At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Good.” Deathridge offered the man his hand. “I would wish you luck, but I know you need none of it.”

  “No, sir, Dick. It’s all about brains and courage, ain’t it? Ain’t it? No need for luck when you have both of those.”

  Deathridge shook Rivendell’s hand, then retreated down the alley and back between buildings. Whistles blew and drums rattled. Shouted orders faded into the distance, then the thunder of marching feet rumbled through Temperance.

  For Deathridge, it had been almost too easy. The Mystrians were simple to beguile. Approach them with confidence, speak openly and honestly and they believed everything you told them. Validate ideas they had suggested, like the building of Fort Hope, and they took it as a sacred duty that such a thing should be done. They treated with him with the avidity of a younger brother trying to appease an older brother. And with more facility than Francis ever showed.

  Rivendell, on the other hand, had been easier. The product of an inferior family, sent to inferior schools, his vanity was the key. His father’s publication of self-congratulatory books, the son’s desire for ostentatious clothing, his overweening pride: these were traits Deathridge had seen in countless of his peers. Play to their fears that conspiracies exist and invite them to participate, and you had them. To doubt what you told them was to be excluded, and since they sought inclusion above anything else, they would comply no matter how outrageous the task given to them.

  Rivendell’s entire expedition had been Deathridge’s doing. All he needed to do was to let slip to friends that he could destroy du Malphias’ fortress with two regiments of foot and one of horse, and Rivendell was forced to suggest he could do the same thing with even less. Influencing which units would go had been even easier. Before Rivendell had even felt the first sea breeze, his fate had been sealed.

  Deathridge returned to his apartments and smiled as Catherine opened the door. “And how did it go, dearest Niece?”

  “Exactly as you predicted, dearest Uncle.”

  “You are a wonder.” He kissed her fully on the lips. “You make it so I almost wish that Owen would live to see you once more.”

  “So do I.” She draped her arms around his neck. “After all, the fool still loves me, and would easily believe our child is his.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  June 26, 1764

  Hattersburg

  Lindenvale, Mystria

  "See, Nathaniel, see? What did I tell you?”

  “I see, Seth.” Nathaniel wasn’t quite certain what he was seeing, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t the Hattersburg he’d last seen. “Been here two weeks, have they?”

  “Two and a half, more like.” Seth looked at him with pleading eyes. “I love my wife, but iffen her kin gots to stay with me another day longer, I’ll kill them all.”

  “You run on home. Tell Gates come back to his tavern.” Nathaniel, standing at the center point of the bridge spanning the Tillie, waved Caleb forward. “Lieutenant, I reckon second, fifth, and sixth squads need to come up and hold this bridge.”

  Caleb, dark circles under his eyes, nodded. “Three ranks, lying, kneeling, and standing?”

  “Aim low. Don’t let Rufus give you no trouble.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Makepeace, Justice, bring the first and fourth up, on me.” Nathaniel waited for the two squads to assemble. “Casual like, but have your guns clear.”

  The Bone brothers arrayed the squads into three smaller groups, with Tribulation guiding the third. They wandered into Hattersburg, walking along the muddy North road. Two hundred yards further on sat Gates’ Tavern.

  Nathaniel had never liked Hattersburg, but he’d always found something to look at on the streets. Not so this time. Some folks would be out at their summer homes, farming, so it made sense that half the homes should have been empty. The fact that they all had smoke coming from chimneys surprised him. Likewise that three dogs lay dead in the street with visible gunshot wounds, and that civilians were nowhere to be seen. From between houses the breezes produced flashes of scarlet coats hung on drying lines. Even the docks appeared empty and the stockyard didn’t have but one scrawny old dairy cow in it.

  Nathaniel wandered into town and right up to Gates’ Tavern. He made a hand signal and Justice took the fourth squad around toward the back while Makepeace brought the Bookworms in tight. He pulled open the door and entered, but got only four feet in.

