Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “At them my boy! Encore de l’audace! Plus de l’audace![5][5]” Blaise shouted.

  Perhaps the fact of his encouragement was enough. As if the son could feel the urgings of his father, Nicolas seemed to increase the pressure on his opponent, driving him back under an unexpectedly aggressive onslaught until the officer lost his footing, falling back onto the deck and ending the encounter with Nicolas’ sword aimed at his throat.

  The fallen officer relinquished his sword, offering the hilt to Nicolas in surrender. Nicolas sheathed his own and accepted it, raising the captured blade above his head in triumph, to the cheers of those watching on the Belle Héloïse. A moment later, the English colors were struck as the French assault party overwhelmed the rest of the ship’s defenses. At the sight of the officer’s relinquished sword and the raising of the French colors, the rest of the sailors, who had continued to fight gallantly despite the overwhelming numbers of Frenchmen that continued to pour onto the deck of their vessel, began to give up, first in pockets and then generally, surrendering their arms as they did so. The cheering among those watching on the Héloïse, now became general.

  “Damned well done, Nico! Damned well done!” Francis shouted exuberantly.

  Julienne and Sérolène looked at each other, trying to suppress their giddy sense of relief, which nonetheless burst forth in tandem as the nervous, joyful, frenetic excitement prompted by Nicolas’ apparent escape from danger and Francis’ blatant swearing engulfed them both. They giggled and laughed like the young girls they still were at the Comte de Marbéville’s faux pas, relieved that the grand but horrible spectacle was ending and that Nicolas appeared to be not only unharmed, but one of the heroes of the piece. Francis turned scarlet, realizing his excitement-induced gaffe and bowing to them both in way of apology.

  In a few more minutes it was all over; the harbinger of victory, the layer of silence that rolled in to envelop the general area of battle. Off to the southeast the deep rumble of cannon could still be heard as the Pomerol pursued the second British frigate, which was now running as fast as she could to the south. Though significantly damaged in the engagement, the British ship appeared fast enough to make good her escape, an assessment that soon became fact as the recall order was issued to the slower Pomerol. The Fantassin and the Bon Majesté had both dropped anchor near the captured British frigate to support each other, and now the gruesome task of collecting the dead and treating the wounded began, as did the effort to repair the light damage on the Pomerol and the heavier damage on the Fantassin. The cargo ships both stood by to provide whatever assistance was needed for the injured men and crews.

  Aboard the captured frigate, order was slowly returning as the fighting ended, save for a few isolated pockets below decks. The prisoners were being rounded up, officers to one side, sailors and Marines to the other. The surgeons were already about their gruesome work, a growing pile of severed limbs near the makeshift aid stations set up on deck, attesting to the grim necessity of their labor. Capitaine d’Armillac went aboard the English frigate, which they now knew to be called Perseverance, to confer with his officers and decide the fate of the captured ship and crew. As it turned out, many of the crew of common sailors had been impressed Americans and had been willing to fight only up to the point where they were sure of not being shot in the back by the British Marines. Once the French had overrun that force, the forcibly serving crewmen were only too ready to surrender to their allies against King George and the British Crown.

  With the enemy warship now fully in custody, decisions needed to be made as to whether the English ship should be sailed back to France as a prize, or scuttled. By tradition, Nicolas was allowed to escort his prisoner to Capitaine d’Armillac, who was to formally receive his counterpart’s surrender. Nicolas bowed to d’Armillac with elegant formality before presenting the English captain and his surrendered sword to the victorious French capitaine.

  “Capitaine d’Armillac, I have the honor of presenting to you your prisoner, Capitaine Lakestan of the frigate Perseverance,” Nicolas said proudly. Both captains doffed their hats to each other in greeting. Nicolas then presented Captain Lakestan’s sword to d’Armillac, who regarded the young warrior in front of him with a new degree of respect.

  “I think, Monsieur le Chevalier, that as you were able enough to take that blade, you may have the honor of keeping it,” Capitaine d’Armillac said. Nicolas bowed to the capitaine to thank him for the honor, then turned to address the English captain.

  “Sir, I was fortunate that you lost your footing, rendering me the honors of the day. Allow me to return to you your sword, along with my enduring esteem,” Nicolas said in good English. The defeated captain was impressed by Nicolas’ gallantry, and his command of English. Graciously accepting the return of his sword, he felt himself compelled to reply with equal magnanimity.

  “I regret that I have nothing to give you in return, Monsieur le Chevalier, so I offer you my hand which I hope you will take, and my admiration, which you have already earned both for your skill and your gentility,” the captain said nobly.

  Nicolas shook the defeated captain’s hand eagerly, and there were voicings of approval all round for the chivalrous behavior of the combatants, helped no doubt by the fact that none of the British or French officers had been killed during the boarding, and casualties on both ships had been moderate, with the exception of the Royal Marines, who bore the brunt of the hand to hand fighting and therefore the dying as well.

  Basking in the glow of their victory, Nicolas’ compatriots failed to notice the growing pool of dark red stains spilling from his moribund left arm onto the deck of the ship.

