Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Fifteen: The Golden Dragoons at Sea
Capt. Henry Bordon paced back and forth along the foredeck of the Weeping Maiden, staring out at the sea, observing the white-capped waves off in the distance. He had never liked sailing. One of his cousins on his mother's side had experienced the unfortunate fate of drowning. Apparently his mother had been present at the scene of the dreadful accident and as a result she had developed an irrational fear of water, a phobia she had imparted on her son, only in a milder form.
He was thankful that, unlike some of the other Golden dragoons, he was not susceptible to sea sickness. There was nothing worse than being nervous and sick at the same time. Bordon tried to take a deep breath of the fresh sea-air to help calm his nerves but was instead greeted by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. The captain often wondered if his wounded lung would ever heal completely. He tried to forget the war in America, to blot out all the painful memories. After three years, he found that he no longer thought about it daily, but there were those nights when he couldn't sleep, when he would lie awake and the horrible visions would flash before his eyes. The church, the fire, the screaming, that blond patriot boy inserting that knife neatly between his ribs; and though he cursed Tavington and his senseless brutality he wished that he had killed that boy, Gabriel Martin. It was a selfish thought, but Bordon could not help but entertain the possibilities.
It had been three months since they had seen England. Leaving so soon had helped to dull the pain of his father's death and lessen the frequency of his nightmares of America; and he had never given a second thought to his decision to join up with the Golden Dragoons. Taken in total, they were a much more relaxed collection of fellows. They talked quite openly about their past mistresses, swallowed several pints of ale each in the evenings, and whiled away the hours aboard ship with card games and friendly bouts of sword fighting.
In a most unTavington-like fashion, Gen. Carrenworth sometimes participated in the contests among his men, and he nearly always won, except when it came to drinking. Bordon had never seen his new commander drink anything except the occasional glass of white wine. He wasn't the sort to get drunk despite the tendency of nearly all of his dragoons. He didn't seem to eat either. Pierson often bragged that he had nearly beaten Carrenworth in one of the sword fighting tournaments, but the other dragoons were quick to point out the fact that "nearly beating" meant lasting longer than thirty seconds, Pierson had managed a minute.
"Don't be ridiculous!" Bordon had exclaimed. "I've seen Pierson fight. He's good; in fact, he's the best I've ever seen. A minute? Come now, no one's THAT good!"
"His lordship is!" All of the dragoons were quick to respond.
Bordon wanted to see a demonstration, but it seemed unlikely. Though the duke had proven himself fully capable of managing a regiment of dragoons, an entire crew of sailors, and carrying on as many as three conversations simultaneously, doing such things did seem to take up most of his time. What little spare time he did have he seemed to spend in studying thick tomes of military strategy and reports concerning various happenings in India.
Bordon respected Gen. Carrenworth, and yet under that respect was a feeling he couldn't explain, and feeling that stemmed from a perception that there was something not quite right about the man. The captain couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about those eyes, about that voice, and about that demeanor that hinted at the one possibility he dared not consider. madness.
* * *
The sea air was sharp, crisp, and refreshing. It pulled at strands of the assassin de Fleur's oily black hair, and flipped the collar of his coat into his expressionless face more often than he would have liked. De Fleur was the sort of man who seldom spoke, a trait that could either be interpreted as proving that a person was a bit dull-witted, shy, or so keen an observer that there was little need for words, which happened to be the fact in de Fleur's case.
He had been observing everyone since he came aboard, Pierson, the crew, his master, but more than anyone, the assassin had focused his attentions on Bordon.
"Never trust a Green Dragoon," his former master had often reminded him. "They are a tricky lot. They are apt to pledge false loyalty. Never, not even for an instant take your eyes off one, or you'll end up with a knife in your back."
Who would know better than the old master, de Fleur thought, who would know better than the dragoon-slayer himself. That was what they had affectionately dubbed him after the triumph over William XI. De Fleur missed him greatly. Even the great assassin found himself incapable of doing away with all forms of human emotion.