  A blond-haired young man in the 31st Horse Guards uniform barred his passage. “This headquarters is off limits to your kind.” Beyond him a squad and a half of men sat at tables drinking and playing cards. From above came sounds of laughter, giggles, and creaking beds.

  “I reckon I best speak to your commanding officer.”

  “I reckon,” the man began, slowing his speech to affect a Mystrian accent, “you’d best sod off.”

  Nathaniel smiled, then drove his right knee into the man’s groin. The cavalryman jackknifed forward, clutching himself. Nathaniel grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head into the wall, then pitched him back into the room, upsetting a table. Cards flew and before a one had fluttered to the floor, Nathaniel had his rifle’s muzzle nestled between the downed man’s chin and silver gorget.

  “A one of you makes a move or a sound, and he dies.”

  Justice and Makepeace led their men into the room and spread them out. The Summerland boys gathered all the cavalry carbines and then directed the men to crowd into the narrow end of the room. Justice looked to Nathaniel. “Fix bayonets?”

  “I reckon.”

  The cavalrymen paled, with more than one having occasion to pee on himself. Infantry bayonets added eighteen inches of spade-shaped steel to a six-foot long musket. Every single one of the Queen’s soldiers had seen the grisly damage done by bayonets. All would sooner be hit by a cannon ball than have that much steel twisting in his guts.

  “Makepeace, with me.” They headed outside, and took the back stairs to the second floor. They ignored the guest rooms and instead headed for the commotion in the Gates’ living quarters. They made enough noise coming through the door that anyone with half a mind would have known something was wrong, but the cavalry commander was firmly in the saddle and, therefore, distracted.

  Distraction that ended when Makepeace grabbed him by an ankle and yanked him off the bed.

  Nathaniel tugged the brim of his cap to the lady. “Sorry to be bothering you, ma’am. Got a need for the, uh, Captain, ain’t you?”

  The officer had pulled his hat to him, using it to cover his rampant embarrassment. “Captain Percival Abberwick. I should warn you, sir, that Her Majesty does not tolerate brigandry. You will be hung from the nearest tree.”

  “Brigandry? I’m thinking you mean thieving, right?”

  “You know what I mean.” He reached out for a pair of breeches, but Make-peace slapped his hand away. “Really, man, this is outrageous.”

  “I reckon outrageous is a regiment of horse-sitters coming here to Hattersburg and just eating and drinking and stealing as they like.”

  The Norillian snorted. “It is all right and proper. We are here at the Queen’s command. All good citizens of Mystria are required to give aid and comfort to Her Majesty’s soldiers. Once our Colonel gets here with our horses and our treasury, the people will be reimbursed at a proper rate for the provisions we have taken.”

  “I will be powerful pleased to see that, Captain.” Nathaniel smiled. “Now you go and get dressed, then get your men out of here on account of Mister Gates is coming back in residence. This here is going to be Major Forest’s headquarters.”

  “Now see here, a Colonial Major does not outrank me. I will not give up my headquarters.”

  Nathaniel squatted. “Well, I reckon this is how I sees things. You got fifteen men downstairs with five carbines between them. I’m gonna reckon more than your horses is being sent on upriver. I got a hundred forty of the hardest fighting, best shooting men in all of
Mystria. They ain’t had a drink in two weeks. They are going to be powerful sore angry if you done drunk this town dry. They ain’t gonna let you stand between them and this tavern.”

  Abberwick stared at him incredulous. “Do you mean to tell me you would attack soldiers of Her Majesty’s government?”

  “No. I am just telling you that out here there are places where your children and your grandchildren could search every day of their lives, and they’d not find hide nor hair of you. We’d just tell folks the Ryngians got you. Now I reckon that any Mystrian here in Hattersburg would back us up on that. Ain’t that right, ma’am?”

  The woman, who was buttoning up her dress, nodded emphatically.

  “So you see, Captain, you are going to make the right choice.”

  “You have not heard the end of this.”

  “No, but I reckon I’ve seen more of your end than I want. Get dressed. Give orders. You’ll want your men on parade to welcome Major Forest when he gets in.”

