Edward Burr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-02 05:00 pm
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-02 05:00 pm
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The Price of Glory - Chapter Four
More than Honour
Book Two: The Price of Glory
Chapter Four
“It’s only a matter of time before he—”
“Greg.”
That one word did more to distract Gregory Hawke than a speech would have. The only thing more jarring would have been the drum calling beat to quarters. As informal and easy as David could be when they were alone, the shortening of his name was a rare thing, reserved for only the most strident causes. What choice did he have, then, but to give the whole of his attention over?
David rose from his chair. Their game of chess had moved from the wardroom to Gregory’s cabin an hour ago and been forgotten after ten minutes. Even as the younger man smiled, Gregory knew too much was wrong. David only smiled like that when he was completely determined to rally Gregory against a bleak situation. Still, the attempt should not be discredited, so Gregory fell silent to let David speak. Perhaps it would even help, if only to soothe him slightly.
“The more we give him, the more he will use. Unless it’s an order, be deaf. Unless it’s a blow, do not flinch. No different than a storm at sea.” Gregory could sense the words to come and wanted to urge David to keep them to himself. “Fighting won’t help anyone, you least of all. Endure it, and it will run its course.” He hated those words, hated the shadows they brought to David’s usually bright eyes and the distance they gave his stare. He looked at David, and David stared back. Finally, the second lieutenant brought himself back to the present. He smiled again, all coyness. “Let me make it easier.” How quick the change seemed to be; how unsettling it always was to see. “Let me offer a little distraction.”
“David.” He meant to sound chiding, meant to dissuade him, but even he knew it was a poor attempt, lacking all conviction.
David ran his thumb down Gregory’s jaw, and his thin, careful hands were already at the fall front of Gregory’s breeches. “Burr still has an hour left on watch. I would be quite lacking if it were to take me that long.”
Gregory opened his mouth. He told himself it was to protest, but when even the faintest of sounds refused to come for that purpose and a soft groan escaped instead, he accepted that he was lost. His surrender was absolute.
‡ ‡ ‡
Even after six days, Edward had seen no bettering of Captain Orr’s mood. The climate of the wardroom, though, managed some semblance of conviviality. They were not often invited to the captain’s cabin, and he likewise made a stranger of himself to their haunt.
The three were each on their second glass of Madeira, chasing a fine pork dinner, which had been accompanied by several types of fish, and the trials and tribulations of the West Indies had been elaborated upon for Edward’s benefit. Long spoke of the food and sights, Hawke of the sailing and women. For his part, Edward regaled them with the story of Nymphe. He spoke candidly about Martineau on the ship and the fierce storm that had threatened them all. Later details he altered— the questioning by the secret court martial, as he’d come to decide the thing had been— and he omitted all of his final interview with the Frenchman, save for the gifting of the sword and the challenge as to his practising. He offered it to his fellows, and Long took a particular interest in it for several moments. When he handed it back, Edward could not help but feel there was something off about his features, something concealed in his expression. Or perhaps that was the wine putting that thought in his head.
“You must tell us about the Nile,” Long said.
Edward watched him. There was no malice, he knew. Were it Long returned with a mention in the Gazette and a medal, he should have said the same thing. Yet, what could he tell? How could he describe the long wait and the mass of ships? What words were there to speak of the Orient’s fate? How was he to make sure to impress upon them the difference between this battle and any others his years at sea had made him party to? He breathed in to stall, to try and find something in his poor, neglected rhetorical skills to give voice to his thoughts.
Hawke saved him. “Quite a bold challenge from your French friend,” he said with a laugh. Was, Edward wondered, the sudden change in subject, back to one he had gaily spoke of, an intentional act of mercy or a mere accident? “You know, it just so happens that Mister Long is an accomplished fencer— your tutor taught you to be a duellist, didn’t he? I thought as much— I’m sure you could convince him, Mister Burr, to offer some instruction, so you can meet Mister Martineau properly in combat should your swords have to cross again.” He chuckled and looked over at Long again.
Long took up the thread. “I would be happy to, certainly. Would that answer, Mister Burr?” If he minded his former prompt being ignored, it did not show. He greeted this topic with as much zeal as he might have talk about the Nile. “Enough, yes, that you would be more than a match for any French swordsman.” A bit much of a boast, and all three of them knew it. Still, it was good among fellow officers drinking and wasting what little free time they were afforded.
“I should be glad of it, sir,” Edward replied.
