Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “You mustn’t worry so dear Lena, I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Julienne said reassuringly.

  “When I see the Fantassin tomorrow, then my heart shall once again be at ease. Will you do me the favor of keeping me company tonight? I’ve need of your gentle assurance,” Sérolène pleaded. Julienne took Sérolène’s delicate hands in hers, noting how cold her long supple fingers felt.

  “Go and inform the Comte de Marbéville that I shall spend the night here with my cousine,” Julienne said to one of the maids. The jet-black young girl instantly hurried off to comply. In a few moments she returned, informing Julienne that her message had been delivered. She then helped Julienne herself to undress, the comtesse sliding into the tiny berth with Sérolène, feeling the warm comfort of her cousine’s body as they were pressed up against each other. Sérolène squeezed Julienne’s hand, hugging it to her chest and kissing it gently with gratitude.

  “It’s like when we were very young…do you remember? You used to sleep with me whenever I was frightened. I always felt so safe then,” Sérolène whispered.

  “Do not worry yourself so. I’m sure it’s as the lieutenant said. We shall see them first thing tomorrow if the sun rises to take these gloomy clouds away,” Julienne assured her. Sérolène nodded, clinging desperately to the hope of her cousine’s promise as she succumbed at last to a fitful slumber.

  **

  Aboard the Fantassin the crew was still working frantically to plot their position and gain a sighting of the rest of the convoy as the hour slipped past two am. The frigate had been blown far to the southeast of the convoy during the storm and was running on a parallel course to the British warships, whose lanterns had been spotted some hours before by the watch. A cheer had gone up when the warships had first been sighted, the crew thinking the rest of the convoy had been found, but Capitaine d’Armillac had prudently ordered that they put up all sail to close the distance but run dark and silent until the morning sunlight told them with certainty whether the lights they saw belonged to friend or foe. Able sailor that he was, he also ordered that all be made ready during the night for battle on the morrow. Men grabbed what sleep they could between making preparations. Nicolas insisted on remaining awake through the night, assisting the gunnery crews in readying their pieces for combat under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Fortier and the gunnery officers.

  Dawn broke to reveal everything cloaked in a shroud of impenetrable fog so dense that it was impossible to make out anything at a distance further than a few yards from where one stood. The officers had all worked through the night but remained on deck, alert and waiting for the report of any news from the lookouts. Toward noon, the skies began to clear and it was not long thereafter before shouts rang out from the top of the main mast.

  “Two frigates a nautical mile to the north! They fly the British ensign!”

  The report was relayed immediately to the capitaine and officers. Capitaine d’Armillac called his war council together to consider their next course of action, weighing the options of running or giving combat. While the officers spoke together in council, another shout rang out from the lookouts.

  “Convoy in sight to the northwest. The frigates are in pursuit!”

  “Make all speed to intercept them; with luck we’ll catch them between the two fires of our own guns and the convoy’s warships before they have a chance to adjust to our presence. All men to battle stations! Sound the ready!” the capitaine ordered, persuaded by favorable winds and the report that the frigates were in hot pursuit of the convoy, to open the fight at once.

  Having been up through the night with the rest of the crew, Nicolas had returned to his quarters just before sight of the English ships had been reacquired, to catch some well-needed sleep. In his exhaustion, he had slept through the first calls to station and was awakened with a start by the close sound of what he mistook for thunder, which was actually the report of the first ranging shot from the Fantassin’s bow gun; the ball flying over the stern of the southernmost English frigate.

  How peculiar that the rumble sounds so close, Nicolas thought to himself, wondering if they were again headed into rough weather. In the next second, the entire ship rolled and then erupted in a great earsplitting roar as half of the sixty-four guns belched forth in directed sequence, tilting the ship with the violence of their cannonade.

  “By God, we’re engaged with the enemy!” Nicolas shouted in excitement.

  Jumping out of his bunk, he grabbed his sword, slinging the leather holster over his shoulder as he hurried down to join his cannon crew, marveling at the organized chaos of battle as he ran. White smoke was everywhere, obscuring everyone’s vision and stinging the eyes and nostrils. The acrid smell of powder hung in the air along with the odor of burning wood. Splinters and pieces of flooring exploded in staccato bursts as the English returned fire, the balls finding their targets along the first deck of the Fantassin. Lieutenant Fortier was nowhere to be seen, so Nicolas chose to stay and stand his watch with the crew he had become most familiar with, if for no other reason than to give them encouragement. He watched in calm alertness as the battle unfolded, the cries and shouts of the men providing a steady undercurrent to the exhortations of the officers, who calmly gave their commands to ready and fire the pieces that they oversaw.

  “Bring more water to cool the barrel!” someone shouted above the deafening din.

