Council of Fire Read online

  Boscawen spent most of his days there. His pennant flew just below the Union Jack; he’d officially transferred it ashore, leaving the command of Namur to Pascal, brevetted to commander for the interim—there were no boards of review established, no seniority lists, really no sense of order at all.

  It irked Boscawen, now the soi-disant First Lord of the Admiralty. Frances would have smiled at it all, especially his use of a French adjective to designate it.

  The problems facing Boscawen were more than a matter of precedence or protocol. His navy—he had begun to think of it as his navy—relied on a web of logistics that the separation from Europe had torn asunder.

  The Royal Navy’s ability to go to sea, and stay there, depended on the provision of vital materials: food, weapons, and ship’s stores. Men in a ship’s company consumed a certain amount of food and drink every day, regardless of duty, whether the ship was in port being careened or sailing in open sea. There was simply no getting around it. Similarly, ships had to have powder and shot for their guns, and for the muskets carried by ship’s troops. These could be rationed; the captain of a ship at sea rarely wasted them, knowing that he would be accountable for every measure and every ball. And stores—rigging, sail, caulking, wood, lamp-oil, everything that kept a ship afloat—could be carefully husbanded, but were ultimately consumed and had to be replaced.

  Over the course of the last hundred years, the Navy had established contracts with civilian companies to provide everything its ships (and naval emplacements) required. These were scattered throughout the Empire, in the home islands, across the Atlantic plantations and the West Indies, in Africa and India and Asia—wherever Britannia’s flag was carried. Contract-holders provided goods and services and their profits, and the Navy’s expenditures, were calculated to the last farthing. The Admiralty did not particularly like the system, but liking it was not the point—the Navy was not in the business of ropemaking, porksalting, or powdermixing. There were businessmen across the British Empire who were much more efficient at it, and they were called upon to do so at a rate that at least minimally satisfied both parties.

  But now the interconnections between those suppliers and the Navy, and between each other, was broken—possibly forever. Suppliers in Ireland, in England, in India could not contribute to the flow of goods that the navy—Boscawen’s navy—needed to consume every day in order to function.

  And colonial suppliers, only peripherally linked to this web of logistics, were in a position to extract concessions that the Lords of the Admiralty would have never accepted.

  “Thirty days,” Boscawen said to Edward Hughes, who—like him—was reluctantly ashore and drafted as Boscawen’s assistant. He tossed a bundle of reports on the desk between them, which was otherwise uncluttered. “We have thirty days before our funds are exhausted.”

  Captain Hughes shifted in his seat, which creaked in response. Boscawen had witnessed this for the past few days and expected at any moment for the chair to admit defeat and collapse, dropping the heavy-set Hughes to the floor.

  This was not the moment, apparently. “They refuse to take a note of hand? From your Lordship?”

  “What’s that worth? The Bank of England is beyond our reach. These men—” he tapped on the bundle—“want to be paid in good hard money, and I just don’t have it.”

  “They seem ungrateful for the Navy’s protection.”

  “It doesn’t feed their families. If the situation were not so dire, I might sympathize. But based on what we continue to learn about the latest dangers, I don’t have that luxury. There are apparently sea-monsters in the Chesapeake, according to Colonel Washington.”

  Hughes didn’t respond. He’d heard enough about sea-monsters to believe they could be in shallow water as well as out in the Atlantic.

  “They are neither altruistic nor patriotic, at least when such sentiments conflict with their profit motive. In short, Hughes, they are Americans. A rougher, simpler, and less deferential species than His Majesty’s subjects in Dublin or Southampton, I daresay.”

  “I have an interview with the gentleman from the Exchange this afternoon,” Hughes said. “We are to meet at Merchants’ Coffee House. I expect that it will be less private than I would like—more like a public scrum. But it was his choice of venue.”

  “Do you think he is trying to intimidate you, Hughes?”

  “I do not intimidate easily, My Lord.” He shifted in his chair again, and Boscawen awaited the inevitable once more.

  “I am gratified to hear it. Was there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment, Admiral. If I may have leave to go?” He stood and saluted, giving the chair one more chance for surrender.

  “Dismissed,” Boscawen said, returning his attention to the bundle on his desk.

  Chapter 35

  But magic has power over rationality

  New York

  Edward Boscawen was no stranger to social life, but the last few months had given him precious little opportunity to enjoy it. The invitation from the colonial governor came as something of a surprise; he told Amherst, who shrugged in response.

  “I should be careful when you shake hands with De Lancey,” Amherst told him. “He has his own agenda.”

  “I appreciate the advice,” Boscawen answered. “But I have served in Parliament.”

  Amherst’s brow furrowed, but then he seemed to realize that Boscawen was joking, and he gave him a smile. “So you did, My Lord. So—will you take Hughes with you?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. I wasn’t—”

  “You must take an adjutant, Admiral. It wouldn’t do to appear at the mansion of the Acting Governor alone.”

  “If I were visiting Sir Charles Hardy, I would go with nothing more than a bottle of Madeira. I scarcely think that I should take a visit to his subordinate more seriously.”

