Chapter Nine – Styles
“I’m not fastidious about troops,” Britain’s premier soldier in the Napoleonic wars, the Duke of Wellington, once wrote about German mercenaries he had been sent. “I’ve had them of all sorts, sizes and nations… If they come to the field with weapons clean and sixty rounds well appointed I do not look to see if their trousers are green, blue or grey.”
The Witches were lined up in the usual order when Gideon went to see them, trailing Dr Poole, and proved to be sufficiently emboldened by the human victory at the bridge to critique Gideon’s military decisions.
“You did not go across the bridge to fight them?” said Tabitha, the middle witch. Poole listened to the exchange open-mouthed. Like all the older generation of Havenites he had taken the dogma that the inhabitants of the structure were all about passivism, gender equality and the environment at face value. He now had to process the fact that almost all of what he had been told was total nonsense.
“My soldiers are completely raw. Our casualties were light, but they would have been a lot higher if we had tried attacking them,” said Gideon, “for no real additional gain.”
“What if they come back? Will you attack them then?”
For a race that had previously known nothing of violence the Witches caught on quick, thought Gideon.
Aloud he said: “We’ll have to see. If they have heavy equipment – big weapons that throw stones, they might be able to hit your home from the other side of the gorge. We’ll have to see if our heavy weapons can hit theirs. I have a lot to do, including talking with my soldiers. I would also like to know more about the situation. I have been hearing about a creature in black robes that looks like your, um, good selves.”
“Not like us,” said Tabitha. “He is of a different clan that wishes to stop our meditation efforts, by force if necessary. He says that it’s dangerous.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“To him, perhaps, as he will be left behind. We intend to transform ourselves into beings of pure energy and thought. He says that is a violation of the space-time of the universe and says we should retain the physical shell.”
“Whatever the dispute between that creature and … your good selves,” said Gideon (he opted against saying ‘you guys’), “this other creature raised up – created -these creatures who know how to kill and sent them to get you, and the humans happened to be in the way.”
“That is right,” said Tabitha. “The humans were supposed to stop them. They failed. The rest is not important to you. Our meditations on space-time will never have any effect on humans.”
“Very well, I will now go and see what is to be done about defending your home.”
The Witches twittered briefly amongst themselves and then said, “Report when you know more.”
Gideon resisted the urge to bow his head although he did nod at Agnes on the right – he did not know whether he was supposed to openly acknowledge her help or not – and left, with a subdued Dr Poole.
“We were invited here to protect those creatures,” he said as they walked out.
“Just as I told you.”
“What about that stuff about space time. Did you get any of it? Did you believe it?”
“Dr Poole..”
“Evan.”
“Evan, it ain’t my job to sort out just what The Witches are doing in their own home, especially as the physics is far beyond me. I didn’t ask them for details as I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have understood any answer they cared to give. What I do know is that the black robed guy set loose a force that’s been killing and enslaving humans, and that’s what matters to me and what should matter to you. As Haven City is in Midi hands, and we’re cut off from Earth the Witches are the only ones with the resources to keep us fighting. That means, in the immortal words of one of my former colleagues, we’re the witches bitches until something else happens.”
“Guess,” said Poole, as they came out into the afternoon light. A glance across the river told Gideon that the Midi force had decamped, taking what wounded they could find with them, but leaving the bodies of the dead. The grim task of taking away and burying the creatures they had killed was being done by musketeers. A small patrol was following the Midi force at a distance, with strict orders to keep out of sight and not to engage.
“If your committee had thought to whistle up a couple of companies of paratroopers with some of that light artillery that they air drop along with the troops then all this could have been avoided. They would have taught the Midis real respect for human technology.”
Poole shrugged. “The committee always talked about negotiation and the example of passivism.”
Gideon found Captain Toms, Captain Hannigan and artillery commander Captain Chifley waiting for him inside the visitor’s centre.
“Can we have a word, sir?” said Toms in a way that made Gideon think there was trouble. It was trouble of a kind. “A lot of the musketeers are complaining we didn’t go after the Midis when they retreated,” he said, when they were all seated around what had been a display table and was now a communal dining table for the musketeers who slept in the building. All the musketeers were out on various jobs so they were alone. Poole came along as he had no place else to go.
“That’s right, we didn’t go after the Midis,” said Gideon. “They still outnumbered us and you’ve no idea how raw you guys are. I mean, of the musket shots, how many of those hit home? I saw some of the musketeers closing their eyes when they fired. I saw shots going off the support beams at the far side. The idea, guys, is to keep your eyes open when you fire.”
