Battlesaurus (39 page)

Around them the gunners have run to the seaward-facing guns. They load and aim to meet this unexpected threat.

Still the man-o'-war sails parallel to the coast. She turns slightly toward shore to bring her guns back to bear, and again thunder and lightning ripple along her side.

Napol
é
on crouches, taking shelter behind the heavy stone parapet wall.

Baston ducks down also. The second broadside is a mixture of solid iron balls and explosive shells, for the impact on the walls of the fortress is not as great, but there comes a series of explosions, above, against, and in the fortress as the shells detonate. Shrapnel gouges chips out of the stone floor of the observation platform.

There is no third broadside. A glance over the parapet shows that the ship is retreating, not waiting for the return fire. She heels over, her full set of sails catching the sun. She presents only her narrow stern to the fortress, and races for the open sea.

Now the cannon of the fortress sound and a bracket of shots fall about the audacious British ship, raising plumes of water on either side of it.

“Forget the man-o'-war,” Napol
é
on shouts. “Sink the brigantine!”

“Explosive shells!” the gun captain calls, taking his lead from the British.

The attack by the man-o'-war has bought some time for the little brigantine and she has used it well, darting out from the estuary mouth to the open sea beyond, but still within range.

Sponges dip into water buckets. Powder cartridges are rammed and spherical case shot quickly follows. Within seconds the guns lurch back on their carriages, filling the air with smoke and noise. Explosions bracket the brigantine, tearing her sails to shreds and showering her deck with hot fragments of metal.

She slows, drifting to a halt in the water, her sails and rigging in tatters.

“Now we have her,” Napol
é
on murmurs. Already the gun crews are reloading their weapons with solid shot.

“Aim,” the gun captain calls.

“The boy put up a good fight,” Baston says.

“Not good enough,” Cambronne says.

“Ready,” comes the shout from below.

But before the guns can fire there is a sharp retort from out on the water. The dory, trailing behind the brigantine, has exploded, and a thick plume of white smoke bursts upward into a mushroom-shaped cloud. There must have been fireworks on board also, as the yellow trails of rockets are streaking up into the air.

The explosion, the plume of smoke, the rocket trails, it all happens in an instant, but in that instant the impossible happens.

The brigantine disappears.

One moment it is there, drifting slowly on the tide, without sails or rigging, then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, it is gone, vanished as if it never existed.

“Fire,” comes the call from the battlements below, but the gun captain's voice holds only uncertainty.

“This is not possible,” Cambronne says.

The cannonballs cut grooves in the air and make dents in the surface of the ocean where the boat had been, but air and water are their only victims. The ocean lies empty. No brigantine, no wreckage, no sign that a ship ever existed in that place.

All that remains is the low, drifting hulk of the still-burning dory, settling into the water and sinking as it drifts away on the seaward breeze.

Napol
é
on calls down to the gun captain. “Did you hit it?”

“I don't know, sire,” comes the answer.

“Did you sink it?”

“I do not believe so, sire. There is no wreckage.”

The brigantine has vanished in a waft of smoke. Dissolved into thin air before their eyes.

The silence on the battlements is matched by the silence on the observation platform.

It is finally broken by the emperor of France.

“The child is a greater conjurer than the father,” Napol
é
on says.

 

SHIP OF THE LINE

The dory, now smoldering, and somehow still afloat, drifts unnoticed by the officers and soldiers on the fortress.

Nor, at that distance, can they hear the shouts that come from the figures that cling to ropes on the seaward side of the dory, out of sight of the shore.

The British sailors can hear them, however, and with impeccable seamanship the man-o'war maneuvers itself between the dory and the shore, shielding it from view. Rope netting tumbles down the seaward side of the ship and Jack grips a rung tightly with one hand, while his broken arm in its wooden splint is latched around Willem's shoulders. Lieutenant Frost also has an arm entwined in the rope ladder and a firm grip on Willem's collar.

