Empty America - Part 43
Summer, 1404
[Plymouth, England]
As it turned out, Sir Jack Oldcastle did not sleep in a comfortable English
bed with a plump English wench that night, but rather, after wandering drunk
and aimless around Plymouth for a better part of the night, simply passed
out in an alleyway. He woke shortly after dawn, slumped against a wall, his
head splitting.
He hears the sound of soldiers tramping down the street.
Lord God, he thinks, rubbing the back of his head as if he could scrub the
pounding headache away. Forgive me for wasting my time giving audience to
foreign scoundrels when I could have had the company of my fellows. One
hundred and seventy-five years old! Nonsense. The Old Testament patriarchs
lived that long and longer, but God was with them. Flamel was just a French
charlatan.
He levers himself to his feet and makes his way unsteadily out into the
street. His head hurts, his back hurts, his stomach hurts, his soul hurts,
but he knows his duty, so he heads out of town, to the house of an
expropriated merchant where Sir John Hawkwood has made his headquarters.
He needs to report for duty. For some years, Jack has tried his best to
find plausible excuses not to report for duty in various wars against the
Scots or the Irish or the Danes, but if he was to be Harry's companion, it
was his lot to be in the thick of the fight. This was not for Harry, but
this time it was for England.
At the front door, Jack has to muscle his way through the crowds of soldiers
coming and going, then goes hunting for Hawkwood. He spots him in the great
room, where Jack waves away a servant's offer of steaming cup of the black
Saracen brew that always turns his stomach, but gratefully accepts a tankard
of weak beer for a bit of the hair of the dog.
Sir John Hawkwood, tall, rail-thin and beardless, is the spitting image of
his illustrious father. He is deep in discussion with his commanders, and
leans over a diagram of the fortifications shielding Plymouth. Jack gives
it a look, and his heart sinks.
It is a great zig-zagging arc, bristling with redoubts, ribault [organ gun]
enfilades and culverin [cannon] and bombard [mortar] positions [FN43.01],
with the sea at both ends. But the east side of the harbor is completely
exposed. A few strategically placed Erkut batteries could seal off any hope
of escape.
For the English Western Army, Plymouth is a trap. "Jesus wept," Jack
mutters.
Hawkwood turns and looks sharply at him.
"Oldcastle." Hawkwood is as curt as ever. "Where in God's name have you
been?"
Jack takes a long pull at his beer. "Drunk."
Hawkwood grunts. "Hotspur's lancers are yours."
Jack is dismayed. Lancers? "Why? Where's the devil is Percy?"
"Dead. Brawling. Get the lancers together and get them ready. You are to
sortie shortly after dusk. There are three hundred cavalry in the woods to
the northeast. You are to bring them in."
"Three hundred!" Jack protests. "Why can't they loose their horses and
filter in by ones and twos?" The Tatars have not closed the ring around
Plymouth just yet, and stragglers have been making their way to English
lines for weeks. Three hundred horsemen coming out of the forest were bound
to attract attention, even at night.
"Because, Sir John," Hawkwood looks balefully at him, "your orders are to
bring them in en masse, on horseback."
Jack knows there is no arguing with Hawkwood, so he just nods, then turns on
his heel and gets to work.
Lancers. Jack is no lancer. He can handle one, to be sure, but not
gracefully, and he would not be mocked by Hotspur's elite troopers. And he
would just as soon not get within lance-length of the Tatars, either. So,
while his second is rounding up his horsemen, who are scattered all over
town indulging themselves, Jack kits himself out with some alternative
weaponry. A falconet [carbine] in a saddle holster, two double-barrel
dragons [heavy pistols] across his chest, and two single-shot light
serpentines on his hips [FN43.01].
Seven shots before he has to draw his saber. Seven shots, and he plans to
use them all if it comes to that.
* * *
Shortly after dusk, Jack is leading his troops carefully through the maze of
trenches and earthworks and the thicket of chevaux de frise. Sappers follow
on behind, laden with fascines, axes and unlit torches. They will stay in
the lines, and clear a path when they hear the lancers come galloping back,
single file. Their guide, a local, leads them across the clearings that
have been cut to give the guns in the trenches a clear field of fire and
towards the treeline hundreds of yards away. The Erkut are out there,
somewhere, bringing up the tens of thousands of soldiers that they will
throw against the English of Plymouth. Jack thinks again of the map in
Hawkwood's headquarters. There is no way out of Plymouth. Jack himself had
steeled himself to standing or falling with the Western Army, but the whole
idea of no one being able to get out, even if they wanted to has left him
shaken. He feels like the dark is closing in around him.
He summons his thoughts back to the task at hand. So far so good. No
lights, no signs of Erkut patrols. It is a clear night with a full moon,
but maybe they will get lucky ... somewhere out in the darkness ahead he
hears a whistle, no doubt intended to sound like the bird call that was the
prearranged signal, but failing miserably. Some of the lancers snigger, and
Jack hisses at them to be quiet. The troopers obey as he draws his saber
rides out ahead. If it is a trap, gunshots would just bring enemy
reinforcements. He returns the signal, whistling as best as he can.
Jack can just barely see a mounted figure silhouetted against the trees. He
is caped and hooded, with a long faucon [rifle] across his back. He holds
up a hand. "Halt, in the name of the King. Your name and command, sir."
Jack was vexed. Being outside the lines with thousands of enemy cavalry
roaming about has left his nerves jangling. Now he is being questioned like
he was a suspicious stranger on the road to a market town. "I am Sir John
Oldcastle of the English Western Army. And who are you to challenge me in
the King's name?"
"Why the King's boon companion, of course!" Robert of Loxley flings back
his hood, his mischievous grin visible even in the dark. "Halloo, Jack!"
"Robin! Bigod, you are a sight!" Jack was elated. "Finally bestirred
yourself to rejoin the war, have you?"
Robin laughs at the standing joke. "Of course not! We have come to take
the sea air for our health! Good for the humours, they say."
"Ah, then I am to see you and yours to your villa. It is just to the other
side of those spikes and trenches. An excellent view. Fit for a king!"
"It had best be, Jack. For I have brought one along for the occasion."
For a moment Jack could not speak. "Harry is with you!"
"The very same. We are a mixed lot - Sherwood Foresters, Welsh Volunteer
Dragoons, some stray bits from here and there. A suitable escort for a
monarch. And it has not been naught but ceremony. We have been sacking
Erkut supply columns, with His Majesty leading the charge. But enough
badinage, let us accomplish the night's tasks."
It is a joyous reunion for Harry and Jack, whose bitterness at being left
behind slips away without a trace. To Jack, Harry looks every inch the
monarch of a besieged realm - careworn and grave in countenance, with a new
beard, but also with a broad smile and back-clap for an old companion. His
retinue, except for Loxley, looks on disapprovingly. Jack trades glares
with the Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scrope, and Sir Thomas Grey. He will keep
an eye on that lot, whenever he can spare it.
As they ride back towards the English lines, the rear guard is shouting and
pointing. Shapes moving off in the darkness.
"Erkut heavies ..." says Loxley. Jack can hear expectation in his voice.
Harry shakes his head and says, firmly, "Let us be about it quickly, we have
business with the commander."
"Would Sire have it known amongst his soldiers that he was chased within his
lines without firing a shot?" Jack can tell from the way Loxley said "sire"
that he was not entirely convinced that England was no longer a
Commonwealth.
Harry looks at him sharply, then off into the moonlit gloom. They can hear
the shouts of the enemy horsemen now, as well as a futile shot or two from
the distance.
"Form up. Lancers at the head to break up their formation, dragoons behind,
Foresters in the rear." The King says the last with a tinge of venom.
"Faucons shouldered, sabers and dragons out." Loxley scowls, but goes about
his duty.
Harry joins Jack at the head of his lancers, now massed and circling a trot
to face the enemy. He grunts with satisfaction when Jack tells him that
Hotspur is dead. The Erkut are closing now. "Who are they?" Jack shouts
over the thunder of hooves.
"From the outline and the voices, I hazard they are Rus'. We have fought
their like on the road. It is ominous, for it means that the Golden Horde,
to whom they are vassals, has rejoined the Erkut and fight alongside Timur."
They are closer, closer, closer in the dim light. The English horsemen spur
their steeds to a full gallop.
"Lances!" Harry shouts to his horsemen. "Jack, where is your lance?"
"Right here, my liege!" Jack whips his falconet out of the saddle-holster,
aims and fires at the onrushing enemy, and one tumbles from his saddle. The
King of England lets loose a war-whoop and brandishes his saber. Jack slams
his falconet back into the holster, and draws both dragons. Seconds from
the collision he lets fly with two shots.
And then, with the crash of hundreds of men and horses, all is chaos.
Jack does his best to stick close to Harry, but they quickly become
separated in the wild melee in the moonlight. Whoever the Rus' are - Jack's
sense of geopolitics is somewhat limited - they are ferocious horsemen.
English lances ram home and splinter, and heavy, broad sabers swing left and
right as Jack cuts loose with his remaining shots and then draws his own
sword. Harry is in the thick of it, saber flashing, shouting encouragement
to his soldiers. The world vanishes into an enveloping maelstrom of
clashing steel, blazing guns and shouting men. Jack does his part, laying
about left and right with his saber. The air is full of blood and gunsmoke
as Jack thrusts and hacks his way through the mob, back to Harry's side.
The King's retainers are there, all furiously battling the Rus' cavalry.
Loxley, Jack could see, had pushed himself to the front of the action, and
was smoking with conspicuous nonchalance as he parried the blows of, who, by
his markings, was clearly a Rus' officer.
And just like that, it is over. The Rus', who were outnumbered to begin
with, sound the retreat and fall back. Loxley, splattered with enemy gore,
but still smoking, is keen to chase them, but Harry insists that the false
retreat is an old Tatar trick, and the enemy could be leading them back to
an ambush. The bloody ground is littered with bodies, and the night air
sounds with the groans and shrieks of wounded men and horses. The English
gather up all those who can travel and file through the gap in the lines the
sappers carved for them.
Jack leads the King and his retinue to army headquarters. Cambridge, Scrope
and Grey ride ahead, shouting, "Make way for the King!" even when there is
no one actually in the way. Their shouts rouse the soldiers and officers
from their billets, and there is a large crowd gathered in front of
Hawkwood's headquarters. As Harry dismounts, some of the men bow, and
others have to be prodded by their officers. Others stand straight, looking
defiant as the King passes.
It has been a long time since England has had a king. Some men have never
known how to behave in the presence of royalty and others, thinks Jack,
would have no royalty at all.
Hawkwood himself knows the etiquette and bows deeply until Harry bids him
rise and they go inside.
* * *
The Erkut close in around Plymouth, and the steady trickle of refugees comes
to an abrupt halt. Thousands of English are rounded up in the countryside
and put to work building gun emplacements and trench-works. They toil all
day in the August sun, and the bodies of those who fall are tossed into mass
graves, well within the sight of the besieged Western Army. Jack sees Harry
only sporadically over the following weeks, although he does benefit from a
royal favor - the Lancers are reassigned to a different officer and Jack
gets a company of fauconiers, crack sharp-shooters armed with the latest
Nangiyan weaponry. Jack spends most of his time drilling his men and
training them (once he, himself has been trained) in the care and use of
these faucons' delicate-seeming breech-loading mechanism.
The odd-looking ship which brought the faucons to Plymouth Harbor, hoists
its strange canted sails and departs with the first favorable wind. But the
harbor remains choked with ships from all over the Atlantic world. For
ready cash - or the willingness to sign an indenture in Niwe Wessex, Avalon
or elsewhere - anyone who wanted to escape still could. Jack pats his
money-belt, but gives it no more than a fleeting thought. English warships
of the newly-renamed Royal Navy also pass in and out of the harbor. Out
beyond the horizon, Jack is told, they skirmish with the escorts guarding
the armada of Erkut transports, which every day bring more guns, more
horses, more powder across the Channel.
Jack digs his men in well on their sector of the front. Every man has
adequate cover. The Nangiyan faucons cannot hold bayonets, so Jack sets his
men to work with hatchets and mallets, thickening the chevaux de frise in
front of their entrenchments. The enemy will close only at his peril. That
was Hawkwood's strategy, as Jack learns from his occasional talks with
Harry - let the Erkut batter themselves senseless against the English lines,
then when they are sufficiently weakened, the English will emerge from their
entrenchments and drive them from the battlefield.
That was the plan, and Jack dared to hope that it might yet work.
But then, that night in mid-September, the Erkut let the English know what
they think of Hawkwood's plans. With a earth-shaking roar, all the guns of
captive Europa open fire upon the little English Army, which stands with its
back to the sea.
cheers,
Doug
[FN43.01] Firearm nomenclature in ATL overlaps OTL's, but in a strange way
and, uh, in terms of the timeline, is an "evolving" area. Blame Neal
Stephenson and 'Anathem' for any sudden uptic in ATL terminology.
Empty America - Part 44
Autumn, 1404
[North Atlantic]
The deafening roar of the Erkut bombards and culverins was still in his ears
when Jack awoke with a start, swinging in his hammock on board the
"Vindhlér." Two weeks at sea and the dreams still will not go away. Jack
rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and swings his feet to the deck.
He groans, pulls on his boots, wraps himself in his cloak, and makes his way
topside, into the starlit night.
It is dark on the main deck. The "Vindhlér's" night watch was on duty, but
they - like all the crew - knew the ship so intimately that they could feel
their way around in the dark. There is only a lamp or two here and there, a
gesture to the passengers who, like Jack, had urgent business. Jack lights
the stump of his cigar off one of the lamps and makes his way aft, over to
the spot in the railing with the little sliding door, which he slides aside.
He then takes a long, thoughtful piss off the side of the ship. He thinks
about the little sliding door and its function and considers it odd. But
then, so much about these people and their little ship is odd. The people
are pagans, for one thing, worshippers of the god 'Heimdall.' Apparently
(and Jack did not delve) this is a Norse god of the sort worshipped by the
bloodthirsty pagans of Domstolland, but different. They called themselves
the 'Spákona' [Sighted]. because their god was gifted with amazing vision
and can see to the end of the world.
Heathen rubbish.
Jack will give them this, though - they are ridiculously clean. Every time
Jack turns around, it seems, there are sailors bathing (sailors - bathing!),
or heating water to bathe, or scraping their teeth with little sticks (he
would swear that he saw one of them using a little bit of silk thread in
between his teeth), or washing their clothes, or drying their clothes. The
Spákona even smelled clean.
And when they were not cleaning themselves, they were cleaning the ship!
Brooms and holystones seemed to be flying constantly, and there was nary an
inch of the ship that had not been swept and scoured.
It all seemed a bit much to Jack. It all gets dirty again, after all.
But that was the reason for the door - the crew of the Vindhlér did not care
to have piss-pots sloshing around on their nice, clean ship. So Jack
finished up, then reached down for the bucket next to the little hatchway,
and poured the water down the side of the ship, just in case he had gotten
some piss on the hull. They were very particular about that. When he was
first shown the little door, and told what it was for, Jack was tempted to
tell the crewman that fish pissed in the sea, and their boat sailed in the
sea, and the water in the bucket came from the sea, so there was no point in
washing man piss off with fish piss, but then he thought better of it. No
point in provoking them, really.
At the time, Jack had mentioned the whole thing to Robin, who just laughed
and said that they were lucky that the pagans made concessions for chamber
pots and did not make them hang their hind-quarters out over the side.
Flamel opined with great seriousness that weekly bathing of the entire body
with sponges which the Spákona indulged in, weakened the natural defenses
against disease.
Flamel.
Now there was a pot full of shit Jack would like to throw over the side. It
vexes him still that, while Jack and the other good Englishmen were hunkered
down under the earth-shaking bombardment of the lines around Plymouth, and
desperately fighting off wave after massive wave of Erkut storming parties,
this little French charlatan was worming his way into the King's confidence,
filling his ears with the Holy Spear nonsense.
Around the King, Jack kept his opinion of the little Frenchman to himself.
Jack was a Reformed Spiritine, and as such rejected the very idea of holy
relics. His lay pastor once told Jack that there were enough pieces of the
'true cross' to build a Hampshire hay-barn, and Jack was sure that this
spear was a similar fraud. But the Spiritine faith was proscribed in
England, and Jack has never revealed his beliefs to Harry, because he knew
that, at a minimum, he would be banished from Harry's company. Even now, on
a pagan pirate-ship fleeing from the destruction of England, Jack keeps his
faith to himself, so he finds it safe to play along. If he denounces
Flamel, he might be called upon to explain why he does not believe in the
Holy Spear, and that was not a door he wishes to open.
what Jack finds truly appalling is that Harry truly and enthusiastically
believes Flamel's story! He listens with rapt attention whenever Flamel
recounts some detail about the Philosopher's Stone and the Holy Spear. Jack
keeps his mouth clamped shut, and Flamel does not push him about the
circumstances of their last parting, but the whole idea that the exiled King
of England should waste his days hunting for a mythological artifact struck
him as a scandal.
***
Shortly after they were at sea, Jack carefully broached the subject with
Robin, who, as usual, showed little restraint.
Robin snorted. "Flamel is a lunatic. And this 'quest' is a fool's errand."
Despite his own opinion, Jack was aghast to hear it put so bluntly. "Why
haven't you told the king as much?"
Robin shook his head. "Would he listen? He knows that, as loyal as I am, I
am no monarchist. He will not take my counsel." Jack started to protest,
but Robin cut him off. "And consider, Jack - he is a young man with his
whole life ahead of him. A King without a country, he must do something.
Without some task for himself, he could fall back into dissolution."
"But what of England -"
"And what of England?" Robin's voice was tinged with anguish. Jack had
never seen him like that. The indefatigable Robin of Loxley, laughing in
the face of death, now on the verge of despair. This was the same Robin of
Loxley who, on horseback with bullets whipping all around him in the final
desperate street fight in Plymouth, had casually lit the fuse of a petard
from the end of his cigar and shouted, "Here's a farewell kiss, you dogs!"
and tossed it at a mass of onrushing Tatar cavalry.
But now, his voice was choked. "What can I tell him we can do for England?
That Timur has never given up an inch of ground he has taken? You were in
Plymouth, Jack, you saw what the Erkut could do! In the face of that, what
can we do for England? Let him quest for the Spear! What else, what else
is there?"
Jack did not know what to say.
***
Standing alone, smoking his cigar in the darkness Jack though about that.
What would he tell Jack to do?
He had seen the power the Erkut wielded. After that first bombardment, the
Tatars had sent their troops against the English lines in waves. The
Western Army cut them down ruthlessly. Jack's men, with their
breech-loading faucons, had left the field in front of the littered with
hundreds of enemy corpses. English culverins spewed great blasts of grape
shot, carving huge gaps in the Erkut lines. Robin's sharp shooters had
picked off dozens of officers, causing the attack to collapse into chaos,
and few even made it to bristling belts of obstacles protecting the English
trenchworks.
