Victory of Eagles (23 page)

them at once; with their kit.” He dragged over a barrel and climbed up to lay his hand on the old wound;

it felt a little hot and swollen, he thought, but perhaps it might only be the heat of battle, radiating from all

Temeraire’s muscles as he lay.

“Infection,” Dorset pronounced with certainty, as soon as he had peered at it through his spectacles, and

touched it with his fingertips. “My lancet, if you please, and have the tongs ready,” he said to Sipho, and

then he slashed deep through the pucker, past the layer of scales and fat. A gushing flow of white and

yellow pus came running free with a dreadful sour stench that made Laurence turn his head away. Dorset

did not pause even an instant, but seized the tongs and drove them in deep, and pulling away brought out

the musket-ball, black and shining with fluid, even as Temeraire roared awake with a bellow that shook

the trees and knocked Dorset and Sipho and Laurence all flat as he flinched.

“It is over already,” Dorset said in answer to his shocked protesting, “and now you know why we take

them out at once. It would have been more unpleasant if you were awake.”

“I do not see much how,” Temeraire said, rather bitterly, “and at least I should have been warned.”

“And should have jerked twenty feet away, before I could have the ball out,” Dorset returned

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unrepentant. “Enough complaining; now I must have the others.”

“But I must go back to fighting,” Temeraire said hurriedly, trying to escape; to no avail, and he put his

head down, ruff flattened back, and muttered unhappily as Dorset went prying after the other balls, which

at least were less deep.

“It will be done soon,” Laurence said, stroking his head, and Demane came out of the woods carrying a

small deer, slung over his shoulders, which Temeraire picked and nibbled on for consolation.

Excidium came down beside them with a rustling like heavy silk, his great wings folding shut, and his

crew swarmed down in a rush to treat his wounds: only a few scattered claw-marks, and one

musket-ball, whose removal he bore with perfect stoicism. Temeraire’s complaints—Dorset was now

searing shut all the cleaned wounds—promptly fell silent.

“Here you are, then,” Jane said, coming over and spying Emily, who looked a little hang-dog as she was

caught: red-handed literally, for she was standing and holding the blood-wet instruments for Dorset as he

worked. “And has Sanderson given you leave from your post?”

“Anyhow Artemisia can only fly an hour at a time,” Emily said, but there was rather a mulish gleam in her

eye; Laurence did not imagine she had liked her mother’s former demotion, nor serving with the usurper.

“Admiral,” Temeraire said, “have you any more orders for us? I am sure we could be of great use in

fighting them aloft with you; and it is not much fun just poking the infantry,” he added, his brief studied

formality failing him.

“You all do very well where you are,” Jane said. “It is no time to be going off half-cocked, old fellow. I

will go so far as to say I think we are nicely placed. He is making us work for every inch, but we are

getting them, and soon we will have them up against the trees. Closer run than I would like, but

Dalrymple was right after all, and I was wrong; it was a good chance to take.”

“I was sure it would go well,” Temeraire said, “but I would like at least
one
more eagle, before we make

him run away again.”

“
If
we take him,” Jane said, and reached to scratch Temeraire’s harness, against such tempting of fate,

“I hope we will get more than his eagles; we will get him. Yes, he is here, himself,” she added, when

Laurence could not help himself but ask. “He is beyond the curve with his Old Guard, and his pet

Celestial; a splendid creature, what I have been able to see of her.”

“I knew she should be hiding from the battle,” Temeraire said, darkly.

“Keeping them in reserve and her, too,” Jane said, “but that will not be enough. We have our own

reserve: Iskierka will be waking up any moment now, and the others who were out to-night.”

“She fought last night?” Laurence said.

“Yes,” Jane said. “One can’t get her off the field once she is on it, not until the enemy has quitted; so I

had Granby rouse her up when it began to get a little light, and chase off the last of the Fleurs. Then she

was tired enough to sleep a while. She will wake up full of vim, and just what we need. Bonaparte has let

Prussia go to his head, I suppose, and thought he could beat us with less than all his strength.”

“I have just been thinking,” Temeraire said, after a moment, “where do you suppose his Grand

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Chevaliers are?—and Marshal Davout; I have not seen his standards anywhere, on the field.”

“Returned to France, I imagine, or still on the coast ferrying,” Laurence said. “And Davout—”

“Portugal, last report,” Jane said.

“Well,” Temeraire said, “there were two of them west of here; we stole their pigs, but they had plenty of

food besides that. And Davout is not in Portugal at all, we saw him north of London, two days ago.”

“What?” Jane said, and did not wait for an answer; she was running to Excidium at once, shouting

orders, and leaping for the harness and her speaking-trumpet; Excidium going up even while her ensigns

latched her on. “Alarm!” Laurence heard her shouting, “sound alarm, enemy to the north,” and flags were

going out on every dragon as their crews caught the signal from Excidium’s back.

Temeraire sat up. “Whatever is she so worried for?” he said, looking at Laurence rather indignantly, but

Laurence had a dreadful, sinking sensation. “Aloft,” he said, “come; we must go aloft as far as you

can—” and when Temeraire had climbed high enough to make trees and hills and farmhouses all blur into

the wide gentle curve of the earth, he paused, hovering, and in subdued voice said, “Yes; I see them.”

Davout was coming, directly for their rear, with thirty dragons and twenty thousand men.

