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  “Mon General,” Montcalm said as Amherst approached.

  “I heard that you had favored us with your presence, My Lord,” Amherst said. “You have changed your mind?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I have come to offer my assistance.”

  “With conditions,” Edward said.

  “What sort of conditions?”

  “I have come to offer my services, General Amherst. To Prince Edward.”

  “He does not command here.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Amherst looked from the French commander to Prince Edward and back. “Monsieur Marquis,” he said, “You put me in an uncomfortable position. The chain of command—”

  “I understand the chain of command, General—”

  “The chain of command,” Amherst repeated, “will not permit you to serve under the authority of a mere commander in His Majesty’s Navy, regardless of his gentle blood.”

  “I can resign my commission, General Amherst,” Edward said. “I am willing to do that at once.”

  “If there were a court of inquiry, a direct line of communication to the Admiralty—if there were authorities to whom I could appeal, if there was someone who could decide . . . ” Amherst sighed. “But there is not. Except for me.”

  He paused for a moment, thinking. “There is a simple solution, Highness. I am empowered by no one and endowed with no specific authority to do so—but . . . nevertheless . . . I hereby commission you as General of His Majesty’s Forces in America. In that capacity, you are authorized and enjoined to accept the service of the Marquis de Montcalm and the forces under his command.

  “And now, General Prince, you are ordered to report to me at your earliest convenience as to the disposition of those forces and their readiness to face the enemy.”

  Paul Revere was surprised to receive the summons to come to Prince Edward’s tent, since he had been told that there was no opportunity for him to directly serve the man who had saved his life. But there was no refusing such a command, and even if he had considered it, Gridley told him to move at double time, for Heaven’s sake, and to shine his boots and wear his cleanest cravat. Thus, in shined boots and a clean cravat, he made his way through the colonials’ camp to the prince’s place, where two regulars from the 40th were standing guard.

  “You’re Revere,” one of them said, more a statement than a question.

  “I’ve been summoned—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Stand straight, Colonial,” he interrupted, and reached out to straighten Revere’s coat and brush a few specks of dirt from his shoulder. Without as much as a by your leave, he made an adjustment to the neckcloth, tightening and straightening it with military precision. “There now, you’re barely presentable, but go in. And take your cover off as you enter. Show some damned respect.”

  Revere considered a reply but bit it off and drew his hat from his head as he came into the tent, where he was presented with the most unusual sight he could have imagined.

  Prince Edward was standing casually before a man fitting him with a coat with general’s epaulets. He seemed distracted by a map spread out on a camp table, over which a Frenchman was bent. Standing on the table—literally, on the table!—was a native man in miniature, no more than two feet tall. As Revere entered, all three men other than the tailor turned to face him.

  “Highness, if you please,” the tailor said, straightening the lapels. Prince Edward smiled wryly. Clearly, he found it somewhat absurd that he was being fitted with a new uniform at such a moment.

  “Revere. Good of you to come so quickly. May I present the Chevalier de Lévis, adjutant to his Grace the Marquis de Montcalm. And An-De-Le, a . . . Jo-Ge-Oh. A warrior.”

  Revere didn’t know quite how to respond—to the general’s coat, to the presence of a French nobleman, or to a two-foot-tall native, so he saluted and said nothing at all.

  “I realize that I was dismissive a few days ago regarding your desire for service with me. Well . . . circumstances have changed. Our French associates have offered to join us in the fight against the army of the enemy, but it appears that they will only serve if I am their commander. Thus—” he extended his arms, and two or three pins holding a sleeve came loose, making the tailor sigh in exasperation.

  Edward carefully took the coat off and thrust it at the man. “We’ll continue this at another time. You have my leave to go.”

  The tailor took the garment, looked from Edward to Revere, at whom he levelled a scowl worthy of a Boston merchant, and backed out of the tent, offering Edward the merest of bows.

  “‘Thus,’ Highness?”

