There were somber nods. Together the Yare and this brig could carry almost as many fighters as the expeditionary force numbered, at least for a short coasting voyage.
"From what Ms. Swindapa's people were able to tell us, Walker has a strong position in the east-either he's in charge, or nearly so, with a real army under his control. Plus we're not nearly as completely in command of the sea as we'd hoped. We obviously need better intelligence, and we need help. This is the back crick of the beyond, by local standards. We'll have to send a party inland."
She smiled, a shark's expression. "And perhaps we'll give him a surprise or two, busy little bee that he's been."
"Ma'am? Lieutenant Commander Ortiz is back."
She ducked her head out of the tent for a second; the commander of the Frederick Douglass was coming up from the improvised dock. She returned his salute.
"I've got 'em," Ortiz said. "And ma'am, you're welcome to them."
Alston nodded, hands clasped behind her back, watching the livestock coming ashore from the schooner. All of it safely dead, at least; there was slaughter stock for sale a few hours' run up the channel. They'd put in a small wharf, enough for the ships' boats, and wheelbarrows and handcarts and strong young backs began trundling the carcasses up into the camp. Several dozen locals were among them, led by Pelanatorn's sons and nephews, daughters and nieces.
"No problems, Mr. Ortiz?"
"Well, the locals are damned light-fingered, ma'am," he said. "Anything metal particularly. And, ah, some of them are so friendly that it creates problems. Otherwise no; once we convinced them we weren't pirates, they were eager to trade."
"Good. Have a look at this, Mr. Ortiz-Ms. Hendriksson hasn't been idle."
He exclaimed over the picture of the Yare and the Tartessian brig. Alston stood deep in thought, rising and sinking slowly on the balls of her feet with her hands clasped behind her.
"Which brings me to a matter of standing orders," she said. "Now, you've all read the briefing sheet. These people here don't have anything like what we'd call a government. If we want to get them on our side-and we need them- we have to win them over small group by small group. Ms. Swindapa and the Arnsteins and I are working on the, ah, the Grandmothers-fairly soon we'll be taking a party off to consult with more of them inland. However, they've also got a series of local councils and another great council covering most of the southwestern part of England that meets near Stonehenge. It's a more of a religious institution, in charge of what they call the Sacred Truce, but it has a lot of influence. It's composed of men, but they're selected by the Grandmothers. On top of all this, there are the Spear Chosen, who are the closest thing the Fiernan have to military leaders. They're not elected or appointed at all; anyone who gets a good reputation as a leader and who throws a lot of parties gradually becomes accepted as one-sort of a potlatch thing. Land here is owned by lineages; trading or owning a lot of cows is the only way you can become really rich. Evidently among themselves the Fiernan Bohulugi don't really fight, they skirmish in a sort of ritual way with livestock as the prize."
"Jesus, what a marvel of organization," someone muttered. "Real Prussian stuff."
Alston frowned; Swindapa was scowling at the slight on her people. "So if we want to get the Spear Chosen on our side, the way is to lavish hospitality and plenty of gifts. Hence this series of barbecues. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Ortiz said. "Ah, the locals, they evidently have a rather, ah, wild idea of a party."
Alston smiled thinly. "Well, that brings me to the next order of business. As you know, I've always insisted on enforcing the nonfraternization and public-displays-of-affection orders strictly on board ship. I intend to continue to do so."
Nods went around the table. Shipboard was enough of a pressure cooker as it was.
"However, onshore, that's a different matter. We have nearly four hundred healthy young people here, and they aren't going to live like Cistercians indefinitely. Never give an order you know will be ignored." Emphatic nods; doing that made the next one more likely to be ignored as well.
"I'd like to emphasize, however, ladies, gentlemen, and have you pass on to your commands, that any misuse of rank, in fact any fraternization up or down the chain of command, is going to be goddam painful for all involved. In short, I'll come down on it like a ton of wet cement, and so will each and every one of y'all. Ditto anythin' else that interferes with discipline or combat readiness. Every officer will take a personal interest in seein' that any such individual will suffer. Clear? Off-duty, however, we'll apply the consentin'-adults rule."
She relaxed slightly. "However, that brings up another problem. Our expeditionary force is about two-thirds male, as you know. This can cause… awkwardness."
More nods; in fact, it had created fairly serious problems back on Nantucket. The cadets were numerous enough in the island's small young-adult population to throw the balance between the genders off, and there had been fights and tension over it,
"I anticipate that our position vis-a-vis the locals will, ah, lessen the problem."
"God, yes, ma'am," Ortiz said. "Like I said-very, very friendly around here."
And we'll probably end up with a fair number of war brides, Alston reflected. Nothing wrong with that; I could scarcely complain even if there was, all things considered.
She smiled secretly to herself behind an impassive face. Swindapa had also said, privately and emphatically, that if they were going to do this monogamy thing they could at least do, it frequently. Not much danger of Lesbian Bed Death there.
"Now, as soon as a fair number of locals come in," she went on, "we'll have to start outfittin' and trainin' them."
A crewman saluted. "Ma'am. The locals are at the gate."
"Very well," she said, returning the courtesy. "Ladies, gentlemen, we have guests." Alston drew on her gloves; dress uniform again, even if it meant nothing to the locals. Strange. Last time here it was for Daurthunnicar. And hadn't that been a total fuckup… she looked at the Fiernan girl. Well, not quite. Not at all, personally speakin'.
She ducked out of the tent, returning the sentries' salutes, and toward the gate; it was local courtesy to greet guests at the door.
"So Walker is a king already, as he wished," Swindapa said, while they walked toward the inland apex of the pentagonal fort.
"I'm sorry, 'dapa," Alston said quietly. "If we could have come again last year…"
"That wasn't the way the stars moved," Swindapa replied in a murmur. "It's Walker's fault, not yours."
"Besides"-Swindapa shrugged-"if things weren't bad, they might not listen to you. They might not anyway."
They'd certainly talked a good fight here, full of anger against the Sun People, but Alston didn't know how much of that was telling her what she wanted to hear. From what the Arnsteins and Martha had told her, most primitive people took hospitality very seriously-if you traveled at all, it had to be as a guest. No Ho Jo's here.
The locals were back-not the old woman in the intricately checked and embroidered cloak, but the middle-aged man and his sons, and this time some girls as well, dressed in string skirts and short-sleeved knitted shirts and colorful shawls. They looked around in awe, and there was well-hidden fear in the older man's eyes. Pelanatorn, she remembered. The younger Fiernans called greetings to the sentries on the walls, and seemed surprised and a little hurt at being ignored; even more surprised at the way the gate guard braced to attention and saluted as Alston came up.
"Better explain, 'dapa," she said.