Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Plenty of former slaves too,” Jackson added. “Porters, as I expected.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said.

  Her eyes narrowed. The black slaves were digging trenches of their own, readying French positions in case the defenders launched a sally. She knew it wasn't going to happen - Jackson didn't have the numbers, with or without the militia - but she supposed it kept the French from launching an immediate attack. Laying siege to Amherst would be cheaper than trying to storm the city, she knew, yet they needed those soldiers elsewhere. They’d committed a sizable percentage of their ground troops to the invasion of British North America.

  And the Admiral had a plan to launch a flanking attack on New Orleans, she thought. She knew little of what was happening beyond the city, now the French had closed in. If he manages to force a landing, the French will be the ones in trouble.

  She closed her eyes in pain. Bruce had been completely invisible over the last two days, even skipping the communal meals Jackson had insisted on holding. She would have been relieved at his absence, three days ago, but now she wanted to speak to him, to find out what had happened with the Sons. And yet, he’d been out of touch. She had no idea how he’d managed to avoid suspicion ...

  “They’re sending in a man with a white flag,” Jackson said. “I’ll see him at the edge of the defences. I don’t want him to see too much of the city.”

  Gwen nodded, then followed Jackson down the wall to where the Frenchman was being apprehended by a pair of horsemen and blindfolded. Jackson had told her, back before the rail lines had been cut, that it was customary to send a messenger to demand surrender, but that the messenger would also be a spy, scouting out weak points in the defences. The only way to keep him from seeing something important was to blindfold him. Gwen braced herself as the Frenchman was frogmarched over by the guards, then pushed roughly to the floor. Up close, he looked every inch an aristocrat. She couldn't read his rank from his expensive uniform.

  “I am Colonel Jackson,” Jackson said.

  “My commanding officer wishes me to speak directly to General Paget,” the Frenchman said, sternly. He sounded as if he’d been personally insulted. “Where is he?”

  “I am the commanding officer,” Jackson said. Gwen couldn't help noticing that the Frenchman hadn’t demanded to speak to General Kingsley. Clearly, the French knew he was dead. “You can speak with me or no one.”

  The Frenchman coughed. “Very well,” he said. “My commanding officer demands your immediate surrender. The garrison may march out with all the honours of war, after which they will be interned until they can be traded for a French garrison or returned to Britain after the war. If you refuse to surrender, there will be no further opportunities to do so.”

  Gwen kept her face impassive. The laws of war were quite clear. If a city surrendered before the defences were broken, the victor had a certain responsibility not to sack the city or mistreat the population. But if the city was taken by storm, the defences broken before anyone chose to surrender, the victor could do whatever it liked to the conquered population. The stories she’d heard from the fighting in Germany, as France tightened its grip on the German states, had been horrific.

  “We will not surrender,” Jackson said, flatly.

  “Be very sure,” the Frenchman snapped. “You have rats in your hold, Colonel.”

  “We will not surrender,” Jackson repeated. “If you want this city, come and take it.”

  The Frenchman snorted. Jackson nodded to the guards, who dragged him back towards the edge of the defences, then looked at Gwen. She swallowed, knowing she was about to face a far greater test of her abilities than Russia, and nodded back. The sorcerers were already waiting, ready to rush to meet the French once they started to break through the walls. She looked around for Bruce, but saw no sign of him. All she saw was British redcoats and American militia manning the walls.

  “They’ll start shooting soon,” Jackson said, as they strolled back into the city. “I’ll see you afterwards, Lady Gwen.”

  “Likewise,” Gwen said. “Good luck.”

  The French guns began to boom, seconds later. There weren't many, Gwen reminded herself as she drew her magic around her; thankfully, the French had had real problems getting their larger guns from New Orleans to Amherst. But, as the shells began to land in the city, they still caused damage. They didn't seem to be shooting at anything in particular, but it was impossible to be sure. A direct hit on Jackson’s HQ would cause a dispute over command at the worst possible time.

  “Lady Gwen,” Wayne said. He stood with the other sorcerers, watching explosions flicker and flare all over the city. The noise of gunfire was growing louder. “Here we go.”

  Gwen looked past him, at the men she’d dragged all the way from New York. “The French can only thrust one army up here,” she said. Jackson had said as much, after all; English raiders had been attacking the French shipping, after all. “If we beat this army, we hold the line.”

  She studied them all, one by one. Harry and Vernon looked grimly determined, although Vernon looked as disgruntled as always. The three Blazers looked keen, ready to show off their powers; Fife looked as though he wasn't quite sure what he was doing in the midst of battle. Gwen silently promised herself to make sure they were all cared for, after the fighting had come to an end. None of them had volunteered to fight, after all.

  “Do not let yourself be captured,” Wayne warned. “If you can go out with your hands wrapped around a Frenchman’s throat, you’ll do fine.”

