ILONA ANDREWS
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Magic Tides
Copyright © 2023 by Ilona Andrews Ebook ISBN: 9781641972512
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Acknowledgments Also by Ilona Andrews About the Author
CONTENTS
Kate
Ms. Vigue adjusted her bright red glasses and peered at me from her perch on the sofa in our second living room. We were in the middle of renovations, and the second living room was one of the four functional rooms in the entire place.
Ms. Vigue was in her early fifties, with lightly tanned skin and ash-blond hair cropped short and brushed back from her face. Her eyes behind the lenses were either gray or pale blue. She wore a silky green blouse with a light gray skirt and looked put together enough to attend a business brunch.
I wore a pair of old shorts and a paint-stained tank top over a sports bra, because I had been painting one of the spare bedrooms when Ms. Vigue arrived unannounced. I’d pulled my brown hair into a bun and pinned it in place with an old bandana to minimize the paint exposure, and since that side of the house had neither fans nor any other way of cooling, I smelled like a lumberjack after a long day at work. Making a great first impression on a school administrator—check.
We smiled at each other. Ms. Vigue was doing her best to appear approachable, while I did my best to appear harmless. We were both lying as hard as we could.
Making small talk was not among my few virtues. “I was under the impression that we were already done with admissions. You sent us the acceptance letter.”
Which was part of the reason we moved here and got stuck in renovation hell.
“You are correct.” Ms. Vigue offered me a quick, humorless smile. “Our school is unique.”
You could say that again. It was so unique, it cost an arm and a leg. We jumped through two months’ worth of hoops and paperwork just for the privilege of an interview, and then spent another month waiting for their decision. They came highly recommended, but I was done with their nonsense.
“We like to think of our student body as being truly representative of the diverse world we live in.”
Ms. Vigue slid into her speech mode. It probably worked wonders on trustees and alumni during their fundraising.
“It’s a special place where students of different backgrounds come together. This interview will help us to better understand your child’s needs and enable us to ensure their safety and help them thrive in our vibrant community.”
Aha. This wasn’t a get-to-know-you visit. This was a threat assessment. We already went through that during admissions. Why was she yanking our chain again?
I smiled. Curran and I had agreed to maintain a low profile after moving. Think normal suburban thoughts. How hard could this be, right? We were just a small family renovating our new home.
“Of course, my husband and I will answer any reasonable questions. Please feel free to ask.”
She took out a leather folder, unzipped it, and checked the contents. “You’ve been recommended by one of our patrons. How do you know Dr. Cole?”
Telling her that Doolittle had patched me up far too many times to count would just derail the conversation. “He was our family doctor. He delivered Conlan and treated him frequently over the years. We consider him a family friend.”
Ms. Vigue nodded and made a note in her folder. “Your son’s assessment scores are quite remarkable.”
Was this a compliment? If I took it as a compliment, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. “Thank you.”
“Our school’s reputation ensures that we get the most outstanding applicants. Your son will be among his intellectual peers.”
That would be a tall order, but I didn’t need him to find his intellectual equals. I just needed him to learn to act like a person and interact with other children without the weight of his identity dragging him down.
“It’s my understanding that your child is a shapeshifter.”
Here we go. “Yes.”
“What is the nature of his beast?”
I smiled even sweeter. “That’s a highly illegal question, Ms. Vigue. The nature of one’s beast is confidential and cannot be used as basis for discrimination by any educational institution in this country.”
I knew this because my husband had dumped massive amounts of money and effort into lobbying for those laws to be passed before we had met.
Ms. Vigue pushed her glasses up her nose with her middle finger.
Aha. Screw you too. “Would you like me to cite the relevant federal and state statutes protecting shapeshifter rights, or can we skip the formalities?”
“Of course, we cannot compel you to release that information. However…”
“Your next words will determine what I tell Dr. Cole tonight when he calls to check how we are settling in. And he will call. He is very thoughtful and thorough. I’m sure he and his seven thousand associates will take a dim view of your school attempting to discriminate against a shapeshifter child.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”
You have no idea. “I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Vigue. Did you have any other questions?”
“I will come straight to the point.”
“I wish you would.”
“Can you guarantee that your child will not snap and attack his classmates?”
“Absolutely. He is very much like his father. It’s important to him that his resorting to violence is viewed as a deliberate choice rather than a loss of control on his part.”
She blinked at me.
No matter how much social outreach shapeshifters did, other humans never forgot that each one of them was a potential spree killer-in-waiting. I had expected better from a person who worked with children.
“Since we’ve decided to be blunt, if my child decides to go on a rampage, the combined security of your school won’t be able to stop him. If something alarming happens, which it won’t, you will call us, and either I or his father will come and take care of it.”
“Are you suggesting that we make no effort to contain him?”
“Conlan won’t attack you if you don’t present a threat. Your best strategy is to sit still and look down. Don’t run because he will chase you, and he is very fast. Cringing and urinating on yourself will also remove you from his target list.”
She blinked again.
“As I said, this is highly unlikely. Your vibrant student body will be perfectly safe. Now I have a question for you. Did the school send you here or did you take it upon yourself to conduct this interview?”
“As Vice Dean of Students…”
Just as I thought. She came on her own. I gave her my pretty smile. Ms. Vigue went silent mid-word.
Normal was overrated anyway.
“I’m so glad we had this chat, Ms. Vigue. Would you like some iced tea for the road?”
Three minutes later, I stood in the doorway to the main building and watched her get into her Chevy Malibu and roll down the road heading west. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air smelled like sea and sun. It should’ve been calming, but it wasn’t.
The past few days brought one minor calamity after another, starting with the floor in the utility room caving in and getting worse from there. Ms. Vigue’s visit was just a rotten cherry on top of this cake of woe.
My husband, my son, and I had toured the school, and all three of us liked the teachers and what they were teaching. We had liked the administrative staff for the most part as well. The same couldn’t
be said about the Office of the Dean of Students. I had met three members of it so far, including Ms. Vigue, and every one of them tried my patience. I wouldn’t have had a problem reassuring them if they had made the slightest effort to communicate with us on equal terms.
I needed to vent some steam in the worst way.
My son emerged from behind the wall with an unfamiliar boy in tow. Conlan was large for his age, with my dark hair and his father’s gray eyes. The boy next to him was about the same size but probably a year or two older, maybe 9 or 10. Thin, dark haired, with bronze skin and brown eyes, he seemed like he wasn’t sure what would happen next. A bit jumpy.
Conlan stopped in front of me. “Hi, Mom. This is Jason. He is Paul’s nephew.”
Paul Barnhill was our general contractor. Jason gave me a hesitant wave.
“Can we have some sandwiches?” Conlan asked.
When it came to making friends, my son took his cues from his father. Food first. And he knew where the fridge was and had been making his own sandwiches since he was 2 years old.
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you. Jason’s brother was kidnapped.”
Ah. So, it wasn’t about the sandwiches.
Conlan turned to Jason. “Come on.”
The two of them went inside. Grendel, our mutant black poodle, trotted out from behind the wall, gave me a lick on the leg in passing, depositing a small army of foul-smelling bacteria on my thigh, and bounded after them.
Food had a particular significance to shapeshifters. They didn’t share it with just anyone. Conlan brought Jason to me, made sure I saw Jason’s face, made sure that I knew he was about to make him a sandwich, and then informed me that Jason had a problem. A problem I now wanted to know more about, because Jason wasn’t some abstract child my son casually knew but someone he accepted and wanted to share a meal with.
“Kidnapped” could mean a lot of things to a 9-year-old boy. The first night after we moved in, a half-naked Conlan informed me that Grendel had been kidnapped by pirates. I grabbed my sword and ran to the shoreline, to find Grendel in a boat tied to a beached tree, floating 5 feet away from shore and barking his head off, while a Jolly Roger my son drew with wall primer on his black T-shirt flew overhead. But we lived in unsafe times. Real kidnappings weren’t uncommon, especially if the victim was, in Ms. Vigue’s words, “vibrant” enough.
The fort around me vanished, and for a painful second I was sprinting down the street, ice-cold from fear, desperately searching the ruins around me for the spark of baby Conlan’s magic and wishing with every fiber of my being that I would find him before his would-be kidnappers did.
I sighed and went to look for Paul.
FINDING PAUL TOOK a few minutes because our new house was unusually large.
I circled the third stack of lumber in the middle of the courtyard. Around me the walls of Fort Kure loomed against the sunshine, blocking the view of the beach. Local legend said that some harebrained millionaire came to view historic Fort Fisher and was rather underwhelmed, because only a small portion of the original defense installation remained. He conceived Fort Kure as a “companion attraction” to the historic landmark, a sea stronghold on steroids that would give the tourists all the citadel thrills Fort Fisher was missing. For unknown reasons, the millionaire had bailed when the construction was 2/3 complete.
