Edward Burr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanhonour) wrote2013-03-22 04:19 pm
morethanhonour) wrote2013-03-22 04:19 pm
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The Price of Peace - Chapter Thirteen
The Price of Peace
Book Three
Chapter Thirteen
The name Bird of Heaven was, in David’s opinion, more than little ambitious for the small schooner. She was well past her prime, and her sails showed her age. At one time, he felt sure, she had been splendid. Now, however, she spoke of a grandeur allowed to fade into antiquity. Her captain was a consummate ferryman but without a seaman’s view of vessel and ocean. She sailed with little protest, so he did not worry after her. Within the first hour on board, he and Burr had come up with a list of fifty ways she could be improved, both in terms of sailing and aesthetics.
Still, he welcomed what she symbolised. This was the life he dreamed about now. Even if he tried, though, his father’s influence could likely not find him a ship, not with nine of every ten ships out of service. Others had more patronage, and he would never forgive himself if he gained a ship, full pay and passage back to sea, while more deserving men like Gregory struggled on land.
Gregory’s wedding put at least two mouths to the man’s budget, and Abigail had soon hinted it might be three, a total of five if that were true and Mona’s sisters came to live with him. Even a post-captain’s half-pay would struggle to provide for that spread. He needed full-pay and prize money. Besides, then he would not be eating much of the family’s stores. Gregory needed a return to war. That, sadly, was not in David’s power to give to him. It would come, everyone knew that. Even Burr knew it. When it did, he would do all he could, once again, to promote Gregory’s interests.
David closed his eyes, reminding himself again that he must attend. How easy, though, to claim Abigail fell ill or could not bear the strain of the voyage. Then he could return to Crawford Manor before the ache in his chest became a gaping wound again at the sight of Gregory.
“Good afternoon, Mister Long.” David opened his eyes, turned, and bowed his head in greeting to Joseph Clay. Since the boarding action under Meier, Gregory had thought highly of Clay. Well enough, obviously, to invite him. He welcomed the company at present, certainly. Anything rather than standing alone in silence. Behind him, approaching, was Burr. David nodded to him in greeting, too.
“A fine day for sailing, gentlemen,” David said, offering a warm smile. He looked to the south, where the horizon spread out as far as the eye could see.
Burr followed his gaze and his thoughts. “A finer day for a ship at war, seeking battle for king and country.”
“And prizes,” Clay said with a soft, appreciative laugh. He was, David knew, as much a sailor as either he or Burr.
The three of them stood, lost to the fantasy. There would be no sails appearing on the horizon, no Spanish flag or French banner. No drums would sound, no orders shouted. The roar of guns would not be heard, and sulphur would not flood the air, besiege the senses. The footfall of the crew on deck would remain lazy.
“The things this girl could do properly handled,” Burr at last lamented aloud. “She needn’t inch forward so. She’d put a fine race if pushed.”
David chimed in, “She was built for speed, you can tell. Not overtly. Someone wanted her practical, someone else made her to run.” He smiled faintly, for it was either that or despair. “I heard the captain complain earlier as the expense of all her sail. He barely lets any loose at all. God, to see what she could do.” The others made faint murmurs of assent, and they fell once more into silence consideration of the lot fate had drawn for them with this peace.
‡ ‡ ‡
While the men stood at the bow discussing matters, Abigail sat in a chair provided to her by the first made near the stern. The weather was beautiful, and the captain proved adequate company, a decent distraction from the always circling fear she felt in the pit of her stomach. She had not been to sea since shortly after Native. Even now, she wanted nothing more than to cling to David and pray for it to all be over. She would not burden him so, though.
If they could get through this wedding, she would be grateful. She feared that David might make a scene, even without intending to. He might quarrel with someone, possibly even Gregory. Worse still if he were induced into a duel. No matter who with or why, the beginning of a new life ought not to be stained with blood. He might too obviously leave for even a short while with one of the guests. Any sort of encounter of that nature needed to be avoided in this instance out of respect for the bride and groom, but David’s temperament might well make it that much more likely to occur. He might choose a man to occupy himself with and do it so blatantly as to, even accidentally, cause a confrontation with someone.
