“After hearing you speak ill of my family, I’m glad I didn’t let you weasel your way out of this duel.”
Thornwood ignored the gibe and said, “But remember, as you go to your Maker, that I offered you the opportunity to walk away.”
“I will remember that, when I’m meeting the good Lord in fifty or so years.”
The seconds returned, and Thornwood resumed his place. Despite his confidence, Pyke felt that familiar lightness in his stomach and that twitchiness in his limbs. It had been this way for him at the last duel as well.
Pyke offered his pistol to Button. “If you care to inspect it, Mr. Button. I will have Sergeant Davies inspect Mr. Thornwood’s—”
“Hold!”
Pyke instinctively retracted his pistol and brought it to bear, not expecting anyone else. A man came riding hard through the trees and reined his horse in before reaching them. The snow and soft underbrush of the forest must have muffled the sounds of his approach.
Pyke recognized Lieutenant St. John Smith, the sandy-haired officer three years his junior.
“Mr. Smith,” Pyke began, “you are intruding upon a private affair. What is the meaning of this?”
Smith dismounted easily and carried himself with light feet to the group. Over his uniform, a leather satchel wrapped around his shoulder. He was fully armed as well: musket, pistol, sword, and dirk.
“Lieutenant, Mr. Thornwood, forgive me, but I am here on Colonel Bennett’s orders.”
How did the Colonel know about the duel? The offense had occurred late last night at the tavern, and Pyke had only spoken of it to Thornwood and Davies, swearing the latter to secrecy. He couldn’t see why Thornwood would have said anything—after all, Thornwood had insulted the Colonel’s most lovely daughter of all people.
But he’d have to figure that out later. “Very well, what is it?”
Though they shared the same rank, Pyke was senior officer to Smith, having earned his commission first. The Colonel, however, favored Smith, whose family had ties to the Colonel. If Pyke were a gambling man, he would have wagered that he’d be calling Smith “sir,” in short order.
“The Colonel has asked if there is any other way to satisfy the aggrieved party,” Smith said, giving Pyke his full, insubordinate stare.
“There is not,” Pyke said before Thornwood could answer.
Smith unslung the satchel and untied it. He reached into the bag and produced two pistols. “In that event, the Colonel requests you gentleman use these. They are of the same make, practically identical.”
Smith offered the pistols. Thornwood took one and examined it, but Pyke didn’t accept the other.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Davies began, “but these men have got their own irons, so there is no—”
“You will not beg my pardon, Sergeant. I am here under the Colonel’s orders and the Colonel’s orders are that these men will use these pistols. It is so there are no unfair advantages afforded one party versus the other through the mere vagaries of manufacturing, usage, age of the instrument, et cetera.”
“Sir,” Davies said, snapping to attention momentarily.
Pyke didn’t care for the idea but was at a loss. All pistols had their nuances, and he’d be firing this one blind if he used it. The Colonel’s pistol hung from Smith’s hand.
Thornwood said, “Is the gentleman having second thoughts?”
Pyke snatched the pistol out of Smith’s hands. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a private matter to attend to.”
Smith’s smile could not be contained. “I’m awfully sorry, sir, but the Colonel has ordered me to watch over the proceedings to ensure fair play.”
Thornwood and Button had no objection. Pyke could tell that Davies had something to say about it, but Davies had the good sense to keep it to himself.
“And if you determine there is unfair play?” Pyke asked.
“Let us pray it does not come to that,” Smith said evasively.
All the men stood silent until Davies said, “Alright, then, Mr. Button, we must work out the very particulars now.”
Button’s voice squeaked. The man, barely able to keep still, looked more nervous than his principal. “Yes, Sergeant, thank you. Twenty paces—”
“Ten,” Pyke reminded him.
“Yes, of course. Ten.” Button swallowed through what sounded a very dry throat. “The parties will walk till they reach the sword points. They will turn and face one another. They will then advance upon one another and fire at will. At any point in time, the offended party may deem his honor satisfied.”
“How many shots?” Thornwood said casually, as if he were asking a hypothetical question.
