Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  “I still don’t quite—”

  “Captain Valière, all these men you see, they are not merely flocking to the south for the women and the wine. We are all part of Bonaparte’s mighty flotilla.”

  André surveyed the crowded terrace once more, eyeing the mass of sailors in their blue-and-white striped shirts, soldiers smoking pipes and breaking out in impromptu drinking songs. “Flotilla for what?”

  “The one that will ferry Bonaparte’s army to their next conquest: my homeland, Egypt.”

  Curious onlookers from the surrounding countryside swarmed the jetties and docks of Toulon as General Bonaparte’s army and fleet—a moving fortress of thirty-eight thousand soldiers and sailors, four hundred vessels, and France’s most distinguished scientists, historians, botanists, artists, and writers—boarded their vessels. Sailors scurried about above and belowdecks as the orders were shouted out under a fierce southern sun. The anchors were lifted and the sails billowed, pregnant with the Mediterranean breezes that would sweep the force farther south toward the African continent.

  If not for the intelligence Ashar had provided, André would have been as ignorant as any of the others as to the purpose of their mission. From ensigns to admirals, all had been ordered by General Bonaparte to guard the secrecy of this mission with the utmost discretion.

  André could guess why. Though Bonaparte had proven himself seemingly invincible on land, the British still maintained their preeminence when it came to naval power. Moving such a massive fleet of French men and ships safely through British-patrolled waters would require speed and, more important, secrecy.

  On the third morning of heading in a southeasterly course through the blue-green Mediterranean, André stood alone, mopping a portion of the portside deck. He listened to the familiar sounds of the sea—the groaning ropes, the gentle glug-glug of the waves below that lapped the ship’s hull. And then he heard his name being called. “Valière?”

  André turned and, to his surprise, spotted the ship’s first mate walking toward him. He stiffened, placing down the mop. “Yes, sir.”

  “Cap’n wants to see you on the quarterdeck.”

  A pit formed in André’s stomach—what had he done to attract the ire of his commander? In his time aboard the ship, he had yet to be flogged, but he’d seen enough of it to dread the punishment. The worst punishment, however, would be an order to return to Paris.

  “He’s waiting,” the first mate added, his tone tinged with impatience.

  “Right away, sir.” André wiped the suds from his hands and headed to the stern of the ship.

  Captain Dueys leaned his stocky frame against the ship’s railing, his commander’s cap resting atop a head of white hair. It was a clear day, and a gentle breeze glided over the ship, bringing with it the distinct scent of tangy saltwater and the cries of hungry seagulls. All around them the sapphire waters were crowded with other French frigates and flags. Without looking up, the captain acknowledged André’s approach. “Captain Valière.”

  André stood up a little straighter, taken aback at the use of his former rank. “Captain Dueys.”

  The captain still leaned on the railing, but now he pulled his eyes from the expanse of rolling sea and stared sideways at André. His white beard and breath smelled of tobacco smoke. “At ease.”

  André lowered his hand.

  “You were at Valmy.”

  André nodded, surprised. “I was, yes. Sir.”

  The captain now turned back toward the ocean, pulling his pipe from his pocket, his thick fingers stuffing tobacco into its bowl. Captain Dueys lit the pipe and took a long puff, exhaling a fog of fragrant smoke before looking back toward André. “General Kellermann was a fine man. That business back in Paris was a damned mess, a damned bloody mess and a waste.”

  André felt his features tightening. “I agree, sir.”

  The captain spoke again, appraising André with his gaze as he did so. “Most of the men on this ship are untested. They’ve spent the past year mopping up seagull shit and fighting over rum rations.”

  Not seeing an opening for a response, André remained quiet.

  “I need a man with a little hair on his chin, one who has experience leading other men in battle.” The terse captain paused at that, taking another long draw from his pipe. When he exhaled, the smell of smoke blew into André’s face, mingling with the aromas of salt, wood, and a cooking fire from the galley.

