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  “We are fighting Indians, sir.”

  “We are fighting forces of nature, sir.”

  “And if we kill the savage chief—which, General, I assume will in all likelihood be accomplished by a trained marksman wearing a regular soldier’s uniform—these forces of nature will return to nature as they are intended.”

  “You think that’s all that will be required?”

  “Yes, sir. I think that is exactly all that is required. In truth, General, I am not even convinced that we need the French.”

  “The Marquis de Montcalm has done nothing to convince you otherwise.”

  “Monsieur le Marquis is of similar mind, General Amherst, though I will say that he has proved more—reasonable—than I would have expected.”

  “For a Frenchman.”

  “Just so, sir.”

  Amherst wanted to reach out and slap Wolfe, but refrained. “You are dismissed, sir.”

  “General—”

  “You are dismissed, Wolfe.”

  The colonials were assigned a place to camp. When Amherst sought out their commander later in the day, he was directed to the encampment of one of the regular regiments; Gridley and one of his officers were inspecting a fieldpiece, engaging in an animated discussion with an artilleryman. Coats had been set aside, and the three men were squatting down, looking at the barrel. As Amherst approached, the regular came directly to attention; the two colonials followed suit, not quite as smartly.

  “Be at your ease, gentlemen,” Amherst said. “You have some interest in artillery, Colonel?”

  “It is somewhat an area of expertise, General. For my adjutant Captain Revere as well.”

  “I see. Revere, is it? You are from Massachusetts-Bay, sir?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Are you a professional soldier?”

  “No, sir. I am a silversmith by trade. I owe my soldier’s education to Colonel Gridley; we were at Crown Point together three years ago. When he gathered forces from the colony, I volunteered to join him again.”

  “And what do you expect to do here, Captain?”

  “I had thought we might join in the fight with the French, General, but Colonel Gridley has informed me that we are—we have a somewhat different attitude toward them now.”

  “I’m not convinced they’re the enemy any longer, though my opinion is not universally held. We have had some strange times in the last few months.”

  “Yes, sir, we most assuredly have. I daresay we have never seen the like.”

  Revere was a colonial, and a young man in—by Amherst’s estimation—his early twenties; so he was already more forward than Amherst expected or desired. His eyes met Amherst’s, a token, perhaps, of perceived equality.

  “I trust you are not mocking me, Captain Revere.”

  Revere’s expression didn’t change. “I cannot imagine any reason why I might do so, General. Massachusetts is free of predation from French coastal raiders, but we have wild Indians in the western part of the colony and utter madness in one of our largest towns. The great Creator Himself only knows what will happen, or why.”

  “It is the comet, I am told.”

  “So it is said, General. I would not venture to speculate.”

  Leaving Revere and the artillery officer, Amherst walked a short distance away with Gridley.

  “Your adjutant is very . . . straightforward.”

  “Paul Revere is young, sir, but he is very bright. I have every confidence in him. If you feel he owes you some sort of apology—”

  “No, no.” Amherst glanced back at the two junior men. “I think we beat our officers into submission, and while it assures discipline, it stultifies initiative. But that is not my principal concern. You are probably aware of this, but let me make it explicit: there are some who feel your help is not needed and not wanted.”

  “General Wolfe, for one.”

  “He holds His Majesty’s soldiers to a high standard, Colonel. I am inclined to consider that sentiment a virtue, not a vice.”

  “General Wolfe was content to serve with colonial troops when he was showing such bravery at Louisbourg a year ago, General Amherst. If what we have heard is true, he will have to become accustomed to doing so.”

  “A point well taken,” Amherst agreed. “But in the meanwhile, I need him, and regardless of his opinion, I welcome your Massachusetts men. If it comes to pass, are they willing to fight alongside French soldiers?”

  Gridley chuckled. “In our colony there are ministers of the Gospel who have spent their career preaching that the fight against the French held the character of a crusade against the infidel. For my part, I am prepared to be more . . . ecumenical.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. What about young Revere?”

  “His family is Huguenot and fled France for America. But that was his father’s time; I think Paul has a different perception of the world. As for the rest of them . . . they may not be regimental regulars, sir, but they will handle themselves with honor.”

  “I wish that was all that was needed.” Amherst looked back at Revere and the regular artilleryman, who were continuing to examine the small cannon. He wondered whether he, or Revere, or any of them might be able to stand against forces of nature.

  Chapter 43

  A temporary alliance, perhaps

  New York

  Boscawen set the glass aside and sat up straight. He looked across the table at Messier, picking up one of the coins and turning it with his fingers. As he did so, the Frenchman sat quietly, waiting for the admiral’s response.

  “It looks and feels like a guinea,” Boscawen said. “If I did not know otherwise, sir, I might think you simply took the coin from your purse.”

  “Monsieur Alexander is very skilled,” Messier answered, “as is Mademoiselle LaGèndiere. Their work is exceptionally precise.”

  “And the gold—”

  “The process is faultless. It is indeed the precious metal, Admiral. It is indistinguishable from that which might be refined from ore.”

