Sons of Liberty (13 page)

“
I’m going out there,” Gwen said. A throbbing eagerness was running through the crew - she could sense they were looking forward to coming to grips with their enemy - but she knew an engagement could be disastrous. Losing a single troopship would cost the lives of thousands of men. “Tell the gunners not to shoot at me.”

Jackson gave her a sharp look and nodded curtly. Gwen glanced at Captain Bligh, who was passing orders to the signallers, then hurried out of the hatch and pulled her magic around her, lifting off into the air. She heard someone cry out behind her, but there was no time to turn and look. The chances of survival if she landed in the cold water were minimal. She rose higher, searching for her targets. The French ships were running up a string of flags, led by their king’s arms. She had no idea what the others meant.

Wooden ships, she thought slowly, as she studied her targets. They weren't quite wooden - Bligh had been right, there was a layer of armour covering their hulls - but their masts were wooden and there was no sign of a steam engine. The warships were completely dependent on the wind to get around, which was hardly a major problem. Bligh had told her, during one of the innumerable boring dinners, that warship steam engines were nowhere near completely reliable. Duke of India would run the risk of losing power in the middle of the ocean without her sails. But the French have no steam engines.

A shot cracked past her, coming from the lead French warship. She glanced down in surprise and saw a man standing on the deck, holding a sniper rifle. One of the men who shot at sailors on the rigging, she thought, remembering some of Fredrick Hauser’s war stories from the Caribbean. It had been clear, from the way he’d said it, that the sailors regarded such snipers as deadly enemies. Other enemy sailors might be picked up and taken prisoner, after a battle, but the snipers would be killed if they were identified. The French would do the same to any snipers they caught.

She formed a fireball in her hand, then threw it down towards the French ship. The Frenchman jumped backwards in shock. He’d expected a Mover, she realised, as she hurled another fireball. He might not have realised she was a girl, let alone realised that she was the Royal Sorceress. But he’d know now, she was sure; she launched a third fireball into the French rigging, watching from high overhead as flames licked through the canvas, sending the lookout falling to the deck. Gwen almost reached out with her magic to slow his fall, or to catch him, before remembering that he was the enemy. The battle was not yet won.

More bullets cracked around her, bouncing off her magic. The other French ships were firing now, aiming their heavy guns at the squadron while the soldiers on their decks were trying to shoot Gwen out of the sky. Gritting her teeth, she shot a series of fireballs in all directions, trying to set fire to the remainder of the enemy fleet. Their sails caught fire, one by one; she watched, grimly, as the flames spread down the mast and onto the wooden decks. And then one of the ships exploded with staggering force.

Must have caught something explosive, she thought, numbly. Bligh had warned her that fire was a deadly enemy onboard ship, particularly when there were barrels of gunpowder lying around. Did ships still use barrels of gunpowder? She couldn't recall. But Bligh was certainly old enough to remember the days when gunpowder was used to launch solid iron balls towards the enemy. I ...

Something flashed though the air towards her. She ducked, dropping down instinctively, as a chunk of iron almost slammed into her magic. A Frenchman stood on the deck, pointing a finger at her. Gwen had almost no time to react before a wave of magic crashed into her, tearing apart the power holding her in the air. She threw back a fireball desperately, then let go of her grip on the air and plummeted down, breaking free of the Frenchman’s magic. A Mover. They had a Mover onboard ship. She caught herself before she hit the water, then hurled another fireball into the French ship, pushing as much power as she could into the blow. Flames licked over the side of the vessel, seconds before the main mast came tumbling down to the deck. Seconds later, it exploded, followed rapidly by another ship.

Gwen braced herself, expecting to see the French magician flying into the air, but saw nothing. An untrained Mover then, she noted absently as she rose higher, watching for other magicians. The French squadron lay in ruins, the four remaining ships burning brightly as flames tore through their hulls. Their crews were hastily scrambling into boats or jumping into the cold water, preferring to brave the Atlantic than die with their ships. Gwen felt magic billowing up within her, itching to lash out at the Frenchmen, but she forced it down with an effort. The French weren't a threat any longer. How could they be?

