“My ladies, they’re here at the door,” Cridzywelfa said.
“And we’re ready, by God,” Alston said, looking at the clock. Half-past seven p.m. exactly. Good. She’d always hated unpunctuality.
The cream for the bisque was just right, very hot but not boiling. She used a potholder to lift the heavy crock from the stovetop and pour it into the soup pot while Swindapa stirred it in with a long wooden spoon.
Thank you, Momma, she thought. Her mother had gotten her started as a cook, back on Prince Island off the South Carolina coast. And it had been on a cast-iron monster much like this; their little truck farm hadn’t run to luxuries. Though how she managed with six of us, I’ll never understand.
“Heather! Lucy!”
That last out the window to the gardens, whence came a clack of wood on wood and shrill imitations of a kia.
“Mom, we were just playing at bokken,” Heather wheedled. “You and Momma Swindapa play at swords all the time. Even with real swords, sharp ones.”
“That’s not playing, it’s training, and you’ll hurt each other with those sticks,” Alston said, forcing sternness into her voice. “When you’re old enough, you’ll get real bokken to train with. Now come in and wash your hands and faces. You can play with David and the other kids until dinner.”
“Oh, David’s just a baby,” Lucy said, with the lordly advantage of two years extra age.
The children dashed up the steps and through the sunroom
“That all smells good, Mom,” Heather said expectantly. “Really, really . . .”
Alston hugged the small form to her, meeting Swindapa’s eyes over her shoulder. All right, you were right, she thought. The kids were a good idea—better than good. Alston had lost her own children in the divorce after John found out about Jolene . . . God, was that fifteen years ago? Or whatever; up in the twentieth, at least. No solitary chance of getting custody, not when he could have destroyed her career in the Guard with one short sentence and ruined her chances of being awarded the children in front of a South Carolina court. And Swindapa couldn’t have any children of her own. Pelvic inflammation, from the way the Iraiina had treated her.
Alston cut two slices from a loaf and spread them with wild-blueberry jam; the bread was fresh enough to steam slightly. “That ought to hold you two for the long half hour until dinner’s on the table.”
“Run along,” Swindapa said gently, bending to kiss the small faces. “Get those hands clean.”
“Ahh,” Jared Cofflin said, pushing the empty bowl away. “Now that’s how to treat a lobster soup.”
“Lobster bisque, dear,” Martha corrected, helping herself to one of the broiled clams with herbed-crumb crust.
“Ayup.”
The dining room had changed a little since this became Guard House. The burgundy wallpaper was the same, with the brilliant gold foliage around the top; so were the Waterford chandelier, the Philadelphia-Federal sideboard and the long mahogany table, but the rugs on the floor were from Dilmun at the entrance to the Persian Gulf. A pair of crossed tomahawks over the fireplace had bronze heads shaped like the bills of falcons, lovely and deadly. Those were from the Iraiina, a tribe settled in what would have become Hampshire—plunder of the Alban War.
Elsewhere were mementos of the Eagle’s swift survey around the globe in the Year 2 A.E. and voyages since: a Shang robe of crimson and gold silk made in Anyang; a square-section bronze sacrificial ax covered in ancestral Chinese ideographs; a blazing indigo-and-red-green tapestry of dyed cotton from coastal Peru, covered in smiling gods and geometric shapes.
Cofflin helped collect the soup plates and take them out to the kitchen to soak; off that, in the sunroom, the children were eating, with just as much noise and chaos as you would expect from ten healthy youngsters between three and seven, plus the housekeeper’s two teenagers and the Colemans’ youngest, who was still in a high chair. Cridzywelfa was presiding, with a smile that seemed genuine. He’d noticed that the locals just weren’t as fastidious about mess and confusion as those born in the twentieth.
God knows I love ’em, but it’s nice to eat without the kids now and then, he thought. At least his were all past the dump-your-porridge-over-your-head stage. Most of the time. The way Marian’s redhead was squealing and waving her fork looked like danger to life and limb.
“Why did you name her Heather?” Cofflin asked idly, as everyone came back in with fresh dishes and exclaimed over the suckling pig borne aloft in glory with an apple in its mouth. Swindapa began handing around plates. He picked an olive from a bowl and ate it.
