Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

“Actually,” St. Clair mused, “he might.” He set the glass back on the table. “But unless I am mistaken, we are not here to discuss Captain Tourner.”

“No, we are not.” Darcy took a drink from his own glass. “Since examining the contents of my cousin’s sea chest, I have additional questions about his time aboard the Magna Carta. ”

“You were indeed able to open the chest, then? Before bringing it to you, I had noted some rust on the lock, so I am glad it gave you no trouble. I hope you found his belongings none the worse for their delay in reaching you.”

“All appeared in order.” He would not mention the diary—not yet. “I wonder, however, now that we are not in the presence of ladies, whether you might relate more particulars about the day my cousin died.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Everything. Whether the day dawned bright or cloudy. Whether the cook burned the porridge. What my cousin’s mood and thoughts were—conversations you had.” What happened to the idols Gerard told you of just before he died. “Anything you recall about that day, before the ship became engaged with the Dangereuse. ”

St. Clair released a short laugh. “You do not ask much, do you? That day was years ago.”

“I realize that considerable time has passed, but I hope that perhaps its having been a day of battle might have fixed details in your memory more firmly than is ordinary.”

“Indeed,” the lieutenant said soberly, “battles tend to do that.”

St. Clair drained the remaining rum from his glass. Darcy signaled the barmaid to bring another round, wondering how much rum it would require to loosen the tongue of any veteran seafarer, let alone one who had spent half his career in islands known for producing the best rum in the world. Captain Tourner had certainly seemed a man in the habit of consuming generous quantities.

“The day was foggy,” St. Clair said. “Mist as thick as the porridge—which, by the way, our cook never burned. Hart was the best ship’s cook I ever knew.”

“My cousin wrote that the wardroom messes were superior to those he had as a midshipman.”

“Did he? Doubtless they were, though I do not know that the fare was worth writing home about. A ship’s cook can do only so much. Hart was skilled, however, at making the most of whatever he had to work with. We missed him, after.”

“After what?”

“After he died. He lost his life in the same battle as Lieutenant Fitzwilliam.”

“How came a cook to be fighting in a battle?”

“When a boarding party breaches your ship, everyone fights—cooks, carpenters, coopers. Every hand is needed—if not to wield a weapon, to assist someone who does. Even passengers become involved. It is mayhem.”

“I suppose a cook might prove very handy with knives.”

“Hart was. Unfortunately, firearms have a longer range.”

“He was shot?”

“Yes.” He uttered an oath against the French. “The cowards shot him in the back, but I like to think he filleted a number of Frogs before he went.”

“You did not witness his death, I take it?”

“I had other distractions.”

Darcy could well imagine. “I am sure everyone did, particularly the ship’s officers.”

“You want to hear more of your cousin, of course.” The serving girl returned with their drinks. St. Clair waited until she left before continuing. “Lieutenant Fitzwilliam acquitted himself well that day. I saw his sword take down several of the enemy early in the melee, as he helped three passengers defend themselves. I lost sight of him after that, but the passengers survived, and no doubt have him to thank for their lives.”

“You said you discovered him after he had been shot. Did the passengers simply abandon him when he fell?”

“They became separated before then, and had all they could do to save their own skins. Though many gentlemen train in swordplay, controlled single combat at Angelo’s fencing school is a far different experience than the pandemonium of hundreds of men on a ship’s deck splintered by cannonballs and slick with gore, dodging pistol shots and sniper bullets and falling rigging and the swings of nearby combatants.”

Darcy trained at Angelo’s.

Although St. Clair’s tone had not implied intentional insult, Darcy’s pride was ruffled nonetheless. The lieutenant’s words essentially questioned the collective honor of all gentlemen not in possession of a military uniform, suggesting that their pursuits were mere playacting.

The suggestion chafed. It was possible to be a man of action without brawling in the middle of an ocean. Was it not? Darcy was vexed at St. Clair, and even more vexed with himself for his own defensiveness. He had nothing to prove to this man. In points of honor, he could match any gentleman, uniformed or not.

He could certainly match St. Clair, who in this conversation still had not alluded to, let alone explained the fate of, the figurines Gerard had brought to the senior lieutenant’s attention earlier that fateful day—and who had dissuaded Gerard from sharing the discovery with the captain. Had the first lieutenant ever seen fit to inform his commander? Perhaps Tourner was not the fleet’s best captain. Perhaps he was a drunk. But at the end of the day, he was responsible for every thing and every person on that ship. Darcy wondered whether the idols’ existence had ever become known to anyone beyond St. Clair, Gerard, and the cook.

The cook who had been killed in battle shortly after Gerard had spoken of the idols to St. Clair.

The cook who, like Gerard, had been told to keep the knowledge to himself.

The cook who had been shot in the back.

Startled by the wild course onto which his thoughts had veered, Darcy took up his rum. As the liquor dissolved the sudden thickness that had formed in his throat, he studied St. Clair, seeking in the lieutenant’s countenance some sign that the notion coalescing in Darcy’s mind was utterly outrageous—or horrifically plausible. St. Clair, however, declined to make such discernment easy for Darcy. He did not cackle maniacally or radiate a virtuous glow. He merely surveyed the room with his gaze—a sea officer ever on watch, or a guilty man always on guard?

“When you found my cousin, what was his condition?” Darcy asked. “Where did the bullet strike?”

St. Clair hesitated. “It struck his stomach.”

“How did he appear?”

His expression tightened. “The effects of lead balls and black powder on human flesh are never pretty, and stomach wounds are among the worst. Are you certain that you want to hear more?”

“I have seen fatal gunshot wounds and gruesome corpses before.” Though his statement occasioned mild surprise on St. Clair’s part, Darcy did not elaborate.

“Then I will not whitewash the details. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam was lying prone in a crumpled heap on the quarterdeck, sword still in hand. His knees were beneath him—it looked as if he might have tried to raise himself to standing after he went down, but had not the strength. The ball had passed through him, leaving holes in his abdomen and back that bled profusely. I spoke his name repeatedly and received no response, though he moaned and his face contorted as I rolled him onto his back.”

“You told my sister that his expression was peaceful.”

“I wanted to spare Miss Darcy the images I now relate to you. His countenance did relax at the end, though to describe it as peaceful was … generous.”

“When you moved him, did he utter any words?”

“No, he only moaned. I was at first buoyed by the sign of life, but quickly realized he was insensible to everything around him. A seaman helped me carry him below deck.”