Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Spartacus died, along with a lot of other fellows who also claimed to be Spartacus,” Bruce said, grandly. “We didn't think that set a good precedent.”

  Jackson snorted. “Regardless, Mr. America, I do need to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “No, you don't,” Bruce said. “Right now, my men will assist yours in harrying the French as they retreat. But we are not going to reveal ourselves openly just yet.”

  He turned and strode off, holding his head high. Jackson moved forward, as if he were going to give chase, then sighed and looked at Gwen. She hastily pasted a composed expression on her face, hoping he wouldn't ask too many questions. She didn't want to lie to him, but there were things she didn't want to tell him either.

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “I think we’re offering him what he wants without a fight,” Gwen said, flatly. Lord Mycroft had taught her that it was better to rely on someone’s self-interest, rather than their ideals or good natures. Humans were selfish creatures. Bruce would cooperate because it was the easiest way to get what he wanted. “And besides, if he wanted to take Amherst, could we stop him.”

  Jackson’s face twisted, as if he’d bitten into something sour. Half of the redcoats were dead or wounded, while there was a big question mark over the American militia. She looked around the rubble, where there were dozens of militiamen openly fraternising with the Sons. For all she knew, the original plan had been to start an uprising and stab the redcoats in the back when the French attacked. It might explain why the French had risked so much charging at the defences. They’d expected help from inside the city.

  “I don’t like it, Lady Gwen,” Jackson said, finally.

  “It has to be endured,” Gwen said. She felt the remaining reserves of magic inside her, then winced. It was unlikely she could perform any Healing for hours, if not days. Far too many of the wounded would be left to the mercy of army doctors. “The Viceroy said so.”

  “See to your men, Lady Gwen,” Jackson said. “And pray that this doesn't explode in our faces.”

  Gwen nodded, then turned to walk back to City Hall. Countless men were fighting to save as much of the city as they could, throwing buckets of water on fires or tearing down buildings to keep the flames from spreading. Others were removing bodies, dragging them off towards the edge of the city. They’d have to be cremated, just to ensure that a rogue necromancer couldn't use them as weapons. She shuddered as she saw a man being carried past on a stretcher, his right arm missing. Even the strongest of Healers wouldn’t be able to return what he’d lost.

  City Hall itself was undamaged, even though a handful of shells had slammed into the building next to it. Gwen wondered, as she made her way through the door, just what the French had been aiming at, if they’d been aiming at more than random devastation. Shellfire was never very accurate, even with a crack team of gunners. They might have hoped to kill the commanding officers or they might just have been hoping for a lucky hit. There was no way to know.

  “Lady Gwen,” Wayne said, as she stepped into the room. “Vernon is dead; Fife is missing.”

  Gwen frowned. Harry sat on a chair, next to his brother’s body. She’d thought she’d known what was going on, but she hadn't even seen him die. Vernon had never liked her - she’d feared he would desert long ago - yet he’d stayed and fought, at the cost of his own life. She silently promised herself that he’d get a medal, even if it was posthumous. It might mean something to his family.

  She walked over to Harry, unsure what to say. An aristocrat would be insulted by the suggestion that he needed consolation, even though she knew better than to think they didn't dare. Vernon had died bravely, but he’d died. Harry ... who knew how Harry felt? He'd been wounded, yet losing his brother had to hurt worse.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, finally. “He deserved better.”

  “He only stayed because I dragged him along,” Harry said, quietly. “I saw too many French officers in New York, when their ships docked, to want them to take over. It was my fault he died.”

  “The French killed him,” Gwen said. “You didn’t kill him personally.”

  “It feels as though I did,” Harry said. “But right now, he’s looking down at me and thinking I really should drink a toast in his honour.”

  Gwen nodded. “Did he have a family?”

  “He had a girl he liked, but her family wasn't keen on the match,” Harry said. He shook his head slowly. “They thought a shopkeeper would be a better match for her, a step up from the docks. And I think they were a little afraid of his magic too. The money he earned from working for you should have changed their minds, if he’d lived ...”

  He shook his head. “Our mother died two years ago,” he added. “There’s no one, but me to mourn him.”

  Gwen looked at Vernon’s body. It would have to be cremated too, but she didn’t have the heart to insist on it right away. She’d make damn sure he got that medal. It was her task, after all, to nominate people for the Merlin Cross ... and she was fairly sure that no one would raise any objection, after the battle. Besides, the cynical part of her mind noted, Vernon was safely dead. He could be turned into a hero without interference from the real man.

  Wayne stepped up beside her. “I’ll take Harry out drinking,” he said, bluntly. “It will be the best thing for him, right now.”

  If anywhere is open, Gwen thought.

  She shook her head at the thought. Amherst had had dozens of pups and taverns, but she was sure they were all closed. But then, there were thousands of thirsty soldiers roaming around who wanted to celebrate their victory. Someone would probably have opened up and started overcharging for weak beer and rotgut by now.

