"I'm not in an easy position here, Nathaniel. If I keep him on and he cannot do the job, it will be seen as favoritism."
"And iffen you leave him behind, he ain't gonna be right the rest of his life." Nathaniel gave Forest a nod. "You go make up your list, but give me a week. I reckon with a little work, things will come together just fine."
Supplies still had not come upriver by the second of July, when Forest determined his force would leave Hattersburg. The locals, happy for the relief from the Norillian cavalry, opened their larders and magazines to the Rangers. Each man was able to refill his supplies and add another fifty rounds of ammunition and powder. Every squad carried an additional two pounds of brimstone, the burden of which rotated through the squad.
During the week Nathaniel had a course of discussions with men in both companies. Looking the force over, it wasn't too difficult to pick out men who were the natural leaders, even if they'd not been the ones who had been voted an officer. All the soldiers looked up to these men, for their leadership, their encouragement, and their favor.
Nathaniel found a way to have a conversation that, in part, got around to pointing out just how hard-working Lieutenant Caleb Frost really was. Nathaniel allowed as how Caleb was working himself to death, doing all the things that other men ought to be doing. He suggested that a man who let another man do all that wasn't really a man, and it was a shame to let a young buck like Caleb ruin himself.
Things began to change. Men started doing all the things Caleb had done, and without being asked. Squads took it upon themselves to pitch his tent for him, or invite him to share their supper. Men always brewed an extra cup of tea or found an extra pinch of salt for him.
The week in Hattersburg did Caleb well. He managed to catch up on his sleep and let his feet heal. When Kamiskwa and the Shedashee returned, they fashioned new moccasins for the Bookworms and shared supplies of salve that brought most of the young men back into marching shape.
When it came time to move on, two of the Bookworms couldn't continue. That morning the men were all but in tears, even though they were having a hard time standing up straight for review. Major Forest gave them courier duty. He put them in charge of writing letters for those that wanted them written, and to carry them back to Temperance. He also dictated an account of events so far, and asked for that to be passed to Mr. Wattling and Doctor Frost.
The rest of the Bookworms got shuffled into other squads and Makepeace was given the hardest men in the unit to call his own. The Bookworms started as mascots, but the men came to appreciate them for their intelligence. The Bookworm journals became squad journals, and the burden of carrying them passed around as did the spare brimstone.
The Rangers even made room for Reverend Beecher. Though Nathaniel cared little for him, and he did make maddening demands on individuals, a solid core of Rangers took solace in his reading Scripture aloud. Beecher, when he wasn't actually trying to preach, had a good voice and managed to calm fears.
The news that Kamiskwa brought of the Prince's group was not good. By the time Major Forest's unit left Hattersburg, the Colonials were still a week back, and Rivendell a day behind them. Cutting a road through the wilderness had left the Colonials exhausted and furious with Rivendell's constant entreaties for more speed.
Forest fell in beside Nathaniel as they headed northwest out of Hattersburg. "If I calculate things right, we will reach Fort Cuivre about the same time they get to Anvil Lake. End of July is going to be very busy."
"I reckon." Nathaniel nodded easily. "And as long as I see August, I am right fine with that."
Chapter Fifty-Seven
July 1, 1764
Lindenvale, Mystria
P rince Vlad swiped a forearm over his face, smearing mud, then put his floppy-brimmed hat back on. He leaned back against Mugwump's flank, cool stream water flowing around his knees. The wurm, his head upstream, lowered his muzzle and let water flow into him.
"Prince Vladimir, you can postpone things no longer."
The Prince looked toward the shore, where the stream had overflowed its banks. Bishop Bumble stood there, hands on hips, his face reddened beneath a black hat, his white hose mud-stained, and his feet slowly sinking into the ooze. How the man had managed, from the knees up, to remain spotless, Vlad could not imagine.
Bumble wagged a finger. "You are jeopardizing men's souls, sir. You have them working on the Sabbath. You refuse to give me time to conduct a proper service."
Vlad dropped to a knee, letting the water swirl up around his waist and scrubbed his hand clean. He scooped up a double handful of water and drank.
"Are you listening to me, Highness?"
Vlad looked up, water dripping from his unshaven chin. "I hear you very clearly, Bishop. I explained this morning that you could have a half-hour."
"I said proper service, sir." Bumble twisted to point back at the work crews and nearly toppled when a foot came free of a shoe. "It is bad enough that they are working on the Lord's Day!"
Vlad, exhausted, knew he shouldn't say anything, but he couldn't hold himself back. "I would submit to you, Bishop Bumble, that if the Good Lord didn't want us working on this particular Sunday, He'd not have had it raining Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. He's given us, in His infinite wisdom, a perfect day to get some construction done."
Bumble's eyes narrowed. "Is this how it is, Prince Vladimir? You think yourself higher than God?"
"No, sir. I gave you your time for a service. This is now my time. We have a purpose here, sir. It is to build a road so that our army can go and smite a godless enemy."
Bumble raised a hand toward Heaven. "You blaspheme, sir. God will smite His enemies, and you shall be among them. I shall report your behavior to God and to Lord Rivendell! I demand you give me an escort back to the real army."
I'd rather give you an escort to Heaven. Vlad, standing again, nodded. "Find Captain Strake and send him to me, please."
Bumble snorted and started to walk away dramatically, but having to reach down and dig his shoes out of the muck robbed the gesture of its vehemence.
Vlad leaned back again and patted Mugwump on the flank. "Humbling duty for you, my friend, but without you we would be no where near this close."
The wurm glanced back, blinked a golden eye, and went back to drinking.
The road-building enterprise had been one huge frustrating exercise. The Colonials were called upon to build tracks eight feet wide whenever necessary, but no one thought that would be for the entire two hundred miles to Hattersburg. Unfortunately the long winter had produced greater snowfall and huge runoff. Major Forest's men had worked around things like marshes, but Rivendell insisted that these detours unacceptably lengthened the route.
Even under the best of circumstances, the work would have been grueling. Spade-and-pick crews would carve their way into the sides of hills to widen paths to the required eight feet. Woodsmen would chop down the nearest trees and hack them into eight-foot lengths. These would get laid down on the bare earth, and dirt would be shoveled over them to smooth things out. The resulting "corduroy roads" lived up to their bumpy reputations.
Rains, which had plagued them since the start, simply made things worse. What had been a perfectly good stretch of road suddenly became a sodden mess. Earth eroded, logs slipped, and crews that should have been cutting the path further ahead had to go back and do repair work, all the while being derided by redcoats.
The friction between forces led the Colonials to work at a more leisurely pace, especially when it meant the Norillians camped on the edge of ponds from which great black fly populations rose. Despite being warned against it, troops drank from brackish pools, resulting in chronic cases of the trots. While Kamiskwa and the Altashee had pointed out useful plants for combating such things, the Norillians didn't trust them, and the Mystrians, who were busy brewing up mogiqua syrup by the gallon, kept suggesting the Twilight People cures were witchcraft.