The other Iraiina were surging into the fort in his wake, but even their chiefs were a little, overawed by the foreigner who’d won the favor of the rahax and shown such command of war-magic. Instead of flinging themselves on the plunder and women they shouted commands to their own followers, enforcing them with an occasional cuff or shove. The burning sections of the palisade were put out or dragged away, the livestock herded out to await division, the survivors kicked and pushed and spear-prodded into a mass.
“Chief Hwalkarz,” one of the charioteer lords said. “As you wished, we have done.”
Men were shouting in glee as they dragged out their booty. Bolts of woolen cloth, clothing, furs, bronze tools; some gold and silver ornaments, more of bronze and stone and shell. Pottery jugs and skins of mead and beer were added; they called out reports of stored food, grain, cheeses, smoked and pickled meat.
Happy as kids at Christmas, Walker thought, smiling and wiping his sword.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said to the two Iraiina chiefs. “You can have all the bronze and cloth, and half the gold and silver.”
They whooped and pounded him on the back; Ohotolarix looked a little startled, then relaxed. The bronze tools and weapons weren’t much use to them, and they could trade for cloth.
“We divide the food and livestock equally-half for me, half for you two to split. Half the prisoners are mine, and I get first pick. Is that just?”
“Just and more than just,” the senior of the two Iraiina leaders said; he was about Walker’s years, although he looked a little older with his weathered face and several teeth knocked out in fights. The dark-brown braid of his hair was bound with leather thongs and wolf fangs; it twitched as he looked around. “Never shall you or your men lack for meat and drink at the steading of Shaumsrix son of Telenthaur.”
“That is good,” Walker said politely. Sucker. He had an eye on several of Shaumsrix Telenthaur’s son’s followers, and he suspected the Iraiina would be less than pleased when they switched allegiance.
“We should make a thank-offering to the gods,” he went on.
“Else no few of our fear-despising heroes will lie sleepless in dread of Dead Walkers,” the Iraiina chief agreed. “Hmm. One horse and, eka, four cattle? That will make enough fresh meat for the victory feast.” He grinned, a carnivore expression. “We’ve given enough man-meat to please the Mirutha and the Crow Goddess. He of the Long Spear was with us, and the Blood Hag drank deep.”
“Your word is strong,” Walker said, clasping wrists with the other man. “Let it be as you say.”
He walked over to where the prisoners waited, weeping or stoic or watching with silent dread. The men and older boys had been bound at wrist and ankle and shoved into a hut with a barred door. The locals were surprised he hadn’t just cut their throats��� but then, the Iraiina had little idea of how to make men work. Three among the remainder caught his eyes, two girls about twelve and an older one of eighteen or so, holding the younger ones against herself. They looked enough alike to be sisters and probably were, with seal-brown hair and gray eyes. Their clothing was good by local standards, the bright plaid wool of their long dresses woven in a sort of herringbone twill, and the older wore a gold bracelet; they all had shoes, which was swank among the natives. The way their hair tumbled loose to their shoulders meant they were unmarried.
Alice said she could use some more household help, he thought. Fair enough; it was wasteful to have a qualified medico doing scutwork, and he wanted to keep her happy. Not to mention���
“You,” he said, smiling and beckoning.
The younger ones whimpered, and the older girl clutched them tighter. “You, come here,” Walker went on. They stumbled to him. I must look strange, he thought. Rumors about the new wizard who’d taken up residence among the Iraiina would have spread far, too.
He gripped the older girl by the hair, just hard enough to immobilize her, and checked her over. Some of these women carried razor-sharp little triangular bronze knives tucked away in the most unexpected places. There was nothing beneath her clothing but girl though, shaped very pleasantly��� and these people didn’t wear underwear. Walker looked around while his hand moved beneath her skirt. The girl trembled and closed her eyes, biting at her lip. She didn’t seem very surprised, though; this was what happened after a lost battle, here.
“All right, boys,” he said in English. “Party time. Pick one each. Remember, the supply’s limited, and you’ll be taking these back home, so don’t get too rough.” Then he repeated it in the more formal phrasing of Iraiina.
