Sons of Liberty (38 page)

Someone rapped hard on a wooden block. Raechel turned, just in time to see Roosevelt clambering onto a table, looking remarkably sprightly for a man of his age. Adam was standing next to the table, his face an expressionless mask. Joan was standing nearby, her face twisted in distaste. She’d barely spoken a handful of words to Raechel since she’d gone to work for Adam.

Maybe I impressed her, Raechel thought. Or maybe she thinks I have influence with him.

She pushed the thought aside as Roosevelt cleared his throat. Silence fell at once, broken only by a handful of coughs and the sound of men eating in the rear of the room. It looked as though the entire camp had been assembled, although Raechel was sure that wasn’t true. If nothing else, the guards and pickets couldn’t be called in at such short notice. It would run the risk of leaving the camp undefended.

“
There has been an interesting development at Amherst,” Roosevelt said. His voice echoed around the room. “One of our magicians ended up having a friendly conversation with the Royal Sorceress, after discovering what the French did to a number of innocent American homesteaders. The discussion raised an interesting point. London is prepared to grant most of our demands in exchange for our service against the French.

“
I had my doubts, as you will know,” he continued, as a low rustle swept the chamber. “But one of our sources within the Viceregal Palace confirmed that the Viceroy has contacted London, requesting permission to announce the formation of an American Parliament with universal suffrage. This parliament would assume most of the Viceroy’s powers. As yet, as far as we know, London has not replied. However, from what the Royal Sorceress said, the groundwork has already been laid for conceding the point.”

Raechel frowned. Just what had happened in Amherst? She knew enough about British politics - and American - to know that establishing a parliament wouldn't be easy. There were just too many vested interests involved, some of whom would be adamantly opposed to granting any concessions. Hell, the slaveowners alone would be a major headache. The last thing they wanted was a parliament that would free the slaves, then send them all back to Africa.

“
We always knew that our plan had its dangers,” Roosevelt said. “If we won, we might lose the colonies to the French; if we lost, we might still find ourselves under French domination, when the French swept the weakened redcoats aside and took possession of the coastline. We told ourselves that we had no choice, that we needed to gamble for our freedom. If this offer is genuine, however, there is no need to gamble. We could win what we want without needing to fight.”

Raechel stared. Did he honestly intend to put it to a vote?

Roosevelt scrambled off the table. Adam clambered up and took his place.

“
I will not mince words,” he said. “The last revolution happened because the Crown would not deal fairly with us. We were denied the rights of Englishmen, the rights that were an established part of political tradition since King John was brought to heel, because it suited the Crown to deny us those rights. And now, ever since the revolution was crushed, we have had to endure a steady decline because the Crown saw us as beaten men. They have made no attempt to compromise with us, no attempt to do anything but divide and rule. And when has the Viceroy ever cared about our opinions?

He wasn't a good speaker, Raechel noted. His voice was thin and reedy, with none of the inspiration Roosevelt mustered. But she had to admit that he made a very good point.

“
This is not a genuine offer,” he warned. “The Viceroy knows he is in trouble. He knows that we are strong and that we will grow stronger. He knows that we are just preparing to take his city from him, to kick him and his government all the way back to London. He knows ... and so he is taking the tactical step of pretending to concede our points, long enough for the war to be won. Mark my words. Once the war is over, the Viceroy will laugh at the thought of making concessions to us.

“
There is nothing to be gained by even trying to talk to a known liar and dissembler,” he finished. “We have a plan. Let us put that plan into action and win on our own terms.”

Raechel watched as, one by one, a number of speakers rose to comment. Joan agreed, loudly, with Adam, telling the crowd that the aristocracy could never be trusted. Raechel hadn't heard that Britain and France had made promises, only to go back on them as soon as it was safe, yet it sounded far too like what had happened after the Swing. Maybe there were a few new MPs in Parliament, Joan pointed out, but what did it matter? Their powers were so sharply circumscribed that they might as well not have been there, for all they good they did.

And they’re divided, she thought. Some of the speakers were in favour of accepting the Viceroy’s offer, others seemed inclined to continue with the original plan ... and a number seemed to think they could do nothing, merely wait for developments. Who knows which way they will jump?

The debate seemed to grow louder and louder as the hours wore on. She watched as the crowd separated into smaller groups, arguing over the merits of the proposal, then breaking up and reforming into different groups. This was democracy in action? It looked as though everyone was having their say, but she had no idea how the Sons were ever going to get a consensus. She looked for Adam and saw him on the far side of the room, speaking quietly with a couple of older men. Roosevelt, by contrast, was surrounded by a throng of younger men.

Adam doesn't have any charisma, she thought. He can talk people into something, one on one, but he can't sway a crowd.

A whistle echoed in the air and the chatter slowly died away. “There are three options on the table,” a man she didn't know said. He looked old enough to remember George Washington and the first rebellion, Raechel decided. The shock of white hair gave him a gravitas none of the younger men could match. “And we must decide, now, which one to follow.

“
First, we accept the Viceroy’s offer and commit ourselves to fighting alongside the redcoats,” he continued. “Second, we decline the Viceroy’s offer and proceed with our original plan. Third, we wait and see what happens. If the Viceroy moves ahead with his announcement, it will be harder for him to change his mind afterwards; if he doesn't, we can proceed with the original plan.”

He cleared his throat. “You are all familiar with the procedure,” he added, pointing to three open doors behind him. “If you don’t want to vote, stay in the room.”

The crowd rose and headed towards the doors. It was just like the House of Commons, Raechel thought; the Sons cast votes by walking through the doors, in single file. She hesitated, then headed straight for the first door. Maybe she didn’t have a vote, but no one seemed inclined to stop her as she walked through and round the building. The crowd had gathered outside the doors, waiting. No one, Raechel realised, would be allowed to re-enter the building until the last of the votes were counted.

