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Afterword I
DuPuy
 

When you don't know what to do, DuPuy had long since decided, you do what you can.

He hadn't had anything that made more sense to do, so he headed homeward. Perhaps His Majesty would have the good sense to relieve a useless old man of something that he was clearly no good at.

In the meantime, well, the Lord Fauncher was headed homeward, and almost home, at that. Round Brest, and make for Plymouth. Favorable enough wind—and he would have a favorable enough wind, or know a good reason why—and while Winters wasn't the navigator that DuPuy had been in his youth, surely the man could get the Lord Fauncher and DuPuy to Londinium more quickly than the overland route could.

And, if not, a few more hours wouldn't matter. Besides, it was good to have the wheel in his hands for awhile.

Probably the last time, at least for a navy ship. The pay of a commissioner was, well, preposterously high. Not enough to purchase a merchantman outright, no—at least not one worth having—but once HM shed DuPuy of the honors that he didn't deserve, he could go hat in hand, if necessary, to a banker in the City, and see what might or might not be done.

Things to do before then, of course. Had to see that Emmons was properly settled, and protected from DuPuy's disgrace.

Track down the source of the live swords, HM had said, and DuPuy had given it his all—but that, demonstrably, had not been good enough.

Pins in his stateroom; dispatching agents here and there, and the only damned thing he knew was that Cully and his crew might be near something useful, but surely didn't need DuPuy to either succeed, or fail. Didn't much matter.

The wind picked up just a touch, and came from a point or so closer to west-norwest than the pure norwest it had been. If it had been his quarterdeck, there would already be rope monkeys going aloft to trim the sails accordingly, but it wasn't his quarterdeck, after all, and—

"Topmen aloft" piped from behind him.

Well, so much for even his private complaints about Winters, eh? He turned to see the Captain standing on the main deck, briefly touching a finger to his hat in what would have been a mockery of a salute, if it hadn't been from the captain, and if DuPuy—Simon Tremain DuPuy, if you please—had deserved a salute.

"Permission to come up, sir?" Emmons asked, from his usual position just below the quarterdeck, waiting.

"Shouldn't you be asking the captain, Lieutenant?"

"I did, Admiral. He said that you had the deck. Sir." His boot face was firmly in place.

"Well, come on up, then. What is it?"

"There's something in the distance, three points to port of the bow."

"And the watch hasn't seen it?"

"I've got good eyes, and a good glass, and, well, there shouldn't be anything . . ." Emmons had his glass in hand. "I think you should see—"

"Pirates, Mr. Emmons?" DuPuy asked, smiling. "I'm sure that Captain Winters is keeping a good watch, but these are hardly the waters—"

"Nossir." Emmons face was even more expressionless than usual. If such a thing were possible. "Not pirates. Not a ship at all, Admiral."

"Not a ship?" They were miles from land, and it should be a good two hours before they'd spot any coast in front of them, and then only if the wind kept up.

"Nossir."

Emmons handed him the glass.

DuPuy's eyes weren't that of a younger man, and it took some time for him to make out what the mass might be.

"An island, Mr. Emmons."

"That was my thought, Admiral."

Not a new island off the coast of England. No. An old island.

A very old island.

"I see," DuPuy said, pleased that his voice was still calm. "Would you be so kind as to do something for me, Mr. Emmons?"

He was already loosening his tie, and getting the chain holding key to the strongbox from his neck. "There's sealed orders in my strongbox; I'll want the captain to witness their opening. Bring them—and a knife; I'll pin them to the deck myself, by God, lest they blow away."

Emmons took the key, but shook his head. "I think the stateroom would be more appropriate, Admiral. If you don't mind my saying so. There's plenty of time, sir."

"Too damn little, and plenty. So be it; on your way." DuPuy nodded, and as Emmons made his way down the ladder with unseemly haste, he called out to the captain. "Captain! Would you be so kind as to have an officer take the deck and then meet me in my stateroom?"

"Immediately, Admiral."

"No rush—I'd like you to come about, and set course for Brest. See to that, if you please, then please join me."

Plenty to think about over the next few minutes. Sail toward the island? He had dismissed that in an instant. There was no chance that one ship, and a single company of Marines was enough. Hell, there was more than a chance that all His Majesty's forces, land and sea, weren't enough. It might already be too late.

The second officer relieved DuPuy of the deck, and the steersman took the wheel.

It wouldn't be official until he broke the seal of the orders, of course, but his mind was several steps beyond that. Turn the ship, of course; the way to Portsmouth was surely blocked.

