Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  The band struck up a merry tune as the next couple appeared at the top of the stairs. Bruce pulled her onto the dance floor, then led her around the room as the music grew louder. He was a better dancer than she’d thought, she realised; in hindsight, the first time they’d danced together he’d clearly been worried about concealing his abilities. She relaxed, slightly, as more and more couples appeared on the dance floor. There would be time to worry about politics later.

  “We could dance in the air,” Bruce suggested, so quietly no one else had a hope of hearing him over the music. “Or on the ceiling.”

  Gwen had to suppress the urge to do exactly as he suggested. It wouldn't cause any harm - she’d taken care to wear trousers under her gown - but it would cause comment, a great deal of comment. And while she would normally not have cared, she knew her mother - and Bruce’s father - would care a great deal.

  “It would be a bit too revealing,” she whispered back. “I thought you were going to keep your powers a secret.”

  “Just for now,” Bruce said. “It all depends on how matters shake themselves out.”

  Gwen nodded as they continued to dance, the room slowly filling up with the great and the good. She spotted Lord Tarleton and his son - the former heading for the Viceroy while the latter led a girl onto the dance floor - and wondered just what they’d said to one another, now the younger man’s double life had been revealed. Viceroy Rochester had taken the news calmly, better than Gwen had dared hope, but she knew other families would not be so forgiving. She kept a wary eye out for Jane - the Talker was a potential headache - yet there was no sign of the young girl. Perhaps her family were keeping her at home until they knew how matters had settled down.

  Poor girl, Gwen thought, feeling a stab of sympathy. A Talker would be a great boon to her family, but Jane had kept her abilities a secret. Her parents would not be pleased, if only because they’d be wondering just how many times she’d read their minds. I’ll have to look her up, after the dance, and see what I can do for her.

  The dances grew more complex as the evening wore on, but Bruce showed no sign of slowing down. Gwen had never had the time to master the more complicated dances, so she allowed Bruce to lead her through the motions as she kept an eye on the newcomers. There was an uneasy muttering in the air, something that worried her. The creation of an American Parliament would please the Sons - and everyone who had chafed under the Viceroy’s rule - but it would also put a great many noses out of joint. People who had been winners under the old system would become losers under the new, if they failed to adapt in time.

  “Lady Gwen,” a gruff voice said, as the dance came to an end. “Can we have a word?”

  Gwen blinked in surprise as she saw Lord Jackson, looking rather angry. It was clear he’d drunk quite a bit before coming to the ballroom. She had no trouble recognising the signs of drunkenness, or that Lord Jackson would be an angry drunk. Gritting her teeth, she nodded to Bruce and allowed Lord Jackson to lead her over to the wall. Bruce followed, keeping a steady distance. It was what a normal escort would have done.

  I should have asked for a dance card, Gwen thought, although they didn't seem to be in fashion in America. He could have marked me off for every dance.

  “This is quite intolerable,” Lord Jackson said. He waved to a passing server without taking his eyes off Gwen. “The Viceroy proposes to end slavery!”

  Gwen lifted her eyebrows. The Sons would want to end slavery, if Bruce was any guide, but she hadn’t heard the Viceroy making any public statement for or against the slave trade. It was quite possible he’d been testing the waters, trying to see just how far he could go, yet she had no way to know for sure.

  “I spent thousands of pounds on my slaves,” Lord Jackson continued, without waiting for her to say a word. “The government cannot just take them from me!”

  “The French already have,” Bruce commented. “I rather doubt the government can legislate to force the French to return them.”

  Lord Jackson took a glass of wine from the server as he glared at Bruce. “Your father cannot steal my property!”

  Bruce’s expression hardened. Gwen spoke before Bruce could say something he probably wouldn't regret, later.

  “The French have freed countless slaves in the south,” she said, quietly. “And thousands more have escaped, running south to meet the French. They have tasted freedom! If they were somehow returned to you, would you want them back?”

  She scowled, recalling how she’d been treated when she’d been posing as a maid. If she’d lived that life for years, then escaped ... there was no way she’d want to go back. A maid had few rights - she could have been beaten to within an inch of her life for spilling soup or speaking out of turn - and a slave had none. Even if the slaves were returned, there was no way they could be trusted. Leaving them with the French seemed the kindest option.

  “They’re my property,” Lord Jackson insisted. “They’re mine!”

  “And now they are free,” Bruce taunted. Gwen shot him a warning look. “Turn your back on them for a second and you might find a knife in it.”

  Gwen sighed. “The Viceroy is merely recognising a reality,” she said. It was unpleasant, but she had no doubt that Lord Jackson could buy new slaves, if he had the funds. How much of his money had been tied up in the escaped slaves? “And that reality is that the slaves have made their escape. Let the French have them.”

