the private signal if you please, Mr. Turner.” The signal-ensign began running up the pattern of flags that would mark them as a British party; less of a formality in their case, thanks to Temeraire’s unusual appearance.
Shortly they were sighted and identified; the leading British ship fired a handsome salute of nine guns, more perhaps than was strictly due to Temeraire, as he was not an official formation leader. Whether it was misunderstanding or generosity, Laurence was pleased by the attention, and had the riflemen fire off a return salute as they swept by overhead.
The fleet was a stirring sight, with the lean and elegant cutters already leaping across the water to cluster around the flagship in anticipation of the post, and the great ships-of-the-line tacking steadily into the northerly wind to keep their positions, white sails brilliant against the water, colors flying in proud display from every mainmast. Laurence could not resist leaning forward to watch over Temeraire’s shoulder, so far that the carabiner straps drew taut.
“Signal from the flagship, sir,” Turner said, as they drew near enough for the flags to be readable. “Captain come aboard on landing.”
Laurence nodded; no less than he had anticipated. “Pray acknowledge, Mr. Turner. Mr. Granby, I think we will do a pass over the rest of the fleet to the south, while they make ready for us.” The crew of the Hibernia and the neighboring Agincourt had begun casting out the floating platforms that would be lashed together to form a landing surface for the dragons, and a small cutter was already moving among them, gathering up the tow-lines. Laurence knew from experience that the operation required some time, and would go no quicker with the dragons circling directly overhead.
By the time they had completed their sweep and returned, the platforms were ready. “Bellmen up above, Mr. Granby,” Laurence ordered; the crew of the lower rigging quickly came scrambling up onto Temeraire’s back. The last few sailors hastily cleared off the deck as Temeraire made his descent, with Nitidus and Dulcia following close upon him; the platform bobbed and sank lower in the water as Temeraire’s great weight came upon it, but the lashings held secure. Nitidus and Dulcia landed at opposite corners once Temeraire had settled himself, and Laurence swung himself down. “Runners, bring the post,” he said, and himself took the sealed envelope of dispatches from Admiral Lenton to Admiral Gardner.
Laurence climbed easily into the waiting cutter, while his runners Roland, Dyer, and Morgan hurried to hand the bags of post over to the outstretched hands of the sailors. He went to the stern; Temeraire was sprawled low to better preserve the balance of the platform, with his head resting upon the edge of the platform very close to the cutter, much to the discomfort of that vessel’s crew. “I will return presently,” Laurence told him. “Pray give Lieutenant Granby the word if you require anything.”
“I will, but I do not think I will need to; I am perfectly well,” Temeraire answered, to startled looks from the cutter’s crew, which only increased as he added, “But if we could go hunting afterwards, I would be glad of it; I am sure I saw some splendid large tunnys on our way.”
The cutter was an elegant, clean-lined vessel, and she bore Laurence to the Hibernia at a pace which he would once have thought the height of speed; now he stood looking out along her bowsprit, running before the wind, and the breeze in his face seemed barely anything.
They had rigged a bosun’s chair over the Hibernia’s side, which Laurence ignored with disdain; his sea-legs had scarcely deserted him, and in any case climbing up the side presented him with no difficulty. Captain Bedford was waiting to greet him, and started in open surprise as Laurence climbed aboard: they had served together in the Goliath at the Nile.
“Good Lord, Laurence; I had no notion of your being here in the Channel,” he said, formal greeting forgotten, and meeting him instead with a hearty handshake. “Is that your beast, then?” he asked, staring across the water at Temeraire, who was in his bulk not much smaller than the seventy-four-gun Agincourt behind him. “I thought he had only just hatched a sixmonth gone.”
Laurence could not help a swelling pride; he hoped that he concealed it as he answered, “Yes, that is Temeraire. He is not yet eight months old, yet he does have nearly his full growth.” With difficulty he restrained himself from boasting