Tongues of Serpents (43 page)

But he was determined not to be dismal: he would not be a weight upon Laurence, who had also been left behind to manage with Rankin, and this new governor; Temeraire had been forced sadly to reconsider his feelings towards Macquarie. Laurence certainly thought better of him than of Bligh, and Temeraire would not quarrel on that point, but it seemed Macquarie was rather given to consulting Rankin, and not Laurence, and Laurence had not been invited to several of the conferences to further discuss the plan of attack.

Instead Rankin would return to the covert after these were held, and present the plan to the aviators in a very officious manner; and if Laurence had a point to make, or some question, Rankin would address him very pointedly as
Mr
. Laurence, and the others as
Lieutenant
, such as Lieutenant Blincoln; he only ever addressed the midwingmen so, as Mr. Peabody, or Mr. Dawes, so it was all the ever more sharp.

“That scarcely concerns me,” Laurence said, when Temeraire had expressed his very great irritation. “He might as easily refuse to share with me any intelligence from the conferences at all, and try and put another man aboard with us to govern the course of events during the battle; he would be within his rights.”

“As though I should allow any such thing,” Temeraire said, “and I am sure he knows it; he might fight the battle without me, then, and I expect without Kulingile, too.”

Kulingile cracked open an eye at his name and asked drowsily, “Is it time to eat again yet?”

“No, but I imagine you have not long to wait; I passed a butchering on my way,” Tharkay said, coming up the hill.

He shook Laurence’s hand; to Temeraire’s dismay, he had come to also take his leave. “The master of the
Miniver
informs me he means to make port at Bombay,” Tharkay said, “and I know the road from there to Istanbul.” He smiled a little, twistedly. “Much of my intelligence may be a little old by the time I have got there, but I have promised to deliver it.”

Temeraire did not see why Tharkay should have to go so far, only to deliver news; and particularly when he did not seem as though he wished to go, very much. “But if you must, you might come back,” Temeraire said, “and if you see Bezaid and Sherazde, pray tell them that their egg hatched quite safely; I have often thought that I ought to send them word. It is not their fault, of course, that Iskierka is so very irritating.”

“I think we must expect to regret you a longer time,” Laurence said. “—there can be very little to call you back to this part of the world anytime soon.”

Tharkay paused, then said, “We spoke some time ago of endeavors which might call
you
away from it, however. I would have opportunity to make inquiries, if you have decided.”

Laurence did not answer immediately; then he said, “No; thank you, Tenzing. I cannot see my way to it. I am very grateful—”

Tharkay waved this away. “Then I will hope some other occupation finds you; you do not seem likely to me to lie idle.” He drew out a handsomely embossed card from a case in his pocket. “My direction is likely to be, as always, uncertain; but you may write me care of my lawyers: if they cannot find me, they will hold the letters until I have called for them.” He gave Laurence the card; they clasped hands once more and agreed on dinner, the following day, before Tharkay went down the slope away.

“I certainly hope that he is right,” Temeraire said, with a little sigh; privateering did seem to him a splendid occupation, and it was a great pity Laurence felt it was not quite the thing. It did not seem to him that anything of interest should ever happen here, nor fair that everyone but himself and Laurence should go.

Tharkay and Laurence were away at dinner the next afternoon when the gunfire erupted, late in the evening. Temeraire had just woken to enjoy the cooler hours, and had been contemplating whether he might call it worth the effort to fly a little distance to the more
shaded water-hole and have a cold drink; as the crack and whistle of musketry went off, Kulingile opened his eyes and sat up.

“Is it time to fight the serpents?” he inquired hopefully: his voice had not grown lower, but a great deal more resonant in an odd, echoing manner, so that when he spoke it seemed as though several people were talking at once, saying the very same thing.

“Of course it is not time to fight the serpents,” Caesar said, peering down the slope, “my captain would have come for me, and my crew. There are men fighting one another: perhaps it is duels.”