The second bombardment, a week later, was different.
This time, it was just the bombards, lobbing great spherical shells that
struck the ground and burst into great blossoms of liquid flame. One struck
a dugout near Jack, and his men rushed to pour water on the fire, but the
water did not put it out - it just spread. The English had to hurl
spadefulls of earth on top of the flames, smothering them.
"Greek fire," one of Jack's men said. Jack gaped at him in disbelief.
Greek fire? The Tatars could summon the stuff of ancient legend to do their
bidding! What would be next, a minotaur? A cyclops?
Eventually, the Erkut gunners found their range, and the shells started
landing methodically upon the layers of valli [wooden spikes] and chevaux de
frise, setting it ablaze from one end of the works to the other. Ghastly
smoke and heat drove the English back from their lines. when the fire
burned itself out, the Western Army resumed its positions, much shaken. The
defenses that they had so laboriously built had been destroyed.
The third bombardment was worse. English troops cowered in their trenches
as a rain of iron and stone and exploding fire crashed down upon them.
Moments after the last culverin and bombards shots were heard, the Erkut
attacked again. Thousands upon thousands of infantry hurled themselves
against the Western Army, which blazed away at them at before. But this
time the fire was uneven as the rattled English struggled to hold the line.
Jack roared encouragement to his men: "You are the best shots in England and
you let those heathen know it!" Hawkwood and the King rode along the lines
urging on the men, Hawkwood with his gruff and sometimes profane shouts,
Harry with his eloquent invocations of King and Country.
Here and there the Erkut stormed the trenchworks and had to be beaten back
with bayonets and faucon butts. Few were captured alive. One group of
Polish soldiers who were knocked flat when an English powder magazine
exploded begged to be brought before the King. Once in Hal's presence, they
groveled and beseeched him to kill them and put their heads on gibbets. If
the Timur learned that they had been taken alive, their native village would
be destroyed and their families slaughtered. Fluellen raged about the Law
of Arms, and Harry adamantly refused to murder the men, despite the
suggestions of the courtiers Cambridge, Scrope and Grey. Instead, he agreed
to let them 'escape,' and personally coached them on a story to tell, making
them repeat it to him (through a translator) over and over so they would all
be consistent.
Word of the incident spread throughout the English lines. A saintly King,
Harry the Merciful, was born. The English lines stiffened, and the siege
went on. But each time the Erkut attacked, they came closer to a
breakthrough. Hawkwood discretely stationed batteries of organ guns in the
rear of the lines and manned them with invalids, old men and young boys.
Any Tatars who made it through the trenchworks would face rippling volleys
of fire, hopefully buying the English time to regroup.
During the six weeks the Western Army held, the evacuation of England went
on. The thousands of refugees who had crowded into Plymouth were escaping
to safety. Many to Ireland, others to Ultima Thule and beyond. Those who
could not pay signed lengthy indentures for their passage, but it was a
buyer's market and the poorest and the least desirable are stranded.
It was a dawn on October 25 when the final Erkut assault came. There was no
opening bombardment. Jack was inspecting his troops in their trenches when
he heard the deep roll of kettle drums and shouts in foreign tongues, then
... women's voices, children's voices ... crying, sobbing, wailing.
In English.
Jack looked out into mist. There were shapes moving, thousands of them,
coming closer, becoming more distinct. Women and children. And behind,
Erkut troops, driving them forward towards the English lines. Jack ordered
the bugler to sound the stand to, then galloped off to find Harry.
The King was in a state, raging at the Tatars. Cambridge, Scrope and Grey
were aping their monarch, damning the Erkut for their barbarism.
"We cannot fire upon them," Harry said.
"But Sire, we must!" protested Scrope. "The Erkut will be upon us if we
hold our fire." Cambridge and Gray agreed.
Harry shook his head and mounted his horse. "We will not fire on them.
Signal fix bayonets and on my order -"
The rest is a blur to Jack. He remembers riding back to his troops, whose
breech-loading faucons could not carry bayonets, and ordering them to load,
while he himself loaded his falconet and dragons and Hal rode up and down
the lines, exhorting his men:
" - that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when
the day is named, and rouse him at the name of Crispian - "
The powder horn was shaking in Jack's hand as he loaded his faucon. The
cries of the women and children driven on by the Erkut grew louder. He
could hear the crack of the whips. It was the end, it must be the end.
They would climb out of these trenches, a great disordered mob charging
forward into the massed guns of the Erkut. They will die. They will die by
the thousands.
"- then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say 'These wounds I
had on Crispin's day.' Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot - "
Jack shouted orders to his men. "Forward together at a trot, on my word
form up and the first rank's volley over their heads -"
" - And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of
the world, but we in it shall be remembered; we few, we happy few, we band
of brothers - "
Jack cursed. He wished that Hal would just shut the hell up. Jack scowls
at his men with what he hoped was his most formidable expression. "And I
will blow daylight through the first of you who breaks and runs!" He could
hear the screams of the women and the children growing yet closer.
" - and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us -"
A great cheer erupted along the English lines, from all the soldiers except
Jack's command, who stood stock still, mutely clutching their faucons. The
terror and horror seized Jack and vomit rose in his throat. He choked,
screwed up what was left of his courage, and shouted, in a strangled voice,
"Come on you dumb apes, do you want to live forever?!?"
" - upon Saint Crispin's day!"
And the trumpet sounded.
* * *
On the deck of the "Vindhlér," Jack pulled his cloak close against the
night's chill. In the dim light, he could see a figure emerge from the main
hatch with a pail and a ladle, and go to each of the crewmen, offering a
drink. God, thinks Jack, these people were strange. The figure approached
Jack out of the darkness. It was a woman, although in tunic and trousers
she looked very mannish to Jack. But that was not the strange part.
The strange part is that she was the captain.
Captain Ástríð offered him a ladleful. She was a "Warm mead for a cold
night, Félagi [comrade] Jack?"
Jack gratefully accepted the drink. It was a chilly night, and he had left
his brandy flask below. About a week into the voyage it stopped grating on
him that none of the Sighted called him "Sir John." Sure, he stood on his
title in England - he had to - but the Spákona recognized no nobility.
"Félagi" was their honorific for all non-Sighted, among themselves they were
"Bróðir" [brother] and "Systir" [sister]. Jack looked at the Captain. Tall
and lithe with her red hair pulled back into a long braid that reached down
her back. Jack would have considered her stunning but for the tattoos.
Like all the Sighted, Captain Ástríð had clutches of little multicolored
circles and dots beneath each eye. Jack found it very off-putting. No
matter, really, since it was well-known on the "Vindhlér" that the captain
preferred the company of woman.
Damn, but heathen were strange.
"No sleep again for you, Félagi Jack?"
Jack nods and helps himself to another ladle of mead.
"England weighs upon your mind. It does for all of us. Another people
slips beneath the Tatar yoke, and now nothing stands between the Erkut and
the new world. The northern reaches of the Britannic [Atlantic] will be
dangerous for all free people for years to come."
Jack considers this. The few surviving English ships had fled to Ireland
and Man with the fall of Plymouth. He himself had been present when the
King gave them their commissions to raid Erkut shipping as privateers, and
had seen the dispatch of requests to the Emperor of Vinland and King of Niwe
Wessex to grant the ships safe harbor. "Do you think the war will spread to
Ultima Thule?"
Captain Ástríð purses her lips. Jack would have found the expression quite
fetching but, again, for the tattoos. "It would seem likely. Timur will
not stop with England. Scotland and Ireland are next, and he cannot allow
the Kingdom of Man to become a center for resistance. If he attacks Man, as
he must, the Vinlanders will respond. And King Eadwulf is no fool - he must
know that if Vinland and the Khanate go to war, Niwe Wessex [roughly, New
England] cannot hope to avoid peril, and he will declare for Vinland."
"What of your people," Jack asks, working his memory to remember the name of
the great pagan empire of Ultima Thule, "The Damn-, the Doomst-"
The Captain smiles. "Domstolland. But they are not 'my people,' Félagi
Jack. I am a Fjaralander, which lies far to the south of Domstolland. You
would do well not to confuse us with them, as it would cause grave offense
to some."
Jack groans to himself. It appears that he did not know anything about
Ultima Thule. No way to learn but to ask. "How is that?"
So she told him: Fjaraland was settled hundreds of years ago by those
fleeing the battle between Norse and Christian in Vinland. They travelled
almost the entire length of the coast of Ultima Thule before reaching a
place of safety [FN44.01]. They founded a state (although Jack could hardly
call it that) without an established church and barely any government beyond
a Hilmir [chief] they elected every year and a Stjórna [ruling council] that
sounds to Jack like it is made up of anyone who wanders in during a meeting.
Over the centuries, thousands of others flock to Fjaraland - escaped slaves
from the plantation realms along the seaboard, Muslim serfs from the
Ursulines [Caribbean] and downtrodden Welsh peasants from Annwyfn [Alabama].
This motley agglomeration of peoples develops an egalitarian ideology that
reminds Jack of the "Lollards," a radical Spiritine sect that was violently
suppressed in England when Jack was a child.
This, of course (and rightfully, in Jack's considered opinion) brought
Fjaraland into conflict with its neighbors, with whom the Fjaralanders had
previously lived in peace. Indeed, the Captain recounted, with some
distaste, Fjaraland was once a founding member of a League dedicated to
common defense.
But no more. Fjaraland's hostility to slavery and monarchy soon led to open
warfare. Initially, the Fjaraland Herlið [militia] barely fended off the
attackers, but as the Commonwealth grew stronger, it went on the attack.
The Herlið overran and devastated Annwyfn, massacred the ruling Grand
Company to the last man, and marched home. After a brutal struggle - which
Captain Ástríð described with what Jack considered indecent glee - the
Fjaralanders seized all of Nueva Cataluña [Georgia, roughly] south of the
Reial [Altamaha] River, and forced King Esteve to sue for peace.
At some point during all these appalling (to Jack) events, the Spákona
arrived from Domstolland. Evidently, one Faðir [Father] Lýðbjörn, a
charismatic preacher in the Cult of Heimdall had gotten it into his head
(the Captain maintained that the god Heimdall himself communicated this to
Lýðbjörn) that the established Cults and state-supported priesthood in
Domstolland was a great corruption of the traditional Norse religion. He
demanded that the great temples be shuttered, the priests taken off the
Commonwealth payroll, and the people return to the "Forn Siðr" [old
religion]. This entailed worship in household shrines and woodland
clearings and so forth, all of which had been banned. Also, the Spákona
demanded that the prohibition on printed copies of the Eddas (some pagan
Bible, Jack assumed) be lifted, so that every household could have its own,
and they be allowed to supplant of the illuminated manuscripts available
only to the wealthy. Faðir Lýðbjörn also demanded an end to slavery, the
abolition of human sacrifice, and the declaration of universal freedom of
conscience, including the legalization of Christianity. Despite himself,
Jack felt some sympathy for the Spákona, since their fight against the
established Norse cults seemed to mirror the Spiritine attack on the Roman
Church, and this Faðir Lýðbjörn sounds like a pagan version of John Wycliff,
a great Spiritine evangelical, who was himself martyred by the Bishops in
Westminster.
He supposed that there were pagans and then there were pagans.
And what happened next to the Spákona seemed familiar to Jack as well -
Faðir Lýðbjörn was arrested, since advocating freedom for Christians was
treason in Domstolland, and "martyred" at the Temple of Thor by a mob that
broke him out of jail. For days, the cities of Domstolland teetered on the
brink of civil strife, until the Folkhagi summoned an Althing to broker a
settlement. When all was said and done, the Spákona would be allowed to
remain in Domstolland and worship freely (which included printing their own
copies of the Eddas), with the proviso that they cease agitating for
tolerance of Christianity and the abolition of slavery. The Spákona, for
their part, withdrew the Cult of Heimdall from participation in official
religious functions in Domstolland, and retreated to their sacred groves.
Despite the compromise, the climate in Domstolland remained hostile to the
Spákona. Official religion was at the core of the Domstolland state, said
the Captain, and Norse who refused to participate were seen as foreigners in
their own land. A hard core of dissident Spákona grew increasingly unhappy
with the situation in Domstolland and migrated, with their families, to a
land where they could worship without restriction - Fjaraland. There, the
ranks of the Spákona grew, since their Lollard-like belief that all men were
equal and their militant embrace of religious freedom proved very popular in
a state at war with its aristocratic and slave-state neighbors.
True to the Norse seafaring tradition. the Spákona used Fjaraland as a base
for attacking the Britannic slave-trade and for simple piracy against the
ships of hostile nations, which, as far as Jack can tell, is everyone. But
they save a special venom for their former co-religionists in Domstolland
and what Captain Ástríð called the "enemy of the world" - the Khanate.
Indeed, once word of the invasion of England reached Fjaraland, its Althing
convened and declared "perpetual war," against all the Tatar Khanates.
"They would enslave every man, every woman and every child everywhere," said
Captain Ástríð, "and we will not rest until they are defeated." This is
what brought the "Vindhlér" to Plymouth - she was raiding the Erkut supply
ships until Captain Ástríð decided to join in the evacuation.
Jack is a practical man. As heartening as the idea of this little state
declaring war upon most of the world, and as much as he appreciated being
whisked out of Plymouth - along with Harry, Robin, Will Scarlock, and yes,
even Flamel, damn him - the whole thing struck him as ridiculous.
He had seen what the Erkut Khanate did to England. He had been there for
the destruction of the Western Army.
TO BE CONTINUED
[FN44.01] Originally the St. Augustine region, but expanded through
northern Florida.
Empty America - Part 45
[sorry for the delay, it has been a long semester. and then there's this
thing called Facebook ...]
Autumn, 1404
[North Atlantic]
Zhu Lun and Lin Rui have been trying to keep a low profile on board the
"Vindhlér." This is not easy, given the size of the ship and the fact that
they are the only two Chinese on board. But after a few weeks of taking
their meals apart from the others and feigning ignorance of both English and
Norse, the crew and the English passengers just give up and ignore them.
It vexes Zhu immensely that one of the passengers, Nicolas Flamel, very
conspicuously ignores them, failing to meet their eyes or turning on his
heel and walking briskly away whenever they are on deck.
Lin shares his frustration. "I hate working with dabblers. His melodrama
is going to raise suspicions."
Zhu agrees. "The Prieuré de Sion are not known to employ dabblers or
incompetents, but I begin to question their judgment if this Flamel is their
idea of an appropriate agent."
"And this madcap plan - this is how they are to keep the King of England out
of harm's way? By sending him on some laughable errand deep into the
interior of Ultima Thule?" Lin shakes his head.
Zhu has his doubts about the plan, too, but he knows from experience that if
he agrees, Lin could begin undermining the scheme and casting about for an
alternative. And Zhu is exhausted.
He has spent months working furiously against the Erkut offensive against
the island realms. He is not in the mood to improvise some new design.
"The plan is sound. You are less familiar with the tales of Óuzhóu
[Europe], Lin. The noble quest pervades their literature. The King of
England must be employed until the time comes to liberate his people, and
this will be deemed appropriate."
"But a magic spear-head? It is superstitious nonsense!"
Zhu (the Confucian) finds it hypocritical that Lin (the Buddhist) would be
criticizing others as superstitious, but he leaves that alone. "These
relics are widely credited in Óuzhóu. Searching for one will be deemed a
suitable task for a King in exile. And it is known that this young King is
prone dissipation if left to his own."
"Then let us find something productive for him to do! Perhaps these relics
are worshipped by the credulous. But all over Óuzhóu, even within the
Khanate, the learned have for decades embraced the kèxué [science] they have
learned from us. This King will appear a fool!"
Zhu almost laughs. "The learned? You were in the besieged English city,
Lin Rui. How many scholars' robes did you seen in the entrenchments? You
cannot make a revolution with 'the learned.' Men of action - and those who
follow them - believe what they will, and it is they who will overthrow the
Khans when the time is right."
"How strange to hear derision towards jiàoshóu [scholars] coming from you,
Zhu."
Zhu knows Lin is needling him good-naturedly. It is his way of
acknowledging defeat. Zhu smiles. "Of course every righteous leader must
have proper guidance by the jiàoshóu, Lin. And no doubt when victory has
been won and peace has come, they will bombard him with lengthy memorials
exhorting him to set aside his superstitious beliefs for the good of the
renmin [people], but in the meantime, we must make do with what we have."
"But really, Zhu - the Tian zhu jiao! [FN45.01] They are deranged, from
their so-called King to the last man!"
"They will not harm him. He is royalty and a co-religionist ... of a sort."
"If he tries to steal their sacred spear, they will kill him!"
"Flamel will see to it that he never comes close."
***
Jack doesn't smell the smell or see the sharks, but the Spákona do, and the
mood on deck changes immediately. Sailors who spent their off-watch moments
drinking, smoking bhang and dicing (as sailors all do), could now be found
stropping their dirks or inspecting and cleaning their firearms. Jack takes
a professional interest in that, to keep himself busy. He noticed a fair
number of falconets, serpentines and dragons, but the weapon of choice
seemed to be a stubby-looking double-barreled escopeta [shotgun]. Jack was
no fool - there was close-in work coming.
Harry the King was keeping himself busy, too, fencing with Loxley on the
main deck. Heavy cutlasses from the ships armory. Jack groans when he sees
them, and pulls Harry aside. "Sire, you aren't really thinking of -"
Harry smiles. "It's a slave ship, Jack! And we are going to take it."
"But sire, to risk your royal person for a ship full of heathen blackamoors,
its just -"
The smile vanishes. "My 'royal person' is mine own, Sir John. And I will
risk it as I will."
"But sire -"
"Enough, Sir John! There are dozens of souls in chains on board that ship.
Men and women born free by God's grace and stripped of that freedom by
wicked men. And we are going to cut their chains." The smile returns.
"Think of it, Jack, 'King Henry the Liberator!' What a tale to tell when we
get back to England."
Loxley, Jack thinks bitterly. Loxley has had Hal's ear for days, filling
him full of this radical nonsense. Oh, Jack has no fondness for slavery, to
the extent he's thought about it. Wycliffe demanded that slave-owners in
Ultima Thule and the Ursulines baptize their slaves, and blasted those who
"condemned their charges to hell on earth and hell thereafter." There were
no slaves in England of course ... Jack's heart sank.
Until the Tatars came.
He looked at Hal and shakes his head. "We have to get back to England,
Sire, alive. We have to bring you back alive. You are all of England's
hopes."
"Sir Jack -" Harry barks, then his expression softens. "Jack. Do you know
how many fallen kings have fled to Ultima Thule?"
Jack shakes his head.
"Too many to reckon. French, Swedish, English, even, in the Conqueror's
time. It may be years before we can return to England. Decades, mayhap. I
have to ..." He sighs. Suddenly he looks very old to Jack. "I have to
accomplish some great thing. Or mine will be just another name on the list
of those indolent exiles.
