Edward Burr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-03 12:43 am
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-03 12:43 am
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The Price of Glory - Chapter Eleven
More than Honour
Book Two: The Price of Glory
Chapter Eleven
Seven weeks made Joseph no more or less sure of his task on Elegant. There were traces everywhere: phrases in Gaelic between Irish sailors, snatches of songs connected to that movement, and indications of Republican tendencies. However, for every time he thought he had a man, there would be some cause to doubt his motives. While he had no love for the idea, he was coming to understand why some men were inclined to hang all suspected traitors and let God sort the guilty ones from the innocent. He was disinclined to give over any man to Miles whom he was not entirely sure was involved. Miles would break whomever he gave, get the names that might save England. Yet, if he handed over an innocent man, they might damn everyone. He would not take that risk.
He had another month left. As long as things stayed as they were, he would have nothing to report. Miles still owed him his time away from service. He’d go to Gibraltar, spend some short while with Rebecca and Nathaniel, try to rest. There were few things that could help set his mind at ease. The Farley family was high on that list. All he needed was that promised month or two, just a short while to recover himself.
Burr’s remark had gotten him to finish writing the letter he had started months ago to Nathaniel. It was slow to start, disjointed in the middle, and rushed in the end. Still, it said much that needed to be said. He had neglected the task for too long. Hopefully, Nathaniel would forgive the lack of communication. He hadn’t known what to say or how to say it. He sent his regards and apologies to Rebecca, as well, and included an address to which they could send a reply that would not go through Miles. They could have some modicum of private communication.
‡ ‡ ‡
There was nothing more striking than fire at sea. The sight caught him through the glass, and Edward called it out. Elegant drifted closer, and Edward saw the French tricolour fluttering in the slight wind. His heart stopped as he waited for the nameplate to come into view. He saw the burning wreckage and bodies in the water. It was not Orient, the carnage not so pronounced, but he was afraid. He did not breath again until he at last could read Paix on a piece of the stern not wholly sunk. It was not Notre Frieté. It was not Martineau’s ship, not this time.
“My God,” Wright muttered when he came on deck. “Boats in the water, men. I want all the survivors brought on board.”
After an hour, the count was one. A man still lived, faint from hunger, thirst, and blood loss. He held to Hawke, who had pulled him from the sea, like a child, muttering in nearly manic French. Even with Long, Clay, and Edward reassuring him in the same language, it took a quarter of an hour before he was at all coherent.
“Native,” the man managed to stammer. “It was written in English, monsieur.” He looked at Clay, who was examining him closely for injuries. “Native. It came out of nowhere. I don’t even know how many. They took them— the women. Didn’t have many of them on board, but they took them all. None of us saw them before they were on us.”
“Peace,” Clay whispered. In English, he spoke to Hawke. “Take him below, Mister Hawke. I’ll do what I can for him.” From his tone, Edward was fairly sure Clay didn’t think he could do much. Still, he accompanied Hawke below, speaking in calm, even French to his harried, exhausted, likely dying patient.
Edward looked again at the debris and floating corpses, watched floating pieces of timber burn, the flames leaping about in the darkness. He had never suffered from seasickness, but now he felt ill. His stomach twisted, and he flinched as a powder magazine in his imagination exploded. He would have sworn, in that instant, that he was back on board the Alexander. He lurched forward and found himself steadied by Long.
“Burr.” He spoke low, real concern in his voice. “Are you ill?”
Edward slowly shook his head. He wasn’t ill. He felt like he was, but he knew he wasn’t. How to describe it, how to explain what this feeling was, defied him. What he knew was that this helped; bracing himself against Long made him feel steadier. He finally stepped back, and he saw Long’s eyes focused intently on him.
He debated for moment then decided. “Mister Burr, go to your cabin. I want you to lie down for an hour. If you don’t look better by then, I’m sending you to Mister Clay.” He seemed to know Edward was preparing to argue. So, he added, “That’s an order, Mister Burr.”
Edward hesitated. Did Long think he was incapable? Weak? Would he report this to the captain? He wanted to explain himself, but he didn’t know quite how. He couldn’t put into words what was wrong, so he could not assure his superior that it would pass soon. As he looked at Long, though, he did not see judgment or mockery. He saw not pity but understanding. Long did not know the details, but he was aware of some generality. At last, Edward saluted.
“Aye aye, sir.”