In other circumstances, Abigail could, she felt, trust her husband to be discreet enough to allow people to pretend not to notice. With everything this wedding meant, however, she was keenly aware that David’s usual sense of subtlety might be altered for the worse. He was devoted to preserving Gregory’s connection to Mona, she knew, but he might yet prove too hurt to regard his own actions not directly pertaining to Gregory as being able to do the other man any harm.
All she asked, she decided, was that they were capable of seeing their way from the church with no attention paid to David and minimal interaction exchanged between David and Gregory. The less there, the better.
“Sail to port!” the first mate cried, surprising her.
Abigail looked over and saw the tops of masts just barely visible off the horizon. She nearly laughed as her husband, Edward, and Mister Clay hurried over, sharing one glass between them. They knew, as she did, that it was a mail boat or trader or fellow passenger-carrying vessel. Still, they were compelled to seek news as it became easier to see, and she was grateful for their presence.
“I don’t see a flag,” Edward muttered, passing David the glass. He turned to the captain. “Fire a gun or signal for her to identify herself.”
“Don’t have a gun, right enough. Jameson, try to find the flags.”
“Down!” David shouted at the sight of a flash of light, and a ball missed the stern by inches only a few moments later. Abigail didn’t need more to know. This ship, whatever it was, saw them as prey. There was a peace between nations. They must be pirates. A thousand miles away, the conversation continued, reaching her ears as if through cotton.
“Mister Clay, take my wife below with you. Keep her safe, please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I’ll be Henry Joy, sir. We just surrender now, she won’t do more than ransom a family or two. Not that I like it much, but it ain’t too bad.”
“Damn you! You have two officers of His Majesty’s Royal Navy on board in uniform and a woman! Surrender is a last resort, not a first!”
“Abigail, go below with Mister Clay. Abigail. Abigail, please. You’ll be safe, I swear it, but you must go below now. Please, Abigail.”
“Missus Long,” said a gentle voice in her ear as a man ushered her close, “pardon me. We must get you below.” Abigail clung to him as he picked her up.
‡ ‡ ‡
Joseph knelt to set Missus Long on the deck of his cabin. Her arms remained tightly coiled around his neck, so he gave way and sat with her. He stroked her hair, reminded a little of Rebecca.
“These men are political enemies of England,” he whispered. She was likely not listening to him, but he would still seek to lead her to a more peaceful frame of mind, offer reassurances. Perhaps they would even reach her. “They will not harm you. If they board, you are to answer to Missus Clay, just so we may be surer of your safety. I doubt they have any interest in women at all, but they will have even less in one not married to an English officer.” She made no reply, except perhaps to bury deeper into his arms. “But it will not come to that. Mister Burr is fearless, as you well know, and your husband shall allow no harm to come to you. Nor shall I, you have my word.” He heard her sob and hugged her close. She curled up to him like a child. “You ought to pity these pirates for their folly.”
He listened to the noise above deck. He could not hear them clearly, too many voices at once. That told him how little order and discipline had been instilled. Every second spent arguing, however, was time for the United Irishmen to draw nearer. If Edward— and even Long, really— fell into the hands of traitors, there could only be fountains of blood to let flow. They would be killed, certainly, and if he survived, he would have to hunt them down, see the clover fields of their beloved Emerald Isle watered by their blood. Then, surely, they would rebel again, be put down once more, and a new fire fed to spread through the land to cleanse it of all treason. It would, he swore, make the previous encounters look like the play fighting of young boys, should these pirates harm the men here.
‡ ‡ ‡
“Damn you, be silent!” Edward shouted at the top of his voice. There were no guns, no signal flags, and no semblance of command in the face of danger. “I am a commander in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. I am, therefore, taking command of this vessel.” At last, the words seem to penetrate the skulls allowed to thicken. Even man but Long seemed suddenly stunned into utter silence. “Mister Long, you are second-in-command now, am I clear?”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“I want a man at the wheel— bear us due south. Four to the sails— loose every God-damned one of them! We can’t fight, but we can run.”