“It is not duels,” Temeraire said, “no one fights duels at night, and with dozens of people against one another; one fights them at dawn. I do not see why there should be so much disorder in this town, and why Laurence must always be in the midst of it, somewhere I cannot see him; oh! they are firing again.”

There were a great many men in uniforms in the street, struggling now against one another with bayonets and wrestling, their rifles held like staves and battering away. Temeraire rose and peered down the hill anxiously, looking to see if he could make Laurence out anywhere at all in the melee, but his brown coat would have been difficult to see in better light than they had, so that Temeraire did not see him was no comfort; if he had seen Laurence, he might at least have had the opportunity of snatching him away to safety.

“I am going to go down there,” Temeraire said, decisively, “—no, Roland, I cannot wait; plainly Laurence might be anywhere, and perhaps they will stop if I should land among them—I will only knock over that low building, which is very rickety-looking anyway, and perhaps the one beside it.”

“You are not to go anywhere,” Rankin said, panting up the hill, in his heartlessly plain evening clothes and great disarray, with Blincoln and his second lieutenant behind him. “Mr. Fellowes! You will rig Caesar out at once; it is a rebellion. You are to remain here,” he added to Temeraire. “Laurence is in no danger whatsoever: they are advancing on the governor’s mansion, and nowhere near the inn where he was dining.”

“As though I were likely to take your word for it,” Temeraire said scornfully, “or listen to you; I am not under your command, and if someone is rebelling, who is it, and why?”

“That,” Rankin snapped, “is none of your concern; if you do mean
to go blundering in, and likely crush Laurence yourself in reckless abandon, by all means do so, but you will keep out of our way. Caesar, does all lie well? That breast-band does not look secure to me, Mr. Fellowes, you will see to it.”

“It is a little loose there over the shoulder, as well,” Caesar reported, puffing out his chest tremendously, and then Demane said, “I don’t see why
we
should—ow!”

Roland had kicked him soundly in the shin, and as he bent towards it caught him by the ear, twisting it painfully. “Don’t be an ass,” she said, “and don’t you yowl at me, either,” she added, when Kulingile had reared up his head in bristling protest. “It is for his good, and yours.”

“Let go!” Demane hissed back at her, but she was managing to dance around him and keep hold, so he could not easily wrench loose without hurting himself worse. “Why should we let him decide, who is ruling the colony and everyone in it—”

“We shouldn’t,” she hissed, “but you aren’t the son of an earl with twenty thousand a year and half the Lords in his pocket; if you look a rebel, someone will just shoot you, you ass, and not bother with trial about it, either; you haven’t a scrap of influence. And anyway,” she added, “if he hasn’t any business deciding, you have less; you don’t even know who it is rebelling, or why: and I dare say they are all just drunk.”

“They are certainly not drunk,” Temeraire said, “for they have got off three volleys: and it is no joke to reload a gun even when one is sober; it was the greatest difficulty for our artillery company to manage it, with seven men to a cannon, so it must be even more trouble for one person with a musket, it seems to me; and I do wish I knew who they were—”

“It is the New South Wales Corps,” Lieutenant Forthing said, panting; he had dashed up the hill. “Mr. Laurence is coming, Temeraire; he says to tell you he is quite well, and you are not to come in search of him.”

“Where is he, pray?” Temeraire said, still a little wary; Laurence, he knew, thought a little better of Forthing after their journey, but Temeraire did not see that he had done anything of particular value; he would much rather have had Ferris back, or perhaps his midwingman Martin; except of course Martin had given them the cut direct, after the trial.

It was grown too dark to see, but there was a lantern coming up the hill, and then Caesar said, “All lies well, Captain Rankin,” very satisfied with himself, and stood waiting while the company of officers began to go aboard with their rifles and their pistols, and as they mounted, he added aside to Temeraire and Kulingile, in a tone of unpardonable condescension, “Well, fellows, we will settle this in a trice, and be back; pray don’t trouble yourselves over it.”

