Brig of War, page 33
“How nice for you.”
“I didn’t hear you complain.” She spoke sharply; a barb had finally lodged.
“I’m complaining now,” Favian said. He stood up. “If you want someone to teach Gram a lesson, hire a schoolteacher. Or some stupid brute with a pick handle.”
She shrugged, plucking at the bloody patch on her gown. He walked out, went down the stairs, and took the rear exit to avoid facing the corpse on the cobbles, or any surrounding and curious crowd who might wonder why the velvet-collared gentleman was carrying such a nice sword.
“Pass the word for Hibbert,” he said as he returned to his cabin. He’d ignored the knowing eyes of the men on deck, the satisfied glances and satisfied nods, men happily confirming the fact of their captain’s having a woman on shore.
“It seems I’m righting a duel,” Favian said shortly, as soon as Hibbert had knocked and taken his seat. “I hope you will do me the honor of acting as my second.”
Hibbert, too stunned to reply, could only nod.
“Thank you, Mr. Hibbert,” Favian said. He knew his tone was cold, brisk, and probably unpleasant, but he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t moderate the harshness of his voice. “I will choose sabers,” he said. “I will not apologize for my remarks to the other principal. The other second is a Baron Kurtz. You will meet him in front of the cathedral at noon. I suggest you wear uniform so that he will be able to recognize you.”
“Yes, sir.” Hibbert hesitated a moment. “Sir, if I may ask— what is the name of the other principal?”
“Count Gram.”
“I see, sir.”
Favian’s next remark brought a startled expression to Hibbert ‘s face. “I suggest you go armed to the cathedral,” he said. “Nothing conspicuous. A sword, perhaps a small pistol or two in your coat pockets. I have been treacherously attacked once this morning. I think you will be safe, but there is no sense in being reckless.”
“Er— aye, sir, I will.”
“You may tell the other officers,” Favian said, with what he hoped was a confident grin, “that there will be fencing drill this afternoon. If you have no more questions, Mr. Hibbert, you may go about your duties.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Favian could see dozens of questions almost bursting from him, but Hibbert reined them in and left the cabin. Favian stripped off most of his clothes and settled into his bunk; Davis appeared to ask if the captain required breakfast and was answered in the negative. Overhead, Favian could hear the channel pump flooding the deck with water for its daily scrubbing, and then the monotonous scrape of holystones.
Favian’s fingers tingled as he remembered the shock of the pick handle striking his sword hilt, the way the bully’s eyes had widened as the steel slipped between his ribs. He remembered his own feeling of savage satisfaction at the neat way he’d done it, left one man with a scarred face and probably killed the other. It had been so pure, so easy— as easy as the way he’d been led into Anita Courtois’s arms. He wondered if Count Gram would prove as easy, but he doubted it.
He rubbed his eyelids, feeling the schnapps still warming his body, and wondered, as he’d wondered after the Macedonian fight, what brand of monster the Navy had turned him into. He had probably killed, and he had certainly mutilated— and with no thought other than a kind of aesthetic pleasure in the simple, economic way he’d gone about it. From their demands he had almost certainly known that his attackers were hirelings, not thieves or murderers, and yet he had planted six inches of steel into the breast of one of them without a second thought. He hadn’t even the excuse of passion; he had been cool throughout the fight, quite cunning in fact. It was the trained officer who had taken over, the Navy’s creation, who had efficiently dispatched two opponents while the rest of Favian’s mind was still lying contentedly with Anita on her settee.
Tomorrow he would have to use the sword again, and use it well. Gram had killed before, and would probably have no compunction about killing again. Favian would have to retain that efficient, deadly officer who lived within him, and let him go about the business of massacring Count Gram as skillfully as possibly. Favian would have to let that part of him exist, and succeed, no matter how much he hated him and resented his presence inside him. He was a man who knew how to commit murder in the gentlemanly way that meant he would never be charged with the crime, following the strictures of the code duello: Kill a man for money and it was murder and theft, kill him in defense of an artificial sense of honor and the law would shrug.
