Gunwitch

by David Michael

  Private Donalsonne led them up a narrow external stairway and to a deck that overlooked the interior of the fort. For the first time since he had turned his back on them at the gate, he faced them. His eyes darted to Rose’s hand on her pistol. Rose did not need to look to know that her knuckles showed white. She kept her face blank. It was all she could do not to pull out the pistol, to have it ready.

  Because maybe the other gunwitch was not a woman.

  “If you will wait here,” Private Donalsonne said, “I’ll announce you to the General.”

  Rose nodded and the private spun on his heel. He went to one of the doors that opened off the deck.

  Ducoed? No. Thomas Ducoed hated the army more than she did. She had heard that he managed to receive a commission and then an honorable discharge. She wondered how he had done that, but knew she would not like to hear the details. He had come to the Colonies four years ago and lived for a while in New Venezia. Rose had avoided the city while she heard he was there. Then he had disappeared into bayuk and bush. She had hoped he had died. She had imagined his gruesome death more than once.

  The private returned a minute later and held the door. “The General will see you now.”

  Before Rose could move to the door, though, an officer stepped out and looked at both Rose and Chal. A young man, hardly older than Chal, but a major by his insignia. He walked to Rose and extended his hand. “Sergeant Bainbridge,” he said. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”

  Unsure how to respond, Rose took her hand off her gun and held it out in front of her. He shook her hand, his grip firm and warm.

  “I have heard so much about you,” he went on, the corners of his mouth tugged slightly by a smile that also shone in his green eyes. “I could scarcely believe when the General told me you had been summoned. Forgive me,” he added. “I am Major Ian Haley of His Majesty’s Army.” His grip shifted and he gave her an elaborate bow, then kissed her hand.

  Rose felt her face growing warm under his attention, and noticed that he still held her hand. She took the hand back and said, “Please, Major, just Rose. I was stripped–” Her tongue twisted after she said the word, both from the remembered humiliation of the day, and from the intensity in his face as he looked her. If she had been suddenly stripped for real, disrobed in front of this handsome young man, she could not have been more flustered. “Just Rose,” she repeated, shortly. Only a bit more shortly than she intended. She turned slightly, to deflect his attention. “And this is Chal. My friend and companion. She is a native from across the Gulf.”

  If he heard her tone, the Major’s face did not show it. He gave Chal a short bow, then turned back to Rose. “A pleasure to meet you both,” he said. “Rose. And Chal.” He gestured toward the door where Private Donalsonne still stood at attention. “If you will precede me, the General is waiting. And so are some other people who are most eager to meet you.”

  The room she stepped into seemed dark after the bright morning sun, despite the windows and the fire in the hearth. The others in the room were silhouettes standing around a table in the center of the room.

  One of the silhouettes, tall, a man, with unruly curls turned to face her. She did not need to see him clearly to recognize him. In the gloom, his blue eyes were dark gray, his brown hair almost black. But his lips, pulled into a smirking grin, showed a smile she had never been able to forget.

  She had her pistol out of her belt and level, hammer back, pointing at his heart in less than a breath.

  “Rosalind,” Ducoed said. Behind him, across the table, Rose heard surprised intakes of breath and a girlish whimper. Behind her she thought she heard the major grunt in surprise.

  Rose bared her teeth. “Don’t say my name.” Her voice, like her gun, rock steady.

  “Then what should I call you?”

  “What is the meaning of this?” The General’s voice cut off her reply. The General stepped forward, to Ducoed’s left. “Sergeant Bainbridge, if you have a grievance with your former comrade-at-arms, I would appreciate it if you settled it outside my quarters. And,” he added, looking past Rose, over her shoulder, “whatever that complaint might be, I can not imagine that it involves my newest officer.”

  Rose did not take her eyes off of Ducoed. “Chal?”

  “The handsome major is covered, yes.”

  Rose risked a quick look back. Chal had her carbine positioned under Major Haley’s chin, and him on tiptoes, hands wide and high.