  He was right, Gwen knew. The French wouldn’t let any of the sorcerers survive, particularly her. They’d slit her throat rather than run the risk of keeping her alive. Even the prospect of forcing her to bear sons was too dangerous to be tolerated ...

  “Good luck,” she said. She could hear men shouting in the distance. The French were starting their charge. “Honour to us all.”

  ***

  Colonel Jackson had never thought very much of the slaves. He’d been taught, a long time ago, that it was better to die on one’s feet than live on one’s knees, a lesson that had stuck with him throughout his career. The slaves had seemed nothing more than dumb animals, shuffling around picking cotton and serving their masters. Jackson would sooner have died than serve as a slave, knowing his wife or daughters might be separated from him or forced to bed the master at any moment. But now, watching the former slaves advance, he had to admit they were brave. They’d just needed the opportunity.

  “Hold your fire,” he ordered, as the slaves advanced. The French were expending them carelessly, knowing that their bodies would absorb bullets that would otherwise strike trained soldiers. He wondered just how many of the slaves realised that they were going to die, then decided it probably didn't matter. “Hold your fire until I give the command.”

  Accuracy was a joke, he knew, in rifle volleys. It was the sheer volume of bullets that counted, not accuracy. A commoner from London couldn't hope to match an aristocrat for shooting proficiency, but all of his snipers were watching for French officers. It wasn't entirely cricket to snipe the leaders - if nothing else, it set a bad precedent - yet he knew better than to dismiss the idea. He needed every advantage he could get.

  “First line, fire,” he snapped. The soldiers fired in unison, sending hundreds of former slaves tumbling to the ground. Others ran forward, seizing the opportunity to die like men, as shells started to slam down amongst the riflemen. “Second line, fire!”

  The French didn't fall back. Bullets started to crack through the air above the trenches as a line of French troops came into view, advancing in skirmishing order. They didn't look quite ready for defended fortifications, he noted; their uniforms made them exceedingly good targets. But then, they had concentrated on marching all the way from New Orleans on shoestring logistics. Getting as far as they had was quite an impressive feat. His lips quirked into a smile as Frenchmen started to fall. They had come all this way to die.

&nb
sp; A cheer ran through the lines, followed by curses as the shells fell with greater intensity, one striking an artillery position and triggering a fireball. Jackson was fairly sure the French couldn't have transported many shells and guns from New Orleans to Amherst - it would have made their logistics even worse - but they needed to win. If they lost the battle, they’d have to fall back in disarray.

  He gritted his teeth as he saw a fireball hurtling from the French lines, twisting in the air and diving towards one of the cannons. The gun exploded a second later; Jackson saw a man screaming, his body wrapped in flames, running around before one of the sergeants performed a mercy kill. Sorcerers! There was at least one French sorcerer advancing with the infantry, directing his magic to clear the way. Jackson had hoped the best of the French magicians had died, after their attempt on Lady Gwen, but clearly there were at least one or two left. And he couldn't handle them.

  “Send a message to Lady Gwen,” he called, as the outer edge of the defences started to crumble. His men were already falling back, as planned; there was no point in trying to hold the line now the French were close enough to hurl grenades into the trenches. “Tell her the enemy is at the gates!”

  ***

  Vernon twisted his lip in disapproval as he followed Harry towards the sound of the guns, his magic billowing around him. He’d never liked the idea of fighting for the Crown; indeed, if it hadn't been for Harry, he would have deserted long before the unwanted deployment to Amherst. To hell with the money, he thought. There was nothing to be gained by fighting for king and country, save for an early grave. But Harry had been insistent they stay, pointing out that they needed to learn more about their powers.

  And he had a point, Vernon thought, reluctantly. It had never occurred to him to use his powers offensively, not as anything more than extensions of his fists. He could punch hard enough to stun Lady Gwen, but she could still worm her way into his shields. It’s worth every taunt about working for a slip of a girl to know how our powers work.

  He eyed Lady Gwen, wondering just when dislike had turned into grudging respect. The sorceress was no fisherwoman, no strong-minded dockyard lady with the mouth of a sailor and the arms of a navvy. No, she was a slip of a girl, a girl who would be broken overnight if she wound up on the docks. Vernon’s own mother had been tough, tough enough to slap Vernon around when he’d acted up as a teenager. It was hard to imagine Lady Gwen having that sort of blunt strength ...

  The wall exploded in front of them, revealing five Frenchmen wrapped in power. Vernon felt a surge of hatred as he reached out, melding his power with his brother’s. Harry laughed, then forced their power forward, slamming it directly into the French magicians. One was thrown backwards hard enough to kill him; the others stood their ground, holding the British attack at bay. Vernon gritted his teeth as the Blazers walked past him, then dropped the shield. The Blazers hurled fireballs right into the French position, forcing them to defend themselves ...

  “Needles,” Lady Gwen shouted.