Willem is unconscious, but breathing. For now that is all they know. He was slower than the others to dive from the brigantine and when the barrels of gunpowder exploded inside the hull, he was caught in the blast and tossed into the water.

If it was not for Jack, diving below the waves and hauling him back to the surface, he would have been lost to the currents of the ocean.

*   *   *

The explosives that rendered Willem unconscious also rent great holes throughout the bottom of the hull. That by itself would not have been enough. The real secret was the iron bars that filled the hold, and the hatches that were deliberately left open on the deck.

From the crack of the explosion to the top of her mast slipping below the waves, the gallant
É
paulard
took no more than two seconds to sink out of sight.

The sound of the explosions was heard clearly on the fortress, but was assumed to come from the dory, as the barrel of magicians' powder exploded simultaneously, creating the sudden and short-lived smoke cloud, that, along with the fireworks, distracted the eye just long enough for the brigantine to vanish.

On board the dory, oil in metal troughs burned fiercely, creating the impression that the dory was on fire and sinking as it drifted slowly out on the tide.

*   *   *

There are shouts from the deck of the warship, and the end of a rope splashes into the water, just a yard away. Frost feels for the rope and ties it around Willem's body, under his shoulders. He tugs on the rope when he is finished, and Willem quickly slides upward out of Jack's arms.

“It has been an honor to serve with you, Lieutenant, sir, if you don't mind me saying so, sir,” Jack says. “We wasn't sure you'd be much chop, sir, when we first saw you arrive. You being so young and all. But you're all right, sir.”

“The honor was mine, Private Sullivan,” Frost says.

“Thank you, sir,” Jack says. He waits for Frost to find his footing, then makes his own way up the netting as best he can with one broken arm. It is an arduous climb. Even in the light swell the ship rolls considerably from side to side. He stays below Frost, in case the young lieutenant should lose his grip and fall.

Jack climbs past gun ports, now shut, blackened around the edges by the smoke from the cannon. One gun deck is followed by another, and then a third, until finally he is at the gunwales and hands are helping him clamber over onto the deck.

H
é
lo
ï
se is already on board, hissing like a cat at two red-coated marines who are trying to approach her.

Willem lies on the deck, where a sailor is listening to his breathing.

The deck is wide, the boards unpolished, the masts so broad that two men could not join arms around them. This is a British ship of the line and the crew are neat in their striped uniforms.

A detail of marines approach Lieutenant Frost, muskets presented, followed by the ship's captain, in a very fine uniform, and a midshipman in a black coat and top hat.

“Good morning, sir, and welcome to the HMS
Impregnable
,” the captain says.

“State your name and your rank, or risk being shot as spies,” the midshipman says.

“Go easy, Evans,” the captain says. “Do you not recognize a British soldier when you see one?”

“In the future, I will know one when I smell one,” the midshipman says with a screw of his nose. Jack doesn't blame him. A thorough rinse in the ocean has not expunged the stench of Antwerp's sewers.

“I am Lieutenant Hunter Frost, G troop, Royal Horse Artillery, in the service of His Grace the Duke of Wellington,” Frost says, saluting. “I was present at the battle near Waterloo.”

“Captain Cameron Henderson, at your service,” the captain says, returning the salute. “I know about the battle. The fleet evacuated the duke and much of the army yesterday.”

“We have heard some shocking tales,” the midshipman says. “One hopes they are greatly exaggerated.”

“Unfortunately, they are probably not,” Frost says.

“If they are true, then there are difficult times ahead,” Captain Henderson says.

“Indeed,” Frost says. “Captain, was it your ship that sailed under the guns of the fortress to engage them whilst we escaped?”

“I fear I must take the blame for that particular moment of lunacy,” the captain says.

“A brave action, Captain,” Frost says.

“Foolhardy, but we were lucky,” the captain says, with a glance at the midshipman, and they both look up at a spar, smashed and splintered by cannon shot.

