Where the Light Falls(106)

Clear was not the first word that André might have used to describe this conversation, but he nodded. “I am at your service, Captain.”

The captain nodded, tapping his chin with the tip of his pipe before eventually muttering: “Good.”

They stood silently, André awaiting his orders for dismissal back to his chores. But the captain wasn’t finished. “You’ve never led men at sea?”

“Not at sea, no, sir.”

“Well, if that little general…that Bonaparte…has his way, there won’t be much of a sea battle to speak of.” The captain turned to André, his red brow creased. He laughed when he read the blatant confusion apparent on André’s face. “Tomorrow, our General Bonaparte wants to do something that hasn’t been done since before the Holy Crusades.”

André swallowed, raising his eyebrows. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what is that?”

The captain exhaled through his nostrils, sending out two lines of smoke. “He wants to capture Malta. Only problem is the current inhabitants, the Knights of Malta, have no intention of giving it to him.”





June 1798

“You know why they call it Malta?” Captain Dueys stood beside André in the bright morning light, one weather-hardened hand leaning on the ship’s railing as the other held the ever-present pipe to his lips.

“No, sir.” André shook his head, eyeing the island before them. “What’s the meaning, sir?”

“Means honey. Ancient Greeks gave it the name.”

André squinted his eyes to gain a better view of the steep, craggy cliffs that jutted up out of the shimmering sapphire water. Against the cloudless blue sky he could just barely make out the silhouette of buildings.

“It’s strategic, sure.” The captain exhaled. “But we don’t need this damned rock. We could just as easily take our objective without it. I think it’s the man’s pride that needs this island. He wants to add one of the most sacred spots in Christendom to his loot.”

Captain Dueys sighed, tobacco-tinged smoke coming out with his exhale. “We’ll find out together whether God is keen on that idea or not. If not God, that salty British rascal Admiral Nelson might have something to say. From the rumors I’ve heard, the damned Brits are out there somewhere, waiting for the right chance to pounce.”

André felt a chill run the length of his spine, in spite of the warm sunlight and mild breeze. Just then a thunderous roar clamored from one of the ships nearby, and André winced instinctively. The men aboard his ship, momentarily knocked off balance by the sudden blast, all looked in the direction of the disturbance.

“Bloody hell, it’s begun already.” Captain Dueys steadied himself on the railing, surveying the surrounding fleet as all around them ships adjusted their sails and slowly tacked toward Malta’s harbor and its capital, Valletta. The old captain grumbled as he studied the fleet through his spyglass. “Almost time.”

He lowered his spyglass and looked at André, his eyes alert with the thrill of the coming battle. Just then another cannon ripped across the sky. The siege of Malta had officially begun.

“Right, it’s time. Valière, when we get close enough to the island, take one of the transport boats off the starboard side with as many men as you can fit. You see them transports rowing into the harbor? Make your way in and join them, see if we can’t find out what the hell is going on here.”

“Yes, sir.” André nodded.

“Oh, and Valière?”

“Sir?”

Dueys looked at him intently. “Today…when my men are looking to you…you are Captain Valière. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” André shifted on his feet, trying not to smile. “Thank you.”

Dueys waved a hand. “Don’t thank me. Just do your job, like you were trained to do.”

André lifted a hand in salute. “Yes, sir.”

The captain offered a quick salute in return before turning to bark orders at the nearby helmsmen.

—

As they approached the island, its gray-brown cliffs spiking up out of the sea like a natural fortress, André took a dozen men and huddled them close in the tiny rowboat that hugged the stern of their larger battleship.

A cannon roared from somewhere behind them, and the noise was followed by a cracking sound where it smashed the tall, sand-colored walls ringing the island. The men looking to André winced. The few with oars began the arduous task of rowing toward the shore.

André drew their focus back on him, trying to steady their nerves. “Right, lads, a few more strokes now and we’ll ride the surf right onto the beach. Keep your muskets up out of the water—your gunpowder will do you no good if it’s doused.”