Rosalind crawled until she could reach Thomas’ face. She reached out to touch one of the welts on his face. She could help him. Thomas did not look at her. He only pulled his face away.
“For attempting to strike a superior officer,” Corporal Edwards said, “for fraternizing with privates of the opposite gender, and for destruction of the King’s property, Privates Ducoed and Bainbridge are hereby sentenced to be flogged and then confined to the stockade for one week …”
Rosalind stopped listening. She wanted to cry, but Private Bainbridge pushed down the tears and would not let them come. She sat back on her knees. Her pistol settled between her breasts, the metal parts cold and sharp against her skin.
Chapter 14
Ducoed
Misi-ziibi, South of Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Ducoed finished buttoning the last of the brass buttons of his red Leftenant’s uniform. He adjusted the gold knots that hung through his epaulets, then smoothed out the remaining wrinkles on his sleeves and the front of the coat. He took his peaked hat in both hands and put it on his head. He had kept his uniform on his discharge and brought it with him to the New World. He had not worn the uniform since then, but he had refused to give up anything he had worked so long to attain. And he had thought he might be able to put it to further use someday. Like the use he was now making of it. He picked up his pistol, checked the load out of long habit, and put it in his belt.
He snapped to attention, clicking his heels together. Then he performed a parade-ground-perfect about face to present himself to Margaret. The little girl sat between the two izidumbus. “What do you think, Margaret?” he asked, gesturing with his hand as if presenting himself for inspection. “Don’t I make quite the young officer of His Majesty’s Infantry?”
Margaret did not answer. The girl only stared at him. Except she did not really stare at him. She stared through him. She had been like that the past few days. She refused to speak or respond to him.
So far, he considered Margaret’s silence and withdrawn presence a game. He had amused himself by making her the audience to increasingly debauched and brutal displays of sexual intercourse and torture. He could not have her body to use as he wanted, but her mind was not required by his Ubasi debtors. Her mind he could play with, even if only indirectly.
“I remember when your father wore a uniform much like this one,” he said. Margaret said nothing, but a single muscle in her jaw twitched. “Was that a reaction, little Margaret? Do I look like your father? He was quite the dashing figure, even when he held a whip. You will see him soon, you know. Then you can compare the two of us.”
The flap of his tent blew open as someone strode in.
Ducoed turned from Margaret, hand on the butt of his pistol, white power surging within him, ready to release the lightning into whomever had interrupted him.
Umoya’s black eyes met his. Ducoed let go of the pistol, and the lightning, feeling the power pass out of him and into the air around him. He kept his hatred of the sorcerer, though, and let that show in his eyes and ring in his voice.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Umoya?”
Umoya smiled, showing his white teeth. The smile went away as the big man crossed his arms and stood there. His face was as impassive as Margaret’s, but his eyes were locked on to Ducoed. He said nothing.
“I see,” Ducoed said. “My humble servant, as always.”
He was about to turn his back on Umoya and continue his conversation with Margaret when the tent flap moved again. Mandla entered. The black warrior gave a short bow to Umoya, then looked at Ducoed. “The izidumbus have been made ready, Duke Blackwood.”
Ducoed wanted nothing more than to kill both of them. He wanted to strip the mottled skin off Umoya strip by strip and see if the sorcerer really had been put together from multiple bodies. He wanted to crush Mandla’s defiant face under his boots. But the time had not come for either of those pleasures. Soon, though. He smiled, showing his own teeth. “Then let us away,” he said.
Umoya turned around and left the tent.
* * *
Ducoed left his bodyguard of armored izidumbus with Mandla and rode to the front of the column. Umoya had kept the ithambofis in check after the ambush, preserving as many corpses of the English regulars intact–and their all-important red and white uniforms. The izidumbus Umoya had created from the corpses had been brought to the front of the column. They had their tricorner hats on, their packs on their backs, and carried their muskets in front of them. The regimental banners that had not been too badly damaged had also been salvaged and those were held aloft. They were a grotesque parody of English infantry on the march. Ducoed could not help smiling.
