The Price of War - Chapter Twenty-Five

[morethanhonour]

More Than Honour
Book One: The Price of War
Chapter Twenty-Five

Edward woke to the stench of blood and sweat. The cot he was laid in swung gently, and Edward was aware of the slight weight of a blanket over him. He kicked the cover with his right foot and bent his left leg under him. His right arm moved beneath the fabric, but his left did not respond. Not fully awake, Edward felt panic seize him. He could remember the way the world had spun, and the memory of the pain in his shoulder came quickly. Yet he was aware enough to feel sure the wound should not have called for amputation. More aware, he felt his left hand move against his chest. He touched his arm with the other hand and felt the sling that immobilized the limb. He sighed with relief.

“You are awake, Monsieur. Good.” Any calm Edward felt vanished at the sound of French. What had happened after he fell? Had the latter half of the French line rallied? Had Alexander been taken? Edward looked up, struggling to remember his French. His head felt heavy, and his mind refused to process things as quickly as it ought. Still, he felt sure the man standing over him looked familiar. He could not place him.

“Ah, Mister Burr!” The rich, warm voice of William King pierced the fog of his mind. The man’s thick hand patted his covered knee. “Good lad. How are you feeling?”

They had not been captured. The surgeon would not have been so cheery if they were in French hands. Sleep and drugs began to clear, for he was sure he felt the effects of laudanum, and his mind focused on the Frenchman. He was the first man Edward had pulled from the sea after the destruction of the Orient. Rather than answer the question, Edward asked his own. “What’s happened?”

“Another ship, French of course, destroyed and three surrendered,” King reported with due pleasure. “The rest of the fleet has issued a retreat. Looks like they made it to open water, last I heard, but they’ve quit Egypt, at least.”

Edward nodded. A cup was pressed to his lips by the Frenchman, and he drank. The cool water tasted good, soothed his dry throat, and wet his cracked lips. He sank back into the warmth of the hammock and shut his eyes. The surgeon’s attendant spoke to him in low, gentle tones; Edward could not concentrate enough to translate the foreign words. All he knew was that the flow of the words seemed to accentuate the lulling rock of the cot and let him feel at ease. It was a beautiful language.

When he woke up again, King was busy with another patient. His French assistant was not at hand either. Instead, an emerald-eyed Irishman sat by Edward’s bedside. His smile told of a strain, and Edward felt guilty for being relieved he was aware enough to realise it. However, the man seemed aware, at least. Gone were the horror he had suffered and the distraction it had affected. Doyle touched Edward’s right hand, which had worked itself free from under the covers as he slept. Edward turned his hand to take Doyle’s very gentle.

“Feeling better?” Doyle asked. For a brief moment, he tightened his hold on Edward’s hand. He released the grip and focused his gaze on Edward again. “King says that you should be able to be up properly within a day.”

“Good.” He knew something was troubling Doyle. There were words on the tip of the man’s tongue, he was sure. He could see him wording and rewording whatever it was. Edward met his eyes. “What is it, Doyle?”

“Captain Ball gave us permission.” Doyle sighed. Edward stared at him, confused. Doyle seemed to realise his lack of comprehension and bowed his head. “Carson and me, Burr. We’re going to shore tomorrow to settle the matter. Smith and James,” one of the older midshipmen, Edward remembered, “are his seconds. Carlyle’s been acting for me.” He hesitated. “If you don’t feel up to it, I can ask someone else to come with me. Don’t want you straining yourself with that wound.”

“No. I want to be there, Doyle. Tomorrow, you said? I’ll be there, certainly.” It seemed Lieutenant Smith and Captain Ball had been wrong. Fierce action had not settled the differences between the two men, and the duel was still to happen. He found a morbid fascination taking hold of him at the idea of seeing two men put their lives on the line for personal honour.