  “Thus, sir, I am a general. And as of this moment, with the certainty of confirmation by General Amherst, you, sir, are my adjutant, with the rank of colonel, as befits your station. It may take a little time for the proper compensation to catch up with the rank, but we’ll see what we can do to make sure you have the badges appropriate for it. In the meanwhile, let us take a look at our deployments.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Revere said, looking at An-De-Le. “I . . . ”

  “You don’t like me,” An-De-Le said to Revere. “I can smell it. Are you afraid of me?”

  “Huh. If you were three times your size I might be,” Revere answered. “I have young children bigger than you.”

  “Are they skilled with the hatchet and bow?”

  “No, but I am. I’ve just never seen someone so small who wasn’t a child.”

  “We do our best to hide from Big People,” An-De-Le said. “Where is your village?”

  “My . . . village is the town of Boston in Massachusetts-Bay. It’s far off to the east, on the ocean.”

  “Massachusetts-Bay!” An-De-Le did a little dance on the table, disturbing the map under his feet. “Oh, they don’t like us there. But there’s not much medicine left in the forests of Massachusetts-Bay. The black crows have cast their own spells to dry it all up. They don’t like the Big People either.”

  “You mean natives.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s what I mean. Isn’t that what I said? Most Big People don’t even know about the Jo-Ge-Oh, no they don’t. But we watch them. There are lots of things we can’t un-see. You know, don’t you.”

  “I think I do.”

  “The Jo-Ge-Oh have agreed to serve as scouts,” Prince Edward said. “Whatever they think of us—colonials from the Bay Colony included—they like Guyasuta and his shamans even less. I have promised to help protect them if we can win this battle.”

  “Promised,” An-De-Le repeated. “We hear his words and see his—” the little man spoke some word that slipped past Revere’s hearing. Instead, he felt it underfoot, like a small shiver.

  The Frenchman cleared his throat. “Shall we return to the matter at hand?”

  Prince Edward gestured to the map. “I expect that General Amherst will wish to engage his regulars first, but we should be ready to reinforce them. Despite our previous experience, I assume this will be the case. Your troops should expect to do as much melee as musket volleys, Chevalier.”

  “I’m sure our professionals can handle that, Highness.”

  Revere scowled at Lévis, who looked back at him, a challenge.

  “I’m sure that our troops can do what they have done before, Highness. Though I am mildly concerned that some of our men might find fighting alongside Frenchmen uncomfortable.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Lévis said.

  “We have decades of grievances against the hábitants and their minions,” Revere said. “I cannot imagine they will disappear in a single day.”

  “They must,” Edward said, very forcefully. “Chevalier, I suggest that you become accustomed to cooperating with our colonial soldiers. And as for you, Colonel Revere . . . if there are objections to the French, it is your task to overcome them. Whatever you need to do to convince them you will have to do so.”

  “Highness—”

  “It is why you are in my service, Revere. Your alternate choice is to
serve as a militia captain. I would be sorry to dismiss you, but if I must, I shall.”

  The moment stretched out as Revere considered it, but at last he said, “I shall endeavor to do my best.”

  Chapter 57

  Down and up

  New York

  “This is utterly outrageous!” Governor De Lancey almost sprang out of his chair, as he came to his feet. “Outrageous, I say!”

  “Sit down,” commanded Admiral Boscawen. His failure to use the governor’s title was deliberate. Boscawen was fed up with De Lancey—with his stupidity and incompetence even more than his blatant corruption. A capable thief he could have tolerated as the colony’s governor, but not this man.

  “This is not a negotiation,” the admiral continued. “I am simply giving you the courtesy of a private explanation of what I intend to do, whether you like it or not.”

  De Lancey remained on his feet. Glaring at Boscawen, he said: “We shall see about that. Do I need to remind you that all you have at your disposal are a handful of soldiers, whereas I have the entire militia.”