Once finished, Fort Kure would become an ultra-secure dwelling, a hybrid offspring of a medieval castle and a modern citadel. My husband took one look at the absurdly thick stone walls, the tower, and the Atlantic spreading as far as the eye could see and fell in love. His gray eyes had gotten this slightly deranged light, and he
had taken my hands in his and said, “Baby, we would be crazy to not do this.”
I said yes because I loved him. And because we needed to get out of Atlanta, where everyone knew who we were and what we were capable of. If we stayed there, Conlan would never experience anything resembling a normal childhood. Okay, so “normal” was a stretch, but at least here he would be treated as just another shapeshifter kid, not the son of a former Pack leader, a wonder-child capable of miraculous things. Bottom line, we’d needed a secure base, so we bought Fort Kure at a steep discount and proceeded to sink loads of money into it. The walls were done, so was the front gate, and the rest of the house inside was coming along. Slowly. Very slowly. If everything stayed on schedule, it might be habitable by fall.
I found Paul by the gift shop, which we planned to convert into a stable. He was talking to a man I didn’t recognize, and he seemed upset. Paul didn’t get upset. He was an optimistic guy who looked at a collapsed wall with an attitude of “I can fix it” and frequently did. The man he was talking to was about ten years older than Paul, which put him in his late forties. They had to be related—both had the same bronze skin, dark curly hair, and aquiline noses.
“…Can’t.”
“I know,” the man said.
“If I give you that money, I can’t make payroll. The work’s already done. I must run the payroll. I can’t ask my people to work for free.”
“I know,” the man said again. There was a brittle finality to his voice. He had resigned himself to “no” but was too desperate to not try.
Paul dragged his hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve still got Dad’s truck.” He dug into his pocket and pulled a keyring out. “I never got around to fixing it. Take it, sell it for parts. It won’t bring much, but at least it’s something…”
Paul saw me. His mouth clicked shut.
“Hello,” I said. “I’ve met Jason. He says your nephew was kidnapped.”
The two men stared at me.
“This is my brother, Thomas,” Paul said finally. “Someone took his son. We’re trying to scrape together enough money to try to buy him back.”
“Do you know who took him?”
“Yes,” Thomas said.
I waited. Paul nudged him.
“The Red Horn Nation,” Thomas said finally.
“Who are they?”
“A local gang,” Paul said. “They control a lot of South Wilmington. Mostly they deal in drugs, but they steal kids too.”
“How big are they?”
Paul frowned. “Fifty people? Maybe more.”
A nice round number. “Are they holding him for ransom?”
“No,” Thomas said.
“Have you tried the cops?”
“These are dangerous people,” Thomas said. “The cops won’t bother them unless there is evidence. I don’t have evidence.”
“Then how do you know who took him?”
“There were witnesses.”
And if those witnesses went to the police, bad things would happen to them. Right.
“How old is your son, and when did they take him?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
“Darin is 16,” Paul said. “They took him five days ago. Why is the age important?”
“Because little kids are usually sold to sexual predators or to families who want a child. Teenagers are sold to someone who will keep them confined. Transporting them is risky.”
Darin was probably still in the city.
“You were gathering money, so you know where they are,” I told Thomas.
He nodded. “They have a house.”
“Good.” I pulled the rag off my head. “Wait here. I’m going to change, and we’ll go and get your son back.”
“You don’t understand,” Thomas said. “They are…”
“Bad people. You’ve told me.”
The Barnhill brothers looked skeptical. It was probably my winning ensemble of stained tank top and torn shorts.
My husband walked out of the north tower and jogged over to us. He was almost six feet tall, with blond hair and gray eyes, and he was built like a champion grappler in his prime. The two men instinctively stepped aside to make room for him.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I told him.
“What’s going on?”
“Paul’s nephew has been kidnapped by a local gang. About 50 people. I’m going to get him back.”
Curran grinned at me. “Will you be home in time for dinner?”
Paul and Thomas looked at him like he had lost his mind.
“Naah. Eat without me.” I stretched my shoulders a bit, gave him a quick hug, and headed to our bedroom.
“Red Horn kills people,” Thomas said behind my back. “Your wife…”
“Will enjoy the exercise,” my husband said. “You know what they say. Happy wife, happy life.”
Five minutes later I walked out wearing my work clothes: a pair of jeans loose enough to kick someone taller than me in the face, a gray T-shirt, and a pair of soft boots. I wore a utility belt on my waist and a sword sheath on my back. The handle of my sword protruded over my shoulder. I’d braided my hair, and there were two throwing knives and a Bowie in the sheath on my thigh.
I gave Curran a quick hug.
“Don’t forget,” he said.
“Low profile. I remember.” I turned to Thomas. “Let’s go.”
Thomas looked at his brother. Paul spread his arms and shrugged. Thomas looked at him, looked at me, and fell in step.
“Did you bring a car?”
“I rode a horse.”
“Good. I like horses best.” They always worked. The world skipped a beat. Technology coughed and died, and magic flooded us in an invisible wave. Colors grew a little brighter,
sounds became a little louder, and things came into sharper focus. For as long as the magic held, guns would not fire, electric bulbs would remain dark, and monsters would spawn in the darkness. I looked up at the horizon.
“I still think this is a terrible idea, Mrs…”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Like Curran said, I need the exercise. And, please, call me Kate.”
Curran
AS I WATCHED my wife ride away, I knew our life of quiet anonymity here was over. Despite her promises to the contrary, whatever she did would be loud and messy. It was time to find my son.
“What do you think she’s going to do?” Paul asked.
“She will find the hornet’s nest and set it on fire. When the angry hornets fly out, she’ll poke them with her sword.”
“You don’t seem that worried,” Paul said.
“I’m not. She’s almost as good as she thinks she is. Don’t tell her I said that. Seriously.”
We watched Kate and Thomas riding away some more.
“Why Red Horn?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Paul shrugged. “Mess with the bull, get the horns? They are a vicious bunch, I can tell you that.”
They’d have to be to steal a child.
“Okay. Umm,” he hesitated.
“What is it?”
“My family, we don’t have a lot of money…” I waited and said nothing.
“I can give you a good deal on the renovation, maybe.”
“No need. We’ve already agreed on a fair price for this.” I waved my arm to indicate my fortress in progress. “That’s settled.”
“Well, is there anything we can do?”
I locked eyes with him and put a little bit of weight into my stare.
“Yes. You can go and get your family and bring them here. Paul, listen carefully. When I say family, I mean everybody. Your family. Thomas’ family. Close friends, people you care about. People who could be hurt or threatened to get at you. Do you understand?”
He almost staggered back. I may have overdone it a bit, but this was important.
“Yes. I can do that.”
“Good. Go and do it now. I’ll keep Jason here. He can help my son and I prepare.”
“For what?” he asked.
“A siege.”
“A what?”
“Paul, we don’t have a lot of time. Kate is going to do what she does. She’s going to ask some very dangerous people some very pointed questions about who took your nephew and why. People will get hurt; some may die. Their friends will want revenge. They will look for her. And you. And your family. If you and yours are here, I can keep everybody safe. Please go and get them. Now.”
He left without any more questions. Now I needed to find Conlan. We had a lot of work to do, and I needed to explain some things.
The wind was blowing in from the sea. I followed his scent to a rope tied to a beached tree on the shore. At the other end of the rope, about forty feet out, was a “boat” my son had found and repaired.
Grendel turned at my approach, saw my face, and lay down in the boat with only his eyes visible. Grendel was a smarter-thanaverage dog.
The boys’ backs were turned to me, as they were staring out to sea and the adventures that waited there. I pulled the rope. Hard.
The boat rocketed back to land.
Conlan hit the sand before it did, landing in a crouch.
“Wow,” Jason exclaimed. “Your dad is strong!”
“And quiet,” Conlan said. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“I didn’t want you to know. We can talk while you clear the lumber in front of the fort.”
“Are you in trouble? I didn’t want to get you in trouble.” Jason turned to me. “I can go home, Mr. Lennart.”
I didn’t believe in lying to children.
“Nobody is in trouble, Jason. You’re staying here. My wife is going to find your brother. The people who took him won’t like it, and they’ll come back here tonight looking to even the score.”
A golden light rolled over Conlan’s irises.
“Yes, we’ll get to that,” I told him. “But if we’re having guests, even uninvited ones, we need to tidy up the place. The space in front of the wall is a mess.”
“We’re cleaning up for the bad people?” Jason asked.
Jason was young and had been through a lot recently, so I couldn’t blame him if he was having trouble keeping up. That was okay—my son understood me just fine.
“He means that there are plenty of places for the bad people to hide behind. He wants to see them sneaking up on us.”
Understanding dawned on Jason’s face. “My family…”
“Will be safe behind the walls. Your father is fetching them back here. Everything will be alright. Meanwhile, you can help us get ready.”
