Chapter Thirteen
May 2, 1763
The Frost Residence, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Owen got up before dawn, dressing himself by candlelight in his uniform, from his tri-corner hat with blue cockade, to boots with polished spurs. He filled his pack with extra clothes, rolled his blanket and put that on top, and pulled the pack on. He then donned his ammunition pouches, slid the pistol into a holster at his right thigh, and shouldered his musket—the bayonet for which hung from a sash at his left hip.
His duty rituals consisted mostly of caring for his weapons. The musket, when placed with the butt on the ground, ended up three inches taller than he was—the bayonet added another foot and a half. The steel barrel alone was forty-two inches long. It ended in a curved brass fitting made of two pieces. The centermost bit could be unscrewed and removed, revealing a narrow hole at the barrel’s base and a hollow in the large brass piece. A firestone would be set in that hollow, then tightened down with the center-bit. A hole in the retention collar allowed a portion of the firestone to protrude, so he could thumb it and magickally ignite the brimstone.
The long gun he’d drawn from stores had seen better days. He’d cleaned it, washing, swabbing,, and oiling the barrel inside and out. He’d also cleaned and oiled the stock, then tightened down every screw he could find and replaced those he could not. He made sure the ramrod would remain in place while he traveled. Without it, he couldn’t load the gun, changing the musket into a club.
The Frosts, minus Caleb, had risen early enough to see him off. Mrs. Frost handed him a loaf of bread and some cheese all wrapped up in cloth. Bethany gave him an envelope with two quills just in case of disaster. He thanked them both, his throat tightening.
His reaction surprised him, and it took him a moment to figure out why. Though they were strangers to him, they’d fed him, repaired his clothes, sewed up his wounds, and otherwise seen to his welfare. They’d done it out of a sense of duty to the Crown. And because they are just nice people.
Ultimately they had treated him more kindly than his family ever had, and when they wished him a safe journey, he knew they actually meant it.
Doctor Frost walked him to the gate. “I have enjoyed our all-too-brief association, Captain Strake. I very much look forward to your return.”
“You and your family have been wonderful. I hope I have not been a burden.”
“Nonsense, sir, it has been a delight.” Frost drew a small book from his coat pocket. “I know you don’t want extra weight on your trip, but I thought you might find this intriguing.”
The tiny volume had been bound in black leather with the title “A Continent’s Calling” incised in gold on the cover. Doctor Frost smiled carefully. “It was written by Samuel Haste. It inspired our debate on whether or not Mystria would be better off as its own nation. Some of your countrymen would take it as a work of treason, but I hope you find it to be something else. Mr. Haste truly loves this land and dreams of all it can become. You should understand that, and that many people share his dream.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Owen slipped the book into his coat pocket. “I expect to be back before September. I would call upon you then.”
“Captain, we insist you stay with us upon your return.” The man smiled. “In fact, I think Major Forest might be heading north around that time, so I shall see to it that you are reacquainted.”
“Most kind.” Owen gave the man a brief salute. “Until then.”
Owen headed off along Diligence quickly, planning to meet Woods at Westgate as the sun rose. Out toward the city’s edge, where the prosperous built their stately homes, no one stirred on the broad streets. Down toward the docks the sounds of the city waking echoed through alleys and crowded neighborhoods.
The day had started with a bit of crispness in the air, but it would burn off quickly. Still, it made for easy walking and Owen couldn’t help but smile. His brief trip out of the city had hinted at how much there was to explore, and he was anxious to get started.
“Walk your legs clean off at that pace, Captain.”
Owen spun, leveling the musket. “Woods!”
“Thinking I was Rufus?”
“I didn’t expect… I thought we were meeting at Westgate.”
Wood detached himself from shadows. “So’d some other folks. Word got out.”
“I told no one.”
“Never ’spected you did.” Woods yawned and jerked a thumb to the left. “We’ll head over to Justice and go out through the pig yards.”
Owen shouldered the musket again. “Are you afraid Rufus is watching us?”
“Ain’t ’fraid, just cautious. Careless word here, a word sold there, might be finding trouble we ain’t needing.”
Owen followed him. “Are you suggesting that the Tharyngians are actively spying in our colonies?”
“Are you believing they’re not?”
“No, Mr. Woods, I would imagine they are. I was asking, to be more precise, if you have any knowledge of Tharyngian spies in Temperance Bay.”
“Don’t suppose I do.” Woods looked back over his shoulder at Owen. “Don’t know that I care. Ryngian and Norillian fights don’t much concern me.”
“How can that be?” Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What the Ryngians want to do to us should be every man’s concern.”
