Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I was a spoilt brat,” Gwen said. She couldn't help feeling guilty. She hadn't known what she could do, but she’d been throwing a tantrum anyway. It wasn't as if the maid had any power over her. “And as my powers developed, I became worse.”

  “At least you grew up in a loving household,” Bruce said. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “Not everyone has that opportunity.”

  “I suppose,” Gwen said. “But I still feel bad about it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I want him dead,” Adam snapped.

  Raechel looked up, closing her eyes so she could hear better. Adam had taken Roosevelt into the next room, but he was speaking so loudly she could hear him through the wood. She knew that something had happened, from a report a messenger had given straight to Adam, yet she had no idea what. And she couldn’t escape the feeling that it was something important.

  She rose and pressed her ear against the wood, despite the risk. If she was caught spying on the two men, she’d be lucky not to be hanged at once. Adam would remember just how many documents had crossed her desk and insist on it, before she had a chance to report to anyone. She listened as hard as she could, but it was still hard to pick out the words.

  “He did what he thought was right,” Roosevelt was saying. He was deliberately pitching his voice low, as if he was trying to calm the older man. “And it may have worked out in our favour.”

  “At the cost of pissing off the French,” Adam thundered. “Has it occurred to you that we need French support?”

  Raechel felt her blood run cold. She hadn't been sure where some of the money came from, but she thought she knew now. Every last franc spent on the Sons of Liberty would be worth it, for the French, if the Sons rose up at the right time. The information she’d seen as it crossed her desk made it clear that the Sons had been planning multiple uprisings. Even if they were all put down, they would distract the redcoats from the real enemy.

  “The plan was to rise up in the rear, when the French attached Amherst,” Adam added, sharply. “Doing nothing might have been survivable, but actually joining with the redcoats to resist the French? They’re not going to ignore that!”

  “The French are just as bad as the English,” Roosevelt said. “At least this way we can count on their gratitude.”

  “We can't count on their gratitude,” Adam insisted. He made an audible effort to lower his voice. “We have betrayed one friend in hopes of winning over our enemies, revealing far too much about ourselves in the process. And it happened because that ... that ... idiot thought it would be a good idea to impress a girl!”

  “A very well-connected girl,” Roosevelt noted.

  Raechel considered it as Adam fumed. Gwen? She couldn't think of anyone else who might be well-connected in Amherst. Just what had happened down south to convince the Sons that it might be worth standing aside, for a while? And what had ... someone ... done to piss off the French?

  “This is a deadly mistake,” Adam repeated. “Need I remind you that we voted? And that the vote was for doing nothing? We have been pushed into joining the wrong side ...”

  “If the Viceroy keeps his word,” Roosevelt pointed out, “it will not be the wrong side!”

  Adam snorted. “And you expect the Viceroy to keep his word?”

  “He’s already started laying the groundwork, according to our spies in New York,” Roosevelt said. “And they have had a taste of our power.”

  “Not enough to make them compliant,” Adam hissed. “If the French want to screw us, General, all they have to do is forward our letters to the British and watch the chaos from a safe distance. We gave them our word.”

  “To hell with the French,” Roosevelt said. “Do you expect them to keep their word?”

  “Then we fight another revolution,” Adam said. “The English have betrayed us ...”

  “The French have not had a chance,” Roosevelt said.

  “I demand that we take steps,” Adam insisted. “The vote was taken!”

  “And circumstances changed,” Roosevelt said. He sounded as though he was reaching the end of his tether. “If this goes badly wrong, we can and we will demand disciplinary measures. Our friend made a number of decisions that might well go badly wrong. But until then, we will cling to the promise of winning what we want without a fight.”

  “Bah,” Adam said.

  Raechel heard someone walking and hurried back to her desk, sitting down hastily before the door opened and Roosevelt strode across the office and out of the door. Adam followed him, his face dark with anger. Something had clearly happened, but what? Adam glowered at her as she looked at him, then sat down at his desk and poured himself a glass of rotgut. He didn't offer her any as he took a long swig.

  “Raechel,” he said, suddenly. “I have a job for you.”

  Raechel blinked in surprise. “Yes, sir?”

  “Go find Ivan,” Adam ordered. He still sounded angry, although it didn't seem to be directed at her. “Tell him I wish to speak with him, at once, and then go for a long lunch. Don’t come back until two in the afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir,” Raechel said. If she’d been genuinely working, she would have been delighted at the prospect of taking two whole hours off. Instead, she found herself wanting to know just what Adam and Ivan were going to say to one another. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “He’s normally at the shooting range, this time of day,” Adam said. “Try not to get shot when you speak to him.”

  Raechel bit down the sarcastic response that came to mind and rose, grabbing her cloak as she hurried for the door. Behind her, she heard Adam pouring another glass of rotgut. It bothered her, more than she cared to admit. She’d never seen him drinking anything stronger than water before.