A Swedish patrol had encountered Ducoed’s army last night. Most of the patrol had died. Ducoed had considered sending ithambofis after the survivors, but decided the stories the men would tell their commanding officers would be of more use to him than complete secrecy. The besiegers of Fort Russell had to know that reinforcements were coming. Let them now speculate on the nature of those reinforcements. Ducoed was prepared to attack the besiegers to get at the prizes he would claim from the fort. But it would be easier to get into Fort Russell if the besiegers left on their own. His plan, of course, assumed they would not leave. He expected the Swedes to do what he had done: ambush the reinforcements coming to succor Fort Russell.
He was right.
The ambush occurred where the river bent almost due east. Ducoed had studied the maps of the Misi-ziibi south of the fort and seen the same opportunity the Swedish commander had. By cutting across the bend of the river, through the bayuk, a force could be put in position on short notice. If the ambushers had had any idea of that they were not facing English regulars, the ambush might have been successful.
Ducoed drew back from the front of the marching izidumbus when the Swedish troops opened fire from under cover on the far bank of the river. The river trail on the south bank offered no cover. The izidumbus continued along the route they had been set. They staggered when bullets hit them, sometimes losing hands and arms, but otherwise they ignored the attacks. They would march until they fell apart completely. Ducoed only hoped that he would not lose too many of the ones dressed in uniform. He did need those for at least the rest of today and tomorrow.
He let the ithambofis loose and gave them a cloud of darkness as cover while they crossed the river. He sent Umoya with the ithambofis to make sure they returned to the main force instead of following the survivors of the ambush back to the fort. And to show the multihued sorcerer that he, Ducoed, was still in command of this small army.
Ducoed called a halt when he estimated they were three hours from Fort Russell. He left the izidumbus standing where they halted and set the ithambofis on patrol through the bayuk around the force. He did not expect the Swedes or the Italians to attack again. Instead, he was sure they were even now creating a new set of entrenchments to defend their own rear. Or maybe both forces were getting back on their boats and polling back upriver. Either way, the fort was his. He only needed to show up and claim it, along with Colonel Laxton and Janett. And, he was sure, Rose Bainbridge. And the native girl, Chal.
All his.
Janett and Margaret to pay his debt. Colonel Laxton and Rose to amuse him. Chal to sate his lust and anger. He clenched his fists at the thought.
* * *
Ducoed sent the uniformed izidumbus in first, backed by those Umoya had brought. He accompanied one of the izidumbus carrying a torn banner for the 46th regiment, riding a horse so he could see further. And be seen from further. He fired his pistol time and again, sending lightning and fire over the heads of his troops into the defenses the Swedes had thrown up overnight. He walked his horse forward slowly, even slower than the izidumbus, controlling his mount with his knees, the reins in his teeth so he could use both hands to reload. He wished he had a second to reload for him, but he would make do.
He enjoyed the carnage and the expl
osions he caused, but he was not firing for effect. Instead, he was trying to be seen from the walls of the fort. When he was well clear of the treeline, but still behind the front of his forces, he pointed his pistol to the sky and let loose a flare, a signal from one member of the 101st Pistoleers to another. The flare arced up and over the battlefield, burning brighter than the sun only now breaking over the horizon. Let Rose make of that what she would.
He waited a moment, but there was no answering flare from the fort.
The uniformed izidumbus withstood volley after volley from the entrenched besiegers, continuing to march on the embankments. Mortar shots exploded in their midst, but they kept coming. Those that fell or were thrown aside by the blast and still had both legs, stood and continued walking. Even if they were reduced to a single arm, they would pull themselves forward. Ducoed wondered what the watchers from the walls would make of that.
The Swedes held their positions until the first izidumbus walked up their embankments and fell into the trenches on the other side. The rout started slowly, like a pot beginning to boil. First a couple of men pulling back, then running, sometimes leaving their weapons behind. The izidumbus did not attack, they just followed the retreating soldiers up the slope at their slow, step-by-step gait.
