whispered. “I think they expect a passing engagement with us, then a chance at the freighters.”

  Gwen nodded. The French would probably find sinking the warships very satisfying, but if they had any sense they’d concentrate on the freighters. Blocking reinforcements to America would make life easier for their armies, particularly when the great offensive finally started ... if it hadn't started already. Being so badly out of touch disconcerted her more than she cared to admit. A flash of light flickered on one of the French warships, followed by a great goat of water splashing up far too close to the lead British ship ...

  “They’
re taking aim,” Jackson said.

  “I’m going out there,” Gwen said. A throbbing eagerness was running through the crew - she could sense they were looking forward to coming to grips with their enemy - but she knew an engagement could be disastrous. Losing a single troopship would cost the lives of thousands of men. “Tell the gunners not to shoot at me.”

  Jackson gave her a sharp look and nodded curtly. Gwen glanced at Captain Bligh, who was passing orders to the signallers, then hurried out of the hatch and pulled her magic around her, lifting off into the air. She heard someone cry out behind her, but there was no time to turn and look. The chances of survival if she landed in the cold water were minimal. She rose higher, searching for her targets. The French ships were running up a string of flags, led by their king’s arms. She had no idea what the others meant.

  Wooden ships, she thought slowly, as she studied her targets. They weren't quite wooden - Bligh had been right, there was a layer of armour covering their hulls - but their masts were wooden and there was no sign of a steam engine. The warships were completely dependent on the wind to get around, which was hardly a major problem. Bligh had told her, during one of the innumerable boring dinners, that warship steam engines were nowhere near completely reliable. Duke of India would run the risk of losing power in the middle of the ocean without her sails. But the French have no steam engines.

  A shot cracked past her, coming from the lead French warship. She glanced down in surprise and saw a man standing on the deck, holding a sniper rifle. One of the men who shot at sailors on the rigging, she thought, remembering some of Fredrick Hauser’s war stories from the Caribbean. It had been clear, from the way he’d said it, that the sailors regarded such snipers as deadly enemies. Other enemy sailors might be picked up and taken prisoner, after a battle, but the snipers would be killed if they were identified. The French would do the same to any snipers they caught.

  She formed a fireball in her hand, then threw it down towards the French ship. The Frenchman jumped backwards in shock. He’d expected a Mover, she realised, as she hurled another fireball. He might not have realised she was a girl, let alone realised that she was the Royal Sorceress. But he’d know now, she was sure; she launched a third fireball into the French rigging, watching from high overhead as flames licked through the canvas, sending the lookout falling to the deck. Gwen almost reached out with her magic to slow his fall, or to catch him, before remembering that he was the enemy. The battle was not yet won.

  More bullets cracked around her, bouncing off her magic. The other French ships were firing now, aiming their heavy guns at the squadron while the soldiers on their decks were trying to shoot Gwen out of the sky. Gritting her teeth, she shot a series of fireballs in all directions, trying to set fire to the remainder of the enemy fleet. Their sails caught fire, one by one; she watched, grimly, as the flames spread down the mast and onto the wooden decks. And then one of the ships exploded with staggering force.

  Must have caught something explosive, she thought, numbly. Bligh had warned her that fire was a deadly enemy onboard ship, particularly when there were barrels of gunpowder lying around. Did ships still use barrels of gunpowder? She couldn't recall. But Bligh was certainly old enough to remember the days when gunpowder was used to launch solid iron balls towards the enemy. I ...

  Something flashed though the air towards her. She ducked, dropping down instinctively, as a chunk of iron almost slammed into her magic. A Frenchman stood on the deck, pointing a finger at her. Gwen had almost no time to react before a wave of magic crashed into her, tearing apart the power holding her in the air. She threw back a fireball desperately, then let go of her grip on the air and plummeted down, breaking free of the Frenchman’s magic. A Mover. They had a Mover onboard ship. She caught herself before she hit the water, then hurled another fireball into the French ship, pushing as much power as she could into the blow. Flames licked over the side of the vessel, seconds before the main mast came tumbling down to the deck. Seconds later, it exploded, followed rapidly by another ship.

