August 12, 1812
HMS Sea Dawn – 70 miles off the North American coast
"You leave tonight?"
Captain Kelvin Thomson, commanding officer of the dragon transport Sea Dawn, stared at the strongly built but slightly graying aviator before him in a mixture of surprise and disbelief. The sun was just setting when the two dragons had arrived, and now, mere hours later, one of their captains was in his cabin announcing their departure. He'd seen nothing of the like before.
Hamilton nodded at him. "Much obliged, Captain, for your supplies and assistance, but we must be in York in six days and I am partial to an early arrival. Godspeed."
With a touch of the hand to his flying-hood, he turned. Thomson rose and stepped around his desk.
"My good man, come; I am sure there is something else I can do for you. It's for your dragons' good, you know," he added, seeing Hamilton's quirked mouth. "You have been over the whole blessed North Atlantic for days and days; and only one other ship along the way! You're doing yourself and the beasts no favors."
"Yes," Hamilton said wryly, "that is what they told me on the Sapphire. But if you knew our dragons, you'd know we can do this, and we damned well will."
They left the cabin and went up on deck. Sailors were milling about, busy with their duties, casting wary eyes at the pair of middleweights lying abreast on the dragondeck. Both were rigged and ready; Justitia drowsing slightly as her crew fussed over her, stealing some sleep in anticipation of the flight ahead, while Veritas spoke quietly with Beaufort, who leaned on her crutch by the Anglewing's head and gazed over the rail. Hamilton watched them for a moment, then turned back to Thomson. He had to smile. The naval captain's face was a study in sincerity.
Perhaps Navy men aren't all that bad after all.
"We damned well will," he repeated, the night breeze ruffling the flaps of his hood.
August 15, 1812
Lake Huron Covert – Outside York, Upper Canada
Beaufort gazed about her. "This is America?"
Hamilton laughed, the sound oddly distorted in the noise of rushing air and wingbeats as the dragons came to ground. Immediately, the courtyard was a blur of frantic movement as the ramshackle buildings scattered all around spewed forth a veritable horde of crewmen, rushing to see to the new arrivals.
"Who commands here?" the senior captain roared over the hubbub, Justitia's still flailing wings keeping the crowd at bay. They were a motley, mixed lot; Englishmen, many local Canadians, and even a few Indians, their swarthy features standing out from the crowd. The Pascal's Blue finally settled herself and they came closer, calling out in a dozen voices.
"Make way! Make way!" the cry carried to the front, and the crowd slowly parted to admit a short, but impeccably dressed man in a crisp bottle-green aviator's uniform. The sight of the glittering emblems on his epaulettes, and the red-coated Marines flanking him, rifles on their shoulders, was enough to convince any onlooker of his rank and status. Hamilton disembarked after his crew and exchanged salutes with the senior officer.
"Captain Hamilton on Justitia, and Captain Beaufort on Veritas, reporting as ordered, sir," he said wearily, loosening the straps of his hood.
The short man gave a smart, sympathetic nod. "Wing Commander Nathan Greaves, acting officer commanding, Lake Huron covert," he said. "You are fast, man, by thunder! It's not been a week ago that we received word of your coming, and here you are today. Splendid work; simply splendid." He appraised Hamilton from head to toe, great dark eyes flitting up and down. "I shall notify General Brock upon his return, to be sure. Now, you must be –"
Hamilton stared at him; and then at Beaufort, who was approaching slowly without the help of her crutch, no doubt to avoid any impression of weakness. "Return –? Where is the general?"
"Away," Greaves replied, perfunctorily, "at Fort Detroit."
Something about the way he pronounced the name pricked the hair on the back of Beaufort's neck. With a quick salute, she ventured, "I pray the general is well..."
