Battlesaurus (38 page)

“Of course,” the skipper says.

“We pass close to the sandbar,” Willem says. “It would be an opportune time for you to depart.”

“Good luck,” the skipper says.

“Give my thanks to Sofie and Lars,” Willem says.

“I do not know these names,” the skipper says.

*   *   *

The observation platform is a robust stone tower in the center of the circular fortress. It rises high above the ramparts, giving it commanding views out across the Western Scheldt. Arrayed below it are huge forty-two-pounder cannon on heavy wooden carriages. Some of those cannon face north, controlling the entrance to the estuary. Others aim to the west, out over the North Sea, where even now a flotilla of mighty British men-o'-war, bristling with guns, maintain a constant patrol.

Only half of the fortress's fifty cannon are manned, the sudden outbreak of hostilities catching the commander of the fort unprepared. But one land-based cannon, with its solid footing, is worth three shipboard cannon, and these forty-two-pounders have greater range, and hurl a larger, heavier iron ball. The British ships keep well clear.

“The crew is leaving the ship,” Cambronne says, his eye pressed to a spyglass. “They swim to the sandbar.”

“Send a detachment and arrest them all,” Napol
é
on says. “In case the boy tries to slip away among them.” He stops, thinking. “You are certain that the boy is on this boat?”

“Without a doubt, sire,” Baston says.

“Sire, the brigantine is within range.” The voice of the gun captain floats up from the battlements below the tower.

“Then, Captain, what are you waiting for?” Napol
é
on says. “A shot across the bow and signal her to lower her sails. If she does not, then sink her.”


*   *   *

The boom of a cannon and a puff of smoke from the fort are followed by the whistle of a cannonball. It raises a column of seawater well short of the ship.

Willem has been below, and climbs up through the open hatch just aft of the mainmast, staring at the fortress.

“I think they want us to give ourselves up,” Frost says.

“I don't think we should, sir,” Jack says from the wheel. He has been steering the ship, one-handed, since the crew departed overboard. The sails are set, the wind is stable, and all that is required is to hold the tiller steady until the brigantine clears the headlands at the mouth of the estuary.

“I am in complete agreement,” Frost says. “Keep her straight and true.”

“No, Willem, we must lower our sails,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“You would give up now, Fran
ç
ois?” Willem asks. “Within sight of freedom?”

“That is not freedom that awaits you,” Fran
ç
ois says. “It is suicide. Look at the fortress. Look at the size of the guns. A single cannonball would be all it would take to sink this fragile vessel. We must land, and try to find some other way to England.”

“I will not turn back,” Willem says. “Not now.”

“Nor I,” Frost says. “And I know I answer for Jack as well.”

“No, Willem.” Fran
ç
ois shakes his head. “I cannot let you do this.”

“Fran
ç
ois.” Willem walks to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. “You are a true friend, and I know you seek to save me from harm, but I must see this through.”

Fran
ç
ois pushes him away abruptly. “You misunderstand me, Willem.” The pistol has somehow appeared in his hand. “I cannot let you escape to England. I cannot let you go against the will of God.”

“What are you talking about, Fran
ç
ois?” Willem asks. “The will of God?”

“What madness is this?” Frost asks.

“God has chosen Napol
é
on to unite Europe and I cannot let you stand against that.”

“Fran
ç
ois!” Willem cries.

“I am sorry, Willem,” Fran
ç
ois says. “Lieutenant, tell your man to turn toward shore. Willem, you will be imprisoned, but at least you will live. There has been too much killing already.”

“I will not,” Lieutenant Frost says.

“Then you force me to shoot Willem,” Fran
ç
ois says. “Either way your plans will come to an end.”

The conversation is in French, and although Jack cannot understand it, there is no doubt about the meaning of the gun in Fran
ç
ois's hand. Jack takes his hand from the wheel and starts to move toward Fran
ç
ois.

“Stay where you are, Jack,” Frost says. “Keep the ship on course.”

