Opening Atlantis (35 page)

“Deserters say there's sickness among them, your Excellency,” Victor answered.

“Ah.” Braddock nodded again. “That would come of using raw troops, wouldn't it? You needn't worry about my lads coming down sick, by God! If they didn't catch the great pox—let alone the small—years ago, they weren't half trying.” His chuckle held a curious mix of contempt and affection.

“Your Excellency, I had that very thought as I was riding down here. It should help us.”

“Indeed. We'll come ashore, march down to wherever it is that the froggies got stuck in the mud, drive them out of our settlements, and then go on into theirs,” Braddock said. “Should be a straightforward enough job of work. You'll be able to keep us victualed, I expect?”

“I think so, sir.” Radcliff paused. “If I may say…” He paused again.

“Yes? Well? Out with it, man. I don't bite,” the English officer said gruffly.

“The only thing I wanted to say, sir, is that it may not prove quite so easy as you make it sound,” Victor told him. “Atlantis is a different place from Europe.”

“Don't I know it!” Braddock had said he would rather have fought on European soil. Now Radcliff saw how true that was. Scowling, Braddock went on, “Still and all, soldiering is soldiering. What works in France works in Prussia and Russia and India. We've seen that. I daresay it will work here, too.”

“I hope so, your Excellency,” Victor replied.

A horseman rode into the French encampment from the north. He shouted Roland Kersauzon's name. Roland ducked out of his tent. “I am here,” he said. “What have you learned?”

The rider dismounted. A young groom led the horse away. “English soldiers have landed at New Hastings, sir,” the rider said.

“How many? Do you know?”

“No, sir. But the rumor is that they have a general in command, so they are not a small force.” The scout spoke fluent English, one reason Roland had chosen him. He continued, “And the rumor is, they are marching this way.”

“Is it?” Kersauzon said tonelessly. It was a rumor he would rather not have heard. “English regulars, under a general?”

“Major General Edward Braddock.” The scout pronounced the name with a certain somber satisfaction. Emboldened by Roland's silence, he pressed on: “Is it that we shall also have soldiers coming from the mother country?”

“If it is, I have heard nothing of it,” Roland replied. “I am what we have. We are what we have.” At least the man hadn't asked whether a general was coming from France, which bespoke a certain basic courtesy. Kersauzon realized he'd answered the question regardless of whether it was asked.

“What shall we do?” the scout asked. “The English regulars, they are said to be men of extraordinary discipline. Of extraordinary ferocity, as well. How can we hope to stand against such soldiers?”

That only angered Kersauzon—angered him more, perhaps, because similar doubts flitted through his own mind. “Do you piddle down your leg when you hear ‘An Englishman is coming!'?” he demanded.

“
Monsieur,
I should hope that I do not,” the scout replied with dignity. “But when many Englishmen come, with an English major general commanding them, I confess I am not altogether easy in my mind.”

“Very well,” Roland said. It wasn't, but it also wasn't anything he could do anything about. He gestured sharply. “You may go.” It wasn't quite
You've brought me bad news—get out of here,
but it wasn't so far removed from that, either.

Rather to his surprise, the scout did remember to salute before leaving. That left Roland there by himself: also an uncomfortable place to be. He had nothing to do but brood about what lay ahead.

His army had shown it could stand against whatever the English settlers of Atlantis threw at it. Against regulars from across the sea? He wasn't nearly so sure. Those men were trained to stand in line, to load and fire, to step forward and take their wounded or slain comrades' places, and then to charge home with the bayonet, all without regard for their own safety. Unlike them, his troops were not such fools. They wanted to fight, yes, but they also wanted to live.

Kersauzon scratched his chin. Whiskers rasped under his nails—a man could not stay properly shaved in the field. He frowned. If he fought this Braddock's fight, line against line, what could he do but lose? But what other kind of fight was there?

The kind where his men's fighting style had the advantage and that of the English regulars did not, of course. Put so, it seemed obvious. But how to turn an obvious abstraction into reality?

He called the scout back.

The man came with ill grace. He was gnawing on some meat stuffed between two slices of bread: an English fashion that seemed to be spreading. And why not? It was fast and convenient and filling. Mouth full, the scout mumbled, “
Monsieur?
”

“I wish you to tell me of the land ahead,” Roland said. “I am seeking a particular kind of terrain.”