The wing commander turned his huge dark gaze on her, momentarily distracted by something over Hamilton's shoulder. "So we all hope; but he is an extraordinary man, one of the finest commanders I have had the pleasure of meeting. I hardly think the Americans will give him pause." He smiled at the incredulous looks on the aviators' faces. "You may judge when you meet him. Come, I have ordered quarters made ready."
Beaufort stopped him. "Did you mention the Americans, sir? Is Detroit –"
"Siege," Hamilton almost spat the word. "A pretty affair this; we have made here from Spain in ten days, and battle erupts the moment we arrive."
As Greaves stared, Beaufort turned to her crew, busy unloading a panting Veritas's rig with the aid of the locals, and shouted, "You lot, there! Cease! Cease, I say!"
The British crewmen on both dragons stopped, some in the act of handing crates to each other, and looked at Beaufort in surprise. As the shout died away, Justitia lifted her head with an effort, big blue eyes scrutinizing her captain, in them a look no less profound.
"Charles, what is it?" she asked, the words emerging through a series of laboured breaths. "We are not going aloft again? I cannot; my wings hurt. We have flown too long."
"No, of course not, you foolish girl," Hamilton said, but he was staring at Beaufort, who was calling, "Gaffin, everything back abroad, if you will –"
The imperious voice of Wing Commander Greaves cut across the awkward situation like a knife.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Beaufort turned swiftly to face him, and he continued, face mottled with dawning disbelief. "I gave no such order; you lot, there, carry on!"
"Belay that!" Beaufort snapped over her shoulder. "Sir," she had moved a step closer to him, "we did not come here to sit on our hands while men are dying out there. Our dragons are not so out of sorts they cannot be of any use in a battle –" Justitia and Veritas traded a look of amazement, "– and I request –" the word soured her mouth, "– that you send us up at once. We were sent here for duty. Let us do our duty."
Her tone, rough with an impatience she could not quite conceal, incensed Greaves further. "That is enough! Captain, you will understand that you are now under my wing, and I am your commander, and you will act only as you are ordered to; and you will understand that the day I send dragons who have just crossed the whole bloody ocean into a battle miles away, I will gladly stand before the firing squad; and that after I have the scalp torn from my head by these Indian savages." He swept a hand at the crowd and the buildings around them. "You will understand that, or I will have you in irons! Is that clear?"
He was a short man, and even Beaufort had to look down at him a little; but his voice boomed as if through a speaking-trumpet, and not a soul dared speak in anything above a whisper as the noise of his tirade cannonaded across the courtyard. In the sudden, deafening moment of silence that ensued, Hamilton reached for his flying-hood and tugged it back in an irritated motion, saying, "Sir, your pardon; but I will thank you most kindly to leave the irons to me where my juniors are concerned." He rounded on the stiff-lipped Beaufort. "Stand down, Captain Beaufort, and see to the crew and baggage; I will have a word with the commander."
Beaufort looked as if she was going to burst into another argument, but the force of Greaves's command and the urging, insistent look in Hamilton's eyes had broken her every hope of leaving, and it was with a blaze of furious indignation that she turned, stiffly, and hobbled off. As the bustle and hubbub returned to the courtyard, both senior aviators watched her for a moment before returning their attention to each other.
"Trust Aerial Command to send me such a wildcat of an officer." Greaves remarked, distastefully.
"She is young, that one," Hamilton said quickly, "but she will learn. I assure you, sir, I have her well in hand; this shall not happen again."
The wing commander considered him. "Well, Hamilton; no point in having the two of you stand out here, and your dragons also. Get them to rest, at once, and do the same for yourselves, a good wash and bed; after the sort of journey you have just had, I want you as sound as can be when the time comes."
"When, sir?"