  Gwen braced herself, expecting to see the French magician flying into the air, but saw nothing. An untrained Mover then, she noted absently as she rose higher, watching for other magicians. The French squadron lay in ruins, the four remaining ships burning brightly as flames tore through their hulls. Their crews were hastily scrambling into boats or jumping into the cold water, preferring to brave the Atlantic than die with their ships. Gwen felt magic billowing up within her, itching to lash out at the Frenchmen, but she forced it down with an effort. The French weren't a threat any longer. How could they be?

  And I’m the only known Master Magician, she thought numbly. Master Thomas had insisted that they were special, but she hadn't really believed it, not deep inside. But he’d been right, she knew now. She might lack the raw power of Sir James, or the skill of Irene Adler, but she was far more versatile than either of them. Look what I did to the French.

  She watched the last French warship explode into a billowing fireball, then turned and flew back to the Duke of India. Captain Bligh had halted and started to deploy boats, ready to pick up any of the Frenchmen who felt like being taken prisoner. Gwen wondered, absently, just what would happen to them, once they reached New York. A spell in a POW camp until the end of the war, perhaps, or a prisoner exchange with the French? Either one was possible.

  The crewmen on deck started to cheer as soon as she dropped down and landed neatly on the giant ship. Gwen smiled, wondering when they’d stopped seeing her as bad luck. Maybe after she’d beaten the French so decisively ... oddly, the thought made her scowl. It had been the most one-sided victory in history for ... for at least living memory. Even the slaughter of the Spanish warships escorting the vast treasure fleet, back in 1802, hadn't been quite so lopsided. Lord Nelson had crushed the Spanish, but he’d lost two ships of his own in the battle.

  “My Lady Gwen,” Jackson said, as she walked back to the bridge. “That was very well done.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said. Just for a second, she told herself, she could bathe in honest praise from a man. Jackson didn't seem scared, or intimidated, or convinced she was out to steal his glory. But then, they were at sea. The cynical part of her mind argued that it would be a different story on land. “What are we going to do with the prisoners?”

  “If they give their word not to cause trouble, we’ll treat them decently,” Jackson assured her, firmly. “And if they do cause trouble ...”

  He mimed cutting his throat with one hand. Gwen understood, then turned to look at the Frenchmen as they were hauled out of the water. They looked stunned, stunned or angry; some made the sign of the cross in Gwen’s direction as they were patted down for weapons and anything that could be sold in New York. Gwen would have felt pity, if she hadn't known what the French would have done to her - and to every other magician, before their king had realised he needed them. The French magical program would be far more advanced if they hadn't wasted thirty years killing every magician who appeared in France or Spain.

  Blame the Pope, she thought, darkly. And now the Pope is a French tool.

  “Lady Gwen,” Captain Bligh said, as they stepped onto the bridge. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Gwen said. “Did we lose anyone?”

  “No, fortunately,” Bligh said. “You sank them all before they had a chance to get the range.”

  “Definitely very well done,” Jackson said.

  Gwen yawned suddenly, hastily covering her mouth in a reaction her mother had drilled into her. Young women did not yawn in public. It simply wasn’t done. Doing so much magic, so quickly, had drained her. Maybe it wasn't quite as bad as the Battle of Dorking or the desperate struggle to escape Moscow, but quite bad enough.

  “I need some rest,” she said. “I’ll try and see you tonight for dinner.”

  “Please allow me to escort you to your cabin,” Jackson said.

  Gwen nodded - all of a sudden, she was too tired
to argue - and clambered down the ladder onto the lower deck. A pair of sailors waved cheerfully at her as they walked past, staring at her in awe. It made a change, she decided, from having them watching her as though they expected her to start turning people into frogs, left right and centre. Didn't they know magicians couldn't turn people into frogs?

  Of course they don’t, her own thoughts mocked her. Very few people know what magic can do.

  “Here you are,” Jackson said. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I just need to sleep,” Gwen assured him. “Using so much magic at once is costly.”

  Jackson nodded. “Do you want me to stay with you for a while?”

  Gwen hesitated. The hell of it was that she was tempted. Jackson could stay with her while she slept ... but the price would be too high. Far too high. No matter what they did - or didn’t do - rumour would destroy both of them.