“Any more than three is barbaric,” Pyke said.
“I won’t need more than three,” Thornwood said, his voice low and menacing.
“In the Province, the duel is typically to first blood,” Davies said.
“Agreed,” Pyke and Thornwood both said.
“It’s settled,” Davies said.
“Unless there is no other business, Mr. Thornwood,” Pyke said through gritted teeth.
“There is none.”
“There is one … uh … one other matter, the matter of seconds, and uh, if they should … if the principals …”
Button appeared ready to pass out, and Davies spoke before he did.
“I believe the principals agree that the seconds have no role in this business other than what duties we have already discharged. There will be no need for the seconds to continue the duel should one or both of the principals become incapacitated. Ain’t that right, sir?”
Pyke didn’t care for how forward and presumptuous Davies was being, but he should have been used to it by now. This was, apparently, the colonial way. Pyke said that was fine—there was no reason for Davies to risk his life. Thornwood nodded agreement and kept his steady eyes on Pyke.
“Thank you, Lord,” Button said, unable to mumble his relief under his breath.
A commotion of noise came from Smith’s direction, and Pyke saw more horsemen approaching. No one from the regiment he could recognize, but these strange men were armed. They took position behind Smith and stayed in the shadows.
Pyke didn’t care to have witnesses about and he narrowed his eyes. Thornwood was untrustworthy, which meant his friends would be too. Pyke didn’t want them making up stories and claiming he hadn’t followed the code duello.
But short of calling off the duel, he couldn’t do anything about the small crowd. And to call off the duel would be unacceptable.
Davies turned away from the crowd, when it was clear none would approach any closer. “Right. Gentleman, back to back if you will.”
Thornwood gave him another irritating smirk before they both turned, their backs only inches from each other. He could smell the stench of Thornwood’s sweat. So Thornwood wasn’t as collected as he made himself out to be. He was just a man, after all.
But so was Pyke. Now the nerves went to work on him. A slight tremor in the hand, a feeling of lightness throughout the body, a rise in the breathing.
In his mind, he spoke the Lord’s Prayer: Pater noster, qui in caelo est …The voice of Reverend Cornwell echoing in his mind, speaking in that sing-songy Latin which he could still hear so clearly, as if he were again a young boy across the sea in Kensington.
The seconds positioned themselves near Lieutenant Smith and the other spectators, angled well away from the action so as to avoid any stray shots. Davies nodded encouragingly at him, while Smith watched silently, not betraying his sentiments. Button watched with eyes wide open and a sickly, yellowing face.
The preternatural calm of the forest. Thornwood’s breathing heavy, as if he’d just run some race. Pyke’s own limbs now jittery.
… sanctificetur nomen tuum; adveniat regnum tuum …
Then Davies gave the sound, and they paced.
… fiat voluntas tua sicut in caelo et in terra …
He focused on the sword p
oint. Ten paces now seemed so close: at this range, first blood could just as easily be a mortal wound. He’d let his anger get the better of him. Never again. Never again. He’d been a fool. Thornwood could get lucky with one shot. That was all it took to kill most men so close. But he knew he was in the right, and surely God would protect him in His infinite wisdom.
… panem nostrum supersubstantiatem da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra…
He reached the sword … as we dismiss our debtors …
He turned to face Thornwood. The steel of the pistol was slimy in his grip now. His undershirt drenched in sweat, despite the cold of the forest and late afternoon.
Thornwood had just reached the sword and was beginning to turn.
… and lead us not into temptation, sed libera nos a malo …
Thornwood faced him.
Twenty paces separated the two men.
In the scarce light, he could not make out the expression on Thornwood’s face. The next thing he knew, his thumb cocked the hammer, his arm rose as if controlled by someone else, and he was leveling the pistol at Thornwood.
And Thornwood did the same.
With a steady hand, he squeezed the trigger. The pistol jumped on him, but he had been expecting it, so he held his aim true. He kept his sights squarely on Thornwood’s breast.