‡ ‡ ‡
David knew that look, or at least he knew the family it belonged to. He could not be sure what had happened or what had called it to mind, but he knew. That look was the sort of a man who had seen hell in some form and had been forced, harshly and unexpectedly, to be reminded of it. He had a guess, of course. Burr had seen the Orient, had fetched out survivors from the sea. That seemed the most likely culprit for his sudden uneasiness, given what they had just seen. Sometimes, these things passed on their own. He hoped it would this time. If Burr was too affected, would he prove shy in action? God help them if one of their lieutenants had become a coward.
“Mister Long,” a voice said at his side. He looked at Cairn. He checked the unfriendly impulse he always felt. There was no cause for it, no reason save a sour taste in his mouth at his presence. Cairn always seemed somehow hungry. Attention, promotion, money. If it could be gotten, it seemed he was determined to possess it in droves. Still, the navy was built on encouraging its officers to seek advancement. “Is Mister Burr taken ill?”
“No.” David scolded himself. It might just be concern that made the man ask. Yet, there was something in his dark eyes that set David at unease. “I required him to go below for a time. The deck is yours, Mister Cairn.” He disappeared below in an instant and went to the wardroom at once.
It was blissfully empty, and David enjoyed the silent. No doubt Gregory would come soon, provide him with company and perhaps a game of chess once fully relieved of his French charge, but, for now, David enjoyed the very temporary silence for what it was and for how rare it was to find.
‡ ‡ ‡
Jeffery Cairn smiled to himself. No wonder he hadn’t found anything yet: he’d been looking in the wrong place. He’d been so sure it was Long and Hawke. But, if that were the case, he’d have his proof by now. How foolish, not to even consider it could be Burr. He’d even considered the surgeon, too, with how he and Long got on. It made sense, though. Of course Long would be too smart to pay public attention to his lover. Now, he had seen enough to make him sure. How Burr had leaned on Long, how Long had held him, how they’d obviously quit the deck to secret themselves away.
He’d find proof. An indiscreet letter, likely. One of them would have something. All he needed was one little piece of evidence. Then, he could spend the rest of his life with a handsome income from an admiral’s son eager to keep his secret.
‡ ‡ ‡
If Matthew Henry did not have a fever, the pained Frenchman would be dead by now. There was nothing Joseph hated more than knowing a patient was going to die but being unable to make the process quick and painless. Henry was too coherent to misunderstand whatever course he might take and too simple to recognise that it would be mercy rather than murder. All Joseph could do was wait.
He looked up as footsteps approached. When he saw Long, he saluted. Another hour, another lieutenant come to check in. “No improvement either way, sir,” Joseph said. Long nodded, unsurprised. “Another two or three hours, at least, I’d say.” He was somewhat pleased to see how uncertain Long looked about that prospect. “If you’d like, sir, I can send Mister Barrett if there’s news, so you four can worry about other things.”
Long smiled, though the expression was faint. “It’s no trouble, Mister Clay. I am happy to call.”
Joseph chuckled. “well, I am grateful for the company, certainly.” He thought for a moment before he smiled a little himself. “Perhaps you would care for a game of chess, Mister Long? Or,” his lips quirked a little, and he leaned forward slightly, “is that privilege reserved for Mister Hawke only?” he knew, even as he said it, that where Long was concerned, there were few things exclusive to anyone, even Hawke. He had no interest in Long, but the man was good company. This was their own game, played for sport rather than triumph.
“I would not wish to distract you from your charges.” The chessboard would be retrieved within half an hour. Long turned his head as the Frenchman moaned, slowly reviving from the haze of the surgeon’s sedatives. “Are our stocks so poor he must make all that noise?” One look at his features told Joseph the words were for the possibly-awake feverish man. “Give him laudanum, Mister Clay, at once. That’s an order.” Joseph opened his mouth, but Long stepped close. He lowered his voice. “As much as it takes, mixed with brandy. I’ll bring my spirits ration, too, if it will help.”
Joseph stared for a moment. It was, of course, practical. Merciful, too. Yet, he had not expected it of Long. “Sir—”
Long kept his gaze. “If you need more supplies when we reach port, provide me with a list. I will replace whatever you need to use and more besides.”
“Sir.” Joseph wavered. He might be being bribed, or it might merely be seen as a reward for this act, as well as a way to hide the supplies he spent in this task. He knew, though, that it was for the best. “Aye aye, Mister Long.”
‡ ‡ ‡
The Frenchman was dead by the time Edward called on the sickbay. Henry slept soundly, and Barrett had scurried off somewhere, now that his presence was unlikely to be needed. Edward did not speak to Clay, as he saw him in his cabin, the door barely open. Long was with him, engaged in a game of chess. At least Clay had changed his mind, realised that Long was a good man and a fine officer. A man, Edward felt, with no more to hide than himself. He left them undisturbed, silently wishing them friendship, which seemed forthcoming.
