An Officer and a Gentleman. (Temeraire crossover.)

ATP

Well-known member
They existed (In-service 1776) but Fergusons were so rare and expensive to make that there were literally only around 100 of them on the entire planet.
Really? i read,that they were used by british since 1776 ,and that it cost "only" as much as 5 normal muskets,so there should be more of them.
P.S and they were less reliable,too.
 

Atarlost

Well-known member
Really? i read,that they were used by british since 1776 ,and that it cost "only" as much as 5 normal muskets,so there should be more of them.
P.S and they were less reliable,too.
Maximizing bullets per minute per marksman trumps bullets per minute per pound (the currency) when you have a limited number of dragons with limited capacity for marksmen. Fergusons should probably be the air service rifle if no other breech loaders have come along yet to fill the demand.
 

Doomsought

Well-known member
The problem is that they have to be manufactured in lots of a thousand to be considered for any army, and you can't mass manufacture breach-loading riffles without better steal making techniques than was available during the Napoleonic wars. Its only in the late 1850s that metalurgy advanced to the point that breachloading weapons were practical.

Mass production of riffles also requires machining rather than gunsmithing.,
 

Bear Ribs

Well-known member
Dragons weren't primary sniper platforms anyway, I suspect they wouldn't be first in line for top technology rifles because the real damage dealer of a dragon isn't the gunner trying to desperately aim a musket from its bobbing back, it's the 30 tons of flying muscle bringing its claws (and/or fire breath, acid spit, etc.) down on some pitiful fool.
 

Atarlost

Well-known member
The problem is that they have to be manufactured in lots of a thousand to be considered for any army, and you can't mass manufacture breach-loading riffles without better steal making techniques than was available during the Napoleonic wars. Its only in the late 1850s that metalurgy advanced to the point that breachloading weapons were practical.

Mass production of riffles also requires machining rather than gunsmithing.,
An air force is not an army. Wellington had over a hundred thousand men at Waterloo. I do not get the impression the Brits have more than a few thousand dragons, and maybe down in the hundreds.

Dragons weren't primary sniper platforms anyway, I suspect they wouldn't be first in line for top technology rifles because the real damage dealer of a dragon isn't the gunner trying to desperately aim a musket from its bobbing back, it's the 30 tons of flying muscle bringing its claws (and/or fire breath, acid spit, etc.) down on some pitiful fool.
There's very little point to putting someone on a dragon beyond the officer who directs it without rifles. You can't achieve the volume of fire to make muskets useful unless the dragon is large and stable enough to stand a short battalion on its head. Or it's back if it's an Asian levitating dragon instead of a European flies by flapping its wings dragon. For a reasonable dragon (eg. any that can land on a ship, which we know some can) you aren't getting volume of fire to make muskets useful against targets smaller than a battallion, especially with muzzle loaders if you can find a way to reload them at all from dragonback. It's rifles or nothing for the same reason skirmishers and snipers in the rigging of ships were issued rifles.
 

Atarlost

Well-known member
That's what bombs are for.
Bombs can be used, but they're mostly used for completely different things. Bombs are probably pretty good against fortifications and the structure of ships, but can not be used in air to air combat at all. Rifles are basically useless against fortifications, but can probably have some effect against ships' rigging and deck crews (riflemen in the rigging can have effect were used historically to some effect) and I'm guessing that dragons can probably glide long enough for their crew to aim and fire at similar altitude and stability if more speed than a tall ship's crow's nest). And firearms -- which as I argue in my previous post means rifles -- are the only air to air weapon other than having the dragons fight with tooth, claw, and bad breath like wild beasts. I suspect that is very much not desirable for the people on the dragons' backs. Neither is great against field armies. There's no good way to get bombs to airburst until accurate altimeters are invented, which OTL took until 1928 so they're wasting most of their explosive force kicking up dirt. Bombs are probably slightly better, but both are more about morale effects than material effects.
 

ATP

Well-known member
Bombs can be used, but they're mostly used for completely different things. Bombs are probably pretty good against fortifications and the structure of ships, but can not be used in air to air combat at all. Rifles are basically useless against fortifications, but can probably have some effect against ships' rigging and deck crews (riflemen in the rigging can have effect were used historically to some effect) and I'm guessing that dragons can probably glide long enough for their crew to aim and fire at similar altitude and stability if more speed than a tall ship's crow's nest). And firearms -- which as I argue in my previous post means rifles -- are the only air to air weapon other than having the dragons fight with tooth, claw, and bad breath like wild beasts. I suspect that is very much not desirable for the people on the dragons' backs. Neither is great against field armies. There's no good way to get bombs to airburst until accurate altimeters are invented, which OTL took until 1928 so they're wasting most of their explosive force kicking up dirt. Bombs are probably slightly better, but both are more about morale effects than material effects.

Agree about rifles. why Fergusson rifle was not used in book ?
I think,that Naomi Novak simply do not knew about them.They are forgotten weapon,after all.
 

Doomsought

Well-known member
Agree about rifles. why Fergusson rifle was not used in book ?
Because it is so rare that Lawrence has probably never heard of it. There were only 100 made per year while it was made. Breachlaoding riffles are just to comlicated and precise to be worth making with a blacksmith, you need machine tools to make them in meaningful numbers.
 

ATP

Well-known member
Because it is so rare that Lawrence has probably never heard of it. There were only 100 made per year while it was made. Breachlaoding riffles are just to comlicated and precise to be worth making with a blacksmith, you need machine tools to make them in meaningful numbers.
Possible,but most probable is that author of book never hear about them.That is probably why could not be used in her books.
 

The Unicorn

Well-known member
While a dragon's crew do use fire arms, my impression is that in canon they are primarily used when the dragons are in claw range or boarding actions, i.e at ranges where there is little to no benefit from rifling, and conditions where being able to reload is unlikely.
Providing rifles for a dragon's crew might give some marginal benefit if they were trained to use them, but that would be offset by the lost opportunity cost from them not training in more commonly useful activities. Now equiping them with revolvers would be very useful, but the cost of those in this time frame seems to be too high to make that practical.
 

Atarlost

Well-known member
While a dragon's crew do use fire arms, my impression is that in canon they are primarily used when the dragons are in claw range or boarding actions, i.e at ranges where there is little to no benefit from rifling, and conditions where being able to reload is unlikely.
Providing rifles for a dragon's crew might give some marginal benefit if they were trained to use them, but that would be offset by the lost opportunity cost from them not training in more commonly useful activities. Now equiping them with revolvers would be very useful, but the cost of those in this time frame seems to be too high to make that practical.
LordsFire has established that dragon crews must use long guns, otherwise Rhi would just be able to use pistols and there'd be no drama about her small size keeping her from flying combat. Anything Naomi Novak writes that implies that the combat range is short enough for pistols has already been rejected by the author of this work.
 

The Unicorn

Well-known member
LordsFire has established that dragon crews must use long guns, otherwise Rhi would just be able to use pistols and there'd be no drama about her small size keeping her from flying combat. Anything Naomi Novak writes that implies that the combat range is short enough for pistols has already been rejected by the author of this work.
Yes, muskets, which are used in canon as I described.
The difference between a pistol and amusket isn't range, it's stopping power.
 
Chapter Eleven, Storm Across the Channel.

LordsFire

Internet Wizard
AN: So after doing some re-reading, Novak seems to have used the term ‘rifles,’ but not in a manner that paid any attention at all to the period or difference between rifles and muskets. Given that she got a fair number of minor details wrong, I’m just going to treat it like she used the wrong term. The idea that line infantry would be using rifles as a standard weapon in particular just does not fit, which she depicts the French as doing at the Battle of Dover, so I don't think it's appropriate to accept her use of the term for Aviators either.

Also, I will again emphasize this is explicitly written with the expectation that readers have read His Majesty's Dragon recently, often, or thoroughly enough that I don't need to fill in details.

((()))

The picnic and weapons testing was interrupted when every Dragon in the covert began to rapidly hurl themselves into the air, almost two dozen taking flight in less than a minute. It was difficult to see details from more than a mile distant, but Non could tell that they were far more heavily loaded than usual, which meant either a heavy bomb load, combat armor, or both.

“No wonder the Cap’n let me away from th’ covert today,” Non scowled, “They’re goin’ to see combat.”

The Porters gathered the children somewhat hastily back together, mostly to make sure none had wandered so far as to be lost, but there was little else to be done. There had been rumors that Napoleon was going to attempt a cross-channel invasion for the last few days, that part of Nelson’s victory came from a strategic gambit on Napoleon’s part to draw the Aviation Corps away from the channel.

Given how the runners at the covert had been kept away from certain discussions, Non suspected it was more than just rumor, and seeing the entire Dover covert wing take to the air at once put a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.

When redcoats began marching out from the town, forming up into battle lines midway between the cliffs, the covert, and the town itself, the rest of those gathered began to share in that terrible feeling.

“We must leave,” Mr. Porter said, his face grim, “And this is no time to head for Dover. We will head directly for the road to London, and stay with my brother until this has ended.”

“Too late,” Non said, her eyes narrowing as she stared out over the channel, “The French are coming.”

