The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2)

by Harry James Fox

  The six guns were arranged in groups of three. The three larger guns had barrels about ten feet long and had complicated mechanisms at the breech. There were green containers piled by each gun and a stack of what must be the shells that the guns would fire. The smaller guns had nearby rows of large brass cylinders, tipped with pointed shells of olive green, like giant rifle cartridges. Clusters of men gathered around each gun, and officers were directing their activity with sharp orders. They seemed to be performing a loading drill of some sort.

  Marshall Blake was a tall, rangy man with long legs encased in knee-high black boots. Wesley introduced Philip and told him about the movement of the enemy. Then the marshall gave Wesley a report on their readiness to take the enemy under fire.

  “Lord Wesley, we have spotters on the hill to the northwest of town. They will flash messages to us by signal mirror when the enemy has been spotted, and they can help us adjust our fire.”

  Wesley turned to Philip. “You see, Philip, they report where the shells land, and then they can change their settings if they are off target.”

  “When will you start firing?” asked Philip, looking at Blake.

  “When they are in range, and I am ordered to do so,” replied Blake.

  “You need not wait for any orders. I hereby authorize you to fire when you have a target.”

  “Very well,” answered Blake. “I have prepared for this for many years, but always hoped that this day would never come. But, let me ask this. Is there any chance that the enemy will simply pass us by if we do not fire at them? Perhaps we should wait until they show hostility or, at least, demand our surrender.”

  “Not a bad point,” returned Wesley. “Perhaps we should not be too hasty. Let me think.”

  “Sir, perhaps we could send a messenger out with a white flag and at least tell them that if they come within, say, five miles of our walls we will open fire. Then they would have had fair warning, at least.”

  “Well, the city council voted to make me the commander of the defenses,” said Wesley. “Make it so. I will write a message to that effect. Philip, go back to the council chambers and find Maitland Clarke—tall man with white hair. Ask him to join us here.”

  Philip hurried off to do as he was bidden. He finally found the older man with a shock of pure-white hair and, with some difficulty, convinced him to travel to the armory. When he returned, the two men discussed the wording of the message for some time. They had little difficulty reaching agreement, but Maitland raised the matter of the mayor.

  “Should we not at least tell the mayor before we send this ultimatum?” he asked, white eyebrows jutting out like drifts of snow on a craggy butte. “I know that it could be regarded as within your authority as commander of the defenses, but surely we should at least let Mayor Easton know what you have decided to do.”

  “But if I do that, he will want to call a full council meeting to discuss the pros and cons. By then the battle will be over. No. I have decided to send the message! We will advise the mayor later.”

  The officer chosen to carry the message was armed in full mail, with a helm and cheek pieces of the Stonegate fashion. He wore a thin white surcoat over the mail and carried a white flag. He mounted a beautiful sorrel stallion with flaxen mane and tail and cantered out of the armory gate, followed by a younger officer and two men-at-arms for escorts. Philip and Wesley had a light lunch of bread and cheese with Marshall Blake as they waited for a response.

  “Is there a chance that the enemy might simply kill our messenger?” asked Philip.

  “Slight,” answered Marshall Blake. “They would want someone to take their demands to us, anyway. They probably hope that the size of their army will cause us to surrender the town without a fight.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “They had to ride ten miles or so, make their way to the enemy commander, and so on. It will be mid-afternoon, at least.”

  And so it proved. Steamboat had fielded about fifty well-armed horsemen, and they formed a screen to the south and west of town, to keep the Raiders at bay. Strangely, there were no reports of heavy cavalry in the area, even though the enemy was said to have well over one thousand of them nearby. Reports came back of confrontations with small Raider parties, but no actual clashes of arms had happened. As the Steamboat horsemen approached, the Raiders had withdrawn, keeping out of archery range. It was as if both sides were waiting to see if open hostilities would actually break out.

  The sun was low in the sky when the emissaries returned, trotting back onto the parade ground with sweaty horses. Their faces were grim.

  “They demand our immediate surrender,” the young officer reported, saluting Marshall Blake. He dismounted and handed over a sealed packet. “I told them that if they approached within five miles with their infantry we would open fire without any further warning.”

  Blake handed the message to Wesley, who broke the seal and scanned it. “Hmm,” he said. “They threaten the town with total destruction if we fire our cannons. They promise that there would be no killing, and that the town would not be sacked if we surrender.”

  “Very much as we had expected,” returned Blake. “Not that we can believe them for a moment. Do the orders to fire still stand?”

  Wesley set his jaw. “They do.”

  †

  Crispin led the way, heading ever east, over the first range of mountains that they had to cross. He avoided open parks as much as possible, keeping to the edge of the timber. It was slow going as they had trouble finding a trail that went exactly as they wanted. Often, they had to dismount and lead their horses through the thickets. Amber gasped when Crispin’s horse slid sidewise on a patch of loose shale, but he merely looked back and gave her an encouraging smile and pointed out a safer way for her horse to travel. They stopped for lunch in a glade and allowed their mounts to graze as they ate some more cold biscuits and dried meat.

