Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  She stepped through the door, closing it behind her, then collapsed on the bed.

  ***

  “So tell me,” Irene said, as they returned to their cabin. “What do you make of our Frenchman?”

  Raechel frowned. The French officer was the highest-ranking Frenchman to be pulled from the water, save for a warship captain who’d been so badly hurt that he’d breathed his last almost as soon as he’d been tugged into a rowboat. She had to admit he was a handsome man - she knew from her trip to Russia that the French were not inhuman monsters - but the resentment on his face was almost palatable. Losing was bad enough, she knew, yet losing so badly had to be humiliating.

  Almost as humiliating as being berated in front of a crowd, Raechel thought. Irene had told her to study the Frenchman closely, without speaking to him. Or worse, perhaps. What will happen to him when he gets home?

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “A nobleman,” she said, finally. “But not a noble man.”

  Irene lifted her eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

  “He was plucked from the water, where he would have surely drowned,” Raechel said. Irene might tell her she was wrong, but she wouldn't mock her. “He should be grateful that we bothered to pick up prisoners. And yet, he’s fuming with rage.”

  “Being beaten by a young girl probably helped,” Irene said. She sounded amused, rather than annoyed. “Do you think he can be trusted?”

  “I don’t think so,” Raechel said. It was a test, of course. The obvious answer was that no Frenchman could be trusted, but somehow she doubted Irene would accept that answer. “He doesn't act like a man who’ll keep his word.”

  “Most men hate the thought of losing everything,” Irene agreed. She smiled as she lay back on the bed. “Being a prisoner won’t make him feel very happy.”

  Raechel scowled. “It’s more than that,” she said. “I’d bet he used influence to jump ahead, but now his career is in ruins.”

  “You’d win that bet,” Irene said. “Right now, our French captive is considering the virtues of suicide - or an attempt to kill Gwen. He doesn't care about the other captives.”

  “But ...” Raechel swallowed and started again. Irene had made it clear that prisoners who caused trouble were rapidly executed, even prisoners of noble blood. If the Frenchman no longer cared about his fellow Frenchmen. “We need to stop him!”

  “He’ll be under guard,” Irene assured her. “And I would be surprised if he works up the nerve to go after Gwen. He’s torn between hatred and a deeply frustrating fear.”

  She smiled. “She does have that effect on people, doesn't she?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Land Ho!”

  Gwen looked up from the chessboard, then joined the flurry of passengers as they made their way up to the deck. The remainder of the voyage had been uneventful, but the combination of French prisoners and reduced rations had been wearing down the passengers long before they came into sight of New York. She couldn't help feeling relieved as she scrambled onto the deck and peered westwards. A handful of towers rose up in the distance, dominating the skyline. Hundreds of ships were heading in and out of the harbour, ranging from giant warships and ocean-going freighters to tiny fishing and patrol boats.

  “It’s impressive,” Jackson said, coming up behind her. “Welcome to the new world.”

  Gwen listened with half an ear as he pointed out a handful of landmarks. A giant pair of statues - the Brothers Howe - were perched on an island, watching benignly as ships made their way to and from New York. Beyond them, dozens of fortresses, bristling with guns and surrounded by troops. New York had been taken with ease, she recalled, when the Americans had rebelled against the British Crown. The same factors that made the city so prosperous - and so important to the empire - rendered it vulnerable when its owners lost control of the seas. If the French tried a landing in New York, she was sure, they’d regret it long before a single soldier splashed ashore.

  “Manhattan is effectively an island,” Jackson added. “They don't have room to spread out.”

  “Just like London,” Gwen said. “But with larger buildings.”

  She shook her head in awe. An apartment in Mayfair or Pall Mall could be hideously expensive, even if it was nothing more than a handful of rooms. But there was never any shortage of people willing to pay for such a prized location, so close to the centre of the British Government. Manhattan would be just as important, she thought, but the Americans had built towering apartment blocks to house visitors to the city. No one would ever get planning permission to build anything like it in the heart of London. There was no style to the buildings, she noted as the ship finally approached the dock, but the Americans didn't seem to care.

  “I’ll see you soon, I hope,” Jackson said, holding out a hand. “I have to get the men offloaded, then report to the General. We’ll probably be back on the ships within a day or two.”

  Gwen blinked in surprise, then shook his hand firmly. “Good luck,” she said. Getting the troops to the borders would be far quicker if they stayed on the water, despite the risk of French raiders. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  She watched him go, then shook her head as the ship came to a halt. The voyage had grown boring very quickly, despite the brief excitement when the French had attacked, but now she felt almost tired. And yet, she knew she couldn't delay, not even long enough for a wash and a change of clothes. They were four days overdue, after having been out of contact for over three weeks. God alone knew what might have happened along the borders, or in New York itself. She turned and walked down to the gangplank, which was being tied firmly to the jetty. No doubt she wasn't the only passenger relieved to be finally off the boat.

