by Anna Lord
The only two who had not met were the Russian and the Irishman. As soon as introductions were out of the way the Countess took charge with customary hauteur.
“I see there are only five huqqahs and six of us. As I have already tried a huqqah whilst travelling with my late step-aunt in Persia I will leave you gentlemen to your pleasure. I believe dessert was being served at eleven o’clock. Does anyone have the time?”
All five men checked their pocket watches. General de Merville was the quickest.
“It is fifteen minutes past the hour of eleven.”
“Splendid,” she said. “I will have time for a lime sherbet and a chocolate mousse before the fireworks. Good evening, gentlemen.”
As she was going out the door, Major Nash was coming in. There was no verbal exchange. She felt sorry for Colonel Moriarty but he deserved everything that was coming to him.
4
Code Duello
Colonel Moriarty felt like a rat trapped in a rat hole. There was nowhere to run and he couldn’t very well shoot five men in cold blood. He wondered if the Countess had set him up by alerting Nash to his hiding place.
Major Nash had his revolver drawn and cocked, ready to fire, and the other four men were looking slightly confused, not only because of the weapon, but because three of them had seen the colonel dressed as a Musketeer with a curly wig, and he was now bald and wearing a tartan kilt. Nevertheless, they were all war-hardened soldiers, used to thinking fast. They summed up the seriousness of the situation, if not the detail, in the blink of an eye.
“Hello, Nash,” Moriarty said with cavalier disdain.
“I hope you are not thinking of doing something reckless, Jim,” returned Major Nash. “You’re in enough trouble as it is. Stealing the clothes off a man’s back while he is sedated. Making off with his invitation. Impersonating a guest. Breeching the security of the Prince Regent’s ball. Shall I go on?”
“No, that covers it fairly well but we both know why you want to arrest me and it has nothing to do with what you just reeled off.”
“Shut up, Jim,” warned Nash, “or you’ll make things worse for yourself. Hand over your weapon and you might not get charged with treason.”
“Treason now is it?”
General de Merville, who had just parked his derriere on a divan and was tinkering with the pipes on the hookahs, visibly stiffened. “That’s a serious accusation, Major Nash. Do you have anything to support it?”
Sir James Damery, a fellow Irishman, could see where this was leading. It was too easy to accuse an Irishman in the British army of being a Fenian sympathiser. Once the charge was levelled there was no escaping it. A hangman’s rope or a long stint in prison followed. “What did you mean, Colonel Moriarty, when you said this had nothing to do with what Major Nash reeled off? Which I might add were all serious offences.”
“Not as serious as treason,” iterated General de Merville, who did not appreciate being side-lined.
Moriarty handed across his weapon before Nash had an excuse to shoot him. “It has to do with a certain lady.”
Prince Sergei chuckled richly. “Ha! Now we are getting to the bottom of things - a crime passionnelle!”
“Which lady?” pressed Damery; unamused.
Major Nash guessed where Jim was going with this and decided to get there first. “He is referring to the Countess.”
“Varvara Volodymyrovna!” gasped the Russian.
Mr Blague snorted. “Uppity women! That’s what happens when you don’t put them in their place. Nothing but trouble, mark my words, gentlemen!”
Damery was the first to comprehend that this confrontation was about male rivalry for the affections of a lady, probably because he was the only man in the room who did not have designs on the rich young widow. Even Mr Blague, for all his misogynist bluster, had kept one eye on the Countess for most of the night. The Russian ambassador had engineered several encounters with the Countess all evening, adding fuel to the rumour he and the princess were estranged and she had moved into Clarges. And his old friend, de Merville, had freely admitted he was considering matrimony. Now these two fine officers were in the running too. The personal fortune she was said to possess was a desirable draw card of course, but there was no denying her provocative allure.
If this situation wasn’t nipped in the bud in this room it could take on a life of its own. There was also the small problem of the Countess being discovered alone with Moriarty. Her reputation would suffer enormously once it became known publicly. The four of them could have kept it to themselves but once Major Nash arrived and this flare up had turned into a conflagration there was no putting out any spot fires.
Sir James Damery understood everything but he had no solution. “Colonel Moriarty, are you suggesting Major Nash may hold a grudge against you because of a certain lady you are both hoping to pursue?”
General de Merville was incensed at the audacity of the two hot-blooded young bucks who believed they could steal the rich young widow from under his nose. “Dammit, Damery! Stop couching everything in diplomatic terms. Both these men should be locked up in the brig until we can sort out what the deuce is going on.”
“The sun will soon be sinking on the British Empire,” predicted the American. “It will come about from allowing uppity women to run amok.”
“In my country this matter would be dealt with swiftly,” mused the Russian, lighting up a black cigarette in lieu of sampling some shisha.
“How so?” asked Damery, who still couldn’t see a face-saving solution to this mess.
“A duel,” replied the Russian.
Such a proposition would normally have been dismissed, laughed off even. Duelling might be fine in Russia where personal honour took precedence over the law of the land, but in England a man could be charged with murder, which is exactly what happened to the Earl of Cardigan when he shot one of his former officers in a duel.