After a heroic swallow and another equally heroic bite, the scout mumbled again: “And that would be?”

“Something on this order.” Roland described it as minutely as he could. “Have you seen anything like that?”

Another swallow. Another bite. More muffled talk—the man suddenly seemed capable of speech only with his mouth full: “Well, now,
Monsieur,
I think I just may have.” He swallowed again, and—miracle of miracles!—emitted several clear words: “When I was coming back here, you understand?”

“Yes.” Roland Kersauzon quivered with eagerness. “How far distant?”

“Not too,” the scout replied. Or so Roland thought, at any rate; the fellow was eating again. Had he fasted all through his mission? Would he starve to death unless he stuffed his face with meat and bread
now
?

“Not too,” Roland repeated hopefully. The scout nodded; that let him eat and communicate at the same time, and lessened his risk of choking to death. Roland tried to get more out of him: “Could we establish ourselves there—wherever this place is—before the English come across it?”

He'd timed things as well as he could. He finished the question just as the scout swallowed. That didn't stop the man from taking another bite before answering. Roland supposed nothing short of a lightning stroke from God could have. He looked up toward the heavens. Nothing. God might have been Baal in the Old Testament: He was talking, or pursuing, or on a journey, or maybe He was sleeping, and needed to be awakened.

At last—and as indistinctly as ever—the scout said, “
Oui, Monsieur.
I think we can do it without much trouble.”

“Good,” Roland said: and it was good. “Then we shall.”

M
ajor General Braddock didn't lack for confidence. “Once we drive the French rabble out of English territory, we shall go on to the capture of Nouveau Redon, and then march down into the Spanish settlements, thus completing the conquest of Atlantis for the Crown,” he declared at supper the evening after his army began moving south from New Hastings.

The officers who'd accompanied him from England nodded. Victor Radcliff wondered whether the distinguished major general had bothered checking a map. He was talking about marching hundreds of miles. Presumably, he would need to leave garrisons along the way. How many men did he think he would have left by the time he came to the southern tip of Atlantis?

Victor saw that the rest of the Atlantean officers were as appalled as he was. They knew how big Atlantis was, whether Braddock did or not. None of them said anything, though. Radcliff thought the march down to the border would be plenty to show the general from across the sea he'd underestimated the size of his new command.

Or maybe Braddock had overestimated what his regulars could do. By Atlantean standards, they weren't big men. One picked regiment had soldiers all over five feet seven, which was not a great height on this side of the Atlantic. The rest of the English troops ran smaller still.

They were tough, though; no doubt about that. Their legs might not be long, but they could outmarch the bigger Atlantean recruits. They seemed as immune to fatigue as they were to fear and to smallpox. They traded filthy jokes in half-comprehensible dialects as they trudged along. They took their trade as much for granted as fishermen or wheelwrights or glassmakers.

Braddock raised his goblet, which held a fine Madeira that had crossed the ocean with him. “To the King, to victory, and to glory!” he said.

“To the King, to victory, and to glory!” the assembled officers chorused. Victor Radcliff drank the toast with everyone else. Nothing wrong with it as long as everything went smoothly. Even Victor thought the rugged foot soldiers from England ought to be able to bundle the French back over the border. A handsome victory here might let them assail Nouveau Redon. The French stronghold was said to be very strong. If the defenders were battered and demoralized, though…Well, who could say what might happen then?

By now, not having Blaise at his side felt odd. The Negro had made himself indispensable in a hurry. He was off eating and drinking with other officers' servants, and with the cooks who'd served up these succulent beefsteaks and rib roasts. Victor wouldn't have been surprised if the servants were eating better yet.

“Major Radcliff!” Braddock called.

“Yes, your Excellency?” Victor replied, surprised at being singled out.

“I looked to be dining on honkers and other native fowl,” the Englishman said. “That would have been something out of the ordinary, at any rate—something I haven't done before. Instead, we have…beef. Nothing
wrong
with beef, mind you, but I did not cross the sea to eat of it.”