  “Take everyone out,” she said. Harry was wounded, but she trusted Wayne to know Harry’s limits. “We can pick up the rest of the pieces tomorrow.”

  She left the magicians behind and walked through the building to where the Talker was waiting. He’d lost his uniform, something that surprised her more than it should. The French would not have hesitated to kill him, if they took him alive. A man who could constantly feed New York intelligence was too dangerous to live. She wondered, absently, just how much he’d already sent, then sat down facing him.

  “I need to rely a message to the Viceroy,” she said. “A private message.”

  “Of course, My Lady,” the Talker said. His eyes unfocused as he reached out with his mind, contacting his opposite number in New York. “Lady Gwen, this is the Viceroy.”

  Gwen lifted her eyebrows. That had been quick. But then, the Viceroy had known the battle was about to begin. He’d probably kept the Talker with him while going through his daily routine, if he hadn't decided to stay in the palace until the battle was over. Getting the news first might make a difference, politically ...

  “The battle was won,” she said. She outlined everything that had happened, from the French demand for surrender to the arrival of the Sons, doing her best to keep the report both complete and concise. Experience had taught her that government ministers wanted to go over everything in extracting detail, but that could wait. “We now have a promise to keep.”

  There was a long pause. “Thank you, Lady Gwen,” the Talker relayed, finally. “I shall consult with London, then contact you.”

  Gwen scowled, inwardly, as she rose. She hoped - prayed - that common sense ruled the day in London, although that would be unusual. Hundreds of redcoats had been killed in Amherst and the French advance blunted, badly. If the Sons wanted to start an uprising without having to worry about the French coming in and picking up the pieces, they’d never have a better chance. And they’d know it, too.

  She checked Jackson’s office, but he wasn't there. His aide told her that he was still at the defence lines, probably trying to rebuild them before the French launched another offensive against the city. Gwen doubted they could muster the force to attack for a second time, but she understood Jackson’s concern. If nothing else, keeping t
he defences in shape would keep his men - and the Sons - busy. There would be no time for them to think about politics.

  Outside, she stopped in shock as she saw a dozen men being dragged towards a makeshift gallows. Lieutenant Travis was supervising, his face twisted with hatred. Nine of them were black, probably escaped slaves; the remainder were clearly of mixed blood. The crowd were howling for their blood, demanding bloody retribution for their revolt. She stared in horror - the mixed-bloods wore French uniforms - and then started forward. Lieutenant Travis turned in astonishment as she approached.

  “Lady Gwen,” he said. He stopped dead. Gwen would have bet half her fortune that he’d been about to say something about an unsuitable sight for women, even though hangings were public spectacles in London. “I ...”

  “Stop this at once,” Gwen ordered, putting on her most imperious tone. “They’re prisoners, not bandits.”

  Lieutenant Travis hesitated. “Lady Gwen ...”

  “If you start killing prisoners, the other side will do the same,” Gwen added, firmly. “Put them in the stockade and hold them, so we can trade for our prisoners if necessary. But don’t hang them like this.”

  She understood the desire for revenge, but the French would just retaliate and the entire war would descend into a series of atrocities and counter-atrocities. Warfare along the frontier was always barbaric - she’d heard of tribes that had scalped every last man, woman and child in settlements they’d attacked - yet that was no excuse for descending into savagery themselves.

  “They’re escaped slaves,” someone shouted, from the safety of the crowd. “Put them down like dogs!”

  There was a low mummer of agreement from the watchers. Gwen felt sweat trickling down her back as she stared back at them, unwilling to show weakness. She was right, she knew she was right and she was damned if she was backing down.

  “And what happens,” she asked, “once the French start doing it to us?”

  Lieutenants Travis’s face flickered through a bewildering series of emotions. She didn't really blame him. There was a crowd of people who wanted revenge, who might turn on the redcoats if the prisoners were treated decently, but - on the other hand - going against her might mean the end of his career.

  “Take the prisoners to the stockade,” he ordered, finally. “Colonel Jackson will decide their fate.”

  Gwen half-expected the crowd to do something stupid, but instead they slowly dispersed towards the taverns. She allowed herself a moment of relief, then turned back to City Hall and blinked in surprise as she saw Bruce, standing in the doorway. He looked every inch the aristocratic fop, but now she knew what hid under his face she could sense his magic. It made her wonder why she hadn't sensed it before.

  “That was brave, My Lady,” Bruce said. He sounded a fop too. It wasn’t the mask that disguised him so much as his attitude. “I wouldn't have had the nerve.”

  “I’m sure you would have,” Gwen said, as they walked into the building. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, around,” Bruce said, vaguely. He looked around to make sure they were alone, then lowered his voice. “Making sure there's someone to take command of the troops once I go back to New York.”

  Gwen looked at him. “The agreement will hold?”

  “For the moment,” Bruce said. “It all hangs on my father now.”

