by N. C. Reed
“We leave civilian survivors,” Whipple countered. “Drivers, drovers, things of that nature. Kill any soldiers we find, but tell the civilian 'survivors' that we don't make war on civilians. Let them get a good look at the company or battalion that attacked so they know how many there are. Some of them will be able to tell it factual. And be more inclined to do so if we show them mercy.”
“We're committed to the Black Flag,” Beaumont reminded him.
“I didn't say we make it a policy,” Whipple's grin was cold. “Just for a while. Just to spread the word. They won't stop driving if they think all they have to do is surrender and we'll spare them. We can probably take a lot of the wagons intact. Make use of whatever we can, then hide or destroy the rest. If we can find a safe place to stash them, we can take them with us when we head back for refit and to leave our injured.”
Beaumont considered that for a minute. It was a good plan and he liked the idea of taking plunder back to their own lines. Anything they could manage to get to their own lines would likely be a help somewhere along the line.
“Poll the division,” he ordered finally. “Find those with experience handling cattle and horse herds and any teamster experience. We'll ask Mister Parsons' men if they can locate a suitable place to hide any plunder until we're ready to make use of it or head back. While you do that, I'll take one battalion and raid this place,” he pointed to the station below. “We'll use your plan there as well. Anyone not fighting and not in uniform will be spared to spread the word.”
“Might want to ditch the coats at least for this first one,” Whipple nodded to Beaumont's uniform. “Let them think we're brigands to start. That will explain why we're taking the wagons and whatever else we can. We're thieves taking advantage of the situation,” he smiled coldly. “As the word of our numbers increase, the number of troops they have to commit to protecting their supply trains will increase as well. As they do, we simply use more of the men and continue inflicting casualties on the enemy. They'll bring themselves right to us instead of our having to constantly be on the move looking for them.”
“You are one devious son-of-a-bitch, Horace, you know that?” Beaumont grinned in return. “Makes me proud to know you!”
“Likewise.”
****
Abel Chambers was not by nature a patient or forgiving man. Raised in the northwestern reaches of the Empire, he was as hard as the woods and the winters of Lakeland could make a man. He was quick to anger, and to strike, always boasting of his prowess and his ability to 'take any son among ya!' to those who worked under him.
Running Farrier Station Eleven was a demanding job, but Chambers figured he was just the man for the job. He got the maximum amount of work out of the dregs he'd been given to work with, and managed to keep trains moving along by having horses always ready to replace lame or exhausted animals and then returning the animals left in his care to health as soon as possible.
When there was nothing else to do, he kept the company at work making stores of supplies and parts that they used most so that repairs would be quicker and easier when damaged wagons rolled in. Transoms, axles, trace chains, anything that could break and hinder a wagon on a train, you would find a replacement quick and clean here at Station Eleven. No problem.
He had been fortunate in having a good team of smiths assigned to his farrier company, men who knew their business and had no need of supervision from him. He was careful not to antagonize them as he did his common laborers, either. While he was himself a hard and strong man of the north lands, a man who swung a hammer all day soon built muscles that were as hard as the iron he molded in his forge and on his anvil. Chambers had no interest in seeing if he could best one of them the same way he rolled the hostlers and wranglers that worked for him. The smiths didn't need any encouragement from him to do their jobs, anyway.
He was expecting a new train through anytime, tomorrow most likely, the next day for sure, and he wanted to be ready for it. He already had several draft horses rounded up out of their pasture area, ready to replace any horses that were going lame or showing signs of exhaustion. There were some harsh standing orders about maltreatment of horses in the Imperial Army, and the punishment was carried out on the spot in many cases. One General had made the flat statement that he had plenty of soldiers but not nearly enough horses. The implication being that the life of a soldier being forfeit for damaging an animal beyond use was perfectly acceptable to him.
Chambers didn't necessarily agree with that, but he liked his head right where it was, a resting place for his hat. Thus, he ensured that all horses under his care were well seen after, and any that came to him suffering from neglect were recorded in his ledger as such, along with their treatments and recovery record. Chambers had no intention of suffering for some other man's inability to follow orders.
In keeping with his intention to run the best station in the Army, Chambers was currently plodding his way out to the corral where the best horses on hand were already contained, awaiting any need that might present itself with the next train.
“Morning, sir,” the young wrangler at the gate nodded.
“Yeah,” Chambers growled back. “What's the count?” he demanded without fanfare.
“Forty-two, sir,” came the reply. “All fit for service, soon as-.”
“You just let me decide that,” Chambers shot back, cutting the younger man off short. “You lot wouldn't know a decent horse from a livery plug, anyhow.”
The young man nodded but made no verbal reply, accustomed by now to Chambers' attitude toward his subordinates. The wrangler was one of the rare northerners to grow up around horses, thus having the all too seldom found knowledge of equine matters that the Imperial Army so valued in its new incarnation. Still, he knew that Chambers would not be happy unless he looked the herd over himself, likely finding some flaw or other, more imagined than not, for which to castigate his men for.
“Look at this,” Chambers confirmed less than a minute later, holding a draft horse's hind right foot up, exposing a hoof and shoe that needed a nail. “You call this ready for service?” he demanded.
