The Price of War - Chapter Thirteen

[morethanhonour]

More Than Honour
Book One: The Price of War
Chapter Thirteen

Edward Burr stepped onto the main deck of the French corvette Coeur de Lion. Flanked by Craig, whose face alternated between solemn understanding of the dangerous duty before him and supreme please in being not only trusted with such a thing but having been selected for it, he approached the raised quarterdeck. As they neared it, he leaned in close to whisper to Craig. “Do you speak French, Mister Craig?”

“Yes, sir.”

Edward had assumed as much. He gave a singular nod of approval as he led his junior officer up the steps. “If you would, Mister Craig,” he said, “tell him my name, rank, and that I will accept his surrender.” The captain, though Edward doubted he could be any more than five years his elder, seemed a piece of history. His long hair-- still fashionable in England and common amongst men of Britain’s navy, worn that way even by Edward himself-- seemed out of place, as all the men on his ship wore their hair cropped. His uniform was the same as any Frenchman’s, but Edward needed to distinct clothes to know the air of nobility. Too accomplished a sailor, perhaps, he considered, for the Republicans to oust. Or perhaps he had struck a deal, helped them snare other aristocrats for their guillotine in exchange for his life, a ship, and the sea.

The warmth Edward felt for the French Republic could not hold under thoughts of that machine. Even as a military man, accustomed to the idea of court marital and hanging crimes, his blood ran cold at the thought of beheading men, women, and children. Their only crime in most cases, from Edward’s understanding, was being born into wealth. It was comparable, though not equal, to the tendency of those with money to dismiss those born poor as being unable to amount to anything more than criminals. He could understand claiming the lands and fortunes of the rich when a Republic began, distributing them amongst the deserving, but the cold-blooded execution of one’s countrymen, their wives, and their children made him almost sick.

Craig translated. The French captain spoke, and Edward waited. “Captain Claude St Henri. He offers his surrender and his parole.” At a word from Craig, the man offered his sword, and Edward accepted it.

“Mister Craig, my compliments to Captain St Henri.” Edward eyed the other man carefully. He would not violate the Articles of War, but he also would not risk losing this ship as he had almost seen Virtue lost. “Please conduct the captain and his officers to the wardroom.” Edward looked at the two marines he had brought with him as part of his twenty. “Mister Ryan, accompany Mister Craig and Captain St Henri and his officers. Please stand guard at the wardroom door and wait for further instruction.” He addressed the other red-coated man. “Mister Carter, collect the rest of the crew and see them secured. Do not leave your post until I send specific word. Men, assist Mister Carter. I will send Mister Craig with instructions as to the repairs to the rigging.”

Left alone on the quarterdeck as the men cleared the main deck, separating hands from officers, Edward stood alone. He considered the damage. A new foremast was out of the question, but they were not far from England. The sails on the main and mizzen would answer. There were, though, halyards to be re-rowed, and the top yardarm of the mainmast was in desperate need of being secured. Still, it could wait for a few hours. He would sound the well before long, make sure any damage to her hull was not below the water line and filling the ship. Then the prisoners would need feeding, along with his own crew. The officers would need to be allowed on deck for air and exercise, yet it was imperative that they not be allowed an opportunity to access weapons or rally their men to attempt to take their ship and reverse the positions of captor and captive. Edward swore to not allow that.

Six hours later, Edward sat in the captain’s cabin. He sat with Craig, both dining on rations of bread and beef. One of the men from Spitfire had some moderate skill at cooking. Enough, at least, to provide the crew and their prisoners with something to stave off hunger. It would answer for the week of sailing before them until they could put into London. A week, Edward considered, or two at worst, if the weather proved unkind and the missing mast was too much an obstacle for an easy trip. He hoped, though, that the wind would remain fair and favour the north-by-northwest course he had set his helmsman to follow.

Three days in, St Henri approached Edward on the quarterdeck. He bowed, too low for Edward to feel it could be sincere. The man smiled, but the expression was strained. Edward knew what was coming.

“We are bound for England,” the Frenchman said. His English was good, though heavily accented. His sharp, pale eyes studied Edward, and the lieutenant felt ill at ease. Their destination could be no secret. There was nowhere else to go. Yet he felt a keen dislike for the question.

“I apologize for the inconvenience of your close quarters, Captain, but you should not have to suffer them for more than a week further.” Edward offered his own smile, one he knew looked as false as the one St Henri wore. He did not mention it, but both men knew: the confinement on the ship would merely turn to imprisonment in London or some other town. “I would request, though, that you join myself and Mister Craig for some supper tonight.”

“I am honoured to accept your offer, Mister Burr. may I request the presence, also, of my lieutenant Richard Gerard?”

Edward watched the man and considered the request. It was one, he found upon thinking on it, he might have hoped Orr would have made on his behalf. In the place of St Henri and Gerard, he would hope his captor would accept. With that thought, he made up his mind. he and Craig would simply need to keep their eyes open and their wits about them. Wine would not be had tonight.

Despite the lack of spirits, Edward found himself enjoying the company. He fell silent and listened closely when the conversation between the other three men slipped into easy French. His ear could pick out words and phrases he had heard enough times to make them familiar and give him some inkling of their meaning, but he could not truly understand the flow of words. Still, the voices found their way back to English, and the men talked long after they were finished eating. After a spell, Craig looked at Edward.

“Lieutenant Gerard would like to know, sir, if you play whist,” Craig ventured after the man spoke to him in French.

“Not very well,” Edward replied. He smiled even so. “But I do know the game, and I would consider it a pleasure and an honour to go a rubber with you gentlemen.”

