“I hope you’re right,” the man said. Me, too, Roland thought. But he would never share that with anyone else. Had he had his way, he wouldn’t even have shared it with himself.
Victor Radcliff tried to be thorough. He tried to be cautious. So many things could go wrong in war even when you knew as much as you could about what the low, sneaky scoundrels on the other side were up to. Major General Braddock and too many of his men had discovered, to their cost, the difference between as much as you could and enough.
He and his settlers were moving south, away from Marquis Montcalm-Gozon’s men. If they were going to run into trouble, or if trouble was going to run into them, it was most likely to come up from the south toward them.
But likely chances weren’t the only ones. Along with stationing scouts ahead of the band of settlers and out to either side, Radcliff also put some men well behind his main body. He perplexed Blaise. “That Frenchman, he wants Freetown,” the Negro said. “He not going to come after us.”
“Just in case,” Victor replied. “I want to be like a hedgehog, so no one can bugger me by surprise.”
Then he had to explain what a hedgehog was, because Atlantis had none. Blaise got it in a hurry. “Oh! A—” He said something unpronounceable, at least by a white man. “We have them in my country. I not know you know them.”
“Well, I do. They have them in England and France and Spain, too.” Again, Victor wondered why Atlantis was missing so many creatures common in Europe. A lot of those beasts, or ones much like them, were also common in Terranova to the west. So far as he knew, though, Terranova had no hedgehogs.
And he had more urgent things to worry about than hedgehogs and honkers. One of the scouts he’d left behind in the north rode into camp that evening on a lathered horse. “They’re on the move!” the man exclaimed. “They’re heading this way!”
“Who? The French?” Radcliff was astonished. “Why? We might have made them hungry, but not that hungry, not this fast.”
“Don’t know why,” the scout said stolidly. “Ain’t my station to cipher out why. You set me there to tell you what. I done did that.”
“Yes. You did.” Victor nodded. Why was his job, and he understood what Montcalm-Gozon was up to no better than he understood the Atlantean dearth of viviparous quadrupeds. “Are a lot of French regulars moving, or only a few?”
“Looked like a bunch,” the scout replied.
“Something’s gone wrong for them up at Freetown, then. Has to be so,” Victor said. The scout only shrugged. “What can we do about it now?” Victor wondered aloud. He dreamt of catching Montcalm-Gozon in an ambush to repay the French for what they’d done to Braddock. To his own regret, he knew he didn’t have the men for it. “Were English soldiers chasing them?” he asked hopefully.
“How the devil do I know?” the scout said. “I saw those bastards in blue a-coming. When I did, I stuck around long enough to see it was a good mob of ’em, and then I got out o’ there.”
“You did right,” Victor said. He muttered to himself. Now he knew more than he would have without those carefully placed scouts. But however much he knew, it wasn’t as much as he needed to know. He would have to decide—and to act—with incomplete knowledge. All generals had to do that. How many of them got their noses rubbed in it like this, though?
“Done with me?” the scout asked. “My backbone’s trying to saw clear through my stomach.”
“Go eat. They’re roasting a couple of beeves over there.” Victor pointed. The beeves were actually oxen from the French supply wagons, but if you complained about every little thing…. “Tell them I said to give you a mug of wine, too—and they’d better not have drunk it all up.”
“Now you’re talking!” The scout hurried away.
Victor was gnawing on roast—well, half-charred, half-raw—beef himself when another scout rode in, this one out of the south. “There’s a bunch of damned Frenchmen camped down there, Major,” he reported.
“French regulars? Or French settlers?” Victor asked. The answer to that might tell him something about which side was winning the naval war in the Atlantic.
“Settlers,” the scout answered, eyeing the toasted meat on a stick with a longing that said he’d had no supper. “Same buggers who’ve been dogging us all along.”
“Kersauzon marched the legs off them to get them up here so fast,” Victor said. The scout only shrugged. He didn’t care. “Go get yourself something to eat,” Victor commanded. “I’ll worry about the rest of this.”