  “Valière, I know you were a captain. Before you got into”—he waved his weathered hands—“whatever mess it was you got into back there.” Captain Dueys took another puff. “That don’t much concern me. This navy don’t much care for the squabbles of a few lawyers back in Paris.” Another long inhalation of the pipe preceded the captain’s next words.

  “Any man who was good enough for Christophe Kellermann is bloody good enough for me. When the shooting starts tomorrow…you’re to stay close and take your orders from me.” And now the captain peeled his eyes from the horizon and looked squarely at André. “Are we clear?”

  Clear was not the first word that André might have used to describe this conversation, but he nodded. “I am at your service, Captain.”

  The captain nodded, tapping his chin with the tip of his pipe before eventually muttering: “Good.”

  They stood silently, André awaiting his orders for dismissal back to his chores. But the captain wasn’t finished. “You’ve never led men at sea?”

  “Not at sea, no, sir.”

  “Well, if that little general…that Bonaparte…has his way, there won’t be much of a sea battle to speak of.” The captain turned to André, his red brow creased. He laughed when he read the blatant confusion apparent on André’s face. “Tomorrow, our General Bonaparte wants to do something that hasn’t been done since before the Holy Crusades.”

  André swallowed, raising his eyebrows. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what is that?”

  The captain exhaled through his nostrils, sending out two lines of smoke. “He wants to capture Malta. Only problem is the current inhabitants, the Knights of Malta, have no intention of giving it to him.”

  June 1798

  “You know why they call it Malta?” Captain Dueys stood beside André in the bright morning light, one weather-hardened hand leaning on the ship’s railing as the other held the ever-present pipe to his lips.

  “No, sir.” André shook his head, eyeing the island before them. “What’s the meaning, sir?”

  “Means honey. Ancient Greeks gave it the name.”

  André squinted his eyes to gain a better view of the steep, craggy cliffs that jutted up out of the shimmering sapphire water. Against the cloudless blue sky he could just barely make out the silhouette of buildings.

  “It’s strategic, sure.” The captain exhaled. “But we don’t need this damned rock. We could just as easily take our objective without it. I think it’s the man’s pride that needs this island. He wants to add one of the most sacred spots in Christendom to his loot.”

  Captain Dueys sighed, tobacco-tinged smoke coming out with his exhale. “We’ll find out together whether God is keen on that idea or not. If not God, that salty British rascal Admiral Nelson might have something to say. From the rumors I’ve heard, the damned Brits are out there somewhere, waiting for the right chance to pounce.”

  André felt a chill run the length of his spine, in spite of the warm sunlight and mild breeze. Just then a thunderous roar clamored from one of the ships nearby, and André winced instinctively. The men aboard his ship, momentarily knocked off balance by the sudden blast, all looked in the direction of the disturbance.

  “Bloody hell, it’s begun already.” Captain Dueys steadied himself on the railing, surveying the surrounding fleet as all around them ships adjusted their sails and slowly tacked toward Malta’s harbor and its capital, Valletta. The old captain grumbled as he studied the fleet through his spyglass. “Almost time.”

  He lowered his spyglass and looked at André, his eyes al
ert with the thrill of the coming battle. Just then another cannon ripped across the sky. The siege of Malta had officially begun.

  “Right, it’s time. Valière, when we get close enough to the island, take one of the transport boats off the starboard side with as many men as you can fit. You see them transports rowing into the harbor? Make your way in and join them, see if we can’t find out what the hell is going on here.”

  “Yes, sir.” André nodded.

  “Oh, and Valière?”

  “Sir?”

  Dueys looked at him intently. “Today…when my men are looking to you…you are Captain Valière. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” André shifted on his feet, trying not to smile. “Thank you.”

  Dueys waved a hand. “Don’t thank me. Just do your job, like you were trained to do.”

  André lifted a hand in salute. “Yes, sir.”

  The captain offered a quick salute in return before turning to bark orders at the nearby helmsmen.

