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  The attacker was tackled to the ground by a dozen men and bludgeoned to death within seconds, but the damage was already done. It was a mortal wound, the captain and Valnor both knew it. Captain Hastelloy beckoned Valnor closer for some words that would likely be his last in this lifetime.

  “Was…was I the target or Tish-Co-Han?” Hastelloy asked with labored breathing that accompanied blood pooling in the corners of his mouth.

  “I couldn’t tell, his tattoos are Iroquois though. He was sent here to sabotage this alliance,” Valnor surmised.

  “Go back…(cough, cough)…to London like we talked about…(cough)…they know…you need to stop it,” Hastelloy managed before the blood drowned out his words for good.

  Chapter 7: The Other Side (1752)

  Despite himself, henry continued fidgeting with the white wig on his head as he waited outside the meeting chamber. It was not that the headgear was particularly uncomfortable, it actually served to keep his head warm against the frigid January air, but it just felt odd. Wigs fell out of fashion in England long ago. However, when one had an audience with the king, all formalities were observed. Even this ridiculous tradition.

  Henry mentally moved away from his physical discomfort in favor of happier thoughts. He was sitting outside the king’s chamber awaiting a meeting with the sovereign. How many twenty-two year olds could boast such a feat? Not only that, Henry was summoned all the way from the New World by King George himself. The magnitude of such a request could not be denied. All of the connections and political favors his father promised were coming to fruition.

  The blessing of this audience with the king did come with strings attached. His father’s inner circle of Freemasons had an agenda for him to work with the monarch. He did not fully understand why, but the opportunity to speak with the king himself was one he could not pass up. With that thought, Henry pulled out a piece of paper from inside his breast pocket. He spent a few moments reviewing the key talking points one last time. He had already committed them to memory, but drew comfort from seeing them one last time before tossing the page into a nearby fireplace heating the room. The less evidence the better.

  A loud thump from the other side of the door preceded its opening with a faint groan. The wooden barrier parted just enough for an orderly to step out and say to Henry, “They are ready for you now.”

  Without a word, Henry rose to his feet, straightened the cuffs of his dress military uniform, took a deep breath, and followed the orderly into the king’s meeting chamber. The reality of the room was not nearly so grand as his imaginings.

  There was a rectangular table with ten chairs, a pair of windows along one wall, and a fireplace flanked by serving tables along the other. That was it. No decorative gold trim or ceiling paintings were present. There were no priceless tapestries or grand art pieces hanging from the walls. There was only cold stone; this room was all business.

  What the room lacked in aesthetics, it made up for with the august standing of the men present for this meeting. King George II of England sat at the head of his table along with two advisors, two generals, two admirals, and the Duke of Newcastle who served as the current Prime Minister. The British Empire spanned the globe, and the men seated at this table ran that empire. Henry was officially intimidated, but drew inspiration from the fact that this was the company of men he sought to keep.

  “Presenting Colonel Henry Clinton,” the orderly announced to the room. Henry struck a pose of rigid attention and executed a quarter bow at the waist with his head down, and awaited leave to rise.

  “Welcome, Colonel. Have a seat,” the king said in a curt voice.

  “Thank you Your Majesty,” Henry replied before marching to his assigned chair at the end of the table. In an attempt to show everyone in the room that he was not intimidated, he addressed the king directly once seated. “I should like to say that you have my deepest sympathies for the losses in your family these past few months. I never had the pleasure of meeting the Prince of Wales, but your daughter Louisa I knew to be a kind, loyal and lovely woman.”

  The Duke of Newcastle shot Henry an alarmed look with anger barely held in check behind his eyes. The Prime Minister was a Freemason and a key ally of Henry’s family. His advocacy is why Henry was in this chamber at all. The man’s reputation was on the line by his vouching for Henry, and here the first thing he did was lob a potentially inflammatory remark like that out into the open.

  The king received the sentiment with a slight nod that left Henry wondering if he had errored. King George possessed a legendary temper and typically showed little emotion, but that stoic front came down for a moment of introspection. “This has been a fatal year for my family. I lost my eldest son – but I am glad of it…and now Louisa is gone. I know I did not love my children when they were young, I hated to have them running into my room, but now I love them as well as most fathers.”

  Henry found the response quite revealing. The prince often spoke against his father in public, and even entertained a host of the crown’s enemies at his home in Leicester Square. Following the prince’s death, it was widely speculated that the king had his son poisoned. Hearing that the king was ‘glad of it’ from his own mouth removed any doubt in Henry’s mind.

  The king’s mournful eyes found their typical hardened pose after a moment before he spoke again. “Thank you for the kind sentiment, now to the business at hand. What is the state of things in my American colonies?”

  “Per the regular reporting of the governor, things are well in hand, Your Majesty. Tax revenues are stable and profitable. However, there is some growing tension from the colonials about having taxes levied against them without representation in Parliament to debate such measures,” Henry reported.