Edward breathed in the Channel air as he emerged on deck. He joined Hawke on the quarterdeck at once, saluting once in his sights. He refused to believe this man might harbour traitorous thoughts either. It seemed, to him, to go against the very core of any officer. Clay and Miles must have gotten unreliable or somehow inaccurate information.
“Our guest has passed, sir,” Edward reported. “I have sent word for the captain when he wakes.”
Hawke nodded. He seemed to consider something, dismiss it, be reminded, think again; he asked, “Was Mister Long present?”
“He was with Mister Clay, sir.” Edward checked his smile when Hawke’s expression did not change. “I did not speak to either of them, sir, as they were deeply involved in a game of chess. Shall I send for Mister Long, sir? Or fetch him myself?” He had not thought of it at the time, but it seemed obvious now that Hawke might wish for more detail about the fate of the deceased man.
“Was the board set in the sick bay?”
“No, sir. They were in Mister Clay’s cabin,” he said. Why that mattered, Edward wasn’t sure, but if his superior wanted to know, he would not lie. What cause was there for it?
“Ah.” There was no misunderstanding Hawke’s frown. For some reason, he disliked this friendly gesture between Long and Clay. Edward worried. Was Clay correct? Was Hawke a traitor? Did he use his friendship with Long for ill? Did he suspect Clay was watching him? Could he fear Long would betray him? Could he be a danger to any or all of them? Edward fought to keep his expression neutral when Hawke’s attention was back on him. “Were you able to see your sweetheart in London, Mister Burr?”
Was this friendly conversation topic sincere? Could it be a sounding to see if he could replace Long, should he ally with the Crown again? Was Hawke really a traitor? Could he know for sure? Perhaps he would relate all this to Clay tomorrow, wait for the opinion of the expert before he committed himself for or against Hawke.
“I was, sir. She was very well, my Anne.” The name itself was common enough. It could do no one any harm. Perhaps he could even be of use to Clay. If he could induce Hawke to speak of his sweetheart, he might manage to uncover something.
“You love her, I see. And she you?”
“Yes, sir,” Edward said with a growing smile. “Very much.”
Hawke seemed ready to smile but could not manage it. “For every pleasure, there is a pain. Mind that, Mister Burr.”
Book Two: The Price of Glory
Chapter Eleven
Seven weeks made Joseph no more or less sure of his task on Elegant. There were traces everywhere: phrases in Gaelic between Irish sailors, snatches of songs connected to that movement, and indications of Republican tendencies. However, for every time he thought he had a man, there would be some cause to doubt his motives. While he had no love for the idea, he was coming to understand why some men were inclined to hang all suspected traitors and let God sort the guilty ones from the innocent. He was disinclined to give over any man to Miles whom he was not entirely sure was involved. Miles would break whomever he gave, get the names that might save England. Yet, if he handed over an innocent man, they might damn everyone. He would not take that risk.
He had another month left. As long as things stayed as they were, he would have nothing to report. Miles still owed him his time away from service. He’d go to Gibraltar, spend some short while with Rebecca and Nathaniel, try to rest. There were few things that could help set his mind at ease. The Farley family was high on that list. All he needed was that promised month or two, just a short while to recover himself.
Burr’s remark had gotten him to finish writing the letter he had started months ago to Nathaniel. It was slow to start, disjointed in the middle, and rushed in the end. Still, it said much that needed to be said. He had neglected the task for too long. Hopefully, Nathaniel would forgive the lack of communication. He hadn’t known what to say or how to say it. He sent his regards and apologies to Rebecca, as well, and included an address to which they could send a reply that would not go through Miles. They could have some modicum of private communication.
‡ ‡ ‡
There was nothing more striking than fire at sea. The sight caught him through the glass, and Edward called it out. Elegant drifted closer, and Edward saw the French tricolour fluttering in the slight wind. His heart stopped as he waited for the nameplate to come into view. He saw the burning wreckage and bodies in the water. It was not Orient, the carnage not so pronounced, but he was afraid. He did not breath again until he at last could read Paix on a piece of the stern not wholly sunk. It was not Notre Frieté. It was not Martineau’s ship, not this time.
“My God,” Wright muttered when he came on deck. “Boats in the water, men. I want all the survivors brought on board.”
After an hour, the count was one. A man still lived, faint from hunger, thirst, and blood loss. He held to Hawke, who had pulled him from the sea, like a child, muttering in nearly manic French. Even with Long, Clay, and Edward reassuring him in the same language, it took a quarter of an hour before he was at all coherent.
