Battlesaurus (10 page)

Bishop, the driver, lets the horses rest and seven men cease pushing. The cannon and the limber carriage with its heavy load of ammunition is stuck fast.

From here, they can see over a copse of trees to the red tile roofs and the fortified wall of the city of Brussels beyond.

A trio of crows caws and circles above them, black predators against a hard blue sky. Jack Sullivan looks up at the birds and crosses himself. Crows are a harbinger of death.

“We're going to need more horses,” Roberts says. “Private Sullivan.”

Jack straightens from where he still has his shoulder to one of the spokes of the wheel. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Back down the hill with you, lad. Find us a couple more horses. And tell the others this ain't going to work. They'll need to take the long way around.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Jack says again.

He is covered to the waist in mud. Fortunately he removed his tunic and helmet before they started. But his boots and his gray uniform trousers will need a good wash in the river before next inspection.

He stumbles on trembling legs down to where the other five cannon of G troop are lined up in neat rows. A thin-faced young lieutenant rides forward and meets him at the base of the hill.

Jack almost salutes, then realizes he shouldn't, as he isn't wearing his helmet.

“Yes, Private?”

“Sir, my sergeant suggests that the rest of the troop take the long way around. The hill, it's like puddin', sir.”

“Yes, I can see,” the lieutenant says. “What do you need?”

“A couple of horses would be good, sir,” Jack says. “Help us pull the carriage out.”

The lieutenant nods and gestures to a sergeant. They have already unhitched two of the horses from one of the ammunition wagons, in anticipation of the request.

Jack leads the animals back up the hill.

Corporal Wacker is staring in the other direction. “Our new lieutenant has arrived,” he says.

“And how would you know that?” Roberts asks.

“New officer down at the captain's tent,” Wacker says. “Uniform looks like he just picked it up from the tailor. He's still riding on his horse like he has a bayonet up his bum and thinks he's on show for the king.”

They all look.

Dysentery had claimed their last lieutenant just a week earlier and the arrival of the new one has been much anticipated.

“Just a little boy,” Wacker says. “Barely weaned from his ma's tit.”

Jack is the youngest in the crew at barely seventeen but even from this distance it is clear that their new lieutenant is much younger.

It is not uncommon to see officers of fourteen or fifteen in the British army, their commissions purchased for them by wealthy fathers. It is also not uncommon to see those same young officers shipped home in coffins.

“Get those horses put to,” Roberts says. “We don't want to be still mincing around on the side of this hill when he gets here.”

Below, the lieutenant dismounts and disappears into the tent.

Wacker helps Jack put the new horses to the traces of the exhausted team.

“Now put your backs into it,” Roberts says. “Sullivan, you lead the horses.”

Bishop, who has had that job up till now, blows Jack a kiss as he goes to lend his own shoulder to the gun carriage.

Jack tugs gently on the reins and the new horses take up the load. Their own team follows the lead, legs straining through the mud.

The carriage moves, but does not pull free.

At the captain's tent, Jack sees the new lieutenant emerge and remount.

“He's heading this way,” Jack says.

“Move this bleedin' carriage!” Roberts barks.

Jack hauls on the reins and the horses strain, their hooves sinking through into the soft ground below.

There is a squelching sound, but the left wheel is firmly embedded in the ground.

“Hie!” Jack yells at the horses.

The lieutenant reaches the base of the hill.

“Come on, lads,” Roberts cries, his voice straining with the effort. “Come on, Sullivan.”

“Hie!” Jack roars at the horses, yanking on the reins. One of the new horses takes fright. It rears, and the other rears with it.

“No! Stop!” Roberts shouts, seeing what is about to happen.

The horse team twists and pulls to the left, hooves cracking the sun-baked crust of earth. The gun carriage twists, and the pressure, plus the weight of the cannon, is too much for the stuck wheel. One of the spokes gives way with a crack like a musket shot, then the others in quick succession. The metal rim twangs away like a watch spring releasing, then the outer wheel snaps off the remaining spokes and the side of the carriage collapses deeply into the mud as the men scatter and fall around it.

