Roland Kersauzon sighed again. "I wish it didn't happen here, too, Sergeant. I hope to correct my error. I'm sorry if that means wearing out your boots."
"So am I," the sergeant said. "I hope we can fix things, that's all."
"Me, too," Roland said, and sighed one more time.
"The Frenchmen are coming! The Frenchmen are coming!" The frightened cry echoed through the encampment the English settlers and redcoats had made south of Freetown.
It also echoed through the streets of Freetown itself. Some of the townsfolk showed the confidence in the men defending them by packing whatever they could into wagons and carriages, or onto the backs of horses and mules, or onto their own backs, and heading north at the best turn of speed they could manage.
Blaise delivered a one-word judgment on that: "Yellow." Then he asked, "Why is a coward yellow in English? Not in French. Not in my old tongue, either."
Victor Radcliff only shrugged. "I don't know why. You might as well ask why we call a cow a cow and not a sheep. Because we do, that's all."
"It doesn't help," the Negro said reproachfully.
"I know it doesn't," Victor replied. "I'm sorry. And I'm sorry that so many of the people in Freetown are sheep. They don't think we can hold the enemy. When one runs, the rest follow. And they all go, 'Baa. Baa. Baa.'" He mimicked a sheep's bleat. "Well, what I have to say to them is 'Bah!'"
He waited to see whether Blaise would notice the difference between a bleat and a sound of contempt. The Negro's broad smile-which seemed all the broader because his teeth showed up so well against his dark skin-said he did. No flies on Blaise, by God. That wasn't a saying in French, either, and probably also wasn't in the African's native tongue.
"'Bah!' is right, sir," Blaise said. "They is silly fools."
"'They are,'" Radcliff corrected. His body-servant-turned-sergeant nodded. He made fewer and fewer mistakes. Victor suddenly wondered if he threw one in every so often just to keep from making people suspicious. That wasn't the most reassuring thought he'd ever had. Instead of pursuing it, he went on, "Despite our losses, we have more men than they do, even now, and still more coming in all the time."
"Yes, sir." Blaise didn't sound impressed.
"It's true, dammit," Victor said in some annoyance. There had always been more Englishmen than French-and Bretons, before they finally amalgamated here-in Atlantis. The English came to carve out farms, or to fish, or to take advantage of the marvelous lumber here. Some of the Bretons fished, too; that seemed to be in their blood. But more looked for the same kind of work most French settlers sought: as overseers on the broad, slave-filled estates that raised sugar and indigo and cotton and, lately, Terranovan pipeweed. That left them-and the Spaniards farther south still-thinner on the ground than the English were.
All the same, Blaise had good enough reason not to sound impressed. Numbers mattered only so much. The surviving redcoats had had their confidence jolted by marching into a trap. Seeing their captured comrades freed on parole hadn't helped their morale, either. And the militiamen from the local settlements weren't so eager as they had been before their first taste of battle.
Victor hoped they wouldn't run if they had to fight again. He hoped so, yes, but he couldn't be sure.
Blaise found a new and unpleasant question: "Is true, sir, they have real Frenchmen from France now, like Braddock, he real Englishman from England?"
"I hear it's true," Radcliff said. "I don't know it is for a fact, but I hear it is. And if it is, someone in the Royal Navy needs a talking-to, by God."
"Talking-to?" Blaise rolled his eyes. "Need to kick somebody in a boat, kick him…" He mimed clutching at his crotch.
"That would be good." After a moment, Victor shook his head. "That would have been good. But it's too late to fret about such things now. The Frenchmen are here, and we have to stop them. If we can."
"We do it." Blaise sounded confident-but then, he generally did. Looking around to make sure no officers from England were in earshot, he added, "How you like command, sir?"
"Don't be silly," Victor said. "I'm not in command here. That English lieutenant-colonel, the earl's son…"
Blaise laughed. "He don't-doesn't-know anything. But he not so dumb. He know he…doesn't know anything. Some men, they don't know anything, and they don't know they don't know anything, you know?"