  Forest eyed Nathaniel curiously as he sat at a table in the tavern. “Do I want to know how you organized that welcome, Captain?”

  “I don’t reckon you do.” Nathaniel half-filled an earthenware cup with whisky and slid it across the table before filling one for himself. “Drink up. You ain’t gonna like the news.”

  Forest picked up the cup, sniffed, then set it down again. “Tell me.”

  “Supplies ain’t made it up from Temperance. They was supposed to go first, but Colonel Thornbury got it stuck in his craw that supplies going afore his men was disrespectful. He done changed orders, sent his men with no grub nor money, and here they be. They’s waiting for horses and all. And they’re thinking that will be slow as there ain’t enough barges for to ship it all upriver.”

  Forest shot the whisky, wiped tears from his eyes, then held the mug out for more. “So you’re telling me we have no food, no spare shot or brimstone?”

  Nathaniel refilled his cup. “Well, these here cavalry ain’t the first raiders Hattersburg ever done seen. Last winter came early and spring wheat weren’t much, but folks did put some stuff by. Makepeace done tole folks we was part of the Prince’s procession, so that loosened up some provisions. Shot and brimstone not as much, but we will be fine.”

  “I trust you are correct.” Forest sipped at the whisky, wincing as he did. “We have decisions to make. Men to leave here.”

  Nathaniel nodded. The journey out had been arduous. Major Forest had chosen two extra squads because he assumed that sickness, injury, accident, and desertion would deplete his numbers. He was not disappointed as much as he might have hoped to be. Two men had broken legs and three broken arms or wrists. Two men had simply vanished and Nathaniel figured they’d gone off on the winding path. Many more, however, were feeling the effects of the long journey, including most of the Bookworms.

  “How long we gonna stay here to Hattersburg?”

  “Not as long as I would have liked.” Forest ran his good hand over his stubbly jawline. “I wanted at least a week, but I expected us to be here a week ago.”

  “’Cept for the rain slowing us down, we woulda been.”

  “I can only imagine it caused more problems for those following us. I don’t like it that no runners have come forward.”

  “Kamiskwa will find them.”

  “I hope. I want him and his men to be leading us from this point forward.” Forest shook his head. “If we had powder and shot we could try some close order drills. We’ve got good men. Many of them hard men, but I need them acting together. I can still drill them, but resting would do them more good.”

  “I reckon.”

  “The question remains: Who will we be drilling?” Forest reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook and the stub of a pencil. “We have five casualties who can go no further. Two men are missing. Second company has three more men who are hurting badly.”

  “You counting Benjamin Beecher?”

  Forest sighed. “I was rather hoping he would choose to remain behind here of his own accord.”

  “He cain’t even tote his own Bible, Major. You should leave him here to tend to the spiritual needs of our wounded.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him.”

  Nathaniel looked into the whisky cup. “I reckon ’bout half the Bookworms is close to done in. Them what hasn’t had their boots rot off their feet has raw blisters.”

  “Reason enough to leave them behind.”

  “Well, now, I ain’t saying it ain’t. What I is saying is what you said. You need men acting together, that’s them Bookworms.” Nathaniel smiled, remembering them fixing their bayonets and giving the cavalry savage stares. “And I reckon the rest of the men is gonna have to do more iffen they don’t want the Bookworms to be the better of ’em.”

  “Are you saying that, Captain, because you believe it, or because you know Caleb is one of the ones I’d have to leave behind?”

  “You’d be making a big mistake leaving him here.”

  Forest arched an eyebrow. “Nathaniel, he’s exhausted. He can barely stand up.”

  “On account of he’s doing more than anyone else, you and me included.” Nathaniel drank, letting the raw whisky torch his throat. “He’s the last one asleep, first one up, doing all the duty anyone could ask of him, and volunteering for more. Ain’t a man in that column don’t owe him a favor or three.”

  “I’m not in an easy position here, Nathaniel. If I keep him on and he cannot do the job, it will be seen as favoritism.”

