The Price of War - Chapter Four

[morethanhonour]

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

“Welcome aboard, Monsieur.” The French word sounded very, very English to Edward’s ear, yet no man would correct Captain Caldwell. Especially not on the quarterdeck of his own ship in front of a surrendering captain. The French captain was a tall, handsome man, even in spite of the vicious scar that ran from just beside his eye to his jaw. Fortune or a good doctor had saved the eye. Even though he was surely the same age as Caldwell, his black hair showed no hint of his years. Despite the two captains, every man on board was thinking of something else. Someone else. Behind the Frenchman was a lovely girl. Her dark hair framed her pale face, and her thick lips were pulled into a pout.

The Frenchman said the same thing three times. Each time, Caldwell stared at him without comprehension. At long last, Clay slid forward and whispered in Caldwell’s ear. The English captain nodded his head significantly to his fellow officer then looked at Clay.

“Tell him that I give my word as an officer and as a gentleman that his daughter shall come to no harm on this ship,” Caldwell said. Clay repeated his words in French, and Edward watched the relief break on the other man’s expression.

“Capitaine Leroux requests,” Clay translated as the other spoke, “that she be allowed to berth with him. It is not, he promises, that he does not trust your word, but, rather, merely his desire to protect his daughter personally.”

“He will be given the first lieutenant’s cabin. Mister Mader will, for as long as the Lerouxs are our guests, berth with Mister Burr. The young lady, of course, may join him there. We have an extra hammock. Or, perhaps, Mister Moore may spare a cot?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll see to that personally,” Clay promised before he translated the offer.

Edward forced himself to betray no emotion over the idea of sharing his berth with Mader. Usually Ben resided in the other half of the small room, as a lieutenant slept apart from the common crew. On a ship that warranted three lieutenants, the first had a cabin to himself while the other two shared. With Ben made prize captain of the newly captured Fleur de la Mer and prisoners such as these aboard, there would be no escaping his fate. Only until an English port could be reached, the acting-lieutenant consoled himself. Captain Caldwell would be anxious to be rid of the French officers and crew taken, but Edward could guess he would be particularly relieved to see off the young woman. She, too, would likely find any port preferable to being at sea amongst strangers who had not seen a woman since setting sail from Gibraltar three weeks ago.

As her father and Caldwell spoke through Clay, the girl twisted a crucifix about in her small hands. Every so often, she dared her meek gaze up to look between the two captains and their translator. Edward thought he saw her smile when Clay addressed her, offered a small bow, and extended his hand. At a word from her father, she accepted it and disappeared below deck with her escort. Her father followed, only a few paces behind. After him went two Royal Marines, each one with a musket at his back. For all the niceties of the whole procedure, the foreigners were still prisoners and would be treated as such.

Caldwell ordered his men about repairs to the ship with all due speed. Fleur de la Mer had put up a proper fight before hauling down her colours. Edward alternated between overseeing the work of his division and following the captain about to inspect the rest of the ship.

Hours after sundown, Edward finally went below. His path took him to the berth deck and down it into the sick bay. Eight men were laid in hammocks, their wounds dressed. One, Edward was shocked to see, was Moore himself. It was Clay who walked to every cot, checking bandages and whispering reassurances. His sleeves were stained with the drying blood of the wounded and the dead. He looked up when he heard Edward approach.

“Eight injured, fourteen dead,” Clay reported. He frowned. “Afraid it may be seventeen come morning, though I’ll do what I can.”

“No one can ask for more, Mister Clay.”

They both knew the count might not end there. Three more lost to injuries, Clay predicted. But how many might succumb to infection? Only God could answer that, and Edward knew it all too well. Still, there was on question burning in his mind. He looked to Clay, and the acting-surgeon took his meaning.

“He missed his footing, brought his head into contact with the table. Enough to keep him down for a couple of days. Nasty gash on his brow.”

“I’ll inform the captain.”

“Thank you.”

Edward ventured further conversation, thinking briefly of the girl who would, at this hour, be preparing in Mader’s quarters-- temporarily former quarters, rather-- for the dinner the captain would host tonight. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“My mother,” Clay said with a fond smile. “She was from Nice. Her aunt was English, though, and during one visit, she met my father.” A gesture from Clay dismissed the rest of the story and Edward laughed.

“Damned useful.”

Clay regarded Edward for a moment, looking for signs that he was being mocked. When he found none, his features cracked into a hint of a smile. “Perhaps, Mister Burr, I could teach you a little some time.”

“Would you?”

“Happily.”

Edward smiled. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

“I should be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Edward reached up and touched his hat. He left Clay to his domain and made his way into his own cabin at the far end of the deck. He counted himself as supremely fortunate that, while Mader’s sea chest was present and his hammock slung up, the man himself was not at all present. Likely having accomplished the task Edward quickly set about himself. Off came the powder-caked uniform and his trousers. His boots were removed as well. His shirt was found, in his own opinion, to be too soaked with sweat, so it was tossed aside once removed. His waistcoat and neckcloth, though, would still answer, so they were put on his hammock. He pulled a clean linen shirt over his head, and he stepped into his woolen breeches. After meddling with the ties and buttons of the same, he put the wool waistcoat back on, stepped into his polished shoes, and finished by pulling on his dress uniform coat with its carefully cleaned white lapels. As an afterthought, he felt his hair and found it wanting. He untied it then combed through the sand-coloured strands with his fingers. Only after did he consider that his hands probably had put on as much grime as they could have taken off. The tail he pulled his hair into and the bow he made with the black cord afforded to him for the task likely looked a shambles, but there was nothing more he could do.

