Naomi Novik - Temeraire 1 - His Majesty's Dragon

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Table of Contents
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Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
II
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
III
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
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From the Sketchbook of Sir Edward Howe
Selected extracts from Observations on the Order Draconia in Europe, with Notes on the Oriental
Breeds
Acknowledgments
Praise for His Majesty’s Dragon
Here is an excerpt from the second adventure in the Temeraire series: Throne of Jade
RIDE ALONG WITH THE TEMERAIRE SERIES BY NAOMI NOVIK
Copyright Page
for Charles
sine qua non
Chapter 1
THE DECK OF the French ship was slippery with blood, heaving in the choppy sea; a stroke might as
easily bring down the man making it as the intended target. Laurence did not have time in the heat of the
battle to be surprised at the degree of resistance, but even through the numbing haze of battle-fever and
the confusion of swords and pistol-smoke, he marked the extreme look of anguish on the French
captain’s face as the man shouted encouragement to his men.
It was still there shortly thereafter, when they met on the deck, and the man surrendered his sword, very
reluctantly: at the last moment his hand half-closed about the blade, as if he meant to draw it back.
Laurence looked up to make certain the colors had been struck, then accepted the sword with a mute
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bow; he did not speak French himself, and a more formal exchange would have to wait for the presence
of his third lieutenant, that young man being presently engaged belowdecks in securing the French guns.
With the cessation of hostilities, the remaining Frenchmen were all virtually dropping where they stood;
Laurence noticed that there were fewer of them than he would have expected for a frigate of thirty-six
guns, and that they looked ill and hollow-cheeked.
Many of them lay dead or dying upon the deck; he shook his head at the waste and eyed the French
captain with disapproval: the man should never have offered battle. Aside from the plain fact that the
Reliant would have had the Amitié slightly outgunned and outmanned under the best of circumstances,
the crew had obviously been reduced by disease or hunger. To boot, the sails above them were in a sad
tangle, and that no result of the battle, but of the storm which had passed but this morning; they had
barely managed to bring off a single broadside before the Reliant had closed and boarded. The captain
was obviously deeply overset by the defeat, but he was not a young man to be carried away by his
spirits: he ought to have done better by his men than to bring them into so hopeless an action.
“Mr. Riley,” Laurence said, catching his second lieutenant’s attention, “have our men carry the wounded
below.” He hooked the captain’s sword on his belt; he did not think the man deserved the compliment of
having it returned to him, though ordinarily he would have done so. “And pass the word for Mr. Wells.”
“Very good, sir,” Riley said, turning to issue the necessary orders. Laurence stepped to the railing to
look down and see what damage the hull had taken. She looked reasonably intact, and he had ordered his
own men to avoid shots below the waterline; he thought with satisfaction that there would be no
difficulty in bringing her into port.
His hair had slipped out of his short queue, and now fell into his eyes as he looked over. He impatiently
pushed it out of the way as he turned back, leaving streaks of blood upon his forehead and the sun-
bleached hair; this, with his broad shoulders and his severe look, gave him an unconsciously savage
appearance as he surveyed his prize, very unlike his usual thoughtful expression.
Wells climbed up from below in response to the summons and came to his side. “Sir,” he said, without
waiting to be addressed, “begging your pardon, but Lieutenant Gibbs says there is something queer in
the hold.”
“Oh? I will go and look,” Laurence said. “Pray tell this gentleman,” he indicated the French captain,
“that he must give me his parole, for himself and his men, or they must be confined.”
The French captain did not immediately respond; he looked at his men with a miserable expression.
They would of course do much better if they could be kept spread out through the lower deck, and any
recapture was a practical impossibility under the circumstances; still he hesitated, drooped, and finally
husked, “Je me rends,” with a look still more wretched.
Laurence gave a short nod. “He may go to his cabin,” he told Wells, and turned to step down into the
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hold. “Tom, will you come along? Very good.”
He descended with Riley on his heels, and found his first lieutenant waiting for him. Gibbs’s round face
was still shining with sweat and emotion; he would be taking the prize into port, and as she was a
frigate, he almost certainly would be made post, a captain himself. Laurence was only mildly pleased;
though Gibbs had done his duty reasonably, the man had been imposed on him by the Admiralty and
they had not become intimates. He had wanted Riley in the first lieutenant’s place, and if he had been
given his way, Riley would now be the one getting his step. That was the nature of the service, and he
did not begrudge Gibbs the good fortune; still, he did not rejoice quite so wholeheartedly as he would
have to see Tom get his own ship.
“Very well; what’s all this, then?” Laurence said now; the hands were clustered about an oddly placed
bulkhead towards the stern area of the hold, neglecting the work of cataloguing the captured ship’s
stores.
“Sir, if you will step this way,” Gibbs said. “Make way there,” he ordered, and the hands backed away
from what Laurence now saw was a doorway set inside a wall that had been built across the back of the
hold; recently, for the lumber was markedly lighter than the surrounding planks.
Ducking through the low door, he found himself in a small chamber with a strange appearance. The
walls had been reinforced with actual metal, which must have added a great deal of unnecessary weight
to the ship, and the floor was padded with old sailcloth; in addition, there was a small coal-stove in the
corner, though this was not presently in use. The only object stored within the room was a large crate,
roughly the height of a man’s waist and as wide, and this was made fast to the floor and walls by means
of thick hawsers attached to metal rings.
Laurence could not help feeling the liveliest curiosity, and after a moment’s struggle he yielded to it.
“Mr. Gibbs, I think we shall have a look inside,” he said, stepping out of the way. The top of the crate
was thoroughly nailed down, but eventually yielded to the many willing hands; they pried it off and
lifted out the top layer of packing, and many heads craned forward at the same time to see.
No one spoke, and in silence Laurence stared at the shining curve of eggshell rising out of the heaped
straw; it was scarcely possible to believe. “Pass the word for Mr. Pollitt,” he said at last; his voice
sounded only a little strained. “Mr. Riley, pray be sure those lashings are quite secure.”
Riley did not immediately answer, too busy staring; then he jerked to attention and said, hastily, “Yes,
sir,” and bent to check the bindings.
Laurence stepped closer and gazed down at the egg. There could hardly be any doubt as to its nature,
though he could not say for sure from his own experience. The first amazement passing, he tentatively
reached out and touched the surface, very cautiously: it was smooth and hard to the touch. He withdrew
almost at once, not wanting to risk doing it some harm.
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