"Er-right." That bemused Victor Radcliff for a couple of reasons. The Negro's syntax, he was convinced, would have bemused anybody. And Blaise, all unknowingly-which fit his discourse well enough-was reproducing part of the argument from Plato's recounting of the Apology of Socrates.
Sure enough, the English officer approached Victor later that afternoon. "I hear the French settlers are on the march," he remarked. He was a few years younger than Victor-in his early twenties, probably-and, with fresh features and baby-fine skin, looked younger still.
"Yes, your Excellency. I hear the same," Victor said.
"If at all possible, we should stop their taking Freetown. Losing it would be a black eye," the young Englishman said.
"Yes, sir. I quite agree," Radcliff said.
"How do we go about doing that?" the lieutenant-colonel asked. "All too likely that they'll outnumber us. The result of another stand-up fight would be worrisome, to say the least."
Victor nodded. "So it would, sir. I'm not sure about the numbers"-he wouldn't call the English officer wrong, not to his face-"but they're bound to have the advantage of morale."
"What, what are we going to do, then? What can we do, then?" Raised in the traditions of continental European warfare, the young lieutenant-colonel thought standup battles were the only possible way two armies could meet. Seeing as much, Victor understood better how General Braddock had come to grief.
"Your Excellency, if I might make a suggestion…" No, Victor wasn't in command. He couldn't start throwing orders around. But if he could gently steer this overbred but willing youngster in the right direction…He talked for a while, hoping the Englishman would see reason.
"Well, well," the young man said at last. "You wouldn't see such an approach taken in France or the Low Countries or the Germanies. Of that I am quite certain. Still and all, though, the so-called klephts in the Balkans might attempt an undertaking of this sort…"
Victor Radcliff would have had a better notion of whether the lieutenant-colonel approved or not had he ever heard of klephts before. Since he hadn't, he made do with the question directly: "Shall we go ahead and try it, then, your Excellency?"
The Englishman looked quite humanly surprised. "I thought I said so, Major."
Maybe he had, but not in any language Victor understood. No matter, though. Saluting, Victor said, "Now it's so very plain, sir, that even a settler can understand it." The lieutenant-colonel nodded. Victor had bet himself a shilling that the man wouldn't notice irony, and sure enough…Now he had to collect. I'll take it out of the Frenchmen's hides, he thought.
Muskets banged from bushes by the side of the road. Roland Kersauzon's horse snorted and sidestepped. He brought it back under control without even noticing what he was doing. Keeping the horse in line was no problem. Keeping his army in line was proving a much harder job.
A couple of his soldiers were down from this latest bushwhacking. One clutched his leg and swore a blue streak. The other, shot through the head, lay still. The poor fellow wouldn't rise again till Judgment Day.
A troop of French settlers plunged into the bushes after the assassins. The whole army stopped, which was undoubtedly what the English skulkers had in mind. This wasn't the first time they'd disrupted his march, or the fifth. They were doing it every chance they got. And why not? It worked. It worked much too well.
Half an hour later, the pursuers-who'd gone after the bushwhackers without orders: indeed, against orders-returned, proudly carrying the corpse of one green-jacketed raider. The wretch or his friends had managed to wound two more of them before they caught him. Roland wondered whether he'd been dead when they did. If h
e hadn't been, they'd taken care of it immediately afterwards. It did not behoove an officer to inquire too closely into some questions. The only thing Roland said was, "Let's go on now."
On they went. An hour later, they came to another likely spot for an ambush. Roland Kersauzon ordered troops into the trees that came down too close to the road. Before the Frenchmen could get into the woods, they were fired upon. Two of them went down. Neither wound seemed serious, but even so…They lashed the trees with musketry. Then, satisfied they'd done what they could, they approached again-and were fired upon again.
"These miserable English wretches are like mosquitoes!" a lieutenant exclaimed in exasperation. "Their bites are almost harmless, but they can drive a man mad."
"And sometimes you can sicken from the bite, too," Roland said sadly. Learned doctors would have laughed at him. When they talked of malaria, they spoke of miasmas and fetid exhalations. To him, that only meant they didn't know what caused the sickness.