  “Internal rebellion from our British subjects living in the colonies is not a concern. We need to know about the French and their growing list of native allies,” the Prime Minister redirected. “As the ranking military officer in the Americas, we need to know your assessment of the French threat to our holdings there.”

  “And not the cleansed version that your father, the governor, passes our way to congratulate himself on his administrative prowess. Give it to us straight with all of the warts and boils out in the open,” one of the admirals ordered.

  “Very well, I believe the military situation is tenuous,” Henry announced but tempered his criticism by quickly adding, “In the long term view at least.”

  “How so?” the king asked with a heightened sense of alarm.

  Henry paused for a moment to congratulate himself on elevating the king’s level of concern so early in the conversation. “At present, the French own a vast tract of land. In fact, beyond the Appalachian Mountains, they control nearly ten times the territory as our British colonies hold along the eastern coast. The strategic resources that the French will eventually draw from those lands are without limit. This will leave the empire at a profound strategic disadvantage at some point in the future I fear.”

  “All is lost then?” King George asked with his inflection indicating the answer had better be to the negative.

  “Not at all, Your Majesty, but correction is needed sooner rather than later,” Henry answered without missing a beat. “The French lands are massive, but their population is not; hence their reliance on diplomacy with the native tribes. Our latest estimates place roughly 60,000 French colonists within their vast territory. That compares to two hundred thousand British subjects in the New World. We outnumber them badly, but when you consider their native allies, the scales slam over to their favor by a factor of ten to one.”

  “Why not disrupt this French and native alliance to tip the balance in our favor once more?” one of the generals asked.

  “We’ve already tried that by sending an assassin to kill the alliance organizers early on, but it didn’t work. In fact if anything, the assassination only solidified their collective intent against us,” Henry answered before continuing with his agenda.

  “Just
like anywhere else in the world, population equals power in the Americas. We must grow in numbers and then overwhelm the French with those numbers. We need to do it quickly before they can settle and organize their vast territory, not to mention arm and train their native allies. Then we can use those lands and resources however we see fit to expand the empire.”

  “What an intriguing appraisal,” the king sighed. “Our navy can protect us here at home while in the new continents we overwhelm their numbers. How many would it take?”

  “It would require relocating one, maybe even two million British subjects and soldiers to the new world over the next few years,” Henry offered with a straight face.

  In the next moment, Henry swore he actually felt the air in the room move as everyone drew a deep breath at the shock of hearing such large numbers. The king showed the least reaction, but still his eyes widened slightly before asking. “Well, what would it take to move that many subjects to the new world so quickly? Admirals?”

  The two aged men sporting long, white mustaches stared across the table at one another, dumbfounded by the question. Finally, one managed to joke, “An act of God perhaps.”

  “Explain that please,” one of the generals asked.

  “It has taken a hundred years to get two hundred thousand subjects to settle across the Atlantic. The pace has accelerated with the fleet escorting ships across the ocean every few weeks now, but colonists still do not set sail in those kinds of numbers. The crossing is very expensive, and a prosperous outcome on the other side is far from certain. There is not enough motivation for most people to face that sort of unknown, let alone pay a lifetime of wages to do so. That being the case, the peasants stay with what is familiar and comfortable to them here at home.”

  “What if we made it uncomfortable for them,” Henry suggested, mentally checking off yet another talking point from the list he incinerated earlier. “Start shipping food and supplies to the colonies, and be obvious about it. The people will follow the food. Imagine being a starving peasant who has to watch ships full of cargo leave for the New World, would you get on that boat?”

  “If I was hungry, I would choose to riot in the streets or steal what I needed. That is a far easier solution for them than buying a ticket they can’t possibly afford to follow that food on its way across the ocean,” the vocal admiral responded.

  “You would of course arrest the thieves, rebels and brigands causing that sort of trouble,” Henry countered.

  “And put them where,” one of the advisors protested. “The realm would go bankrupt building prisons and paying guards to keep those starving rebels incarcerated.”

  Henry was undeterred in his suggestion. “You mistake my meaning, my lord. You would arrest them, and ship them off to the New World as colonists rather than remaining prisoners here. Whether they pay or we send them, the colonies would get their numbers.”

  That notion got everyone’s attention. The prime minister was the first to add his thoughts on his fellow Freemason’s notion. “Famine or not, there already is a lot of unrest from the commoners. The aristocracy owns all the land and titles it to their heirs with every passing generation. Meanwhile, the peasants work for scraps with no hope of anything better besides uprising.”

  “The colonel’s plan would send that growing rebellious element thousands of miles to the west,” the prime minister went on. “Better still; those rebels would then serve as an asset to the empire battling the French, rather than a potential instrument of its destruction from within. It turns our greatest weakness into a profound strength to gain control of the new continents in their entirety. The empire would be unstoppable at that point.”

  “Those peasants and criminals will need organization and leadership in the New World,” King George challenged. “How do we accomplish that?”

  “A difficulty easily remedied, Your Majesty,” one of the advisors answered. “There are plenty of nobles who have fallen on hard financial times.”

