But that was an argument for another day. “Let’s get moving,” he said. “We don’t do anyone any good sitting around like snails on a leaf.”
They left more mansions in flames as they moved south. The Spaniards who took refuge with them cursed them because they didn’t do more to put down the rebellious slaves. The slaves cursed them because they didn’t do more to help the uprising. Getting sworn at by both sides at once suited Victor Radcliff fine. To him, it meant he was following about the right course.
He heard rumors the governor of Spanish Atlantis had let soldiers from French Atlantis come south to deal with the English settlers. He disbelieved those rumors as long as he could: if they proved true, they would make his life harder. But he sent scouts out to the north as well as to the south. The only thing worse than having the French settlers there would be having them there and getting taken by surprise.
A scout rode up from the south shouting, “The sea! The sea!”
“Why you smile?” Blaise asked Victor. “What so funny ’bout the sea?”
Blaise had never heard of Xenophon. Victor would have bet the scout never had, either. But more than 2,100 years earlier, the Greeks escaping the Persian Empire had raised that same cry—“Thalassa! Thalassa!”—when they finally came to the Black Sea.
For Xenophon’s Greeks, coming to the sea meant finding the broad highway home. Things weren’t so simple here. Who could say what kind of ships lay off the coast? Any at all? British? Spanish? French? All of them at once, banging away at one another as if these were the bad old days of the pirates of Avalon?
Victor again remembered Ethel Radcliffe, who’d shot his great-grandfather. Mule-headed stubbornness seemed to run through every branch of the Radcliff(e) line. He needed some of his own here, and some luck, if this venture wouldn’t be remembered as another piece of Radcliff(e) damnfoolishness.
“Let’s go down to the sea,” he said. “We’ve come all this way—we shouldn’t leave the last few miles undone.”
The ocean here was nothing like the cold, green-gray one off Hanover’s muddy beaches. The water here was turquoise. It looked warm enough to bathe in. The sand leading down to it was golden as a pretty girl’s hair. An enormous black bird glided past overhead; it had a leathery red sac under its throat.
Several crocodiles unhurriedly ambled off the beach and into the ocean. Too bad, Victor Radcliff thought. With so much firepower at hand, they would have been easy to kill. And, even though crocodiles were ugly, they made better than tolerable eating.
Victor focused on the crocodiles and the frigate bird. Blaise was the one who pointed farther out to sea and said, “What ships are those?”
“Damnation!” Victor exclaimed. Several frigates cruised along on that lovely blue sea. His first horrified thought was that some French or Spanish admiral had got much too clever for comfort. It could cause him all kinds of trouble. If he didn’t move his men off the beach, those ships could bombard them, and damn all he could do about it. Or they could land raiding parties, strike at him, and then get away before he could respond. Just by being there, they denied him the seacoast. He felt trapped between their anvil and the hammer of Roland Kersauzon’s French settlers.
“What to do, Monsieur?” Blaise asked.
“Good question,” Radcliff answered dully. He raised a spyglass to his right eye for a closer look at the ships. If they were French frigates, he might persuade their skippers he and his men were Spaniards. Conversely, if the ships were Spanish, maybe he could fool the captains into thinking he was Kersauzon. It might work for a little while, anyhow, though what good it would do he wasn’t quite sure. He was looking for something—anything—to try, that was all.
He slid the shiny brass tube out a little farther to bring the frigates into sharper focus. Then he started to laugh. And, once he started, he had a hard time stopping. He wanted to keep on braying idiot mirth up to the sky that was only a couple of shades lighter than the sea.
Somebody not far away said, “He’s gone clean round the bend, he has.”
“What you see?” someone else asked. That was Blaise, his accent distinctive.
Reluctantly, Victor lowered the telescope. “Those ships out there…” He couldn’t go on. He started laughing again instead.
“You better tell us.” Now Blaise sounded almost threatening. Several of the white men around Victor looked the same way.