Kate
When humans had prophesized about the Apocalypse, we had always expected it would be fast. Oh, there would be war and natural disasters and other preliminaries that might take their time, but the actual moment when the world ended would be swift. A rain of fire, a nuclear mushroom cloud, a meteor, a catastrophic volcanic eruption… And when magic hit us for the first time, it had delivered exactly what we anticipated.
Planes fell out of the sky. Electricity shorted out. Guns stopped working. Ordinary, normal humans turned into monsters or started shooting lightning from their fingertips. Ravenous mythical creatures spawned out of thin air. For three days the magic had raged, and then it vanished, leaving a mountain of casualties in its wake. Just as the world reeled and tried to pick up the pieces, the magic came again, and the slow crawl of the Apocalypse began.
We called that first magical tsunami the Shift, and everything after post-Shift. Magic flooded our world in waves, without warning, smothering technology, gradually chewing skyscrapers into dust, and slowly but surely changing the very fabric of our existence. Landscape, climate, flora, fauna, people—nothing was left untouched. Nobody could predict how long the waves lasted or how intense they would be. Over the past half a century, we learned to live with it.
Wilmington had fared better than most cities. Certainly, better than Atlanta where we came from. For one, it was a century and change older. Being older helped. And it wasn’t nearly as built up as Atlanta, where the once-glistening office towers and high-rises lay in
ruins. Magic had taken a solid bite out of the city but didn’t quite reduce it to rubble.
Wilmington hadn’t escaped unscathed. Some of the taller buildings had fallen. The Cape Fear Memorial Bridge was no more. It had collapsed in that first magic wave. The Murchison Building had slowly turned to dust until it finally imploded. The spire of the First Baptist Church, once the tallest point of the city, had broken off one day and crashed onto the street, killing several people. But the main damage had been done by floods.
The sea level had risen, partially due to pre-Shift global warming and partially due to magic issues nobody fully understood. Now parts of the city looked like Venice with bridges, sometimes solid, sometimes cobbled together with whatever was handy at the time, spawning canals, ponds, and marshes.
Thomas and I rode across one of those bridges now, the hoofbeats of our mounts thudding on the worn wood. He rode an old bay mare. I rode Cuddles. When Thomas first saw Cuddles, he gave her a side-eye. She stood ten feet tall, including the two-foot ears, and was splattered with random spots of black and white. She was also a donkey, a mammoth jenny, to be exact.
Horses had their advantages, but most of them spooked easily. I once rode Cuddles across a rickety bridge infested with magical snakes, and she stomped right over the hissing serpents like they weren’t even there and then pranced when we reached the solid ground.
Unfortunately, Cuddles failed to reassure Thomas of my badassness. Getting information out of him was like pulling teeth. He didn’t trust me at all, and as he rode next to me, his entire body communicated that he thought coming on this adventure with me was a very bad idea.
I’d met Thomas’ type before. He kept things in. In the chaos of the magic and tech mad dance, Thomas was a calm rock on which his family could always rely. He handled his problems on his own, without any fanfare. Except now his son was taken, and he couldn’t solve this problem on his own. A lot of people would be frantic, with their emotions spilling over, but Thomas went even deeper inward,
all the way down. He was a hair above catatonic. Sooner or later, he would explode. It would be better if that happened sooner, before we got to where we were going.
I had run across all sorts of human scum, but traffickers were at the very top of my shit list.
“How did it happen?”
“They came in a car and took him off the street,” Thomas said.
“What was he doing at the time?”
“He was playing soccer with his friends.”
“And they only took him? Not any of his friends?”
Thomas nodded.
This smelled like a targeted grab.
“Is Darin special in any way?”
“No.”
“Does he have any enemies?”
“No.”
“Is he handsome? Is anybody obsessed with him?”
“No.”
“Does he have any magic?”
There was a small pause before Thomas answered. “No.”
Right. We would have to work on the trust bit.
“Have you tried the Order?” I asked.
Thomas sighed.
The Order of Merciful Aid was a knight order that functioned as a private law enforcement organization. They took petitions from the public and charged on a sliding scale. Their services were reasonable. Their definition of “aid,” not so much. Their definition of “human” was also rather narrow.
“We have a small chapter in Wilmington,” Thomas said. “There are only three knights. They are busy.”
True, but the kidnapping of a child would be a priority even for the overworked knights. There was something about Darin that Thomas wanted to keep hidden. Pushing him about it would get me nowhere.
That was fine. The day was still young.
“What kind of person is Darin?”
Thomas turned and looked at me as if I’d punched him.
“What sort of kid is he?” I asked.
“You want to know what kind of person my son is? I’ll tell you. Jason has a friend who comes down here during the summer to visit his grandma and grandpa. Last summer they went down to the beach after a storm. Jason told him not to go into the water, but the boy thought he was a good swimmer and the boy’s grandfather said it was fine as long as they didn’t go out too far.”
That did not sound good.
“The boy got caught by a riptide, and it pulled him out into the ocean. Jason ran to get Darin and by the time they made it back to the beach, you couldn’t even see him anymore. Nothing but ocean. Darin went in after him. Somehow, he found the boy. They washed up three miles down the shore in the marsh, and then Darin carried that exhausted child all the way home through the marsh filled with leeches and God knows what. That’s the kind of person my son is.”
Thomas looked me straight in the eye. “But even if he was a lazy, terrible kid, I would still be out here, looking for him, because he is my son. My child. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Maybe it’s a power trip for you, maybe you can actually help. But if you can’t, don’t waste my time. Don’t waste my son’s time, because I don’t know how much he has left.”
Curran
MY EIGHT-YEAR-OLD SON hoisted an entire pallet of lumber with a look that asked if it was enough.
Beside him, Jason looked slightly shocked. He was gamely struggling with smaller individual boards.
“Yes, very impressive. Carry it inside the big gate and then meet out here by the doors. Jason, you’re doing fine. I’m just going to borrow Conlan for a minute.”
Conlan deposited his burden, trotted back, and stood a respectful distance from me. Waiting. He was my son, but he was also a shapeshifter standing before his alpha.
“Well?”
“Jason is my friend, and his brother was taken. Right off the street. Nobody will help them. Everybody is afraid of those guys.”
“Did you ask your mother to find him?”
He hesitated. “Not exactly.”
“No. But you knew if you brought Jason to her and mentioned it, she would drop what she was doing and go fix it.”
“Yes.”
“You manipulated her. I wonder where you learned that?”
Conlan’s face turned slightly defiant. “He likes you. He says you’re powerful.”
“I’m sure he does. Your grandfather says a lot of things.”
“He’s very old. He knows about a lot of things. He was a king.”
“He was that.”
“He wanted Mom to be a queen, to rule with him.”
No, he didn’t. “Do you think he means it?”
Conlan seemed to think it over. “No. He wouldn’t share his power. Ever. With anyone.”
“Good. That’s the most important thing to understand about him.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Your grandfather will never sacrifice anything for your sake. Your mother is his only living child. All the rest, and there were many, are long dead.”
“He says he loved them all.”
“I’m sure he did in his way. At least until he didn’t anymore. Then, he destroyed them.”
“Except for Mom.”
“Not for a lack of trying,” I told him. “Your mom is not like the others. She survived, and she beat him.”
“Is she stronger? Is that why she beat him?”
“Your mother is very strong, but that’s not why she won. She beat him because she’s not like him. He didn’t raise her. As young as
you are, you’ve spent more time with him than she ever did.”
He squinted at me. “That’s what this is about? You don’t like me visiting him.”
“Yes and no. No, I don’t like it, but I don’t have to. He’s your grandfather. His blood runs through your veins. I can’t change that. Learn from him, listen to his stories, but don’t ever buy into his bullshit.”
“Dad!”
“Have I ever forbidden you to see him?”
“No, but…”
Roland was a wound that wouldn’t heal. Trying to keep Conlan away from him would only backfire. The last thing we needed was for our son to discover his magical grandfather when he was 25, because then Roland would be a forbidden secret we had hidden from him. No, we let him visit, and when he came back spouting dangerous nonsense, we dealt with it right then and there. As I was about to do now.
“Yes, Conlan, he was great. An immortal god king who wanted to rule everyone, everywhere and give them all a better life as long as it was on his terms and his alone. Look where that got him. Next time you see him, when he tells you how special you are and how much he loves you, and I know he means every word, really think about where he is now and how he got there. That’s all I ask.”
“I will. But you were like him.”
“How?”
“You were the Beast Lord. You were in charge of everyone like us. You were a king.”
“No, I was a pack leader.”
Conlan’s eyes flashed gold again. “How is that different? People did what you told them to do.”
“I also had to do things I didn’t want to do. I was responsible for other people’s lives and safety. When they died, it was on me. I never wanted the power or the burden of it. Look at Jason.”
