40
The main problem was wood. Weeds could be pulled, vegetation cut, debris cleared away. But many roofs were gone or rotten to the brink of collapse and the wooden floors between the storeys were worse.
Then there was food. Many houses had the remains of vegetable gardens, now overgrown and interspersed with brambles and vines. They salvaged what they could to supplement their supplies, but the meat was half gone after breakfast. Unless they wanted to subsist on handfuls of roots, vegetables, fruit and berries, they would need to hunt, and soon.
There were three carpenters from Pelt – a husband, wife and their son who had made furniture and boarding from the local pinewood in the mountains. Four dwarves, two male and two female, also had some woodworking skills, though theirs was limited to carving gunstocks and bows. Still, it was more than enough to begin restoring the houses nearby, and teach unskilled colonists the rudiments. They just needed the raw materials.
When midday approached, Fletcher finally finished dividing the tasks, having separated the colonists into groups that would focus on minding the animals, sanitising the well, replanting the gardens and the hard work of removing the weeds and debris from the town. Berdon and Millo were sent to salvage what tools they could from the carpenters and blacksmiths, scrubbing them free of rust with the help of juice from wild limes and steel wool from their supplies.
Fletcher gathered his army the next day, now well fed and rested, and led them into the green-yellow savannah of tall grasses, shrubs and tree copses. This far south the weather was warm, even in early spring, so the sun was high and hot as they waded through the grasses and on to the Raleighshire plains. They walked fully armed, with bandoliers of musket cartridges strung across their chests and their muskets and poleaxes slung crosswise on their backs.
‘I want your muskets at the ready,’ Fletcher ordered. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for anything for our cooking pot tonight.’
Sir Caulder sidled up to him.
‘Their muskets aren’t loaded yet,’ he whispered. ‘They don’t know how.’
‘So teach them,’ Fletcher said.
‘I’m an old warrior,’ Sir Caulder replied, looking over his shoulder at the waiting soldiers. ‘The guns came after my time.’
‘Kobe,’ Fletcher called. The boy jogged over, wiping his brow.
‘What can I do for you, Lord Raleigh?’ Kobe asked.
‘You used to be a private, right? Can you load a musket?’
‘It’s been a few years, but … more or less.’
‘Show them how it’s done,’ Fletcher ordered.
‘Aye, sir.’
Fletcher watched as Kobe returned to the others and unslung his musket. The boy was hesitant, but the motions he went through looked right to Fletcher, if loading a musket was anything like loading a pistol.
‘We need to teach them the proper techniques,’ Fletcher said, squinting in the midday sun. ‘Firing lines, formations, fast loading, aiming. In the army they go through basic training, but this lot …’
‘Didn’t they teach you that in Vocans?’ Sir Caulder asked.
‘No. I missed my second year,’ Fletcher said, remembering the books on strategy and tactics that had been sitting on the library shelves while he studied demonology and spellcraft. ‘Kobe probably knows more about musketry than I do.’
‘I can’t help you there. But give me a few weeks with them and they’ll be better with those poleaxes than any warrior.’
‘Let’s hope.’
Fletcher sighed and looked out over the savannah. There was a large copse of trees nearby, the trunks tall and straight, the tops capped with a wide umbrella of branches. Shade.
‘We’ll be needing timber soon enough,’ Fletcher said, motioning at the trees with his chin. ‘You know much about trees?’
‘Only what your grandfather told me,’ Sir Caulder said, looking at the copse with a rueful smile. ‘He planted those when he was your age – wanted a forest for his descendants to play in. Makes me feel my age – I remember when they were nought but saplings.’
The beginnings of an idea began to form in Fletcher’s mind. He turned.
‘Men, follow me,’ Fletcher said loudly.
A startled elf fired his half-loaded musket, his finger tightening involuntarily on the trigger. There was a bang, the stench of brimstone, and a ramrod spun through the air to land in the grassland a dozen feet away. Fletcher shook his head in disappointment.
‘Let’s find some shade,’ he said, turning his back on them and making his way to the trees.
They filed in behind him, sweaty and frustrated. Without waiting to be dismissed, most of the soldiers collapsed on to the ground to relax in the cool. Fletcher didn’t have the heart to reprimand them. Or was it fear that made him hesitate?
There were a hundred trees or so in the copse, all as tall as three men standing on each other’s shoulders. Many had termite nests growing around the base, though the trees looked unharmed by the insects’ ministrations.
Round fruit littered the ground, having fallen from the tree branches above. They looked like limes, with a yellow-green rind on the outside. Sir Caulder picked one up from the ground and split it open on the edge of his sword.
‘Jackalberries,’ he said, as the tart citrus smell filled Fletcher’s nostrils. ‘Try it. They’re not quite ripe yet, but you’ll rarely manage to find one that’s purpled – the animals get to them first. Jackals in particular, hence the name.’
Fletcher bit into it, the juices bursting in his mouth like sweetened lemon juice. It was delicious, and reminded him of persimmon.
‘Well, they’ll add to our meagre supplies, even if we don’t catch anything to eat tonight,’ Fletcher said, his mouth half full.
He peered into the grasslands. There were antelope herds in the distance, but the shimmer of a heat haze made it difficult to gauge the distance.
‘You can make flour from them once they’re dried and ground – not to mention a pretty decent brandy,’ Sir Caulder said wistfully, biting into one himself. ‘And don’t spit out the seeds, you can eat them too.’
Surprised, Fletcher crunched down on the seeds he had been holding between his teeth and found them to have a pleasant, nutty taste, not unlike almonds.
‘What about the wood itself?’ Fletcher asked, skewering a jackalberry on his khopesh and tossing it to one of the soldiers. The man pulled it apart, then groaned with delight as he bit into it, setting off a chain reaction as the recruits picked their own fruit from the ground.
‘Well, that’s the best part,’ Sir Caulder said, grinning. ‘Your grandfather picked these because of their fruit, but there’s something else that’s special about them. They’re termite proof.’
He pointed to the red humps of the insect mounds growing around the tree bases.
‘They’ve got a special relationship, termites and these trees. Their roots protect their homes, so the termites leave them alone in exchange. Even when you cut them down, the termites won’t touch the wood.’
Fletcher smiled and ran his hand along the rough-grooved bark of the nearest tree. He had found a source of timber.
‘So that’s what they’re called then, jackalberry trees?’ Fletcher asked. ‘I can’t say I’ve heard of them.’
‘No, they’ve another name,’ Sir Caulder said, a smile playing across his lips. ‘Most people call them ebony trees.’