There was going to be a lot of work, getting all this stuff and the people back to the base he’d named Walkerburg. No reason not to relax tonight, of course. A raw whoop rose from his followers, and the war bands of the other chiefs jostled, waiting their turn to pick. He noticed McAndrews hanging back. Can’t have that, he thought.
He released the brown-haired girl for a moment and grabbed another, a full-figured blonde in her twenties who was wiping away her tears and trying to smile at the conquerors. Obviously one with an eye for the main chance. The ones glaring defiance or standing slumped in despair wouldn’t do for a shrinking violet like the cadet from Tennessee. The eyes went wide in alarm as he ripped the dress off her shoulders and shoved her over to McAndrews; nobody around here had ever seen blacks before.
“You’re entitled to your share, Ensign,” he said. The younger man stuttered, obviously torn between horror and temptation. “You wouldn’t want anyone to think you were looking down on us, would you?” Walker said. His smile was cold. “Not hurt anyone’s feelings? I’d just purely hate to have you hurt m’ feelings, McAndrews.”
“Ah��� no, of course not, sir.”
“Good man. Have fun.”
Laughing, he turned and pushed the brown-haired girl he’d chosen into the hall, scooping up one of the jugs of mead as he passed; her younger sisters tailed along uncertainly. It was dark and smoky within, but the turf walls and the fires smoldering in pits down the length of the floor kept it reasonably warm; there were a few low wicker partitions, but otherwise it was just one big room, with tools and bundles of herbs and hams hanging from the low rafters. He led the others behind one of the woven barriers; the younger girls huddled in the corner, clinging to each other. Furs and wool blankets covered straw.
“What’s your name?” he asked, shedding his sword belt and hanging the weapons carefully behind him. No sense in taking chances, he thought, undoing the latches of his armor and swinging out of the suit.
“Keruwthena, lord,” she said, clenching her hands and looking down. Then she forced her eyes back up. She seemed a little reassured that he looked like other men beneath the steel.
“Lord, my sisters��� they’re very young,” she went on, as she unfastened the pins that held her gown at the shoulders.
Meaning, please don’t throw them to your men, he supposed. “Don’t worry,” Walker said. Not often your fantasies come true so precisely, he thought, laughing at the hammering of his own heart. “They’re safe enough, if you’re going to be sensible.”
Some time later he rose and began dressing. Keruwthena did too. “I���” she said. “I am glad you are not a cruel man, lord,” she said after a moment. “The stories���”
Walker finished off the jug of mead. “Not cruel unless I’m crossed,” he said genially.
A woman in her position’s best hope was to end up a prominent warrior’s possession, and work her way up to minor wife and personal freedom, or as much freedom as a woman ever had among the eastern tribes. She doubtless thought she’d lucked out, with him. Then he laughed; Keruwthena tried a shaky smile, and the two young girls stared at him in terrified awe.
You’re lucky so far, he thought. But then you haven’t met Alice yet.
It was still near-dark along Main Street, and cold fog swirled about the iron lampposts and the trunks of the great elms, blown in the damp chill air from the sea. Jared Coffl
in ambled slowly up the street, past the small crowd already gathered near the bulletin boards at the Hub, the store halfway up Main; there wasn’t enough paper to print a newspaper yet, but the Inquirer and Mirror continued its hundred-and-seventy-year tradition by posting a newsletter in strategic places. He inhaled deeply, taking in the cold salt air, as familiar as breathing itself. Snow tonight, most likely. Or mebbe not. Everything else had changed, but walking up the brick sidewalk in a December fog still felt the same.
As if to give him the lie, a shrill steam whistle split the air. That must be one of the tugs, heading out to haul back another raft of mainland firewood and charcoal and planks while the sea allowed. Moisture dripped down his collar, and he hurried his pace a little. Another new smell reached him, one he didn’t mind at all-the scent of new-baked bread in wood-fired ovens.
