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
“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
Similar Books