  The camp was teeming with activity, she noted, as she hurried towards the shooting range. A number of men sat in the stocks, punishment for violating one or more of the camp’s handful of rules; she gave them a wide berth as she passed. They were lucky, she thought. Being trapped in the stocks was humiliating, but if they were in Britain they’d be ducking rotten fruit - or stones, if their crimes had been bad enough. A woman sat at the rear of the group, looking sullen. What had she done to wind up in the stocks?

  She made her way hurriedly down to the shooting range, tasting the whiff of powder in the air. The Sons never stopped shooting from dawn till dusk, practicing their skills until they were almost as good as some of the huntsmen she’d known. Joan had made her practice with a small pistol, but Raechel had worked hard to hide the skills Irene had taught her. Enduring the woman’s taunts about noblewomen had been easy, given what she knew. The only problem was getting her hands on a pistol ...

  A man stood outside the shooting range, looking grim. Raechel waved cheerfully to him as he approached, but he showed no inclination to relax. Either he wasn't impressed by a pretty girl or he’d been one of the watchers as a handful of guards were forced to run the gauntlet for falling asleep on duty. Raechel had found it a sickening spectacle, but she’d watched anyway, knowing she had to harden herself. Besides, the Sons were right. A guard who fell asleep on duty could be disastrous, if an attacker was sneaking up to the camp.

  “I need to speak to Ivan,” she said. “Can you ask him to come out to me?”

  The guard nodded and turned to shout into the shooting range. A moment later, Ivan appeared; a tall, muscular man wearing a shirt and a pair of trousers that seemed too small for him, carrying a heavy rifle over his shoulder. Raechel had to fight down the urge to take a step backwards. Ivan looked harmless - or no more harmful than any of the other men in the camp - but there was something about him that alarmed her. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

  His voice was cold and hard. “Yes?”

  “Adam asks that you visit him, now,” Raechel said. She didn't want to admit it, but he intimidated her. Her fingers itched for a pistol. “Please could you go see him?”
/>   “Of course,” Ivan said. There was an odd accent in his voice, one she’d never quite been able to place. She’d wondered if it was Russian, but none of the Russians she’d met had sounded like him. “It would be my pleasure.”

  He snapped a command to the guard, then strode off towards Adam’s office. Raechel followed, wondering if there would be a chance to spy on the meeting, but when the building came into view she saw a handful of men hanging around, seemingly doing nothing. Irene had shown her covert guards on the streets of London, men who looked ready to intervene of something happened. Adam, it seemed, followed the same principle himself.

  She muttered a curse under her breath and headed for the dining hall. It was half-empty, but the tables that were filled were buzzing with conversation. She spotted John on the other side of the room, talking to Irene in her male guise; she picked up a bowl of potatoes, sausage and beans, then headed over to join them. John seemed far too pleased to see her for her own peace of mind.

  “There's been an interesting development,” Irene said. Really, if Raechel hadn't already known she was female, she wouldn't have had a clue from her voice. It was pitched perfectly. “John? You want to tell her?”

  “The French attacked Amherst,” John said. He sounded excited. “And we joined with the redcoats to repel them.”

  Raechel blinked. That ... that .... was what Adam was so mad about?

  “The person on the spot took the decision,” Irene said, quietly. Raechel hadn't felt Irene reading her mind, but she tightened her shields anyway. “The battle was won.”

  “That’s good,” Raechel said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Unless the redcoats turn on us, now the French have been beaten,” John said. “They may recall the convoy that left New York.”

  It took Raechel a moment to put it together. From what she’d picked up in New York, the Viceroy’s plan had been to land troops near New Orleans and capture the city, making it harder for the French to support their offensive into British North America. But if the French offensive had been blunted ...

  They may fear what the Sons will do, she thought. Or take advantage of the French being weakened by striking at the Sons.

  She ate her food slowly, listening to the ebb and flow of the chatter. Opinion seemed to be torn. No one actually liked the French, as far as she could tell, but very few liked the British either. And no one was particularly happy about how the decision had been made. The Sons took their voting seriously.

  “Meet me outside in ten minutes,” Irene hissed, as she rose. John had already headed back to his duties. “Please.”

  Raechel nodded, finished her dinner and headed out of the door. Irene was waiting in the same spot, her eyes half-closed as she leaned against the wooden barracks. Raechel glanced from side to side, then stepped up close. If anyone saw them, they should assume they were kissing, rather than sharing secrets.

  “Adam isn't pleased,” she said.

  “Something very odd happened at Amherst,” Irene agreed. “I can generally tell when a story doesn't quite add up, Raechel, and something really doesn't add up here.”

  Raechel frowned. “Gwen was involved, somehow,” she said. “But how?”

  “We’ll find out in New York,” Irene said. “I need to slip out of the camp and vanish. Do you want to come with me?”