He took a deep breath and held it as long as he could. Then he let it all out and did the same thing again, trying to flush the laughter from his system. Only after that did he try to speak once more: “Those ships out there…They’re English.” That got him a load of profanity and obscenity covering as much relief as he felt himself.
As usual, Blaise was a man of direct action. He snatched the spyglass from Radcliff’s hand and raised it to his own eye. He didn’t understand how the lenses bent light—he thought it was magic. (Well, Victor didn’t understand why the telescope worked, either. He did doubt whether witchcraft had anything to do with it.) Lack of understanding didn’t mean he couldn’t focus. Like Victor, he accepted the color-fringed, upside-down images as the price of magnification.
And, like Victor, he started to laugh, even if not so loud or so long. “Fuck me,” he said reverently. “They are English shipses.”
“What are they doing here?” someone asked, which had also crossed Victor Radcliff’s mind. “Are they waiting for us?”
“Maybe they are, by God,” Victor said. “But whether they are or not, they can give us a ride home.” The phrase deus ex machina ran through his mind. If those ships weren’t the visible hand of Providence stretched out on the waters…If they weren’t, then they were Somebody’s idea of a cruel joke. Victor refused to believe that. He called out an order: “Show all the Union Jacks we have—the bigger, the better.”
The flags had grown tattered in their journey through French and Spanish Atlantis. Victor didn’t care. They wouldn’t be mistaken for the emblem of either enemy kingdom. They wouldn’t be—and they weren’t. The nearest frigate sailed closer yet. Victor imagined its captain peering shoreward through a spyglass just like his own. Before long, the ship lowered a boat.
It stopped just out of musket range of the beach. “Ahoy!” shouted someone aboard, his voice coming thin over the water. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Victor explained. Then he asked the same question of the bosun or lieutenant or whoever he was in the boat.
“We were ordered down here to find you,” the man replied. “Looks like we’ve gone and done it, too.”
“What will you do now that you have?”
“Bring you back, of course.”
“Good God!” Victor said. “Not that we aren’t glad to see you, but who sent you down here? How did you know where we were?”
“I hear it was that army bastard, Lieutenant-Colonel What’s-His-Name. Charlie,” the sailor answered, showing his scorn for anything in a red coat. “He got your despatches, looked at a map, and said, ‘Go there. You’ll just about find him.’ And we just about did, didn’t we?”
“Bless my soul,” Victor murmured. Thinking an Englishman stodgy just because he was an Englishman wouldn’t do. The officer had used his imagination, and used it well. His scheme wouldn’t have worked unless England ruled the seas, but England did, and he took advantage of it. And, with Roland Kersauzon’s French settlers nipping at his heels, Radcliff was glad he did.
“What do we do?” Blaise asked.
“We go back to Freetown, that’s what,” Victor answered. “And we don’t have to fight our way through Spanish and French Atlantis or plunge into the western wilderness to do it.”
Blaise considered, but not for long. “Good,” he said.
Leading the raiders onto the ships was a long, tedious job. Victor formed a rear-guard perimeter, and kept it in place as long as he could. After a while, it wouldn’t have done much good. There weren’t enough soldiers manning it. Had Kersauzon’s troops descended
on them then, it would have been embarrassing, to say the least. But luck had been with Radcliff all through the filibustering expedition, and it stayed with him now.
He and Blaise were the last two men from the raiding party to step into a boat. Blaise grimaced. “Last time I went in ship, they took me from Africa,” he said.
Victor knew what hellholes slave ships—blackbirds, they called them—were. He knew, but Blaise knew. “This won’t be that bad,” Victor told the Negro.
“Better not,” Blaise said. Grunting sailors pushed the boat into the sea. Their mates pulled them aboard. They plied the oars like clockwork automata. The land receded. The frigate drew nearer. Victor was delighted. If Blaise was, too, his face didn’t know about it.
Roland Kersauzon stood on the golden beach, cursing Don José. He cursed the governor of Spanish Atlantis in his rising and setting, his waking and sleeping, his eating and shitting. He wished the governor’s wife would take the pox from him, and he wished Don José would take the pox from his wife.
