Clash of Empires

by Brian Falkner

  “Oh, I’m wrong, am I?” McConnell asks.

  Somewhere nearby a horse squeals and a man shouts. The sounds echo coldly off the stone walls of the courtyard. McConnell glances around, then back up to Jack, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes, sir, I didn’t run, sir,” Jack says.

  “Are you arguing with an officer, Sullivan?” McConnell asks. “That is insubordination.”

  “No, sir, I was agreeing with the officer, sir,” Jack says. “About you being wrong, sir.”

  Jack is getting terribly confused now, and sweating despite the cold. He is aware that he is on dangerous ground. Insubordination can be punishable by death.

  “You’re a liar and a coward, Private Sullivan,” McConnell says.

  Jack is silent. There is nothing he can think of to say that won’t make matters worse.

  “I’d be leaving the boy alone, if I was you.” It is the gravelly voice of Big Joe, the Irishman.

  “You stay out of this,” McConnell says, “or I’ll have you up for insubordination as well.”

  “Now you can’t do that, an’ all,” Big Joe says with a broad grin. “I’m a lieutenant, just as you.”

  McConnell sniffs in disdain. “For how many weeks, is it? Three or four?”

  “Eight. And I earned my commission,” Big Joe says. The grin is gone. “And it were hard earned. It were not bought for me by my da.”

  McConnell clenches his fists and starts to step forward, then stops himself and turns to the other lieutenants. “This is what happens when they allow commoners to become officers.”

  The others maintain stony faces. Big Joe may be a commoner, but there is clearly more respect in the group for him than for McConnell.

  “If you want to insult me, you’ll have to be doing better than that now,” Big Joe says.

  “Oh, I can do much better,” McConnell says. “But I wouldn’t waste my breath on muck like you, or this sniveling, lying coward up the ladder here.”

  A dangerous silence settles into the mist of the courtyard.

  “You can take that back,” Big Joe says with a sigh. “I don’t care what you say of me, but you’ll treat the boy with respect. He was there. He saw the beasts.”

  “And he ran,” McConnell sneers.

  “Of course he ran,” Big Joe says. “And you’d a done the same.”

  “I would not. I am no coward,” McConnell says.

  “You’ve no idea what you would have done, because you weren’t there,” Big Joe says.

  “I know what Jack did,” McConnell says. “He ran.”

  “Did he now?” Big Joe steps forward. Even the mist seems to draw back from him. He closes in, face-to-face with McConnell.

  “He saw the battlesaurs and he ran,” McConnell says, not backing down. “He’s a coward.”

  “I ran!” Big Joe roars, the scar across his face suddenly red. “I was there and I ran. Everybody ran. If you’d been there, you mewling kitten, you’d have run too.”

  From his perch at the top of the ladder, Jack sees that McConnell’s hand has dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  “Jack did not run.” A soft voice filters through the silky mist.

  Jack knows this voice. Lieutenant Frost is standing with Willem at the entrance to the courtyard. “Lieutenant Frost, sir!” he cries out.

  “Jack remained at his cannon when all others ran,” Frost says. He speaks calmly. “He helped me fire the shot that brought down one of the great saurs. He fended off another with nothing more than a ramrod. And then he saved my life. Jack, you are no coward.”

  “No, sir. I didn’t think I was a coward, sir,” Jack says with great relief. “I’m a good lad.”

  “Yes, you are, Jack,” Frost says. Then he steps forward, led by Willem. He finds McConnell’s ear, and although Jack is not supposed to hear, he does.

  “And any man who calls him otherwise will regret it immensely.”

  There is such quiet ferocity in his voice that anyone would forget that it is a blind man who makes the threat. McConnell backs away, then turns abruptly and storms off. Hoyes moves to the base of the ladder and steadies it.

  “You did not run,” he says as Jack descends. “I did not know that. Would that I had half your courage.”

  He steps back as Jack reaches the base of the ladder. Jack looks around once his feet are on solid ground and realizes that Big Joe is saluting him. That is unheard of, for an officer to salute a private without the private saluting first.