“Sir, we've long since hunted the honkers out of these coastal districts,” Victor said. “Here, we are nearly as settled as you are back on the home island, and our crops and livestock reflect it. We do, I believe, have more Terranovan turkeys here than you raise in England, and we make more use of maize as well. But honkers? Honkers, these days, are rare anywhere east of the Green Ridge Mountains, and less common west of the mountains than they were.”

“How disappointing,” Braddock said. “If I had to come here, I looked for a thoroughly exotic clime, to reward me with its novelty. But I find England has got here ahead of me.”

“It has, sir,” Victor agreed. “Perhaps, after the war is won, you might be interested in journeying into the interior with me. There, I promise, you will find things you would not within sight of St. Paul's.”

“Perhaps I might indeed, Major, and I thank you for the generous offer,” Braddock said. “One more good reason to clean things up as quickly as ever we may.”

The march resumed at first light the next morning: one more sign Braddock wanted to get things over with in a hurry. Yawning and grumbling profanely, the redcoats from England made up the core of the army. Green-coated Atlanteans were good enough for scouts and vanguard and rear guard. If there was a battle, their place would be on the wings. Again, the English regulars would take center stage.

Farmers waved as the soldiers marched by. They had, however, universally taken the precaution of driving their horses and cattle and sheep and pigs and chickens—yes, and turkeys, too—away from the army's line of progress. Victor wondered how they knew soldiers plundered as naturally as they breathed. Eastern Atlantis had been peaceful for many, many years.

However they knew, they were right. Chattels whose owners were rash enough to leave them on display disappeared: a chicken here, a hatchet there. And the English regulars weren't the only ones who stole. The Atlanteans lifted things as if they'd been soldiering and plundering for years. Victor Radcliff didn't know whether they were admirable or awful.

“Some of them could have had farms along this road,” he said. “Then they'd be hiding, not stealing.”

“That's so,
M'sieu,
” Blaise agreed. “But they don't, so they aren't.”

“Right,” Victor said. Sometimes Blaise's English was as compressed as a semaphore signal. Victor wasn't sure whether that was a defect or the sign of a profound mind.

Blaise didn't worry about it. As far as Victor Radcliff could tell, Blaise didn't worry about anything. Most of what that proved was how little Victor really knew the retainer who doubled as an underofficer. A man snatched from his native land and sold into slavery among strange-looking people who spoke not a word of his language…Such a man might find a thing or two to worry about. Or maybe even three.

A farmer on horseback came up from the south to report that the French army was moving again. Major General Braddock took that as good news. “We shan't have to storm their field fortifications, then,” he said. “That might possibly have proved tricky. If we meet them in the open, though, God hath delivered them into our hands.” He used the old-fashioned verb form to show his confidence.

“If they had fieldworks, your Excellency, why would they move out of them?” Victor asked.

“If they spent so long in one place, why would they not have built fieldworks?” Braddock returned, and the Atlantean had no good answer for him.

Radcliff asked the same question of Blaise a few minutes later. “Maybe we find out,” the black man said. That struck Victor as much too likely.

“Positions! Positions!” Roland Kersauzon felt like a director putting on a play. Unlike a director, he had a cast of thousands. And, unlike a director in a crowded little theater, he would have an audience of thousands, too. He had to keep that audience interested and intrigued just long enough.

The English regulars and their settler allies were coming. They'd be here soon. His own cavalry was skirmishing with the enemy's Atlantean horse, holding the scouts away so they couldn't divine what was going on here. No one was trying to hold back the main English force. On the contrary.

“Dress your lines!” Roland shouted to the ranks of musketeers who took their places athwart the road. They would stand and volley against Braddock's fearsome regulars for a while. And they would pay for it, too. He stood with them. He lacked the gall to order others to do what he dared not do himself. He would have been safer if he'd had it. He also would have been a stranger to himself.

When he looked north, he saw a cloud of dust against the sky. The redcoats and the English settlers were getting close, then. Well, good. Roland didn't want to stand out here in the meadow under the hot sun all day. He would have been cooler as well as safer in the trees behind his horribly exposed soldiers, or in the woods to either side of the meadow.

He wondered why European generals insisted on fighting battles in the open. They could control their armies better if they could see everything that was going on, true. It hardly seemed reason enough. But if Braddock was looking for a stand-up fight, the French settlers would give him one…for a while.