“We only just got the muskets,” said Hannigan. Gideon had given her rank as she seemed to dominate any room or meeting she was in. He had no reason to regret his decision but, like the rest of them, she knew nothing of military matters.
“That’s right,” said Gideon, “you only just got them and, if you’ll recall we’ve had real trouble with the bayonet fitting on those muskets. So not only are most of our musketeers firing blindly and slowly, they can’t fit bayonets on our mere thirty or so muskets and expect them to stay on. Added to that most of the newer recruits haven’t even got it straight what company they are in, let alone any idea of working as interacting teams, and you guys want to take on Midis in the open? Even with the losses they took they’d still outnumber us five to one and they’re pretty good with those spears. The graveyard ‘ll fill up real quick.”
“Maybe not this time then,” conceded William, “but what about next time. Those guys ’ll be back.”
“Sure the Midis will offer a rematch but here’s the thing. When we get the muskets right, I’m sort of hoping to move up to a Minié rifle - Mid-nineteenth century,” Gideon added hastily when he saw the puzzled look on the faces of all his officers, except Captain Chifley. “Rifles have grooves on the inside of the barrel to make the bullet spin.” He made a turning gesture with his hands. “That makes the bullet more accurate. But rifle bullets have to grip the barrel so if you’re loading an ordinary musket bullet from the top you have to force the bullet down.” He made forcing motions of loading a rifle with his hands. “That takes a while, really slowing down the reloading time. A Captain Minié of the French army devised a conical bullet which expanded when fired. The user then doesn’t have to force the bullet down. The bullet expands slightly to fit the grooves on the way out. We can get the accuracy of a rifle with the loading times of a musket. North and South did a lot of damage to one another with Minié rifles during the American Civil War. If we can put a rifle in the hands of every musketeer and train them in how to use it, the Midis will soon learn what it’s like to mess with humans several hundred metres out.”
“Sounds great,” said Hannigan, “when do get we get them?”
“It’s going to take months.”
The officers groaned.
“We could always negotiate with the Midis,” said Dr Poole.
“Sure, like that’s worked real well in the past,” said Hannigan. Her mother was a slave somewhere to the East of Haven City.
“What about bolt action?” said Chifley. “That’s pretty simple. If we forget about the magazine it would have one moving part plus the trigger mechanism.”
“We’ve been over this. It’s more than one part for the bolt and it’s all precision machining work,” retorted Gideon. “Plus we’d have work out how to make a proper cartridge - one shell holding the bullet, the powder and the percussion cap at the base, and get the bullet to fit the barrel. I mean the stuff we get out of the Witches isn’t even metal. It’s some composite material stuff. It isn’t a bad substitute for steel but it ain’t steel. If it was steel maybe we could look up books that would tell us about the tensile strength or if we had a trained metallurgist we could ask him or her. We might also be able to build machines to make all this stuff to military level tolerances. As it is let’s aim for a Minié rifle and hope we can make it work without the barrel splitting.”
“But you said that’d take months,” said Hannigan.
“Well, yeah. Much of that is basically because we have to make the expandable bullet somehow from scratch with the Witch’s material. On the other hand we can solve the remaining problems with muskets and get them out in the hands of our guys real quick. Once we’ve got the design right then The Witches machinery is probably good enough for the components we want, and they can make them in a snap.”
“Let’s do that,” she said.
“If we do that and use muskets, and take the fight to the enemy,” said Gideon, “then we have to use the tactics that went with muskets.”
“Such as..?” said William.
“Musketeers have to stand in line and volley fire, as they did on an eighteenth, early nineteenth century battlefield. Volley fire means that there is a chance of even muskets hitting something in front of the troops. Volleys can be devastating when done right – and if the other side is obliging enough to charge our front. But that means loading quickly in the heat of battle and firing on command when all the Midis in this world are charging at us, yelling. That also involves not listening to music devices and – big ask here - not closing your eyes when you fire. That requires training and training, and did I mention training.”
The officers exchanged looks. “Then train us,” said Toms.
“Did I also mention we’d have to reinvent-reimagine all the drills. I’ve never studied the details of the drills and it’s been nearly two centuries since they were used outside re-enactments. Also, we need way more people. We’ve got fifty plus counting non-combatants. We might be able to hold the line here with a party of our size, but there are thousands of Midis I’m told. Our force would just be swallowed up once we move beyond the bridge.”
“There are more of us coming,” said Toms.
“I heard more, too,” said Hannigan. “Lots more, now we have weapons of a sort. They’re just trying to figure out what to do about Bishop.”
