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“We appreciated the letter you wrote at the time,” Darcy replied. In truth, the earl had criticized Captain Tourner’s letter as being too brief, the minimum that duty required, with very few particulars. “We are also grateful to Lieutenant St. Clair for having recently returned my cousin’s sea chest to us.”
Captain Tourner regarded St. Clair critically. “You returned Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s sea chest only recently? Where has it been all this while? I ordered you to arrange for his effects to be transported home with all reasonable expedience, as with any other fallen officer.”
St. Clair shifted in his chair and signaled the serving maid. “The rest of his belongings were delivered in a timely fashion; the chest remained in my custody at the request of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam himself. Would you care for another tot of rum, Captain?”
Tourner’s heavy face flushed. “Why would Fitzwilliam have wanted his chest floating around the world with you rather than sent home? And when did he make this alleged request? You were not with him when he was shot.”
“Some weeks before. I hoped I would never have to make good on the promise.”
The serving maid brought rum for three. St. Clair moved his chair closer to the wall and surveyed the room for an unoccupied chair that could be commandeered for Darcy, but Captain Tourner stood.
“You are welcome to my seat, Mr. Darcy. I have business to attend.” Apparently, however, the captain had no intention of also relinquishing his rum. Tourner drained his glass and set it beside three empty ones on his side of the table, then picked up his hat and departed.
Darcy sat down, leaning back as the girl cleared away the empty glasses. He noticed that St. Clair had only one glass on his side, and wondered how long he and the captain had been in conference. “Forgive me if my arrival curtailed your meeting with Captain Tourner.”
“Not at all,” he said. “We were merely reminiscing about past days. Idle talk.”
“I am glad for the opportunity to have made his acquaintance. Had you mentioned when we spoke the other evening that he was in Lyme, I would have sought an introduction. Is the Magna Carta in port here with him? I should like to lay eyes upon the ship, even if only from shore.”
“When last I heard, she was in Bristol. Lyme’s harbor is too small to comfortably accommodate many ships of that size. Regardless, the Magna Carta is no longer Tourner’s ship. He now captains the Swansea, an old sixth-rate docked in Plymouth at present. However, there is talk of the Admiralty breaking up the ship now that the war has ended.”
“What will Captain Tourner do then?”
“Go on half-pay, I suppose, while he waits for the Admiralty to offer him another ship. It will be a long wait, though, as there are many captains with more seniority and more distinguished service records in similar straits. Alternatively, he could take up an appointment on a private vessel or in another branch of the service—transport, packet ships, or the like. Such duty, however, is hardly glamorous, and would be felt as a demotion.”
“Perhaps the Preventives?” Since arriving in Lyme, Darcy had seen numerous ships patrolling the coast to deter smugglers.
“Captain Tourner, command a revenue cutter?” St. Clair chuckled, lifted his rum, and drank.
“He would not find such duty attractive?”
“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 ca
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.