“Tomorrow, then,” Long announced as he filled the glasses again. “While Mister Hawke instructs the midshipmen in their navigation, I shall see to teaching you something about handling a blade properly. A fine sword like that? Deserves a man who knows how to use it.” The three drank to that sentiment and fell into conversation on other topics.
None of them strayed to the topic they were all eager to discuss, though. There was no promise of silence between them nor was there any guarantee they might not be overheard, even if they were able to keep their counsel. To discuss their captain’s current state might sound, to some, like disloyalty or worse. It was too dangerous to even think about saying a word. Still, it was felt. Each man looked at the others, waiting to hear someone else broach the subject first. It did not happen, and, eventually, they parted ways.
When Hawke had gone, Long met Edward’s gaze. For a few moments, both were silent. Then, Long stood. “Mister Burr,” he said. The words lingered, and Edward knew something was coming. Long let out a soft sigh. “I’ve met Martineau, Mister Burr.” For a moment, Edward sat up a little straighter. Long’s gaze said something he could not fully decipher, and his superiors next words were of little help. “Be careful.”
Edward watched him leave. The warning was unusual. What should he be careful of? Facing Martineau again? That was why he intended to learn swordplay properly. Rather than worry himself over much, Edward drained his glass.
‡ ‡ ‡
The whole of the forecastle was cleared for the second and third lieutenants. Both wore their oldest uniforms in need of the most mending, and they drew their swords. Several of the hands found places to sit, and the officers had removed their coats and passed them to the quartermaster’s care for safekeeping while they practised. The older ratings smiled while the youths regarded the exercise with curiosity. The ship’s boys were completely fascinated. The men faced off.
“I’ve seen you fight,” Long said, eyeing the other. “You have good instincts. You just need to hone your technique, learn to plan. I can try to tell you what to do, or we can polish your skills by simple, repeated practice.” He obviously felt the latter was the better alternative, as he assumed a ready position. When Edward followed, Long flashed a smile. “En garde,” he said before lunging forward.
Edward dodged, though barely. His reply was sloppy, an easily parried thrust that left him half knelt. Long brought his sword to Edward’s throat, looked down at him, then took a step back. His breeding showed, Edward thought. He was a rich man’s son, even if he rarely gave cause to notice it. The ease with which he turned his sword and assumed his former position spoke to the years of formal training. Edward got to his feet, took a similar stance, and watched Long’s first, warned-for thrust. He side-stepped it and slashed; he didn’t foresee Long meeting his strike and forcing his blade down. His weapon disabled, Edward could not recover before Long had stepped forward, the very tip of his sword touching the pewter button of Edward’s waistcoat, right over his heart.
Edward heard a chuckle when a third pass forced him to yield again. Hawke stood with his gaggle of pupils, now released from their studies. Edward took no offense. He could hold his own in a scrap, that was true, but he had never claimed to be on par with a duellist. Seeing the style was a good lesson, though, and he looked to Long as he prepared for a fourth go. However, Long seemed to have caught another idea.
“Amused, Mister Hawke, sir?” he asked. Hawke apparently saw no threat in honesty, for he nodded. Long smiled wider. “Then perhaps Mister Burr will consent to rest for a pass and allow you take his place. Unless, of course,” his voice and look showed his jest, left no room for anyone— least of all Hawke— to read an insult in his words, “you are afraid to cross blades with me, sir.”
Hawke seemed surprised, but he looked at Edward, who grinned and made a gesture of giving way to his superior. A short reprieve was a blessing, really, and he sheathed his sword. A midshipman surrendered his barrel for him to sit, and Edward felt the dull ache of hard work begin to set in. Long would prove a taskmaster, he was sure, but that was the appeal. Now, of course, as Hawke removed his coat and drew his own blade, his only aim was to enjoy for himself what others had just before at his expense. He leaned forward as the two combatants fell into ready positions.
Long allowed his superior the first attack, but he moved back as his opponent stepped forward. He charged, moving two steps forward with a wicked thrust that forced its intended target to take four steps to evade, both back and to the side. Hawke swept for Long’s side, but Long’s sword was ready. He caught the underside of Hawke’s blade and forced it up, twisting Hawke’s arm into an awkward angle. To his credit, Hawke did not drop his weapon. He did retreat to right himself, and Long pursued, keeping him on the defensive.
Long paused, and Hawke thought he saw his chance. He lunged, but Long was waiting. His sword pressed the side of Hawke’s, and the older man briefly faltered in his balance. That was all Long needed. Two strides forward saw him behind his commanding officer, and Long put his sword against the man’s throat. There was no danger, and every spectator knew it. Still, Long held his pose until Hawk chuckled.
