“Have no doubt,” Ducoed said. “That is Rose Bainbridge.”
“And do not doubt the stories told of her,” added the general. The general followed Ducoed’s lead and returned to his chair. He looked at Ducoed. “Do not doubt any of the stories you’ve heard of the 101st Pistoleers.”
Ducoed detected something in General Tendring’s voice, and he wondered what the general might have heard about him. And what the general might have passed on to the major.
“She is younger than I expected,” Major Haley continued, as if neither of the other men had said anything. “And still as pretty as a–” He stopped, and noticed that he stood alone at the table now, with its maps and lists. He walked to the chair next to the general and sat.
“She is older than me,” Ducoed said. “By as much as a year, if I recall correctly. And I would say I’m old enough to be your uncle, though not your father.”
The major looked across the general at Ducoed. “You have known her a long time?”
“Two decades and a bit.” Then he added, “Off and on.”
“If you do not mind my asking, sir, there is a question that has been pressing on my mind.” When Ducoed gestured for him to go ahead, the major asked, “Why did Sergeant–I mean Miss–Bainbridge pull her pistol on you?”
Ducoed forced himself not to smile at the memory, pushing his lips into a thin line that he hoped the young man would construe as regretful. “We had a disagreement,” he said. “A long time ago. About the nature of things.”
“Surely there was more than just a disagreement?”
Ducoed shook his head. “No. That was about the gist of it.” He let himself smile now, relishing the taste of the memory. He leaned forward in his chair, propping himself with his hands on his knees. “Women have long memories,” he said, “of the wrongs done to them by men. While young men quickly forget being held them on the point of a rifle, if the hand on the rifle belongs to a pretty young woman.”
Major Haley looked uncomfortable for an instant, then recovered his composure. “I recall that none of us seemed ready for the onslaught of Rose Bainbridge.”
The smile left Ducoed’s face and his long hatred of officers and men of privilege surged in of his gut and fought against his self-control. He could kill both the major and the general right now. His pistols, on the rack by the door, could come to him with just a thought, then he could bring about the very loud, very messy ends of officers Tendring and Haley. He visualized their bodies torn apart and left bleeding in this room while he walked out of the fort. The shots would bring sentries, of course, but he could deal with those too, even without reloading. He would be back in the swamp, impossible to find, in less than an hour.
But his self-control worked in service of larger goals than petty, self-indulgent killings, and he reasserted his will over his impulses. His goals required the temporary cooperation of the general and the major. Ultimately, the men were expendable–and he would enjoy the expending. Especially the expending of Major Haley. For now, though, he had to have them. He forced himself to smile again. “Too true, Major. Too true. Fortunately, we will have Rose–I mean, Miss Bainbridge–with us on our journey, where her onslaughts will be in our service. Instead of in our faces.”
Ducoed stood, watching the major decipher his comment. “Now, though, I must go see to our provisions and the loading of the gunboat. I will also send word to have our canoes ready for us on the far side. Good afternoon, gentlemen. I will see you both in the morning.”
* * *
The gray coolness of the predawn morning covered the docks when Ducoed reached the pier where Puncher waited. The gunboat General Tendring had put at his disposal was ready to go, having been loaded with their provisions and the girls’ trunks the night before. The trunks and rucksacks were visible, strapped in place on the flat deck. The Puncher’s crew stood around the provisions, talking and breathing clouds of tobacco smoke to rival the dark smoke leaking from the boat’s smokestack.
Despite the early hour the docks were already busy. Men shouted as steamgrunzers hissed and stomped, moving bales of cargo. Boilers flamed and smoked while sails slapped in the light wind and ships and boats cast away. A cacophony of noises that only the son of a longshoreman could enjoy. That longshoreman, a big man with big hands that he had used more than once to express his displeasure in his bosses, his friends, his wife, and his son, had met his end–a gruesome end, and never solved–a long time ago. But his estranged son, spit on and beaten and sent inland half dead, still could not help feeling almost at home here. Almost. Ducoed spit at the memory of home and the memory of his father.