The scout seemed only too glad to obey. And Victor did worry. He’d wondered if he could catch Montcalm-Gozon’s troops between his anvil and a hammer of redcoats. Now he wondered if he’d got caught between hammer and anvil himself. As far as he could tell, neither group of French soldiers knew the other was close by—and neither knew his settlers lay between them. As long as he could keep them ignorant like that, he was fine. If they started acting together, he was a long way from fine. He was in more trouble than he knew what to do with.
Have to keep them from finding out, then. But how? He could wait for Montcalm-Gozon. Or he could wait for Kersauzon. He couldn’t wait for both of them at once. If he tried, they would smash him between them.
All at once, he started to laugh. Then he summoned his officers—and several sergeants who had their wits about them. He didn’t name Blaise, but no one said anything when the black man joined the council. Radcliff found he was glad to have him there. No one could say Blaise couldn’t take care of himself, and help others do the same. No one tried to do any such thing, either, which Victor found interesting.
He spent a couple of minutes summing up the evening’s news. “Bread on both sides of us, and we’re the meat in the middle,” he finished. That kind of quick meal struck him as a damned good idea.
“How do we make sure we aren’t dead meat in the middle?” asked the sergeant named Philip, puffing on his pipe. The English settlers had lifted plenty of pipeweed on their raid through French and Spanish Atlantis.
“Well, that’s why I called you together. Here’s what I’ve got in mind.” Victor spoke for another couple of minutes, then asked, “What do you think?”
Philip puffed again. The pipe jerked up and down against his teeth as he said, “We will be dead meat if you’re wrong…sir.”
“Now tell me something I didn’t know,” Victor answered dryly, which drew a chuckle of sorts from the veteran underofficer. Victor went on, “But we can’t stay where we are and let them grind us to powder. Does anyone think I’m wrong?” No one admitted it. Thus encouraged, Victor went on, “And we can’t slide off to the west and let the two French groups get together again. That would cost us more trouble than we want, now and later.” He waited again. Again, nobody contradicted him. He spread his hands. “This looks to me to be the best we can do.”
Off to one side, Blaise nodded. In the fading firelight, his dark skin should have left him next to invisible. Somehow, it didn’t. People noticed Blaise. Were he an actor, he would have upstaged the others in the company at every turn. And it wouldn’t have been because he was a ham; it was because he was who he was.
A lieutenant said, “Well, if it doesn’t work out the way you think it will, chances are we can get away from regulars.”
Blaise nodded again. So did several other sergeants. So did the officers at the council. With that lukewarm approval, Victor’s plan went forward.
A rifle banged. The report was distinctly sharper and louder than a smoothbore musket’s. Something seemed to tug at Roland Kersauzon’s hat. He took it off. It had two neat holes through the crown, perhaps an inch—perhaps less than an inch—above the top of his head.
Another rifle spoke. A lieutenant riding a few feet away from him swore and clutched at his left thigh.
“Skirmishers forward!” Only on the second word did Roland’s voice break like a boy’s. He’d needed a moment to realize just how close a brush with death he’d had.
French settlers
trotted north. More gunfire greeted them. A little more slowly than he should have, Roland realized those weren’t mere snipers harrying his force. Somebody didn’t want his men going forward. Somebody, here, could only be the English.
Redcoats or settlers? he wondered. By the way the foe fought, he guessed he faced settlers. They didn’t come out into the open in neat lines. No—they fought from under cover of ferns and from behind trees. They fought like his men, in other words. Now…How many of them barred the way?
Only one way to find out. He’d had more men than Victor Radcliff when he was chasing the English leader. He thought he still did. He sent soldiers forward on the open ground and through the woods. If the enemy wanted to stop them, he was welcome to try.
Here and there, French settlers going forward fell. But not very many of them went down, and they didn’t fall across a broad front. Roland smiled to himself. Bluff, as he’d thought. They couldn’t stop him. They were just trying to slow him down.