"Damned if I know. Since the general left, I have had no word; but, mark you, I have been in this country long enough to know where the wind blows. We let these Americans beat us thirty years back, but we had no Isaac Brock then; it'll be a far cry this time, I tell you. The general has the Indians and their dragons on his side, and he is a pride of the British Army; unless I miss my guess, Detroit will be ours by tomorrow. If not," Greaves smirked humorlessly, casting a sidelong glance at Beaufort, who was busy fending off Veritas's pleas, "I may give you two leave to go up for a look. If you feel your dragons aren't up to it, you can piggyback on the couriers." He sighed. "We've few fighting dragons left here. That is why you were sent for. I don't expect this war is going to take nearly as much out of us as Bonaparte is, but better safe than sorry; get it over and done with, and back to the real business. I don't fancy serving the rest of my time with the Corps on some bloody backwater of a side-show, and neither do you, I think."
Siege of Detroit – Fort Detroit, Michigan Territory
The sound of the guns told them they were headed in the right direction. Beaufort stood up in her straps, snapping out her glass, peering anxiously into the lens as the resonant booming grew ever louder on the horizon. The movement caught Captain Burton's attention, who turned from the looming battle ahead to regard her.
"Don't you worry, Beaufort, we shan't get very close," he said with a reassuring smile. "Celia's not here to fight; our orders are to observe, and I plan to stick by them."
"I would fight if Veritas were here," she replied scathingly, her eye still fixed to the glass. "What point is there, sitting in covert waiting for the war to be over?"
Burton laughed, and his Winchester craned her head round in mid-flight to stare at the both of them. "Surely you can't be asking that poor Anglewing to fight; why, he was so worn-out yesterday, I barely could get a word in before he flopped down like a dead thing, without a bite to eat after all that flying, at that. I do not think he can even muster another wingbeat."
"Aye, let him sleep well and good; in a couple of days, he'll be fit and rested, I tell you. There's none better than Canadian air and fresh game for a weary dragon." Burton added.
"Stuff and nonsense; he will probably be up and about the instant I am gone, the wretched thing." Beaufort muttered. "He almost didn't want to take off when we attacked Salamanca, when only an hour before he'd been frolicking with Vivere. Lazy is lazy, Burton; there's no other word for it, even in a dragon." There was a low rumble of disapproval from Celia; but whether it was aimed at her or at Veritas, she couldn't tell. A moment later, she lowered her glass. "There they are. Burton, hand me the speaking-trumpet; there's a good fellow."
The other Winchester was flying in loose formation alongside them, Hamilton on board speaking animatedly with its captain; Beaufort drew in a breath and shouted, through the trumpet, "Matthews! Come about; we'll pass over the river, and come south of the city; meet up with them on the ground."
"You are mad!" Burton protested, but Hamilton's bellowed answer drowned out his voice.
"I'm not letting two couriers anywhere near those American beasts! Burton, hold a skirting pattern; we'll circle the city as best we can at this distance. Look sharp! They may have lightweights out on the flanks, and we're going to have to make for the shore batteries if one or two come this way."
Beaufort met Burton's amazed stare for a moment before turning her face back into the wind. Hamilton was right, of course – the Detroit garrison had all their dragons aloft, and the aerial battle was raging in earnest. The American dragons were known for their savagery; in Spain, she had heard tales of them from Merriott, related to him by his dragon, Ira, who had fought the Americans during their great revolution three decades before. To approach such ferocious beasts, on a Winchester, would be highly dangerous if not suicidal. But such rational thoughts did little to smooth the frustration crumpling up her insides. All she wanted was to lend a hand, in any way possible –
A mighty crack thundered over the city.
It assailed her with a force almost physical in its intensity; loud and terrible, like the roar of a rifle being discharged near at hand but far sharper, deeper. It was like thunder from the earth where it should have come from the clouds. All feelings of resentment dissolved in a sudden, icy stab of apprehension as the blast faded away into a shattering of faint echoes and she saw, vivid against the cloudy sky, one of the British dragons – a Yellow Reaper – convulsing violently as it fell out of its flight path; claws and wings flailing crazily, it plummeted like a great stone and crashed to its death in an explosion of thrown-up earth between the city walls and the British line.