“It just so happens I have two duelling pistols in my carriage,” added the Russian, flicking ash on the floor as he sauntered around the outskirts of the round room, looking bored.
“Duelling is against the law,” pointed out Damery.
“Duelling was forbidden by Tsar Peter in our country too but the ban runs counter to the noble spirit of men and the romantic Russian soul. Pushkin fought nearly thirty duels. Every Russian worth his salt has fought a duel.”
The fact the Russian had brought duelling pistols with him to the New Year’s Eve ball sent cold shockwaves through the men assembled under the roof of the Mughal dome.
As well as the rumour of the estrangement of Prince Sergei and Princess Paraskovia, it was also rumoured that she had taken a lover. It was not yet whispered publicly who the lover was but suffice to say two possible paramours were in that room – General de Merville and Sir James Damery. There was also the royal host of the gala ball – the Prince of Wales.
Viscount Cazenove was the fourth possible paramour but he was now out of the picture.
Several scenarios played out rapidly in everyone’s head.
General de Merville and Prince Sergei realized that if the two young men shot each other they would no longer count as rivals for the Countess’s affections.
Mr Blague, who had been bored for most of the evening, was suddenly excited by the prospect of witnessing a duel. Duels used to be common is the South until the Yankee government outlawed them. He had even participated in one himself when he was young and foolhardy and in love. Challenging someone to a duel was a democratic right. America was great because of its gunslingers, frontiersmen and quick draw fighters.
American Presidents were not averse to fighting duels either, notably Andrew Jackson; and Abraham Lincoln would have if his second had not interfered. Vice-President Aaron Burr, and Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton, had also fought a duel. It was a rite of passage for politicians and it proved they understood the great American dream.
Sir James Damery still had no solution but at least a duel would tur
n the spotlight away from things like Fenians. He liked both Nash and Moriarty enormously. They were both courageous and clever and the sort of men the Empire needed. Maybe they would both shoot in the air. What did they call it? Dumb shooting? Deloping? It had been known to happen, though it went against the accepted rules of conduct.
Failing that, at least it meant the Russian would not throw down the gauntlet to the heir to the throne, which is probably why he had brought the duelling pistols along in the first place. Just as Freddy Cazenove could not risk being labelled a lily-livered coward, neither could any other man, including the Prince of Wales, risk turning down a duel if openly challenged.
In other words, a duel between two officers was preferable to a duel between Prince Sergei and the Prince Regent.
Major Inigo Nash measured his chances. He was not reckless or foolhardy, but that’s not to say he didn’t take risks. Of course he did. A man couldn’t survive long in a foreign hell-hole without taking risks, and he’d been in most of them, but he preferred the odds to be on his side. Maybe this was meant to be. While waltzing with the Countess he had imagined taking out his revolver, aiming up at the balcony, and shooting Jim between the eyes.
Colonel Moriarty fought to downplay his eagerness. He struggled to keep the light out of his Irish eyes and the cocky smile off his face. Duels were second nature to him. He was a crack shot and his hand was rock steady. Most men weren’t used to the weightiness of an old-fashioned duelling pistol and the way it fit into a man’s hand. They had grown accustomed to Webleys and Derringers and Smith & Wessons. They didn’t take into account the length of the barrel and how to use it to aim at the heart of a target. They never allowed for the stiffness of the old-style trigger. Even with one hand tied behind his back and a blindfold he couldn’t miss. He could smell fear at fifty paces. At ten paces it was like shooting at a stationery omnibus.
Damery waited for the howls of protest but there were none. “So be it,” he said sternly. “It is customary to allow for a change of heart. Shall we say tomorrow at dawn?”
“Why wait?” challenged the American. “I say let them settle it now. We can get it over with before the fireworks start.”
“This is a matter of personal honour,” added the Russian. “We are not deciding on a time for a picnic.”
“But there’s no light,” pointed out Damery.
“Perhaps you think they should throw billiard balls at each other like those two idiotic Frenchmen, or perhaps beat each other over the head with pork sausages like Bismark and Virchow!” He was alluding to the Code Duello that allowed men to choose their own weapons, and his sarcastic tone drew some sniggers.
“Duelling with lanterns is permitted,” argued General de Merville, leaping up from his perch. “When I was a lad fencing manuals included lessons with lanterns. They were permitted for parrying blows and blinding an opponent. The tradition of placing the left arm behind the back stems from holding the lantern to the rear. We can set up two lanterns on the ground at the ‘points’, meaning where the men stand and turn.”
“What about the field of honour?” asked Damery, who was starting to have second thoughts. “The cricket pitch has been turned into a carriage park.”
“We don’t need much space,” barked General de Merville, who was already at the door with one hand on the knob. “Twenty paces ought to do it; the greater the grievance the shorter the number of paces.” He looked from Nash to Moriarty. “Will twenty paces suit?”
“Ten,” declared Major Nash.
Moriarty fought valiantly to suppress his delight. “Ten suits me.”
“What about seconds?” asked Damery, who wanted everything to be in accord with the Code Duello.