  Lord Jackson’s hand twitched sharply, as if he wanted to punch her or draw the sword at his belt. Gwen braced herself, readying her magic, but instead the older man merely turned and stalked away, his back ramrod straight. It was hard to feel any sympathy for a slaveowner, Gwen admitted privately, yet she knew that Lord Jackson was staring utter ruination in the face. If his family collapsed into debt, creditors howling at his door, the only thing he’d have left was his title. He’d have to try to find a wealthy woman to marry his son, just to keep the family alive.

  “Charming fellow,” Bruce muttered, sarcastically. “A week or two of being a slave himself would change his outlook, I think.”

  Gwen shrugged. Lord Jackson didn’t regard members of the lower classes as human. It had been her own attitude, she had to admit, until Jack had rubbed her nose in the plight of the poor. And Lady Standish had treated her like a disposable girl ...

  “Come on,” she said. It wouldn't be long before the Viceroy’s speech. “Let’s mingle.”

  She kept her eyes and ears open as they moved around the room, speaking briefly with individuals and couples. Just about everyone had heard about the planned parliament, even though there hadn't been a formal announcement. The Viceroy had done a good job of laying the groundwork, Gwen admitted to herself. He’d sold the concept to the most powerful of the nobility by pointing out all the advantages that would accrue to them afterwards. Even with universal suffrage, the nobility would have an advantage for at least two generations. It was up to them to see what they made of it.

  “After the war, we’re going to be building airships,” Hamish Tarleton said, when they met him and his partner. “I imagine we can sail through the air, over the mountains, and keep heading west. The Russians aren’t going to pose much of a challenge when we reach their former borders.”

  “Alaska declared independence,” Bruce agreed. “We could always just swallow them up, or invite them to join.”

  Gwen smiled. Russian Alaska wasn't much, beyond a handful of settlements and a thriving fishing, hunting and trapping trade. Whoever won the civil war in Russia would have no trouble recovering the settlements, if the Alaskans didn't make an alliance of their own beforehand. Lord Mycroft was probably already plotting how best to take advantage of the whole affair, but she made a mental note to mention it to him anyway. If Britain blocked access to the interior, there would be plenty of time to settle it without interference.

  “The Indians launched another set of raids along the line,” an older man she didn't recognise said. “Scalp
ed a few dozen men and took a number of captives. We need to take steps to deal with them once and for all.”

  “It's the rogue settlers,” another man insisted. “The Indians wouldn't be so much of a problem if they weren't buying arms from the settlers.”

  Bruce nudged her. “The French are probably supporting them instead,” he muttered. “It gives us something else to worry about.”

  Gwen shrugged. Indians had been used in colonial warfare since the very first settlements, she’d heard; their unmatched mobility giving whoever managed to bribe them into assisting a considerable advantage. But they didn't make gunpowder weapons for themselves or anything else that might be used as trade goods. Lord Amherst and his successors had viewed them as barbarians; the French, again, took a more pragmatic approach. She had to admit it had worked in their favour.

  She glanced towards the foot of the room, where the staff had established a small podium for the Viceroy. Bruce’s father was slowly making his way towards it, now everyone who was anyone had arrived. He spoke briefly to a handful of late arrivals, but otherwise kept moving onwards. He’d made sure everyone knew the time of the speech, after all. Very few people would dare to be too late, even if they thought it was fashionable.

  And so the world changes, Gwen thought.

  She took Bruce’s hand and squeezed it lightly, then let go. Bruce gave her a smile, one that seemed torn between hope and fear. He’d worked for America, but, at the same time, getting what he wanted would change everything. There was no guarantee that the Sons of Liberty would be elected into power. The voters might find the familiar more comfortable than setting sail to an uncertain destination.

  “It’ll be fine,” Gwen muttered. “It isn't quite what you wanted, but slow change is better than violent twists.”

  “I know,” Bruce muttered back. “But, whatever happens, father is never going to look at me in the same way again.”

  Gwen nodded in agreement as the Viceroy stepped up to the podium, his mere presence a call for silence. The crowd quietened, slowly turning to face him. He’d be a good speaker, Gwen was sure. Debate was taught in public schools, after all. But he’d need to be a good speaker to convince them not to oppose the new parliament. Lord Jackson wasn't the only person whose property would take a hit ...

  But they will have no choice, she thought. And that has already been made clear to them.

  ***

  The streets grew more familiar - and wealthier - as Raechel cantered down them, heading constantly eastwards. There was very little traffic on the streets, but she recognised a number of buildings, including one of the large townhouses she’d visited while she’d been pretending to be looking for a husband. The Viceregal Palace was clearly visible in the distance, on the other side of the giant park. But the park itself was sealed, guarded by armed soldiers ...