His stomach rumbled. Smells great, tastes delicious, doesn’t keep worth a damn, he thought; so it had to be baked fresh every day, which meant a couple of dozen new bakeries to use the fruits of the harvest. A couple of slices with an egg or two and some cranberry preserve made a decent breakfast. Possibly we’ll have coffee again about the time I die, he thought. Angelica Brand was growing several hundred seedlings in her greenhouses, and the plan was to drop a boat down to Puerto Rico in the spring and plant them out along with the oranges and lemons and whatnot. God knew if it would work; the birds might eat them all, or something.
In the meantime it was pleasure enough to walk without pain in his leg, even on a damp cold morning. Lucky the bullet hadn’t done much damage to bone and tendon as it drilled its way through; lucky it hadn’t been a hollowpoint, too. He nodded greeting to friends and acquaintances, and once to a mainlander, an Indian struggling not to gape around him, a blanket wrapped about his shoulders. The sight set his teeth on edge. It was impossible to avoid all contact, he knew-if nothing else they were within canoe-paddling distance of Martha’s Vineyard and the continent-and Doc Coleman was taking every possible precaution, but still��� What will happen will happen.
At least the locals had proved reasonable enough, once you learned how to approach them. Eager to trade for cloth and tools, too; pelts, deerskins, birch-bark containers of maple syrup, gathered nuts and dried berries, roots and herbs.
He heard feet on the sidewalk behind him and turned. Alston and Swindapa were running side by side, sheathed swords in their left hands pumping back and forth with the movement of their legs. She’s not limping either anymore, he thought with satisfaction. Alston must be back in fighting trim. He was glad of that, for her sake, and��� And frankly, she was like a penned she-wolf for a while there. They slowed to a walk as they came up to him, wiping the sweat from their faces with the towels slung around their necks. You could work up some heat even in this weather, and they were wearing thick track suits and gloves.
“Mornin’, Jared,” she said, breathing deep and slow.
“Morning, Marian, Swindapa,” he said.
“You’re out early, I see.”
He shrugged. “Martha didn’t feel well last night, so I thought I’d let her sleep when she finally could.” One drawback of marrying late was that she’d never gotten used to having someone else in the same bed; and when you piled morning sickness on top of it, a lot of rest got lost. “The doctor says it’s natural enough. Why do they call it morning sickness?”
“Don’t worry,” Marian said. “There’s a lot of variation. I was sick at unpredictable intervals right into the seventh month. And everythin’ went smoothly enough come the time.”
” ‘Bye, Jared. I got to get breakfast ready, it’s my turn,” Swindapa said, giving Alston a kiss. “French toast today. Maple syrup!” She dashed off, vaulting smoothly over one of the sidewalk benches and pelting up past the shuttered Pacific Bank.
“Glad to see you’re back in shape. Must be a bit of a trial, keeping up with all that youthful energy,” he said, grinning.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, tell me ‘bout it, Jared. ‘Sides, I’ve got sisters-and both of them hit two hundred and thirty pounds by their second baby. Powerful incentive to sweat.”
He turned his head sharply. “��� that the sort of role model we want in front of our young people-” came from behind him. Sound was tricky in a fog like this.
Alston’s head was turning too, the friendly expression congealing into that flat glare she had. She’d gotten a lot less likely to let that sort of thing pass recently. Cofflin turned on his heel and stalked back down the street, halting when he came to Lisa Gerrard. He’d recognized her voice; she was on the School Committee, and spoke often. Very often. He thrust his face into hers, conscious of the cold anger in him and holding it back. The words came out slow, deliberate, and bitten off:
“Well, actually, Ms. Gerrard, I do consider Captain Alston an acceptable role model. Considering that she saved Martha’s life and nearly got killed doing it, and that she led the expedition that got us the food we’re eating this winter, and everything else she’s doing for this ungrateful island, I consider her an excellent role model. And when you, Lisa Gerrard, have done one tenth as much for the common good, maybe-just maybe-you can criticize her. Until then I suggest you shut��� the��� hell��� up!”
He’d started loud, and the last part rose to a bellow. Whistles, cheers, and clapping came from the crowd around the bulletin board, and Gerrard retreated in confusion. Cofflin gave a curt nod to them and stalked back to Alston, who stood waiting with her brows raised.