“Why do you think, Jared?” Marian replied, carving with quick, skilled strokes.
The savory meat curled away from her blade, and she looked down the table, visibly estimating portions; the Cofflins, the Arnsteins, Starbuck, Captain Sandy Rapczewicz and Doc Coleman—Sandy had been Executive Officer on the Eagle when all this started, and she’d kept her maiden name when she married the Island’s senior medico. Victor Ortiz, who’d been a lieutenant back then; his wife was a relative of Swindapa’s named Jairwen, hugely pregnant now, and the two were chattering away in the soft glug-glug sound of Fiernan, the tang and lilt of a language that had died a thousand years before Christ.
“Wouldn’t have asked if I knew,” Cofflin said, smothering a mild annoyance when most of the rest of the table got the allusion and he didn’t. Martha was chuckling into her wineglass. Only Vicki looked as baffled as he was.
“Heather Has Two Mommies, dear,” his wife said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Well, of course she has two—oh.” He thumped the heel of his hand on his forehead.
“It’s a perfectly good name,” Alston said. “ ’dapa, this load is for the other table. One of my grandmothers was named Heather.” A slight quirk of the lips. “Doubt she expected to have any red-haired great-grandchildren, though.”
Steaming layers of sliced pork lay on the edge of the platter, cut with a surgeon’s neatness. Of course, doing that Japanese sword stuff was her hobby, Cofflin thought, passing the applesauce. Other hobby, besides cooking, that is.
“Say,” he went on—it was all old friends here—“do Heather and Lucy ever have much in the way of, ah, problems about that? Now that they’ve started school?”
“About their parents?” Marian gave a slight cold smile, and Swindapa looked briefly furious. “Yes, sometimes. A few times.”
“Sorry about that,” Cofflin said, flushing with embarrassment.
“Oh, no problem. They’re very athletic little girls, for their ages.”
The smile went slightly wider at his look of incomprehension. “I gave them some pointers and told them to ambush whoever gave them serious trouble about their mothers, two on one, and beat the living shit out of them. And if the parents complained—well, they could come complain to me.”
He looked into the dark eyes of the person who he knew was, after Martha, his best friend in this post-Event world. And the embarrassment turned, just for a second, to a jolt of pure, cold fear.
Shit, but I’m glad Marian never had any political ambitions.
“Barbarians,” Swindapa muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” Martha said.
“Nothin’ much,” Marian said, smiling slightly. “Swindapa has a low opinion of some Eagle People attitudes, is all.”
“Fully justified, in some cases,” Martha said dryly.
People started passing things; gravy, bowls of scalloped potatoes, roast garlic, cauliflower au gratin, sliced onions and tomatoes in oil and vinegar, steamed peas, butternut squash, wilted spinach with shallot dressing, lentils with thyme, potato-and-lobster-claw salad, green salad, bread.
“Oh, Mother of God, but I got so sick of edible seaweed,” Ortiz said, biting into a piece of tomato with an expression of nearly religious ecstasy.
“Saved us from scurvy the winter of ‘01,” Martha observed, slightly defensive. “My Girl Scouts did a good job there, finding wild greens.”
“Oh, they di
d,” Ortiz agreed. “No dispute there. I’m just so glad to see vegetables again.”
Murmurs of agreement interrupted the chomping of jaws.
“The economy’s doing reasonably well,” Starbuck conceded, grudgingly. Christ, and they think I’m stingy, Cofflin thought. The ex-banker went on, “Despite the lavish use of public funds on projects such as yours, young lady.”
Vicki looked down at her plate for a second. “Defense takes precedence over affluence, sir,” she replied.
Starbuck’s shaggy white brows went up. “Nice to hear one of the younger generation quoting Adam Smith at me,” he said grudgingly. “Well, I suppose it won’t bankrupt us. Not quite yet.”
Things had improved. Cofflin spread butter on a piece of the chewy, crusty whole-wheat bread. Butter, for instance. There hadn’t been more than two dozen cows on the whole island, at first. The breeding program was going well, though.
