Trouble in the Wind

by Chris Kennedy

  * * *

  The coach arrived in London in the late afternoon of Christmas Eve. The slushy thoroughfares were crowded as families with children moved from place to place, enjoying the holiday cheer. Montagne thought of his own family in the south of France and his desire to join them as soon as possible. As much as he wanted to believe his time in the army was drawing to a close, and that the constant wars of the Emperor’s rule of France would fade into a lasting peace, the churning in his stomach told him that unless a miracle occurred in the next few hours, he was still in the center of an enemy’s country and too far from home.

  Montagne watched the faces of excited children as the coach made its way to Buckingham Palace. Wearing his British naval uniform, Captain Maxwell swung out of the carriage at the palace gate and spoke to the guards, who in turn dispatched a runner to the palace. Montagne fought crippling anxiety and the fatigue of the previous fortnight as they waited for a response. At last, the Daedalus’s captain climbed aboard and the carriage passed through the fortified gates.

  Captain Maxwell turned to him, both flushed and relieved. “His Royal Highness, the Admiral of the Fleet and Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, are both present, as I’d hoped.” Maxwell lowered his voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “The Admiral of the Fleet is one of King George’s sons. His Majesty has been ill for some time, and Lord Liverpool effectively runs the government and our war efforts. I said nothing of the contents of your message. I merely implied the news would be of critical importance.”

  “There have been rumors in France for some time regarding your king’s health.” Montagne smiled. “I am indebted to your trust and courtesy, Captain Maxwell.”

  The young officer smiled in return. “I hope the larger conflicts between our countries find a peaceful resolution. Without trying to sound naive, I believe you and I could be friends in other circumstances.”

  “Let us hope that peace comes swiftly.”

  Once the driver parked the carriage in front of the main palace entrance, they exited together. Several armed guards surrounded them with weapons at the ready. Maxwell stared at the sergeant of the guard in charge who nodded. They were ready to proceed.

  Maxwell gestured Montagne forward and fell into step at his right shoulder. “Come, Captain de Montagne.” The guards pressed in, accompanying them. Montagne drew a long deep breath and tried to still his thrashing heart. Even after two years in the Grand Armeé, during countless actions and marches close to the front with artillery and musket rounds passing overhead, he had never experienced such abject fear.

  They will take me and execute me without listening to a word I say. Caulaincourt’s message, whatever it is, will be lost and forgotten.

  The sudden urge to laugh at the terror in his bones almost overtook his senses as they stepped inside. Entering the ornate palace, Montagne kept his head and eyes forward, refusing to be distracted by the furnishings of King George’s residence. The escorts directed them into a wide corridor where two gentlemen stood waiting for them. Both were older, distinguished men wearing powdered wigs. One wore the traditional dark blue dress uniform of an admiral of the Royal Navy and the other a dark, traditional jacket with a ruffled shirt underneath. Both were older, and Montagne noted the powdered wigs they wore likely covered hair of a similar color. The admiral was stout, if not a bit rotund, unlike the sailors of the Daedalus and others whom Montagne had observed along the shores of home. This man had likely never seen a posting at sea because of his lineage.

  The escorts retreated to a watchful position around the four men. Captain Maxwell clicked his heels together and saluted. Unsure of the customs and courtesies, Montagne nodded and bowed very slightly at the waist to both men.

  “Your Highness, Lord Liverpool. I am Captain Murray Maxwell, of His Majesty’s Ship Daedalus. Allow me to present Captain Antoine de Montagne, translator for General Armand-Augustin-Louis de Caulaincourt, Commander of the Grand Armeé.”

  His Royal Highness, the Admiral of the Fleet, frowned at Montagne. “What news do you have that is so critical to interrupt the preparations for our Christmas celebrations, Captain de Montagne?”

  “You said Caulaincourt is in command of your army?” Lord Liverpool questioned immediately. His gaze intensified on Montagne. “I do not understand. Has there been a change in command of the French forces?”

  Montagne nodded. “Sir, Emperor Napoleon is dead.”