  Seeing the other cannoneers already busily occupied, Nicolas moved immediately to fetch the required bucket just as a ball from one of the British frigates came through the cannon port while the piece was in recoil. It raced through the space he had just occupied, shearing the head clean off one of the gun crew behind him and covering everyone in the cramped space with the dead man’s blood and brains. The ball then careened off the back wall, breaking the back of another man before settling in the corner, where it miraculously failed to explode.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Nicolas tried to clear the thick soup of blood mixed with jellied brains from his face and eyes, instinctively spitting to rid his mouth of the unwelcome repast. He bent down to see if the man with the broken back was still alive. As he did so, a second ball followed the first in, exploding on the far side of the cannon; slamming him back into the nearby wall where he sat dazed, trying to regain his senses. There was a dull ringing in his ears. Somewhere deep in his head he heard the frantic shouts of the ship’s gunnery sergeant calling on the gun teams to return fire.

  He struggled to his feet, noting curiously that he couldn’t seem to move or feel his left arm. He reached up with his right, pulling himself up with the help of the rigging from the cannon, using the movement of the ship to help him manhandle the lightly damaged but still workable gun into firing position. He found the rod to light the fuse at his feet. Though he was hardly able to hear himself think through the wall of noise, he heard the whistle that accompanied the command to fire, the spoken command impossible to hear through the loud cacophony of sound. He put the glowing rod to the fuse and was sure the cannon must have blown up as the shock of the explosion and recoil sent the piece hurling backwards, narrowly missing him.

  “Fetch another ball! I’ll prime it to fire again!” one of the sailors shouted at him.

  Nicolas tried to recall the routine he’d been shown just a few hours ago, but in the unfolding chaos things seemed so hard to remember. With the sailor’s help, however, they were twice more able to fire the gun before another direct hit that miraculously spared them both, knocked the gun off its moorings, leaving the cannon loose and shifting about with the motion of the ship, a danger to anyone who was near it. The red-bearded sailor, a man whom Nicolas knew only by his nickname of “the Viking,” doused Nicolas with a bucket of water to wash the gory residue of blood and bits of brain from his face and hair, the bracing wash helping to clear his mind as well.

  “We have to go up and prepare for boarding!” the Viking shouted as loudly as he could, pointing the way topside. Nicolas followed wil
lingly, eager to join in the fighting as they moved through the carnage above decks.

  The Fantassin was fast coming to boarding distance with one of what Nicolas saw were a pair of English vessels engaged with the warships of the French convoy. The frigate closest to them had lost its rearmost mast and looked to have considerable difficulty in maneuvering. The other English ship was well to the north of their position and was simultaneously being bombarded by both the Pomerol and the Bon Majesté. Nicolas waited patiently on deck with the others as a line formed among the sailors who prepared to be issued weapons. This was his first real taste of battle and he found, to his welcome surprise, that he was not afraid. The overriding emotion he felt was anger. Anger that men he knew were dead; anger that other men he didn’t know were trying to kill him. The taste of blood was in his mouth, the look of vengeance in his eye as he stood waiting to close with the enemy. The veterans amongst the men with whom he stood, nodded at him with silent approval. There was no doubt among them that he, like they, would exact his own measure of retribution for the French dead and wounded lying about them.

  Another line of several sailors prepared to throw grappling hooks and ladders across to the crippled English frigate so that she could be boarded. Nicolas decided to join them as they seemed most likely to begin the engagement, and he longed to come to grips with the English foe. The almost continual report of musketry from the sharpshooters of both engaged ships crackled and popped overhead. There was a constant buzzing in his ears that he initially supposed to be some giant form of unseen sea fly, but realized, after seeing the jumping splinters on the deck around him, that it was the sound of musket balls passing close by him. The stark realization that other men were trying to kill him from a distance roused his sense of indignation. He reached across his shoulder to draw the Muramasa from its sheath, the blade singing as it left the scabbard and came alive in his hand; thirsting like its master, to taste the blood of the enemy.

  ***

  On the deck of the Belle Héloïse, the Marquis de Blaise and the other passengers were both appalled and exhilarated, watching spellbound from a safe distance well to the north of the fighting as the battle unfolded. The crew called out the action as they saw it, noting the unexpected but much-hoped-for arrival of the Fantassin to cheers from the crowded deck, and drawing attention to the pounding it was giving the British, having caught them if not by surprise, then at least unprepared and between two fires.

  Sérolène, given a spyglass to watch the encounter, searched frantically for Nicolas aboard the Fantassin, which was almost completely obscured by smoke. She watched, transfixed, as the French ship maneuvered to board the frigate that had been crippled by the combined volleys of the French guns. A shout of alarm went up as the Fantassin lost the top of its foremast, which came crashing down with an explosive thud loud enough to be heard over the general din of battle. The passengers gathered on the deck of the Belle Héloïse all turned to each other in worry at the alarming sight. Sérolène could no longer bear to watch, clinging to Julienne desperately for news of the battle as she closed her eyes to the chaos. Francis stood next to Julienne, watching the unfolding action, his eyes searching despite the smoke and the distance, for any sign of his brother.

  “They’re going to board her!” he exclaimed, as he provided the narrative for Sérolène and Julienne, watching intently as the grappling hooks were thrown over the side of the British frigate, the boarding ladders and ropes ready to follow on.