As Ducoed reached Puncher’s gangplank, Rose came out of the shadows with Chal behind her. Both carried packs and had outfitted themselves for the trip with rifles on their backs, powder horns and bags of shot hung on long leather straps, and sheathed hunting knives on their belts. They had both braided their hair in two plaits, one on each side, native-style. By their clothes and the rifles on their backs, they were scouts. Only their small statures and slight frames announced them as women. And only the lighter shade of Rose’s skin and hair showed her European heritage.
Ducoed smiled at Rose, enjoying this image of her, so visibly unlike the girl he had first met. Rose looked back at him without expression.
“No ambush?” he asked.
“I thought about it,” Rose said.
He continued smiling to keep the surprise from his face. Surprise, not that she had not ambushed him, but that she might have considered it. That was unlike Rose Bainbridge. Just as she had surprised him yesterday, pulling her pistol on him as soon as she recognized him. Perhaps her years as a scout, fighting against and among the Amerigon natives had rubbed off on her. Perhaps she had changed more than her outward appearance. Probing, he asked, “And?”
“Maybe later,” Rose said, her voice flat, “when the general isn’t around to be disappointed at my lack of trust in the King’s officers. And my lack of decorum in shooting a comrade in the back.”
Ducoed laughed. Because Rose had not changed after all. More willing to imagine what she could do now, but still hesitating to seize the opportunity when it arrived. Too reliant on the approval of authority. And too civilized, even in this wild land. She was still the Rose he had known. And, therefore, he knew she would be most annoyed by his laughter, as if they had shared a joke or experienced a renewed bit of intimacy.
Rose looked away, her face still impassive. But Ducoed could see the tight muscles of her jaw and how her fingers clenched.
The general had suggested Rose for their expedition, but Ducoed had planned all along for her to come. General Tendring was certain to have heard some of the rumors about him, even if the older man had the good taste not to mention them and to treat Ducoed as if his official military service record were the true one. Rose, though, the general trusted in spite of her official record. Having her on the expedition would offset the general’s concerns, reassure him about the safety of Janett and Margaret. For Ducoed, having her along was a risk, but also too enticing a situation not to take advantage of. Because unlike Rose, Ducoed never hesitated to seize an opportunity.
The sound of boots marching in step along the wood of the docks announced the arrival of the general, Major Haley, the Misses Janett and Margaret Laxton, and the infantry regulars. The girls walked with the officers, Janett on the arm of General Tendring and Margaret escorted by the major. Both girls attracted attention, but especially Janett. The cut of her dress was simple, and the colors muted, as Ducoed had suggested, but she wore the dress with all the elegance of a lady of the court. She had fixed her hair as if attending a ball, and she carried a fan. As she walked along the pier, the sun broke over the eastern horizon, illuminating her. All work paused as she went by, and the men stared.
How the unhandsome countenance of Leftenant–now Colonel–Laxton had sired such beauties, Ducoed could not imagine. As he watched Janett approach, his fingers twitched, and he fought to maintain his s
elf-control in the face of such delicious temptation. He smiled and bowed as Janett caught his eye, imagining what they could do together. What he could do to her. Or to her awkward little sister while Janett watched, bound and unable to turn away. Would she scream? Plead? Cry? Or would she enjoy it all, moaning with pleasure? He would not do any of those things, of course. This expedition, and especially these girls, were meant to feed a different lust.
Janett smiled back at him, innocent, unaware of the thoughts behind his eyes.
Behind him, he heard Rose whispering to Chal, “Perhaps she expects an audience with the Alligator King?” Chal’s laughter was like a bubbling brook.
The infantrymen filed past Ducoed, up the gangplank to the deck of Puncher. The officers and the girls stopped in front of him.
Janett went up on tiptoes to kiss the cheek of the General. “Good-bye, Uncle,” she said. “Do not enjoy the silence of our absence too keenly, for it will not last. We will see you again on our return.”