“Perhaps more,” Gerard said. His English was not as easy as St Henri’s, but he knew enough to manage conversation.

St Henri rose. He went to his commandeered desk and fetched a pack of cards from a drawer. Edward thought he paused too long, perhaps checking to see that very few things of his had been gone through. When he returned with the cards, they cut for partners, agreeing to at least three rubbers with the same. Edward was awarded the French lieutenant Gerard for the seat across from him. Gerard was older than St Henri and kept his black hair short. Age and experience marked his face. He made a good partner, Edward quickly decided. While his own talents could not be considered a mastery of the game, Edward was not a poor player. He had learned in Virtue’s midshipmen’s berth, primarily under Ben’s tutelage. Ben was a card-sharp by any man’s standards. So it was that the four passed the time. When all was said and done, St Henri and Craig had won, but only by one or two points every rubber. The battles had been well fought, and Edward had taken several tricks alongside his partner.

After the French officers were shown back to the wardroom, Edward waited for Craig’s return. “Mister Craig. I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Sir?”

“We shall have some time on this voyage and while we wait for Spitfire and Captain Orr in London.” He studied the young man carefully. “I should be most grateful, Mister Craig, if you might endeavour to teach me French. Enough, perhaps, that I shall not be in need of a translator when I next board a prize.” Edward had long since told himself that he was not too proud to ask for help when it was needed, and he knew there was no way he could learn this language himself. An officer ought, he thought, to be able to speak with his enemy in the other man’s language.

While on board, Craig enlisted Gerard as a tutor. The French lieutenant was a patient teacher, and he knew where to start. Within a week, Edward had a decent grasp of the parts of a ship in French. He could manage a very, very basic conversation as well, though haltingly. Gerard perked up the longer he taught. His movements became more animated, and his voice warmed. The more sociable he became, the colder the reception Edward received from St Henri when their paths crossed on the small ship. The captain spoke shortly whenever cause for conversation arose.

St Henri withdrew. He no longer pretended to smile, and on some occasions outright glared across the deck at Edward. The lieutenant found he could not mind. Better the man keep his distance than draw near or fawn where he meant ill. Edward still felt uneasy about the French captain, still waited to see the man with a procured blade, still waited to have to fight the man for his life.

The day came that Edward’s instincts were proven correct. It was a grey day, and the sails had to be reefed against the wind. Only St Henri and Gerard were on deck, of the French crew at least. Despite the weather, St Henri kept his eyes only on Edward. A particular gust of wind caused the ship to pitch violently, and Edward nearly lost his footing. While the British crew saw to the ship and keeping her on course, St Henri acted.

He lunged at Edward, knocking the man onto the deck. French and English mixed in Edward’s ear. A flurry of movement blinded him from everything but the foreign captain’s face. The previously elegant features were contorted into madness, rage, and desperation. What St Henri hoped to accomplish, Edward could not fathom. Even if he was felled, St Henri had only Lieutenant Gerard to take on twenty men to free his crew. Unless, Edward managed to think, Gerard was already releasing them. It was with that thought that Edward managed to regain movement. The heel of his right boot found purchase on the deck, and he threw himself up against St Henri.

One of the man’s hands pressed down against Edward’s throat while the other came down in a punch. The blow connected, and Edward retaliated by jamming his knee into the captain’s stomach. Edward twisted, half rising, and he managed to shove St Henri down. He slammed the man’s shoulders back to strike his head against the deck. Some distracted part of his mind found this amusing: two officers rolling about on the deck like a couple of boys playing at wrestling. Though, this was no game. Edward saw a gleam of metal in St Henri’s hand. it was Edward’s own knife, pulled from his belt.

St Henri moved up and back. Edward could guess his intentions. He fumbled and managed to draw out his sword; he turned himself and jammed the blade up, between St Henri’s ribs and toward his heart. It was only when the blade had sunk in that Edward saw Craig and Gerard, their hands on St Henri’s shoulders to pull him back. Blood spilled across the deck, and Edward felt the blood soak through his uniform coat and onto his waistcoat and shirt.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Craig said to Edward, breathless as Gerard eased St Henri onto the deck. “I was seeing to the sails, sir, a reef tackle caught, and it was ripping. By the time I saw-- I’m sorry, sir.”

“Help me up.” Edward swallowed hard, and he accepted the hand offered. As he steadied himself despite the heaving deck, Craig took his sword, cleaned it, then handed it back. Edward sheathed it. He breathed as he watched Gerard, who pushed Captain St Henri’s eyes shut. Edward sighed. “I’m sorry for his death, Lieutenant Gerard.”

“He attacked you, Mister Burr,” Gerard replied. His voice cracked, and his English was more broken than Edward had ever heard it. “I give you my word, sir, neither I nor any other man on this vessel shall attempt to interfere with your command.”

“I will take your word, Mister Gerard.” Edward felt a strange numbness set in over him. He knew he had killed men before. it was the nature war. However, he had never felt so personally responsible. His life had been on the line. His ship, too, had been in peril. That might have been the more important face, once all was considered. He still felt a chill creep through him, the thought of St Henri not only above him but being dragged back. Edward looked at Lieutenant Gerard, struck suddenly by the man’s lack of accusation, for Edward felt another man might have leveled one. He had stabbed the man’s captain during an act against his parole, certainly, but he had done so, however unintentionally, after the man had been restrained by two others.

Dawn brought the end of the harsh wings and London on the horizon but little comfort to Edward’s thoughts.