Chapter 9

I
N ANOTHER HOUR,there would have been nothing to do but stand and be pounded to pieces from

either side; the little early warning was enough to try and disengage, at least, and Dalrymple at once

issued the order for the retreat. Wellesley fought a brilliant rear-guard action, bloody and terrible,

stretching his men to hold the full breadth of Napoleon’s line while the rest of them withdrew behind that

shield.

But still the retreat became rout by the end: ten thousand men left floundering in the marsh to be taken

prisoner, and the rest straggling ignominiously away north through the countryside, without more than

their muskets and their boots, and sometimes lacking those. The dragons were carrying the guns,

dispiritedly, and occasionally Temeraire would look back over his shoulder at the battlefield they had fled

and the dragons in the distance, chasing, with a quivering ruff. He did not propose to turn, but looked

away again and put his head down, dogged, and kept flying.

Bonaparte’s harrying pursuit fell off at last, near evening: the French dragons, having labored all day in

battle or in carrying Davout’s men near, had reached their limits, and one by one began to sink further

behind into the gloaming; until they must have been called off and could be seen turning away.

Laurence put his hand on Temeraire’s neck. “We have slipped the trap,” he said quietly. “You have

bought us that, at least.”

“I still think we ought to go back,” Iskierka said, grumbling, flying beside them; she had been very angry

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to awaken only to be told she would not have any fighting after all, and Temeraire only had managed to

half-persuade, half-bully her into flying along with the rest. “I am hungry, and I do not like carrying this

cannon; it makes my shoulders ache.”

“We are all hungry,” Temeraire said, in a temper, “so pray stop complaining; you are very tiresome.”

“I am not!” she said, “only because
you
do not want to fight, and would rather run away—”

“That is enough,” Excidium said to her sternly, descending. “We will go back when we are ready to, and

have more men and guns, and can be sure to win. That is strategy,” he added, “and you are old enough

to understand it.”

Iskierka subsided, still muttering, as the older dragon flew on ahead.

Somewhere far behind, the remnants of the infantry and cavalry marched on, towards reinforcements

and resupply at the well-defended central depot in Weedon Bec. The dragons however flew straight on

through the night and the next day, putting an impractical distance between them and pursuit, and ensuring

the safety of the artillery. There was not much for them to eat: the farmers hid their cattle, and they could

not easily stop to hunt during the day. “The Quality must put up with having their game eaten,” Jane said,

and divided them up into small companies, each to make camp on an estate large enough to have a deer

park.

They would be in Nottinghamshire before nightfall, and Wollaton Hall had a herd of four hundred or

more. “I can send you elsewhere,” Jane said, but Laurence shook his head. He little wished to be at

home in the present circumstances: a condemned traitor, with the worst sort of news, bringing twenty

hungry dragons to tear up the estate. But it could not be helped; worse if he took himself to some other

house nearby, without paying his formal respects, and let some other group of dragons use the grounds;

that would be cowardice, and shirking. If Lord Allendale chose to forbid him the house when he came,

that was his father’s privilege; his own duty was to endure the rebuke he had earned.

They landed at last a few hours later, the dragons setting down their burdens with deep and grateful

sighs; it was no joke even for a heavy-weight to carry two sixteen-pounders, over a distance of thirty

miles, and Maximus and Requiescat had been loaded down with four apiece. Temeraire sighed and

stretched himself out upon the cool ground like a long black snake.

Laurence slid down from Temeraire’s back, weary and sore himself with the long hours sitting

dragon-back. “Will you speak to them up at the house?” Jane asked him, “or will I send Frette?”

“No; I will go,” Laurence said, and touching his hat turned away.

“Pray give my best regards to your mother,” Temeraire said, rousing a little, when Laurence rubbed his

muzzle in farewell.

He walked slowly and with reluctance to the house, the windows mostly dark, and only a few link lights

burning, near the door. There were a couple of footmen outside gripping muskets, nervously. “It is all

right, Jones,” Laurence said, when he came close enough to recognize their faces. “It is only me; is Lord

Allendale at home?”

“Oh—yes, sir, but,” Jones said, looking at him wide-eyed, and then the door opened. For a moment

Laurence thought it was his father; but it was his eldest brother George, in slippers and dressing-gown

over his nightshirt, and a valet getting a coat on over his shoulders.

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“For Heaven’s sake, Will,” George said, coming down the stairs: he was Laurence’s senior by six years,

and nearly as much time had gone by since Laurence had last seen him; he had grown stouter, but the

tone of exasperation was unchanged. “That will be all,” he added abruptly to the footmen, “you may go

back inside.” He said nothing more, until the door had shut behind them, and then turning back to

Laurence hissed, “What in God’s name are you doing here? And coming to the front door—you might

have a little discretion, at least. Have you—are you—hungry, do you need—”

He floundered, and Laurence flushed in sudden understanding, and bit out, “I have not fled gaol and

come to the door to beg; I am paroled, to fight the invasion.”

“Paroled?” George said. “Paroled, for the invasion, and here you are in the middle of Nottinghamshire!

Whoever is likely to believe such a story, I ask you.”

“Good God, I am not lying to you,” Laurence said impatiently. “I am not going to explain this twice over;

will my father see me?”

“No; I shan’t so much as tell him you are here,” George said. “He is sick, Will: three stone down since

August, and the doctors have said he must keep quiet, do you understand, perfectly quiet, if we want him

to see another year. He cannot even oversee the estate manager anymore; why do you think I am here?

and no wonder, with the worry he has had. If you need money, or someplace to sleep—”

“I am not here for myself,” Laurence broke in on him at last, feeling stiff and strange; the idea of his