It took several more long seconds before any of the others could make out the formation of Dragons coming onward, but the British Dragons moving to intercept them was a hint in where in particular to look.

While the rest of them were trying to make out where the Dragons were, Non had collected one of the rifles, as well as the bag of powder and shot, and began running down towards a small hill closer to the formation of redcoats below.

“Damn it all Non!” Mr. Porter bellowed once he saw where she was going, “Don’t be so foolhardy with your life!”

((()))

“Napoleon never does let anything be easy, does he?” William said grimly, riding up and down the infantry lines alongside Morgan.

“He’d hardly be a threat if he was a fool,” Morgan replied, shaking his head sharply, his eyes on the enormous wooden shapes the French Dragons were steadily flying closer over the channel, “Though this may yet be our opportunity to make a fool of him. There can’t be more than a few hundred men in each of those, less if he brought cavalry.”

“You’d give up eight men for each horse you brought,” William said, shaking his head, “If Napoleon brought anything other than men and muskets, it’d be cannon.”

“True,” Morgan said with a nod, turning his horse about as he reached the end of the line, and shifting his gaze to look over the assembled soldiers and militia, many of whom were desperately trying to hide their fear, “Take half of the boys back to the harbor to pick up some guns from the naval armory.”

“Naval guns won’t maneuver well on the field,” William said quietly.

“No,” Morgan said, shaking his head, “But they’ll make a hell of a difference for morale.”

“Fair point,” William nodded, before spurring his horse onward.

Morgan felt a grim smile spread across his face, and brought his horse to a stop as he reached the center of the front lines.

“Men of England!” he boomed, “And those stout Scots and Welshmen who’ve joined us, consider yourselves all privileged to stand here today, for I most certainly do!”

Some of the fear he saw turned to confusion; not much, but it was enough.

“In the skies over the English Channel,” Morgan continued, his voice echoing out over the plains and hills, “Napoleon makes his last, desperate attempt to stave off his inevitable defeat!

“Nelson has already put paid to his fleet, our good lads in the Aviator Corps are flying forth to strike down his Dragons, and we will soon have our own chance to crush his armies!”

Some of the fear returned, and Morgan was not surprised. While the Royal Navy had long been the masters of the sea, Napoleon had spent the past decade demonstrating his decisive mastery of the battlefield.

“All of you have no doubt heard of the Little Corporal’s many triumphs in Europe, battle after battle he has won on the other side of the channel. He defeated the other factions in the French civil war, has dominated the Swiss, the Germans, the Dutch, and even the Italians!

“Victory after victory he has won in the fields, forests, and even mountains of Europe, and has exerted his will over every foe he has felled, styling himself now an Emperor! Yet, in all of these battles, there are two crucial differences from the battle that will be fought this day, on this field!”

Taking advantage of a little trick he had been scolded for many times as a child, Morgan pulled his feet from the stirrups of his horse, and stood atop the saddle, towering over the British lines of battle, resplendent in his uniform and breastplate.

This!” Morgan roared, “Is the sacred land of Great Britain, and we are not serfs, nor slaves, but Free British Men!

A cheer rose up from the crowd, sudden and loud enough that it startled both Morgan and his horse, which reared. Hundreds of hours on horseback had prepared Morgan for the moment though, and rather than falling to the soil, he slipped back down into a normal seated position on his saddle, boxing his horse about the ear, then spurring it to turn around as its hooves came back down to the earth.

Out over the channel, faint cracks of musketfire had begun to sound out, and occasional louder thumps of bombs the Aviation Corps dropped on the French flying transports detonating.

“Let them come!” Morgan shouted, turning to face the small army again, “Let them learn why no hostile army has dared set foot on our island in seven hundred years!”

“God save the king!” one of the soldiers shouted, raising his musket.

“God save the king!” Morgan shouted in reply, drawing his sword, the cry taken up all up and down the line as Morgan cantered back and forth, waving his blade near-recklessly, the sounds of battle steadily closing as the French Dragons pushed back the British flyers.

As he reached the northern end of the line, one of his men came alongside him on his own horse.

“You realize that that will be Napoleon’s finest men in those transports,” Henry said, “We’ll be facing the most hardened soldiers from the continent with a handful of militia and regulars.”

“And we’ll turn them back,” Morgan replied, his eyes alight with passion, “Even if we die in the doing.”

Henry had known Morgan for years, but as he felt a shiver run down his spine, he was reminded again that the young man had a fiendish ability to surprise people from almost nowhere.

“We’re going to need more than courage to defeat the Imperial Guard,” Henry said.

“We’ll have it,” Morgan said, grinning fiercely, his eyes turning back to the transports that were now approaching the cliffs, “All we need to do is ask how we would conduct an attack from such fragile boxes, and be ready to counter it.”

In the quiet, Henry resigned himself to dying at the redhead’s side, rather than trying to explain Morgan’s death to his mother the day after the battle ended.

The cheers were dying down enough for one man’s voice to be heard again, and Morgan rode back out in front of the lines.

“In front of us,” he declared, “I see the Cliffs of Dover, and the sea! When the enemy lands, all that we need for victory, is to push them back into the sea!”

Into the sea!” a fair number of the soldiers echoed.

“We must all keep in mind though,” Morgan continued, “That after the walloping Nelson dealt them, the French are afraid of the water, so they won’t want to go for a swim!”

A chorus of laughter rose.

“So we must help them along!” Morgan pressed on once the laughter had died down, “We must push them, push them, and push them! Let up for not a moment, for these Frenchmen will be fierce-well, as fierce as a Frenchman can be-”

Another round of laughter, this one outright boisterous, rose from the small army, fear now the farthest thing from most of their minds.

“-But we shall show them that the meanest man of Britain is fiercer than the fiercest of French! We shall charge them the moment that they land, and drive them into the sea!”

Into the sea!” the soldiers roared, most of the militia now speaking with them.

“Into the sea!” Morgan repeated.

Into the sea!” the soldiers roared again.

Into the sea!Morgan screamed.

INTO THE SEA!” the army roared, as though with one voice.

“That’s the spirit lads!” Morgan shouted, “You shall drive them into the sea, and I-”

He smoothly leaped down from his horse, then sent it trotting away with a smack on the flank.

“And I shall lead you to do it!” Morgan shouted, stepping into the front line, and turning to face the oncoming French, “Now, I have two special orders that you will remember if you value your lives…”

((()))

Just behind the crest of a hill to the North of the line of battle, Non, Lauren, and Mr. Porter had taken cover. Non was industriously setting up a tree branch to serve as the back-stop for her rifle, careful to disturb the hilltop tall grass as little as possible as she did so. Lauren and her uncle were both working at loading rifles, Mr. Porter with an extra task of not cursing Non out on the side.

He had tried to catch her and carry her away by force, but to his considerable frustration, found that he lacked the ability. Working at a toolbench day in and day out did not predispose one towards athletic excellence; maneuvering about a Dragon in flight and running messages and errands back and forth across a covert did.

Even then, he still might have had her if she wasn’t so maneuverable; his long legs still at least made him faster than her, not that it would matter now. Elizabeth had been able to heard the rest of the children away, but all that he had been able secure was a promise from Non that if the French started attacking their position, they would flee.

If her recklessness got them killed, he would have words with her before they passed through the pearly gates.

On the other side of the hill, a thumping and chanting replaced the booming speech the lion-sized officer had been giving.

((()))

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“Death!”

Thump.

Thump.

Into the sea!

“This must be Morgan’s work,” William muttered, as he and the lads dragged a cannon off of a wagon, setting it up on the first hill of any real height behind the line of redcoats spread out before them.

“Take yer eyes off him for half an’ hour,” Torch laughed, then grunted as the rear of the cannon came off the wagon, and they nearly dropped it.

All of them were large men, but that only made moving the twenty-four pounder without winching and a crane possible, it was still far from easy.

“Start loading it,” William ordered, “I’m going back down to join up with Morgan. Pray he doesn’t get his fool self killed.”

“And pray that Steven finds an actual gun crew in the town,” Henry shouted back as William leaped up onto his mount, “We’ll be lucky to hit the ground, much less the French if we have to operate this ourselves!”

((()))

In the skies above, Dragons wheeled and fought. Fully half the French Dragons were engaged in carrying the bulky wooden troop transports, yet those still at liberty to fight the British Dragons still outnumbered them two to one.

The fighting was hot, fierce, and desperate, the British Dragons, Lily, Maximus, and Temeraire in particular, managing to force several Dragons to withdraw or surrender, but they could not stop the French advance, and were accumulating wounds and casualties in return.

Tarrasque and Captain Devereaux had engaged a Grand Chevalier in a particularly furious duel. The Chevalier was easily the larger of the two Heavyweights, but Tarrasque’s hooked tail-blade was a powerful force multiplier, and Devereaux’s constant shouting of invective in French seemed to be pushing the Chevalier’s Captain off-balance.

Blood, bodies, wisps of fire, smoke, and splashes of acid rained down over the channel, but even when one of the Dragons carrying the transport was struck loose, the sheer weight of numbers allowed replacement, and the French continued onward.

