by Naomi Novik
The world spun sickeningly, and for all his effort Laurence’s hands pulled loose from the harness, and left him dangling by the carabiner straps as they turned, once and twice spiraling, and righted again; all of them a little green from the close and rapid turn, and the two knife-hilts standing up alone from Temeraire’s back, the small cuts trickling a little blood down his side.
“That has torn it, sir,” Emily said, pointing; and Laurence nodded. The French had noticed their lack of success, and the loss of men: they were no longer trying to board, but turning a steady rifle-fire upon the beasts instead. Quicker than he might have hoped; but their attempts had borne some fruit, at least, and many of the French middle-weights and light-weights, who had so daringly come in close to the decoyed British heavy-weights, had paid for it dearly as well: blood ran freely down many a side, black and steaming in the cold air.
“Throw out a signal, Mr. Allen: we are made,” Laurence said, and leaned forward. “Temeraire, you had better pull away now, and go for their flank—they have a weakness, there on their right; do you see it?”
“No,” Temeraire said, rather reluctantly detaching himself from the Pêcheur-Couronné he was presently mauling about, who had with more valor than sense made a run directly at him. But the movement of men below caught his interest, after a glance. “Wait; I do, where that ditch is in their way, and they are having to go around—”
“Yes,” Laurence said: the French lines were compressed, awkwardly, where the men were crowding to advance, and they made an ideal target for an aerial strike, which should drive a hole into Napoleon’s flank not easily repaired. “Quickly, before they have got past—”
“Alors, la prochaine fois vous feriez mieux d’y réfléchir à deux fois,” Temeraire said to the smaller beast, before with a final lecturing shake he let it flee, and turning towards his fellows gave a roar unlike any Laurence had heard from him before: an odd inflected sort of sound, rising and falling in almost an eerie musical way. It pulled the attention of the other unharnessed beasts quickly, and they came peeling away from their individual battles with the French beasts, as the formal ranks of the Aerial Corps charging forward took their place.
As Temeraire banked away, Laurence turned in his straps to watch: the ranks of the harnessed beasts of the Corps were coming, not in their usual arrow-head formations, but drawn out into a single thin line of light-weights and courier-beasts and middle-weights. At intervals there was a small cluster: two middle-weights in front with a heavy-weight behind, like knots on a string; Maximus made one of them, red-gold and roaring, behind Messoria and Immortalis.
As the two forces met, the middle-weights clawed their way into the cloud of French light-weights, opening room for the heavy-weights to bull through behind them; the lighter British dragons engaging also, but only a little, slashing and continuing on, so the whole line advanced together through the French ranks, scattering them above and below.
It was as neat an answer as could be imagined, to the harrying French strategy, and now the heavy-weights were through and swooping with their tremendous loads of munitions: bombs and spikes dropping like a black iron rain down upon the French infantry and their gun emplacements. Laurence could see Excidium, those vast purple-and-orange wings spread wide as the Longwing darted low with a protective guard of two heavy-weights, and another who must have been Mortiferus, with a yellower cast to his wing-tips, on his flank. Their acid caught morning sun and sparkled, descending, and a hot grey cloud of smoke and agony rose in its wake.
The gap in the French defenses did not last for long; the French dragons regrouped and flung all their heavy-weights in a mass after the Longwings: three Petit Chevaliers, a couple of Defendeur-Braves, a marbled orange-yellow Chanson-de-Guerre. Together they massed some hundred tons and more, and descending with ferocity they could not be turned aside. Excidium and Mortiferus were forced back up into the safety of the British line, the other British heavy-weights turning to cover their escape, and the quick skirmishing cloud of the French harried them back away from the field.
Laurence was only a very little aware of the last of this: Temeraire leading them down they had stooped upon the infantry, shockingly low, and now the unharnessed dragons were wreaking a ruthless havoc on the awkwardly placed men, who could not easily get their guns up to shoot, compressed as their column was by the uneven ground. The great Chequered Nettle, Ballista, even landed herself fully on the ground a moment, and laid about with her massive barbed tail in great sweeps.
