McConnell’s eyes meet Jack’s and his lips mouth a single word: Run!
Jack cannot. He is frozen to the spot, even as Thibault finishes ramming the pistol and the muzzle of the gun turns toward him.
From the corner of his eye he sees McConnell crawl forward on the cell-block floor, his hand curling around Thibault’s boot, jerking him off balance as the shot rings out. Even so, it is so close that Jack feels the wind of the musketball as it passes his ear, and the crash of the shot against the stone walls of the chamber is enough to break him out of his rigidity.
“Get out of here, Jack!” Gilbert shouts, and now Jack runs.
WATERLOO
The ride from Antwerp has been largely uneventful for Willem and Frost. They have seen many people, but have not been challenged, just two French officers traveling on horseback. They skirted Brussels, keeping close to the Sonian Forest.
There were faster routes that would have taken them through the city, but there were too many people in a city like Brussels. Too many soldiers. Too many spies. Too many eyes.
A man on a horse, leading another, would be an oddity and would attract attention. So Willem lets Frost ride in front, the brim of his shako pulled low to hide his eye patches. Willem guides him with soft calls: “left,” “right,” “slow.” The instincts of Frost’s horse help, and so do Frost’s other senses. He seems to know most of what is around him without seeing it.
They slept in the forest, preferring the risk of dragonrats and inquisitive microsaurs to the risk of discovery by French patrols.
Past Waterloo they begin to notice an odd smell in the air. A smell of rot and decay. Willem points it out to Frost, surprised that he has not noticed it.
“It has been in the air since Brussels,” Frost says. “It is the smell of the battlefield.”
He does not explain, and Willem is hesitant to ask further. He knows that Frost lost men on the battlefield on that June day.
They are within sight of the farmhouse at Mont-Saint-Jean when Frost stops riding. He lifts himself up in the saddle, listening.
“We have company,” he says.
Willem looks around and can see no one, but he knows to trust Frost’s heightened senses. “Where?” he asks.
“Ahead of us, on horseback, behind one of the farm buildings, I don’t know which,” Frost says.
Now Willem hears something that could be the snort of a horse. “Prussians?” Willem asks, preparing to turn and run if not.
“I don’t know,” Frost says.
It is too late. A group of six soldiers emerge from behind a barn. Two of them loop quickly around behind Willem and Frost to cut off any chance of escape.
They are big men, strong, and the sabers that hang from their belts are small and straight. Their uniforms are gray and forest green and they carry rifles, not muskets. Willem sees all this but little of it registers. All he really sees is the red plumes on their shakos, the insignia of the French emperor.
“Jägers,” Frost murmurs.
Willem knows this word. Jägers, the elite of the Prussian Army. Scouts, skirmishers, and sharpshooters.
“Do you speak English?” Frost asks.
The leader of the troop looks around at the others, then shakes his head.
“French?” Frost asks.
Another shake of the head.
“Do you speak Dutch?” Willem asks, in Dutch, and this time one of the soldiers nods and moves forward.
“Tell them that we must speak to Field Marshal Blücher immediately,” Frost says.
Willem repeats it in Dutch.
The man smiles and speaks in Prussian to the others, who laugh. He turns back. “I will pass on your message to my commander.”
Willem thinks this is unlikely.
“Please tell your commander that I carry an important letter for the field marshal,” Frost says, and Willem translates as he speaks. “Directly from His Grace Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of England.”
Now the soldier raises his eyebrows and there is another discussion, which Willem cannot understand, although many of the words sound similar to Dutch. The soldiers laugh again.
Frost turns to Willem. “I fear they do not take me seriously,” he says. “What I must do now is a big risk, but there is little choice.”
“Do what you must,” Willem says.
Frost moves his horse forward a pace. “I am Lieutenant Hunter Frost of the Royal Horse Artillery, G Troop,” he says. He points back at Willem: “And this is Willem Verheyen, the saur-slayer of Gaillemarde.”
Willem stops, a little uncomfortable, before translating the last sentence.
The Dutch-speaking Prussian stops laughing, a startled look on his face. He turns to the others, speaking quickly in a low voice. The others all turn to stare at Willem.
“Come with us,” the leader says.
Two Jägers lead the way, while the others follow Frost and Willem, ensuring they do not try to escape.
The smell of death intensifies as they approach the town of Braine-l’Alleud. Cresting a rise Willem sees the battlefield in front of him.
The ground is covered with detritus of the battle of a few months earlier. Broken helmets and muskets. Cuirasses with holes in them the size of cannonballs. Willem shudders as he thinks of what has happened to the men who once wore the armor. There are the tattered remains of drums and flags, piles of rags that are the colors of the French and British uniforms, mostly British, all stained dark brown with dried blood. There are no trees on the battlefield. There are only ragged stumps.
A man in a simple farmer’s smock pushes a wheelbarrow, in which Willem can see five large cannonballs. A shot-collector. He will sell them back to whichever army will pay the better price.
In the distance a pyre smolders, sending up a long trickle of smoke to the sky. From that direction comes the smell of cooked meat. Man or horse. Probably both.