“This is this principal of the summer camp I’ve been told about,” said Gideon, “The violent passivist?”
“We prefer to think of him as rabid rather than violent,” said Hannigan.
“Sound about on a par with my good friends at the HEO,” said Gideon. “Is this guy running a jail or what – how come these new recruits can’t get away?”
“It’s not straightforward,” said William. “The new people have decided to all go at once – a mass breakout kinda thing.”
“Okay, whatever,” said Gideon, “but until something happens we are only going to send patrols to the other side of the river – and what about cavalry?”
“Cavalry?” echoed the musketeer officers.
“Sure, you know, guys on horses with swords that yell charge and then charge. Even the Midis had horses - just to pull carts, I guess, but were still using them. If we’re going to do dumb stuff like stand in lines to fire muskets, I’d like cavalry to protect our flanks and screen our force from inquisitive Midi scouts. Napoleon had cavalry, Caesar had cavalry on the flanks of his legions while fighting barbarian hordes. Why can’t I have cavalry, even if it’s just scouts? What about these riding societies I keep hearing about? Will any of those join up?”
“Bishop has kept those guys well out to the West,” said Toms. “They haven’t been heard of since the Midis came, so no-one here knows what’s going on with them?”
“They don’t have phones?”
Toms shrugged. “They keep to themselves. But if it’s just a question of scouting, there’s always the drones at the Summer Camp.”
“Drones?” said Gideon. “As in remote controlled flying devices that carry cameras?”
“The drones at the Summer Camp are just toys,” said Chifley.
“Well, yeah,” said Toms, “but they’re usable out to a few klicks, and the Midis won’t have any answer to them.”
“Toys or not, the musketeers could use an aerial recon unit,” said Gideon. “But at the same time, if anyone has contact with these horse loving groups, tell them we could do with horse persons who are okay with violence.”
The next day they began to work out the drills with the muskets they had, and tackle the remaining problems with the weapons. A further complication was the addition of a strap so that the weapon could be carried over a musketeer’s shoulder, but the machinery in The Witches’ structure was soon producing the components. The musketeers assembled them, then made their own cartridges by wrapping powder in a piece of paper along with a musket ball, using a stapler to seal the ends. Spades were produced. Gideon thought to request ground sheets which could double as tents and a jacket. A full uniform would take too long but a jacket, at least, would make the musketeers look less like a partisan band, or so Gideon reasoned.
The resulting item of clothing had a similar colour to the almost-black metal used in the muskets, with the material having the same smooth feel, although it was as flexible as any cloth from Earth. A jacket made in a conventional way has more parts than a musket, but The Witches machinery could make them in one piece except for the buttons. Production would have started at once but for certain musketeers, mostly female, messing with the cut and design of the jacket, to the point where it became a coat with a belt which had to be made separately, along with a buckle. Finally, Gideon stepped in to put a stop to the changes, insisting that production start and be damned to the fashion consequences.
The first of those coats were coming off the production line somewhere in The Witches’ home when two young men wearing long dress coats, slim ties, waistcoats, stovepipe trousers that showed their socks and chunky brogues stained by hiking overnight from the Summer Camp, turned up at musketeer HQ, the tourist centre, and asked to be sworn in.
Gideon was taken aback. They were the first recruits he had seen in a while, and the first he had seen in what amounted to fancy dress.
“What’s with the coats and stuff?”
“We’re Teddy Boys.”
“You mean Teddy Boys as in early 1950s Britain?” asked Gideon, astonished.
“Well, yeah,” said one, “although the style’s influence extended through to the 70s.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Gideon, “but I don’t understand how come you’ve turned up at my recruiting station dressed as Teddy…” Two more recruits came into view. One had white pants and a white jacket, as if he was on his way to a 1970s disco, the other had poorly dyed red hair and was wearing a black Tee shirt emblazoned with the words “Goth As Fuck” in giant, silver letters.
“Um, guys, what’s going on?” asked Gideon. “Why am I suddenly in a youth culture fancy dress parade?”
“We convinced the powers that be at the Summer Camp that what we needed was a parade to celebrate youth culture,” said one of the Teddy Boys. “Like, what we needed in response to our homes being overrun, our parents killed or enslaved was to celebrate youth styles through the ages. We thought they’d never go for it but they did. We got dressed up enough to make them think there would be a parade, waited until the main instructors were distracted and then escaped.”
“There’s a big group of hippies just behind us,” said the other Teddy Boy.
So it proved. There were perhaps twenty young people with floral pattern shirts and dresses with flowers in their hair.
