He sat up, picking bits of hay off his face. His joints were stiff. The water bucket was nearby, and he dipped up a handful. Hamilton wasn’t in the barn, which looked even worse for wear in the milky morning light. There was no saying what year it had been erected or when abandoned. Maybe some optimistic settler had raised it in the 1700s, thinking to grow crops in this hard soil or keep livestock, or whatever the hell it was people did who didn’t properly dwell in a city.
Only after stepping outside to urinate did it occur to Jonny that Hamilton might have gone for good. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. The thought seized Jonny, growing more convincing by the instant. Fear climbed his throat. After all, why should Hamilton stay around? His ship was destroyed. He would have to get back to his people, make some kind of official military report, probably.
But… without even a goodbye? The fear turned to a sudden choking sadness, which further tightened his throat.
“J.C.? Breakfast is served. J.C.!”
Jonny spun, hearing the note of panic in that last cry. Hamilton had come up on the barn from the other side, finding it empty. Jonny ran around to meet him where he stood peering through the open door. An unmistakable look of relief washed over Hamilton’s face as Jonny hurried into view, wearing a very similar expression.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment, both aware of the emotions they’d just displayed. Finally they looked away from each other, abashed.
“Uh, did you say breakfast?” Jonny asked.
Hamilton said, “It’s not tea with the Admiralty, but it’s something to put in our stomachs.” He held out a handful of small yellowish potatoes.
Jonny picked out a couple. “I take it you’ve been reconnoitering again.”
“Yes.” Hamilton bit into a spud and chewed stoically. “There is a farmhouse down that overgrown road—or there was. It burned long ago. Nearly nothing but chimney stones left. But these potatoes were growing in what must have once been a garden plot.”
Thus they breakfasted. The raw potato was surprisingly delicate, Jonny found.
The landscape surrounding them was as broad and empty as it had seemed last night. The hillside where the airship had crashed was no longer in view. Neither was any sign of civilization. It was vaguely astonishing to Jonny that so much vacant space could exist in the world. He thought of teeming New York, of the narrow streets of the French Quarter. So many people, so much building up of structures and pavements, towers, and electrical lines, streets filled with vehicles, the air with dirigibles. And yet here there was nothing but a few forlorn rotting timbers, representing someone’s dead agrarian dreams.
Dreams turned his thoughts back to the one he’d had about Hamilton, the shamelessly sexual one. He eyed the other man in the daylight. Hamilton appeared to have made some effort to groom himself. His auburn hair was less disheveled, but there was no helping the stubble prickling his square jawline. He carried his bloodstained coat at his side, and his uniform trousers were scuffed with dirt.
Still, what a handsome figure he was. Jonny entertained a notion of asking him back into the barn, to the pile of hay where they’d lain together, sleeping in each other’s arms.
But Hamilton, having finished his own portion of the potatoes, said briskly, “So, let’s be off, shall we?”
“Off where?”
“There is another road leading away from the farmhouse. Just as overgrown, I’m afraid, but it went somewhere once. I say we try that. What do you think?”
“I thought you made all the hard decisions, Captain.” Jonny slung the shotgun over his shoulder.
“Only when there might be danger. I only have your welfare in mind.” And, as if this was also too obvious a display of feelings, Hamilton looked away once more.
Jonny couldn’t quite hold back a smile. “All right, Archer. Let’s see where that road leads.”
“GIVE ME your coat!” Jonny tracked the distant movement. The day had grown steadily warmer. He and Hamilton were running with sweat, having walked for hours on the so-called road. It was more a rutted path, for some reason thicker with weeds than the surrounding terrain. And it appeared to be leading nowhere at all.
Nowhere wasn’t any place Jonny wanted to visit. He had slowly realized they might be too deep in the wilderness to ever find their way out. For the last half hour or so, he’d had visions of his bleached bones being discovered decades hence, when some other aspiring farmer would try his hand at this difficult land.
But these dark thoughts had rushed out of his head at the sight of the vehicle in the distance. It was barely visible along the horizon, just a speck, really. But the motion was too steady to be an optical illusion or outright hallucination, which he was fairly sure his overtaxed brain and fatigued body were capable of producing by now.