“If he’d made up his mind…!” Roland howled. “If only he had a mind to make up!”
The Englishmen were gone. They’d flown the coop. No, actually they hadn’t—they could no more fly than honkers could. Roland had hoped to shoot them down the way settlers shot honkers, too. And he might have done it—he might well have done it, since he was sure he had more men than they did—if only Don José hadn’t sent him away before urging him back. Had the governor of Spanish Atlantis been a woman toying with her lover, that would have been one thing. But he was a man of responsibility, toying with the fate of his settlements.
Yes, the English raiders were gone. Kersauzon had brought the French settlers through the madness of the slave uprising. They’d done their share—more than their share, probably, since the Spanish settlers seemed notably reluctant to fight—to quell it. They’d got on Victor Radcliff’s trail. Thanks to the wreckage Radcliff’s raiders left behind, a blind man could have followed it. But it ended here.
And the Englishmen were gone. They hadn’t sprouted wings. They hadn’t dug into the ground like blind snakes, though Roland would gladly have consigned them to hell. And he didn’t suppose they’d grown fins and scales, either. Which didn’t mean they hadn’t left by sea. The Royal Navy was the strongest one in these waters. Roland didn’t know how the enemy’s ships got to the right place at the right time, but manifestly they did. Nothing else was possible.
“What do we do now, Monsieur?” a lieutenant asked. Like Kersauzon, he was looking out at the lovely, deep blue, treacherous sea.
A tern dove into the water. It came out with a wriggling fish in its beak. A big black frigate bird, the sac at its throat like a scarlet pig’s bladder, harried the tern till it dropped the fish. The frigate bird snatched it out of the air and flew off with it. Radcliff’s English settlers might have been frigate birds, too. Like this one, they were getting away with their robbery.
“What do we do?” Roland echoed. “What can we do? We go back and help Montcalm-Gozon. He is the man facing the enemy right now.”
The lieutenant sighed. “It’s a long march. And it will seem even longer because we’ve done so much of it before.”
“Don’t I know it!” Roland started swearing at Don José again. When he ran down—which took a while—he said, “What other choice have we got, though? Would you rather stay here? Do you like running after the Spaniards’ Negroes and copperskins?”
“Good God, no!” the junior officer exclaimed.
“Well, all right. I would have chased you into the ocean if you’d said yes,” Kersauzon told him. “We go north. If the slaves harry us, we make them sorry for it. If they don’t, we leave them alone. Any objections?”
“No, sir,” the lieutenant said.
“Then let’s go.” Roland raised his voice and gave the men their new orders. They liked the idea of leaving Spanish Atlantis. So did he. He suspected the Spaniards made a lot of money from their settlements here. But they made even more from the gold and silver of Terranova. The ones who lived here were the ones who couldn’t make a go of it there. They acted like second-raters, and came down hard on their slaves because they lacked confidence in themselves.
“We need shoes, Monsieur,” a soldier called. “We’ve done a devil of a lot of marching, you know.”
“Yes.” Roland nodded. “It could be that some will come down in the supply wagons.” Everyone laughed, knowing how unlikely that was. Even victuals had been in short supply lately. He went on, “Or it could be that you will find some lying around with no one using them.”
The men pondered that, but not for long. They grinned and nudged one another. They’d foraged to keep themselves fed. Now they had official leave—or what amounted to it—to forage to keep themselves clothed. Roland suspected the Spanish settlers would soon regret that. He also suspected Don José would soon bawl like a branded calf. He suspected he himself would grow remarkably deaf to the governor’s protestations.
“Where are the Englishmen?” asked a Spanish cavalry officer, encountering the French settlers tramping north. “What have you done with them?” He spoke French with a trilling Spanish accent.
“Why, they are in our rucksacks, of course,” Roland replied. “We will keep them there until we quit Spanish Atlantis. And I promise you by God and all the saints that they will trouble you no more.”