  “I may find out something else we need to know,” Raechel said, after a moment. She was tempted, but she was growing used to her double role. “It’s far too early to leave now.”

  Irene nodded. “You know where you can find a compass? If you have to leave in a hurry, make sure you head eastwards. You should come across a road; follow it to the east until you reach a settlement. There are stagecoach inns in most of them, just buy yourself a ticket to New York. Don’t look back.”

  Raechel winced. “That doesn't sound like a good plan,” she said.

  “It isn’t,” Irene said. “But right now you don’t have much of a choice.”

  She gave Raechel a brief hug, then turned and walked away. Raechel stared after her, feeling lost and alone. Getting out of the camp wouldn't be easy for her - Joan had taken pains to tell the new recruits that it was impossible to leave, without the correct password - but Irene would have no trouble reading it from the guard’s mind. And even if she did get out, Raechel had no illusions about what awaited her on the far side. She might well die of exposure before she reached safety, if she wasn’t hunted down and killed. Irene had incredible nerve to just make the walk on her own.

  And now I need to see what else I can find out, she thought.

  She pushed the thought aside as she headed slowly back towards Adam’s office. The guards were still there. She glanced at the sun, silently calculating the time. It was, by her best guess, half past one. Shaking her head, she walked back to the barracks, wondering if she had time for a brief nap. It didn't look like it. Instead, she lay down on the bed and forced herself to relax. It wasn't long before Joan entered, looking annoyed.

  “It's too early to be lying down,” she snapped. “Why aren't you at work?”

  “The boss said I wasn’t to go back until two,” Raechel said. She glanced at the clock on the wall, which insisted she had ten minutes left. “Why aren't you at work?”

  “Don’t get cheeky with me,” Joan snapped. She looked as if she were about to slap Raechel, then thought better of it. “I have work to do here.”

  Raechel frowned, wondering just what Joan had to do in the female barracks. It wasn't as if she did anything, beyond issuing orders and snapping out commands. Raechel had a private suspicion that Joan didn't do anything at all, save for welcoming new recruits. It would certainly explain why she was always lurking around, ready to hand out punishment duties to anyone who messed up.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, drawing her cloak around her shoulders and heading for the door. She braced herself, half-expecting a slap, but Joan let her go unmolested. Maybe she thought Raechel would complain about her to Adam. “Have fun doing whatever you do.”

  The guards were gone, she noted as she walked back to the office, but the door was locked and bolted. She tapped on the door and waited, sure she could hear someone moving around inside the building. It was nearly five minutes, however, before she heard the sound of the bolts being drawn back, one by one, and the door opened. Adam was standing just inside, looking angry. His filing cabinets were a mess.

  “You were in New York, I believe,” he said, as he beckoned her inside and closed the door firmly. “What did you make of the Viceroy?”

  “He struck me as a little overwhelmed by his job,” Raechel answered, before she could stop herself. What should she say? “He wasn't a bad person, but he had too many problems.”

  “I see,” Adam said. “And what did you make of his son?”

  “He’s a fop,” Raechel said. She’d danced with Bruce Rochester at the ball, once, but he hadn't made much of an impression on her. Indeed, he hadn't paid much attention to her at all. “I didn’t think much of him.”

  “The Viceroy hasn’t announced the formation of an American Parliament, not publicly,” Adam told her. There was no doubt in his voice at all. “What do you make of that?”

  Raechel hesitated. “My uncle always said it took time to lay the political groundwork for anything,” she said, finally. The words came out of her mouth, one by one. “Giving the Americas a parliament would change things dramatically. The other politicians would not be pleased if they were surprised.”

  “I see,” Adam said, again. His voice was oddly thoughtful. “You don’t think he’s planning to cheat us?”

  “He wouldn't be laying the groundwork if he was,” Raechel said. Despite her uncle’s best efforts, she knew politics better than that. “The more people who know about it, the more people who adjust their plans to account for it, the more people who will be angry if the plans get cancelled at short notice. He means to keep the agreement, I think, but he needs to lay the groundw
ork first.”

  “Very good,” Adam said. He stepped back from her - she hadn't realised he was so close - and turned to his desk, rooting through the piles of paperwork. “Pack yourself a bag, Raechel. Clothes ... and whatever else you need for a trip to New York.”

  Raechel tensed. “We’re going to New York?”

  “No, we’re going to Moscow,” Adam sneered. Luckily, his back was turned to her and he didn't see her flinch. “I was under the distant impression that you had a working brain, young lady.”

  “I’ll be recognised in New York,” Raechel protested, trying not to protest too much. It would be inconvenient if she talked her way out of the trip. She had a hunch that staying with Adam was important. “They’ll see me ...”

  “You’ll be wearing a tatty dress,” Adam told her, flatly. “They won’t recognise you for a second. Now go, pack your bag. I expect you back here in less than an hour, as we have an appointment in New York City. No conversations along the way.”