“I yield,” he offered.
At those words, Long withdrew his sword, and both men sheathed their weapons. Hawke clapped Long on the shoulder with a look of full affection. Edward had to smile more himself, seeing the display of friendship. It brought Ben to mind and how long it had been since he’d seen his old friend. He hoped he was well. Married, perhaps, with a happy family waiting for him. A proper family: a pretty, faithful wife and merry, healthy children. A whole score of them. He thought of his Anne. His poor, trapped Anne, who would likely never truly be his to claim. But, oh, were she, how happy they would be.
The thoughts, melancholy laced with joy and joy edged with melancholy, were harshly interrupted by the appearance of Captain Orr. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked more like a fiend from Hell than a man. Those who could scattered, leaving only the three officers to face him. Edward did not remain seated.
“What’s this I’ve been told about duelling on my ship?” he snarled, the words running together to a faint degree. Edward wondered who told him and what they’d said. No man on board was stupid enough to think they’d really meant each other harm. “Is this the future of the service, then? Impatient, tempestuous men who are not gentlemen enough to wait for shore to settle their quarrels?”
“Sir,” Edward ventured, “there is no discord here. I asked Mister Long to teach me better swordsmanship, and Mister Hawke wished to show me—”
“It was my idea,” Long interjected, “sir.”
Orr regarded all of them with a calmer fury than before. He fixed Long with a cold expression which was undiminished by the lack of steadiness in his stance. “Very well, Mister Long. If you wish to try and act a proper officer— a poor act at that, I’ll have you damn well know— the proper punishment will be given. The deck is yours.” He paused, either for emphasis or to remember himself. Edward was not quite sure which was more likely. “For the next twenty-four hours.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Long touched his hat in a salute before he collected his coat and went to the quarterdeck. Orr went, too, perhaps to discourage Edward or Hawke from following. It managed that, at least, and Edward frowned.
The change made so little sense to him. Orr did not suffer fools, but he had never struck him as the sort to act like this. He had taken some set against his officers. Had Long, who seemed to suffer the worst of it, certainly, said something between when he had last been on board? Given some offense to the captain without even recalling it? Some harmless remark his superior had misunderstood and taken to heart as an insult? Edward knew one thing: moral could not survive much longer under this.
He pretended not to hear Hawke’s quiet, “Damn him.”
Book Two: The Price of Glory
Chapter Four
“It’s only a matter of time before he—”
“Greg.”
That one word did more to distract Gregory Hawke than a speech would have. The only thing more jarring would have been the drum calling beat to quarters. As informal and easy as David could be when they were alone, the shortening of his name was a rare thing, reserved for only the most strident causes. What choice did he have, then, but to give the whole of his attention over?
David rose from his chair. Their game of chess had moved from the wardroom to Gregory’s cabin an hour ago and been forgotten after ten minutes. Even as the younger man smiled, Gregory knew too much was wrong. David only smiled like that when he was completely determined to rally Gregory against a bleak situation. Still, the attempt should not be discredited, so Gregory fell silent to let David speak. Perhaps it would even help, if only to soothe him slightly.
“The more we give him, the more he will use. Unless it’s an order, be deaf. Unless it’s a blow, do not flinch. No different than a storm at sea.” Gregory could sense the words to come and wanted to urge David to keep them to himself. “Fighting won’t help anyone, you least of all. Endure it, and it will run its course.” He hated those words, hated the shadows they brought to David’s usually bright eyes and the distance they gave his stare. He looked at David, and David stared back. Finally, the second lieutenant brought himself back to the present. He smiled again, all coyness. “Let me make it easier.” How quick the change seemed to be; how unsettling it always was to see. “Let me offer a little distraction.”
“David.” He meant to sound chiding, meant to dissuade him, but even he knew it was a poor attempt, lacking all conviction.
David ran his thumb down Gregory’s jaw, and his thin, careful hands were already at the fall front of Gregory’s breeches. “Burr still has an hour left on watch. I would be quite lacking if it were to take me that long.”
Gregory opened his mouth. He told himself it was to protest, but when even the faintest of sounds refused to come for that purpose and a soft groan escaped instead, he accepted that he was lost. His surrender was absolute.
‡ ‡ ‡
Even after six days, Edward had seen no bettering of Captain Orr’s mood. The climate of the wardroom, though, managed some semblance of conviviality. They were not often invited to the captain’s cabin, and he likewise made a stranger of himself to their haunt.
