"A one of you makes a move or a sound, and he dies."
Justice and Makepeace led their men into the room and spread them out. The Summerland boys gathered all the cavalry carbines and then directed the men to crowd into the narrow end of the room. Justice looked to Nathaniel. "Fix bayonets?"
"I reckon."
The cavalrymen paled, with more than one having occasion to pee on himself. Infantry bayonets added eighteen inches of spade-shaped steel to a six-foot long musket. Every single one of the Queen's soldiers had seen the grisly damage done by bayonets. All would sooner be hit by a cannon ball than have that much steel twisting in his guts.
"Makepeace, with me." They headed outside, and took the back stairs to the second floor. They ignored the guest rooms and instead headed for the commotion in the Gates' living quarters. They made enough noise coming through the door that anyone with half a mind would have known something was wrong, but the cavalry commander was firmly in the saddle and, therefore, distracted.
Distraction that ended when Makepeace grabbed him by an ankle and yanked him off the bed.
Nathaniel tugged the brim of his cap to the lady. "Sorry to be bothering you, ma'am. Got a need for the, uh, Captain, ain't you?"
The officer had pulled his hat to him, using it to cover his rampant embarrassment. "Captain Percival Abberwick. I should warn you, sir, that Her Majesty does not tolerate brigandry. You will be hung from the nearest tree."
"Brigandry? I'm thinking you mean thieving, right?"
"You know what I mean." He reached out for a pair of breeches, but Make-peace slapped his hand away. "Really, man, this is outrageous."
"I reckon outrageous is a regiment of horse-sitters coming here to Hattersburg and just eating and drinking and stealing as they like."
The Norillian snorted. "It is all right and proper. We are here at the Queen's command. All good citizens of Mystria are required to give aid and comfort to Her Majesty's soldiers. Once our Colonel gets here with our horses and our treasury, the people will be reimbursed at a proper rate for the provisions we have taken."
"I will be powerful pleased to see that, Captain." Nathaniel smiled. "Now you go and get dressed, then get your men out of here on account of Mister Gates is coming back in residence. This here is going to be Major Forest's headquarters."
"Now see here, a Colonial Major does not outrank me. I will not give up my headquarters."
Nathaniel squatted. "Well, I reckon this is how I sees things. You got fifteen men downstairs with five carbines between them. I'm gonna reckon more than your horses is being sent on upriver. I got a hundred forty of the hardest fighting, best shooting men in all of Mystria. They ain't had a drink in two weeks. They are going to be powerful sore angry if you done drunk this town dry. They ain't gonna let you stand between them and this tavern."
Abberwick stared at him incredulous. "Do you mean to tell me you would attack soldiers of Her Majesty's government?"
"No. I am just telling you that out here there are places where your children and your grandchildren could search every day of their lives, and they'd not find hide nor hair of you. We'd just tell folks the Ryngians got you. Now I reckon that any Mystrian here in Hattersburg would back us up on that. Ain't that right, ma'am?"
The woman, who was buttoning up her dress, nodded emphatically.
"So you see, Captain, you are going to make the right choice."
"You have not heard the end of this."
"No, but I reckon I've seen more of your end than I want. Get dressed. Give orders. You'll want your men on parade to welcome Major Forest when he gets in."
Forest eyed Nathaniel curiously as he sat at a table in the tavern. "Do I want to know how you organized that welcome, Captain?"
"I don't reckon you do." Nathaniel half-filled an earthenware cup with whisky and slid it across the table before filling one for himself. "Drink up. You ain't gonna like the news."
Forest picked up the cup, sniffed, then set it down again. "Tell me."
"Supplies ain't made it up from Temperance. They was supposed to go first, but Colonel Thornbury got it stuck in his craw that supplies going afore his men was disrespectful. He done changed orders, sent his men with no grub nor money, and here they be. They's waiting for horses and all. And they're thinking that will be slow as there ain't enough barges for to ship it all upriver."