A couple dozen yards away Jason dropped a board, struggled to pick it up, and finally ended up dragging it toward the gates.
“How good a fighter is he?”
Conlan opened his mouth, looked at Jason, and closed it again.
“Tonight, his family will come here. They are all ordinary humans like him. They don’t have our speed, our strength, or our regeneration. People, regular people, are fragile. The most important thing tonight won’t be hurting the bad guys. It will be keeping the bad guys from hurting the people under our protection. If we aren’t careful, Jason may die tonight.”
My son took a step back. “I’ll protect Jason! I’ll protect all of them.”
“There are times when no matter how powerful you are, you aren’t enough. You can’t be everywhere at once. You have to assume that people will die because of your orders and actions and accept responsibility for it. This is what being a leader means. Your grandfather was too weak to carry that burden. This is how he started on the path that made him an abomination, a man who murdered his children, betrayed his sister, turned your uncle into a butcher, and destroyed the people he was supposed to lead and serve. He had also wanted to protect everyone, and when he couldn’t, it broke him.”
Conlan stared at me.
I gave him the alpha stare until he lowered his gaze.
“Do you think your mother doesn’t know that you manipulated her?”
“She knows,” he said quietly. Guilt in his voice. Good.
“She loves you very much, Conlan. Don’t abuse that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next time when you need help, you will state your request clearly and honestly. In a very short time, some very bad people will be coming here to harm Jason and his family. And us. I will tell you where to stand and what to do, and you will stand where I told you and do it until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?”
He answered with his eyes still glued to ground, “I understand.”
“Good, son. Get to work.”
Kate
THE RED HORN Nation had their HQ in Lincoln Forest. The first few magic waves had reduced the population at a catastrophic rate, and the survivors quickly figured out that the old rule of safety in numbers still applied. Like many cities, Wilmington had fractured into dense clumps, with neighborhoods bundling together and fortifying, and Lincoln Forest sat right in the middle of everything, near Midtown.
It was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, with brick ranch houses set back on large lots. The surrounding neighborhoods of Forest Hills cushioned it from every side, so Lincoln Forest didn’t bother with a communal defensive wall, leaving fortifications to individual homeowners.
I surveyed the large ranch house. It sat a good distance from the street at the end of a longish driveway. Magic hated high tech buildings, but it loved trees, and the two oaks flanking the driveway looked like they had been growing there for half a millennium, their massive crowns spreading all the way over the street. Three cars waited by the garage, a black Ford truck and a couple of sedans with bloated hoods, modified to run during the magic waves. Modifications like that were expensive. The stolen kid trade must’ve been profitable.
No defenses, except for the usual bars on the windows and a solid door. No wards that I could feel. Nothing out of the ordinary except for a cow’s horn, dipped in bright red paint and stuck onto a metal stick by the driveway, announcing the house’s ownership.
“Why Red Horn? Why not Red Blade or something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said.
I dismounted. There was no need to tie Cuddles. She wouldn’t go anywhere.
“I know that you think you are tough,” Thomas said. “But these people, they are violent. Very violent.”
“Do you have a picture of Darin with you?”
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a large folded missing poster. On it a lean, dark-haired teenager smiled into the camera. He looked a bit like Thomas and a lot like an older version of Jason.
“Hold on to that.”
“They are going to kill you. They’ve killed people before who came looking for their kids.”
“Let’s try not to get killed then. I’m going to knock on their door. You can come with, or you can wait here.”
Thomas dismounted and tied his horse to the mailbox post. His face told me that he really didn’t want me to go in there. He looked around, went to the nearest oak, where someone had sawed a branch off and left it in pieces, picked up a good size chunk, and looked at me.
“All set?”
He nodded.
I walked up the driveway. On the door, someone had written RHN in blood. So good of them to identify themselves. I’d hate to get the wrong house.
I tapped the door with my foot.
It swung open, and a beefy guy in his twenties with ruddy skin and a skull tattoo on his neck peered at me.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To come inside.”
“No.”
Most people aimed for the head when they punched. Unfortunately, heads were hard, because our brain was precious, and we’d evolved durable skulls to protect it. I punched him in the solar plexus. He was beefy but not fat, so he didn’t have much padding, and since he was a head taller than me, the solar plexus presented a convenient target.
Whatever the guy was expecting, my left uppercut wasn’t it. I punched him very fast and very hard. I could remember not being able to read, but I knew how to punch even in my earliest memories. I had over 3 decades of practice.
The gang’s doorman folded to the ground. I kicked him in the head to make sure he stayed down there, stepped over his body, and walked inside. Thomas took half a second to come to terms with the body on the ground and followed me brandishing his log.
The house opened into a long rectangular living room that stretched to my left. Directly in front of me a doorway led into the kitchen. There must’ve been a hallway here at some point, separating the entry hallway from the living room, but the house had been remodeled, and some of the walls had been taken down for a more open floor plan. On my right was another door, which remained closed.
In the living room, two men and a woman lounged on the couches. The coffee table in front of them held a cleaver falchion, which was basically a machete with a cross guard, a mace, and a shotgun. Behind them, at the far wall, four large cages waited, stacked 2 x 2. The cage on the right in the bottom row was full. A little boy with dark hair and a tear-stricken pale face huddled in it, curled into a ball.
If Julie were here with me, I wouldn’t have had to lift a finger. She’d been a street kid before she became my ward. The sight of that child in the cage would have been enough to send my kid into a tailspin, and when she came out of it, everyone in this house would be dead.
The three gang members stared at me. One was tall and lean, in his forties, with dish-water blond hair, stubble, and a lantern jaw. His left index finger and pinkie were cut off at the middle phalanges. The other was shorter, stockier, and younger, with olive skin, dark hair cropped down to almost nothing, and a patchwork of tattoos across his neck and arms exposed by a sleeveless black T-shirt. The woman was in her mid-twenties, with a round face, pasty makeup, and light blond hair worn long. Soft, like she didn’t swing a weapon for a living. Stylized flame tattoos ran from her wrists up her forearms. Probably a firebug, a fire mage.
A decade ago, I’d quip something funny about borrowing a cup of sugar right about now, but being a parent and having had my child threatened had given me a new perspective. Everyone knew
that human trafficking was one of the ugliest lows a human being could sink to. But it was one thing to intellectually understand. It was entirely another thing to have your child taken and stare his kidnapper in the eyes as he cut your son’s face.
“The poster,” I told Thomas.
He held it up.
“Who did you sell him to?” I asked.
“The fuck…” The shorter man started.
Lantern-jaw man stood up and grabbed the mace off the table. “Jace!”
A door swung open deeper in the house. A moment later a man in his late thirties came out of the kitchen. Jace was broad in the shoulder, dark-haired, tan, and scarred on both cheeks. A short black goatee perched on his chin like a smear of dark hair. He looked like he’d been through a lot of fights and liked putting his hands on people.
Another man followed him, looming a full head above his boss. This one was in his twenties, sun-burned, tall, and sheathed in hard fat. The bruiser.
“I see we got ourselves a mercenary, boys and girls,” Jace declared. He’d stopped just outside where he thought my striking distance was. Should have stopped two steps earlier.
“You know what your problem is, Tom?” Jace drawled. “You’re too fucking dumb to know when to quit.”
The woman on the couch smiled. The other two men by her watched me. The shorter one had relaxed when Jace showed up, but the older blond was still uneasy. You didn’t survive into your forties in his line of work without getting a feel for people, and he didn’t like what his gut was telling him about me.
Jace kept on. “You should’ve quit when Dewane here nailed your missing poster to your front door.”
Judging by the proud look on the large guy’s face, he was the Dewane in question. Thomas had neglected to mention the poster incident. No matter.
“Instead, you hired yourself some broad who’s dumb enough to take your money.” He turned to me. “Let me tell you how this will
go, sweet thing. I’m going to fuck you up and then I’m going to hang—”
I stepped forward and kicked him in the head. I hadn’t put my hands up, and he never saw it coming. My foot connected with a meaty smack. Jace’s head snapped back. He stumbled and fell flat on his back. Timber.
I pointed to the poster. “Who did you sell him to?”
The slow hamster wheel that powered up Dewane’s brain finally processed the fact that his boss was on the floor, groaning. Dewane understood violence. He knew that when violence happened, it was his time to shine. He charged me.
I stepped out of the way. He tore past me, spun around, and I smashed my palm against his right ear. Dewane swayed. Most people would’ve gone down, but he stayed on his feet, unsteady but upright, and tried to grab me. I leaned back and drove an oblique kick to his knee. The knee collapsed inward with a crunch. Dewane howled and toppled over like a felled tree.
At the couch, the firebug jumped up, her hands rising.
I grabbed the log out of Thomas’ hands and threw it at her. It hit her in the chest. She yelped and went down.
