Clash of Empires (6 page)

“Yes, yes, of course,” Congreve says, glancing around as if he has somewhere better to be. “But Napoléon will think twice about risking his dinosaurs on the battlefield once we have killed a few of them with my rockets. You will see, at the demonstration tomorrow.”

He turns abruptly and strides away.

“What was he doing here?” Jack asks.

“I have no idea,” Willem says. “He has shown no interest in our work until now.”

“Sir William does nothing without good reason,” Frost says.

“Do you think he is right?” Willem asks, his shoulders slumped.
Pepper guns and sparkle sticks.
What he has been teaching the soldiers seems suddenly trivial.

“He is wrong. For a genius, he is a fool,” Frost says. “And when the battle is over it will be your name, not his, that echoes across the field.”

Willem stares at him and after a moment Frost smiles. “I do not have to hear your words to know what you are thinking,” he says. “Yes, our debt to you is great. We will go to Héloïse, but I caution you to steel yourself for the sights you will see.”

“We must leave at once,” Willem says.

Frost shakes his head. “I have important matters to attend to this afternoon that I cannot avoid or delay. We will go tomorrow, but early so we are back before the demonstration.” He puts a hand on Willem's arm. “Earl Wenzel-Halls of Leicester will also attend tomorrow's events.”

“He is returned from the Near East?” Willem asks.

“So it would appear,” Frost says. “I have sent word that we wish to meet with him after the demonstration.”

Willem is silent. The meeting with the earl is one he has sought since his arrival in England, but it will not be an easy one.

Jack has gone to look at Harry. He cranes his neck upward to inspect the damage to its face.

“Jack is a good lad,” Frost says quietly, watching him. “I miss him. His innocence and honesty would make a refreshing change in Whitehall. A shame he cannot read or write, or I would request him as my permanent aide.”

“He has certainly been a valuable assistant,” Willem says. “Carving the heads was his own idea.”

“Look out for him, Willem,” Frost says. “Hew McConnell has been embarrassed today and I know him. He will seek retribution of some kind.”

“I will do what I can,” Willem assures him. He smiles as he sees Jack stroke the carved head as if it was a pet. “So where is Héloïse?”

There is silence for a moment.

“The Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlem,” Frost says. He hesitates again. “They call it Bedlam.”

 

RUNNING THE PASSAGE

The weather the captain predicted moves in much more quickly than expected. Before they have even passed the peninsula the ship is being rocked by blustery winds. The topsails are furled and the mainsails are quartered, slowing the ship as she leads the way across the mouth of the Baie de Douarnenez.

They are on the French side of the Channel, about five hundred miles southeast of London. By the time they reach the Raz de Sein passage, the ship is being lashed by squalls of rain and thunderous sheets of water that sweep across the deck. Footing is treacherous. The sun has risen but makes little impression through the thick black clouds.

Thibault emerges from belowdecks to find Captain Lavigne on the quarterdeck, shielding his eyes from the rain, peering through the darkness at the barge wallowing in the seas behind them.

“Any problems?” Thibault asks.

“All good so far,” Lavigne replies. “How is your wife?”

“Nicole is not a great sailor.” Thibault smiles apologetically on her behalf. “She remains in my cabin, tended to by the ship's physician, cursing me with words a sailor would waver to use for bringing her on this expedition.”

“Already? It will get much rougher than this,” Lavigne says.

Thibault smiles again. “Her airs began the moment she stepped on board. As I said, she is not a good sailor.”

“But she will recover?”

“When we reach the British Isles, no doubt.”

Thibault turns to the front, where the headlands of the Pointe du Raz protrude through the rain. Off the starboard bow, the Île de Sein is a ghostly illusion, shrouded by the rain and the mist rising off the water.

“It is a narrow passage,” Lavigne says.

“It has been run before,” Thibault says.

“That fleet lost one ship and the rest dispersed in confusion,” Lavigne says. “And they were not towing battlesaurus barges.”

“They ran the passage at night,” Thibault says. “We shall have the advantage of the sunrise.”