  Jack quickly returns the salute, and realizes as he does so that the other lieutenants—Gilbert, Smythe, Weiner, and Patrick—have lined up behind Hoyes, and are saluting him also.

  “I weren’t brave,” he says, embarrassed. “I just did what I had to because I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “And that is as good a description of bravery as I have heard,” Frost says.

  Jack forgets himself completely and races over to Frost, wrapping him in a bear hug.

  “That’ll do, Jack,” Frost murmurs after a moment.

  “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” Jack says, standing to attention but wiping his eyes. “It’s been a while, sir, and I’ve missed you, sir.”

  “It’s good to see you, Jack,” Frost says.

  “And don’t you worry about Lieutenant McConnell,” Big Joe says. “He’s as popular around here as a cup of cold sick on a frosty morning. We’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again.”

  DEPARTURE

  The riggers and topmen are high in the masts unfurling the sails, just the light-air canvas until they clear the river mouth. The bosun barks orders and the dockhands make ready to cast off the mooring lines. The sun has not long risen and the docks are still stirring, like some great animal slow to wake.

  Major Thibault stands on the fo’c’sle near to the sheep pen. Hurrying sailors flow around him as around a rock in a seaway. They do not acknowledge him. Many make the sign of the cross after they pass him.

  This does not concern him.

  The ship is the Duc d’Angoulême, a first-rate vessel of a hundred and ten guns spread over three decks. She is a mighty and majestic wolf of the sea, with a powerful bark and bite. Beneath Thibault’s feet, engraved into the wooden planking of the deck, are the words Honor, Motherland, Valor, Discipline. The same words are found on the deck of every ship in the French Navy. Many of which are anchored here in the harbor, which is a flurry of sails as the fleet prepares to depart.

  Thibault glances up at the Château de Brest, the great castle overlooking the harbor, high, strong, and still, now that his battlesaurs have been moved.

  He is joined by Captain Montenot, the head saurmaster. Montenot is a man who has seen many battles and bears the scars of most of them. He was present at the great victory at Waterloo, and at Berlin and again in Rome. He is a joyless man with skin tanned to leather by years of campaigning. They do not speak, but quietly watch the activity on the dock.

  A horse gallops into view around a corner of the riverbank. The rider is hurrying, raising dust from the horse’s hooves. More than one person has to leap out of the way. The rider, in the uniform of a captain, pulls to a halt at the gangplank and dismounts, tossing the reins to a shore hand. The horse is led away, breathing heavily, sweat steaming from its sides in the cold morning air. The captain glances up, catching Thibault’s eye, then bounds up the narrow plank and strides forward to the fo’c’sle.

  “Baston, my friend, it is good to see you,” Thibault says, kissing him on both cheeks. “I feared you would not make it before our departure.”

  “It was a close thing, General,” Baston says, after greeting Montenot as well. “I was delayed at Calais.”

  “By Napoléon?”

  “He was sleeping when I arrived. His aides did not dare wake him,” Baston says.

  “He is not the man he was before Elba,” Thibault says. “But you did not hear those words from me.”

  “I heard nothing,” Montenot says.

  “Nor I.” Baston smiles. “But if I h
ad, I would surely have agreed.”

  “What news do you bring from the Sonian?” Montenot asks.

  “The juvenile battlesaurs near maturity,” Baston says. “Their training is complete. And a new batch of eggs has hatched.”

  “This is good news,” Thibault says.

  “The tricorne riders grow restless with their training,” Baston says. “They wonder when they too will be brought to the battle.”

  “Soon enough,” Thibault says. “What of the boy, Willem?”

  “There has been no sign,” Baston says.

  “You must find him,” Thibault says. “He poses great danger to us.”

  “We have been searching for him for months,” Baston says. “He hides in a deep hole, and by the time he emerges it will be too late for him to cause us harm.”

  “And if you are wrong?” Thibault asks. He paces back and forth along the railing, thinking. “We never found who helped him in Antwerp.”