  “What?” Lord Liverpool gasped. The men looked at each other.

  Montagne met their shocked expressions. “He was killed by Cossack irregular forces outside of Smorgon, Russia, on the fifth of December as the army retreated from Moscow.”

  The Admiral of the Fleet harrumphed and looked at Lord Liverpool. “This is a ruse.”

  “Sir, with respect, I was with the Emperor as he died. There was news of a possible coup d’etat in Paris. As the Russian campaign stalled and the Grand Armeé ran low on provisions, the Emperor ordered our withdrawal. During the retreat, the Emperor told General Caulaincourt he could not govern France from the front and proceeded home. As he started his journey, Cossacks attacked. He was killed in front of his aide-de-camp, General Caulaincourt, and myself. I can personally verify that he is dead.”

  The Admiral of the Fleet turned to Lord Liverpool and they stared at each other for a moment. His Royal Highness asked, “And what of the aide?”

  “He died at the Emperor’s side. Only General Caulaincourt and I survived the attack,” Montagne lied. Their question had been far from innocuous and confirmed the true identity of the man he’d executed as a spy in Calais.

  Liverpool deftly changed the subject. “What is the message General Caulaincourt asked you to deliver to His Majesty? Let us see it.”

  Montagne reached into his pocket and withdrew the small, wax-sealed roll of paper. “General Caulaincourt was adamant this be seen by King George III or yourself first.”

  “And Napoleon is really dead?” the Admiral asked again, as if he couldn’t believe it.

  Montagne nodded. “If all has gone well, General Caulaincourt has returned to Paris. As for the status of the French government, I cannot say.”

  Lord Liverpool nodded to his counterpart. “As the Prime Minister, I am charged with handling all matters of importance for the Crown while His Majesty is ill. As you are aware, His Royal Highness, the Admiral of the Fleet, is Prince William, the Duke of Clarence. While not the heir to the throne, he will review the note as well. Is this acceptable, Captain de Montagne?”

  Montagne considered the situation and knew he had no alternative. “Of course, sir.”

  Lord Liverpool extended a hand, palm up, to Montagne. “If you please?”

  Montagne extended the rolled message to the Prime Minister. Lord Liverpool took the message, broke the wax seal, and unrolled it.

  As he read, the older man’s mouth fell open slightly. He laughed once, and then again, before almost clutching it to his chest. “General Caulaincourt says he is returning to Paris with the intent of dissolving Emperor Napoleon’s government and establishing peace through Europe. He says the Emperor’s death at the hands of Cossacks has challenged his own personal convictions for warfare,” Liverpool said. “From what I know of the man, I am inclined to believe him.”

  The Admiral of the Fleet harrumphed again. “We must be careful in our dealings with General Caulaincourt. With the French government in disarray, anything could happen…as we’ve seen over the last several decades.”

  “Indeed. However, if this is a legitimate and honorable expression of his intent, there are great possibilities. Has our blockade been established at the American colonies?”

  His Royal Highness nodded. “They should be in position. I await the confirming dispatch from Admiral Warren any day now.”

  Lord Liverpool’s eyebrows rose and a hint of a smile played on his lips. “How quickly can you sail a diplomatic mission to Paris?”

  “Two days. The family’s Christmas celebration must be preser
ved. I can have a ship dispatched and at the ready.” His Royal Highness, the Admiral of the Fleet nodded. Where there had been doubt in his voice before was sudden enthusiasm.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Captain Maxwell spoke. “The Daedalus is docked in Portsmouth now and is ready to sail. I would be honored to transport the diplomatic party.”

  Lord Liverpool brightened. “Done! Captain Montagne? Will you accompany the party and assist with the presentation of terms?”

  “Terms?” Montagne squinted and hastily added, “Sir?”

  Lord Liverpool nodded and handed the note to His Royal Highness. “General de Caulaincourt has offered, in an attempt at peace, his full cooperation and diplomatic influence. You are aware we are in armed conflict yet again with our former colonies in America?”

  Montagne shook his head. “I was only aware of naval actions in the Atlantic, sir.”