“We're taking all of them out at a time and checking them, sir,” the wrangler promised. “He's already been inspected. See that chalk on his flank?” he pointed. “That tells the smith's apprentice that he needs shoeing. They're taking them in turn, now. We're already set their hooves to right and made 'em ready to help speed the process.”
Chambers eyed the chalk mark with a surly and jaundiced eye, trying to find something wrong with the man's report but failing. Dropping the leg with a huff he continued his inspection. He was about half way through when he heard a shout from somewhere front of the station proper.
“What's that idiot saying?” he demanded over his shoulder, not bothering to look around.
“We're under attack!” the wrangler shouted back, running for cover. “Picket posts are being attacked!”
“What? Ridiculous!” Chambers replied, releasing a horse he'd been checking and storming his way out of the herd back toward the gate. He could hear shouting and sounds of a fight and assumed that some of the soldiers left here for security were into a brawl. Well, that Lieutenant that was in charge would have to sort that out. His men, his mess; that was the rule that Chambers lived by when dealing with the Army.
As he cleared the gate however, he realized that the 'idiot' soldiers were, indeed, under attack. Under attack and falling like flies for that matter.
“Alarm!” he shouted, despite his surprise. “Sound the bell!” he yelled toward the smith at the forge. The large man instantly began hitting the iron bell with his hammer, the ringing reverberating across the small valley.
Off duty soldiers came running from their own barracks, hastily throwing on coats and equipment to answer what they assumed was a drill. The Lieutenant was a stickler for that kind of thing, damn his ambitious little heart.
Most of them died still thinking it was a drill, Soulanie arrows buried in th
eir chests as they struggled to get their equipment on and shake off the sleep they had been enjoying only a minute before.
Chambers watched as the last of the soldiers set to guard his outpost fell, mouth agape as he watched a gaggle of ill-dressed horseman converge on his station.
“You aim to give us any trouble?” a large man in the front of the crowd asked Chambers, studying the civilians carefully. “We don't aim to kill no civilians we don't got to, but won't hesitate to do it you get in the way,” he warned.
“Who the hell are you!?” Chambers found his voice. “This is an Imperial Army way station! You're messing with the Imperial Army here, boy!”
“Boy, is it?” the large man's eyebrows rose at that. “And we know who you are. Why the hell you think we're here? Figure you got food, horses, maybe even money here. We aim to help ourselves to it since you being here has put a crimp in our normal activities. Boys, search the buildings, round up everyone still standing and bring 'em out here. Clem, you and your boys start movin' 'em horses, hear?”
“Yes, boss,” several voices replied in unison.
“These horses belong to the Imperial Army!” Chambers stood his ground.
“Not no more they don't,” the big man laughed. “Get out that way while you can old man.”
“Old man, is it?” Chambers roared. “I'll beat the tarnation from you, you southern scum!”
All pretense at friendliness left the large man at that. The smile and laughing disappeared, replaced with an icy stare. He dismounted suddenly, tossing his reins to a man next to him and moving to stand face to face with Chambers.
“Southern scum?” the man's eyes were almost glowing. “Did I hear that right, you northern pig peeler?” Pig peeler was a polite way, sort of, of saying that Chambers had intimate relations with pigs. His face went red with rage.
“I'll-”
Whatever he intended to threaten never got said as the large man drew his sword in a swift move that saw the blade rip upwards, slicing Chambers open from his belt to his chin. Eyes wide with surprise, the surly station manager slowly fell backward into the dust, his blood creating a red stained mud beside him.
Cleaning his blade on the dead manager's pants leg, the large man turned to see the now fully assembled staff of the way station looking at him in horror.
“Now. Any o' you want to call me southern scum?”
Nope. No sir. No one wanted to offer anything like that.
“Good,” he nodded firmly. “Now you bunch behave for a few minutes and we'll leave you unharmed and hale. Bother me, just one o' ya, and I'll kill tha bunch. Got it?”
Every head nodded in silent unison. The big man had to turn back to his horse quickly to hide his grin at the comical look the men presented. His temper had gotten the better of him for a minute causing the scene with the loudmouth, but he was back in control, now. He mounted his horse again, taking his reins back.
“Which one o' ya 's in charge?” he demanded.
“Uh, he was, sir,” a tall, thin young man declared, pointing to the man the bandit had just gutted.
“Figures,” the big man sighed. “He have a second?”
“The Lieutenant,” the young man replied, pointing to a now very dead Imperial officer some yards away.
“Well, anyways,” the leader sighed again. “We'll be takin' them horses, that wee herd o' cattle and any useables we might find and then burn them buildin's,” he declared. “Reckon you want to get your possibles, you better hurry. Mind you, any one o' ya shows with a weapon drawn, we'll kill the lot o' ya, so bear that in mind.”
The civilians counted themselves lucky to be granted such favor and hurried to get their things. In two minutes they were back, assembled in a rough formation.
“Box o' hardtack,” the large man said, pointing to a wooden box his men had thrown out as they passed. “Better make it last, I reckon. Long walk north. Don't know how far to the next station.”
