But then the quick blue–red–blue–red of the answer shone back at them, and there were more lights coming out on deck as they descended. “Ahoy the ship,” Laurence called, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Ahoy the wing,” came the baffled reply, from the officer of the watch, faint and hard to hear, “and who the devil are you?”
Temeraire hovered carefully overhead; they flung down long knotted ropes, the ends thumping hollowly upon the deck of the ship, and the men began to struggle loose from the harness with excessive haste to be off. “Temeraire, tell them to go carefully, there,” Laurence said sharply. “The harness won’t stand hard use, and their fellows will be next aboard.”
Temeraire rumbled at them low, in German, and the descent calmed a little; still further when one man, missing his grasp, slipped and went tumbling down with a too-loud cry that broke only with the wet melon-thump sound of his head striking against the deck. Afterwards the others went more warily, and below, their officers began to force them back against the ship’s rails and out of the way, using hands and sticks to push them into place instead of shouted orders.
“Is everyone down?” Temeraire asked Laurence; only a handful of the crew were left, up on his back, and at Laurence’s nod, Temeraire carefully let himself down and slipped into the water beside the ship, scarcely throwing up a splash. There was a great deal of noise beginning to rise from the deck, the sailors and soldiers talking at one another urgently and uselessly in their different tongues, and the officers having difficulty reaching one another through the crowd of men; the crew were showing lanterns wildly in every direction.
“Hush!” Temeraire said to them all sharply, putting his head over the side, “and put away those lights; can you not see we are trying to keep quiet? And if any of you do not listen to me or begin to scream, like great children, just because I am a dragon, I will pick you up and throw you overboard, see if I do not,” he added.
“Where is the captain?” Laurence called up, into a perfect silence, Temeraire’s threat having been taken most seriously.
“Will? Is that Will Laurence?” A man in a nightshirt and cap leaned over the side, staring. “The devil, man, did you miss the sea so much you had to turn your dragon into a ship? What is his rating?”
“Gerry,” Laurence said, grinning, “you will do me the kindness to send out every last boat you have to carry the message to the other ships; we are bringing out the garrison, and we must get them embarked by morning, or the French will make the country too hot to hold us.”
“What, the whole garrison?” Captain Stuart said. “How many of them are there?”
“Fifteen thousand, more or less,” Laurence said. “Never mind,” he added, as Stuart began to splutter, “you must pack them in somehow, and at least get them over to Sweden; they are damned brave fellows, and we aren’t leaving them behind. I must get back to ferrying; God only knows how long we have until they notice us.”
Going back to the city they passed over Arkady coming with his own load; the feral leader was nipping at the tails of a couple of the younger members of his flock, keeping them from meandering off the course; he waved his tail-tip at Temeraire as they shot by, Temeraire stretched out full-length and going as fast as he might, as quiet as he might. The courtyard was in controlled havoc, the battalions marching out one after another in parade-ground order to their assigned dragons, boarding them with as little noise as could be managed.
They had marked each dragon’s place with paint on the flagstones, already scratched and trampled by claws and boots. Temeraire dropped into his large corner, and the sergeants and officers began herding the men quickly along: each climbed up the side and thrust his head and shoulders through the highest open loop, getting a grip on the harness with his hands or clinging to the man above, trying for footholds on the harness.
Winston, one of the harness-men, flew over gasping, “Anything that needs fixing, sir?” and ran off instantly on hearing a negative, to the next dragon; Fellowes and his handful of other men were dashing about with similar urgency, repairing loose or broken bits of harness.
Temeraire was ready again; “Mark time,” Laurence called.
“An hour and a quarter, sir,” came back Dyer’s treble; worse than Laurence had hoped, and many of the other dragons were only getting away with their second loads alongside them.
“We will get faster as we go along,” Temeraire said stoutly, and Laurence answered, “Yes; quickly as we can, now—” and they were airborne again.
Tharkay found them again as they dropped their second load of men down to one of the transports in the harbor; he had somehow gotten on deck, and now he came swarming hand-over-hand up the knotted ropes, in the opposite direction from the descending soldiers. “The Fleur-de-Nuit took the sheep, but he did not eat the whole thing,” he said quietly, when he had gotten up to Laurence’s side. “He ate only half, and hid the rest; I do not know it will keep him asleep all night.”
Laurence nodded; there was nothing to be done for it; they had only to keep going, as long as they could.
A suggestion of color was showing in the east, now, and too many men still crowded the lanes of the city, waiting to get aboard. Arkady was showing himself not useless in a time of crisis; he chivvied along his ferals to go quicker, and himself had already managed eight circuits. He came sailing in for his next load even as Temeraire finally lifted away with his seventh: his larger loads took more time to get aboard and disembark. The other ferals too were holding up bravely: the little motley-colored one whom Keynes had patched up, after the avalanche, was showing himself particularly devoted, and ferrying his tiny loads of twenty men with great determination and speed.
There were ten dragons on the decks of the ships, unloading, as Temeraire landed, mostly the larger of the ferals; the next pass would see the city close to empty, Laurence thought, and looked at the sun: it would be a close-run race.
And then abruptly from the French covert rose a small, smoking blue light; Laurence looked in horror as the flare burst over the river: the three dragons who were in transit at the moment squawked in alarm, jerking from the sudden flash of light, and a couple of men fell from their carrying-harnesses screaming to plunge into the river.
“Jump off! Jump, damn you,” Laurence bellowed at the men still climbing down from Temeraire’s harness. “Temeraire!”
Temeraire called it out in German, almost unnecessarily; the men were leaping free from all the dragons, many falling into the water where the ships’ crews began frantically to fish them out. A handful were stuck still on the carrying-harnesses, or clinging to the ropes, but Temeraire waited no longer; the other dragons came leaping into the air behind him, and as a pack they stormed back to the city, past the shouts and now-blazing lanterns of the French encampment.
“Ground crew aboard,” Laurence shouted through his speaking-trumpet as Temeraire came down into the courtyard for the last time, and outside the French guns sounded their first tentative coughing roars. Pratt came running with the last dragon egg in his arms, wrapped and bundled around with padding and oilskin, to be thrust into Temeraire’s belly-rigging; and Fellowes and his men abandoned their makeshift harness-repairs. All the ground crew came swarming aboard with the ease of long practice on the ropes, getting quickly latched to the harness proper.
“All accounted for, sir,” Ferris yelled from farther along Temeraire’s back; he had to use his speaking-trumpet to be audible. Above their heads, the artillery was sounding from the walls, the shorter hollow coughs of howitzers, the whistling whine and fall of mortar shells; in the courtyard, shouting now, Kalkreuth and his aides were directing the last battalions aboard.