  “Your luggage will be sent after you, Lady Gwen,” Fredrick Hauser said. He didn't look too put out by the coming separation from Raechel, Gwen noted, although he could just be hiding his feelings well. She didn't want to know what Raechel and he had said to one another after she’d caught them together. “And we thank you for sailing with us.”

  “It was a pleasure,” Gwen lied. Maybe she hadn't gotten seasick, unlike some of the other passengers, but she’d been very bored. “Please give my regards to your captain.”

  “I will, My Lady,” Fredrick said. He gestured towards a horse-drawn brougham waiting at the bottom of the gangplank. A young man in a black suit was standing next to it, looking up at the ship. “Your carriage awaits you.”

  Gwen nodded, then walked down the gangplank. The young man straightened up when she reached dry land, then opened the carriage door. Gwen climbed inside; he closed the door, then scrambled up behind the horses as Gwen pulled back the curtains. She wanted to see New York, rather than hiding in the coach. The carriage jerked into motion as the driver cracked the whip, rocking backwards and forewords as it headed into the city. Gwen stared out of the window as they left the docks. New York was teeming with life.

  The natives were large, she realised; the average man looked bigger than his London counterpart, his clothes far more colourful than anyone outside the landed aristocracy or the military. She wondered, for a moment, if they were all rich, before deciding it was impossible. They couldn't all be wealthy, could they? No, it was just the fashion. She shook her head - it would never catch on in London - and then started as a line of black men came into view, carrying boxes down towards the docks. They were hardly the first black men she’d seen - there was a fashion for black servants in London - but there were so many of them! And there were red-skinned men and women walking around too.

  There have to be more people in this island than there are in London, she thought, as the coach turned onto a long street leading north. The smell of horse manure was growing stronger, a problem that blighted London too. Or maybe fewer people but more concentrated in a smaller space.

  She forced herself to keep watching as the carriage
headed down the street. New York throbbed with life, unlike so many British cities. There was a strange energy in the air that delighted and frightened her at the same time. Even now, with war breathing down their necks, the citizens seemed more animated than anyone she’d seen in London, at least outside the ballrooms. She couldn't help noticing that young women seemed unaccompanied, even the ones who were clearly upper-class. Their dresses were so tight in the right places that they would have shocked London society to the core. Gwen couldn't help thinking that Raechel would probably love New York.

  The carriage came to a halt outside a large palace, set within high stone walls. Gwen admired it as the driver chatted briefly to the guards; the palace looked rather like an aristocratic mansion in Britain, but smaller. She puzzled over it for a long moment before recalling that land was in short supply on Manhattan. The palace was probably as large as it could be without causing massive disruption. She pushed the thought aside as the carriage lurched back into motion, heading through the gate and up to the main doors. A young woman was already standing there, wearing a long pink dress.

  “Welcome to Howe Palace, My Lady,” the driver said, as he opened the door and invited Gwen to step out. “I will collect your luggage and transport it to the Sorcerers Hall.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said.

  She tipped the driver, then turned her attention to the young woman. It was easy to recognise her from the files; Lady Arielle Franklin-Rochester, the Viceroy’s fifteen-year-old niece. She was already a beauty, Gwen had to admit, although there was something oddly forward in the way she wore her dress. Her long dark hair hung down to the small of her back.

  “My Lady,” Arielle murmured. Her voice was strangely-accented, as if she wasn't quite used to talking like an aristocrat. “Welcome to Howe Palace. My uncle is waiting for you, but if you would like some time to freshen up first ...?”

  “Please,” Gwen said.

  Arielle led her into the palace. Gwen glanced around with interest, unable to escape the impression that whoever had designed the palace had wanted a monument to British triumphs in the war. A large painting of the scene when George Washington had surrendered to General Howe dominated the inner chamber, surrounded by smaller pen-portraits of notable British officers and administrators who’d served in the war. She couldn't help thinking that there was really too much dignity in the painting of Washington, for a man who had ended his life on the scaffold. But then, even General Howe had admitted that Washington would have been a great man, if he’d had a chance to learn his trade.

  She turned her attention back to Arielle as the younger girl showed her a washroom. Gwen stepped inside gratefully and splashed water on her face, silently relieved that the girl had stayed outside. The Viceroy’s wife had died years ago, she recalled; it wasn't unusual for a man in his position to arrange for a female relative to run his household, even if she was surprisingly young. But then, family came first. And it would give Arielle a chance at finding a match among the best men in American society. Gwen straightened up, checked her appearance in the mirror, then walked back through the door. Arielle was patiently waiting for her.

  She must be used to women taking longer to wash, Gwen thought, wryly. One distant advantage of the male clothes she wore was that they were easy to get on at speed, without assistance. There were girls she knew back home who literally could not get dressed without help from the maids, a kind of learned helplessness that made her sick. I don't know why their mothers let them get away with it.