Jack places his hand back on the wheel and corrects the steering slightly.

“There is only one ball in that pistol,” Frost says. “If you shoot Willem, broken arm or no, Jack will tear you to shreds.”

“I do not doubt it. That is a sacrifice I am prepared to make,” Fran
ç
ois says. “It is just one of many that I must bear.”

“Fran
ç
ois,” Willem says sadly, lowering his eyes. “Fran
ç
ois, when I learned that the Duke of Wellington knew nothing of the dinosaurs, I became suspicious. But I could not believe that you would move against your own cousin. When Thibault called your name it pained my heart, because what I did not want to believe must be true. But still I had to be sure. And that is why I gave you the pistol and sent you off with our shipping papers.”

As he is talking he has been moving toward the stern of the ship.

“If you suspected me so, then you should not have trusted me,” Fran
ç
ois says, following him with the pistol. He is well out of the range of Jack's long arms, and Frost, sightless, merely sits on the deck near the mast, powerless to help.

“I did not trust you,” Willem says, moving even farther toward the stern.

“Move no farther, Willem,” Fran
ç
ois says. “If you try to escape overboard, I will fire without compunction.”

“Fran
ç
ois,” Willem says. “I fear you not. I have already been shot once by a pistol, and survived. Would you see me again produce a musketball from my mouth?”

“God will not help you this time,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“We heard a pistol shot back at the wharf. Was that you?” Frost asks.

“I am afraid so,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“You shot H
é
lo
ï
se!” Willem says.

“At great pain to my heart,” Fran
ç
ois says. “I—” He stops and looks carefully at Willem. “How did you know I shot H
é
lo
ï
se?”

“She told me,” Willem says.

Fran
ç
ois half turns at a sudden noise behind him. Too late he realizes that Willem's movement has been to make him put his back to the open hatch.

He sees H
é
lo
ï
se hurtling over the deck toward him, a deep red stain on her smock the evidence of Willem's subterfuge. He spins around but she is already there, launching herself at him, scratching and biting, thrashing and flailing at him. Fran
ç
ois, although bigger and stronger, is no match for her ferocity. He stumbles backward toward the stern of the ship, his knees catching on the gunwale. His arms windmill but his balance is gone and then so is he, with barely a splash to mark where he has fallen. He re-emerges, coughing and spluttering, floundering in the water. He tries to catch the dory as it passes him, but it is already out of his reach.

H
é
lo
ï
se snarls at him as the brigantine swiftly leaves him behind.

*   *   *

“Another deserter,” Cambronne says, watching through his spyglass.

“Does the boat show any sign of slowing?” Napol
é
on asks.

“None, sire,” Cambronne says.

“Then that is a clear message,” Napol
é
on says. “And they leave us with no choice.”

Baston signals the gun captain and they hear his voice clearly in the fresh coastal air. “Aim!” And a moment later, “Fire!”

Twenty guns fire simultaneously, shrouding the fortress with smoke.

*   *   *

The sound is the shrill whistle of wind around a loose shutter on a stormy day, but multiplied many times over. It gets louder but Jack does not flinch, nor leave the wheel. A garden of waterspouts rises into the air not far from the boat.

“Distance?” Frost asks.

“About fifty yards short, sir,” Jack says. “Port bow.”

The first shots are always short. Jack knows this well. His friend Wacker—who he last saw flying through the air in pieces—explained it all to him. The first shot is to estimate distance and the gunner cannot do that from an overshoot.

Willem speaks rapidly in French to the lieutenant, who nods. Willem hurries down a ladder through one of the open hatches.

“When I give the order, take us closer to shore,” Frost says.

“Closer, sir?”

“They will adjust their range for our current position. I would prefer not to still be here when they next fire.”

Frost is counting, mouthing numbers to himself, estimating the time of the reloading sequence.

“Now, please, Jack,” he says.