“And where will you go, sir?” the captain asked.
Edward barely restrained himself from striking a blow. “Duncannon Fort.” Was this man so stupid? Yes, he was. He must be, to suggest first surrender then not even know where a shore battery might be found. He turned on heel, away from him. “Mister Long, I believe I gave orders.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Long called. His voice was no longer the soft lull he used for conversation. Now, it was a quarterdeck boom. “You four, aloft. You, south!”
As Edward went to the larboard stern trailing, one of the crew of Bird of Heaven approached him. He gave a clumsy approximation of a Navy salute, and Edward only just gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. The man’s voice was heavily laden with an Irish accent, and Edward had to restrain himself from shouting at the man for something so clearly out of his control.
“Hannigan, sir,” he said. “Seen her before, the Henry Joy. Ten gun brig, sir. Don’t do no good off-points, what my last captain called. Mean to say, sir, she needs wind at her back or to either side. Between the two, she don’t handle quite so good.”
Edward stopped. He looked at Hannigan and reconsidered his initial assessment. The man was not a proper seaman, and there was little room to truly manoeuvre here, but the information was passed on in good faith. He was trying, which was more than could be said for the captain, who was still standing uselessly idle. Or, Edward considered, maybe that was the best use for the man— to stay out of his way. “Thank you, Mister Hannigan. Will you please remove Mister,” he would not do the man the kindness of calling him by any sort of nautical title, “Hooper to his cabin?”
The task was done, despite the profane shouts of the man. Edward longed for a bosun, a defaulter’s list, and the dear cat. He could make good use of it with this lot, he was certain.
Still, he felt the boat move faster as her sails fell and began to gather wind. Henry Joy’s bow was very visible now, and her sails were being loosed, too. A bow chaser let fly a shot, and it missed Bird of Heaven’s stern by only a point to starboard. With even three or for guns to a side, they could have a hope to scaring her away. As if stood, their only prayer was to race her and win. If she came alongside, they were finished.
Edward prayed. He asked God for their lives. The men of Bird of Heaven did not deserve to die. Admiral Long and his wife should not have to bury their only son. Faith should not have to mourn her brother. Joseph’s family needed him. The Farley family needed him. Every wife, child, sweetheart, or parent of the men on board their boat needed them back. He had to return to Remy. Above all, Abigail must be safe. She could lose nothing more nor have more than this perilous flight to further frighten her. She deserved to be spared more nightmares.
‡ ‡ ‡
Colin Westwood stood behind the wheel of Bird of Heaven, keeping her course as the last of the sails opened. He wasn’t sure if, even once in his whole ten years on her, he’d actually seen her under full sail. She fought him like she never had, but she was gaining a speed he would have never expected from her. They were keeping their lead on the pirates, rather than losing pace to them. Captain Hooper was in a right state, of course, but the boy shouting orders was keeping his command.
Perhaps he wasn’t actually a boy. But after thirty years at sea, most everyone was a boy to him. He’d served his time in the Navy, up until the Americans became their own people and that was settled. The go with the Frogs hadn’t found him, even with their damned press gangs. Still, looking at this lad, he saw what the Navy ought to be, what it vaunted itself as.
Something wrong with him, he knew. Always was. All the trim officers in their pretty uniforms had something to hide. A whoremonger, perhaps, or a pimp himself. Bigamy, even. Or he might be too much a gambler. Might have a secret with that second of his, even. That one, it wasn’t hard. He’d been keen on Hannigan since he first boarded, but there wasn’t any real harm in that. Still, whatever was off about Burr, Westwood found he didn’t mind, not if he kept them out of reach of the brig following close.
For three hours, the pursuit dragged on At last, the fort loomed on the horizon, and Burr had the flag run up reversed. It made due as a distress signal. When Duncannon fired their cannons, Henry Joy seemed to think better of following and changed tack. The crew cheered, Westwood among the loudest voices.
