“I need a lantern!” I shouted to the sentry.
“Not near the powder, you fool!”
Swearing, I groped in the dark for the calendar device. Here I was pawing over a king’s ransom, and the only way to get any of it out was through a hurricane of fire. What if we sank? Millions of francs of treasure would go to the bottom. Could I stuff some in my boot? I could feel the roll of L’Orient as each British broadside shoved the warship this way and that. The timbers of the ribs and deck trembled. I hunched like a child, moaning as I searched. The cannonade was like a ram battering a door, sure to eventually stave us in.
And then I heard a sailor’s most dreaded words: “Fire!”
I looked out. The magazine door had been slammed shut and the powder monkeys were scampering upward. That meant our own cannons would quickly go silent. Everything was orange overhead. “Open the cocks to flood the magazine!” someone shouted, and I began to hear the gush of water. I put my hand to the deck overhead and flinched. It was already uncomfortably hot. The wounded were screaming in terror.
A head appeared in the hatch above. “Get out of there, you crazy American! Don’t you know the ship is on fire?”
There! The calendar! I felt its shape, grasped it, and mounted the ladder in fear, leaving a fortune behind. Flames were everywhere, spreading faster than I’d thought possible. Tar, hemp, paint, dry wood, and canvas: we were fighting on a heap of kindling.
A French marine loomed before me, bayonet fixed, eyes wild. “What’s that?” He looked at the odd thing I carried.
“A calendar for Bonaparte.”
“You stole from the treasury!”
“I’ve orders to save it.”
“Show them!”
“They’re with Brueys.” Or, I thought, on fire.
“Thief! It’s to the brig with you!”
He’d gone mad. I looked around in desperation. Men were leaping from the gun ports like fleeing rats.
I had only a second to decide. I could fight this lunatic for a ring of metal or trade it for my life. “Here!” I pitched the calendar to him. He let his musket barrel droop to awkwardly catch it and I used the moment to shove past him, scrambling up to the next deck.
“Come back, you!”
Here the fire and smoke were even worse. It was a charnel house of horror, a butcher’s banquet of mangled bodies beginning to roast in the heat. Sightless eyes stared at me, fingers clutching for succor. Many of the dead were in flames, their tissues sizzling.
I kept climbing and finally gained the quarterdeck again, coughing and gasping. All the rigging was alight, a great pyramid of fire, and even as smoke roiled upward to obscure the moon, burning bits rained down like pitch from hell. The grit of ash crunched under my feet. Gun carriages were smashed, marines lay toppled like ninepins, and gratings were crushed. I staggered toward the stern. On either bulwark, dark forms were hurling themselves into the sea.
I literally stumbled on Captain Casabianca. He was lying down now, a great new sucking wound on his chest, his son once more next to him, the boy’s leg twisted where it had broken. I’d tripped on a father who was a dead man, I knew, but there was still a chance for his son. I crouched next to them. “We’ve got to get you out of here, Giocante, the ship may be ready to blow.” I coughed. “I’ll help you swim.”
He shook his head. “I won’t leave my father.”
“You can’t help him now.”
“I won’t leave my ship.”
There was a crash as a yardarm, flaming, hit and bounced on the deck. The British fired yet another salvo and the French flagship trembled, groaning and creaking.
“You don’t have a ship anymore!”
“Leave us, Américain,” the captain gasped.
“But your son…”
“It is over.”
The boy touched my face in sad farewell. “Duty,” he said.
“You’ve done your duty! You’ve a whole life ahead!”
“This is my life.” There was a tremble to his voice but his face was as calm as an angel in a grotto of hell. So this is what deciding what to believe in is like, I thought. So this is duty. I felt horror, admiration, inferiority, fury. A wasted young life! Or was it wasted? Blind belief had been the cause of half of history’s miseries. And yet wasn’t it also what saints and heroes were made of? His eyes were as hard and dark as shale, and if I’d had time to look into them, perhaps I would have learned all the secrets of the world.
“Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” It was being shouted again and again by the few surviving officers.
“Damn it, I won’t let you kill yourself.” I grabbed him.
