Clash of Empires (20 page)

“You will ride her yourself, into the thick of battle?” Montenot asks.

“The British troops know of me,” Thibault says. “I am told they fear me even more than my battlesaurs.”

“And if you should be killed in this inconsequential action?” Montenot asks.

“As I have already said,” Thibault says. “The angel of death dares not touch me.”

“As you say,” Montenot says, lowering his eyes.

“Call the other riders, Montenot,” Thibault pats the neck of his mount. “Night is falling.”

 

SMUGGLERS

Willem is examining a metal cylinder when the boat lurches, dropping into what feels like a huge hole in the sea. He clenches his lips tightly together to stop himself from vomiting. That has been a possibility since they left London the previous day.

The River Thames was smooth and pleasant sailing, but once they reached the open Channel the waters turned rough and his stomach started to churn. He ate nothing and only took sips of water, trying to ignore the nausea, but with little success.

The boat is a sloop, unarmed. A smuggler's ship. She is nothing like the last ship he was on, a full ship of the line of the Royal Navy, although he remembers little of that after the explosion on the
Epaulette
.

Yesterday they rendezvoused with another Royal Navy ship, an eighty-gunner, and spent the night moored to her side.

That had not helped Willem's stomach at all, as the night had been one of rolling and tossing, and he had very little sleep. As sorry as he felt for himself, though, at least he could go on deck and take in fresh air. The fifty soldiers of the First Foot Guards on the deck below had no such opportunity; they had to remain out of sight and so had to simply endure what to Willem would have been insufferable conditions.

This morning they sailed to within sight of the Dutch coast and anchored there until the sun slithered below the horizon. Now, with light from only the stars and a slim, crescent-shaped moon, they are in the last stage of their journey, a perilous nighttime passage of the Oosterschelde, the northern branch of the Schelde River.

The boat heaves back up out of the hole and settles, and Willem replaces the cylinder in an oilcloth, then in a leather satchel he has brought to carry them.

These are devices of magic, what his father called a “thundercloud.” But his father's were the size of a thimble, for use on a stage. Willem's versions are much larger. They are made from cut-down rocket casings, by the workshops of Sir William Congreve. He hopes he will not need them.

He wonders how Congreve has fared in Ireland, and fears it was not well.

Now he opens a wooden case and examines what lies inside. It is a red rocket, as is its twin next to it. A spare, in case the first one does not fire. A second case has two green rockets and a third case has yellow ones. They are in the hold, covered by bales of sheep's wool.

For all his doubts about Sir Congreve, Willem has to admire the speed at which he was able to blend Willem's colored powders with the gunpowder of the parachute flare rockets.

They tested them a few days earlier and the rockets produced a sizzling, colorful display that was visible for many kilometers, even during the day.

For his part, Congreve graciously took heed of some of Willem's suggestions. He seemed more amiable and amenable to the Calais plan once he knew his precious rockets would be put into action against the battlesaurs in Ireland.

Six rockets. Three colors.

If all goes to plan, then Blücher's army will have approached within sight of Calais.

When the dinosaurs in the city are dead, a yellow rocket will be fired, the signal for Blücher's army to attack.

Once Napoléon's Grande Armée is engaged in battle at Calais against the Prussians, without battlesaurs, a green rocket will be fired, a signal for the ships of the Royal Navy waiting off the coast. They will immediately set sail to Ireland. Once they arrive at Cork Harbour, they will engage the French forces there, defeat them, and then sail back before a saur-less Napoléon is able to disengage his army from the Prussians.

The red rocket is in case of disaster. If all goes wrong, it will be used to recall the Royal Navy. It will have to be fired before they sail out of sight.

Willem hopes he will not have to use that rocket. He closes the wooden case and heaps bales of wool on top of it, then climbs the narrow ladder to the deck.

The smell of the sea never ceases to amaze him, full of mystery. The thought that this water is deep and wide enough to swallow his entire village a million times over is hard to comprehend. The air here is different from that of the forest, which was full of leafy, earthy smells. This is a harsh tang, a bitter taste on his tongue, and yet it is a fresh smell, as though the world is new and he is witness to its birth.