  “No. We spent months searching and interrogating but found nothing,” Baston says. “But no one knew anything, or if they did, they wouldn’t talk. Perhaps if we started executing suspects…”

  Thibault shakes his head. “There are only two forces in the world, the sword and the spirit. In the long run the sword will always be conquered by the spirit.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “These are the words of our great leader. Napoléon believes you conquer with the sword, but to rule you need the spirit of the people,” Thibault says. “He wants to be seen as a father, not a tyrant. He has expressly forbidden executions of those not directly engaged in deeds against us.”

  “Then we are no closer to finding the boy’s collaborators,” Baston says.

  Thibault stops pacing abruptly. “We have Willem’s mother and sister. They must know something,” he says.

  “I have interrogated them myself,” Baston says. “The sister knows nothing. The mother, perhaps, but she would die the most excruciating death before she would reveal it. I could torture the sister perhaps, to force the mother to talk.”

  “There will be no need,” Thibault says. “Use the other boy.”

  “François?”

  “Get him to make contact. Perhaps he can earn their trust.”

  “I will see it done,” Baston says.

  There is a muted growl from somewhere beyond the stern of the ship, a low rumble that shakes dew from the canvas sails. The nearby sheep mill around nervously in their pen. One panics and jumps, leaping on the backs of other sheep, which only creates further anxiety in the small flock.

  “The battlesaurs are well secured for the voyage?” Baston asks with a quick glance up at the stern of the ship.

  “Well enough,” Montenot says. “Although you would not think it from the faces of the sailors.”

  Baston nods his understanding. “Which did you bring?”

  “Mathilde, Valérie, and Odette,” Montenot says. “The rest remain with the army in Calais.”

  Three mighty saurs in three barges towed by three ships. Spreading the risk, should one of the ships founder.

  “Just three greatjaws, all females,” Baston comments.

  Thibault nods. “Plus some demonsaurs. Napoléon prefers the males. He thinks the size makes them more potent weapons. I prefer the ferocity of the females.”

  “He will learn,” Baston says.

  They all laugh, a private joke.

  “We cast off,” Thibault says, with a glance at the captain. “I will see you in a few weeks.”

  “We shall drink champagne together in London,” Baston says.

  “In the throne room at St. James’s Palace!” Montenot declares.

  Baston does not look back as he disappears down the gangplank.

  The high-pitched sound of the bosun’s whistle echoes off the buildings on the dock as the heavy ropes that tether the ship are heaved from their bollards and hauled back on board. Wind tugs at the sails in uneven gusts, easing the ship away from the dockside. The deck takes on a slight lean as the ship begins to move toward the darkened mouth of the river. Thibault turns to the rear, adjusting his footing, watching two heavy towropes on the dock begin to unwind. The ropes uncoil like striking snakes as the ship picks up speed. There is a shouted order from the quarterdeck and the ship slows. The thick ropes slide from the dock into the water, then reemerge as they tighten further.

  “Brace yourself, Montenot,” Thibault says, placing his own hands on the railing of the gunwales.

  Montenot is slow to move and is almost knocked off his feet by the shudder as the ropes lift high out of the water and snap tight. For a moment it seems that the ship has stopped, then the barge behind begins to move. The ropes slacken and tighten again as the ship takes the ungainly but stable barge under tow.

  The “barge” is little more than a huge wooden box, wallowing in the wake of the ship. There are narrow slits in the sides to allow air for what is chained inside.

  The captain approaches. He is plump and short, with a little too much powder on his hair and rouge on his cheeks. He is strongly perfumed. He bows elegantly. “We are cast off,” he says in a voice that is strangely rough and deep, and does not seem to suit his elegant countenance. “Might I now be permitted to know my orders?”

  “The need for secrecy was impressed upon you, was it not, Captain?” Thibault asks.

  “It was. But we are now clear of land and the time for such games has passed,” Captain Lavigne says.

  Thibault regards him for a moment.