Put in at Brest, and raise every ship that he could, for a starter.

And what next? Well, he would just have to see.

DuPuy turned in irritation at the knock. "Well, come in, dammit."

It was Winters, of course. "You sent for me, Admiral?"

"I'd appreciate you reading these orders, and then getting your scrivener in here—and any officer who you don't need who can hold a pen. Lots of orders to write, captain."

Winters barely glanced at the orders, and then smiled. "I don't supposed you'll be complaining about me calling you by your rank anymore, Admiral."

DuPuy forced a smile. "I think not."

"We're on course for Brest. I'd guess . . . three hours, if the wind holds, before we put in. I've taken the liberty of ordering courier pennants aloft—I'm assumed you'll have orders to send."

"Yes, I think I might. We'll put at Brest—we'll start there. Raise every man and ship we can there, and send for more, in all directions—the way to Londinium is likely blocked, but there are other directions, and other ports."

"Aye-aye, Admiral." Winters drew himself up straight. "Is there anything you'd like me to tell the crew, Admiral?"

DuPuy shrugged. "There's no reason that they ought not to know, Captain. You tell them. Tell them we're sailing against Avalon—against the Tyrant Arthur, and his minion, Merlin. It appears that they're back. Mallory seems to have had it right; Mordred the Great didn't kill them quite well enough. It appears that we've been delayed to this party—and through some cleverness, at that."

All of it. He still couldn't see the whole picture, but it was falling together—distractions, an attempt to set Crown against the Dar, Ghost Dancers in the colonies; darklings on the Continent.

Very nicely done, he thought. Delay and distract, while the real enemy moved quietly, readying himself.

Were they already in Londinium? Quite possibly—no, almost certainly.

And His Majesty? Well, if His Own couldn't see to His Majesty's safety, there was nothing that DuPuy could do about that, not now.

But a sailor—a sailor again, dammit—would do what he could.

Every little bit of it.

"We'll fix that, Admiral."

Grand Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuy, by the Grace of God and Appointment of His Majesty, Mordred V, the Commander in Chief of all of His Majesty's Forces, nodded. "We will most certainly try, Captain Winters. Hoist battle pennants."

"Aye-aye, sir."

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Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Afterword I
DuPuy
 

When you don't know what to do, DuPuy had long since decided, you do what you can.

He hadn't had anything that made more sense to do, so he headed homeward. Perhaps His Majesty would have the good sense to relieve a useless old man of something that he was clearly no good at.

In the meantime, well, the Lord Fauncher was headed homeward, and almost home, at that. Round Brest, and make for Plymouth. Favorable enough wind—and he would have a favorable enough wind, or know a good reason why—and while Winters wasn't the navigator that DuPuy had been in his youth, surely the man could get the Lord Fauncher and DuPuy to Londinium more quickly than the overland route could.

And, if not, a few more hours wouldn't matter. Besides, it was good to have the wheel in his hands for awhile.

Probably the last time, at least for a navy ship. The pay of a commissioner was, well, preposterously high. Not enough to purchase a merchantman outright, no—at least not one worth having—but once HM shed DuPuy of the honors that he didn't deserve, he could go hat in hand, if necessary, to a banker in the City, and see what might or might not be done.

Things to do before then, of course. Had to see that Emmons was properly settled, and protected from DuPuy's disgrace.

Track down the source of the live swords, HM had said, and DuPuy had given it his all—but that, demonstrably, had not been good enough.

Pins in his stateroom; dispatching agents here and there, and the only damned thing he knew was that Cully and his crew might be near something useful, but surely didn't need DuPuy to either succeed, or fail. Didn't much matter.

The wind picked up just a touch, and came from a point or so closer to west-norwest than the pure norwest it had been. If it had been his quarterdeck, there would already be rope monkeys going aloft to trim the sails accordingly, but it wasn't his quarterdeck, after all, and—

"Topmen aloft" piped from behind him.

Well, so much for even his private complaints about Winters, eh? He turned to see the Captain standing on the main deck, briefly touching a finger to his hat in what would have been a mockery of a salute, if it hadn't been from the captain, and if DuPuy—Simon Tremain DuPuy, if you please—had deserved a salute.

"Permission to come up, sir?" Emmons asked, from his usual position just below the quarterdeck, waiting.

"Shouldn't you be asking the captain, Lieutenant?"

"I did, Admiral. He said that you had the deck. Sir." His boot face was firmly in place.

