Napoleon Must Die Read Online Free

Victoire thought of the good men, loyal Frenchmen and impressed English peasants, who would soon be dying less than a mile away, and she felt tears well and slide down her cheeks.
    She had climbed to the top of a small dune just behind the bench itself. This placed her high enough to see past the anchored French ships and observe the whole of Aboukir Bay. Ahead and to her left were a small island and one French ship, the Conquerant. Curving away to her right were anchored almost a dozen more of the massive ships of the line. Just visible on her right and closer to the beach were four frigates, staying safely behind the larger ships. It was just after dark, though the nearly full moon lit the bay and the warships anchored there with harsh clarity. The sails of the approaching British squadron were surprisingly bright against the dark waters of the sea beyond. The empty masts of the anchored French line stood in dark contrast to the moonlight and star-filled sky.
    Exhausted as she was from the tension of the day and concern for her still-missing husband, Victoire still found herself wide awake and her pulse pounding as the British ships approached their fleet. She had heard rumors that Nelson, one of the most dreaded sea dogs, commanded the English ships. So fascinated by the unfurling drama, Victoire didn’t notice a number of officers from the camp approach. She jumped slightly when Berthier spoke to another man a few feet behind her.
    “The fleet is anchored so that each attacking British ship will have to face the full force of all their guns.”
    “If they sail directly at their center,” a voice Victoire didn’t recognize answered.
    Turning, she saw that it was the marine officer that had been in charge of the guard detail on the tent.
    “Shouldn’t you be on board the L’Orient?” she asked, while gesturing toward the French ships. The L’ Orient was the largest warship in the French navy, boasting one hundred twenty guns in her broadsides. She was easily half again larger than the ships anchored to either side of her.
    “Too late, madame,” came the reply in a slightly annoyed tone. “Too risky to take a boat out with them so close.”
    “Won’t they be trapped on the far side?” Victoire asked, genuinely curious. She had never seen a naval battle, though her father had recounted a few to her during her childhood.
    “That’s Nelson,” the marine confirmed, as if that answered her question.
    “Come now,” Desaix broke in after a moment’s awkward silence. “Look how one flank is rested on the side of the harbor and the other near that island.”
    “And I see movement on the island,” a red-haired aide named McCaffrey added. Victoire guessed he was part of the Brigade Irlandais, the Wild Geese of the Irish battalion. A few were serving with the artillery.
    “Yes, sound flanks and a firm line. That is the key to victory,” another voice added from the edge of the growing group of officers.
    Victoire recognized the speaker as Jean Lannes, the commander of the division that had taken the brunt of the Mameluke’s charge at the Battle of the Nile. They had not only broken the charge of twice their number of heavy cavalry, but had eventually broken their squares to pursue the survivors. No one chose to disagree with the pronouncement of the hero of their most recent victory.
    The English ships approached in silence. They were still beyond gun range for the French, and were unable to fire forward since nearly all the guns on their ships were aligned in rows along the sides of their hulls. The gun ports of the approaching ships were painted black, making them stand out in contrast to the thick yellow stripes painted along their sides. The water glistened as they cut through it, entering the bay toward the near edge of the immobile line of French ships.
    The English formation broke apart. Each ship was more concerned with closing for battle than maintaining any formation. Victoire could hear an intake of