He sent more settlers up against Radcliff’s men. He also sent orders for runners to come back and keep him informed about what was going on. They told him the English weren’t standing and fighting. In his mind, that confirmed that they were nothing but a harassing band.
“Press them!” Roland shouted. “Break them! Close in behind them and wipe them out!” He rode forward himself, though he stayed in the open so runners could find him at need. He fired a pistol at a man in a green jacket. The English settler stayed on his feet. Roland swore and pulled his other pistol from his belt. By then, the enemy soldier had vanished among the pines.
Roland’s men couldn’t quite break the English settlers. They forced them into headlong retreat—but only so much of it. Wherever the woods grew thicker, the foe fought harder. There turned out to be more of them than Roland had thought at first, too. They weren’t just a thin skirmishing line to be thrust back and then broken or shoved aside. They had reserves cunningly placed to make life difficult for an advancing opponent.
Another bullet snapped past Roland’s head. He ducked without even thinking. People did when someone shot at them. You couldn’t help it, no matter how much you wished you could. Only a handful of men seemed immune to the reflex.
Darkness came down at last. The French settlers had pushed the enemy back several miles. Roland was pleased with himself. All the French settlers seemed pleased with themselves—all but the wounded. Surgeons worked on them by firelight. Their cries split the night.
But those heartbreaking shrieks weren’t what killed Roland Kersauzon’s pleasure. He suddenly wondered how and why so many English settlers stood between him and Montcalm-Gozon’s army. How had Victor Radcliff got past or got through the French regulars? Whatever he’d done, it couldn’t be good news for the Frenchmen from across the sea.
Which immediately brought up the next question: what to do about it? His first impulse was to order his men forward right away. Regulars barely even thought about night advances. Too many things could go wrong with carefully dressed lines. Roland’s men, though, could play bushwhacker as well as their foes.
In the end, he waited for dawn. As he rolled himself in his blanket, he wondered whether he’d regret it later.
Victor Radcliff wished for artillery. He might as well have wished for the moon while he was at it. His men couldn’t very well have carried cannon as they sneaked through the French lines.
But now Montcalm-Gozon’s men were trying to blast his force out of the way. The Frenchmen had plenty of fieldpieces. And, listening to the roar of guns from behind them, so did the redcoats who’d pushed them out of their lines and were driving them south.
If the English settlers could hold, the French regulars were trapped. If Victor’s men had to retreat…well, he didn’t want to do that, not with the French settlers coming up from the south. One of these days, historians would understand exactly how this campaign worked. They would walk the fields and forests. They would read accounts from survivors on both sides and in all four groups of combatants. They would issue learned, dispassionate judgments. For anyone actually going through the fight, confusion and fear reigned.
Regulars without guns of their own could never have withstood the cannonading the French were giving to Victor’s men. Regulars would have stood out in the open in neat ranks and let themselves get butchered. Victor had watched it happen to the redcoats.
His own men knew better—or fought differently, anyhow. They sprawled on the ground and hid in back of whatever cover they could find. Some of them had even dug scrapes with bayonets and belt knives, piling up dirt in front of the shallow holes to stop or deflect bullets. Here and there, cannon balls killed. More often than not, they harmlessly shot past Victor’s settlers, who weren’t packed together anywhere near so tightly as regulars would have been.
As long as the Frenchmen kept cannonading his soldiers, he couldn’t do much to reply. They stayed out of musket range. Even his few riflemen had trouble reaching them. He shouted encouragement to the English settlers. As long as they didn’t break, they made Montcalm-Gozon sweat.
The French commander had worries of his own—or Radcliff devoutly hoped he did. He was harried from behind, as the distant racket of gunfire in Victor’s ears proved. With any luck at all, he would have to turn around and face the troops pursuing him. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to deal with Victor’s men. That would be very good, which was putting it mildly.