  “And iffen you leave him behind, he ain’t gonna be right the rest of his life.” Nathaniel gave Forest a nod. “You go make up your list, but give me a week. I reckon with a little work, things will come together just fine.”

  Supplies still had not come upriver by the second of July, when Forest determined his force would leave Hattersburg. The locals, happy for the relief from the Norillian cavalry, opened their larders and magazines to the Rangers. Each man was able to refill his supplies and add another fifty rounds of ammunition and powder. Every squad carried an additional two pounds of brimstone, the burden of which rotated through the squad.

  During the week Nathaniel had a course of discussions with men in both companies. Looking the force over, it wasn’t too difficult to pick out men who were the natural leaders, even if they’d not been the ones who had been voted an officer. All the soldiers looked up to these men, for their leadership, their encouragement, and their favor.

  Nathaniel found a way to have a conversation that, in part, got around to pointing out just how hard-working Lieutenant Caleb Frost really was. Nathaniel allowed as how Caleb was working himself to death, doing all the things that other men ought to be doing. He suggested that a man who let another man do all that wasn’t really a man, and it was a shame to let a young buck like Caleb ruin himself.

  Things began to change. Men started doing all the things Caleb had done, and without being asked. Squads took it upon themselves to pitch his tent for him, or invite him to share their supper. Men always brewed an extra cup of tea or found an extra pinch of salt for him.

  The week in Hattersburg did Caleb well. He managed to catch up on his sleep and let his feet heal. When Kamiskwa and the Shedashee returned, they fashioned new moccasins for the Bookworms and shared supplies of salve that brought most of the young men back into marching shape.

  When it came time to move on, two of the Bookworms couldn’t continue. That morning the men were all but in tears, even though they were having a hard time standing up straight for review. Major Forest gave them courier duty. He put them in charge of writing letters for those that wanted them written, and to carry them back to Temperance. He also dictated an account of events so far, and asked for that to be passed to Mr. Wattling and Doctor Frost.

  The rest of the Bookworms got shuffled into other squads and Makepeace was given the hardest men in the unit to call his own. The Bookworms started as mascots, but the men came to appreciate them for their intelligence. The Bookworm
journals became squad journals, and the burden of carrying them passed around as did the spare brimstone.

  The Rangers even made room for Reverend Beecher. Though Nathaniel cared little for him, and he did make maddening demands on individuals, a solid core of Rangers took solace in his reading Scripture aloud. Beecher, when he wasn’t actually trying to preach, had a good voice and managed to calm fears.

  The news that Kamiskwa brought of the Prince’s group was not good. By the time Major Forest’s unit left Hattersburg, the Colonials were still a week back, and Rivendell a day behind them. Cutting a road through the wilderness had left the Colonials exhausted and furious with Rivendell’s constant entreaties for more speed.

  Forest fell in beside Nathaniel as they headed northwest out of Hattersburg. “If I calculate things right, we will reach Fort Cuivre about the same time they get to Anvil Lake. End of July is going to be very busy.”

  “I reckon.” Nathaniel nodded easily. “And as long as I see August, I am right fine with that.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  July 1, 1764

  Lindenvale, Mystria

  Prince Vlad swiped a forearm over his face, smearing mud, then put his floppy-brimmed hat back on. He leaned back against Mugwump’s flank, cool stream water flowing around his knees. The wurm, his head upstream, lowered his muzzle and let water flow into him.

  “Prince Vladimir, you can postpone things no longer.”

  The Prince looked toward the shore, where the stream had overflowed its banks. Bishop Bumble stood there, hands on hips, his face reddened beneath a black hat, his white hose mud-stained, and his feet slowly sinking into the ooze. How the man had managed, from the knees up, to remain spotless, Vlad could not imagine.

  Bumble wagged a finger. “You are jeopardizing men’s souls, sir. You have them working on the Sabbath. You refuse to give me time to conduct a proper service.”

  Vlad dropped to a knee, letting the water swirl up around his waist and scrubbed his hand clean. He scooped up a double handful of water and drank.