Battlesaurus (25 page)

“Behind you,” Frost shouts, and Jack turns.

Something steps out of the smoke, towering over him. At first he thinks it is a horse, but no horse was ever this big. Then he sees the teeth, those terrible, terrible teeth. It is the creature returned. He stumbles backward, tripping over something or someone and falling.

The giant beast casts the gun carriage aside with just a twitch of its jaw and steps toward Jack. The cannon flies backward into the limber, which collapses in a pile of fractured wood. The ammunition case is crushed, the powder barrels have split open, and the still-lit linstock is spinning in the air. Then there is a sheet of lightning and a roar as though the earth itself is rent apart.

 

CASUALTIES

There is something different about the next arrival at Gaillemarde.

The carts are by now a familiar sight; the trails of blood they leave on the riverbank have turned the stone and dirt of the path to a deep ochre. The men they bring are mostly alive, and sometimes dead, although all were alive when they were placed on the carts at the battlefield.

But these men are different. The eyes of men who have faced cannon and massed volleys of muskets stare into the distance as though they sleep and are in the grip of a terrible dream.

Always, following the carts, are the walking wounded, men with arms and heads wrapped in red bandages. But this time the carts bring with them also soldiers on whom no apparent injury can be detected. Soldiers who still carry their weapons, yet trudge with the reluctant shuffle of defeated men.

A senior officer on horseback comes with them. He dismounts and strides quickly into the hospital while an adjutant takes hold of his horse.

Willem is outside, washing bandages in the water trough. He can tell that something is wrong, but is not sure what.

When the officer emerges, it is to confer with several other officers who have arrived with him. There is some discussion over maps, and much pointing of hands, before he and his adjutant ride off. They ride fast. They are in a hurry.

It is Mr. Sinclair who gives Willem the news.

“We are leaving,” he says, in tears. “At first light.”

“Leaving?” Willem asks.

“Our army is retreating toward the coast,” he says. “We have been cut off, and so must head east and try to link up with the Prussians. But they are also withdrawing. The situation is dire.”

“What will happen to the wounded?” Willem asks.

“We will take as many as we can,” he says.

*   *   *

A heartbeat.

At first Jack thinks it is his own, pounding in his ears. But it can't be. It is too gradual. Too heavy. Like a regimental bass drum sounding the beat for a slow march.

He cannot move. When sense returns in measured amounts, he realizes this is because his arm is caught on something. Not on, but under. He lies flat, staring at a clear sky in which smoke still twirls in spiraling columns from fires that must be burning nearby. The stars are bright. Too bright, he thinks, as if the sky itself is on fire in some far distant place.

He can see only half of the sky. The other half is blocked by something that blots out the night. Understanding brings with it a new horror.

That is where the heartbeat is coming from.

Then blackness covers him once again.

 

NAPOLÉON

The emperor of France is receiving the Duke and Duchess of Richmond when Thibault arrives. Thibault waits at the back of the drawing room where Napol
é
on has set up his war office. Marshal Ney is seated to the left of an ornate desk.

“Again I must thank you for the use of your house,” Napol
é
on says. “And I assure you that my staff will leave it in pristine condition.”

“A kindness greatly appreciated,” the duke says. He bows his head graciously, but it is clear from the tension in the neck of his wife, the duchess, that she is far from pleased with the arrangement.

“I hear that you had a great ball here, just three nights ago,” Napol
é
on says. “Had I left France a little sooner, I could have attended myself.”

Ney laughs at his joke. The duke and duchess do not. Nor would Thibault, in their situation. Most of the officers who attended that ball are surely now wounded or dead, their elegant wives now nursemaids, or widows.

“My men will accompany you to the coast, and arrange passage for you to England,” Napol
é
on says. “They will ensure you are not harmed.”

“Thank you again, monsieur,” the duke says.

“I await your king's reply with great eagerness,” he says.

“I expect that England will not surrender quite so easily,” the duke says. “After just one battle.”

“Then the next time I ask for her surrender will be on the steps of Buckingham Palace,” Napol
é
on says. “And my terms will not be as generous.”

The duke and duchess sweep past Thibault as they leave, the strain showing through the powder that cannot conceal the dark circles under her eyes, or the gray pallor of his face.

Ney waits until the door closes, then summons Thibault over.

Thibault bows in front of his emperor.

“Ah, the late Major Thibault,” Ney says.

“I must apologize for our untimely arrival at the battle,” Thibault says, still bowed. “The forest was crawling with British patrols and we had to proceed slowly lest we lost the advantage of surprise.”

“Your timing could have been a little better,” Napol
é
on says. “Many men were lost because of it. However”—a great smile breaks out on his face and he embraces Thibault warmly, kissing him on both cheeks—“victory is ours.”

“A victory that will resound through history,” Thibault says.

Napol
é
on gestures to an aide, who steps forward with a tray of crystal glasses. Thibault takes one and sips. It is fine champagne. Napol
é
on retrieves his own glass from the desk, next to an intricately patterned black oval snuff box. He tosses the champagne back as if it is water.

“The British run away with their tails between their legs, and we drink their champagne from their own crystal,” Napol
é
on says. “And the beauty is that from now on I will scarcely even have to fight! Fear now rides at the head of my army. The Netherlands have surrendered without so much as a skirmish, and the Prussians are already pressing for terms!”

Napoléon laughs and takes a pinch of snuff. “These battlesaurs of yours win actions without setting foot on the battlefield.”

“The Russians do not forget 1812, and England has its moat,” Thibault says.

“Ah, Major, even my generals do not dare to so insult me,” Napol
é
on says.

“Sire! I never—”

“Hush, hush,” Napol
é
on says. “You speak your mind, and your heart. Too many of my pampering squibs say only what they think I want to hear.”