It is Jack's turn to sigh. He can't believe he is actually saying this,
but - "Sire, what of the Holy Spear? A quest for a sacred relic, to return
it to Christendom, is that not a fit task for a king in exile?"
Jack thinks he sees a wry smile flicker across the King's face. "Even the
best-laid plans of kings do go awry, on occasion, Jack."
Suddenly, Jack feels a lot better.
***
The "Vindhlér" chases the slave ship for some days. The sleek little
corsair spreads what seems to Jack to be an amazing amount of sail, and he
cannot understand how they have not caught some waddling slaver. With each
passing hour it seems that Captain Ástríð and her first mate Karl grow more
worried, although they do their best not to show it. Finally, curiosity
gets the better of Jack, and he corners Karl in the hold as he is checking
the ship's stores. The mate, who is normally very garrulous, is initially
reluctant to talk, but then he can't hold it any more.
"We detected the ship days ago and we have not sighted it yet. That means
that it is big, very big."
"How big?"
Karl winces. "Very big. A very big slave ship is going to be very well
guarded. And the large Nangiyan slavers are government craft. The guards
will be Imperial Marines, not the rag-bag hired faucons that crew other
ships."
Jack nods. The crew of the "Vindhlér" are hard, capable men. Jack knows
the look. But there are not many of them.
"And if we come upon this very big slave ship, what then?"
Karl looks grim. "I have never seen the Captain pass by a slaver. If we
come upon this great ship, then there will be a battle."
***
There seemed to be no doubt about that. Jack found Loxley on deck, two
long-barreled faucons propped up next to him. Loxley was stringing his old
wheelbow. The sight makes Jack laugh, despite himself.
"Robin, what the devil are you doing?"
Loxley looks up. "Captain Astrid has stationed me in the crow's nest, when
he heave to the slaver." It strikes Jack as odd that Robin doesn't seem to
have a problem taking orders from a woman. Well, he always was a radical.
"Those -" Loxley points to the faucons, "are two shots. There'll be no
loaders." Loxley tucks at the bowstring, now taut, and pats the quiver.
"This is a dozen more."
Loxley smiles.
"Karl tells me that if we each take fourteen, that may suffice."
Loxley nods. "Worse odds than Plymouth, if you can imagine."
Jack can imagine.
***
[Outside Plymouth, Summer 1404]
The English line surges forward on either side of Jack's company. Everyone
is screaming at the Tatars' human shields to make way and give them a clear
shot at the Erkut. The women, caught between two clashing armies, either
seize their children and dash madly towards the English line, or fling
themselves to the ground as the Western Army raises its faucons. Jack,
whose men are still in formation and are double-timing it forward, sees the
front Erkut ranks plunging their bayonets into the women and children
huddled on the ground.
That is when the English Western Army loses its grip. The ranks to the
right and left of Jack's formation roar furiously and dash ahead to come to
grips with the enemy, while Jack screams at his men to stay in ranks and
keep trotting forward together. Without thinking twice about it, he draws
one of his dragons [heavy pistols] from his saddle holster and shoots down a
man who had broken ranks and was running off.
The Erkut start volleying into the ranks of the civilians and through them
at the charging English soldiers, who wave their faucons and shout
frantically for the few standing women and children to go to ground. then
charge furiously through the faucon-smoke, bayonets flashing.
It is chaos. Amid the maelstrom, Jack Oldcastle pivots his ranks right and
left, pouring fire into knots of Erkut troops whenever they can get a clear
shot. Their rifled, breech-loading faucons easily range the Erkut
smooth-bores. This catches the enemy by surprise, and Jack's men scythe
them down while they are still forming up.
But Jack and his men quickly fall behind the battle - the infuriated English
troops have laid into the Erkut ranks and driven them back.
But only so far. Jack can scarcely credit what happens next. Dozens of
Tatar culverin erupt at once, blasting grapeshot into the tangled ranks of
Erkut and English troops. They are massacring their own men to destroy the
English.
It is a trap.
But then the Erkut infantry - fired on from both the front and rear - panic
and break. The English are hard on their heels, overrunning the culverins
and slaughtering the crews. They plunge heedlessly forward. Jack has got a
bad feeling about this, but he orders his men to stay in formation, and
double-time in pursuit. But then he orders a halt - the English forces are
racing towards the Erkut camp, in a clearing beyond the tree line. Jack
cranes his neck. Where are the Tatar horsemen?
He looks at that tree line again.
It is a trap.
His men start rumbling. They are good soldiers, and want to be in for the
kill. Jack barks for silence. "We are holding here!"
Jack's second in command trots up and leans in close. He hisses angrily.
"Holding for what, sir?"
Jack's heart sinks as he says it. "We are holding to cover the King's
retreat."
***
The slave ship, when they finally spot it, is not just big - it is huge. Of
course, even Jack knows that it must be Nangiyan. No other people are so
capable [FN45.02]. By far, it dwarfs the "Vindhlér." Jack cannot begin to
guess at its size, but he counts five enormous masts.
The Captain is on deck, a scowl on her face, examining the slaver through a
spyglass. Karl is next to her with his head down, looking grim, talking
low, shaking his head. Then the two little Nangiyan fellows - who Jack
hardly noticed after the first few days at sea - hurry up to the Captain and
first mate and begin talking animatedly. That surprises Jack, since he was
under the impression that they could not speak either English or Norse.
Karl turns and walks away from the group, still shaking his head. Jack
buttonholes him.
"Karl, what-"
"The Nangiyans are demanding to be rowed to the slave ship."
"What! Why?"
"They will not say. Not in my presence. So Captain Astrid has sent me
away." To Jack, Karl looks like he was going to cry. "She has never
spurned my counsel. Never!" He pounds his fist in his palm. "No good will
come of this, by the Eye."
Jack is confused and does not know what to say. He certainly knows what it
is like to have his word spurned that way. He thinks it might be wisest to
change the subject.
"Uh ... the slaves, are they Karachus or Nangiyan or ...?"
Karl looks at him like he's an idiot. "You English, you don't know
anything!"
Jack's face goes red and hot. "Well, who are they then?" he demands.
Karl is already looking back at the Captain and the two Nangiyans. "The
crew were exercising them on the deck, making them dance. From their looks,
Christians," he says distractedly, scratching his chin. "The Captain says
Neapolitans, but could be Sicilians. I-"
Jack grabs Karl's shoulder and spins him around. "Christians! In the hands
of ..." he is speechless. And he actually does not know what the Nangiyans
are.
Karl glares at him. "Yes, Christians in the hands of ... whatever."
Jack is confused, and begins to wonder if bafflement is going to be his
constant companion unless and until he returns to England. He knows he has
offended Karl, and decides to plow forward. "But all of Italy is ruled by
the Tatars."
"Yes."
"I thought the Nangiyans of the new world were at war with the Tatar
Khanates." Jack is appalled by the confusion he hears in his own voice. "Why
would the Tatars sell them slaves?"
Karl's face softens. He glances back at Captain Astrid, who is still
arguing with the two Nangiyan passengers. To Jack, he seems relieved to
have something else to do besides standing by idly while the captain
decides. "Come below decks, and I will explain."
***
Zhu Lun sees his chance and is determined to take it.
He has been four years abroad, and he really has had enough of fighting for
these people. Now, he really just wants to go home. Once he spots the red
dragon banners of the "Ting Yuen" he decides immediately that he was going
to aboard that ship and on his way to Mu-lan P'i no matter the consequences.
It matters not a bit to him which of the Three Kingdoms he winds up in. He
wants to be back among the bu yi, sipping good tea from porcelain cups in a
civilized tea house listening to civilized music and far away from these
barbarians. He can make his way back to Jen Men [San Francisco] in due
time, but he just wants to be among his own kind again.
Lin Rui enthusiastically agrees. Zhu Lun finds it mildly amusing how
quickly he gives up his objections to leaving the English king in the hands
of Nicolas Flamel. He finds Captain Astrid substantially more difficult to
convince. She actually intends to attack the "Ting Yuen"! Madness! Zhu
has no doubt that the crew of the "Vindhlér" are more than a match for the
crew of any Ouzhourén [European] slaver, but this was a Nangiyan government
slaver, guarded by Imperial Lùzhànduì [Marines] of one dynasty or another.
He did not recognize the banner (which alarmed him somewhat - what had
happened in Mu-lan P'i in his long absence, and why hadn't he been kept
informed?) so he did not know which of the contending Nangiyan powers it
belonged to, but that hardly mattered.
If the 'Vindhlér' attacked the Ting Yuen, the barbarians would be
slaughtered - and in all likelihood, so would Zhu Lun and Lin Rui.
So he had to stop them. He and Lin approach the captain as she conferred
with her second, who seemed to Zhu to have grave reservations about tackling
a ship several times the size of their own. Zhu bows and in (deliberately)
broken English, offers intelligence about the Nangiyan slavers. He is a
trader - not in slaves, he quickly assures the captain - but in many
different goods, and has had the opportunity to book passage on one of the
immense slave ships. He tells the captain that each slaver carries at least
sixty Lùzhànduì guards, elite warriors prepared to fight to the death in
case of an uprising. Zhu also mentions that the slaver he travelled on had
numerous small ... (he pretends to struggle for the term) culverins, mounted
on swivels, both along the rail and further towards the center line of the
ship. The culverins along the rail are to repel borders, but can be turned
inwards to rake the deck with grape shot. The Vindhlér's second nods as Zhu
talks.
The captain's face is unreadable to Zhu, but she squints out at the "Ting
Yuen." How many, she asks. How many slaves can one of those ships carry?
It is Lin Rui who speaks next. He never could keep quiet. A thousand, he
says. Perhaps twelve hundred.
Zhu could have smacked him.
Twelve hundred souls in chains, the captain says to her second, looking at
him sharply. How can we not but try?
Zhu's stomach turns to ice and he thinks furiously. He bows again. When he
was a passenger on board the slave ship, he tells the captain, he never went
into the slave hold, but he was concerned. He approached the ship's sailing
master and told him that he had heard that sometimes the slaves rise up and
slaughter the crews. The sailing master assured him that the slave hold was
divided into compartments, and if the slaves rebelled, the crew would flood
the compartments, pumping one dry and then next one full, until all the
slaves were dead, or the rebellion crushed. The crew had even practiced!
It was a required drill for those on government slavers.
The captain of the "Vindhlér" looks dubious. On the other hand, her second
cannot conceal the horror at the thought of all those slaves, struggling at
their chains, while the water rose around them. What about the pumps? she
asks Zhu sharply. Where were they?
In a secure compartment, Zhu responds evenly, in deep in the bowels of the
ship.
He can read her face now. One part of her does not want to believe him, but
the doubt has been planted.
TO BE CONTINUED
And announcing a Brande Niwe feature of Empty America:
WERE YOU AWARE OF IT?
[with apologies to John Hodgman]
The Fourteen Counties of the Kingdom of Niwe Wessex are:
Anglia
Bernicia
Cornwall
Essex
Hwicce
Iclinga
Magonsæte
Meonwara
Northumbria
Pecsæte
Powys
Surrey
Sussex
Wihtwara
WERE YOU AWARE OF IT?
[FN45.01] Nangiyan Christians, a term that has come to refer to the
inhabitants of Tàipíng Tian Guó.
[FN45.02] I understand that there is now some controversy as to whether
OTL's Chinese treasure ships were quite as large as has been claimed.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treasure_ship. But lets just say that they are
huge.
Empty America - Part 46
[yes, it is still going. slow going, but going]
Late Autumn, 1404
Wihtwara County, Kingdom of Niwe Wessex [Massachusetts, New England]
"Two pretenders squabbling over an imaginary throne. Now that's monarchy
for you."
As usual, Robert of Loxley had something tart to say when the subject came
up, and Sir John Oldcastle found himself silently agreeing, but he wished
Robin would keep his voice down. Their Westercian hosts and hunting
companions were well to the left of them as they pushed through the
thickets, and over the shouts of the beaters and gun bearers and braying of
the dogs, it seems unlikely that anyone would hear Robin's complaining, but
you never could tell.
"And hunting on foot. In the cold. Bloody Saxons."
"They said the wolves would spook any but the best-trained battle horses."
Robin snorted. "Giant wolves. Look around you, this is settled land. Any
wolves - giant or no - are long gone."
Jack wished that Robin would spend more time listening and less time
complaining. Ever since they had come to Niwe Wessex, he had been
insufferable. "These are trained hunting-beasts, loosed by the pagans of
the west to sow havoc in Christian lands. You've seen the bodies yourself!
What else could mangle a full-grown man so?"
But Robin was having none of it. If they want to keep us occupied while
their -" Loxley paused. Oldcastle noticed that he in particular had trouble
with some of the Wessexmen's dialect. "What did they call it?"
"Witenagemot." Jack just managed to get his Norman tongue around the
ancient Saxonism.
"- their whatever. If they want to keep us busy, they could at least give
us something worthwhile to do. But no, their Parliament meets and debates
about whether their king should even meet with Harry and, if so, how he
should address him! Meanwhile, there are dozens of good English ships
rotting in Gospatric [Boston] harbor, their crews drinking themselves into a
stupor with boredom, just awaiting the word that Harry will lead them in the
fight on the side of Niwe Wessex. Which he can't do if he can't even meet
with their bloody king."
The self-styled King of England (by the line of the Conqueror) sails into
the capital of the other self-styled King of England (by the line of Harold
II), there is bound to be some awkward moments. Relations between the
England (both Kingdom and then Commonwealth) and Niwe Wessex had always been
strained, what with 1066 and all that. As King Eadwulf's Chief Thegn
explained to Jack, the basis of the Westercian monarchy has always been in
question. The Kings maintain that their rule is divinely ordained as
demonstrated by its unbroken descent from the ancient English monarchs.
Many of the Witen - as the members of the Witengemot are known - insist that
the monarchy derives its authority from their consent, as established by the
selection of the first Westercian King by a group of Earls in the years
after the Conquest.
Thus, if Eadwulf greets Harry as being close to anything like the legitimate
king of England, he could fatally undermine the position of himself and his
house. What he wants from the Witen, confided the Edric, the Chief Thegn,
is assurance that however he deals with Harry will not be held as a
precedent against his dynasty. The King's men in the Witenagemot are trying
to help, while the opposition, sensing opportunity to establish the
supremacy of the nobility over the monarchy, are plotting deviously (in the
Chief Thegn's opinion) to use the situation to their advantage.
Escaping one step ahead of the rampaging armies of Timur, crossing the wide
Britannic Ocean in a pagan pirate ship, only to wind up ensnared in the
dynastic politics of some foreign king who ridiculously - but with deadly
seriousness - styles himself King of England.
Yes, that's monarchy for you.
***
Jack knew they should have gone to Cocaigne [roughly between OTL's James
River and Pamlico Sound]. The Duke was a Frenchman, and this whole thing
could have been avoided. Harry was not claiming to be king of France.
Not yet, anyway.
And, from everything he heard on board the 'Vindhl锟絩,' the Court at
Neufchateu [Norfolk, VA] knew how to live. The quality of Cocaigne were all
fabulously wealthy bhang and tubbaq planters, and flaunted their money,
especially for newly-arrived European nobles. The problem was that the
Sp锟絢ona crew would have been lynched as slave-stealers the minute they
pulled into the harbor. As Jack understands it, the Duke of Cocaigne has
declared eternal war upon the Commonwealth of Fjaraland [Northern Florida
and Southern Georgia], and did not take prisoners. So there was no chance
of Harry and his followers even trying to convince Captain 锟絪tr锟斤拷 to make
for Neufchateu.
The other destination ports on the eastern coast of Ultima Thule were
similarly problematical. There's Avalon [roughly, OTL's South Carolina].
Nobody hates like family, and Jack has no doubts how Harry would be greeted
by the Ultima Thule splinter of the House of Plantagenet which ruled in
Newcastle [Charleston] and claimed to be the legitimate rulers of England.
It seemed likely the Regent Queen Beatrice would personally cut off cousin
Harry's head. Privateers based in Newcastle and flying banners bearing the
Plantagenet armorial have preyed upon English shipping for years, and the
Pretenders waged a vigorous propaganda war against "usurpers" of the
"So-Called Commonwealth."
From what Jack heard, Beatrice was just the latest in a long line of tyrants
who ruled over Avalon with an iron fist - they faced no over-mighty subjects
like those in Cocaigne and controlled the kingdom's exports: the usual bhang
and tubbaq, plus indigo and rice. It surprised Jack, but it was the rice
that was the huge money-maker. The Nangiyan of Mu-lan-P'i [Chinese Ultima
Thule - roughly Washington State to Tierra Del Fuego] have perpetual crop
shortfalls and pay handsomely for as much as the Avaolais can provide. When
the rice comes in, the waters around Avalon are choked with Nangiyan junks.
While virtually every plantation in Avalon is its own port, the Nangiyan are
scrupulous about following the rules and will only deal with those licensed
by the Kingdom. It is control over those licenses that give the Avalon
monarchs the absolute grip their kingdom. For the leading nobles of
Avalon - those who control the rice lands - obedience means riches, dissent
means the destruction of a patrimony that took generations to build.
The freebooters of the ' Vindhl锟絩 smiled when they talked of joining with a
flotilla of other Fjaraland raiders to sack Avalon's island plantations,
liberating slaves, appropriating the wealth that was wrung from their toil.
But they stayed clear when the rice came in - the Nangiyan freighters came
convoyed by a score or more warships, and the Admirals of Mu-lan-P'i were
ruthless in their pursuit of pirates. Avalon is out.
Domstolland [NY, NJ, PA, OH, etc] was obviously out of the question. They
hated both Christians and the dissident Norse pagan Sp锟絢ona who crewed the
Vindhl锟絩 - they could not possibly put themselves within reach of such
people. Harry, however, seemed fascinated by the Domstolland pagans, and
closely questioned the Sp锟絢ona about the most richest and most populous
pagan state in the New World.
The County of Drengeard [Chesapeake region] was also at war with the pagans
of Fjaraland, for reasons both sacred (from its foundation, Drengeard was
ruled by a coalition of the Crusading Orders) and profane (Drengeard was
another tubbaq and bhang slave state), so Chastel Rouge [Baltimore] is also
off-limits. Jack listened with great interest to the Sp锟絢ona as they talked
about past sorties into Drengeard's great inland watercourses, raiding
plantations and liberating slaves. According to the Sp锟絢ona, the Orders
each owned hundreds of vast plantations, with some individual Masters ruling
like great barons over thousands of slaves. The Orders of Drengeard were
incredibly rich, Karl the Vindhl锟絩's first mate maintained, because they
used their sister houses across the Britannic as sales agents for their
tubbaq and bhang and thus kept more of the money for themselves, which they
then lent at interest (having an exemption from the prohibition against
usury) to every king, prince, darughachi [Mongol noble], who needed quick
cash. The Orders also worked hand in glove with the Pope (Jack did not think
to ask whether it was Constantinople or Rome) so that ruling princes in
could gain indulgences and redeem Crusading vows simply by granting
monopolies to the Orders, who in turn gifted a generous honorarium to the
Pope.