Pistols banged, not very far in the distance. His horsemen were falling back against the English Atlanteans, as they had orders to do. He didn't want to stop the enemy advance: only to channel it a little. As long as they kept the other side's cavalry away from the woods, they were doing their job.

Horses trotted toward him across the meadow. Those were his riders. They waved to the musketeers as they approached and then rode past to either side. Some of the musketeers were incautious enough to wave back. Their sergeants screamed at them. They wouldn't make that mistake again.

A few horsemen reined in and looked at his force from well out of musket range, then wheeled their mounts and rode back to the north. Those were the English Atlanteans' scouts getting a look at his dispositions. Roland knew what he wanted to look like. But in war as in the theater, you could never be quite sure that what the audience saw was what you wanted it to see.

Well, he'd know soon.

Here came the redcoats, already deployed in line of battle, advancing to the bleat of the horn and the tap of the drum. They wore tall hats to make themselves seem bigger and more fearsome than they really were. As they drew close, though, Roland realized most of them were shorter and skinnier than the green-clad Atlanteans who flanked them.

As long as they were shooting, that wouldn't matter. Everybody who aimed a loaded musket was the same size. But it might count against the English in the bayonet charge. Or, on the other hand, it might not. The redcoats approached the field with the professional arrogance of men who knew exactly what they were doing and had done it plenty of times before. Their matter-of-factness was daunting.

“Can we beat them,
Monsieur
?” a young lieutenant asked, so Roland wasn't the only one whose knees wanted to knock.

“They think we are going to play their game,” the French commander said, more calmly than he felt. “If we do that, they…present certain difficulties.”
They'll slaughter us,
he meant, and hoped the lieutenant didn't realize it. “This is the best arrangement for doing something else,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“
Certainement,
” the youngster replied. He kept his eyes on the steadily advancing regulars. His thoughts were still on them, too, for he continued, “So long as they give us the chance to do something else…”

“Yes. So long as,” Kersauzon agreed. “Nothing in war is certain. I would be the last to claim anything different. But I believe that fighting where we are, as we are, gives us the best chance of victory.”

The redcoats marched right into musket range. Their sergeants went on dressing their lines even then. They could have started shooting. So could the French settlers. When the pause held, a heavyset, elderly Englishman—he was close enough to see clearly—rode out in front of his force and tipped his hat in the direction of Roland Kersauzon's army. Kersauzon gravely returned the courtesy. The Englishman rode off to one side of the line, so as not to get in the way of his side's musketry.

Bugle calls rang out: English and French. The front rank of soldiers in both armies dropped to one knee. The second rank stooped to shoot over their heads. The third rank stood straight to fire above the heads of the second.

“
Now!
” Roland Kersauzon shouted, at the same instant as his English opposite number yelled what had to be the same thing.

Fire rippled across both battle lines. Smoke clouded the air. Bullets flew. Oh, how they flew! One of them tugged at Roland's sleeve. Another knocked the hat off his head. He caught it before it fell. He needed a moment to be sure, but no, neither of those musket balls touched his tender flesh.

Not all his men were so lucky. Some fell and lay still. More staggered away in pain and disbelief. The stink of blood and that of shit from bowels pierced by bullets or loosened by fear filled the air along with gunpowder's choking reek.

Having fired, the first three ranks of Frenchmen retired to reload. The next three stepped forward to take their places. Their muskets were loaded and ready to fire. Roland knew succeeding volleys would by the nature of things grow more ragged than the first two.

That was certainly true for his half-trained troops. But the redcoats fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, faster than mere mortals had any business doing. They got off three volleys for every two from the French settlers, sometimes two for one. If the settlers tried to hold their ground much longer, the Englishmen would either charge home with the bayonets that glittered at the ends of their guns or simply slaughter them with that deadly massed musketry.

“Retreat!” Roland shouted. “Retreat!” Enough buglers still stood to amplify the command. The Frenchmen streamed back in among the trees—those who still could.

“By Jove, we've got them now,” Major General Braddock said in more than a little satisfaction. The crash of volley after volley made his horse skittish, but he himself stayed as calm as if he were in his drawing room. Almost in spite of himself, Victor Radcliff was impressed.