Victor was thinking just how good it would be when a rider on a lathered horse galloped up from the south. “Major, the French settlers are attacking us down there,” the man said, and pointed back over his shoulder.
“Damnation,” Victor said, and then something more pungent in French, and then something still more pungent in Spanish. Another cannon ball thundered past them, but that was the least of his worries. “How hard are they pressing you?” he asked.
“As hard as they can,” the courier replied.
“Damnation,” Radcliff repeated. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He didn’t doubt it, though. If Roland Kersauzon’s men had got this far north, they would try to bull through his blocking force. (If they’d got this far north this fast, they’d done some fancy marching, but that was a different story altogether.) “For God’s sake, hold them back. We can’t have them pitching into our rear right now, not when we’ve got warm work in front of us like this.”
French cannon bellowed again. Victor knew he made a good target. He stayed out in the open, while most of his men had taken cover. The courier flinched a little as the ball flew by, but held his ground. He gave Victor a thin smile. “Really, Major? I never would have noticed.”
“Heh.” Victor touched the brim of his hat in a half-salute, acknowledging the man’s coolness. “Go on. Get back out of range before they ventilate your kidneys. Let the men know they need to hang on no matter what the settlers do to them.”
“I’ll tell ’em.” The horseman’s grimace was as understated as his smile. “Don’t know if they’ll be glad to hear it.” With a shrug, he wheeled his mount and rode back toward the south.
He hadn’t been gone more than a couple of minutes before the French cannonading suddenly stopped. Montcalm-Gozon’s lines re-formed in the sudden near-silence (the French nobleman was bound to have a rear guard of his own trying to hold off whatever trouble lay behind him). A horn call rang out over the field. The sun glittered off bayonets being fixed as all the French soldiers made the same motion at the same time. The horn rang out again—a different call this time. Those bayonets flashed fire once more as the Frenchmen lowered them. One more call, and, with a fierce shout, as much of Montcalm-Gozon’s army as he could spare advanced against the English settlers.
It was glorious. It was grandiose. It was, frankly, terrifying. “Hold your fire till they’re well within range!” Victor called. He knew a certain amount of pride that his voice didn’t wobble. Here and there, riflemen opened up on the French. They could hit at ranges well beyond those a man with a smoothbore musket
could use. A few blue-coated enemy soldiers stumbled and fell, but only a few. The rest stepped over them and came on.
A hundred yards away from Victor, the Frenchmen halted. The first rank of soldiers dropped to one knee. The second rank bent low above them. The third stood straight. They all fired together.
Bullets snapped past him. One hit his horse with a meaty thunk. The beast squealed and staggered. He jumped off before it foundered. He had his two pistols and a rapier. They didn’t seem enough to repel the French.
“Get down, Major!” somebody behind him yelled. “Better shooting over you than through you.”
That struck Victor as excellent advice. He flattened out as the Frenchmen dressed their lines. A moment later, with more cheers, they charged. His men greeted them with the best volley they could. This wasn’t just fire to annoy the enemy and gall him. The charge staggered when it met that wall of flying lead. French soldiers clutched at themselves and screamed as they fell. But the ones who weren’t hit came on.
Victor fired first one pistol, then the other. He thought he hit one enemy soldier. From one knee, he threw a pistol in a startled Frenchman’s face. He might have broken the man’s nose. Then he sprang up and skewered a bluecoat who was too slow to protect himself with his bayoneted musket.
And then he ran for his life, back toward the trees. No one spitted him from behind. No one shot him in the back. None of his own men shot him in the chest or belly, though musket balls whipped past him in both directions.
A dead settler with a fully loaded rifle lay behind the first pine he came to. The man looked absurdly surprised at catching a bullet just above the bridge of the nose. He must have been about to fire when he got hit. Victor snatched up the rifle. There came a man in a fancy uniform—plainly an officer. The Frenchman’s sword had blood on it. Victor fired. The officer spun, then slowly crumpled.
Opening Atlantis Page 42
