Bedford Square - Anne Perry [30]
“He was a good sailor,” Durand answered. “He had a feeling for the sea. In a way I would say he loved it, insofar as he loved anything.”
It was an odd remark, said without affection. His face was shadowed, difficult to read.
“Did his men trust him?” Pitt pursued. “Have confidence in his ability?”
“Ability to do what?” Durand was not going to answer anything lightly. He had decided to be frank, and that meant no evasions simply to satisfy.
Pitt was obliged to think harder, more clearly. What did he mean?
“To make the right judgments in bad weather, to know the tides, the wind, the …”
Durand smiled. “You are not a seaman, are you.” It was a statement, not a question, and made with patience, even condescension, the amusement returned. “I think the questions you want to ask are, for example, was he thorough? Yes, extremely. Was he competent to read a chart, take a ship’s position, and judge the weather? Yes, to all of those. Did he think ahead and plan accordingly? As much as any man. Occasionally he made mistakes. When he did, could he think quickly, adapt, get out of the danger? Always, but sometimes more successfully than at other times. He had his share of losses.” His voice was dry, the emotion carefully controlled.
“Of ships?” Pitt was horrified. “Men?”
“No, Mr. Pitt, if he had done that he’d have been retired ashore a long time before he was.”
“He wasn’t retired for loss?” Pitt demanded too quickly.
“Not so far as I know,” Durand said, leaning back a little, still staring at Pitt. “I think he simply realized his career was going no further, and he got tired of it. Wanted to come ashore, and somebody offered him a comfortable option, so he took it.”
A tart response about the reality of Cornwallis’s present job was on Pitt’s lips, but he could not afford to alienate Durand if he were to gain any useful information, strong as his impulse was to do so. And Durand obviously had not liked Cornwallis. Perhaps the fact that Cornwallis had reached captaincy while Durand was still serving, and only a lieutenant, had much to do with it.
“What other questions would I ask, if I knew something of the sea?” Pitt said a little stiffly, trying to mask his own feelings.
Durand seemed quite unaware of it. There was a concentration apparent in the angle of his head and shoulders against the light. He was eager to talk.
“Was he a good leader?” he started. “Did he care for his men, know them individually?” He gave a slight shrug. “No, he never gave that impression. If he did, they did not believe it. Did his officers like him? They barely knew him. He was private, withdrawn. He had a captain’s dignity, but he had a cold man’s isolation, and there is a difference.” He was studying Pitt’s face as he spoke, watching his reaction. “Did he have the art to communicate to the crew his belief in them, in the mission the ship was bound on?” he continued. “No. He had no humor, no common touch, and no visible humanity. That was what lifted Nelson above all the rest, you know, his mixture of genius and humanity, sublime courage and foresight, with a complete vulnerability to the ordinary aches and losses of other men.” His voice hardened. “Cornwallis had none of that. The men respected his naval ability, but they did not love him.” He drew in his breath. “And to be a really good commander, you must be loved … that is what inspires a crew of men to go beyond their duty, beyond even what can be expected of them, to dare, to sacrifice, and to achieve what to a lesser crew, with the same ship, would be impossible.”
It was a masterly summary, and Pitt was obliged to admit it to himself, whether it was true or not. It was not how he saw Cornwallis, or how he wished to. Honesty and fear both forced him to stay and listen. He was afraid they showed in his face, and he resented the thought that Durand could read them there.
“You mentioned courage,” Pitt said, clearing his throat, trying to keep his voice from betraying his dislike of the man and his own loyalties. “Was Cornwallis brave?”
Durand’s body stiffened.