Well, neither did he, or not exactly. But he did know there had been no malaria in Atlantis when his multiply great-grandfather founded Cosquer three hundred years before. It came here about the same time as African slaves did, and soon spread from them to whites. How did it spread? Through the air? Or, perhaps, through mosquito bites?
Some illnesses-syphilis, gonorrhea-needed contact to spread from one person to another. Some-unfortunately including measles and smallpox-didn't. Maybe malaria fell into an in-between category.
Or maybe you don't know what the devil you're nattering about, Roland thought. It wouldn't have been the first time.
He had other, more urgent things to worry about. That lieutenant was worrying right along with him, too. "How are we going to stop the English from harassing us like this, Monsieur?" he asked.
It was an uncomfortably good question. Since Kersauzon had no good answer for it, he picked nits instead: "Those aren't redcoats, Lieutenant. English regulars don't know how to fight like this. They're Atlanteans: settlers doing the work in place of men from overseas."
"Very well, sir," the junior officer said. "How do we stop the English Atlantean settlers from harassing us, then?" He spoke with admirable-truly French-precision.
Roland Kersauzon wished he didn't. Now the commander had no excuse not to answer the question-no excuse except for his utter lack of a good response. "We cannot keep dancing to their measure," he said at last.
Well, how do we keep from doing that? He could see the question in the junior officer's eyes. It would have been in his eyes, too, if someone had tried to palm that reply off on him. But the lieutenant was more polite than he likely would have been, and didn't ask the question out loud.
Eventually-after much too long-the French settlers did manage to drive away the bushwhackers. Roland hoped they did, anyhow. By then, it was about time to encamp for the night. Roland ordered an early halt, hoping to fortify the position well enough to make sure no one could assail it during the hours of darkness.
Things got no better the next morning. A couple of batteries of horse artillery came out of the woods to the west, unlimbered, and fired one quick roundshot per gun at the French settlers' line of march before tearing away again. Some of the iron balls flew high. Others tore holes in the settlers' files. One luckless fellow tried to stop a rolling cannon ball with his foot. That sent him off to the surgeons, who had to cut off the shattered appendage. His shrieks, and those of the other wounded men, set Roland Kersauzon's teeth on edge.
Then the French settlers came to a veritable fortress made from logs and mud. Cannon inside the fieldwork fired on them. Musketeers defended the artillerymen. When Roland's own field guns returned fire, the mud and dirt smothered the balls' impacts.
"Are we going to have to put on a regular siege, with saps and parallels, the way we would in Europe?" a sergeant asked.
"By God, I hope not," Roland answered. It wasn't even a proper siege, because they hadn't surrounded the enemy's work. The English had no trouble supplying and reinforcing the fort.
Somewhere south of here, the regulars from France were slogging forward. Roland had hoped to win glory without them. Now he wished they would get here to lend a hand. Cosquer had never seemed farther away.
He refused to send a messenger south to ask where the regulars were. If they wanted to hurry, that was their business. His…His had stalled. He didn't care to admit it, even to himself. But it seemed pretty plain that he couldn't drive the English-speaking Atlanteans out of their fort. He couldn't go on and leave it in his rear, either.
All of which left him some unpalatable choices. He could swing far inland, the drawback being that most of what was worth having lay close by the coast. Or he could turn around and retreat. He didn't want to do that; it would only give the regulars from France the chance to mock him and take over from him.
The best thing he could think of was staying where he was till the regulars caught up with him. He hadn't cared to do that before-he'd thought he could just walk into Freetown and present them with a fait accompli. Well, it wouldn't happen now, no matter how much he wished it would.
"If you will forgive me, Monsieur, you run a curious campaign," a sergeant told him. "Part of the time, you are more cautious than you need to be. The rest, you attack like a madman."
"If I think I can win, I will fight," Roland replied. "If I don't, I won't. What is so curious about that?"