The old master had been a man of sense, a man of brilliance, and a man of simplicity. He drank his tea black, tied back his hair with the same black ribbon, and displayed only one emotion, the very pinnacle of emotional perfection, indifference in its purest form. For all of that, de Fleur had respected him. Now he felt nothing but loathing for the poor old man's son.
For as perfect as the fifth Duke of Fairenvail had been, his son was equally flawed. Emotions were flaws, overbearing egos were flaws, and trusting a Green Dragoon was the biggest flaw of them all.
He had been awoken several times during the night by the sound of his new master coughing up blood in the cabin next-door. Despite the fact that he did not appreciate having his sleep interrupted de Fleur derived some sort of twisted satisfaction from his master's suffering. The sooner the boy died the better. It would be the end of the Golden Dragoons, but de Fleur would rather have them fade into the background than suffer the humiliating defeat to which their new leader would inevitably lead them.
* * *
Victor Alexander Carrenworth was lying in bed, feeling quite possibly more hopelessly wretched than he had in years. He wanted to sleep, but the throbbing in his head and the burning in his lungs prevented him from seeking solace in the only place where he was not plagued by thoughts of mortality, less than loyal servants, and being forgotten.
"What happens when you die?" he often wondered. "If you are lucky, you are mourned for a little while. In the end, however, you are forgotten. No one remember who you are, what you loved, what you wanted."
He thought back fondly to his years as a privateer, events that seemed to have taken place in a different lifetime. There had been a time when he could climb stairs without becoming short of breath, when he could practice with his rapier for hours on end, when he could be the captain, the navigator, and the helmsman.
"And now I'm dying," Victor admitted, tears pooling in his blue eyes. "I'm twenty-four and I'm dying. It's not fair. It's just not fair!" He buried his face in a pillow and cried until he was seized with horrible fit of coughing, during which he nearly lost consciousness. Finally, exhausted and still trying to blink away the sparks that were dancing about the edges of his vision, he fell asleep.
Capt. Henry Bordon paced back and forth along the foredeck of the Weeping Maiden, staring out at the sea, observing the white-capped waves off in the distance. He had never liked sailing. One of his cousins on his mother's side had experienced the unfortunate fate of drowning. Apparently his mother had been present at the scene of the dreadful accident and as a result she had developed an irrational fear of water, a phobia she had imparted on her son, only in a milder form.
He was thankful that, unlike some of the other Golden dragoons, he was not susceptible to sea sickness. There was nothing worse than being nervous and sick at the same time. Bordon tried to take a deep breath of the fresh sea-air to help calm his nerves but was instead greeted by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. The captain often wondered if his wounded lung would ever heal completely. He tried to forget the war in America, to blot out all the painful memories. After three years, he found that he no longer thought about it daily, but there were those nights when he couldn't sleep, when he would lie awake and the horrible visions would flash before his eyes. The church, the fire, the screaming, that blond patriot boy inserting that knife neatly between his ribs; and though he cursed Tavington and his senseless brutality he wished that he had killed that boy, Gabriel Martin. It was a selfish thought, but Bordon could not help but entertain the possibilities.
It had been three months since they had seen England. Leaving so soon had helped to dull the pain of his father's death and lessen the frequency of his nightmares of America; and he had never given a second thought to his decision to join up with the Golden Dragoons. Taken in total, they were a much more relaxed collection of fellows. They talked quite openly about their past mistresses, swallowed several pints of ale each in the evenings, and whiled away the hours aboard ship with card games and friendly bouts of sword fighting.
In a most unTavington-like fashion, Gen. Carrenworth sometimes participated in the contests among his men, and he nearly always won, except when it came to drinking. Bordon had never seen his new commander drink anything except the occasional glass of white wine. He wasn't the sort to get drunk despite the tendency of nearly all of his dragoons. He didn't seem to eat either. Pierson often bragged that he had nearly beaten Carrenworth in one of the sword fighting tournaments, but the other dragoons were quick to point out the fact that "nearly beating" meant lasting longer than thirty seconds, Pierson had managed a minute.
