"If I can seize one more fort," he told Blaise, "that will open the way for a march to the sea."
"Why not?" the Negro replied.
Chapter 8
Due south of Halstead, only an easy day's march away, lay Pitt-man's Ferry. The English had a fort there, too, not far from the creek that necessitated the ferry and made the town spring up near it. Town and fort both lay on the north bank of Pittman's Creek. That helped determine Victor to move down and attack it: he wouldn't have to worry about gathering boats to cross in a rush.
He set his men on the southbound road the morning after Halstead fell. They showed more confidence than they had when they were approaching Sudbury. With two English forts behind them, why shouldn't they expect the next one to be easy? They were better fed and clothed and shod and accoutered than they had been then, too. The men who. carried bayoneted muskets seemed especially proud of them. The redcoats had used them to fearsome effect. Now Atlanteans could, too.
Pistols boomed, up in the vanguard. "Don't like the sound of that," Blaise remarked.
"Nor do I," Victor Radcliff agreed. "Well, we'll have to see what it was."
A rider eventually came back to tell him. "They had pickets posted on the road, damn them," the man reported. "We went after 'em good, but I think some of 'em got away."
"Damnation!" Victor said, and then something really flavorful. The cavalryman stared at him-did generals talk that way? This one did when he got such news. Taking a fort by surprise was one thing. Taking a fort that was ready and waiting was something else again.
"We can do it," said a soldier who'd heard the news. In an instant, the whole army seemed to be chanting: "We can do it!"
Pulling back would wound their spirits-Victor could see that at a glance. Going on would hurt a lot of their bodies. The general commanding needed to be no prophet to foresee that. What he couldn't see was how to withdraw in the face of their insistent chant. He wished he could.
"Well, we'll have a go," he said at last. The redcoats might have heard the cheers in Pitt man's Ferry. In case they hadn't, he added, "Double-time, boys. We'll get there before they expect us."
Drummers and fifers gave the army its new marching rhythm. The men weren't far from Pittman's Ferry. They wouldn't get too worn to fight, even if they double-timed it all the way. Victor hoped they wouldn't, anyhow.
He rode forward himself with the vanguard to reconnoiter the fort. The untrimmed pine logs from which it was built made it a dark blot against the snow and against the painted planks of Pitt-man's Ferry. Now Victor swore at the swirling snow as he raised the spyglass to his eye to survey the structure. He wanted to sec as much as he could, but the weather hindered him.
Frowning, he passed the telescope to the cavalry officer who commanded the vanguard. "Tell me what you think they're up to, Captain Biddiscombe, if you'd be so kind."
"All right, General." Habakkuk Biddiscombe raised the glass, slid the brass tube in ever so slightly, and peered ahead. Puzzlement in his voice, he said, "They don't seem to be up to… anything, do they?"
"Well, I didn't think so," Victor answered. "I wanted to know how it looked to you. Maybe they're feigning this, to draw us on. Or maybe-who knows? We'll find out pretty soon, though."
When his foot soldiers came up half an hour later, he pointed them at the fort. They knew what to do. Some would attack two sides. As soon as the defenders rushed to hold them out, the rest would assault the other two.
And the fort at Pittman's Ferry fell as easily as the one at Halstead had-more easily than the one at Sudbury. The Atlanteans dragged the dejected English captain in charge of the place in front of Victor Radcliff. "Didn't you know we were on the way?" Victor demanded.
"No, dammit," the redcoat said sullenly.
"Why not, Captain? Didn't your pickets warn you? Our outriders thought some of them got away."
"They did." The English officer made as if to spit in disgust, whether over himself or Victor the Atlantean didn't know. In any case, a growl from his captors dissuaded him. Angrily, he went on, "They came in, but I didn't believe 'em. Who would? A winter campaign? Pshaw!"
"No wonder we surprised you," Victor murmured. "None so blind as those that will not see."
"The Devil may quote Scripture to his purpose," the captain said.
"I am not the Devil, sir, and neither is that Scripture," Victor said. "It is Reverend Henry's commentary on the Book of Jeremiah, but it is not the prophet speaking in his own person, you might say."
"I don't care what it is, not to the extent of a fart in a thunderstorm," the redcoat said miserably. "You will eventually exchange me or parole me, will you not?"
"That is the custom with prisoners of war, yes." Victor spoke as if to an idiot child. What else were they to do with prisoners? Knock them over the head? It was easier than holding them and feeding them, but otherwise had little to recommend it.
So Victor thought, anyhow. The English captain saw things differently. "General Howe will skin me like an ermine when he finds out how I lost this fort. They'll cashier me and disgrace my family's name forever." Sudden hope flared in the man's eyes. "Will you uprisers take me on?"
"Well… no." Victor needed to think about it, but not for long. True, the Atlantean army was short of trained, capable officers. But, while this fellow might be trained, he'd just proved himself incapable.
"A pity," the captain said. "I don't know how I am to go on____________________
Would you be kind enough to take me to some small room, lock me in, and lend me a loaded pistol, then?"
"No, I won't do that, either," Victor said. "If you choose to dispose of yourself, sir, that is between you and God. If you seek to make me a party to your deed, however, I must decline."
He made sure the unhappy officer marched off into captivity with the rest of the English garrison. Once the campaign ended, and the need for secrecy with it, they could be properly exchanged.
Victor Radcliff couldn't have been more delighted with what his ragtag force had done. It wasn't so ragtag as it had been before the campaign began, either. The Atlanteans might have had a lean time of it during the winter, but their enemies were living well. Part of that came from supplies fetched across the ocean, part from plundering the countryside. Now the Atlanteans made some of the enemy's bounty their own.
Still, what had he accomplished if he stopped here and drew back? Nothing that would last, and nothing that would more than annoy General Howe. Whereas, if he struck for the coast…
If you do, you may lose your whole army. Normally, that thought would have been plenty to hold him back. Not here. Not now. After the series of defeats he'd suffered during the summer, didn't he have to remind the English that Atlantis remained a going concern? Didn't they need to see they couldn't march where they pleased whenever they pleased?
He thought they did, and so he ordered, "Now we move on Weymouth."
One of these days, Victor supposed, Atlantis would be thickly settled north and south, east and west. That day wasn't here yet. He was reminded it wasn't with every mile toward the coast his army gained. General Howe wasn't so foolish in trying to confine the
rebels to the interior. Howe skimmed the fat off the rich, populous seaside regions that way, and left his foes with whatever they could gather from the rest.
Farms clustered close together here. Even though the English had occupied these parts for a while, plenty of livestock remained. Victor requisitioned what he needed, paying with the Atlantean Assembly's banknotes.
"What makes you think I want these arsewipes?" a furious farmer howled. "They'll never be worth more than the dingleberries they leave behind."