The Americans looked slightly more promising, she had to admit, as she stepped into the room. Seven men, wearing drab brown uniforms rather than redcoats; they certainly didn't look as though they spent all their funds on fancy uniforms rather than weapons. But they’d have their own problems too, she knew. Militia leaders - particularly the men who founded the regiments - received payments in line with the number of men under their command. It was quite likely they spent far too much time trying to lure militiamen away from their rivals.
Not an uncommon problem, she reminded herself. It happens in Britain too.
“Gentlemen,” Jackson said. “I am Colonel Jackson. By order of the Viceroy, I am taking command of the defences and declaring martial law. You - and your regiments - are now under my command.”
He went on before any of them could say a word. “This city is in trouble,” he added. “It won’t be long before the French arrive, having made their way up from New Orleans despite the best efforts of our skirmishers. If this city falls, the linchpin of our southern defences falls with it. Our menfolk will be killed, our women will be ravished and our children taken by the French. I have no intention of letting this city fall.
“By the time they arrive, I intend to turn Amherst into a fortress. We will put the refugees to work, piling up the defences and preparing surprises for the French. We will train the regiments until they are ready to fight to the last, once the French try to break the defences and storm the city. We will send out raiding parties to forage every last scrap of food from the surrounding countryside, denying it to the French even as we use it to keep our people alive. And when they come to take the city, we will give them a bloody nose they will never forget.”
He paused. “We must hang together, gentlemen,” he concluded, “or we shall most definitely hang separately.”
Gwen tried to work out what they were thinking, but they were all skilled at keeping their expressions under control. The French wouldn't be merciful, not once they took the city, but did they realise that? Who knew what the French were saying to the Americans?
“The Sons say otherwise,” a prune-faced officer said. “The Sons say we can live with the French.”
“The Sons are wrong,” Jackson said. “And the Sons had better keep their heads down, or they will be beheaded as traitors.”
He took a long breath. “Make no mistake,” he warned. “Those who side with the French are not just betraying their oath to King George, but the colonies themselves. And I will not tolerate it for a second.”
And let us hope, Gwen thought grimly, that we don’t wind up fighting a civil war as well.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“All up,” a voice shouted. “Come on!”
Raechel jumped to her feet, along with several other female recruits. The barge contained over fifty recruits, from what she’d managed to overhear, but most of them were men. She’d been torn between relief and frustration when she’d discovered that the females were kept in a different section, trapped in semi-darkness for several days. Irene had taught her a few tricks for keeping track of time, even without a watch or being able to see the sun, but she had to admit she’d failed. She wasn't remotely sure just how long they’d been on the barge.
She blinked rapidly, as Irene had taught her, when she came out into the sunlight. The barge was tied up at a small jetty, a pathway leading up into the woodlands and out of sight. She glanced back at the river, but saw nothing, not even another barge making its way up into the hinterlands or down towards New York. The towering buildings she’d admired when the ship had sailed into harbour were nowhere in sight. She had no idea just how far they’d come from New York, but she was certain it was quite some distance.
There are canals and rivers everywhere, she reminded herself, as she followed the other women down the gangplank and onto the jetty. A couple of houses were within view, but little else. We could be anywhere within two hundred miles of New York.
She sucked in her breath, suddenly feeling very alone. The male recruits were already heading up the path, escorted by a handful of older men carrying weapons; the females, it seemed, had to wait for a short period. It struck her, suddenly, that there might be anything in the undergrowth. Britain had foxes and wild dogs - and wild boar, where they weren't hunted down by farmers - but America might have lions and tigers and bears! The armed guards might be there to protect the recruits, rather than keep them prisoner.
“This way,” a voice called. She looked up to see a young man, wearing a blue shirt and trousers. “Come along, now. We don’t have all day.”
Raechel nodded and followed him up the path. It was steeper than she’d realised, weaving backwards and forwards so often that she rapidly lost track of where she was going, or the direction back to the barge. The trees closed in, making it impossible to see in either direction. Despite all the walking and riding she’d done in Britain, before her parents had died, she found it hard going, although she wasn't one of the women who stumbled back to the rear. Their escort didn't seem inclined to shout or curse at the women, merely waiting patiently as the stragglers caught up with them. Perhaps keeping them apart from the men had been a mercy, Raechel reasoned, as they kept moving. It stopped them looking weak under male eyes.
She studied her fellows as covertly as she could, although it was impossible to be certain of anything. Three of them looked to be working women - she could see scars on their hands and they didn't seem to be having any trouble keeping up with their escort - while the remainder looked no older than herself. She wondered, absently, if they were all on the run from arranged marriages, then dismissed the thought. Their clothes suggested they were lower class, which probably meant they thought the Sons would make the world better. But then, from what Irene had said, the lower classes lived permanently on the brink anyway.