A quartet of French Heavyweights swooped over the lines of British infantry, and bombs fell.

((()))

Down!” Morgan bellowed, and every man dropped flat to the earth.

The bombs fell, detonating with thunderous cracks, and screams followed immediately thereafter.

Gritting his teeth, Morgan lurched back to his feet, glanced down over himself briefly to ensure he had not suffered a shrapnel wound himself, then pushed onward.

“Sergeants!” he shouted, “Remove the wounded to the rear!”

Then he began beating the hilt of his sword against his breastplate again.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.


“Death!” Morgan roared.

Thump.

Thump.

“Into the sea!” he shouted, and already some of the soldiers joined him again

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.


Death!” The army roared.

Thump.

Thump.

William rode up to Morgan’s side, but Morgan could not hear what he said over the shouting.

Into the sea!

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The first of the transports struck the ground, dragging a divot across the earth for dozens of yards, before coming to a stop, the wooden frontage falling away.

It was scarcely a hundred yards from the British lines.

Down!” Morgan roared.

The British again fell to the earth, and a moment later a thunderous volley of musket-fire erupted from within the transport, the French firing their readied shots before pouring out of the transport. Some of the British were struck; no volley flew perfectly level, and the ground was not perfectly flat, but most of the fire was wasted on empty air.

Ready!” Morgan shouted, rising to his feet and drawing one of his pistols.

The eager young man in him wanted to fire immediately, but the strict training his father had put him through had taught discipline, and if he wished to be effectively, he knew he must wait until the larger portion of the army was back on their feet.

It took only a handful of seconds, but those seconds felt like an eternity as he watched the blue-uniformed French forming swiftly and efficiently into a battle-line. A cannon fired from above and behind the British lines, but the shot flew wide, arcing up over the cliff’s edge and out to sea.

Fire!” Morgan bellowed, putting word to deed with his pistol, that shot almost certainly missing at this range, before tucking the weapon back into his belt, and bursting forward, “Charge!

Having trained with him for years, Morgan’s companions immediately rushed forward with him; it took a heartbeat and a half for the rest of the infantry to realize what was happening and react. William, running at his side, forcibly grabbed Morgan by the shoulder and held him back until the rest of the infantry could catch up, something they only managed perhaps fifteen yards from the French lines.

Battle-hardened veterans, the French had fixed bayonets the moment that the charge had begun, and by the time the British reached their line, they were braced in place like a spear-line of old, a veritable forest of blades.

A sweep of Morgan’s heave saber smashed aside the half-dozen aimed at his chest, and while that meant his own blade could not strike the Frenchman directly in front of him, his meaty fist crushed the man’s skull.

Up and down the lines, British and French clashed in a bloody melee, hardened veterans of Napoleons campaigns on the continent fighting against near-berserk redcoats and militia hellbent on forcing every last French boot off of British soil.

At the center though, where Morgan and his company of giants struck, the French line shattered like glass, and only running directly into the reinforcements still streaming out of the transport kept them from folding altogether.

For several long minutes, they very nearly butchered the courageous Frenchmen, for though they were stout and skilled, Morgan and his men were every bit as courageous, as or more skilled, and between half again and twice their size. With the slaughter at the center, even the morale of veteran troops began to flag, and it seemed like the thousands of men on the first transport might be defeated in scarcely ten minutes of battle.

Then the French bannerman, his two elite guards, and the Lieutenant-General in command strode forth to face them.

The continuing stream of reinforcements tied up most of Morgan’s guard, but William forced his way forward to fight at Morgan’s side, and a furious three-on-two melee began on the ramp up into the transport.

The bannerman stood behind the others, holding the French flag aloft and shouting exhortations to his countrymen as he waved the hated flag over English soil.

The general and two elite guardsmen engaged Morgan and William in a blinding storm of blades; the two Brits still had the advantage in size, giving them strength and reach, but these three were stronger than their kindred had been, and far more skilled.

Once, twice, three times blows were struck against Morgan, but his breastplate, too heavy for a lesser man to carry into battle without exhausting himself, turned the blows.

Philipe!” the general shouted, jerking his head towards William, “Occupe-le!”

One of the guardsmen leaped at William, and for a handful of seconds Morgan fought to on one.

Blades arced and clashed; his off-hand swept his empty pistol from his belt and caught a slash aimed at his neck, but the spent weapon was forced from his hand by the blow.

The French general smiled as Morgan parried another thrust aimed for his thigh, already twisting around for another blow, one which would take either the crown of Morgan’s head, or his empty hand if he blocked it.

A bloody crater through the right cheekbone and eye shattered the grin; blood, brains, and lead spattered across the soldiers behind the general.

((()))

“Next rifle!” Non demanded, shoving the spent gun away, its barrel still smoking as Lauren took it for reloading.

Mr. Porter passed her the next rifle, and she wedged its stock into her improvised brace, and settled in to look for another target worthy of her fire.

((()))

Their leader struck down, and the banner falling just seconds later, the French lines around the first transport broke. Those outside of it began to flee, those within stopped trying to rush outward.

"Rendez-vous ou perdez la vie!" Morgan bellowed, and the French began to throw down their arms.

Seconds later, a second transport crashed down onto the cliff-tops, a Regal Copper atop it clawing furiously at the planks, killing and maiming those on the top deck within, but unable to prevent the larger part from beginning to disembark onto British soil.

“Henry!” Morgan bellowed, “Secure the rest of the surrenders. William, help me form up the rest of the infantry for our next charge!”

It took painfully long seconds, but as bellowing voices echoed over the field of battle, British infantry stopped pursuing the routed remnants of the first force, and began forming new lines, if somewhat ragged, in preparation for a second charge.

Steven appeared from somewhere, leading their horses, and Morgan and the rest of his company mounted up, those who were not injured at least. They galloped up to the new battle-line’s northern flank, as it was further uphill than the right flank, and readied themselves for the second attack.

The French wheeled a pair of cannon out of the second transport, skilled gun crews rapidly readying them to fire.

Charge!” Morgan bellowed, “Into the sea!

He grit his teeth at having his hand forced prematurely; his own lines were still ragged, and his men had scarcely had time to catch their breath from the first charge, something which could cost them critical momentum when they stuck the second set of French lines. The only positive thing he could say about this renewed offensive, was that the enemy was dangerously close to the cliffs.

Into the sea!” the British roared, charging down towards the French.

The French gallantly braced themselves to receive again, the survivors of the first attack already having regained their courage. Morgan’s eyes weren’t on the infantry however, but the artillery crews. They only had two guns with them, but even ‘just’ two loads of grapshot could cut bloody swathes in the British lines, especially if fired at point blank.

Stout redcoats would struggle to keep their nerve against that kind of carnage. Barely-trained militia suddenly facing the first battle in their lives; their moral could easily shatter, and if their momentum faltered, the more seasoned French soldiers would cut them to pieces.

If the cannon managed to fire before the charge reached enemy lines, Morgan would have to bring his small company of horse through the gap, and assault the French center alone. No other detachment would have the speed or weight to act in time.

By two hundred yards, Morgan’s hope that the guns wouldn’t be ready in time were slim.

By one hundred yards, it was clear that the French were ready to fire, and just waiting for the optimal range to cut the redcoats to shreds.

At fifty yards, cannon behind him spoke, and one of the two French guns was shattered by a twenty-four pound iron ball, shrapnel wounding much of the gun crew. The other gun crew barely paid the destruction any mind, ignoring that they were also a priority target.

Morgan silently saluted the valor and discipline of the veteran artilleryman, wishing that it was not wasted in service to a tyrant.

At ten yards out, the gun captain moved to fire the gun, then collapsed to the ground, practically decapitated by a hole through his neck.

The British were upon them before another member of the crew could fire the cannon.

((()))

“Next rifle!” Non barked, again passing her spent weapon off to Lauren, taking the next from Mr. Porter.

((()))

Morgan’s company swept in on the French flank, but this time, the enemy was ready for them. Some of the survivors of the first attack had marked him out as the most dangerous threat in the British force, and with his towering size, red-gold hair, and now being atop horseback, he was easy to spot.

A full extra forty Frenchmen charged into melee with Morgan and his men, and the momentum of the charge was lost, turning the battle into nothing but a bloody stalemate upon the ground.

The French forces were bottled up, but there were more transports still approaching, and they were far closer than British reinforcements coming down from London.

For long, bloody minutes, blood was shed and men died on the ground, no meaningful ground gained or lost, lives spent simply waiting for weight to shift in one direction or another.

The sound of thunder roared in the skies, like lightning striking just a pace away, briefly stunning and deafening every man on the battlefield. In the moment’s respite that brought, all eyes turned upwards to see the closest transport had disintegrated into a cloud of splinters, blood, and doomed men raining down over the channel.

A cheer went up from the British, though it could scarcely be heard through deafened ears, and the fighting was renewed, the morale among the redcoats and militia already rising.

Six French Heavyweights and countless smaller Dragons chased after the great winged form of Temeraire as he moved away from the wreckage of the transport he had destroyed, superior weight of numbers allowing them to drive him away from the remaining transports, and for a time, it seemed like the French might yet carry the day in spite of it all.

