The Sea Peoples(9)
A freckle-faced HQ clerk with red braids who doubled as an orderly brought him a cup of coffee, and he thanked her absently. Since they grew it here it was the real thing, too, not the mixture of chicory and toasted grain that went by that name in most of Montival unless you lived near navigable water or a railroad or were very wealthy or both; he’d only tasted it two or three times a year before he left home. He could feel it making his heart beat faster, unless that was just anticipation. He certainly felt alert enough by the time he’d drained the last of the sweet black liquid.
He sipped and watched the business of the camp, though he could have followed most of it with his eyes closed—the thudding of hooves as a troop galloped past the targets, the snap of bowstrings and whistle of shafts and thud of points hitting piled-earth targets, the clatter of wooden practice blades against each other or on the pell-posts hammered into the ground or the flatter crack on the varnished bullhide of a shield. Fainter and farther he could hear iron on iron from the blacksmith-farrier.
Getting the unit settled in hadn’t been a problem, just familiar hard work, since competitive pitching and breaking camp was a popular youngster’s school sport in Boise and second nature to anyone grown. Neat rows of tents along regular laneways marked the streets of the camp; coils of barbed wire on slanted, sharpened steel stakes marked the perimeter; the center held the larger tents that held HQ, infirmary, armory and portable forge. Off to one side were the wagon park and rope corrals for the regiment’s horses, which had taken far more shipping space than those who rode them. A crew was working on a disassembled catapult, the sort of light scorpion that galloped along with horse-soldiers.
If you knew horses, which he did, you could tell that the mounts were still very happy to be ashore, though not quite as hysterically glad as they had been yesterday. The campsite a few miles outside Hilo was only gently sloping, but it was thin-soiled and rocky and had been used as cattle-pasture; everything more fertile was densely cultivated with fields and groves of crops he only knew from books, like oranges and limes, or didn’t know at all like breadfruit and cassava and taro. The Montivallan expeditionary force was paying the owner generous rental fees, fertilizing his grass, and had paid premium prices in cash for most of his herd except the picked breeding stock to boot.
Several of them were roasting over fires somewhere within smelling distance right now, and the scent of meat basted with barbeque sauce made his mouth water after a long time on ship’s biscuit and salt meat and canned goods. Everyone craved greens even more.
As of the morning’s roll call, the regiment had had four troops plus the HQ company, with five hundred and ninety-six effectives—one luckless individual had fallen overboard in the middle of the night four days out from Astoria, unless he’d been carried off by a very large seagoing owl, and six were currently on sick report. Several hundred were on leave with thousands from the other contingents, wandering around Hilo and seeing the sights and just stretching their legs.
The rest were mostly working; grooming the horses, going over their tack, or drilling with weapons and practicing moving mounted in groups to the commands, by word or bugle. The tink-tink of the farrier sounded in the background, the panting wheeze of the bellows, and the screech as someone sharpened a saber on the pedal-powered grindstone.
When the water had cooled a little—and he had too, which made standing up a bit less embarrassing—he dressed in field uniform: riding boots made so they’d be fairly comfortable for work on foot too, baggy linsey-woolsey trousers of light summer weight, pullover short-sleeved shirt of knit linen, and four-pocket uniform jacket. He’d left off the mail shirt and the steel helmet modeled after the one the old American forces had used, but buckled on the belt with bowie knife and curved stirrup-hilted sword as automatically as he put on his hat or boots; he’d have done that at home, too. You didn’t go beyond the front verandah unarmed once you were an adult, unless you were of the small minority who lived in big cities. That was true most places he knew about, not just Boise.
At least it’s a better uniform than one with crimson tights, he thought, then wondered for an instant why he’d had the thought before it slipped away.
The only people he knew who did wear crimson tights were from the Portland Protective Association, and they didn’t do it in the field, just when they were peacocking around their castles and manors and at court.
“I’m going to practice a little more, sergeant,” Alan said.
The sergeant’s eyebrows quirked. “That crazy Mackenzie dancing?” he said. “And you’ll wear a kilt?”
“I wouldn’t want to look clumsy,” Alan said; the clansman’s costume was bundled up in his tent on top of his footlocker, and fortunately there were a couple of men in the Crown Princess’ train who were close enough to his size. “But if I do, I’ll cut my foot in half without making all Boise look bad in front of foreigners. Remember, that dance is done over naked steel, sergeant.”
He looked up at the sun; a little past noon. “I’ve got some time. Her Highness ought to be coming ashore about now anyway.”
CHAPTER TWO
HILO
CAPITAL CITY, AUPUNI O HAWAI?I
(KINGDOM OF HAWAI?I)
NOVEMBER 26TH
CHANGE YEAR 46/2044 AD
The Hawaiian commander made a sweeping gesture of respect and greeting as órlaith stepped onto the barge and barked an order as the last of her entourage came aboard. The boat hooks that two men had hooked in the gangway were released, the long oars pushed the craft away from the great warship’s side, and they bent to row in trained unison.