A tremendous cheer arose from the walls as the dust settled.
The sight ran like a shock wave through the British ranks; from where she stood atop Celia's back, Beaufort could see ripples in the distant mass of redcoats as the dragon's fall sank in. Burton's carabiner straps were snapped taut as he leaned forward, frozen; his face was as stunned as her own.
"Burton!" The high voice of Captain Matthews broke the spell that held them both.
She tore her gaze to him, yelling across from the back of his Winchester, "Get clear, damn you, get clear! They have some devilish weapon in that fort; get clear!"
"We have to land," Burton said thickly. "I'm not risking a minute more in the air, not with that... that thing... in the city, whatever it is."
Beaufort swallowed; her own throat felt ominously dry. "Use the tree line as cover," she managed. "We will fly to the general's camp in bounds."
The message was swiftly relayed, and seconds later the small courier dragons flew hurriedly to ground, making use of the trees to screen their passage as they glided low in the direction of the British line. Mute with shock, the aviators barely glanced at each other as their beasts bore them along at a slow, steady pace.
"Burton, Burton; what was that?" Celia was asking, worriedly; but her captain only shook his head and patted her neck, urging her on.
It seemed an hour before they emerged from the tree line onto the outskirts of the British line. Several dragons were standing at the ready, fully rigged and prepared to reinforce their companions in the air; the closest, another Yellow Reaper, turned and let out a high-pitched cry as the two Winchesters swept onto the field. Ground crews came running, and Marines; it was a second or two before it was perceived that they were not intruders. Hamilton took charge immediately, disembarking and marching up to the sergeant leading the Marines without ceremony; his age and his gravelly, commanding voice, coupled with the triple gold bars on his shoulders, gave him an air of authority no man present could muster enough courage to question. "You there! Where is the general? Lead the way, man, at once."
Major-General Isaac Brock was a tall, imposing man, towering over the Marines of his private guard, a forceful, hard-eyed presence in his stained and rumpled uniform. As the Marines parted ranks to admit the aviators, he glared at them with all the dangerous impatience of a military commander interrupted in his observation of a battle. Glass in hand, he met their salutes with a scathing glare, his powerful voice carrying above the cannon-fire and dragon-roars of the siege, "You bring word from Greaves? Speak quickly, damn you; I have a battle to conduct!"
Hamilton lowered his hand, speaking for the four as its most senior officer, "No, sir. We came as observers."
"Then observe!" Brock barked. "Observe! There is something in that fort, and it has killed three dragons since we began the attack – shot out of the sky, by that devil of a weapon Hull is hiding in the city! We are losing ground in the air; and if we cannot take them by air, God have mercy on me for what I shall be forced to do! How many dragons have you brought? Are they ready?" His eyes blazed at Hamilton.
"Two Winchesters, sir." Hamilton said coolly, not losing an ounce of his composure in the face of the general's fury. "As I said, we came as observers. Not to fight."
Brock waved a hand at him tersely. "Then you are dismissed. Get behind the lines. I cannot spare a moment longer if you have nothing of value to me."
"Sir."
With a quick, parting salute, Hamilton turned, keeping his cool; but before he could usher them out of the general's presence, Beaufort stepped forward. "Hamilton, wait. Sir – if they do have some weapon in the city, would it not be prudent to see it? A courier can go where a fighting-dragon cannot. Give us leave, and we will make a run over the city; find out just what the Americans have in there."
The general was back to the battle, staring with ground teeth through his glass, but at Beaufort's words he snapped around. Hamilton arrested her by the arm. "Now then, lad, fast as a Winchester may be, it'll not make past that great mess up there; and no fort has no guns. Enough for one day. Let us go, hmm?"
He spoke loudly, for Brock's benefit, but the general was looking at her now, and intently. Beaufort winced at the needlessly strong grip on her arm, and shook it off impatiently as she returned the steady gaze.
"You can do this?"