  “Well, we have seen several engagements with the Americans on the ground and they’ve held a significant advantage. That ends now. Once your navy and logistical support is withdrawn from America, we will see just how much resolve our former subjects have.” He smiled again and glanced at His Royal Highness. “We shall recall Lord Wellington from Spain and instruct him to provide a thorough and complete invasion plan for the colonies. By summer, I will walk that ground myself and take their surrender personally. I’ve heard their capitol city is quite beautiful. Perhaps a proper flag flying over it will complete the scene?”

  The Admiral of the Fleet beamed. “Quite right. His Majesty will be most pleased.”

  Lord Liverpool smiled at Montagne and Johnson. “You’ve delivered quite the Christmas present, gentlemen. Please join me for Christmas dinner tomorrow. You should have enough time to have your uniform laundered, Colonel de Montagne. And, you as well, Captain Maxwell.”

  Montagne blurted. “I’m sorry, what did you say, sir?”

  His Royal Highness turned the message to Montagne, where he read Caulaincourt’s flowing script promoting him officially with the duties of Translator General of la Grand Armeé. “I take it this is a surprise?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  Lord Liverpool laughed. “A commanding general’s staff should always carry appropriate rank for their office, especially when they’ve performed their duties as honorably as you have. We would never shoot the messenger, Colonel de Montagne, whether it’s Christmas or not. I trust you have a family, yes? Tell me about them over a glass of wine, and we’ll toast a new peace for Europe and a bright new future.”

  * * * * *

  Kevin J. Anderson Bio

  Kevin J. Anderson has written more than 165 books, including 56 national or international bestsellers. He has over 23 million books in print worldwide in thirty languages. He has been nominated for the Nebula Award, Hugo Award, Bram Stoker Award, Shamus Award, and Silver Falchion Award, and has won the Dragon Award, SFX Readers’ Choice Award, Golden Duck Award, Scribe Award, and New York Times Notable Book. He also has received the Faust Grand Master Award for Lifetime Achievement.

  * * *

  Kevin Ikenberry Bio

  Kevin’s head has been in the clouds since he was old enough to read. Ask him and he’ll tell you that he still wants to be an astronaut. A retired Army officer, Kevin has a diverse background in space and space science education. A former manager of the world-renowned U.S. Space Camp program in Huntsville, Alabama and a former executive of two Challenger Learning Centers, Kevin works with space every day and lives in Colorado with his family.

  Kevin’s bestselling debut science fiction novel, Sleeper Protocol, was released by Red Adept Publishing in January 2016 and was a Finalist for the 2017 Colorado Book Award. Publisher’s Weekly called it “an emotionally powerful debut.” His military science fiction novel Runs In The Family was released by Strigidae Publishing in January 2016 and re-released by Theogony books in 2018. Peacemaker, Book 6 of the Revelations Cycle, was released in 2017, spawning its own line of books in the Four Horsemen Universe.

  # # # # #

  Marching Through by David Weber

  “I’m sorry, Cump, but it isn’t possible.”

  There was compassion in his brother’s tone, Sherman thought, looking out the hotel window at the bustling Cincinnati Street, but not hope.

  “John, I understand he’s angry. Truly, I do. But this is more than just—”

  “Not for him, Cump. And not for Tommy or Aunt Maria. And—I’m sorry—not for me, either.”

  Sherman turned from the window, lips tight, and his brother looked back steadily.

  “You should have gone to London, Cump.” John Sherman’s voice was flat. “If you had, Ellen—”

  He broke off and shook his head sharply.

  “Do you think I haven’t thought the same thing?” Sherman’s tone was tighter than his lips. “Do you think I don’t realize everyone in the family must feel the same way? Of course I do! But I can no more undo that than I could ascend bodily into heaven, and it would seem nothing short of that will appease him.”

  “She was his daughter, Cump!”

  “And she was my wife!”

  “Yes,” John grated. “Your first wife.”

  “Damn you, John!” His eyes flashed. “I loved her!”

  “Then perhaps you should have remembered that before you dragged her off to that hellhole!”