Jace rolled to his feet, his face bloody, grabbed the falchion off the table, and came at me. In the half a second he took to cover the distance between us and draw his sword back for a strike, I pulled Sarrat out of its sheath on my back and slashed across his neck. It was a textbook cut, slicing diagonally from below the left ear. The saber’s blade severed muscle and the spinal cord with the slightest of resistance. Blood gushed from the cut. His head fell from his shoulders.
The headless body teetered and crashed to the floor. Everything stopped. The firebug, who’d scrambled up, froze with her hands halfway up. Even Dewane forgot to moan about his ruined knee.
I picked up Jace’s head by his hair and held it in front of the poster. “Who did you sell him to?”
The traffickers gaped at me.
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(though not religious then himself) checked it with a firmness that made W. think. They afterwards travelled to Nice, and were there three months about the year 1783 or 1784. The Duke of Gloucester was then an infidel; the conversation M. had with him upon the journey had no other effect (indeed that was the capital one) but of making him serious in reading and considering the Bible, which he did with great industry and deep attention, bringing to it a heart open to conviction; his health was injured by application, but his eternal soul was saved. He afterwards broke off his intimacies with a social fashionable set, and particularly from dinners which hurt his progress in Divine impersonation. He fairly and openly told his friends the reason. Pitt never joked or laughed at him—some did, but he never; all were sorry to lose him. But he was in earnest, and carried his determination into effect to give himself wholly to the care of his soul in the first place, and next to perform his temporal duties by assiduity in business. The Dean remarked the great good his book is likely to do from this time to the end of the world. Many, many may be saved by it. He dictated an answer to some quotations from David which the Duke of Grafton gave me the other day in argument against original sin, the righteousness named 1,000 years before Christ. He replied as I had done on the spot to the Duke, that these men had the spirit, and then were righteous before God in Jesus Christ who saved from the creation.
The Duke of Bedford’s death! How much I could write on that topic. I met Halifax at the Duke of Grafton’s. He died with what is called perfect courage, collectedness, and resolution that is perfectly hardened in insensibility. A most tremendous, awful, horrible case! But very difficult to separate affection for the amiable temper and useful life from a just condemnation of his utter want of religion and piety.
From the Duke of Bedford[213] in carrying out the plans of his late Brother
‘Woburn Abbey: March 28, 1802.
‘Sir,—The sudden and fatal event which deprived me of one of the kindest of friends and most affectionate of brothers, Agriculture of one of its firmest props, and Society of one of its best and most useful members, coming upon me too so soon after a former severe domestic calamity, left my mind in such a state of sad dejection as to render me wholly incapable of writing to you on a subject deeply interesting to me, because it occupied the last thoughts of my much lamented brother. His zeal for that first and most interesting of pursuits, Agriculture, did not forsake him even in the last moments of his life, and on his death-bed, with an earnestness of mind expressive of his character, and with that anxious consideration for the interests of his country which occupied so many years of his well-spent life, he strongly urged me to follow up those plans of national improvement which he had begun, and from which he had formed the most sanguine hopes of success. He referred me to Mr. Cartwright and to you for explanations and details; with Mr. C. I have already had some conversation, and hope soon to have the pleasure of seeing you. I shall be in London in a day or two, and if you will favour me with a line in Arlington Street, to name the day and hour most convenient to you to call upon me, you will much oblige me. Should you be absent from Town I trust it will not be long before I have the satisfaction of seeing you at Woburn.
‘Desirous as I am in every point of view to fulfil the last wishes of my departed brother, I feel that my humble efforts must be at such a vast distance from the exertions of his well-regulated and superior mind, that without the aid and advice of those most capable of assisting me, I should utterly despair of attaining the objects now so near to my heart.
‘I am, Sir, ‘Your faithful and obedient servant, ‘B .’
My Reply
‘32 Sackville Street: March 1802
‘My Lord,—The melancholy event which has deprived your Grace of a brother so beloved was a stroke that affected every feeling of my heart; others more habituated to his merit on great occasions better knew than it was possible for me to do the powers of a mind that could fathom the most important subjects; but to me, sinking his great consequence in the country, he was a kind, most amiable, and indulgent friend, nor shall I ever cease to lament the loss of the best temper I ever met with; good humour seemed to spring from a perennial source in his bosom. Pleasing and happy it is for his lamented memory that all ranks and classes of the people have vied in the expressions of grief for the loss of so able, sincere, and unquestionable a patriot. It pleased him on several late occasions to converse with me on his plans of those establishments he meditated to connect with the employment of Mr. Cartwright. Probably that gentleman has explained all or most of them to your Grace. I shall be most happy to repeat them, and I am sure I need not add that veneration for the memory of one who commanded the regrets of a great nation, as well as the respect I owe to your Grace’s character, will induce me most willingly to give you the little assistance that is in my power to lessen the loss we have all suffered.
‘I rejoice in hearing of your Grace’s determination to tread in those steps which proved so direct a path to a well-earned and most useful fame.
‘From eleven o’clock to-day till four, and from twelve till three on Thursday, I am engaged with the Board, but will wait on your Grace at any other time you are pleased to appoint.
‘I am, my Lord,
‘Most respectfully your Grace’s ‘Much obliged and most humble servant, ‘A Y .’
The Board has been busy in voting testimonies to the memory of the Duke of Bedford, a race who should express most strongly their veneration. The Bishop of Llandaff brought a dedication for the volume now ready—a medal ordered and a bust. These
people are carnal and worldly, except, however, Mr Wilberforce, who much promoted it, and spoke often in favour of it. His example is authority, or I should have considered the whole as a worldly-minded business, and bad. This Duke, with vast powers and immense influence, set an example to a town and populous neighbourhood in the country, and to a great circle of friends and dependents, of an utter neglect, if not contempt, of religion: all was worldly in his views; all his motives tending that way, and his example mischievous to religion and the souls of men. All this praise and veneration is therefore very questionable, and, I think, unlawful; it is looking at objects and judging of things with the herd, and therefore wrong; we cannot go with them but to do mischief. Of what consequence is religion to the world if farming and beneficence and good temper, and a life highly useful in a worldly view, is to outweigh the evils of irreligion, and so very bad an example in morals and want of piety? I cannot approve of it, much as I liked the man in all worldly respects.
Dr. Pearson talking of experiments observed that contrary experiments to good ones are nothing. ‘I can get evidence for or against anything: for the existence of angels and devils,’ &c. He is a great infidel, one of the gang of philosophers of the Royal Society, whose head, Sir J. B., is of the same mould, and whose influence is all on the same side, and does much mischief. The great, the wise, and the learned in this town, I fear, are nineteen in twenty infidels. Shocking! dreadful to think of!!
Dined at the Duke of Grafton’s, Menil the Nimrod and Dr. Halifax there. I never fail to combat his Unitarianism, but do no good; yet his arguments are weak as water.
20th.—At the Farmers’ Club. Carried with some difficulty a premium of fifty guineas for the best plough; several voted against it, because impossible to decide which of several should be the best! These folks can hardly know the right end of a plough.
25th.—Dined at the Bishop of Durham’s; Price, the ViceChamberlain, there, and Mr. and Mrs. Bernard. I would have some serious talk, and therefore asked the Bishop if he had read Overton’s[214] book? He had, and highly approved it. He met with
it at York, and asked the Archbishop if he knew anything of the author, and, to his surprise, found that he did not even know there was such a man, and knew nothing of him. The Bishop promised to send me his two charges and letters to the Deists. He was lately in company with Otto,[215] and made enquiries what that minister conceived would be the result of the present order of things in France relative to religion. Otto thought that it would end in the establishment of Protestantism;[216] this is remarkable and not improbable. The Concordat will not be executed. I questioned the Bishop about Paley: ‘Mr Y., I gave Dr P a living of 1,100l. a year for two great works, the “Horæ Paulinæ” and “The Evidences,” and so I told him: “But, Dr. P., as to your Moral Philosophy I disapprove of it, and therefore do not mistake my motive”’!! He is engaged in a work now at press on natural religion by the Bishop’s recommendation. 27th.—Our third volume Part I. of the ‘Communications’ is out, but I have yet heard nothing of the public opinion. The mere printing this thin quarto has been the whole business of the Board, that is, of the President, from last November; nothing else done of any sort or kind. This is pitiable. He corrected the proofs and made them dance up and down to Wycombe, and wait as if time was of no consequence, and a whole Session will pass with this for its only employment. My ‘Hertford’ is ready for printing, Pitt’s ‘Leicester,’ Howlett’s ‘Essex,’ and Plymley’s ‘Salop,’ and all at a stand; not one proof of the second part of the ‘Essays’ at press in a fortnight, and nothing else thought of. He is as fit to be President of the Board as Grand Llama of Thibet; such is the way that all public business is conducted. If I saw as much of the Treasury, have no doubt but similar though not equal neglect would appear. But what a table of cyphers to meet week after week and urge nothing to satisfy the public. The whole of this flows from the most fastidious coxcombical pretension to purity of language: the time is spent in making phrases, as the French express it, which ought to be employed in devising and executing plans of improvement and pushing on the county surveys. Lamentable! A fine folly, however, has taken place; the President and two other members went to see Salisbury’s botanical garden
—there he agreed to hire six acres at rent and taxes 14l. an acre for Board experiments 1½ miles from Hyde Park Corner. I was not consulted, and 60l. paid for a lease before I knew a word of the matter; then I was ordered to view it, which I did, but no opinion asked. Next I was directed to draw up a plan of experiments, which I did, without corn, for myriads of sparrows from nurseries would eat all up. These were partly accepted and partly rejected, and potatoes scouted because people are sick of the name of potatoes. ‘Suppose another famine, my Lord, what will those persons then think who are now sick of potatoes?’