  Ducoed shifted to his left, toward the General, trying to use her momentary distraction. But Rose followed him, grabbing his shirt with her free hand, pulling him to her, pressing the gun against his chest. Ducoed opened his mouth.

  Rose’s fingers tightened on the trigger.

  “Sergeant Bainbridge,” the General said, his voice sharp, commanding, but not loud. “I must insist that you put your gun away. And tell your companion to stop threatening Major Haley.”

  Rose looked into Ducoed’s eyes, and he looked back, closing his mouth. The smirk faded from his lips until his face was a mask of indifference. His eyes told her nothing. She tried to look deeper, into whatever was left of Ducoed’s soul, looking for whatever might be left of her friend. She looked for something, anything, and he gave her nothing. She could not penetrate below the surface of the man her friend had become. Then she felt foolish for even trying. Her friend had been gone for twenty-five years. That was why Ducoed angered her so much. He owed her so much, yet never acknowledged even the tiniest debt. He only caused pain. He never felt it.

  She wanted to kill him, where he stood, so close that she would feel him die. Let hot lead and cold magic rip him to pieces. Maybe he would feel that. Maybe then he would feel her pain. She could do it. She had done worse.

  But not since she had left the army. Here she was, though, standing inside a fort again, gun ready, ready to kill with officers looking on.

  “Sergeant Bainbridge?” The general’s voice was almost gentle.

  Movement behind Ducoed caught Rose’s eye, and she saw two girls holding each other and looking at her with terror. The sight of those pale, young faces, so out of place in the fort, so afraid of what she might do, achieved what the general could not. Had she looked like these girls twenty-five years ago? Was she fulfilling the role for them that the army and Ducoed had assumed for her? Whatever else she might do, whatever else she might be capable of, she would not do that.

  She let go of Ducoed, pushing him away as she stepped back. She did not want to–she would not–kill him in front of the girls. For one last instant, though, she hoped he would make a move, any move, even the twitch of a hand. But he only stood there, and looked at her.

  She released the hammer on the pistol and settled it back in place. Then she pushed the gun into her belt again. Behind her, she heard the major’s heels come down on the floor and Chal appeared beside her.

  “My apologies, general,” Rose said.

  * * *

  The general had chairs brought so everyone could sit down, then had a private serve tea.

  “I’m not accustomed to such displays in my briefing room,” he said, looking over his cup of tea at Rose. Rose met his gaze, but said nothing. “Though perhaps,” he went on, “there is a lesson to be learned. Wouldn’t you say so, Major Haley?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Major said.

  “Young and pretty does not mean helpless.”

  Major Haley’s face colored and he dropped his eyes to his tea. “Yes, sir.”

  General Tendring turned to look at the oldest of the girls. “Isn’t that right, Janett?” The girl looked pleased. “I am not accustomed to such displays of emotion. However, as I have now lived through several of them, two just today, perhaps it is my expectations that should change.” Now the girl’s face flushed. “There is no excuse, though, for my own lapses. I have been remiss. Sergeant Bainbridge, may I introduce to you Janett and Margaret Laxton. You have already met their young protector, Major Haley. And of course you know Leftenant Ducoed.”r />
  Rose bowed in her seat toward the two girls and gave the major a nod and an apologetic smile. She did not look at Ducoed.

  Janett rose from her chair when introduced and gave a perfect curtsy. Margaret did the same, but without grace. Standing too quickly, then sitting too loudly. Margaret met Rose’s eyes, then looked away. Janett was the older of the two girls, very pretty, with auburn hair and blue eyes. Rose guessed her age at seventeen or eighteen. Margaret, she decided, could not be older than thirteen. Unlike Janett’s impressive coiffure, Margaret’s blonde hair looked as if it had been only partially tamed, and her arms and legs seemed too long for her dress. Her blue eyes, though, were an exact match for Janett’s. And they stirred long dormant memories.

  “You are acquainted with their father, I’ve been told,” the general said. “Colonel Laxton. Though the Colonel was only a Leftenant when you knew him.”