  “Except that Sir Charles is beyond the edge of the world now, and James De Lancey is for all intents and purposes the Governor of the Colony of New York. He may be a trumped-up colonial, but he has a fine mansion out on the Albany Road, and is connected with every family in the colony. He is a patroon, if you please.”

  “And why did this patroon not invite you to his fine mansion, General?”

  “He did,” Amherst said. “I told him I had a military campaign to plan.”

  Upon reflection, bringing Hughes with him did not seem to be the right choice. Instead he requested the services of the young Virginian; and Amherst did not hesitate to release him.

  Leaving New York on an early summer afternoon, Boscawen took the time to examine the countryside. New York, for all its pretensions to the status of a great city, was really not very large—the houses ran out beyond the commons and were replaced by plowed fields watched over by windmills. It reminded him very much of Holland, the country that had originally settled this land a century before, though off to the north he could see steep hills that might one day mark the boundary of the city.

  Beside him in the carriage, Colonel Washington sat stiffly upright, looking neither right nor left. He seemed extremely uncomfortable in his present position, though he had expressed his pleasure at being asked; it was as if he was on duty, rather than in any way at his ease.

  “Have you ever met Governor De Lancey, Colonel?”

  “No, my Lord,” Washington said. “I know only a little about him—he has served for many years as a judge here in New York.”

  “He has a very nice mansion, I am told. They must remunerate their judges very well.”

  “I daresay,” Washington said. “But I suspect that the mansion is more representative of his family wealth than his civic engagements.”

  “Just so. He is the descendant of rich settlers of this part of the New World. His roots go back to the Dutch. That still counts for a great deal here.”

  “The old families in Virginia are important as well. My new wife Martha is from the Custis family, which is prominent there.”

  “New wife?”


  “Just in January, my Lord.”

  “Congratulations, young man,” Boscawen said. “Marriage is a blessed condition. I wish you the greatest happiness.”

  Washington turned slightly to look at the admiral. “Thank you very much, my Lord. Are you . . . married, sir?”

  “Yes.” Boscawen took a deep breath. “But Frances is . . . in England. It is becoming increasingly apparent that we will never be together again.”

  Washington had maintained an emotionless facial expression, but he looked genuinely crestfallen. “I’m . . . so sorry, my Lord. I can’t imagine.”

  “I can’t imagine any of this. Monsters in the ocean—ghosts of Highlanders—and a universe of other things that make no sense except now they are part of our world. I wish Frances could see all this. But perhaps she has some wonder to view on her side of the barrier.”

  Washington did not answer.

  “But that is not our concern at this moment,” Boscawen said at last. “Obviously, Governor De Lancey has some reason for entertaining us this afternoon. I have brought you along, sir, because you understand how to conduct yourself in polite society. I need you to keep your eyes and ears open, and report to me what you see and hear.”

  “I will do my best, my Lord.”

  De Lancey’s mansion was set back from the high road, with a broad circular driveway in front. Boscawen’s carriage halted at the portico, and the admiral and his young adjutant disembarked with the assistance of liveried footmen. Washington clearly looked impressed by the elegance of the place; but Boscawen saw nothing which would approach a gentleman’s estate in England.

  Once inside, Boscawen permitted himself to be separated from Washington, who was immediately engaged in conversation with an earnest young man wearing a militia officer’s uniform. The gathering was twenty or so people, including Governor De Lancey’s wife Anne. She was a sturdy, middle-aged matron; at his arrival he was politely introduced, but her attention was quickly drawn away by some other arriving guest.

  A servant poured him a cup of punch, and as he stood by the French doors overlooking a spacious garden, a man approached and cleared his throat.

  “Admiral Lord Boscawen?”

  “Your servant, sir.”

  “James Alexander.” The man’s voice had the slightest Scotch burr, worn smooth it seemed from interaction with the sharp New York accent. “If I may have a word.”

  There was something unusual about Alexander that Boscawen could not quite identify—a sort of feverish intensity that made him slightly uneasy. But in the Royal Navy one met all sorts, so he thought nothing much of it at the time.

  “How may I help you?”

  “My Lord, I understand that you were accompanied to New York by certain guests—Dr. Messier and a Mademoiselle LaGèndiere.”

  “You are well-informed, Mr. Alexander. I am sure that there are very few in New York—indeed, anywhere in the Atlantic plantations—who are aware of that fact.”

  “I thank you for not dissembling, sir.”

  “Would it do any good to have done so? Please, sir, your point. My guests are under my protection, and if you intend—”

  Alexander held his hands up. “Please, My Lord, you misapprehend me. I mean no harm to them, none whatsoever. Indeed, their presence is, I think, a great asset to the natural philosophers’ community here in New York City.”

  “Of which you are a member, I take it.”

  “I am the president of the American Philosophical Society, Admiral. We are eager for the opportunity to meet with these worthies to discuss their research on the alchemetical compass.”

  Boscawen set his punch on a side-table, untouched. “The alchemetical compass, you say. What can you tell me about this device?”

