The Price of War - Chapter Seventeen

[morethanhonour]

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

The crew of the Nymphe had fought hard. They followed their captain’s example, it seemed to Edward. Of the eight officers she had carried, one alone survived the onslaught. Thirty other Frenchmen were slain. On the British side, two midshipmen were killed, along with fourteen ratings. Nearly thirty men were wounded, while the crew of the Nymphe had just more than forty men badly injured. The captain, the wolf of a man Orr had described, had been killed by the second broadside. Orr never got the chance to cross swords with him, and his precious ship now fell into English hands as a prize.

Twenty men were sent on board Nymphe with Edward. With Lieutenant Martineau’s sword at his side, he mounted the quarterdeck, where the surviving French officer waited. The man had been seen to by his surgeon, his arm stitched and a new jacket found. His face was washed, and Edward could see him now as a man, rather than some sort of Hell-sent creature. His thin features seemed set in an icy demeanor, all the rage long vanished. He was several years older than Edward, likely close to thirty than to twenty. His dark hair had been tamed, and his eyes, viewed in the sunlight and without blood and the fire of battle, glinted green. Those eyes stared into Edward’s for the long moments that they faced one another in the quarterdeck, guarded by two armed Royal Marines.

“My name is Lieutenant Edward Burr.” Edward tried to conceal his smile at the man’s expression. He had not expected to be spoken to by an English officer in French. Edward felt more relieved than ever to have learned a passable amount of French from Jon. “I am in command of this vessel.”

“Lieutenant Jean-Remington Martineau,” the Frenchman replied. He returned the favour of being spoken to in his native language by addressing Edward in English. “I offer my parole. You have my word as an officer that I shall make no attempt to interfere with your men or voyage or command of the Nymphe.” Some of the words came with a halting uncertainty, yet the general fluidity of his speech was remarkable.

While English would be less difficult, Edward remained set on the idea of conducting the niceties of ousting a beaten officer from command in French. “I thank you, Monsieur. I know what your word is worth.” Nothing, if other men in the same position were to be used to judge this man. “Your presence is welcome on deck, but you will be required to go below and be confined to your cabin should we see action.”

“Of course, Monsieur Burr,” Martineau replied. He ducked his head politely, and Edward was aware of the way his eyes lingered on the sword the Englishman still had at his side. He pretended not to notice, and the other did not press the point. “I shall, unless I am needed otherwise, go below.”

“Yes,” Edward said. After a moment, he added, “Monsieur Martineau. Please allow Monsieur Clark to escort you to your cabin.” Though lost by the unfamiliar language, the marine named Richard Clark looked up at hearing his surname. “Mister Clark,” Edward spoke in English to the man, “show Mister Martineau to his cabin. Remain at the door until I send for you or until the lieutenant wishes to join us on deck.” He bowed his head to the foreign officer and returned to French to speak to him, “I hope, Monsieur Martineau, you will give me the pleasure of your company for dinner in a few hours.”

Martineau’s features betrayed him for the barest hint of a second. He liked the idea of dining with Edward as much as Edward enjoyed extending the invitation. Still, neither would offend the other by deviating from what the situation called for as good manners. “I should be honoured,” he answered. After half bows were exchanged between the officers, the Frenchman left the quarterdeck with his armed British escort and went below decks.

Edward put his hand on one spoke of the wheel and briefly closed his eyes. He heard the wind in the sails, the waves against her hull, and he felt the easy with which the ship glided along and the power in her. Nymphe was his.

It took several hours to settle the ship. Edward made use of the four marines Orr had allotted him. One guarded the single officer, another stood sentry before the quarterdeck, a third kept watch over the able-bodied prisoners, and the last was stationed at the sick bay. Edward had not yet paid his respects to the French surgeon, who was minding not only his own crew but some of the wounded English as well. According to Black, the marine supervising him, he worked diligently on every man in his care, regardless of that man’s nation of origin. Edward knew he would have to thank the man when there was time.

