“Can we trust this boy?” Maarten asks softly.
“François? Of course,” Cosette says quickly. “He saw what happened at Gaillemarde. He has no reason to favor the French. And he killed Belette.”
“But what if he is captured?” Maarten asks. “And reveals Sofie’s identity? If she does know Willem’s location, then that will put both of them in danger.”
“He says he knows these woods better than a thousand Frenchmen,” Cosette says.
“The risk is too great,” Maarten says softly.
“My husband is right,” Marie says. “Say nothing to François.”
Cosette nods, but she thinks they are wrong. She thinks of the way Willem used to look at her. Of the flush in his face when she once kissed his cheek. And Willem would never stop searching for his mother. Not ever.
COUNCIL OF WAR
Of all the places that Jack least expects to find himself in his life, the War Office in Whitehall is probably at the top of the list.
This is a place for leaders and noblemen, not lads like Jack. But here he is, at an emergency meeting of the War Council.
Some faces he does know because he has met the men: the Earl of Leicester, and the Duke of Wellington. Others, such as Viscount Melville, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of England, he knows because their portraits hang on the wall at the barracks.
Lord Liverpool sits barely ten yards from where Jack is standing, and just to be in the presence of these great men makes Jack nervous, afraid that he will do something wrong. That he will talk too loudly or say something stupid.
And of course the more he thinks about not doing these things, the more likely it is that one or the other of them is to happen.
He is grateful for Lieutenant Frost’s presence by his side. Jack has been the lieutenant’s official aide for just a few days. Not for writing or reading—Frost has an adjutant for that—but for helping Frost get around without his eyes. He is Frost’s eyes, and the thought makes him proud.
He and Frost are in a raised gallery that surrounds the War Office on all four sides. It is packed with generals and admirals.
Jack whispers to Frost the names of those attending, at least those he knows. “But I can’t see the king,” he says.
“The king is unwell,” Frost whispers back.
“I hope he is soon recovered,” Jack says. “Long live the king.”
“Our king will not live long,” Frost says. “And he no longer functions as a king.”
“I ain’t sure what you mean, sir,” Jack says after a moment.
“The king’s mind has gone,” Frost says.
“Gone where?” Jack asks.
“He is mad,” Frost says. “But we must not talk of this. It could be considered treason.”
Jack looks around quickly to see if anyone has been listening to their conversation. For the moment, the others all seem to be engaged in conversations of their own.
“I hope he’s not at Bedlam,” Jack says. “I didn’t like that place.”
Frost smiles. “The king is not at Bedlam.”
The seat next to Jack has been empty, but now it is taken. Jack looks to see the earl’s man, Arbuckle, who greets him with a nod.
There is a general quieting in the room as the meeting is called to order.
Jack looks around.
At one end of the room, in front of all the most important people, like Lord Liverpool and the Duke of Wellington, is a map on a large table. Small wooden markers are dotted here and there on the map.
The room is now completely silent. Lord Liverpool stands to speak. “The French have us on the bascule of a guillotine,” he says. “And the blade is about to drop.”
“The prime minister seeks to cause panic,” Melville interrupts. “Already the people of London see dinosaurs in the fog thanks to this kind of rhetoric. The French have landed a small force in Ireland. Let them keep it. It is full of Irishmen.”
There is laughter at this remark, although Jack does not understand why.
“And just a stone’s throw from the shores of England,” Liverpool says.
Melville says, “They will never invade England. In the words of Lord St. Vincent: ‘I do not say the French cannot come, I only say they cannot come by sea.’”
Lord Liverpool does not reply, but defers to the Duke of Wellington with a wave of his hand. Liverpool sits while Wellington stands and rests both hands on the map table. He gestures to the southern end of Ireland.
“The French have taken the harbor at Kinsale,” Wellington says. “They marched overnight to Cork Harbour, took Fort Camden, sank the Bulwark, and forced the surrender of the rest of our Irish squadron, including the Impregnable and the Hibernia. Napoléon now controls the Irish Sea. He can invade from the west any time he chooses.”