  Boscawen couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “The entire militia? Oh, I think not, Governor. Leaving aside the dozens who were slaughtered by the monsters summoned by the slave Jupiter, most of the rest are either hiding in their homes or drowning their sorrows in the city’s taverns.”

  Since the governor seemed determined to remain standing, in a rather childish effort at dominance, Boscawen pushed back the chair from his desk and rose to his feet.

  “This is how it will be. I am hereby declaring martial law in the city of New York, until such time as Prince Edward returns.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you wish to continue passing yourself off as the governor of the province, feel free to do so—but I warn you that if you clash with the Iroquois do not expect to get any help from me. Prince Edward is seeking to make peace with the Mohawks, Oneidas and Onondagas.”

  “What if they attack us?”

  “I think that highly unlikely, given that they are now allied with us against the menace rising from the west. If I were you, sir, I would let Molly Brant handle the situation in the countryside. She’s been doing quite well, by all accounts I’ve received.”

  The governor sneered. “She’s nothing but William Johnson’s squaw. That so-called marriage of theirs is not legally valid. Besides, Johnson’s now dead. That’s what everyone says.”

  Boscawen didn’t reply for a few seconds, just giving De Lancey a cold stare. “I told you,” he said abruptly, “you may do as you wish outside of the city. I expect you’ll behave as recklessly as you did here, when you called out the militia in response to nothing more than rumors. But I warn you—when I say I will give you no help if you clash with the natives, that includes financial assistance. Of any kind.”

  That finally seemed to register on the man. Apparently, he’d just recalled that with the collapse of any contact with Britain, De Lancey was now depending on Boscawen to pay his salary as governor. The admiral was still the source of most of the colony’s specie.

  “Now get out,” said Boscawen.

  De Lancey drew himself up, as if . . .

  To do . . . whatever.

  “Get out. Now,” repeated the admiral.

  As he had hoped, Boscawen found Minerva and Absalom in the chamber toward the rear of the American Philosophical Society’s building which served James Alexander as both a sitting-room and laboratory. The three of them were intently studying a peculiar iron contrivance perched on a large table toward the middle of the chamber.

  To his surprise, the admiral saw that two other negroes were present as well—the two youngsters he’d rescued from their perch on the roof overlooking the Commons, York and Coffey. He had no idea why they were present.

  Hearing him enter, Alexander turned his head and looked over his shoulder.

  “Admiral Boscawen! You’re just in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  Alexander gestured toward the iron . . . whatever it was. The thing was shaped like a huge ornament. Seven iron bars were bent in semi-circles, all of them attached at the top to something that looked vaguely like a crown and fixed at their base into a seven-pointed star.

  “If all goes as we hope,” he said, “this device will substitute for Mademoiselle LaGèndiere’s alchemetical compass.” Alexander pointed to York. “He constructed it, guided by Minerva and Absalom.”

  “Oh, la,” said Minerva, fluttering one of her hands, “we did not guide the lad so much as we counseled him when he veered astray.”

  “York has more than a touch of the blacksmith power,” added Absalom. “Not so much as Jupiter, though, for which we can all be thankful—especially York himself. It can be a dangerous talent if it’s not guided by clear knowledge and understanding.”

  “So how does it work?” asked Boscawen.

  Alexander and Minerva and Absalom all glanced back and forth at each other. After a few seconds, it was Minerva who spoke.

  “It doesn’t exactly ‘work,’ Admiral,” she said. “You think of it as a machine because that is the way white people think. But we who are from Africa look at what you call ‘magic’ in a different way.”

  She pointed to the iron construct. “That is not so much a machine as it is an appeal to Ogun, the great god of iron. An offering, you might say.”

  Boscawen looked at Alexander, who simply shrugged. “I am mostly here as an observer, Admiral. What I can tell you is that Minerva is quite right that there are many paths to the divine forces which go by the name of ‘magic.’ I myself could do even less with this”—he pointed to the device on the table—“than I could with Mademoiselle LaGèndiere’s alchemetical compass. Like Monsieur Messier, my comprehension of magic is mostly theoretical.”

