“I’m coming,” she said. “Where do we go?”
“In here,” Jane said. She opened the door. They had parked outside a darkened building, its windows covered with wooden planks. “And I suggest you say nothing until we are finished.”
Raechel nodded, then followed Jane out of the carriage and through a door. Inside, two men were sitting at a table, playing cards. Several others were lying on the floor, snoring loudly; Raechel couldn't help noticing that they all had weapons within easy reach. Jane nodded to the players and hurried Raechel up a flight of stairs, into a smaller room. A wardrobe lay open in front of them, crammed with all manner of clothes. Raechel couldn't help feeling a flash of Déjà Vu, remembering Irene’s cabinet back in London. The Sons clearly followed the same logic as British Intelligence.
“Get undressed,” Jane ordered. “Remove everything, and I mean everything.”
“But ...”
“Do as I say,” Jane ordered.
Raechel glanced at the door, then removed her dress. She hesitated over the underclothes until Jane cleared her throat loudly. It was easy to summon the embarrassment she’d felt, back when Irene had ordered her to undress too. Jane looked her up and down, then passed her a dark outfit. Raechel stared at it, but Jane was remorseless. By the time she was dressed, she looked like a low-class girl. Even her hair had been tied up in a tight bun and hidden under a cap.
“Very good,” Jane said. “And, more importantly, you won’t look out of place on the docks.”
Raechel shifted, uncomfortably, as Jane examined every last inch of her. The outfit was icky - there was a faint smell of fish surrounding it - and itchy, but she knew she had no choice. If she looked like this, no search party from the upper region of New York was going to spot her. No one was going to pay any attention to her until the sun started to go down.
“The men will escort you to the ship,” Jane added. “They’ll give you basic tasks to do, once you're away from New York. You shouldn't have any problem with them or the other receipts until you reach the camp. They’ll tell you what to do there.”
She clapped Raechel on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said, as Raechel projected unease and concern at her. “You’ll be fine. And your dear chaperone will end up looking very bad indeed.”
“Yeah,” Raechel said. “She’ll never pick up my trail.”
And she hoped to hell, as Jane led her back down the stairs, that she was wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I was expecting more trouble,” Jackson said.
Gwen nodded in agreement. The trip had grown from five days to nine, not entirely to her surprise, but there had been no contact with the French. She’d found herself relaxing more than was safe, chatting to Jackson when she wasn't helping the magicians master their powers. Bruce had spent most of the time in the cabin, chatting to his two servants. Gwen was mildly surprised he hadn’t tried to talk to her or Jackson, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
She watched, grimly, as the train started the final descent towards Amherst. The American countryside had been wilder than anything she’d seen in Britain, patchwork habitations springing up in the midst of untamed countryside, but now the signs of war were all around them. Burned-out farmsteads, looted cropland; they drove past a burning farmhouse without slowing for a moment. Hundreds of refugees were fleeing, some heading south to the city in search of a safety she feared would be elusive, others heading north, following the train tracks to safety. She caught sight of a band of former slaves, laughing as they drank wine straight from the bottle, as their former plantation burned around them. Gwen could only hope that their masters had escaped before it was too late.
“We’ll be fighting them soon,” Jackson predicted. “Once the French arrive, they’ll hand out weapons and point them at Amherst.”
Gwen nodded. It made sense, a cold brutal sense. The French might have every reason to expend as many of the former slaves as possible, if only to keep from having to feed and house them in the coming years. And every bullet that struck a slave was one that couldn't strike a French soldier. The French had a far larger army than the British, but much of it was in Europe. There was no way of knowing just how reliable their forces in Mexico actually were.
As long as they hold together long enough to fight us, it won’t matter, she thought. There had been rebellions in Latin America for years, she’d heard, but the French had managed to put them down before they snowballed out of control. And many of their people have good reason to hate us.
She pushed the thought aside as the train started to slow to a halt. Amherst rose up in front of them, an ugly city composed of stone buildings, wooden huts and large warehouses. It had been intended as nothing more than a logistics hub, she recalled, but it had mushroomed out of control. The former commander had started work on extending the defence lines before his death, she saw, yet the defences looked incomplete. Refugees were everywhere, sitting around, their eyes flickering from side to side nervously. Even the railway station wasn't clear, she saw, as the train finally stopped. Hundreds of men and women crowded the platforms, hoping desperately for a chance to board a train that would take them to safety.
“Those idiots are blocking the way,” Jackson swore. He rose and grabbed his jacket. “Keep your sorcerers back, Lady Gwen. I’ll take out the guards to clear a path.”
Gwen nodded, shortly. She had no idea how close the French were to the city, but keeping the redcoats cooped up on the train was asking for trouble. Jackson hurried out the door, jumping down to the platform and running to the first troop car. The refugees called out to him as he ran, Gwen saw, but he ignored them. Gwen wasn't sure if she should be impressed or disturbed.
