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could a wound like this ever heal?
It would have been different if only he could have been
there. If he could have at least held Davy's hand, said
goodbye ... He told himself that would have been easier, but
he knew he was lying. He didn't know where the tears were
still coming from. Wasn't there a limit to the amount of water
in a human body? He was making a mess of the pillow-case.
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At last sheer exhaustion pulled him under. He jerked
awake to find Barrow standing beside him. "Sir?"
You have a duty to your men, Mr. Marshall. "Yes " He
levered himself up, coughed; Barrow handed him a glass of
water. Bless you, Barrow. The water helped a little. "Yes,
Barrow, what is it?"
"It's Lord St. John, sir." Barrow' eyes were somber, and
today his seemingly ageless face looked old. "Mr. Mr.
Archer's cousin, he's askin' to see you, sir "
"No." He had completely forgotten Davy mentioning, early
in the cruise, that his cousin had a sugar plantation in
Jamaica, and might actually be in residence. Will had met
Lord St. John more properly, Baron Guilford twice before.
The first time was when the Baron and his bride-to-be were
rescued by the Calypso. He had seen them again after the
birth of their daughter, when he and Davy had visited the
extensive Archer-St John family after his lover had been
promoted to Lieutenant. St. John was a fine man and his wife
was a sweet, lovely Frenchwoman. But St. John bore a
powerfully strong resemblance to his cousin, and if Will had to
look at that familiar face
I cannot do it. I cannot. "Barrow ... please..." He took a
deep breath, forced himself to speak calmly. "Please convey
my regrets to his lordship, but I am ... indisposed."
"He says it's urgent, sir."
"Nothing is urgent anymore, Barrow." He said it very
softly, almost to himself. I don't care if the place is on fire,
damn you, leave me in peace! "Unless I am ordered to leave,
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Winds of Change
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I intend to remain here for just a little while. Please convey
my regrets to I said that, didn't I?"
"Aye, you did, sir." Barrow shifted from one foot to
another. "Mr. Marshall Klingler an' me, we just wanted to
say how sorry we are about "
"Yes." He held up a hand, not even wanting to hear the
name. "Yes. Thank you, Barrow. Now can you please just let
me alone?" He was mortified to hear the quaver in his voice,
but Barrow showed no sign he'd heard it; he nodded and took
his leave. Marshall felt a surge of gratitude, and immediately
suppressed it. No. Barrow was a good man, that was all. Best
not to feel any affection. Too dangerous. For him, and for
Barrow.
Everyone I care about dies. And the solution to that
problem was obvious. He must do his duty: treat the men
fairly, and decently, and act in such a way that they would
want to follow him into battle. But for their own safety, best
not to feel too much. For his own safety and sanity, best not
to feel at all. It hurt too much, losing what one loved. If one
did not love, one would not hurt. The pain could be kept at
arm's length. Logical.
He's gone.
Not just missing for a time; gone forever. No more old
jokes that only they shared. No more reading Shakespeare
aloud on the off-watches, no more Davy there at his back
when he needed someone he could trust, no irrepressible
good humor dragging him from the bog of his own somber
moods. Davy was gone. Dead. Forever. Marshall had no great
faith in a hereafter, no hope of a resurrection, whatever the
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Book of Common Prayer said. There might be a God, and
there might be a Heaven, and if they existed, Davy was
there. He deserved to be; that was where angels belonged.
But I won't be. If he had deserved punishment for his hubris,
for taking that stupid risk with Davy in the carpenter's walk,
this was punishment indeed. But it should not be Davy lying
in the ground. He did not deserve death.
He is gone.
I will never see him again.
The tears started in afresh. It felt as though someone had
cut his heart out with a handspike, and he had inexplicably
failed to die. He couldn't even finish the job himself; he had a
duty to his men, to his ship, a duty to honor Davy's memory.
A soft knock at the door. Oh, please, can't you leave me
alone? He mopped at his face with his bedraggled
handkerchief. "Come in."
It was Captain Smith.
"As you were, Mr. Marshall." Without further ado, he took
the hand-towel from beside the basin on the chest of drawers
beside the door, poured a bit of water on it, and handed it to
Marshall as if he were a little squeaker of a cabin-boy.
"Thank you, sir." He tidied himself as best he could, and
tried to look alert.
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