  “I can see them preparing the boarding ladders,” Francis reported, scanning the top of one of the first ladders to be thrown down across the space between the ships, the figures in the distance a blur in the smoke. Something compelled him to retrace the path of his spyglass. He leaned almost over the edge of the railing to focus on a figure that seemed familiar to him, standing near one of the boarding ladders.

  “There he is! Near the main mast, next to the ladder in the center!” Francis shouted.

  “You see him, Monsieur? Are you quite sure? Pray tell me how he seems!” Sérolène said breathlessly, raising her head from Julienne’s shoulder to peer across the wide smoky divide between the ships.

  “He seems well enough, by God! He’s a sword in hand…surely he can’t mean to join the boarding party!” Francis said.

  It was more a statement of hope than of fact as Francis watched the first boarders attempt to swing over to the rigging of the wounded frigate despite a hail of musketry. Several sailors fell either wounded or dead into the sea from the withering shot. Those that had the misfortune to fall to the English deck were quickly dispatched with bayonet or knife by the English crew.

  Francis focused his lens on the small red-clad troupe of what he guessed were British Royal Marines, who appeared to be readying a volley to fire into the first Frenchmen to try and come across to their ship. He saw the muskets leveled, the officer’s sword raised, preparing to give the order to fire as the ship’s senior officers watched coolly from the bridge. He looked again to try to find Nicolas, but he was no longer near the railing where he had been standing. His heart raced as he searched the scene for signs of his brother. He let out a gasp as he saw a darting figure running across the grappling planks and ladders that now connected the two ships. The figure was at the forefront of the French vanguard, his sword drawn, a howl of fury on his lips; he knew at once that it was Nicolas.

  “Brave fool! You risk too much!” Francis shouted as a cloud of white smoke from the Marines’ volley obscured the scene, the delayed sound of the firing reaching the Belle Héloïse several seconds later. He dared not look, but dared not take his eyes away as the deadly panoply of battle unfolded before him. Fortunately for Nicolas, he had been so far ahead of the following party of boarders that he was able to avoid being hit by the volley of musket fire, which was aimed at the larger crowd of bodies behind him.

  “He’s made it, by God! He’s with the boarders on the frigate! You can see him there, amongst the red-clad Marines!” Francis shouted.

  In an instant, every spyglass on the Héloïse had turned toward the boarding party where a lean, dark-clad figure could be seen cutting a swath through those standing in front of him, followed closely by an officer and a party of sailors with swords and muskets. Nicolas’ frame was the point of the French spear that forced its way toward the heart of the British command. Caught up completely in the frenzy of the attack and wanting his own personal revenge for the French dead and dying he saw all about him, the young chevalier was like a scythe among fresh grass.

  The Muramasa sang in his hand as it cut through flesh, bone, and anything else in the path of its razor-sharp blade, dropping several Marines as he came in contact and causing disorder in the layered lines of defense that protected the bridge as the men he wounded and killed fell back onto each other. The fury of the French onslaught forced a point of entry, allowing the critical mass of the rest of the French forces, ably led by Lieutenant Fortier, to pour through. The spectators on the Belle Héloïse watched transfixed as the vanguard of the French boarders pierced through the first line and raced for the quarterdeck to engage the group of British officers and their small remaining guard, who stood steadfastly nonchalant, waiting to receive the oncoming attack.

  Sérolène’s heart beat so fast she felt as if it would burst through her chest. She watched the unfolding battle as if in a trance, her mind detaching itself from the reality that as grand a visual spectacle as it was, men were dying in front of her. She realized, almost in the abstract, that Nicolas might very well be one of them. For the first time in her life she felt the almost overwhelming force of primal emotion that occurs when that which one loves is in danger. She understood instinctively how mothers reacted with unaccustomed bravery when their children or families were in peril, and why men would be willing to sacrifice themselves in an instant to protect their comrades. She wanted to rush to Nicolas’ side, to stand by him no matter the danger, to accept his fate as her own. How much easier that would be than to have to
bear the naked desperation and powerlessness of being a mere spectator to the unfolding carnage.

  The French spearhead broke against the quarterdeck, the lines flattening out as the fighting became hand to hand. On the Héloïse, they lost sight of Nicolas in the crowd as the melée became general, which only added to the growing sense of both excitement and anxiety. Sérolène gripped Julienne’s hand tightly to steady her nerves.

  “Have faith, my dear! I’m sure he’ll be all right!” Julienne said encouragingly, Sérolène nodding more in hope than in belief as Francis resumed the narrative of the battle.

  “He’s there! To the rear of the deck. He’s fighting hand to hand…with an officer, I think!” Francis shouted.

  Again heads and spyglasses turned. Through the thinning white haze of smoke, two figures could be seen engaged blade to blade. The marquis, as a former military man, had up until this point been able to maintain a remarkable degree of sangfroid while observing the unfolding battle. Seeing his son now in mortal danger, he could no longer hold himself back, shouting encouragement to Nicolas despite the fact that the loud cacophony of battle prevented all but the sounds of cannonades and musketry from carrying.