The three were each on their second glass of Madeira, chasing a fine pork dinner, which had been accompanied by several types of fish, and the trials and tribulations of the West Indies had been elaborated upon for Edward’s benefit. Long spoke of the food and sights, Hawke of the sailing and women. For his part, Edward regaled them with the story of Nymphe. He spoke candidly about Martineau on the ship and the fierce storm that had threatened them all. Later details he altered— the questioning by the secret court martial, as he’d come to decide the thing had been— and he omitted all of his final interview with the Frenchman, save for the gifting of the sword and the challenge as to his practising. He offered it to his fellows, and Long took a particular interest in it for several moments. When he handed it back, Edward could not help but feel there was something off about his features, something concealed in his expression. Or perhaps that was the wine putting that thought in his head.
“You must tell us about the Nile,” Long said.
Edward watched him. There was no malice, he knew. Were it Long returned with a mention in the Gazette and a medal, he should have said the same thing. Yet, what could he tell? How could he describe the long wait and the mass of ships? What words were there to speak of the Orient’s fate? How was he to make sure to impress upon them the difference between this battle and any others his years at sea had made him party to? He breathed in to stall, to try and find something in his poor, neglected rhetorical skills to give voice to his thoughts.
Hawke saved him. “Quite a bold challenge from your French friend,” he said with a laugh. Was, Edward wondered, the sudden change in subject, back to one he had gaily spoke of, an intentional act of mercy or a mere accident? “You know, it just so happens that Mister Long is an accomplished fencer— your tutor taught you to be a duellist, didn’t he? I thought as much— I’m sure you could convince him, Mister Burr, to offer some instruction, so you can meet Mister Martineau properly in combat should your swords have to cross again.” He chuckled and looked over at Long again.
Long took up the thread. “I would be happy to, certainly. Would that answer, Mister Burr?” If he minded his former prompt being ignored, it did not show. He greeted this topic with as much zeal as he might have talk about the Nile. “Enough, yes, that you would be more than a match for any French swordsman.” A bit much of a boast, and all three of them knew it. Still, it was good among fellow officers drinking and wasting what little free time they were afforded.
“I should be glad of it, sir,” Edward replied.
“Tomorrow, then,” Long announced as he filled the glasses again. “While Mister Hawke instructs the midshipmen in their navigation, I shall see to teaching you something about handling a blade properly. A fine sword like that? Deserves a man who knows how to use it.” The three drank to that sentiment and fell into conversation on other topics.
None of them strayed to the topic they were all eager to discuss, though. There was no promise of silence between them nor was there any guarantee they might not be overheard, even if they were able to keep their counsel. To discuss their captain’s current state might sound, to some, like disloyalty or worse. It was too dangerous to even think about saying a word. Still, it was felt. Each man looked at the others, waiting to hear someone else broach the subject first. It did not happen, and, eventually, they parted ways.
When Hawke had gone, Long met Edward’s gaze. For a few moments, both were silent. Then, Long stood. “Mister Burr,” he said. The words lingered, and Edward knew something was coming. Long let out a soft sigh. “I’ve met Martineau, Mister Burr.” For a moment, Edward sat up a little straighter. Long’s gaze said something he could not fully decipher, and his superiors next words were of little help. “Be careful.”
Edward watched him leave. The warning was unusual. What should he be careful of? Facing Martineau again? That was why he intended to learn swordplay properly. Rather than worry himself over much, Edward drained his glass.
‡ ‡ ‡
The whole of the forecastle was cleared for the second and third lieutenants. Both wore their oldest uniforms in need of the most mending, and they drew their swords. Several of the hands found places to sit, and the officers had removed their coats and passed them to the quartermaster’s care for safekeeping while they practised. The older ratings smiled while the youths regarded the exercise with curiosity. The ship’s boys were completely fascinated. The men faced off.
“I’ve seen you fight,” Long said, eyeing the other. “You have good instincts. You just need to hone your technique, learn to plan. I can try to tell you what to do, or we can polish your skills by simple, repeated practice.” He obviously felt the latter was the better alternative, as he assumed a ready position. When Edward followed, Long flashed a smile. “En garde,” he said before lunging forward.
Edward dodged, though barely. His reply was sloppy, an easily parried thrust that left him half knelt. Long brought his sword to Edward’s throat, looked down at him, then took a step back. His breeding showed, Edward thought. He was a rich man’s son, even if he rarely gave cause to notice it. The ease with which he turned his sword and assumed his former position spoke to the years of formal training. Edward got to his feet, took a similar stance, and watched Long’s first, warned-for thrust. He side-stepped it and slashed; he didn’t foresee Long meeting his strike and forcing his blade down. His weapon disabled, Edward could not recover before Long had stepped forward, the very tip of his sword touching the pewter button of Edward’s waistcoat, right over his heart.