There are gasps from around the gallery.
“Worse is yet to come,” Wellington says. “The French have taken the gunpowder mills at Ballincollig, along with a shipment of thirteen hundred barrels. Without powder our cannon cannot fire, and our ships are useless.”
“We have inventory, surely,” Melville says.
“Enough for a few weeks of sustained battle only,” Wellington says. “Our stocks were depleted after Waterloo.”
“What about the mills at Faversham and Waltham Abbey?” Melville asks.
“Their combined output does not equal that of Ballincollig,” Wellington says. “Powder that we sorely need, but that the French now have.”
“Our cupboards are bare, while theirs overflow,” Liverpool muses. “Then we must retake Cork, and reclaim the mills at Ballincollig. What size is his army in Ireland?”
“He does not have a large force there,” Wellington says. “A few thousand men at most, no more than a hundred cannon, and our spies have so far seen only three of his great battlesaurs.”
“Then cannot the Irish Regiment throw him back into the sea?” Liverpool asks. “It is a short march from Clonmel to Cork.”
“The Irish Regiment have no training in dealing with the battlesaurs,” Wellington says. “They would be torn to pieces as we were at Waterloo. We must cross the Irish Channel and root those French weasels out of their burrow ourselves.” He looks pointedly at Melville.
“The French have over thirty ships of the line patrolling the Irish Sea,” Melville says, “half of them captured from us. The only way to retake Cork is to reclaim the harbor, and to do that we would have to divert our Channel Fleet.”
“That is exactly what Napoléon wants us to do,” Wellington says. “If we draw off the Channel Fleet to defeat him at Cork, then he will invade us from the east. He will cross at Calais and be in London within a week.”
Liverpool steeples his fingers. “The man is a brilliant tactician.”
“He would appear to have us at checkmate,” Wellington says.
“Should we simply surrender and start teaching our people to speak French?” Liverpool asks.
“I hope he’s not serious,” Jack whispers, horrified. “I never was no good with French.”
“He’s not,” Frost says. “Do you see the Earl of Leicester?”
“I do, sir,” Jack says.
“Do you think you could catch his eye?” Frost asks.
The earl glances up at Frost and Jack at almost that exact moment, and Jack waves vigorously, drawing the eye of Liverpool and Wellington as well.
“With my lord’s permission,” the earl says.
Liverpool nods, and the earl stands, awkwardly, heavily, dabbing at his brow with a scented handkerchief.
“There may yet be a move left to us in this chess game that Napoléon has orchestrated,” the earl says.
“We would all like to hear it,” Liverpool says.
“The idea is not mine,” the earl says. “Might I present Lieutenant Hunter Frost, formerly of the Royal Horse Artillery. The saur-slayer, hero of Waterloo.”
There are murmurs around the room. Frost’s name is well known.
“A boy who killed two of Napoléon’s great battlesaurs,” Wellington says. “Our only success at Waterloo.”
“A boy who now works for our Intelligence Service. Who correctly predicted Napoléon’s plans at Brest, and his decoy at Calais,” the earl says. “He asked that I should speak to his idea, but I would rather you heard it from his own lips.”
“He predicted the escape from Brest?” Melville asks. “If this is true, then why did he not speak up about it?”
“He did,” Wellington says. “But I was not willing to listen.”
An uncomfortable silence falls over the room.
“Then perhaps we should listen to him now,” Liverpool says.
Frost rises slowly to his feet. Without assistance from Jack he walks slowly to the front of the gallery, only occasionally touching the back of a chair to guide himself. He stands at the balcony.
“Napoléon’s main force is at Calais,” Frost says. “If we could distract or delay his army there, then the Royal Navy could sail to Ireland, defeat the French invasion force, and return to the Channel before Napoléon can cross.”