  Crispin insisted on coating her sunburned nose with some salve from his saddlebags. Then he kissed her nose, which made her laugh. He held his face close to her, and she looked into his eyes, studying them for the first time. They were gray-blue, with a thin rim of darker blue around the edge of the iris. For a moment, her heart began to beat quickly, and she saw that he was like a powerful, wild thing. He seemed to be a coiled spring, full of health and vitality. She wanted to hold him close, to soak up his strength and confidence, but she could not move. They spoke no words, but she knew that he sensed the sparks, like static electricity.

  “Your nose is pretty, even red and peeling,” he said, laughing. The sight of his dimples made her laugh, also. Then the moment passed, and their talk turned serious.

  “Amber,” he said, finally. “Your father said that we should travel at night. Maybe we should have. But when we come to the parkland there will be no trees to hide us; no choice. I think we will have to stop before much longer and continue on only when it gets dark.”

  Amber remembered her father’s words and agreed with Crispin’s proposal. It was mid- afternoon, as they were descending a steep ridge, when they got a glimpse ahead and saw that the spruce-fir forest was soon giving way to a rolling grassland, dotted with clumps of gray sagebrush. They were able to find a small stream with a grassy meadow, so they unsaddled their horses and tied them so they could crop the lush grass. Amber curled up on her saddle blanket and fastened her coat about her. The scent of pine filled the air. She did not think she could nap, but as she relaxed she realized that she was exhausted and dropped off into a deep slumber.

  She awoke with a start to see that darkness had fallen. Crispin was sitting beside her, and, although his face was in shadow, she sensed that he had been sitting there, watching her. She sat up, took off her head scarf, and walked over to the stream. She washed her face and hands, tied up her hair again, and returned to see Crispin saddling the horses.

&n
bsp; “Time to go, sleepyhead,” he said. “Enough of this poking along! We need to step up the pace and cover some miles before daylight. If all goes well, we can be across the parklands before dawn. But be very careful. Riding in the dark is not easy, particularly when there are high growing bushes. A branch might slap your face without you seeing it. We would not want that!”

  Amber hit his shoulder with her small fist. “Oh, you!” she said. “Be serious for once!”

  “Ouch! Your fist is hard,” he replied. “I am serious. Do be careful.”

  The night was not completely dark since the silver light of a nearly full moon lit their way. Once their eyes adjusted to the dark they could see fairly well. They finally found a well-beaten trail that was going their way, and they followed it for several miles before they saw the glow of campfires. Several were to the north of them and an equal number, south.

  Crispin reined in his mount and whispered in her ear. “I think we are coming to the old road. We will be crossing it, since it heads to the northeast, and we are going due east. We will have to be careful here. Those fires might be enemy scouts, or they could be folk fleeing from Steamboat.”

  “I understand,” Amber whispered back. “Either way, we should give them a wide berth. Still, if they are Steamboat folk I would like to…”

  “Do what? Help them? We could not do much. Best to keep going and trust that God will preserve them.”

  Amber started, realizing that she had not known whether Crispin was a believer in God or not. She smiled; he mentioned his faith so easily and naturally. “May God bless us as well, Crispin,” she responded. She had never mentioned her faith with anyone other than her family. But she was glad she had spoken. It forged another link in the chain that bound them together.

  †

  Councilman Buddy Burger stormed into the armory, red faced, his small, black eyes flashing in rage. Behind him came Mayor Charles Easton, his round head glistening with sweat. Easton was ill-at-ease, almost apologetic, but Burger was spoiling for a fight. “Is it true that you rejected honorable terms of surrender?” he snarled. “Who gave you the right to make such a decision? We left the details of our defense to you.”

  “We have rejected nothing,’ answered Wesley, calmly. “I was given the responsibility to defend this town, and sound tactics demand that we fire if this army approaches too closely. I gave the Prophet’s army fair warning.”

  “Let us not be too hasty,” interjected the Mayor. “Perhaps we should rethink our decision to defend the town…” His words trailed off uncertainly.

  Burger was anything but uncertain. His receding jaw and forehead and his prominent nose gave him a rodent-like appearance, but his beefy shoulders looked more like a well-fed hog. “The city council must meet again to decide if we want to surrender,” he demanded. “Unless you agree to hold your fire, I will call on my followers to storm the armory and take control of the guns! Decide quickly.”

  “Now, Buddy,” interposed the Mayor, “Let’s not start fighting among ourselves. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Just try me!” Burger returned, whirling to face the mayor.

  “Councilman Burger,” answered Marshall Blake, “If you storm this armory, we shall treat you and your men like we would the enemy. No one approaches these guns without my permission.”

  “Mayor,” said Maitland Clarke, “if you call a meeting, be sure that I will be there, and I will never agree to giving up this town without a fight.”

  “I agree,” said Wesley. He turned to the commander of the guard. “Escort these gentlemen out and admit no one, not even the mayor, without Marshall Blake’s permission. And if anyone attempts to force entry, resist with deadly force.”

