Victory of Eagles (41 page)

“We ought to hunt down the rest of them,” one young midshipman said, “every last one,” and there was

no disagreement. Laurence felt only weary.

“Berkley,” he said, “have your men clear the village, and let the dragons bury the dead. Sutton, Little,

take the other Reapers, and bring over what you can from the house: they will need more supply, here.

Or we can take you to Craster,” he offered, to the matron who had got the survivors into some order.

“They won’t have better houses for us there,” she said. “Whatever you can bring us, we’ll thank you for,

Captain, and we will manage; they didn’t find all there was to find.” She did not say, aloud, that they had

now fewer mouths to feed.

The Yellow Reapers were a while in returning, and came back with an air of grim satisfaction,

bloodstained, carrying also some dead cattle and deer.

“I will venture a little farther,” Laurence said. “We will not encamp yet, but we will raid farther south, as

far as we can fly in and out again in a day.”

“Just as well,” Little said, low. “Let them look over their shoulders, everywhere in England,” to a murmur

of agreement. The French had thus reconciled them all to their mission; few of the captains anymore

looked askance at their attacks, or urged quarter. Laurence heard it without satisfaction.

“I am sure I can fly a little quicker, if I try,” Maximus put in; they held their conferences out in the air, so

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the dragons might listen in.

Some four days later, summoned by another column of smoke, they found and destroyed another raiding

party at Wollaton. Flying back from the battlefield, with the corpses left behind dark and crimson on the

snow, Laurence saw one after another the blackened husks of houses he knew, familiar. Great houses

were burning everywhere, ideal targets: their cellars full of wine and brandy, their pantries laden for

winter. The Galman estate yet stood, but deserted, with a ragpicker’s wares strewn all over the

courtyard: curtains and carpets, torn and trodden into mud, and more hanging out of the shattered

windows. The stables were burnt to the ground, and the old lily-pond, where he had used to walk with

Edith, choked upon the bloated corpse of a horse, torn at the haunches where dogs had got to it.

He knew he must expect to find Wollaton Hall itself burnt, and only hope his family had managed to flee

in time. He was steeled for it, he thought; at least he could contemplate the possibility without a feeling of

anything more than a calm and distant regret. Then they came over the lake, and Wollaton Hall stood

upon the crest of its hill, untouched, with light in the windows and neat thin trails of smoke only from the

chimneys; gilt and golden, and deer bounding away urgently.

They landed in the park; the dragons went to hunt. Laurence climbed a ridge and stood looking at the

house with a sense almost of unreality: twilight was deepening as he watched, and in the muted light the

edges of the house blurred. “Well, it is good luck,” Harcourt said to him, uncertainly.

“You will pardon me,” he said. “I will not be long,” and he walked across the lawn towards the house.

The hedge-rows were trimmed, and the walks had been swept of snow; there was a murmur of noise

and life, louder as he came to the house, until standing in the formal gardens he might look in through the

glass at the candle-lit ballroom, full of people, standing and sitting and lying, on pallets and on camp-beds:

cottagers he recognized, others from the village.

“Here now, what are you about? You may come to the front, if you’re wanting something,” someone

said to Laurence, making him start: a young gardener, scowling and holding a rake as though he would

do something with it.

“I am William Laurence,” he said. “Is Lady Allendale here?”

She came out to him, wrapped in a cloak against the chill: wool only, and not her furs. “Will, my dear,”

she said, “are you well? Have you come alone—”

“We are encamped in the park, to hunt only,” Laurence said. “We leave again as soon as the dragons

are fed: are you well? And my father?”

“As well as anyone could expect, with all this upheaval,” she said. “He knows a little of what has

happened: he knows you are with the Corps again,” she added, anxiously.

He said nothing; there was nothing to be proud of, in the service he was giving. “I am glad to find you

unmolested,” he said after a moment; strangely reluctant. “We came over the village—I hope Lord and

Lady Galman are well.”

Lady Allendale, too, hesitated. “Yes, they stay with us.”

He paused again, and reaching into his coat brought out the ring, in the small envelope of paper he had

folded around it. “I wish that I had not—I am sorry to bear ill-tidings,” he said. “Mr. Woolvey was killed,

in London—I have kept it to send to Edith, when that might be possible. If her parents might—”

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“Yes, we had word,” she said, low and unhappy, and took it from him; she curled her hand around the

envelope, and her face looked drawn.

“He died well,” Laurence said, “if that can be said; he died bravely, at least, in service to the Crown.”

She nodded, and they stood silently; a little snow yet was falling, white flecks upon her dark cloak. “Tell

me,” he said, finally.

“An officer came, and gave us the Emperor’s compliments, and assurances that we would never be

harmed,” she said. “None of the raiding parties have come here; even lately, when they are pillaging

everywhere—”

“Yes,” Laurence said, stopping her. “I understand,” and understood also his own dread; of course.

Bonaparte had managed to pay him for his treason, after all.

“We can shelter a great many more,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Our stores, also, are untouched,

if there are any you would like to send to us.”

“If you can send a cart to Wollaton,” he said, “they were struck this morning, and have wounded.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Can you not stay the night?”

With an effort, he kept himself from recoiling, and only touched his hat. “I must beg your pardon; we

have some hours yet to fly tonight,” he said, and bowed, and turned; the lights of the house glittered on

the snow as he walked away.

TEMERAIRE HAD GOT THREE DEER,despite their springiness, and felt rather pleased with the

world until Laurence came back from the house, pale, and refused his share of dinner. “I am very happy

the house is not burnt up,” Temeraire said to him anxiously, as they made ready to get under way,

wondering if something else perhaps had happened, if there were some damage which he could not see.