“Distract? Delay?” Lord Liverpool asks.
“What would delay Napoléon at Calais?” Melville asks.
“A battle,” Frost says. Jack cannot but notice the startled expressions of many in the audience. He hears the sharp intake of breath from those around him.
“Who would dare attack him?” Lord Liverpool asks.
“The Prussians,” Frost says.
Jack glances at Arbuckle, who nods.
“The Prussians have surrendered,” Liverpool says. “They have signed a treaty with the French.”
“They may have surrendered, but Blücher still commands an army,” Wellington says thoughtfully. “He hates Napoléon like a disease.”
“They are too far away!” Melville protests. “It would take a week to march to Calais from Prussia, even if Blücher was encamped right on the border and prepared to mobilize.”
“Blücher is not in Prussia,” Wellington says. “His army is at Waterloo, only a few days from Calais.”
“What is he doing there?” Liverpool asks.
“Since Waterloo there have been hundreds of British soldiers, those of other nationalities also, roaming the countryside and the forest,” Wellington says. “All summer, Blücher has been tasked by the French with securing the area and clearing the battlefield.”
“No matter how close he is, he would not dare attack Napoléon’s forces in France,” Melville says. “Not while Napoléon has his dinosaurs.”
“Not even Blücher would dare go against dinosaurs,” Liverpool agrees.
Jack can see that Frost has been waiting patiently to speak, and in the silence that follows the young lieutenant says, “However, the Prussians might consider the attack if Napoléon had no dinosaurs at Calais.”
“What are you proposing?” Melville asks.
“We have men who have been trained in the art of mesmerizing and killing the great beasts of war,” Frost says. “An army cannot attack Napoléon’s encampment at Calais, but a small group of men dressed in French uniform might well be able to infiltrate the camp and slay his battlesaurs.”
“That is disgraceful,” Melville says. “Disguised in the enemy uniform? That is the stuff of commoners and spies, not of gentlemen soldiers.”
“Napoléon is no gentleman,” Frost says.
“The lieutenant is right,” Wellington says. “He rewrites the rules of warfare as he goes. So perhaps should we.”
“This is preposterous,” Melville explodes.
“And if you kill his beasts at Calais, what will stop Napoléon from simply bringing more dinosaurs from his farm in the Sonian?” Liverpool asks. “It is barely a day or two’s march from Calais.”
“The lord speaks with intelligence and a clear mind,” Frost says. “It would be a great disaster if Napoléon was to bring up more battlesaurs from his cave in the Sonian. We would need to find a way to prevent that.”
“A cave, you say,” Liverpool says.
“Indeed,” Frost replies.
“And how many entrances are there to this cave?” Liverpool asks.
“Only one that is large enough for the saurs,” Frost says.
“Then the answer is obvious,” Liverpool says.
“Not to the rest of us,” Frost says.
“A second team is needed.” Liverpool’s face flushes red with excitement. “While the first group attacks the dinosaurs at Calais, the second group will go to the Sonian Forest and destroy the entrance to the cave. Without risk of battlesaurs biting him in the rear end, Blücher will be free to attack the French and give us the delay we need to retake Cork.”
“It is brilliant!” Frost says.
“I will write a letter to Blücher myself, imploring our former ally to use this opportunity.”
It seems to Jack that Lieutenant Frost has somehow made Liverpool think exactly what he wants him to think. He is not sure how Frost did this.
“And if Blücher says no?” Melville asks.
“I know the man,” Wellington says. “He would march at the head of his army if he knew that Napoléon had no saurs.”
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” Melville says. “Blücher will not attack Napoléon’s Grande Armée to delay an invasion of England. Suppose this plan works, what then? Napoléon will attack Blücher with the full force of his arms. He will not rest until Blücher is dead, and Blücher knows it. He will not sacrifice his own army, his own life, to save England.”