Jack was curious about how the first mate of a slave-stealing ship would
know so much about the inner workings of this business and one day he saw
Karl washing his face and arms on deck. On his upper right arm there was a
strange round patch of scar tissue, just the right size and placement to be
from the bloody removal of a tattooed cross, just like a Crusading knight
would have had.
Vinland ... once at sea, they had talked about Vinland. Robin liked the
idea - the Vinland Empire was the most powerful Christian state in Ultima
Thule, and once Timur and the Erkut moved north into Scotland and Ireland,
he would have to attack the Kingdom of Man, a vassal state of the Vinlandic
Emperor. The Khanate and the Empire would then be at war, and Harry could
lead the exiled English forces against the Tatars.
It seemed ideal to Jack, but Harry was strangely hesitant and hunting for
excuses not to turn north and sail for T锟絝tir [Halifax, Nova Scotia]. Robin
was puzzled and frustrated by this indifference to what seemed like the most
reasonable course of action. Oddly enough, it was Nicolas Flamel who seemed
to hit on the explanation. It was after the two Cathayans departed upon the
great Nangiyan slave ship, and crew and passengers were feeling a bit
deflated - everyone had been keyed up at the prospect of assaulting the
giant slaver, only to be told that she would be allowed to depart
unchallenged.
Flamel, for his part, seemed strangely ... liberated. Much of his
irritating bombast was gone, and he seemed less of a caricature of an
otherworldly alchemist. Robin was complaining about Harry's indifference
towards Vinland, and Flamel closed his book and started drumming his fingers
on the cover.
"It is as clear as the summer sun, if you ask me," Flamel said, startling
both Robin and Jack, who responded acidly that he had rang the chimes at
midnight with Harry, and knew his thoughts better than any refugee French
fraud.
Flamel shrugged a Gallic shrug, something Jack had never seen him do before.
"Suit yourself, Sir Jack. But consider this - the Emperor of Vinland
commands great armies and fleets. His Empire spans the northern world from
the borders of Hyperboria [Alaska, roughly], o'er Norway, Denmark, Sweden,
all the way to Lithuania, where the pagans rule. Should he enter the fray
at his side, the resources King Harry can command will be dwarfed by those
of the Emperor. Harry would be but a minor commander in the Emperor's
service. King Harry might find that no fit place for a King at all."
It gave Jack pause. The old Harry, Sir Henry of Monmouth, would have jumped
at the chance. He was no king, with regal cares, but a fighter, who sought
the advantage. But he did not want to believe it - that Hal, for prestige's
sake, would sacrifice the best chance at redeeming England from its
tormentors. His mind raced. What did Flamel say about the realms of the
Vinland Emperor ...?
Denmark. Denmark was on the borders of the Erkut Khanate, and if the two
empires went to war, the fighting would be there, and in the Baltic. Sure,
it would start if and when the Tatars invaded the Kingdom of Man, but that
would be a side-show, with all of Scandinavia within Timur's reach. So he
told Flamel he was full of shit, told him why. Flamel again gave one of
those shrugs and went back to his book, leaving Jack to seethe, and Robin to
nod his head, reassured.
Which brought them to Niwe Wessex. Harry himself seemed sanguine that the
political problems could be worked out, and spent much of his time making
inspection tours of the English ships, bolstering the morale of their crews,
knighting some captains who had performed singular service during the
evacuation,interceding on the behalf of refugees with the Westercian
authorities, who seemed peevish and unwelcoming. He left the thorny
protocol question to others: Cambridge, Scrope, and Grey. They looked down
on Jack, who returned their contempt with his own disdain. The three
courtiers had disappeared during the final flight from Plymouth, only to
turn up quayside, covered in artfully-placed battle-grime, ready for Harry's
departure.
Jack does not share Robin's sense of urgency to once again come to grips
with the Tatars. Vivid nightmares still haunt him from the fall of
Plymouth. It was Jack and his men who stayed in ranks and covered the
king's retreat from the Tatar ambush, who fought in the streets, fending off
the rampaging cavalry while thousands fled to the ships.
When the time comes, Jack will fight hard for England, but the thought of
facing Timur again fills him with dread. So he pushes his way through the
Westercian underbrush, hunting for wolves the size of horses and savors
every day that there is an ocean between him and the empire of the Erkut.
It is a long day in the field, and they have found no wolves, giant or
otherwise. As the sun sets, Jack slings the falconet [carbine] over his
shoulder and starts hiking back to the Chief Thegn's manor house with the
rest of the hunting party. He ignores Robin's incessant grumbling, thinks
about the feast and the ale and the soft bed that awaits him, and Jack soaks
up the cool night air and is just happy to have made it to the end of
another day.
TO BE CONTINUED
Empty America - Part 47
Spring, 1405
Gospatric, Kingdom of Niwe Wessex [Boston, Massachusetts]
In the end, the solution to Hal and Eadwulf's protocol problem is as simple
as it is ingenious. The Witen of the Heraldry Committee 'discover' the
Plantagenet claim to the French throne, and pronounce Hal as the legitimate
monarch of a throne that has not existed for over a century. Eadwulf can
thus greet Harry as "brother," meaning brother King of France. Hal can
pretend that Eadwulf actually meant to acknowledge him as King of England,
and can greet him in turn as "brother," meaning brother King of Niwe Wessex,
a throne to which the Plantagenets have never had any pretension.
Simple, indeed. Robin shakes his head in angry disbelief at this "farce,"
and Jack sees less and less of him in the following weeks, as Harry and his
entourage mingle without reservation with the Westercian Court.
In the months that follow, Jack learns that the various rulers of the
Thulian realms profess to be profoundly alarmed by the Erkut Khanate's
conquest of England and its self-evident intent to conquer Scotland, the
Kingdom of Man, and the Commonwealth of Ireland. News trickles in to
Gospatric of Venetian and Hansa trading ships being seized in ports all over
Ultima Thule. The Hansa Cities are vassals of the Erkut - and they lent
their naval power to the invasion of England - and the Venetians have been
Tatar allies for nearly two centuries. If Timur is going to move against
the New World, it will be in ship bottoms of the Hansa and La Serenissima.
If it wasn't for the world crisis, Jack would have found socializing with
King Eadwulf's court depressingly dull. The Earls of Niwe Wessex are a
staid bunch - large landowners with hundreds and thousands of peasants,
nothing to talk about but rents, entailments, lawsuits and other feudal
day-to-day business. There were a few decent horse soldiers among them, but
even their stories grew wearisome - low level border skirmishing with the
pagans of Domstolland that seemed more half-hearted ritual combat than real
battle.
Then there were the nouveau riche: so-called "nobility" who got their wealth
not from their ancient titles or vast landholdings, but from ...
manufacture. From what Jack overheard (and he did not pay much attention)
Niwe Wessex had numerous fast-flowing streams which, through the use of some
clever Nangiyan [new world Chinese] mechanical art powered looms and bellows
and hammers, which turned out all forms of metal and textile goods. The
owners of these ... mills became immensely rich and bought themselves places
at court, where they puttered around, boring everyone with talk of the price
of raw materials, pressing the King for better relations with the
neighboring pagans, who evidently sat on great deposits of coal and iron [in
OTL's Pennsylvania] and the Saracens and Venetians of the Ursulines
[Caribbean] and Terra Nova [South America], who grew a great deal of cotton.
These "manufacturers" are not enthusiastic about Niwe Wessex going to war
with the Erkut and their maritime allies, with the notable exception of the
foundry men, who, according to their boasts, can turn out dozens of the
highest-quality culverins [cannons] and faucons [muskets] every month. At
least these jumped-up commoners are good for something, should it come to
war.
And war is coming. Jack is not privy to the correspondence between King
Eadwulf and the other Thulian potentates, but he gets the gist of it from
Hal.
And Hal is not pleased.
The monarchs of Ultima Thule have cast their eyes not on the liberation of
England, or any direct attack upon the Erkut, but rather look south, towards
the rich Venetian colonies in the Ursulines. Jack gets the impression that
these islands are generally thinly-garrisoned and ripe for the taking. The
would-be conquerors parcel out their prizes: Aragon will take the Perditas
[OTL's Turks and Caicos] and Isola da Spezie [Antigua]. the Master of
Drengeard will take Jasirah al-Zanata [Jamaica] from Venice's Saracen
allies. Niwe Wessex claims Torcello [St. Vincent], Burano [St. Lucia],
Rivoalto [Martinique], San Marco [Dominica]. Cocaigne's share will be the
Archipelago da San Ranieri [Anguilla, St. Martin, St. Maarten, St. Kitts &
Nevis], and so on. The purported rationale for all this "filching sugar
islands," as Hal disdainfully calls it, is to deprive Venice of bases from
which it and the Erkut could invade the New World.
But of course, these best-laid plans overlook one thing - even if all goes
perfectly, Venice will still hold San Erasmus [Cuba], its largest and
richest colony in the Ursulines which (Hal tells Jack) has a population
greater than the Lion City and its terra firma in Italy. Ambitious though
they are, none of the allies believe that they can dislodge Venice from San
Erasmus.
It is clear to Harry that the war with the Erkut is just a pretext for
plundering Venice's empire, and he wants no part of that. Jack can see that
he is itching to get back into the war against the Erkut, and this naked
Thulian avarice has left him angry and frustrated.
With Jack standing grimly behind him at table, Harry argues long and hard
with King Eadwulf and his ministers against these Ursuline schemes and for a
landing in Ireland or England, coordinated with the Vinland Emperor's attack
upon the Erkut from Scandinavia. The Scots will bloody the Erkut in their
highland fastness, he insists, and Irish Taoiseach has prepared to meet the
Erkut invaders at the shoreline. The English people, Hal avers, would rise
up and support their liberators. The King shakes his head and rumbles
something about England being held by a hundred thousand Erkut troops, and
protected by a great fleet of ships. Harry protests that recent English
refugees have reported that over half of the Erkut invaders have departed,
and that Timur himself has taken them deep into Asia, to join up with the
Saracen army that he leads against the Yuan. Eadwulf again refuses. The
forces of the New World powers will seize Venice's most precious colonies
and bring the Venetian fleet to battle far from its base.
Hal slumps back in his chair and visibly seethes. The room falls silent.
From the corner of the throne room, Jean sans Peur clears his throat and
says, "Give me six frigates, five hundred men and two thousand stand of
arms, and I will bring Venice to its knees, and take the war to the Erkut."
Hal sits up.
***
Summer, 1405
Ciutat Majestu�s [New Orleans], County of Hesperia [FKA 'Hy Brasil' -
roughly, Louisiana and East Texas] [FN47.01]
Yawning and stretching mightily under the silk sheets, Jack sits up and runs
his hands through his hair. Morning is well underway, and the sun shines in
through the tall windows of his room.
He reaches for the cord dangling next to the bed and gives it a tug.
Somewhere close by an unseen bell rings. Moments later a dusky serving girl
swirls into the room with a tray. Fresh fruit, white flat breads, jams and
preserves. A second follows her in, bearing an silver ice bucket and stand
and a chilled bottle of white wine. Condensation trickles down the sides in
the late morning heat and the serving girl pours him a tall glass. Jack
pops a strawberry in his mouth and sips the wine.
It is exquisite.
And, in this heat, it is cold. He was told that the Count, every winter,
has great cakes of ice floated down the great river, which he stores for the
summer in special godowns under thick layers of sawdust.
While he breakfasts, the servants bring in a wash basin and towels and
relight the shisha [Arabic: hookah] next to the bed. Jack leans back
against his pillows and takes a deep drag on the pipe. The bhang smoke is
much cooler and less harsh that what he is used to. He blows a thin stream
up to the ceiling where a fan whirls, scattering the smoke. The wooden
blades, carved like palm fronds, are driven by a clever cord and pulley
assemblage (concealed discretely above the ceiling) that terminates in the
hallway where a small slave boy pumps away on the pedals that run the entire
thing. Some other piece of Nangiyan ingenuity. In the midst of a Gulf of
Maupertuis [FN47.02] summer, the wine is cold and the room is breezy. Will
marvels never cease.
Now this, *this* is living. The Count of Hesperia knows how to treat his
guests. Not like those square-headed Saxons in Niwe Wessex. Jack has eased
comfortably into Count V�cent's entourage. The Count and the caballeros of
Hesperia that make up the Count's retinue are real horse soldiers, riveted
by Jack's stories of the Erkut invasion and the final battle of Plymouth.
Jack is quickly a fixture at court and is deluged with invitations to visit
the plantation homes and Majestu�s townhouses of Hesperia's ruling class.
Jack graciously declines the former - he does not want to spend too much
time away from Count V�cent - but enthusiastically accepts the latter, and
his nights are a whirlwind of banquets and lavish dress balls.
As much as Jack misses Hal, he must admit that this was not bad duty. He
takes another hit off the shisha and closes his eyes, letting the breeze
from the fan wash over him. He thinks about Robin, and how he would have
just soaked this up. But he was gone, the mad radical bastard.
***
Spring, 1405
Gospatric, Kingdom of Niwe Wessex
It takes Jack some doing to find Robin, who had detached himself from Hal's
coterie without a word. Jack finds him at a tavern in the Gospatric docks,
drinking with the crew of the 'Vindhl�r.'
"Loxley, what are you doing?"
Robin smiles, which sets the blonde wench in his lap to giggling. He hoists
his mug. "You of all people, fat Jack, should know. I am drinking.
Drinking and carousing and -" he pinches the wench's bottom with his free
hand. She shrieks with mock outrage and playfully slaps Robin on the face
"- generally having a good time. And you, Sir Jack? What has occupied your
attention of late?"
"You must have heard of the King's plans. I am preparing the flotilla for
the attack on Ceuta."
That was the King's plan. Or rather it was the plan put to the council by
Jean sans Peur [John the Fearless]. And it was an audacious one. Jean
proposed to descend by stealth upon the shores of Africa with a small force
of men, ally with the local Saracen tribes, then seize Venice's critical
naval base by coup de main. Jean's eyes glittered and his thin, pale face
grew flush as he described it. With Ceuta fallen, and Venice's naval power
in the Western Mediterranean broken, Aragon would enter the war against
Venice, whose ally Grenada would march against Aragon and the war would
inevitably spread to the Khanate.
Hal and Jean would set Europe ablaze, and out of the flames a free England
would rise again.
It was just what Hal was looking for. To Sir John Oldcastle, it was a
madcap scheme. But it was not like he had any better ideas. So they set to
it with a will - the English exile fleet would spearhead the attack, and,
after months of winter indolence in Gospatric harbor, ships and men were in
dire straights and needed to be made ready. The more Jack labors on the
frigates and crews and the more he learned about Ceuta and Morocco the more
full of dread Jack became. To pounce on some Saracen shore and cobble
together a force capable of taking one of the premiere fortified cities of
the world ... this is a daredevil expedition. If they are any of them to
survive, they will need every sharp-eyed faucon [rifle] man than they can
get their hands on. And that means they need Robin of Loxley.
But Robin of Loxley is not coming.
"What do I care," he says smiling boozily, "of the affairs of kings?" The
crew of the 'Vindhl�r' shouts and pounds the table in raucous agreement.
Hal is shocked. "Robin, what of England - trampled under the hoof of the
Tatar?"
Robin snorts. "Is Ceuta in England, Jack? Which county? Which parish?
Perhaps after Te Deum in the Great Cathedral of Ceuta, you could make my
introduction to the more prominent families." The pagans at the table burst
into laughter.
Hal's face reddens. "But Loxley, king or no, Hal is your friend, and mine.
We must be by his side when -"
"When what, Jack? When he takes his slaves and hirelings to fight the
slaves and hirelings of the Venetian Doge? All those good men, facing fire
at the whims of their 'betters,' bleeding and dying for nothing but the
vanity for those who rule them? Thank you, no. Jack, on the tide, I and my
friends sail under the green banner."
Now Hal is just confused. What green banner? "Robin, are you becoming a
Saracen? You know, when you convert, they cut off the end of your -"
Robin shakes his head, a pitying look on his face. "No, Jack, although
there are Saracens among us. The green banner, Sir John, is the flag of the
Republic Universal. Green, the color of the blades of grass, innumerable
like the sovereign people themselves. And those who fight under the green
banner fight for the sovereign people, and will fight until all live under
laws of their own creation. Think about it, Jack, think about the
Commonwealth. You used to believe in something much like the Republic."
Now it is Jack's turn to shake his head. Robin was tweaking him, or fooling
himself. The English Commonwealth, like its counterpart in Ireland, were no
fantasist dreams. They were based on the principle that the powerful men of
the country could come together and rule as a group, settling their
grievances in Parliament, and in courts of law and equity, not on the
battlefield. It was practical government for practical men, who would just
as soon take their aggressions out on those across the water, not in the
neighboring fields. The commonwealth began in Vinland and spread to the
northern isles. Jack did not know much history, but he figured that if it
was not for the idea of the commonwealth, England and Ireland might be
divided up into squabbling principalities or in the grasp of a tyrant. Jack
always knew that Robin was a radical, and no friend of monarchy, but this
... ridiculous notion of rule by the common people seems far-fetched even
for him.
"What of the Erkut, Robin? They are no friends of your republic. Timur
drew his first Christian blood stomping out the Roman Republic years ago.
Will you not fight against them?"
"It is not who a man fights against that matters, Sir Jack, it is what he
fights for. I would not die to replace an Erkut Khan with a Western King."
Robin raises his mug. His mouth is set and his eyes flash. "No Khan, no
Pope, no King."
All the pagans, Robin's new companions, hoist their drinks and cheer Br��ir
[brother] Robin.
Jack is overcome with immense sadness as he turns on his heel and walks
away.
***
Summer, 1405
Ciutat Majestu�s, County of Hesperia
And, as it turned out, Jack was not going to Africa, either. If the Crown
of Aragon was going to be brought into the fight in Europe, Hal's Thulian
allies wanted Aragon's most powerful New World dependency in the fight for
the Ursulines. So, Hal had a diplomatic mission for Sir John Oldcastle:
steer the Count of Hesperia's ambitions seaward. Jack protests - he is his
King's soldier, and if his King is going to cast himself upon an African
shore, certainly he must be by his side.
But no. Hal sends him away once again, on a diplomatic mission to Hesperia.
If the Crown of Aragon is going to be brought into the war, its most
powerful New World dependency must join the campaign in the Ursulines. Hal
privately authorizes Jack to offer Count Vicent any of Venice's possessions
as an inducement to join in the attack, regardless of how they had been
divvied up around the green baize in Gospatric. The King of England in
exile shrugs at the duplicity. Let them sort it out at the peace
conference.