Forest shot the whisky, wiped tears from his eyes, then held the mug out for more. "So you're telling me we have no food, no spare shot or brimstone?"
Nathaniel refilled his cup. "Well, these here cavalry ain't the first raiders Hattersburg ever done seen. Last winter came early and spring wheat weren't much, but folks did put some stuff by. Makepeace done tole folks we was part of the Prince's procession, so that loosened up some provisions. Shot and brimstone not as much, but we will be fine."
"I trust you are correct." Forest sipped at the whisky, wincing as he did. "We have decisions to make. Men to leave here."
Nathaniel nodded. The journey out had been arduous. Major Forest had chosen two extra squads because he assumed that sickness, injury, accident, and desertion would deplete his numbers. He was not disappointed as much as he might have hoped to be. Two men had broken legs and three broken arms or wrists. Two men had simply vanished and Nathaniel figured they'd gone off on the winding path. Many more, however, were feeling the effects of the long journey, including most of the Bookworms.
"How long we gonna stay here to Hattersburg?"
"Not as long as I would have liked." Forest ran his good hand over his stubbly jawline. "I wanted at least a week, but I expected us to be here a week ago."
"'Cept for the rain slowing us down, we woulda been."
"I can only imagine it caused more problems for those following us. I don't like it that no runners have come forward."
"Kamiskwa will find them."
"I hope. I want him and his men to be leading us from this point forward." Forest shook his head. "If we had powder and shot we could try some close order drills. We've got good men. Many of them hard men, but I need them acting together. I can still drill them, but resting would do them more good."
"I reckon."
"The question remains: Who will we be drilling?" Forest reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook and the stub of a pencil. "We have five casualties who can go no further. Two men are missing. Second company has three more men who are hurting badly."
"You counting Benjamin Beecher?"
Forest sighed. "I was rather hoping he would choose to remain behind here of his own accord."
"He cain't even tote his own Bible, Major. You should leave him here to tend to the spiritual needs of our wounded."
"I'll have a talk with him."
Nathaniel looked into the whisky cup. "I reckon 'bout half the Bookworms is close to done in. Them what hasn't had their boots rot off their feet has raw blisters."
"Reason enough to leave them behind."
"Well, now, I ain't saying it ain't. What I is saying is what you said. You need men acting together, that's them Bookworms." Nathaniel smiled, remembering them fixing their bayonets and giving the cavalry savage stares. "And I reckon the rest of the men is gonna have to do more iffen they don't want the Bookworms to be the better of 'em."
"Are you saying that, Captain, because you believe it, or because you know Caleb is one of the ones I'd have to leave behind?"
"You'd be making a big mistake leaving him here."
Forest arched an eyebrow. "Nathaniel, he's exhausted. He can barely stand up."
"On account of he's doing more than anyone else, you and me included." Nathaniel drank, letting the raw whisky torch his throat. "He's the last one asleep, first one up, doing all the duty anyone could ask of him, and volunteering for more. Ain't a man in that column don't owe him a favor or three."
"I'm not in an easy position here, Nathaniel. If I keep him on and he cannot do the job, it will be seen as favoritism."
"And iffen you leave hi
m behind, he ain't gonna be right the rest of his life." Nathaniel gave Forest a nod. "You go make up your list, but give me a week. I reckon with a little work, things will come together just fine."
Supplies still had not come upriver by the second of July, when Forest determined his force would leave Hattersburg. The locals, happy for the relief from the Norillian cavalry, opened their larders and magazines to the Rangers. Each man was able to refill his supplies and add another fifty rounds of ammunition and powder. Every squad carried an additional two pounds of brimstone, the burden of which rotated through the squad.
During the week Nathaniel had a course of discussions with men in both companies. Looking the force over, it wasn't too difficult to pick out men who were the natural leaders, even if they'd not been the ones who had been voted an officer. All the soldiers looked up to these men, for their leadership, their encouragement, and their favor.
