Mrs. Albin turned to Wilson for his agreement, as he had expected she would. But despite her effectiveness in hushing up the scandal associated with his frequent episodes of—possession—by demons? gods? spirits of some sort—despite her help, he didn’t think he ought to side with her any longer. Eventually she’d be contaminated by his reputation.
“I defer my vote,” Wilson said. “We haven’t yet heard all the reports, have we?” Including his own.
Tink’s only concern since the death of Daisy’s eldest daughter Lily was the invention and refining of artificial limbs. As if one of his automated prosthetic legs could somehow retroactively replace the fatally wounded one. Wilson scarcely listened to him. Alfred was marginally more interesting to a military mind: he discoursed first on improvements to the engines powering their dirigibles and the resultant higher carrying capacities, but then he switched to the much duller topic of making Kamina’s caverns more habitable.
At last it was Nenzima’s turn. Queen Josina had remained silent for all sixteen of the fortnightly Motes she’d attended—after all, she was not technically a citizen of Everfair but the favorite spouse of its closest ally. But Wilson thought Nenzima said what the queen would have said if not quite so discreet.
“King Mwenda is within sight of victory. He has lured Leopold’s soldiers high, high up the Lualaba. Soon they will be trapped in the swamplands and ripe for defeat.”
Wilson cast his mind back to Nenzima’s last speech, during the last Mote. “In Kibombo?”
Nenzima nodded assent. “Our friends from Oo-Gandah are gathered in the mountains nearby, ready for transport.”
“How many?”
“The fighters of a hundred villages. All they could spare.”
Roughly 3000 “men”—many of the Oo-Gandah warriors were female—would be waiting for dirigibles to carry them into battle. Combined with King Mwenda’s force, which at last report was double that number….“What is our latest and most reliable estimate of Leopold’s army?”
“As many as the fighters of two hundred villages are left to them.”
7000 against 9000. Better than equal odds, then—though the tyrant’s army would have more and more accurate rifles. “Their ammunition? Supply lines?” So much depended on the latter—food, medicine, and thus morale.
But the poet assured the Mote once again that their secret European supporters had let nothing get through since March two years ago. Spoiled and poisoned rations, diluted medicine and malaria, had greatly reduced Leopold’s army.
Wilson had Yoka give his report for him. Mrs. Albin no doubt thought this a tactic to avoid disasters such as the barking fits that had overcome him so many times in the past.
The truth? Often enough he simply could not recall what it was he was supposed to say.
“The Reverend Wilson has learned of a camp of child slaves nearby to Lukolela. He will take an airship there on a detour when we leave for the battlefield tomorrow.”
Wilson understood that while in the chicken blood-induced trance he had said something of the sort. He, or the spirit temporarily inhabiting him. Lukolela. That would probably be found to be the holding place of the captive spy’s hostage. The statements he’d made earlier under a similar influence had all proved helpful and correct.
Mrs. Albin was intrigued. “Is Lukolela a large camp? How many of these poor creatures can we rescue?”
“We’re not sure,” said Yoka. “Perhaps twenty-five. Perhaps more. But they will need food, bandages, replacement hands—you understand.”
“But first, Bibles! Yes! I insist! We must procure more, one for each—and picture books, too, telling the story of creation—”
“They can share those belonging to others,” Daisy said firmly.
The vote went predictably except for his own choice. Not that that would have changed the outcome: only her godson and her husband sided with Mrs. Albin. Wilson ought also to have favored buying religious texts over more grossly physical supplies. That he’d chosen otherwise would be viewed as treachery on his part. Mrs. Albin awarded him a sour look. But by morning he was able to forget it.
Alfred and Chester and their construction crew had been busy. Four new craft were ready to fly north to join Mbuza, the first vessel of Everfair’s ever-expanding fleet. Zi Ru and Fu Hao were unavailable, attached to occupying garrisons at Mbandaka and Kikwit. But Boadicea and Brigid were just as big, and the untested new dirigibles, Kalala and aMileng, were supposed to be much lighter, much faster. New materials, Alfred explained. One more of similar design, the Phillis Wheatley, was scheduled for production later this year. At the moment too many colonists lodged inside, but during the dry season the space of the largest cavern would be free for the necessary work.
Rain hazed the relatively cool air. Dawn had always been his favorite time of day. Wilson walked out along the wooden dock to Kalala with no worry that he might slip and fall dozens of feet to the steep, rocky mountainside below. There were no handrails to hold, but the bark had been left on the logs out of which the docks were built. That kept them from becoming too slick.
The prisoner was already aboard. He’d spent the night beneath one of the airship’s storage shelves, safely sedated by juice extracted from the roots of an herb known to the Bah-Sangah. Yoka showed Wilson the supply he carried in a horn in case another dose was needed before they arrived.
Kalala’s capacity was about 80 adults. Wilson had 30 fighters board, bringing their jumpsheets with them. Typically, slave camps were guarded by no more than six or seven soldiers. So it was when they arrived at Lukolela after a journey of a little over twelve hours.
Night was about to fall. Bare red dirt passed beneath Kalala’s gondola, darkened to the color of an old wound by the sun’s absence. A hut hove into view—that would be the overseer’s quarters. Just past it a smoldering fire fought against the rain. By its fitful light, more than by that of the failing day, Wilson saw a huddled group of children. He counted thirty. Two guards with guns stood over them. There’d been two more by the hut. That left another two or three out of sight, most likely patrolling the clearing’s perimeter.
Bombs could provide a distraction, but Leopold’s thugs had become more wary as Everfair and King Mwenda’s warriors increased their raids. At Bwasa, according to Loyiki, the soldiers had for the first time shot and killed their slaves before fleeing the attack. That was almost two years ago. Since then, he had been developing different tactics.
They circled back around and all but ten fighters jumped, their falls slowed by their rubber-coated barkcloth jumpsheets. Of course the guards hit some with their rifles. Venting gas, Kalala came lower. The ten fighters remaining aboard had a harder time aiming than those thugs on the ground, but only four targets. No, five: the overseer had come out of his hut. He was armed, too, but Yoka downed him neatly. The way he worked his shotgun’s action with the fake hand, you’d never know the man ever had a real one.
Full night now. Gunfire came from the woods, but it was sporadic. Wilson ordered Kalala lower, but kept the bonfire in the distance. Fighters shepherded the pitifully thin children toward the dirigible’s rope-and-wood ladders. Still in partial shackles—the chains linking them had been struck off—no time for more—they had difficulty climbing up. Wilson leaned forward to help and felt a sudden heat under his arm.