And I’m the only known Master Magician, she thought numbly. Master Thomas had insisted that they were special, but she hadn't really believed it, not deep inside. But he’d been right, she knew now. She might lack the raw power of Sir James, or the skill of Irene Adler, but she was far more versatile than either of them. Look what I did to the French.

She watched the last French warship explode into a billowing fireball, then turned and flew back to the Duke of India. Captain Bligh had halted and started to deploy boats, ready to pick up any of the Frenchmen who felt like being taken prisoner. Gwen wondered, absently, just what would happen to them, once they reached New York. A spell in a POW camp until the end of the war, perhaps, or a prisoner exchange with the French? Either one was possible.

The crewmen on deck started to cheer as soon as she dropped down and landed neatly on the giant ship. Gwen smiled, wondering when they’d stopped seeing her as bad luck. Maybe after she’d beaten the French so decisively ... oddly, the thought made her scowl. It had been the most one-sided victory in history for ... for at least living memory. Even the slaughter of the Spanish warships escorting the vast treasure fleet, back in 1802, hadn't been quite so lopsided. Lord Nelson had crushed the Spanish, but he’d lost two ships of his own in the battle.

“
My Lady Gwen,” Jackson said, as she walked back to the bridge. “That was very well done.”

“
Thank you,” Gwen said. Just for a second, she told herself, she could bathe in honest praise from a man. Jackson didn't seem scared, or intimidated, or convinced she was out to steal his glory. But then, they were at sea. The cynical part of her mind argued that it would be a different story on land. “What are we going to do with the prisoners?”

“
If they give their word not to cause trouble, we’ll treat them decently,” Jackson assured her, firmly. “And if they do cause trouble ...”

He mimed cutting his throat with one hand. Gwen understood, then turned to look at the Frenchmen as they were hauled out of the water. They looked stunned, stunned or angry; some made the sign of the cross in Gwen’s direction as they were patted down for weapons and anything that could be sold in New York. Gwen would have felt pity, if she hadn't known what the French would have done to her - and to every other magician, before their king had realised he needed them. The French magical program would be far more advanced if they hadn't wasted thirty years killing every magician who appeared in France or Spain.

Blame the Pope, she thought, darkly. And now the Pope is a French tool.

“
Lady Gwen,” Captain Bligh said, as they stepped onto the bridge. “Thank you.”

“
You’re welcome,” Gwen said. “Did we lose anyone?”

“
No, fortunately,” Bligh said. “You sank them all before they had a chance to get the range.”

“Definitely very well done,” Jackson said.

Gwen yawned suddenly, hastily covering her mouth in a reaction her mother had drilled into her. Young women did not yawn in public. It simply wasn’t done. Doing so much magic, so quickly, had drained her. Maybe it wasn't quite as bad as the Battle of Dorking or the desperate struggle to escape Moscow, but quite bad enough.

“
I need some rest,” she said. “I’ll try and see you tonight for dinner.”

“Please allow me to escort you to your cabin,” Jackson said.

Gwen nodded - all of a sudden, she was too tired to argue - and clambered down the ladder onto the lower deck. A pair of sailors waved cheerfully at her as they walked past, staring at her in awe. It made a change, she decided, from having them watching her as though they expected her to start turning people into frogs, left right and centre. Didn't they know magicians couldn't turn people into frogs?

Of course they don’t, her own thoughts mocked her. Very few people know what magic can do.

“
Here you are,” Jackson said. “Are you going to be all right?”

“
I just need to sleep,” Gwen assured him. “Using so much magic at once is costly.”

Jackson nodded. “Do you want me to stay with you for a while?”

Gwen hesitated. The hell of it was that she was tempted. Jackson could stay with her while she slept ... but the price would be too high. Far too high. No matter what they did - or didn’t do - rumour would destroy both of them.

“
No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She stepped through the door, closing it behind her, then collapsed on the bed.

