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
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
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