“Good morning, Sergeant.” The new lieutenant has arrived. His horse is a mare, a beautiful chestnut with white stockings on its two rear feet. Two rear stockings is a sign of good luck, Jack's father had always said.

“Good morning, sir,” Roberts says, standing up quickly.

The rest of the squad jump up from where they have fallen and stand to attention. Bishop, the only one wearing his helmet, salutes. The lieutenant returns the salute briskly.

“My name is Frost. I'm to be your new lieutenant.”

His voice is high and gentle. He looks about fifteen years old.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Roberts says.

“Bit of a sticky situation,” Frost says.

“'Fraid so, sir,” Roberts says.

“Hardly the way to greet your new lieutenant,” Frost says.

“No, sir. Sorry, sir,” Roberts says.

“Sorry is not good enough, Sergeant,” Frost says. “If this happened in the heat of battle it could turn the tide in the enemy's favor.”

“It's just one cannon, sir,” Roberts says.

“One cannon missing at the crucial moment could be a catastrophe,” Frost says. “This is not acceptable. Someone will have to be shot for this.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You heard me, Sergeant. We are at war. We might overlook something like this during peacetime, but it cannot go unpunished in a war. Someone will have to be shot.”

“But sir, you can't—” Roberts begins, clearly no longer happy to have accepted the responsibility. To his credit though, he did not attempt to shift the blame.

The boy lieutenant cuts him off brusquely. “I am new here, Sergeant, and have to learn the local customs. So tell me, in the Duke of Wellington's army is it sergeants who tell their officers what they can and cannot do?”

“Stupid little twat,” Wacker mutters under his breath beside Jack, not loudly enough to be heard.

“No, sir,” Roberts says.

“So whose fault is it?” Frost asks.

There is silence.

“It is my fault, sir,” Jack says. “I scared the horses. I panicked a little when I saw you coming. I'm very sorry, sir. I'm usually very good with horses.”

“And you are?”

“Sullivan. Jack Sullivan. Private,” Jack says. “I'm not very bright, sir, but I'm a good lad.”

“Is that so, Sullivan?” Frost asks.

“It is, sir. I heard the lieutenant tell Captain Mercer himself. I mean the old lieutenant, not you, sir.”

“I see,” Frost says.

“I really liked Lieutenant Gibson, sir,” Jack says. “But he died.”

“I will do my best not to,” Frost says.

“Shame,” Wacker mutters.

“Sir, I was in charge of the carriage,” Roberts says. “It is my responsibility.”

The lieutenant scratches his chin.

“Why were you going up this hill in the first place?” Frost asks.

“Orders of the captain,” Roberts says. “He wants us ready to move out in a hurry.”

“Well, we can't exactly shoot the captain, now can we?” Frost says.

“No, sir, you can't shoot the captain, sir,” Jack says, when nobody else answers. “On account of he's the captain.”

“So why did Captain Mercer want you ready to move out?” Frost asks.

“Duke of Wellington's orders, I would say, sir,” Roberts says.

“And why should he order such a thing?” Frost asks.

“Apparently we're getting ready to invade France,” Roberts says. “Bony—I mean Napol
é
on, sir, has escaped from Elba. That Frenchie King Louis has scarpered and now Bony's in Paris, raising an army.”

“So you're saying it is Napol
é
on's fault that your wheel broke.”

“In a way, sir,” Roberts says.

“Then he will have to be shot,” Frost says.

There is a brief silence, then Roberts asks, “Napol
é
on, sir?”

“Well, he's clearly the one to blame,” Frost says.

“Yes, sir. I will see to it personally, sir,” Roberts says. “First chance I get.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” Frost says. “Now in the meantime rustle up a new wheel from somewhere. Unload the limber and get my gun carriage back down this blasted hill. We'll take the long way around.” He turns to Jack. “And, Private Sullivan.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, drawing himself up to full attention.

“Please don't go scaring my horses,” Frost says.

“No, sir. Won't happen again, sir,” Jack says.

