Victory of Eagles (44 page)

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companies on the march, all arranged a little differently, like patches of cloth in odd sizes, some long as

ribbons and only five men across, others great massed bodies upon the field.

All rippled smoothly over the ground, columns of white and black and blue and red, on either side,

gliding up over the hills, down again into the valleys to be swallowed up in the fog. Even then, he could

still hear the strange noise they made marching: less a thumping, which he might have expected, than a

regular hissing, as their clothing or their boots brushed against one another with each stride. The wet

ground muffled their steps. The trumpets sounded, a joyful encouraging noise no matter who had blown

them; and the cannon spoke in orange flame to announce the battle had been joined, somewhere.

The French dragons were somewhere farther back, Temeraire supposed, peering uselessly; trees lashed

with fog-banks barred his view of the French rear. “There,” Laurence called, and Temeraire followed the

line of his arm to see their own center established.

Temeraire was pleased that, to his eye, their own force was much the handsomer. A great many of the

Frenchmen he could spy wore long drab coats, with scarcely a touch of color, and otherwise were

largely in white breeches and white shirts—none too clean, Temeraire noted—with very ordinary dark

blue coats. He much preferred the vivid red coats which dominated their own army. They had also

several companies of soldiers in the center in colorful and patterned skirts, instead of plain breeches; and

of course their flag was by far the more interesting.

“And if they
do
have eagles,” Temeraire said to Laurence, “all the better for us to take them away.

Laurence, do you not like those skirts they are wearing, over there?”

“Those are the Scots Greys cavalry,” Laurence said, looking through his glass, “and those are the

Coldstream Guard, beside them. If anyone can hold the center, they will; but good God: Bonaparte will

pound them without mercy.”

“We will keep the dragons off,” Temeraire said. “I am only a little worried, that at the end we are meant

to encircle Bonaparte, and not his aerial support—what if Lien should escape?” Privately, Temeraire felt

it was rather peculiar to take so many pains to capture Napoleon and not so Lien, who was a good deal

larger, and possessed also the divine wind.

“Let us hope to have such success as will make that a matter for concern,” Laurence said. “But if

Bonaparte is taken, she will surrender, I expect; although she may realize he cannot be held hostage for

her behavior in the usual manner.”

“Here they come,” Majestatis called, wheeling around. Through the sheen of rain, Temeraire could see

the dark shadows of the French dragons coming. Below them the front lines of the British infantry began

to form into their large bristling squares to receive the charge. Soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing

outwards, about an open center. The front rank knelt with bayonets outward, the second aiming over

their heads in parallel, and the third pointing upwards. Long pole-arms were thrust deeply into the ground

just behind them, steadied by their bearers: the gleaming broad fan-shaped blades straight up, and the

narrower pikes angled backwards, to catch any dragon attempting to strike at the line of the square from

behind.

The French dragons were coming with bombs and nets, however, to try and overcome such measures;

they had also stolen Perscitia’s trick of uprooting trees, which they plainly meant to use broom-like to

sweep gaps into the squares at a distance.

“Now, Temeraire,” Laurence called urgently, and Temeraire dashed ahead to meet the French

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skirmishers, roaring with delight. There, there was a Roi-de-Vitesse coming out of the fog. He was

armed with a tall if slender birch-tree, white and bare-branched, clutched a little awkwardly in his talons.

He dived to avoid Temeraire’s charge, making determinedly for the front lines of the first square; his crew

fired a spray of rifle-fire up at Temeraire’s belly as they passed. A quick hot sting of pain—he had been

hit, but Temeraire sniffed when Laurence asked; it was nothing, nothing at all.

He threw himself over with an elegant, corkscrewing twist, and plunged low in pursuit of the smaller

French dragon. Dimly he was aware of the bayonets looming ahead, gleaming and silver as the fog

swirled away from them, and Laurence saying something to Demane about the bombs, but the French

dragon filled all his view. Oh, it was very quick—but Temeraire stretched his wings, cupped all the air he

could, and flung himself after. He would not let it at the square; he would not be outrun—and with a

lunge, he had got near enough to put his claws into the other dragon’s tail.

The Roi-de-Vitesse squalled, and tried to jerk away. Temeraire set his talons and beat backwards

furiously, while over his shoulder, a couple of small bombs were lobbed at the French dragon’s crew as

they tried to bring their rifle-fire to bear again.
“Tenez bon,”
the dragon cried to his crew, at once

squirming to throw off the bombs and flailing away with his tree, as best he could manage with

Temeraire’s grip upon him.

Temeraire only just stifled an undignified yelp as the tree-top fetched him a sharp slap across the neck

and belly: the branches were springy, and stung painfully. But he kept his head, despite the very

unpleasant sensation, and managed to seize hold of the tree in his jaws and wrest it away. Disarmed, the

French beast gave over his attempt at last and flew away hurriedly for the safety of his own covert, his

bleeding tail dripping behind him.

“Ha,” Temeraire called after the vanquished, curling his talons about the trunk, and he lashed the air with

the tree experimentally a few times. “Laurence, perhaps we might go at their ranks, with this?” he

proposed, over his shoulder: he could see a company of French soldiers advancing slowly from the mist,

and he was quite sure the tree would answer nicely in reverse.

“We must stay near the squares,” Laurence answered, “and not advance. Pray call those Reapers back,

on your left: they have already let themselves be lured too far.”

Temeraire sighed a little, but he threw the birch-tree into the sea, and turned to corral Chalcedony and

the others. They were all darting at a Grand Chevalier, lunging in at her head and nipping at her flanks,

but the big dragon, rather than turning on them in earnest or fleeing properly, was slyly retreating little by

little, luring them back towards the French lines so the smaller dragons could slip past and make their

attempts against the squares.