They have nothing to lose, she thought, as the pathway widened suddenly. And it makes them dangerous enemies.
She sucked in her breath as she saw the stockade, surrounding a number of wooden buildings, each one large enough to hold a number of pigs and cows. A handful of guards were clearly visible, watching carefully as the women filed through the gate. Inside, Raechel saw a number of men running around the giant buildings, carrying weapons and chanting in unison as they moved. Others were marching towards a firing range ... she counted, quickly, and realised there were over a hundred men in view. She’d wondered if the Sons were exaggerating the size of their army, but evidently not. Even if this was the only camp, they might have over a thousand armed men who could be hurled into the battle for New York at a moment’s notice.
And we must be too far from civilised territory for friendly ears to hear the sound of gunshots, she thought, as she heard the gunners open fire. It was far from uncommon to hear gunshots in the English countryside, but vast numbers of shots would definitely raise eyebrows. The Sons, it seemed, could fire off thousands of bullets without anyone being any the wiser. How far am I from New York?
The women were marched straight into one of the buildings, which turned out to be a small barracks. There were no beds, just blankets on the hard earthen ground; buckets of water and chamberpots instead of running water and toilets. Raechel felt a flicker of dismay, which she forced herself to bury as deep as possible. Running water was uncommon outside cities, she knew; they were too far from New York to have a reliable water supply. She just hoped the Sons had made certain to boil the water before handing it out.
“Please remain in this building until you are called,” their escort said. His voice was polite, but there was a hint of firmness in his voice that made it clear that it was not a request. “You will be interviewed before you are given work to do.”
One of the younger girls coughed. “Work?”
“Of course,” the escort said. “You didn't think you were coming out here for a holiday, did you?”
He smirked as several of the women snickered. “You have to work for your freedom,” he added, da
rkly. “Someone will tell you the rules, after you have been interviewed. Until then, stay in this building. Take a nap, if you like. You’ll need the rest.”
Raechel watched him leave, then wandered over to the water and splashed a little on her face and hands. Her clothes felt icky after several days - however long it had been - without a change, but she doubted she’d be able to wash in the camp. Several of the older women had taken the escort’s advice and gone to sleep; the younger women either chatted in low voices or sat down, looking torn between excitement and terror. Raechel felt a flicker of sympathy, remembering just how her world had turned upside down in Russia. They’d been dragged out of their familiar world too.
It was nearly an hour, she thought, before the escort returned and called out her name. She rose and followed him out of the building, down towards a smaller building to the rear of the camp. Most of the men were out of sight, but she could hear someone shouting, just as she’d heard sergeants shouting to their men on the streets of London. Her blood ran cold at the evidence the Sons were definitely building an army, probably with help and support from rogue militiamen. And if there were rogue magicians too ...
“You coped well with the trip,” the escort said. He stopped outside the smaller building and turned to face her. “We were expecting you to crack.”
“Better to escape than be forced into an unwanted marriage,” Raechel said. She had experienced worse, in Russia, although hardly anyone in America knew about that little adventure. “I just want to get away.”
“And so you have,” the escort said. He opened the door, then smiled. “Tell the truth - the whole truth - and you have nothing to fear.”
That will be a first, Raechel thought.
She smiled wanly as she entered the office. It was smaller than she’d expected, illuminated by a pair of oil-filled lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Two men sat at a wooden desk; a middle-aged woman leaned against the far wall, watching her with dark brown eyes. One of the men was badly scarred, like a soldier; the other looked rather like an inoffensive bank clerk. The woman might have been pretty, if she hadn’t had a scar of her own running from her left eye down to her jaw. It looked as if someone had decided to deliberately mutilate her.
“Lady Raechel Slater-Standish,” the clerk-like man said. “I am Adam. Welcome to Camp Ten.”
Raechel nodded. Camp Ten? Were there nine other camps - at least - or was it a deliberate attempt to make it seem as though the Sons were bigger than they were? There was no way to know, but so far from civilisation - she’d been told - there were entire towns that weren't on any of the official maps. It was a constant nagging sore in the hinterlands.
“We have a number of questions for you,” Adam continued. “Please answer them as completely as possible. If we catch you lying to us, for any reason, the consequences will be unpleasant.”
“I understand,” Raechel said. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She couldn't feel the presence of a Talker, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. “What do you want to know?”
Adam leaned forward. “Why do you want to join us?”
“I want to escape being married off against my will,” Raechel said, keeping her mental shields firmly in place. It would be more convincing, she thought, than an instant conversion to their ideology. But it would be better to admit to at least some attraction. “And because I was told you treated women as equals.”
“We do,” the soldier said. “But we don’t treat you as delicate little flowers too.”
