first into a Temple of Reason and then into a storeroom. The small red light of the Eternal Presence, that Lassan himself had caused to be placed in this shrine when he restored it as a chapel, took his thoughts back to prayer. If he should die today in this miserable, damp fort on the edge of France then that light was a sure promise of salvation. Beneath it a simple wooden crucifix stood on an altar that bore a frontal of plain white. It was an Easter frontal, used only because the fort had no other to put on the table beneath, yet somehow the Easter promise of resurrection was comforting to Commandant Henri Lassan as he rose from his knees.
He went into the courtyard. Rain had puddled the cobbles and streaked the inner walls dark. The fort seemed strangely empty. Lassan had sent the families of the garrison to the village so that no woman or child should be struck by enemy fire. The tricolour, that had not flown these past days, was wrapped on to the halyard ready to be hoisted when the first cannon slammed back on its carriage.
“Sir!” Lieutenant Gerard called from the western rampart.
Lassan walked up the stone ramp that made it easy for heated shot to be carried from the furnace to the guns. Not that he had enough men left to tend the fire, but cold shot should be sufficient for any vessel that tried to brave the narrow, shoal-ridden waters of the channel.
“There, sir.” The lieutenant pointed seawards where, westering from the horizon, came a British frigate. The warship's new topsails were as white as the bone in her teeth that was flashing bright as the wind drove the boat towards the channel entrance.
“That's the frigate that pursued the Thuella, isn't it?” Lassan asked.
“Yes, sir,” Gerard said. ,Scylla."
Beyond the frigate were other ships. One, Lassan could see, was a ship of the line; one of the great vessels that had put a noose around the Emperor's conquests. Lassan would rather be pouring his shot into that great belly than into the frigate's slender and fragile beauty, but the Commandant would take what targets he could in this day's fight for God and the Emperor. “Wait till she passes the outer mark.”
“Sir.”
The Scylla moved closer, the giltwork of her figurehead gleaming, and Lassan knew the frigate had come to make him look one way while the Marines came from his rear, but he had an American warrior hidden in the woods and Lassan must put his trust in that unexpected ally. He knew that no Marine could pass Killick without shots being fired, and even if the Americans were pushed back then the noise of their battle would give Lassan a chance to man the ramparts by the fortress gate. For the moment that rampart was only garrisoned by three sick men.
If the Scylla's attack was timed properly, Lassan thought, then the Marines must be close. Lassan looked south, but could see nothing untoward beyond the village, then he turned back seawards in time to watch the frigate's flying-jib shiver as it turned towards the channel. At the same time the Scylla's great battle-ensign unfurled from an upper yard.
Lassan's men crouched by their guns. Their portfires seeped grey smoke into the air and Lassan knew how dry their mouths were and how fragile their bellies felt. On the frigate's forepeak he could see men clustered around the chasing guns. The officers on the quarterdeck, Lassan knew, would have donned their best uniforms in honour of their enemy while, deep in the frigate's bowels, the surgeon would be waiting by his razor-sharp scalpels.
The fortress waited. A corporal stood by the flagpole ready, at the first bellow of the guns, to hoist the standard of France. A gull, wide wings still, rode the soft wind above the channel.
Lassan imagined the red coats of Marines in the Americans' gunsights, then forgot what happened to his south because the frigate's graceful profile was changing and the white wave at her bows was cutting into the fretted, churning tiderace of the channel.
The
He went into the courtyard. Rain had puddled the cobbles and streaked the inner walls dark. The fort seemed strangely empty. Lassan had sent the families of the garrison to the village so that no woman or child should be struck by enemy fire. The tricolour, that had not flown these past days, was wrapped on to the halyard ready to be hoisted when the first cannon slammed back on its carriage.
“Sir!” Lieutenant Gerard called from the western rampart.
Lassan walked up the stone ramp that made it easy for heated shot to be carried from the furnace to the guns. Not that he had enough men left to tend the fire, but cold shot should be sufficient for any vessel that tried to brave the narrow, shoal-ridden waters of the channel.
“There, sir.” The lieutenant pointed seawards where, westering from the horizon, came a British frigate. The warship's new topsails were as white as the bone in her teeth that was flashing bright as the wind drove the boat towards the channel entrance.
“That's the frigate that pursued the Thuella, isn't it?” Lassan asked.
“Yes, sir,” Gerard said. ,Scylla."
Beyond the frigate were other ships. One, Lassan could see, was a ship of the line; one of the great vessels that had put a noose around the Emperor's conquests. Lassan would rather be pouring his shot into that great belly than into the frigate's slender and fragile beauty, but the Commandant would take what targets he could in this day's fight for God and the Emperor. “Wait till she passes the outer mark.”
“Sir.”
The Scylla moved closer, the giltwork of her figurehead gleaming, and Lassan knew the frigate had come to make him look one way while the Marines came from his rear, but he had an American warrior hidden in the woods and Lassan must put his trust in that unexpected ally. He knew that no Marine could pass Killick without shots being fired, and even if the Americans were pushed back then the noise of their battle would give Lassan a chance to man the ramparts by the fortress gate. For the moment that rampart was only garrisoned by three sick men.
If the Scylla's attack was timed properly, Lassan thought, then the Marines must be close. Lassan looked south, but could see nothing untoward beyond the village, then he turned back seawards in time to watch the frigate's flying-jib shiver as it turned towards the channel. At the same time the Scylla's great battle-ensign unfurled from an upper yard.
Lassan's men crouched by their guns. Their portfires seeped grey smoke into the air and Lassan knew how dry their mouths were and how fragile their bellies felt. On the frigate's forepeak he could see men clustered around the chasing guns. The officers on the quarterdeck, Lassan knew, would have donned their best uniforms in honour of their enemy while, deep in the frigate's bowels, the surgeon would be waiting by his razor-sharp scalpels.
The fortress waited. A corporal stood by the flagpole ready, at the first bellow of the guns, to hoist the standard of France. A gull, wide wings still, rode the soft wind above the channel.
Lassan imagined the red coats of Marines in the Americans' gunsights, then forgot what happened to his south because the frigate's graceful profile was changing and the white wave at her bows was cutting into the fretted, churning tiderace of the channel.
The
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