“I do not see why we do not get any fighting, and you do?” Kulingile said queryingly, which Temeraire felt was a remarkably appropriate question. “I have been very sleepy, but no one can sleep when there are guns going. And if it is the New South Wales Corps, have they not been giving us those sheep? and the cows?”

“Well,” Temeraire said judiciously, “so far as that goes, Governor Macquarie did provide us with some cattle.” One ought, he felt, be scrupulously fair in such circumstances. “But he does mean to start a war with China, which no one would like; Laurence,” he said, swinging his head around, “I am so very relieved to see you: I had meant to go down, but Forthing came sooner. We are discussing whether we ought help Governor Macquarie, or the Corps, who are rebelling again.”

“Yes,” Laurence said, grimly, “—Roland, my glass.”

The battle, if one might call it that, had gone all the distance to the governor’s mansion now, and seemed so far as Temeraire could see it to be quite reduced in scope; there was very little fighting, and the soldiers who had stood in the way now seemed to be walking with the rest, except for the small company of Marines, who had fled. There was singing going on, and a great many of the townspeople had come out with lanterns and also flagons and bottles: one could see the light shining on the glass as they drank and cheered, and pistols were shot off into the air.

Laurence closed the glass and gave it to Roland. “Caesar,” Rankin said, “put me up.”

“Temeraire,” Laurence said, “you will not permit him to go aloft, if you please. Sir,” he said to Rankin, “the event has run past you: you will not turn your beast against a crowd of civilians. God knows there has been enough of that in this war: I will not see it done again.”

Rankin’s face went very pale with anger, and his hand clenched upon the straps of his carabiners, which he held ready. “Mr. Laurence, if you should dare interfere—”

“I do,” Laurence said flatly, and whatever Rankin might have said foundered: there was no threat he could offer.

“If you had the least ambition of pardon,” he said after a stifled, furious struggle briefly contorted his narrow, aristocratic mouth, “you may leave it aside forever; if you think the account I shall give of you will not suffice, Governor Macquarie will surely damn you as thoroughly.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Laurence said, and turned away; he did not care to give Rankin his face.

“O
F COURSE
it is not a real rebellion,” MacArthur said, handing Laurence a glass of the cool sillery; the heat had broken at last, and the autumnal air was pleasant as the small bats cried and flung themselves among the trees along the border of his gardens. “I don’t see any reason we ought to behave like those Yankee Doodles, cutting off our nose to spite our face; but it is unreasonable to be governed at eight months’ distance and guesswork. Their Lordships cannot have known they were asking for a war we cannot win: what should we do if China sent over a dozen of these albatross creatures, which they do not even know existed, and ran them over our heads with sacks full of bombs? No, plainly we must manage ourselves; but certainly I do not mean to forswear my loyalty to the King. Never that.”

By which, Laurence supposed, MacArthur meant that he did not mean to forswear himself for at least the next year and a half, before some fresh answer came; if the ministers should not choose at that time to recognize his new self-declared position as First Minister of Australia, Laurence suspected MacArthur’s feelings on the matter would prove somewhat more malleable.

“Now then,” MacArthur said, “this Rankin fellow: I cannot see how he can continue the commander of our little aerial force here—”

“I should be surprised if you had much success in persuading him to undertake it,” Laurence said dryly. He had rather expected Rankin to return to England, with Macquarie: the deposed governor had no notion of lingering as Bligh had, but meant at once to leave by the same frigate which had brought him, when that ship was ready.

“You
would
be surprised, I think,” MacArthur said. “He is a little stiff-necked, there is no denying it, but his beast is a reasonable creature;
I have found it work well enough when I have a word in his ear beforehand to any discussion with his captain. But it is no use saying Rankin has charge of the covert, under the circumstances: you are the man we want for the business. I have written you a pardon; there may be a little irregularity about it, of course, but it must do for now—”