pursed in visible pain, and only his throat moving, up and down, up and down.
The cabin grew deathly silent. Hardy glanced worriedly at his admiral, and Sutton developed a sudden, embarrassed interest in his coat sleeve. “Captain Warner said the duel had something to do with . . . um—with a woman . . . sir,” he added, lamely.
Nelson took a deep, shuddering breath, his excitement about the French fleet suddenly
forgotten. Turning from the window, he bent his brow to his hand and collapsed in a chair. He was aware of Hardy and Sutton moving protectively toward him; darkness swam before his eyes and he took a deep, shaky breath to ward it off. “Damn you, Falconer,” he cried suddenly.
“Damn you and your confounded philandering; I warned you it would come to this!”
“Sir?”
“I suppose the duel was fought with cutlasses, wasn’t it, Sutton?!”
“Captain Warner did not say, sir.”
Nelson raised his head, his cheeks streaked with tears he made no effort to control. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely. “I wish to be alone.”
Sutton beat a hasty exit, but Hardy lingered a moment. He reached out, tried to lay a
comforting hand upon the admiral’s shoulder; but Nelson got to his feet once more, moving to the great, panoramic windows and staring out at the bleak expanse of the endless sea. He
remained there for a long time. Then he turned, his face melancholy. “Forgive me, Thomas. You would think that after having so many friends fall in battle, such things would grow easier to bear, but they never do. . .
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hardy said. “I know he was a friend to you.”
“He was a friend to England. What a shame. What a goddamned, bloody waste.”
“Such is war, sir.”
“Aye, such is war. You lose your arm, you lose your life, you pray God someone remembers
you back home. But do they, Thomas? Do they? Or does anyone really care?”
Hardy looked down at his big hands, at a loss for words. “I am confident, sir, that when you catch up to Villeneuve you will give him the thrashing he—and Napoleon—deserve. And,” he
added solemnly, “a victory for England that will never be forgotten.”
###
Shouts, cheers, and dancing figures on a lantern-lit deck; curses, harsh breathing, steel
ringing against steel, and the singing whoosh of thrusting, slashing cutlasses. The sounds cleaved the night as Enolia—once a planter’s concubine until her master’s ship had fallen afoul of the Pirate Queen’s—practiced her fencing skills with her formidable liberator.
The two were well matched, both honed with muscle and sleek with sweat, and while rapiers would have been far more manageable than heavy cutlasses, neither captain nor lieutenant was willing to make the trade. Slash and parry, thrust and pivot and slash again: fencing with cutlasses was an exercise in strength and endurance, essential qualities for lady pirates wishing to hold their own on a lawless sea ruled by men.
“Captain, I know he angers you”—Enolia swung her blade, had it deflected upward as the
Pirate Queen expertly parried her attack—”I know he’s a deserter, a traitor, a spy, but before you go rushing off to Nelson with him, think about what you’re doing.”
Cheers erupted from the pirate crew at their captain’s expert defense.
“I know what I’m doing!” Maeve cried, the sweat sheening her brow. She swung for
Enolia’s unprotected ribs and, at the last moment, the other woman danced away, the tip of Maeve’s cutlass catching her shirt and tearing it from waist to shoulder. The hit decided the match, and Maeve, her lungs heaving, tossed her damp ponytail over her shoulder, saluted her lieutenant, and then clashed her cutlass against Enolia’s in a handshake between steel. “Besides, he’s no Gallant Knight; he proved that to me when I visited his cell.”
Breathing hard, she tore the kerchief from her brow, mopped her face with it, and strode to the rum barrel, her shadow long and black in
The cabin grew deathly silent. Hardy glanced worriedly at his admiral, and Sutton developed a sudden, embarrassed interest in his coat sleeve. “Captain Warner said the duel had something to do with . . . um—with a woman . . . sir,” he added, lamely.
Nelson took a deep, shuddering breath, his excitement about the French fleet suddenly
forgotten. Turning from the window, he bent his brow to his hand and collapsed in a chair. He was aware of Hardy and Sutton moving protectively toward him; darkness swam before his eyes and he took a deep, shaky breath to ward it off. “Damn you, Falconer,” he cried suddenly.
“Damn you and your confounded philandering; I warned you it would come to this!”
“Sir?”
“I suppose the duel was fought with cutlasses, wasn’t it, Sutton?!”
“Captain Warner did not say, sir.”
Nelson raised his head, his cheeks streaked with tears he made no effort to control. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely. “I wish to be alone.”
Sutton beat a hasty exit, but Hardy lingered a moment. He reached out, tried to lay a
comforting hand upon the admiral’s shoulder; but Nelson got to his feet once more, moving to the great, panoramic windows and staring out at the bleak expanse of the endless sea. He
remained there for a long time. Then he turned, his face melancholy. “Forgive me, Thomas. You would think that after having so many friends fall in battle, such things would grow easier to bear, but they never do. . .
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hardy said. “I know he was a friend to you.”
“He was a friend to England. What a shame. What a goddamned, bloody waste.”
“Such is war, sir.”
“Aye, such is war. You lose your arm, you lose your life, you pray God someone remembers
you back home. But do they, Thomas? Do they? Or does anyone really care?”
Hardy looked down at his big hands, at a loss for words. “I am confident, sir, that when you catch up to Villeneuve you will give him the thrashing he—and Napoleon—deserve. And,” he
added solemnly, “a victory for England that will never be forgotten.”
###
Shouts, cheers, and dancing figures on a lantern-lit deck; curses, harsh breathing, steel
ringing against steel, and the singing whoosh of thrusting, slashing cutlasses. The sounds cleaved the night as Enolia—once a planter’s concubine until her master’s ship had fallen afoul of the Pirate Queen’s—practiced her fencing skills with her formidable liberator.
The two were well matched, both honed with muscle and sleek with sweat, and while rapiers would have been far more manageable than heavy cutlasses, neither captain nor lieutenant was willing to make the trade. Slash and parry, thrust and pivot and slash again: fencing with cutlasses was an exercise in strength and endurance, essential qualities for lady pirates wishing to hold their own on a lawless sea ruled by men.
“Captain, I know he angers you”—Enolia swung her blade, had it deflected upward as the
Pirate Queen expertly parried her attack—”I know he’s a deserter, a traitor, a spy, but before you go rushing off to Nelson with him, think about what you’re doing.”
Cheers erupted from the pirate crew at their captain’s expert defense.
“I know what I’m doing!” Maeve cried, the sweat sheening her brow. She swung for
Enolia’s unprotected ribs and, at the last moment, the other woman danced away, the tip of Maeve’s cutlass catching her shirt and tearing it from waist to shoulder. The hit decided the match, and Maeve, her lungs heaving, tossed her damp ponytail over her shoulder, saluted her lieutenant, and then clashed her cutlass against Enolia’s in a handshake between steel. “Besides, he’s no Gallant Knight; he proved that to me when I visited his cell.”
Breathing hard, she tore the kerchief from her brow, mopped her face with it, and strode to the rum barrel, her shadow long and black in
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