“What there is of it,” Lavigne says.

The ship rocks even more violently than before, tossing and rolling on the increasing sea.

The sails are mostly furled; just enough are aloft to maintain steerage. It is still more canvas than would be usual in these conditions, but she is towing a heavy load. Sails flap in the gusts and ropes slap against the masts and stays. The sound of the wind through the rigging is a ghoulish shriek.

Waves batter the sides of the ship, erupting over the gunwales and drenching everyone and everything. The air is filled with spray and Thibault can taste salt. Occasionally the island to their right solidifies, breaking through the clouded mist. To larboard, white water breaks furiously against rocks. It seems close, too close.

“Safety lines, fore and aft,” the captain instructs, and a moment later the sailing master shouts the same command. The ship plunges deep into furrows, lifting a moment later on huge swells of water. The passage is dangerous even in the calm; in these seas it could soon turn deadly.

There is a crack from overhead and Thibault looks up to see a spar broken and dangling. Ropes hang loose and sails flap uselessly.

“Two points to starboard,” the captain says, and the helmsman moves the wheel just so.

There are more instructions, and sailors are climbing the rigging, tossed and buffeted by the wind and the waves that reach well up the mast. Thibault watches as hatchets slam into loose ropes and the dangling, broken spar collapses. The final rope is cut and it disappears into a whirlwind.

“Four points to starboard,” the captain orders.

The rocks to their left seem even closer now. The ship is being driven toward them, despite bearing well away from them.

“The barge is pulling our stern around. It is dragging us sideways.” The captain's deep voice comes from close behind Thibault and he turns. Dandy or not, the captain is resolute in the storm, standing on the heaving deck as steadily as if it was dry land, unbothered by the rain and the driving waves that hurl themselves over the sides of the ship.

“If we cannot make way toward the center of the Channel, we may have to cut the barge loose!” The captain has to shout above the howling of the rigging.

“I would first cut you loose,” Thibault says without emotion.

“If it drags us onto the rocks the ship will founder!” the captain shouts. “We will all be lost, along with your precious dinosaur.”

“Then see that it doesn't,” Thibault says.

The captain turns and storms off, without a word or a bow. He barks commands at the deck officers. Sailors run to carry out their orders. The helmsman works the wheel, fighting against the winds and the currents, but now the captain replaces him, his face a rigid mask as he feels his way through the turbulent sea.

More sails are unfurled by riggers high on the spars. A sudden gust of wind and the ship sways. There is a scream from above and a body falls, stopped only at the end of a safety rope.

The rigger spins and swings wildly at the end of the rope. The mast swings back, whipping the man through the air, smashing him against the mizzenmast. His struggles stop and he hangs limply at the end of the rope. Again and again the winds whip him back and forth, painting the mast in broad bright strokes of red before finally, mercifully, the rope breaks and he is gone over the side.

Thibault hears a crunch from behind, the sound carried on the wind. He is immediately afraid that it has come from the barge, but he turns to see it safe, if wallowing badly in the seas behind them. The crunch has come from another of the ships, its mainsails torn, at least one spar hanging loose. Its hull is broached on an unseen rock. It is leaning, almost horizontal, and men are falling from the rigging and the deck into the ocean.

“The
Sceptre
,” the captain says. “She is lost!”

“The
Sceptre
is a troop ship, is it not?” Thibault asks.

“It is,” the captain says.

“Those men must be rescued,” Thibault says. “Signal the following ships.”

“That would endanger those ships also,” the captain says. “The seas are too rough.”

“Captain, that ship carries over a thousand soldiers of the Imperial Guard,” Thibault says. “Men who marched with Napoléon in Russia. Who held their ground against cavalry charges at Waterloo. Who defeated the famed Swiss Army at Zurich. Not to mention the officers and their wives.”

“A terrible loss,” the captain says. “But foolish action will only lose more lives. Sir, you are a soldier; I am a sailor. Trust me when I tell you that to attempt this rescue will cost more ships. We will lose more of your men, and more of mine.”

