Page 47 of League of Dragons (Temeraire)
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Laurence saw Temeraire settled in the field-covert with a side of beef and a bowlful of hot beef blood, sent over by way of thanks from the Prussian corps. “Mr. Keynes said he will look in on us in an hour, Admiral,” O’Dea said, “and we will trust in the saints to keep himself,” meaning Temeraire, “from taking blood-poisoning before then, or going mad from lead in the humors; like as not the knife has missed a ball here or there.”
This provoked Temeraire to say uneasily, “I am sure there cannot be much lead left in me, after all of that wretched rooting about. Laurence, is going mad very uncomfortable?”
Laurence sighed privately. He would have been glad for a different ground-crew master, if he had dared ask for a replacement: O’Dea was clever enough, but untrained, and given to excess of both drink and poetic lamentations. Inhiscase, Laurence would have had no compunction in removing him from the rôle and keeping him on as a personal secretary instead. But the Admiralty would surely have assigned them another scowling half-spy, or a man who would resist every advancement in practice. If O’Dea did not know his work as well as he ought, at least he had less to unlearn, and seven months’ observation of the habits of the Chinese legions made him nearly as much an expert as any man in Britain.
“If you can feel any other metal remaining, pray inform Keynes; I am certain you will have no ill-effects before he comes. I will return directly I have seen my staff, and attended to the wounded,” Laurence said, and went to collect Granby.
Iskierka had established a handsome bonfire in her clearing, for her crew, and was also eating; she was pleased with herself, as indeed she had a right to be. By her count, which was only a little exaggerated, she had told for some eight beasts, most heavy-weights, besides keeping their forward line clear and leading their telling strike. She had paid little for her daring: a few glancing musket-balls, fired from enemy dragons more interested in evading than fighting her, and one raking scratch already closed by the time she had come to earth—now poulticed and bandaged for the night by her surgeon, in an excess of caution which had provoked Keynes to mutter about mollycoddling. “And you may tell Temeraire for me that he did not do so badly, himself,” Iskierka said. “I liked what he did with those cannon: it was quite handy, although I do think he might have been more clever about getting shot.”
“A rotten mess,” Granby said, when they were far enough from the clearing to be out of earshot from his crew, along the paths: their field-covert sprawled nearly two miles over a long stretch of foothills, with most dragons crammed in three and four to a clearing, but Temeraire and Iskierka were established on the upper heights, in prime clearings, and a considerable distance from the central farmhouse where Laurence had established his command. “Damn Poole, anyway; he ought to be broken the service.”
“I cannot say so, John,” Laurence said.
“Nor I, anyone would tell you,” Granby said, “but I say it anyway. He wasn’t overborne by some wild start of his beast; hetookFidelitas down, after those mad Scots beggars, and you will never convince me otherwise.”
“You will oblige me by pretending, however,” Laurence said wearily, and Granby raised an eyebrow.
“You have something deep in mind, I suppose,” he said. “Do you mean to turn out a politician, after all?”
“God save me such a fate,” Laurence said, with more force than hope behind it. He felt an inward revulsion at his own present thoughts: a species of scheming against his own officers, those in whom he had been used to repose the fullest trust. He had been assigned officers before against his will, men of limited abilities or whose characters he could not wholeheartedly admire. He had nevertheless always felt himself their captain and not their enemy; his work had always been the straightforward task of helping them to do their duty, and there was a bitter taste to finding himself instead obliged to contrive against them.
Before the battle, he had hoped—had felt nearly certain—that the engagement, well-carried, would see his command brought in tune. The joy of seeing Berlin liberated, its citizens cheering, and knowing their joint efforts responsible for pushing the French over the Elbe, ought to have swept all small and petty quarrels away, and established that urgently necessaryesprit de corpswhich would sustain them through the long campaign ahead.
But instead all the satisfactions which their victory ought to have brought, all the sense of good-fellowship and shared struggle, had been wasted. Or worse than wasted. There was not an officer, not a dragon, in their command, who did not know that Poole had deliberately flouted discipline, that Windle had avoided his duty, and that Temeraire and Cavernus and her formation had been forced to run a dangerous risk to cover for their failures. They and their subordinates could not feel themselves part of the victory.