“They cremate the bodies?” Willem asks.
“With special permission from the bishop of Charleroi,” one of the Jägers says. “To prevent disease.”
A cry of excitement cuts across the silence of the field and Willem turns to see a man and a woman running toward a dog that is tearing at something in a ditch under a hedgerow. The couple chase the dog away with stones. They haul out a dead, decomposing body. It snags on something and they wrench the legs back and forth. The moment the body comes clear of the hedgerow they pounce on it, going through the uniform pockets, pulling rings from the fingers.
A pair of Prussian soldiers on horseback ride past, but barely look at the couple. The man forces open the mouth, then produces a pair of pliers from a back pocket. Willem turns away.
“It is criminal what they do,” Willem says.
“I can’t see what you see,” Frost says, “and some days my affliction is a blessing. But think of this. Someone has to clean up the battlefield. Who else would do it but the locals?”
“But the looting of the dead soldiers,” Willem protests.
“It is a small reward for an onerous task,” Frost says.
On the other side of the road they pass a man with a hammer and a set of cutters, removing horseshoes from a dead mare.
Near the entrance to the village is a stream. A channel has been dug parallel to it. It seems to be full of congealed fat. Willem follows the channel backward and sees a long row of mounds of ash. This is where the fat has run from, he realizes.
His stomach churns.
LOYALTY
Marshal Ney is the first commander Thibault goes to see, backed by Baston and twenty loyal guardsmen.
Ney is seated in the commander’s office of the fort. A narrow window gives a view of the harbor, and the sea beyond where the English warships prowl like hungry dogs.
Thibault enters without introduction or pomp, thrusting open the door and marching inside.
“General Thibault,” Ney says. “I am busy, but if you would care to come back when—”
“I have assumed control of the arm
y, and soon will be appointed emperor of France and all her territories,” Thibault says.
His soldiers fan out around the room, their hands resting on their pistols.
“I think Napoléon would take a dim view of that,” Ney says calmly.
“He would if he still drew breath,” Thibault says. “He was shot and killed by a British prisoner not ten minutes ago. I have little time to waste. I need to know if you will pledge your support and loyalty to me.”
“That is something I could take under consideration,” Ney says. “We will certainly need a new leader if what you say is true. But you are a mere general.”
“A general who commands the most powerful weapons in the French Army,” Thibault says. “No one will dare go against me. And no, I will not give you time to think it over. I will have your loyalty now, or I will consider you a traitor.”
“Which means?” Ney asks.
“My girls are hungry,” Thibault says. “As Marshal Suchet has already found out, to his cost.”
Ney pales significantly.
“I have many people to visit and very little time,” Thibault says. “Will you swear your loyalty now?”
He waits, his one good eye never leaving the stunned face of the marshal.
After a long moment Ney nods. He stands and kneels before Thibault, offering him his marshal’s baton.
“Good,” Thibault says, taking the baton and then handing it back to him. “Major Baston will remain here to ensure you do not reconsider in my absence.”
With that he whirls and hurries out of the room.
There are many people to see today.
The politicians in Paris will be horrified and will oppose him; he knows that. But once he has control of the Grande Armée, they will have no choice.
MARENGO
The escape from the prison seems like a distant dream. Such was the confusion. The shouts, the people running, the screams from the cell block. Jack found himself caught up in a storm, just one soldier among many, whirling in a maelstrom of noise and horror. Everywhere he heard the cry, “L’empereur est mort!”
He did not have to speak French to understand what that meant.
He wasted no time. He left the prison through the rear door, and as soon as he was sure nobody was watching he crossed the street to the stables and hid in the back of the horse stall with the emperor’s gray stallion.
This was not a calculated move. All he knew was that Napoléon was dead and Thibault would do anything to hunt him down. He was terrified. Gilbert by now would be dead. McConnell was dead. The only person who knew of Thibault’s crime was Jack, and Thibault would come after him with every soldier he could muster.
Now Jack cowers under a pile of hay at the back of the stall, shaking so hard that he fears it will lead to his discovery.
He came here by instinct. Looking for a place to hide. A place he knew. But as the sounds of excitement gradually died away during the night, he started to think that maybe he had accidentally done something clever. Nobody would have expected him to hide so close to the prison. Just across the road. They will have spread out, searching the streets, blocking the gates. After many hours with no sign of him, hopefully they will have decided that he got away.
It is almost dawn before he risks climbing out from the back of the stall, soothing the stallion by gently stroking his rump.
He quickly saddles the horse. He will need to be quiet, he thinks. He finds some rags and ties them around each of the horse’s hooves. He is not sure how he knows to do this, but it comes to him, as if in a dream.
Only when he is sure the street is empty does he mount the stallion and ride quietly out, heading to the north, keeping the lightening sky over his right shoulder. The frantic searches of the previous night have stopped and the searchers have gone to their beds. The city itself is not yet awake and the streets are almost deserted.
Still there are patrols, but he manages to avoid them by listening for horse hooves on the cobblestones. His own horse is almost silent.
