Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “Madame Tarnaut will be cross with you if she sees your tears. Will you play me a pretty tune to send me on my way?” he asked. She nodded, as he mounted up.

  “Au revoir, my angel,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “Au revoir, my eternal love,” she replied, masking her sadness behind a brave but melancholy smile as he turned his mount and galloped reluctantly away.

  X. The Dirk and the Sword

  “Damn your lucky eyes, Lacombe, that’s the third hand in a row. Fate indeed seems to favor you tonight,” Malveau declared, staring at the cards in front of him and lamenting his rotten fortune.

  “You know how it is, gents. Lady Luck is a fickle mistress. She’s abandoned you tonight, but she may take up your cause again tomorrow,” Lacombe offered jovially as he reached out to claim his winnings.

  “Fate or something else,” Pandini replied with a scowl, the unhappy tanner voicing his discontent over the successive good fortunes of his rival gambler.

  “Come now. If one is to gamble one must accept both fortune and its reversal. I saw nothing wrong with his manner of play,” Malveau spoke calmly, coming to the seaman’s defense.

  “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Malveau. Would you care to accompany me for a drink and help me celebrate my good fortune?” Lacombe offered enthusiastically, pointedly omitting from his offer the man who had cast doubt upon his honesty.

  “I’d be delighted to, and I know the perfect place for it. Marseilles can be a dangerous city, my young friend. Please allow me the honor of escorting you to a favorite watering hole of mine. It’s not far from here. Quite near the docks, actually. You might even be able to see your ship from there. What did you say its name was again?” Malveau asked.

  “The Belle Héloïse,” Lacombe replied, securing his winnings in a single large purse he carried snugly under his arm, leaving a coin for the tavern keeper as he exited with Malveau into the dark but still bustling streets of the port.

  “I haven’t seen her yet, but I’m to be the new purser on board. I even have my orders right here,” Lacombe replied, patting his coat to make sure his papers were secure as he shuffled along on legs tired and unsteady from a long day of work and a longer night of amusement.

  “We’re off to St. Domingue to escort a bunch of aristos back to France. Lots of high lords and ladies, so I’m told. The officer’s share of the cargo ought to be worth a pretty penny indeed, and there’s lots of happy adventures to get up to in the Colonies, if you take my meaning,” Lacombe said with a wink. Removing his coat, he slung it over his shoulder in the hope that the cool night air would help clear his head of its wine induced fog.

  “Nothing like those Creole wenches to keep a man occupied,” Malveau said, smiling conspiratorially.

  “And with my winnings tonight I’ll be able to dip the wick as often as I like!” Lacombe declared with a laugh as he patted the heavy purse under his arm. Malveau returned the smile as he led the young seaman into a deserted warren of streets behind the warehouses along the docks. As they reached a dark cul-de-sac very near the pier, Malveau reached down and calmly picked up a large fist-sized stone.

  “Say, are you lost? I don’t see any tavern around here. What’s that you’ve got there?” Lacombe inquired, his head beginning to throb. I think I’ve already had too much rum tonight. Perhaps I’d do better with some sleep instead of another drink. I’ve a big day tomorrow, Lacombe reflected. Malveau regarded the man with something close to pity, though that was an emotion decidedly unfamiliar to him. His right arm flashed forward, striking Lacombe across the temple with stone in his hand. There was a sickening thud as Lacombe’s skull was split open like a melon and bits of skull and brain were flung into the air. His body struck the ground with a soft thump, his muscles quivering reflexively in death.

