Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “No one would believe that,” Bruce said. “It’s ... madness.”

  “Never underestimate just how many foolish things people can believe,” Gwen said, rather crossly. The cartoons of her turning her enemies into frogs or pigs would have been amusing, if they hadn't made it harder for her to talk to people. And she couldn't turn a man into a pig, although some of them were definitely halfway there. “The French won’t really care who believes them, as long as they have a rationale for occupying the colonies after the war.”

  “True,” Jackson said. “Lady Gwen, we will be relying on you to hunt this rogue down. Put training in Wayne’s hands and find the bastard!”

  “I will,” Gwen said. She wasn't looking forward to the fight, but now she knew what she was facing ... she’d bet good money that the rogue had never faced another Master, while she’d faced two. But then, Master Thomas had beaten her handily. “I won’t let you down.”

  She started at the loud rapping on the door.

  “Come in,” Jackson called.

  A messenger entered, his face flushed. “Message for you, Your Grace,” he said, passing it to Jackson. “Captain Vine says its urgent.”

  “Your Grace,” Jackson repeated. He took the envelope and unfolded it, slowly. “When did I get promoted?”

  Gwen shook her head, too tired to feel amused. Jackson was minor nobility, very minor nobility. There was no way he should be addressed as ‘Your Grace ...’

  “Shit,” Jackson swore. He seemed to have completely forgotten that he shouldn't be swearing in Gwen’s presence. “That’s not good.”

  Gwen felt a thrill of alarm. “What’s not good?”

  “It’s a report from one of the scouting parties,” Jackson said, grimly. “The French have attacked the railways and destroyed a great deal of the track, including one of the bridges. It won’t be easy to repair.”

  “And until it is repaired,” Gwen breathed, “we’re trapped.”

  “Find that rogue,” Jackson ordered. “And not a word to anyone about the railway lines.”

  It will leak, Gwen thought, as she headed for the door. The railway was their only link to the remainder of the colonies. Rumours would spread at terrifying speed. And then all hell will break loose.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “You appear to be a doing a good job,” Joan said, reluctantly. Her gaze swept the pile of clean dishes and mugs, then wandered back to Raechel. “Barely.”

  Raechel groaned. She’d never realised just how hard the maids had to work until she'd tried some of their duties for herself. Washing dishes, even pewter and tin dishes rather than fine china, was boring, even sickening. But it was better than washing clothes. She’d learned more in the last two days about disgusting male habits than she’d ever wanted to know.

  “Thank you,” she said, careful to keep her voice even. Joan was just waiting for her to make a mistake, she could tell. “Are there more coming?”

  “There are things to clean every day,” Joan said, dryly. Raechel felt her cheeks heat at her tone. “But for the moment, you can go get yourself something to eat.”

  Raechel nodded and hurried off to the dining hall before Joan could change her mind. The older woman seemed determined to work her until her hands were worn down to the bone, even though Raechel hadn't uttered a word of complaint. When she wasn’t cleaning dishes - or clothes - she was peeling potatoes, boiling water or catching a handful of desperately needed hours of sleep. If she ever managed to get back to London, she promised herself, she was going to make damn sure the maids got a raise. And if her aunt dared to question her decision, Raechel would make sure she never saw a single penny of her father’s fortune.

  She pushed the thought aside as she stepped into the dining hall. The darkened room was crammed with tables and reeking of tobacco smoke, the men - and some of the women - smoking heavily while they ate. There were dozens of men at the tables, sucking down bowls of stew before they went back to training; a handful of women, sitting with them, looked surprisingly dangerous for the fairer sex. Raechel couldn't help thinking that Irene would have liked them, if only for their skill at projecting an image. They wanted - needed - the men to take them seriously.

  “Raechel,” a voice called. “Come join us?”

  Raechel smiled. John was a young man, one of the handful she’d seen in the recruitment centre in New York before they’d been transported to the barge. He was a tradesman by birth, he’d explained, but he hadn’t been able to set up a shop of his own because of the government’s regulations. Raechel was surprised the Sons had allowed him to train as a soldier - his skills would surely be of more use elsewhere - but men liked their pride. No doubt they’d offered John the chance to be something useful and he’d declined.

  “Coming,” she called back. “Just let me get some food.”

  She took a plate of strew and bread from the cooks - she hated to think what her aunt would have thought of the meal, although it was cheap and surprisingly tasty - and hurried over to John. The handful of young men with him smiled as she sat down, their gazes flickering over her breasts before looking away, hastily. Irene had warned her to expect everything from ribald commentary to outright groping, but the Sons had strict rules against any form of harassment. They were clearly serious about using women as well as men.

  “It’s been a while,” John said. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  Two days, more or less, Raechel thought. But I suppose I barely saw you on the barge.

  “Cooking and cleaning, mostly,” she admitted. The Sons had promised firearms training for the women, but it was clear that their training was secondary. “And you?”

