guns, and he had cause to think the lie had worked for the brig had flattened her sails into the wind and gone southwards.
Now, instead of the brig, a vast line of grey sails flecked the western horizon. Commandant Lassan guessed the ships were eight or nine miles out to sea and he knew that he watched a British convoy carrying men and weapons and horses and ammunition to their Army to the south.
The sight made Henri Lassan feel lonely. His Emperor was far away and he was alone on the coast of France and his enemy could sail with impunity down that coast in a massive convoy that would have needed a fleet to disrupt. Except there were no more French fleets; the last had been destroyed by Nelson nine years before and what ships were left rotted in their anchorages.
A few privateers, American and French, sailed the ocean, but they were like small dogs yapping at the heels of a vast herd. Even Cornelius Killick, in his splendid Thuella, could not have taken a ship from that convoy. Killick would have waited for a straggler perhaps, but nothing less than a fleet could have broken that vast line of ships.
It was painful to see the enemy's power so naked, so unchallenged, so ponderous. In the great holds of those hull-down ships were the instruments that would bring death to Soult's army in the south, and Lassan could do nothing. He could win his small battle, if it came, but the greater struggle was beyond his help.
That thought made him chide himself for lack of faith and, in penitence, he went to the fort's small chapel and prayed for a miracle. Perhaps the Emperor, marching and counter-marching his men along the frost hardened roads of the north, could win a great victory and break the alliance that ringed France, yet the Emperor's desperation was witnessed by the fort's emptiness. France had been scraped for men, then scraped again, and many of the next class of conscripts had already fled into the woods or hills to escape the sergeants who came to take cannon-fodder still not grown to manhood.
A clash of boots, a shout, and the squeal of the gate hinges which, however often greased, insisted on screeching like a soul entering purgatory, announced a visitor to the fort. Lassan pocketed his beads, crossed himself, and went into the twilight.
“The bastards! The double-crossing bastards! Good evening, Henri.” Cornelius Killick, his savage face furious, nodded to the Commandant. “Bastards!”
“Who?”
“Bordeaux! No copper! No oak! What am I supposed to do? Paste paper over the bloody holes?”
“Perhaps you'll take some wine?” Lassan suggested diplomatically.
“I'll take some wine.” The American followed Lassan into the Commandant's quarters that looked more like a library than a soldier's rooms. “That bastard Ducos! I'd like to pull his teeth out through his backside.”
“I thought,” Lassan said gently, “that the coffin-maker in Arcachon had given you some elm?”
“Given? The bastard made us pay three times the price! And I don't like sailing with a ship's arse made out of dead man's wood.”
“Ah, a sailor's superstition.” Lassan poured wine into the crystal glasses that bore his family's coat of arms. The last Comte de Lassan had died beneath the guillotine, but Henri had never been tempted to use the title that was rightfully his. “Did you see all those fat merchantmen crawling south?”
“All day,” Killick said gloomily. “Take one of those and you make a small fortune. Not as much as an Indiaman, of course.” He finished the glass of wine and poured himself more. “I told you about the Indiaman I took?”
“Indeed you did,” Henri Lassan said politely, “three times.”
“And was her hold crammed with silks? With spices? With treasures of the furthest East? With peacock's plumes and sapphires blue?” Killick gave his great whoop of a laugh. “No, my friend. She was crammed to the gunwales with saltpetre. Saltpetre to make powder, powder to drive bullets, bullets to
Now, instead of the brig, a vast line of grey sails flecked the western horizon. Commandant Lassan guessed the ships were eight or nine miles out to sea and he knew that he watched a British convoy carrying men and weapons and horses and ammunition to their Army to the south.
The sight made Henri Lassan feel lonely. His Emperor was far away and he was alone on the coast of France and his enemy could sail with impunity down that coast in a massive convoy that would have needed a fleet to disrupt. Except there were no more French fleets; the last had been destroyed by Nelson nine years before and what ships were left rotted in their anchorages.
A few privateers, American and French, sailed the ocean, but they were like small dogs yapping at the heels of a vast herd. Even Cornelius Killick, in his splendid Thuella, could not have taken a ship from that convoy. Killick would have waited for a straggler perhaps, but nothing less than a fleet could have broken that vast line of ships.
It was painful to see the enemy's power so naked, so unchallenged, so ponderous. In the great holds of those hull-down ships were the instruments that would bring death to Soult's army in the south, and Lassan could do nothing. He could win his small battle, if it came, but the greater struggle was beyond his help.
That thought made him chide himself for lack of faith and, in penitence, he went to the fort's small chapel and prayed for a miracle. Perhaps the Emperor, marching and counter-marching his men along the frost hardened roads of the north, could win a great victory and break the alliance that ringed France, yet the Emperor's desperation was witnessed by the fort's emptiness. France had been scraped for men, then scraped again, and many of the next class of conscripts had already fled into the woods or hills to escape the sergeants who came to take cannon-fodder still not grown to manhood.
A clash of boots, a shout, and the squeal of the gate hinges which, however often greased, insisted on screeching like a soul entering purgatory, announced a visitor to the fort. Lassan pocketed his beads, crossed himself, and went into the twilight.
“The bastards! The double-crossing bastards! Good evening, Henri.” Cornelius Killick, his savage face furious, nodded to the Commandant. “Bastards!”
“Who?”
“Bordeaux! No copper! No oak! What am I supposed to do? Paste paper over the bloody holes?”
“Perhaps you'll take some wine?” Lassan suggested diplomatically.
“I'll take some wine.” The American followed Lassan into the Commandant's quarters that looked more like a library than a soldier's rooms. “That bastard Ducos! I'd like to pull his teeth out through his backside.”
“I thought,” Lassan said gently, “that the coffin-maker in Arcachon had given you some elm?”
“Given? The bastard made us pay three times the price! And I don't like sailing with a ship's arse made out of dead man's wood.”
“Ah, a sailor's superstition.” Lassan poured wine into the crystal glasses that bore his family's coat of arms. The last Comte de Lassan had died beneath the guillotine, but Henri had never been tempted to use the title that was rightfully his. “Did you see all those fat merchantmen crawling south?”
“All day,” Killick said gloomily. “Take one of those and you make a small fortune. Not as much as an Indiaman, of course.” He finished the glass of wine and poured himself more. “I told you about the Indiaman I took?”
“Indeed you did,” Henri Lassan said politely, “three times.”
“And was her hold crammed with silks? With spices? With treasures of the furthest East? With peacock's plumes and sapphires blue?” Killick gave his great whoop of a laugh. “No, my friend. She was crammed to the gunwales with saltpetre. Saltpetre to make powder, powder to drive bullets, bullets to
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