It stands over for the Board. The whole idea is stark, staring folly; it will cost 250l. a year, and the harvest well deserved ridicule.
April 11.—Last Wednesday, Lord Carrington took me into his room and told me that his brother having the loan, he had spoken to him to write me down for 500l.; and that the rise having been 4 per cent. he had directed it to be sold, and it would produce me 200l. clear of charges. I thanked him much. Such a thing never entered my thoughts, and consequently surprised me much. It was very kind and considerate, and I am certainly much obliged to him for it. Next evening he sent for me, and gave me a draft on Smith and Payne, 221l. 17s. 6d., for the rise was 4½ per cent. I was thankful to God for this, and meditated much on it. If God had not been willing it would not have entered his head, and I find it comfortable to attribute everything to God, as, indeed, everything ought certainly to be attributed, and the more we trust entirely to Him the better I am persuaded it is for us. This is the first lottery for many years that I have been out of, but meeting with a passage in some of Scott’s things against lotteries I would not put in, or have anything to do with it. If God pleases to give me money He has a thousand ways of doing it, and in these reflections I have had hard work to guard my mind against the temptation to consider it in the light of a reward which would be vile where there is no merit, no desert. I offend too daily and hourly to deserve anything but wrath at His hands, and this I cannot dwell on too much or too deeply. But for two years past of His infinite goodness He has made all money
matters very favourable to me, and I thank Him for an uninterrupted stream of His bounty without let or hindrance, and this notwithstanding my sensual mind and many offences. I cannot be too grateful for so much goodness, and I pray Him to give me grace to be kind and charitable to others while He is so good to me. I think of these things with fear and trembling, lest they should throw my mind and conduct into an improper train.
Of late I have been ruminating on a short publication against the Deists, to consist merely of an attack on them to show the difficulties and absurdities of their system; it will consist chiefly of extracts. I have read Bogue,[217] and Fuller and Berkeley’s[218] ‘Minute Philosopher,’ and Leslie,[219] but none of them come up to my idea. It should be unmixed with a defence of Christianity, which should come in by way of appendix. I cannot get it out of my head, and shall certainly attempt it; the worst is I must read their works (i.e. of the Deists, &c.), which is bad, but I shall not do it without prayer to God to fortify me against their sophistries and delusions.
Yesterday morning I hoped and expected to leave London, but Lord Pelham, Secretary of State, has sent us the returns of acres cropped last year from the clergy of the Kingdom, and so a Committee to-day, and to-morrow Good Friday; for Saturday I have taken places. Thus, after twelve weeks in London, I lose four days. Very unlucky, and very disagreeable, and for such nonsense as disgraces common sense. He wrote a circular letter to all the clergy of the Kingdom last June for this purpose, and from 10,000 parishes received accounts from about a half. Precious ones, to be sure! A very probable matter that the farmers would give the number of acres sown with every sort of grain to the parsons; such attempts degrade Government in the eyes of the people. What opinion can they have of men’s abilities who expect thus to gain such facts?
I was in danger of returning to London without one entry in this Journal, but going up to wipe my dear Bobbin’s book has thrown my mind into a fit of melancholy that I know not how easily to get rid of; yet will it go too soon? I have been whitewashing the house, cleaning about it, and keeping all things in pretty good
order to do justice to the place as well as I am able; but my dear child’s recollection brings forcibly to my heart the impression that it is the will of God I should have hardly any chance of this prosperity being kept in my family. My son has no children, nor likely to have any. Mary, no chance of marrying, so that my posterity ends with the next generation. The will of God be done, but human vanity and feelings will rise in the bosom, and they cannot rise without these unpleasant ideas forcing themselves into my mind. Bradfield has been ours 200 years, and I should have liked that my name and family might here have continued. But God has punished me for my sins; I can have nothing at His hands that I do not deserve. Blessed be His holy Name, be it my endeavour to submit to His will with resignation and cheerfulness.
Betsy and O. dined with me on Tuesday, but the day so bad I could not show her the round garden, which was got in very neat order. I have had a letter from the Duke of Liancourt in which he speaks of coming to England. I wrote to advise him against it, for he would, I fear, be very ill received. The Duke of Grafton read me a letter expressed in most indignant terms on the passage relative to him and his family in Mons. de Liancourt’s travels.[220]
The new Duke of Bedford writes to desire me, in very kind terms, to go to the Woburn sheep-shearing; asks it as a sort of favour. I had some very fine days on coming down, but of late the weather has been cold, damp, and melancholy, but I never come without wishing to live here constantly. I cannot help wishing it, but I hope without discontent—that would be black ingratitude to God. He fixes me where I am; all, all things I am well persuaded come from His Almighty hand, and therefore a cheerful submission is one great article of a religious life. I brought down linen for the poor, but the number that want, and I cannot relieve, is melancholy: I think I have fixed straw work here, for above twenty-five have learned, and my splitting machines are all distributed. Some days since I sent off to Dunstable the first product of their work, and hope I shall have a good sale for the poor children.
June 1: London.—I keep this Journal as I do everything else, lest good purposes be turned aside by trifles and want of resolution. This is the thanksgiving-day; and last night was the Union masquerade, and the coaches are now (5 A.M. in the morning) rattling, and one fool in some monkey dress has walked by my windows.
A letter from the Duke of Bedford asking me to go to Woburn, which I shall do, and then I hope to Holkham, where Mr. Coke will take me in his coach——and there I am on my ground for the survey of Norfolk; but it is not yet decided whether I am to do it. It is a duty I owe to God to use the vacation in the best manner I can, but I can ill afford to travel at my own expense, determined as I am, if possible, to pay 700l. of debts.
I should like to make a long journey in enquiries concerning the poor; I know not what would be best, and have prayed to God to guide me, but I am utterly displeased with myself in my religious pursuits. My mind is sensual, and my progress slow; may the mercy of the Almighty be shed on me in grace to mend. I have planned a new work, ‘Deism Delineated,’ and made some progress, but do not please myself. It must be done gradually as I read, and my time is fully occupied with many pursuits.
Post to Chesterford, and having received a letter from the present Duke of Bedford requesting me to meet Lord Somerville and Mr. Coke at Woburn in order to consult upon the best means of carrying the late Duke’s intentions into execution, especially in relation to the sheep-shearing, I set off accordingly, and got to Woburn at night, where I found Lord Somerville and Mr. Coke, and we considered the matter as well as the late Duke’s proposals to breeders. At the meeting the Duke’s attention was very pleasing, for he had great solicitude to arrange everything down to the minutest trifles in exactly the same manner as his brother had done on former occasions.
Before dinner, the first day, he came up to me and said, ‘Mr Y., I beg you will take your old seat, and preside at one end of the table, for which purpose I have ordered a servant to keep your chair.’ Everyone remarked the extreme attention of the duke that all the business of the meeting should be well conducted.
12th.—Heartily tired of London, and the scenes I have endured at home. I left town, and took Betsy’s new chaise, which I had bought for her (170 guineas) for Chesterfield, where her whole family were. It was a hurrying day.
Next morning, Sunday, to church, and in the afternoon, contrary to many feelings, to Baldock. No post-chaise to be had, so went on in my whisky to Shefford, then post to Woburn by particular desire of the Duke of Bedford, to concert matters with Lord Somerville and Mr. Coke for the shearing business. It was 11 P.M. at night before I arrived; nobody there except they and Cartwright.
On the Thursday, with Mr. Coke and Mr. Talbot, in Coke’s chaise to Brandon, and on Friday morning to Holkham.
Farmed on Saturday and too much on Sunday, so here have been two Lord’s days profaned. How difficult it is to be in the world and preserve oneself uncontaminated by common practices! At church, however, in the morning.
The sheep-shearing the four following days, at which I had never been before. He does it handsomely; 200 dined on plate.