Nathaniel found a way to have a conversation that, in part, got around to pointing out just how hard-working Lieutenant Caleb Frost really was. Nathaniel allowed as how Caleb was working himself to death, doing all the things that other men ought to be doing. He suggested that a man who let another man do all that wasn't really a man, and it was a shame to let a young buck like Caleb ruin himself.
Things began to change. Men started doing all the things Caleb had done, and without being asked. Squads took it upon themselves to pitch his tent for him, or invite him to share their supper. Men always brewed an extra cup of tea or found an extra pinch of salt for him.
The week in Hattersburg did Caleb well. He managed to catch up on his sleep and let his feet heal. When Kamiskwa and the Shedashee returned, they fashioned new moccasins for the Bookworms and shared supplies of salve that brought most of the young men back into marching shape.
When it came time to move on, two of the Bookworms couldn't continue. That morning the men were all but in tears, even though they were having a hard time standing up straight for review. Major Forest gave them courier duty. He put them in charge of writing letters for those that wanted them written, and to carry them back to Temperance. He also dictated an account of events so far, and asked for that to be passed to Mr. Wattling and Doctor Frost.
The rest of the Bookworms got shuffled into other squads and Makepeace was given the hardest men in the unit to call his own. The Bookworms started as mascots, but the men came to appreciate them for their intelligence. The Bookworm journals became squad journals, and the burden of carrying them passed around as did the spare brimstone.
The Rangers even made room for Reverend Beecher. Though Nathaniel cared little for him, and he did make maddening demands on individuals, a solid core of Rangers took solace in his reading Scripture aloud. Beecher, when he wasn't actually trying to preach, had a good voice and managed to calm fears.
The news that Kamiskwa brought of the Prince's group was not good. By the time Major Forest's unit left Hattersburg, the Colonials were still a week back, and Rivendell a day behind them. Cutting a road through the wilderness had left the Colonials exhausted and furious with Rivendell's constant entreaties for more speed.
Forest fell in beside Nathaniel as they headed northwest out of Hattersburg. "If I calculate things right, we will reach Fort Cuivre about the same time they get to Anvil Lake. End of July is going to be very busy."
"I reckon." Nathaniel nodded easily. "And as long as I see August, I am right fine with that."
Chapter Fifty-Seven
July 1, 1764
Lindenvale, Mystria
P rince Vlad swiped a forearm over his face, smearing mud, then put his floppy-brimmed hat back on. He leaned back against Mugwump's flank, cool stream water flowing around his knees. The wurm, his head upstream, lowered his muzzle and let water flow into him.
"Prince Vladimir, you can postpone things no longer."
The Prince looked toward the shore, where the stream had overflowed its banks. Bishop Bumble stood there, hands on hips, his face reddened beneath a black hat, his white hose mud-stained, and his feet slowly sinking into the ooze. How the man had managed, from the knees up, to remain spotless, Vlad could not imagine.
Bumble wagged a finger. "You are jeopardizing men's souls, sir. You have them working on the Sabbath. You refuse to give me time to conduct a proper service."
Vlad dropped to a knee, letting the water swirl up around his waist and scrubbed his hand clean. He scooped up a double handful of water and drank.
"Are you listening to me, Highness?"
Vlad looked up, water dripping from his unshaven chin. "I hear you very clearly, Bishop. I explained this morning that you could have a half-hour."
"I said proper service, sir." Bumble twisted to point back at the work crews and nearly toppled when a foot came free of a shoe. "It is bad enough that they are working on the Lord's Day!"
Vlad, exhausted, knew he shouldn't say anything, but he couldn't hold himself back. "I would submit to you, Bishop Bumble, that if the Good Lord didn't want us working on this particular Sunday, He'd not have had it raining Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. He's given us, in His infinite wisdom, a perfect day to get some construction done."
Bumble's eyes narrowed. "Is this how it is, Prince Vladimir? You think yourself higher than God?"
"No, sir. I gave you your time for a service. This is now my time. We have a purpose here, sir. It is to build a road so that our army can go and smite a godless enemy."