  Boscawen reached into his vest and drew out a guinea coin, one that he had carried for several years as a sort of charm; Frances had given it to him as part of a birthday present. On its front it bore the left-facing profile of the monarch with the inscription Georgius II Dei Gratia; on the other face the royal arms, surmounted by the crown, with a series of letters circling it—M•B•F•E•T•H•REX•F•D•B•ET•L•D•S•R•I•A•T•ET•E. If he gave the matter some thought he could have decoded the letters, but couldn’t be bothered.

  He placed his coin next to the one Messier had placed before him, examining first the head- and then the crest-side. The two were not precisely identical, but two coins were rarely so. Indeed, Messier’s alchemetical product even looked slightly worn, as if it had been passed from hand to hand or placed in neat stacks in some London counting-house.

  “Remarkable, Dr. Messier. How many such coins do you have?”

  “Somewhat over two hundred, Admiral.”

  Boscawen looked up sharply. “You have manufactured two hundred guineas?”

  “Why, yes, mas oui, Admiral,” Messier said, surprised. “Monsieur Alexander had already begun the transmutation process, and with the aid of the compass, we were able to speed it up. In a month or so we should easily have two hundred more.”

  “The engraving on your coins is remarkably faithful, I must say.”

  “Ah.” Messier smiled. “I can see where you might say so, but that is not engraving per se. Mademoiselle LaGèndiere is using an alchemetical process to reproduce the designs on the coin—it is a sort of mimicking, much more faithful than the work of a mere forging. I daresay that if she had continued access to the whole world, she could have considerable impact on the currency of the British Empire.”

  “As for your particular device—it is not in the hands of Alexander?”

  “No indeed. It is still in the possession of Mademoiselle LaGèndiere. She employs it in aid of the project you have requested.
” Although he clearly tried to conceal it, Boscawen could see that something about the matter was troubling him.

  “Is something amiss, Dr. Messier?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Dr. Messier, I know that you have a custodial responsibility toward the young lady, and I applaud your assiduity in this regard. If there is some affront to your charge, I insist that you inform me.”

  “No, no,” Messier said, holding his hands up. “Nothing of the sort has taken place. It is just . . . Mademoiselle LaGèndiere is uncomfortable in the presence of Monsieur Alexander.”

  “But he has made no untoward advances toward her.”

  “No, not in the least. He is in that respect completely honorable; indeed, he is a married man, with grown children. He has been the soul of courtesy. Still . . . he is, well, different.”

  “How so?”

  “It is hard to describe. He is . . . he has transformed himself. He has extended his life using alchemy, and as a result my young friend is disturbed by his physical presence.”

  “I confess that I do not understand what that means. Is it something forbidden to alchemists? And why would this disturb the young lady?”

  “It is difficult to describe. But as I say, there is no inappropriate interaction between the man and the young lady.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes. As long as the use of the compass is required to make your coins—” he tapped the table—“some interaction is necessary. We will need to be careful and observant.”

  “I leave that to you. In the meanwhile, I shall have an audience with Governor De Lancey.”

  After Messier took his leave, Boscawen spent a few minutes examining the coins. They varied in several ways—worn on different edges, bearing a variety of dates. It was a remarkable collection—one might almost think they were genuine.

  Except they were real. By any reasonable definition, they were the coin of the realm. Whatever realm they now belonged to.

  Albany

  Prince Edward turned from examining the harness and tack on his mount to see one of the colonial officers approaching. Major Rogers took a step toward him, but Edward raised his hand.

  “Captain . . . ”

  “Revere, Your Highness.” He was a young officer, but one who seemed to hold his head high, even in the presence of a royal heir.

  “Captain Revere. Of course. What can I do for you this morning?”

  Revere inclined his head. “Colonel Gridley imposed upon General Amherst and asked that I accompany you, if you would permit it.”

  Edward glanced at Rogers, who remained noncommittal. “I admit that I have only limited understanding, Captain Revere, but is there not some amount of . . . bad blood between the New Englanders and the French?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. We have a long history, and there are some strong opinions about them. I have my own opinions.”

  “Is that why you were chosen?”

  “If it please Your Highness,” Revere said—and he did not cast his eyes downward as he spoke—“you are going to make a personal appeal to General Montcalm to assist in this fight with the natives. Gaining their help may be crucial to the outcome; I understand that. But if we win this battle, if we drive off this threat, we will have to come to terms with the French. Your Highness’ plantations—”

  “My grandfather’s plantations.”

  “As Your Highness says,” Revere said. “If we win this battle, we have an important stake in how we come to terms with our long-time enemy. New York has a stake, but so has New Hampshire and Massachusetts-Bay. Colonel Gridley felt that a provincial should be present, and General Amherst agreed. And here I am.”

  “Here you are, Captain,” the prince agreed. “Very well, I shall be glad to have you accompany us. However, please understand that while I accept—and appreciate—your counsel, it is I who speak for us. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Highness. I would not think otherwise.”

  It wasn’t clear that the prince was expecting another answer, but he seemed satisfied.