The wind is also different at sea than on land. It brings spray from the front of the boat, a thousand icy needles in the cold cloth of this October night.

But most of all what he notices is the silence. London is a noisy place; the air is filled with carriage wheels rattling on cobblestones, vendors shouting out their wares, constant chatter of thousands of people. Here, apart from the sound of the hull burrowing through the water and the breeze rustling the rigging, it is silent.

He turns up the collar on his coat against the spray and walks forward. He passes Big Joe, Gilbert, and Weiner engaged in earnest conversation at the larboard gunwales. He nods and smiles, but it is a strange feeling seeing them in French uniform. He knows and trusts these men, yet the uniform makes him shudder.

He wonders what it is like for them, to be wearing the uniform of the enemy. It must not be a comfortable feeling, for more than one reason. If they are caught, they will be shot as spies.

He, Frost, Jack, and Héloïse wear civilian clothes for their journey to Gaillemarde.

He finds Frost and Jack seated at the bow, their backs to the railing, talking quietly. Willem joins them and finds himself in the midst of an uncomfortable silence.

“A private conversation?” he asks.

Frost shakes his head. “I was just asking Jack about Bedlam.”

Willem glances at Jack, who shudders.

There is a touch on Willem's arm and he looks around to see Héloïse sliding down next to him. She puts her arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. After a moment he decides that she must be cold, and he places his arm around her shoulders to keep her warm.

It is certainly not appropriate behavior for an unbetrothed young man and woman, but Héloïse, Willem reminds himself, is not privy to the usual mores and manners of polite society. And besides, she is cold.

“What did Jack say?” Willem asks.

Frost shakes his head. “It is, perhaps, a sensitive subject.”

“It's a bad place,” Jack says uncertainly.

“You had been to Bedlam before?” Willem asks.

“I didn't know what it was called until we got there,” Jack says. “I recognized the statues out front. Nobody could never forget them, could they, sir?”

An image comes to Willem's mind of the contorted faces of the two reclining lunatics outside the asylum. He shudders also.

“I mean, who would put statues like that outside a place what's supposed to be helping people get better?” Jack asks.

“Why were you there, Jack?” Frost asks. “Did you live there for a while?”

“Oh no, sir, nothing like that,” Jack says. “I was visiting me mum.”

A bad memory seems to settle over him like a dark cloud. He shuts his eyes briefly.

“What happened, Jack?” Frost asks.

“It were after me dad died,” Jack says. “He were at the Battle of Trafalgar. He got hit by a cannonball. In the … here.” He pats his chest. “He lay next to Lord Nelson himself, so I heard.”

“I remember you telling me,” Frost says.

“He was on the
Victory
, that was Nelson's ship, sir,” Jack says. “That's why he was in the ship's hospital next to him. I mean after Nelson got himself shot.”

“That was 1805,” Frost says. “You must have been about seven.”

Jack holds up his hands, counting on his fingers for a moment, then gives up.

“Something like that,” he says. “After that me mum went a bit odd-like. She wouldn't eat or drink. Wouldn't even talk. Not even to me. She just sat in the corner until the doctors came.”

“What happened to you?”

“A family from the church took me in,” Jack says. “They were good people. It was them what took me to see me mum.”

The dark cloud that hovers over Jack has intensified.

“You don't have to talk about this,” Willem says, but Jack does not seem to hear.

“I remember crying. There was an orderly, a big, fat orderly with piggy nostrils. He was shouting at me, shouting and shouting. I was running. There was a balcony. And an old man, with red, red eyes. There was someone screaming.” He pauses. “Might have been me, sir. I remember falling.”

“Then what, Jack?” Frost asks.

“Hospital, sir. I was there for a long time. The doctors were saying stuff about my head. Didn't make no sense to me.”

“It must have been awful,” Willem says.

“I was a clever little boy,” Jack says. “Everybody told me that. Good with me letters, good with me numbers.”

“I'm sure you were, Jack,” Frost says.