“Captain, it is a deed that will make history,” Frost says. “They may well raise a statue to you in Charing Cross.”

“I do not think so.” The captain laughs. “It was but a minor exploit in what will be a long and bitter war.”

“It may well be remembered as the action that helped us win the war,” Frost says.

“You speak in riddles,” the captain says. “I do not understand.”

“You will,” Frost says. “But for now can I ask that you put your ship in no further danger, and proceed immediately for the nearest British port.”

“It is a big request from an officer of little rank,” the midshipman says.

“True,” Frost says. “But we have precious cargo on board.”

“The girl? Or do you mean the boy we just hauled out of the sea?” the midshipman asks.

“I mean the young man who lies unconscious on your deck. Please have your ship's surgeon see to him, and pray for his continued good health,” Frost says.

“He is important to you?” Captain Henderson asks.

“Captain,” Frost says, “he is important to all of us.”

 

LE PRISONNIER DE SOIGNES

The right-side wheels of the carriage dip into a rut, throwing Cosette across into Marie Verheyen's lap. Cosette straightens herself with as much dignity as she can. Her hands are tied together, as are Willem's mother's, and she is unable to grasp the side of the carriage. Keeping her balance on the rough dirt track has been a constant battle since they entered the forest.

The entrance to the track is well concealed, and well protected by armed men standing in the shadows of the trees. The carriage traveled north from Brussels, then looped around south into the forest.

The reason for the secret route becomes clearer as they approach the remains of an old abbey, standing proud on a small hill in the deepest heart of the forest.

A wagon, loaded with supplies, is just entering the courtyard through a gate in an old, crumbling wall. They follow it through, and the gates shut behind them. Inside, the abbey is a bustling anthill of activity. Soldiers are everywhere, disguised in their gray peasant smocks.

Others in full uniform march in tight squads, or practice bayonet drills with wooden dummies.

All of the narrow stone windows of the abbey buildings are awash in laundry.

The carriage comes to a halt and an officer politely helps them down from it with a hand to their elbows, then unties the ropes that bind their wrists.

“I do not like this place,” Cosette says.

“Nor I,” Marie says. “But we are alive, and for that we will be thankful.”

She has not yet told the girl what she saw as they left the village, nor the reason for the tolling of the church bells. There will be a time when that will have to be said, but for now it can wait.

Gaillemarde.
It was a pretty little village. A happy village, despite the bickering and daily dramas that were a part of the fabric of life there. The thought of what remains there now is best pushed out of mind, lest it be too much to bear.

They are led to an arched doorway in the side of a building, and then along a corridor where a heavy wooden door is attended by two guards.

Behind the door is a bare, stone-walled room with nothing in it but two sackcloth beds and a pail for toileting. Perhaps once this was accommodation for the monks.

A square hole in the wall on either side is the only ventilation. It is too small to crawl through, should she even think of trying to escape.

“I am glad the general is not here,” Cosette says. “I do not like the way he looks at me.”

“Cosette, listen to me. This ordeal will end,” Marie says. “Until it does, you do whatever you have to do, to survive.”

“But, madame,” Cosette says.

“Whatever it takes,” Marie says.

The sound of movement comes from an adjacent room and a moment later a voice sounds close to the window. Another prisoner.

“Who is there?” a deep male voice asks, in accented French.

“I am the widow Verheyen, and with me is Mademoiselle Delvaux, both of Gaillemarde,” Madame Verheyen says. “Whom do I address?”

“Marie?” The voice sounds suddenly hushed.

“Maarten?” Marie collapses on the edge of the rough bed, her legs unsteady beneath her.

“It is someone you know?” Cosette asks.

In a voice no longer her own, Marie hears herself say, “It is my husband.”

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

My apologies to paleontologists and dinosaur enthusiasts, who will take great delight in telling me that dinosaurs could not actually survive on the modern Earth. The climate, the atmosphere, and the plant life are so vastly different now from when dinosaurs roamed the planet.