Victory of Eagles (45 page)

struck the ground directly before the front ranks, so heavily many of the men were flung off their feet, and

turning round roared full in all their faces. It was a moral assault only, but a dragon the size of a large barn

roaring less than ten paces away might make the bravest man blanch. Bayonets wavered and dipped, and

then twenty riflemen stood up on her back and fired a terrible and concentrated volley into the stunned

ranks.

A knot of men fell all together, opening a vulnerable gap in the wall of the square, and she thrust her

massive foreleg into that open space and swept it along the line, all the way to the corner of the square,

crushing and knocking down men and pikes like so many blades of grass. Temeraire roared furiously and

dived towards her, but one of the Garde-de-Lyons flung itself into his path.

“That,” Temeraire said furiously, “is quite enough, and anyway the soldiers are smaller still than you.” He

seized the little dragon’s neck in his jaws, and with a jerk of his head broke it, a single dreadful snap. He

let the beast go falling out of the sky, a little scrap of scarlet and blue, the small handful of crewmen

scattering like falling leaves through the air behind.

The Garde-de-Lyon had bought the necessary time with its life, however. Below, the Grand Chevalier

had gotten herself off the ground again, and with an escort of joyfully roaring Pêcheurs and Pou-de-Ciels

was ponderously flying back to the shelter of her lines—“The coward,” Temeraire said bitterly, watching

her escape into the range of the French artillery. The square was trying desperately to re-form, some

soldiers crawling back to their places on hands and knees, too dazed yet even to stand, dragging their

muskets along behind them.

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Laurence heard the horns blowing, a thin and thready sound, and everywhere the French were suddenly

advancing. The knot of fishing huts on the left flank, so long hotly contested, now came suddenly under a

savage bombardment. The fresh dragons coming in flung themselves over it, casting down loads of

munitions, until at last a rush of infantry poured over the low encircling fences and charged into the huts,

one after another, and black smoke came out the windows as the British colors came down.

If they meant to give the center up, it must be soon. But Wellesley gave no order: he was observing the

battle from a ridge on the right flank, where a few tents had been erected for the headquarters. At the

moment he was looking out to sea, gauging perhaps the weather, which had begun at last sluggishly to

clear, before sweeping his glass back towards the French rear. Laurence followed his line of sight with

his own glass, and saw in the thinning mist Napoleon’s standard, and the Emperor himself in his plain grey

coat and black hat, mounted on a white horse and backed by the gleaming and polished ranks of his

Guard.

Even as he watched, Napoleon raised a hand, and with a single economical gesture sent ten thousand

men in motion. The word ran along the French lines, and one after another of those marshaled companies

began their steady march forward, into the British center. The Emperor himself turned towards the fishing

huts, just taken, and the Guard followed in steady ranks as his command shifted forward.

On either flank, the dragons of the Corps were fighting fiercely to hold off the advance, but they too

were tired. On the right Accendare, the great Flamme-de-Gloire, loosed a torrent of flame against Lily’s

formation, and Laurence to his horror saw Messoria recoil, her wing blackened and smoking. She did

not fall out of the sky, but reeled heavily against little Nitidus, fouling his flight, and a few men, specks of

black, went tumbling down through the sky.

Two of Accendare’s wingmen darted in to press the advantage, boarders leaping across to Lily’s back.

She twisted and plunged, trying to shake them loose, and in the opening a spectacular Honneurd’ Or,

gold and blue and red, went through the shield, diving towards the massed ranks of British cavalry with a

great roar, his crew firing off flares from his shoulders as he went, spreading his wings wide.

The horses shrilled and bucked in terror, and stampeded madly straight ahead, pouring in a mass into the

open field, and providing the French with their bodies a shield against the British artillery. The advancing

ranks of the French infantry broke now into a steady jog, their bayonets fixed low as they came; and

back over the French camp, dragons formed into line: heavy-weights and middle-weights, with a screen

of light-weights and courier-beasts before them, and all together began a slow, measured advance, one

wingbeat after another, inexorably.

“LAURENCE, IF WE DO NOT GIVE THEMthe center now, I think they will take it themselves,”

Temeraire said, doubtfully. Still Wellesley did not give the order; the signal-flags on the hill, when

Temeraire could get a glimpse of them through the fog, showed still
hold fast.

“I know,” Laurence said. “We must keep off the advance, as long as may be. If you will break their line

at scattered points, and engage the heavy-weights—”

“Wait, wait,” Perscitia cried shrilly from a distance, and Temeraire looked over surprised to see her

flapping madly towards them. She looked very odd: all her artillery-crew of militia were upon her back,

tied on with ropes, and they in turn were helping to hold on her back enormous bundles, of the

carrying-harnesses which had been used to bring the Army hence. The harnesses had been made hastily

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of silk and linen, any which could be obtained: dresses and curtains and table-cloths all sacrificed to the

cause, many in bright colors, so she looked as though she were wearing an enormous fringed skirt

dangling over her sides and legs, just barely shy of fouling her wings.

“We are not going to retreat!” Temeraire said, indignantly. “We have not lost the battle; and we shan’t,

either,” he added determinedly.

“No, no,” she said, panting, as she came up to them: and Temeraire saw the harnesses were really so

hopelessly tangled up that no-one could have picked them apart in less than an hour. “Take—” she said,

gulping for breath, and waggled some of it at him.

Dubiously he took a bundle of it in his claws, and discovered it was wet; and it did not smell very nice,

either, like the smell when grog was passed out, aboard a ship. “What have you done with them?” he

said, and, “Ow,” jerking his head back; there was something sharp and bitter, which stung his nose.

“Liquor,” Perscitia said, getting back her breath, as other dragons came and took more of the bundles

from her, “and also some tar, I think; and there is some pepper on them, too, so do not sniff them.