Book Three
Chapter Thirteen
The name Bird of Heaven was, in David’s opinion, more than little ambitious for the small schooner. She was well past her prime, and her sails showed her age. At one time, he felt sure, she had been splendid. Now, however, she spoke of a grandeur allowed to fade into antiquity. Her captain was a consummate ferryman but without a seaman’s view of vessel and ocean. She sailed with little protest, so he did not worry after her. Within the first hour on board, he and Burr had come up with a list of fifty ways she could be improved, both in terms of sailing and aesthetics.
Still, he welcomed what she symbolised. This was the life he dreamed about now. Even if he tried, though, his father’s influence could likely not find him a ship, not with nine of every ten ships out of service. Others had more patronage, and he would never forgive himself if he gained a ship, full pay and passage back to sea, while more deserving men like Gregory struggled on land.
Gregory’s wedding put at least two mouths to the man’s budget, and Abigail had soon hinted it might be three, a total of five if that were true and Mona’s sisters came to live with him. Even a post-captain’s half-pay would struggle to provide for that spread. He needed full-pay and prize money. Besides, then he would not be eating much of the family’s stores. Gregory needed a return to war. That, sadly, was not in David’s power to give to him. It would come, everyone knew that. Even Burr knew it. When it did, he would do all he could, once again, to promote Gregory’s interests.
David closed his eyes, reminding himself again that he must attend. How easy, though, to claim Abigail fell ill or could not bear the strain of the voyage. Then he could return to Crawford Manor before the ache in his chest became a gaping wound again at the sight of Gregory.
“Good afternoon, Mister Long.” David opened his eyes, turned, and bowed his head in greeting to Joseph Clay. Since the boarding action under Meier, Gregory had thought highly of Clay. Well enough, obviously, to invite him. He welcomed the company at present, certainly. Anything rather than standing alone in silence. Behind him, approaching, was Burr. David nodded to him in greeting, too.
“A fine day for sailing, gentlemen,” David said, offering a warm smile. He looked to the south, where the horizon spread out as far as the eye could see.
Burr followed his gaze and his thoughts. “A finer day for a ship at war, seeking battle for king and country.”
“And prizes,” Clay said with a soft, appreciative laugh. He was, David knew, as much a sailor as either he or Burr.
The three of them stood, lost to the fantasy. There would be no sails appearing on the horizon, no Spanish flag or French banner. No drums would sound, no orders shouted. The roar of guns would not be heard, and sulphur would not flood the air, besiege the senses. The footfall of the crew on deck would remain lazy.
“The things this girl could do properly handled,” Burr at last lamented aloud. “She needn’t inch forward so. She’d put a fine race if pushed.”
David chimed in, “She was built for speed, you can tell. Not overtly. Someone wanted her practical, someone else made her to run.” He smiled faintly, for it was either that or despair. “I heard the captain complain earlier as the expense of all her sail. He barely lets any loose at all. God, to see what she could do.” The others made faint murmurs of assent, and they fell once more into silence consideration of the lot fate had drawn for them with this peace.
‡ ‡ ‡
While the men stood at the bow discussing matters, Abigail sat in a chair provided to her by the first made near the stern. The weather was beautiful, and the captain proved adequate company, a decent distraction from the always circling fear she felt in the pit of her stomach. She had not been to sea since shortly after Native. Even now, she wanted nothing more than to cling to David and pray for it to all be over. She would not burden him so, though.
If they could get through this wedding, she would be grateful. She feared that David might make a scene, even without intending to. He might quarrel with someone, possibly even Gregory. Worse still if he were induced into a duel. No matter who with or why, the beginning of a new life ought not to be stained with blood. He might too obviously leave for even a short while with one of the guests. Any sort of encounter of that nature needed to be avoided in this instance out of respect for the bride and groom, but David’s temperament might well make it that much more likely to occur. He might choose a man to occupy himself with and do it so blatantly as to, even accidentally, cause a confrontation with someone.
