Free Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II by Orson Scott Card Page B

Frederic? I’m always reassured to hear another promise from the King.” La Fayette took the last sip from his wineglass. “But the fact is, my dear Napoleon, we already have soldiers, too, who do nothing but sit in garrison at Fort Detroit and Fort Chicago, paying for scalps with bourbon. Such a waste of bourbon. The Reds drink it like water and it kills them.”
    “If we don’t need generals and we don’t need soldiers,” asked Bonaparte condescendingly, “what
do
you think we need to win this war?”
    Frederic couldn’t decide if he hated Bonaparte for speaking so rudely to an aristocrat, or loved him for speaking so rudely to the detestable Marquis de La Fayette.
    “To win? Ten thousand French settlers,” said La Fayette. “Match the Americans man for man, wife for wife, child for child. Make it impossible to do business in that part of the country without speaking French. Overwhelm them with numbers.”
    “No one would come to live in such wild country,” said Frederic, as he had said so many times before.
    “Offer them free land and they’d come,” said La Fayette.
    “Riff-raff,” said Frederic. “We hardly need more riff-raff.”
    Bonaparte studied La Fayette’s face a moment in silence. “The commercial value of these lands is the fur trade,” said Bonaparte quietly. “The King was very clear on that point. He wants no European settlement at all outside the forts.”
    “Then the King will lose this war,” said La Fayette cheerfully, “no matter how many generals he sends. And with that, gentlemen, I think we have done with supper.”
    La Fayette arose and left the table immediately.
    Bonaparte turned to face Frederic, who was already standing up to leave. He reached out his hand and touched Frederic’s wrist. “Stay, please,” he said. Or no, actually he merely said, “Stay,” but it felt to Frederic that he was saying
please
, that he really
wanted
Frederic to remain with him, that he loved and honored Frederic—
    But he couldn’t, no, he couldn’t, he was a commoner, and Frederic had nothing to say to him—
    “My lord de Maurepas,” murmured the Corsican corporal. Or did he say merely “Maurepas,” while Frederic simply imagined the rest? Whatever his words, his voice was rich with respect, with trust, with hope—
    So Frederic stayed.
    Bonaparte said almost nothing. Just normal pleasantries. We should work well together. We can serve the King properly. I will help you all I can.
    But to Frederic, there was so much more than words. A promise of future honor, of returning to Paris covered with glory. Victory over the Americans, and above all putting La Fayette in his place, triumphing over the democratic traitorous marquis. He and this Bonaparte could do it, together. Patience for a few years, building up an army of Reds so large that it provokes the Americans to raise an army, too; then we can defeat that American army and go home. That’s all it will take. It was almost a fever of hope and trust that filled Frederic’s heart, until—
    Until Bonaparte took his hand away from Frederic’s wrist.
    It was as if Bonaparte’s hand had been his connection to a great source of life and warmth; with the touch removed, he grew cold, weary. But still there was Bonaparte’s smile, and Frederic looked at him and remembered the feeling of promise he had had a moment before. How could he have ever thought working with Bonaparte would be anything but rewarding? The man knew his place, that was certain. Frederic would merely
use
Bonaparte’s undeniable military talents, and together they would triumph and return to France in glory—
    Bonaparte’s smile faded, and again Frederic felt a vague sense of loss.
    “Good evening,” said Bonaparte. “I will see you in the morning, sir.”
    The Corsican left the room.
    If Frederic could have seen his face, he might have recognized his own expression: it was identical to the look of love and devotion that all Bonaparte’s junior officers had