  “Device—bless me, My Lord, are you suggesting that they actually have a compass in their possession? From all that we have heard, there is presently no contact with Europe, and I assumed that any such device would have to be built from scratch.” Alexander seemed quite animated at the idea.

  “If I may pose a question, Mr. Alexander. What exactly does this compass do?”

  Alexander’s face went from excited to curious. “You don’t know?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Your Lordship is familiar with the principles of the mundane compass,” Alexander said. “The globe has a magnetic field, a north and south magnetic pole, and a compass aligns itself to indicate those cardinal directions. The alchemetical compass responds to the presence of lines of force that crisscross the world in various directions, and points particularly to nodes where such force is concentrated.”

  “What sort of ‘force’?”

  “Well, sir, different scholars have given it different names—all of the writing on the matter is relatively new. Newton wrote about it first, but others—”

  Boscawen held up a hand. “What did Sir Isaac call it?”

  “Æther,” Alexander said. “He said that there were ‘ætheric nodes’ scattered across the world. They had always been present, but after the cometary transit in 1682 they began to appear more and more frequently.”

  “I see,” Boscawen answered. “What do others call it?”

  “I’m not sure . . . ”

  “What do you call it, sir?”

  “I am a man of science, My Lord, but I am also a Scotsman by birth. There are some things that even a man of science can give no other name than . . . magic.”

  “Magic.”

  Alexander nodded. “Aye. That is what I would call it. Dr. Messier wrote a monograph based on a reading of a portion of Newton’s Waste Book; he used the term mágie to describe the phenomenon.”

  “And the alchemetical compass can locate these nodes of . . . magic, wherever they might lie.”

  “Essentially, yes. They might be places or things or . . . people.”

  “People?”

  “I think that Dr. Messier has been less forthcoming with you than he might have been, my Lord,” Alexander said. “Given the situation, I should think that a conversation with him would be most productive. And the opportunity to see the compass is extremely exciting.” Alexander seemed to want to terminate the conversation he had initiated and began to withdraw.

  “Wait,” Boscawen said. “What ‘situation’?”

  Alexander halted, having half turned away. “If there is one place where the ætheric nodes are predominant, it is here in the Americas. In Europe, the advance of science and rationality have—shall we say—denatured them. But in places where those principles are rare or unknown, they can flourish. Where they do, magic flourishes as well.”

  “Are you suggesting that rationality has no power over ‘magic’?”

  “Quite the opposite, my Lord. But magic also has power over rationality. The virtue of our position is that we can understand both and react accordingly.”

  With a polite bow, Alexander stepped away without further word, leaving Admiral Boscawen standing alone, caught between confusion and affront.

  Discomfited by the conversation, Boscawen left the house and undertook a stroll through De Lancey’s carefully tended gardens. It reminded him—faintly—of a proper English garden. He assumed that the governor had imported someone from the home island to take care of it, a pretension to gentility that amused him.

  Alexander’s remarks were disturbing, particularly at the end—that these so-called “ætheric nodes” could not only be places, but things or even people; and that whatever power they possessed, they were most potent where rationality was weak. What did that mean?

  The alchemetical compass, when he had first seen it, had inclined itself toward him. What did that mean? If anyone was rational—and dear Frances, were she here, would certainly confirm it—it was Edward Boscawen. Magic wasn’t real; of course, neither were ‘Places of Bone,’ or sea-monsters, or obeah, or ghost Highlanders . . . rationality, William of Occam’s famous razor, suggested that his eyes and other perceptions did not deceive him and indeed those things did exist. And if they di
d . . .

  As he examined an exquisitely trimmed piece of topiary, he saw the acting Governor of the Colony of New York, James De Lancey, approaching. The man clearly had some sense of how to act as a courtier, and he walked very slowly, giving Boscawen a moment to gather himself.

  “Governor.”

  “My Lord,” De Lancey said. “I trust you have not found the company incommodious.”

  “I wanted a breath of air.”

  “After a conversation with Jamie Alexander, I can certainly understand it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s an interesting fellow, Admiral.” De Lancey came up to stand beside him. He reached out and pulled a few stray leaves from the topiary as if the shape was somehow improper, and let his hands fall to his sides. “A recovering Jacobite, if you please. Though if my sources are accurate, that distinction no longer matters. We are all Whigs, we are all Tories now that we cannot return to England.”

  “Your sources are good ones, Governor,” Boscawen said. “I agree; those distinctions no longer matter.”

  “Which makes it more important that we work together, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “Apropos of that . . . I don’t know if you are aware, Admiral, of the impact of the event on the economy of our colony, particularly our trade. Without putting too fine a point on it, New York is in . . . perilous circumstances particularly due to the lack of specie. We are goods-rich, but cash-poor. And gold makes the world go around.”

  “An interesting turn of phrase,” Boscawen said. “What would you have me do, Governor?”

  “If I am correct, My Lord,” De Lancey said, “your original destination was the Mediterranean, to take charge of British naval forces there. I suspect that it would not be too much of an exaggeration to assume that you were provided with some funds to pay them.”

  “And if that conjecture is true?”

  “Perhaps you might be willing to make some of those funds available.”