“Fifteen miles,” one hapless apprentice offered, then swore under his breath.
“Thanks for that,” the man grinned. “Well, we thank you, gents, for increasing our worth this fine day. Have a good walk. Don't come back to our neck o' the woods, hear?” With that he put spurs to his horse and headed back toward the heavily forested hills, his men following as they drove the liberated horses and cattle on the hoof.
Once the raiders were gone, the wrangler let out a long breath, glad to be alive.
“Reckon I'll head north, boys,” he said at last and started that way, stopping only to fill the two canteens he carried around his neck and then drink his fill. Slowly the others fell in behind him, repeating his actions and then following him up the road.
North toward home.
*****
“I enjoyed that entirely too much,” Beaumont said as he galloped away, speaking to no one in particular.
“We noticed, sir,” a captain behind him laughed. “Really got into the roll, too.”
“Always wanted to be an actor!” Beaumont howled. “Let's get this plunder put away and head out. I think I'm gonna enjoy this job, boys! Yessir, I believe I am indeed gonna have a fine old time of it back here.”
Behind him several of his men exchanged glances but said nothing, knowing that when Beaumont was having one of his 'fine old times' there was nothing to be done but hold on and endure.
And survive, if possible.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
-
“Are you planning to visit home while we're here, Parno?” Karls asked over breakfast.
“I'd like to, but we'll have to wait and see what happens,” Parno nodded. “Right now, I'm hoping to hear from Admiral Semmes sooner rather than later. I can't really do anything until I know that we aren't facing an invasion somewhere along our seaboard.”
“How likely do you think that is?” Karls asked. “They're arrayed a lot of men against us already.”
“True, but they have a much larger population than we do as well,” Parno sighed. “If Semmes can determine those ships are empty, or better yet defeat the Nor fleet in battle, then our options are much better.”
“Good morning, brother,” Memmnon said as he entered the small dining area. “I trust all of you slept well?”
“Good morning, Memmnon,” Parno nodded. “Can't speak for everyone else, but I slept like a rock.” The others nodded agreement as they continued to eat.
“When you are finished, please come to my office,” Memmnon said evenly. “There is something I need to discus with you. Something of a. . .private, nature,” he added.
*****
“I already know she hates me, Memmnon,” Parno shrugged when his brother finished telling him of the confrontation with their sister the evening before.
“It's beyond hate, Parno. For you, for me, or for father.” The Crown Prince sat back, releasing a long breath. “She's unstable.”
“I've no doubt,” Parno replied dryly. “I still can't see where this is an issue. For me, anyway.”
“She's determined to seek revenge I believe,” Memmnon told him flatly. “She was obviously privy to Therron's plans, as she practically accused me of fearing him. And said we all know that he deserves to sit upon the throne rather than myself.”
“Why would anyone want to?” Parno asked. “No offense, brother,” he added.
“None taken, I assure you,” Memmnon snorted lightly. “Believe me, I've had the same thought myself. At least once a day, and that's on the good days. But Therron intended to take the throne, by force if necessary. By the way, your findings in Bingham last year?” Parno nodded, remembering. “Well, it was my constables that unearthed a part of that plot, as then Governor Keen was in it up to his eyeballs. It's my belief that allowing that strife to build was one of the tools Therron intended to use to turn any supporters against the Kind, if it was needed. He spent a lot of time working on this plot of his, Parno. Even now we've no idea how deep into the kingdom his rot has spread.”
“I've had that thought where
the Army is concerned,” Parno nodded. “I've taken steps already to find out and cut that rot out wherever I find it. I can't really help you with respect to the rest of the kingdom,” he added apologetically.
“Nor should you be forced to,” Memmnon nodded. “That is for me to see to. You have enough to worry about as it is. I tell you this merely to let you know that even in his absence, Therron's plot may be alive and well in the form of idiots like our sister.”
“Surely there isn't much she can do, is there?” Parno asked.
*****
Sherron McLeod was unaware that her brothers were discussing her at the moment and would likely not have cared if she were. At that very moment she was making her own plans to right the wrong that had been done to her beloved Therron.
Sherron's mental illness was something that was closely guarded. She knew that her way of thinking would be frowned upon at best by the Royal physicians, and likely result in her being 'put away', as the polite way of phrasing it went. She had no desire to be locked in a cage, gilded or otherwise, and had been careful all of her life to guard against anyone knowing her true self or her innermost thoughts.
She had fully supported Therron in his bid for rule, having planted the bug in his ear herself some years ago. She and Therron were very close as twins, though much closer, perhaps, than anyone knew. As the 'girl' of the line, she was mostly ignored. With three sons, even if one of them were Parno, the odds of her ever ascending to the throne were nil. There had been female rulers in Soulan, of course, but they were rare in the extreme. Most kings through the ages had produced at least one male heir, even if by adultery. In the world she found herself living in, even a bastard son was deemed more worthy to occupy the throne than Sherron would be. This in spite of what she herself considered to be a superior intellect compared to most of the men around her.
She was about to prove that one way or the other she knew.
“Do you understand my instructions?” she demanded. The man before her had been a loyal retainer of her brother Therron, and herself, since birth.