Frost wheels his mount around and heads back down the hill.

“He might just turn out to be all right,” Wacker says.

 

APRIL FOURTH

The dark pool of blood is not quite congealed on the ground. When Willem kneels and touches it, it is dense and tacky, not quite a fluid, not yet solid.

It has pooled in a hard, rocky depression on the path along the riverbank that leads to Waterloo, only a few minutes' walk from the village.

Monsieur Delvaux, the schoolmaster, woke the village at first light, covered in blood, yelling and screaming about a saur attack. His elder daughter, Ang
é
lique, had not returned from an evening in Waterloo, and when he went to look for her, he stumbled upon (in fact into) the pool of blood.

The weeks after the f
ê
te have been happy ones. Fran
ç
ois's recovery seems complete, with only occasional lapses. Crops thrive. Days have warmed in the village even further, and so has Cosette.

It is Cosette, not Ang
é
lique, who emerges each morning to collect the bread from Willem, and as her sister has so often done, her hand touches his as she accepts the loaf. But where Ang
é
lique did it as a tease, there seems something more behind Cosette's touch, a connection between the two of them expressed only in the quick, light caress of fingertip on palm.

After mass she will often linger with him and they will discuss the sermon and the events of the week. On occasion the milling crowd outside the church will force them to stand more close together than is generally considered acceptable for a man and a young lady; however, neither of them minds.

He finds himself thinking at night of the lines of her jaw, and the fall of her hair. Even the slow drift of her lazy eye seems something interesting, exotic.

As expected, Jean and Fran
ç
ois rib him mercilessly.

“Be careful, young Willem, or she will have you hooked,” Jean says.

“And would that be a terrible thing?” Willem asks.

“You are young. There are mountains to climb, rivers to swim, women to woo. It is too soon for you to be ensnared.”

“A cook must taste many broths to know which is best,” Fran
ç
ois says.

Although Willem feels far from ensnared, there are moments, late at night, when he finds himself hoping she will not follow the path of her older sister to Waterloo. Whether that means something, he does not know.

But today that path has led to disaster.

*   *   *

“It was no saur,” Monsieur Claude says. “There are no claw prints.”

If there were any prints they would be well and truly trampled by the feet of the men who gather around. But Monsieur Claude is right. The ground is soft from recent rain, yet when they arrived, apart from the imprint of Monsieur Delvaux's bare feet, there were no marks. On the right of the path is dense forest, and the dirt at the base of the trees is dark and soft. On the left is the river, where the earthen bank is also unmarked.

Willem glances at Jean and they both look at Fran
ç
ois.

If it was a saur then it was a vicious one. A raptor. Maybe even a firebird. Willem knows they are all thinking the same thing: Is it the firebird from the waterfall? Has it somehow, after all these weeks, tracked them back to the village? Are they to blame for the disappearance of Ang
é
lique, and the appearance of this tacky, red-brown puddle?

“Do we even know that it was Ang
é
lique who was attacked?” Monsieur Lejeune asks. “Might not she have remained in Waterloo overnight, perhaps staying with the friends she is visiting?”

Willem notes that he is careful not to suggest anything unseemly about Ang
é
lique's nocturnal visit to the nearby town. Monsieur Delvaux's face lifts at that thought, but only slightly.

A girl is missing, who would have taken this path. There is blood on the path. It is a fool's hope that the two are not connected.

“Whoever was attacked was attacked by a saur.” The voice comes from blind old Monsieur Antonescu. Monsieur Chambaux, the tailor, has his arm and guides him along the path with the others.

“How can you know this?” Monsieur Claude asks.

“I can smell it,” Monsieur Antonescu says.

Willem, along with most of the other men from the village, sniffs the air, but can detect nothing. He has brought Pieter, curled up in the leather satchel, and the little microsaurus is moving and scratching around inside.

There is nothing nearby, or he would be showing signs of distress. Willem opens the top of the satchel and lets Pieter run up his arm onto his shoulder. Pieter is not alarmed, although he is nervous and skittish, his head darting in all directions. These are signals that Willem knows well.