“Napoléon rules not by force, but by fear,” Frost says. “He has not had time to put together the kind of grande armée that marched into Russia. His hold over Europe is a series of shaky alliances. Since the disaster at Waterloo, the Dutch, Prussians, Spaniards, and Italians are all technically his allies, but only because they fear his battlesaurs. The Russians signed a nonaggression pact; the Ottomans have shut their eyes and pretend they cannot see. But if it could be shown that Napoléon’s dinosaurs are not invincible … that they can be killed, then might not the other countries rise up into a new coalition?”
Jack leans forward in his seat, awaiting the answer. A coalition of armies rising up against Napoléon. He likes the sound of that.
“That is a big assumption, and an even bigger risk,” Melville says.
“I think Blücher might be prepared to take that risk,” Wellington says.
“And if he is not?” Melville asks.
“Then what does it change?” Wellington asks. “We will still be in the same pot as before. If we follow Frost’s suggestion, then at least we give ourselves a chance to leap out.”
“Where will we find these teams?” Liverpool asks.
“The first team is ready to go,” Frost says. “Six soldiers, all well trained in the techniques of killing battlesaurs. They were preparing for a different mission, which has since been postponed.”
“And the second team?” Wellington asks.
“Would need to be people who know the Sonian Forest and the caves beneath it,” Frost says. “We have but one choice.”
“And that is?” Liverpool asks.
“Willem of Gaillemarde,” Frost says. “And the girl from his village, Héloïse. They are the only ones who know the ways through the Sonian. I would volunteer to lead the mission.”
He turns his head slightly toward Jack as he says this.
Jack keeps his expression blank, but inwardly he is overwhelmed with excitement, and a little fear also.
“I am no fool,” Wellington says with a smile. “Let me guess that while attacking the cave, you would also be rescuing Willem’s mother and the girl.”
“A good likelihood.” Frost returns the smile.
“Wait a moment,” Liverpool says. “You volunteer to lead the mission?” He turns to Wellington. “Am I mistaken? Is this boy not blind?”
&nbs
p; “I am, my lord,” Frost says. “But the darkness in the caves below the Sonian is absolute. Since losing my sight I have developed a reliance on my ears and my nose.”
“And you really think yourself capable of leading this mission?”
“I do, my lord,” Frost says. “The caves below the Sonian are the kingdom of the blind, and in that place I will be king.”
“I find myself, against all better judgment, quite liking this boy,” Liverpool says. “But I cannot consent to a blind man leading such a mission. You may join the mission, if the others believe you will not be a burden, but you must find someone else to lead it.”
“My lord—” Frost begins.
“Do not push your luck, young man,” Wellington says. “It shall be as Lord Liverpool has said. Melville will find you a ship, something inconspicuous. I will provide you with fifty soldiers. From my own personal guard. Good men who shoot straight and true. They will go with you to your landing point in case you encounter any opposition there. After that they will return in the ship, and you will be on your own.”
HÉLOÏSE
The rabbit twitches its nose as if sensing danger. The animal is an unusual color for a rabbit, a mottle of brown and gray. It does not know this but its odd coloring has served it well in the past, providing extra camouflage against predators. Its ears twitch also, picking up tiny forest sounds that only a rabbit can hear. Unsure, it takes a step backward. It is half-concealed in a patch of long river grass, the kind of grass that might also hide a snake, or a dragonrat. The rabbit is disturbed now, its head flicking around, seeking the source of what has spooked it, but unable to tell which way to run. A sudden noise by the edge of the stream causes it to turn and leap back toward the safety of the trees with panicky, jerky movements.
It does not make it.
The animal that rears up out of the grass takes it around the middle with two wiry hands and the rabbit’s neck is broken before it even has time to lash out with its strong hind legs.
Héloïse retrieves her sackcloth smock from by the tree and puts the rabbit inside, with the fruit and roots she has gathered earlier. She is naked. Clothing smells, and it makes noise.
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