  “Or ambitious ones looking to grow their estates,” the other advisor added. “In either case, you can extend to them land grants in the colonies with hereditary title for which they will then owe you more taxes. They will in effect pay you for the privilege of administering your lands that will at some point generate even more taxes for you.”

  “The recommendation certainly has merit,” the prime minister acknowledged with a subtle nod toward Henry to recognize a job well done. The discussion then quickly morphed from a theoretical exercise to a royal decree to make it so.

  Chapter 8: Getting Away

  Paul kept an eye on the market from the shadows of an alleyway across the street. There he waited for the right moment. In the business of committing a crime, timing was everything. A loud grumble from his stomach informed Paul that time was a luxury he no longer enjoyed. It had been four days since his last bite of food, let alone a filling meal. He was desperate, and it was time to push his luck with the law once more.

  The constable and his deputies kept close watch over the markets these days. Paul was not the only hungry thief in London, but he prided himself on being one of the best. He had lived on the streets alone since the wise old age of seven. Five years later, he still had yet to see the inside of a jail cell. It was by no means a record, but it did make him something of a minor celebrity around town. Everyone, even the authorities, knew what he did to survive, but Paul had yet to be caught in the act.

  He watched the nearest officer turn around and head the other direction, and that was his cue. Paul pulled his floppy hat low to his brow, pushed up the sleeves hanging several inches past his hands, and headed up the street. He walked past the butcher’s stand without a glance. Likewise, he passed up the bread maker, and instead set his eyes on the farmer selling potatoes.

  The produce may taste like a monkey’s butt, however, it was filling, nutritious, kept for ages, and was easy to conceal under his long sleeves. An added benefit to his target was that no one gave a fig if a few dusty potatoes went missing from the towering piles they had on hand. The authorities were busy watching the stands selling fruits, cooked meats, or pastries. The amateur thieves were drawn to those lavish items like moths to a flame.

  Paul did not even break stride nor did his eyes cast a glance at the potato stacks as he walk past. His hands knew their task. With little more than a flick of his wrists, he secured two potatoes and let his sleeves slide back down past his fingertips to hide his bounty. He took two carefree steps while his hands tucked the pilfered items into pockets he had sewn into the inside of his sleeves, and that was when his luck ran out.

  “Stop right there, you,” a deep voice boomed from behind him. Then a meaty hand grabbed his left wrist and whirled Paul around to face a deputy disguised in common clothing. “Finally got ya.”

  “The only thing you got is crabs from your sister last night,” Paul blurted out.

  While the authority pondered the implied insult, Paul rotated his left wrist sideways and yanked it toward the thumb of the officer’s grasp; the weak point of the hold. His left arm sprung free as Paul windmilled his right arm underneath the man’s extended appendage. He brought it around until his right hand was able to grasp the officer’s wrist and twist him toward the ground. Paul brought up his left hand and pressed it into the back of the man’s elbow, adding leverage to the maneuver that let him arm-barred the officer face first into the ground with ease.

  “Maybe you should try your mum next time,” Paul said over his shoulder as he turned to run back into the dark alley where his emergency escape route awaited. That plan changed the instant he spotted two officers running toward the commotion from that direction.

  Paul looked the other way and spotted the constable himself wading through the crowd to help in his apprehension. All this because I took two lousy potatoes?

  His only option was to dart into the market and hopefully lose the officers among the crowd. That was not going to work for long either as the masses stepped aside to heed the shouts of t
he authorities pursuing Paul. It was now a foot race between him and the grown men on his tail.

  Paul was in a full sprint when he reached out his hand to use the pole holding up a stand’s awning to whip around a corner and head down a narrow alley. He maintained full speed, plus the maneuver had the added bonus of pulling down the awning to slow down his pursuers. One officer, though, managed to cut the corner and jump over the obstacle to close within reaching distance of Paul.

  There was no turning left or right anymore and straight ahead was a five-foot tall wooden fence that he could not see over. Paul had no idea what lay on the other side, but it had to be better than a prison cell. He held full speed right up to the fence, then planted both feet into the cobblestones and leapt headfirst over the barrier.

  His chest cleared the top and he attempted to bring his legs up and over, but failed in the attempt. Both shins scraped along the jagged edges until his feet struck the barrier and acted as a pivot point to send him face first into the stones below. He caught himself at the last minute with his hands, but felt his right wrist pop as he rolled his feet over his head and skidded to a stop on his back across the stones.

  The pursuing officer fared little better as he slammed into the fence, belly first. The timbers did not give an inch save one board that split in two to reveal a distended stomach protruding on Paul’s side of the fence. The fat belly retracted a moment later as the officer’s unconscious body rotated backward and crashed to the ground.

  Paul would have laughed his ass off at the sight and sound of it all were his shins not bloodied and his wrist not in agony. From the other side of the fence he heard two more officers run up to the barrier. Paul crawled his way behind a stack of boxes and vanished from view just in time before a set of eyes peered through the broken boards to have a look.

  “Ah blast it; we lost him,” Paul heard an out of breath voice say.