Eye of the Storm (8 page)

Marshall had seen some of these formulae applied to fortifications, but he had never encountered the work in its entirety. It was no boast to say that Monge was a true genius. “The simplicity of it—this would save hours of calculation!”

“Indeed, it would,” Beauchene said. “And the wonder of this is that M. Monge developed it when he was but a student at the military academy. Before this was discovered, simply to work out the calculations for
défflement
of a fortress could take—oh, many hours longer. When he first used it, his own teacher did not want to accept that he was able to complete the work so quickly.”

Marshall had asked permission to take notes, but he still felt faintly guilty at being given such valuable information. “Are you certain you should be showing me this, monsieur? After all, our countries are likely to be at war again, and soon.”

Beauchene peered at him over those heavy spectacles, his hazel eyes warm in the sunlight. “Captain, I wish that all your countrymen shared your exquisite scruples.” He pushed aside a strand of hair that fell into his face. “But no, he made this discovery decades ago, and if you had turned your eyes to earthworks instead of the heavens, you would surely have seen it by now. I am betraying no secrets, and I do not believe that you are my enemy.”

Marshall felt a twinge of guilt. “Monsieur, I must be honest with you. I cannot condone what Bonaparte has done, and if war breaks out again—as I feel it must—I would return to the Navy gladly. Though I must say I am extremely pleased that I would not find you yourself facing me from the deck of a French man-of-war.”

Beauchene smiled. “Captain, are we alone?”

Marshall blinked, then realized that Beauchene’s eyesight really was too poor to see every corner of the room. He got up and went out into the hall, just to be certain. Returning to his chair, he said, “Yes, we are.”

“
Bon
. I would not want to shock Jean-Claude, or have him report me as a traitor.” He reached for the bottle of wine between them and poured a bit more into his glass, and into Will’s. “Would it surprise you if I say that I have no love for the First Consul? It is true, he has brought order to France—and spread chaos through the rest of Europe. He has allowed Frenchmen to behave like savages in Egypt, and there are even rumors that he had my countrymen put to death—his own wounded soldiers!—to speed his retreat from that Godforsaken region. He has sacrificed too many lives to his own ambition, and his claims of honor—p’fui! Honor? At Malta, he begged safe harbor from the Knights, and then attacked them once his needs were met.”

“I know,” Marshall said. “I think that may be one reason England has not returned Malta, even though it was part of the treaty to do so.”

“He will pick that bone when he is ready to fight, I promise you. As soon as he has the fleet brought to readiness and the army reorganized, he will take up arms once more. And he may win, in the end. He is skilled at what he does, and completely without compunction; he would do anything for victory. To please certain influential swine he even brought slavery back to my country, after the Revolution had abolished it. For that alone I could despise him.”

Beauchene took off his spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I do not wish to see England conquer us, I do not want to see Bonaparte triumph—no matter how it goes, my poor France will be the loser. It is a hard thing, to love one’s country and see it so betrayed.”

There was too much passion in the man’s words for Will to doubt his sincerity; outrage gave him a fire that the love of his studies did not. “But…you do military work for the Compte de Péluse…”

“Napoleon is not France, Captain, though he may believe they are one and the same. This is still my country. My family’s bones lie in this ground.”

Marshall nodded understanding, wondering if his own patriotism was weak. He was English, born and bred, but he did not have this deep love of any single part of the land. Of course, his family had not been so deeply-rooted; he had grown up in the vicarage his father had been given, and his family’s bones lay in various churchyards in many small towns. “Your work will remain when this present trouble is gone.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not even concerned for that. I do the mathematics for the joy of it, my friend. Do it I must—it is the same as breathing.” He put his hand over Marshall’s. “Is it not the same with you? I cannot converse with you, and see your intelligence and good nature, and believe that when you send your ship into battle it is because you wish to see men die, or count your victory in the number of lives destroyed.”