“Off with you,” the general said. “And perhaps for that short time you are gone I will have some success keeping my men focused on their tasks.”
Ducoed extended his left hand and Janett took it. Her fingers felt so tiny in his hand. So fragile. He extended his right hand to Margaret. “Come along, Margaret,” he said. “Our adventure begins.”
Margaret let go of Major Haley’s arm, but she skipped past Ducoed’s hand and went to Rose. “Miss Rose,” she said, “look!” She bent over at the waist, grabbed the hem of her dress and raised her skirt. “Trousers! One of the boys in the fort gave them to me.” A pair of small men’s trousers, bunched at the top from being cinched with a belt, covered Margaret’s legs. The cuffs had been rolled to make them short enough but they still covered her black shoes.
“Margaret!” Janett shouted, raising her free hand to cover her mouth with her fan. “How could you?”
Ducoed laughed. At Margaret’s standing there looking like an exhibiting show girl, and at the surprise on Rose’s face.
“I would’ve worn just trousers,” Margaret said, “but Janett wouldn’t let me.”
“At least one of you has some sense,” Rose said, her impassive look returning. Then she turned her back on the girl. Without another word, she and Chal boarded the gunboat.
Margaret looked pleased, then confused as Rose turned away, as if she could not figure out which of the sisters Rose had meant, then hurt at the rebuff. The girl let her skirt drop back into place. The hem hung unevenly, caught on the bulky cuffs.
“Don’t be sad, Margaret,” Ducoed said. “You have impressed the famous Rose Bainbridge, I assure you.” He saw Major Haley look at him, but he kept his eyes on Margaret. “She has a difficult time showing her approval.”
“Give your uncle a kiss, Margaret,” Janett said.
Margaret walked over to the general, who bent down so she could reach his cheek. “I know you’re not my uncle,” she said. “But you’ve been very kind.”
“Take care of your sister,” General Tendring said.
“I don’t think she’ll let me,” Margaret said.
General Tendring stood straight again and faced Major Haley. “Take care of them both, Major.”
The major saluted. “Yes, sir. It will be my pleasure, sir.”
The general returned the salute. He turned to face Ducoed, but then looked past him, to the gunboat, and nodded.
Ducoed glanced over his shoulder and saw Rose turning away. When Ducoed turned back to the general, the older man looked into Ducoed’s eyes, taking his time, as if searching for a hidden purpose. Ducoed let him look.
“And you,” the general said after a long minute, “take care of them all.”
Ducoed smiled as he took Margaret’s hand. Her fingers, even smaller than Janett’s, felt warm in his palm. He gave both girls’ hands a squeeze. “It will be my pleasure, sir.”
Chapter 4
Margaret
Puncher, Lake Patrizio
1742 A.D.
Margaret Laxton stood in the bow, leaning against the forward rail as Puncher chugged and splashed its way across the lake. Once she had stepped on board Puncher, she had decided two things. First, she would spend the entire time of their short trip across the lake on deck, looking at the water and the sky and the trees of the distant shorelines. And, second, she would spend none of that time with Janett.
On their trip from England she had been confined to the tiny cabin she shared with Janett, with only brief walks on deck just after dawn and before sunset. She loved her sister, but after weeks together on the sail schooner Maryanna Rose, which had been packed to the brim with cargo, sailors and soldiers, followed by further weeks inside a fort filled with soldiers and grunzers, and only her sister for company and, when he could be spared from his duties, Major Haley, she felt a bit of time apart was called for. Even if that time apart encompassed only a few hours and a few square yards, she would make the most of both.
She had become fond of the little gunboat they rode as soon as she heard its name. After all, the two of them, boat and girl, shared a name. “Father’s Little Puncher” Da had called his baby Margaret in her early years, before his command took him to the Continent, then further away to New World. Also, Puncher looked short, squat and awkward compared to the stately beauty of Maryanna Rose. Margaret thought she fared much the same way beside Janett. Mother had assured Margaret time and again that she was just as pretty as Janett, or would be someday. But Margaret had now spent too many months beside her sister in the company of men to continue to believe Mother’s assurances.