This time, Jack feels no particular anguish about Hal sending him away. He
protests, but it is perfunctory. Ever since Hal became King, he has been
putting distance between himself and his old friends, and Jack feels it. He
cannot help but reciprocate. Leaning back on the silk pillows, taking
another long hit off of the shisha, he feels grateful that he is not
throwing himself against the Venetian fortresses guarding Ceuta.
Jack has his mission, and it is a pleasant one. He diligently works his way
into the Count's confidence. It helps that Count Vicent has a voracious
curiosity about the world beyond his borders, and Jack is full of tales, not
only of the war against Timur, but of pagan privateers, giant Chinese slave
ships and, well, a bunch of other things he cobbles together from rumors and
sailors' stories. The last is dangerous, since Count Vicent bombards him
with probing questions.
No matter how much time Jack spends at his side, Count Vicent remains an
enigma to Jack. The word around Court is that the Count ... prefers to lay
with men as one would with a woman. This seems implausible to Jack. First
of all, Countess Marta is a tall, buxom, dark-haired beauty. She is a
vivacious one and has given the Count two sons and a daughter, but she ...
seems to have a lot of young Hesperian men of noble birth in her retinue,
which has given rise to the usual rumors. The Count appears indifferent to
her flirtations with these young bucks, and he is rarely at her side.
But, even if the Count is not the father of "his" children, Jack still finds
it hard to believe. His Court is so ... manly. The high cavalry boots, the
skin-tight jodhpurs, the velvet capes, gleaming steel swords and
breastplates and wide-brimmed plumed hats.
Then there was the manly concern with honor. In the weeks that Jack has
been at court, he has witnessed no fewer than three affairs of honor.
Serious ones, too - serpentines [pistols] at twenty paces. The nobles of
Hesperia were deadly shots. Three duels, two dead men - one with his head
nearly blown off.
No, Jack will not believe the court gossip. But that does not help him
convince the Count to join the war against Venice and the Erkut. Hesperia
maintains a very profitable trading relationship with the Erkut, and
venetian and Hansa ships proceed unmolested in and out of Majestu�s harbor.
The Count also has other priorities, which put him at odds with the powers
allied against the Erkut. He is mobilizing his armies, to be sure, but he
is not going to put them on any ships.
Count Vicent is marching east. The Fjaraland militias destroyed the
government of the Republica D'Entenza [approximately OTL's Alabama and
Mississippi], then marched away. The collection of successor statelets are
in dire straits and tremble at the possibility of the emancipationist armies
of its radical neighbor to the east returning. The Count has received
"invitations" from several of the minor potentates to take their territories
under his "protection." That is exactly what Vicent intends to do. He his
going to push east with an army of ten thousand men to accept the allegiance
of those who have offered it and cow the remainder into submission. The
together, they will march into Fjaraland proper and smash the radical
republic once and for all.
That, anyway, is the plan.
Jack tries to dissuade the Count as best as he can, although he himself has
hardened against the Fjaralanders and would not mind seeing them brought to
heel. However, the Count's plan raises other ominous possibilities. The
Count's territorial ambitions are well-known, and if he seizes control of
the former Republica D'Entenza and scores some success against the
Fjaralanders, he may well push north into the western reaches of the
seaboard Thulian kingdoms. The Duchy of Cocaigne, the Kingdom of Avalon,
County of Drengeard, as well as Kingdom of Nueva Catalu�a [approximately
OTL's northern Georgia[FN47.03], all have settlements - some of which are
populous and wealthy - in territories south of the Thiazis [Ohio] River and
west to the Afon Ganol [Mississippi] River. Nueva Catalu�a is also within
the Crown of Aragon and Vicent purchased the rights to those ill-defined
territories from the cash-strapped Viceroy (with Barcelona's approval), so
would have some pretext to "secure" them. The other realms' hold on these
territories is tenuous, and the magnates and small-landholders tended to
look south and west, rather than east, since their livelihoods depended upon
unfettered access to the Afon Ganol and deposit at Majestu�s. If Vicent
appears on the scene with a sizable army and favorable terms while their
ocean-facing sovereigns are occupied fighting Venice, it seems likely that
Hesperia could secure a vast expanse of new territory without firing a shot.
TO BE CONTINUED
Doug
[FN47.01] The further one goes into the interior of Ultima Thule, the more
ill-defined the boundaries of the states.
[FN47.02] Gulf of Maupertuis is OTL's Gulf of Mexico, the island of
Maupertuis [Key West] being the home of the corsair, Reynart the Fox, whose
name is legend throughout the Gulf coast and the Ursulines. Although the
island of Maupertuis itself is far to the east, Thulian cartographers prefer
the honor of a great man to the geographically appropriate. The Nangiyans
refer to it as the Gulf of zhongyang, after the Empire of the same name,
which encompasses OTL's Mexico and Central America.
[FN47.03] Once much more extensive prior to Fjaralander conquests.
Empty America - Part 48
Summer, 1408
Outside Xi�tian [Zacatecas, Mexico], Shanngu Province, Empire of zhongyang
[FN48.01]
"When I tell you to snap to, you miserable h�uzin [monkeys]," Jack Oldcastle
roared, "you bloody well better snap to!"
The translator - a Pathan from the borderlands of India - translates French
into Cantonese and a ragged group of soldiers and horses forms up. Jack
spurs his horse down the line, scowling as he inspects his troops.
His troops.
Like Yusuf, his second in command, Jack is a W�igu�r�n, a foreign officer in
the service of the Zhongyang Emperor. The Tianjin Dynasty emperors are keen
on keeping their empire open to the world, and Jack has met many
non-Nangiyan government officials and army officers from all over the world.
Some are not particularly exotic - the usual Scots, Irish, Byzantines and
Venetians, Aragonese, Portuguese and Castillans. Then there are Saracens
from the African kingdoms, great tall blackamoors. But the oddest to him
are the Hindoos from Thuvaraiyam Pathi [Australia], who are dark like
Karachus [Africans], but with different features.
His troopers, all 37 in this troop, and the other 115 in the other three
troops, are all Nangiyan. They were raw, when Jack and Yusuf took over
command, but now they are sharp. Jack glowers and shouts at them to keep
them sharp. To keep them - and him - alive.
Riding down the line, he peers carefully at the presented arms. The breech
mechanism of these new falconets [carbines] is delicate, and it jams when it
gets dirty. The cartridges, even with the wax paper, have to be kept dry.
He closely examines the cloth loops on the cartridge belt.
The rest ... the rest is just for effect. Jack counts the copper buttons on
the crimson jackets, He scrutinizes the ballooning green pants for stains
or rips, and evaluates the shine on the brown leather shoes and the tautness
of the laces on the brown cloth leggings.
They are sharp, that's for sure. Good, thinks Jack, because they have work
to do. The northern reaches of the Empire are in upheaval. Bands of
refugee militia from the religious upheavals in the Xibei Empire [FN48.02]
and T�ip�ng Tian Gu� [FN48.03]. Norse renegades from the eastern kingdoms,
Welsh nomads from Cantre'r Gwaelod [FN48.04]. All of them keep the
borderlands roiling, attacking caravans, attacking isolated settlements,
raiding south towards Xi�tian and its vast silver mines.
The bandits are pushing, and the Emperor is going to push back.
A hundred and fifty-two Nangiyan dragoons, under Jack's command, preparing
to set out on patrol, hunting for "badmash," as Yusuf calls them. in the
high desert plateau of the Zhongyang Empire. He's a long way from England.
A long way from a comfortable bed in Ciutat Majestu�s.
***
1405-1407
Southeastern Ultima Thule
Despite his mission for Harry, and despite his fervent ambition to
fraternize with gallant and gregarious soldiers without ever again hearing
the whistle of bullets flying past his head, Sir John Oldcastle gets caught
up in the enthusiasm of the campaign. A big part of it is Count Vicent, who
is shaping up in Jack's mind as a natural leaders of men. As the troops
assemble in and around Ciutat Majestu�s, Vicent seems to be everywhere at
once. He personally arranges and inspects the billets for the soldiers,
overriding the protests of the locals who naturally object to troops being
quartered in their homes. He meets with his officers daily, questioning
them closely about their supplies and weaponry. He plunges his hands into
flour barrels to see that they are not adulterated and breaks open hard
biscuits to ensure they are not infested. The Count of Hesperia sniffs the
bacon to make sure it has not gone off.
Count Vicent observes drill and maneuver, sometimes taking command himself
when dissatisfied with the results, working the men over and over until they
have it right. Vicent takes an intense interest in the artillery. He had
selected the guns himself - top quality Nangiyan bombards [mortars] and
culverins [cannon] - and has carefully scrutinized the artillery teams, both
horses and olifaunts [mammoths], pushing back their lips and looking at
their teeth, having them lift their hooves and feet to check for sores.
With his common soldiers, he is stern and distant, but the men know that he
checks their flour and their biscuits and their bacon. They know he will
live light on the road, sharing their hardships. And they love him for it.
The night before they depart on campaign, men from every unit are in the
Cathedral of Ciutat Majestu�s to receive the blessing of the Archbishop.
The Reformed Evangelical in Harry is banished by the majesty of it all. The
hundreds of glimmering candles, the sonorous chanting, the incense braziers
laying a heavily-scented fog over the whole proceeding. The Archbishop,
resplendent in his luxurious vestments, reaching up to God to give them
victory over the heathen, the enemies of His order on earth. Then finally,
a surprise - the reading of the proclamation from the Pope in Barcelona,
proclaiming this campaign a Crusade. The priests walked down the aisles,
handing out strips of cloth, each embroidered with a cross, for the officers
and men to tie around their right arms.
There is hardly a dry eye in the house.
Except for Vicent.
Harry keeps a close eye on the Count through the entire proceedings. As an
officer, he is stationed nearby, and more than once he sees a wry smile
creep across Vicent's otherwise stony countenance, particularly when the
Latin phrases of the crusade proclamation were being read.
This is no war for God.
It does not start out as much of a war at all. As Vicent's army rolls east
out of Hesperia and into the no man's land that was once Republica
D'Entenza, the Count dispatches companies of heralds to announce Vicent's
coming and to urge all the inhabitants to come out and offer their
allegiance to their new ruler. And, by in large, they do. The progress of
Vicent's army is slow, since there was not a single east-west road worth the
name, so they are hacking their own through the pine forests. and every few
days, a different local magnate rides up with his retinue and made himself
Vicent's vassal. For his part, Vicent offers protection, free navigation of
the Afon Ganol - and the new road he was carving through the wilderness -
for his new vassals' tubbaq and cotton, with deposit of all goods at Ciutat
Majestu�s. In return, he demands taxes (payable in commodities, if cash is
short) and service.
He gets both. The ranks of the army grow, as he pushes east.
Jack is busy, as befits his relationship with the Count. Near Quiquendone
[Pascagoula, Mississippi], the local caudillo is unenthused about the new
regime and makes as to resist. Jack lines up the Count's new culverins and
blasts his wooden stockade to flinders. He sees the wisdom in submission,
and is soon one of Vicent's most loyal lieutenants.
Then there is some ceremonial duty. Jack is given the rather dubious honor
of swinging hundreds of miles north to Dywydd Briga [Lookout Mountain] and
raise the Count's banner above the ancient Welsh fortress at its summit.
This was a diversion of some weeks deep in to the seemingly-uninhabited
northern reaches of the Count's new domain but also - as the Count explains
to him privately - into those territories once claimed by the King of Nueva
Catalu�a. Should Jack encounter any subjects of good King Esteve III,
Vicent says, almost casually, he should take the opportunity to gauge their
attitude towards the court in San Braulio [OTL's Savannah].
Jack does as he is told, taking a company to the top of Dywydd Briga, where
he finds the fortress abandoned. Good thing, too, because he is travelling
light and did not bring any siege train. He scouts the nearby area, where
he finds a few scattered settlements. The inhabitants of these parts are
not at all displeased to discover that they are now subjects of the great
Count of Hesperia. Jack gleans that they are greatly dissatisfied with rule
from San Braulio, and generally thought the tidewater aristocrats who ruled
Nueva Catalonia cared little for the up-country small farmers.
Armed with this information, Jack and his men swing back south, moving as
fast as they can to rejoin the body of the Count's army. Good thing, too,
because the Hesperian forces were encountering their first serious
resistance of the campaign.
The Fjaralanders have not been sitting on their hands. The Fjaraland Herli�
[militia] has mustered, and small bands of horsemen have been harassing the
Count's supply lines, forcing him to divert troops to protect his logistical
train. This vexes Vicent to no end and after six weeks of frustration he
acts decisively - he cuts himself loose from his logistics and he and his
army live off the land.
This leads to some lean days for his soldiers, until he pushes into
Fjaraland proper, where the Counts troops plunder the ranches and farms.
Outside of Ptolemais [Pensacola], at the Fjalarsson ranch.the Hesperian
forces finally square off with the renowned Herli�, the conquerors of Nueva
Catalu�a, the abolitionist terror of the southeast.
Ideological enthusiasm is one thing, but it is no match for highly trained
troops skillfully commanded. Outnumbered two to one, the Count attacks
without hesitation. His guns, pushed forward, rip up the enemy center, his
infantry pins down their right, while his cavalry swings around the left.
The Herli� crumbles and falls back into the woods, Only the thickets save
them from the cavalry pursuit.
Vicent enters Ptolemais as a conqueror and takes possession of the port. He
can now be supplied by sea.
The Count rests and regroups his troops, then pushes deeper into Fjaraland.
The Herli� regroups and makes its stand on the east bank of the Saqalbia
[Apalachicola] River. After scouting the enemy's dispositions, Vicent
splits his forces in two. One will cross the river to the south, one to the
north.
The Fjaralanders, seemingly unaware that half of Vicent's army is gone,
pounce upon the southern force - just as the Count planned - and push it
back to the river, where it hangs on by its fingernails. Vicent, who is
with his army, orders the pontoon bridge burned. They will stand and die
together. The northern force, hurrying south in a series of forced marches,
smashes its way through the Fjaraland rear guard and attacks at a dead run.
The Herli� dissolves in confusion, with some groups surrendering, others,
surrounded, making desperate last stands. In the end, there is nothing left
of the Fjaraland military but the wounded, the corpses, the prisoners and a
trickle of escapees, making their way eastward, desperate to escape
Hesperian cavalry.
Jack is at the head of the cavalry and hard on their heels. All the way to
Hop [St. Augustine], where, in a flash of sudden realization, he dismounts
his troops and charges the Fjaraland fortifications on foot, seizing one of
the redoubts along the earthen work perimeter. The defenders fall back in
disarray. Having leapt, Jack now looks, surveying the enemy line. The
earthen works extend in an arc between three masonry fortresses.
It's Plymouth again, and this time Jack is on the other side.
The Hesperians have the initiative, but Jack knows the disarray in the
Fjaralander ranks will not last forever. They will regroup and they will
attack.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Doug
[FN48.01] Roughly speaking, OTL's Mexico and various contested areas of
Central America.
[FN48.02] Roughly, California, Oregon, Washington, etc.
[FN48.03] Again (roughly) Utah and Colorado.
[FN48.04] Kansas and western Missouri.
Empty America - Part 49
1405-1407
Southeastern Ultima Thule
It is at the conclusion of the Fjaraland campaign that Vicent displays his
true mastery. No one will be able to convince Jack that the Count is a man
who lays with men. Far from it - he is a modern Alexander.
Jack and his men hold the redoubt in the lines around Hop [St. Augustine]
for two days and two nights. The Fjaralanders do their best to dislodge
them, and Jack's men fight them off with rifle butts and bayonets. In the
daylight, surveying the dead scattered around them - beardless boys and
gray-bearded oldsters - it becomes clear to Jack that the enemy are on their
last legs.
The perimeter forts are suspiciously quiet the entire time. During a lull
in the fighting, Jack pulls out a spyglass and scrutinizes them closely.
Sure enough, the gun ports are not positioned to enfilade the earthworks.
But the forts are crawling with troops, and not old men or boys, either - by
the looks of them, first class troops.
The Fjaraland command is holding them in reserve, waiting for Vicent.
And the Count is coming. On the morning of the third day, Jack hears
Hesperian trumpets on the wind, and sends up a wild cheer with his
bedraggled command. They are out of food, they are out of water, many of
them are down to their last cartridge, and now they are being relieved.
Count Vicent and his guard are the sharp end of the spear. They brush aside
the Fjaralander forces and storm the positions around Jack and his men. The
battle for the earthworks is brief, and the town of Hop is quickly in
Vicent's grasp, but the three forts remain in the hands of the Herlið.
Jack, so exhausted he is staggering, pushes his way through Vicent's retinue
and greets his commander with an enormous bear hug. The Count's courtiers
are aghast at the familiarity, but Vicent himself pats Harry somewhat
awkwardly on the shoulder then pushes him away, with a stern order that he
should retire and get some sleep. The war will wait until morning.
Vicent rests his army in Hop through the next day, stationing screening
troops to keep an eye on the fortresses. Harry bounces out of bed,
refreshed. It is a day of brilliant blue skies, and by midday it is
sweltering. Jack and the Count ascend the minaret of Hop's mosque - the
highest point in town - where they contemplate three presumably
well-victualed fortresses, as well as the ragged, weary, sickly band that is
the Hesperian army. Even at full strength, they would not be numerous
enough to besiege all three forts, and their numbers dwindle daily as men
are carried off by illness. Jack mops his brow with a handkerchief. This
inferno is no place for an Englishman. The Count, who Jack thinks must be
more acclimatized, stands, lost in thought, coolly contemplating the Herlið
fortresses. Then, without warning, he speaks:
"We will assault the central fort. Order up the bombards and culverins. I
will position them myself. Sir John, see to the troops."
And so, the Hesperian army sets to it, seemingly with the last of its
strength. The olifaunts drag up the artillery, which had been left far
behind in Vicent's headlong pursuit of the Herlið. While the Count
positions the artillery, Jack does what he can for the common soldiery. He
works his way around Hop, arranging food and shelter for the sick and
wounded, of which there are many. Jack estimates that only one third of the
force that Vicent led out of Ciutat Majestuós are fit for duty. Following
the Count's instructions, Jack screens the north and south fortresses as
best he can, while holding a the bulk of the Hesperian force in reserve
inside the town, where they dig in as best as they can, digging trenches and
knocking firing slits in the walls of the buildings.
Once all is in readiness, the Count sends a herald up to the central
fortress to make a formal demand for surrender. The response is immediate -
peals of laugher from the bastions, followed by some defiant heathenish
singing.
Count Vicent, standing next to Jack at the Hesperian front line, nods.
"Truthfully, Sir Jack, I would have been disappointed." He gives the signal
and the bombardment begins.
For the better part of a week, the Count's bombards hammer the masonry fort
which begins to crumble. The enemy guns respond, but in a desultory
fashion. Jack suspects that they are even shorter of powder and shot than
the invaders. Vicent and Jack survey the Hesperian stores. They have
munitions for ne more day. Jack is also worried about the other two Herlið
forts. His screens are weak, a mixed bag of fit troops and the walking
wounded and, in the darkness, messengers slip between the forts. Harry
knows what is coming. He strengthens the screens as best as he can, without
unduly weakening the main force in the town.