“I reckon we’ll be disagreeing about that, Captain.” Woods picked his way between two barns and around a pig pen. “Mind you, we’ll be having plenty of time to gum that to death.”
“I should think this is an issue that needs settling more quickly.”
“More pressing things to deal with first, Captain.”
Owen’s guide set off at a trot, crossing the road and heading off through a meadow full of green grass. He trotted toward the dark treeline. His fringed buckskins made him stand out, but he moved quickly enough that he seemed a ghost. He reached the trees a few steps ahead of Owen and promptly disappeared.
Owen got into the trees, then crouched, looking back through bushes toward the city. A few lanterns burned in windows, and dark smoke rose from chimneys, but nothing indicated pursuit. Owen took that as a good sign, though he resented the fear trickling through his belly.
A branch snapped off to his right. Owen spun quickly, trying to bring his musket up. The barrel smacked a sapling hard. The impact unbalanced him, dumping him on his backside as surprise flooded through him.
A dark-skinned humanoid loomed over him. He’d clearly not broken the branch. He wore a loincloth and leggings. Save for a beaded armlet from which dangled two feathers, he remained naked from the waist up. His long, dark hair had been gathered into a thick braid bound with leather. His amber eyes, narrowed as they were, reminded Owen of a cat.
The dark man smiled, white teeth splitting a shadowed face.
Nathaniel crouched at Owen’s side. “Captain Owen Strake, you’d be meeting my brother, Kamiskwa. He’s of the Altashee.”
Owen gathered his feet beneath him and brushed leaves from his coat. “He’s one of the Twilight People.”
“He is.” Nathaniel stood and picked a leaf off Owen’s coat. “Come sun-up you’ll see more green than grey in his skin.”
“Does he speak?”
“Only when he has something to say.” Nathaniel chuckled softly. “That’ll be coming soon enough, Captain. Kamiskwa is always free with an opinion.”
Owen offered the Altashee his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Woods pushed Owen’s hand down and away. “The Twilight People don’t do things like we do. They’re wary.”
“Because of Major Hopkins.”
“Not entirely, Captain.” Woods retrieved the musket and handed it to Owen. “Magick works by touch. Don’t know a man, you don’t let him touch you. Gives him a chance to hurt you.”
Owen nodded. “Of course, no offense intended.”
Kamiskwa chuckled, and made a comment. Woods joined him, held a hand up. “Nothing bad. He just said that any who thought you’d be back in Temperance within the week was wrong.”
Owen smiled. “Thank you, Kamiskwa.”
“Don’t be thanking him.” Woods patted the Altashee on the shoulder. “He says you have ten days.”
The trio took off at a solid pace and made good time even in the pre-dawn darkness. Kamiskwa remained half-invisible as he ranged ahead. The game paths he chose went around hills instead of over them. The tracks doubled-back on themselves, as any animal trail will, but the men moved faster along them than they would have if they’d resorted to bushwhacking straight through.
Woods brought up the rear and stopped fairly often to watch their backtrail. He’d come trotting up, his rifle sheathed in a beaded doeskin case. He always had a big smile on his face. He shook his head at Owen’s mute inquiries and urged him on with a nod.
They set a good pace. Owen kept up despite carrying twice as much as either man. Woods had his rifle, shot pouch, a knife and tomahawk. Kamiskwa bore a musket, but his had been cut down into the carbine model the cavalry most often used. He carried a knife and had a length of knobbed wood slung over his back. It had been inlaid with mother of pearl and featured a triangular blade on the back of the knob.
As the sun rose Owen unbuttoned his woolen coat, but refrained from loosening his waistcoat. He shifted the eleven pounds of musket from one hand to the other. The aching of his shoulders and the growing blister where his boots rubbed at his heels reminded him of marching through the Low Countries.
That realization brought him back into his mission. Though they were making good time through the woods, no modern army could have followed them. Having soldiers snake through the woods—even his skirmishers—would guarantee disaster. If they didn’t get lost, and many of them would, they’d be strung out and easily ambushed. Because of the Mystrian forest’s undergrowth, the enemy could hide until he could reach out and touch a man.
Kamiskwa’s caution made abundant sense.
Woods caught up with Owen as they came to a sandy portion of a stream bed. “’Bout time to get something on your insides, Captain Strake?”
Owen nodded and shrugged his pack off. “I noticed that neither you nor Kamiskwa carried food. I will happily share.”
“So will we.”