Edward heard a chuckle when a third pass forced him to yield again. Hawke stood with his gaggle of pupils, now released from their studies. Edward took no offense. He could hold his own in a scrap, that was true, but he had never claimed to be on par with a duellist. Seeing the style was a good lesson, though, and he looked to Long as he prepared for a fourth go. However, Long seemed to have caught another idea.
“Amused, Mister Hawke, sir?” he asked. Hawke apparently saw no threat in honesty, for he nodded. Long smiled wider. “Then perhaps Mister Burr will consent to rest for a pass and allow you take his place. Unless, of course,” his voice and look showed his jest, left no room for anyone— least of all Hawke— to read an insult in his words, “you are afraid to cross blades with me, sir.”
Hawke seemed surprised, but he looked at Edward, who grinned and made a gesture of giving way to his superior. A short reprieve was a blessing, really, and he sheathed his sword. A midshipman surrendered his barrel for him to sit, and Edward felt the dull ache of hard work begin to set in. Long would prove a taskmaster, he was sure, but that was the appeal. Now, of course, as Hawke removed his coat and drew his own blade, his only aim was to enjoy for himself what others had just before at his expense. He leaned forward as the two combatants fell into ready positions.
Long allowed his superior the first attack, but he moved back as his opponent stepped forward. He charged, moving two steps forward with a wicked thrust that forced its intended target to take four steps to evade, both back and to the side. Hawke swept for Long’s side, but Long’s sword was ready. He caught the underside of Hawke’s blade and forced it up, twisting Hawke’s arm into an awkward angle. To his credit, Hawke did not drop his weapon. He did retreat to right himself, and Long pursued, keeping him on the defensive.
Long paused, and Hawke thought he saw his chance. He lunged, but Long was waiting. His sword pressed the side of Hawke’s, and the older man briefly faltered in his balance. That was all Long needed. Two strides forward saw him behind his commanding officer, and Long put his sword against the man’s throat. There was no danger, and every spectator knew it. Still, Long held his pose until Hawk chuckled.
“I yield,” he offered.
At those words, Long withdrew his sword, and both men sheathed their weapons. Hawke clapped Long on the shoulder with a look of full affection. Edward had to smile more himself, seeing the display of friendship. It brought Ben to mind and how long it had been since he’d seen his old friend. He hoped he was well. Married, perhaps, with a happy family waiting for him. A proper family: a pretty, faithful wife and merry, healthy children. A whole score of them. He thought of his Anne. His poor, trapped Anne, who would likely never truly be his to claim. But, oh, were she, how happy they would be.
The thoughts, melancholy laced with joy and joy edged with melancholy, were harshly interrupted by the appearance of Captain Orr. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked more like a fiend from Hell than a man. Those who could scattered, leaving only the three officers to face him. Edward did not remain seated.
“What’s this I’ve been told about duelling on my ship?” he snarled, the words running together to a faint degree. Edward wondered who told him and what they’d said. No man on board was stupid enough to think they’d really meant each other harm. “Is this the future of the service, then? Impatient, tempestuous men who are not gentlemen enough to wait for shore to settle their quarrels?”
“Sir,” Edward ventured, “there is no discord here. I asked Mister Long to teach me better swordsmanship, and Mister Hawke wished to show me—”
“It was my idea,” Long interjected, “sir.”
Orr regarded all of them with a calmer fury than before. He fixed Long with a cold expression which was undiminished by the lack of steadiness in his stance. “Very well, Mister Long. If you wish to try and act a proper officer— a poor act at that, I’ll have you damn well know— the proper punishment will be given. The deck is yours.” He paused, either for emphasis or to remember himself. Edward was not quite sure which was more likely. “For the next twenty-four hours.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Long touched his hat in a salute before he collected his coat and went to the quarterdeck. Orr went, too, perhaps to discourage Edward or Hawke from following. It managed that, at least, and Edward frowned.
The change made so little sense to him. Orr did not suffer fools, but he had never struck him as the sort to act like this. He had taken some set against his officers. Had Long, who seemed to suffer the worst of it, certainly, said something between when he had last been on board? Given some offense to the captain without even recalling it? Some harmless remark his superior had misunderstood and taken to heart as an insult? Edward knew one thing: moral could not survive much longer under this.
He pretended not to hear Hawke’s quiet, “Damn him.”