Owen glanced at Woods, who was standing beside a much smaller pile. "I thought, sir, we were meeting here at half past two. Did I mistake the time?"
Nathaniel shook his head. "Seen you marketing with the Frost girl. Figured I'd come down here, see what was what."
Owen looked at the two piles. The larger one contained most everything from Owen's original list, including bolts of cloth, beads, other trade goods, some ironwork, some books, two casks of salted beef, two cases of biscuit, blankets, tack and saddles, and feed for horses.
The other pile looked tiny by comparison. Woods had pulled aside a single musket, a pistol, shot and brimstone, a sextant, a pouch with food, another with pre-rolled cartridges for the guns, a knife, a small ax, two canteens, a single blanket, and a backpack that could carry the extra shot as well as his journals, a small telescope, and a change of socks.
"Lieutenant Palmerston, would you excuse us for a moment?"
The Quartermaster quickly exited the building, closing the door behind him, but not all the way.
Owen completed the closing. "Mr. Woods, I appreciate your association with the Prince. You know your business. But, sir, I have a mission."
Woods leaned back against the wall. "You're to scout out where the Ryngians are and report back. And while you're at it, you'll make friends with the Twilight People and convince them to be fighting for the Queen when the war comes this way?"
Owen hesitated. "Did the Prince tell you that?"
"Ain't no need." Woods slowly shook his head. "Norillians been trying to do that thing since my pap was a boy. Now you're thinking them blankets and that cloth will be a way to buy some good will, ain'tcha?"
"You suggest it won't, sir?"
"Well, now, ever hear of Major Hopkins?"
"Afraid not."
"Tain't much of a surprise. Thirty years ago, Major Hopkins brought the Twilight People blankets tainted with the Blood Pox. Thought the Altashee would just wrap themselves up and die. Didn't happen."
"I was unaware of that."
"Not many are. Know why his plan didn't work?"
"No."
Woods' eyes tightened. "The Altashee ain't idiots. The men bringing the blankets all had pox scars. The Altashee sussed out what was going on. They got them some powerful medicine magicks. You tote them blankets and they'll figure you're out to kill 'em."
Owen shook his head. "They stay, then. The Twilight People, they still trade for cloth, yes?"
"Some. From a post where the cloth has been sitting around for six months or more, and where whites buy it and wear it."
"The horse fodder?"
"Don't need feed for horses we ain't gonna have."
"I see." Owen looked from one pile to another. He had a choice to make. He could demand that Woods justify every exclusion, or he could ask why he'd selected the things in the small pile. The latter course would be more productive, though he itched to go through the former. It was his expedition, after all.
Or is it?
"How many rounds for each weapon?"
"Two hundred and a half for your long gun; a hundred for the pistol and seven firestones total."
Dust motes danced in the light illuminating the small pile. "That's twice as many firestones as needed."
Woods shook his head. "You ever actually put a hundred shots through a firestone?"
Owen frowned. "More. They were army stones like these and rated for a hundred shots."
"Out here we reckon the man making firestones has a brother in that there Parliament what sends him work. Got paid good for 'em, but he's a long ways away. If one of them shatters after ten or fifteen or fifty shots, you ain't gonna survive long enough to be a-complaining to him."
"You've made your point."
"Out there ain't no Fire Wardens for to sell us a spare firestone or three. The rule is 'a pinch more powder and keep your stone bright.' That'll put your shot where you want it."
"Since you have rejected the foodstuffs, shall I assume we will be living off the land?"
"You can't imagine the bounty out there, Captain." Woods smiled and his gaze became distant. "You'll be glad you don't have weevil biscuits and sour beef. What we can't kill or pick, we'll trade for. We'll even get you some better clothes."
"I think not, sir." Owen held his head up. "I am an officer of Her Majesty's Army. I shall wear my uniform proudly."
"Your clothes ain't going to last."
"It really doesn't matter, Mr. Woods." Owen kept his voice firm. "This mission will take us into enemy territory. If I travel out of uniform and were captured, I would be hung as a spy. I am not a spy. I shall not comport myself as one."
Woods had been grinning as if he was going to laugh, but his expression sobered quickly enough. "You're set on that?"
"I am, sir."
"The matter is closed. I respect your conviction, sir." Woods shook his head. "Not sure I understand it, but I 'spect that's a piece of civilization I'm not meant to be comprehending. Will you be adding anything else to your kit?"
"I have a few personal effects. Journals. Pens." Owen thought, then shook his head. "Unless you think there is something else. I am sure there will be room in my pack."
Woods nodded. "I reckon we're covered."
"And Mr. Woods…"
"Yes, Captain Strake?"
"This is my expedition, isn't it?"
"It's all yours, sir." Woods gave him a tiny salute. "I'm just along so's you can find your way to the end of it."
Chapter Twelve
May 1, 1763
St. Martin's Cathedral, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
O wen found himself with the luxury of a couple of hours before the grand Sunday dinner Mrs. Frost had promised earlier in the week. Owen had joined the family at services. Bishop Othniel Bumble had held forth in a fiery sermon about duty to the Crown. After the service, the Frosts invited the Bishop, his family, and his aid, Reverend Benjamin Beecher to join them for dinner.
Owen occupied himself by organizing his journals. He decided one would be a workbook for notes and sketches while traveling. The second would be the mission journal. He would copy and organize things from the workbook to guarantee the information's accuracy.
While this was his intent, in sitting down to practice with his metal nibs, he realized his plan would not work. The workbook observations about Mystria expanded beyond their original scope. He found himself evaluating the people and their customs. Commentary required context, so his writing became voluminous.
He found himself motivated, in part, by Lord Rivendell's book. That Rivendell's tome could be taken as the definitive account of Villerupt revolted him. He wanted his impressions of Mystria to educate readers about the people and their true courage.
This created problems. The assault, for example, did not paint a pretty picture of Mystrian behavior. Owen chose to write things down as plainly as he could. He hoped that his portraits of the Frosts and even Nathaniel Woods would balance any negative impressions gleaned from the actions of people like the Branches.
Owen had filled several pages with an even hand when one of the younger Frosts tapped on his door. Owen pulled on the plain coat he'd worn to church and descended. The dining table had been set up in the kitchen yard, on a green lawn.
The rotund Bishop Bumble regarded him with a flash of displeasure before a smile lit his ruddy face to the point of buffoonery. He threw his arms wide and waddled forward. "So good to see you again, Captain Strake. May I present to you my wife, Livinia, and my niece, Lilith."
Livinia Bumble suffered in comparison to her husband and Mrs. Frost, being slight of frame and colorless to the point of appearing gray. She did make an effort at smiling, but it exhausted her. Owen would have taken her to be entirely timid, but her blue eyes remained sharp and seemed to miss nothing.
Owen bowed and kissed her proffered hand, then smiled at the other member of the Bumble party. Lilith was everything her aunt was not. Tall and flame-haired, the young woman smiled dazzlingly, fully aware of the effect. Though she wore a gown styled as simply as her aunt's, and cut from the same cloth, her bright blue eyes and the spray of freckles across her cheeks rescued her from being drab.