"Well, come on up, then. What is it?"

"There's something in the distance, three points to port of the bow."

"And the watch hasn't seen it?"

"I've got good eyes, and a good glass, and, well, there shouldn't be anything . . ." Emmons had his glass in hand. "I think you should see—"

"Pirates, Mr. Emmons?" DuPuy asked, smiling. "I'm sure that Captain Winters is keeping a good watch, but these are hardly the waters—"

"Nossir." Emmons face was even more expressionless than usual. If such a thing were possible. "Not pirates. Not a ship at all, Admiral."

"Not a ship?" They were miles from land, and it should be a good two hours before they'd spot any coast in front of them, and then only if the wind kept up.

"Nossir."

Emmons handed him the glass.

DuPuy's eyes weren't that of a younger man, and it took some time for him to make out what the mass might be.

"An island, Mr. Emmons."

"That was my thought, Admiral."

Not a new island off the coast of England. No. An old island.

A very old island.

"I see," DuPuy said, pleased that his voice was still calm. "Would you be so kind as to do something for me, Mr. Emmons?"

He was already loosening his tie, and getting the chain holding key to the strongbox from his neck. "There's sealed orders in my strongbox; I'll want the captain to witness their opening. Bring them—and a knife; I'll pin them to the deck myself, by God, lest they blow away."

Emmons took the key, but shook his head. "I think the stateroom would be more appropriate, Admiral. If you don't mind my saying so. There's plenty of time, sir."

"Too damn little, and plenty. So be it; on your way." DuPuy nodded, and as Emmons made his way down the ladder with unseemly haste, he called out to the captain. "Captain! Would you be so kind as to have an officer take the deck and then meet me in my stateroom?"

"Immediately, Admiral."

"No rush—I'd like you to come about, and set course for Brest. See to that, if you please, then please join me."

Plenty to think about over the next few minutes. Sail toward the island? He had dismissed that in an instant. There was no chance that one ship, and a single company of Marines was enough. Hell, there was more than a chance that all His Majesty's forces, land and sea, weren't enough. It might already be too late.

The second officer relieved DuPuy of the deck, and the steersman took the wheel.

It wouldn't be official until he broke the seal of the orders, of course, but his mind was several steps beyond that. Turn the ship, of course; the way to Portsmouth was surely blocked.

Put in at Brest, and raise every ship that he could, for a starter.

And what next? Well, he would just have to see.

DuPuy turned in irritation at the knock. "Well, come in, dammit."

It was Winters, of course. "You sent for me, Admiral?"

"I'd appreciate you reading these orders, and then getting your scrivener in here—and any officer who you don't need who can hold a pen. Lots of orders to write, captain."

Winters barely glanced at the orders, and then smiled. "I don't supposed you'll be complaining about me calling you by your rank anymore, Admiral."

DuPuy forced a smile. "I think not."

"We're on course for Brest. I'd guess . . . three hours, if the wind holds, before we put in. I've taken the liberty of ordering courier pennants aloft—I'm assumed you'll have orders to send."

"Yes, I think I might. We'll put at Brest—we'll start there. Raise every man and ship we can there, and send for more, in all directions—the way to Londinium is likely blocked, but there are other directions, and other ports."

"Aye-aye, Admiral." Winters drew himself up straight. "Is there anything you'd like me to tell the crew, Admiral?"

DuPuy shrugged. "There's no reason that they ought not to know, Captain. You tell them. Tell them we're sailing against Avalon—against the Tyrant Arthur, and his minion, Merlin. It appears that they're back. Mallory seems to have had it right; Mordred the Great didn't kill them quite well enough. It appears that we've been delayed to this party—and through some cleverness, at that."

All of it. He still couldn't see the whole picture, but it was falling together—distractions, an attempt to set Crown against the Dar, Ghost Dancers in the colonies; darklings on the Continent.

Very nicely done, he thought. Delay and distract, while the real enemy moved quietly, readying himself.

Were they already in Londinium? Quite possibly—no, almost certainly.

And His Majesty? Well, if His Own couldn't see to His Majesty's safety, there was nothing that DuPuy could do about that, not now.

But a sailor—a sailor again, dammit—would do what he could.

Every little bit of it.

"We'll fix that, Admiral."

Grand Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuy, by the Grace of God and Appointment of His Majesty, Mordred V, the Commander in Chief of all of His Majesty's Forces, nodded. "We will most certainly try, Captain Winters. Hoist battle pennants."

"Aye-aye, sir."

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Framed