The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories (81 page)

Most of our forces moved west, towards New Haven, followed by Inglistanis we had spared to carry canoes and haul cannons. Yesuntai had mastered enough of the Flint People’s language to speak with Aroniateka, and left me with the rear guard. We would travel to the north of the main force, paralleling its path, and take the outlying farms.

* * * *

Most of the farms we found were abandoned. We salvaged what we could and burned the rest. Days of searching empty farmhouses gave me time to reflect on how this campaign would affect my Ganeagaono brothers.

Their past battles had been for glory, to show their courage, to bring enemies to submission and to capture prisoners who might, in the end, become brothers of the Long House. They had seen that unity among their Five Nations would make them stronger. Now we were teaching them that a victory over certain enemies was not enough, that sometimes only the extermination of that enemy would end the conflict, that total war might be necessary. Perhaps they would have learned that lesson without us, but their knowledge of this new art would change them, as surely as the serpent who beguiled the first man and woman changed man’s nature. They might turn what they had learned against us.

Victories can hearten any soldier, but a respite from battle can also cause him to let down his guard. With a small party led by my son, I followed a rutted road towards one farm. From the trees beyond the field, where the corn was still only tall enough to reach to a man’s waist, we spied a log dwelling, with smoke rising from its chimney. A white flag attached to a stick stood outside the door.

“They wish to surrender,” I murmured to my son.

He shook his head. “The corn will hide us. We can get close enough to—”

“They are willing to give themselves up. Your men will have captives when they return to their homes. The Inglistanis have lost. Yesuntai will not object if we spare people willing to surrender without a fight.”

My son said, “You are only weary of killing. My people say that a man weary of war is also weary of life.”

“The people whose seed I carry have the same saying.” He had spoken the truth. I was tiring of the war I had helped to bring about, thinking of what might follow it. “I shall speak to them.”

“And we will guard your back,” my son replied.

I left the trees and circled the field as the others crept through the corn. When I was several paces from the door, I held out my hands, palms up. “Come outside,” I shouted in Frankish, hoping my words would be understood. “Show yourselves.” I tensed, ready to fling myself to the ground if my son and his men suddenly attacked.

The door opened. A man with a greying beard left the house, followed by a young girl. A white cap hid her hair, but bright golden strands curled over her forehead. She gazed at me steadily with her blue eyes; I saw sorrow in her look, but no fear. A brave spirit, I thought, and felt a heaviness over my heart that might have been pity.

The man’s Frankish was broken, but I was able to grasp his words. Whatever his people had done, he had always dealt fairly with the natives. He asked only to be left on his farm, to have his life and his family’s spared.

“It cannot be,” I told him. “You must leave this place. My brothers will decide your fate. That is all I can offer you, a chance for life away from here.”

The man threw up an arm. The girl was darting towards the doorway when I saw a glint of metal beyond a window. A blow knocked the wind from me and threw me onto my back. I clutched at my ribs and felt blood seep from me as the air was filled with the sound of war whoops.

They had been lying in wait for us. Perhaps they would not have fired at me if I had granted the man his request; perhaps they had intended an ambush all along. I cursed myself for my weakness and pity. I would have another scar to remind me of Inglistani treachery and the cost of a moment’s lack of vigilance, if I lived.

When I came to myself, the cabin was burning. A man knelt beside me, tending my wounds. Pain stabbed at me along my right side as I struggled to breathe. Two bodies in the grey clothes of Inglistani farmers lay outside the door. The Ganeagaono warriors danced as the flames leaped before them.

My son strode towards me, a scalp of long, golden hair dangling from his belt. “You cost me two men,” he said. I moved my head from side to side, unable to speak. “I am sorry, Father. I think this war will be your last.”

“I will live,” I said.

“Yes, you will live, but I do not think you will fight again.” He sighed. “Yet I must forgive you, for leading us to what your people call greatness.” He lifted his head and cried out, echoing the war whoops of his men.

* * * *

8

I was carried west on a wagon, my ribs covered with healing herbs and bound tightly with Inglistani cloth. A few men remained with me while the rest moved on towards New Haven. Every morning, I woke expecting to find that they had abandoned me, only to find them seated around the fire.

A man’s pride can be good medicine, and the disdain of others a goad. I was able to walk when Yesuntai sent a Bahadur to me with news of New Haven’s surrender. Few soldiers were left in New Haven; most had fled to make a stand in New London. The young Noyan expected a fierce battle there, where the valor of the Inglistanis would be fired by desperation. He wanted me at his side as soon as possible.

The Bahadur had brought a spare horse for me. As we rode, he muttered of the difficulties Yesuntai now faced. Our Narragansett allies had remained behind in their territory, as we had expected, but the Mahicans, sated by glory, were already talking of returning to their lands. They thought they could wait until spring to continue the war; they did not understand. I wondered if the Ganeagaono had the stomach for a siege that might last the winter. They would be thinking of the coming Green Corn festival, of the need to lay in game for the colder weather and of the families that waited for them.

The oaks and maples gave way to more fields the Inglistanis had cleared and then abandoned. I smelled the salt of the ocean when we caught sight of Mongol and Mahican sentries outside a makeshift stockade. Yesuntai was camped to the east of New London, amid rows of Ganeagaono bark shelters. In the distance, behind a fog rolling in from the sea, I glimpsed the walls of the town.