Not until he heard a bugle sounding a massed charge from the direction of the fort’s main gates did Ducoed send word for Umoya to advance with the soulgrunzers, ithambofis, and the rest of their army. Then he reined his horse to a stop and watched Colonel Laxton lead a charge from the fort. At least one hundred men and what he knew were the fort’s last two mobile grunzers came out of the gate to join the battle.
He looked for signs of Rose, or Chal, but saw none. That intrigued him. First no response to his flare. Now this. Surely, the two scouts had had time to reach the fort. And he had no doubt that Colonel Laxton would conscript Rose to defend the fort. Rose would have told the Colonel about his betrayal in the swamp, but he knew the colonel would not believe her. After all, Leftenant Ducoed was one of His Majesty’s officers and above reproach. The colonel would disregard Rose’s claims and insist that Rose assist with the defense of Fort Russell. Colonel Laxton would say it was Rose’s duty to stay and fight. Or maybe that was what had happened, and Rose had refused. Were the two women still at the fort? Or had they slipped away? Were they waiting to ambush him?
A thrill of fear caused him to look around, eyes searching the fort walls and the dark treeline for signs of a sniper. Then he laughed at himself for being foolish. He knew how Rose thought. She would not shoot him from hiding. Further, he had new, powerful allies, a whole army at his command. It was more likely Rose had left Janett with Colonel Laxton and gone back into the swamp.
Bloodlust growing in him, Ducoed kicked his horse into motion again. He no longer bothered to reload his pistol. He only pointed his pistol and lightning and fire arced from him and burned into and through the backs of the fleeing Swedes. He cut across the battlefield toward the banners of Colonel Laxton.
The Swedes were falling back to the Italian camp and the camp of their Native Amerigon allies, but all three camps were now under attack from the fort. Men fired muskets and fought with sabers around him. Grunzers stepped over wide trenches to stomp the men on the other side. The grunzers wielded huge metal hammers that they smashed into the mortar emplacements. Gray smoke rolled over the battlefield. Men shouted as they fought and screamed as they died.
The besiegers were beginning to surrender, those that were not running for the beached boats and barges, as he pulled up near the Colonel’s bodyguards.
“Leftenant!” the colonel shouted, smiling like an old warrior and lifting his bloody saber in a salute. “Good show! Very good show!”
Ducoed smiled back and imagined killing the colonel after having raped the man’s two daughters in front of him. He offered a return salute with his pistol, and turned his horse around to see where Umoya was.
The defenders of the fort were beginning to taste their victory. The men closest to him were saluting him and echoing the colonel with shouts of “Good show!” As if any of them would even have a drink with him later, outside of battle, knowing now that he was from the 101st Pistoleers. A man of the Witches Crew. But he just smiled and waved back. He looked over his right shoulder toward the fort and saw that the first of the izidumbus had already reached the still-open main gate.
“Hell in a handbasket,” said a private near Ducoed. “What kind of witchery is that?”
Ducoed spun his mount to run down the man, but saw the private looking past him, to the southwest. He turned back around, following the man’s gaze.
Umoya was flying on a column of black smoke followed by the hissing and stomping soulgrunzers glowing red in the darkness. Ithambofis ran between and around the soulgrunzers like bits of hooked shadow.
“Damn you!” Ducoed shouted at the sorcerer, his hatred of the man rising in him again. Flying? The bastard could fly? “Damn you to hell!” What other secrets was Umoya hiding behind those black eyes? Ducoed decided he would enjoy finding out. Later.
Behind him, he heard Colonel Laxton sounding retreat. He also heard the first shouts of alarm from the fort as the izidumbus finally stopped marching and began attacking.
It was time for the next step in the plan.
“To me!” Ducoed shouted, using magic to make his voice even louder than the bugle, the gunfire, and the roar of Umoya’s advance. “To me! For England!” He kicked his horse in the ribs and led the charge toward Umoya. “Charge!”
He threw lightning bolts at Umoya as he rode. The bolts bent past the sorcerer, feeding his hate. So the bastard could fly and avoid his lightning. Ducoed smiled. So much to learn from one man before that man died a slow, painful death.
He did not know how many of Laxton’s men would follow him. He did not care. He rode on.