Hamilton closed his eyes. Beaufort was painfully aware of those of Burton, Matthews, and every Marine and aide-de-camp around them on her – like she was out of her mind, she thought.
I can do this.
"Sir."
xxxxxx
The American dragons were every bit as savage as Merriott's stories had had her expect. One, a massive forest-green heavyweight with lurid brown and beige stripes and wicked horns protruding from its bony, square brow, broke away and hurtled after Celia as they raced for the city's western wall. The sound of its primeval, ululating roar was like nothing she had ever heard, and a vicious chill rent her to the bone.
"Damnation!" Burton swore, eyeing the looming beast over his shoulder. "Beaufort, a signal – get them to keep that Tlenamaw off us till we gain the wall! Celia – higher; there's a girl, and don't you look back!"
The Winchester, shaken by the terrible roar, managed a wordless whimper before obeying her captain's command. Beaufort fumbled with the signal-flags at its tail, all her lessons flashing before her in an unpleasant moment of futility before she finally got the message up. She glanced up. The beast was so close she could have fired her flintlocks into its face, were Celia to cease her frantic zig-zagging flight long enough for her to steady her aim. Its great fangs glinted like swords in a gaping maw beneath blood-red eyes alive with a ferocious killing hunger; caught in a horrible fascination, she could not look away. The yelling faces of the American aviators on board were no less intimidating. There were Indians among them, she had time to see; then muskets were cracking and she ducked in a sharp, instinctive motion as Celia swung to the side.
"Fast as a Tlenamaw is, it's no match for a Winchester when it comes to heights," Burton said breathlessly as Beaufort clambered hand over hand with her straps to his side. "We'll lose it in the clouds, come down over the wall and you can have your look –" the word was a stony utterance, "– that is, if it don't catch us first."
Beaufort barely heard his words. Herself panting, the pain from her just-mended leg dull and grinding, forcing her to put her weight on the other, she struggled awkwardly into place, missing the last carabiner twice before her snapping hand locked the ring into place. Misty white engulfed them as they plunged into the clouds, streaking past them in wispy trails that flowed past the receding silhouette of the pursuing American dragon like watery cotton. She risked a last look back. Two smaller silhouettes of dragons were now at the Tlenamaw's heel; the other British aviators had heeded their signal. As well they should, she thought. A Winchester on a headlong run through a raging battle; if that wasn't a sign that something terribly important was afoot, nothing was. They needed all the time that could be bought. Then a bitter thought struck her and she grimaced, turning back. They might not even survive what was to come.
She glanced at Burton, exhaling a breath. "We lost it."
"For the moment," Burton replied, grimly. "I know that breed. Vengeful as a she-wolf, it is. If it catches sight of us again, we can say hail and farewell to a clean get-away. It'll chase us to the end of the earth. Look sharp," for they were gaining the fort's west wall, far below, "here it comes. One pass only, and we're out!"
"We will make it," she asserted, but her stomach clenched as they began their slow, steady descent.
In all its sprawling, frontier glory, Detroit unfolded before their rigid, wind-stung gazes. At their height, the city was even smaller than the size of a man's fist held out at arm's length, and the rapid movement of American soldiers along the walls and ramparts was like the undulating of a tide of ants. Celia uttered a low whine and folded her wings, taking them into a steep drop, as blooms of fire began bursting into life below. Shuddering booms shook the very air around them as they dived earthward, the wind screaming.
Beaufort's heart leapt into her throat. The wind tore at her face, her hair; her ears were filled with a deafening roar of rushing wind and rapidly nearing cannon-fire. The city loomed large, nearer and nearer, buildings taking on definable shape and pattern, teeth in the maw of a monster rising up to swallow them.
You can do this?
I can do this.
From somewhere far away came Burton's wavering, distorted voice, "Take wing!"