“I asked him,” Doyle murmured, studying a portion of the wall beyond Edward, “to withdraw his charge and offer an apology in front of the wardroom officers. I thought he would do it, Burr, but his blood was up. He repeated himself, called me on in front of the captain, and refused to retract the accusation. That was when Captain Ball gave me permission to issue my challenge.”

“The offended party has choice of weapons,” Edward remembered. “What did you pick?”

“Pistols at ten paces.” Doyle closed his eyes, and Edward thought he saw a shadow of the man who had stood at Alexander’s bow and spoken of a dream of death. His shoulders rose and fell as he seemed to shrug off the thought and the spectre. “I don’t want to do it, Burr, not really, but it’s a hard accusation. Treason.”

Edward watched the light from the lanterns cast shadows across Doyle’s face. The man’s determination was written there, but his unease was equally present. Doyle was not a man, Edward thought, to enjoy this sort of thing. Yet, as he said, to be accused of treason was a serious thing. Had he been subject to the same, Edward knew he would have issued the same challenge. It did not have to be bloody, he considered. The two might fire in the other’s direction with no intention to hit and consider the matter so settled. He tried to hope for that, but Carson’s temper and refusal to offer an apology worried him. “I know.” It felt like the right thing to say. “Tomorrow, the matter will be settled.”

“Tomorrow,” Doyle echoed. He tried to smile as he rose. “Thank you, Burr.”

Carson and his party left Alexander first the next morning. The bosun, Audley, rode in the boat with Doyle, Burr, and Carlyle. Audley would under Captain Ball’s orders, officiate the duel and make certain nothing less than legal occurred that could cause dissent between the seconds. Doyle ate nothing, and he sat in the boat in utter silence. Carlyle and Burr followed his example; neither man spoke to the other or their principle.

By the time the parties were assembled on the Egyptian shore, their blue jackets, black neckcloths, and white wool waistcoats removed an in the care of their seconds, the midday sun burned the air. Doyle and Carson stood back to back, each armed with a pistol.

“For the last time, gentlemen,” Audley said, regarding the duellists, “is there no chance for you to be reconciled?” His question was met with silence. He waited, but neither answered. “Very well. You will step out the distance. Five paces, gentlemen.” He counted the steps as the men took them. After fifth step, Doyle and Carson turned to face one another. “I will count to three. Then I will say ‘fire.’ At that word, you may fire at will.” Both men nodded. “One.” They raised the pistols. “Two.” Each man cocked his pistol. “Three.” The duellists aimed. “Fire.”

Both pistols discharged within seconds of each other. Edward watched as Doyle, at the last moment, raised his pistol and aimed to the side of Carson. Doyle staggered. Edward saw red blossom again the white shirt and hurried forward to support the man. Carson surrendered his pistol to James, and Carlyle fetched Doyle’s fallen pistol.

“Doyle,” Edward whispered. “My God. Doyle.” He sank down as Doyle shook, and the Irishman leaned against him, falling to his knees. The weight made Edward’s shoulder ache, but he was not inclined to protest at the moment. He looked at Carlyle. “Send the boat to get King.”

Doyle chuckled, a strange sound to Edward’s ear. Quietly, he murmured, “‘Sure Ireland’s sons shall ne’er forget the blood that they have shed.’”

“Send for the doctor,” Edward shouted. Doyle had already fainted against Edward; his breathing was shallow. Edward shook him, but Doyle did not wake. There was nothing to be done, Edward realised, except sit there in the sand, cold despite the August heat, and wait for the others to return. He listened to the sound of departing footsteps and heard Carlyle’s voice calling the orders. He looked up. Carson, Audley, and James had gone with Carlyle. Smith alone remained, his features set into thin lines.

“Damned fool.” Smith approached and crouched down by Edward. He pushed a piece of hair from Doyle’s face and trailed his fingers down to the man’s neck to feel for a pulse. “He should have known better.”

“Sir?” Edward struggled to get the word to leave him. He could feel Doyle’s blood soaking through his coat as he held the other man to him. He could not, though, bring himself to care. He met Smith’s eyes.