“Why, Jared, I didn’t know you cared,” she said. “Thanks, by the way.”
He snorted, but the tension relaxed out of his shoulders. “How’s the ROATS program coming along?” he said, slightly embarrassed.
“Not bad, considerin’, although we surely miss Martins. Leaton says the turntables and hull bracing shouldn’t be any problem. Come on, I’ll fill you in. ‘Dapa’s learned to make a smokin’ piece of French toast with turkey eggs and barley bread.”
John Martins turned away from the open end of the smithy. From here he could see the workers-slaves, in iron collars-putting up a new building, with a couple of the Americans supervising. There were already half a dozen frontier-style log buildings around a square, William’s house, accommodation for his retainers, storehouses and workhouses and stables, and the smithy. The square itself had been roughly cobbled with round stones from the river, and the whole settlement kept reasonably dry with drainage ditches-refinements not current in these parts. Another working party labored to hollow out split logs, the chain-link hobbles between their ankles clinking as they moved. The logs would be strapped back together with iron bands and used to pipe in water from a spring not far distant.
One slave stopped a little too long to stretch his back, and the overseer’s cane whistled. There was a pop, a yelp, and the man began working again with furious speed. Walker had mentioned that he was using Roman methods, including the ergostula, the windowless half-underground jail where most of the male slaves were kept shackled at night.
“Oh man, that guy is, like, an ore” he muttered to himself.
“What say?” one of the apprentices said.
There were four other men in the smithy with him, two of Isketerol’s Tartessians and two Iraiina who’d sworn service with Walker. Not counting the poor bastard in the collar working the bellows, of course. He and the men learning from him were communicating fairly well now, in bits and pieces of each other’s languages, despite the way Walker kept sending him new ones. Eventually you got across what you needed to, and teaching helped take his mind off the general shittiness of the situation. The smithy was warm and close inside, well lit by the glow of the big charcoal hearth as well, despite the rainy dimness outside. He turned back to the forge, explaining:
“Like, this is cast iron, man,” he said, taking a piece that had originally been in the Eagle’s ballast out of the forge and laying it on an anvil. “It won’t forge like the wrought stuff we’ve been working-it’s too brittle.”
“You gotta get the carbon out. So y’ heat, sorta stir the puddle of melted stuff around, y’ hammer to get the slag out, and heat again.”
“Eventually,” he went on, “it gets to be, you know, wrought iron. Then you can work it like we’ve been doing, or harden it up again to steel. Like, you need a rilly big hearth for a finery, not just a forge like this-this is just to give you an idea.”
He picked out a piece farther along and bent it into a curl shape with a few skilled blows. Each of the others duplicated the process under his critical eye.
“This cast iron,” one of the Tartessians said, “it is the same as will come from the blast furnace when it is finished?”
“Yeah, man, right on. You got it.”
The twelve-foot-high fieldstone furnace was nearly complete, and there was ore and limestone and charcoal in abundance; mineral deposits didn’t change, and they had the Ordnance Survey maps. They did need cylinder bellows and water-powered draft, though, which was taking a while. Judging from the way things had gone with other stuff, they’d have to fiddle around a good long while to get it to work really right-there were lots of little things the books never mentioned. Meanwhile they stockpiled materials.
“That little sucker will put out a thousand pounds a day, and then-”
“Good work, John,” a voice said from the entryway.
Martins turned, gritting his teeth. Walker was standing there, holding the reins of his quarterhorse stallion. “Bastard here needs a shoe on his left fore. Kicking again.”
Martins grunted wordlessly and took a blank from a rack on the wall and flipped it into the forge to heat. Then he took up pincers and rasp and walked around to the left side of the horse. Walker gripped the bridle more tightly-Bastard was well named and found the bent-over rump of a blacksmith an irresistible temptation, teeth-wise-and Martins pulled up the left forefoot, gripping it between his knees. He took the pincers and began drawing the nails on the loose shoe.
Island in the Sea of Time Page 45