Laurence paused, and looked over his shoulder. Temeraire looked, too, and thought the house looked

very like a jewel itself; the pale yellow stone glowed with light, warm and inviting, coming out of so many

windows in so interesting a variety of shapes; all the dozens of intricate towers and ornaments in perfect

order.

“I will never come here again,” Laurence said, and pulled himself up the harness. “Let us be away.”

It was all of a piece; Laurence was not himself at all, and Temeraire was increasingly certain they would

never make matters right this way. They had taken no prizes whatsoever all their long weeks of raiding:

the French soldiers had nothing but the food they had stolen, not even a cannon or a flag to be proud of,

and if ever any more suitable battle offered, Laurence would insist on their flying away at once, to hide.

What battles they did have were over very quickly. Perscitia had devised a method of tearing up tall

yew-trees, with bushy tops and smooth long trunks, and dragging their crowns along the ground during a

diving rush. It was most convenient: the soldiers could simply be swept away by the dozens, and the

branches sheltered one from the musket-fire; so there was no risk at all. The chief difficulty was to keep

the men from scattering, and it felt rather unpleasant and odd to be chasing anyone so very small who

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would just as soon have run away; even if, as Messoria explained, they would only regroup and go

stealing again. It was not the sort of fighting Temeraire had looked for, even though everyone else

seemed to approve.

“Where is the rest of the army, I should damn well like to know! But at least you fellows are showing the

Frogs what-for,” one stout elderly gentleman said, thumping his stick on the floor for emphasis. They had

stopped a raiding party outside a village in Derbyshire, and the children were brought out to see them all.

A few of the older boys, very bold, came running up to touch them; one put his hand on Temeraire’s

foreleg, and then stared up large-eyed when Temeraire peered down at him in interest and said, “Hello.”

The child ran away very quickly. “Chinese children are braver,” Temeraire said to Laurence, “but I am

glad that these are getting a little better, and coming to see us. I suppose it is because we are being

heroic?” he added, interrogatively; he was hopeful that if this was not very interesting fighting, at least it

was the sort which Government would like.

“Their parents had done better to keep them locked away,” Laurence said, without much emotion. “Will

you look over the maps with me?”

So it certainly made Laurence no happier, although Temeraire did not perfectly understand why

Laurence should insist on their fighting so, if he did not approve it himself. Since they had seen Wollaton

Hall, however, he seemed all the more fixed upon his course.

“I fear it is the unhealthy climate and the diet of this country,” Gong Su said. “No-one could be well,

eating in such an unbalanced way.”

“But we do not have much choice what we eat, while we are at war, and I cannot do anything about the

climate,” Temeraire said.

“Too bad,” Demane said, rather indistinctly; he was not enjoying his first British winter, and snuffling

almost continuously into his sleeve. Sipho was not suffering, or rather not in the same manner: he was

regularly bundled into every spare piece of clothing which Demane could find, and now wearing three

shirts, a knitted waist, two coats, a boat-cloak, a hood, and a hat crammed down upon it all, could

scarcely move from where he had been put down near the fire.

Roland was sitting with her arms curled about her knees. “It is not right,” she said. “I don’t mean, we

oughtn’t to be stopping them, but we ought to be letting them surrender when they see us, and taking

them prisoner; although, I don’t know what we should do with them. I wish Mother were here,” she

added, desolately.

Many of the other captains were also dissatisfied; the very next day Temeraire overheard Granby

speaking with Laurence, in low voices, and then Laurence said, “Captain Granby, I hope you know that

you may transfer to another station, at any time you wish: I would not keep anyone at this task against his

will.”

“Why, damn you, Laurence,” Granby said, and walked away.

“Of course Granby is not happy,” Iskierka said, yawning, when Temeraire went so far as to ask her. “I

am not happy either, this is all very boring, and we have no treasure. But it is still better than just carrying

soldiers about, or patrolling. At least we are doing something. And it is orders, anyway, which you ought

not question,” she added; Temeraire put back his ruff.

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FARMERS NOW SLAUGHTEREDtheir own cattle, if they heard the French approaching, and

poisoned their grain; villagers in makeshift armed bands ambushed soldiers while they slept; and one

foraging mission after another returned to their encampments empty-handed, when they returned at all.

An unwise outpost commander, sorely pressed, at last made the mistake for which Laurence had been

waiting, and sent out his dragons to hunt for themselves; the farms immediately around their encampment

had already been depleted, and the beasts separated to look farther afield.

“There are nine, two of those big grey ones, and the rest are all smaller, with three only a little bigger

than I am,” one of their small spies informed them. “The big ones went alone, south, and the others went

towards a town north-northeast, with a red steeple, and parted there.”

Laurence nodded, and Gong Su led the feral to his reward, a portion of mutton stewed with rabbit,

which the little dragon tore into ravenously: the supply of meat was growing increasingly thin throughout

the countryside.

“I am sure we can beat seven dragons,” Temeraire said, his ruff already excited, and his tail switching.

“We are not going to fight seven,” Laurence said. “We are going after the Chevaliers.” He laid out his

map quickly and showed them all: a large estate lay some three miles south of the outpost, with a dairy.

They kept high, over the cloud cover, and emerged only just above the estate: the Petit Chevaliers were

yet on the ground, eating. It had likely been a few days since their last meal, and they were trying urgently

to make up for it. Two carcasses already each lay stripped down to bones, and they had moved to

thirds; their crew had dismounted and were with similar energy ransacking the dairy-house.

“Those are milch cows,” Demane said indignantly, peering down at the dragons and their repast; his own

people were great herdsmen, and valued their proper husbandry high.

“Signal the attack,” Laurence said, and Temeraire roaring plummeted with the rest; the Chevaliers

panicked and flung themselves aloft, instinctively. One leapt only to meet Maximus’s full weight upon her