Temeraire was so close to the ground himself that Laurence was able to draw his pistols and shoot four men from his back, and Demane and Emily accounted for another two apiece, Allen another. It was more difficult to miss than to hit, at first, so packed were the French ranks; and then Laurence and his small crew were all standing in their straps and drawing swords, as a few of the soldiers leapt aboard daringly.
“Hi! Look there, the eagle, the eagle!” Moncey yelled in great excitement, darting around, but a young lieutenant shouted, “À moi! Vive l’Empereur!” and seizing the standard leapt into the ditch itself, quickly followed by the remnant of the company. All of the men knelt, heedless of the wet, and together they became a bristling mass of bayonets and rifle-fire, spitting at the dragons from below.
“Well, that is bad luck,” Temeraire said, as they were forced to lift away for a respite; but Laurence could not agree: they had wrecked the advance on the French right flank for too little cost to call it anything but good luck, the very best. Some of the dragons had taken fire, and a handful were turning tail for the camp, with shots to their wings or heads, and one smallish Yellow Reaper being helped away by his fellows had a long dreadful bayonet-slash across the belly, which had lain him open to the white gleam of ribs. But they were yet more than forty in number, after casualties and those who had been up at night fighting, and in a few hours the latter would return to the field.
The opening gambits had been made; no decisive stroke yet had fallen. The aerial combat settled into the steadier, grinding work of attrition. “You must send some of your fellows to rest,” Laurence said to Temeraire, when they had been aloft an hour, fighting nearly without a pause and in tiring style. The French had not made any more convenient mistakes, so it was all quick darting strikes whenever an opening could be seized, to get past the pepper guns and the rifles and do a little damage. “You cannot get worn down; the French dragons will take advantage as soon as they see you slowing too far. You see they are already going in shifts off the field.”
“I suppose,” Temeraire said, rather disconsolately, “only it is difficult enough already, with all of us, to manage to do any good; we have not got a single eagle, or even taken a gun. There was that one Majestatis broke, just now,” he added, “but that is not as good.”
“You are doing better than that; you have worn down their right flank, and the advantage to our own infantry will tell, more and more over the course of the day,” Laurence said. “You cannot expect a quick victory; remember how long the battle lasted, at Jena.”
It was still more of a struggle to make him go and rest himself; he would not do so until Laurence at last resorted to pointing out, “If you do not, then you will get more tired still; and if Lien should come in at the last moment—”
“Oh!” Temeraire said, “that would be just like her; I suppose I must—Ballista!” he called, “you must take charge, so I can go and rest, in case Lien comes sneaking in later. I wonder where she is hiding,” he added, rather darkly, and craned his head up to spy the rear of the French lines, hidden around a curve of the river.
The sky was brilliant clear, and the sunlight though not warming was bright; Lien’s red eyes and fragile white skin were vulnerable to such conditions, and likely, Laurence suspected, she would make no appearance, save in desperation. But if deception his suggestion were, it had sufficient good effect to make its own excuse; Temeraire grew rather drooping as they flew back to the clearings, and he fell with ravenous hunger on the de
ad horse which was laid out waiting for him, still in its cavalry saddle.
He shut his eyes and was asleep at once, after; Laurence climbed down to stretch his legs, and to let Fellowes and Blythe make their survey of the abbreviated harness while he made his own, walking up and down Temeraire’s sides to see what injuries had been made. The two knives, Emily was now carefully removing, slowly, fresh blood trickling. The handful of stab wounds had crusted over, at least, but there were a good half-dozen musket-shot wounds, balls gone into the meat of Temeraire’s flanks; and near one of them, Laurence was alarmed to notice, a puckered mark he had not before seen, a recent one: a ball had gone in, and not been removed.
“Sipho,” Laurence said, “go and find Mr. Keynes; you know him? Good; find him, or Dorset, and bring them at once; with their kit.” He dragged over a barrel and climbed up to lay his hand on the old wound; it felt a little hot and swollen, he thought, but perhaps it might only be the heat of battle, radiating from all Temeraire’s muscles as he lay.