  Rose kept her expression neutral. “Yes, of course. I remember Leftenant Laxton.” She heard Ducoed’s low chuckle, and it sent a chill down her spine along with the remembered pain of punishment. Yes, they were both acquainted with the former Leftenant Laxton. She noticed Margaret looking at her. But when Rose turned to face the girl, Margaret looked away and would not meet her eyes again.

  “Good. Because you’re going to take the girls to see their father. At Fort Russell.”

  Rose leaned forward in her seat. “Isn’t it traditional to ask first, general? I’m not in the army anymore.”

  General Tendring put his cup down on its saucer. “I have been assured that you would be accompanying the girls. Though, after your recent display,” he added, looking at Ducoed, “perhaps those assurances were given prematurely.”

  “He said I would go along?” She pointed at Ducoed, but her eyes never left the general.

  “And I remain convinced,” Ducoed said, speaking up for the first time, “that Sergeant Bainbridge will agree to come along with me and the girls.”

  “I will be along, as well,” Major Haley said.

  “Yes, of course,” Ducoed replied.

  Rose ignored both men. “Taking these girls upriver? Are you all mad? There’s a war on.”

  The general nodded. “Yes, there is a war on. And it is possible that we’re all mad, as well. Hear me out,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall Rose. “As Janett has pointed out to me many, many times over the past weeks of her stay, the war has not come so far south as Fort Russell. Not yet, in any case. And her father is expecting the two of them to visit. After a journey so far across the Atlantic to reach here, the girls refuse to be so close and not seize the chance to see their father.”

  “Forgive me, general,” Rose said, “but I have to ask. What has this to do with me?”

  “We simply must go see our father,” Janett said.

  “He’s waiting for us,” Margaret said.

  Rose looked at Margaret. Those were the only words she had heard the girl say so far. Margaret met her eye, but only for an instant, then looked away. Rose turned back to Tendring.

  “As you have said,” the general went on, “there is the war to consider. Though the main thrust of that war is happening far from the Gulf of Azteka, its tendrils have reached even here. Two days ago, I dispatched reinforcements upriver to Fort Russell. As you can see, and as I have heard at every pause, I did not send the girls with those reinforcements. This was for several reasons. Foremost among them, young ladies such as Janett and Margaret have no place on a march with men-at-arms. Secondly, the river has become too risky for them to travel. The way is too open, too obvious.”

  “So you’re going to send them through the bayuk with this man?” She pointed at Ducoed again.

  “Leftenant Ducoed served with distinction for twenty years,” the general said, a slight edge in his voice, “and he was discharged with honor.”

  Rose looked away from the general, and away from Ducoed. She knew all about Ducoed’s honor. And the general knew all too much about her own dishonor.

  “The Leftenant presented himself at the fort nearly a month ago, offering his services as a scout. At his request, I kept the nature of his past service confidential–”

  “Of course,” Rose interjected. The enlisted men would trust a gunlock even less than a gunwitch. At least a gunwitch could be recognized immediately. Only one type of woman wore a uniform in the King’s Army.

  General Tendring ignored her. “When the girls arrived in New Venezia, my first thought was to ship them straight back to England. But they prevailed upon me. Twice, I must confess. First, to stay, and now to see them escorted into the arms of their waiting father. Hearing their story, Leftenant Ducoed volunteered to assist them.”

  “But, General–”

  “Please, Sergeant Bainbridge. Allow me to restate myself and make up for my earlier mistakes. You are correct. You are no longer a man-at-arms subject to the King’s officers, and I was wrong to presume to give you orders.” He paused. “Will you accept my apologies, Rose Bainbridge?”

  Rose could not keep the surprise off her face. The general had never called her by her name. Not once in all their years together. Being officer and enlisted in the King’s Army there could be no familiarity. Even as they huddled in the cold, hiding from the Hexen, two isolated English survivors of a campaign gone horribly wrong.

  “Please,” Rose said, dropping her eyes. “Don’t think of it.”