“What do you see?” Hamilton asked, holding out his uniform coat after removing a pistol from one of its pockets.
Grinning, Jonny waved the garment high. His lean body coursed with sudden hopeful energy. The coat was an artificial color that would stand out against the dull backdrop. At least that was the plan.
“There’s an electricar!” Jonny cried cheerfully.
“What? Where?” Hamilton shaded his eyes and squinted. “Oh! I see. Wait. We know nothing about who’s in that vehicle. It could be—”
Jonny flapped the coat back and forth all the harder, dancing on his toes now, making as big a spectacle as possible. He fancied he could even hear the buzz of the electrical motor over the distance. “It doesn’t matter who, Archer! We’ll deal with whoever they are after they agree to get us the hell back to civilization.” He yelled with childish glee.
The vehicle slowed in the distance. It stopped. Jonny kept up his signaling. After a moment the speck turned and started toward them, gaining in size as it approached. Jonny lowered the coat. He still had the shotgun. Hamilton had concealed his two pistols in the waist of his trousers beneath his sweat-sodden shirt. If these strangers turned out to be bandits, he and Hamilton wouldn’t be helpless.
Dust flew up around the thick tires. The vehicle had a rugged look, as if it had been designed for something other than safe paved roads. It had a dusty canvas top, and its windows were speckled as well, hiding the interior. It slowed as it neared and stopped several yards away.
It was a beautiful sight, an artifact of the civilized electrified world, where people slept in beds and ate hot meals.
Hamilton stepped out a little ahead as two doors opened on the car. Jonny caught the elastic tension in the auburn-haired man’s body. He seemed quietly and professionally prepared for any untoward eventuality.
It was a woman who emerged from behind the steering wheel. She was middle-aged, her hair in a dark bundle. She wore a leather vest with many pockets and had the stub of an unlit cigar between her front teeth. On the other side of the car a man stepped out, bearded, leaning on a cane.
“Let me see that,” the woman said in a raspy voice. She nodded to the coat.
Hamilton’s hands hovered at his sides. Jonny didn’t doubt he could draw either or both of his pistols as fast as a gunfighter in a carnival show.
Jonny raised the once-white coat with the bloody handprint on it. A grin opened on the woman’s face around the stub of cigar. “That’s clever,” she called. She pushed shut her door and strode toward them. “That’s a Brit coat. And you went and made a flag of it. I hope it was an enemy’s blood what made that print.”
Hamilton twitched, almost imperceptibly. Jonny realized he was an eye blink away from drawing and firing. Thinking quickly—going on instinct, really—Jonny said, “That’s right. There’s one less of ’em. Listen, we need transport out of here. Do you have room?”
The bearded man stayed by the thick-tired electricar, leaning on the cane. He studied the proceedings neutrally while the woman let out a raspy laugh. “You bet we do! I’m Ramona. That’s Clyde. We’re with the 45th Illinois Volunteers.”
Jonny didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a pleasure. I’m J.C.,
and this is Archer. We’re out of New Orleans, believe it or not. Our airship went down. We’ve been wandering out here. Maybe you could bring us up to date once we get out of this damn sun. C’mon, Archer, our chariot awaits.”
IT WAS with gestures and a hard stare that he kept Hamilton silent as they climbed into the back seat of the car. If it came to a gunfight or other military circumstance, Jonny would defer to the captain. But this situation—for the moment, anyway—was in his milieu. Lies, deceit, impersonation. Theft wasn’t always just a matter of burglary. In New York, at the age of twelve or thirteen, he had acted the part of an affronted well-to-do lad when stopped by a policeman who suspected him of pickpocketing. Jonny had laid on the upper crust accent, replete with overpronunciations and airy hand gestures, and had finally gotten the beefy patrolman to back off with an apology. All the while Jonny had had a gold pocket watch tucked into his sock.
