“Yes,” Laurence said, sparing him; the men had naturally been unhappy at having no part of the action, and the missing four had undoubtedly slipped away to seek better or at least more thorough consolation in a bottle or a woman than could be found in busy-work. He was pleased it was so few, and he did not mean to come the tyrant over them afterwards: he felt at present he had no moral ground on which to stand. “We will manage; but if there are any fellows on the ground crew who are handy with pistol or sword, and not prone to height-sickness, let us get them hooked on if they choose to volunteer.”
He himself had already shifted his coat for the long heavy one of leather used in combat, and was now strapping his carabiner belt over. A low many-voiced roar began, not very far away; Laurence looked up: the smaller dragons were going aloft, and he recognized Dulcia and the grey-blue Nitidus, the end-wing members of their formation, flying in circles as they waited for the others to rise.
“Laurence, are you not ready? Do hurry, please, the others are going up,” Temeraire said, anxiously, craning his head about to look; above them the middle-weight dragons were coming into view also.
Granby swung himself aboard, along with a couple of tall young harness-men, Willoughby and Porter; Laurence waited until he saw them latched onto the rings of the harness and secure, then said, “All is ready; try away.”
This was one ritual that could not in safety be set aside: Temeraire rose up onto his hind legs and shook himself, making certain that the harness was secure and all the men properly hooked on. “Harder,” Laurence called sharply: Temeraire was not being particularly vigorous, in his anxiety to be away.
Temeraire snorted but obeyed, and still nothing pulled loose or fell off. “All lies well; please come aboard now,” he said, thumping to the ground and holding out his foreleg at once; Laurence stepped into the claw and was rather quickly tossed up to his usual place at the base of Temeraire’s neck. He did not mind at all: he was pleased, exhilarated by everything: the deeply satisfying sound as his carabiner rings locked into place, the buttery feel of the oiled, double-stitched leather straps of the harness; and beneath him Temeraire’s muscles were already gathering for the leap aloft.
Maximus suddenly erupted out of the trees to the north of them, his great red-and-gold body even larger than before, as Roland had reported. He was still the only Regal Copper stationed at the Channel, and he dwarfed every other creature in sight, blotting out an enormous swath of the sun. Temeraire roared joyfully at the sight and leapt up after him, black wings beating a little too quickly with over-excitement.
“Gently,” Laurence called; Temeraire bobbed his head in acknowledgment, but they still overshot the slower dragon.
“Maximus, Maximus; look, I am back,” Temeraire called out, circling back down to take his position alongside the big dragon, and they began beating up together to the formation’s flying height. “I took Laurence away from London,” he added triumphantly, in what he likely thought a confidential whisper. “They were trying to arrest him.”
“Did he kill someone?” Maximus asked with interest in his deep echoing voice, not at all disapproving. “I am glad you are back; they have been making me fly in the middle while you were gone, and all the maneuvers are different,” he added.
“No,” said Temeraire, “he only came and talked to me when some fat old man said he should not, which does not seem like any reason to me.”
“You had better shut up that Jacobin of a dragon of yours,” Berkley shouted across from Maximus’s back, while Laurence shook his head in despair, trying to ignore the inquisitive looks from his young ensigns.
“Pray remember we are on business, Temeraire,” Laurence called, trying to be severe; but after all there was no sense in trying to keep it a secret; the news would surely be all over in a week. They would be forced to confront the gravity of their situation soon enough; little enough harm in letting Temeraire indulge in high spirits so long as he might.
“Laurence,” Granby said at his shoulder, “in the hurry, the ammunition was all laid in its usual place on the left, though we are not carrying the bombs to balance it out; we ought to restow.”
“Can you have it done before we engage? Oh, good Lord,” Laurence said, realizing. “I do not even know the position of the convoy; do you?” Granby shook his head, embarrassed, and Laurence swallowed his pride and shouted, “Berkley, where are we going?”
A general explosion of mirth ran among the men on Maximus’s back. Berkley called back, “Straight to Hell, ha ha!” More laughter, nearly drowning out the coordinates that he bellowed over.
“Fifteen minutes’ flight, then.” Laurence was mentally running the calculation through in his head. “And we ought to save at least five of those minutes for grace.”
Granby nodded. “We can manage it,” he said, and clambered down at once to organize the operation, unhooking and rehooking the carabiners with practiced skill from the evenly spaced rings leading down Temeraire’s side to the storage nets slung beneath his belly.
The rest of the formation was already in place as Temeraire and Maximus rose to take their defensive positions at the rear. Laurence noticed the formation-leader flag streaming out from Lily’s back; that meant that during their absence, Captain Harcourt had at last been given the command. He was glad to see the change: it was hard on the signal-ensign to have to watch a wing dragon as well as keep an eye forward, and the dragons would always instinctively follow the lead regardless of formal precedence.
Still, he could not help feeling how strange that he should find himself taking orders from a twenty-year-old girl: Harcourt was still a very young officer, promoted over-quick due to Lily’s unexpectedly early hatching. But command in the Corps had to follow the capabilities of the dragons, and a rare acid-spitter like one of the Longwings was too valuable to place anywhere but the center of a formation, even if they would only accept female handlers.
“Signal from the Admiral: proceed to meeting,” called the signal-ensign, Turner; a moment later the signal formation keep together broke out on Lily’s signal-yard, and the dragons were pressing on, shortly reaching their cruising speed of a steady seventeen knots: an easy pace for Temeraire, but all that the Yellow Reapers and the enormous Maximus could manage comfortably for any length of time.
There was time to loosen his sword in the sheath, and load his pistols fresh; below, Granby was shouting orders over the wind: he did not sound frantic, and Laurence had every confidence in his power to get the work completed in time. The dragons of the covert made an impressive spread, even though this was not so large a force in numbers as had been assembled for the Battle of Dover in October, which had fended off Napoleon’s invasion attempt.
But in that battle, they had been forced to send up every available dragon, even the little couriers: most of the fighting-dragons had been away south at Trafalgar. Today Excidium and Captain Roland’s formation were back in the lead, ten dragons strong, the smallest of them a middle-weight Yellow Reaper, and all of them flying in perfect formation, not a wingbeat out of place: the skill born of many long years in formation together.
Lily’s formation was nothing so imposing, as yet: only six dragons flying behind her, with her flank and end-wing positions held by smaller and more maneuverable beasts with older officers, who could more easily compensate for any errors made from inexperience by Lily herself, or by Maximus and Temeraire in the back line. Even as they drew closer, Laurence saw Sutton, the captain of their mid-wing Messoria, stand up on her back and turn to look over at them, making sure all was well with the younger dragons. Laurence raised a hand in acknowledgment, and saw Berkley doing the same.