At the words, Celia's wings snapped out taut and the world jarred back into focus with an agonizing jolt. All the breath was knocked out of Beaufort for a second, then her swirling vision steadied in a sudden burst of crystal clarity as they sped on a drunken course over the wall. Guns bellowed below to the accompaniment of hundreds of startled cries as the small dragon soared past.
One hand tight on her straps, Beaufort pulled herself up, breathing hard and fast as Burton exhorted his dragon through the heart-stopping hail of fire and smoke. Her eyes leapt from gun emplacement to gun emplacement, swarming with tiny figures.
The familiar shapes of cannon swept by. Beaufort raised a hand to wipe her eyes, but held it back. Her heart was pounding in time with Celia's frenzied wingbeats. Not even a split second was to be spared. She gritted her teeth, staring helplessly as her vision began to blur with tears from the shrieking, smoke-laden wind.
Burton yelled something. She ignored him, hand frozen in its raised position, glaring fixedly at the American positions on the ground as they lurched left and right at dizzying speed.
The shock of seeing it hit her like a knife-stab in the heart. At the very instant the air shook with that same, incredible thunderclap she had heard earlier, a star-burst of flame bloomed at her from the muzzle of a huge contraption positioned on the roof-top balcony of a tower building in the center of the city. It was a thing out of a night-dream; a sleek, gleaming thing of sinister, mechanical elegance. The sun glowed, bright and fiery, in its steel. Never had she imagined such a weapon, or its gunners – for there were men laboring at the strange cannon, if cannon it truly was; men cloaked and hooded in black, with silvery gleams of reflected sunlight for faces.
Then they were past, and the tears stung as she finally blinked, once. The unbelievable sight seared itself into her mind as they cleared the emplacements a moment later. Burton's cries finally sank in. "Hold strong now, Celia! Beaufort, ware! Get down – we are climbing!"
Her legs finally buckled and she slumped onto Celia's shivering back, hand still spasmodically clutching her carabiner straps.
xxxxxx
General Brock paced the length of his tent, his gaze canvassing the officers before him. Dread sat heavy in him like a stone. His fists clenched and unclenched as his thoughts ran over the victory they had just won – after hours of hard fighting, the Americans had been forced out of the air, at the cost of two Yellow Reapers, two Malachite Reapers, and a Regal Copper. A heavy price. But the air was now theirs, and the guns of Detroit had been falling ever more silent since the last American dragon was brought to ground.
His own guns were still at it, and hard. From the Detroit River, batteries and ships continued to pound the fort. Tecumseh's Indians had surrounded the city and were spreading the disease of fear through its garrison with their bestial war cries. He thought of the ruses he had employed in hopes of tricking Hull into thinking he had thousands more than he did. Would the old American general bow his head?
Would he, if that weapon of his were still in American hands?
The young, bold Aerial Corps captain had returned, against all odds, from what had seemed a suicide mission. The dragon that had carried him had been wounded, a ragged, gaping hole in one of its wings testament to how close it had come to being shot out of the sky on that unspeakably daring flight. And the news he had brought, of the strange... cannon... he had sighted in the city, had brought a hush of dread on all who had gathered in the general's tent to hear his report. Brock had found himself dry-mouthed for the first time since he had taken the field.
If the United States had such a weapon on their side...
"So be it," he murmured at last, coming to a stop. Every man crowded into the tent stiffened at once, the aviators included.
"Whitehall must be appraised of this at once."
Beaufort and Hamilton exchanged a sideways glance. In the senior captain's eyes, Beaufort saw relief; anger; pride. One after the other, and all together.
"God strike me blind if I am to fight a war with such a force in my disfavor. One of you will make for London at once, and give the Admiralty a full brief on this."
She had returned, in one piece. She had gambled her life on a foolhardy, reckless thing. And she had won.
I did this.
"Captain."
Brock was looking at her. "Sir."
"My apologies." His voice was gruff. "Your name?"
She smiled a little, then caught herself, thankful for the flying-hood that shadowed her face. "Beaufort, sir."
