Battlesaurus (28 page)

“And you?”

“I would have an empire,” Thibault says.

“And I would have you,” she says.

“And all the fineries of the world would be yours,” he says. “But that time is not yet. For now I must continue to play my part, and run this fool's errand. There is a boy in a village not far from here. Napol
é
on wants him captured.”

“And you?”

“I would see him killed,” he says.

“Will it take long?” she asks.

“It is but a trifle,” he says. “He will be dead by noon.”

 

HÔPITAL DE CAMPAGNE

The French doctors arrive at Gaillemarde first thing in the morning in a well-organized convoy of ambulance and supply wagons. They impress Willem with their efficiency.

A detachment of French soldiers had arrived earlier to secure the village, but found only the wounded, the dying, and the dead.

Under the supervision of the head surgeon, a small team of surgeons and physicians begin to examine the patients, preparatory to evacuating them to French field hospitals.

For two days British and Dutch wounded had arrived on the backs of carts, or on makeshift stretchers, dragged in by their comrades. By contrast the French have dedicated ambulance wagons, with bandages and blankets, manned by corpsmen and litter-bearers.

A number of women accompany them, acting as nurses, tending to patients, and bringing them water. At first Willem thinks they are nuns, but they do not wear habits, although all dress uniformly, in black gowns, with black bonnets and shawls.

They are not the only women in the hospital. Madame Gertruda seems not to have slept since the hospital arrived. She is everywhere, administering herbs and medicines to the patients. The British doctors allowed this and now the French doctors encourage it, seeing the light of hope that it kindles in the eyes of desperate men. Madame Claude, the mayor's wife, is also tireless. She changes dressings and cleans wounds in a bustle of activity.

The wounded continue to arrive, as they drag or crawl their way off the battlefield. The French surgeons set up an area they refer to as triage, where the casualties are seen quickly and assessed, so the most urgent cases can be treated first.

The French are courteous but also suspicious, and although most of the detachment of soldiers leaves, some remain as guards. They are posted at the gates, in the church tower, and throughout the village.

Once examined by the doctors, the patients are loaded onto carts, carriages, or ambulance wagons and start the journey to French field hospitals, or in some of the more serious cases, to the main hospital in Brussels.

In typical French efficiency, an orderly or a nurse travels with each vehicle, tending to the men on their journey. A soldier sits up next to the driver, as a guard.

There are many wounded, and with more filtering in throughout the morning, it is a slow process. By midmorning all the available transports have left, and those who remain must wait for them to return.

When Willem enters the hospital, the head surgeon is examining a cavalry officer who has lost both his legs. The surgeon glances up at Willem, smiles briefly, then goes back to his work, tut-tutting over the standard of the British surgeon's workmanship.

Captain Wenzel-Halls is conscious, and motions to Willem.

On the cot next to him is an artillery lieutenant, barely in his teens. A new arrival. He has been blinded and a fresh dressing covers his eyes. He is with a tall, strong-limbed private, who reminds Willem of Jean. The private sits on the floor beside the lieutenant's cot. His only injury appears to be a broken arm, which has been set and splinted, and wrapped in clean white bandages.

Wenzel-Halls's color is not good. He reaches out and grasps Willem's arm, although there is no strength in the grip.

“I grow weaker,” he says in a voice that is little more than a dry croak. “A fever takes hold. Do not forget your promise.”

Willem looks at the ring, now on the middle finger of the captain's left hand. “You have my word,” he says.

“The creatures I saw,” he says, indicating the young blind lieutenant next to him. “Lieutenant Frost here saw them too. As did his man.”

The private appears not to understand, and Wenzel-Halls speaks briefly to him in English.

“Private Jack Sullivan,” the soldier says, standing up and extending a hand in the British way.

Willem shakes it. “Willem Verheyen.”

“Do you speak English?” Jack asks.

“A little,” Willem says, in English. “You saw the dinosaur?”

Jack says, “I did, sir. But not properly until after it was dead.”

“What did you see?” Willem asks.

“Right horrid it was, sir,” Jack says. “Bigger than an elephant with teeth as big as … as big as…” At a loss for words, he goes quiet.

“As tall as our church steeple?” Willem asks.

“No, not as big as that, sir,” Jack says.

“The snout, it was long and thin like that of a crocodile?” Willem asks.

“Well, I ain't actually seen a crocodile,” Jack says. “But I don't think so, sir. The snout was stubby, like a raptor. At least the two we killed was.”

“Jack!” Frost says.

“Sir?”

“I suggest you hold your tongue when you are talking to our captors,” Frost says.

“Sorry, sir,” Jack says.

“I am not your captor, Lieutenant,” Willem says. “I am neither French, nor a member of Napol
é
on's army.”

“But you are Walloon, and I fear that your allegiance is with the emperor,” Frost says.

“I am not, sir,” Willem says. “I am Flemish, of a Flemish father, and Napol
é
on is my enemy as he is yours. I, too, have seen one of these beasts.”

There is a long silence as Frost considers that.

“How can that be?” Frost finally asks.

“Sir, I would beg that you keep close counsel on this matter,” Willem says. “I fear what would happen should the emperor's men learn of this.”

“Then it seems we both have secrets we would keep to ourselves,” Frost says. “I would know of the circumstances. This is of great importance.”

“And you will treat this information in great confidence?” Willem says.

“As will you,” Frost says.

A young nurse moves toward them, carrying a jug full of blood. She smiles briefly at Willem as she passes. He is silent, using a ladle to give Wenzel-Halls a drink of water from a bowl beside the bed.

“Prior to the battle, one of Napol
é
on's creatures escaped,” Willem says when the nurse is out of earshot. “A great beast, even larger than the animals that Jack describes.”

“A creature as tall as a church steeple with a snout like a crocodile,” Frost says.