Bumble raised a hand toward Heaven. "You blaspheme, sir. God will smite His enemies, and you shall be among them. I shall report your behavior to God and to Lord Rivendell! I demand you give me an escort back to the real army."
I'd rather give you an escort to Heaven. Vlad, standing again, nodded. "Find Captain Strake and send him to me, please."
Bumble snorted and started to walk away dramatically, but having to reach down and dig his shoes out of the muck robbed the gesture of its vehemence.
Vlad leaned back again and patted Mugwump on the flank. "Humbling duty for you, my friend, but without you we would be no where near this close."
The wurm glanced back, blinked a golden eye, and went back to drinking.
The road-building enterprise had been one huge frustrating exercise. The Colonials were called upon to build tracks eight feet wide whenever necessary, but no one thought that would be for the entire two hundred miles to Hattersburg. Unfortunately the long winter had produced greater snowfall and huge runoff. Major Forest's men had worked around things like marshes, but Rivendell insisted that these detours unacceptably lengthened the route.
Even under the best of circumstances, the work would have been grueling. Spade-and-pick crews would carve their way into the sides of hills to widen paths to the required eight feet. Woodsmen would chop down the nearest trees and hack them into eight-foot lengths. These would get laid down on the bare earth, and dirt would be shoveled over them to smooth things out. The resulting "corduroy roads" lived up to their bumpy reputations.
Rains, which had plagued them since the start, simply made things worse. What had been a perfectly good stretch of road suddenly became a sodden mess. Earth eroded, logs slipped, and crews that should have been cutting the path further ahead had to go back and do repair work, all the while being derided by redcoats.
The friction between forces led the Colonials to work at a more leisurely pace, especially when it meant the Norillians camped on the edge of ponds from which great black fly populations rose. Despite being warned against it, troops drank from brackish pools, resulting in chronic cases of the trots. While Kamiskwa and the Altashee had pointed out useful plants for combating such things, the Norillians didn't trust them, and the Mystrians, who were busy brewing up mogiqua syrup by the gallon, kept suggesting the Twilight People cures were witchcraft.
Mugwump had proved invaluable to the effort at road construction. Whereas everyone else seemed worn down by the work, he thrived and grew stronger. He seemed to take it as a personal affront that the earth defied his master
's wishes. He also grew in size, bulking up muscles, but also getting bigger. Vlad had to mount via an elbow before he could reach the saddle, and did his best to record measurements when he had time.
Mugwump faced every challenge without reluctance. He dragged logs toward the road and then, chained to a massive log, would smooth the bed before other trees got laid down. At one stream he spat large stones further down stream. Later, at a marsh, they used that strategy to dam the marsh's outflow. They raised the water level and set up a ferry to carry wagons while the soldiers marched around. The Mystrians named it Mugwump Pond and cheered as the wurm swam across, dragging the first ferry rope.
The few ravines that needed bridging resulted in the hardest work, but there Count von Metternin displayed his worth. He culled the smartest of the Mystrians from the work crews and had them range ahead to locate problem areas. They quickly designed bridges, blazed the trees with specific cuts to show where they would fit in the plan, and left one man behind to oversee construction. Work crews would come up, cut wood as needed, and build the bridges even before the road had reached them.
The crews averaged just over four miles a day, and at the start had hit eight. The early success caused all of the disappointment later. Granted that circumstances had turned against them, and the work was grinding them down, but everyone thought they should be doing more. They pushed themselves, but Norillian derision sapped their strength. Most grumbled that the redcoats should hold their tongues and hold some spades. A few suggested they'd be happy digging graves for the soldiers.
"You sent for me, Highness?"
Vlad tipped his hat back and smiled. "I did. I have onerous duty for you."
Owen waded into the stream in his Altashee leathers, knelt and dunked his head. The water washed away mud. His head came up, his hair dripping as he cleared it from his face. "The Bishop told me. I am to take him back, not just a message."
"Can you possibly convince him to go off on the winding path?"
"I have a feeling the spirits wouldn't want him." Owen got up on his feet again. "Long walk will do him good."
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