  “No, I’m not lost, but I’m afraid, Monsieur, that you are. You are indeed!” Malveau whispered to the corpse. Working quickly with macabre experience, he removed the fat purse of winnings from the dead man’s grasp and stripped the body of the clothes he needed, careful to avoid getting blood on the garments he took. Changing quickly into the dead seaman’s coat, shirt, boots and hat, he slipped the papers and the new identity he needed into the pocket of his jacket. Checking his surroundings to make sure all was clear, he then began dragging Lacombe’s corpse toward the shoreline, where he hefted it into one of the launch boats tied up near the pier. It took him less than an hour to row out unobserved into the harbor under the cover of darkness, dump the body, which he’d weighed down with stones -- using the clothes he no longer needed as ballast pouches -- and return. He laughed aloud as he rowed back to shore at the naïveté of his victim, knowing his good looks and fine manners were usually enough to disarm most unsuspecting souls. These natural attributes, coupled with his talent for deception and the dark arts of card play, had enabled him to make gambling, robbery, and, when necessary – murder, a successful occupation.

  “Did he really think I’d allow him to depart with such a fat purse?” he asked the demons of the night who watched over him. It’s almost regrettable that I had to kill the poor bastard, as he seemed a decent sort, but the police are on my trail and I need a safe way out of this damned city and quickly. Passage on the Héloïse is the perfect way to do it. Lacombe told me himself he’s the new man on board so the crew doesn’t know him; no reason to believe they won’t accept me as the poor dead fool. I’ve had enough experience on slavers and other ships to pull it off, haven’t I? Besides, how am I to resist the temptation of so many rich and noble lords all together in one place -- the men for the robbing, and the women for the taking? he mused, spitting into the water for luck. He had a new identity, orders of passage, and a purse full of money. Soon he’d be on his way to the Colonies. If he played his cards just right, Lucifer, whom he regarded as his own patron saint, only knew what other dark and profitable adventures might unfold for him.

  *

  “You’re late, Monsieur Lacombe,” Capitaine Philippe Closon said with thinly concealed irritation to the last of his officers to report for duty aboard his ship, the Belle Héloïse.

  “Yes, Capitaine. Sorry, Capitaine. I had some trouble finding the correct pier…” the junior officer tried to explain. Closon cut him off with a raised hand, still looking down at the man’s papers, which lay open before him on his desk in the Captain’s Stateroom.

  “If I want explanations or excuses, I’ll ask for them. Is that clear?” Closon said, appraising his new officer with practiced scrutiny.

  “Yes, mon capitaine!” the false Lacombe replied smartly.

  “Good. As you are new with our crew, I shall overlook this first fault. See that you do not incur a second. You will find me strict, but just. Perform your duties as I expect and you shall be well rewarded. Fail me, and you shall never set foot again on my ship nor any other that belong to my master, the Marquis de Blaise,” Closon said. He had always found it useful to mention the name of the man whom he ultimately served, in order to overawe those new to his service. He found that it encouraged the ambitious and cowed the shirkers.

  “I understand, mon capitaine,” Lacombe replied.

  “Good. Your service record indicates you’ve served aboard merchantmen before. What other vessels have you sailed on?”

  “The Oliphant, out of Brest, Monsieur, she was my latest employment. Before that is was slavers mostly. In charge of ship security and keeping the vermin in check,” Malveau said, trying his best to remember what he’d memorized of Lacombe’s papers.

  “Vermin?” Closon asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “The Nègres, sir,” Lacombe smiled crookedly. Closon leaned back in his chair, carefully evaluating the man that stood before him. He was handsome, of compact medium build, strong and tough, with a look in his eye that cautioned anyone against taking him lightly. His service record, at least that which was indicated in his papers, was exemplary, but there was something about the man that stood before him that didn’t quite match
with the written record. Closon struggled to put his finger on what was out of place. A loud knock on his door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Enter. Ah, it’s you, Lieutenant Reveillon,” Closon said.

  “Forgive the intrusion, mon capitaine. All the cargo is secured and the wind’s begun to pick up. Shall I give the order to prepare for departure?” his second-in-command asked, waiting to receive his capitaine’s reply. Closon stared at both Lacombe and Reveillon.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, and take Lacombe here with you. He’s to join our crew as Quartermaster and Officer of the Watch,” Closon said, deciding on both matters put before him.

