The Temeraire Series Books 1-3: Temeraire, Throne of Jade, Black Powder War. Naomi Novik
wind currents seemed to vary unpredictably once they had moved out over the open water, and Temeraire followed some unconscious instinct in rising and falling to catch the best wind. After an hour’s patrol, they reached the point of separation; Captain Roland raised a hand in farewell as Temeraire angled away south and swept past Excidium; the sun was nearly straight overhead, and the ocean glittered beneath them.
‘Laurence, I see the ships ahead,’ Temeraire said, perhaps half an hour later, and Laurence lifted his telescope, having to cup a hand around his eye and squint against the sun before he could see the sails on the water.
‘Well-sighted,’ Laurence called back, and said, ‘give them the private signal if you please, Mr. Turner.’ The signal-ensign began running up the pattern of flags that would mark them as a British party; less of a formality in their case, thanks to Temeraire’s unusual appearance.
Shortly they were sighted and identified; the leading British ship fired a handsome salute of nine guns, more perhaps than was strictly due to Temeraire, as he was not an official formation leader. Whether it was misunderstanding or generosity, Laurence was pleased by the attention, and had the riflemen fire off a return salute as they swept by overhead.
The fleet was a stirring sight, with the lean and elegant cutters already leaping across the water to cluster around the flagship in anticipation of the post, and the great ships-of the-line tacking steadily into the northerly wind to keep their positions, white sails brilliant against the water, colours flying in proud display from every mainmast. Laurence could not resist leaning forward to watch over Temeraire’s shoulder, so far the carabiner straps drew taut.
‘Signal from the flagship, sir,’ Turner said, as they drew near enough for the flags to be readable. ‘Captain come aboard on landing.’
Laurence nodded; no less than he had anticipated. ‘Pray acknowledge, Mr. Turner. Mr. Granby, I think we will do a pass over the rest of the fleet to the south, while they make ready for us.’ The crew of the Hibernia and the neighbouring Agincourt had begun casting out the floating platforms that would be lashed together to form a landing surface for the dragons, and a small cutter was already moving among them, gathering up the tow-lines. Laurence however knew from experience that the operation required some time, and would go no quicker with the dragons circling directly overhead.
By the time they had completed their sweep and returned, the platforms were ready. ‘Bellmen up above, Mr. Granby,’ Laurence ordered; the crew of the lower rigging quickly came scrambling up onto Temeraire’s back. The last few sailors hastily cleared off the deck as Temeraire made his descent, with Nitidus and Dulcia following close upon him; the platform bobbed and sank lower in the water as Temeraire’s great weight came upon it, but the lashings held secure. Nitidus and Dulcia landed at opposite corners once Temeraire had settled himself, and Laurence swung himself down. ‘Runners, bring the post,’ he said, and himself took the sealed envelope of dispatches from Admiral Lenton to Admiral Gardner.
Laurence climbed easily into the waiting cutter, while Roland, Dyer, and Morgan hurried to hand the bags of post over to the outstretched hands of the sailors. He went to the stern; Temeraire was sprawled low to better preserve the balance of the platform, with his head resting upon the edge of the platform very close to the cutter, much to the discomfort of that vessel’s crew. ‘I will return presently,’ Laurence told him. ‘Pray give Lieutenant Granby the word if you require anything.’
‘I will, but I do not think I will need to; I am perfectly well,’ Temeraire answered, to startled looks from the cutter’s crew, which only increased as he added, ‘but if we could go hunting afterwards, I would be glad of it; I am sure I saw some splendid large tunnys on our way.’
The cutter was an elegant, clean-lined vessel, and she bore Laurence to the Hibernia at a pace which he would once have thought the height of speed; now he stood looking out along her bowsprit, running before the wind, and the breeze in his face seemed barely anything.
They had rigged a bosun’s chair over the Hibernia’s side, which Laurence ignored with disdain; his sea legs had scarcely deserted him, and in any case climbing up the side presented him with no difficulty. Captain Bedford was waiting to greet him, and started in open surprise as Laurence climbed aboard: they had served together in Goliath at the Nile.
‘Good Lord, Laurence; I had no notion of your being here in the Channel,’ he said, formal greeting forgotten, and meeting him instead with a hearty handshake. ‘Is that your beast, then?’ he asked, staring across the water at Temeraire, who was in his bulk not much smaller than the seventy-four-gun Agincourt behind him. ‘I thought he had only just hatched a sixmonth gone.’
Laurence could not help a swelling pride; he hoped that he concealed it as he answered, ‘Yes, that is Temeraire. He is not yet eight months old, yet he does have nearly his full growth.’ With difficulty he restrained himself from boasting further; nothing, he was sure, could be more irritating, like one of those men who could not stop talking of the beauty of their mistress, or the cleverness of their children. In any case, Temeraire did not require praising; any observer looking at him could hardly fail to mark his distinctive and elegant appearance.
‘Oh, I see,’ Bedford said, looking at him with a bemused expression. Then the lieutenant at Bedford’s shoulder coughed meaningfully. Bedford glanced at the fellow and then said, ‘Forgive me; I was so taken aback to see you that I have been keeping you standing about. Pray come this way, Lord Gardner is waiting to see you.’
Admiral Lord Gardner had only lately come to his position as commander in the Channel, on Sir William Cornwallis’ retirement; the strain of following so successful a leader in so difficult a position was telling upon him. Laurence had served in the Channel Fleet several years before, as a lieutenant; they had never been introduced previously, but Laurence had seen him several times, and his face was markedly aged.
‘Yes, I see, Laurence, is it?’ Gardner said, as the flag lieutenant presented him, and murmured a few words which Laurence could not hear. ‘Pray be seated; I must read these dispatches at once, and then I have a few words to give you to carry back for me to Lenton,’ he said, breaking the seal and studying the contents. Lord Gardner grunted and nodded to himself as he read through the messages; from his sharp look, Laurence knew when he reached the account of the recent skirmish.
‘Well, Laurence, you have already seen some sharp action, I gather,’ he said, laying aside the papers at last. ‘It is just as well for you all to get some seasoning, I expect; it cannot be long before we see something more from them, and you must tell Lenton so for me. I have been sending every sloop and brig and cutter I dare to risk close in to the shore, and the French are busy as bees inland outside Cherbourg. We cannot tell with what, precisely, but they can hardly be preparing for anything but invasion, and judging by their activity, they mean it to be soon.’
‘Surely Bonaparte cannot have more news of the fleet in Cadiz than do we?’ Laurence said, disturbed by this intelligence. The degree of confidence augured by such preparations was frighteningly high, and though Bonaparte was certainly arrogant, his arrogance had rarely proven to be wholly unfounded.
‘Not of immediate events, no, of that I am now thankfully certain. You have brought me confirmation that our dispatch riders have been coming back and forth steadily,’ Gardner said, tapping the sheaf of papers on his desk. ‘However, he cannot be so wild as to imagine he can come across without his fleet, and that suggests he expects them soon.’
Laurence nodded; that expectation might still be ill-founded or wishful, but that Bonaparte had it at all meant that Nelson’s fleet was in imminent danger.
Gardner sealed the packet of returning dispatches and handed them over. ‘There; I am much obliged to you, Laurence, and for your bringing the post to us. Now I trust you will join us for dinner, and of course your fellow captains as well?’ he said, rising from his desk. ‘Captain Briggs of the Agincourt will join us as well, I think.’
A lifetime of naval training had inculcated in Laurence the precept that such an invitation from a superior officer was as good as a command, and though Gardner was no longer strictly his superior, it remained