In other circumstances, Abigail could, she felt, trust her husband to be discreet enough to allow people to pretend not to notice. With everything this wedding meant, however, she was keenly aware that David’s usual sense of subtlety might be altered for the worse. He was devoted to preserving Gregory’s connection to Mona, she knew, but he might yet prove too hurt to regard his own actions not directly pertaining to Gregory as being able to do the other man any harm.
All she asked, she decided, was that they were capable of seeing their way from the church with no attention paid to David and minimal interaction exchanged between David and Gregory. The less there, the better.
“Sail to port!” the first mate cried, surprising her.
Abigail looked over and saw the tops of masts just barely visible off the horizon. She nearly laughed as her husband, Edward, and Mister Clay hurried over, sharing one glass between them. They knew, as she did, that it was a mail boat or trader or fellow passenger-carrying vessel. Still, they were compelled to seek news as it became easier to see, and she was grateful for their presence.
“I don’t see a flag,” Edward muttered, passing David the glass. He turned to the captain. “Fire a gun or signal for her to identify herself.”
“Don’t have a gun, right enough. Jameson, try to find the flags.”
“Down!” David shouted at the sight of a flash of light, and a ball missed the stern by inches only a few moments later. Abigail didn’t need more to know. This ship, whatever it was, saw them as prey. There was a peace between nations. They must be pirates. A thousand miles away, the conversation continued, reaching her ears as if through cotton.
“Mister Clay, take my wife below with you. Keep her safe, please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I’ll be Henry Joy, sir. We just surrender now, she won’t do more than ransom a family or two. Not that I like it much, but it ain’t too bad.”
“Damn you! You have two officers of His Majesty’s Royal Navy on board in uniform and a woman! Surrender is a last resort, not a first!”
“Abigail, go below with Mister Clay. Abigail. Abigail, please. You’ll be safe, I swear it, but you must go below now. Please, Abigail.”
“Missus Long,” said a gentle voice in her ear as a man ushered her close, “pardon me. We must get you below.” Abigail clung to him as he picked her up.
‡ ‡ ‡
Joseph knelt to set Missus Long on the deck of his cabin. Her arms remained tightly coiled around his neck, so he gave way and sat with her. He stroked her hair, reminded a little of Rebecca.
“These men are political enemies of England,” he whispered. She was likely not listening to him, but he would still seek to lead her to a more peaceful frame of mind, offer reassurances. Perhaps they would even reach her. “They will not harm you. If they board, you are to answer to Missus Clay, just so we may be surer of your safety. I doubt they have any interest in women at all, but they will have even less in one not married to an English officer.” She made no reply, except perhaps to bury deeper into his arms. “But it will not come to that. Mister Burr is fearless, as you well know, and your husband shall allow no harm to come to you. Nor shall I, you have my word.” He heard her sob and hugged her close. She curled up to him like a child. “You ought to pity these pirates for their folly.”
He listened to the noise above deck. He could not hear them clearly, too many voices at once. That told him how little order and discipline had been instilled. Every second spent arguing, however, was time for the United Irishmen to draw nearer. If Edward— and even Long, really— fell into the hands of traitors, there could only be fountains of blood to let flow. They would be killed, certainly, and if he survived, he would have to hunt them down, see the clover fields of their beloved Emerald Isle watered by their blood. Then, surely, they would rebel again, be put down once more, and a new fire fed to spread through the land to cleanse it of all treason. It would, he swore, make the previous encounters look like the play fighting of young boys, should these pirates harm the men here.
‡ ‡ ‡
“Damn you, be silent!” Edward shouted at the top of his voice. There were no guns, no signal flags, and no semblance of command in the face of danger. “I am a commander in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. I am, therefore, taking command of this vessel.” At last, the words seem to penetrate the skulls allowed to thicken. Even man but Long seemed suddenly stunned into utter silence. “Mister Long, you are second-in-command now, am I clear?”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“I want a man at the wheel— bear us due south. Four to the sails— loose every God-damned one of them! We can’t fight, but we can run.”