His lips compressed, Thibault regards him for a moment.

“Is there nothing that can be done?” he asks.

“You could pray for their souls,” the captain says.

*   *   *

Only when the rocks of the passage are behind them and the ship has reached the safety of the open sea does Thibault again go belowdecks. His wife is in bed, a wooden bowl cradled in front of her. As he enters she quickly turns her face toward the window.

The ship's surgeon stands at her bedside, but leaves quickly at a glance from Thibault.

“How are you, my love?” Thibault asks.

“At the door of death,” she says. “My stomach churns and my head spins. How long must I endure this torture?”

“A few days only,” Thibault says. “And it will be much less arduous once this weather passes.”

“It had better,” she says. “I feel as though one of your creatures has laid its spawn inside me and it is trying to escape through my gullet.”

“It is just the seasickness,” Thibault says. “It will pass as soon as the ship steadies. A small sacrifice, my love, on the road to greatness.”

“I am pleased for you, husband,” she says, her eyes still fixed on the window.

It is as if she cannot bear to look upon his scarred and blackened face.

His anger flares.

“Then look at me,” he says.

“I am ill,” she says.

“And looking at me turns your stomach?” he asks.

“I cannot lie to you. It does,” she says. He draws breath but before he can retort she says quietly, “And yet I am here.”

“Why are you here?” he asks, anger still coloring his voice.

“Yours is not the face of the man I married,” she says. “But you are still the man I married. The man I love. In the depths of my illness and misery allow me to turn away from you and listen to your voice, and thus see you as you still appear in my memory.”

The anger dissipates immediately and he crosses to the bed and takes her hand in his.

“The road we are on is the path to our greatness,” he says.

“I would rather it were you, not Napoléon, who was to lead the main attack,” Nicole says.

“You do our emperor a grave disservice,” Thibault says. “He is a brilliant tactician. Our landing will take the British by surprise. And that will open the front door to England.”

“You speak admiringly of the man you plan to kill,” she says.

“Napoléon is a military genius,” Thibault says. “Even now, though he is old, tired, and unwell, I need his brain to conquer England. After that, he will hold no further use for me. He will be remembered as a hero and I will be hailed as emperor.”

“And I will be the empress of France,” Nicole says.

“Of the world,” Thibault says.

 

NIGHTMARE

Willem wakes with a scream, unsure if it is aloud or confined within his own skull. He prays it is the latter. The walls of the officers' quarters are thin, and he often hears night murmurings, coughs, and snoring from the rooms on either side. For the British officers to hear him scream even once would be embarrassing. But this dream and the scream that follows happen nearly every night.

In the dream he is back in Gaillemarde, and everyone is still alive: Monsieur Lejeune; Father Ambroise; Madame Gertruda; the mayor, Monsieur Claude, and his stout wife. Everyone.

And the beast is back. The immense saur with the snout of a crocodile. The one that he and his friend Jean killed. But in the dream they do not kill it. As in real life, he freezes, but in the dream there is no Héloïse to break him from his rigidity. He is an observer, nothing more. In that frozen moment the dinosaur takes both Cosette and her father with a single bite as they cower amid the gravestones. The stone angel above them is misted red with blood.

The monster moves on to the church, where it feasts on the children who hide there and on the women who try to protect them. After that it turns to the rest of the villagers, one after another, who, like Willem, seem frozen in place, merely waiting their turn to disappear into the gaping maw, victims of the creature's insatiable appetite. Only then, when just Jean and Willem are left, does it turn toward them and those great teeth take Jean and now there is only Willem and that is when he screams. Because now the leaping flames from burning houses light up the great beast and he can see that it wears the uniform of the French general: Thibault.

Then he always wakes and in the first twilight daze of consciousness he remembers that Jean really is dead.

And so is almost everybody else.

Willem stands up from his bunk, shivering in the cold September night air. He lights a candle, which pushes back the darkness, and some of the demons that lurk there, but does nothing about the cold.