Marshall winced. “I am no saint, monsieur, but no. It is not that I seek to kill—but I have killed your countrymen in battle, and no doubt will again.”

“As they would kill you, of course.”

“Yes. But the goal is to capture; if a ship surrenders to me without a shot fired, I count that a victory. When I was younger, it was otherwise, of course. I joined the Navy at fourteen, and a boy needs no reason to fight the French, or anyone else. But until a boy sees death, he thinks himself immortal.” He thought of Davy, and the risk that would come with renewed warfare. “As I grow older, I find more joy in sailing and navigation. I have seen enough of death. But to protect my own country…of course I will fight, as hard as I can.”

“That is a reason anyone can appreciate, I think,” Beauchene said. “And a man must face death for that. The war took my own father some years ago, at this season, just before Christmas. A stupid cause—his horse stepped on his foot, and it became infected. He was sent home from the front, but died soon after he arrived.”

“I am sorry.” Will sighed. It was impossible to think of this gentle man as the enemy, and easier to see himself as the uncivilized savage. “I wish that more of your countrymen were like you, monsieur. ‘Peace on earth to men of good will…’  I wonder sometimes if it is even possible.”

“Could you call me Etienne? I think of you as a friend, not an adversary.”

The offhand request made Marshall slightly uncomfortable, but he did feel a greater affinity for this Frenchman than he had for many of his fellow officers. “Certainly…Etienne. My own given name is William, if you wish to use it.”

“Merci,
William.” The name had a certain charm pronounced “Weelyom.”

Embarrassed, Marshall sought a general subject. “I think it a pity that men and nations can find nothing better than to fight one another. It seems the easiest thing is always to send out armies—Could our leaders not sit down together with some of this excellent wine and find some other way to settle our differences?”

Beauchene smiled, shaking his head. “No, my friend. If we had six or eight men together, perhaps, if they were not too arrogant. But with even a few more, it would become politics, and all would be lost. Generals are seldom ‘men of good will,’ and politics is nothing more than war in a clean uniform.”

Will smiled ruefully, thinking of the vicious attacks on Pitt, the brutal and sometimes even bloody animosity between Whig and Tory. “It’s worse than war, I think. At least in a war, you know the attack will be coming from the enemy.”

Beauchene slapped the table. “I knew you were a sane man! I despise war, William. But more than that, I despise politics—yes, even our own glorious Revolution.
La gloire! Libert
é
, Egalit
é
,
and especially
Fraternit
é
!
Such beautiful words—but only words. The old regime was corrupt, yes, of course it was. But the Committee for Public Safety—that was a marvel of hypocrisy. The noble words, the ugly deeds… Scarcely was the ink dry on the paper before it began corrupting itself and killing our people. The men who want power—they are unfit to hold it. I think of all lust, the lust for power is the greatest evil.”

The echo of Davy’s words of a few days ago was unsettling. And so was the realization that Etienne Beauchene’s hand was still resting upon his own, and even more disturbing was the fact that he found that touch pleasant. “I have a friend who would agree with you,” he said, trying to make his movement casual as he retrieved his hand and picked up his glass. “To friends, near and far—to men of good will.”

“I can drink to that with pleasure,” Beauchene said, and did. He paused a moment, looking thoughtful as a stray gleam of sunset touched his hair, giving it a copper glow. “This friend—is he upon your ship?”

“Yes. I wish there were some way for me to communicate with him, but I fear that if I were to attempt it, matters would only get worse.”

“Jean-Claude told me there has been a French ship in the harbor since yours sailed off. You have seen it, I think.”

“Yes,” Marshall admitted. “That is probably the reason he left so abruptly—those were my orders, though as the ship’s owner he could have chosen to do otherwise.”

“So he has gone, and cannot return. Would it help, do you think, for me to invite the captain to come ashore and explain to him why you are here?”

