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The letter took some time to find its recipient, the K—— Militia having removed from Norman Cross to Ireland, and the letter needing to make its own way there also. Yet when its recipient unsealed it, he found to his greatest pleasure that it had come before he had hoped to look for it — if he had hoped to look for it at all.
My Dear Lieutenant Hunter:
When we last spoke, in a wood outside Plymouth, you asked that I inform you when I left the prison-ship. I left it in August, although due to the manner of my leaving, I could not write before now. But thanks to the generosity of an English officer I had the honour to meet at Albuera, one Major Brackenbury of the Buffs, I have been offered an unconditional cartel. Soon, God willing, I will return to France, from whence it will again be impossible to write to my friends in England.
During this brief window when the impossible is possible, I must say that I shall always remember you for your kindness in accepting my parole. You know it is no small thing when I say that you restored my honour to me. There is little comfort to be had in a prison hulk, but the knowledge that there was one man who saw me truly and knew my honour unblemished did more to sustain me than any material sustenance I was offered there — no, that is no praise at all. Let me say instead: the memory of your esteem gave me strength in straits where strength was scarce possible. If I emerged from that place a man who had not yet been swallowed by depravity, it was because I entered it with your regard to buoy me.
God keep you and bless you. If I may do you any service, a letter to Orléans will reach me. Until then, please know me to be
Yr humble obdnt servant,
Raoul des Sablières
"Good news?" the recipient's companion asked. Lieutenant Fellowes' own correspondence was uninspiring, and his attention had been caught by Hunter's shining pleasure in his own letter.
Hunter looked up. For a moment he seemed not to know his companion. "Yes," he agreed. Then with more feeling, "Yes. It is from a man I knew—"
A man? Fellowes wondered. He had thought—
But his companion was continuing.
"—a prisoner, from Norman Cross."
"A prisoner! And he writes to you?"
Hunter looked abashed. "He is prisoner no longer. Do you remember that gang of mutineers I took to Plymouth, shortly after our arrival? An officer was sent with them — that Hussar we all thought would hang for murder. You remember, the affair for which Marwin received five hundred lashes."
"I remember," Fellowes said. The lashing had taken all day, with both militia assembled to witness. The unlucky Marwin had not survived it. But that is what came of softness toward prisoners.
"The officer, des Sablières… He's haunted me ever since. His tie-mate escaped only a few days out, so I tied des Sablières to my stirrup — no doubt that's why I couldn't forget him. Mile after mile, he clinging to my stirrup leather as if it were his last strength. Even when I looked away, I could still feel his weight through my boot. Truth be told, that's why I procured a horse for him."
"A horse!"
Hunter shook his head. "He rode one day only, then refused the horse and returned to my stirrup — he had a rare sense of nobility, not to set himself apart from the others. He was still injured, you know, and could not keep up with the march. His suffering…" He paused, his smile self-deprecating. "You'll accuse me of sentiment. But I remember thinking that not even a saint could suffer so beautifully."
Fellowes was listening to these confessions in a kind of astonishment. "Go on."
"There is little to tell. I took his parole — I cannot say why."
"From a broke-parole!"
"He was no broke-parole!" Hunter said with sudden fury. "When he was with me, he was offered a chance at escape. He could have taken it, but for his parole. He didn't.
"When I returned, I wrote to the Agent at Wanfield, inquiring how he came to be at Norman Cross. A man had borne false witness against him — he wasn't a broke-parole at all! Des Sablières would have been freed, had he not participated in that damned escape."
Fellowes frowned. "Tanner nearly died in that escape! Your Hussar might have been innocent when he arrived at Norman Cross, but he was no innocent when he left."
"He wasn't the one who used the bayonet — he wasn't even sensible for it. He was struck unconscious from the first," Hunter defended his prisoner.
Fellowes regarded his companion doubtfully. "The Transport Board is unlikely to make such a nice distinction as that!"
"Nor did they. Nor did I, at the time. And even if I had — I knew my duty. Still, he was a man of rare honour and nobility."
"And beauty!" Fellowes scoffed — then cursed his tongue, lest a deficit of sympathy stop Hunter's confession.
But Hunter wryly acknowledged the charge. "You think me a fool. You should. I lodged a protest with the Transport Board when I returned, attesting to his good character, and received only a reprimand for having accepted his parole. I deserved no less, but he…!"
Fellowes remembered that — or rather remembered Hunter, the golden boy, abruptly falling out of favour with the colonel. So now he knew why. Beguiled by a prisoner! Who would have thought it!
"He did not deserve the hulks. In my heart, I knew it even then. I nearly returned him his parole, rather than see him swallowed by that hell. I still remember his face in the boat…"
Hunter went silent, lost in memory.
"Go on," Fellowes encouraged. "This story cannot end ill, to have seen you smiling so, a moment ago."
Hunter smiled, its pleasure only a little dimmed by self-consciousness. "It is better than I hoped for — indeed, I never thought to hear of him again. But he writes that he has been promised an unconditional cartel! And, of lesser significance (but still of great importance to me), he does not hold his misfortunes against me. Indeed, he is very kind, far more than I deserve…"
And here Hunter drifted off into a reverie, perusing his letter again.
Fellowes watched his companion, wondering at the passion that animated him — passion for a French prisoner, however honourable! It was hardly to be believed. A rare softness suffused Hunter's expression…
Something green twisted in Fellowes' breast.
But no, jealousy was unworthy of him — and of a prisoner sent to the hulks! Absurd. Fellowes reached for the wine and topped Hunter's glass, and then his own.
"Let us drink to your Hussar, then," he proposed, and was favoured with a smile. "May he enjoy his freedom!"
"May he enjoy his freedom!" Hunter replied, lifting his glass.
And so they drank, Fellowes' eyes on Hunter, and Hunter's eyes far away and over the sea, off with his Hussar, wherever he may be.