Temeraire dove beneath the cliff-line, out of sight of those fighting on the ground, and the sound of thunder again assailed their ears. This time, it was not like lightning had struck beside them, instead a long, echoing rumble coming from below the cliffs.

Seconds later, Temeraire winged his way up into sight again, moving on to the next transport. Less than half of the Dragons who had chased him down to the sea rose up into view again, and of those who did, all were injured, having paid the price in blood for foolishly over-extending their pursuit right into the teeth of the Royal Navy, waiting in the channel below with their guns ready.

Worse for the French, too many Dragons had been directed in pursuit of Temeraire, and as he began his run on the next transport, Maximus, Lily, Tarrasque, and a handful of smaller British Dragons formed up to escort him. The French Dragons that had disengaged from them to pursue Temeraire would doubtless return to harry them once more, but for precious seconds, they forced back the defenders of another transport, clearing the way.

Thunder sounded from Temeraire’s chest again, and another transport fell into the sea.

The morale of the French on the ground broke, and while a core around the transport simply tightened their lines, trying to find an opening to use their cannon without cutting down their own men, the flanks broke and ran.

“Into the sea!” Morgan shouted, his voice beginning to strain from all the orders and chanting.

Into the sea!” the British army roared in return, pressing in on the French.

Into the sea!

INTO THE SEA!

((()))

As noon struck, the battle was long over, and the last of the surrendered French shoulders were being put into chains, to be held until parole or ransom was given. The Dragons had all returned to the covert, their many wounds both major and minor being treated by the surgeons.

Non herself was seeing a physician, and while Laurence was not the slightest pleased to find her there, he held his tongue while her left arm was carefully put into a sling.

“’Tis just a dislocation,” the doctor informed him, “Nothing broken, though there is some bruising.”

“Ae’ll be ready t’ serve again right quick, Cap’n,” Non assured him.

“It’ll be two weeks before you take your arm out of that sling,” the doctor said sternly, “Except to clean, and perhaps to sleep. If you strain it further, you could do permanent damage, and permanent dislocations are crippling.

Non frowned, but nodded.

“I can still do desk work,” she said, glaring up at Laurence with defiance in her eyes.

Laurence said nothing, simply watching her with carefully considering eyes, eyes that she struggled not to buckle under the weight of.

“Is Temeraire well?” she asked, conscious of how her diction was fluctuating in quality and control.

“He suffered no serious injury,” Laurence said, speaking at last, “And is jubilant at having served so key a role in turning back the French. Mister Porter tells me you have also played a role in this.”

“I’m good with a rifle,” Non said, “Not hard to shoot a gen’ral, when the bullets go straight.”

Laurence nodded, but said nothing further, waiting until the doctor was finished, then laying a hand on her uninjured shoulder, and gently but firmly leading her to where the more seriously injured soldiers lay, those who had needed treatment first to have even a chance at surviving their wounds.

It was an ugly thing, the ruin that war made of men, even in victory. The fortunate among those men, laid out in rows under pavilions, were merely insensate with pain and laudanum, tightly-bandaged wounds red with blood, but no longer in danger of death. Many were far worse off, fingers, hands, entire limbs missing, some torn off by shot, blade, or claw, some amputated after being damaged too grievously to save.

Then there were those whose circumstances were truly wretched, those who balanced on the edge of death. Burns twisting flesh, eyes destroyed, bandaged faces that would never be able to regain a semblance of humanity.

“I will not condescend to you,” Laurence said stiffly, “I know that you have seen men in such condition before aboard ship. We both know that this is the price of war, even in victory.

“What it is clear you do not understand, is that no man worthy to be called such, will let a woman face such suffering if he has any sane means of preventing it. Do you truly think so little of the sacrifice made to protect you?”

“Ae didnae ask anyone t’ die f’r me,” Non said thickly, staring grimly at the injured men, refusing to let the moisture in her eyes overflow, “Ae kin help.

“Yes,” Laurence said, “You can. And if you are willing to serve as a Longwing Captain, I will not try to deny you should the Aviation Corps select you for captaincy. Captains Harcourt and Roland serve both honorably and ably, and needs must. Please simply understand this-”

Laurence gently turned her to face him, and kneeled down to look her directly in the eye.

“You do not need to set yourself upon this path,” he said, an uncharacteristic edge of passion leaking into his voice, “You are possessed of a capable mind and a deft hand. You can more than adequately contribute to the war effort by your work with accounts and the like. There is no dishonor in such necessary work.”

Non nodded, unable to meet Laurence’s gaze for more than a moment, and gave no verbal reply.

After several long moments passed, Laurence sighed, and stood again, not having expected anything else.

“Let us go to Temeraire,” Laurence said, “He has been worried about you.”

((()))

Two weeks later, the officers and distinguished NCOs who had fought at Dover attended a party in London, to celebrate their victory. A larger but less posh feast was being held the same day at Dover for the enlisted and other ‘common’ participants, but to Non’s considerable disappointment, though not surprise, she was required to attend the party among the nobility.

Captain Devereaux and a hired attendant helped prepare her for the party, a process which took over an hour, and had her feeling sharply envious of Captain Laurence’s ability to simply wear a dress uniform.

The dress that she was stuffed into was obnoxiously cumbersome, and she had never worn a corset before, but after she saw the more elaborate affair that Captain Devereaux draped herself in, she forced herself to accept it.

The French Noblewoman’s dress was much worse.

Even if she managed to look quite elegant in it.

With her hair having finally grown to a length where something appropriately fashionable could be done with it, once Non’s preparations for the party were finished and Devereaux pushed her in front of a mirror, she found herself in the very jarring position of looking into the eyes of a young lady.

The resemblance to her memories of her mother, somewhat fogged by age, struck her like an ax to the chest, and Non found herself wondering how this all had happened.

“Ae shouldnae go,” she croaked.

“...How long has it been, since you saw yourself in a proper mirror?” Devereaux asked gently.

“Two years,” Non said faintly.

The Captain of the Silverfish had a decently-sized mirror in his cabin; Non had seen herself in small hand-mirrors since, but the last time she had seen herself in anything of scale, she had been eleven, not closing on fourteen, and still quite dedicated in pursuing her disguise as a cabin boy.

In this mirror she couldn’t recognize the cabin boy of two years past, or the little girl from so long ago.

“You look lovely,” Devereaux encouraged, “It’s a pity we didn’t have the time to find something in blue, but white does work well with your pale complexion.”

Non shook her head violently.

“Nae,” she said, “If ae go in blue, then shorely sumone will-”

She cut herself off, turning away, but Devereaux suspected she knew how that sentence would have ended.

“Non,” she said gently but firmly, turning the young woman to face her, “If there is good reason you not attend this party, in spite of your name also being on the invitation Captain Laurence received, simply tell me, and I will persuade him that you should be excused.

“Without that reason though, I cannot persuade him, yes?”

Non turned away from the mirror, and grit her teeth. Part of her wanted to speak, but the burning specter of death wrapped itself tight around her throat, and she found her words choked away.

Devereaux sighed sadly, before beginning to pull Non towards the carriage that would take them to the party.

((()))

The party was held in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, and Non was able to avoid notice for most of it via the simple expedient of hiding behind one of the palace guard, partially within the foliage of a tree. Oh, she was in her proper position among the female aviators when they entered and were announced, but it was quite easy to slip off into the crowd, given just how crowded the gardens were.

Unfortunately, her attempt at being a wallflower did not manage to last the whole night; eventually, a certain Lieutenant found her.

“There you are,” Morgan declared, “Step aside, Leonard, I must introduce this young lady to my mother.”

To Non’s considerable shock, the Royal Guardsman did as he was bid, and stepped aside, exposing her to the eyes of Lieutenant Morgan, and-

Non’s eyes went as wide as saucers, and her mouth fell open.

The Queen.

“This is the young woman,” Morgan declared grandly, stepping forward to pat Non on the shoulder, “I was not in position to see her fire the shots myself, of course, but when I found the craftsman I commissioned to ensure the rifles were fit for service, he was quite insistent that Non, Captain Laurence’s secretary, was the one to cut down Lieutenant-General Marcuse, and I’ll eat my hat if she wasn’t the one to take out the French artilleryman during the charge as well.”

Non’s cheeks turned violently red, and the Queen tsked.

“Leonard,” said Her Grace, Queen Marie of the House of Davion, wife of King Michael the First of House Hanover, “Let us give the poor dear some room; I feel like sitting down.”

Leonard saluted silently, and just a few seconds later a path had been politely but firmly cleared to the nearest door into the palace proper. Non, feeling in a daze, allowed herself to be led inside, barely noticing how the (very) tall Queen and her even taller son had the good grace to hide her mostly from the view of the crowd, especially those close enough to be paying attention.

“Now then,” the Queen said once they were inside, and a coterie of servants had seen to it they were all seated, “My son insists that the rifleman, or perhaps rifle-woman, who acted two weeks ago at the Battle of Dover saved his life. This was you?”