And no confrontation was possible, which might have cleared the air. Unquestionably they knew they had acted wrongly, and by now must have been feeling the shame of having done so, but Laurence had no expectation of that emotion procuring anything like an apology. They could not acknowledge fault to him, whose guilt was so much the greater in their eyes. Instead Poole would say that Fidelitas had seen the ferals pillaging, and had thought himself entitled to claim his own share of whatever treasure there was to be had; Poole had not thought it his duty to check him, as Laurence had done nothing to check the other beasts. Windle’s reply would be equally pat—the ordered run had been accomplished, and he had known they lacked the dragons for a second pass. His slower beast was vulnerable to the highly maneuverable French light-weights converging upon them. He had acted to preserve her, as was his own paramount duty.
Laurence did not wish to hear their excuses—did not trust himself to hear their excuses without making such an answer as would only serve the Admiralty, who longed for any justification to remove him, which a quarrel with his senior captains could be made to provide. And he could not dismiss them, either: the Admiralty would delightedly send them back, confirmed and approved in their behavior, and a certain wreck to the discipline of the entire force: there would be nothing left to him then but to resign, and quit the field entirely, with all the evil consequences not merely to himself but to the entire war effort.
“What will you say to them, then?” Granby asked.
“Nothing,” Laurence said grimly.
He stopped at his quarters and armored himself in dress uniform, then summoned the captains to conference, where he maintained the most formal reserve his manners could support: he inquired only after particulars—casualties, injuries taken, armaments consumed—and silenced two attempts at officers trying to say anything more of their dragons’ conduct. No refreshment was offered; he concluded the meeting in remarkably short order, and dismissed them to their dragons. It was a cold reception for men who had won a notable victory against a larger force, and he was sorry not to be able to give a warmer word to Captain Ainley, whose dragon Cavernus had done such work for them today. But he could not say anything, without saying too much. As he preferred not to hear Poole and Windle make excuses, he could not chastise them openly at all, and if he could say nothing to them, he must say nothing to any man.
“You must makesomeanswer, though,” Granby said afterwards, as they walked back to the clearings together. “They must be thinking you are keeping silent for fear of the Admiralty. If you don’t check them, they will only get worse.”
“I know,” Laurence said. They had reached the crest of the hill now, and a bright spring wind came rustling the trees; he took off his hat to let the cold air stir against his forehead, looking out over the battlefield: bobbing lanterns traveling over the ground as the corpse-robbers picked over the dead.
TEMERAIRE LOOKED AROUND FORLaurence in vain the next morning, all through breakfast and having his wounds dressed fresh—including the two additional bullet-wounds which he had reluctantly confessed to Keynes on the second visit. He had regretted doing so directly afterwards, but he had to admit that to-day they were much better; he did not feel any twinge at all, except if he extended his wings all the way back as far as they could go, and even that was not so very bad.
He had been ordered to rest, but there was no need to fly: the French had all pulled across the Elbe. Everyone was jubilant that Berlin had been liberated, and all the church-bells had been rung in rejoicing that morning; there was no fighting going, so there was no need for Laurence to be gone, and where?
“You do not suppose Laurence would ever fightanotherduel,” he asked Emily finally, growing anxious when the noon hour had come, and Laurence was still away.
“No, not when he has given you his word,” she said, “and anyway he is admiral now: I don’t suppose you can go about challenging your officers, even in the Navy.”
“Why would he challenge one of his officers?” Temeraire said frowningly.
“Nothing,” Emily said hastily. “Nothing—those are the only fellows around, after all. He can’t challenge someone he don’t talk to.”
She darted away before Temeraire could press past this bit of transparency. He tried to question several other of his officers, but Forthing only looked blank, and Challoner said forthrightly, “Roland oughtn’t have said anything. Pray don’t keep asking around, Temeraire:thatwill get around, and gossip will only make it worse,” which only increased his worry, and removed any power he had of addressing it, at least until Laurence should come back.
“I beg your pardon,” Ning said, breaking into his brooding thoughts, “but do you think you will eat that lamb you have there?”
“Certainly I will eat it,” Temeraire said, rather indignantly: Ning had refused any part of the battle, even though she might certainly have been of material use, if only she had consented to set a few French guns afire.Shehad not earned any delicacies. Then he sighed: worry was interfering with the enjoyment of what ought to have been a treat, as the lamb had been sent him in the line of medicine, for his wounds, and Baggy had seen it roasted beautifully on a spit.