  “I dragged her nowhere, John! And it was scarcely a ‘hellhole,’ for that matter. It was certainly better than California!”

  “Yes, and she hated California, too,” John said coldly.

  “I never asked her to come to Pineville!”

  “No? Well you certainly didn’t try to dissuade her, did you? And it took you little enough time to find solace for your loss, Cump.”

  Fury flashed through Sherman as that last, deadly sentence struck home. Yet even as it did, the memory burned across his mind once more. The memory of Ellen, feverish, pale-faced, in the fourposter bed. The hushed voices of the doctor and Marie, murmuring in the background, while he held her hand, stroked her forehead.

  “Tell Daddy I love him,” she’d whispered through cracked lips.

  “You can tell him yourself,” he’d lied.

  “Tell him!” she’d insisted.

  “I will,” he’d promised. “Now rest.”

  “I’ll have time to rest soon enough.”

  She’d actually managed a faint smile, and her eyes had moved, seeking Marie as she stood in the doorway, listening intently to Doctor Kennebec’s instructions. Then she’d looked back up at him.

  “The Church says God’s angels are all around us, Cump. I never expected to meet one of them here, though.”

  “I know.” He’d stroked her cheek. “Rest.”

  “I will. I will!” Her voice had been even weaker, and her too-thin fingers had squeezed the hand holding hers. “I’m not frightened, Cump. Truly. I’m just…so tired.” Her eyes had slipped shut. “Tell Daddy,” she’d repeated, so faintly now he could barely hear. “Tell Daddy how much I love him.”

  “I will,” he’d repeated. “I will.”

  And he had, at the funeral, while his father-in-law listened in stony-eyed silence.

  It was the last time they’d spoken. He knew now that it would always be the last time they’d spoken. And now, even John…

  “I thank you for coming.” His voice was colder than ice, and he knew it, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was at least better than seizing his brother by the throat. “I see it was a mistake to call upon you in this matter, however. I assure you, it won’t happen again, Sir. Good day!”

  He turned back to the window, spine ramrod straight, arms folded across his chest, as he gazed down at the street, wondering if his brother would speak again.

  Heels across the floor and a sharply closed door answered the question.

  William Tecumseh Sherman’s squared, proud shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes, leaned forward to rest his forehead against the glass.

  John didn’t unde
rstand. He never had. And neither had Ellen. Or her father.

  He had loved Ellen—he had! But there’d come a time when he had to stand upon his own two feet, and she’d needed to understand that. Or to support him in it, at least. Perhaps she would have, one day…if she’d lived. But she hadn’t.

  He opened his eyes again, his expression bleak, remembering a nine-year-old whose father had died, leaving a destitute wife and eleven children. Even at nine, he’d been hugely proud of his father—a judge on the Ohio State Supreme Court. A distinguished juror. A man with a glowing future.

  Until he died and took his family’s entire future with him.

  Sherman knew how unspeakably fortunate he and his family had been that his father and Thomas Ewing had been such close friends. And that Ewing had been such a good man. The man had stepped into the hole his father’s death had left and taken the entire family under his protective wing.

  A powerful man in Whig politics, Thomas Ewing. A profoundly respected jurist; William Henry Harrison’s Secretary of the Treasury; the nation’s first Secretary of the Interior under Zachary Taylor; Senator from Ohio. He’d been instrumental in securing John Sherman’s election to the House of Representatives, and he was one of the men who would be sitting down shortly at what they were already calling the Peace Conference at Willard’s Hotel in Washington City in an effort to stave off the Union’s collapse. A man Sherman not only sincerely respected but loved and deeply admired. His foster father, the man whose approval mattered to him more than that of anyone else in the universe.

  And the man who would never forgive him for his daughter’s death. Never understand—never be willing to understand—why his son-in-law had preferred Louisiana to London.

  I hated banking, he thought now. I hated it almost as much as I hated the Commissary Service. I know Henry meant it for the best when he offered me the San Francisco office, and I jumped at the chance, but I ought to have known better.