In the late afternoon of the fifth day of bombardment, the south corner of
the Fjaralander fortress collapses into rubble, opening a massive breach.
The Count shakes his head in disgust. "Obsolete fortifications, Sir Jack,
and poorly kept up. Look at them -" he swings his hand in an arc to take in
all three forts, "- two hundred year old forts, too far apart to support
each other. This is the capital! There should be at least five
fortifications surrounding it, modern forts shielded by earth. But no, that
would be expensive. This republic we have conquered, it is like all the
others. The soldiers are brave in war, but in peace? When the enemy is far
away, who will demand sacrifice for the safety of the state? No, they will
vote themselves pensions, and vote pensions for their friends, who will
return the favor. Only in a kingdom, only in a kingdom does one man stand
apart, above the rest, to do that which is right for the safety of all.
Philosophers will tell you of the strength of republics, Sir Jack, and you
will tell them of the fall of the Herlið fortresses."
Count Vicent turned away and began walking away, then stopped and looked
back over his shoulder. "Organize the men into storming parties, Sir Jack.
We move at first light."
***
Jack is dismayed. Even with the breach, the Fjaralander garrison will fight
tenaciously in the rubble. The Hesperian forces will take horrendous
casualties, even if they succeed in taking the fortress. An assault will
wreck the Count's army, and two forts remain in enemy hands. They do not
have the powder for another bombardment ... what then? He did not know what
he thought would happen, but not this. Jack swallows his doubts and sets to
his task.
It is a long night.
***
In the morning, the Count forgoes the herald and marches alone up to the
breach, carrying a flag of truce. Jack watched admiringly as he stands
there, his cavalry boots and trousers stained with road dirt, on hand on his
hip, his military cape thrown back over his shoulders. With the iron sights
of a thousand faucons trained upon him, the Count of Hesperia demanded their
surrender. "Soldiers of the Herlið! You have fought bravely and with great
skill. You have kept your honor. But now your position is indefensible. I
call upon you to march out, under your colors, and stack your arms. This
country is now mine, but your lives, your women, your property and your
faith shall remain your own."
At the last, Jack hears some angry muttering from the Bishop and the priests
who have accompanied the Count's army. So much for the 'crusade.'
But once again, the response is peals of defiant laughter. The Count
grunts, and with a swirl of his cape, returns to Hesperian lines. His voice
rings out "Assault parties form up!"
The Count directs Jack to form up his cavalry, and hold them in reserve.
Jack does not protest. He has had enough desperate close in fighting on
this campaign, and he is not anxious for more.The Hesperian army assembles
into assault formation, tightly packed, the front ranks with shouldered
faucons, laden with fascines and ladders. On the Count's signal, they start
double-timing it towards the breach.
That is when the Herlið strikes.
A single gun from the northern fortress fires a single shot, and the
garrisons of the northern and southern fortresses come storming out. The
Hesperian infantry screens, dug in strongly, fight with desperate courage,
but are quickly overrun. The Count's main force, bunched together for the
attack on the central fort is in no position to fight in the field, but is
suddenly facing attack on both flanks.
The main Hesperian troops struggle to redeploy to both cover their front
against a sortie by the garrison of the central Fjaralander fortress, but
also cover simultaneous attacks from the left and right. The surviving
troops from the covering forces come streaming in, spreading panic in their
wake. And right behind them is the hard-charging Herlið.
But then, stationed carefully on the Hesperian flanks, the Count's masked
batteries open up. Without warning, hidden culverins rip great gaps in the
Herlið ranks. The Fjaralander troops, stunned by the suddenness of the
attack, stop in their tracks.
Jack, among his horsemen on the right flank, gets the word - charge. Sir
John Oldcastle and the Hesperian cavalry, sabers swinging and dragons
[pistols] firing, charge the Herlið. It is good, but it is not nearly
enough. The Fjaralanders regroup and reform, and are soon firing massed
volleys into the Hesperian cavalry, which beats a hasty retreat. Jack has
one horse shot out from under him and his hat carried away by a bullet, but
emerges otherwise unscathed. The crews manning the
The barrage of the masked batteries and the cavalry charge have bought the
Count enough time to redeploy his army, which is formed up in a semi-circle.
The Herlið hammer away at the Hesperian line, and the battle devolves into a
slugging match. The Fjaralanders were husbanding their powder for this
battle, and they are burning it all volleying into the Hesperian ranks. As
the day wears on, the superior discipline and training of the Count's
soldiers tell the tale, even against the Fjaralanders' superior numbers.
The Herlið breaks itself against the solid wall of Hesperian infantry.
The Fjaralander offensive peters out as the day wears on, and the Herlið
begins to fall back and move south, leaving the battlefield strewn with
their dead. At the Count's command, Jack and his cavalry charge again and
again, trying to turn the retreat into a rout. But each time, the enemy
rear guard repulses them. Some small groups break away and bolt for the
fortress, but Jack and his cavalry ride them down. But that keeps them
occupied while the remainder of the Herlið slips away. The Hesperian
infantry virtually collapses where it stands, and is utterly incapable of
pursuit.
Jack rides back to the Count and his entourage, splattered with mud,
streaked with blood, sagging in the saddle and his horse stumbling with
exhaustion. The Count is in a rage - the enemy is escaping and his victory
is incomplete. This is the first time Jack has seen the Count furious and
it is terrifying to behold. He storms up to Jack and shakes his fist under
his nose, shouting that Jack has failed him. Jack is so taken back, he
forgets himself and protests that he and his men did all they could, and
that it was grossly unjust for the Count to accuse them otherwise. Jack
then turns his back on the Count - gasps from the entourage - and storms
away.
From that point on, Jack is frozen out. He is still in awe of the Count's
military genius in the conquest of the Hop fortresses, but still angry, he
returns the antipathy and billets with his troops. But he follows events
from a distance. And interesting events they are: The Herlið has escaped
south, and the Hesperian army is in no shape to pursue, no matter how the
Count rages. Once he calms down, he pursues other solutions. Once again
the herald is dispatched in search of the Herlið leadership.
Interrogation of Herlið prisoners reveals that their officers were adamant -
they would not sortie to rescue the troops in the breached center fortress.
First in the northern fortress, then in the southern - the common soldiers
mutinied, overthrew the officers, and elected new ones from among their own
ranks. And then they attacked, and were smashed. Jack can only imagine how
this news confirmed his view of Fjaralander 'democracy.' The Count believes
he can tempt the rabble into surrender.
But then, a surprise. A delegation of nobles from Nueva Cataluña arrive in
camp with some astounding news. King Esteve III has been overthrown. The
nobility assembled and found that Esteve, by taking the kingdom into war in
support of the anti-Venetian coalition without their assent, did not
"observe all our liberties and laws" and consistent with their ancient
practice, were absolved of their oath of allegiance [FN49.01]. The
delegation congratulated the Count on his "glorious triumph on behalf of
Christendom, in vanquishing the pagan and apostate body that menaced the
lives and property of the Kingdom, hereby offer the most renowned Count the
Crown of Nueva Cataluña."
TO BE CONTINUED
[FN49.01] The Catalan/Aragonese oath of allegiance (possibly legendary),
which was imported to Ultima Thule is: "We, who are as good as you, swear to
you, who are no better than us, to accept you as our king and sovereign,
provided you observe all our liberties and laws, but if not, not."
Empty America: Part 50
1405-1407
Southeastern Ultima Thule
Since he was no longer part of Count Vicent's intimate circle, Sir John
Oldcastle has only secondhand knowledge of the doings of Hesperia's
government. But he knows that great doings are afoot. The Herli�'s escape
has complicated things. There was no possibility of a successful pursuit -
the far south of the Fjaraland Peninsula was, in great part, a huge
marshland. An army ten times the size of the surviving Herli� could hide in
there for a century. And then there was the hundreds of miles of coastline,
impossible to blockade. The Fjaralanders had dozens of corsair ships, and
notwithstanding the fall of Hop, could operate freely from the Hesperides
[Bahamas] not far offshore. There was no way to cut the Herli� off from the
outside world.
It takes Vicent's herald several weeks to find the the Herli� and the
Fjaralander fugitive government to convey the Count's surrender offer:
Fjaraland would be a discrete realm within the Count's dominion. He would
rule Fjaraland with the advice of a council of prominent citizens. Liberty
of conscience would prevail - the Saracens would retain their mosques, the
Patarenes [Cathars] would keep their meeting houses [FN50.001], and the
Norse pagans could keep their tradition of home worship. All "born free"
Fjaralanders who fought in the war would be pardoned, their property left
inviolate. The phrasing is deliberate - the ranks of the Herli� contain
many "Amb�t," [old Norse - "bondsmen"] those who escaped slavery in Hesperia
or Nueva Catalu�a. For them, surrender means a return to enslavement.
The Herli� make it clear to Vicent's emissary that there would be no
surrender without freedom for the Amb�t. Without surrender, there would be
no peace. Days after the return of the herald, Herli� cavalry raid deep
behind Hesperian lines and sack Ptolemais [Pensacola], making it clear to
all concerned that the Count's hold on Fjaraland is tenuous.
The Count himself, while all this is going on, is otherwise occupied. He is
in San Braulio [Savannah, GA] taking control of Nueva Catalu�a. It is a
tricky thing, accepting a title that has been stripped from someone else.
For one thing, Esteve is still out there, campaigning in the Ursulines.
While his contribution to the war is minor, compared to that of King Eadwulf
of Niwe Wessex or even the Master of Drengeard, but he is an ally, and the
powers of Ultima Thule may not take kindly to one of their own being so
humiliated. Closer to home, it is very clear that those who presume to hand
out thrones can just as easily take them away, and Vicent is not the sort of
man to hold a kingdom at the pleasure of over-mighty vassals.
But he needs a crown. He has acquired for himself a vast domain, and his
house cannot rule it indefinitely just as the Counts of Hesperia.
Certainly, with his prestige, Vicent himself could hold it all together.
But what about future generations? They will need legitimacy. There was a
time when Vicent could simply have bought a throne. Paid the Pope to make
him a papal fief. In centuries past, it was the norm in Ultima Thule,
which, after all, was claimed by the Papacy, under a fraud similar to the
Donation of Constantine. The fragmentation of the Papacy has made these
titles something of a joke. To receive a kingship from the Pope of Rome,
head of the Church Universalis was one thing. To accept a crown from the
"Pope" in, say, Dublin, who spent much of his time excommunicating the
"Popes" in Barcelona or Palermo or Anskar was quite another.
No. Vicent needed a legitimate crown for his House, and Nueva Catalu�a had
one for the taking.
***
While Vicent was going about acquiring his throne, Jack was fighting a
low-level frontier war against the remainder of the Herli�. In the stifling
heat and heavy rains of a late Fjaraland summer, he drives his troops
through the scrub and thickets, chasing groups of enemy horsemen who were
proving damned elusive. The few locals make their sympathies plain. Riding
into the scattered farms and hamlets of southern Fjaraland, Jack and his men
are greeted with sullen silence and outrageous prices for food and fodder.
Jack eventually tires of it and, defying orders from the Hesperian high
command, starts simply seizing what he needs. The farmers and villagers
begin hiding their produce, and Jack's frustrated and hungry troopers resort
to rather primitive methods to convince them to give up their food.
The Fjaralanders respond by tipping off the Herli� who, by turns, either
evade or ambush Jack's patrols. It is a brutal and fruitless campaign.
Jack an his men push south, out of the settled regions of Fjararaland, the
landscape grows wilder. Human hunters have long since wiped out the gegants
[giant sloths] and wild olifaunts [mastodons and mammoths], but there is
still much to be feared in the far reaches of Fjaraland. A scout of the
head of one of Jack's columns was horribly injured when a temible [FN50.002]
came lunging out of the pine wood and slashed him with its beak. One of his
comrades drops the great bird with a falconet [carbine] shot through the
head and saves him from being devoured alive. The troopers eat well for a
week, and even better when they find the temible's nest - the huge eggs are
a famous Thulian legacy. Another of Jack's troopers stumbles across a
tarasque [FN50.003] scrabbling through the underbrush and smashes its skull
with his faucon-butt. The plated hide of the tarasque was greatly valued in
Thule and Europe as decorative or ceremonial armor, and this soldier (and
those who helped him skin the carcass and carry it back) would do very well
when they sold it.
But always, they keep pushing on. After a long, exhausting sweep through
the scrub and swamps, the Hesperians come up empty-handed and return to
their quarters.
After months of this, relief finally comes.
Jack is leaning against the stucco wall of a tiny mosque in Hl�fborg [Panama
City] taking shelter from the blowing rain. He is chewing on a sodden
cheroot and thinking dark thoughts. He doesn't need this. He really
doesn't. Harry is gone, only God knows to what fate on the coast of Africa.
Robin is privateering with the Sp�kona, for riches and glory. Why is it,
exactly, that Jack is soldiering in the brutal heat and drenching rain for
an ungrateful would-be monarch who cannot even stand to be in his presence?
He should resign his position, collect such funds as he has coming to him
and leave this infernal place. The Kingdom of Foix purports to be a
pleasant land, and its monarch, like most of those in the New World, is
always on the hunt for military talent. Maybe he could ...
A rider, a shapeless mass in a long cape and wide-brimmed hat, comes
galloping up. "Don Juan! Don Juan!" He cries, "They told me you were here.
I bear important word from Count Vicent."
Jack pushes himself away from the wall. More reproach, no doubt. He holds
out his hand, and the horseman shakes his head. "I have sworn to put his
letter safely in his hand. We must go inside, or the rain will ruin it."
So they duck into the mosque and the courier hands John the message. He
breaks the seal with some combination of indifference and vexation. If it
is more complaint from on high, it could make it difficult for him to get
the money he was owed ... His jaw drops as he reads the message. He looks
at the horseman.
"Did you know -"
"Yes," the courier's serious expression dissolves and he laughs. "Yes.
Praise be to God that I have lived to see this day!"
Jack fishes into his purse and slaps some coins into the man's hand.
"Praise be indeed! You do your office fairly, messenger. If you can find a
wine shop in this blighted land, drink deep and well."
The courier thanks him effusively, and Jack dashes off into the rain. He
does not stop running until he reaches the Hesperian camp, on the outskirts
of town. He is soaked to the skin, and rainwater pours off his hat brim.
"Bugler! Bugler! Sound the alarm! All troops to assemble on the parade
ground, double-time!"
There is much grumbling in the camp. Parade in the pouring rain? Dear God,
what insanity! But they are well-disciplined troops and they pull on their
shoes and leggings and come streaming out of their tents into formation.
Jack, standing ankle-deep in the sucking mud, tells them to stand at ease.
He makes his announcement, shouting into the downpour: "Officers and men of
the cavalry of Count Vicent! I have received word from court. Timur the
Terrible: the enemy of God, His Holy Church and of all Mankind, is dead!"
There is a moment of stunned silence. The deaths of millions ... the
pyramids of human skulls ... the shadow that hung over the whole world and
grasped towards Ultima Thule ... is dead.
Then raucous, wild cheering. Men embrace each other. Some broke formation
and danced with joy, splashing in the mud. Jack laughed and laughed. Far
on the other side of the world, on the borders of Cathay, Timur's great
Saracen army had triumphed over that of the Yuan Emperor, But after Timur's
death, his senior commanders had fallen out squabbling over precedence, and
fighting had broken out within the Tatar ranks. Deep in Inner Asia, far
beyond the Oxus, the greatest army ever assembled for massacre, devastation
and conquest ... was tearing itself to pieces.
It was not just the death of Timur that had him jubilant. The rest of the
message. To give thanks to Almighty God for the deliverance of the world
from the clutches of the servants of Satan, he, Vicent, Count of Hesperia
and Regent of Nueva Catalu�a was declaring an amnesty. All Fjaralander
prisoners who would swear loyalty to him would be released, and all escaped
slaves who would do likewise were declared free.
Freedom for the Amb�t! In his dispatch, Vicent granted him the authority to
negotiate with the Herli� and the rebel government.
Jack could end this war. He knew he could.
**
It takes a while for Jack's herald, traveling under a flag of truce, to find
the Fjaralander government. In the meantime, Jack gets more news from
Vicent's court in San Braulio. Reading the dispatches, Jack shakes his
head. It is an amazing bit of political legerdemain.
Count Vicent and as much of his army as he could spare rolled into San
Braulio in an impressive show of force. The nobles of Nueva Catalu�a had it
all prepared for him. His coronation awaited. To their immense surprise,
he waved them aside. Vicent garrisoned the town and took control of the
Royal castle, where Esteve's Queen, Marta, was being held under house
arrest, with her two young daughters Laia and Merc�. Vicent paid his
respects to them in their tower, and got a predictably cold reception.
And then, seemingly, things started to unravel. King Esteve's loyalists
publish an explosive charge - those who had overthrown their king were in
the pay of Venetian agents! They had the documents to prove it. Instead of
retreating, Vicent began to improvise. First, he had some compliant
nobility declare him, "in the absence of the King or a reliable court,"
Protector of Nueva Catalu�a. Vicent then seized the suspected traitors and
imprisoned them, dispatching an urgent message on a fast ship to King Martin
in Barcelona. Both Nueva Catalu�a and Hesperia are technically parts of the
Crown of Aragon, and feudal law gives Martin the right to resolve the
conflict. It is not a power the monarchs of Aragon have ever exercised
before, since given the distances involved, it is entirely likely that any
interference from Barcelona would simply be disregarded in San Braulio.
But under the circumstances, this is a wise move on Vicent's part. Esteve
and Martin have been feuding for years. They are cousins and quarreled over
some bit of Iberian family business that Jack did not really understand.
Doubtlessly, it was this discord that emboldened Nueva Catalu�a's nobles to
move against Esteve in the first place.
Sure, the two kings were allies. As the conflict spread from the Ursulines
to the Mediterranean, Esteve waged war against Venice in the Ursulines and
Martin fought the Lion City in Sicily and the Italian terra firma. Esteve
was proving more of a liability than an asset, sending a constant
trans-Atlantic stream of whining, demanding missives. Troops, subsidies,
ships, weapons, Esteve wants it all, and Martin does not have a lot to
spare. And what Martin can give, Esteve does not seem to be putting to very
good use.
Vicent, on the other hand, is not in the war against Venice, but he has made
himself useful crushing Fjaraland and expanding his domain at the expense of
the other Thulian monarchs' claims to the lands south of the Thiazis [Ohio]
River. In other words, Hesperia is on the way up and Nueva Catalu�a is ...
perhaps best off as a part thereof. But to hand the crown straight from
Esteve to Vicent ... that is a little too blatant a coup d'�tat. Martin, a
dynast himself, is not keen to set a precedent of removing an entire house
because of one ineffectual monarch.
Martin huddles with his feudal lawyers and then moves. Esteve is out.
