Victor shrugged. "If they make England pull ships away from Atlantis, that will let us get back some of our strangled commerce.
It may let us build warships of our own, or at least get more privateers out on the sea."
"Fleabites." The cavalry major scratched melodramatically.
"We aren't going to land greencoats outside of London. It isn't in the cards." Victor held tight to his patience. "Enough fleabites, and George's ministers will decide we make England itch more than we're worth. That's the best hope we have." As far as Victor could see, it was Atlantis' only hope. He didn't say that. It would be just his luck to dent Biddiscombe's confidence when he didn't mean to.
"Fleabites," Biddiscombe repeated. Then he made handwashing motions; he would have been a natural up on stage "Well, General, now that I've given you the news, I will return to my men. Good day, sir." His salute was one more piece of overacting. He booted his horse off toward the east.
Riding after him to give him a proper boot in the backside was a temptation Victor had to fight hard to resist. One of the messengers who habitually accompanied him said, "That man is nothing but trouble."
Not without regret, Victor shook his head. "If he were nothing but trouble, I could dismiss him in good conscience. But he's more dangerous to the English than he is to us."
"Are you sure, sir?" the youngster asked.
"Sure enough," Victor said. "Nobody else could have done what he did last winter."
"All right." The messenger didn't seem to think it was.
"And his men did a great deal to keep us fed while we were on this side of the mountains," Victor added. "My biggest worry was that we'd get so hungry, we'd come to pieces. That didn't happen, and our cavalry are the largest reason it didn't."
"Yes, General," the messenger said resignedly. He sounded more interested as he asked, "What will we do once we get back to the east?"
"First thing we must do is find out where Cornwallis has landed," Victor replied. "After that… After that, we'll do whatever looks best."
The messenger looked dissatisfied. Victor would have, too, getting an answer like that. He would have thought the person who gave it didn't trust him. That wasn't true here; he wouldn't have kept the young man in his service without thinking him reliable. But he had nothing better to say. Maybe Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar knew what he would do months before he finally did it. Maybe… but Victor had trouble believing it. He would have bet General Cornwallis felt the same way. In that, at least, the two of them were well matched.
After a spell marching through the wilderness, even scattered farms and occasional villages seemed downright urban to Victor. Unfamiliar faces, some of them belonging to women… Taverns… Shops… For a little while, till he got used to them again, they almost overwhelmed him.
He sent a rider to the Atlantean Assembly, announcing that New Marseille was in Atlantean hands once more. He also sent messengers to the coast, to pass on that same news and to see what he could learn of Cornwallis' movements.
Even on this side of the Green Ridge Mountains, keeping his army fed was harder than he would have liked. The locals, whether of French blood or English, resented having to part with their grain and livestock. One of them bluntly asked, "What have you done for me, that I should cough up my hard-won substance for your ragamuffins here?"
"We hope to free you from the King of England and his greedy, lawless officials," Victor said. "Is that such a small thing?"
"King George never bothered me his own self, and I never saw any of his officials way the devil out here. That's why I dwell in these parts," the man replied. "But you, now, General, you're the one hauling off my wheat and my cattle. Why shouldn't I get my firelock and go after you?"
"You may do that, if you like," Victor said politely. "If you do, and if we catch you, I shall regret giving the order for your hanging."
"Which doesn't mean you won't do it." The farmer's voice was bleak.
"That is correct, sir. It doesn't mean I won't do it," Victor agreed. "Were you in my place, you would act the same way, I assure you."
"It could be so," the farmer said. "But if you were in ray place… Well, you'd think about getting out your firelock and doing something about it."
Out of slightly more than idle curiosity, Victor asked, "Have you Radcliff blood?"
"On my mother's side," the man answered. "But there's a devil of a lot of Atlanteans who can claim it one way or another. Even a lot of the Frenchies, if you listen to them. If the whole mob took up arms against you, you'd lose."
He was bound to be right about that. But they wouldn't. Victor had quite a few cousins he knew about in the army, and doubtless many more of whom he knew nothing. He said, "Most of them would sooner fight for Atlantis than against her."
"That's a fancy way to say you aren't robbing most of them right this minute." The farmer certainly had his share of Radcliff directness-and then some.
"I am not robbing you, sir," Victor said stiffly. "You are being repaid with paper the Atlantean Assembly will make good come victory."
"Preachers talk about heaven, but they don't cobble the road for you," the farmer said. "I expect it's the same way with your precious paper. And it looks like it'd be scratchy if I used it on my backside."
"I am doing the best I can to compensate you. Had I gold or silver enough, I assure you I would spend them," Victor said.
The rustic eyed him. "I may even believe you, odd as it seems. But you haven't got 'em, which is the point of it, eh?"
Victor wondered whether he ought to post a guard to keep an eye on this farm after he rode away from it. If the farmer came after him with a musket-or, more likely, with a rifle-odds were he stood a good chance of hitting what he aimed at. In the end, ¦Victor didn't. No one tried to assassinate him, so he supposed he'd judged the local's temper correctly. He'd also judged that not trusting the fellow would more probably set him off than acknowledging that he had reason to complain but there was nothing to be done about it.
A rider came back, reporting that, wherever General Cornwallis was, he wasn't at Cosquer. "Somewhere in the north, then," Victor Radcliff murmured. "Unless he's gone to Gernika, that is."
"To Spanish Atlantis? I wouldn't think so," Blaise said. "But he might have had the fleet turn around and head for Avalon once it got out of sight."
Victor shook his head. "I would believe that at some different time in the war, but not now."
"I don't follow you," Blaise said.
"All the reasons he left New Marseille are reasons he wouldn't go to Avalon," Victor said. "He needs to put his ships between the French fleet and our east coast. France could break into Croydon or New Hastings or maybe even Hanover without the Royal Navy to hold her at bay. Cornwallis' redcoats are less important right this minute. But he has to have those ships in place."
He waited while Blaise thought it over. After a moment, the Negro nodded. "Now that you point it out to me, I see it," he said. "I don't think I would have on my own. In my head, I can picture how war works on land. But out on the ocean-" He broke off, grimacing. "All I know about the ocean is, I don't want to go out on it any more."
"It's rather different when-" Now Victor was the one who stopped in sudden embarrassment.
Blaise grinned crookedly. "When you are not chained be-lowdecks, with niggers packed in tight as so many hams?" he suggested.
"That's… not exactly what I was going to say." Victor heard the stiffness in his own voice.
"Why not? It's the truth." Blaise looked down at his wrists. "I used to have scars from the chains, but they are gone now. I wonder when they went away." He shrugged. "Ah, well, what difference does it make? The scars on my heart, the ones on my spirit, those never heal up."