  “You will lead the fleet through the Raz de Sein,” he says.

  Lavigne nods. “Of course, to avoid the British blockade. I am no fool. And then?”

  “That I shall inform you once we are clear of the passage,” Thibault says.

  There is a bellow from the barge behind them. The men instinctively glance to the stern.

  “As you wish, General,” Lavigne says. “I should warn you that there is foul weather moving in and we must be through the Raz de Sein before it arrives. It is a narrow and difficult passage in the best of conditions, let alone while towing a deadweight.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Captain,” Thibault says.

  Montenot sighs as the captain disappears. “A pompous little dandy,” he says quietly.

  “We are guests aboard his ship,” Thibault says. “He may be as pompous and as dandified as he chooses, as long as he gets us to our destination expeditiously.”

  NAPOLÉON

  “He is not to be trusted,” Marshal Michel Ney says.

  “Thibault has been a faithful and loyal general,” Napoléon says. “And successful.”

  They stand together on the battlements of the fort at Calais. In the harbor beyond, under the protection of the great guns of the fortress, lies the invasion fleet, sails glowing in the embers of the predawn.

  Beyond the safety of the harbor are the ships of the British Royal Navy, blockading the port, determined to prevent any crossing of French troops to England on the other side of the Channel.

  “I fear he serves his own agenda,” Ney says.

  “And what reason do you have to think this?” Napoléon asks. “What evidence to refute what I see with my own eyes?”

  “None but my instincts,” Ney replies. “But they have seldom let me down.”

  “A less magnanimous leader than myself might detect a note of jealousy in such words,” Napoléon says.

  “Such a leader would be cruel and wrong,” Ney says. “What possible cause is there for envy?”

  “Thibault commands the first invasion fleet,” Napoléon says. “His troops will be the first to set foot in Great Britain. Would that not be cause for resentment?”

  “A small force only,” Ney says. “A diversionary tactic.”

  “Yet an important one, one that will open the door to England,” Napoléon says.

  “Even so,” Ney says, “it is I, not he, who will be leading the main force. Who will march first in the streets of London and demand the surrender of their
king.”

  “Actually, it is I who will accept the sword of capitulation from the English,” Napoléon says. “Although it will be from their prime minister, I would imagine, not their old, sad, mad king.”

  “Of course.” Ney bows his head. “You are correct on both counts. But still I count it a greater privilege to be riding alongside you than to be in charge of a lesser piece in this magnificent chess game of yours. And that notwithstanding, I urge you to exercise great caution when dealing with Thibault. You have my loyalty until the day I die. I fear Thibault has a lesser commitment.”

  “I will heed your words,” Napoléon says. “Now come, we must breakfast.”

  THE RACES

  The six wooden trojansaurs have been lined up at the far end of the parade ground in Woolwich. The horse teams are now uncoupling and drawing away. Behind them the gun crews assemble, ready for the exercise.

  To the south of the parade ground are the training fields. A series of sharp reports sounds from a battery of cannon and the acrid smell of cannon smoke is carried on a sharp and bitter wind that cuts through the jacket of Willem’s uniform. The combination of cold and smoke makes his skin burn and his eyes water.

  “This weather is sharp and foul,” Frost says. “Use your magical powers and bring us some sunshine.”

  Willem laughs.

  To the north is the façade of the main barracks building, a huge brick edifice, dotted with long lines of windows, three stories high and stretching to the end of the long parade ground. All the buildings in Willem’s tiny village home of Gaillemarde combined would fit inside this one with room to spare.

  The main entrance consists of three archways flanked by massive white stone pillars. Above them statues of a lion and a unicorn form the British royal crest, with the motto in French: Dieu et mon droit (“God and my right”).

  It seems odd to Willem, the language of the enemy on the British crest.

  “You have yet to answer my question about Héloïse,” he says as they wait for the horse teams to leave. “Do you bring me good news?”

  “The answer to your question is complex,” Frost says. “That is why I came to see you in person.”