  —

  As they approached the island, its gray-brown cliffs spiking up out of the sea like a natural fortress, André took a dozen men and huddled them close in the tiny rowboat that hugged the stern of their larger battleship.

  A cannon roared from somewhere behind them, and the noise was followed by a cracking sound where it smashed the tall, sand-colored walls ringing the island. The men looking to André winced. The few with oars began the arduous task of rowing toward the shore.

  André drew their focus back on him, trying to steady their nerves. “Right, lads, a few more strokes now and we’ll ride the surf right onto the beach. Keep your muskets up out of the water—your gunpowder will do you no good if it’s doused.”

  All around them the fire from the fortress batteries was being answered by French artillery. In every direction, André saw parties of men lowering themselves down from the transport ships and rowing themselves ashore. The island’s natural harbor appeared shallow and calm, and it hugged the eastern seaside border of a narrow, hilly peninsula. As far as André could tell, none of the Frenchmen were meeting armed resistance on the sandy coast below the cliffs.

  The beaches were sunlit and quiet; eerily quiet, devoid of all signs of life save for the cluster of Frenchmen who had already made landfall and the few seagulls that skittered along the edge of the shoreline.

  “Come on, the rest of you.” He waved his men forward and they climbed off the landing boat, clutching their muskets. Around André, the other transports were slowly and cautiously making landfall as well. No one seemed sure of what to do next. Several of the soldiers, unaccustomed to the small crafts, vomited onto the sand.

  Just then, a general’s aide appeared on the beach, half running, half stumbling down the seaside hill. “Officers! Officers?” The man’s slender features were pinched, his voice shrill as his eyes combed the beach. André watched as several officers stepped forward, answering the summons. He, too, lifted a hand; he hadn’t acted in the capacity of an officer for some time, but he had landed on this beach in command of Captain Dueys’s men.

  The soldier eyed André’s tattered sailor’s clothes somewhat suspiciously but shrugged his shoulders. “Well, tell your men to stay here on the beach. They are not to leave the harbor until General Dumas comes for them. You there”—he looked straight at André, frowning at the sailor smock— “You’re an officer?”

  André nodded. “Yes, Captain Valière.”

  “Right, then, come with me.” He paused, once more eyeing André’s bizarre appearance, before adding a perfunctory, “Sir.”

  A half dozen other officers were similarly summoned, and the aide guided them away from the beach and up a steep trail no wider than a single man. It seemed to be a goat’s path carved in a meandering fashion through the rock face that hugged the coast of the peninsula. Where they were heading, André did not know.

  The day was hot and André was soon sweating through his uniform. His discomfort grew with each step they took away from the beach. Where was the Maltese resistance? The higher they climbed, the more distant the shimmering blue of the Mediterranean became beneath them. Pebbles dislodged by their boots slid down the rocks, falling hundreds of feet below. Who awaited them at the top of this steep climb?

  All André knew of the local army, the Knights of Malta, was that they were an ancient order, blessed by Rome since the earliest days of Christianity, and that they had fended off the threat of foreign invasion since the Middle Ages. St. Paul had walked this land, bringing the first words of Christendom with him. He had blessed the Maltese with a special place in the church, and some believed that the Knights guarded the Holy Grail itself, here on this sunlit island named after honey.

  Who was this Bonaparte to think that he was somehow the heir to all of this? André wondered.

  Eventually the ground leveled, the sea so far beneath them that André could see only rock behind him. All around him, his fellow officers paused. He licked his parched lips, reaching for his canteen to take a sip of water.

  “This way now—we cannot stop!” The aide urged them forward; no break for water. A few steps past the end of the goat trail, the path widened, and they followed it in silence. After a tiring march they came upon an open square of cobblestoned alleys and stunning, massive Baroque buildings. Now the men halted in their steps, amazed by the grand scale of the architecture, these structures seemingly dropped down onto the top of a giant rock jutting out of the remote Mediterranean seascape.