“In your rucksacks?” The Spaniard frowned. Since his eyebrows grew together above the top of his nose, he looked fearsome—but since he had only a handful of men behind him, not nearly fearsome enough to intimidate Roland. “If I ride south and find them marauding—”
“If you do, you may track me down and do as you please to me,” Roland broke in. “But for now, Monsieur, you may get out of our way, for we are on the march.” He raised his voice: “Forward!”
His men rolled down on the Spaniards. The luckless officer and his squadron could get out of the way or get trampled. The Spaniards got out of the way. The road was muddy. The meadows to either side were muddier. The horses had to keep moving lest they start to sink. The officer looked daggers at Roland, who wondered if the fellow would draw his pistol and start a fight even if he was supposed to be an ally and even if he was hopelessly outnumbered. He seemed angry enough not to care.
But, no matter what he thought, he didn’t do anything. Once the French settlers passed him by, would he get back on the road? Would he ride south and discover that the English really had vanished from Spanish Atlantis? And would he conclude from that that Kersauzon really did have them in their rucksacks?
When you were dealing with Spaniards, you never could tell.
When you were dealing with Englishmen, you never could tell, either. The French were the only sensible people in the world: Roland was convinced of it. And even among the French there were unfortunate gradations. Marquis Montcalm-Gozon, for example, though surely a good fellow, did not seem nearly so sensible as a man from French Atlantis. They’re going to seed over there in Europe, Roland thought sadly.
The sound of gunfire ahead snapped him out of his musing. “Scouts forward!” he called. “We’ll find out what that is. Then we’ll put a stop to it one way or another. Fix bayonets and load your muskets!”
Before long, the scouts came back. It was a brawl—almost a battle—between slaves and Spanish settlers in what was no doubt usually a sleepy little town: about what Kersauzon had expected.
“Let’s go!” he said. “If the blacks and copperskins run from us, well and good. If not, it’s their funeral.”
They ran. He’d thought they would. They were brave enough, but had little in the way of organization. They could fight settlers who also didn’t know what they were doing. Real soldiers advancing in neat ranks with bayonets gleaming under the subtropical sun? No. The slaves melted into the woods.
Cheers from the Spaniards failed to warm the cockles of the French settlers’ hearts. The town was big enough for two cobbler’s shops. The French settlers looted b
oth of them. They cleaned out the taverns, too. Some unfortunate things probably happened to a few of the local women. Roland thought that was too bad, but he didn’t intend to do anything about it as long as the soldiers followed orders when it came time to leave.
They did. Fewer cheers came to them when they left than when they’d arrived. Somebody fired an old fowling piece at them as they marched away. None of the junk in the gun barrel hit anybody. If some had, the French settlers probably would have turned around and done a proper job of wrecking the town. As things were, they just kept going.
“You know, Monsieur, the copperskins and blacks will come back as soon as we’ve gone a couple of miles,” a sergeant said.
“But of course,” Kersauzon replied. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, sir, the Spaniards said we could come in if we helped them with the slave uprising,” the underofficer pointed out.
Roland told him what the Spaniards could do about it. In the telling, he violated as many commandments as he could without having either a sculptor’s tools or someone else’s wife handy. The sergeant, a man as accustomed to harsh language as anyone of his rank, stared in goggle-eyed admiration. Having slowed down a little, Roland said, “I came down here to fight the damned English settlers. If I can’t do that here, I’ll go where I can do it, by God. Any questions?”
“Mais non. Certainement pas,” the sergeant said hastily, and went off to find somewhere to bathe his bleeding ears.
If the slaves got in the French settlers’ way, Roland’s men went through them. If the slaves didn’t, the settlers ignored them. They took what they needed from the surrounding countryside, as if in hostile country. The locals took to running from them, and occasionally, as in that one village, shooting at them. The French made them sorry when they tried it.
A courier from Don José rode up to Roland when he and his men were once more nearing the border with French Atlantis. In accented French, the man cried, “His Excellency the governor demands to know why you have not performed the function he required of you, and why he has received reports that you are plundering the countryside.”
Opening Atlantis Page 40
