“We'll talk soon,” Hamish told her, finally. “Until then, don’t say a word about this meeting.”
“Of course not,” Raechel agreed. It was easy to make herself sound like an idiot. “Irene would throw a fit.”
“And you would pay the price,” Jane giggled.
Raechel nodded, then wandered the room with Jane, splitting her attention between the bubbly girl and the other attendees. They weren’t just aristocrats, she realised; there were merchants, sailors and militiamen. One young man was telling another - she just happened to overhear - about leaving the city tomorrow to join the army. It took her several moments to realise he meant a secret army. The Sons of Liberty were clearly preparing a Swing of their very own.
She cringed, inwardly, at the thought. The last Swing had caused no end of damage, even though it had been cut short by the French. Now, with British forces in disarray and the French probing the borders, an uprising would be utterly disastrous. It had to be stopped, but how?
And you feel they have a point, she told herself. The chance to be equal, to face her uncle or her future husband as an equal, was not one to disdain. You don’t need magic to be powerful ...
“Ah,” Jane said. She caught Raechel’s arm. “A messenger has arrived for your chaperone, I’m afraid. It seems that the Viceroy wishes you would dance attendance upon his son.”
Raechel glared. “Does everyone want to marry me?”
“He probably wants to keep you out of an American match,” Jane said, as they turned to hurry out the door. “That would set the cat among the politicians.”
She smiled, rather thinly. “If you want to leave,” she added, “we can help with that.”
“Thank you,” Raechel said. Irene needed to know what she’d discovered, as quickly as possible. “I may need it.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Lady Gwen,” Rochester said, as Bruce showed Gwen into the War Room. “Please, take a seat. I am expecting the others momentarily.”
He glanced at his son. “You took your time.”
“Lady Gwen needed time to get ready,” Bruce said. There was a hint of amusement in his tone. “I brought her as soon as I could.”
Gwen shot him a nasty look. “I had to leave the hall on an urgent matter,” she said. She didn't want to talk about a rogue magician in front of several onlookers. “He waited for me to return, then brought me straight here.”
“Good,” Rochester said. He pointed to the table. “Please, sit down.”
Gwen nodded and sat down, suspecting she knew what she was about to hear. The War Room was effectively identical to the one she’d seen in Whitehall, right down to the giant maps mounted on the walls and smaller maps scattered over the wooden table. Colonel Jackson was seated at one end, next to General Paget; he shot her a mischievous smile that had her smiling back, despite the seriousness of the situation. A man she didn't know was seated next to General Paget, his eyes closed; another man, wearing a naval uniform, sat next to him. He had to be Admiral Parker, Gwen decided, the commander of the American squadron. The situation was looking more and more dire every second.
Bruce sat down next to her, saying nothing. Gwen cast a sidelong glance at him - she wasn't sure why he was attending, even if he was the Viceroy’s son - but it wasn't her job to throw him out of the room. His father prowled the room until Lord Tarleton and Lord Jackson entered, then snapped out a command to the servants to serve drinks and then leave the compartment. Gwen forced herself to wait patiently, studying the other attendees while she waited. Lord Tarleton seemed deeply worried, but Lord Jackson looked like a man with a toothache. She couldn't help wondering if Lord Jackson and Colonel Jackson were related, although she knew it was probably unlikely. Jackson was a very common name.
“Gentlemen,” Rochester said. “The French have finally begun their invasion.”
Gwen sat upright, feeling a jolt of alarm running through the room. They’d known it was coming - they’d all known it was coming - but it was still a shock. Even Bruce looked surprised, and worried, before his features slipped back into an indolent mask. The war had touched America before - French and British ships had clashed in nearby waters - but now the fighting had turned serious.
Rochester picked up one of the maps and held it out. “As of the last report, the French are advancing slowly up from New Orleans, relying on the Alabama for transport and logistical support. They are making a handful of small thrusts into Florida, but their main advance seems to be aimed at Amherst. That makes a great deal of sense, unfortunately. Amherst is our major logistical hub in the region.”
“That’s nearly five hundred miles, as the crow flies,” General Paget said. “Even with river transport for part of the trip, their logistics are going to be thoroughly unpleasant and they have to know it.”
“The French are good at long marches,” Colonel Jackson offered. “And besides, it isn't as if they have a shortage of either porters or supplies.”
Gwen nodded, tartly. There were hundreds of thousands of slaves in the war zone. They’d side with the French, naturally, and afterwards they’d do everything in their power to work for a French victory, knowing what would happen to them if the French lost. If all they did was carry supplies from New Orleans to the front lines - and the French would probably have established deports far closer to the expected battles - they’d make a major contribution to French firepower and mobility.