“I’m not delicate,” Raechel insisted. “My guardians just think I can't handle my own affairs.”
“I’d say you could handle yourself pretty well,” Adam said. His lips quirked in wry amusement. “What can you do?”
Raechel gathered herself. “I can read and write,” she said. “I can ride a horse, shoot a rifle ... what do you need?”
Adam ignored the question. “Your uncle is a powerful politician, is he not?”
“Yes,” Raechel said. How much did they know about Russia? “He is - he was - a special envoy for the Duke of India. I believe he intends to continue in that role under Lord Liverpool.”
“And yet he sent you over here,” Adam said. “Was there a reason for that?”
“Officially, he wants me to find a good match among the American aristocracy,” Raechel said, bluntly. “His idea of what makes a good match is different from mine.”
“And unofficially?”
“My behaviour in London was getting a little out of his control,” Raechel admitted. It was true, from a certain point of view. “My aunt was having ... problems ... and it was decided that it would be better if I was sent to America before something happened he couldn't keep from the rest of the ton.”
Adam nodded. “What do you make of the current British government?”
Raechel blinked in surprise. “How do you mean?”
“Your uncle is a government minister,” Adam said. “Did you not meet any of his fellows personally?”
“Not for long,” Raechel said. It was true enough. Her uncle might have wanted to display her in front of prospective husbands, but his fellow government ministers were almost all married already. “I didn't get invited to their meetings.”
Adam shrugged, then launched another series of questions at her. Raechel found herself sweating as she struggled to answer them, wondering just how much he expected her to know about the British Government. Neither Lord Liverpool nor the Duke of India had exchanged more than a few words with her; she’d certainly never been invited to Whitehall to give her opinion on matters political. Politics was a purely male sphere, she’d learned at a very early age. The only women who wielded any kind of political power, save for Gwen, did so from behind the scenes.
“That is frustrating,” Adam said, when she explained the realities of life. “I understand you met the Royal Sorceress?”
“We were on the same ship,” Raechel said. There was no point in trying to hide it, not when everyone who was anyone in New York would already know. “But we didn't chat that much.”
Adam snickered. “She caught you with a sailor,” he said. “Just how far along were you before she grabbed you?”
Raechel blushed. “We were kissing,” she said. Jane must have made a full report. Irene had told her that a suspected spy might be quizzed several times by different people, just to see if there were discrepancies in her words. “We didn't have time to go any further.”
The woman spoke for the first time. “Why did you even start kissing him?”
“I was bored and frustrated,” Raechel lied. “My chaperone wanted me to remain in the cabin at all times, but I hated it. I just wanted to rebel.”
“Understandable,” Adam said. “What sort of person is the Royal Sorceress?”
“I can't say I know her that well,” Raechel said. “She struck me as a fair-minded person, but ... we never really spoke.”
She hadn't expected that answer to satisfy them and it didn’t. Adam asked her a dozen more questions, despite her clear irritation. Raechel could feel her head starting to pound as he tried to draw more details from her, even though she had tried to make it clear that there were limits to her knowledge. By the time the conversation switched to her impressions of America, she was nursing a headache and wishing it would just come to an end.
“I dare say your chaperone will have problems finding you here,” Adam said. “Given your ... connections ... we have decided that it will be better if you remain here, rather than training to fight or slipping further into the hinterland. There will be work for you to do, I’m afraid, and you will do it.”
“Yes, sir,” Raechel said. She needed time to think. Hopefully, whatever work she was given would be sufficiently mindless. “The escort mentioned rules.”
Adam smiled, showing his teeth. “They’re very basic,” he said. “You’ll be assigned a barracks; don’t slip into another set of barracks without an invitation or invite anyone else
into your barracks without the permission of the occupants. Don’t try to leave the camp without permission. Don’t fight, steal or cause trouble among the men.”
Raechel frowned. “Trouble, sir?”
“There are twenty men in this camp for every woman,” Adam said, flatly. “You may start a relationship with one of the men, if you wish, but you may not cause trouble by flirting with other men.”
“I see,” Raechel said.
“Joan will show you to your barracks,” Adam finished. “We’ll be talking again soon, I’m afraid.”
“We will?”
“You were born in England and raised amongst the ton,” Adam said. “You’ll have quite a few details we need to know, locked away in your head. Joan?”
The woman stepped away from the wall. “Come with me,” she said. “The female barracks is just outside.”
Raechel followed her through the door and into a long single-story building. There were beds, she was relieved to note, and private washrooms. A fire burned merrily under the stove, heating water for washing. It wasn't the more civilised place she’d visited, but at least it was marginally liveable. And yet, she couldn’t help wondering where the other women were. Learning to shoot? Or something rather less useful ...?
Sons of Liberty Page 24
