Gunwitch (29 page)

“Aim and fire at the target in front of you, private,” Thomas said. He pulled his cracked and swollen lips into a misshapen smile.

Rosalind imagined herself unleashing lightning and fire and the cold on Corporal Edwards and the Leftenant, and felt shocked that she could even think of it. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t. We can’t.” Then added, “Our guns aren’t loaded.”

“You can. We can. And they don’t need to be.”

* * *

Rosalind thought about Thomas’ plan as the long day continued. She alternated back and forth between agreeing to follow his lead, and telling him that she could not do it. She did not hate Corporal Edwards. She did not even hate the Leftenant. Thomas bared his teeth and hissed at her the only time she said that to him.

After noon, the guard no longer just looked in on them. He would come in every half hour and force them to stand straight again. If they took longer than he thought they should, he would strike them across the buttocks with a thin baton.

Finally, four infantry regulars came into the tent. There was no corporal, so there was no way Thomas could carry out his plan, with Rosalind or without her. The regulars took Rosalind and Thomas by the arms and led them out into the late afternoon sunlight. Rosalind clenched her eyes closed and turned away from the brightness. The two soldiers led her along, turning her left and right, pulling her along when she lagged. By the time they had reached the mustering area, she could see again. She saw her and Thomas’ squad lined up, with all the other squads lined up in ranks behind them. The Leftenant, Corporal Edwards, and the other corporals waited near the whipping posts.

Rosalind nodded. Yes, she could. She knew that now. The target dummies, her once fine dress, and a tethered sheep had taught her. She was not Rosalind any more. She was Private Bainbridge. She could. “I won’t,” she said.

She did not see Thomas’ face as she got a “Silence!” and a cuff of her own.

She and Thomas were uncuffed by the soldiers while other soldiers stood by with leveled rifles. Corporal Edwards and the other corporals stood ready, as well, their pistols cocked. Then Rosalind and Thomas were stripped to the waist and their hands bound in front of them. The soldiers took them by the arms and hooked their bonds to the whipping posts. Rosalind was forced to stand on her tiptoes. A leather strip was put in both their mouths. The soldiers retreated.

“For violating the posted statute,” Corporal Edwards said, “forbidding the fraternizing with privates of the opposite gender, Privates Bainbridge and Ducoed are hereby–”

Thomas spit out the leather strip. “Bitch,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

Rosalind felt the power rush into him, enough to cause the hairs of her arms to stand on end. She twisted around to see him.

Lightning flashed. The ropes around Thomas’ wrists fell apart and the whipping post in front of him splintered. At the same time, twin bolts of white power lanced from Thomas to strike at Corporal Edwards and the Leftenant. The corporal took the blast on her pistol, and flew backward. Rosalind lost sight of the corporal in the flash. She thought she might have seen the other corporals cross pistols in front of the Leftenant, but she could not be sure.

The whipping post she hung on broke, the top half falling on her as she fell backward to the packed earth of the mustering field. She did not know whether the flashes of yellow and red and white were magic unleashed or the result of the pole bouncing off her head.

* * *

She came to with a heavy weight on her chest, crushing her left breast, and her hands still bound and pulled over her head. The pungent scents of her own sweat and the metallic odor of raw power made her sneeze. She heard shouts and curses and orders. She opened her eyes and saw only green-gray haze and dark shapes moving around the periphery.

After a night and a day spent standing, she was finally lying down, held down by the remains of the whipping post.

She rolled to her left to get the whipping post off her. Her hands were still bound, but no longer hooked, so she used them to push herself up to her hands and knees.

She looked for Thomas.

The corporals had surrounded Thomas’ prone form. They had their pistols ready, covering him. More than covering him. The corporals were all nearly glowing with held power, power that they were concentrating on Thomas. She could see one of Thomas’ boots, his left one. It twitched and shook.

Outside the ring of corporals, the Leftenant stood. As she watched, the Leftenant took a handkerchief from one sleeve and used it to wipe a smudge of dirt off his cheek. Then he knocked some dust from his overcoat.

“They’ll take care of him,” Private Millsom said, and spat. Rosalind realized it was Private Millsom that had told her not to get up. Now Millsom and the others tried to get her to lay down again. “You should lay down,” the woman said. “The healers will be here soon to check you out.”

“What are they doing to Thomas?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Private Bainbridge. But it will be nothing less than he deserves, I’m sure.”

Rosalind pushed away the hands trying to stop her and crawled toward Thomas. Her pistol still hung from her neck. The muzzle of the gun dragged in the dirt as she moved. She heard the Leftenant order the other privates of her squad to leave her. She did not hear if he told the corporals to move aside for her. She did hear his next words, though.

“If Private Bainbridge wishes to share the punishment of Private Ducoed, so be it. Corporal Edwards, if you would, please state the new charges against the privates.”

Rosalind crawled until she could reach Thomas’ face. She reached out to touch one of the welts on his face. She could help him. Thomas did not look at her. He only pulled his face away.

“For attempting to strike a superior officer,” Corporal Edwards said, “for fraternizing with privates of the opposite gender, and for destruction of the King’s property, Privates Ducoed and Bainbridge are hereby sentenced to be flogged and then confined to the stockade for one week …”

Rosalind stopped listening. She wanted to cry, but Private Bainbridge pushed down the tears and would not let them come. She sat back on her knees. Her pistol settled between her breasts, the metal parts cold and sharp against her skin.