Notwithstanding the subornation of some of the nobles who removed him, the
grounds were valid. However, Esteve's folly was not a basis for ousting the
entire House of Quintana. His daughter would inherit. But she was a minor,
and she would need a Regent.
***
The fugitive government of the Fjaraland Commonwealth agrees to meet Jack
and his men at a little fishing hamlet called Wasqa? [Naples, FLA], on the
coast of the far south of the peninsula. T his, thinks Jack as he steps off
of a Fjaralander coastal packet and walks down the rickety pier, is the
fringe of the world. Jack is continually astonished at the numerous,
far-flung Fjaralander settlements, with little seeming to connect them to
one another. Except, of course, their common desire to be left alone.
A delegation of what Jack can only assume are the town notables greets the
Hesperian officers. The locals seem more curious than hostile - their town
is far from the theatre of battle. They are middle-aged men, by in large,
in striped Saracen robes. Except for one of them, a toothless oldster. One
of Jack's men, Lieutenant Jo�o, points to his green turban. "Hajji. He has
been to Mecca." Damn, thinks Jack, remembering his own ocean crossing, what
a trip that must have been.
The notables convey them down a track that runs parallel to the beach, and
Jack watches men stretching fishing nets out to dry in the sun. Their
destination is a weather-beaten wooden house perched on stilts, just where
the shoreline meets the scrub. There are a half-dozen small boats beached
in front of it, as well as the ubiquitous fishing nets, and everything was
being sorted out by Saracens in high-water trousers and rope sandals.
A burly Saracen greets them at the top of the stairs. He is smiling, but it
is very clearly forced. He speaks very fluent Spanish. "Greetings,
gentlemen. I am Ibrahim al-Mariyya?, and this is my home. You are welcome
to it, for the conduct of your business. Refreshments have been laid out,
but I am afraid I cannot join you. The tide, you see, waits for no man."
With that, he descends the stairs and strides out onto the beach to join his
work crews.
"So much for legendary Saracen hospitality," grumbles Lieutenant Jo�o
Jack sees that it is essentially one large room, with huge open windows,
with their shutters thrown wide, and roughly-woven rugs on the floor. A low
table sits in the middle, covered with plates of fruit, chicken and
flatbreads. A teapot steams over a low fire in the fireplace, and a
separate platter of honey-colored sweets sits to one side. There are no
cushions or pillows. Perhaps it is lack of hospitality, but it makes sense
to Jack. Even with a rather pleasant offshore breeze, it is still hot. He
has no desire to be sweating into a pile of pillows. So he and his men sit
down, cross-legged, in front of the table and help themselves.
And they wait.
It is an hour later when the Fjaralander delegation arrive. Per Jack's
instructions, the Hesperian officers make a point of not standing when they
enter the room. One ill-mannered turn deserves another.
There are three of them. One is a tall ebon statute of a woman, regal like
the Queen of Sheba in a multicolored cotton robe. The second is a Saracen,
in the turban and garb of his kind. The third, clean-shaven and with a
clutch of colored dots tattooed between each eye, as befitting one of the
Sp�kona, is Robin of Loxley.
***
A regency is decidedly not what Vicent wants. He wants the crown of Nueva
Catalu�a for himself. Upon receipt of word from Barcelona, he flies into a
rage that sends his aides scurrying for cover. When he settles down - and
it is quickly - he sets to turning the situation to his advantage, as is his
habit. In this realm, he can issue edicts in the name of the Crown, and he
does not owe his position to the influence of a handful of local nobility.
That will do. It will have to do.
Vicent returns to the tower, Regency decree in hand. He sits down with
Esteve's wife, Queen Marta. He has a young son, Eloi. She has a young
daughter, Laia. She wants out of the tower and has nothing but contempt for
her erstwhile husband for leaving her to this fate. He wants a veneer of
local legitimacy to his Regency. In the end, it is short work, with the
details left to their respective advisers to hammer out.
Vicent may never be a King, but his grandson will.
***
Not for the first time, Jack wonders how a Knight of the County from
Herefordshire wound up in such a fix. He is walking down the beach with
Robin, once his friend, now the leader of a fleet of enemy privateers. It
does not surprise him that Robin has risen so fast in the ranks of the
Sp�kona - he is a natural leader of men, strong and charismatic. He is
initially overjoyed to see him again, but that has slowly given way to deep
unease. When Robin walked into Ibrahim al-Mariyya?'s house and saw Jack, he
showed no recognition, much less pleasure. He wore the same expression of
grim resolution as the two who accompanied him.
Jack thinks about the other Fjaralander emissaries. He was most surprised
by the woman. Sister Tenneh is a tall Karachus [African] in robes woven in
a colorful geometric pattern. She was a Patarene Perfect, an ebon statute,
haughty and dignified. Her demeanor immediately sets off Jack's Hesperian
comrades - they are not used to a Karachus meeting their eyes, much less
gazing upon them with unconcealed disdain. Jack, on the other hand, is
mostly curious. Sure, she was a hell-bound heretic, but ... he had thought
that Perfects were supposed to set examples of poverty and humility and were
supposed to be clad in black or brown. That's what his Reformed minister
said, warning them that the Patarene's "flagrant" exhibitions of piety were
not to be trusted.
Also, he thought it was interesting that Karachus Patarenes apparently did
not take "Christian" names. But then the Patarenes were not really
Christian, were they? And, more fundamentally ... a woman negotiating with
men? Indeed, at the initial meeting, both Robin and Ildirim (the Saracen
third to the Fjaralander trio) seemed to defer to her on a number of points.
Once again, Jack had a lot of questions, but kept them to himself, lest he
look like a fool.
The initial discussions were cool. Jack presented Vicent's amnesty offer,
and Sister Tenneh arched an eyebrow and asked, "Why should we beg pardon
from a man we have not wronged? Rather he should seek our forgiveness, for
invading our lands and ravaging our towns."
This led to a lot of what could be charitably called "unproductive
discussion." Jack took the opportunity to insist upon a break, then more or
less seized Robin and hustled him outside, so they could talk in private.
Out of sight of his comrades, Robin's visage softens.
"It is good to see you, Jack. I wish it would have been some other way."
Jack nods. "As do I." He sighs at the absurdity of this situation.
"Piracy is treating you well?"
Robin smiles. "The Venetians, Jack. They are rich beyond dreams. Their
ships bulge with it. Silver bars from Yinshang [Potosi, Bolivia], silks and
porcelain from Ti-chu Shih [Veracruz], worked gold and xiaoyin [platinum]
from Tarshish [Columbia]. Then there's the bulky cargoes, San Erasmus
[Cuban] tubbaq and kaffee, Foix [Santo Domingo] hardwoods and sugar. It is
all out there for the taking. The Venetian Britannic Fleet - what's left of
it - is campaigning in the Perditas [Turks and Caicos], playing the game of
kings. There are no convoys."
"It is going well, then, for Esteve and the others?"
Robin shrugs. "It is stalemated. The Venetians have more and better ships,
but their armies are fewer. Mercenaries, as I understand."
"Mercenaries? But there are thousands of Venetian citizens in the Ursulines
[Caribbean]?"
"Yes. Thousands of angry, overtaxed overseas Venetians, under corrupt and
indifferent hereditary Proveditori [Governors]. Under law, they cannot be
conscripted, and they will not volunteer. So, Venice's fleet can blockade
the enemy in the Perditas, but their armies cannot dislodge them. They are
trapped."
TO BE CONTINUED
Doug
***
[FN50.001] The Cathars of Fjaraland are a breakaway sect. "orthodox"
Cathars absolutely oppose any form of dedicated church property, and only
hold services in private houses. Some of the more militant Cathars even
forbid setting aside a room in a house for religious ritual. Fjaralander
Cathars have built themselves very plain an unadorned meeting houses,
similar to those of OTL Quakers.
[FN50.002] Big, scary bird.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titanis
Empty America - Part 51
1405-1407
Southeastern Ultima Thule
"- and if not, not."
Jack watches as the town elders of Wašqaḧ [Naples, FLA] swear
allegiance to the Count of Hesperia and the heirs of his blood.
Lieutenant João recites it in Arabic, and the Fjaralanders repeat it
word for word.
The negotiations take days and are unpleasant. Jack does not have
anything to offer, really, beyond the Count's stated terms. And the
Fjaralanders can only offer their surrender. Mostly, the two parties
go back and forth, trading accusations about various wartime
atrocities.
When it comes right down to it, though, the Fjaralanders were ready to
accept the Count's terms, but they simply could not take the
obsequious Hesperian oath of allegiance. It is during one of Jack's
walks on the beach with Robin that the Catalan oath occurs to him. He
could not help but grin - it would serve the temperamental Vicent
right, to have this heathen rabble swear allegiance while proclaiming
that they "were as good as he," and conditioning their loyalty on him
respecting their rights. The Fjaraland negotiators seem to appreciate
the mischief of it as well. Sister Tenneh, the karachus [African]
Patarene perfect, smiles for the first time since Jack met her, and
visibly warms to him.
Blackamoor heretic or no, Jack cannot help but be charmed. Robin
notices.
"Don't even think about it. Patarene perfects are celibate. And not
like Romish priests are celibate, but actually celibate."
Jack pretends to be offended by the insinuation. After numerous long
conversations, he and Robin have their old rapport back. They talk
about the war in England, about Hal and Hotspur and Fluellen and
Pistol and Nym and their other fellows, living and dead, but all
gone. Jack had hoped that Robin would know something about Hal and
whether this madcap decent upon the shore of Africa had succeeded or
come to grief, but he doesn't. Robin's concerns have been far closer
at hand. As the negotiations draw to a close, and the Fjaralanders
agree to lay down their arms and swear allegiance to the Count of
Hesperia, Robin makes it clear that he and his corsair fellows have
other thoughts.
"You and your Count can have a truce, but that's it." There is no way
Robin could - even if he was inclined to - convince his radical ship-
mates to swear allegiance to Vicent and his heirs. Jack is certainly
not inclined to push the matter. An informal agreement is quickly
reached. The Count will stay out of the Hesperides, and the Spákona,
will not raid ships flying his banner.
A few days later, Robin takes his leave. His ship, a sleek little
caravel, sat on the horizon. Jack realized that it must have been
offshore the whole time, awaiting some signal. Before he climbs down
to the waiting boat, Robin grasps Jack's hand.
"Talk to your Count. These are good people, tell him to treat them
mildly. As Hal said, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner."
Jack assures him that he would, and they bid farewell. Jack stands
at the end of the dock, arms crossed. He had not expected to see
Robin again, and he knows that now he is gone for good.
He would talk to Vicent, but first, he had to finish his peacemaking.
Jack dispatches a courier to San Braulio with the good news, wishing
that he could be there to see the Count's reaction to the Catalan
oath. The Fjaraland leaders depart, taking two of Jack's officers
with them. He could not convince the Fjaralanders to submit to a
formal surrender ceremony, but Hesperian officers will witness the
Herlið stacking its arms and disbanding.
***
It takes a while for the Count's reaction to reach Jack in Wašqaḧ.
With the war coming to a close, Jack is in no hurry to return to his
troops, so he takes his leisure there. A number of the locals -
descendants of Iberian Saracens - speak Catalan, and Jack idles away
the hours drinking kaffee and smoking tubbaq and talking. Jack would
not have thought these Fjaralander fishermen would be particularly
concerned with, or knowledgeable of, world affairs, but they were.
They confirm Robin's account of the Perditas [Turks and Caicos]
stalemate between the Venetians and the Thulian powers. The kaffee-
house strategists cannot not fathom why the allies struck at the
Perditas in the first place, and Jack speculates that perhaps they
were exaggerating Thulian strength, and that the allies only felt
confident enough, at the outset, to strike at a minor Venetian
possession. There is a great deal of head-nodding and contemplative
puffs at the water-pipe at this.
The most prevalent rumor going round the Gulf of of Maupertuis [Gulf
of Mexico] was that Vinland was going to enter the fray against
Venice, and that a fleet and army was headed south. Another had the
Caliph of Tarshish [OTL's Columbia, roughly] dispatching a squadron in
support of an uprising of fellahin on San Erasmus [Cuba]. That last
seemed plausible to Jack. From what he heard in Wašqaḧ, about half
those who labored in the sugar, tubbaq and bhang fields in San Erasmus
were Saracen slaves, whose ancestors were sold to Venice by the (then)
pagan overlords of Persia and Egypt. Most of the other half were
pagan or Cathar Africans, themselves sold by the Islamic monarchs of
Mali and their dependencies. San Erasmus was ripe for some sort of
eruption.
Of course, the same thing could be said about all of Hesperia and the
rest of Southeast Ultima Thule as well. In every single state,
whether a warriors' republic like County of Drengeard [Maryland-ish]
or a full-fledged kingdom like Avalon [South Carolina], pagan, Cathar
and Saracen slaves outnumbered free Christians by at least two to one,
in some areas like the great rice plantations of coastal Avalon, it
was more like eight or ten to one. Sooner or later, something was
going to set them against their masters.
As the idle days glide by, Jack grows restless. Word makes its way
south that the Count is demobilizing his army - keeping so many men in
arms is monstrously expensive, and his troops need to return to their
farms.
And then, a summons. It is with a mixture of regret and relief that
Jack steps on a coastal packet to Ptolemais [Pensacola] and bids
farewell to Wašqaḧ. His kaffee-house friends throw him a banquet in
the sand the night before his departure and even manage to scrounge up
some forbidden palm wine for the occasion. But the party is more
friendly and subdued than boisterous. Gathered in a circle around a
blazing bonfire, they recline on their mats and talk about the state
of their world. The catches, the tides, local politics. The imams
are trying to get enough money together to build a bigger mosque with
a taller minaret. The fishermen and farmers and shopkeepers were, by
in large, satisfied with the existing mosque, and were refusing to
pay. Their recalcitrance had led to some thundering from the pulpit,
which, in turn, caused the good burghers of Wašqaḧ to take control of
the mosque themselves and bar its doors to the outraged imams.
Further afield, the western world is coming apart at the seams. With
the death of Timur, civil war has broken out among the Tatar overlords
of the Erkut Khanate. The tammachi [native] garrison in Paris has
massacred its Mongol bahadurs [commanders] and proclaimed, of all
things, a Republic. Jack shakes his head. Chaos. The French had a
proper king once. Apparently they have forgotten that they need one.
But, fundamentally, it is not Jack's concern, and the evening in
Wašqaḧ passes pleasantly.
The next morning the wind is fair and the tide is running, and he is
off.
***
San Braulio, Nueva Cataluña [Savannah, GA]
"Who ..." The Regent chortles, "Who, or what is a 'Fortinbras'?"
The courtiers crowded into the throne room of Castle Livadia laugh
along with their ruler. Except two. Aliex, the Regent Count Vicent's
Chief Minister, frowns. In the weeks Jack has spent at court, he has
come to the conclusion that Aliex was a tedious, but seemingly
competent, functionary.
"Sire," the Minister ventures, oblivious to the mirth, "Prince
Fortinbras is a scion of the Norwegian royal house, now technically
defunct and a respected Marshal in the Imperial Army. If he is in
command of the Vinlandic fleet, we can be assured that it has the full
support of the Emperor and his government."
Jack suspects that Vicent, ever conscious of his own lack of a royal
title, is irritated by his Minister's emphasis upon Fortinbras'
distinguished lineage. His reply has an edge to it.
"Be that as it may, I do not care for the tone of his message. It
borders on an ultimatum."
Aliex does not back down. "It is most assuredly not an ultimatum,
Sire. It is a request that his fleet be allowed to victual in San
Braulio for a week. And he promises payment for any supplies.
Payment in silver." He looks significantly at Count Vicent.
Significant indeed. In the weeks Jack has been cooling his heels in
San Braulio, he has learned that Vicent's new realm is teetering. The
conquest of Fjaraland was much more expensive than predicted and the
Count's finances are exhausted. Virtually the entire army has been
demobilized, and strapped for cash, Vicent has been paying off his
officers and men in land grants in the newly-acquired territories.
The grant certificates are negotiable and most of the soldiers (who
generally already have farms and plantations to tend to) quickly
liquidate their grants for cash, but at a vicious discount.
For his part, Jack is impatiently waiting to be paid off. Although he
received a cordial welcome to San Braulio and was welcomed into the
Regent's Court without hesitation, he is eager to get gone. It seems
he has a lot of options. The war in the Ursulines still rages, and he
does not doubt that he could find a billet with the Allied forces
fighting Venice. He is uneasy with the idea, though. It would be
satisfying to fight the Tatars' ally, the turncoat of Christendom.
But it does not sit well with him. Perhaps he is done fighting for
the slave empires.
Jack knocks around San Braulio for weeks, doing his best to avoid
Vicent's court. Once again, he takes up drinking in earnest. The
hard edges of his mind and body soften. More than once he finds
himself being hoisted off some tavern floor by the Regent's provosts
and hauled back to Castle Livadia. Obviously, Count Vicent is keeping
tabs on him, but has no inclination to pay him and let him be on his
way.
The Count, acceding to Aliex's good counsel, allows Fortinbras and his
army to resupply in San Braulio on their way to points south. Jack
slips his keepers and takes up with the Vinlanders and Scandinavian
troops, regaling each other with war stories of both the old and new
worlds, and carousing deep into the night. Jack takes an immediate
liking to Fortinbras' men. The Vinlanders are young, enthusiastic and
can barely wait to come to grips with Venice's mercenary army, and the
Scandinavians are grizzled, cynical veterans of the Empire's border
fights with the Erkut Khanate. But the changes in the world seem to
be infecting them. They can barely contain their excitement over the
prospect that the Khanate is breaking up. Wild rumors are flying:
Castillan armies have crossed into France in support of the Republic.
Aragonese are driving north from Naples and are on the verge of
liberating Rome. The Khurlitai [assembly of Mongol nobles] in Aachen
dissolved without electing a new Khan, and civil war is imminent. It
is frustrating to Jack that there is so little news - or even rumor -
of England. From all he hears, his homeland is quiescent. England,
still reeling for the cruel scourge of Timur's invasion, has not risen
against its Tatar overlords. The Highland Scots remain unconquered,
and the Irish repulsed a half-hearted Erkut invasion at the
shoreline. No word of Hal. Questions about "the King of England"
draw blank stares from Fortinbras' men, or wry smiles as if expecting
a punch line.
And so Jack drinks. And drinks. He becomes better at avoiding the
Count's provosts, who have their hands full trying to keep the rowdy
Vinlanders from burning down San Braulio before they depart. It is
early one morning that Jack finds himself waking up face down on the
sawdust-strewn floor of a tavern, head splitting, mouth parched, eyes
seemingly glued shut by their lashes. He rolls over and rubs his
eyes, lids encrusted with something he doesn't care to think about,
then looks straight into the face of the man crouched on his heels,
looking very intently at him.