“Infection,” Dorset pronounced with certainty, as soon as he had peered at it through his spectacles, and touched it with his fingertips. “My lancet, if you please, and have the tongs ready,” he said to Sipho, and then he slashed deep through the pucker, past the layer of scales and fat. A gushing flow of white and yellow pus came running free with a dreadful sour stench that made Laurence turn his head away. Dorset did not pause even an instant, but seized the tongs and drove them in deep, and pulling away brought out the musket-ball, black and shining with fluid, even as Temeraire roared awake with a bellow that shook the trees and knocked Dorset and Sipho and Laurence all flat as he flinched.
“It is over already,” Dorset said in answer to his shocked protesting, “and now you know why we take them out at once. It would have been more unpleasant if you were awake.”
“I do not see much how,” Temeraire said, rather bitterly, “and at least I should have been warned.”
“And should have jerked twenty feet away, before I could have the ball out,” Dorset returned unrepentant. “Enough complaining; now I must have the others.”
“But I must go back to fighting,” Temeraire said hurriedly, trying to escape; to no avail, and he put his head down, ruff flattened back, and muttered unhappily as Dorset went prying after the other balls, which at least were less deep.
“It will be done soon,” Laurence said, stroking his head, and Demane came out of the woods carrying a small deer, slung over his shoulders, which Temeraire picked and nibbled on for consolation.
Excidium came down beside them with a rustling like heavy silk, his great wings folding shut, and his crew swarmed down in a rush to treat his wounds: only a few scattered claw-marks, and one musket-ball, whose removal he bore with perfect stoicism. Temeraire’s complaints—Dorset was now searing shut all the cleaned wounds—promptly fell silent.
“Here you are, then,” Jane said, coming over and spying Emily, who looked a little hang-dog as she was caught: red-handed literally, for she was standing and holding the blood-wet instruments for Dorset as he worked. “And has Sanderson given you leave from your post?”
“Anyhow Artemisia can only fly an hour at a time,” Emily said, but there was rather a mulish gleam in her eye; Laurence did not imagine she had liked her mother’s former demotion, nor serving with the usurper.
“Admiral,” Temeraire said, “have you any more orders for us? I am sure we could be of great use in fighting them aloft with you; and it is not much fun just poking the infantry,” he added, his brief studied formality failing him.
“You all do very well where you are,” Jane said. “It is no time to be going off half-cocked, old fellow. I will go so far as to say I think we are nicely placed. He is making us work for every inch, but we are getting them, and soon we will have them up against the trees. Closer run than I would like, but Dalrymple was right after all, and I was wrong; it was a good chance to take.”
“I was sure it would go well,” Temeraire said, “but I would like at least one more eagle, before we make him run away again.”
“If we take him,” Jane said, and reached to scratch Temeraire’s harness, against such tempting of fate, “I hope we will get more than his eagles; we will get him. Yes, he is here, himself,” she added, when Laurence could not help himself but ask. “He is beyond the curve with his Old Guard, and his pet Celestial; a splendid creature, what I have been able to see of her.”
“I knew she should be hiding from the battle,” Temeraire said, darkly.
“Keeping them in reserve and her, too,” Jane said, “but that will not be enough. We have our own reserve: Iskierka will be waking up any moment now, and the others who were out to-night.”
“She fought last night?” Laurence said.
“Yes,” Jane said. “One can’t get her off the field once she is on it, not until the enemy has quitted; so I had Granby rouse her up when it began to get a little light, and chase off the last of the Fleurs. Then she was tired enough to sleep a while. She will wake up full of vim, and just what we need. Bonaparte has let Prussia go to his head, I suppose, and thought he could beat us with less than all his strength.”
“I have just been thinking,” Temeraire said, after a moment, “where do you suppose his Grand Chevaliers are?—and Marshal Davout; I have not seen his standards anywhere, on the field.”
“Returned to France, I imagine, or still on the coast ferrying,” Laurence said. “And Davout—”
“Portugal, last report,” Jane said.