Edward breathed. Alone in the captain’s cabin, he finally felt able to do so. The peace would last only a few moments more. Soon, Clark would knock, conveying the beaten lieutenant to the cabin. Roberts, the steward’s mate Orr had let him take as part of his prize crew, would save them from being too long alone in silence by delivering up some meal prepared with the French officers’ stores.

A knock came at the door; Edward braced himself. He called his permission to enter, and Clark came. He saluted and was properly acknowledged. The marine, though, did not hold Edward’s attention. That was focused almost entirely on Martineau, who stood several steps behind, his shoulders drawn back and his head lifted. His pride lent him, Edward felt, a particular grace, even in the humbled position of captivity. It was a kind of confidence that made Edward wary. Leroux and St Henri had both seemed like gentlemen, and neither of them had held to their parole. Edward forced a smile, though, and bowed politely.

“Thank you, Monsieur Martineau,” Edward said in careful French, “for joining me.” The other man concealed a smile, Edward thought. Perhaps it was a laugh. He felt suddenly unsure of the French Jon had taught him. He refused to show any discomfort, though. “Thank you, Mister Clark. You may wait outside,” he said to the marine in English. As Clark left, Edward addressed Martineau in French, “Please, Monsieur, sit.”

“You are very kind, Monsieur Burr.” His smile barely concealed his distaste for the situation. “Would you permit me a few questions while we wait for our dinner?”

“Of course. We have some time on this voyage; it would benefit us to not be strangers.” He hoped, at least, he spoke correctly. Martineau coughed into his hand after Edward thought he saw him hide a smile. Still, the man seemed to take his meaning. The pair sat at the dark, Edward in the captain’s seat behind it, and Martineau sat across from him.

“How old are you?” Martineau asked.

“Nineteen, Monsieur.”

The Frenchman smiled. “So young. This is, then, quite an opportunity for you, Monsieur Burr.” Edward tried not to shift under the scrutiny Martineau regarded him with. “A thirty-eight gun ship, prisoners, and a sail for England. A considerable burden for such young shoulders. I suppose they have the strength for such a task, though, or else you would not have been given it.” Edward watched him. There was something about his smile and tone that made Edward straighten in an attempt to shake off his unease. The French, he decided for the thousandth time, were too peculiar to predict. “You are English, yes? There are others, I believe, in your Navy, who are not.”

“Yes, Monsieur, English,” Edward replied. He would not readily tell anyone, particularly Martineau, that he might be Irish or Welsh or Scottish. The thought briefly troubled him that, truly, he might have American or Spanish or French in him. He frowned a moment but shooed the idea from his mind. He regarded the other man carefully but waited to speak, as the door opened to admit his temporary steward.

“Lamb in crust,” Mister Roberts, a thirty-something man whose plump frame suggested a love of food that Edward always felt spoke well of his cooking abilities, said as he served the meal. “French beans, potatoes, and I thought you and the French officer might enjoy some brandy, sir.”

“Thank you, Mister Roberts. You may leave the bottle,” Edward replied. Martineau thanked the man in French and English before Roberts excused himself. Edward watched Martineau for a moment. “And you, sir? You are…” Edward trailed off, forgetting how he ought to phrase the question. Especially in French, the politics of the inquire seemed too delicate to dare, yet his curiosity would not allow it to remain unasked.

In response, Martineau raised his glass of brandy. “Vive la République,” he replied without hesitation. Edward politely inclined his head. As a subject of King George III, he felt he had to quell his desire to join the toast. He feared, though, he might have betrayed himself with the barest hint of the smile he felt on his face.

“God save the king,” he said for his own toast. Martineau gave the same reply he had, bowing his head a small bit to acknowledge the sentiment. As Edward for him, he did not drink. They could, at least, make the silent agreement to respect what were natural political differences between them.

