The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [105]
That wasn't what he would do, if he were they. He would pick a spot and push straight through, especially if he was in the hurry these fellows seemed to be.
Nairne came in and looked the maps over, while Oglethorpe explained his reasoning.
“The best thing we can do is keep our forces mobile and alert,” he said. “The Maroons and Choctaw and Yamacraw should be able to keep pretty good account of how they're coming, though I expect more of their leapfrogging with the airships.”
“We can do a bit of that,” Nairne said. “Franklin has managed to give us two flying barges of the nondiabolic sort. We've manned them with French and Apalachee marines. We also mustered every aetherschreiber we could get our hands on, and so have instant word from our borders and a great many of our companies, so that will help us to respond.”
“Good. This will be a hell of a fight.” Oglethorpe turned his head at some commotion outside the tent—yelling and gunfire. “What's that?” The two men drew their pistols and went quickly to see what was the matter.
But the noise was a sudden burst of cheers and applause, the gunfire all aimed at the sky. A new company had ridden into the camp.
Inured to meager numbers, it seemed to Oglethorpe that the column went on forever, but realistically he knew it must be only two hundred or so. But they were such a brave sight that he almost wept. The front ranks were all smart in blue and yellow, each man with a musket and broadsword, and at the head of them a small group on horses. One of those mounted was Philippe, beaming, in French uniform, who, despite his pudginess, looked something like a soldier. The other, though, was dressed in the colors of the new company, tall in the saddle, his bloodless lips in a thin smile, his hat doffed to show his mostly bald head.
“That,” Oglethorpe told Nairne, “is His Majesty Charles XII, King of Sweden.”
“Aye,” Nairne said. “I met him, in Venice.”
The exiled monarch spotted them and swung down from his mount, as did Philippe.
Oglethorpe swept his own hat from his head in perfect time with Nairne, and they bowed as the monarchs approached. “Your Majesties,” they said.
“No need for that,” Charles replied. “We are all soldiers today, gentlemen. Margrave Oglethorpe, it's good to see you again, and thank you much for the loan of your amphibian ship. It proved a most interesting voyage, our foray to Apalachee.”
Oglethorpe nodded. Now here is a man, he thought, as he had when he'd first met the king, forty miles from the coast of South Carolina. Charles XII had eyes of gray steel and a thin, patrician nose. His manner was that of a man whose very existence was a victory. “It was my great pleasure, Your Majesty. And I cannot say what it means to have you with us.”
Charles clapped Nairne on the shoulder. “How are you, Mr. Nairne? I've not seen you since our victory in Venice. My debt to you Americans is not one I'd easily forget, nor do I ever shrink from a just war, and, by our savior, there can be no more just a war than this. I've ridden at the head of my troops for thirty years and more. How can I fail to do so now?”
“I never doubted it, Your Majesty.”
“We had to pay the devil to get here, I'll tell you, and would have paid more if it weren't for your margrave Oglethorpe, who saved us from the fire at Fort Marlborough. Even so, three ships were lost, or I would offer you many more guns. But we will show them the same thing we showed them at Venice, yes? We've stopped demon Peter before, and we shall stop him again.”
“Ah—about that,” Philippe interrupted. “You and I must have a conversation regarding Tsar Peter, before he gets here.”
“Peter himself is with the invading army?”
“Actually, no —he's with my regulars,