  “My uncle is waiting in his study,” Arielle said. She led the way up the stairs, then stopped outside the door. “I hope I will have a chance to speak with you later, Lady Gwen.”

  “Me too,” Gwen said. She would like to talk to Arielle, if only because she might have noticed problems that would have escaped her uncle. “And thank you!”

  “It was no trouble,” Arielle said, as she opened the door. “I should be thanking you for insisting on a lack of ceremony.”

  Gwen smirked. The next viceroy, when he was appointed, would have five whole days of ceremonies before he formally replaced the current viceroy. Thankfully, Lord Mycroft had made certain that there wouldn't be a welcoming ceremony for her. She knew hundreds of aristocratic women who would be offended, if the entire palace staff wasn't assembled to bow and scrape in front of her, but she’d always hated such affairs. Far too many people knew her as a devil-child.

  “My Lady Gwen,” Thomas Rochester said. He shook her hand without noticeable hesitation, then motioned her to a comfortable chair. “Welcome to America.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency,” Gwen said. She sat, resting her hands in her lap. “It’s good to be here.”

  She studied the viceroy with some interest. His Excellency Thomas Rochester, Marquess of Swanhaven, Viceroy of British North America, looked surprisingly healthy, compared to some of the other aristocrats she’d met. He would be in his early forties, according to the files, but he definitely looked as though he could go on campaign at a moment’s notice. If she recalled correctly, he had gone campaigning in the hinterlands several times during his first four years as Viceroy. His dark hair was cropped close to his scalp, his face had the bruised look of someone who’d been in too many fistfights for his own good ...

  Not a handsome man, she decided, finally. But very definitely a formidable one.

  “I will have tea and cakes served, momentarily,” Rochester said. “My servants are already preparing a small repast for us.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said, fighting down a flicker of impatience. She’d never enjoyed meaningless social formalities. “I was given to understand that the situation was urgent ...”

  Rochester’s face darkened. “Losing all of our sorcerers, bar one, in a single day was a mighty blow against us,” he said. “So far, we have had very little trouble along the line, but I imagine that will change shortly.”

  He waved a hand towards the map mounted on the office wall. Gwen turned to study it, noting the red outline of British North America ranging from the icy wastelands of the Canadian North to the lower reaches of Florida. Beyond it, great swathes of territory were green for the Franco-Spanish Empire or blue for Russia. She’d heard that the Russian settlements in Alaska had declared themselves independent, in the wake of the Tsar’s madness and death, but very little had come of it. Russia had too many problems to do something about the rebels.

  “The map lies, Lady Gwen,” Rochester warned. He stood and drew a line with his finger, roughly a hundred miles to the west of New York. “We don’t control half of the territory we formally claim.”

  Gwen frowned. “Who does?”

  Rochester snorted. “Whoever is there,” he said. “Beyond the mountains, we have hundreds of illicit settlements, ranging from runaway slave villages to the remains of the rebels we crushed back in 1777. And there are no shortage of Indian settlements too ... many of our frontier villages trade with the hidden colonies, despite laws against any contact. They think we can't stop them and the hell of it is that they’re right.”

  He shrugged. “The French have the same problem, of course,” he added. “There are great swathes of territory they don’t control.”

  Gwen nodded, slowly. It wasn’t a problem she'd expected, but in hindsight it should have been obvious. America was vast. And while Britain had been governed, reasonably consistently, for over a thousand years, America had barely been settled for over two hundred. The British Empire might be greater than Alexander’s had ever been, but it had never been fully charted.

  She turned as she heard the door opening behind her, just in time to see a dark-skinned woman carrying a large silver tea tray. There had to be some white blood in her, Gwen reasoned; her skin was a rich chocolate brown, rather than black. The maid put the tray down on the table, curtseyed politely to Rochester and then backed out of the room. Her movements showed no trace of emotion at all.

  And if she wants to poison us, Gwen thought, she has ple
nty of opportunity.

  “I’m planning to hold a ball tomorrow night,” Rochester said, as he poured the tea. “I trust you will be attending?”

  Gwen blinked in surprise, distracted from her worries. “A ball? There’s a war on!”

  “Yes, there is,” Rochester said. “We need to make a show of confidence, Lady Gwen. A ball - a succession of balls - will help keep the Tories loyal and convince the Whigs that attempting to work outside the system is futile. I dare not show weakness on the eve of a continent-wide war.”

  He smiled. “And besides, quite a few people want to meet you,” he added. “They’ve heard a great many tales about your career.”

  “All untrue,” Gwen hazarded. If she'd done half the things she knew she was credited with doing, thanks to the stories growing in the telling, she would probably have taken over the government by now. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Your Excellency ... how do you know your maids can be trusted?”