Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"And of course, your people," Sam said.

"Yes, sir. The largest expense. Our rowers are serfs, but serfs must be fed, and well fed, to row a warship. Our sailors have River Freedom of course, and must be paid, as the marines are paid."

"Furs and hide," Margaret said.

"Why yes, lady – excuse me, Captain. Exactly; we can't winter-dress our people only in woven wool. It soaks in spray and freezes. We use sealskin cloaks when we can get them, other leathers when not. Those, usually oiled."

"So," Sam said, "without supplies from Mexico City on the one hand, and Boston on the other, your Fleet might find itself in difficulty."

Owen smiled. "That's absolutely right, sir. Of course, in that case, the Empire's coastwise traffic in the Gulf, and New England's coastwise traffic down Ocean Atlantic, might also find themselves in… difficulty."

"Still, you'd always need a year or two of supplies laid up."

"We would indeed," Captain Owen said, still smiling. "Try the cookies."

"I already have, sir," Darry said, chewing. "Damn good."

"Smart soldier." A voice from behind the pantry door.

Darry hesitated a moment, thrown off stride. "Very good cookies… It occurs to me, Captain, that my father might be interested in providing your fleet with sheepskins. We wear them in the army – warm, light, and well greased with the animal's own fat."

"Hmm… But a sufficient number of those skins?"

"Captain," Sam said, "we have many more sheep than people. Your supply vessels could pick up the shipments from our Gulf coast. And, of course, that source would lessen your fleet's dependence on New England's sealskin."

Owen nodded. "That's of interest, milord – sir. I'll mention it to my admiral. We do lose a number of sailors to frostbite, and a sailor with fingers and toes gone is no longer a sailor."

The ship suddenly heaved forward, then heaved again, so they swayed in their seats.

"What's that?" Margaret gripped the arms of her chair.

"They're rowing, Captain?"

"Yes, sir," Owen said, as the ship seemed to rise slightly and heave forward again. "We've turned upriver and upwind. This is to the beat of Lose-no-time. For the rowers' stroke speeds, there's Loiter, Keep-station, Lose-no-time, Pursuit, and Battle-and-board."

The ship surged… surged… surged. Sam seemed to feel the great effort through his bones – the rowers' strength straining at the long oars to drive forward this monument of oak and fir, of supplies, gear, and tackle, of men and steel.

"Captain, how long can they do this work?"

"Oh… at this beat, sir, a glass-hour and a half, before relief. At Battle-and-board, of course, a much shorter time."

"And years of service?"

"Ten years would be the usual, though there are men rowing who've been with her for… fifteen, sixteen years. Of course, those started young."

"Changes with Lord Winter?"

"Oh, when we rig to skate, sir, rowers are transferred to the Carib, and coasts south. No ice there."

"And if," Darry said, "or when, they break down in service, sir?"

"Well, Lieutenant… that depends on the original reason for assignment." The captain took a cookie. "If they're indentured serfs, they're put to lighter duty, longshore labor and so forth. That's routine for many of them in any case, when the ice comes down. But if assignment was for a criminal or treasonous matter, then, with the sentence no longer in abeyance, it's carried out."

"So," Margaret said, "a man may row your ships for fifteen years, and when he can row no longer – "

"Hanged. Burned. Whatever his original sentence. It's hard, ma'am – sorry, Captain – but the Fleet is a hard mistress, even for those who aren't serfs, and who don't row. And the custom does insure that those who are criminals, lean into their looms."

"And," Sam said, "in the Ocean Atlantic?"

"Ah… in those waters, sir, we've found oars of little use. Water's too rough, waves too high. Out there, a man must sail his ship." The captain finished his cookie as Sam reached to try one.

The cookie was soft, crumbling, rich with honey… and something else. "Spotted-cow butter, and what flower spice?"

Margaret took one and tasted. "Rosemary…?"

"Southern sunflower seed!" From behind the pantry door. "Ground fine!"

Sam raised his voice. "Delicious!" And received a possibly pleased grunt in response.

"Old Peter," the captain said, "used to bake certain savages taken in fights off Island Cuba. It was the beginning of his cookery."

"Better the cookies, sir," Margaret, chewing hers.

"Yes… That's becoming the general opinion. Though there are old captains who still hold to celebration roasts on long voyages. I served under one, Jerry Newland. 'Old school,' as the copybooks say. Newland's father had filed teeth. Codger came aboard once to visit… had a smile one remembered. Map-Louisiana family."

"It seems," Sam said, "that the ships become villages to your people, with village memories."

"Oh, that's exactly so, sir. They do become our worlds, so much that after months on the water, particularly if there's been fighting – pirates always, of course, and imperial ships from time to time, though those not officially – "

"We meet them much the same, Captain. Fighting, sometimes very serious fighting, but not war declared. Mexico City is… cautious."

"Right, sir. Absolutely. And after such cruises, it does often seem the land is less actual than the river, gulf, or ocean, and home a poor substitute for a ship of war."

"Promotion?" Margaret said.

Owen smiled. "Ah, Captain, the fundamental military question. Promotion is as always, everywhere. Merit, to a point. Influence, to a point. And luck, above all." He took another cookie, and called out, "This is a good batch, Pete."

"Not speakin' to you." Muffled, from the pantry.

The captain grinned and ate his cookie.

It occurred to Sam that just this sort of man would be required to found coastal fleets for North Map-Mexico. Now, having met Ralph Owen, he saw that fishermen wouldn't do. Would do for corsairs, certainly, but not for naval officers. That would require men like this one, persuaded somehow from the Kingdom's service or the Emperor's… It was something to consider.

Captain Owen leaned back in his chair. "I doubt if Admiral Reuven would garrote me, sir, if I mentioned some news pigeoned in to New Orleans yesterday. Not Kingdom news, after all."

"Yes?"

"I understand you sent a force up into Texas, or so the Boston people at Map-McAllen claim."

"Yes."

"You may not have heard what has been reported."

"We haven't."

"Ah. Two days ago – this only by McAllen's pigeon, of course – your people are said to have taken and burned Map-Fort Stockton."

"Weather!" Margaret said, and hit the tabletop with her fist.

"Took, burned… killed many hundreds in the garrison, and, according to the McAllen people – who, I suppose, can be trusted in this – came away driving well over a thousand of the savages' remounts."

"By the Nailed Jesus!" Darry stood up, then sat down.

"On Kingdom River, Lieutenant," Owen said, "we thank Jesus Floating. He rules here, as much as any Great can."

"Sorry, sir."

"Oh, no offense taken."

"Losses, Captain?" Sam saw Howell for a moment, trotting through the dust at Boca Chica, holding a bandanna to his ear.

"Apparently too few, sir, to burden a pigeon with."

"I'm in your debt, Captain, for the pleasure of that news." Now, Howell – ride east. And ride fast.

"Courtesy to a guest, sir."

"And news that is your Kingdom's news? If I may ask, how goes the fighting in Map-Missouri?"