  Gwen nodded, slowly. “London has already agreed, in principle, to an American Parliament,” she said. “The only question is how best to set it up.”

  She sighed, inwardly. There were too many things they needed to talk about, but they would require privacy - and privacy wouldn't be easy to find. Even being in the hallways was risky, if someone noticed they were together. Rumours could start very easily and ... and, she had to admit, there would be some truth in them. Girls had been ruined completely for doing far less than she’d done with Bruce. And yet, there was a part of her that wanted to do it again.

  “I’m sure father will come up with a solution,” Bruce said. “He’s good at that.”

  He winked at her. “There are some of us who believe that slavery is a great evil,” he added, dryly. “And that the reason Washington and the others lost their war was because they embraced slavery.”

  Gwen had her doubts. It was true that Washington had had problems with black recruits - while his enemies had been quite happy to lure the slaves from the plantations with promises of freedom - but the British Empire also kept slaves. There was a substantial body of politicians - in both London and New York - who fought desperately to keep slavery, knowing their livelihoods depended on it. America was hardly the only place touched by slaves.

  “One wins if one deserves to win,” Bruce added. “And maybe the others didn’t deserve to win.”

  “Or maybe you just got unlucky,” Gwen said. She’d read the history books, including Master Thomas’s unpublished memoirs. General Howe had been a ditherer, either no general or desperately hoping that a peaceful settlement could be worked out. Who knew what would have happened if London hadn't been constantly urging him to keep moving? “You never had the chance to recover from your mistakes.”

  “And let us hope that this isn't a mistake,” Bruce said. “I ...”

  He broke off as a messenger came into view. “Lady Gwen, Colonel Jackson requests your presence in his office,” the messenger said. “Your Excellency, he would also like to see you.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Bruce said, wryly. “And do you want to bet he isn’t in the office?”

  Gwen rolled her eyes as the messenger turned and hurried back down the corridor, then led the way towards Jackson’s office. The Colonel had managed to get back quick, she noted; someone must have sent an urgent message. Unless, of course, he didn't know what had happened outside City Hall. He might have been on his way back already.

  “Lady Gwen,” Jackson said, as they stepped into his office. “We’ve had a message from New York. You and Master Bruce are to return at once.”

  Gwen frowned. “I thought the rail line was broken.”

  “It is,” Jackson confirmed. “You’ll be riding on horseback to Ashley Bridge, where a train will be waiting for you. I assume you’ll have no trouble carrying Master Bruce over the river?”

  “None,” Gwen confirmed. The Viceroy had summoned his son home too? Did he know more than Gwen thought? Or was he just keen to get his son back to New York? “When do you want us to depart?”

  “Now,” Jackson said. “The message insisted you were to leave at once.”

  Bruce coughed. “Colonel, Lady Gwen was just in a battle,” he said. “She hasn't had time to sleep!”

  “The orders are clear,” Jackson said. He didn't sound pleased, Gwen noted. “Even with a single coach, Your Excellency, it's going to take at least five days to reach New York. You will both have plenty of time to sleep.”

  Unless we get attacked, Gwen thought. She was already dreading the ride. Or if something else happens along the way.

  She cleared her throat. “Very well, Colonel,” she said. “I’ll have to take some of my clothes out of a trunk and dump them into a bag, but that shouldn't take long.”

  “I’ll have the horses ready for you in an hour,” Jackson said. “I assume you can ride?”

  Gwen blinked in surprise, then understood. Jackson was insulting Bruce, subtly. It was rare, very rare, to encounter an aristocrat who couldn’t ride, but Bruce’s public persona might not be able to ride. Hell, if he had the same problems with horses as she had, he might well prefer to avoid riding where possible ...

  “It shouldn't be too hard, Colonel,” Bruce drawled. “How are we to return the horses to you?”

  “The engineers will take them,” Jackson said. He didn't show any visible reaction to Bruce’s tone, but Gwen could sense his irritation. “I’ll see you both back in New York.”

  Gwen nodded, fighting down the urge to break into giggles. Jackson wouldn't be pleased when he found out the truth, and he woul
d. She hated to think about what would happen then ... but Jackson wasn’t the worst problem. What would the Viceroy do when he learned about his son’s secret life? Children had been disowned, cut out of their families, for far lesser crimes.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” she said, instead. “I look forward to it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “What we need,” Bruce called to her, “is an airship.”

  Gwen couldn't disagree. The horse was galloping full-tilt, as if it were trying to get away from the sorceress mounted on its back. Beside her, Bruce seemed to be having similar problems in keeping his mount under control, even though he was keeping his powers under tight restraint.

  “An airship would be burned out of the sky the moment it got near a Blazer,” she said, as they approached the river. The bridge, a piece of magnificent engineering, was torn and broken, pieces of stone and metal sticking up out of the water. On the far side, she could see a team of Royal Engineers hastily establishing a pontoon bridge. “And there aren’t any in America.”