"Captain Beaufort." The general cleared his throat. "You were as good as your word. That was... extraordinary, for lack of a better phrase."
"You are too kind, sir."
"You alone saw this American weapon?"
"That is correct, sir; Captain Burton was guiding our flight, hence he was too caught up to observe."
Brock nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Then it must be you. These are your orders, Captain Beaufort; I will inform Wing Commander Greaves. You leave as soon as is necessary."
He had barely finished the sentence when an aide-de-camp's cry rose from outside, "General! The city –!"
Outside, a white flag could be seen billowing on the city walls. Cries of "Surrender! Surrender!" were erupting all along the British line, echoed by growls of triumph from the dragons in their makeshift field covert. Brock stared at it, then turned to his staff, gathered before him.
"Hull has fallen for it, that old buzzard," he declared, his voice rising. "Gentlemen, Detroit is ours. Cease the bombardment; I will expect their messengers soon."
As aides-de-camp departed in a hurry to execute the general's orders, Beaufort turned to her fellow officers.
"Well." She breathed, deeply. "It seems I am to leave as soon as I have arrived. Quite a lovely state of affairs this; but I've done what I can, and I'll be thinking long and hard on that as I go back the same blasted way I came." She made a sour noise. "May the Corps remember me for crossing the Atlantic and back in two bloody weeks."
"If they don't," Matthews said heartily, "we will. You have done more in a day here than most of us have done in a month! Tell that to the arm-chair generals back there."
She looked at Burton, standing silent and pale to one side, and impulsively clasped his hands in hers. "Burton, man, I would be now rotting in some gutter in there –" she jerked her chin in the direction of the city walls, "if it had been any but you and Celia up there with me. You're a damned sight better than any courier captain I ever flew with. Thank you, my friend – and don't you fret about Celia," she added, looking him in the face. "She'll be on the mend soon enough. I'll write you about her, I promise."
Burton matched her smile with a wan one of his own. "Quoth the general, you are as good as your word, Beaufort. I will hold you to that promise. Godspeed now; I've got to get back to Celia, the poor girl."
They parted hands as Brock approached. Beaufort blinked in surprise. She hadn't noticed Hamilton's absence until now, but there he was by the general's side – and addressing a low whisper to a pensive-faced Brock. He finished with a resigned wave of the hand, and Brock nodded with a knowing smile. With one last look at Beaufort, the general turned on his heel and left, hidden from sight moments later by aides-de-camp following in his wake.
Hamilton strode up to her. "Come then, lass," he said quietly, "the Army boys have their work to do here, and so do we. Let us be on our way."
She shook her head, bewildered. "We? Us? Are you –"
"That I am." He chuckled at her expression. "Why, you ought to know jolly well I'm not letting you go all that way back by yourself. They sent us two here, so now they can have us two back."
"But, the war –!"
"Oh, the general agreed on one thing. Now Detroit is in our hands, it won't be much longer before we send the Americans packing back south. We lost quite a few in the air today, that's for sure; and that weapon of theirs you saw, I have a feeling they won't surrender it that simple. But we dealt them a lovely long butcher's bill in exchange; and it is going to take more than that devil cannon of theirs to stop the tide now. You and I, we are going back to London; I will have an official request from Brock for enough dragons to put an end to this bloody Canadian circus, and you can tell them what you saw here. Trust me when I say this, lass, you will be needing a voice like mine; it takes an old man to face them pompous old men. Time's running. We leave by tomorrow."
Beaufort was still shaking her head as he took her by the shoulder and steered her toward the field covert. "Hamilton, I cannot believe you. Just what did you tell him, man?"
Hamilton laughed, a quick, sharp burst. "He agreed on one more thing, the general did. With you as eager to get yourself killed as you are, you'd likely end up in the ocean a thousand miles from England, and Aerial Command would be none the wiser." He winked at her. "Unless, of course, you have got me with you."