D’Campion steeled himself. “I cannot say, Admiral. The trunks are to remain closed on the orders of General Napoleon himself. Their contents are not to be discussed.”
Villeneuve still seemed unimpressed. “They can always be sealed again. Now, hand me your key.”
“Admiral,” D’Campion warned, “the General will not be pleased.”
“The General is not here!” Villeneuve snapped.
Napoleon was already a powerful figure at this time, but he was not yet emperor. The Directory, made up of five men who’d led the Revolution, remained in charge while others jockeyed for power.
Still, D’Campion found it hard to comprehend Villeneuve’s actions. Napoleon was not a man to be trifled with, nor was Admiral Brueys, who was Villeneuve’s direct superior and currently fighting for his life less than a half mile away. Why was Villeneuve bothering with such matters when he should be engaging Nelson?
“The key!” Villeneuve demanded.
D’Campion snapped out of his hesitation and made the prudent decision. He pulled the key from around his neck and handed it over. “I commit the trunks to your care, Admiral.”
“As well you should,” Villeneuve said. “You may leave me.”
D’Campion turned but stopped in his tracks and risked another question. “Are we to join the battle soon?”
The admiral raised an eyebrow as if the question were absurd. “We have no orders to do so.”
“Orders?”
“There have been no signals from Admiral Brueys on L’Orient.”
“Admiral,” D’Campion said, “the English are pounding him from both sides. Surely this is no time to wait for an order.”
Villeneuve stood suddenly and pushed toward D’Campion like a charging bull. “You dare instruct me?!”
“No, Admiral, it’s just—”
“The wind is contrary,” Villeneuve snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “We would have to tack all over the bay to have any hope of joining the fracas. Easier for Admiral Brueys to drift back to our position and allow us to support him. But, as yet, he chooses not to do so.”
“Surely we can’t just sit here?”
Villeneuve snatched a dagger from the top of his desk. “I will kill you where you stand if you speak to me this way again. What do you know about sailing or fighting anyway, Savant?”
D’Campion knew he’d overstepped his bounds. “My apologies, Admiral. It’s been a difficult day.”
“Leave me,” Villeneuve said. “And be thankful we don’t sail into battle yet for I would put you out on the foredeck with a bell around your shoulders for the British to aim at.”
D’Campion stepped back, bowed slightly and left the admiral’s sight as quickly as possible. He went topside, found an empty space along the bow of the ship and watched the carnage in the distance.
Even from a distance he found the ferocity almost staggering to behold. For a period of several hours the two fleets blasted at each other from point-blank range; side-by-side, mast-to-mast, sharpshooters abovedecks trying to kill anyone caught out in the open.
“Ce courage,” D’Campion mused. Such bravery.
But bravery would not be enough. By now, each British ship was firing three or four times for every shot loosed by the French. And, thanks to Villeneuve’s reluctance, they had more ships engaged in the battle.
In the center of the action, three of Nelson’s ships were pounding L’Orient, bludgeoning her into an unrecognizable hulk. Her beautiful lines and towering masts were long gone. Her thick oak sides were splintered and broken. Even as the few remaining cannon sounded, D’Campion could tell she was dying.
D’Campion noticed fires running like quicksilver along her main deck. The wicked flames darted here and there, showing no mercy, as they climbed across the fallen sails and dove down through open hatches and into her hold.
A sudden flash lit out, blinding D’Campion even as he shut his eyes against it. A crack of thunder followed louder than anything D’Campion had ever heard. He was thrown backward by a shock wave that singed his face and burned his hair.
He landed on his side, gasping for air, rolled over several times and tamped out flames on his coat. When he finally looked up, he was shocked.
L’Orient was gone.