But these can't be all the Sons, she thought, as the doors were thrown open. Adam had told her there were over thirty other camps, each one with two or three hundred Sons. What about the other camps?

“
We have voted to wait and see,” the old man said, twenty minutes later. “It won with a considerable majority.”

He dismissed the crowd, which slowly started to break up into a number of smaller groups as they headed back to their work. Raechel slowly meandered to the office, unsure what she should be feeling. At least the Sons weren’t launching an attack immediately. What had Gwen said to them? How had it been convincing enough to make the Sons reconsider their position?

“Raechel,” a voice said, quietly.

Raechel looked up. A young man was standing next to her, carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder. There was something oddly effeminate about his face ... she slammed her mental shields into place as she recognised Irene, then allowed the thought to dance outside her shields for Irene to read. The young man nodded - it was a very good disguise - and inclined his head towards a smaller building. Raechel hesitated, then followed Irene into a place she hoped wasn't under observation.

“
I’m glad to see you again,” she muttered, resisting the urge to give the older woman a hug as soon as they were alone. “How did you get up here?”

“
Tracked a recruiting sergeant, then joined up,” Irene said, curtly. “There were no special arrangements for me, let me tell you.”

Raechel was impressed. Hiding her femininity on the barge must have been one hell of a challenge. She honestly wasn't sure how Irene had gotten away with it.

“
How I got here is not a concern right now,” Irene added. She met Raechel’s eyes. Up close, even knowing the truth, the disguise was almost perfect. “I understand you’re working for one of the leaders?”

“
The organiser,” Raechel said. She winced as she lowered her shields, allowing Irene to read her memories. “They’re definitely planning an attack on New York.”

“
Assuming they can't come to terms with the government,” Irene said. She scowled. “You need to get back to work, I think. There should be a chance to learn more, given where you are.”

She paused. “And one other thing,” she added. Her voice hardened. “Your boss - and most of the senior leaders - have some very solid mental shields. And the technique is not one I recognise.”

“
Maybe they developed it on their own,” Raechel said. The Sons knew about Talkers, of course. Someone had to have taught Jane how to use her powers. “If we did it in Britain, the Americans should be able to do it too.”

“
At the cost of a great many people tossed onto bedlams,” Irene said. “For every Talker who mastered his power, there were a dozen who went mad or killed themselves just to get the voices to shut up. If the Americans developed a technique of their own, I’d expect to see more signs.”

She stepped backwards, her face darkening. “I’ll meet up with you tonight, I think, and we can go for a pleasant walk.”

Raechel flushed. She knew what everyone would think.

“
Better that than the truth,” Irene reminded her. “Watch your back.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“They're coming,” Jackson said.

Gwen nodded as she stood on the wall, peering into the distance. The French had finally shown themselves, two days after the brief and brutal battle near the homestead. She watched as their army slowly deployed, infantry moving forward while horsemen set up mounted patrols and a handful of artillery pieces took up firing positions. It looked as though the entire French army was surrounding Amherst, laying siege to the city. She knew, intellectually, that there couldn't be more than twenty thousand soldiers at most, but her mind refused to believe it.

“
Plenty of former slaves too,” Jackson added. “Porters, as I expected.”

“Yes,” Gwen said.

Her eyes narrowed. The black slaves were digging trenches of their own, readying French positions in case the defenders launched a sally. She knew it wasn't going to happen - Jackson didn't have the numbers, with or without the militia - but she supposed it kept the French from launching an immediate attack. Laying siege to Amherst would be cheaper than trying to storm the city, she knew, yet they needed those soldiers elsewhere. They’d committed a sizable percentage of their ground troops to the invasion of British North America.

And the Admiral had a plan to launch a flanking attack on New Orleans, she thought. She knew little of what was happening beyond the city, now the French had closed in. If he manages to force a landing, the French will be the ones in trouble.

She closed her eyes in pain. Bruce had been completely invisible over the last two days, even skipping the communal meals Jackson had insisted on holding. She would have been relieved at his absence, three days ago, but now she wanted to speak to him, to find out what had happened with the Sons. And yet, he’d been out of touch. She had no idea how he’d managed to avoid suspicion ...

“
They’re sending in a man with a white flag,” Jackson said. “I’ll see him at the edge of the defences. I don’t want him to see too much of the city.”

Gwen nodded, then followed Jackson down the wall to where the Frenchman was being apprehended by a pair of horsemen and blindfolded. Jackson had told her, back before the rail lines had been cut, that it was customary to send a messenger to demand surrender, but that the messenger would also be a spy, scouting out weak points in the defences. The only way to keep him from seeing something important was to blindfold him. Gwen braced herself as the Frenchman was frogmarched over by the guards, then pushed roughly to the floor. Up close, he looked every inch an aristocrat. She couldn't read his rank from his expensive uniform.

“I am Colonel Jackson,” Jackson said.

“
My commanding officer wishes me to speak directly to General Paget,” the Frenchman said, sternly. He sounded as if he’d been personally insulted. “Where is he?”

“
I am the commanding officer,” Jackson said. Gwen couldn't help noticing that the Frenchman hadn’t demanded to speak to General Kingsley. Clearly, the French knew he was dead. “You can speak with me or no one.”

The Frenchman coughed. “Very well,” he said. “My commanding officer demands your immediate surrender. The garrison may march out with all the honours of war, after which they will be interned until they can be traded for a French garrison or returned to Britain after the war. If you refuse to surrender, there will be no further opportunities to do so.”