  “By God, Monsieur, if I were you I should have that arm looked at, and at once,” Captain Lakestan said, indicating the spreading pool of blood near Nicolas’ feet; his motions graceful and dignified despite the disaster that had befallen him.

  “Thank you, Sir, for your concern. It’s nothing, I assure you. I can’t even feel it,” Nicolas replied stoically.

  “Can you raise your arm, then?” the captain asked, unconvinced. Nicolas tried his best, but his arm was unresponsive. The captain looked rather more concerned, and did not hide it.

  “All the more reason to have it dressed and looked at. Leave it too long and you might lose it altogether. I should be happy to have my own surgeon see to it if yours is otherwise occupied,” Captain Lakestan offered. Nicolas looked around somewhat dazedly, realizing that he was having trouble thinking clearly and that he suddenly felt light-headed.

  “It’s not coming off. I’ve gotten quite attached to it and I’d rather not part with it just yet. But…if you wouldn’t mind, Sir, I’d be very much obliged to have it seen to…” Nicolas said, stumbling as he began to feel dizzy, the loss of adrenalin and blood beginning at last to catch up with him. Lieutenant Fortier grasped him in his arms, supporting Nicolas as his legs gave way and he collapsed.

  “Promise me you’ll not let them take my arm!” Nicolas pleaded as the world began to dim. Fortier hesitated in replying, not wanting to do anything that might jeopardize his young friend’s life.

  “They’ll never accept me at the École with one arm, and if they do not, she is lost to me. Promise me!” Nicolas said, his voice desperate and pleading.

  Fortier nodded and the darkness engulfed Nicolas, who would have no recollection of the shouts that rang out to come to his assistance, of his body being carried aloft to a makeshift aid station, or the press of activity that would ensue as both Lieutenant Fortier and Captain Lakestan, one a friend the other a recently defeated enemy, called frantically for both French and English surgeons to try and save him.

  “You must promise not to remove the arm. No matter how bad it looks,” Lieutenant Fortier said to both surgeons as they arrived to tend to Nicolas.

  “Even at the extent of his life?” the French surgeon inquired skeptically.

  “I’ve given my word that he shall keep it, and keep it he shall,” Fortier replied.

>   The surgeon nodded reluctantly, as his English counterpart moved to assist him. They cut free Nicolas’ coat, which was moist and heavy with blood, so that they could inspect the damage to the arm. As soon as his sleeve was cut free, the source of the wound became obvious. A large wooden splinter several inches in length and half an inch in diameter had embedded itself in his upper left arm, piercing through muscle and flesh to hold fast to the bone. A full two inches of the uppermost part of the splinter was visible at the rear of his arm, where it had been unable to complete its exit; a good inch of the splinter protruded from the front.

  “That’s a nasty wound. It's better he’s unconscious. There’s nothing for it but to pull it out and hope that no major bloodline has been severed,” the English surgeon remarked in surprisingly good French, looking hard at Fortier.

  “It’s best to tie a tourniquet on the arm now in case an artery severs when the splinter is pulled. If we don’t and it starts to spurt, it will be too late to save him. If we do, though, the arm is likely as good as gone whatever happens,” the French surgeon opined.

  “If he wants to keep the limb at all costs, then we must hope he is a lucky young man,” the English surgeon said in agreement. All eyes were on Fortier, as Nicolas’ friend, to make the decision. He considered only a moment.

  “Take it out. No tourniquet,” Fortier declared resolutely.

  The surgeons, considering themselves by their disclosures fully absolved should there be any misfortune for their patient, prepared themselves to remove the large splinter. The English surgeon, who claimed more experience in this type of procedure, was to pull; the French surgeon would hold Nicolas down should the pain prove so great that it would rouse him from his collapse. The Frenchman took a firm hold of Nicolas as the others watched apprehensively. The English doctor selected a particular pair of tongs from a large leather bag he had with him that contained his various implements. Directing that Nicolas be turned on his side, the doctor grasped the bloody protruding end of the splinter with his implement and prepared to pull it out.

  “Bring me a heated firing rod. Any one from a cannon will do. Make sure it’s good and hot. We’ll need it to cauterize the wound after the splinter comes out,” the English surgeon said. Fortier nodded, sending a man to fetch one. While they waited, the surgeon pointed to a bottle of distilled spirits in his bag.

  “Soak the bandages in that, if you please. After I pull the splinter out, hand me the bottle right away,” the surgeon said. Fortier nodded his understanding. One of the sailors came running back, red-hot firing rod in hand.

  “Steady then! Here we go!” the Englishman cried out, grasping the splinter securely with the tip of the tongs. He pulled abruptly and hard, hoping that luck would be with him and the splinter would come cleanly out, but it stuck fast to the bone, unwilling to relinquish its hold. He pulled as hard as he could, twisting the tongs ever so slightly in the wound. The splinter released itself with a gurgling sucking pop, followed by a rush of oozing blood.

  “The bottle! Now!” the Surgeon called out to Fortier, who handed him the flask he had been shown as Nicolas groaned, the unbearable pain beginning to pull him toward consciousness. Taking the bottle in hand, the surgeon poured it into the open wound before probing inside the injured flesh with his fingers for any other fragments that might have remained inside the arm. Satisfied that it was clean, he then took the firing rod in hand.