  “Rose Bainbridge.” The repetition of her name brought her eyes back to his. “Would you offer this assistance to your King, and to me, and see to the safe delivery of Janett and Margaret Laxton to their father, Colonel Laxton, at Fort Russell?”

  Rose wanted to say No. She almost said it. Then she saw Margaret looking at her, face open and eager. The little girl even met Rose’s eyes, faltering only an instant. The general had said her name, and he had asked her. Asked her. Old loyalties stirred and quarreled in her chest.

  She did not want to accept. Not yet. “Does he have to go?” she asked, pointing at Ducoed.

  The general steepled his hands and looked at her. “You have both served me well in the past. I have no doubt that you will both serve me well in this. And I can think of no safer way to send the girls than in the company of two members of the 101st Pistoleers.”

  Rose could think of many, but she realized that the general would not agree. Damn Ducoed and his distinguished service and honorable discharge.

  “And he–” she pointed at Ducoed again, still refusing to look at him–”requested that I be a part of … of this?”

  General Tendring shook his head. “No, the Leftenant was surprised to discover that I knew of your whereabouts, and that you were so near at hand. Or were, last I had heard. I suggested that you might need …” He paused. “That you might be willing to assist, and Leftenant Ducoed agreed immediately. He assured me that when you knew the full nature of my request that you would not hesitate to offer your gun and your knowledge of the bayuk. So I sent for you.”

  Rose kept her face impassive and resisted the urge to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked at the general, then at Janett and Margaret. “Right.” Bloody hell, was what she wanted to say. She would not denounce Ducoed. She never had, despite what he had done. But she would not let him take the girls through the bayuk by himself. She said, “I’ll do it. But only as a civilian. I’m not rejoining the Army.”

  “Thank you thank you thank you,” Margaret said, bouncing in her seat.

  Janett gave her a smiling nod. “Thank you, Miss Bainbridge.”

  The general also gave her a nod, his face as impassive as Rose’s.

  “I knew you would,” Ducoed said.

  Rose refused to look at him. If she looked at him, if she saw his smirk, she was not sure she would not shoot him, right there in front of the general and the girls, consequences be damned. “You don’t know me,” she said. “Not at all.”

  Chapter 2

  Rosalind

  Phillips on the Birchwood

  1718 A.D.
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br />   Rosalind Bainbridge gathered the hem of her skirt with her left hand and pulled it to her knees so she could climb the fence. She reached the top using an awkward one-hand-two-leg gait and found that her skirt still prevented her from lifting her leg high enough. So she pulled the skirt up even further, exposing her legs and her underclothes. The late spring wind brushed against her legs from behind, giving her gooseflesh.

  “Rosalind!” Elizabeth cried out behind her, scandalized.

  “Hush!” Rosalind said, and hooked her right leg over. She pulled herself up so she straddled the top of the fence, skirt now bunched around her hips, pale legs down either side. The world looked so different from up here. Only six feet up, scarcely taller than a grown man, but it was like a mountaintop to her. From here she could see more of the village of Phillips on the Birchwood and the surrounding countryside than from anywhere else. Already fourteen, almost a woman–almost a spinster according to some–Rosalind had seen nothing of the world. Her small life, the small lives of the entire population of Phillips on the Birchwood, made the world seem tiny. But the world was huge. She had no doubt about that. And she wanted to see much more of it than one village.

  “Rosalind!” Elizabeth said again. “Get down. Someone will see you.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Rosalind said, “if they would let me wear pants.”

  She smiled at Elizabeth’s shocked look. Her sister was twelve, nearly thirteen. Elizabeth, at least, would be easy to marry off, and had already been the subject of queries by the village’s other notable families. Rosalind’s prospects, though, despite starting strong even in the face of her tomboy tendencies, had dried up quickly. England no longer burned witches. But the rumors about her had been enough to cancel one betrothal and push the dowry demands of the few others who might be interested well past the resources available to the Bainbridge family.