The dinner better than at Woburn, I think from vicinity to the sea, which gives plenty of fish.
At the Holkham meeting, had I entertained my former feelings of pride and discontent, I should not have been too well pleased, for Mr. C. was personally civil and attentive; and yet he took not the smallest public opportunity of mentioning me, the Board, my report, or anything about it, though the occasion certainly called in reason for it. Once this would have mortified me, but now I value such matters not a straw. May God permit me to do my duty to Him, and as to what men think of me, I regard it less than the idle wind. I went to bed every night directly after coffee, between 9 and 10 P.M., and was up between 3 and 4 A.M.
[In London] at Mrs. Montagu’s.—Sir Sidney not there; Ryder, the Privy Councillor, and his brother and Montagu, had been at Paris, and we had little conversation except on Bonaparte, &c. They contended that every scrap of land is cultivated and much that was waste. Sir F. combated the idea, and urged reports of prefects, speeches, &c., as proving rents sunk, price of land
fallen, produce as four to six, population lessened, and the price of labour risen, &c. &c. The last no proof of decline.
Ryder, on corn, observed that the same fact of wheat being dearer in peace than in war is found in the French prices annexed to Arnold.[221]
They would not be introduced to Bonaparte. Fox had much conversation with him, and he plainly urged the fact that Wyndham was concerned in the infernal machine, asserting that he had the proof. Sir F. says that this proof was one George, being much with W., and afterwards going on the expedition to Quiberon. A party was taken amongst whose papers (on the arrests for the infernal machine) were letters on that conspiracy to or from George, which combination was Bonaparte’s proof. The Government, [he says, is] the completest military despotism that ever was in the world.
At the theatre some Frenchmen finding Montagu was English, spoke much of me; and said they wanted of all things that I should come and examine France a second time under the new régime.
Dined with Swirenove, the Russian chaplain of the embassy, greatly employed by the nobility of that Empire in agricultural commissions. Patterson, bailiff to Lord Hardwicke, is going to Russia, and left me to make a bargain for him, which I did. He is to have 100 guineas first year, and increasing 20 yearly till 200 guineas; 60 for his son-in-law, and 20 for his daughter, and 25 for a ploughman. Count Rostopchin, at Woronowo, near Moscow, who has an immense estate, is the man. A Russian count there, Benwakin, I think, [he named] whose peasants pay him 30 roubles a year; but paper money so multiplied and at 50 per cent. discount, that all prices are greatly risen nominally. The Emperor’s going to farm so largely has already had a great effect in turning the attention of the nobility to it. My annuity yesterday remitted from Ireland, 72l.[222] Thank God for that uninterrupted stream of His bounty which I have enjoyed of late years without let or hindrance, and which my vile ingratitude returns so badly.
Lord Winchilsea called yesterday, and sat an hour with me. He is, I believe, one of the very best of the nobility, and a really
respectable moral character, and benevolent to the poor
August 22: Bradfield.—Here is a blank of many weeks, which shows once more how difficult it is to keep journal resolutions. After a long tour in Norfolk, which would have afforded much pleasure had not business occupied all my time, I met Betsy and O. at Harleston, on the 9th.
War much talked of. The militia calling out. These things, whatever the event, are certainly God’s providences. His will be done. But when I consider the almost universal vice and iniquity of the kingdom, the amazing protection and blessings which have been showered down on us, and the vile ingratitude to God which pervades all ranks in an utter forgetfulness of Him, or contempt of His judgments, I must own I tremble at the thought.
I have lived some time without making a will, which has been very wrong. I am under such complex settlements that I do not understand what power I have; and Gotobed’s draft was so full of law jargon, that I understand nothing of it. I wait no longer, but have made one plain and simple, and such as I hope, with the blessing of God, will not nor can be misunderstood. I have disposed of what I have to the best of my conscience, that is, if I was to die at Christmas. Here is only 300l. to be made up by sale of timber, ‘Annals,’ &c. &c., but a farm auction would produce more than 900l., and rents are always behind, some over due. I pray to God for better economy, and much hope, by a fresh and careful attention to my farm and ‘Annals,’ to bring things speedily to a better account.
I forgot 100l. due to me from the Board for Norfolk Report, so that I evidently leave enough for all demands, probably without cutting any timber.
I have never lived so well with Mrs. Young as for five weeks past.
War! To look into futurity is idle. The event is in the Lord’s hand, and will depend on the number and piety of true Christians amongst us, and not be governed by fleets and armies. France is so unprepared at sea, that no war ever opened in that respect with better prospects. But this is the arm of flesh, and may mark the vanity of all trust in such circumstances.
The following letter to A. Y may fitly close the chronicle of this year:
‘Drinkstone: Dec 8, 1803
‘Sir,—A letter from Lord Euston to Sir Charles Davers recommends that in case of invasion all horses and draft cattle that cannot be driven out of the reach of the enemy be shot; and that all the axle-trees or wheels of all carriages likely to fall into the enemy’s hands be broken, the fullest assurance being given of complete indemnification, provided no horses, draft cattle, or carriages of any description fall into their hands through negligence or want of proper exertion on the part of the owners.
‘All other stock is to be left for the use of the troops, unless there be evident danger it may fall into the invader’s hands, in which case the measures formerly determined upon must be resorted to.
‘I am, Sir,
‘Your obedient humble servant, ‘J G .’
CHAPTER XV
APPROACHING BLINDNESS
1804-1807
A great preacher—Arthur Young the younger goes to Russia—Cowper’s Letters Mrs. Young’s illness Dr. Symonds Novel reading Skinner’s ‘State of Peru’ Death of Pitt Burke’s publishing accounts Literary projects Approaching blindness.
February 24.—The sins of a journal are like those of life, much offence and a little repentance, minutes applied and months neglected. Last night, for the first time in my life, I was at a religious conversazione. Mr. Fry has it once a fortnight. Mrs. Wilberforce and thirty more, I suppose, began with singing a hymn, and then a prayer, and ended in the same manner; the subject discussed was Providence. Scott, Macaulay, and Fry were the only speakers except myself, who threw in a word or two in a bad manner and not in unison; but I went without preparing the temper of my mind, and it proved to me a mere temptation to sin, as everything is sure to do when we trust in our own strength and do not pray for divine assistance. I like the thing itself much, and the recollection since it passed has produced in my mind a degree of humiliation which might not have been in it had I not gone there. I wished to touch on the state of the King’s health, where the hand of God is so evident; but they would attend only to little and private things, and probably were right. They made every possible event, the most trivial, providential. Scott is a predestinarian, but impresses the necessity of attending to the means by which God acts as much
as if the divine decrees were not universal. The next subject is Temptation.
May 22.—My dear friend[223] at Bradfield writes me in a most melancholy strain, on the ill success of her husband’s farming. I doubt I shall lose largely by a scheme which was executed merely to keep him out of greater mischief.
The new Bishop of Bristol is in dress and manners much like what we call in Suffolk a leather breeches parson.
Somebody called on Mrs. Pelham, and found her lying on a sofa reading a novel, rouged as much as any Madame la Marquise. They thought she seemed to be too high flown to be asked to a sober party of whist. What a gradation of evil amongst the worldly even in the respectable (soi-disant) class.
An application from Phillips for another edition of the ‘Farmer’s Calendar.’ He printed 2,000 of the fifth, and 1,200 sold in a month; they will all be gone before it can be reprinted. I had 100l. for that edition, 40l. more for this six months after publication, and in future 25l. each succeeding one.
How grateful I ought to be, but am not, to God for a success which has smoothed many difficulties, and enabled me much to lessen, in assistance to other circumstances, my debts. The sale is an extraordinary one.
What would be with me the result of moral reflections and trust in human means, in the power of a vile heart to cure its own iniquities? I have a conviction amounting to sensation in its truth, that everything but looking unto Jesus is weaker than water— vain and frivolous. This is the grand consideration, result, and object of religion in the soul, all beside is wide of the mark and without power and efficacy. Oh, my God, my God! write these truths in my soul, impress them in my heart, that by communion with Thee I may by Thy grace be purified, washed, and cleansed from every evil thought. Blessed be Thy Holy Name for keeping me from acts of sin. Oh! have mercy on my mind and take away every thought of it.
I shall have to experience another temptation, and should be preparing for it. I have little doubt but Lord Carrington will be again President of the Board. He likes not me, and I shall be
much more uncomfortable than I have been with Lord Sheffield; but such changes, if they happen, will be from the Lord, for nothing is so idle as for a Christian to suppose that anything takes place by chance.
I do not mean to leave town till the Woburn meeting, but I am restless, and want to get away. This is a common folly, and ought carefully to be checked. It is the spirit that wastes half a life, ever looking to a future moment and never enjoying the present, which is that alone that is truly our own.[224]
There is not a more valuable lesson than to learn how to apply every portion of time to use, and not to suffer the expectation of, or waiting for, any future moment to make the intermediate ones tiresome or unpleasant. It is wasting life and time that is never to return.
