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breath as the entire English fleet tacked and made for the left end of the French line of battle. Suddenly it seemed that the white-sailed behemoths were coming straight for the beach. The nearest French ships began to fire.
    “Damn, curse them and their spawn,” a voice muttered as the first British ship began to slip around the stem of the last ship on the French left.
    The broadsides from both sides were coming regularly now, making talking even on the beach a chancy thing. Pale smoke was once more rolling toward them and already Victoire’s cheeks stung where a tiny piece of unburnt powder had drifted against it. To her eyes, the fire from the island that was supposed to stop the English from passing on that side seemed very feeble.
    “He’s only put six pounders there,” Desaix moaned. “Those field guns don’t have enough punch to hurt those oaken hulls.”
    He was right, the British men-of-war seemed to be ignoring the frantic efforts of the battery on the island to harm them.
    Another rumble of broadsides came as the first of the English warships turned and brought its broadside to bear on the Conquerant. This made talking impossible. Victoire noticed that a second ship had approached and was firing at this same French warship on its far side. For several minutes the roar of battle rose and fell. To everyone on the shore it was soon apparent that the English gunners were firing almost twice as quickly as the defending Frenchmen, and doing twice as much damage as a result. Already one of the towering masts from the Conquerant had fallen, taking a second with it. She could see that more British ships were approaching the defending line at several points.

    * * *

    Victoire heard Vernet call her name during a rare lull in the three-hour-long naval battle. Gratefully she looked away from the battle. “Here, Vernet!” she cried out, her voice rough.
    He came to her side, his face marred by drifting smuts. He put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “It’s going badly.”
    “Yes, I fear it is,” she said. Another pounding of cannon demanded her attention.
    More British ships were breaking through the French line. Those that had passed around the left side of the defenders were sailing along their rear, firing rapidly. Only an occasional isolated cannon fired at these ships. Two of the French men-of-war, so majestic just a few hours earlier, had lost their masts, and a third was visibly listing and seemed likely to turn turtle. The first English. ship, having run along the bulk of the French line, was still fighting. This time she was easily besting two frigates in an unequal battle that could only have a disastrous end for the frigates.
    One ship, the fourth to pass behind the now sinking hulk that had been the Conquerant, was now crossing in front of those gathered on the dune. Even as she fired a broadside away from them, one man on the deck waved cheerfully at the shore.
    “I shall organize men to fire upon them,” Desaix announced, outraged. He then turned to make good on his oath.
    “Not unless you want us all killed,” Berthier corrected, grabbing the taller general’s arm. His voice was sad, but firm. “Those ships each carry more guns than we have with the entire army, and each throws a shot weighing twenty-four pounds or more. Remember what piff-puffs our battery on the island were?”
    Desaix was still undecided. Victoire sympathized. It was frustrating to stand and watch their comrades-in-arms slaughtered by the English. More so as they had been so confident of victory just a few hours earlier.
    “Besides, they are out of musket range,” a voice from a clump of officers and men watching nearby added. Then the roar made further argument impossible.
    For a long time everyone watched in silence, each hoping some miracle would deliver retribution on Nelson’s fleet, or at least on the ship containing the officer who had been so cheerful even while doling out death and ruin. As they watched, yet