If it were only that simple. “That is for you to decide, of course,” Marshall said, “but I’m afraid that in the current diplomatic situation it would not help at all. I have no official papers, no permission to remove a French citizen from his own country…and I cannot hope that the captain of that ship would be as amiable a man as you are. It is his duty to be suspicious of a foreign sailor, as I would be in his position.”

“There is also the problem that we cannot produce Dr. Colbert,” Beauchene said wryly. He addressed an imaginary third party: “‘M’sieu Captain, this English sailor is here only to take his friend’s uncle back to his family.’ ‘Very well, produce this uncle!’ ‘Alas, we cannot, he seems to have lost himself.’”

Marshall laughed at the dialogue, though it was no joke. “True enough. Even worse, I have no ship to take him on if he should appear. I do wish he had made other arrangements, or that there were some way to get in touch with him.”

“I am beginning to worry for him.” Beauchene glanced toward the window, where the light was nearly gone. “He is not yet sixty, but the trip is long and the way dangerous, and he should have been here—what, four days ago?”

“Yes. Or even a day sooner. It’s past time to take action, but I did not wish to presume. It is your home.”

“I agree. We should act, then. What do you wish to do?”

What Marshall wished to do was borrow a horse, if such a thing was to be had. “I wish to go looking for him, but as an Englishman, I could not inquire along the road, so there’s little hope I would find him. Is there anyone in the household who could be sent to look for him? I’ve little money with me, but we have funds aboard the
Mermaid
and the Baron would be happy to pay for assistance if it meant finding his father-in-law.”

“That is a difficulty, but not because of money. I cannot send Jean-Claude. He is needed here, to carry wood and water for the house. The rest of us are incapable of venturing very far—and although your French is very good, you are so obviously English that you would not be safe.”

“I am able-bodied, Etienne. I could deal with the firewood and I’ve spent most of my life on water.”

“But you are a guest!”

He seemed genuinely shocked at the suggestion that a guest might pitch in and lend a hand. “An uninvited guest,” Marshall pointed out, “who has put you to a great deal of trouble.”

“And whose company has given me a great deal of pleasure. No, no, my friend, let us wait until tomorrow. It would do no good to begin at sunset. I will speak to our old cook. Her daughter lives in the village; perhaps her son-in-law can take leave of his fermenting vats for a day or two. Dr. Colbert has been our guest before, so it would not cause talk or suspicion if I said he was expected here.”

Marshall felt his spirits grow lighter even as the room grew dim. “Thank you, my friend. I have become more and more concerned as the days passed—though I admit your library has a great power of distraction. I hope the doctor is merely delayed, but if the worst has happened it would be best to know that, too.”

“We must hope it has not. Dr. Colbert knew my parents long before I was born, and we have all lost too many friends. He deserves to be back with his grandchildren for Christmas. I should have spoken before now, but I was certain he would arrive just as arrangements were made to go look for him.”

“In that case, now that we have laid plans, perhaps we may expect him tomorrow,” Will said.

“Indeed. Shall we set a plate for him at dinner tonight? Speaking of dinner, what is the time?”

Marshall checked his watch. “A few minutes to five. Shall I light the candles?”

“No, my eyes have had enough for today, and this room will quickly grow cold.” Beauchene put the journals into a semblance of order upon the table. “Let us go down the hall and drink an
aperitif
with my mother, by her fire.”

Halfway to the door, he paused and touched Marshall’s arm. “William—I would not insult you for the world, and I say this only in friendship—but may I ask, are you extremely fond of this friend who owns your ship?”

“I—” Caught completely off-guard, Marshall felt the heat rise in his face. “Yes, I am, we’ve been together—
sailed
together, I mean—for six years.” He raised his eyes to Etienne’s, and added, almost defiantly, “He is my dearest friend.”

“I mean no offense,” Etienne said quickly.

“None taken,” Marshall said, still uneasy. “Only—”

“William, I find you very attractive, and I think you do not dislike me. So…one must ask. But I think that you have your dearest friend, and do not seek another,
ne c’est pas?”