Non fidgeted for a few moments, her mouth working as she tried to form words, and almost as importantly, control her diction.

“I fired the rifles,” Non eventually managed, “I am too small for the battle-line, but I have good eyes.”

“A necessity,” the Queen said, “To be able to strike a Frenchman from hundreds of yards away, without hitting a comrade within arm’s reach. It is no small thing, to save the life of a prince.”

“...I didn’t know he was th’ Prince,” Non choked out, “Just th’ handsome officer who helped us ‘side the road.”

“There you go again,” the Queen said with a fond smile, turning and reaching over to tousle her son’s hair; he beamed at the gesture, “Making me proud.”

Non just stared.

“Now,” the Queen continued, “It is both the duty and privilege of a monarch to reward their subjects for distinguished service. Further, it is the honor of every mother to reward those who protect her children. Thus, I am indebted to you thrice over. Whatever it is you want or need, name it, and if it is within the crown’s power, you shall have it.”

Non continued to stare, utterly stunned by the circumstances she found herself in, but the Queen was content to sit and wait patiently, quite understanding of the young woman’s reaction. Morgan didn’t possess his mother’s patience, but he was somewhat off-balance himself, wondering how he had missed what a beautiful young woman Non was in their prior meetings.

He had certainly thought her pretty, but the difference in degree was rather startling in its own right.

“...I,” Non eventually began haltingly, “I have a sister, a-and two brothers.”

“Morgan did mention them in passing,” the Queen said evenly.

“...I want t’ make sure they’re taken care of,” Non said, all in a rush, not sure she would be able to finish if she stopped again.

“I understand you feel rather on the spot,” the Queen said, eyeing Non with a new level of consideration, “And it would be a shame to misunderstand each other, so I will seek to clarify.

“I have offered you the generosity of the crown, and your request is that I ensure that your siblings are properly cared and provided for?”

Non nodded furiously.

“I see,” the Queen said, a warm smile spreading across her face, “You need not worry yourself any further about the quality of care they shall receive. Given the quality of work Mister Porter has done for my son, they have already received a request to take contract with the Royal Armory, bringing that household under royal protection.

“I believe that none of the tutors and physicians responsible for seeing to my son’s upbringing have retired; they shall receive a new task, seeing to the education and care of your siblings.”

A desperately relieved smile broke out on Non’s face; she struggled not to break down into tears.

“Th-thank you, y’r highness,” she said, jerking to her feet and offering the Queen a graceful curtsey.

“It is the least part of returning the service you have paid me,” the Queen replied graciously, “I shall ensure that an eye is kept on your family.”

And I, Marie thought silently, Will keep an eye on you.

((()))

AN: And this is where Non's story in parallel to Laurence's first story ends. There isn't really all that much divergence, as it's really mostly a character story, rather than a larger thing changing greater narratives.

This is, functionally, the first in a loosely-outlined trilogy, and by far the shortest. I have enough interest to perhaps come back to this some day, maybe as early as next year, but I'm going to have to set it aside at least for now.

The reason for that is fairly simple; I pick up side-projects to try to expand my reader base, and at that this project has more or less been a total failure. Those who already read BQ, and maybe a handful of others, have quite enjoyed the fic, but if I'm to succeed as a professional writer, I need to broaden my base, not simply keep leaning on the (very generous) people who currently follow and fund me. In combination with continuing to increase my regular writing output (and hopefully quality), I hope to in the near future have two major projects and one minor going consistently.

This is not going to be the second major project. If those who already follow my writing are sufficiently interested, I'm as open to continuing this on commission as I am any other BQ-related writing, but my 'primary secondary' project for now will have to be something else.
 

PeaceMaker 03

Well-known member
AN: So after doing some re-reading, Novak seems to have used the term ‘rifles,’ but not in a manner that paid any attention at all to the period or difference between rifles and muskets. Given that she got a fair number of minor details wrong, I’m just going to treat it like she used the wrong term. The idea that line infantry would be using rifles as a standard weapon in particular just does not fit, which she depicts the French as doing at the Battle of Dover, so I don't think it's appropriate to accept her use of the term for Aviators either.

Also, I will again emphasize this is explicitly written with the expectation that readers have read His Majesty's Dragon recently, often, or thoroughly enough that I don't need to fill in details.

((()))

The picnic and weapons testing was interrupted when every Dragon in the covert began to rapidly hurl themselves into the air, almost two dozen taking flight in less than a minute. It was difficult to see details from more than a mile distant, but Non could tell that they were far more heavily loaded than usual, which meant either a heavy bomb load, combat armor, or both.

“No wonder the Cap’n let me away from th’ covert today,” Non scowled, “They’re goin’ to see combat.”

The Porters gathered the children somewhat hastily back together, mostly to make sure none had wandered so far as to be lost, but there was little else to be done. There had been rumors that Napoleon was going to attempt a cross-channel invasion for the last few days, that part of Nelson’s victory came from a strategic gambit on Napoleon’s part to draw the Aviation Corps away from the channel.

Given how the runners at the covert had been kept away from certain discussions, Non suspected it was more than just rumor, and seeing the entire Dover covert wing take to the air at once put a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.

When redcoats began marching out from the town, forming up into battle lines midway between the cliffs, the covert, and the town itself, the rest of those gathered began to share in that terrible feeling.

“We must leave,” Mr. Porter said, his face grim, “And this is no time to head for Dover. We will head directly for the road to London, and stay with my brother until this has ended.”

“Too late,” Non said, her eyes narrowing as she stared out over the channel, “The French are coming.”

It took several more long seconds before any of the others could make out the formation of Dragons coming onward, but the British Dragons moving to intercept them was a hint in where in particular to look.

While the rest of them were trying to make out where the Dragons were, Non had collected one of the rifles, as well as the bag of powder and shot, and began running down towards a small hill closer to the formation of redcoats below.

“Damn it all Non!” Mr. Porter bellowed once he saw where she was going, “Don’t be so foolhardy with your life!”

((()))

“Napoleon never does let anything be easy, does he?” William said grimly, riding up and down the infantry lines alongside Morgan.

“He’d hardly be a threat if he was a fool,” Morgan replied, shaking his head sharply, his eyes on the enormous wooden shapes the French Dragons were steadily flying closer over the channel, “Though this may yet be our opportunity to make a fool of him. There can’t be more than a few hundred men in each of those, less if he brought cavalry.”

“You’d give up eight men for each horse you brought,” William said, shaking his head, “If Napoleon brought anything other than men and muskets, it’d be cannon.”

“True,” Morgan said with a nod, turning his horse about as he reached the end of the line, and shifting his gaze to look over the assembled soldiers and militia, many of whom were desperately trying to hide their fear, “Take half of the boys back to the harbor to pick up some guns from the naval armory.”

“Naval guns won’t maneuver well on the field,” William said quietly.

“No,” Morgan said, shaking his head, “But they’ll make a hell of a difference for morale.”

“Fair point,” William nodded, before spurring his horse onward.

Morgan felt a grim smile spread across his face, and brought his horse to a stop as he reached the center of the front lines.

“Men of England!” he boomed, “And those stout Scots and Welshmen who’ve joined us, consider yourselves all privileged to stand here today, for I most certainly do!”

Some of the fear he saw turned to confusion; not much, but it was enough.

“In the skies over the English Channel,” Morgan continued, his voice echoing out over the plains and hills, “Napoleon makes his last, desperate attempt to stave off his inevitable defeat!

“Nelson has already put paid to his fleet, our good lads in the Aviator Corps are flying forth to strike down his Dragons, and we will soon have our own chance to crush his armies!”

Some of the fear returned, and Morgan was not surprised. While the Royal Navy had long been the masters of the sea, Napoleon had spent the past decade demonstrating his decisive mastery of the battlefield.

“All of you have no doubt heard of the Little Corporal’s many triumphs in Europe, battle after battle he has won on the other side of the channel. He defeated the other factions in the French civil war, has dominated the Swiss, the Germans, the Dutch, and even the Italians!

“Victory after victory he has won in the fields, forests, and even mountains of Europe, and has exerted his will over every foe he has felled, styling himself now an Emperor! Yet, in all of these battles, there are two crucial differences from the battle that will be fought this day, on this field!”

Taking advantage of a little trick he had been scolded for many times as a child, Morgan pulled his feet from the stirrups of his horse, and stood atop the saddle, towering over the British lines of battle, resplendent in his uniform and breastplate.

This!” Morgan roared, “Is the sacred land of Great Britain, and we are not serfs, nor slaves, but Free British Men!

A cheer rose up from the crowd, sudden and loud enough that it startled both Morgan and his horse, which reared. Hundreds of hours on horseback had prepared Morgan for the moment though, and rather than falling to the soil, he slipped back down into a normal seated position on his saddle, boxing his horse about the ear, then spurring it to turn around as its hooves came back down to the earth.

Out over the channel, faint cracks of musketfire had begun to sound out, and occasional louder thumps of bombs the Aviation Corps dropped on the French flying transports detonating.

“Let them come!” Morgan shouted, turning to face the small army again, “Let them learn why no hostile army has dared set foot on our island in seven hundred years!”