“Well,” Temeraire said, “there were two of them west of here; we stole their pigs, but they had plenty of food besides that. And Davout is not in Portugal at all, we saw him north of London, two days ago.”
“What?” Jane said, and did not wait for an answer; she was running to Excidium at once, shouting orders, and leaping for the harness and her speaking-trumpet; Excidium going up even while her ensigns latched her on. “Alarm!” Laurence heard her shouting, “sound alarm, enemy to the north,” and flags were going out on every dragon as their crews caught the signal from Excidium’s back.
Temeraire sat up. “Whatever is she so worried for?” he said, looking at Laurence rather indignantly, but Laurence had a dreadful, sinking sensation. “Aloft,” he said, “come; we must go aloft as far as you can—” and when Temeraire had climbed high enough to make trees and hills and farmhouses all blur into the wide gentle curve of the earth, he paused, hovering, and in subdued voice said, “Yes; I see them.”
Davout was coming, directly for their rear, with thirty dragons and twenty thousand men.
Chapter 9
IN ANOTHER HOUR, there would have been nothing to do but stand and be pounded to pieces from either side; the little early warning was enough to try and disengage, at least, and Dalrymple at once issued the order for the retreat. Wellesley fought a brilliant rear-guard action, bloody and terrible, stretching his men to hold the full breadth of Napoleon’s line while the rest of them withdrew behind that shield.
But still the retreat became rout by the end: ten thousand men left floundering in the marsh to be taken prisoner, and the rest straggling ignominiously away north through the countryside, without more than their muskets and their boots, and sometimes lacking those. The dragons were carrying the guns, dispiritedly, and occasionally Temeraire would look back over his shoulder at the battlefield they had fled and the dragons in the distance, chasing, with a quivering ruff. He did not propose to turn, but looked away again and put his head down, dogged, and kept flying.
Bonaparte’s harrying pursuit fell off at last, near evening: the French dragons, having labored all day in battle or in carrying Davout’s men near, had reached their limits, and one by one began to sink further behind into the gloaming; until they must have been called off and could be seen turning away.
Laurence put his hand on Temeraire’s neck. “We have slipped the trap,” he said quietly. “You have bought us that, at least.”
“I still think we ought to go back,”
Iskierka said, grumbling, flying beside them; she had been very angry to awaken only to be told she would not have any fighting after all, and Temeraire only had managed to half-persuade, half-bully her into flying along with the rest. “I am hungry, and I do not like carrying this cannon; it makes my shoulders ache.”
“We are all hungry,” Temeraire said, in a temper, “so pray stop complaining; you are very tiresome.”
“I am not!” she said, “only because you do not want to fight, and would rather run away—”
“That is enough,” Excidium said to her sternly, descending. “We will go back when we are ready to, and have more men and guns, and can be sure to win. That is strategy,” he added, “and you are old enough to understand it.”
Iskierka subsided, still muttering, as the older dragon flew on ahead.
Somewhere far behind, the remnants of the infantry and cavalry marched on, towards reinforcements and resupply at the well-defended central depot in Weedon Bec. The dragons however flew straight on through the night and the next day, putting an impractical distance between them and pursuit, and ensuring the safety of the artillery. There was not much for them to eat: the farmers hid their cattle, and they could not easily stop to hunt during the day. “The Quality must put up with having their game eaten,” Jane said, and divided them up into small companies, each to make camp on an estate large enough to have a deer park.
They would be in Nottinghamshire before nightfall, and Wollaton Hall had a herd of four hundred or more. “I can send you elsewhere,” Jane said, but Laurence shook his head. He little wished to be at home in the present circumstances: a condemned traitor, with the worst sort of news, bringing twenty hungry dragons to tear up the estate. But it could not be helped; worse if he took himself to some other house nearby, without paying his formal respects, and let some other group of dragons use the grounds; that would be cowardice, and shirking. If Lord Allendale chose to forbid him the house when he came, that was his father’s privilege; his own duty was to endure the rebuke he had earned.