A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(26)
Author: Tessa Dare

“They’re too young. If they tell you different, they’re lying.”

“Why should I take your word over theirs? If I’m going to make up a sizable company, I need all the willing volunteers I can gather.” He turned to her. “Miss Finch, my militia is precisely that. My militia. I gave you my word regarding your father, but beyond that I’ll make my own decisions, without your contributions. Content yourself with managing all the women in this village, and I’ll see to the men.”

“Rufus and Finn are boys.”

“If they join the militia, I’ll make men of them.” He looked around the crowd. “Miss Finch, I’m about to make the call for volunteers. Unless you mean to join the militia yourself, I suggest you remove yourself from the green and have a seat with the ladies. Where you belong.”

Fuming, but seeing no immediate way to protest, she made a curtsy in retreat. “As you say, my lord.”

“Well?” Sally asked, once she’d reached the edge of the green. “Did he see reason? Did he agree?”

“I don’t know that that man will ever see reason.” She straightened her gloves with angry tugs. “But don’t you worry, Sally. I will make him agree. I’ll just need to borrow a few things from the shop.”

As Bram took the center of attention, he resolved to put the woman—all women—out of his mind. He turned his head slowly, scanning the crowd for men. He saw some males who were imprudently young, like the twins. He caught glimpses of a few who were impossibly old, grizzled and toothless. Here and there, he spied a man who ranged between. A handful of fishermen and farmers. The jewelry-making blacksmith stood near the dandified vicar. Fosbury emerged from the tea shop kitchen, dressed in an apron and covered in sugary dust.

Bram steeled his jaw. From this unlikely assortment of men, he would need to muster an elite, impeccably drilled fighting force. The alternative was the permanent end of his military career. He would remain in England a conquered, lamed, useless wretch. Defeated in every way.

Failure simply wasn’t an option.

“Good morning,” he announced, lifting his voice for all to hear. “Most of you will have heard, I’m Rycliff. The ancient title was revived and given me, and now I’m here to fortify and defend the castle. To that end, I’m calling for men to take up arms. I need able-bodied men, ages fifteen to five-and-forty.”

He had their attention. He’d given the call. Now would be the ideal time to summon some motivational words, he supposed. “Let it be understood, England is at war. I want willing and able soldiers. Men of courage, prepared to fight and defend. If there are men among you who wish to be challenged, to become part of something larger than themselves . . . let them come. If there are men who desire to use their God-given strength in service of a noble cause . . . let them come. If there are men in this ‘Spinster’ Cove who want to be real men again . . . let them answer this call to arms.”

He paused, expecting some sort of red-blooded, rallying cry in return.

He got silence. An interested, attentive silence, but silence nonetheless.

Well, if inspirational speeches weren’t his strength, Bram still had one incontrovertible argument on his side. He straightened his coat and said the rest. “Drill and training will last a month. Uniforms, firearms, and other supplies will be provided, and there will be wages. Eight shillings a day.”

Now that caught their attention. Eight shillings was more than a full week’s pay for most workingmen, and more than enough to overcome any reluctance. Murmurs of excitement swept the crowd, and several men began to move forward.

“Fall in line,” he told them. “See Lord Payne for enrollment, then Corporal Thorne for outfitting.”

There was a bit of a crush as the men made their way to the enrollment table, but Finn and Rufus Bright took the head of the line, no contest. Bram joined Colin behind the table.

“Names?” Colin asked.

“Rufus Ronald Bright.”

“Phineas Philip Bright.”

Colin dutifully inscribed the names. “Date of birth?”

“Eighth of August,” Finn said, looking to his brother. “Seventeen ninety-ei—”

“Seven,” Rufus finished. “We’re over fifteen.”

Bram interrupted, fixing the boys with a stern look. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, my lord.” Finn stood tall and slapped a hand over his heart. “I’m over fifteen. May the devil take me if I’m telling you false, Lord Rycliff.”

Bram sighed to himself. No doubt they’d stuffed scraps of papers with the number fifteen in their shoes. Oldest trick in the shiftless army recruiter’s sack. With that scrap of paper beneath their heels, the lads could say with all honesty that they were “over” fifteen.

Susanna was right, the boys were obviously lying. And they were boys yet, not men. He regarded their matching, fresh-scrubbed faces that wouldn’t know a razor’s scrape for years. But if their birthdays truly were in August, that put their actual fifteenth birthday only a few months away. He surveyed the queue of men behind the twins, performing a quick mental tally. They numbered just under twenty, all in all. Not good. To form a company that would appear remotely impressive in formation, he needed twenty-four.

“Well?” Colin asked, looking up at Bram.

“You heard the lads. They’re over fifteen.”

The boys grinned as they completed the questions for Colin and proceeded to Thorne’s table for measuring and firearms. Bram didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt about putting muskets in the boys’ hands. If they didn’t already know how to handle a weapon and shoot, it was high time they learned.

One by one, the men worked through the line, giving Colin their names, ages, and other vital information before proceeding to Thorne to be measured for coats and issued firearms. As the morning progressed, Bram’s knee began to ache. Then it started to throb. Before long, the damned joint was screaming with pain—so loud, he was surprised no one else could hear.

When Colin finished with the next recruit, Bram nudged his cousin aside. “You’re too slow. Go help Thorne.”

Lowering himself onto Colin’s vacant campstool, Bram winced. He performed a surreptitious flex of his leg beneath the table, trying to ease the pain and focus on the enrollment list before him. He took his time dipping the quill.

“Now, then. Name?”

“Finch.”