For Love of Country (26 page)

With that, he slumped down to a sitting position, his back against the bulwark. He muttered a brief prayer for the dead and dying, then closed his eyes to the horror as blessed unconsciousness finally settled over him.

Eleven

Toulon, France, Fall 1788–Spring 1789

R
ICHARD CUTLER, PROPPED up on three pillows, his forehead creased with furrows, tossed his head this way and that as if to escape the sight of something unbearable. The naval hospital was chilly. Early that morning an orderly had latched the large double windows of the cavernous chamber to make certain they remained shut against breezes that were abnormally cool for late October in the South of France. Nonetheless, rivulets of sweat snaked from Richard's brow into the coarse stubble on his chin, mingling there with the salt of tears born from the anguish of his dream.

“
Capitaine
CUTLER? HE FELT someone gently but persistently shaking his right shoulder. “
Réveillez-vous, monsieur
.
Réveillez-vous.
”

For an instant Richard was not certain who was speaking, why he was being awakened, or even where he was.

The man who had spoken was dabbing at Richard's forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “
Capitaine
,” he said kindly, “
vous avez le cauchemar
.
Réveillez-vous maintenant. S'il vous plaît, monsieur.”

Richard blinked up at an orderly wearing a spotless white coat, a neatly cropped goatee, and an encouraging smile. His eyes searched the room, looking for something familiar, until he got his bearings. Yes, he remembered now. He had been carried here on a stretcher he knew not how many days ago. The sizable room was divided with white curtains into small cubicles to afford a semblance of privacy to each patient. His space contained a nightstand next to the bed, two chairs near its foot, and a chest of drawers directly across from the foot of the bed against the curtain.

When he tried to raise himself up on his elbows, he felt a jab of pain shoot down his left arm. He winced, swearing under his breath.

“
Prenez garde, capitaine,
” the orderly scolded him. “
Tenez, je peux vous aider.
” He inserted another pillow under Richard's head and carefully brought him up to a sitting position.

“
Merci,
” Richard said when the pain had subsided. He looked questioningly at the orderly. “
Le docteur Brooke, est-il ici
?”

“
Je crois que oui,
” was the reply. “
Je le chercherai. Un moment, s'il vous plaît
.”

As the orderly disappeared in search of Lawrence Brooke, Richard breathed in the heavenly aroma of fried eggs and bacon. He had not eaten a square meal in days; he had not tasted eggs or bacon since their first day out of Gibraltar. His stomach growled in anticipation.

“
Pardon,
” he said to the orderly upon his return. “
J'ai une faim de loup. Est-ce que je peux avoir quelque chose à manger
?”

“
Certainement, capitaine.
” The orderly gestured in the general direction of the hospital kitchen. “
Votre docteur est entièrement maître de votre petit déjeuner.
”

True to the man's word, a few minutes later Lawrence Brooke pushed aside the curtains of the cubicle. He was followed by a second orderly bearing a tray laden with fried eggs, bacon strips, toasted cheese on bread, two rolls, and hot coffee. With a look that seemed to express mild disapproval, the orderly settled the tray on the table next to Richard's bed and departed.

Brooke pointed at the tray. “Nothing ‘petit' about that ‘déjeuner,' eh, Captain? I had to ruffle some feathers out there in the kitchen, but I was finally able to convince the director of the hospital that you require more than bread and chocolate to get better. This'll put some meat back on your bones.” He picked up the tray and placed it on Richard's lap, pausing after he did so to inspect the bandage and sniff it closely for any hint of gangrene. Detecting none, he said with a satisfied air, “Please, Captain, have at it. I've already eaten.”

Richard dug into a breakfast more delicious than any he could remember.

“I tried for roasted potatoes,” Brooke said, taking a chair and enjoying the spectacle of his captain eating so ravenously, “knowing how much you enjoy them. But these French think that potatoes are fit only for animals to eat. Imagine believing such a thing with people out there starving.”

“You did fine, Doctor,” Richard said. “Just fine, thank you. Are the others in the hospital eating as well?”

“Those able to, yes.”

Richard understood that Brooke meant no criticism, but guilt stroked through him nonetheless—guilt for enjoying such fare while others under his command could not, either because they were too injured or because they were dead. He set his fork down.

“Have you made the rounds this morning, Doctor?”

“I have.”

“And?”

Inexplicably, Brooke bowed his head. “Mr. Crabtree is progressing,” he said, avoiding Richard's questioning gaze, “though it will be a while before he's back on his feet. That shot that glanced off his leg fractured his kneecap. As painful as it is for him, it will heal, over time.”

“How much time?”

“It's difficult to say with that kind of injury. I'd give it four months, at a minimum. But his prognosis, overall, is good. The wounds to his neck and head are coming along. He lost a lot of blood, as you did, Captain, but you both will pull through. Thankfully, there's no need to hurry things along. From what I'm hearing, it may take longer to repair
Falcon
than to repair her two senior officers. Since you and Mr. Crabtree aren't going anywhere anytime soon, you may just as well settle in and enjoy the local flavor.”

“Doctor, my family . . .”