“Native,” the man managed to stammer. “It was written in English, monsieur.” He looked at Clay, who was examining him closely for injuries. “Native. It came out of nowhere. I don’t even know how many. They took them— the women. Didn’t have many of them on board, but they took them all. None of us saw them before they were on us.”
“Peace,” Clay whispered. In English, he spoke to Hawke. “Take him below, Mister Hawke. I’ll do what I can for him.” From his tone, Edward was fairly sure Clay didn’t think he could do much. Still, he accompanied Hawke below, speaking in calm, even French to his harried, exhausted, likely dying patient.
Edward looked again at the debris and floating corpses, watched floating pieces of timber burn, the flames leaping about in the darkness. He had never suffered from seasickness, but now he felt ill. His stomach twisted, and he flinched as a powder magazine in his imagination exploded. He would have sworn, in that instant, that he was back on board the Alexander. He lurched forward and found himself steadied by Long.
“Burr.” He spoke low, real concern in his voice. “Are you ill?”
Edward slowly shook his head. He wasn’t ill. He felt like he was, but he knew he wasn’t. How to describe it, how to explain what this feeling was, defied him. What he knew was that this helped; bracing himself against Long made him feel steadier. He finally stepped back, and he saw Long’s eyes focused intently on him.
He debated for moment then decided. “Mister Burr, go to your cabin. I want you to lie down for an hour. If you don’t look better by then, I’m sending you to Mister Clay.” He seemed to know Edward was preparing to argue. So, he added, “That’s an order, Mister Burr.”
Edward hesitated. Did Long think he was incapable? Weak? Would he report this to the captain? He wanted to explain himself, but he didn’t know quite how. He couldn’t put into words what was wrong, so he could not assure his superior that it would pass soon. As he looked at Long, though, he did not see judgment or mockery. He saw not pity but understanding. Long did not know the details, but he was aware of some generality. At last, Edward saluted.
“Aye aye, sir.”
‡ ‡ ‡
David knew that look, or at least he knew the family it belonged to. He could not be sure what had happened or what had called it to mind, but he knew. That look was the sort of a man who had seen hell in some form and had been forced, harshly and unexpectedly, to be reminded of it. He had a guess, of course. Burr had seen the Orient, had fetched out survivors from the sea. That seemed the most likely culprit for his sudden uneasiness, given what they had just seen. Sometimes, these things passed on their own. He hoped it would this time. If Burr was too affected, would he prove shy in action? God help them if one of their lieutenants had become a coward.
“Mister Long,” a voice said at his side. He looked at Cairn. He checked the unfriendly impulse he always felt. There was no cause for it, no reason save a sour taste in his mouth at his presence. Cairn always seemed somehow hungry. Attention, promotion, money. If it could be gotten, it seemed he was determined to possess it in droves. Still, the navy was built on encouraging its officers to seek advancement. “Is Mister Burr taken ill?”
“No.” David scolded himself. It might just be concern that made the man ask. Yet, there was something in his dark eyes that set David at unease. “I required him to go below for a time. The deck is yours, Mister Cairn.” He disappeared below in an instant and went to the wardroom at once.
It was blissfully empty, and David enjoyed the silent. No doubt Gregory would come soon, provide him with company and perhaps a game of chess once fully relieved of his French charge, but, for now, David enjoyed the very temporary silence for what it was and for how rare it was to find.
‡ ‡ ‡
Jeffery Cairn smiled to himself. No wonder he hadn’t found anything yet: he’d been looking in the wrong place. He’d been so sure it was Long and Hawke. But, if that were the case, he’d have his proof by now. How foolish, not to even consider it could be Burr. He’d even considered the surgeon, too, with how he and Long got on. It made sense, though. Of course Long would be too smart to pay public attention to his lover. Now, he had seen enough to make him sure. How Burr had leaned on Long, how Long had held him, how they’d obviously quit the deck to secret themselves away.
He’d find proof. An indiscreet letter, likely. One of them would have something. All he needed was one little piece of evidence. Then, he could spend the rest of his life with a handsome income from an admiral’s son eager to keep his secret.
‡ ‡ ‡
If Matthew Henry did not have a fever, the pained Frenchman would be dead by now. There was nothing Joseph hated more than knowing a patient was going to die but being unable to make the process quick and painless. Henry was too coherent to misunderstand whatever course he might take and too simple to recognise that it would be mercy rather than murder. All Joseph could do was wait.