  “Yes, sir,” returned the captain, and he escorted the two men out. The mayor left willingly, anxious to avoid further confrontation, but Burger screamed threats until the heavy gates slammed shut.

  Wesley turned to the guard commander. “Let me repeat myself! Admit no one without permission from Marshall Blake, and that includes the mayor and councilmen,” he ordered. “Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” came the answer. “I take orders only from you and the marshall.”

  “Very well,” said Wesley, turning to Maitland. “We need to be at that meeting. Philip, stay here. Your antique weapon may be of some help. Fire on no one without specific orders from the marshall, but make sure that no one interferes with the gun crews. They are our first line of defense.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Philip. “But if the townspeople attack, firing this rifle over their heads might scare them off.”

  “Good thinking,” said Marshall Blake. “But if I order you to shoot to kill, can you do it?

  “Y—yes, I think so,” said Philip with a gulp.

  “Very well.” Wesley departed through the gate. The marshall beckoned to a young officer nearby, who had accompanied the party that went out for the parley. “This is Rowan. Rowan, meet Philip. I want you two to stick together. Philip, kindly show Rowan how to operate your weapon. Two heads are better than one. I want you to stay near me and await orders.”

  They both agreed and went off a short distance to talk. Rowan was also armed with helm and mail coat. He still wore the white surcoat over the mail that he had worn earlier. He was a hands-breadth taller and a good twenty pounds heavier than Philip. His face was long and ruddy with a pug nose. He had the beginnings of a mustache and dark hair and eyebrows. Philip unslung the old weapon and showed Rowan how to load, aim, and fire it.

  “These black metal boxes are called ‘magazines,’” said Philip. “Each holds twenty rounds of ammunition, and we only have four. It is not like a crossbow. The bullet goes very fast, and does not drop much out to three hundred yards, so at lesser ranges you can aim directly at your target.”

  Rowan quickly grasped the rudiments of firing the weapon, and Philip allowed him to dry-fire it and practice loading magazines and charging the breech with a fresh round. They shared some information about themselves. Rowan was very surprised to learn that Philip, even though several years younger, had seen actual combat with the enemy. Philip liked him at once. They returned to accompany Marshall Blake as he made a tour of each gun to make sure that all were ready to fire.

  “I am a bit afraid that they might be planning a night attack,” he muttered. “Lord help us if they do! We will be firing blind.”

  †

  Philip’s memories of that terrible night were a confused jumble of images. The sun was nearly set when a flashing heliograph signal from a hill to the northwest said that the enemy vanguard had crossed the five-mile limit, and the guns began to fire. The muzzle flashes and concussion were more violent than the loudest thunderclaps. Philip would long remember the unearthly sight, particularly after darkness fell, and the fiery blasts lit the armory grounds like a scene from the pit of hell.

  But it was immediately obvious that not all was well. Philip finally grasped that the old propellant was of uneven quality. Some bags had deteriorated, and the rounds fell short. It was extremely difficult to fire with any precision. But they knew that the force against them was so large that they could not fail to cause losses. He could hear distant thunder to the west and knew that at least some of the old shells were exploding. Their hope that they might be able to direct pinpoint fire on the enemy cannon, however, ended in disappointment.

  A second problem was the attack on the armory grounds by followers of Buddy Burger. True to his word, he had unleashed his men in an attempt to capture and silence the guns. The marshall’s guards had succeeded in throwing them back with heavy losses. Philip had tried firing over their heads to frighten them off, but they were like men possessed. Whether driven by rage or fear, they threw up ladders and tried to climb over the wall. Philip had finally been ordered to open fire on them and lost track of how many he had shot. But, finally, the attack
ers gave up their attempt and withdrew.

  As darkness fell, it became even more difficult to hit any specific target, so the guns simply fired blind, decreasing the range as best they could to match the advance of the enemy. This time, the enemy commander was willing to risk the loss of his precious guns, rushed them to the front of the advancing columns, and immediately began directing fire into the west gate of the city wall.

  The catapults on the gate towers, Philip later learned, had been effective in keeping them from approaching closer than two hundred yards, but at that range the cannons were deadly. The gate was quickly blown to splinters and the catapults put out of action soon after that. The gunpowder bombs from Ariel had delayed the assault on the wall, and the advancing forces were held off for hours, but overwhelming numbers began to tell. Some soldiers forced their way through the gate, and small enemy bands were able to take portions of the wall. Soon soldiers were in the city streets, and buildings began burning.

  It was nearly midnight when Marshall Blake ordered the town guns to cease firing. The remaining artillery rounds were loaded onto several wagons and pack mules, and he gave orders to destroy the guns. This they did by the simple expedient of plugging the barrels and firing a charge, splitting the gun tubes and rendering them useless. They also took the gunner’s quadrants and several sets of fire control equipment. What they could not take, they smashed.

  It was at that point that Wesley returned, noting with some humor that the council had never been able to agree whether to defend the city or not. He ordered the marshall to evacuate as many civilians as possible through the south gate and act as a rear guard to delay the advancing enemy forces.