"Don't be ridiculous!" Bordon had exclaimed. "I've seen Pierson fight. He's good; in fact, he's the best I've ever seen. A minute? Come now, no one's THAT good!"
"His lordship is!" All of the dragoons were quick to respond.
Bordon wanted to see a demonstration, but it seemed unlikely. Though the duke had proven himself fully capable of managing a regiment of dragoons, an entire crew of sailors, and carrying on as many as three conversations simultaneously, doing such things did seem to take up most of his time. What little spare time he did have he seemed to spend in studying thick tomes of military strategy and reports concerning various happenings in India.
Bordon respected Gen. Carrenworth, and yet under that respect was a feeling he couldn't explain, and feeling that stemmed from a perception that there was something not quite right about the man. The captain couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about those eyes, about that voice, and about that demeanor that hinted at the one possibility he dared not consider. madness.
* * *
The sea air was sharp, crisp, and refreshing. It pulled at strands of the assassin de Fleur's oily black hair, and flipped the collar of his coat into his expressionless face more often than he would have liked. De Fleur was the sort of man who seldom spoke, a trait that could either be interpreted as proving that a person was a bit dull-witted, shy, or so keen an observer that there was little need for words, which happened to be the fact in de Fleur's case.
He had been observing everyone since he came aboard, Pierson, the crew, his master, but more than anyone, the assassin had focused his attentions on Bordon.
"Never trust a Green Dragoon," his former master had often reminded him. "They are a tricky lot. They are apt to pledge false loyalty. Never, not even for an instant take your eyes off one, or you'll end up with a knife in your back."
Who would know better than the old master, de Fleur thought, who would know better than the dragoon-slayer himself. That was what they had affectionately dubbed him after the triumph over William XI. De Fleur missed him greatly. Even the great assassin found himself incapable of doing away with all forms of human emotion.
The old master had been a man of sense, a man of brilliance, and a man of simplicity. He drank his tea black, tied back his hair with the same black ribbon, and displayed only one emotion, the very pinnacle of emotional perfection, indifference in its purest form. For all of that, de Fleur had respected him. Now he felt nothing but loathing for the poor old man's son.
For as perfect as the fifth Duke of Fairenvail had been, his son was equally flawed. Emotions were flaws, overbearing egos were flaws, and trusting a Green Dragoon was the biggest flaw of them all.
He had been awoken several times during the night by the sound of his new master coughing up blood in the cabin next-door. Despite the fact that he did not appreciate having his sleep interrupted de Fleur derived some sort of twisted satisfaction from his master's suffering. The sooner the boy died the better. It would be the end of the Golden Dragoons, but de Fleur would rather have them fade into the background than suffer the humiliating defeat to which their new leader would inevitably lead them.
* * *
Victor Alexander Carrenworth was lying in bed, feeling quite possibly more hopelessly wretched than he had in years. He wanted to sleep, but the throbbing in his head and the burning in his lungs prevented him from seeking solace in the only place where he was not plagued by thoughts of mortality, less than loyal servants, and being forgotten.
"What happens when you die?" he often wondered. "If you are lucky, you are mourned for a little while. In the end, however, you are forgotten. No one remember who you are, what you loved, what you wanted."
He thought back fondly to his years as a privateer, events that seemed to have taken place in a different lifetime. There had been a time when he could climb stairs without becoming short of breath, when he could practice with his rapier for hours on end, when he could be the captain, the navigator, and the helmsman.
"And now I'm dying," Victor admitted, tears pooling in his blue eyes. "I'm twenty-four and I'm dying. It's not fair. It's just not fair!" He buried his face in a pillow and cried until he was seized with horrible fit of coughing, during which he nearly lost consciousness. Finally, exhausted and still trying to blink away the sparks that were dancing about the edges of his vision, he fell asleep.