“Sire,” Thibault says.

“You seek to remind me of my greatest defeat. You think perhaps I have forgotten the long retreat from Russia. Or the hundreds of thousands of men we left on those frozen fields. I have not, Thibault. Nor has Marshal Ney, the last man to leave Russian soil. But this is a new war and we have new weapons. As for the English?” Napol
é
on passes the snuff in front of his nose, smelling it, then discards it without inhaling. “John Bull thinks the channel makes him safe. That the water that surrounds his pathetic little island will stop me from crushing him. Not this time, Major!”

“The Royal Navy still commands the channel, sire,” Ney says.

“The English are foolish and unskilled in the art of war,” Napol
é
on says. “King George lies at death's door. Liverpool's puppet, no more. I will give the ships of his majesty something else to do, while we cross the water unmolested. And let me tell you this, Thibault. This time my plans are not so limited. After England and Russia we will take Austria, and the Ottomans. Then perhaps we will look toward Asia.”

“Yes, sire,” Thibault says.

“But I cannot have a mere major commanding my new army,” Napol
é
on says. “That would not do at all. I will need to put a general in charge.”

Thibault bows his head. “Sire, with the utmost respect, I have spent years with these creatures. I understand them, and how to use them in battle. To replace me, in the midst of a war, with a new officer might not produce the results you intend.”

“I agree, Major,” Napol
é
on says. “And yet it is only appropriate that a general should be in command.”

“I do not understand, sire,” Thibault says.

“You will, General Thibault,” Napol
é
on says. “Ney will see to the paperwork.”

“Of course, sire,” Ney says.

“Thank you, sire,” Thibault says, bowing again. “It is a great honor.”

It is a big promotion, from major to general. Almost unheard of.

Napol
é
on looks up at the sound of the door. A valet opens it and Count Cambronne approaches in long confident strides.

“Faithful Cambronne,” Napol
é
on says. “I did not expect to see you again tonight.”

“Sire, I bring serious news from Wallonia,” Cambronne says.

“What can be serious in Wallonia?” Napol
é
on laughs. “I have just conquered Wallonia.”

“There is talk of a boy, in a small village near Waterloo, who has command over saurs,” Cambronne says.

“Not over my saurs,” Thibault says. “They would devour a boy without noticing.”

“They say he charmed a saur, and then killed it while it was under his spell,” Cambronne says.

“A microsaurus, perhaps?” Napol
é
on asks. “Or a small raptor?”

Cambronne shakes his head. “My men say it was a dinosaur, one of Thibault's.”

“Thibault?” Napol
é
on impales him with a glance.

“It is true that we lost a saur,” Thibault says cautiously.

“You lost one of my battlesaurs?” Napol
é
on flings his arms wide. The snuff box crashes to the ground but he does not notice. “An animal the size of a house?”

“It escaped, sire,” Thibault says. “The equipment failed and it threw off, then ate, its rider. It escaped into the forest. We hunted it for many days.”

“Which kind of saur was it?”

“The one we call the crocodylus, sire.”

“I warned you that that big one would be difficult to control,” Napol
é
on says. “Where is it now?”

“I do not know, sire. I assumed it was dead at the bottom of a gully or still roaming wild in the forest. We were preparing for battle and did not have time to worry over one lost beast.”

“One lost beast.” Napoléon repeats the words as if he cannot believe that he has heard them.

“There is more, sire,” Cambronne says. “This village, Gaillemarde—it was the site of a so-called miracle, a few weeks ago.”

“A miracle?”

“A boy was shot, by pistol, accidentally,” Cambronne says. “He was shot in the chest, but was unharmed, and produced the ball through his mouth.”

“That is nothing but a conjuring trick,” Thibault says. “An old trick.”

But Napol
é
on is now leaning forward, his relaxed pose giving way to a ramrod stiffness.

“A boy performed this trick?” he asks.

“Yes, sire.”

“And a boy charmed and killed one of my battlesaurs?”

“So they say, sire.”

“It is the son,” Napol
é
on says. “It must be.”

“They are just stories, sire,” Thibault says.

“We conquer Europe with an army of fear,” Napol
é
on says. “If word spreads that even a child can kill one of your terrible lizards, then who will fear them?”

“You speak wisely, sire,” Cambronne says.

“Bring me this boy,” Napol
é
on says.

“Of course, sire,” Cambronne says.

“Not you, Count,” Napol
é
on says. “This is Thibault's pickle. He can clean it up.”

“As you wish, sire,” Thibault says.

 

BATTLEFIELD

Jack hasn't moved. Neither has the beast next to him, which still traps his arm. The all-enveloping thud of the creature's heart seems slower now. With each beat he waits longer for the next, the anticipation building up like a wave crashing onto a beach.

He tries to free his arm, but cannot. It is firmly trapped under the flesh of the animal. There are dark shapes to either side of him and he spends some time trying to decide what they are.

Legs, he decides. The creature is lying on its side and he is trapped against the underbelly.

He wants to call for help, but he is afraid. If there are any soldiers still on this battlefield, they will be French. Worse than that are the peasants. Locals who will plunder the dead and dying. The wounded they will silence forever with a knife across the throat as they steal their jewelry, watches, and coin.

He could wait for first light, but that would bring no benefit and the idea of lying all night against this hellish creature brings waves of nausea and despair.

“Help,” he calls, praying that any reply will come in English. “Help.”

“Who is there?” a voice calls back.

“Private Jack Sullivan, G troop,” Jacks says. “I'm a good lad.” His voice has caught in his throat and he is not sure why. He shuts his eyes to blink out tears. “I'm a good lad,” he says.

There is a kind of laughter from the other, just two short, muffled huffs, then the voice asks, “Is that so, Private Sullivan?”

“Lieutenant?” Jack asks cautiously.