Behind her she could hear Janett talking and laughing, entertaining both Mr. Thomas and Major Haley. Margaret had once asked her sister if she would ever attract so many admirers. “Of course, darling,” Janett had said. “But first we must get your hair brushed. And please do not lean against the wall like that. Stand up straight…” The next two weeks had seen Janett fussing over Margaret, dressing her and instructing her how to “properly walk”. Then, fortunately for Margaret’s sanity and the continuing love of sisters, a new suitor had come along. Master Jonathan had had eyes for Janett only, but it was Margaret who called him “my champion” for saving her. Margaret had not asked Janett that question again.
Puncher’s course across Lake Patrizio bore west by northwest. The weeks on the Maryanna Rose had taught Margaret about the compass and headings and how to judge direction from the position of the sun. Over Margaret’s right shoulder the sun finally rose clear of the eastern horizon and illuminated the far shore of the lake. Though it was still miles away, she could see the morning fog lurking around the trunks of the trees, and straggling snakes of vapor retreating from the surface of the lake into the shade of the–
She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember the word Miss Rose had used.
“Bayuk,” she said out loud, surprising herself. She looked around to see if anyone had heard, but she was still alone in the bow.
Before they had cast off, she had asked the officer in charge of Puncher how long their trip would be. In the process she made the mistake of calling him “Captain”.
He had let forth a loud, raucous laugh, and she had slumped and started to turn away. He had put a big, dirty hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Don’t be glum, lass,” he had said. “It’s a common enough mistake you’re making. It might even be considered a compliment,” he added, though his expression had shown that he was not one who considered it such. “Do you think a noble captain of His Majesty’s Navy would be commanding a peppy little boat like Puncher?” He had leaned over the side and spat into the dirty water of the docks. “But do you know what?” he had asked, squatting on his heels so their eyes met. “The joke’s on them.” He gave her a lopsided smile and a wink. “’Cause little Puncher can run circles around those big, beautiful ships with their high airs captains and their prissy first mates.”
Margaret had giggled. He had looked so funny, and so proud of his Puncher. He reminded her of Da when he
was at home and not wearing his uniform. She had liked him immediately.
The man had then told her, “On board Puncher, lass, I am Master Ezekiel Gallows. A bella bambina like yourself, though, may call me Mister Zeek and I will proudly answer. And speaking of answers,” he went on, “we will be arriving on the far side before the noon sun reaches its zenith.”
Margaret hoped the trip would take longer. She did not want to leave Puncher or Mister Zeek any sooner than she had to. She liked the way the boat moved over the surface of the lake, just as she had enjoyed the motions of the Maryanna Rose. Unlike Janett, who had spent the first days out of Bristol miserable and hungry. But this was different. Like the ocean in miniature.
“You like being on the waters?”
Margaret jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice and turned to see the native girl, Rose’s friend, stood beside her. She tried to remember the girl’s name.
The girl smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. “You may call me Chal.”
“Yes,” Margaret said, still surprised. She had heard no footsteps. And now it seemed like Chal had read her thoughts. Twice. “Yes,” she again. “I do. I mean, I like being on the water.” She remembered her manners then–or Janett’s manners, anyway–and gave a quick curtsy, pulling at her skirt just enough to display the cuffs of her trousers before letting it settle back into place. “A pleasure to meet you–Miss Chal. I’m–my name is–Margaret. Margaret Laxton.”
Chal nodded. “You may call me Chal, Margaret Laxton.”
Margaret had never really looked at the girl before. The girl had a darker skin tone than the other natives she had seen in New Venezia. Not the black of the slaves, though. Just a deep, rich red-brown. Her eyes were brown, nearly as dark as the braids of her hair that framed her face. And, Margaret noticed, the girl was young. At most only a year or two older than Janett’s seventeen years. And pretty too. Maybe, in her own way, as pretty as Janett.
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