“God save the king!” one of the soldiers shouted, raising his musket.

“God save the king!” Morgan shouted in reply, drawing his sword, the cry taken up all up and down the line as Morgan cantered back and forth, waving his blade near-recklessly, the sounds of battle steadily closing as the French Dragons pushed back the British flyers.

As he reached the northern end of the line, one of his men came alongside him on his own horse.

“You realize that that will be Napoleon’s finest men in those transports,” Henry said, “We’ll be facing the most hardened soldiers from the continent with a handful of militia and regulars.”

“And we’ll turn them back,” Morgan replied, his eyes alight with passion, “Even if we die in the doing.”

Henry had known Morgan for years, but as he felt a shiver run down his spine, he was reminded again that the young man had a fiendish ability to surprise people from almost nowhere.

“We’re going to need more than courage to defeat the Imperial Guard,” Henry said.

“We’ll have it,” Morgan said, grinning fiercely, his eyes turning back to the transports that were now approaching the cliffs, “All we need to do is ask how we would conduct an attack from such fragile boxes, and be ready to counter it.”

In the quiet, Henry resigned himself to dying at the redhead’s side, rather than trying to explain Morgan’s death to his mother the day after the battle ended.

The cheers were dying down enough for one man’s voice to be heard again, and Morgan rode back out in front of the lines.

“In front of us,” he declared, “I see the Cliffs of Dover, and the sea! When the enemy lands, all that we need for victory, is to push them back into the sea!”

Into the sea!” a fair number of the soldiers echoed.

“We must all keep in mind though,” Morgan continued, “That after the walloping Nelson dealt them, the French are afraid of the water, so they won’t want to go for a swim!”

A chorus of laughter rose.

“So we must help them along!” Morgan pressed on once the laughter had died down, “We must push them, push them, and push them! Let up for not a moment, for these Frenchmen will be fierce-well, as fierce as a Frenchman can be-”

Another round of laughter, this one outright boisterous, rose from the small army, fear now the farthest thing from most of their minds.

“-But we shall show them that the meanest man of Britain is fiercer than the fiercest of French! We shall charge them the moment that they land, and drive them into the sea!”

Into the sea!” the soldiers roared, most of the militia now speaking with them.

“Into the sea!” Morgan repeated.

Into the sea!” the soldiers roared again.

Into the sea!Morgan screamed.

INTO THE SEA!” the army roared, as though with one voice.

“That’s the spirit lads!” Morgan shouted, “You shall drive them into the sea, and I-”

He smoothly leaped down from his horse, then sent it trotting away with a smack on the flank.

“And I shall lead you to do it!” Morgan shouted, stepping into the front line, and turning to face the oncoming French, “Now, I have two special orders that you will remember if you value your lives…”

((()))

Just behind the crest of a hill to the North of the line of battle, Non, Lauren, and Mr. Porter had taken cover. Non was industriously setting up a tree branch to serve as the back-stop for her rifle, careful to disturb the hilltop tall grass as little as possible as she did so. Lauren and her uncle were both working at loading rifles, Mr. Porter with an extra task of not cursing Non out on the side.

He had tried to catch her and carry her away by force, but to his considerable frustration, found that he lacked the ability. Working at a toolbench day in and day out did not predispose one towards athletic excellence; maneuvering about a Dragon in flight and running messages and errands back and forth across a covert did.

Even then, he still might have had her if she wasn’t so maneuverable; his long legs still at least made him faster than her, not that it would matter now. Elizabeth had been able to heard the rest of the children away, but all that he had been able secure was a promise from Non that if the French started attacking their position, they would flee.

If her recklessness got them killed, he would have words with her before they passed through the pearly gates.

On the other side of the hill, a thumping and chanting replaced the booming speech the lion-sized officer had been giving.

((()))

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“Death!”

Thump.

Thump.

Into the sea!


“This must be Morgan’s work,” William muttered, as he and the lads dragged a cannon off of a wagon, setting it up on the first hill of any real height behind the line of redcoats spread out before them.

“Take yer eyes off him for half an’ hour,” Torch laughed, then grunted as the rear of the cannon came off the wagon, and they nearly dropped it.

All of them were large men, but that only made moving the twenty-four pounder without winching and a crane possible, it was still far from easy.

“Start loading it,” William ordered, “I’m going back down to join up with Morgan. Pray he doesn’t get his fool self killed.”

“And pray that Steven finds an actual gun crew in the town,” Henry shouted back as William leaped up onto his mount, “We’ll be lucky to hit the ground, much less the French if we have to operate this ourselves!”

((()))

In the skies above, Dragons wheeled and fought. Fully half the French Dragons were engaged in carrying the bulky wooden troop transports, yet those still at liberty to fight the British Dragons still outnumbered them two to one.

The fighting was hot, fierce, and desperate, the British Dragons, Lily, Maximus, and Temeraire in particular, managing to force several Dragons to withdraw or surrender, but they could not stop the French advance, and were accumulating wounds and casualties in return.

Tarrasque and Captain Devereaux had engaged a Grand Chevalier in a particularly furious duel. The Chevalier was easily the larger of the two Heavyweights, but Tarrasque’s hooked tail-blade was a powerful force multiplier, and Devereaux’s constant shouting of invective in French seemed to be pushing the Chevalier’s Captain off-balance.

Blood, bodies, wisps of fire, smoke, and splashes of acid rained down over the channel, but even when one of the Dragons carrying the transport was struck loose, the sheer weight of numbers allowed replacement, and the French continued onward.

A quartet of French Heavyweights swooped over the lines of British infantry, and bombs fell.

((()))

Down!” Morgan bellowed, and every man dropped flat to the earth.

The bombs fell, detonating with thunderous cracks, and screams followed immediately thereafter.

Gritting his teeth, Morgan lurched back to his feet, glanced down over himself briefly to ensure he had not suffered a shrapnel wound himself, then pushed onward.

“Sergeants!” he shouted, “Remove the wounded to the rear!”

Then he began beating the hilt of his sword against his breastplate again.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.


“Death!” Morgan roared.

Thump.

Thump.


“Into the sea!” he shouted, and already some of the soldiers joined him again

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.


Death!” The army roared.

Thump.

Thump.


William rode up to Morgan’s side, but Morgan could not hear what he said over the shouting.

Into the sea!

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.


The first of the transports struck the ground, dragging a divot across the earth for dozens of yards, before coming to a stop, the wooden frontage falling away.

It was scarcely a hundred yards from the British lines.

Down!” Morgan roared.

The British again fell to the earth, and a moment later a thunderous volley of musket-fire erupted from within the transport, the French firing their readied shots before pouring out of the transport. Some of the British were struck; no volley flew perfectly level, and the ground was not perfectly flat, but most of the fire was wasted on empty air.

Ready!” Morgan shouted, rising to his feet and drawing one of his pistols.

The eager young man in him wanted to fire immediately, but the strict training his father had put him through had taught discipline, and if he wished to be effectively, he knew he must wait until the larger portion of the army was back on their feet.

It took only a handful of seconds, but those seconds felt like an eternity as he watched the blue-uniformed French forming swiftly and efficiently into a battle-line. A cannon fired from above and behind the British lines, but the shot flew wide, arcing up over the cliff’s edge and out to sea.

Fire!” Morgan bellowed, putting word to deed with his pistol, that shot almost certainly missing at this range, before tucking the weapon back into his belt, and bursting forward, “Charge!

Having trained with him for years, Morgan’s companions immediately rushed forward with him; it took a heartbeat and a half for the rest of the infantry to realize what was happening and react. William, running at his side, forcibly grabbed Morgan by the shoulder and held him back until the rest of the infantry could catch up, something they only managed perhaps fifteen yards from the French lines.

Battle-hardened veterans, the French had fixed bayonets the moment that the charge had begun, and by the time the British reached their line, they were braced in place like a spear-line of old, a veritable forest of blades.

A sweep of Morgan’s heave saber smashed aside the half-dozen aimed at his chest, and while that meant his own blade could not strike the Frenchman directly in front of him, his meaty fist crushed the man’s skull.

Up and down the lines, British and French clashed in a bloody melee, hardened veterans of Napoleons campaigns on the continent fighting against near-berserk redcoats and militia hellbent on forcing every last French boot off of British soil.

At the center though, where Morgan and his company of giants struck, the French line shattered like glass, and only running directly into the reinforcements still streaming out of the transport kept them from folding altogether.

For several long minutes, they very nearly butchered the courageous Frenchmen, for though they were stout and skilled, Morgan and his men were every bit as courageous, as or more skilled, and between half again and twice their size. With the slaughter at the center, even the morale of veteran troops began to flag, and it seemed like the thousands of men on the first transport might be defeated in scarcely ten minutes of battle.

Then the French bannerman, his two elite guards, and the Lieutenant-General in command strode forth to face them.

The continuing stream of reinforcements tied up most of Morgan’s guard, but William forced his way forward to fight at Morgan’s side, and a furious three-on-two melee began on the ramp up into the transport.

The bannerman stood behind the others, holding the French flag aloft and shouting exhortations to his countrymen as he waved the hated flag over English soil.