The boy pushed me so hard I sprawled. “You are not France! Leave!”
And then I heard another voice.
“You!”
It was the crazed marine, who had staggered to this top deck. His face was burned, his clothes smoking. Blood soaked half his coat. And yet he was aiming at me!
I ran to the stern rail, veiled by smoke, and took one look back. Father and son were obscured, their forms wavering in the heat. It was insane how wedded they were to their ship, their duty, their fate. It was glorious, monstrous, enviable. Did I care for anything half as much? And was I fortunate not to do so? I prayed they’d go quickly. The marine beyond was blinded by smoke and blood, swaying so pitifully he couldn’t hold his aim, flames reaching to claim him.
So, unable to be anything but the man I am, I jumped.
It was a leap of faith into utter blackness; I couldn’t see a thing but knew the water below would be choked with thrashing men and chunks of debris. Somehow I missed all of it and plunged into the Mediterranean, salt gushing into my nose. The water was a shock of cool relief, a balm for my blisters. I sank into a womb of blackness, and then kicked. When I came up I struck out away from the burning battleship as fast as I could, knowing it was a lethal powder keg if the magazine didn’t flood in time. I could feel its heat on the crown of my head as I stroked. If I could ride some flotsam to shore…
And with that, L’Orient blew up.
None had ever heard such sound. It was a thunderclap in Alexandria some twenty-three miles distant, lighting the town as if by day. The concussion reached the Bedouin watching the contest from the beach and hurled them from their rearing horses. It slapped and deafened me. Masts shot up like rockets. Cannon were tossed like pebbles. There was am explosive penumbra of wood splinters and sea spray driven up and outward, a corona of debris, and then the bits of ship began to rain down for hundreds of yards in every direction, still hitting and killing men. Bent forks fell from the sky to stick into railings. Shoes banged down holding nothing but smoking feet. The very sea flexed, driving me away, and then the hulk below the waterline cracked and went under, sucking all of us back toward its swirling maw. I thrashed desperately and caught at a piece of wood before being yanked back down into darkness. I clung like a lover, feeling the pain in my ears as I spiraled deeper. Lord, it was like being gripped by a monster’s paw! At least the suction saved me from the bombardment of debris that pattered the surface like nails. Looking up at the orange water above, I saw the surface shatter like a broken stained-glass window. What seemed likely to be my last sight had an eerie beauty.
How deep I was dragged I don’t know. My head pounded, my lungs burned. Then, just when I thought I could hold my breath no more, the sinking ship seemed to release its grasp and the buoyant wood I’d clung to finally began to carry me upward. I burst to the surface with my last air, shrieking with pain and fear, rolling with my stump of yard that had saved my life. And because of my sting and ache, I knew I’d survived once more, for better or worse. I lay on my back, blinking at stars. The smoke was drifting away. Dimly I became aware of what was around me. The sea was carpeted with wood and broken bodies. There was a stunned silence except for a few faint calls for help. So stupendous was the explosion of L’Orient that all firing stopped.
The crew of one British ship tried a cheer, but it stuck in their throat
s.
I drifted. The calendar was gone. So was all the other treasure in L’Orient’s hold. The moon illuminated a tableau of smashed and burning ships. Most were hamstrung by missing masts. Surely it was over now. But no, the crews gradually awoke from their stunned horror, as if from a dream, and after a quarter hour the cannon started up again, thuds echoing across the water.
So the battle went on. How can I explain such madness? Savage broadsides echoed through the night like the hammering of the devil’s foundry. Hour after hour I floated in a daze, growing colder, until the guns finally grumbled away in mutual exhaustion and the sea lightened some thousand years later. With dawn men slept, sprawled on their hot artillery.
