Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Not here in Egypt,” said Murat. “They don’t eat pigs here. It offends their sensibilities.” He gave a wolfish smile to Vernet and a solemn glance at Berthier. “The best of luck, Inspector. I fear you are going to need it.”

  Vernet had no idea how to respond. He chose the safest course and saluted.

  * * *

  Berthier read the inventory over, as if on rereading he would find the scepter listed with the other plunder. It had been a very long and frustrating day and his soul felt worn. One thing held his thoughts, one thing that he could not accept and could not deny—the flail scepter, that ancient symbol of pharaonic power and the rulership of the kingdom of the Nile that his master had promised to send to Paris, was gone.

  “Eugene,” he called in a voice so rough he did not recognize it as his own, “bring your writing supplies and come here.”

  His secretary, a gawky stick of a man who looked out of place in his uniform, came through the tent flap, a portable desk slung around his neck by a wide leather strap. The man’s uniform was meant to be that of a member of the general’s staff. Actually the young man had forgotten to pin half the gold and white epaulets and only one white cuff was in place. This was typical of the corporal. Eugene Caronne had come over as the assistant to one of the savants who had accompanied the army. He had been ill when they landed, and left behind. When Berthier had learned of the man’s clean handwriting and ability to copy maps accurately, he had quickly drafted him onto his own staff. He was probably the first man ever to be drafted into the armies of the Republic in Egypt, a distinction it was unlikely the former professor’s assistant took any pleasure in. The scribe bowed slightly and took his seat on a leather-covered camp stool; he opened the portable desk and drew out pens and a standish of ink. Satisfied that the nib was properly trimmed, he selected two sheets of paper, closed the desk, and prepared to write.

  “I want you to make a copy of this inventory,” said Berthier, handing the paper to Eugene. “Then be so good as to speak with Madame Vernet; I want to call upon her at her earliest convenience.” He placed his broad hands together, fingers fanned out. “I must get to the bottom of this at once, Eugene. I have my duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Eugene, his attention on copying the inventory of loot. “Pardon me, sir, but what’s this word, if you will?” He pointed to one line that had been smeared when the list was sanded.

  “Tooled leather,” Berthier said after peering at it. “Two tooled leather saddles, made in the Egyptian design with gems embedded. They took them off one of the Mameluke commanders after the battle. One was scarred by canister.”

  “Thank you,” said Eugene, and continued to write.

  “I want you to leave paper and ink for me when you finish, Eugene. I ... m-must write to Napoleon myself. He ought to be notified, at once.” Napoleon’s chief aide hated everything he was saying. He still didn’t know how to soften the news. “This is a terrible tum of events.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Eugene, not really listening. His pen scratched away at the paper.

  Berthier sighed, then got up, staring out into the brilliant morning. He hated Egypt, with its flies and dust and jabbering natives and tainted water. But it was what Napoleon sought; for Berthier nothing else mattered. For some reason he remembered one of the remarks Vernet had made a few hours earlier. “What if there are British ships out there?”

  * * *

  Victoire Vernet received Berthier twenty minutes later, five minutes after his note was delivered. It was just after sunset and there was a hint of a cool breeze off the nearby bay. There was little she could do to make the tent presentable, but she busied herself creating a stricter look of order to the cramped quarters. By the time Berthier arrived she was dressed in the lightest muslin she could wear with propriety, her hair had been done up in a knot that was more practical than fashionable, and instead of slippers she wore sensible paddock boots on her slender feet. She curtsied to Berthier as she gave him the choice of two camp stools. “It is an honor to welcome you, Monsieur Berthier. It will distress Vernet that he was not here to greet you himself, but I am afraid that my husband has not yet returned from his duties.”

  “No, he has not,” said Berthier, his tone so brusque that Victoire turned to look at him.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked, her bluntness almost equally his own. “Have you brought me bad news?” Victoire felt her pulse race; had something happened to her husband?

  Berthier shook his head. “Not the kind you mean,” he said quickly. “I saw your husband ten minutes since and he was in good health.” His smile went sour. “I hope you will clear up a mystery for me.”

  “Certainly,” she said, curious. “What mystery is this?”

  “One that has a stringent need for the utmost discretion. I must rely on you to keep everything we say confidential. Have I your word on that?”

  “If it is necessary, then of course you have my word.” She said it without fanfare. “I will not reveal what you say to me.”

  “Very good. I depend on you to hold by that. First, answer a few questions for me. I do not ask them capriciously. What time did your husband leave this morning?” Berthier’s tone was as clipped as his occasional stammer would allow.

  She regarded Berthier with a level gaze. “He said it was four-thirty when he left.”

  “And you are satisfied it was?” Berthier asked.

  Victoire studied him, then answered, “I suppose so. My own watch is in my jewel box. It runs poorly; the sand has got into the works. I rose shortly after he left and it was then lacking fifteen minutes of five, according to my watch; there may be five minutes’ difference either way.” When Berthier said nothing more, she decided to ask a question. “Why do you want to know this?”