  “Aye, Sir!” Reveillon replied smartly.

  “Welcome aboard, Lacombe. Lieutenant Reveillon here will show you the ropes. Remember my advice and do not disappoint me,” Closon cautioned, folding Lacombe’s papers carefully as he prepared to return them to the new man. He noticed a faded smudge at the corner of the neatly written document that had the color of blood. Rubbing it with his finger he snorted in disdain.

  “I should hope your personal effects are in better order than these papers,” Closon said tersely, pointing to the stain he had observed.

  “I don’t care for such blemishes or such carelessness about my ship,” the capitaine said, returning Lacombe’s papers to him.

  “Yes, mon capitaine! I mean -- no, mon capitaine!” Lacombe replied smartly, saluting the capitaine as he made his way out of the cabin and up onto the deck where the sun shone brightly. How did I miss that little blotch? Malveau wondered, smiling that he had successfully passed the first test in his assumed role. For a moment he had worried that the capitaine had seen through his disguise, but in the end his luck had held. What’s more, he’d been given the jobs of Quartermaster and Officer of the Watch, which meant he’d be in charge of dispersing the ship’s pay and policing the ship as well. As a career thief and criminal, he couldn’t have hoped for more.

  Our fortunes are looking up! he laughed to himself, following Reveillon about like an obedient dog as the lieutenant introduced him to the other members of the crew. Play your cards right, and maybe you’ll even be able to return to your old gang in Bigorre. With enough gold in your purse, even those old cutthroats will let bygones be bygones, he reassured himself, remembering the money he’d stolen from his compatriots, a necessary but regrettable act that had forced him to go on the run from both his old comrades and the police.

  He instinctively cradled the sharp dirk that was hidden in the pocket of his waistcoat: his one true friend. One step at a time, he cautioned himself, feeling the bright warm sunlight against his face as he began to circle the deck on his first patrol. Slay the shepherd first, and then all the lambs will be there for the taking, he chuckled pleasantly, vowing that he’d not be satisfied until he had enough gold to make himself a prince amongst his fellow murderers and thieves, no matter the price in villainy and blood.

  *

  “Play time is over now, boy. You’ve been here long enough. Show me what you’ve learned, and I warn you, if you displease me I’ll stick you like a suckling pig,” Vesterkamp threatened with a scowl, the fencing master nodding toward the equipment laid out on the table.

  The weapon Nicolas was to employ was a cavalry saber. Broad, heavy, and thick, it was a difficult weapon to use and not one customarily given to apprentices to train with. He picked the blade up, turning it in his hand. This was no dummy weapon; the blade was sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone. Nicolas put on the doublet and gaunts set out for him; there was no protective mask. He hefted the weapon for balance and feel and took up what he hoped to be a plausible stance.

  “Right,” Vesterkamp thundered, completing the ritual salute between the combatants before an engagement. “Attack me!”

  Nicolas launched himself immediately at his opponent, slashing the air, trying desperately to land any blow he could. Vesterkamp parried all his attacks with seeming ease, contemptuously brushing each cut and thrust aside and throwing Nicolas over as he lost his balance in a lunge. Nicolas got up and immediately returned to the fray, this time measuring his attacks with more circumspection as he settled into the rhythm of the contest, the pinging of the blades as their edges met, the only sound audible above the grunts of each man as they lunged, parried and cut at each other. There were several other practice bouts underway in the confines of the long but narrow enclosure that had at one time served as a stable for horses. As the length and ferocity of the contest between the salon master and his new pupil grew, the other swordsmen gradually halted their own bouts, removing their protective masks to get a better view of the intriguing contest.

  “Have you ever seen Vesterkamp tested so? And by a mere boy from the looks of him,” Mauran, one of the veterans of the salon said to his companion.

  “Never. Who on earth do you suppose he is and where did he acquire such skill?” the other man inquired.