  “We’re past the worst of it. No bloodlines severed, it seems. Hold him down firmly now. He’s going to feel this,” the surgeon said, applying the red-hot poker to the wound to seal it.

  The stench of burning flesh and blood filled the tight space framed by the bodies of the onlookers. Even those with the strongest of stomachs turned away or covered their noses. Nicolas’ eyes opened in agony, his body trying to rise to escape the source of his torment, but he was held firmly down by the French surgeon with help from Fortier and others. For a moment his eyes were clear and lucid, looking to his friend as if beseeching him to end his agony.

  “By God…that is most inconvenient!” he said with admirable sangfroid before mercifully slipping back into unconsciousness. The rod was turned to complete the sealing of the wound at its entry point. Convinced that they had done all that they could and hoping that it would be enough, the English surgeon removed the cauterizing rod, working with his French counterpart to begin swathing Nicolas’ arm in bandages. Putrefaction would now be the principal worry over the next several days.

  “Well he’s a lucky young man after all. No artery severed, and it appears that was the only fragment in the wound,” the English surgeon reported, lifting up the long splinter, which looked like a gigantic arrow shaft, to show the lieutenant and the others.

  “He’ll need careful attention over the next few days to make sure the wound doesn’t go bad. Bandages should be changed daily. He’ll be thirsty as well,” the Englishman explained.

  “Thank you. We are all grateful for your help,” Fortier said.

  Capitaine d’Armillac, who had gone off to see to other affairs of command, returned to check on Nicolas’ condition. Satisfied that the boy would survive at least for now, and that the doctors had done their best, he ordered a stretcher made for Nicolas and a boat lowered to have him conveyed to the Bon Majesté at once along with the English captain, the surgeon, and the other officers who had been taken prisoner.

  “He’s acquitted himself damnably well, our young chevalier. I shall be proud to mention his name in my report. Rest well, brave lad. Today you have covered yourself in blood and glory. Lieutenant Fortier you will see him to safety on the flagship. Let us hope he will be able to spend the rest of the passage in comfort, and that his wound heals quickly. France has need of such intrepid souls,” Capitaine d’Armillac said, placing his hand gently on Nicolas’ uninjured arm. And whatever happens, see to it that he doesn’t die on my ship, d’Armillac thought to himself, remembering the promise he’d made to the Marquis de Blaise. Within minutes a boat had been prepared to ferry the unconscious Nicolas across to the Bon Majesté, and his first tour of duty aboard a ship of war had come to an end.

  ****

  A short time later, Lieutenant Fortier was piped aboard the flagship with the requisite pomp required for such occasions. A military band played in the background as the officers and crew of the Bon Majesté waited on deck to receive the English prisoners with full honors. Lieutenant Fortier led the prisoners out across the deck, presenting Captain Lakestan to the French officers. The introductions of the other important prisoners followed apace, some particular words of praise being reserved for the conduct of the surgeon, Doctor Hornsby. All the prisoners of rank were then led to the vice-amiral’s state room, where they were to be presented to him personally.

  While the captured dignitaries were being attended to, Nicolas’ prone form was finally hauled up over the side in the sling. The junior French officers were at a loss to identify the wounded man as the stretcher bearing Nicolas was lowered. Lieutenant Fortier, who had made his way back onto the main deck with the vice-amiral and the rest of the glittering entourage of officers and prisoners, explained who the casualty was and the circumstances of how he came to be injured.

  The vice-amiral advanced to get a closer look at Nicolas for himself. Seeing him on the stretcher -- pale, unconscious, covered in his own freshly shed blood -- he was moved by his youthful beauty and Fortier’s account of his bravery. He bent down and kissed both of Nicolas’ cheeks before removing the order of St. Louis from his own breast and placing it on Nicolas’ chest.

  “His deeds this day have made all Frenchmen proud. I shall be honored to mention his name in my dispatches. See that suitable accommodation is made available for the chevalier. My own doctors are to attend him, as well as Doctor Hornsby, if he is so inclined. We shall have a celebratory meal tonight to commemorate the occasion of our victory. All the distinguished passengers on the other ships of the convoy are to attend. I’m sure they will be excited to meet our ne
w guests,” the vice-amiral said.

  “À vos ordres, mon Amiral!” his principal aide replied, turning smartly to see to the execution of his orders.

  “Lieutenant Fortier, I entrust you with the task of making sure the Marquis de Blaise is made aware of the condition of his son. See to it yourself. You may take my longboat,” the vice-amiral ordered.

  “Oui, mon Amiral!” Fortier saluted.

  “I shall also expect you at my table tonight, along with Capitaine d’Armillac. Make certain that you come suitably well turned out. There will after all, be ladies present,” the vice-amiral reminded the lieutenant before dismissing him.

  Fortier saluted, then bowed again before setting off quickly to carry out his orders. He had somehow known when he first laid eyes on him that Nicolas would bring good luck. Personal recognition and a seat at the vice-amiral’s table were a promising start indeed.