“They’ve been at it for months, Doyle and Carson,” Smith said. “Carson’s just been waiting for Doyle to lose his temper and do this. Finally found the right button to push.”

Edward swallowed hard and nodded. He knew not to say a word about what Doyle had whispered to him when he’d first fallen. To even hint that Carson might have been right was not only inappropriate but also terrifying. Could a United Irishman, he wondered, serve loyally on a British ship of war? Or was his presence somehow treasonous by itself? He put his fingers where Smith’s had been to feel for a pulse. Edward tried to tell himself that he felt a very faint one.

By the time King arrived, Edward could not fool himself. At some point, Doyle had stopped breathing and his pulse had stilled. Edward surrendered the body after a few gentle words from King and the firm hand of Smith’s on his shoulder. Slowly, Edward got to his feet and looked at Smith.

Some hours later, Edward sat alone in the wardroom of Alexander, drinking his ration of rum. He could barely taste the alcohol in the water, but he knew it was there. Supper had tasted bland, even though Carson had eaten his fill with zest. Smith had been absent, invited to dine with the captain. Tomorrow, no doubt, the captains of Admiral Nelson’s fleet would dine together and toast their victories. For tonight, they still saw to their shaken, battered crews and their wounded ships.

“Mister Burr.” The quiet voice of the captain startled Edward, and he hurried to his feet. Captain Ball waved him off after he saluted. “Sit, lad. Sit.”

“Good evening, sir,” Edward managed to say as he obeyed the superior. He glanced up after a moment. Half the French fleet was defeated, the Orient had exploded, Lieutenant Doyle was dead, he had been shot. “Sir.”

“Yes, Mister Burr?”

“Forgive me, sir,” Edward began. Captain Ball nodded and gestured for him to continue. “You were very kind to take me on as a lieutenant on Alexander, sir. I am grateful, and it has been an honour, sir.” Edward paused. What he wanted to say was painfully obvious, and he knew it, yet there was some difficulty in finding the right words to continue.

Fortunately for him, he did not have to struggle long. “I have written to Captain Orr of the Revelation and your prize agent in Plymouth. I have promised Captain Orr that I will see you to Gibraltar and that, after that, it is on your head whether you wait for him there or depart.”

Edward found himself able to smile for the first time that day. Gibraltar was familiar and familiarity, at present, sounded very like safely to Edward’s mind, He could lose himself in the streets he knew well and forget this engagement for at least a short time, until he could join Revelation again. By then, his wounds would be scars to boast about and his memories the stuff of stories. They would be interesting then, not painful. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll see passage to Gibraltar arranged within the week, Mister Burr,” Captain Ball replied. Edward thanked him again, rose, and saluted as the man left the room. Alone again, Edward sank into his seat, ignoring the half-empty cup of grog still sitting in front of him. He had no taste for it.

For four days, Edward watched from the deck of the Alexander as bodies washed onto the shore by the dozen. The sun burned them, and the air was full of the stench of rotting corpses. Every time they seemed to finally be collected and buried, the tide would come in and depart, leaving even more in its wake. Edward realised it was easier to see the enemy like this. Twenty bodies blurred together. He saw only a mass, not men. It was different like this than seeing one man filled by a bullet.

The morning of the fifth day brought an escape. The brig Mutine was being sent to England with Admiral Nelson’s report and her captain had agreed to make a small stop in Gibraltar to convey Edward there. Another set of dispatches, Edward learned, were to travel with Leander, which ought to arrive in England first, having no other errands to see to.

Edward was welcomed onto Mutine as a guest, and his warm reception drove away some of the chill that had settled into his heart over the last week. His first night on board, he dined with the captain, but his mind was too busy sorting and classifying, and clarifying everything that had happened since the boarding of the Nymphe that he committed nothing new to memory. Captain Hardy was a fine man who kept a good table and was free with his wine. Beyond that, Edward was not sure and did not trouble himself to care.

For the first time since he was thirteen, he wished to be away from the sea.