“Clear the platforms,” Jackson bellowed, in the distance. Gwen heard the sound of soldiers swarming out of their car. “Clear the platforms!”
“Not a good sight, My Lady,” Wayne said, very quietly. “Whoever’s in command of the city has lost control.”
“General Kingsley was murdered,” Gwen said. The refugees were moving now, helped along by blows from the leading soldiers. There would be complaints, she knew, but right now they hardly mattered. “I’m not sure who’s in command right now.”
She turned as she heard Bruce emerging from his cabin. Somehow, he managed to look dapper despite spending the last week on the train. Gwen was almost envious; she needed a hot bath, a proper rest and a change of clothes. She’d expected many more complaints from the young fop too, but Bruce had kept his mouth closed. Perhaps she’d actually managed to intimidate him into silence. That would be a first.
“Lady Gwen,” he said. A middle-aged woman ran past the window, screaming very unladylike words. “What is happening outside?”
“They’re clearing the station so they can deploy the troops,” Gwen said, curtly. “And then I imagine we will be moving to City Hall.”
A handful of sergeants came into view, carefully directing the soldiers off the train and down to the barracks. Gwen eyed the porters doubtfully as they appeared, wondering just how many of them could be trusted. Half of them were black, their faces carefully impassive. A single spark in the wrong place could trigger a holocaust. She made a mental note to see if the refugees couldn't be turned into porters, then allowed Wayne to lead the way off the train and onto the platform. It was even more chaotic than she’d feared. The stench of too many unwashed humans in too close proximity greeted her as they hurried towards the exit. Even with the sergeants pushing people around, it was still dreadfully crowded.
“Lady Gwen,” Jackson called. “Can you ask your Movers to stay and help with the unpacking? The rest of us will have to go to City Hall.”
“Understood,” Gwen said.
“I’ll stay with them,” Wayne said. He tipped her a jaunty salute. “Try and pick up what I can while helping, too.”
Gwen nodded, then led the rest of the magicians out of the station. Outside, it was even more chaotic
. People were everywhere, some sitting against the side of warehouses, others stroking guns as they watched the crowds warily. There were no horses or hansom cabs in sight, even though the stink of horse manure was omnipresent. Jackson and his escort rapidly gave up any thought of finding carriages and started striking out towards the City Hall, clearing the way through force of personality. Gwen followed, gamely resisting the urge to take to the air and fly. It wasn't fair if she was the only person who could escape the crush.
The crowds seemed to grow worse as they made their way into the centre of the city, where the buildings were stronger and designed to last. Countless buildings looked like armed camps, guards watching them carefully; there were only a handful of women in view and almost all of them carried pistols. The roads had long since turned into muddy tracks, despite a valiant attempt to pave them. There were just too many people in the city.
It won’t be long until they start to starve, she thought. General Kingsley had been given orders to build up a stockpile of food, but with so many mouths to feed it was unlikely the stockpile would last very long. And what happens to us then?
She couldn't help a flash of relief as City Hall finally came into sight, surrounded by a company of redcoats in full uniform. Jackson muttered a curse - Gwen rather suspected she hadn't been meant to hear it - and led the way towards the building. Thankfully, there weren't so many refugees in front of City Hall, even though the muddy ground would have made an ideal place to pitch a few dozen tents. The guns mounted outside the building might have had something to do with it, she thought. She wouldn't have cared to sleep under their sights.
“Sergeant, deploy the men outside,” Jackson ordered. “Lacy Gwen, please stay with me.”
Gwen told her remaining magicians to stay with the sergeant, then followed Jackson into City Hall. It was cooler than she’d expected - she hadn't really registered the heat until it was gone - but no cleaner. Muddy footsteps ran in and out of the building, suggesting that even the mayor couldn't get his home cleaned. No doubt the concept of putting refugees to work hadn't occurred to anyone. A young officer met them as they approached the office, his face grey and covered with dark stubble. He actually looked relieved to see Jackson.
“Lieutenant Travis, 3rd Americans,” he said, saluting. His uniform looked untidy, as if he’d stopped caring about his appearance. “I just heard you’d arrived.”
Jackson eyed him for a long moment. “A lieutenant is in command of the defence?”
“General Kingsley is dead, sir,” Travis insisted. His gaze flickered over Gwen, then back to Jackson. “The militia leaders have been unable to work together.”
“Send messages ordering them to meet with me in one hour,” Jackson said, curtly. “I’ll want a full briefing after I speak to the mayor.”
“The deputy mayor,” Travis said. “His Honour decided the demands of his office required him to go north to drum up reinforcements personally.”
“You mean he fled for his life,” Jackson said. “Send the messages, Travis. I’ll speak to the deputy mayor now.”
Gwen gritted her teeth as she followed Jackson into the mayor’s office. The deputy mayor reminded her of David, right down to the gold-edged spectacles and the hangdog expression her brother had worn after discovering that someone had messed with his paperwork. A large glass bottle sat on his desk. It took Gwen a moment to realise he had to have been drinking it straight from the bottle. David would never have done that.
