Bethany walked from her father’s estate to Bray town, a distance of some two versts. The road, like most in the South, was made of chalky gravel and it colored the bottom of her dress white. Most of the journey’s view was tobacco and cotton fields, for Bray clung closely to the sea, the width of the town could be crossed in 15 minutes. She did so, arriving at the piers as the observatory clock passed 11. She had, then, an hour, perhaps a touch more if the Scribes were slow.

The premises of Walkinshaw, Sons, & Company, Naval and Expeditionary Outfitters Limited occupied a carefully chosen spot on the landward side of the longest pier, which berthed the frigates and cruisers that often visited to give their men liberty and gorge on coal, canvas, coffee, cigarettes, and citrus. Vast teak double doors, propped open to take in the sea breeze, admitted her to a showroom featuring every possible variation on the commonplace navy blue uniform, swords for ornament, swords for combat, and guns for carrying on the person or bolting to the deck of a ship.

Lemuel had taken her here countless times when their parents had sent them, with a servant for protection at first and later independently, into to town for the day. After Bethany inevitably dragged him to the hatter, dressmaker, carousel, and confectioner he would have his revenge by spending hours here, in intense consultation with the gunsmiths and saddlers.

After some searching, Bethany found one of the titular sons of Walkinshaw, Sons, & Company.

“Good morning, miss, which gentleman’s account are you picking up for?” He inquired, not looking up from a rifle stock into which he cutting grip checkers.

Bethany blinked. “Actually I have a letter concerning Mr. Esterhouse’s account.”

The son turned his head and shouted “Grover!” which summoned an older man.

“She has a letter regarding the Esterhouse account.” The son explained to his elder brother.

“Very good, give it over, please.” Grover instructed.

Bethany handed it to him and he studied it, his gaze flicking between the writing and the young woman standing before him.

“My good god. You’re the middle Esterhouse? Bethany? We thought you dead. Praise that you live, your father must be overjoyed to have some family in his home again. Clearly he is, I don’t know if you have read this letter but he gives here a rather long, fine list of things I am to give you and place on his account. You had better follow me.”

Grover led Bethany up a back staircase to a door fitted with a combination lock that he opened briskly.

He walked into near total darkness and struck a match, lighting a gas chandelier.

“This is the pattern room.” He announced as it became visible.

The room was thickly carpeted and windowless. Three of the four walls bore heavily laden long gun racks, while the wall split by the door hosted two cases of pistols and revolvers.

Grover was absorbed by the list at the bottom of Esterhouse’s letter. He first collected a long gun and placed it on the leather-topped table in the center of the room. “Carbine, Lever Repeating, Three Line.”

Next he openedthe pistol case and extracted two, setting them next to the carbine. “Self-loading, locked breech, four and one half line.” He explained, pointing to the larger of the two. “Self-loading, simple blowback, three and four-fifth line.” He went on, indicating the other, which appeared to be a shriveled twin of the four and one half line model.

“The school you attended, it practiced small-bore shooting in its martial component, did it not?” Grover inquired.

“Yes.” Bethany nodded.

“Good, I would hate to hand these fine ladies over to a neophyte.” Grover chuckled and lifted the smallest pistol. “Pick a target on the far wall and aim at it, lean forward somewhat but not such that it is uncomfortable, take aim first with only your shooting hand.” He instructed, handing it to her.

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Bethany did so. Grover circled her. “That fits you naturally. Now try to support it with your free hand, place your grip around the fingers of your shooting hand, do not try to hold it like a tea-cup. Good, good. Kindly pick up the next pistol please.”

Bethany lifted the larger pistol. “Aim as you did before. It’s a little wide for you, but the grips are wooden and can be cut narrower. Keep still I’m going to mark them.” Grover stated, extracting some chalk from his vest pocket.

“Finally, try the rifle. You should know a good stance if you recall your schooling.”

Bethany did, but its stock was an odd thing: unfinished wood that resembled a boat oar. “What is meant by this stock? I can barely reach the trigger.” She protested.

Grover approached her with his chalk. “It’s a blank stock. Raw wood. We make our stocks to measure. That’s especially important for you, in its issued configuration it would likely be far too long.” For the next several minutes Grover had her adopted several stances and adjust the placement of her cheek and eyes, marking the wood in chalk or measuring and noting down the length each time.

“That should be adequate.” He intoned upon finally finishing. “It will take me about two days to complete the stock and apply the engraving he requested to all three pieces. By then your uniform and gunleather should be ready as well. You will need to see Norbert about that...”

“Uniform?” Bethany interjected.

“It is called for in the letter. It’s nothing so terrible though, we have made a few for ladies in auxiliary corps. An midshipman’s coat and shirt over a skirt, no one is about to make you wear trousers.”