It is Nicolas Flamel. He beams. "Good morning, Sir Jack! How
fortuitous that we should meet again! No, not fortune! It is fate.
It is fated that we should meet again. For I have a most exciting
proposition for you."
***
Jack slouches in a chair in the back of the tavern while Flamel,
sitting across a small table, pours the kaffee.
Flamel pushes the steaming mug across the table to Jack, who takes it
gratefully. "Sir Jack, I must say, I am ... surprised to see you in
such straights. I inquired after you when I first arrived in San
Braulio and had been told that you were one of Count Vicent's highest
ranking commanders and that you were prominent at Court."
Jack just smiles wanly and sips his kaffee. It is very strong and
bitter, and the first swallows start pushing the cobwebs out of his
mind. Where had he last seen Flamel? What was he doing? Ah, yes.
Jack's throat is raw and he croaks as he speaks. "What of you,
Flamel? Did you make it to the court of Prester John? And the Spear
of Longinus?"
Flamel sighs and shakes his head sadly. "I did make my way to the
Empire of the Tàipíng, through the passes of the great Riphean [Rocky]
Mountains. A trading caravan took me, from the lands of St. Madoc
along the river Aquilonia [Missouri River]. Oh, the adventures we
had, the hardships we endured! The West is in great upheaval, Sir
Jack. The Priest-Emperor has gone to war. He has pushed the
boundaries of Tàipíng Tian Guó to the east and south, seizing the
silver regions of Xuanpu [Colorado]. The Xibei Emperor in Jen Men
[San Franscisco], the former ruler of those lands, has marched against
the Tàipíng, and great battles have been fought in the mountains and
valleys of the far West. The Welsh of Cantre'r Gwaelod [roughly,
Kansas] continue to trade with both sides, but many have enlisted as
mercenaries. The Norse - both Pagans and Christians - of the far
North are on the move, pushing expeditions west. And through it all,
the Tàipíng Emperor ceaselessly builds his Great Cathedral on the
shores of a great salt lake."
Jack drinks some more kaffee. He is definitely feeling more awake,
but his head still pounds as he tries to absorb all of this. The
Norse? Jack thought their lands were thousands of miles from those
settled by the pagans of Cathay, all the way across the vast expanse
of Ultima Thule. "Expeditions, you say? What could possibly be the
purpose?"
"There are vast rich lands in the northern reaches of the Xibei Empire
[FN51.01], Sir Jack. Rich, but thinly settled. Many of the settlers
are not Nangiyan [Chinese], but rather from Cipangu, descendants of
those who fled those islands when the Tatars invaded under the great
Khubilai Khan. So they have little allegiance to the Xibei Emperor.
The Norse believe that they can detach these lands, known as Shenlong,
from the Empire, and settle it themselves."
Jack rubs his forehead, as if trying to push away the ache. "But I
thought the pagan and Christian Norse were at each others' throats,
now you say they cooperate against the king of the -" Jack wrestles
with the word, "Zeebay?"
Flamel nods. "The Norse have made a pact, dividing the west of Ultima
Thule between them. Vinland gets the lands north of the vast lake
country, and the pagans of Domstolland get the south. West of the
lakes, they drew a line across the continent to the ocean. Both will
have an outlet to the water in the region of the Dayu [Vancouver]
Island and the Pai Hu [Columbia] River. If they fought each other for
it, from such great distance, they would both lose. But if they seize
it together and divide it after, they can conquer."
Jack is appalled. His knowledge of Thulian geography is not great,
but it sounds to him that the vast expanse of the New World is being
given over to ruthless pagans, whose hatred of Christianity he learned
even as a child, studying the lives of martyrs. He had learned a lot
about Saracens and Patarenes of Fjaraland, and even the Spákona who
sailed with Robin, but his opinion of the persecutors of Christ's
people in the New World.
"So just like that," Jack says, letting the bitterness seep into his
voice, "the Vinland Emperor is going to abandon the Christians of
Ultima Thule to pagan enslavement."
"Oh, no! Sir Jack, I think you underestimate the Christian powers of
this continent. The Welsh of the far West are strong and determined -
they will not submit to conquest. Their numbers grow daily, I am
told. Immigrants from England and Wales since the invasion, men and
women who prefer to be among their own kind and worship in their
accustomed style. The states along the Brittanic seaboard would
certainly not fall to the Domstollanders, and your Count will hold the
line at the Thiazis [Ohio] River west to the lands around Cunedda [St.
Louis], where many Welsh and other Christians still live. The Norse
will take the great unsettled lands in the northern regions. These,
from what I have heard, have become the domain of the lawless, nomadic
bands of reavers of every sort - Nangiyan, Tatar, Cipangu, Norse,
Welsh - bandits who prey upon the fringes of the settled world. They
are raiders who savage villages and homesteads, hauling off young men
and women to unspeakable fates. The sooner they are routed by any
civilized power," Flamel says firmly, "Christian or Pagan, the
better."
All this geopolitics is a bit much for Jack, whose head is still
pounding and who has yet to have his breakfast, so he motions for more
kaffee and steers Nicolas back to his original question. "So, Flamel,
you digress. You were going to tell me of the Spear of Longinus and
your trip to the lands of Prester John."
"Ah, I do wander! This is such an exciting time to be alive, Sir
Jack. The world is in motion, and such great events are afoot, it is
difficult not to let a conversation roam where it will. But in the
lands of the Emperor-Priests. Fascinating, Sir Jack, fascinating.
The Tàipíng Emperor is an ordained priest, Christian of a sort. Most
heterodox theology. They maintain that the first emperor, the founder
of Tàipíng Tian Guó, was actually the younger brother of Christ! And
that he visited the Father and Older Brother in Heaven, riding a
flaming chariot. Strange beyond comprehension." Flamel shakes his
head in disapproval, "But that is the way of things, isn't it? Latin
Catholic, Greek Catholic, Reformed, Radical Reformed, Nestorians,
Copts. 'In my house there are many mansions!' The Pope in Barcelona
himself just sent a call to all denominations calling themselves
Christian to dispatch theologians for a great debate -"
"Flamel, the spear."
"Yes, the spear! You should see Catayo, Sir Jack! A bustling
Nangiyan town in the midst of a great arid valley. Not as big as Jen
Men or Ti-chu Shih [Veracruz], but big enough and growing! At the
center of it all, covered with bamboo scaffolding, a great cathedral
under construction. It is nothing like you have ever seen. A walled
expanse of paved square, towers with swooping tiled roofs like the
pagodas of Cathay, a riot of green and red. The Emperor must employ
some Greeks, because at the center of the cathedral there is a great
dome, like the St. Sophia, but sheathed in silver. Across the square
is the main gate to the Imperial palace of the Priest-Emperors."
Flamel shakes his head. "A thousand chambers a thousand courtiers.
Silken drapes sewn with silver thread, bhang smoke, debauchery. At
the heart of it all, an Emperor who lives like a monk in a bare cell,
emerging only to say Mass at Easter."
It boggles Jack's mind. An Emperor living like a monk in the midst of
sybaritic luxury. It doesn't make any damn sense. "If the Emperor is
celibate, there is no succession?"
"Ah, that is interesting. The Emperor, on Easter Sunday in the
eleventh year of his reign - the Taiping consider eleven to be a lucky
number - adopts a priest as his son and heir. Usually it is one of
the Bishops. It is done at Mass and is irrevocable, so there can be
no contest."
"The Emperor, is he the custodian of the spear?"
Flamel looked gloomy. "Yes, and I put great effort into ingratiating
myself with his Court. Some of them spoke Greek and we conversed at
length. They are a callow lot, more interested in court politics than
theology. But I wormed my way in among them and one day, they took me
to it, deep in the heart of the cathedral. They opened the door of
the reliquary, and there it was."
Flamel fished a flask from the depths of his scholars' robes and gave
his kaffee a generous pour. Jack couldn't help but notice that Flamel
did not offer him any.
"The spearhead was enameled and bejeweled. It sat on a satin pillow,
an honored thing." Flamel sighed. "I don't now what I was expecting,
but it seemed an obscenity to treat this object, that did pierce the
side of Jesus Christ as he hung on the Cross, with such reverence. It
killed the Son of God, and yet here it was ... adored. I wanted to
purge our land of evil, to drive Timur from Christendom, but the more
I looked at it, the more I could see that it could accomplish no good
thing. So I left with the next caravan. It went south, through the
badlands."
Flamel took another long drink of kaffee. "Eventually, I found myself
in Jiaolong [Mexico City], the capital of the Empire of Zhongyang
[FN51.02]. The Emperor there, of course, is nothing like the Emperor
of the Tàipíng. Zhongyang has a reforming monarch, determined to open
his realm to outside influences, so that it might be strengthened
against the struggle that was to come. The Empire is rich in gold and
silver, but the mining towns are scattered and many are far from the
most settled areas, making them vulnerable. The Emperor wants to push
his frontiers north and rout the bands of raiders that would sweep
through his land. Eventually, he heard of me - I had expended all my
travelling funds and was keeping books for a Majorcan merchant - and
had me brought to court."
"So," and Jack did not want to offend Flamel, but a man looking for
military prowess would be sorely disappointed when he showed up, "what
did the Emperor want from you?"
"He wanted to send me East, to recruit professional soldiers for his
Army. Of course, like all Nangiyans, they are proud of their own
skill, and their gunpowder weapons are superior to ours, but the
Emperor believes that we can teach them. His court is full of non-
Nangiyans - Saracens, Christians, Norse, even - and Jiaolong looks to
become a great center of learning and commerce. But the borders of
the empire must be secured. And so I came east. Your war is over,
Sir Jack. Vicent has seemingly cast you aside. It is time to serve a
more enlightened master."
***
And so Jack Oldcastle cleans himself up and makes his way back to
court. He lets it be known that he is not going to wait around
forever to be paid off, and conspicuously makes arrangements to
depart. Word evidently reaches Vicent, and would be a major
embarrassment for one of his most prominent commanders to depart
unrewarded, and so the ceremony is arranged. In the throne room of
Castle Livadia, Vicent makes Jack a Duke of Riu Ferradura.
The sword touches him on either shoulder, and the Countess kisses him
on either cheek, and Jack feels nothing except painfully, painfully
sober. He looks at Vicent, whose face is a mask of impassive
sovereignty, and he still feels nothing. It is time to leave.
With the Dukedom comes a great expanse of land in the province of
Neoalemanya [Kentucky] south of the Thiazis [Ohio] River. It is
supposedly good horse country, and Jack is tempted briefly to head off
into the wilderness and establish himself there as a breeder of
mounts ... but no, he was a soldier, and he knew himself well enough
by now to realize that he would not be happy idly rusticating in the
middle of nowhere.
Like so many others, Jack sold his land grant to a speculator,
pocketed the money, and departed San Braulio, never to look back.
Flamel remained behind, but gave him letters of introduction to
present in Ti-chu Shih, which would get him conveyed at state expense
to Jiaolong. Jack arrived in the great Nangiyan port in the height of
summer, only to find it nearly deserted, doors barred and shutters
closed on every building. It was the fever season, and the only
people in the city seemed to the waterfront workers and the police who
guarded the vacant buildings. Evidently, most of the population
migrated inland during summer, taking up residence in the cooler
highlands. Jack followed them.
The means of conveyance astonished him. Tracks of iron, laid across
wooden ties and a gravel roadbed, snaked up into the hills. Wagons
and coaches, some for passengers, others for freight, are linked
together and pulled up the tracks by teams of Olifaunts. The whole
train moves amazingly quickly and smoothly. In what seems to Jack a
ridiculously short period of time, he finds himself in Wǔshān
[Jalapa], a lovely city of cobblestoned streets, adobe houses with
tile roofs in the Nangiyan style and bustling market squares. Not
knowing a word of the language, he shows his papers to anyone who
looks like an official until he finds a conveyance inland to the
capital.
And then he is back on the rails. The Olifaunt teams pull him and his
fellow passengers - no freight on this train - swiftly [FN51.03]
through the green mountains of Zhōngbù Dìqū [central prefecture]
towards the great city of the Empire. The captain of the train tells
Jack - through the ubiquitous Greeks who speak the Nangiyan tongue -
that when the rail-road was built, the approach to the capital was
calculated for maximum dramatic effect, to impress visitors.
It impresses Jack.
They clear a pass into the Valley of the Emperor and Jack sees it, a
great lake, a link in the chain of smaller lakes, glistening in the
afternoon sunlight. Towards the far shore, where the lake curved away
from him, islands or maybe just one island, but criss-crossed with
canals and linked to each other and the shoreline with great stone
causeways. The buildings were a riot of color, like Flamel described
Catayo, vermilion reds and deep, deep greens, tiled roofs with
swooping eaves. And the Central Palace, its roof sheathed in gold, a
canal leading through the great round gate to the heart of the
complex.
Amid the profusion of Nangiyan buildings, Jack is surprised to see
what is very distinctly a mosque in the Saracen style, white adobe
walls and onion minarets. Across the canal from the mosque ... dear
God, a Christian church! It is modest enough, no cathedral, but
clearly a stone church patterned after the ones he saw in Avalon, with
a stained-glass rosette over its front doorway and buttresses holding
up an expanse of tile roof.
"Wàiguó," says the train captain, pointing towards the mosque and the
church, "Wàiguó." Jack looks at the Greek merchant.
"He says that is the area reserved for foreigners. The Emperor
Kāifàng has granted leave of the city to foreign visitors and
residents, but in earlier days, non- Nangiyans were confined to that
quarter." The train clatters across the causeway. Jack really smells
the lake for the first time. It seems brackish, but as they approach
the city islands, he sees what are clearly rice paddies. So he asks.
"Yes," says the Greek, "Emperor Kāifàng is determined to make
Zhongyang self-sufficient in foodstuffs. He is open to all sorts of
learning and manufactured imports from every land, but one of the
sayings of his reign is 'Open to all, dependent upon none.' So
wherever rice can be raised, even within sight of the Palace, it is
planted. Much of the lake is salinated, suitable for fish, but not
rice. The waters around the city is sweet, as are the southern two
lakes. It is not very scenic, but it does mean that the city
government is ruthless about keeping the waters from becoming foul.
Sewage is drained far away, by huge baked-clay pipes buried in the
lake bed. There are few work animals allowed in the city, other than
the olifaunts which pull the trains. They belong to the government.
Most people travel is by rickshaw or gondola, and anyone caught
emptying a chamber pot into a canal is flogged on sight. And the city
has hundreds of men employed cleaning up ordure. Jiaolong is the
cleanest, sweetest-smelling city in the world [FN51.04]."
It also seems to Jack to be one of the most crowded. Disembarking
from the train, he shoulders his pack, pats his money belt and plunges
into the crowd. Even though - or perhaps because - Jack Oldcastle is
at least a head taller than all of the Nangiyans, he is mercilessly
jostled as he makes his way down the street. Rickshaw drivers clang
their bells and shout for pedestrians to make way and are scrupulously
ignored by all those on foot. Impromptu crowds loudly badger
merchants hawking their wares, and they shout back, shaking their
heads and holding up two fingers, three fingers.
In another building, he sees dozens of women in a great open room, all
of them pumping the treadles on sewing machines, stitching away
furiously on brightly colored cloth. Across the street, another
building with women spinning thread, down the street, yet another with
both women and men working looms.
Jack senses an intensity here, and energy that he has never felt
before. London was a sleepy market town by comparison, and Plymouth
under Tatar siege exuded only desperation and despair. San Braulio
and Majestuós [New Orleans] were too small, too slow-moving, and
already exuding the first whiffs of a planter class growing soft and
idle and contemptuous of work and earned wealth. Of all the
Christian realms in the New World he had visited, Niwe Wessex [New
England] could come close to what he felt in Jiaolong. Gospatric
[Boston] had some of Jiaolong's energy, but it too had a hint of a
staleness in the air about it, ancient privilege in a New World, that
even those who were pushing forward couldn't help looking back over
their shoulders.
Jack is an aristocrat, and he knew it, and he would just as soon drink
deep of the luxury that status provided. But he also knew that
without the strivers and the men on the make, a country could grow old
and creaky and weak. That is what happened to England. But in
Jiaolong, you could sense it - the future was being made here.
He winds his way through the city, leaving behind the fabric district
and walking past banks and trading houses and what looks like
government offices. With much pantomime and showing of his
introductory papers to perplexed passers-by, he is finally directed to
the War Ministry. There, he is quizzed at length - through a Venetian
interpreter this time - about his experience in England and Ultima
Thule. Jack guesses that he must have given the right answers, or the
interpreter filled in the right ones, because he is given a sheaf of
papers which, the interpreter tells him, explains all that he needs to
know about his new command.
***
It takes him a while to sort it out, but he latches onto Yusuf, a
Pathan from the borderlands of Hindoostan. Yusuf, rather improbably,
speaks both Nangiyan and French, although he is decidedly coy as to
how he learned the latter and how he wound up in Ultima Thule. But he
helps Jack get his troops together and whip them into shape. It takes
some doing. With all the opportunities for enterprising young men
Zhongyang, volunteers for military service are few, and the Emperor
has to resort to conscription. As usual, the provost marshals only
catch those not wily enough to slip through the net and those too
downtrodden to bribe their way out. And those are the Nangiyans. The
Wàiguó are an equally motley lot. Immigrants who couldn't cut it in
the hustling market and who washed down to military service.
Months later, when they are ready, spit and polish ready, gleaming
steel sabres, creaking pitch-black leather and blued gunmetal. Jack
reports them for duty. They stand ramrod straight in serried ranks in
the sun-drenched square as their Emperor inspects them.
When he first heard about it, Jack was stunned. The man-god ruler of
an empire, descending to inspect a troop of frontier dragoons. But it
happens. The Emperor is a smallish man in rather plainish robes. He
has more of a beard and mustache than Jack has ever seen on a Nangiyan
and a rather no-nonsense demeanor. He interrogates a trembling
private about his general orders and grunts with indistinct approval
when he splutters out the correct answers.
Jack has never felt so proud.
***
His troop canters through the streets of Jiaolong, cheered along by
the crowds. They love their soldiers. The current Emperor came to
power, Yusuf told Jack, by military coup, overthrowing a corrupt and
shiftless court, and the army remains exceedingly popular. Jack basks
in the adulation as they clatter across one of the great causeways.
He could get used to this. And for the first time in a long, long
time, Jack Oldcastle is genuinely happy.
TO BE CONCLUDED
[now we take leave of Sir John Oldcastle. the next Part is going to
be the last of the timeline. I am not going to be bringing Empty
America up to 2010, but we are going to be jumping forward quite a
bit]
cheers,
Doug
[FN51.01] Roughly, California, Nevada, Oregon, Washington, parts of
British Columbia.
[FN51.02] Roughly speaking, OTL's Mexico and various contested areas
of Central America.
[FN51.03] By pre-steam standards.
[FN51.04] Relatively. We are talking the Middle Ages here.
lands south of the Thiazis [Ohio] River.