"It could be that you push too hard when you push. It could also be that you don't push too hard when you don't push, if you take my meaning." The sergeant was not too young and not too skinny. Roland couldn't blight his military career; outside of this expedition, he had none. He was bound to be a baker or a miller or a carpenter or something else respectable: a solid tradesman who knew how to lead because he did it every day. And if he felt like speaking his mind, he would go ahead and do it.
Roland did him the courtesy of taking him seriously. "Maybe you're right. I can't prove you're not. But even if you are, wouldn't you rather have a commander like me than one who doesn't push when he should?"
"Hmm." The sergeant considered that as carefully as he would have considered an offer for an upholstered chair. "Well, you've got something there, sir-no doubt about it. How much you've got…we'll just have to see."
"They aren't coming, sir," the scout reported.
"Damnation!" Victor Radcliff said feelingly.
"Sorry, sir," the rider said. "They pulled back out of range of our earthworks, and they're strengthening a position of their own."
"Oh, too bad," Victor said. He'd hoped to lead the invaders into temptation and then trap them the way they'd trapped Braddock and the redcoats. The French settlers' commander had seemed so intrepid. Why wasn't he intrepid enough to stick his head in the noose?
"I thought we'd poked and prodded them enough so they'd do something stupid, too," the scout said. "Guess I was wrong, though."
That the scout was wrong was one thing. That Victor Radcliff turned out to be wrong was something else again. It had much more important consequences. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "He must be waiting for the French regulars to come up. Then he'll burst out of his fieldworks like an abscess and infect the whole damned countryside."
The scout pulled a face. "You've got a gift for the revolting phrase, don't you-uh, sir?" The polite addition was plainly an afterthought. "May the Frenchies do him as much good as Braddock did us."
"Naughty, naughty." Victor's reproof was also insincere. "King George did everything he knew how to do for us."
"Did everything he knew how to do to us, don't you mean?" the scout said. When Major Radcliff declined to rise to the bait (what went through his mind was Amazing how I think like a fisherman, even though my line hasn't gone to sea for a while), the man sighed and tried a new tack (and again!): "Well, if the froggy buggers won't come out and play, what do we do then?"
"Have to think about that," Victor answered. "Have to talk with the senior English officer, too."
"Oh, ye
s, sir. Charlie. A lot he'll know." By his accent, the scout was a New Hastings man, and so especially likely to look down his nose at officials from the mother country. By his sarcastic tone, and by his casual use of the lieutenant-colonel's given name, he lived up to-or down to-all the things people said about New Hastings men.
Grinning, Radcliff made as if to push him away. "Go on, be off with you," he said, for all the world as if he were an Irishman himself.
Blaise had been quietly standing not far away. Sometimes people called him "Major Radcliff's shadow." He wasn't quite black enough to fill that role, but he came close. The scout hadn't hesitated to speak in his presence. Nobody did, not any more. "What will you do?" he asked Victor.
"What I said I'd do," Victor replied. "I'll talk to the lieutenant-colonel, and we'll decide together."
"And if you don't like his ideas?"
Victor shrugged. "He's senior to me-but I may be able to get around that."
"I hope so, sir," Blaise said.
"Oh, there are ways." Victor didn't go into detail. He didn't know what the details were, not yet. But he knew there would be ways. If you were determined enough, you could always find them.
When he approached the young English lieutenant-colonel (Don't think of him as Charlie, or else you'll call him that, and then the sky will fall, Victor told himself), that worthy said, "As I see things, Major, we have two choices. We can wait for the French regulars to join the settlers and then receive them on ground of our choosing. Or we can try to defeat the settlers before the regulars arrive, the disadvantage being that we should have to move against their fortified position. Does that seem to you an accurate summation?"
"Those are two things we can do, certainly, sir," Radcliff replied. "I can think of others that might serve us better."
"Can you indeed?" The English officer raised an elegant eyebrow. He'd have a title of nobility one day, if he didn't already. "Would you be so good as to expatiate on them?"
As to what? Victor wondered. He was damned if he'd inquire, though. And he thought he knew what the Englishman had to mean. "We could send a raiding party into French territory by land through the backwoods," he said. "That way, we'd make the enemy dance to our tune instead of dancing to theirs."
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