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He lies, now, in the cold shale of King William Land. Beneath a cairn of stones, wrapped in sailcloth to protect him, preserve him. No hands but a friend’s touched his grave, no hands but a friend’s laid him down.
Henry made sure of that.
An order given and yet— what place an order here? What duty, what honour, anybody else’s but his? He who knew him longest, loved him most. To delegate that away—
Would lay himself down over what remained before giving this the indignity of an order.
Was not there at the last, was not told in time for to be, and by the time he reached the tent, Bridgens’ words echoing in his ears, it was already over.
Already over.
Did not need to enter for to know. Could feel it in the air, could hear it through the canvas, one man’s breath where there should have been two.
They called it betrayal what he had proposed, not in so many words but they thought it. Called it betrayal but could not see to know the cause, the root, how he could not— and if it were the other way, how he would not want—
Knees giving way beneath him, no salt, no breath for tears. A buzzing in his ears and no matter the stiffness in his bones all he could see, all he could feel—
Absence.
How could he—how could he delegate that away? That pressing of his fingers into the shale as if to find, to feel—
Bridgens who washed the blood from his hands, Bridgens who bound them, both of them knowing these wounds ones that would not heal, still weeping when he reaches his own end.
Not for him the dignity of a pile of stones. Not for him the sailcloth. What worth is it to lie in unforgiving ground when to lie now is to be so far from—
Had they the shot to spare, he would have pulled his pistol. Would have fired into the air, consequences bedamned. Ordered a volley of musketfire, balls the size of cherries rushing into the air, falling among them. Should have done it anyway, the least, when there are no flowers to grow over him, no soil to ease his way. Had he a sword he would have lain it with him, lain it upon his breast beneath the cloth.
Instead, all he could do— trace the lines of that face, tuck the key back beneath his shirt, given over to him days ago.
(The first sign.)
(A duty not needed, not any longer.)
And saw not the body laid out in a uniform grown too big, a mockery of ceremony, but the young Captain of the Clio, who smiled at him in the setting sun, flashed those crooked teeth.
“Kiss me, Dundy.”
And he did.