Still, he told himself as he bounded from his cabin and hurried up the stairs of the companionway, it would have to suffice.

Edward found himself, once in the captain’s cabin, seated in the place usually reserved for Ben. Mader sat to the captain’s right and Edward to Mader’s. At the other side of Edward-- in the acting-lieutenant’s usual place-- sat Booth. Captain Leroux sat to Caldwell’s left, and his daughter sat beside him. Next to her was Clay, where the captain of the Marines usually sat. The surgeon’s mate did not usually merit an invitation to an officers’ dinner, but his easy French and rapport with both members of the Leroux family made him invaluable and assured him a place at this table. It also seemed, Edward noted quickly, that he seemed exempt from the rule-- considered important to Caldwell only until the first bottle of wine was emptied-- that no man ought to speak unless first spoken to by the captain.

For speak he did. When Caldwell toasted, Clay whispered a translation for the two prisoner-guests. As the captain’s steward ladled food onto plates, Clay described the dishes, or so Edward assumed by the gestures he made. The captain’s store of lamb had been brought out, and black pudding accompanied it. Hardtack and fruit waited on the table as well. Once, Miss Leroux gasped and dropped her bread. Clay took it up and tapped it on his own plate to rid it of the weevils on it. When no more would fall, he scooped the remaining wriggling creatures off with his spoon before handing the bread back to the lady. Presumably, with that soft tone and gentle gaze, he promised it was safe to eat. She regarded him with a look of benign doubt but resumed her meal. For his part, Clay scraped the pests onto the table then, finally, to the floor itself.

Edward became aware of his own instinctive tapping of his bread on his place, and the white creatures that fell from it. It surprised him to remember that some on land were not so accustomed to the removal of the things, which were as natural to a naval ship as her sailors themselves.

The food, eventually, was cleared away, and the men, with their foreign company, sat the table. Wine and conversation flowed easily, and Clay related all the stories Caldwell told of his battles. The captain took care, it seemed to Edward, to speak only of Spanish or American engagements. The young woman, Marie by name, gasped and laughed where she ought, and her youthful smile turned from the captain to Clay and back again.

She was aware-- had been aware since the moment she set foot on this ship-- that every eye was on her. Her carriage said as much. Pride and a bred sense of refinement drew her shoulders back, but a genteel modesty bowed her head often. Her laugh was soft, and she often raised on small hand to cover her lips. The absence of a ring made Edward smile. Naturally, a man could not woo a woman whose language he did not know, but he still would have felt a keen jealousy had she been married. As it was, he felt a good-natured envy toward Clay. If any man might win some affection from the lady before they reached Gibraltar, it would be him. Even now, she smiled at him with a warmth even Edward could feel. Edward made note to himself, lest this happy chance come twice in his lifetime, to pry Clay for knowledge of this language.

When the hour was sufficiently late, the officers and guests said their leave to the captain. Marie took Clay’s arm and walked with him out of the captain’s cabin. Her father followed just behind, alongside Edward. Mader was the last to leave, and he pulled the door shut behind him. Halfway down the gun deck, while Clay remained in rapt conversation with the French woman, Captain Leroux addressed his daughter. She gasped, curtsied, and removed herself from Clay. She ventured back to the captain’s cabin, knocked, and entered after a considerable pause.

“She left her shawl,” Clay said to his shipmates.

They waited. After what he felt was a considerable time, Edward checked his pocketwatch. When he check it again, ten minutes had elapsed. Only Captain Leroux did not seem surprised to still be waiting.

Mader sneered and clapped a thick hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Hard luck,” he said, his voice possessed of an almost malicious amusement and utterly devoid of any feeling even comparable to sympathy. The lieutenant left them, drunkenly humming a song with vulgar words. When his back was presented, Clay fixed it with a hard glare, and Edward was sure Mader must know that look was upon him.

After a painful stretch of further waiting and the sound of a groan-- though Edward could not say whether it was human or the timbers of the ship-- Clay gave up. With a curse, he turned on his heel and stormed to the ladder, disappearing to the deck below. Edward looked at Captain Leroux. The man smiled at him, an expression which made Edward feel sick. Politely, he touched his hat and went up onto the main deck.

Remaining would have risked discovery, and he had no sensible excuse to explain why he had been standing in the gun deck at this hour, staring at the captain’s cabin door. Going to the berth deck guaranteed coming into contact with either Mader or Clay. Both, if he were truly unfortunate; at the same time if he were cursed. He did not trust his luck. The main deck, set for the night’s watch with as few men as necessary, afforded him both privacy and fresh air, both of which he wanted for desperately. Mader would be intolerable toward Clay now, unless the former had drunk enough to render himself unable to recall these events come morning. The possibility was not outlandish. Clay’s temper was unpredictable at best and red hot at its worst, and if the first lieutenant and acting surgeon declared war upon one another, Virtue would pay the price.