“Colonel,” the Deputy Mayor said. Judging from his accent, Gwen decided, he was American born and bred. “Welcome to Amherst. I wish we could put on a better greeting.”
“I saw more than enough, Mayor Talbot,” Jackson said. He reached into his jacket and produced an envelope. “By order of His Excellency Viceroy Rochester, martial law is hereby declared over Amherst and the surrounding environs. I am to assume command of the defences, superseding all previous arrangements. If you want to register any objections, you may do so and they will be relayed to His Excellency.”
Talbot blinked. “I’m not the mayor ...”
“Your predecessor appears to have deserted his post,” Jackson said, firmly. “Accordingly, I am appointing you to his position, where you will serve as my civil liaison. Afterwards, I imagine you’ll be able to keep the title. My report will make it clear that you stayed when your superior fled.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Talbot said. He looked at Gwen, frowning as if he couldn't quite see past the male guise. “Everything seems hopeless ...”
“Everything seems hopeless at first,” Jackson said. “Now tell me, just what has happened in this city since the war began?”
Talbot sighed. “All hell broke loose shortly after the first French horsemen were reported on the wrong side of the border,” he said. “The Mayor - the former Mayor - sent out warnings to the homesteads, telling them to lock up their slaves. It was too late: hundreds of farmsteads were burned to the ground, their owners murdered or forced to flee. General Kingsley raised volunteers for the militia and set to work improving the defences, while sending out horsemen to scatter and harass the former slaves. And then he was murdered.
“We lost control of much of the city shortly afterwards. Lieutenant Travis was the senior officer ...”
Gwen frowned. “He was?”
“A redcoat is always superior to a colonial,” Jackson commented.
“That can’t have gone down well,” Gwen muttered. Hadn't similar concerns been raised about Jackson himself? “What happened?”
“Half the militia officers hate the other half,” Talbot explained. “Without General Kingsley, a man they respected even if they didn't love, they started scrabbling amongst themselves; Lieutenant Travis was quite unable to bring them to heel. My predecessor fled shortly afterwards, claiming he was going to send reinforcements.”
“He hadn't arrived in New York by the time we left,” Jackson said.
“The streets aren’t safe,” Talbot added. “Parts of the city are sealed off from the remainder, Colonel. There’re laws against hoarding, but everyone who has any food is keeping it to themselves. I have a strong guard on the warehouses and yet it doesn't stop pilfering ...”
He shook his head. “And the Sons of Liberty are popping up everywhere,” he added. “I heard of a man who was telling everyone that the crisis was Britain’s fault ...”
“Then the sooner we get the situation under control, the better,” Jackson said, firmly. “I have enough troops to impose martial law, I think. You can make the announcement once we have them in place.”
He smiled. “Chin up, Mr. Mayor,” he added. “It may seem bad, but it will get better.”
“I hope you’re right,” Talbot said. He cleared his throat. “Do you intend to turn City Hall into your base?”
“For the moment,” Jackson said. “But we may have to move, later. The French will know precisely where City Hall is.”
He turned and strode out of the room. Gwen followed him, wondering just what kind of nightmare she’d wandered into. It was like Russia, only worse. There, they’d been trapped in a palace while the undead roamed Moscow’s streets. Here ...
“One hell of a problem,” Jackson said. He sounded energised, Gwen noted, rather than unsure of himself. He was practically rubbing his hands together with glee. “Can you and your sorcerers base yourselves in City Hall?”
“I imagine so,” Gwen said. She had a feeling that getting a hot bath wouldn't be easy. “And then what?”
“It depends on how the militia react,” Jackson said. “That young fool can stay here too ...”
He stopped. “What happened to him?”
Gwen blinked. “We left Bruce Rochester at the station,” she said, slowly. She wasn't quite sure what had happened to him. “I ... I ... don't know.”
“Let’s hope he has the sense to stay close to the redcoats,” Jackson grunted. He looked up at the sound of running footsteps. “Ah, Lieutenant Travis.”
“Sir,” Travis said. “The militia leaders are assembled in Room Four.”
“That was quick,” Gwen said.
Travis stared, as if he hadn't quite realised she was female. “They knew you’d arrived, My Lady,” he said, finally. He sounded as though he wanted to ask a thousand questions, but didn't quite dare. It occurred to Gwen, suddenly, that he might not know who she was, or what she could do. “They were already on their way to City Hall.”
“Then let us go talk to them,” Jackson said.
He smiled thinly, then motioned for Travis to lead them to the meeting room. Gwen followed, bracing herself as best as she could. She’d met several militia commanders in Britain and they’d been a very mixed bag, ranging from ex-soldiers with genuine experience to lords who wanted to play at being military officers. They tended to wear fancy uniforms and get their men killed, from what she’d heard. And they’d often been consumed with petty rivalries,
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