  “He’s the Chevalier d’Argentolle, the youngest son of the Marquis de Blaise. He arrived only a few days ago in the company of the Comte de Marbéville,” Montbatre said, inserting himself into the company of the other two men as they watched the bout with interest. Montbatre was new to the salon, having only just joined as a member, shortly after Nicolas’ arrival.

  “Ah, a dilettante young nobleman out for fun and adventure, eh? Well he’d best be careful. Vesterkamp’s not one to be trifled with. If he shows too much youthful arrogance he may wind up with more than he bargained for,” Mauran cautioned.

  His warning appeared prescient as Nicolas rushed in with a lunge to try and exploit a perceived opening in Vesterkamp’s guard, only for the Dutch master to slide his blade by the attack, pivoting to smack Nicolas hard on the side of the head with the flat part of his blade. Nicolas was stunned by the force of the blow, reeling backwards as he stumbled and crashed into the stone wall behind him. Mauran snorted contemptuously, leading the undercurrent of scorn mixed with laughter among those who had already come to resent the prominence and skill of the newcomer and were only too happy to see him humbled. As Nicolas struggled to regain his equilibrium, they all hoped that having already tested the seeming limits of the master’s patience, the boy would now know that he was well-beaten and yield at once.

  Undaunted by the amusement he appeared to be providing for some, Nicolas shook the ringing from his head and pressed on, ignoring the growing tiredness in his limbs, and the pain from the welts and bruises that Vesterkamp’s counters left on his skin. Summoning up his last reserves of youthful strength, he pressed forward with a vicious counterattack, his blade alternately thrusting and cutting with increasing swiftness in a unique attack style all of his own that he dubbed the butterfly’s sting. The unexpected ferocity and skill of the attack disconcerted Vesterkamp enough that Nicolas was able to penetrate the master swordsman’s defenses, landing a blow that sliced through the padded doublet of Vesterkamp’s left shoulder, drawing blood. There was a collective gasp from the onlookers, many of whom had never laid a successful touch upon the master. Mauran and the others of his circle regarded Nicolas and what he had accomplished with outright shock, anticipating the inevitable reaction from the salon master. They did not have long to wait.

  Incensed by the success of Nicolas’ attack, Vesterkamp surged forward, rewarding his young opponent with an answering blow from the brass hand guard of his saber straight to the face, the force of the blow lifting Nicolas off his feet and leaving him sprawled out and dazed on the wooden floor of the salon. Vesterkamp turned away, regarding the tear-shaped blood spot on his left shoulder with visible disgust. He walked over to the corner to retrieve the bucket of cold well water that was used to revive those that were knocked senseless during training, fully expecting his blow to have laid Nicolas out cold. The other members of the salon, who were pressed closely around the two combatants, looked on in hushed silence, no one daring to utter a sound.

  “I thank you for the offer of refreshment, Monsieur, but it will not be necessary,” Nicolas declared bo
ldly as he made his way slowly to his feet. The veterans of the salon nodded to each other in silent respect at the courage of the young swordsman. Others looked on in wary silence, unsure as to how the salon master would respond. No one was laughing now.

  Vesterkamp turned around, regarding Nicolas with a practiced eye. He bleeds from the nose and lip and I can tell he has a mouth full of blood. I’m sure he’s never received a blow like that. Where’s his gentleman’s outrage? I’ve done my best to goad him on. He should be enraged, but yet he stands there calmly defiant, ready to engage again, Vesterkamp reflected. They locked eyes, each attempting to stare the other down. There is no fear in him, and no anger either. Just a calm alertness and readiness; what my own master called the no-mind. How astounding to find an adept in such a place! Vesterkamp mused, recalling his many years of service on the island of Dejima in Japan, where he had learned from noted Christian samurai the techniques and philosophies of Japanese swordsmanship, the secret to his success as a fencing master. After years of failing to find a suitable apprentice to whom he could pass on his methods and his secrets, he had thought that he would take them with him to the grave. Now he began to wonder.