Chapter 14

Ducoed

Misi-ziibi, South of Fort Russell

1742 A.D.

Ducoed finished buttoning the last of the brass buttons of his red Leftenant’s uniform. He adjusted the gold knots that hung through his epaulets, then smoothed out the remaining wrinkles on his sleeves and the front of the coat. He took his peaked hat in both hands and put it on his head. He had kept his uniform on his discharge and brought it with him to the New World. He had not worn the uniform since then, but he had refused to give up anything he had worked so long to attain. And he had thought he might be able to put it to further use someday. Like the use he was now making of it. He picked up his pistol, checked the load out of long habit, and put it in his belt.

He snapped to attention, clicking his heels together. Then he performed a parade-ground-perfect about face to present himself to Margaret. The little girl sat between the two izidumbus. “What do you think, Margaret?” he asked, gesturing with his hand as if presenting himself for inspection. “Don’t I make quite the young officer of His Majesty’s Infantry?”

Margaret did not answer. The girl only stared at him. Except she did not really stare at him. She stared through him. She had been like that the past few days. She refused to speak or respond to him.

So far, he considered Margaret’s silence and withdrawn presence a game. He had amused himself by making her the audience to increasingly debauched and brutal displays of sexual intercourse and torture. He could not have her body to use as he wanted, but her mind was not required by his Ubasi debtors. Her mind he could play with, even if only indirectly.

“I remember when your father wore a uniform much like this one,” he said. Margaret said nothing, but a single muscle in her jaw twitched. “Was that a reaction, little Margaret? Do I look like your father? He was quite the dashing figure, even when he held a whip. You will see him soon, you know. Then you can compare the two of us.”

The flap of his tent blew open as someone strode in.

Ducoed turned from Margaret, hand on the butt of his pistol, white power surging within him, ready to release the lightning into whomever had interrupted him.

Umoya’s black eyes met his. Ducoed let go of the pistol, and the lightning, feeling the power pass out of him and into the air around him. He kept his hatred of the sorcerer, though, and let that show in his eyes and ring in his voice.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Umoya?”

Umoya smiled, showing his white teeth. The smile went away as the big man crossed his arms and stood there. His face was as impassive as Margaret’s, but his eyes were locked on to Ducoed. He said nothing.

“I see,” Ducoed said. “My humble servant, as always.”

He was about to turn his back on Umoya and continue his conversation with Margaret when the tent flap moved again. Mandla entered. The black warrior gave a short bow to Umoya, then looked at Ducoed. “The izidumbus have been made ready, Duke Blackwood.”

Ducoed wanted nothing more than to kill both of them. He wanted to strip the mottled skin off Umoya strip by strip and see if the sorcerer really had been put together from multiple bodies. He wanted to crush Mandla’s defiant face under his boots. But the time had not come for either of those pleasures. Soon, though. He smiled, showing his own teeth. “Then let us away,” he said.

Umoya turned around and left the tent.

* * *

Ducoed left his bodyguard of armored izidumbus with Mandla and rode to the front of the column. Umoya had kept the ithambofis in check after the ambush, preserving as many corpses of the English regulars intact–and their all-important red and white uniforms. The izidumbus Umoya had created from the corpses had been brought to the front of the column. They had their tricorner hats on, their packs on their backs, and carried their muskets in front of them. The regimental banners that had not been too badly damaged had also been salvaged and those were held aloft. They were a grotesque parody of English infantry on the march. Ducoed could not help smiling.

A Swedish patrol had encountered Ducoed’s army last night. Most of the patrol had died. Ducoed had considered sending ithambofis after the survivors, but decided the stories the men would tell their commanding officers would be of more use to him than complete secrecy. The besiegers of Fort Russell had to know that reinforcements were coming. Let them now speculate on the nature of those reinforcements. Ducoed was prepared to attack the besiegers to get at the prizes he would claim from the fort. But it would be easier to get into Fort Russell if the besiegers left on their own. His plan, of course, assumed they would not leave. He expected the Swedes to do what he had done: ambush the reinforcements coming to succor Fort Russell.

He was right.

The ambush occurred where the river bent almost due east. Ducoed had studied the maps of the Misi-ziibi south of the fort and seen the same opportunity the Swedish commander had. By cutting across the bend of the river, through the bayuk, a force could be put in position on short notice. If the ambushers had had any idea of that they were not facing English regulars, the ambush might have been successful.

Ducoed drew back from the front of the marching izidumbus when the Swedish troops opened fire from under cover on the far bank of the river. The river trail on the south bank offered no cover. The izidumbus continued along the route they had been set. They staggered when bullets hit them, sometimes losing hands and arms, but otherwise they ignored the attacks. They would march until they fell apart completely. Ducoed only hoped that he would not lose too many of the ones dressed in uniform. He did need those for at least the rest of today and tomorrow.

He let the ithambofis loose and gave them a cloud of darkness as cover while they crossed the river. He sent Umoya with the ithambofis to make sure they returned to the main force instead of following the survivors of the ambush back to the fort. And to show the multihued sorcerer that he, Ducoed, was still in command of this small army.