  Berthier hesitated before answering. “There was a man found killed, one of the marines. We were hoping ... s-someone might have seen or heard something.”

  This puzzled her. “If you want to know about that, why not speak to my husband? His job is protecting the camp.”

  “We already have,” said Berthier, and his tone was very chilly now. “But he hasn’t been much help to us. He spent most of the day in Rosetta, hunting Englishmen, no doubt. Now he is inquiring as to why the watering parties have been recalled to the ships.”

  “I fear I shan’t be, either,” Victoire said, and although she spoke politely there was an edge in her manner that Berthier recognized at once.

  “Madame Vernet, if you seek to help your husband, refusing to assist me is not wise. I do not ask these things because I think that there is reason to believe that your husband has done ... s-something criminal. I want to establish that he has not done this deed.”

  Now Victoire’s manner was wooden. All the camp was talking about the murder and speculating on what had been stolen. “When he left, he said he would be meeting seamen who were bringing supplies. He expected to return by five-thirty or six. He has done this before, as you must surely know. You must be aware that we have need of more powder and more bandages, as well as better food.” She tilted her chin up. “Supplies are usually landed at dawn, aren’t they, when there’s less chance of British naval patrols discovering our sailors?”

  “Yes,” said Berthier quietly. “But no supplies have been landed today.”

  From some distance away there was the sound of cannon fire.

  “Perhaps,” said Victoire, inadvertently turning her head toward the sound, “it was not safe to land supplies?”

  “Perhaps,” Berthier conceded.

  Three cannon shots echoed a second time through the camp. Berthier looked lost for a moment, then concerned.

  “Something’s wrong. That’s the d-danger signal.” He then rose and hurried from the tent without a further word.

  Victoire sat unmoving, wondering over the direction the aide’s questions had been taking. She also discovered that
she was mildly annoyed at his abrupt departure, with not so much as a by-your-leave. A third set of three blasts was followed by the sound of horses being ridden toward the shore. Vernet would have to return along the beach from Rosetta. If there was a problem, he would be in the middle of it. Concerned, the fair-haired Frenchwoman hurried from her tent and joined the stream of uniformed men heading for the harbor.

  HER EYES STUNG with wind and dust from the first acrid gun smoke that drifted onto the land from the triple signal guns each French warship had fired to recall its shore parties. This could only mean their captains felt a battle was imminent. Twelve years ago some men wounded in a sea battle had been put up in her father’s house. All of them had been hideously wounded, mostly by splinters. The stench of their infected wounds had been intolerable. Victoire thought of the good men, loyal Frenchmen and impressed English peasants, who would soon be dying less than a mile away, and she felt tears well and slide down her cheeks.

  She had climbed to the top of a small dune just behind the bench itself. This placed her high enough to see past the anchored French ships and observe the whole of Aboukir Bay. Ahead and to her left were a small island and one French ship, the Conquerant. Curving away to her right were anchored almost a dozen more of the massive ships of the line. Just visible on her right and closer to the beach were four frigates, staying safely behind the larger ships. It was just after dark, though the nearly full moon lit the bay and the warships anchored there with harsh clarity. The sails of the approaching British squadron were surprisingly bright against the dark waters of the sea beyond. The empty masts of the anchored French line stood in dark contrast to the moonlight and star-filled sky.

  Exhausted as she was from the tension of the day and concern for her still-missing husband, Victoire still found herself wide awake and her pulse pounding as the British ships approached their fleet. She had heard rumors that Nelson, one of the most dreaded sea dogs, commanded the English ships. So fascinated by the unfurling drama, Victoire didn’t notice a number of officers from the camp approach. She jumped slightly when Berthier spoke to another man a few feet behind her.

  “The fleet is anchored so that each attacking British ship will have to face the full force of all their guns.”

  “If they sail directly at their center,” a voice Victoire didn’t recognize answered.

  Turning, she saw that it was the marine officer that had been in charge of the guard detail on the tent.

  “Shouldn’t you be on board the L’Orient?” she asked, while gesturing toward the French ships. The L’ Orient was the largest warship in the French navy, boasting one hundred twenty guns in her broadsides. She was easily half again larger than the ships anchored to either side of her.

  “Too late, madame,” came the reply in a slightly annoyed tone. “Too risky to take a boat out with them so close.”

  “Won’t they be trapped on the far side?” Victoire asked, genuinely curious. She had never seen a naval battle, though her father had recounted a few to her during her childhood.

  “That’s Nelson,” the marine confirmed, as if that answered her question.

  “Come now,” Desaix broke in after a moment’s awkward silence. “Look how one flank is rested on the side of the harbor and the other near that island.”

  “And I see movement on the island,” a red-haired aide named McCaffrey added. Victoire guessed he was part of the Brigade Irlandais, the Wild Geese of the Irish battalion. A few were serving with the artillery.

  “Yes, sound flanks and a firm line. That is the key to victory,” another voice added from the edge of the growing group of officers.

