The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [7]
“The ants turning the tables and destroying the man? Would that we could be such ants, then, so we might pick clean the bones of our unseen enemy,” Voltaire commented. “For—”
“God's sake, are you two at it again?”
Franklin and Voltaire turned to face the new speaker, a handsome fellow with flowing auburn hair, dressed in buckskin breeches and the shabby remains of a burgundy justaucorps.
“Hello, Robin.”
Robert Nairne leaned against a tree, folding his arms. “The world is all at war, with the angels themselves against us. We wander starvin’ in the wilderness, blood-lusty Indians at our heels, and you fellows are talkin’ philosophyt’ worms an’ such.”
Franklin shrugged and grinned. “The mind is an insatiate master—it demands substance even when the belly has none.”
“My poor brain has enough to chew on, trying to figure ways to help us come through this alive,” Robert commented dryly.
“And right well you do at it,” Franklin said cheerfully. “But between you, Captain McPherson and his rangers, and Don Pedro's braves, that's all well covered, I trust. I don't know how to follow a trail or find fresh water, and you've seen me hunt! I'm best used thinking of our higher problems.”
“So, have the crawlies told you how to defeat all the armies arrayed against us, with our thirty-odd stout fellows?”
“They certainly give me ideas,” Franklin replied, feeling a bit defensive despite his oddly buoyant mood. After all, Robert was right: any sober and sincere thought proved their situation to be a few leagues south of hopeless. And yet … yes, Franklin was hopeful. There was no problem that human ingenuity could not resolve. How could dwelling on the negative help them?
Or worrying—say, about his wife, Lenka.
That thought must have changed his expression.
“What?” Robert asked.
“I was just wondering how the war is going. How Lenka is.”
“She was well, when I left her,” Voltaire said.
“I thought I charged you with keeping an eye on her,” Franklin said.
“She's quite a woman, your wife. She can look after herself. You were the one who needed rescuing—we were all agreed on that.” He paused. “She did feel you neglected her by leaving her behind.”
“I nearly got her killed once. I thought it was safer for her to stay back there. I hope I wasn't wrong.”
“If I had a woman like that, I would let her make her own decisions.”
That stung a little, and Franklin felt a sharp reply in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He wouldn't let his worry and shame speak for him.
“What's done is done. When we reach New Paris, God willing, we will find an aetherschreiber to replace the one the Coweta took from us, and I shall discover how she fares. Until then, I try not to worry. Hope is better tonic than despair.”
Robert nodded agreement. Then his gaze went past Franklin, and he suddenly drew the pistol at his belt, perhaps forgetting he had neither powder nor shot.
Franklin turned to follow his friend's determined and worried stare, and saw that the forest was a lighter sleeper than he had hoped.
Franklin, Robert, and Voltaire stood on a small, grassy field, surrounded by mixed cane, brush, and a few lone oaks fringing a forest of enormous pine. Franklin saw the sun glint off steel, and his vision adjusted. In the tall cane crouched men, at least six of them, possibly many more. Indians, the long barrels of their muskets level to the ground, aimed at Franklin and his companions. And these fellows, Franklin was willing to bet, were well supplied with powder.
“What do we do?” he whispered.
“Nothing, if they want us dead,” Robert replied. “They have us fair.”
“Are they Cowetas? Would they follow us this far?”
“They might. But there is no lack of Indians in this country. They come out of the earth, like this damned cane.”
“Or your ants,” Voltaire added.
“Perhaps we should call for our companions,” Franklin said.
“You wandered some distance from them in your scientific curiosity,” Robert said grimly.
“What then?”
“You're the ambassador,