At the Queen's Command (55 page)

“What about this Hattersburg?”

He snorted. “You would hate it. Social life is a tavern and if you can find a bed, you’re sleeping three or four to it.”

She rested a hand on his hip. “I would endure it gladly, Owen, to be close to you.”

“And I would not put you through that.”

She sat up, the sheet falling away, and licked his stomach. “Come, Owen, be my husband one more time. One more time before you are away. Show me how much you love me, and give me reason to believe you will return.”

Owen took leave of Catherine privately, in their rooms. She had insisted on dressing him while remaining naked. She said it was a duty she owed him as his wife. Then she kissed him and clung to him, finally letting him go, her hand in his until he descended the stairs.

He made his way to the green before Government House, where the Fourth Foot was assembling. Because he was not a member of the Regiment, he found himself in a curious position. His rank entitled him to command a battalion, but the Regiment had no need for him. Ostensibly he was attached to the unit’s command company as a liaison with the Colonial forces, but he and Rivendell wanted little to do with each other. Rivendell had made this apparent by denying him a horse. Rivendell likewise showed his disdain for the Colonials by refusing to allow Owen to march with them.

He found Lieutenant Palmerston and picked up his pack and musket. The Lieutenant gave him a wink, and Owen smiled. Despite having had a new uniform created for him, Owen had arranged that his Altashee kit would be packed for his use in the field.

“Gone native, have you, Nephew?”

Owen turned. “What, sir?”

Deathridge pointed to the tomahawk hanging from his pack. “Not standard issue.”

“No, sir, but useful.” Owen smiled. “There are a lot of things that we consider standard that won’t be here.”

Deathridge nodded solemnly. “I am aware of that, and aware that Rivendell will studiously avoid anything that requires thought. He really has no idea what he will find out there.”

“Agreed.”

“Owen, I need to ask a favor.”

He’d never heard that tone in his uncle’s voice before. “Yes, sir.”

“I need you to refrain from doing more than requested.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“It’s really rather simple. I’ve told Prince Vladimir the same thing. Our best outcome here is for Rivendell to realize conquering the Fortress of Death just is not possible. I would prefer he build Fort Hope and go no further. I hope just getting to Anvil Lake will take the fire out of his belly. If this happens, please, let it be so.”

Owen nodded. This was one of his uncle’s political games. Owen loathed that sort of thing, but agreed with the goal. “Yes, Uncle, I understand.”

“Good.” Deathridge embraced Owen. “Go with God. Fight with honor and return home safely.”

Owen, quite thrown off guard, retreated from the embrace, then tossed his uncle a crisp salute. The older man returned it, added a quick nod, and made his way off toward where Rivendell was speaking with his officers.

Owen shook his head. Before seeing his uncle, he had been feeling isolated. He did not fit in with the Regiment. Wearing a Norillian uniform, he no longer felt as if he fit with Mystria. People did not look at his face, just his coat, and based their reaction to him on it alone.

And now he asks me to work against the wishes of the Crown
.

“Captain Strake.”

Owen turned and smiled. “Doctor Frost, good to see you, sir.”

“And you, looking very fierce in your uniform.”

“Thank you.” Owen looked past him for any sign of his wife or daughter. “And thank you for seeing me off.”

“Had to. My wife wished to be here, but seeing Caleb off yesterday…”

“I understand, sir.”

The older man smiled. “And Bethany, I think she would have been here, but she is a very stubborn girl. She’s made her mind up about you and is unbending.”

“Please remember me to her.”

“I shall. Were she here, she would wish you Godspeed and safety, as do I.” The man dug into his pocket and produced a small book. “It is a journal. I hope you will keep it as you did the others. I should be happy to read of your expedition.”

“Very thoughtful, sir.”

Frost laughed. “Not me, sir. I had thought to give you another copy of Haste’s
A Continent’s Calling
. My daughter took my coat for a brushing, and I found this in my pocket instead. I suspect I shall not be alone in reading about your adventures.”

“I shall be happy to share them.” Owen tucked the book in his coat pocket. “If I might impose on you, sir. My wife, she will be remaining here in Temperance. She knows no one save…”

“Say no more, my boy. I will arrange introductions.” Doctor Frost offered his hand. “Godspeed, sir, there and back again.”

“Good health to you and yours, sir.”

Up and down the line, whistles blew. Owen shook Dr. Frost’s hand, then found his position in the rear of the formation. A drummer set a pace, and the Fourth Regiment of Foot set out for the Fortress of Death.

Deathridge found Rivendell in a gaggle of officers and caught his eye. The mission’s commander excused himself and drew back into an alley. The man made an elaborate charade of being cautious which guaranteed that he, being clad in red satin, would draw attention.

Idiot.
Deathridge followed and hissed at him. “My lord! Discretion, if you please.”

“Of course, Dick, of course. Are things set?”

“Completely. I’ve issued the necessary orders.” Deathridge smiled. “Provided these Colonials can do anything at all correctly, you will have what you need to complete your mission.”

“Oh, I shall, and return showered in glory.” Rivendell raised his face to the sky, stretching his throat, and Deathridge imagined the satisfaction of drawing a razor across it. “New Tharyngia shall be a thing of the past.”

“Very good. I have instructed my nephew to do nothing helpful on this expedition. I expect you will give him the most onerous duty, find fault with him whenever possible, and produce scurrilous reports about him.”

Rivendell clapped his hands. “He’ll be digging every slit trench between here and
La Fortresse du Morte
.”

“No, you fool, you can’t do that. He is an officer. He is a skirmisher. Use him as a messenger to the Colonials. Have him scouting ahead. Use him as he is meant to be used. Give him the impossible to accomplish and he will fail.”

“Of course, Dick, absolutely.” Rivendell’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll work him to death, then get him killed, as you desire.”

“Make sure he dies bravely. We don’t want his wife disgraced.”

“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

"S
ee, 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.”