He expected the man to topple over.
But instead, a spray of mud shot into the air behind and to the right of Thornwood.
In the dizzying thrill of the moment, he didn’t even hear Thornwood’s first shot, but he felt the rush of hot air as the ball whizzed by his head.
To his right, Smith’s horse jumped at the sound of the pistols. One man in the impromptu crowd shouted something, but Pyke had no ears on him.
Instinct took over. Two shots left, and he advanced a few paces while he reloaded. It took him what felt an eternity to load his next shot—yet another reason why he hadn’t wanted to use a foreign pistol.
To his surprise, Thornwood had advanced as well. He’d expected the man to remain at the point.
Thornwood was having a hell of a time reloading his pistol. Pyke brought the pistol to bear before Thornwood was ready.
He put the man in his sights and waited. Technically, Thornwood was an unarmed man until he’d loaded his weapon. And Pyke was a gentleman.
Thornwood finally loaded and brought the pistol up.
Pyke fired again, this time aiming lower down the sternum.
Thornwood fired as well, but it was a hurried shot and Pyke knew it would probably miss its mark.
He waited for Thornwood to fall.
But he didn’t. Again, the bullet sailed wide left, blasting tree bark into the air.
Thornwood frantically loaded his third shot.
How had he missed again? Icy fear gripped him, and quickly he went to work loading his third shot.
Thornwood had his pistol up quickly. It was clear he wasn’t going to give Pyke the same courtesy and wait for him to reload. Pyke heard the click of Thornwood’s trigger, and the rush of air as another ball zipped by his head again.
He brought the gun to bear and this time aimed to the right of Thornwood. Despite the heat of the moment, he’d figured out what was going on. His first two volleys had missed wide left.
He wouldn’t miss for a third time.
He squeezed the trigger, and this time, Thornwood was hit.
***
The next few moments were a whirlwind.
Thornwood was hit, but how badly Pyke could not tell. Davies started over to check Pyke for injury, but Smith interceded: “That’ll do, Sergeant. Hold your ground.”
Smith hurried over to Pyke. Three other men came out of the shadows of the forest, aiming their own pistols at Pyke. Defensively, he scrambled to load the pistol he’d been using, but he had no other shot on him.
Smith said, “Lieutenant Pyke, I’m afraid I’m under orders to take you into custody.” If he was truly afraid, his gloating smile didn’t show it.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Pyke said. His anger seeped in, replacing the out-of-body numbness created by the duel. “This is a private matter, both parties acted honorably, and the offended party has been satisfied.”
Davies shouldered his way past the three men and came to Pyke’s side. “Sir, it was a fair fight, I saw it all for myself. Mr. Button will say the same thing.”
Button would be no help, for he had passed out next to Thornwood, who was busy clutching his flank and howling. Some other men from the crowd were tending to him.
“Sergeant, I told you to hold your ground. And Lieutenant, need I remind you I’m here under the Colonel’s orders?” Smith said.
Colonel Bennett would have him arrested for dueling the man who had … Pyke was too baffled to figure out this carriwitchet and too dumbfounded to argue his way out of the arrest. Surely this had to be a misunderstanding. There was no other explanation. But he was certain that once he had the chance to explain himself to Colonel Bennett, everything would be fine.
“Very well, Lieutenant, as you are under orders.”
***
They rode to the Indian trail, where three more men were waiting on horses. So Smith would treat him like a common thief by surrounding him with an escort on their way back to town.
“If you’re quite ready, Mr. Pyke,” Smith said.
Pyke spurred his horse forward without answering. The other horsemen did the same and came up alongside Pyke, one to his right the other two to his left. They rode hard down the Indian trail, which was barely wide enough for them to ride four abreast.
The trail narrowed at places, so that tree branches seemed to reach out for them as they rode past. More than a few times Pyke had to duck out of the way of some massive limb drooping low overhead. They called it Penn’s Woods for good reason.