For Jonny, this situation was a matter of equation. He and Hamilton needed transport; here was transport. Therefore, whatever it took to garner a ride was worth it. When he’d headed south out of New York, with no especial destination in mind, he had sometimes done favors for those who stopped and gave him transportation. A few times it was as simple as a blowjob, delivered right there in the front seat usually. But he had also engaged in interminable sing-alongs, had read to drivers from books and newspapers. He was literate, after all.
Here he was perfectly willing, and reasonably able, to act the role of revolutionary, which was what this Ramona and Clyde appeared to be. Or at least that was what they imagined they were. The 45th Illinois Volunteers might only be a semifictitious organization, a gaggle of grousers who assembled regularly to lament the presence of the British on American soil and make quixotic plans for their overthrow.
Or maybe they were the real deal. And maybe, like he’d said to Hamilton earlier, maybe this long-gestating revolution had finally come off.
The notion put a surprising chill through Jonny. He didn’t love the Brits. But a change of such magnitude, one that would affect virtually every aspect of life in America, unnerved him. He’d been getting along pretty damn well by scurrying through the cracks of society, nibbling off his little pieces, managing more often than not to truly enjoy himself. He had found his way. Revolution would upend the whole game, for good or ill.
“What was happening in New Orleans when you left?” Ramona, at the wheel, asked. She drove the big rugged car aggressively. They appeared to be cutting across the turf, following no road.
Jonny made another furtive gesture to Hamilton, who sat beside him with a stony face. In a cheerful tone Jonny said, “It was starting to jump. But we didn’t have any official news. Archer and I are new recruits.”
“Well,” said Ramona in her raspy voice, “it’s never too late to join the cause.”
In the front passenger seat, the bearded man turned. He wore eyeglasses, and they seemed to make his small blue eyes even smaller. “Who was your commanding officer?” He didn’t sound suspicious, but the question was dangerous all the same.
Jonny answered immediately. “Brixton. Say, do you have any water? Or food? We’ve been out there like Crusoe and Friday.”
Ramona snorted a laugh, and Clyde at last let a mild smile move his bristly beard. “There’s a basket at your feet,” Ramona said, gunning the electrical engine. “Help yourself to what’s inside.”
Jonny lifted the straw basket onto the seat between him and Hamilton. It contained the remains of a meal, but Jonny found himself perfectly happy to gnaw already-picked-at chicken bones and devour crumbly bits of some sort of sweet cake. Hamilton ate what grapes remained on a bunch and the remaining corner of a sandwich. They traded a canteen back and forth between them until it was empty.
The repast was immensely satisfying. Jonny hadn’t gone so long without food since he was a child, back in that New York tenement, not yet able to fend for himself. A pleasant sleepiness tried to rise over him, but he fought it off.
“Thanks for that,” he said. “What’s your destination, by the way?” He peered forward through the dusty windscreen. Trees had started to appear, overtaking the scrub vegetation, but he could make out no other features. Maybe this wilderness really was endless.
“Headquarters,” Ramona said. “We’ll fold you two in with another outfit. You got ammunition for that hog leg?”
It took Jonny a moment to realize she meant the shotgun. He patted his waistcoat pocket, where he’d put the shells Hamilton had given him. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Suddenly the woman let out a bawdy whoop. “Land sakes! I still can’t believe it’s really happening. Keep thinking it’s a dream ’cause I’ve dreamt it so many times before. We’re finally doing it. We’re finally throwing off the Brits!”
Hamilton shifted. Jonny reached over and laid a hand on him this time. Hamilton looked back with baleful eyes. Jonny desperately wanted to communicate with him. Now, he thought, wasn’t the time for violence. Probably Hamilton was in favor of putting a bullet into the backs of Ramona and Clyde’s skulls right now, but aside from the obvious hazard of shooting the driver of this careening vehicle, it would be better to at least let these two lead them back to some populated area. Also, there was a great opportunity for information here. Ramona appeared to know the state of things. Maybe the revolution was truly underway. Hell, maybe the Americans were somehow actually winning, despite the Brits’ overwhelming technological superiority. Being cozy with the winning side would be a smart idea in that case. Keeping Hamilton’s identity a secret would be paramount. Jonny wasn’t about to let the man be taken prisoner or executed. He literally owed Hamilton his life.