“It is so,” Willem says. “It attacked the village.”

“Do you not fear its return?” Frost asks.

“We do not,” Willem says. “It lies in a deep grave.”

Frost considered that. “You expect me to believe that the menfolk of your village killed a dinosaur with nothing but rusty swords and pitchforks?”

“It was killed by … a friend of mine,” Willem says. “With a crossbow.”

“A good story, but not possible,” Frost says. “I have seen these beasts with my own eyes.” He stops speaking and touches the bandages that now cover his eyes. He seems to withdraw into himself for a moment before continuing. “A bolt would merely bounce off its hide.”

“I tell the truth,” Willem says. “There is a way to mesmerize such a creature. It does not move and a brave hunter is able to draw in close.”

“Who has such knowledge?” Frost asks.

“I do,” Willem says. “And that information will get me killed if you are not careful with it.”

“Willem,” Frost says. “I must talk to you with grave urgency.”

 

THE ABBEY

The guards at the abbey open the huge wooden gates the moment they recognize Thibault, riding along the forest path.

He is met inside the crumbling abbey walls by Captain Baston and Major Lansard, who salute in unison. They are in disguise in their peasant smocks. Even now, the location and purpose of the abbey is a great secret.

“How are the saurs?” Thibault asks, returning the salute before taking off his gloves and clapping them together to remove some of the dust from the journey.

“They are secure, and resting,” Baston says.

“And the wounded ones?”

“Superficial wounds only,” Lansard says. “A few places where musket shot penetrated the armor, but the skin of the beasts is thick, and their flesh is dense. They scarcely notice the injuries.”

“Splendid,” Thibault says. “What about the two that were killed?”

“A platoon went out at first light to recover the bodies,” Baston says.

“Good,” Thibault says. “It is important that our enemies believe the saurs are invincible.”

“You return early, sir,” Baston says. “We were not expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I return at the emperor's command,” Thibault says. “He knows of the saur we lost and he knows about Gaillemarde.”

“Can this story even be true?” Lansard says. “A boy who can mesmerize a saur? Impossible.”

“Why? We did it,” Thibault says.

“After years of trial and error,” Baston says.

“The emperor believes this to be true. He seemed to know something of this boy,” Thibault says. He reflects on this for a moment. “In any case I find it unlikely that this other boy, this Fran
ç
ois, could have invented such a tale.”

“I agree, General,” Baston says.

“I will march a company to the village to capture the boy,” Thibault says. “And a cage of demonsaurus to sniff out the carcass of the crocodylus, if indeed it is there.”

“If it is true about this boy,” Lansard asks, “can you be sure he has not taught these skills to others?”

“I cannot,” Thibault says. “We must find out who else knows what the boy knows, and guarantee their silence.” He hands the reins of his horse to Baston. “Ride immediately to Gaillemarde. Ensure that nobody leaves before I get there.”

 

THE MAGICIAN'S MOTHER

Willem's mother is baking when he arrives. Her arms are coated with flour up to the elbows. Like most of the village she has been tireless. Working around the clock to provide the extra food required for the soldiers.

She sees Willem hurrying up the path and meets him at the door.

“What has happened?” she asks.

Willem shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “But I must leave Gaillemarde.”

“In the middle of a war?” she asks. “It is not safe.”

“Because of the war,” he says.

“What do you mean, child?” she asks.

He takes her by the hands, not minding the flour, and draws her to the kitchen table.

“Mother, there are two British soldiers in the hospital. I must help them escape, get back to England.”

She shakes off his hands and sits upright. “This is what you have come to tell me?”

“No,” he says. “I have come to ask your permission.”

This softens her. “Why these two?” she asks. “There are many soldiers in the hospital.”

He lowers his eyes. “It is not just the soldiers who must get to England,” he says.

“You? Why you?”

“Mother, the British officer says Napol
é
on's new army cannot be beaten. The war is already lost. Unless…”

“Unless you go to England and teach them how to fight the dinosaurs.”

“Perhaps to breed and train dinosaurs of their own.”

“And then both armies would have these terrible creatures? And you think that is a good thing?”

“I think it is better than if they are only in the hands of a tyrant,” Willem says.

“And for this you ask my permission?” she says.

“It is not just about the British. What about me? What about you? If Napol
é
on conquers Europe, there will be no place for us to hide.”

She is silent for a long time. She says eventually, “I am your mother, and I could never give permission for such a thing.”

“Mother…”

“A child must ask permission from a parent,” she says. She rises and moves to his side of the table and when he rises to meet her she embraces him fully, for the final time as a mother with her child. “But you are no longer a child,” she says. “Do not ask my permission for I will not give it. But do what you know you must.”

*   *   *

At first H
é
lo
ï
se is regarded as a curiosity by the French soldiers who now guard Gaillemarde. A strange, wild-haired thing. Half-human and of no appreciable intelligence. By the end of the first day she is forgotten, unnoticed, paid no more account than a wild dog, or a free-ranging microsaurus.

So it is that when Baston arrives at the saur-gate, the guards see her, yet do not see her, slinking in the wild lavender outside the fence.

“Hold there,” the first guard says, presenting his musket at Baston. The second guard does likewise.

Baston dismounts. He wears the simple smock of a local peasant, but removes it, pulling it up over his head to reveal the uniform of a French captain.

Both guards lower their muskets and salute.

“I wish to see your commanding officer,” Baston says.

The captain of the guard, a squat, heavyset man, is in the middle of the village square, deep in discussion with a doctor and the mayor of the village. The doctor's hands are bloody.

“Good morning, Captain,” the doctor says, looking up at Baston's approach. Like the others, he does not see H
é
lo
ï
se drifting along behind the new arrival.

“Captain Baston, attached to the staff of General Thibault,” Baston says.