In his mind, Pyke prepared what he wanted to say to the Colonel: that dueling had a long, noble tradition through which gentlemen settled their matters privately and honorably, and without involving the government or the Crown so they could be left to more important matters. Additionally, Mr. Thornwood had willingly entered into the duel of his own accord and had accepted the risks attendant thereto.
They reached the outskirts of Jenkins Town. Pyke saw his boarding house and the tavern next to it. The roar of the pub reminded Pyke of last night’s scene, where he’d overheard Thornwood speak the offending words: “Calling her a demirep would be a flattery! But whore might be too harsh.”
The mere memory of the words stirred his anger, as if he had just heard them for the first time. They also made him think of that sweet young woman, Damaris Bennett … her, earning an inferior reputation? Upon his arrival in the Province, he’d spent much time in Philadelphia, being introduced to several different families by a solicitor his father had known back in London. He’d expected to meet some young ladies, but nothing had exactly blossomed in those first few months.
But then he’d been assigned to Colonel Bennett in Jenkins Town, and he’d met her.
Damaris Bennett.
He’d seen her outside of the schoolhouse on a late wintry afternoon. She’d wrapped herself in a shawl against the weather, but a rebellious strand of her golden-red hair had escaped from under her hat. It was too late when Pyke realized he was staring at her. She had felt his eyes on her and brought her own to meet them. Pyke’s heart seized in his chest as he neared her. He knew full well he was being impolite by staring. But he couldn’t help it, and she didn’t seem the least offended. She raised a gloved hand in greeting.
He halted his horse so he could properly introduce himself, kissed her gloved hand, and tried his damnedest not to sound like a fool. When she explained she was the Colonel’s daughter, he secretly rejoiced because it meant he’d get the opportunity, first-hand, to show her father he was a good man. But the Colonel had never warmed to him. At least, not yet.
Their procession now passed the magistrate’s shoebox of an office and the grainery. Pyke looked behin
d them to see if Davies was following. He wanted his sergeant present to take the Bible Oath and corroborate his account of the duel.
But Davies was not following. The only horseman behind was Smith.
He and his escort galloped down the muddy, grooved road. Most of the snow had been cleared from the dirty thoroughfare. They pushed on till they reached the other end of Jenkins Town. The main road degenerated back into the pathetic Indian trail, and Pyke was able to make out Colonel Bennett’s home. He told himself to relax. Once he explained everything, especially the fact that he’d been dueling on behalf of Miss Bennett’s honor, the Colonel would understand. Everything would be fine.
***
Smith went into the Colonel’s drawing room alone, while the Colonel’s liveried footman waited with Pyke in the parlor. The Colonel’s hound, Cerberus, sniffed his riding breeches and slobbered down his leg. The footman said nothing and maintained a glassy stare, belying his military background. Pyke didn’t try to engage him in conversation. Finally, Cerberus padded away on the hardwood floor.
Smith and the Colonel spoke for some time before the drawing room door squeaked open. Smith emerged with that cocksure smile of his. He said nothing to Pyke and proceeded out of the house.
The footman said, “The Colonel is expecting you, sir.”
Pyke went in and shut the door behind him.
The Colonel sat at his desk, which was covered in documents. For a military man, he was rather slovenly. The walls of the drawing room were lined with books, a collection of local foliage, and colonial maps. The Colonel fancied himself a naturalist and amateur cartographer.
Pyke came to the desk and snapped to attention. “Sir.”
Colonel Bennett ignored him. The man was cribbage-faced from the small pox. He was busy reading some correspondence or other. Pyke figured it was all for show and that the Colonel was stretching out the silence to unnerve Pyke. At the sight of Miss Bennett’s portrait, hanging over the fireplace, his mind wandered to the Colonel’s daughter. Was she sitting down to supper now, or out in town? She was deluged by invitations to balls and could be found at all odd hours doing something or other. Her impetuousness and fire intrigued Pyke. Just thinking about her was more intoxicating than taking a bottle of belch. That fiery hair that sparkled in the sunlight. Those dark eyes. She must have favored her mother, for Pyke saw no resemblance between her and the corpulent man sitting before him.
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