Archibald Frost smiled. 'I think, Othniel, you judge the people of Temperance harshly.'
'I wish I could agree with you, Archibald, but the fact is that our people have lost their way. They have forgotten that we are all children of God, and that He has established an order to the Universe. We are to serve His purpose, and His purpose is clear. Our monarch is His ordained representative on this Earth. We believe that because He has granted us the bounty of this continent, we are somehow superior to the men of Norisle. A ridiculous proposition, wouldn't you agree, Captain?'
'I am not a theologian, sir. I pray to shoot better and faster than my enemy.'
Beecher leaned forward, raising his glass. 'And it is a good thing that God grants you that prayer for you are His agent in the war against the Atheists.'
The Bishop and Dr. Frost exchanged glances at Beecher's outburst. Frost could not suppress an indulgent chuckle. 'Not all Tharyngians are Atheists, Mr. Beecher.'
'Their revolution overthrew God's ordained King and established the rule of the Laureates. They refuse to acknowledge God as their superior.'
Bumble set his glass down. 'Mr. Beecher, I have suggested you need more precision in your thinking and words. It is vital for your career. Doctor Frost is correct. The Laureates tolerate worship. Many of them are Deists, and most are Agnostics. Only a select few are Atheists. That is their nature. They assign Science the highest order and acknowledge that Science can neither confirm nor deny the existence of God.'
'And they shall burn in Hell for that.'
'Indeed they shall, but this does not make them Atheists, merely wrong.' The Bishop smiled at Owen. 'What would you do, sir, if you had a man like Mr. Beecher in your command?'
'That is what we have sergeants for.'
Beecher sat back. 'I am certain none of them are Atheists, are they, Captain? War not being a thing to promote such nonsense.'
Though Owen knew better, he rose to the bait Beecher had so carelessly offered. 'To be frank, Mr. Beecher, war is the last thing to promote a belief in God. When you've seen a man's head blown open by a musket-ball, with a chunk of his skull missing, and he sits there reciting nursery rhymes or begging for his mother, you wonder what sort of a God could condone war. And I understand and believe that these men will be rewarded in Heaven, but I cannot help but wonder if even an eternity of pleasure is just recompense for sitting with your guts in your lap, or watching a surgeon take your arm off with a saw.'
Beecher paled. 'I only meant…'
'I know what you meant, sir, and I know the fallaciousness of it. Perhaps, Mr. Beecher, if the opportunity ever presents itself for you to join a military expedition, you will take it. You will learn a great deal about men, war, and yourself.'
'Quite right.' The Bishop nodded solemnly. 'You know, Captain, I offered the blessing before the Mystrian Rangers sailed for Norisle. I gave quite a good sermon but I wish I had heard your words. I would have gone. Perhaps, had I been there, I could have stiffened their spines or, at least, eased their torments.'
Until his last comment, Owen was prepared to open fire on the Bishop, too. Genuine compassion issued through his voice, checking Owen's anger. 'I believe, sir, both of you would have benefited from that experience. Contrary to what you may have read, the Mystrian Rangers did make you all proud.'
The Bishop raised his glass. 'To their health and salvation.'
Owen drank, wishing for more of one than the other.
Talk turned from things philosophical to local, so Owen excused himself. The Bishop promised to invite him to dinner upon his return. Owen accepted in advance and left them in the yard. He fully intended to head to his room, but as he cut through the darkened dining room, he caught sight of Bethany sitting alone in the front yard.
She looked up as he appeared before her. 'Good evening, Captain. Would you like to sit?'
'Thank you.' Owen looked at his hands. 'I might be mistaken, Miss, but did Bishop Bumble upset you during dinner?'
Bethany sighed. 'He has preached from the Gospel according to Rivendell before. While you spoke of the war, he was praising God that Norisle had brave men like you to defend it. You see, most of the Rangers were indifferent about Church and not all of them were sober when he offered his blessing.'
'Was your Ira among them?'
She shook her head. 'Ira attended every Sunday. At college he was studying for the clergy. The Bishop had offered to go with the Rangers. My uncle put it to a vote. The soldiers said no. They said Ira was the only minister they needed.'
Things began to fit together more clearly. 'I see. And Beecher, was he a bother?'
'Harmless. A puppy.' Bethany smiled. 'He's enchanted with Lilith. He'll never win her. Better men have tried.'
'Better men like Nathaniel Woods?'
'Woods? Ha!' Bethany shook her head. 'The Bishop would have Woods burned for a witch if he came near her. And Nathaniel would gladly jump into the flames.'
'I didn't have the impression you disliked her.'
'I hide things very well, Captain Strake.' She laid both her hands on his forearm. 'On your journey you will see many wonderful and dangerous things. But in no greater jeopardy will you be than you were this evening.'
'I don't understand.'
'You were being measured to be Lilith's husband.'
Owen held up his left hand and flicked his thumbnail against the ring. 'But I'm married.'
'Mystria is home to the ambitious, Captain.' Her eyes grew dark. 'They find the ends justifying the means, so there are no lengths to which they will not go.'
'You suggest many horrible things, Miss Frost.'
'More so than you know, Captain.' Bethany squeezed his arm. 'Be careful, please, as you go, and especially as you return.'
Chapter Thirteen
May 2, 1763
The Frost Residence, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
O wen got up before dawn, dressing himself by candlelight in his uniform, from his tri-corner hat with blue cockade, to boots with polished spurs. He filled his pack with extra clothes, rolled his blanket and put that on top, and pulled the pack on. He then donned his ammunition pouches, slid the pistol into a holster at his right thigh, and shouldered his musket-the bayonet for which hung from a sash at his left hip.
His duty rituals consisted mostly of caring for his weapons. The musket, when placed with the butt on the ground, ended up three inches taller than he was-the bayonet added another foot and a half. The steel barrel alone was forty-two inches long. It ended in a curved brass fitting made of two pieces. The centermost bit could be unscrewed and removed, revealing a narrow hole at the barrel's base and a hollow in the large brass piece. A firestone would be set in that hollow, then tightened down with the center-bit. A hole in the retention collar allowed a portion of the firestone to protrude, so he could thumb it and magickally ignite the brimstone.
The long gun he'd drawn from stores had seen better days. He'd cleaned it, washing, swabbing,, and oiling the barrel inside and out. He'd also cleaned and oiled the stock, then tightened down every screw he could find and replaced those he could not. He made sure the ramrod would remain in place while he traveled. Without it, he couldn't load the gun, changing the musket into a club.
The Frosts, minus Caleb, had risen early enough to see him off. Mrs. Frost handed him a loaf of bread and some cheese all wrapped up in cloth. Bethany gave him an envelope with two quills just in case of disaster. He thanked them both, his throat tightening.
His reaction surprised him, and it took him a moment to figure out why. Though they were strangers to him, they'd fed him, repaired his clothes, sewed up his wounds, and otherwise seen to his welfare. They'd done it out of a sense of duty to the Crown. And because they are just nice people.