“You are meant to be an officer, it is your duty to keep everyone else from flying off,” Temeraire said

sternly, when he had rounded them and they were all flying back towards the squares.

“Well, Cantarella has the epaulette,” Chalcedony said, a rather craven defense.

“Oh!” Cantarella said, and nipped at the edge of his wing; he yelped and twisted away. “Very well, then

I am in command now, you have all heard him say so,” she declared, and hitched her epaulette

forward—it was a bit sodden with rain, but still notable against her pale yellow and white. “You may be

sure
I
will not let us go afield again.”

They did not have to go afield, anyway, to have all the fighting they might want: the French were coming

steadily after them, and Temeraire wheeled to meet them with a will.

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BY MID-DAY,they were driven farther aloft: the French had established an artillery emplacement at the

center, despite all the British artillery could do against them, with a shield of pepper guns and several of

the cannon elevated to strike at any dragon dipping low.

The air was colder and cleaner as they rose out of range, and more clouds streamed past to divorce

them from the noise and fury of the battlefield below. Their own struggle was quieter, the whistling air and

the muffling clouds stealing all but fragments of roaring, and the occasional pop-pop of rifle-fire. The

French had abandoned their trees and netting, proven to encumber them too greatly against a determined

aerial defense. Laurence felt rather discouraged than pleased, however, by the speed with which the

experiment had been adopted, tried, and cast off.

He could feel Temeraire’s energy flagging: they had been fighting now six hours, and there was little

chance to pause and rest. Many of the soldiers below were lying upon the ground, out of the way of

cannon-fire; Wellesley had ordered they might do so, when not themselves engaged. There was nowhere

similar for the dragons to land, except the coverts where they had slept, a mile away. Behind the British

lines there was only the roar of the sea, invisible beneath the blanketing fog, and on either flank the

cavalry horses stood nervously shifting, pawing at the dirt.

The French had abandoned cavalry entirely. It ought to have given away an advantage; dragons could

not be risked on charges in the face of artillery, as the cold calculation of warfare would allow an

individual horse to be, and the British horses were all hooded now, blinders cupping their eyes, so they

could only see straight ahead, with sachets of fragrance over their nostrils so they could not smell the

dragons. A little past noon, Laurence heard the drumming of the first charge below.

The heavy cavalry were splendid in their rush, all of them shouting furiously and waving scimitars, the

standard flying out behind them. They were sent at a battalion of the French infantry, a maneuver to gain

some breathing room—nearly every French company now was pressing steady fire against the

Coldstream Guards, which Napoleon had surely identified as the linchpins of the British center. The

French battalion did not break; instead they formed square themselves—but a peculiar square,

double-size, with a great empty gap in the center.

The cavalry committed to their charge: they were flying across the gap, in the face of the steady

musketry—horses falling with terrible human shrieks, men flung off and crushed beneath the hooves of

their own mounts. “Laurence, where is that Pou-de-Ciel going?” Temeraire said urgently, pointing—one

of the small drab French dragons had broken away from the skirmishing and was diving quickly towards

its own lines.

The Pou-de-Ciel landed, directly within the French square—and doing so, brought to vivid life the

relative nature of size. The Pou-de-Ciel were a light-weight breed just barely combat-weight, and this

one perhaps six or seven tons only. It yet loomed hugely over the ranks of soldiers, great taloned claws

flexing behind the silver rows of bayonets, roaring with its red mouth full of teeth.

Even hooded and with their noses full of perfume, the horses would not run directly at a dragon: the

cavalry-charge wavered, and broke. The horses’ necks were bowed deeply, or pulling frantically away

to either side, as they fell to a stumbling gait fighting the reins. One, out in front and recoiling too late, slid

off its hind legs as it came too close. The Pou-de-Ciel leaned over and snatched the horse bodily off the

ground with one clawed forehand, shook the rider unceremoniously off onto the ground, and with much

enthusiasm opened its jaws wide and took off the flailing horse’s head with one bite; the French dragons

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had likely been on short commons a while now.

The effect upon the remaining cavalry of the pitiful sight was pronounced; the horses were given their

way, wheeling away back to the British lines, never having come within ten yards of the infantry square at

all. The Pou-de-Ciel leapt away again as soon as the cavalry had fled, before British artillery could be

brought to bear against it, having had a little rest and a little supper besides.

Farther to the rear of the French army, Laurence saw, more of their dragons were dropping down for a

similar rest, out of artillery-range and amidst the infantry companies, who did not flinch.

“Well, I do not need a rest,” Temeraire said bravely, “and if I did, there are Ballista and Requiescat

coming now, with the fresh shift. I suppose I would not mind setting down for just a minute, perhaps,” he

added, “and a little something to eat.”

“I think we cannot,” Laurence said, grimly. “He is sending in his reserves.” The fog was thinning now a

little, blowing away from the land, and far to the rear of the French lines, dragons were leaping into the

air, one after another. And now the advantage would tell: none of the French dragons, with their short

and frequent rests, were withdrawing. There would be no rest for Temeraire, or any of the British

dragons who had been aloft and fighting since first light.

Temeraire pulled up very short, abruptly, so Laurence was flung against his leather straps. A determined

crowd of six little Garde-de-Lyons pouring fresh into the field had charged him in a body, and now began

shrieking in exaggerated voices and belaboring his head and neck wildly, batting with wings and claws.

Temeraire backwinged with two mighty strokes and roared to scatter them, the tremor of the divine

wind knocking them back, but in those few moments, the enormous Grand Chevalier they had seen

earlier came crashing past, and threw herself down at the square of the Coldstream Guards.

The pikes and bayonets were stiffened, but she did not come down upon them directly. Instead she