The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [90]
“That's not soon enough,” Nairne said, “but we'll make it do. God bless you, sir.”
“Let Him bless us all. We shall need His best wishes,” Oglethorpe replied.
* * *
Philippe threw a small celebrabratory dinner for Oglethorpe and his men that night, outside on what passed for a hill, a sandy open place overhung with live oaks grown in fantastic shapes and hung thick with Spanish moss. Two Indian fiddlers played and sang, and the wine, which Philippe had previously been necessarily stingy with, flowed freely. Toward the end of the evening, Franklin found himself facing Oglethorpe across a popping fire. Next to him sat the coal-black Unoka, and between them they were telling the story of the battle of Fort Marlborough.
“And Unoka, here, disobeyed my orders,” Oglethorpe said.
“Not so, General,” the African said. “You never order me not t’ do it.”
“Do what?” Voltaire asked. His gaze cut a little toward Franklin, but the ambassador would not meet it. Whenever Ben saw the Frenchman, he felt that odd lump of shame and betrayal.
“We were in the spur of the fort, which is, in a way, its own fort. I expected to make a siege out of it, while Azilia's Hammer went to safety, then on to find King Charles.”
“You expected to die,” Voltaire said.
“I did not,” Oglethorpe said. “I intended to fight my way back over the wall, then run fugitive back to Azilia and then here.” He smiled grimly. “But I'll concede the chances of doing so were not good. In any event, the moment came, and the rest of the fort started to attack us. But imagine my surprise when there were fewer than fifty of them, and only one airship.”
“Then the fort was not garrisoned as you thought?”
“Oh, that it was. Better, even. Near two hundred men. But our friend Unoka here had taken five of his men and slit the throats of nearly all while they slept.”
Franklin felt acid rise into his mouth, and for a moment fought to retain his dinner. Who were these men who could talk so casually of such things? Who were these walking knives he called companions? He saw a similar look cross Voltaire's face, and despite everything suddenly felt a deep kinship with the Frenchman. Voltaire, after all, was an author, a philosopher. Of all those assembled here, he and Franklin were closest.
“We had the one airship to deal with, but a lucky shot remedied that.”
“T’ general, he jumped from te wall, and shoot t’ pilot from one yard!” Unoka guffawed.
“The stuff of epics!” Philippe shouted a little drunkenly. “I shall need a court poet to compose an opera based on this, or some such.”
Privately, Franklin could not imagine epic heroes cutting throats in the dark of night. He tried to imagine himself as a young soldier in the Pretender's army. He would not— could not—know who his ultimate masters were. He would think he was fighting for a just cause. Perhaps he was prepared to die, yes, but at least imagined he would meet death on his feet, like a man, not gutted like a fish in the middle of a pleasant dream.
But war wasn't for men, was it? It was for fools. And fools deserved no better than what they earned.
He shook himself away from such uncharitable thoughts. Theirs was a just war, perhaps the only just war. If he expected to win it without any tarnish on his soul, then he was the fool.
“Mr. Voltaire? Would you be my court poet?”
Voltaire put on the wry grin he wore so well. “Last time I composed something about your court, I was guested in the Bastille.”
“That was my father's court, not mine. And I am not the man— or the king—I was in Paris.”
“I will consider it,” Voltaire told him, “though at the moment I already have a commission.” This time he looked quite boldly at Franklin, before turning his gaze back toward his feet. “Nor am I the same man I was in Paris. I have little poetry in me now, I fear.”
Oglethorpe cleared his throat. “I've heard it rumored, sir, that you were in London when she was destroyed. That you stayed behind to try and warn the court there. You are a hero in your own right.”
“Hero?” Voltaire's haunted gaze rose up again. “What should I have done? I cannot