“But nobody ever told me that after the accident,” Jack says.

“A sad and moving story, but a half-wit is still a half-wit,” McConnell says from the other side of the boat. Willem hadn't noticed him sitting in the shadows.

Héloïse snarls, baring her teeth.

“And a wild dog is a wild dog,” McConnell says.

“You are aware, McConnell, that you are no longer in British uniform,” Frost says with a smile that chills even Willem.

“I am still an officer,” McConnell says.

“But not in your uniform,” Frost says. “And Jack is a good lad, but if you push him too far, and don't have your rank to hide behind, I fear the consequences.”

“I fear nothing from a simpleton,” McConnell says.

“You should,” Frost says. “Especially here, where a person could simply disappear.”

McConnell's reply is stopped on his lips by a hushed whisper from amidships: “Sail off the larboard bow!”

Willem and Jack crane their necks to look.

From the square rigging it appears to be a small brig. Its sails are dull patches sewn on the dark cloth of the sky.

Their own sail is quietly lowering and as Willem scrambles back to the stern, Arbuckle greets him with a finger to his lips and moves closer, whispering in Willem's ear.

“Quietly, my friend. Sound travels a long way across water at night.”

“What ship is it?” Willem asks.

“River patrol,” Arbuckle murmurs. “Dutch flag.”

“Dutch?” Willem asks hopefully.

“That will not help us if they see us,” Arbuckle says. “The Netherlands are now allies of the French. We must hope…”

His voice trails off. Already it is too late. They hear shouted orders on the Dutch ship and the bow swings around in their direction.

“We must make a run for it!” McConnell says. He has joined them, as have the others, at the aftercastle.

“Outpace a brig in this little fishing boat?” Arbuckle asks. “We would have no chance. We will lower our sails and talk our way out of this.”

“Are you mad?” McConnell asks. “You think to blind the enemy with your charm and wit?”

For answer Arbuckle merely glances at Willem.

“On this I trust Captain Arbuckle fully,” Willem says, with emphasis on the man's rank.

McConnell stares at the approaching ship and fumes, but says nothing more.

“I am the only one who will speak to them,” Arbuckle says. “Is that clear?”

“It is clear,” Willem says, glancing around at the others, all of whom, with the exception of McConnell, nod their agreement.

“So you may say whatever suits your purpose,” McConnell says.

“
Captain
Arbuckle is the only one who speaks,” Willem says, starting to lose his composure. “Is that clear,
Lieutenant
McConnell?”

McConnell reluctantly nods.

The sloop drifts to a halt, and the brig is soon upon her. It seems much bigger up close, although still tiny compared to the British man-o'-war on which Willem sailed to England. He counts six gun ports along the side of the ship. They were open, but are closed as the brig pulls alongside. Storm lamps are hung from the side of the brig, illuminating the smaller boat. A carronade, a small cannon, is mounted on the fo'c'sle to the right of the bowsprit. It swivels toward them. A sailor stands behind it with a lit linstock, making Willem far more nervous than he wants to feel.

Arbuckle does nothing to object when ropes are tossed down from the brig, stern and aft, and he instructs crew members to tie the ship up, even going to the trouble of making sure himself that the knots are strong and tight. He motions for Willem, Frost, and the rest of the crew to sit on the deck near the mast.

“Whose side is he really on?” McConnell mutters under his breath.

Muskets are trained on the sloop from the gunwales of the brig, and a few moments later a large, florid man appears at the railing. He glances around the deck of the smaller boat until his eyes fall on Arbuckle.

“Arbuckle, you scoundrel,” he says in accented English, leaning over and resting his arms on the railing. He seems casual and relaxed.

“Captain Devilliers,” Arbuckle says with a short bow. “I was worried it might have been some earnest young diehard, brave and intelligent. Thank God it is only you.”

“Even with my muskets trained on your breast, you think to insult me,” Devilliers says.

“That was barely an insult,” Arbuckle says. “You should hear what I whisper about you in the taverns and bawdy houses of Antwerp and London.”