Napoleon Must Die Read Online Free Page B

another ship struck. It had been four hours since the battle started. Smoke was now rising from the L’Orient. Her valiant crew was attempting to fight the guns on both sides at once. A cheer rang out when one British man-of-war, obviously foundering, withdrew from her duel with the French flagship, but it was quickly stifled by the appearance of another, fresh English warship to take her place.
    A stray ball, no one could be sure who had fired it, cut a furrow in the sand a few hundred paces to the right of where they all stood. Several soldiers rushed to examine it. Victoire noted that it was so large that even half-buried, it came up to some of the men’s knees. The battle had moved farther down the line of anchored ships, but now seemed to be coming closer again.
    “It might not be safe to remain here,” Vernet said as he watched the latest casualty wallowing toward them along the shore. The frigate was sinking fast, and the sailors were striving to get free of her before she went down.
    “I’m not afraid,” said Victoire, containing herself so that she did not tremble. “There may be those who need our help.”
    “The fleet needs our help,” said Vernet darkly.
    “Admiral Bruey was caught napping, overconfident,” Berthier added in tones that placed all the blame for the debacle on the naval commander’s shoulders. “I’m just glad we moved most of the supply ships into Alexandria harbor or the fool would have cost us the campaign.”
    “Who could expect this?” Vernet protested. “We should have been prepared.”
    “It’s the way of the British,” Victoire agreed in a lower voice that only Vernet could hear. “Why should we admire their skill when they are doing this?”
    “Who has said we should admire their skill? Still, they should have placed some heavy guns on that island,” Vernet insisted.
    Victoire shook her head, unwilling to reveal that it was her father who had expressed admiration for the British navy, ten years ago. She hated the smell of burning that filled the air. “Foolish people say it, those who do not have to fight them.”
    Vernet glared, his eyes reddened with smoke and wrath. “They have held sway on the ocean too long. They exploit every other nation. Their rule must end.”
    “Yes, yes—and how I regret it will not be today,” said Victoire, raising her hand to her face to brush away her tears, leaving a smear across her cheek. She put her hand into Vernet’s and took solace in his fingers tightening. A body had washed up to the shore. A French sailor, one arm missing and the other flapping as the waves washed past. No one moved off the dune to pull him further ashore. For a very long time they all watched as the rest of their fleet was pounded into ruin.
    Most of their attention was being taken by the L’Orient. Even while black smoke poured from her sides, the flagship continued to fire with visible effect on her English tormentors. When a mast toppled off the gallant ship, Victoire buried her head briefly on Vernet’s shoulder. She remembered a dinner in Alexandria, one held to celebrate their almost bloodless capture of the city. The L’Orient’s captain had sat at their table and asked her to dance. He had been a very good dancer, graceful in the same way as her dance instructor had been years ago. It was hard to picture a man with that captain’s gentle touch amid all the horror.
    Long after midnight, only the L’Orient still fought back with any vigor. Victoire suspected the crews of both sides were near exhaustion, or beyond. They had been fighting for over five hours. A few of the officers that had stood vigil with them had already drifted back to their tents. Most waited, hoping for something miraculous that could snatch victory from such utter defeat. Had not Napoleon led the army to many surprise victories in Italy?
    The explosion, even over a mile distant, was strong enough to drive the tired spectators back a few steps. One moment the L’Orient