***

“
So tell me,” Irene said, as they returned to their cabin. “What do you make of our Frenchman?”

Raechel frowned. The French officer was the highest-ranking Frenchman to be pulled from the water, save for a warship captain who’d been so badly hurt that he’d breathed his last almost as soon as he’d been tugged into a rowboat. She had to admit he was a handsome man - she knew from her trip to Russia that the French were not inhuman monsters - but the resentment on his face was almost palatable. Losing was bad enough, she knew, yet losing so badly had to be humiliating.

Almost as humiliating as being berated in front of a crowd, Raechel thought. Irene had told her to study the Frenchman closely, without speaking to him. Or worse, perhaps. What will happen to him when he gets home?

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “A nobleman,” she said, finally. “But not a noble man.”

Irene lifted her eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

“
He was plucked from the water, where he would have surely drowned,” Raechel said. Irene might tell her she was wrong, but she wouldn't mock her. “He should be grateful that we bothered to pick up prisoners. And yet, he’s fuming with rage.”

“
Being beaten by a young girl probably helped,” Irene said. She sounded amused, rather than annoyed. “Do you think he can be trusted?”

“
I don’t think so,” Raechel said. It was a test, of course. The obvious answer was that no Frenchman could be trusted, but somehow she doubted Irene would accept that answer. “He doesn't act like a man who’ll keep his word.”

“
Most men hate the thought of losing everything,” Irene agreed. She smiled as she lay back on the bed. “Being a prisoner won’t make him feel very happy.”

Raechel scowled. “It’s more than that,” she said. “I’d bet he used influence to jump ahead, but now his career is in ruins.”

“
You’d win that bet,” Irene said. “Right now, our French captive is considering the virtues of suicide - or an attempt to kill Gwen. He doesn't care about the other captives.”

“
But ...” Raechel swallowed and started again. Irene had made it clear that prisoners who caused trouble were rapidly executed, even prisoners of noble blood. If the Frenchman no longer cared about his fellow Frenchmen. “We need to stop him!”

“
He’ll be under guard,” Irene assured her. “And I would be surprised if he works up the nerve to go after Gwen. He’s torn between hatred and a deeply frustrating fear.”

She smiled. “She does have that effect on people, doesn't she?”

Chapter Eleven

“Land Ho!”

Gwen looked up from the chessboard, then joined the flurry of passengers as they made their way up to the deck. The remainder of the voyage had been uneventful, but the combination of French prisoners and reduced rations had been wearing down the passengers long before they came into sight of New York. She couldn't help feeling relieved as she scrambled onto the deck and peered westwards. A handful of towers rose up in the distance, dominating the skyline. Hundreds of ships were heading in and out of the harbour, ranging from giant warships and ocean-going freighters to tiny fishing and patrol boats.

“
It’s impressive,” Jackson said, coming up behind her. “Welcome to the new world.”

Gwen listened with half an ear as he pointed out a handful of landmarks. A giant pair of statues - the Brothers Howe - were perched on an island, watching benignly as ships made their way to and from New York. Beyond them, dozens of fortresses, bristling with guns and surrounded by troops. New York had been taken with ease, she recalled, when the Americans had rebelled against the British Crown. The same factors that made the city so prosperous - and so important to the empire - rendered it vulnerable when its owners lost control of the seas. If the French tried a landing in New York, she was sure, they’d regret it long before a single soldier splashed ashore.

“
Manhattan is effectively an island,” Jackson added. “They don't have room to spread out.”

“
Just like London,” Gwen said. “But with larger buildings.”

She shook her head in awe. An apartment in Mayfair or Pall Mall could be hideously expensive, even if it was nothing more than a handful of rooms. But there was never any shortage of people willing to pay for such a prized location, so close to the centre of the British Government. Manhattan would be just as important, she thought, but the Americans had built towering apartment blocks to house visitors to the city. No one would ever get planning permission to build anything like it in the heart of London. There was no style to the buildings, she noted as the ship finally approached the dock, but the Americans didn't seem to care.