“If they take Amherst,” Lord Tarleton mused, “they’ll make it harder for us to undo the damage.”
“Forget Amherst,” Lord Jackson snarled. “What about the slaves?”
“The early reports indicate that a number of plantations have been burnt,” Rochester said, shortly. “I’ve sent orders to the border forces to put contingency plans into operation, but ...”
“But nothing,” Jackson interrupted. “Do you have any idea what the slaves will do to the women!”
Rochester stared him down. “I am aware of what is at stake,” he said, coldly. “But panic will get us nowhere.”
“This is your fault,” Jackson insisted. “If you’d sent extra soldiers to the borders ...”
“They might well have been killed,” General Paget said. His voice was harsh, deliberately so. “The border between us and the French is far too long for us to build a wall, My Lord, not when everyone from fugitive slaves to Indian bands cross at will. Our plans were always predicted on slowing the French, rather than stopping them, until we got reinforcements in place. Leaving large garrisons dotted all over the landscape would have been asking for trouble. The French would have overwhelmed them one by one.”
“And now the slaves are on the loose,” Jackson insisted. “Our infrastructure lies in tatters.”
Gwen felt her patience snap. Reaching out, she slapped the table hard enough to sting. “I don't see any point in fighting over something that cannot be changed,” she said. “The question is how much we can preserve while waiting for reinforcements to arrive.”
“Well said, Lady Gwen,” Rochester said. He cleared his throat meaningfully. “General?”
General Paget took the map. “As you know, we made the decision to limit our road and rail construction past Amherst because we thought it would make French logistics easier,” he said. “Our contingency plans, therefore, call for the militia and ranger troops to slow the French up as much as possible, while we assemble a defence line here” - he traced a line from Amherst to the sea - “and cut the French off by sea. The sheer size of the terrain works in our favour, particularly once they start to run short on supplies. They would be dared into making an attack on Amherst itself or starving to death.”
“And the slaves would die with them,” Lord Tarleton said.
“That isn't a good thing,” Lord Jackson snapped. “I ...”
“Enough about the slaves,” Rochester said. He didn't shout, but his tone was hard enough to make Lord Jackson shut up sharply. “They are no longer a concern.”
That was probably true, Gwen reasoned. And once New York realised that Lord Jackson’s human property had joined the French, Lord Jackson was no longer likely to be a concern either. His creditors would come sniffing around, demanding repayment of any outstanding debts, while he and his wife would become social pariahs. She'd seen it happen before, in London.
“Lady Gwen,” Rochester said. “Are your sorcerers ready for battle?”
Gwen honestly didn't know if she should laugh or cry. She should have told him about the rogue immediately, not waited in the hopes of speaking to him privately ...
“No,” she said, flatly. She’d have a chance to talk to him after the meeting. “I have one trained Blazer and that’s it. The conscripts show promise, but they need a lot more training and practice before they can use their powers for combat.”
“You don’t have the time,” Rochester said. “If the French are advancing towards Amherst, they’ll have magicians with them.”
Gwen nodded. The French would probably need magicians to break through the defences of Amherst, unless they wished to attack over the bodies of their own dead. Hell, getting enough artillery up to force the city to surrender wouldn't be easy either. The only hope of winning quickly was to use magicians, which meant she needed to be there. Fighting enemy magicians was her job.
“I understand, Your Excellency,” she said. “When do you want us to leave?”
“I’m assembling a force of regulars and militiamen,” General Paget said. “Thankfully, we had contingency plans to seize as much rolling stock as necessary, so getting our troops down south shouldn't be that hard. You’ll be going with the first train.”
Unless the French cut the lines, Gwen thought. They’d done it during the Battle of Dorking, seemingly convinced it would keep the Duke of India from moving his forces around the battlefield. If that happens, we’re going to be in some trouble.
She leaned forward. “What happens if the French cut the lines?”
“We have repair crews attached to the trains,” General Paget said. “The French would have to do a great deal of damage to keep us from sending reinforcements south.”
I hope you’re right, Gwen thought.
Lord Tarleton coughed. “Is there any word from London?”
“Not as yet,” Rochester said. “The French Channel Fleet took a beating during the invasion, but the Prime Minister is reluctant to release regular soldiers until the safety of Britain itself can be guaranteed.”
“Press him for magicians,” Gwen said, bluntly. She silently tipped her hat to the French planners. Poisoning the magicians in New York had worked out like a dream. “We are critically short of magicians.”
And we have at least one rogue hanging around the city, she added, silently. Who knows what he has in mind?