  Victoire recognized the speaker as Jean Lannes, the commander of the division that had taken the brunt of the Mameluke’s charge at the Battle of the Nile. They had not only broken the charge of twice their number of heavy cavalry, but had eventually broken their squares to pursue the survivors. No one chose to disagree with the pronouncement of the hero of their most recent victory.

  The English ships approached in silence. They were still beyond gun range for the French, and were unable to fire forward since nearly all the guns on their ships were aligned in rows along the sides of their hulls. The gun ports of the approaching ships were painted black, making them stand out in contrast to the thick yellow stripes painted along their sides. The water glistened as they cut through it, entering the bay toward the near edge of the immobile line of French ships.

  The English formation broke apart. Each ship was more concerned with closing for battle than maintaining any formation. Victoire could hear an intake of breath as the entire English fleet tacked and made for the left end of the French line of battle. Suddenly it seemed that the white-sailed behemoths were coming straight for the beach. The nearest French ships began to fire.

  “Damn, curse them and their spawn,” a voice muttered as the first British ship began to slip around the stem of the last ship on the French left.

  The broadsides from both sides were coming regularly now, making talking even on the beach a chancy thing. Pale smoke was once more rolling toward them and already Victoire’s cheeks stung where a tiny piece of unburnt powder had drifted against it. To her eyes, the fire from the island that was supposed to stop the English from passing on that side seemed very feeble.

  “He’s only put six pounders there,” Desaix moaned. “Those field guns don’t have enough punch to hurt those oaken hulls.”

  He was right, the British men-of-war seemed to be ignoring the frantic efforts of the battery on the island to harm them.

  Another rumble of broadsides came as the first of the English warships turned and brought its broadside to bear on the Conquerant. This made talking impossible. Victoire noticed that a second ship had approached and was firing at this same French warship on its far side. For several minutes the roar of battle rose and fell. To everyone on the shore it was soon apparent that the English gunners were firing almost twice as quickly as the defending Frenchmen, and doing twice as much damage as a result. Already one of the towering masts from the Conquerant had fallen, taking a second with it. She could see that more British ships were approaching the defending line at several points.

  * * *

  Victoire heard Vernet call her name during a rare lull in the three-hour-long naval battle. Gratefully she looked away from the battle. “Here, Vernet!” she cried out, her voice rough.

  He came to her side, his face marred by drifting smuts. He put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “It’s going badly.”

  “Yes, I fear it is,” she said. Another pounding of cannon demanded her attention.

  More British ships were breaking through the French line. Those that had passed around the left side of the defenders were sailing along their rear, firing rapidly. Only an occasional isolated cannon fired at these ships. Two of the French men-of-war, so majestic just a few hours earlier, had lost their masts, and a third was visibly listing and seemed likely to turn turtle. The first English. ship, having run along the bulk of the French line, was still fighting. This time she was easily besting two frigates in an unequal battle that could only have a disastrous end for the frigates.

  One ship, the fourth to pass behind the now sinking hulk that had been the Conquerant, was now crossing in front of those gathered on the dune. Even as she fired a broadside away from them, one man on the deck waved cheerfully at the shore.

  “I shall organize men to fire upon them,” Desaix announced, outraged. He then turned to make good on his oath.

  “Not unless you want us all killed,” Berthier corrected, grabbing the taller general’s arm. His voice was sad, but firm. “Those ships each carry more guns than we have with the entire army, and each throws a shot weighing twenty-four pounds or more. Remember what piff-puffs our battery on the island were?”

  Desaix was still undecided. Victoire sympathized. It was frustrating to stand and watch their comrades-in-arms slaughtere
d by the English. More so as they had been so confident of victory just a few hours earlier.

  “Besides, they are out of musket range,” a voice from a clump of officers and men watching nearby added. Then the roar made further argument impossible.

  For a long time everyone watched in silence, each hoping some miracle would deliver retribution on Nelson’s fleet, or at least on the ship containing the officer who had been so cheerful even while doling out death and ruin. As they watched, yet another ship struck. It had been four hours since the battle started. Smoke was now rising from the L’Orient. Her valiant crew was attempting to fight the guns on both sides at once. A cheer rang out when one British man-of-war, obviously foundering, withdrew from her duel with the French flagship, but it was quickly stifled by the appearance of another, fresh English warship to take her place.

  A stray ball, no one could be sure who had fired it, cut a furrow in the sand a few hundred paces to the right of where they all stood. Several soldiers rushed to examine it. Victoire noted that it was so large that even half-buried, it came up to some of the men’s knees. The battle had moved farther down the line of anchored ships, but now seemed to be coming closer again.

  “It might not be safe to remain here,” Vernet said as he watched the latest casualty wallowing toward them along the shore. The frigate was sinking fast, and the sailors were striving to get free of her before she went down.

  “I’m not afraid,” said Victoire, containing herself so that she did not tremble. “There may be those who need our help.”