  “Then who makes it work?”

  “That would be me,” said Absalom. The grin that was so often on his face was on full display. “As I will now demonstrate.”

  He stepped forward and rubbed his hands over the iron bars. Then, drew a pair of dice out of a pocket.

  “Oh, la! Oh, la!” exclaimed Minerva. It sounded almost like a chant.

  Absalom tossed the dice into the cagelike center of the device. From the very top, crownlike cupola, a dull gray ball appeared. It rolled off the crown and fell into the cage.

  “A bullet,” Absalom announced. He reached in, picked up the round ball and handed it to Boscawen. “Should you get into a duel, Admiral, I recommend using this ball.”

  Boscawen studied the ball for a moment. It seemed to be a perfect sphere. Then, juggled it in his hand.

  “Lead,” he announced, “judging by the weight.”

  Absalom nodded. “A near miss. Lead and gold are cousins. Again, then.”

  Boscawen tried to think of any way that gold and lead were related, other than both being heavy. There was none that he could see.

  Absalom rolled the dice again. And . . .

  This time, a gold coin appeared. It teetered for a moment on the cupola and fell into the cage.

  Absalom gestured toward the coin. “I believe this is yours, Admiral.”

  When Boscawen hesitated, Minerva smiled. “Oh, la. It’s quite safe, Admiral. If Ogun was angry with you, something else would have appeared.”

  “Really?” asked Alexander, keenly curious. “Such as . . . ?”

  Absalom shrugged. “It could be anything made of metal. If the great god was just annoyed, it might be a lump of pewter, shaped like a toad or a turd. But if he was in a fierce mood, it could be a brass serpent—mind, one that could strike you and inject you with metallic venom.”

  Minerva nodded. “Mercury, most like.”

  A bit gingerly, Boscawen reached in and drew out the coin. Rolling it over in his hand, he saw that it was a Spanish doubloon. He didn’t doubt for a moment that it was genuine—as “genuine,” at least, as magic could make anything. The weight was right, and so were the various markings and inscriptions.

  But . . .

  “Wh
y a doubloon?” he wondered. He looked quizzically at Absalom; who, for his part, shrugged.

  “I have no idea, myself,” said Minerva.

  When Alexander spoke, his tone was excited. “It must—well, not ‘must,’ that’s too strong—but it likely means that the Spanish territories came through the Sundering. Some of them, at any rate.”

  He pointed to the coin in Boscawen’s hand. “They were minted in Spain, of course, but also in the viceroyalties of New Spain, Peru, and Nueva Granada.”

  That was . . . interesting, at the very least. No one had any idea, so far as Boscawen was aware, of the full extent of the New World after the Sundering. Were central and southern America still part of it? If Alexander’s surmise was correct, at least some parts of Spanish territory still existed—and with them, presumably, some Spaniards as well.

  But that was a problem for later. For the moment, he needed to find out the limits of the . . .

  “What shall we call this device?” he asked.

  “Don’t call it anything,” Absalom said hurriedly. “If you choose the wrong term, Ogun might be offended.”

  That struck Boscawen as a lot of superstitious nonsense. On the other hand . . .

  Maybe not. And there was no reason to take a chance.

  So he just pointed at York’s iron construct. “How many coins can you get from it?”

  “Let’s find out,” said Absalom, juggling the dice again.

  Four coins, as it turned out. All gold doubloons except the last one, which was a silver dollar—what was often called a piece of eight, because it was worth eight reales.

  The silver coin was apparently something in the way of a warning that Ogun was getting peeved at the demands made on his time. The very next item that Absalom’s dice drew forth was a lump of tin shaped like a clam.

  “Best we stop now, at least for the day,” said Minerva, making a waving motion with her hand at York and Coffey. “Let us be off.” And with no further ado, she left the chamber with the two youngsters in tow.