It was nearly noon when Walkinshaws finished with her. Bethany found a bench along Bray’s central boulevard and waited.

At 12:03 a Scribe ran from his office in the railway station to the Lord Mayor’s Office, which prompted the Mayor and a small party of men to proceed to barracks of the Civil Guard. At 12:11 the cathedral bells began to ring. Bray dwellers and a few sharper tourists poured into the boulevard looking around for fire, the usual cause of bells being rung off the hour. From the civil guard barracks came a drumbeat. A file of guardsmen with their band in tow, led by the Lord Mayor, stepped onto the boulevard and approached the growing crowd.

When the guards halted their drummer played a long roll that silenced the people in the street. When it ended, the Mayor stepped forward.

“Good day.” He began. “I bear important news. The Assembly has met concerning the treacherous Bexarians. As you well know, just demands were made of them after their secret, infamous attacks on our oceanic possessions and one of our own ships. They were given ample time to respond to those demands and have made no response.”

The Mayor paused and made a sweeping gesture with the Scribe’s message form.

“Ladies and gentleman it is my duty to report to you that war has been declared on Bexar and all her territories. The military men, reserve or otherwise, among you should begin each his preparations. The calling out is expected soon.”

The crowd stood silent for a moment, then a young boy whooped. This prompted a cheer. The band struck up an old marching tune, after a few measures the veterans in the crowd found the chorus.

“I’ll place my knapsack on my back! My rifle on my shoulder! I’ll march away to the firing line! And kill that Bexar soldier! I’ll bid farewell to my wife and child! Farewell to my aged mother! I’ll join in this just strife! Till Bexar’s cruel war is over! And should I die for my home and land my spirit will not falter! Pierce my heart and lay my head upon my country’s altar!”

Most of the crowd was singing by the time the guards began to march away, and tens of men and boys followed them, hoping to find a recruiting sergeant at the barracks.

As the crowd broke up Bethany rose from the bench and walked down the boulevard to find the apothecary standing before his shop, watching the dying spectacle.

“Are you still trading?” She asked of him.

“Until the army and navy come around and requisition most everything, I suppose I am.” He replied, stepping back into his shop. “How can I help, miss?”

“Do you have Papaver in surgeon’s doses?”

“Sure enough.” He nodded.

Bethany made a show of drawing out 100 Ritters. “I require, I think, 50 doses.”

The apothecary turned briefly to check his supply. “I have that on hand but it is quite a lot. Do I know the patient?”

“No, sir, no my family is only visiting. It is for my dear uncle. He was struck terribly in the war...”

“The last war.” The apothecary interjected.

“True enough indeed, and we both know that while the supply will dry up his pain will endure.”

“Have you none at home?”

“Some, but even now they are canceling trains.”

The apothecary contemplated her face. Bethany thanked god that the southern sun had given it some color. “Right, what a cursed necessity. Well, I can sell it, but I hope you can bring your uncle to see me if indeed you do stay.”

A guilty sort of relief overcame her as the apothecary counted and boxed the doses. She had told variations on that lie to half the medicine merchants up north and it had began to fail of late. Though, in making most of those attempts she had the handicap of far less money and far wilder eyes.

She left the apothecary and made her way to the beach. The holidaymakers there were a bit unsettled by the announcement but, having paid for the ticket and hotel, were intent to enjoy the sand right up until the Bexarians landed men on it. A Ritter rented her a canvas sided beach hut with two deck chairs within, she slumped into one and looked through the hut’s open flap to the water.

It all felt wrong.

In the city, in the garret, wearing stolen clothes, with the wistful, sympathetic Marah clinging to her and a hangman around each cornerit seemed the proper thing to do. Here though, wearing an indecently expensive dress, her hair washed and braided by a servant-girl rather than matted and windswept, it felt wrong - deeply unjustified.

Nevertheless, the nerves and aches were already coming on, and with them a general sense of doom.

It was dusk and the tide was in. Bethany was awoken by seawater lapping at her feet. The box of syringes sat open on her lap. She closed it and slid off the deckchair to stand in the surf. A light rain was falling as it often did. Half the gaslamps on the pier and boardwalk were lit, more winked on before her eyes as the lamplighter made his rounds. Strains of fiddle and tack piano wafted from the center of town. A northbound stopping train with a tank locomotive at its head eased it into the station. If she ran, she could be aboard just as it left, she could settle into a second class compartment, rest her head against the cool window and watch the moonlit wave-tops trundle by. She could also step into any of the countless taverns and drink until she felt up to dancing with some newly minted soldier or sailor lad. She could also turn around and walk into the sea.

She walked home.