This was what the Navy, with its sublime indifference to paradox, had made of him: a killer and a man of honor.
CHAPTER 13.
Hibbert returned by mid-afternoon. “It’s been arranged for tomorrow morning at eight,” he reported. “I’ve been given instructions to get to the place by boat. They will provide a surgeon, but I see no reason why we should not come with our own. It will be sabers, as you said. If they’re treacherous, we might consider arming the boat party.”
“Very good, Mr. Hibbert. I appreciate your efforts.”
“I never liked that Gram, sir,” Hibbert said. “He was too conceited, and acted like a bully. I wish you all success,
“Thank you again, Mr. Hibbert,” Favian said. “I think we may as well commence our sword drill.”
The drill went well. Usually swords, cutlasses, and pikes were exercised two days each week; this drill made three, and probably caused comment, but Favian fenced each of his officers in turn and won a gratifying number of bouts. The rest of the daylight hours were spent on deck, supervising the minor but numerous tasks necessary to get Experiment out to sea again.
That night, despite weariness, he stayed up late in his cabin to complete all current paperwork; there would be less work for Hibbert to do if Favian was killed or incapacitated. A shrewd observer among the hands, who knew of the upcoming duel— and most did; the news was spread about by talented eavesdroppers who had kept their ears close to their captain’s open skylight when he first informed Hibbert of the fight— might also have noted a nervous energy to Favian’s activities, as if he were deliberately finding tasks with which to occupy himself, rather than face the appalling alternative of doing nothing and being forced to contemplate all the livelong day the possibility of the termination of his own existence.
After Favian had finished his official duties, he paused a moment at his desk, hearing the slow pacing of the lookout over his head, feeling Experiment tug at her anchor as a cold gust of wind swooped down from the mountains. The brig was asleep; across the harbor only a few lights glimmered in the town. Favian contemplated the morrow and felt strangely at peace; he wondered why.
A few little tasks left to do. He wrote a letter to Hibbert, with “To Be Opened in the Event of My Death” written in frank letters across the back of the folded message. It was a simple instruction for Hibbert to take Experiment from Bergen back to the United States in whatever way he deemed best, en route doing whatever damage to the enemy he considered commensurate with the brig’s mission, and justifiable with regard to her safety.
“With regard to engaging the enemy,” he wrote, “the officer in command must make his own decisions, based on the information available to him, and on his own concept of the obligations of the service in time of war. It should not be judged dishonorable to run from the enemy, if by so doing the Experiment may survive to strike the enemy repeatedly and successfully elsewhere.” Favian knew as he wrote the last sentence that it might well stand as his epitaph; it would go on record, and his actions in command of Experiment would be judged in its light. Future generations of officers might praise or condemn his action in declining combat with that British brig in the North Sea; and both sides would quote his letter to justify their attitude. Favian hoped they would understand, but he knew he had nothing to add. The words would justify his action or they would not, and there was nothing to do but put his opinions on record and hope that they would stand.
To his father he wrote another letter. The words came easily; perhaps deep within his consciousness, as he busied himself with readying Experiment for her return cruise, he had been composing it all day:
Sir:
Yesterday, I was invited to the apartment of a woman whose acquaintance I have made in Bergen, and there spent the night. Early the following morning I was attacked by servants of the man who, unknown to me, had been keeping her, and I drove them off. I engaged to fight a duel with their employer the next day, and I was killed.
