Prince Andrew Philip of York (princeofslyth) wrote in top_shelf, @ 2014-08-18 01:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | book: his majesty's dragon, player: jen |
Who: Andrew Hamilton
What: A new assignment
When: April 8th, 1810
Where: Aerial Command, near Chatham
Warnings: None
“Well, Hamilton?” McLaughlin asked as Andrew came to make his report, puffing on a cigar that turned his cheeks quite red. “What do you have for us?”
“The weather in Astorga is abominable,” Andrew replied, loosening his neck cloth slightly in the warm room and handing his packet of dispatches across the desk. He was not, as many captains were, ruled by formality. “The French haven’t fired a shot - they've no siege guns yet, though they do have the men - but Astorga hasn't the guns to put them off, and they’re not leaving, either, or they hadn’t when we left. I suppose it’s anyone’s guess now; our news is three days old.”
“It’s fresher than anyone else’s,” McLaughlin told him, which didn’t surprise Andrew, with the way couriers were spread thin across Spain and Portugal now, as well as making circuits in Britain. “And you’ll miss the weather in Astorga when you go south. I hear Andalusia’s a misery in the summer.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment, yet. After another few puffs, McLaughlin let the second shoe drop. “The Spanish government, or whatever passes for it, these days, is holed up in Cádiz. You know that already, I’m sure.”
“We had got word,” Andrew said neutrally. It didn’t do to remind a superior that news two months past was so old to a courier it was nearly forgotten by now.
“Yes, well, it’s damned near impossible to get word in or out, with the French watching sky and shore alike. We need to know if they’ve done enough to withstand a siege, should the French try to starve and shoot them out. The only dragons they have there are the ones caught in the retreat, so far as we know, and those can’t be spared, although they’d do some good out in the countryside with those damned guerrillas if we could manage it.”
“Sir,” Andrew agreed, only slightly impatient for his actual assignment, rather than a covert-master’s lecture on the best use of troops.
McLaughlin gave him a look that warned Andrew his tone might have given too much a hint of his private thoughts. Well, and for that, Andrew hadn’t been altogether as discreet as he might.
“Have you had word from Lisbon? How are they doing with those damned trenches?”
“Continuing on, last I heard,” Andrew reported, tone smoothed back to politeness. “They’ve been working for months. There’s a heavyweight there now, borrowed from a formation heading to Madrid.”
“That will help, at least.” McLaughlin puffed thoughtfully, mouth pursed in a frown. “I hope Wellesley – Wellington, rather – knows what he’s about.”
“As do we all, sir.”
McLaughlin sighed. “Well, there’s nothing for it. Here are your orders. Two sets of them—this one is real,” he said, holding up a familiar missive, “and this one,” an identical copy, or so it appeared to Andrew’s eye from this close distance, “is what you give up to the French if you’re captured, or to any bloody Spanish sympathizers, for that matter.”
Andrew paused, partway through reaching for the orders. “Am I to understand we’re meant to be captured, sir?”
McLaughlin snorted. “No, not at all. We can’t spare a dragon, even a courier; there’s few enough to go enough. No, we’ve other men for that. This is just a precaution. We can’t guarantee you’ll make it over safely, and we want to be prepared if you fail.”
Andrew bit the inside of his cheek to keep from replying curtly; first at the belittling of his dragon, and then the insult to their skill. “Yes, sir,” he answered when he’d managed courtesy. “Might I ask where we'll be headed?”
“Cádiz,” McLaughlin told him, which Andrew had been half-expecting by this time, but was still disheartened at hearing. “As soon as possible. Here are the dispatches; I expect there will be some letters for you as well, personal post.”
“Of course.” Andrew was ready to go through the motions of dismissal when McLaughlin’s next words caught him off-guard.
“You’ll go at first light. That should bring you in across the channel with the sun behind you, give you a better chance at landing without being shot out of the sky.”
Andrew’s mind caught on the words. They’d flown from Astorga with only a brief rest at the port to eat before continuing on across the Channel to Dover, and from there to Chatham. Men could doze in the air; dragons could not, and did a great deal more of the work, besides. “Sir,” he protested, careful to modulate his tone as merely inquiring. “We’ve had barely a half-day’s rest.”
“You can make it as far as Dover tonight,” said McLaughlin. “You can leave from there in the morning.”
Andrew knew a dismissal when he heard one. “Yes, sir,” he answered, and accepted both sets of orders to take back to the covert.
He was awaited there, as always. “Well, my dear,” Andrew said regretfully, placing his hand on the warm, dry nose that stretched out to meet him, “you had best manage a little more supper tonight, if you can. I’m afraid we’re going back across the Channel.”