The general and two elite guardsmen engaged Morgan and William in a blinding storm of blades; the two Brits still had the advantage in size, giving them strength and reach, but these three were stronger than their kindred had been, and far more skilled.

Once, twice, three times blows were struck against Morgan, but his breastplate, too heavy for a lesser man to carry into battle without exhausting himself, turned the blows.

Philipe!” the general shouted, jerking his head towards William, “Occupe-le!”

One of the guardsmen leaped at William, and for a handful of seconds Morgan fought to on one.

Blades arced and clashed; his off-hand swept his empty pistol from his belt and caught a slash aimed at his neck, but the spent weapon was forced from his hand by the blow.

The French general smiled as Morgan parried another thrust aimed for his thigh, already twisting around for another blow, one which would take either the crown of Morgan’s head, or his empty hand if he blocked it.

A bloody crater through the right cheekbone and eye shattered the grin; blood, brains, and lead spattered across the soldiers behind the general.

((()))

“Next rifle!” Non demanded, shoving the spent gun away, its barrel still smoking as Lauren took it for reloading.

Mr. Porter passed her the next rifle, and she wedged its stock into her improvised brace, and settled in to look for another target worthy of her fire.

((()))

Their leader struck down, and the banner falling just seconds later, the French lines around the first transport broke. Those outside of it began to flee, those within stopped trying to rush outward.

"Rendez-vous ou perdez la vie!" Morgan bellowed, and the French began to throw down their arms.

Seconds later, a second transport crashed down onto the cliff-tops, a Regal Copper atop it clawing furiously at the planks, killing and maiming those on the top deck within, but unable to prevent the larger part from beginning to disembark onto British soil.

“Henry!” Morgan bellowed, “Secure the rest of the surrenders. William, help me form up the rest of the infantry for our next charge!”

It took painfully long seconds, but as bellowing voices echoed over the field of battle, British infantry stopped pursuing the routed remnants of the first force, and began forming new lines, if somewhat ragged, in preparation for a second charge.

Steven appeared from somewhere, leading their horses, and Morgan and the rest of his company mounted up, those who were not injured at least. They galloped up to the new battle-line’s northern flank, as it was further uphill than the right flank, and readied themselves for the second attack.

The French wheeled a pair of cannon out of the second transport, skilled gun crews rapidly readying them to fire.

Charge!” Morgan bellowed, “Into the sea!

He grit his teeth at having his hand forced prematurely; his own lines were still ragged, and his men had scarcely had time to catch their breath from the first charge, something which could cost them critical momentum when they stuck the second set of French lines. The only positive thing he could say about this renewed offensive, was that the enemy was dangerously close to the cliffs.

Into the sea!” the British roared, charging down towards the French.

The French gallantly braced themselves to receive again, the survivors of the first attack already having regained their courage. Morgan’s eyes weren’t on the infantry however, but the artillery crews. They only had two guns with them, but even ‘just’ two loads of grapshot could cut bloody swathes in the British lines, especially if fired at point blank.

Stout redcoats would struggle to keep their nerve against that kind of carnage. Barely-trained militia suddenly facing the first battle in their lives; their moral could easily shatter, and if their momentum faltered, the more seasoned French soldiers would cut them to pieces.

If the cannon managed to fire before the charge reached enemy lines, Morgan would have to bring his small company of horse through the gap, and assault the French center alone. No other detachment would have the speed or weight to act in time.

By two hundred yards, Morgan’s hope that the guns wouldn’t be ready in time were slim.

By one hundred yards, it was clear that the French were ready to fire, and just waiting for the optimal range to cut the redcoats to shreds.

At fifty yards, cannon behind him spoke, and one of the two French guns was shattered by a twenty-four pound iron ball, shrapnel wounding much of the gun crew. The other gun crew barely paid the destruction any mind, ignoring that they were also a priority target.

Morgan silently saluted the valor and discipline of the veteran artilleryman, wishing that it was not wasted in service to a tyrant.

At ten yards out, the gun captain moved to fire the gun, then collapsed to the ground, practically decapitated by a hole through his neck.

The British were upon them before another member of the crew could fire the cannon.

((()))

“Next rifle!” Non barked, again passing her spent weapon off to Lauren, taking the next from Mr. Porter.

((()))

Morgan’s company swept in on the French flank, but this time, the enemy was ready for them. Some of the survivors of the first attack had marked him out as the most dangerous threat in the British force, and with his towering size, red-gold hair, and now being atop horseback, he was easy to spot.

A full extra forty Frenchmen charged into melee with Morgan and his men, and the momentum of the charge was lost, turning the battle into nothing but a bloody stalemate upon the ground.

The French forces were bottled up, but there were more transports still approaching, and they were far closer than British reinforcements coming down from London.

For long, bloody minutes, blood was shed and men died on the ground, no meaningful ground gained or lost, lives spent simply waiting for weight to shift in one direction or another.

The sound of thunder roared in the skies, like lightning striking just a pace away, briefly stunning and deafening every man on the battlefield. In the moment’s respite that brought, all eyes turned upwards to see the closest transport had disintegrated into a cloud of splinters, blood, and doomed men raining down over the channel.

A cheer went up from the British, though it could scarcely be heard through deafened ears, and the fighting was renewed, the morale among the redcoats and militia already rising.

Six French Heavyweights and countless smaller Dragons chased after the great winged form of Temeraire as he moved away from the wreckage of the transport he had destroyed, superior weight of numbers allowing them to drive him away from the remaining transports, and for a time, it seemed like the French might yet carry the day in spite of it all.

Temeraire dove beneath the cliff-line, out of sight of those fighting on the ground, and the sound of thunder again assailed their ears. This time, it was not like lightning had struck beside them, instead a long, echoing rumble coming from below the cliffs.

Seconds later, Temeraire winged his way up into sight again, moving on to the next transport. Less than half of the Dragons who had chased him down to the sea rose up into view again, and of those who did, all were injured, having paid the price in blood for foolishly over-extending their pursuit right into the teeth of the Royal Navy, waiting in the channel below with their guns ready.

Worse for the French, too many Dragons had been directed in pursuit of Temeraire, and as he began his run on the next transport, Maximus, Lily, Tarrasque, and a handful of smaller British Dragons formed up to escort him. The French Dragons that had disengaged from them to pursue Temeraire would doubtless return to harry them once more, but for precious seconds, they forced back the defenders of another transport, clearing the way.

Thunder sounded from Temeraire’s chest again, and another transport fell into the sea.

The morale of the French on the ground broke, and while a core around the transport simply tightened their lines, trying to find an opening to use their cannon without cutting down their own men, the flanks broke and ran.

“Into the sea!” Morgan shouted, his voice beginning to strain from all the orders and chanting.

Into the sea!” the British army roared in return, pressing in on the French.

Into the sea!

INTO THE SEA!

((()))

As noon struck, the battle was long over, and the last of the surrendered French shoulders were being put into chains, to be held until parole or ransom was given. The Dragons had all returned to the covert, their many wounds both major and minor being treated by the surgeons.

Non herself was seeing a physician, and while Laurence was not the slightest pleased to find her there, he held his tongue while her left arm was carefully put into a sling.

“’Tis just a dislocation,” the doctor informed him, “Nothing broken, though there is some bruising.”

“Ae’ll be ready t’ serve again right quick, Cap’n,” Non assured him.

“It’ll be two weeks before you take your arm out of that sling,” the doctor said sternly, “Except to clean, and perhaps to sleep. If you strain it further, you could do permanent damage, and permanent dislocations are crippling.

Non frowned, but nodded.

“I can still do desk work,” she said, glaring up at Laurence with defiance in her eyes.

Laurence said nothing, simply watching her with carefully considering eyes, eyes that she struggled not to buckle under the weight of.

“Is Temeraire well?” she asked, conscious of how her diction was fluctuating in quality and control.

“He suffered no serious injury,” Laurence said, speaking at last, “And is jubilant at having served so key a role in turning back the French. Mister Porter tells me you have also played a role in this.”

“I’m good with a rifle,” Non said, “Not hard to shoot a gen’ral, when the bullets go straight.”

Laurence nodded, but said nothing further, waiting until the doctor was finished, then laying a hand on her uninjured shoulder, and gently but firmly leading her to where the more seriously injured soldiers lay, those who had needed treatment first to have even a chance at surviving their wounds.

It was an ugly thing, the ruin that war made of men, even in victory. The fortunate among those men, laid out in rows under pavilions, were merely insensate with pain and laudanum, tightly-bandaged wounds red with blood, but no longer in danger of death. Many were far worse off, fingers, hands, entire limbs missing, some torn off by shot, blade, or claw, some amputated after being damaged too grievously to save.

Then there were those whose circumstances were truly wretched, those who balanced on the edge of death. Burns twisting flesh, eyes destroyed, bandaged faces that would never be able to regain a semblance of humanity.

“I will not condescend to you,” Laurence said stiffly, “I know that you have seen men in such condition before aboard ship. We both know that this is the price of war, even in victory.