Once he is nearly caught when patrols turn into the street ahead of him. But in the dim light and the shadows of the morning he is nearly invisible, and he ducks into a dark alley, waiting anxiously as the horses approach, then pass by without any shout or alarm.
Eventually he reaches one of the gates in the saur-wall and here he knows that his silent approach will no longer work.
He dismounts and removes the rags to give his horse a more sure footing. He watches carefully around the corner of a building.
There are four guards manning this gate. Two of them appear to be asleep, sitting against the wall with their heads lowered. The other two stand casually, their muskets propped against the guard hut.
Jack mounts the horse again. He takes a deep breath.
“Sorry, boy,” he says. Then he digs his heels deeply into his sides. Marengo is not big, but he is determined and strong, a horse fit for an emperor. He does not whinny or complain. His iron shoes make sparks on the cobblestones and he accelerates to a full gallop in what seems like a heartbeat.
Now Jack is around the corner and riding straight for the gate. The soldiers see him and there is a moment of confusion, perhaps partly due to the early hour of the morning, then a shout in French.
Jack does not respond, nor does he slow. He spurs the stallion to even greater speed.
At last the guards realize that something is wrong. Those on the ground spring to their feet; all of them grab for their weapons. But Jack is already upon them, bursting past them before any can bring their muskets to bear. The barrier in the center of the gate is merely a low hurdle for a horse like this and Marengo soars over it, racing up the road away from the city.
Now comes the first musketshot. It is too quick and poorly aimed and although Jack hears the crack of the musket, he does not hear the passage of the musketball. The next shot is closer, and the next two closer still; he hears both of them fizz past his ears.
Now the guards are reloading but by the time they finish he will be well out of range.
He hears their shouts of alarm and he knows that a pursuit will follow. But this is a fine horse and Jack is not stopping. Not for anything. Not for anyone.
He rides hard, for Gaillemarde.
BLÜCHER
Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher is an aristocratic-looking man, with a bushy but well-groomed mustache. His face bears the marks of recently healed wounds. His eyes are dark and piercing but his smile is warm. He has the demeanor of a friendly uncle.
The field marshal’s headquarters are in the Caillou farmhouse, near the Waterloo battlefield. It was where Napoléon made his headquarters during the battle, Willem has learned.
Blücher is seated behind a table, one of three pushed together in the center of the dining room, on the ground floor of the two-story brick farmhouse. He sips from a glass of brandy as he eyes Willem up and down, barely glancing at Frost.
“So this is the little saur-slayer,” he says in excellent English. “We have been looking for you for many weeks.”
Willem looks at Frost, confused.
Blücher sees his expression and interprets it correctly. “We were told to be on the lookout for a boy of your description,” he says. “You had pulled off some kind of vanishing act and Napoléon was very keen to have you unvanished. I wondered then why the French emperor had such an interest in you, and it did not take long for me to discover why. You are the boy who can control saurs. And now here you are. And again I wonder why.”
“May I speak, Your Excellency?” Frost asks.
“You may,” Blücher says, turning his gaze to the young lieutenant.
“As you have been looking for us, so we have been looking for you,” Frost says.
“Fascinating,” Blücher says to his aide-de-camp. “The boy Napoléon fears more than any man alive wants an audience with me.”
“We seek an alliance with you in an attack on Napoléon’s forces,” Frost says.
Blücher thr
ows back his head and laughs. It is a meaty sound. He points to his face. “The scars of my last encounter with Napoléon have yet to heal, but you come seeking more misery for this old man.”
“We do not fear Napoléon,” Frost says. “The last time, we did not know of his battlesaurs. We will not be surprised in this manner again.”
Blücher’s face grows serious. “My horse was killed beneath me, and I was nearly killed beneath it. For hours I lay trapped, thought to be dead, while cavalry from both sides used me as a doormat. I would be dead if not for Count Nostitz here.” He nods and smiles at his aide-de-camp. “Yet here I am. I tell you this so you will know that I am no coward. I have seen things that would turn most men to jelly. I have faced death. And I am afraid of Napoléon. Perhaps you should be too.”
“You have perhaps noticed that I have lost the use of my eyes,” Frost says calmly.
“Of course I have noticed and I am sorry for your loss,” Blücher says. “But…” His voice trails off and he looks at Frost with an entirely new expression. “You are the one.”
“One of many,” Frost says.
“You are the one who faced a battlesaur and brought it down on the battlefield,” Blücher says. “I find myself in the rare position of needing to apologize. You are the other saur-slayer. You have my admiration and respect.”
Frost bows his head slightly.
Blücher turns to Count Nostitz. “A British lieutenant and a Flemish boy, not even a soldier, seek an alliance with this old warhorse. The world grows more mad by the day.”
“May I explain?” Frost asks.
“You may try,” Blücher says.
“Napoléon is poised to invade England,” Frost says. “If Britain falls, then all of Europe will soon follow.”
“There is a certain inevitability to it,” Blücher says.
“Perhaps not,” Frost says.
Willem sits back and examines the room as Frost explains the situation with Ireland and the Royal Navy to Blücher.
The floor of the kitchen is paved, a rich orange color, well polished. The walls are whitewashed stone.
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