Jack spins the wheel and the brigantine heels steeply as it veers to the left, just as the guns sound again. Now Frost is counting off the seconds as the cannonballs approach, with that ghostly, high-pitched whistling noise.

The volley passes over their heads. They can hear the cannonballs above the rigging, but the watery plumes that erupt from the ocean are well off to their starboard side.

“What now, sir?” Jack asks, straightening the wheel to point the bow of the boat back toward the mouth of the estuary.

“They'll expect us to move again,” Frost says. “So let's stay here for the moment.”

He is right, and the next volley again passes over their heads.

“Note where the splashes are,” Frost says. “Imagine that as a line in the water. Head straight toward it.”

Jack turns the wheel again and the boat rises up on a slight swell, dropping down as it turns. Frost is still counting under his breath.

“No, back, back now, Jack! Quick as you can,” he says.

Jack spins the wheel and the boat turns again.

The crash of the cannon and the whistle of the balls is followed by another series of splashes right where the brigantine would have been, had they not turned back. Even so it is close. The balls hurtle past, just overhead, and one tears a long rip in the mainsail.

“How did you know what they would do?” Jack asks as the sharp salt spray of the water plumes drifts over the boat.

“That is what I would do,” Frost says.

“When is Willem going to do … whatever he is going to do?” Jack asks.

“Soon, I hope,” Frost says.

Jack looks around, realizing that he hasn't seen the girl for a while. To his surprise, he sees her in the dory. She must have shimmied down the towline. She is removing a tarpaulin from a series of boxes and metal troughs.

Confused, he turns back and concentrates on his steering.

*   *   *

“The little brigantine is jigging about like a drunken whore,” the gun captain calls. “But don't worry, sir, she will not escape us.”

“I will wager your life on it,” Baston calls back.

*   *   *

The game of cat and mouse continues, but with each volley the shots are getting closer, and although the estuary mouth is wide, it is not wide enough to hide in.

“Willem,” Frost calls from abovedecks.

Willem climbs the short ladder up through the hatch. His work below is finished anyway.

“Whatever you are going to do, do it now,” Frost says. “They have our range and our speed. It is only good fortune that we have not yet been sunk.”

“I cannot,” Willem says back. “We must be clear of the headlands.”

“The next volley will destroy us,” Frost shouts over the roar of angry water from either side of the brigantine. Seawater rains down on them.

“Stand fast, Lieutenant, until we are clear,” Willem shouts back.

Another peal of thunder from the fort and although Jack has jigged the brigantine toward shore, the balls tear great holes in the sails. Shrouds snap and the foremast explodes in a shower of wooden shards.

“Willem!” Frost shouts.

“Five hundred meters more. That's all,” Willem shouts.

“We don't have that long,” Frost says, but his voice is lost in the roar of more cannon.

These are different though, in both sound and direction.

“What is it? What is that?” Frost asks.

Willem looks out to sea and sees what seems at the moment to be the most beautiful sight in the world. A British ship of the line, in full sail, battle colors flying, wreathed in smoke and leaning backward from the broadside she has just delivered.

*   *   *

Stone shatters above Baston's head. Cannonballs ricochet off the stone floor of the fort and into the side of the observation tower. One of the great cannon is hit, smashing its carriage. Screams sound from the gunners who lie injured amid the wreckage.

Baston has flung himself over the emperor to protect him, dragging him down below the parapet, but Napol
é
on now pushes him away and stands back up.

“Sire!” Baston calls, but Napol
é
on waves him away.

“They reload, Baston. There is no danger yet,” he says, raising his spyglass to his eye.

“What ship is it, sire?” Cambronne asks. His own spyglass lies shattered on the ground at his feet, dropped when the fragmented stone sprayed around the tower.

“I cannot read the name,” Napol
é
on says. “But if my captains were as daring as hers, then it would be the French navy, not the British, that rules the channel. Look how close he brings her. Into the very mouth of the wolf.”