Kamiskwa crossed the stream and quickly climbed up into an old pine tree. He disappeared into the foliage. He climbed halfway up—at least that’s what Owen judged by which branches were dancing—then lowered two beaded leather bags and two loosely rolled blankets with both ends secured by leather thongs.
As the Altashee retrieved their baggage, Woods tossed aside several stones stacked on the sandbar, then scooped out a pit beneath where they had stood. He reached down into the hole and gingerly teased out three packets wrapped in maize husks. Owen immediately caught the scent of salmon and his stomach grumbled accordingly.
He frowned. “You stayed here last night, cached your bags in that tree, and used the remains of a fire to cook the fish while you came and got me?”
Kamiskwa grunted, which Owen took as a confirmation.
“Pretty much right on the button, Captain.”
Owen sat down, pulling off his pouches, and decided to press his luck. “You didn’t leave any sign you were here, so you’re cautious. Means you think you could be in danger anywhere.”
Kamiskwa smiled and retrieved a fish. “Nahaste.”
Owen raised an eyebrow as he broke the bread into three parts. “Meaning?”
Woods accepted bread. “You’re up to three weeks.”
“How so?”
“You’re observant and a thinker.” Woods stretched out and sucked at burned fingers. “Lots of things get cached hereabouts. Over there, ’neath that rock shelf, we put some firewood. Replaced what we used last night. Anything else we weren’t needing, we’d put it there, too. You’ll see lots of that. No mark on the cache, take as you like, put back more. Marked, a man won’t touch it.”
Owen teased open his packet of fish. Steam rose, filling his head. He slid flesh from bone and savored. The velvety fish just melted in his mouth. “This is good.”
“Kamiskwa tickled them on out of the wet.” Woods nibbled some bread. “That’s another thing out here. You travel light as possible. Also, with jeopards and bears about, you ain’t wanting to carry things they counts as supper.”
Owen looked around. Sunlight was breaking through leaves. The stream gurgled and little breezes rustled foliage. A few birds sang in the trees, and crows flocked to squawk. Outside their little bowl he could see nothing, and found it easy to imagine a jeopard crouched and watching them.
“We will not be wanting for supplies?”
“Ain’t enough for an army, Captain, but we ain’t no army.” Woods pointed off to the northwest. “Fair piece of the ground we’ll cover, Kamiskwa and I hunt and trap regular. If you’re not too picky, you’ll eat. Even if you is, you won’t starve none.”
Owen picked up his musket. “I can lend a hand hunting.”
Kamiskwa laughed.
Woods shook his head. “Not likely.”
“I assure you, I am a dead shot.”
“Ain’t saying you ain’t, but you is damned loud of foot.”
“It was dark.”
“True point, but you’ll be needing to be a walking-whisper. Then there’s that coat. You mights-well be on fire.”
Owen’s expression darkened. “We discussed this. I am an officer in Her Majesty’s Army. I have my duty and will not be shot as a spy.”
“Well now, I ain’t too worried ’bout you being shot.” Nathaniel smiled. “Any Ryngian sees that flash of red and shoots, like as not me or Kamiskwa’s gonna catch that ball.”
Owen laughed. “Marksmanship has never been a Ryngian strong point.”
“Good thing you’re a crack shot.” Woods pointed to the musket. “You’ll want to be loading that thing, and keep it loaded. Your training, you can probably get off four shots in a minute?”
“I’ve done as many as five.”
“Out here, shooting may come on you quick. Likely because someone’s already done shot at you.”
Owen nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind.” Standing, he produced a cartridge and began to load his musket. “The Prince said your rifle was fairly special.”
Nathaniel smiled proudly and stripped the fringed sheath off it. “This here is one of two dozen or so rifles made by Colonel Apostate Hill up Summerland way. It is a breechloader. I don’t have to be stuffing a ball down the barrel just to shoot it back out. It uses a .71 caliber slug—same weight as your musket, just squashed a little. More egg than round. Rifled barrel so’s it’s accurate out to a hundred yards. It does some killing out there.”
“The Prince mentioned you killing a jeopard. Showed me the mounted specimen. That’s fancy shooting at range.”
“More luck in that shot than there was good.” He jerked his head toward Kamiskwa. “Like as not, my shot would have just riled it. Kamiskwa was there to do the killing if it got close.”
“And what if he missed?”
“I’da had another shot ready. And if I missed that, I’da deserved to be dinner.”
“I look forward to a display of your marksmanship. Perhaps you’ll shoot us something for lunch.”
“I reckon I could, Captain Strake, but we won’t be needing it today.”
“You have food cached further along the way?”
“After a manner of speaking.” The guide smiled. “At noon we’re having supper with the Prince.”