Yesterday, at 7 P.M., I dined with Mr. Anson—a farming party: Duke of Bedford, Earl of Galloway, Earl of Albemarle, Lord Somerville, Sir Robert Lowley, Sir John Wrottesley, Mr. Coke, Mr. Motteaux, Mr. Child, Sir G. Pigot, Mr. Western, Mr. Wilbraham, all M.P.’s or in high life.
Nothing but a farming conversation makes the company of these people proper for me to have anything to do with; and that it is not to be conceived how little they know on the subject, considering it’s a favourite pursuit. Such great fortunes and a life of luxury and bustle and motion are hostile to every kind of knowledge; and the conversation abounds with information for those who watch for and have a memory to retain it, yet it demands a good deal of knowledge previously digested and arranged to make a due use of it. A splendid house, one of the best in London; magnificent furniture, plate, servants, wines, and everything, equal to 30,000l. or 40,000l. a year, but he has no such income.
I have—I think I have—no envy of these doings. Such situations are so hostile to the religious principle that ought to animate the soul, that I should think of them with fear and trembling. I hate parties, and my heart condemns me whenever I go to them, in which not a word ever occurs to give God the glory due to His Holy Name, which is sometimes profaned but never
honoured, where Grace before and after meat is discarded. And this is a sort of denial of Christ which gives me no slight disquiet and remorse, and ought entirely to banish me from all such company; it works in me, and I cordially hope it will soon produce that effect, for the pleasure I receive is little and the offence to God I fear is much. ‘Come out from among them and touch not the unclean thing,’ is applicable to more cases than I have applied it to. I am determined to go only to Woburn this year and not to Holkham; four days of noise and bustle are too much, I will get away in three; but a whole fortnight is horrible. I will get to Cambridge by Saturday, and I hope Jane will meet me there to spend Sunday, and perhaps Monday, with Simeon, and make him promise to meet Fry at Bradfield. Yesterday and this day hurry, bustle, packing up, paying bills, and recollection on the stretch lest anything should be forgotten. Wrote to Cordell, the bookseller, to settle with me for the Irish Tour. It has been years out of print, and the last settlement in 1795. I have half the sale; 154 were then left, my half, 30l. at least, and it never came into my head before. Very careless indeed, and in money to receive! Such busy days are unpleasant because both mind and body are fatigued.
18th at Woburn. Came with Lord Sheffield yesterday. I detest this profanation of the Sabbath, but he urged me so to accompany him that I yielded like a fool. A great dinner, Lords Albemarle, Ossory, Ludlow, Duke of Manchester, Sir H. Fetherstone, Sir R. Pigot, the Wilbrahams, &c., twenty in all. Several apartments newly furnished, and many very expensive articles, clocks, &c., from Paris to the amount of 2,000l. Much done to the greenhouse, and everywhere a profusion of expense. The late rains have given a fine verdure, and the place in full beauty. Such a flow of worldly blessings as are seen in one of these very great residences makes me melancholy when I reflect on the immense temptation and dreadful responsibility that attaches. What have not these people to answer for if they forget the Giver in the profusion of His gifts? and where am I to go to find a great house and establishment with a society and
conversation that shows the Gospel of our Lord to be held in reverence and affection?
This poor Duke of Bedford, whose nominal income is so enormous, will, I fear, involve himself with the same imprudence. Cartwright has built him a steam engine (700l.) for threshing and grinding: 12 per cent. interest in the least to be calculated, or 84l., and yet a one-horse mill, price 50l., would thresh all the corn that will ever be brought to this yard.
An extravagant duchess, Paris toys, a great farm, little economy, and immense debts, will prove a canker in all the rosebuds of his garden of life. The providence of the Almighty governs all, and will not permit an utter forgetfulness of Him to produce even the temporal happiness which is alone sought for.
I am tired of the whole, and long for the retirement and quiet of Bradfield after so many weeks of London, and this finishing of hurry and bustle. I would not have another week of it for a hundred pounds. What has a Christian to do with such scenes? How a person of fortune and the world can be one I know not. They are never cool, and have no time for reading or thought. It is madness to continue in such a state, but to travel 120 miles in order to enter a fresh scene of it, and perhaps within earshot of such a profane beast and fool as that Captain G. I sat near last year—this would be insanity. What a spectacle at Woburn was that miserably swearing profligate, Major B., of Sussex, at the age of eighty-one, sticking to the last moment to worldly dissipation, and utterly regardless of what is to become of him hereafter. Like Lord Lauderdale, who declared that he feared nothing in this world nor in the next either! These people call themselves Deists; I think they must be atheists, or they are utterly in contradiction to themselves. It is a sin, and ought to be repented of, to go into such company. I feel myself here, looking on the tranquil bosom of the Ouse, as having escaped from a multiplicity of temptations, and that this is the first moment of my summer holidays, quiet and alone. This morning I had a letter from Jane, by which I find it is quite uncertain whether I shall meet her at Cambridge. She asks my directions, but had she thought, must have known that she could not receive an answer
in time. I hope to hear Simeon[225] twice on Sunday, and much wish that she may be there, as I wrote before to request it; and she says she should like it of all things.
24th: Cambridge.—I dined here yesterday. Inquired for that great and good man, Simeon, but he was not to be in town till the evening. I walked behind Trinity and John’s, &c., twice—a delightful day. Wrote and left a letter for him; at nine he came, and will certainly meet Fry at Bradfield. Thank God! I shall hear him twice to-day and Mr. Thomason once, for I shall go thrice to Trinity Church. I mentioned Fry’s calculation of three millions of Christians; but he very properly thought it very erroneous. He thinks Cambridge a fair average, and in 10,000 people knows but of 110 certainly vital Christians—more than 150 can scarcely be from a seventy-fifth to a hundredth part therefore! There are, I am rejoiced to hear it, many very pious young men in the colleges.
Night.—I have been at Trinity Church thrice to-day. In the morning a very good sermon by Simeon, a decent one by Thomason, and in the evening to a crowded congregation a superlative discourse by Simeon on the twelfth verse of chapter iv. of the Acts: ‘There is no other name under heaven,’ &c. Vital, evangelical, powerful, and impressive in his animated manner.
Sunday, July 8: Bradfield.—This day se’nnight took the Sacrament with Jane at Bury, suddenly, and therefore without any preparation, and got there in the Lessons. The week has been vile and miserable. Fry cannot come, but had a letter from Simeon, he will be here to-morrow! O Lord, of Thy mercy give a blessing to his presence, that conversation and prayer with him may give a turn to my mind! Were it not for what I think a firm faith in the Cross of my Redeemer, I should think that I was almost in the jaws of hell. But if I perish it shall be looking at the brazen serpent. Fiery serpents innumerable bite; let me turn instantly to the Cross, and there see and trust to the blood of sprinkling. What should I have thought of this before my conversion? Is it true and saving faith now to think and feel it—or rather to know it in my understanding than feel it in my heart? I am full of apprehensions, and the only sign of spiritual life in me
is some sense and feeling of my own iniquity and the plague of my carnal thoughts; but if they were truly a load to me, would not the Lord ease me of the burden?
10th.—Yesterday, Simeon came. His character singular. His piety—his strong expressions—his fervency in prayer—a powerful mind!
13th.—Simeon went this morning. I have been horribly negligent in not writing down many of his conversations. What he thinks of me I know not, but he spoke to Jane with great freedom and candour, and as became a good Christian.
His abilities are considerable, his parts strong, his ardour and animation uncommonly great. His eloquence great, and his manner impressive. His prayers admirably adapted to the cases of all who heard him. He came with a servant and two very fine horses, on which he places a high value. From his life and expenses must have a considerable income; for his preferment is only expense, and costs him more than he receives from it. His fellowship is as good as 400 guineas a year to him. He must have a very good private fortune, from some circumstances, as I judge, which he dropped in conversation. He went to Cambridge from Eton and became a Christian on the third day, now about twenty-five or twenty-six years ago. During all which time he has never doubted of his future salvation. He is remarkably cheerful and has much wit, or something nearly allied to it.
I wrote to N. H., requesting his pulpit for Sunday, but he refused it; and after church apologised, saying it was not from himself, but he was talked to.
Oh! for the dumb dogs of our clergy who will neither preach the Gospel themselves nor let others do it. I told him that my request was to him a safe one, for I asked, of course, only for a regularly bred clergyman, and who possessed preferment in the national church. Very unlucky! Symonds dined here, and his conversation never does any good. He explained his chance for salvation in the merits alone of Jesus Christ, but denies original sin. This seems a contradiction; I would not think so for a thousand worlds! How can he be sensible of what he wants in