Yesuntai and Aroniateka were outside one shelter, sitting at a fire with four other men. I heaved myself from my horse and walked towards them.

“Greetings, Jirandai,” Yesuntai said in Mongol. “I am pleased to see you have recovered enough to take part in our final triumph.”

I squatted by the fire and stretched out my hands. My ribs still pained me; I suspected they always would. “This is likely to be our hardest battle,” I said.

“Then our glory will be all the greater when we win it.” Yesuntai accepted a pipe from Aroniateka and drew in the smoke. “We will take New London before the leaves begin to turn.”

“You plan to take it by storm?” I asked. “That will cost us.”

“I must have it, whatever it costs. My fellow commander Aroniateka is equally impatient for this campaign to end, as I suspect you are, Bahadur.” His eyes held the same look I had seen in my son’s outside the burning farmhouse, that expression of pity mingled with contempt for an old man tired of war.

I slept uneasily that night, plagued by aching muscles strained by my ride and the pain of my wounds. The sound of intermittent thunder over the ocean woke me before dawn. I crept from my shelter to find other men outside, shadows in the mists, and then knew what we were hearing. The sound was that of cannons being fired from ships. The Inglistanis would turn the weapons of their ships against us, whatever the risk to the town. They would drive us back from the shore and force us to withdraw.

Yesuntai had left his shelter. He paced, his arms swinging as if he longed to sweep the fog away. I went to him, knowing how difficult it would be to persuade him to give up now. A man shouted in the distance, and another answered him with a whoop. Yesuntai would have to order a retreat, or see men slaughtered to no purpose. I could still hear the sound of cannons over the water, and wondered why the Inglistanis had sailed no closer to us.

A Mongol and a Ganeagaono warrior were pushing their way through knots of men. “Noyan!” the Mongol called out to Yesuntai. “From the shore, I saw three ships - they fly the blue and white banners of your father! They have turned their weapons against the Inglistanis!”

The men near us cheered. Yesuntai’s face was taut, his eyes slits. He turned to me; his hands trembled as he clasped my shoulders.

“It seems,” he said softly, “that we will have to share our triumph.”

* * * *

The ships had sailed to New London from Yeke Geren. They bombarded the town as we advanced from the north and east, driving our remaining Inglistani captives before us against the outer stockade. The sight of these wretches, crying out in Inglistani to their comrades and dying under the assault of their own people’s weapons, soon brought New London’s commander to send up white flags.

Michel Bahadur left his ship to accept the surrender. We learned from him that our Khan had at last begun his war against Inglistan that spring; a ship had brought Michel the news only recently. By now, he was certain, the Khanate’s armies would be marching on London itself. Michel had quickly seen that his duty lay in aiding us, now that we were openly at war with the Inglistanis.

Michel Bahadur praised Yesuntai lavishly as they embraced in the square of the defeated town. He spoke of our courage, but in words that made it seem that only Michel could have given us this final triumph. I listened in silence, my mind filled with harsh thoughts about men who claimed the victories of others for their own.

* * * *

We celebrated the fall of New London with a feast in the town hall. Several Inglistani women who had survived the ravages of Michel’s men stood behind them to fill their cups. There were few beauties among those wan and narrow-faced creatures, but Michel had claimed a pretty dark-haired girl for himself.

He sat among his men, Yesuntai at his side, drinking to our victory. He offered only a grudging tribute to the Ganeagaono and the Mahicans, and said that they would be given their share of captives with the air of a man granting a great favor. I had chosen to sit with the Ganeagaono chiefs, as did most of the Mongols who had fought with us. Michel’s men laughed when three of the Mahican chiefs slid under tables, overcome by the wine and whiskey. My son, watching them, refused to drink from his cup.

“Comrades!” Michel bellowed in Frankish. I brooded over my wine, wondering what sort of speech he would make now. “Our enemies have been crushed! I say now that in this place, where we defeated the last of the Inglistani settlers, we will make a new outpost of our Khanate! New London will become another great camp!”

I stiffened in shock. The men around Michel fell silent as they watched us. Yesuntai glanced in my direction; his fingers tightened around his cup.

“New London was to burn,” Yesuntai said at last. “It was to suffer the fate of the other settlements.”

“It will stand,” Michel said, “to serve your father our Khan. Surely you cannot object to that, Noyan.”

Yesuntai seemed about to speak, then sank back in his seat. Our Narragansett and Wampanoag allies would feel betrayed when they learned of Michel’s intentions. The Bahadur’s round, crafty face reminded me of everything I despised in Europeans, their greed, their treachery, their lies.

My son motioned to me, obviously expecting me to translate Michel’s words. I leaned towards him. “Listen to me,” I said softly in the tongue of the Flint People, “and do nothing rash when you hear what I must say now. The war chief who sailed here to aid us means to camp in this place. His people will live in this town we have won.”

His hand darted towards his tomahawk, then fell. “So this is why we fought. I should have listened to Mother when she first spoke against you.”

“I did not know what Michel Bahadur meant to do, but what happens here will not trouble the Long House.”

“Until your people choose to forget another promise.”