“Make war not peace, baby,” said the apparent leader of this group and handed Gideon a peace symbol medallion. “Give it back when this is over.”
“Okay,” said Gideon who thereafter kept the symbol on his desk. “Line up with the others and take the oath.”
In the following days Gideon got rockers, mods, Australian sharpies, punks with elaborate hairdos, e-girls and e-boys, chavs and beatniks, wearing turtleneck sweaters and berets and sporting wispy beards to signify their beatnikness. Then there were skinheads, head bangers, girls as flappers and bobby sockers, bikers (Monster glared at them), soul boys, more goths, metal heads, emos, riot grrrls (Gideon had to ask) and surfers in shirts, shorts and sandals.
“Too cold overnight, man,” complained one of the surfers. “If we’d gone as Teddy Boys we’d have had jackets.”
One youth turned up in in a kaftan with one half his head shaven, but the other half sporting long, flowing locks.
“I reject labelling and categories,” said this apparition.
“Line up and be labelled a musketeer,” said Gideon.
Captain William Toms oversaw the induction process which involved the recruits being given one musket, one bayonet, one groundsheet/tent, eventually one coat (complaints about the style and cut were ignored) and one small spade.
“What’s this for?” the recruits often asked on being give the spade.
“You’ll find out,” they were told.
“When we assign companies, do you want to do it by musical styles?” asked Toms at one point. “It doesn’t seem right to mix disco with punk.”
“Nope,” said Gideon, amused by the turn of events. “We’ll take the Foreign Legion approach. Mix ‘em up.”
The resulting parades were sights to behold.
These diverse recruits learned to reload while standing in line, fire by volleys and then by odds and evens – as the officers debated just how they would handle the volleys - reloading while standing and firing while crouched. They charged with bayonets, dug weapon pits, filled sandbags, learned cover and concealment, and cover and charge tactics – one group covering the other while it moved, then the second group covering the first. They sneaked around in the forest, worked out a form of camouflage paint for their faces, learned not to expose themselves on a ridgeline and why the flanks and rear of their formation was important, but above all they learned to load and fire their muskets. Load and fire; load and fire; load and fire. Somewhere along the line in this peculiar mix of eighteenth century and special forces tactics, the musketeers began to get the idea, discovering earth’s rich and lengthy history of military conflict.
One of the officer’s courses included a discussion, which Gideon sat in on, about the greatest comebacks in military history.
“Soviets against the Germans,” said one officer-candidate. “The Germans destroyed the equivalent of the entire pre-war Soviet army in the first year plus some and still lost.”
“The Soviets were never in any real danger of going under after the first few months,” said another candidate, “and the Germans were already in deep trouble. Even taking Moscow wouldn’t have done much. Napoleon occupied Moscow and look what happened to his army? My money is on the French in the Hundred Years War. The French nearly went under but then Joan of Arc happened; they changed tactics – they listened to du Guesclin – and they organised a siege train with cannon for breaking open fortresses.”
“For straight comebacks,” said a third, “it has to be King Alfred against the Danish Vikings. They chased him into a marsh with a few followers, and he got back to take Wessex and for his successors to form England. Granted he had the militias and lords in a couple of counties to draw on, but he was still in a marsh.”
“We’ve gotta put a word in for the Reconquista,” said a female officer candidate, “the Spanish retaking Spain from the Muslims. The Spanish were driven into the North West part of the peninsula but managed to retake the entire country – admittedly it took the best part of eight centuries to do it, but it was still a good come back.”
In the midst of all this preparation, Gideon was told that Boothroyd wanted to meet him in a spot well to the West and South of the Witches’ structure. He was aware that, rather than walk onto the human summer camp, Boothroyd had set up a camp somewhere deep in the forests to the South. A number of Black Band Midis, rather than submit to Red Band domination, had fled into the forests and a few of those had found their way to Boothroyd’s camp. Provided Boothroyd stayed away, Gideon cared about none of this. He cared far more that a few of the captured Black Band wounded had escaped – the humans did not have the time, energy or expertise to run a prisoner of war camp, and complete lack of interest in doing so – and far more importantly the escapees had taken a few of the new muskets with them, after seeing how they were loaded and fired. Gideon belatedly put the muskets and ammunition under guard and sent out patrols, but the newly armed Black Bands were not to be found. He had an uneasy feeling that they would gravitate to Boothroyd’s camp.
Before starting out for his meeting with Boothroyd, Gideon handed Monster a badge that had, with difficulty, been produced from the Witches interface.
“What’s this man?” said Monster, looking at the badge in his hand. It consisted of a star emblem with the word Haven set above it and MP in much bolder letters set directly on the star.