  A large red flag, inscribed with a white cross, billowed from atop a high, glistening dome. But where were the Knights? The quiet in this city square did more to put André on edge than the sight of an armed horde would have. But as the men stood there, the others seemingly as befuddled as André, he saw not a single armed soldier in Malta’s hillside city. There weren’t even many civilians, from the looks of it; windows were shuttered, doors shut. Several housewives crossed the square, pulling their young ones closer to their sides as they fixed their eyes on this group of foreigners. Two priests filed past, whispering to each other and casting suspicious glances toward André and his companions. And yet, no sign of the renowned Knights of Malta.

  The aide who was leading them on this strange journey now paused to take a drink of water from his canteen, so André did the same. Wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow, the aide broke the silence. “Now, then, I would not have put this question to you in front of the enlisted ranks, but this is of the utmost importance: who here is of noble birth?”

  None of the officers answered. Some of them fidgeted; one let out a cough, which echoed off the ancient walls and empty square. Exasperated, the aide sighed. “I assure you, on the honor of our esteemed General Bonaparte himself, this is no trap. The political concerns of Paris hold no import here; this is a matter concerning the success or failure of this mission. Now, I ask again—surely some of you must have belonged to the old aristocracy—who among you is noble?”

  Still no one stepped forward.

  “Mon dieu!” The aide, frustrated, pressed his hands together. “How about if I begin the confession? I am of noble birth. My former title was Gerald Joseph-Etienne, Comte de Landeville. Now, who else?”

  One of André’s companions raised a tenuous hand. “I am,” he said, his tanned skin matching the chestnut tint of his hair.

  “Good! Come closer to me, please.” The aide waved the man to his side. “Who else?” He looked over the group. Two others volunteered their secret, stepping forward. André held his silence.

  “That is all? Only three of you?” The aide looked intently at each of them. There was silence for several moments.

  “I am,” André said eventually, stepping forward.

  The aide looked him up and down. “Good,” the man said. “Anyone else? No? Very well, the rest of you stay here. Keep your guard up, but speak to no one. General Dumas shall arrive from the beach shortly. You are to obey his orders without delay.”

  And suddenly, the aide had an interest only in t
he four men who stood beside him. “Now then, come with me, my lords.”

  André obeyed, growing more confused with each passing moment.

  The domed building was more massive on the inside than it had appeared from the square outside. Here, the insignia of the Maltese flag, the ivory cross outlined in scarlet red, was everywhere. The only symbol more ubiquitous than the flag was the crucifix, which seemed to adorn every doorway, every alcove, every gilded corner. The building was quiet, dark, and cool, and André blinked as his hazel eyes adjusted after the stark midday sunlight of the square outside. It was also, he noticed, completely empty.

  They walked for what felt like ages, and yet they never left the building. The soldiers’ boots clicked on the cold marble beneath their feet, echoing off walls that were covered in glossy oil paintings and ornate wooden carvings. They crossed room after room until, eventually, they came to a long passageway.

  Their French guide, seeming perfectly familiar with the building and how to reach his destination, led his four confused noblemen down the dimly lit hallway, the candles tucked in sconces flickering erratically to their left and right.

  At the end of the hallway waited yet another closed door. This one was as large as all the others, but entirely different, for in front of it stood two very tall men. At first André supposed these figures to be statues, so fixed were they in their rigid, sentry-like stances. But as he approached, he saw that they were, in fact, living men. Two guards who appeared to be from another age of the world, each dressed in a white satin tunic with large scarlet crosses emblazoned across their broad chests. They wore swords in scabbards at their waists and the mail of ancient crusaders on their torsos.

  The aide paused before these two massive sentries, straightening his own posture but still falling short of their immense frames by many inches. “Your Excellencies.” He made a grand bow. “I bring with me four noble lords of France, here as the honored guests of General Napoleon Bonaparte.”