  “Very well, Captain Revere. Welcome to my entourage.”

  Prince Edward found Captain Revere an interesting traveling companion. He was five years older, the second son of a Huguenot émigré to Boston. He was a silversmith by profession, apprenticed at an early age, who had entered military service early in the current war; having been at Crown Point when it was first occupied. Recent events had brought him—and Gridley—back into service.

  He would have thought that such a man would provide little conversational diversion, but he was surprised. Revere was not only intelligent, but quite insightful. He knew about the political situation in Massachusetts-Bay, but also seemed well informed about the overall picture.

  “Why do the people of your colony hate the French so much?”

  “Opinions vary about the French, Your Highness,” Revere said. “But we are two fundamentally different peoples. Our colonies are primarily Protestant, and while we’re more numerous, we don’t all agree.”

  “About the French?”

  “About anything, Highness,” Revere answered. “About religious beliefs . . . land claims . . . anything. Colonists from New Jersey would not lift a finger to help their fellow Britons in New Hampshire, and vice versa. As for the Carolinas—no one outside of the Carolinas gives a damn about them.” Revere looked down at his horse’s mane and ruffled it with his hand. “Begging Your Highness’ pardon.

  “As for the French—in America, at least—there are far fewer of them, but they all have the same faith and serve the same king. We have many sides, they have just one.”

  “I cannot speak for ‘many sides,’ Captain. I speak only on behalf of our king.”

  “Our king is at war with the king of France,” Revere answered. “And it is more and more clear that we will not communicate with either of them, ever again. Your Highness needs to decide if he is at war with the governor of New France. It is the only reality in question.”

  They rode in silence for a short time; the prince seemed ill at ease. Revere showed no expression: he exchanged a glance with Major Rogers, who said nothing.

  “You are very bold,” Prince Edward said. “Is that how you are taught in Massachusetts-Bay to speak to a prince of the blood?”

  “Highness,” Revere answered after a moment, “in all of my life, I have never had the opportunity to speak to a prince of the blood. Indeed, no one who has ever been born and brought up to manhood in the American plantations has ever spoken with one, unless he had the good fortune to travel abroad like Dr. Franklin of Philadelphia. Needless to say, no royal foot has ever before trod this continent.”

  “You make that sound like an accusation.”

  “I did not mean it that way, Highness. I meant only to say that . . . speaking to princes was not part of my education. I think you will find that is true of almost every American you meet. We have been largely neglected by our betters—and whenever they have chosen to take note of us, it has not always been to our benefit.”

  “I trust you have an example to illustrate your point.”

  “If it please Your Highness, I do. Fifteen years ago, men from the colonies of New England—Massachusetts-Bay, Connecticut, Rhode Island and New Hampshire—undertook an expedition against Louisbourg, the great French fortress. With our only formal help the ships of Admiral Warren’s squadron to transport them, the New Englanders were able to seize the fort and capture it. It was an act they thought would greatly help the war effort and reflect honorably on them as patriotic men of Great Britain.

  “Yet instead of accolades, they were met with confusion and anger—and instead of reinforcing their conquest, His Majesty’s Government saw fit to give it back to the French as a part of the peace accord in 1748. It was this very fortress that General Wolfe and his men had to recapture last summer, delaying their advance up the Saint Lawrence.

  “Had the fort remained in British hands, Highness, the rest of New France might
have been taken a year ago. And we would not now be seeking to engage in polite words with General Montcalm—he would be somewhere on the other side of the edge of the world we now inhabit.”

  While the troop moved at a gentle pace, Major Rogers and the other soldiers remained on alert. War still existed between France and Britain, and though word had been sent to the Marquis de Montcalm that the prince and his entourage were coming, Rogers was deeply suspicious of the intentions both of French and native forces. It would only take the actions of one well-armed French squadron or one warband roused to violence to capture or kill them all. Prince Edward was either unaware or unconcerned, but the threat of danger hung over most of the rest of his companions like a cloud.

  After two days’ travel they came to the French encampment near Lake George. A month earlier there had been no French presence this far south. Now, thousands of men were arrayed on the shore of the lake, with a large tent flying the fleur-de-lys and the arms of Montcalm on a little hill roughly near the center. Nearest to the lake, they could see tents and structures for the native allies, present in great numbers. Set against the beautiful backdrop of the lake and the surrounding forest, the deep blue sky framing a blazing sun, the scene would have been beautiful to behold—except, of course, that it was a military display of Britain’s bitterest enemy.

  A troop of horsemen in elaborate uniform, led by a familiar figure—D’Egremont—approached at a canter. Edward gave a signal to halt as they rode up to meet his delegation.

  D’Egremont gave an elaborate bow from the saddle, sweeping his hat from his head, but it was clear that he was angry.

  “Your Highness does us honor by visiting,” he said. “But your choice of companions sends a message that cannot help but offend.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Lieutenant,” Edward answered.

  “This man—” he gestured toward Rogers—“is a blackguard, a murderer and a brigand. He should be placed in irons for his many offenses to my sovereign.”