She leaned back in her chair as the gentlemen discussed the plan, going over the basic details piece by piece. It looked good, Gwen thought, given the limitations on their ability to project power, but she had few illusions. They might have to hope that the Royal Navy would capture enough French possessions to exchange for any surrendered territory to the south of Amherst, assuming anyone wanted it back. But then, the south was practically a breadbasket in its own right, as well as the premier source of cotton. The economists would want to recapture it if possible.
And that means prolonging the issue of slavery, she thought, coldly. The slaves are needed to harvest the cotton ...
“Lady Gwen,” Rochester said. “Can you be ready to depart in two days?”
“As ready as we will ever be, Your Excellency,” Gwen said, shortly. A year of training would be far better, but they’d be lucky if they had time to practice once they reached Amherst. “It’ll have to do.”
“Good,” Rochester said. “Colonel Jackson will accompany you and the magicians, along with the first reinforcements for the city. Colonel, I will be discussing certain contingency plans with you later.”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Colonel Jackson said.
“General, please see to the plans,” Rochester said. “Admiral Parker, have your squadrons been informed?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Admiral Parker said. “I have given orders for them to assemble near the Potomac, where they will prepare to raid French shipping and sweep the coast of Mexico. We can also prepare transports, either to reinforce the defence lines or land troops on the shores of New Orleans. It should give the French a nasty surprise, particularly if their advance northwards stalls.”
“Good,” Rochester said.
“We’re ignoring the elephant in the room,” Gwen said, quietly. “What about the Sons of Liberty?”
“We’ll talk about that afterwards,” Rochester said. “Lord Tarleton, Lord Jackson, I want you both to work on presenting confidence to the world. I’ll be addressing Parliament later in the day - I want you to make it clear to everyone that we have good reason to be confident, despite the French menace. The French have threatened our shores before, but we have beaten them. Always.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Lord Tarleton said.
Beside him, Lord Jackson merely snorted. But then, Gwen thought, he didn't have reason to be confident. Whoever won the war, Lord Jackson was likely to lose. His slaves would either go with the French or be brutally hunted down, after the war. There was no way a rebellious slave could be allowed to live.
“Lady Gwen, stay here,” Rochester concluded. “Everyone else, you know what you have to do.”
Gwen watched as the men left, save for Bruce. He stayed in his seat, waiting. That was odd, Gwen thought. It was possible he was serving as his father’s assistant - nepotism was alive and well in London - although the impression he presented didn't suggest he was trusted with anything important. But that could be an illusion ... Irene had told her, more than once, that she’d known some very clever men who’d made a career out of looking like idiots. No one had taken them seriously until it had been far too late.
“There’s another concern I didn't want to mention to the others,” Rochester added, once the door was firmly closed. “General Kingsley was murdered, the night before the offensive began. The identity of the murderer remains unknown, but there are hints it might well have been one of his American subordinates.”
“Damn,” Gwen said. “If that’s true ...”
“The militia is unreliable,” Rochester said.
“Maybe not,” Gwen said, clinging to a wisp of hope. “If I were the French commander, I’d be trying to drive a wedge between the British and the Americans. Murdering a British officer and blaming it on the Americans would definitely make both sides reluctant to trust one another.”
“We don’t know,” Rochester said. “I’d prefer to give Colonel Jackson a field promotion and put him in command, but that won’t go down well with any of the America hands. They’d claim Jackson was another Braddock and they’d be right.”
Gwen frowned. “Braddock?”
Surprisingly, it was Bruce who answered. “He was a British officer who took command of allied forces in North America, 1755, only to lead them to a disastrous defeat,” he said, slowly. “Even Washington considered him a brave man, but dangerously ignorant of the realities of North American warfare.”
“That’s correct,” Rochester said.
He sighed. “Lady Gwen, watch your back very carefully,” he added. “I’ll be sending Paget down to take command as soon as possible, but right now I have too many problems to spare him.”
“I will,” Gwen said. She sucked in her breath. “You also have another problem.”
Rochester sighed, again. “What?”
“There’s at least one rogue magician running around New York,” Gwen said. “A Mover, a very well trained and experienced Mover.”
“God damn it,” Rochester swore. “Are you sure?”
“He damaged several buildings during our brief confrontation,” Gwen said, swiftly outlining what had happened. “Whoever he was,
Your Excellency, he’s good.”
Bruce glanced at her. “Better than you?”
“He’s probably had more time to practice with his lone talent,” Gwen said. She didn't want to admit weakness, least of all to a young man she was starting to dislike, but there was no point in covering up the truth. “He certainly knew how to use his power to best advantage in a fight - he knew how to fight, he knew how to split his attention ...”
“Isn't that a female skill?”
“He was very definitely a man,” Gwen said, fighting down her irritation. “And powerful enough to be a real threat.”
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