“You Eagle People complain about the oddest things,” Jairwen said, tossing back her long brown hair. “You’ve ways to have got vegetables in the middle of winter, and then complain you that they aren’t fresh picked as were.”
“You’ve got a point,” Doc Coleman said. “This diet is actually healthier than what we had before the Event; a little heavier on salt than I’d like, especially in the winter with all the dried fish, but plenty of fiber and roughage, not much sugar and less fat—look how lean this pork is, even. Plus, I doubt there are fifty people on the Island who don’t do more physical exercise than they used to, just getting around.” Luxury transport these days was a bicycle. “And no tobacco or recreational drugs, thank God. Pass the gravy.”
“It’s back to dried dulse for some of us,” Alston sighed.
“You’re ready so soon?” Cofflin blurted. Hell, I thought I was following things closely!
“Oh, not for the real push,” Alston said. “We need more ships, more—sorry, ’dapa, just a little business—but it occurs to me that we just can’t wait until we’ve got enough ships and people to do it directly, so we’d better start laying the groundwork through the back door. Lieutenant Cofflin—sorry, Vicki—has her pet coming along right nice. We can run the tests on her, and then start taking it apart again.”
The younger Cofflin glanced between her uncle and the black woman, suddenly alert. Alston smiled slightly and nodded. “Time you were brought into the loop. Everybody here’s cleared.”
She sketched out a plan, and a little way down the table, Ian Arnstein sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, God,” he said. “Another two languages to learn.”
He couldn’t quite conceal the grin that broke through. His wife hit him with her napkin and groaned.
“The first part, that’ll be more in the nature of a long trip than a military expedition,” Marian said. “ Then . . .”
“Enough business,” Swindapa said firmly. “I will work tomorrow. Today is for play. Dessert, and then we dance.”
“All right,” Jared Cofflin said, chuckling and leaning back with a cup in his hand. “You know, one of the few good things about this job is that it lets you meet every nutcase in the Republic, and just yesterday I met one even crazier than the gang around this table. Let me tell you about a young man named Girenas over at Providence Base and his weird idea.”
Peter Girenas looked at himself anxiously in the small mirror by the washstand, checking his chin and his mottled-leather Ranger uniform. Then, swallowing, he glanced around the room. It wasn’t home, just the place he lived when he was in town; the owner of the Laughing Loon was glad to let him have it in return for a deer every week or two. Bed and floor were mostly covered in skins of his own hunting, bear and wolf and wolverine; there was a Lekkansu spirit-mask on one squared-log wall, a coverlet of ermine pelts, a shelf of books, his rifle and crossbow, some keepsakes and a photograph of his mother. And on a table beside the bed was a sheaf of papers.
“Stay, Perks. Guard.”
The dog curled up on his favorite bearskin and settled his head on his paws, watchful and alert. Girenas picked up the papers and took a deep breath, then carefully closed the door behind him and trotted down to the taproom of the inn.
It was quiet now, on a weekday afternoon, spears of sunlight through the windows catching drifting flecks of dust, sand rutching under his boots against the flagstone floor. Sally Randon was idly polishing the single-plank bar at one end with its ranks of bottles and big barrels with taps, and the chairs were empty around the long tables. Except for one. Girenas scowled at the sight of the three seated there.
He recognized them all. Emma Carson and her husband, Dick; they were big in the Indian trade. And Hardcase. He was a big man among the Lekkansu, one of the first traders with the Americans—and he’d been pulling together the shattered clans after the epidemics, trying to get them back on their feet after the chaos and despair of losing more than half their numbers for two years running. The Ranger didn’t particularly like him, not like some of the Lekkansu warriors he’d hunted with or the girls he’d known, but Hardcase was an important man.
Or would be, if he could stay off the booze. The Carsons had no business encouraging him like this.
“I greet you, elder brother,” he said in the Lekkansu tongue, walking over to them. “Have you come to trade?”
“Trade pretty good,” the Indian said, in fair if accented English. “Lots of deer hides, maple sugar, hickory nuts, ginseng.”
The two Nantucketer traders were glaring at the ranger, and the man made a motion as if to hide the bottle of white lightning the three were sharing. Dick Carson didn’t bother Girenas, a beefy blowhard. But Emma . . . heard a snake bit her once. The snake died.