Where is Iskierka? She must—oh, there you are, no,” she said, resisting as Iskierka reached for one

herself, “you shan’t take one, you must set them all alight, as we drop them—”

“Oh, that is easy,” Iskierka said. The Anglewings each snatched a bundle, and the Grey Coppers, and a

good many of the ferals: all the quicker dragons, the little ones.

“Hurry, hurry,” Temeraire called: the French dragons were coming slow, but they were coming, and

down below their infantry was already engaged in a dreadful struggle, bayonet-to-bayonet, which was

spilling blood over the field and weakening the massed British squares: the French design plainly meant to

leave them vulnerable to aerial attack.

He led them all aloft, high aloft, and spreading out along in parallel to the French line they let the bundles

go: Iskierka shot after them eagerly, flames licking from her jaws in one burst after another, and the

unraveling bundles caught with bright blue and yellow flames as they fell through the air.

The French dragons recoiled from the fireballs dropping into their faces, fouling their smooth line. “Now,

at once,” Laurence said urgently, pointing at the weaknesses in their line. “That Chanson-de-Guerre, and

that Defendeur-Brave—”

“Ballista, do you see?” Temeraire called, and she waved her tail like a flag to show she had heard: a

swarm of Yellow Reapers dashed after her as she charged the marbled yellow-brown

Chanson-de-Guerre. “Quickly, with me,” Temeraire said, to the lightweights, “and do you want to come

with us?” he asked Perscitia.

“No, I do not,” she said, hastily circling away, “and anyway,” she called back over her shoulder, “I will

go see if I can make more of those bundles; although I think I have used all the spirits that were in the

supply-waggons—”

Temeraire did not have time to listen to any more: they were hurrying down straight for the Defendeur,

who had swerved to avoid a particularly large one of the fireballs, that had left a thick trail of smoke

behind. His flank was open now and unprotected for a moment by the line, and the Grey Copper Rictus

darted in and opened a great slash along the line of his shoulder, nearly severing one strap of his harness.

The Defendeur bellowed in pain and hunched himself towards the wound: a wide gaping slice stark red

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against the golden brown and green of his hide. “Hah!” Rictus called, and then squalled as the Defendeur

snapped out his hook-ended tail and caught him full in the belly: a more dreadful and dangerous wound,

on so much smaller a beast, and Rictus was borne crying away by one of the Anglewings.

But he had opened an avenue for attack, and Velocitas flung himself to the Defendeur’s rear, baiting the

slashes of his tail and swerving this way and that, so the other Anglewings and the Grey Coppers could

make darting attempts on the Defendeur’s head; and when the riflemen had all been flung off their feet,

Minnow threw herself into the melee, landed upon the big dragon’s back, and snatched away one of the

men in her talons.

“There, that’s your captain,” she called, waving the poor man, and the French dragon roared furiously

and went after her in a rush, bowling over one of the Anglewings and breaking the French line

completely, as Minnow raced away towards the British clearings with her prisoner.

“That is a little hard,” Temeraire said, feeling rather sorry for the poor dragon, and making a note

Minnow should never again ride upon his own back, while Laurence was there; he had not thought she

was quite so unscrupulous as to steal in the middle of a fight. But he could not deny it had been very

handy, at getting the big dragon away, and now he himself might clear away great swaths of

middle-weights, just by roaring to either side of the gap the heavy-weight had left.

Requiescat was engaged with the Grand Chevalier in the next section of the line, and though he might

have had a little edge in weight, her advantage in having a crew was telling against him: a steady rifle-fire

was peppering his massive sides, and had left a great many small holes visible in his wings, and she

cleverly took every opportunity to position herself higher aloft, where he was forced to dodge one bomb

after another which her bellmen flung against him. Temeraire saw that on their flank, too, the harnessed

dragons of the Corps were only just barely holding off the vast right wing of l’Armée de l’Air, also

advancing, and they would soon all be forced into a tangled mess together.

“There are ships coming,” Majestatis said, looping nearby.

“What?” Temeraire said.

“Ships,” Majestatis said laconically. “Out to sea. You can see them if you go over that cloud.”

And then the trumpets were at last, at last sounding the order to yield the center, with a shrill note, and

there was no time to look; the squares below were falling back into column and marching away, and

Temeraire had at once to be sure everyone was flying away properly, to either flank as they were meant

to do. “Remember, we are to meet again behind their lines!” he called urgently, nipping an over-excited

Anglewing who had started to fly the wrong way.

The French soldiers were charging forward more quickly now, and their dragons were stooping. “Surely

we ought not just fly away—they will have our men in a moment,” Temeraire said urgently over his

shoulder to Laurence.

“Go!” Laurence said; he was looking through his glass at the sea. “Go at once! You must get clear of the

center, and aloft—”

Temeraire pulled away, with a last anxious look over his shoulder; but as he did, he was startled to see

the last of the Coldstream Guards throwing themselves flat upon the ground instead of marching away

farther, and then a roar of thunder erupted from the fogbank, smoke and orange flame.

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He broke over the top of the cloud-bank and saw them in that moment: sixteen ships-of-the-line, and the

enormous gold-blazoned
Victory
at their head, with Nelson’s admiral’s flag flying from the mast. All of

them together were unleashing their full broadsides directly into the front rank of the French dragons and

men, clouds of black smoke enveloping them even as the fog at last spilled off their sails and prows.

The French dragons came down in shocking numbers. The heavy-weights, one target after another,

were struck with cannonballs: wings shattering and bones cracked, they came down into their own

infantry below them. A few only managed with faltering beats to carry themselves out over the remaining

laggard lines of British infantry and smash them. The great Grand Chevalier crashed through the lines and

dragged so far along the ground that she ended at last in the surf, shattered and still, her head rising and