The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [120]
“A pretty strong welcoming party, I would say. We're going to dance around a bit above them and do what damage we can with grenados, but I wouldn't count on that being much.”
Nairne shrugged. “We shall see what happens,” he said, not sounding particularly optimistic. His face scrunched around some question inside him for a moment, something he clearly was not sure he ought to voice.
“What is it, Governor?”
“I … I had word from Mr. Voltaire, Franklin. He was with us on the walls, but he's gone out after the advance.”
“Why?”
“It seems—ah, it seems your wife put on French uniform and rode with them on the charge.”
“Lenka? Is she—”
“There is no way to know. They've lost heavily—more than half of them gone, it looks like. In all of that, there's no way of knowing if she's still alive. I just thought you ought to know.”
Franklin was numb to his fingertips. “Damn. God rot it all.”
“Franklin …” Robert, a few feet away, began.
“No! Damn it, why—” He whirled on the Apalachee Don Pedro. “This is your fault, you overblown gamecock! Who in God's name told you—”
Robert slapped him hard. Franklin stared, unbelieving, at his friend for a heartbeat, then swung a roundhouse at the too-handsome jaw. Robert ducked and punched him someplace in the stomach where all his air was kept. His lungs sucked tight, and he sat down hard.
“Keep your head, Ben,” Robert snapped, “or I'll fair keep it f ‘r you. This is no time f ‘r a tantrum. Don Pedro has saved our lives and fought our battles, and Lenka has a mind of her own. If anyone here is to blame for where she is right now, you know who it is, so just you keep calm.” He reached out a hand to help Franklin up.
Franklin waved it off. “Don't touch me,” he said. “Just don't.”
“Very well.”
“So what do I do? Tell me that? Everyone seems so damned sure they know what I ought to have been doing, why don't you tell what I do now, in advance?”
“It's too late for that. We're up here and she's down there, and there ain't a damn thing you can do until the battle is won.”
“Robin—”
“So we make sure we win,” Robert said heatedly. “It's all we can do.”
“Damn it. God rot it.” He sat on one of the bolted-down stools and put his face in his hands, and he realized, finally, that whether the world ended today or not, his own might already have.
“Well, gentlemen. I see none of us has yet collected that cognac,” Oglethorpe remarked.
A few hours had done the work of weeks to the commanders of the alliance. Though unwounded, King Philippe was pale and drawn. The tsar's arm was bloodily bandaged. Only Charles seemed unperturbed, his eyes like chips of diamond as he peered across the little prairie.
“This land is all jungle and pine barrens,” he noted. “A prairie seems out of place.”
“Old fields,” Oglethorpe offered. “The Indians girdle trees and burn to make fields, but in a few years the ground becomes unproductive, and they must clear more. In time, they move the whole village. The result is as you see.”
“There is a village nearby?”
“An old village of the Mobileans, yes. Those few buildings in the distance may be what remain.”
Charles nodded. Most of the valley was full of troops. And, of course, guns.
“This is a cul-de-sac,” he said. “If we charge in, we can never charge out.”
“Yes, but what are we to do?” Peter asked sarcastically. “Lay siege to them?”
“The runners from Nairne tell us Franklin keeps the ships on the ground but that he cannot do so for long.”
“There must be a thousand men down there, and plenty of artillery, too. And surely the ships are armed,” Charles murmured. “We have between us—what? Three hundred men?”
“Something like that,” Oglethorpe replied.
“Have you lost your nerve at last, King Charles?” Tsar Peter asked.
“No,” Charles replied coldly. “I've faced greater odds than this, as well you know. But to conquer here—we must believe we can win. I do not think our men believe that.”
“That is our job,” Oglethorpe