“We don’t need seconds,” hectored General de Merville. “These two men don’t need someone else to measure the ground for them. They can count to ten. They don’t need someone to hold their hand. And they don’t expect someone else to step in for them in case they don’t understand the mechanics of the weapon. Let’s get this over and done with by midnight. Then we can enjoy the fireworks. I’ll organize for two lanterns from Captain Thompson and I’ll let him know there will be some bullets fired in the trees by the lake so that there is no panic. I’ll tell him we are doing a spot of night-shooting. We don’t want to encourage any sightseers.”
“I’ll get the pistols,” offered the Russian eagerly. “Each one comes in its own velvet-lined, mahogany case with six silver cartridges. They are fairly heavy. Mr Blague would you care to carry one and I will carry the other? We’ll meet up by the lake.”
General de Merville rushed away, followed by Mr Blague and Prince Sergei. Sir Damery and the two duellists remained.
“Not too late to pull out,” said Damery hopefully, but even as he said it he knew it was pointless. This was not about honour or satisfaction. This was not about first blood where the first wound no matter how minor ended the duel. This was about a fight to the finish. What was the term? A l’outrance?
According to the Code Duello each man would fire one shot. If no one was hit (in this case unlikely) then the challenger (presumably Nash) could declare satisfaction and the duel would end without fatality.
If the challenger was not satisfied, a second round would be fired. In the event of another miss the same thing would occur and a third round would take place.
It was unprecedented to have more than three rounds. It was considered uncivilized and patently ridiculous. It reflected badly on the duellists. To intentionally miss was worse. It was the equivalent of a dishonourable discharge. No man would ever live it down.
“I suggest we have a quick brandy in the smoking room and then head down to the lake. No one is to mention to any other man he meets, or woman, that a duel is about to take place. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear,” said Nash.
“Understood,” said Moriarty.
Damery paused at the door and held out his hand. “I’ll hold onto the other weapons for the time being, Major Nash.”
The Countess was dancing with the Prince of Wales when the trio of men passed through the foyer. She presumed Colonel Moriarty was under arrest and being escorted to the nearest cell. Once again she felt immensely sorry for him but if any man was able to sabotage himself, it was the Irishman.
As the men were crossing the lawn Captain Thompson called out. “Major Nash!”
“What is it, Captain?”
“I understand you are going to do a spot of night-shooting, sir, but I wanted to let you know we just collared the pirate trying to sneak into the guardroom. We are taking him to the tack room off the stables. You were right about him being strange. There is something queer about him. And his flintlocks look queer too. I’ve never seen anything like them for weapons.”
Nash wondered what the captain meant by queer but he had no time to dwell on it. He wondered if the pirate was a deadly foreign assassin. “Keep a close eye on him, Captain. I’ll be back shortly to deal with him.”
“Not likely,” came a cocky whisper in the dark.
Prince Sergei, Mr Blague and General de Merville had arrived ahead of them. The field of honour had been chosen. A clearing in a small wood of Copper Beeches was the spot. Two lanterns were already spaced twenty feet apart and the midpoint from which the two duellists would count off was marked by a fallen branch.
Prince Sergei, being the most experienced with duels, explained the methodus pugnandi to make sure there was no confusion.
“Stand back to back where you see the log. General de Merville will give the word to begin counting off ten paces. You should reach the lantern which is your ‘point’ to turn and take aim. You will not be firing alternatively. You will fire simultaneously when the signal ‘fire’ is given by Sir James Damery. Good luck, gentlemen.”
It doesn’t matter how brave or confident a man is, when he is looking death in the eye in the form a loaded gun, it is a frightening experience. Add a cold winter’s night, a dark wood, a moonless sky, tendrils of mist, t
wo flickering lanterns casting sinister shadows, silhouetting your opponent, turning him into a supernatural demon, and the blood in a man’s veins can curdle.
“Take up your positions, gentlemen,” said Prince Sergei when the duelling pistols had been handed out and loaded.
It was fifteen minutes before midnight. There was plenty of time to settle things and still get back to the pavilion in time to find a spot on the veranda and enjoy the choreography of fireworks that would usher in the new century. Captain Thompson could deal with the grisly aftermath should one man be seriously injured which was the most likely scenario. Most duels, despite being outlawed, no longer resulted in death simply because most men were no longer accurate enough with their aim, and that was in broad daylight. Dark shifting shadows writhed in mist, distorted by flickering lamplight, would make the job even more difficult.
Sir James Damery tried one more time to call the whole thing off. “No change of heart?” he said hopefully as the duellists stood back to back.
“This is your chance to save yourself, Nash,” whispered Moriarty.
“I’m going to enjoy plugging you between the eyes, Jim.”
“You’ll be dead before I blink.”
“I’m not planning to wait for you to blink.”
“Even if you survive, you don’t stand a chance with her.”
“More chance than a bankrupt Fenian.”
“That’s my point, Nash. She doesn’t like stupid men.”
“She’ll fancy an Irish corpse even less.”
They were interrupted by General de Merville. “Count off to ten, gentlemen.”
And so the pacing began until they reached the ‘point’, turned and aimed their pistols.
Damery drew breath and was about to call, “Fire!” when a loud explosion filled the air.
At first, the three observers thought the duellists had fired early but the blast came from the direction of the pavilion.