“What it is clear you do not understand, is that no man worthy to be called such, will let a woman face such suffering if he has any sane means of preventing it. Do you truly think so little of the sacrifice made to protect you?”

“Ae didnae ask anyone t’ die f’r me,” Non said thickly, staring grimly at the injured men, refusing to let the moisture in her eyes overflow, “Ae kin help.

“Yes,” Laurence said, “You can. And if you are willing to serve as a Longwing Captain, I will not try to deny you should the Aviation Corps select you for captaincy. Captains Harcourt and Roland serve both honorably and ably, and needs must. Please simply understand this-”

Laurence gently turned her to face him, and kneeled down to look her directly in the eye.

“You do not need to set yourself upon this path,” he said, an uncharacteristic edge of passion leaking into his voice, “You are possessed of a capable mind and a deft hand. You can more than adequately contribute to the war effort by your work with accounts and the like. There is no dishonor in such necessary work.”

Non nodded, unable to meet Laurence’s gaze for more than a moment, and gave no verbal reply.

After several long moments passed, Laurence sighed, and stood again, not having expected anything else.

“Let us go to Temeraire,” Laurence said, “He has been worried about you.”

((()))

Two weeks later, the officers and distinguished NCOs who had fought at Dover attended a party in London, to celebrate their victory. A larger but less posh feast was being held the same day at Dover for the enlisted and other ‘common’ participants, but to Non’s considerable disappointment, though not surprise, she was required to attend the party among the nobility.

Captain Devereaux and a hired attendant helped prepare her for the party, a process which took over an hour, and had her feeling sharply envious of Captain Laurence’s ability to simply wear a dress uniform.

The dress that she was stuffed into was obnoxiously cumbersome, and she had never worn a corset before, but after she saw the more elaborate affair that Captain Devereaux draped herself in, she forced herself to accept it.

The French Noblewoman’s dress was much worse.

Even if she managed to look quite elegant in it.

With her hair having finally grown to a length where something appropriately fashionable could be done with it, once Non’s preparations for the party were finished and Devereaux pushed her in front of a mirror, she found herself in the very jarring position of looking into the eyes of a young lady.

The resemblance to her memories of her mother, somewhat fogged by age, struck her like an ax to the chest, and Non found herself wondering how this all had happened.

“Ae shouldnae go,” she croaked.

“...How long has it been, since you saw yourself in a proper mirror?” Devereaux asked gently.

“Two years,” Non said faintly.

The Captain of the Silverfish had a decently-sized mirror in his cabin; Non had seen herself in small hand-mirrors since, but the last time she had seen herself in anything of scale, she had been eleven, not closing on fourteen, and still quite dedicated in pursuing her disguise as a cabin boy.

In this mirror she couldn’t recognize the cabin boy of two years past, or the little girl from so long ago.

“You look lovely,” Devereaux encouraged, “It’s a pity we didn’t have the time to find something in blue, but white does work well with your pale complexion.”

Non shook her head violently.

“Nae,” she said, “If ae go in blue, then shorely sumone will-”

She cut herself off, turning away, but Devereaux suspected she knew how that sentence would have ended.

“Non,” she said gently but firmly, turning the young woman to face her, “If there is good reason you not attend this party, in spite of your name also being on the invitation Captain Laurence received, simply tell me, and I will persuade him that you should be excused.

“Without that reason though, I cannot persuade him, yes?”

Non turned away from the mirror, and grit her teeth. Part of her wanted to speak, but the burning specter of death wrapped itself tight around her throat, and she found her words choked away.

Devereaux sighed sadly, before beginning to pull Non towards the carriage that would take them to the party.

((()))

The party was held in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, and Non was able to avoid notice for most of it via the simple expedient of hiding behind one of the palace guard, partially within the foliage of a tree. Oh, she was in her proper position among the female aviators when they entered and were announced, but it was quite easy to slip off into the crowd, given just how crowded the gardens were.

Unfortunately, her attempt at being a wallflower did not manage to last the whole night; eventually, a certain Lieutenant found her.

“There you are,” Morgan declared, “Step aside, Leonard, I must introduce this young lady to my mother.”

To Non’s considerable shock, the Royal Guardsman did as he was bid, and stepped aside, exposing her to the eyes of Lieutenant Morgan, and-

Non’s eyes went as wide as saucers, and her mouth fell open.

The Queen.

“This is the young woman,” Morgan declared grandly, stepping forward to pat Non on the shoulder, “I was not in position to see her fire the shots myself, of course, but when I found the craftsman I commissioned to ensure the rifles were fit for service, he was quite insistent that Non, Captain Laurence’s secretary, was the one to cut down Lieutenant-General Marcuse, and I’ll eat my hat if she wasn’t the one to take out the French artilleryman during the charge as well.”

Non’s cheeks turned violently red, and the Queen tsked.

“Leonard,” said Her Grace, Queen Marie of the House of Davion, wife of King Michael the First of House Hanover, “Let us give the poor dear some room; I feel like sitting down.”

Leonard saluted silently, and just a few seconds later a path had been politely but firmly cleared to the nearest door into the palace proper. Non, feeling in a daze, allowed herself to be led inside, barely noticing how the (very) tall Queen and her even taller son had the good grace to hide her mostly from the view of the crowd, especially those close enough to be paying attention.

“Now then,” the Queen said once they were inside, and a coterie of servants had seen to it they were all seated, “My son insists that the rifleman, or perhaps rifle-woman, who acted two weeks ago at the Battle of Dover saved his life. This was you?”

Non fidgeted for a few moments, her mouth working as she tried to form words, and almost as importantly, control her diction.

“I fired the rifles,” Non eventually managed, “I am too small for the battle-line, but I have good eyes.”

“A necessity,” the Queen said, “To be able to strike a Frenchman from hundreds of yards away, without hitting a comrade within arm’s reach. It is no small thing, to save the life of a prince.”

“...I didn’t know he was th’ Prince,” Non choked out, “Just th’ handsome officer who helped us ‘side the road.”

“There you go again,” the Queen said with a fond smile, turning and reaching over to tousle her son’s hair; he beamed at the gesture, “Making me proud.”

Non just stared.

“Now,” the Queen continued, “It is both the duty and privilege of a monarch to reward their subjects for distinguished service. Further, it is the honor of every mother to reward those who protect her children. Thus, I am indebted to you thrice over. Whatever it is you want or need, name it, and if it is within the crown’s power, you shall have it.”

Non continued to stare, utterly stunned by the circumstances she found herself in, but the Queen was content to sit and wait patiently, quite understanding of the young woman’s reaction. Morgan didn’t possess his mother’s patience, but he was somewhat off-balance himself, wondering how he had missed what a beautiful young woman Non was in their prior meetings.

He had certainly thought her pretty, but the difference in degree was rather startling in its own right.

“...I,” Non eventually began haltingly, “I have a sister, a-and two brothers.”

“Morgan did mention them in passing,” the Queen said evenly.

“...I want t’ make sure they’re taken care of,” Non said, all in a rush, not sure she would be able to finish if she stopped again.

“I understand you feel rather on the spot,” the Queen said, eyeing Non with a new level of consideration, “And it would be a shame to misunderstand each other, so I will seek to clarify.

“I have offered you the generosity of the crown, and your request is that I ensure that your siblings are properly cared and provided for?”

Non nodded furiously.

“I see,” the Queen said, a warm smile spreading across her face, “You need not worry yourself any further about the quality of care they shall receive. Given the quality of work Mister Porter has done for my son, they have already received a request to take contract with the Royal Armory, bringing that household under royal protection.

“I believe that none of the tutors and physicians responsible for seeing to my son’s upbringing have retired; they shall receive a new task, seeing to the education and care of your siblings.”

A desperately relieved smile broke out on Non’s face; she struggled not to break down into tears.

“Th-thank you, y’r highness,” she said, jerking to her feet and offering the Queen a graceful curtsey.

“It is the least part of returning the service you have paid me,” the Queen replied graciously, “I shall ensure that an eye is kept on your family.”

And I, Marie thought silently, Will keep an eye on you.

((()))

AN: And this is where Non's story in parallel to Laurence's first story ends. There isn't really all that much divergence, as it's really mostly a character story, rather than a larger thing changing greater narratives.

This is, functionally, the first in a loosely-outlined trilogy, and by far the shortest. I have enough interest to perhaps come back to this some day, maybe as early as next year, but I'm going to have to set it aside at least for now.

The reason for that is fairly simple; I pick up side-projects to try to expand my reader base, and at that this project has more or less been a total failure. Those who already read BQ, and maybe a handful of others, have quite enjoyed the fic, but if I'm to succeed as a professional writer, I need to broaden my base, not simply keep leaning on the (very generous) people who currently follow and fund me. In combination with continuing to increase my regular writing output (and hopefully quality), I hope to in the near future have two major projects and one minor going consistently.

This is not going to be the second major project. If those who already follow my writing are sufficiently interested, I'm as open to continuing this on commission as I am any other BQ-related writing, but my 'primary secondary' project for now will have to be something else.
Thank you Lords Fire for sharing you art with us. Will you be linking your new project here, or else where?
 

Users who are viewing this thread

Top