The line of soulgrunzers opened up as he came up on them, and he rode through them heading for the rear of the force. Margaret should be ready to see her father by now.
Chapter 15
Margaret
Misi-ziibi Riverbank, South of Fort Russell
1742 A.D.
Margaret did not want to hold Mr. Thomas’ hand, but he would not let go. She did not want to walk beside him, but she had no choice. Just like the cold women who had been her escorts through the eternity of walking the past days, if she did not walk, Mr. Thomas would drag her. And just as she had done while Mr. Thomas did unspeakable things in front of her to men and women, living and dead, when she could not look away she tried not to see. She looked down at her feet as they walked, trying not to see what she was also trying not to step on.
“There it is, Margaret,” Mr. Thomas said. “Fort Russell. Didn’t I tell you I would get you there safe and sound?”
Margaret looked up, hating herself for doing so. Mr. Thomas had not lied, though. At the top of a long, sloping hill was a fort. She recognized the English flag and the flag of her father’s regiment flying from the squat towers. She tried not to see the bodies of men that littered the slope of the hill. Or the oily, black smoke that seeped out of the open mouths of the dead and ebbed and flowed along the ground. Or the grotesquely moving corpses and black skeletons that moved among the bodies, dispatching the wounded and hauling off the dead.
She looked down again. She kept her hand limp in Mr. Thomas’ grasp. She tried not to hope that Da was alive. She wanted to hope, but she refused to let Mr. Thomas know that.
“I would think at least a mumbled ‘thank you’ was in order,” Mr. Thomas said, still pulling her forward. “No? Very well. Now that you have seen the fort, though, we are off to see your father. And maybe, after that, your lovely sister, Janett. Maybe even Miss Rose.”
Margaret did not look up this time. Hope and fear struggled in her stomach. She had learned to understand Mr. Thomas’ meanings, to hear what he was not saying. He was not saying Da was alive.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mr. Thomas said, “and you’re w
rong, Margaret. Your father, the good Colonel Laxton, is still alive.”
Margaret’s head jerked up against her wishes. She found Mr. Thomas’ eyes and smile waiting for her. She had seen that smile too many times in the last few nights, softly glowing in the light of lanterns, and in her nightmares after, when he would finally let her sleep, as he described in detail what he was doing. See how the skin peels back, Margaret? The secret is in the tools. Your knife can never be too sharp. You need to maintain a constant pressure, Margaret, but not too much pressure. Do you see me, Margaret? Do you see what you do to me? She looked down again.
“Why, I talked to him only an hour ago,” Mr. Thomas went on. “He was very excited to see me. I expect he will be even more excited to see you.”
She wanted to see Da. More than anything. But she would not let herself hope that what Mr. Thomas meant when he said “still alive” was anything but a ruse. About Da, or about Janett. And not even about Miss Rose, though she had found herself angry when she thought about Miss Rose. Leaving her on the bank of the river to be captured.
Mr. Thomas led her to the northeast, up the slope of the hill. Rifles and clothes and paper and broken barrels littered the slopes along with the mutilated bodies. She smelled blood and entrails and black powder and burning flesh. They walked past the twisted remains of a grunzer, its ruptured boiler leaking steam and water.
Hissing ahead of her made her look up. A circle of the small, misshapen grunzers that had come with Mr. Thomas’ army had formed around another group of even smaller hissing contraptions. The big man with the mottled red, black and yellow skin waited for them outside the circle, arms crossed, his expression blank.
Margaret refused to cry out against the pain when Mr. Thomas’ grip on her hand suddenly threatened to break her bones. She knew Mr. Thomas hated Umoya. He had told her often enough. He had demonstrated how he planned to torture and kill Umoya to her, using one of the survivors from the ambush. Margaret had recognized the soldier from Fort Gunter. His name had been John, but the other soldiers had called him Mule. No one would ever tell her why they called him that. The cold hands of the women who had brought her to Mr. Thomas’ tent had held her face, refusing to let her look away as Mr. Thomas had shown her the source of the nickname, explaining in detail how mules were bred, and had proceeded to defile and dismember Private John.
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