They ate in relative quiet. Martineau complimented the skill of the cook, and Edward praised the quality of the supplies. Both men agreed on the excellence of the brandy. The meal took three glasses for them each, and conversation began to come with less hesitation. Edward refused to abandon his attempts at French, and Martineau grew more tolerant of the stilted conversation. He even smiled a little as Edward raised his glass.

“To the people,” Edward offered.

“Whatever country they call home,” Martineau answered. They drank to the sentiment.

Edward looked at Martineau again. He was good company, but any kind of friendly impulse that threatened to rise up was choked the moment he could identify it. Questions nagged at him. The ideals of the Republic intrigued him, yet to ask about them seemed to suggest a kind of treason.

“Have you been in the service long, Monsieur Burr?”

“Since I was thirteen. Yourself, Monsieur Martineau?”

“Twelve.” Martineau smiled at the silent question that followed. “Twenty-seven.” Edward raised his glass to the man’s experience, and Martineau chuckled before he drank. A question came, and Edward cocked his head. Martineau repeated himself, but the English officer did not understand. “Your,” he said in English, searching for the word, “seniority. You have held your commission for how long?”

“Six months, sir,” Edward answered. Martineau gave the other man a look over. Edward knew he was being appraised. He was being found too young and too inexperienced. Was he being judged as easy to overpower? Was he seen as a minimal threat to rally the other prisoners again? He swallowed hard and drew himself up in a poor attempt to seem surer of himself. Something in the way Martineau surveyed him made Edward feel the keen desire to retreat. He could not do it, he knew that, but Martineau made him feel like some sort of mouse being eyed by a waiting cat.

“You have the nature for it,” Martineau said. This time, it was the Frenchman who changed the language away from English. Edward managed to smile. The invitation to practice his French was welcome. “Command. It comes to you. Your men respect you, which is rare. Hopefully, you will not disappoint them, Monsieur Burr.” Edward hesitated, trying to decipher whether the last remark was meant as a threat, but Martineau revealed nothing from the set of his features.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Edward replied with as much neutrality as he could manage. “I still have much to learn, I know.”

“Smart, too,” Martineau replied, raising his glass to Edward. “Only a fool, Monsieur Burr, thinks he had no more to learn.” He smiled again. “You will go far, I think, if you keep your head.” The last was said in English.

Edward eyed Martineau. The expression was familiar. He used it often enough himself. Yet there was something worrying about hearing the words in French-accented English from a confirmed Republican. They were fond of the guillotine. All of England knew that. If he were taken to France, should the Nymphe be retaken, he might well be put under that blade, killed for serving his country and his king. The corners of Martineau’s lips turned up slightly, and Edward wondered whether the expression was sinister, teasing, or merely amused. Was Martineau aware of how his words might be heard? He must be, Edward decided. He must be aware and relishing his discomfort.

“I hope,” Edward managed, “I shall see my men well-led and safe.”

“The proper British officer.” Martineau chuckled as he said it, levelling a look at Edward that once again made him feel as if he were being examined. Under the gaze of the Frenchman, Edward started to reach for his glass. He hesitated, suddenly wary of drinking more in the presence of this man. Martineau smiled more. “You play cards, Monsieur Burr?”

“A little.”

“Whist?”

A gentleman’s card game, Edward thought. St Henri had played whist, but so had Gerard. “Yes, Monsieur. I know Monsieur Black plays, but we would need four.”

“Fate is with a game, then,” Martineau declared, amused. He laughed at Edward’s expression. “Your Monsieur Black is guarding my surgeon, Monsieur DePaul.” When Edward still stared at him, Martineau chuckled again. “Monsieur DePaul plays well. If he can bear to part from his patients, he will make an excellent fourth. By your leave, of course.”

Edward considered it. Against his better judgement, he went to the door. “Mister Clark, relieve Mister Black and entreat him and Mister DePaul, the surgeon, to join us.”