  “I can now hit a target with a rifle,” John said.

  “Provided it’s stuck to the muzzle,” another young man said, quickly. “The trick is to keep up a steady volley of fire, not to try to hit something.”

  Raechel rather doubted her father, a keen sportsman, would have agreed, but she kept that thought to herself as the men argued cheerfully. John insisted he could actually shoot straight; two other men insisted that he didn't have a hope in hell of actually hitting anything unless it was at very close range. It wasn't the sort of discussion she wanted to hear, but she honestly didn't know how to change the subject. Men always liked talking about guns and shooting, in her experience. Some of the worst bores in the aristocracy talked of nothing else.

  “So,” another man said. “When do you think we’ll go to New York?”

  “When the boss says its time,” a third man said. He was older; Raechel rather suspected he was the training officer. “We don’t want to tip our hand too early.”

  “Yeah,” a fourth man said. “And we don’t want to lose the chance of winning without fighting.”

  “Chancy,” John said. “Do you think the Viceroy will give up without a fight?”

  “I have no idea,” the first man said. He looked at Raechel. “What do you think?”

  Raechel flushed. “I don’t know,” she said. It was easy to push a hint of bitterness into her voice. “It isn't as if they told me anything.”

  She listened as the discussion raged backwards and forwards. John and many of the younger men were looking forward to the fight, enjoying the chance to prove themselves, while the older men were more pessimistic. Victory would come at a very high cost, if it came at all, and the fighting would devastate the colony. If the Viceroy - or his replacement - refused to surrender, he could bring reinforcements from Boston or one of the other garrisons to continue the fight. And the French, looming ominously in the background, might take advantage of the chaos.

  “Rumour has it that the slaves have already revolted down south,” one of the older men said, darkly. “Do you want those bastards up here?”

  “Should send them all back home,” John said. “They’ll be taking our jobs after the war.”

  “And the Germans too,” another man agreed. “You just can't trust them.”


  Raechel silently cursed the government under her breath. There was something ... honest about the Sons, something that called to her even as she planned to betray them. Gwen had been right - the Sons had no plan or ability to govern, after the uprising - but she couldn't help liking them. If the government removed a few of the petty restrictions, allowing men like John to open their own shops, who knew what would happen? Even allowing official settlements in the lands beyond the line would be helpful ...

  “It's time to get back to work,” the older man said. “A pleasure, Miss Raechel, as always.”

  He rose. The other men followed him, dumping their empty dishes and spoons on the table by the door. Raechel had a feeling she'd see them again, once she went back to work. Joan definitely enjoyed making her do menial tasks, just looking for a chance to humiliate or hurt her. The fact Raechel hadn't uttered a word of complaint seemed to bother her more than any screaming fit.

  Raechel allowed herself a smile, then listened to some of the other conversations as she finished her strew. The Sons seemed to be divided, something that had surprised her until she’d attended her first evening discussion. Older Sons talked about their ideals, younger Sons were encouraged to ask questions and hash matters out for themselves. Raechel had never seen anything like it, but she had to admit that the debates helped explain the ideology of the Sons and indoctrinate the newcomers.

  But some of them want a war, she thought, and some of them want to take their demands to the Viceroy himself.

  She sighed, inwardly. The demands weren't unreasonable - at least as far as she could tell - but she doubted the government would grant them. Showing weakness could be deadly, in politics. No one would call Lord Liverpool weak - she’d heard he was a stubborn reactionary - but he had enemies. A proposal to grant the Americans even modest concessions might be defeated in the Houses of Parliament. And then where would the Sons be?

  Finishing her stew - making sure to use the remains of her bread to wipe the bowl clean - she rose and hurried out the door, back to where she was sure Joan was waiting. The wretched woman seemed to have nothing better to do, but torment her, even though she was technically responsible for the welfare of half the women in the camp. And yet, Raechel knew she was terrifyingly ignorant, compared to some of the others. In hindsight, it might have been better if she’d actually learned to sew from her mother.

  “Your Ladyship,” Joan said sarcastically, as Raechel hurried into the barracks. “The boss wants to see you.”

  Raechel started. “Again?”

  “Again,” Joan confirmed. “Don’t you have a prettier dress you can wear?”

  Raechel resisted the urge to snap at her. Of course she didn't have any pretty dresses! The only clothes in the camp for women were basic skirts and shorts, the kind of shapeless outfit a farmwife or milkmaid might wear as she went to work. She’d managed to tighten her shirt around her chest, just to make the men more talkative, but otherwise it was nothing like the gowns she’d worn to countless balls. She reminded herself, firmly, that Joan was just trying to get a rise out of her and merely shook her head. She’d endured worse from her aunt.