“I took the liberty of writing your father, Captain. I reported to him that we have been delayed in Toulon for the winter and that you and Mr. Crabtree have been wounded, though you both are recovering nicely. I did not give any other details. You can supply those later.”

Richard let his head sink back down onto the pillows, yielding to a surge of relief and to the fatigue that had plagued him since the battle. Moments passed in silence save for the distant sound of a three-way conversation in French. Then a premonition compelled him to open his eyes and look at Dr. Brooke. “What is it, Doctor? What haven't you told me?”

Brooke had been staring down at his hands. He slowly raised his eyes. “I regret to report, Captain, that we have lost another shipmate. He went during the night.”

“Peter Chatfield.”

“Yes, but how ...?”

“Go on.”

“He fought hard to the end,” Brooke said, blinking. “It's a blessing he went, for he could never have recovered from his injuries. I didn't want to tell you this, Captain, not in your condition. I know how fond you were of Chatfield.”

Richard slumped back onto the pillows. “And the others?” he murmured.

“The others will pull through, Captain. You may depend on it.”

THOSE FIRST FEW WEEKS in Toulon passed calmly, quietly. Richard remained in the naval hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness, largely oblivious to the passage of time or to specific dates. It was not until the crisp air of autumn was yielding to the frost of winter that his condition improved sufficiently for him to go outside and take the air, although he was still unable to stand for more than a few minutes at a time. His strength returned slowly but surely.

One day in late November the port captain of Toulon came to visit him at the hospital. He had come on official business, document case in hand, to determine the sequence of events prior to
Falcon
's arrival before the guns of Fort St. Louis, which guarded the southern approaches to Toulon's harbor. Dressed in a white uniform with gold trim, the bespectacled port captain introduced himself as Capitaine Antoine-Pierre Mercier.

Mercier sat down on the chair next to the bed and removed several sheets of paper from his satchel. “It is easier,” he observed wryly, “to get past the Swiss guards at the Vatican or at Versailles than past your ship's surgeon.” They were conversing in French, the post captain having been informed that Richard was fluent in that language.

“I can imagine,” Richard replied. He took a sip from the mug of the hot Ceylon tea that Captain Mercier had kindly brought in for him.

“I realize you are not entirely healed, Captain Cutler,” he mused as he searched through his papers, “so I will limit my time here today.” He put down one sheet of paper, picked up another. “I have but a few questions to ask . . . ah, here we are.” He scanned his notes before glancing up. “You sailed here to Toulon from Algiers, correct?”

“That is correct.”

“At your government's request?”

“At
your
government's agreement to my government's request to let us use these facilities.”

Mercier smiled. “Yes, of course. My apologies. Now, then, if you don't mind, let us go back to the beginning. What was your purpose in going to Algiers?”

“My purpose was to ransom American sailors taken by Barbary pirates aboard one of my family's merchant vessels. My brother is among those sailors.”

“Yes, I was sorry to learn that. When did this attack on your family's vessel occur?”

“Two years ago.”

“Your government supported you in this mission?”

“Yes, it did. I was granted diplomatic status for the mission.”

“Ah. Then as a diplomat, surely you must have met our esteemed consul in Algiers, Monsieur de Kercy?” Mercier's face remained impassive, though Richard thought he detected a twinkle of mirth in the Frenchman's eyes.

“I met him,” Richard replied noncommittally.

Mercier leaned forward, spoke in confidence. “As I have, Captain. Let me just say that in my opinion, and in the opinion of others, Monsieur de Kercy is not the flower of the French diplomatic corps. He is, in fact, more like a weed. Why he was appointed to such a critical post I cannot explain to you.” Mercier leaned back, cleared his throat, and resumed an official tone of voice. “Now please tell me, Captain, as best you can, exactly what happened in Algiers.”

Richard told him, as best he could.

“I see. And you sailed from there . . . one moment, please . . . ” Mercier checked his notes. “You sailed from there the evening of September the second?”

“That is correct.”

“Captain, please tell me what happened on the morning of September the third.”

Richard knew that Mercier had been through all this with Micah Lamont and several other members of his crew who had emerged unscathed from the sea battle. He said as much to the port captain.

“That is true,” Mercier acknowledged. “And I must add that they have been most cooperative. Their testimony is the basis for my notes.” He held up the sheets of paper. “But Mr. Cutler, you must understand that when it comes to the morning of September the third, what they told me was . . . well, shall I say that what they told me is an account I would appreciate hearing again from the mouth of the schooner's captain.”

As Richard conveyed the details of the battle in a matter-of-fact tone, Mercier chewed lightly on his lower lip. At the conclusion of the account he stared at Richard, mouth slightly agape. “You are telling me, Captain, that your schooner, a merchant vessel armed with six guns, was attacked by two Algerian xebecs, each armed with twenty guns, and that in the ensuing battle you succeeded in destroying
both
of them before sailing on to Toulon. Is that what you are telling me?”

“That is what I'm telling you, sir.”

“Monsieur . . . Forgive me for asking . . . I do not mean to doubt you . . . Your mate and surgeon have collaborated every detail . . . but my dear man . . .
how
?”