  Vernon nodded curtly - he was damned if he was saluting anyone - and reshaped his power, wincing at the effort involved. Why had it never occurred to him - or Harry - that the best way to break a bubble was to use a pin? It wasn't as if his sister hadn't used needles and thread to sew their clothes, back before their parents had died and she’d married another dockyard worker. The first Frenchman stumbled backwards as the needle sliced through his protections, then rammed into his chest; Vernon ducked, sharply, as the other Frenchmen lashed out. But it was too late. A blow slammed right into his chest, hurling him into the air and tossing him right across the city.

  He fought desperately to fly. Lady Gwen said he should be able to fly, with his powers, but he’d never managed it. And then it was too late ... He tried to wrap his power around him, but the ground came up and ...

  ***

  Gwen picked up a chunk of debris, infused it with power and hurled it right into the teeth of the French position. There were three remaining Movers, all clearly well trained. The only thing giving her and her sorcerers an advantage, she realised numbly, was that they weren't anything like as powerful. Their superiors had held them back, fearing to throw them into battle ...

  The explosion shattered their unity, scattering them. Gwen’s Blazers concentrated their fire on them, burning through their protections. The Frenchmen had no time to gather themselves before she flew forward, shaping her power into needles. Their shields snapped seconds later, allowing the Blazers to incinerate them. Gwen allowed herself a moment of relief, then hurled herself into the air. She had to know what was going on.

  It didn't look good, she saw. There were burning buildings all over the city, while the French had forced their way through the first set of defence lines and fighting their way into the city itself. Women and children were running for their lives, while their menfolk fought hard to stem the advance. Jackson had to be feeding his soldiers in piecemeal, Gwen reasoned; bleeding the French rather than trying to stop them. The only advantage the defenders seemed to have, now, was that the French gunners had stopped firing. She just hoped it meant they were out of ammunition, rather than being concerned about hitting their own men as they plunged onwards.

  She dropped down next to Wayne. Vernon and Fife were gone; Harry lay on the ground, his arm clearly broken. The Blazers were alive, but tired; Gwen didn't feel any better herself. If there were any more French magicians - or if Bruce intended to put a knife in her back - they’d have the perfect opportunity. She’d seen war before, yet this was different. An entire city was being systematically destroyed.

  “Harry’s arm is gone,” Wayne reported. “There aren’t any Healers here, Lady Gwen.”

  “I know,” Gwen said. She reached out with her senses, trying to locate any other magicians, but felt nothing. The fighting was growing louder, pushing back towards their position. It wouldn't be long before they’d have to move. “I ...”

  She swore as a line of French soldiers came into view, their weapons at the ready. Did they know who she was? Did it matter? She reached for the last of her power, feeling it crackling around her. There was no way she could surrender.

  “Take them to Jackson,” she ordered. The others would need time to catch their breath before the French made their final push. Even if the British won the fight, Amherst would take years to rebuild. “I’ll hold them off.”

  She ignored Wayne’s shout as she strode past him, feeling power crackling around her fingertips. There were hundreds of dead bodies within view ... she wondered, absently, if she could reanimate them. They hadn't been dead for long. But she knew the undead would get out of control with terrifying speed. She didn't dare take the risk. Instead, she held up her hands and lashed out with her magic. The Frenchmen, ordinary soldiers, didn't stand a chance ...

  And yet they came, charging straight at her and firing madly. Gwen held on desperately, feeling her magic starting to weaken, as she tore them apart or burned them to ashes. She caught sight of young faces - some white, some brown - their eyes screaming with horror as they fell to her magic. She heard thunderclaps in the distance, but she hardly cared. Blood trickled from her nose as she pushed her powers to the very limit ...

  And then they were gone.

  Gwen stood there, unsure what had happened. She was surrounded by hundreds of bodies, but the French seemed to have retreated completely. The sound of shooting had faded away, as if the French were leaving the city. And then she saw a man wearing a very familiar cloak hanging in the air. He held out a hand, inviting her to join him.

  “We thought you could use a hand,” Bruce said, when she floated into the air. “As you can see, we took the French by surprise.”

  He smirked. “Saving your life is starting to be a habit.”

  “Don’t expect it to happen again,” Gwen said. She looked back at the city, still burning even though the fighting was coming to an end. “Now what?”

  “I think that hangs on you,” Bruce said
. All of a sudden, she wanted to kiss him again, but she resisted the temptation. “Now what ... indeed?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Lady Gwen,” Jackson said. “I must protest ...”

  Gwen rubbed her tired eyes. “The Sons saved our lives, Colonel,” she said. “And they helped us hold the line against the French.”

  “After discovering just what the French were prepared to do to ordinary Americans,” Bruce put in. He was still wearing his mask, slanting his voice slightly to ensure Jackson didn't recognise him. “We are prepared to join the defence on a more permanent basis if the Viceroy keeps his promise.”

  Jackson looked flustered. “With all due respect, Mr. ...?”

  “I am America,” Bruce announced, grandly.

  Gwen managed - somehow - to resist the urge to elbow him, hard. “Wouldn't Spartacus be a better name?”