  Joan looked irked, but strode past Raechel, beckoning for her to follow. There were more men in the camp, Raechel noted; striding around as though they owned the place. She looked from man to man, but didn't see a single one who wasn’t carrying a weapon. The Sons seemed to insist that everyone had to be armed at all times, a far cry from the normal laws in New York. But then, Raechel had to admit it might be necessary. The camp might be attacked at any moment.

  “Raechel,” Adam said, as she was escorted into his office. “How are you enjoying life in camp?”

  “It’s different,” Raechel said. She wasn't quite sure what to make of Adam. Sitting behind his desk, he looked like a clerk - he certainly seemed to be in charge of the paperwork - but other officers, seemingly more dangerous, deferred to him. “I’ve never been anywhere quite like it.”

  Joan snorted. “She make a right dog’s dinner out of the stew, sir,” she said. “She’s not used to doing anything for herself.”

  Raechel scowled, but resisted the urge to snap at the older woman. It wasn't as if she was one of those girls who needed a maid to do everything. She could wash and dress herself with the best of them. But then, if she was being completely honestly, most aristocratic dresses were designed to require assistance to put on ...

  “I doubt anyone really cared, Joan,” Adam said. “Did it get eaten?”

  “Of course it did,” Joan said. She shot Raechel a nasty look. “There’s no wastage here!”

  “Thank you,” Adam said, shortly. “You may leave us.”

  Raechel expected Joan to snap at him, or at least to point out that he was acting more like an aristocrat than a Son of Liberty, but instead she merely nodded and retreated out the door, leaving Raechel alone with Adam. She felt an odd thrill of excitement, mixed with fear and trepidation. Being alone with a man - one she assumed to be unmarried - was a slap in the face to society’s conventions ... but, at the same time, she knew she was in his power. A scream wouldn't bring help ...

  Or perhaps it would, she thought. Joan had told her - and the other girls - that they had to scream, if they felt threatened by any of the men. But it would be disastrous.

  “Have a seat,” Adam said. “I have some more questions for you.”

  Raechel groaned, inwardly. Did Adam suspect? He’d asked her questions when she’d first arrived, perhaps hoping she’d trip up at some point. The other girls had bombarded her with questions too, mostly demanding to know what it was like to be an aristocrat. Had they been primed to ask questions that might blow her cover? Or was Adam playing at something else?

  She sat down and glanced around the tiny office, trying not to meet his eyes. There was little elegance in the room, none of the gilt-edged furniture she recalled from her father’s office, but it did look neat and tidy. Adam was definitely a clerk at heart, she decided; he’d organised the paperwork into something anyone could comprehend. And ...

  “I believe you met the Viceroy,” Adam said. “What did you make of him?”

  “I only met him once for more than a minute or two,” Raechel said. “I was presented to him at the ball ...”

  “You were a debutante, I suppose,” Adam said.

  “I came out in London,” Raechel said. “It was just a formal presentation to New York’s social scene.”

  She winced as the memory caused her a pang of grief. Her mother had presented her to the ton, knowing her daughter would become one of the most sought-after hands in London. Queen Charlotte had been in attendance, too; Raechel had almost tripped over her own dress when she’d curtseyed to the Queen. And if she’d known her mother would die, later that year, she would have been more appreciative of the chance to spend time with her. What she’d said, after the ball, had been unforgivable.

  Adam shrugged. “And when the Viceroy wanted you to marry him?”

  Raechel choked. “He wanted me to marry his son,” she corrected. Viceroy Rochester was old enough to be her father. Indeed, he’d married young, but waited nearly a decade before fathering Bruce. That was odd, amongst the aristocracy. Every family needed a male heir and at least one spare before disaster fell. “I wouldn't have married him!”

  “He’s hardly likely to take your feelings into account,” Adam pointed out. “Or is he?”

  Raechel gathered herself. “My honest impression of him, sir, is that he is a little overwhelmed by competing problems,” she said. “But he didn't bother to confide in me.”

  “A shame, that,” Adam grunted. “Do you know anything of use?”

  “I am a girl,” Raechel said, tartly. What was Adam playing at? “Do you imagine I was meant for anything, but marrying and producing children?”

  She felt another stab of ... something. If she’d been a boy, she would have been involved in maintaining her father’s estate from a very early age; she would have
inherited, without any cavorts, as soon as her father died. The Slater name would have opened doors at the very highest levels of society. She could have bought herself a commission, joined the civil service or even walked into Parliament. But for a girl ... she was at her aunt’s mercy for another six years. The prospect of being married off was all too real.

  “Maybe,” Adam said. “I understand you can read and write?”

  He passed her a sheet of paper. “Read this.”

  Raechel took the piece of paper and scanned it, thoughtfully. The handwriting was awful, but she’d spent enough time parsing out her aunt’s crabby writing to know how best to decipher it.

  “Two men were arrested in Brooklyn for handing out warning notices,” she read. “Franklyn has withdrawn from Theta.”