Sunrise revealed the full extent of the French disaster. The frigate La Sérieuse had been the first to sink, settling in the shadows, but didn’t strike her colors until five in the morning. Le Spartiate ceased firing at 11 P.M. Franklin, named for my mentor, surrendered to the British at 11:30. Le Tonnant’s mortally wounded captain blew his brains out before she surrendered. L’Heureux and Le Mercure were deliberately grounded to prevent their sinking. The frigate L’Artemise blew up after being fired by her captain, and Le Timoleon was driven aground to be burned by her crew the next day. Aquilon, Le Guerrier, Le Conquerant, and Peuple Souverain simply surrendered. For the French, the Battle of the Nile was not just a loss but an annihilation. Only two battleships and two frigates had gotten away. Three thousand Frenchmen were killed or wounded in the battle. In a single fight, Nelson had destroyed French naval power in the Mediterranean. Just one month after landing in Egypt, Napoleon was cut off from the outside world.
Hundreds of survivors, some burned and bleeding, began to be plucked from the sea by British longboats. I watched in numbed fascination, and then dimly realized that I could be rescued too. “Over here!” I finally shouted in English, waving.
They hauled me aboard like a played-out fish. “What ship you with, mate?” they asked me. “How the bloody hell did you get in the water?”
“L’Orient,” I replied.
They looked at me as if I were a ghost. “You a frog? Or a bloody traitor?”
“I’m an American.” I was trying to blink the salt from my eyes as I held up the finger that held a unicorn ring. “And an agent for Sir Sidney Smith.”
Imagine a pugilist after a hard-won boxing match, and you have my first impression of Horatio Nelson. The lion of England was bandaged and woozy from a nasty head wound above his blind eye, a blow that came within an inch of killing him. He spoke with difficulty because of a sore tooth and, at age forty, had white hair and a face lined with tension. That’s what losing an arm and an eye in earlier fights, and chasing Bonaparte, will do for you. He was barely a shade taller than Napoleon and even slighter in build, his cheeks sunken and his voice nasal. Yet he relished the chance to dish out a thrashing as much as the French general did, and on this day he’d won a victory so decisive as to be unprecedented. He had not just beaten the enemy—he had obliterated them.
His one good eye burned as if lit by divine light, and indeed Nelson saw himself on a mission from God: a quest for glory, death, and immortality. Put his ambition and Bonaparte’s in the same room and they’d spontaneously combust. Turn them with a crank and they’d throw off sparks. They were Leyden jars of electric charge, set among us mortal kegs of gunpowder.
Like Napoleon, the British admiral could leave a roomful of subordinates entranced by his very presence; but Nelson commanded not just with energy and drive, but with charm, even affection. He had more charisma than a royal courtesan, and some of his captains had the look of happy puppies. They were clustered around him now in his great cabin, regarding their admiral with unabashed worship, and me with deep suspicion.
“How the devil do you know Smith?” Nelson asked as I stood before him, damp and exhausted, my ears ringing.
Rum and fresh water had washed some of the salt from my throat. “After his escape from Temple Prison, Sir Sidney followed me because of rumors that I’d be accompanying Bonaparte to Egypt,” I croaked. “He helped save my life in a skirmish on the highway to Toulon. He asked if I’d keep an eye on Napoleon. So I got myself back to the French fleet, figuring you’d find it sooner or later. Didn’t know how things would turn out, but if you won…”
“He’s lying,” one of the captains said. Hardy, I think his name was.
Nelson smiled thinly. “We’ve not much use for Smith here, you know.”
I looked at the unfriendly array of assembled captains. “I didn’t know.”
“The man’s as vain as I am.” There was dead silence. Then the admiral abruptly laughed, the others joining the joke. “Vain as me! We both live for glory!” They roared. They were exhausted but had that satiated look of men who’d come through a good scrape. Their ships were drifting wrecks, the sea was littered with carnage, and they’d just endured horrors enough for a lifetime of nightmares. But they were proud, too.
I did my best to smile.
“Good fighter though,” Nelson amended, “if you don’t have to be in the same room with him. His escape made him the talk of England.”
“He did get back, then.”
“Yes. And didn’t mention you, as I recall.”
“Our meeting was inconclusive,” I admitted. “I didn’t pledge to be his spy. But he anticipated your skepticism and left me this.” I held up my right hand. “It’s a signet ring, inscribed with his symbol. He said it would prove my story.”
I took it off and passed it around, the officers grunting in recognition.