“Emma, Dick,” he said, nodding. Then in the other tongue: “Will you get many knives, hatchets, fishhooks, fire-makers, blankets?”
“Hardcase trades smart,” the Indian said, his grin a bit slack. “Other families will pay well for break-the-head water. Easier to carry than lots of heavy things.”
“But when the water is gone, you will have nothing—not tools, or weapons, or blankets.”
Hardcase’s eyes narrowed. “Rifles even better than break-the-head water,” he said. “You’re such a friend to us, why don’t you get us some rifles? Friends do that.”
Dick Carson’s eyes were flickering back and forth between the Indian and the Ranger in frustrated anger. Emma’s were cold; he suspected that she talked more of the local tongue than she let on.
Girenas’ eyes were equally chill, and his lips showed teeth in what was only technically a smile.
“You know, Ms. Carson,” he said softly, “there are fines for exceeding quota on distilled liquor sales to the locals. And, of course, selling firearms is treason.” Or the ratchet-cocked steel crossbows that Seahaven had turned out for the Nantucketers’ armed forces before gunpowder production got under way.
“Hardcase must go. His brothers are always welcome in his camp,” the Indian said abruptly, staggering a little as he collected his bundles and headed for the door.
“Goddammit, you punk bastard!” Dick Carson hissed. “What’d you have to go and queer our deal for?”
“After you’ve given him the third drink it isn’t dealing, Carson. It’s stealing, and that isn’t the sort of reputation we need with the locals. I’m a Ranger, I’m supposed to keep the peace . . . and it works both ways.”
“You’d better remember who you’re working for, boy,” Emma Carson said. There was no theatrical menace in her voice, not even a conspicuous flatness. She pulled a worn, greasy-looking pack out of a pocket in her khaki bush jacket and began to flip cards onto the board for a solitaire game. “Or the Town Meeting might remind you.”
“Let’s leave that to the Meeting, shall we?” he said pleasantly. “Have a nice day.”
He forced his fists to unknot as he walked out onto the stone sidewalk of Providence Base, blinking in the bright gold sunlight. You couldn’t cure everything in life, and that was a fact. All you could do was your best.
He was on First Street. The name was not a number. It was literally the first the Nantucketers had built when they made this their initial outpost on the mainland, not long after the Event. A street broad enough for two wagons sloped down the hill, bound in asphalt at enormous expense and trouble, lined on either side with buildings of huge squared logs. Down by the water and the wharves were warehouses, plank over timber frames; off to the northeast a little was the water-furrow and a row of the sawmills it powered.
The tall wheels turned, water splashed bright; steam chuffed and a whistle blew from others, for the need had outgrown the first creek that the Nantucketers dammed. Men and women skipped over the bloating tree trunks with hooked poles, steering a steady train of them to the ramps where chains hauled them upward. Vertical saws went through wood with a rhythmic ruhhh . . . ruhhh, while newer circular ones whirred with earsplitting howls—errrrraaaaah, over and over. The air was full of woodsmoke, the scent of fresh-cut wood, horses, and whale-oil grease, and the overwhelming smell of the sea.
Little of the surrounding woods had been logged off. The Meeting had decreed that, saying that only mature timber might be harvested and only a portion of that in any square mile. Even in town enough had been left to give welcome shade; the leaves were beginning to turn, but the afternoon was hot enough to bring a prickle of sweat. He walked uphill, past wagons and folk and a shouting crowd of children just out of school.
The public buildings of the little town stood around a green with a bandstand in the center; school, church, meetinghouse, and a three-story blockhouse of oak logs with the Republic’s Stars and Stripes flying from its peak.
Peter Girenas took a deep breath, nodded to the guard—the town’s main arsenal was inside—and walked in. The first floor was racked rifles, crates of gear, barrels of powder in a special room with a thick, all-wood door. It was also dim and shady, smelling faintly of brimstone. He trotted up the ladder-staircase, through to the third story. Broad windows there let in enough light to make him squint. It wasn’t until he stood to attention that he saw who waited.
Against the Tide of Years Page 7