That was far too much to communicate silently, of course. He settled for squeezing Hamilton’s wrist tightly, feeling the man’s accelerated pulse on his fingertips.
“Okay,” Ramona called as she jammed on the brakes, throwing up a fresh cloud of dust that hid the outside completely. “We’re here.”
Jonny maintained the disarming, chipper air he had adopted. He let the dust settle a bit before opening the rear door. A wall emerged beside them. Had they slipped into a town or village? He stepped cautiously out.
The wall was made of raw timbers, driven into the ground. The effect was vaguely medieval, like forts he’d seen in picture books about knights. That image was reinforced as he saw how far the wall stretched in either direction. There was a gate in it, and the tops of trees could be glimpsed beyond. There were no buildings outside the wall.
Sentries peered over the top of the wall at the gate, like guards on a parapet. The men had arms, older-looking weapons, but Jonny didn’t doubt that they could fire or that the men would hesitate to use them if given a good reason. Or maybe any reason. Fear chilled his innards again. It might have been a good idea after all to let Hamilton kill these two, not that Jonny was eager to be a party to any more bloodshed.
Clyde limped along and Ramona strode. Jonny followed with Hamilton at his side. The timbered gate was pulled inward. A man Jonny’s age came scampering out. He carried a rifle, which looked astonishingly like a musket, and flashed a grin at Ramona, who said, “Don’t wreck it!” A moment later the car door shut and the electric motor whined. Jonny turned to see the vehicle pull away. Tire tracks, many of them, marked the ground outside the wall.
Again Jonny wondered if they’d made a mistake. Was that car the only way in or out of here—wherever and whatever here was?
“Is this where you keep your arms?” Hamilton asked.
Jonny looked sharply at him, but Ramona only glanced back. “Arms. Munitions. Supplies. We’ve been stockpiling for years. See the trees? From above, all this looks like a copse, so we don’t have to worry about the partridges.”
As they stepped through the gate, Hamilton murmured, “British birds.”
Jonny looked around the compound formed by the raw timber wall. Rough buildings stood among the trees that had been left to stand, their upper branches untrimmed, giving them a top-heavy look and also
no doubt providing cover for what was below them.
The camp was populated, with several dozen people milling about. There seemed a busyness but not much in the way of order. Ages varied wildly, the gray and callow side by side. Women mixed freely with the males, Jonny saw, and were just as armed. This seemed almost an outlaws’ campsite, something fanciful tucked away in the woods, harboring bowmen who robbed rich travelers on the road.
“I’ve got to deliver Clyde here to the colonel,” Ramona said. “Clyde teaches war history at the university.” She took the cigar stump from her mouth and spat. “You two’ll need to make a report, I guess. Just wait for now.”
She escorted Clyde toward a building—a hut, really—from which Jonny thought he heard some sort of mechanical drone. He felt overwhelmed. They were in over their heads. Sooner or later they would be found out as frauds, his considerable skills in deception notwithstanding.
He looked to Hamilton, but the man was still gazing after the pair who had driven them to this isolated… fort, depot, staging area, whatever it was. Hamilton’s eyes glinted.
Jonny turned once more and saw what he’d missed at first glance. A sapling had been repurposed as a flagpole in front of the hut, and from it hung a banner. A breeze moved the cloth enough to show its face. On a field of white, a red shape lay in the center. It was a red hand.
“That,” Hamilton said quietly and assuredly, “is the flag of this American revolution. It’s war, then. It is truly and irrevocably war.”
EIGHT.
IT WAS a poor excuse for a military facility of any stripe. The disorder offended Hamilton’s sensibilities. The lack of uniforms and mismatched weaponry might be forgivable, but the absence of any discipline or palpable command structure simply would not do.
If this was a typical example of the revolutionary “army,” then the organized might of the British forces would crush this grubby uprising. It would be a fitting vengeance for the loss of the Indomitable.
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