Nelson held it up to his good eye. “It’s the bastard Smith, all right. Here’s his horn, or should I say prick?” Again, they all laughed. “You enlisted with that devil Napoleon?”
“I’m a member of his team of savants who are studying Egypt. I apprenticed to Benjamin Franklin. I was trying to arrange some trade agreements, there were legal problems in Paris, an opportunity for adventure…”
“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “What’s the situation of Bonaparte’s army?”
“It has defeated the Mamelukes and is in possession of Cairo.”
There was a murmur of disappointment in the cabin.
“And yet he now has no fleet,” Nelson said, to his officers as much as me. “Which means that while we can’t get at Boney, quite yet, Boney can’t get to India. There will be no linkup to Tippoo Sahib, and no threat to our army there. He’s marooned.”
I nodded. “It would seem so, Admiral.”
“And the morale of his troops?”
I considered. “They grumble, like all soldiers. But they’ve also just conquered Egypt. I suppose they feel like sailors who have conquered Brueys.”
Nelson nodded. “Quite. Land and sea. Sea and land. His numbers?”
I shrugged. “I’m not a soldier. I know his casualties have been light.”
“Humph. And supplies?”
“He resupplies from Egypt herself.”
He slammed his hand down. “Damn! It will be like prying out an oyster!” He looked at me with his one good eye. “Well, what do you want to do now?”
What indeed? It was dumb luck I hadn’t already been killed. Bonaparte was expecting me to solve a mystery that still baffled me, my friend Talma was suspicious of my friend Astiza, an Arab cutthroat no doubt wanted to drop more snakes in my bed, and there was a baffling heap of pyramidal stone built to represent the world, or God, or who knows what. Here was my chance to cut and run.
But I wasn’t done figuring out the medallion, was I? Maybe I could get a fist of treasure, or a share of mysterious power. Or keep it from the lunatics of the Egyptian Rite and the Apophis snake cult. And a woman was waiting, wasn’t she?
“I’m no strategist, admiral, but perhaps this battle changes everything,” I said. “We won’t know how Bonaparte will react until news reaches him. Which I, perhaps, could bear. The French know nothing of my connection to Smith.” Go back? Well, the battle and the dying boy had shaken me to the core
. I had a duty too, and it was to get back to Astiza and the medallion. It was to finish, finally, something I’d started. “I’ll explain the situation to Bonaparte and, if that doesn’t move him, then learn what I can in coming months and report back to you.” A plan had formulated in my mind. “A rendezvous off the coast near the end of October, perhaps. Just after the twenty-first.”
“Smith is scheduled to be in the region then,” Nelson noted.
“And your own self-interest in doing this?” Hardy asked me.
“I have scores of my own to settle in Cairo. Then I’d like passage to a neutral port. After L’Orient, I’ve had enough of war.”
“Three months before you report back?” Nelson objected.
“It may take that long for Bonaparte to react and form the new French plans.”
“By God,” objected Hardy, “this man served on the enemy flagship and now he wants to be put ashore? I don’t trust a word he says, ring or no ring.”
“Not served. Observed. I didn’t fire a shot.”
Nelson thought, fingering my ring. Then he held it out. “Done. We’ve smashed enough ships that you hardly make a difference. Tell Boney exactly what you observed: I want him to know he’s doomed. However, it will take months for us to assemble an army to get the Corsican out of Egypt. In the meantime, I want you to make a count of his strength and gauge the mood. If there is any chance of surrender, I want to hear about it immediately.”
Napoleon is about as likely to give up as you are, Admiral, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “If you can get me ashore…”
“We’ll get an Egyptian to put you on the beach tomorrow to erase any suspicion you’ve been talking to us.”
“Tomorrow? But if you want me to notify Bonaparte…”
“Sleep and eat first. No need to hurry, Gage, because I suspect the preliminary news has gone ahead of you. We chased a corvette that slipped into Alexandria just ahead of the battle, and I’m sure the diplomat on board had a rooftop view of our victory. He’s the kind of man to already be on his way. What was his name, Hardy?”
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