  She cursed under her breath and steered the horse around the park, wondering just what idiot had designed New York. There was an order to the city she had to admire - there was none of the randomness of London - but, at the same time, it was awkward to get straight to the palace. Darkened alleyways promised danger; wider roads were crammed with people taking an evening stroll. A scent of anticipation hung in the air, a quiet awareness that things were going to change.

  They’re right, she thought, as she finally cleared the park and pushed the horse to canter towards the palace. If Adam succeeds, things definitely will change.

  There was a crowd outside the palace, waiting. She flinched, half-expecting to see Adam and his men blocking her way, before she realised that the crowd was waiting for the Viceroy’s speech. Was he planning to address the crowd? It wasn't typical, she thought, but very little was typical in the Americas. Or was the crowd just a cover for Adam? She couldn't see any sign of him, that that proved nothing. Adam could have disguised himself or merely assigned the crowd to one of his operatives.

  She looked at the gates and frowned. A handful of redcoats, carrying rifles, stood in front of the small barricade, eying the crowd nervously. They were pushing far too close to the wall, she noted, but the redcoats clearly hadn’t been allowed to close the gates. There would be carriages going in and out of the complex all night. She caught her breath as she cantered up to the gate, a redcoat stepping forward to block her way. His face was very pale.

  “The French are going to attack,” she gasped. She hadn't quite recovered from her earlier run, even though she’d been on horseback. It was hard, so hard, to speak clearly. “You have to warn the Viceroy!”

  The redcoat frowned. “Who are you?”

  “Lady Raechel Slater-Standish,” Raechel said, without thinking. “Open the gates!”

  The redcoat stared at her in disbelief. She had to look a sight. Nothing less like Lady Raechel Slater-Standish could be imagined. She had no idea if he’d seen her before, but she’d been wearing a dress at the time, her face scrubbed clean and then carefully made-up to bring out her cheekbones. The redcoat had to believe she was lying through her teeth ... and if he believed she was impersonating an aristocrat, he had every right to drag her off to goal.

  “Get off the horse,” the redcoat ordered. He reached for her, clearly willing to drag her off the beast. “Now.”

  Raechel’s thoughts raced. How could she convince him? She had nothing that indicated her true status, not that identified her as either a British agent or an aristocrat. If she asked to speak to Irene - or Lady Gwen - they’d laugh in her face. The redcoats, just by doing their damned duty, would allow the assassination attempt to go ahead.

  Or was it malice? Adam would have needed help from inside the palace, just to get the assassins into the complex. Jane might have had an invitation, but she doubted Adam had one, let alone Ivan and his men. A redcoat could have provided the invites or simply cleared them through the gates ... if they’d been posing as servants, hardly anyone would have questioned them once they were through the outer wall. All of a sudden, she didn't dare let the redcoat take her off the horse ...

  Digging in her heels, she urged the horse forward. She had no idea if the horse could jump, but it managed to leap the barricade without problems and run towards the palace. A shot cracked out behind her, missing by a mile. At least the defenders would be alerted, she thought, as she pointed the horse towards the ballroom windows. The beast slowed as they approached the wall, its better instincts forcing it to fight her commands ...

  “One last jump,” she whispered, as the sound of running footsteps grew louder. People were shouting, spreading the alarm. Another gunshot cracked out behind her. She heard the bullet flying past her ear, pinging off the stone wall. “Please.”

  She closed her eyes, pressing her head against the horse, as the beast leapt right through the windows. Glass shattered around her - she gasped in pain as something cut into her skin - and they fell. The horse lurched violently under her as it hit the floor, bucking so violently that she was thrown off. People were scattering, women heading for the exits while men grabbed weapons or hurried towards her. She barely had a chance to collect her wits before strong arms grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. Resistance was useless.

  “The French,” she said, desperately. They had to believe her. She’d gone too far for anything else. “They’re coming!”

  All hell broke loose.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Gwen stared.

  The Viceroy had barely begun his speech when a young man - no, a young woman - had crashed a horse right through the windows and fallen to the ballroom floor. She grabbed for her power, holding it around her like a protective shroud, as the woman was tossed off the horse, landing badly on the ground. All around her, women were scattering back while men were advancing towards the newcomer. Gwen was so surprised it took her a moment to recognise Raechel.

  “The French,” Raechel gasped. Two men were holding her, gripping her arms as though they thought she was a serious threat. “They’re coming!”

  Gwen turned, jus
t in time to see a servant produce a pistol from a bag and open fire, targeting the Viceroy. She threw up a shield, then picked up the Viceroy with her power and thrust him to the ground as Bruce hit the servant with a fireball. The man twisted, firing randomly in all directions; Gwen saw Lady Sofia fall to the ground, blood staining her dress, as one of the bullets struck her in the stomach. Bruce killed the man a second later, but it was already too late. Other servants were producing their own weapons and opening fire.

  “Get down,” she shouted, launching a fireball at the nearest assassin. “Get down ...”