“MP means military police.”
“I know what it means, man,” said Monster. “You expect me to go cop? It’s not my side of the law. I’ve done some bad shit.”
“I don’t give a damn about bad shit in the past. You break up fights as it is and do it well, without causing more hurt than necessary or bad blood. None of the guys are going to backchat you.”
“Dunno man – I dunno anything about the law. Cops follow rules. They have procedures.”
“At the moment we don’t have any procedures to follow. Just attach the badge to the top left of your jacket for the moment (Monster had opted to wear one of the new jackets) and see how it feels, and you’re a sergeant.”
Monster did so, glancing at it warily every now and then, as if it might come alive and bite him. “Whadda you want me to do at this meeting with Boothie?”
“Nothing at all. You wearing a badge should be enough to upset Boothroyd. Stand around and look mean – that’s a procedure for you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Boothroyd had one of the Black Bands guide Gideon, Monster, William Toms and a half dozen of the older musketeers to a small clearing maybe an hour’s walk South of the structure. The musketeers, with loaded firearms and fixed bayonets, confronted the ex-biker plus perhaps ten Black Bands, a few armed with human muskets, standing in front of a bundle – an object over which a tarpaulin, probably stolen from the visitor’s centre, had been thrown.
“It’s the Witches Bitch and shithead, with the mouseketeers,” said Boothroyd.
“Bad to see you too Boothie,” said Gideon. “I see we’ve found the missing muskets. Before the fighting starts tell me why I’m here.”
“I need three months worth of food for my guys plus ammunition for these guns.”
“Why should we give you any of that?”
Boothroyd lent down, threw aside the covering on the bundle behind him and dragged its contents upright. He held a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, pretty with dark hair. She winced in pain as he held her up, cradling one arm with her other.
“Kat!” said William. The other musketeers growled and started cocking their weapons. Boothroyd dug a small knife had had found somewhere, into the girl’s throat. A Midi moved behind Boothroyd and the girl and pointed its musket directly at Gideon. The other Midis brought their muskets up and cocked them.
“This could get interesting,” said Boothroyd, grinning unpleasantly. Then he caught sight of the badge on Monster’s jacket and his grin vanished. “What’s that?” he said gesturing at the badge with his chin. “They’ve made you a cop?”
“Do I gotta arrest people before I kill ‘em?” Monster asked of Gideon, “or can I kill ‘em then arrest them?”
“Don’t think you can arrest anyone who’s dead,” said Gideon. “But if you’re going to kill them there’s not much point in arresting them first. Just adds to the paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” said Monster.
“We’ll find you a form to fill in.”
“Uh guys?” said Kat.
“I just gotta move the knife a little and the girl is history,” said Boothroyd. “You give us the food and ammo and we back outta here, leaving the girl behind.”
Gideon thought for a moment. He had blown away the Red Band Midi on the bridge, but that creature had not known the rules for threatening hostages. Boothroyd did.
“We fetch you the food but no ammo. Your guys have already stolen enough cartridges for defence.”
Boothroyd shook his head and dug the point of his knife a little deeper in Kat’s skin. “Food and two thousand cartridges with those firing caps, man, or your sweet little friend here becomes a casualty.”
“Sir,” said William. “Is it that important about the ammunition?”
“I don’t care about the food,” said Gideon, ignoring his second in command, “but I don’t want you roaming around in my rear with live ammo.”
“Food and two thousand rounds,” said Boothroyd.
“Food, bayonets for the muskets you’ve got and, oh, one hundred cartridges won’t matter much I guess.” Gideon noted that Kat was not pleading or begging for her life, just standing there, one foot forward and her weight on the other as if, as a last ditch attempt to save her life, she would kick Boothroyd in the shins.
“Food and two thousand,” said Boothroyd shaking his head again.
“Looks like we’re going to have an interesting time Boothie,” said Gideon bringing up his own musket. He planned to go down on one knee, when and if the shooting started.
“Start shooting,” said Kat defiantly. “I’ll be alright.”
“Food, bayonets and three hundred cartridges,” said Boothroyd.
Gideon thought for a moment. “Three hundred then, but if I or any of my musketeers get you in their sights again Boothie, we’re going to pull the trigger.”
Boothroyd grinned – a grin like that of a shark. “You wanna make the first shot a good one.”
Musketeers had to be sent back to the visitor’s centre for the goods while Boothroyd faded into the forest. Eventually the material was left in sacks in the clearing where it was picked up by Black Bands and Kat left behind in a heap, cradling her left arm with