As I write this letter, I find myself at peace. I am compelled to wonder, at this absence of agitation, with what degree of compliance I have entered into this affaire. I have been accused (it appears publicly) by my own officers of cowardice, as I chose, for reasons that seemed adequate, not to engage a British vessel of a size similar to my own; and I am compelled to speculate that perhaps I have accepted this combat as a way of proving to my subordinates that their accusations are wrong. It may be that my death might be, in my current situation, a preferable alternative to forcing myself to return their silent contempt with a studied indifference, or to continue admitting to myself the possibility that they are right. In a way my acceptance of the duel may prove that there is, indeed, a moral cowardice in my nature, that I prefer risking my life in some obscure, absurd personal combat in Norway to enduring the oppressive disdain of my crew. In any case I find myself content with the decision. If you are reading this, you may in some way console yourself with the thought that I died at peace.
You may show any part of this letter to Mother, as you best decide.
Your son,
Favian
Favian put down his pen, passed his hands over his eyes, and then read the letter slowly, careful not to smudge the drying ink. This will not do, he thought suddenly; he tore the letter to bits and scattered the remains from his cabin window. He sat down again and wrote:
Dear Sir and Madam:
As a result of an affaire d’honneur in Norway, I was killed. There was no possibility of avoiding the combat; the business was my choice; and I am content with the outcome.
Please retain in your thoughts of me my gratitude for the opportunities you made possible for me, and the affection with which you regarded
Your loving son,
Favian Markham
He turned in to his bunk and slept like a stone until Davis awakened him.
*
The morning was cold and clear. There was little reason to dress in black, since the fight would not be with pistols, but Favian put on a shirt of black silk that he had kept, since the age of eighteen, for encounters of this sort. He wore no stock or neckcloth, not wanting the heavy clothing to affect his agility; and he drew on blue trousers. In his pocket he stowed a loaded pistol, just in case, though he thought it would not be needed. He took the familiar Portsmouth hanger, the one he had worn since his return from the Mediterranean ten years before; he knew it better than the New York sword, and felt more comfortable with its less ornate hilt and its keen, straight, heavier double-edged blade.
He ate a very light breakfast, wanting to acquire energy without being slowed down by a heavy meal, and declined coffee; he’d probably be edgy enough when the time came. Putting on his boat cloak and donning his round undress hat, he walked up on deck and found Hibbert, his breath frosting in the cool morning, standing quietly with Sprague, the surgeon’s mate, and the boat’s crew of four. Hibbert looked at his watch.
“We have almost an hour to meet at the rendezvous, sir.”
“Very well. Let’s leave now; if we arrive early it won’t matter.”
“Yes, sir.” Hibbert leaned forward to speak privately. “I’m carrying a brace of pistols, sir, in case they prove treacherous. Mr. Sprague also carries a pistol. I’ve stowed cutlasses in the boat for the boat’s crew, and told them to come running if they hear shots.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hibbert. I appreciate your efforts,” Favian said. “Thank you, Mr. Sprague.”
Sprague bowed stiffly, a frown creasing his face. It was clear that he disapproved of the whole business.
The boat’s crew was sent down into the jolly boat, and then Sprague, Hibbert, and Favian descended, in proper reverse order of seniority. Hibbert took the tiller himself, acting the role of coxswain, and called the proper commands in a flat, emotionless voice.
“Fend off... Out oars... Give way smartly.”
Their course took them out of the harbor and several miles to the south of Bergen, where another watery canyon opened inland, and the boat slid handily into the cold, still water. The sun had not yet risen above Norway’s peaks, and Favian felt a chill working in past his boat cloak and uniform coat. He held out his hands; they were steady, absolutely steady, and he wondered again how much he was gladdened by the fight.
“Sir,” Hibbert said in a low voice. “I wonder if I might venture to ask a question?”
“You may ask, Mr. Hibbert,” Favian said. He made no promises that he would answer.
“There is a story going about the gun room, sir,” Hibbert began, then hesitated for a moment, composing his thoughts. He licked his lips and began again. “The story, sir, is that Prince Christian Frederick offered you command of an allied squadron, and that you refused.”
Favian was surprised by the question, and by the moment Hibbert had chosen to ask it. But since the story had gotten out— damn Davis anyway!— there was no real reason why it should be kept secret.
“I was wondering, sir, if— ah— the story was true,” Hibbert said.