“And where will you go, sir?” the captain asked.
Edward barely restrained himself from striking a blow. “Duncannon Fort.” Was this man so stupid? Yes, he was. He must be, to suggest first surrender then not even know where a shore battery might be found. He turned on heel, away from him. “Mister Long, I believe I gave orders.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Long called. His voice was no longer the soft lull he used for conversation. Now, it was a quarterdeck boom. “You four, aloft. You, south!”
As Edward went to the larboard stern trailing, one of the crew of Bird of Heaven approached him. He gave a clumsy approximation of a Navy salute, and Edward only just gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. The man’s voice was heavily laden with an Irish accent, and Edward had to restrain himself from shouting at the man for something so clearly out of his control.
“Hannigan, sir,” he said. “Seen her before, the Henry Joy. Ten gun brig, sir. Don’t do no good off-points, what my last captain called. Mean to say, sir, she needs wind at her back or to either side. Between the two, she don’t handle quite so good.”
Edward stopped. He looked at Hannigan and reconsidered his initial assessment. The man was not a proper seaman, and there was little room to truly manoeuvre here, but the information was passed on in good faith. He was trying, which was more than could be said for the captain, who was still standing uselessly idle. Or, Edward considered, maybe that was the best use for the man— to stay out of his way. “Thank you, Mister Hannigan. Will you please remove Mister,” he would not do the man the kindness of calling him by any sort of nautical title, “Hooper to his cabin?”
The task was done, despite the profane shouts of the man. Edward longed for a bosun, a defaulter’s list, and the dear cat. He could make good use of it with this lot, he was certain.
Still, he felt the boat move faster as her sails fell and began to gather wind. Henry Joy’s bow was very visible now, and her sails were being loosed, too. A bow chaser let fly a shot, and it missed Bird of Heaven’s stern by only a point to starboard. With even three or for guns to a side, they could have a hope to scaring her away. As if stood, their only prayer was to race her and win. If she came alongside, they were finished.
Edward prayed. He asked God for their lives. The men of Bird of Heaven did not deserve to die. Admiral Long and his wife should not have to bury their only son. Faith should not have to mourn her brother. Joseph’s family needed him. The Farley family needed him. Every wife, child, sweetheart, or parent of the men on board their boat needed them back. He had to return to Remy. Above all, Abigail must be safe. She could lose nothing more nor have more than this perilous flight to further frighten her. She deserved to be spared more nightmares.
‡ ‡ ‡
Colin Westwood stood behind the wheel of Bird of Heaven, keeping her course as the last of the sails opened. He wasn’t sure if, even once in his whole ten years on her, he’d actually seen her under full sail. She fought him like she never had, but she was gaining a speed he would have never expected from her. They were keeping their lead on the pirates, rather than losing pace to them. Captain Hooper was in a right state, of course, but the boy shouting orders was keeping his command.
Perhaps he wasn’t actually a boy. But after thirty years at sea, most everyone was a boy to him. He’d served his time in the Navy, up until the Americans became their own people and that was settled. The go with the Frogs hadn’t found him, even with their damned press gangs. Still, looking at this lad, he saw what the Navy ought to be, what it vaunted itself as.
Something wrong with him, he knew. Always was. All the trim officers in their pretty uniforms had something to hide. A whoremonger, perhaps, or a pimp himself. Bigamy, even. Or he might be too much a gambler. Might have a secret with that second of his, even. That one, it wasn’t hard. He’d been keen on Hannigan since he first boarded, but there wasn’t any real harm in that. Still, whatever was off about Burr, Westwood found he didn’t mind, not if he kept them out of reach of the brig following close.
For three hours, the pursuit dragged on At last, the fort loomed on the horizon, and Burr had the flag run up reversed. It made due as a distress signal. When Duncannon fired their cannons, Henry Joy seemed to think better of following and changed tack. The crew cheered, Westwood among the loudest voices.