He looked up as footsteps approached. When he saw Long, he saluted. Another hour, another lieutenant come to check in. “No improvement either way, sir,” Joseph said. Long nodded, unsurprised. “Another two or three hours, at least, I’d say.” He was somewhat pleased to see how uncertain Long looked about that prospect. “If you’d like, sir, I can send Mister Barrett if there’s news, so you four can worry about other things.”
Long smiled, though the expression was faint. “It’s no trouble, Mister Clay. I am happy to call.”
Joseph chuckled. “well, I am grateful for the company, certainly.” He thought for a moment before he smiled a little himself. “Perhaps you would care for a game of chess, Mister Long? Or,” his lips quirked a little, and he leaned forward slightly, “is that privilege reserved for Mister Hawke only?” he knew, even as he said it, that where Long was concerned, there were few things exclusive to anyone, even Hawke. He had no interest in Long, but the man was good company. This was their own game, played for sport rather than triumph.
“I would not wish to distract you from your charges.” The chessboard would be retrieved within half an hour. Long turned his head as the Frenchman moaned, slowly reviving from the haze of the surgeon’s sedatives. “Are our stocks so poor he must make all that noise?” One look at his features told Joseph the words were for the possibly-awake feverish man. “Give him laudanum, Mister Clay, at once. That’s an order.” Joseph opened his mouth, but Long stepped close. He lowered his voice. “As much as it takes, mixed with brandy. I’ll bring my spirits ration, too, if it will help.”
Joseph stared for a moment. It was, of course, practical. Merciful, too. Yet, he had not expected it of Long. “Sir—”
Long kept his gaze. “If you need more supplies when we reach port, provide me with a list. I will replace whatever you need to use and more besides.”
“Sir.” Joseph wavered. He might be being bribed, or it might merely be seen as a reward for this act, as well as a way to hide the supplies he spent in this task. He knew, though, that it was for the best. “Aye aye, Mister Long.”
‡ ‡ ‡
The Frenchman was dead by the time Edward called on the sickbay. Henry slept soundly, and Barrett had scurried off somewhere, now that his presence was unlikely to be needed. Edward did not speak to Clay, as he saw him in his cabin, the door barely open. Long was with him, engaged in a game of chess. At least Clay had changed his mind, realised that Long was a good man and a fine officer. A man, Edward felt, with no more to hide than himself. He left them undisturbed, silently wishing them friendship, which seemed forthcoming.
Edward breathed in the Channel air as he emerged on deck. He joined Hawke on the quarterdeck at once, saluting once in his sights. He refused to believe this man might harbour traitorous thoughts either. It seemed, to him, to go against the very core of any officer. Clay and Miles must have gotten unreliable or somehow inaccurate information.
“Our guest has passed, sir,” Edward reported. “I have sent word for the captain when he wakes.”
Hawke nodded. He seemed to consider something, dismiss it, be reminded, think again; he asked, “Was Mister Long present?”
“He was with Mister Clay, sir.” Edward checked his smile when Hawke’s expression did not change. “I did not speak to either of them, sir, as they were deeply involved in a game of chess. Shall I send for Mister Long, sir? Or fetch him myself?” He had not thought of it at the time, but it seemed obvious now that Hawke might wish for more detail about the fate of the deceased man.
“Was the board set in the sick bay?”
“No, sir. They were in Mister Clay’s cabin,” he said. Why that mattered, Edward wasn’t sure, but if his superior wanted to know, he would not lie. What cause was there for it?
“Ah.” There was no misunderstanding Hawke’s frown. For some reason, he disliked this friendly gesture between Long and Clay. Edward worried. Was Clay correct? Was Hawke a traitor? Did he use his friendship with Long for ill? Did he suspect Clay was watching him? Could he fear Long would betray him? Could he be a danger to any or all of them? Edward fought to keep his expression neutral when Hawke’s attention was back on him. “Were you able to see your sweetheart in London, Mister Burr?”
Was this friendly conversation topic sincere? Could it be a sounding to see if he could replace Long, should he ally with the Crown again? Was Hawke really a traitor? Could he know for sure? Perhaps he would relate all this to Clay tomorrow, wait for the opinion of the expert before he committed himself for or against Hawke.
“I was, sir. She was very well, my Anne.” The name itself was common enough. It could do no one any harm. Perhaps he could even be of use to Clay. If he could induce Hawke to speak of his sweetheart, he might manage to uncover something.
“You love her, I see. And she you?”
“Yes, sir,” Edward said with a growing smile. “Very much.”
Hawke seemed ready to smile but could not manage it. “For every pleasure, there is a pain. Mind that, Mister Burr.”