“It is, Mr. Hibbert.”
“Sir, may I offer you my sincerest congratulations?” Hibbert said. Favian was surprised to find Hibbert’s face showing unconcealed admiration.
“I am sure,” Hibbert said, “that an officer of less dedication to the service, and less patriotism, would have accepted the prince’s offer, and disgraced himself by serving in a foreign war.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hibbert.” So that was how everyone was reading it: a refusal motivated by patriotism rather than cowardice. Of course, in actuality it had been prompted by neither, simply by plain pragmatism; but Favian saw no reason to set this particular record straight. If he died today, that would be at least one thing remembered in his favor.
Hibbert consulted a hand-drawn map, and the boat came to shore three-quarters of a mile from the fjord’s jagged mouth. Favian leaped nimbly to shore, glad of activity to warm his long, chilled limbs. Hibbert and Sprague followed, Hibbert windmilling his arms to bring blood into them. Hibbert led them inland to a twisting, ancient dirt road, so unused that sod had encroached upon the wheel ruts. He looked down at the road, then turned to Favian.
“A carriage has been along here just recently, sir,” he said. “That would almost certainly be the other party. They will be perhaps half a mile farther along.”
“Very good, Mr. Hibbert,” Favian said. He took off his boat cloak, folded it, hung it carefully on a convenient bush. “I’d like to warm up here, I think. No sense in letting them watch while I do it.”
“Good idea, sir.”
Favian carefully went through the limbering exercises with which his father’s fencing master, servant, and friend St. Croix had taught him to precede every bout. He felt the warm blood rush into his limbs, felt the skin tingle as it awakened. He stripped off his uniform coat and took his sword from his scabbard, balancing it, then briskly exercised with the sword for three minutes until he felt the sweat prickling his forehead and nape. He felt his limbs grow supple, the sword grow lighter and quicker. Warm enough. He stepped briefly into the bushes and emptied his bladder; no sense in doing it while Gram watched. He donned his coat and cloak to keep himself warm, and nodded to the others.
Hibbert reached into his pocket, withdrew a flask, and offered it. “Would you care for a drink of brandy, sir?” he asked.
Favian shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Hibbert, but no. It might take the edge off.”
Hibbert nodded approvingly, stowed the flask, and led the way down the road.
Count Gram’s coach, with its familiar, sleepily nodding driver, was found driven off the road in a dell. The choice of place was perfect; there was a clearing obscured by high ground, perfectly private. One man, short, top hatted, an elegantly embroidered cloak dropping from his shoulders, stood alone in the clearing. Hibbert stopped, narrowing his eyes, and carefully scanned the trees to either side.
“’Ware ambush, gentlemen,” he said in a hushed voice, and stepped toward the coach. Favian followed partway, then, as the other man advanced toward them, lagged back. The short man was presumably Baron Kurtz, Gram’s second, and Favian stayed out of earshot as the seconds spoke quietly between themselves. They paced over the ground, which was good turf and fairly flat, beginning to turn green after a hard winter, but soft with deadened grass and leaves. The seconds spoke a final few words and then parted, Hibbert walking toward Favian, Baron Kurtz toward the carriage.
“We’re ready, sir,” Hibbert said. Favian nodded and began to remove his boat cloak.
Baron Kurtz opened the door of the carriage, and a portly man with a case exited, presumably the Norwegian doctor. The doctor was followed by Count Gram, who cast a single, contemptuous glance in Favian’s direction and then marched toward the trees, where he urinated quietly. Then Gram turned to where his second waited and took off his cloak. Beneath the cloak he wore a brilliant red military coat, plated with orders and decorations, which he unbuttoned and removed. Favian stripped to his shirt. Both principals handed their hats to their seconds, undid their sword belts, and stripped the scabbards from their blades. Swords in their hands, they were led by their seconds to the firm ground at the center of the dell, and for the first time got a good look at one another.
