Sword of Fortune

by Christopher Nicole

  He would be meeting Barbara there on Monday morning, Richard thought.

  ‘You mean dawn?’ Forsythe stammered. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I mean dawn today, sir. We have found that when these matters are delayed, they attract attention,’ Galpin said. ‘I interpret dawn as six o’clock. We shall see you then, gentlemen. I shall arrange for a surgeon. Good day to you.’

  The officers left the shelter and mounted.

  Forsythe gazed at Richard, his face a picture of concern. ‘You cannot fight this duel!’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’ Richard stepped into the rain and took his horse from the waiting groom. Forsythe followed, urging his horse beside the mare.

  ‘Ford is a soldier. Weapons are his business.’

  ‘I doubt he knows as much about them as I.’

  ‘That is nonsense. You have never fired at a living man. He has seen action. He will kill you.’

  ‘That is extremely unlikely, even if he can outshoot me. When last was anyone actually killed in a duel?’

  ‘Not for some time, to be sure. That is because there has not recently been sufficient anger between the parties. But Ford had murder in his eyes.’

  ‘As, no doubt, I had in mine,’ Richard said.

  Forsythe brooded for the rest of the ride home.

  ‘I must confess I do not understand it at all,’ he said, when they were stripping off their soaking clothes and handing them to the waiting Hanif. ‘One would almost suppose that you and he were rivals for Miss Smythe’s hand.’

  ‘Just let’s say we heartily dislike each other, and have found a reason to express it.’

  ‘Because you dislike a fellow you are going to shoot at him?’ Forsythe shook his head. ‘And over a woman? And such a woman? Hardly worth risking death for.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Richard demanded.

  ‘Well, tittle-tattle, old man.’

  ‘I would like to hear it.’

  ‘And next thing you’ll be calling me out, if you’re so hot under the collar.’

  ‘I will not. You have my word.’

  ‘Well, Lawrence…you know Lawrence?’

  ‘I know Lawrence,’ Richard said. He was a tall, fair-haired young man, several years Richard’s senior. He had also been one of those granted the favour of a dance with Barbara.

  ‘Well, he was telling me…not only me, of course; several of us…’

  ‘For God’s sake, get on with it! What was he telling you?’

  ‘That he has had an assignation with the lady. Already.’

  ‘An assignation?’ Richard scarcely recognised his own voice.’

  ‘On the west beach. Can you believe it?’

  Yes, Richard thought, his brain a red cloud. Yes.

  ‘It sounds as if she’s no better than she should be,’ Forsythe said, and peered at the clock. ‘It’s past three already. Damnation. I wish I hadn’t had so much of that confounded punch. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Get some sleep,’ Richard said. ‘Wake me at half past five, Hanif.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to bed?’ Forsythe was dumb-founded. ‘With only three hours to…well…’

  ‘To live?’ Richard gave him a crooked grin. ‘I’ll shoot straighter if I can sleep off some of that wine.’

  *

  He did not expect to sleep. Even without the thought of the duel, his brain was in too much of a turmoil.

  Barbara claimed to go riding every morning, and had been most insistent that he not ‘importune’, as she put it. No doubt she met Lawrence every Tuesday, as she met him every Monday. And someone else, perhaps Ford, every Wednesday, with Thursday and Friday to come.

  What a fool he was! Had he not known in his heart from the very beginning, from the alacrity with which she had accepted his advances, that she was at the very least a flirt?

  What Albert had just told him made her something worse than that.

  Would she be at the beach on Monday morning?

  But then, would he? Even if he survived?

  He was not actually afraid of dying in the duel. Not even Ford would be so crazy as shoot to kill. The attitude to duelling was very ambiguous in the presidency. It was illegal. Yet it was also, as Galpin had reminded them, the only proper way for two gentlemen to settle a grievance. Therefore an exchange of shots was generally ignored.

  Were someone hurt, however, the two assailants were generally brought to trial. But they were generally acquitted, with some kind of binding-over to preserve the peace.

  But Ford could not risk killing him, if he intended to continue his career in the army. On the other hand, he might try to hit him, say in the leg, and chance the consequences.

  But even that was a remote possibility. There really was nothing to be afraid of.

  What were his own intentions? Well, he would probably miss in any event. As Forsythe had pointed out, he had never in his life fired at a man. Indeed, he had never fired a pistol at any living creature. And much as he disliked the fellow he had no real desire to hurt him, certainly not in view of what he had just learned.

  How crazy it all was. Having agreed to fight, each knowing that he must not hurt the other and both, in a sense, having been cuckolded, why did they not merely shake hands?

  He listened to the rain drumming on the roof of the bungalow. Unless that stopped, there would be no duel anyway; their pistols would not fire.

  *

  ‘It is five-thirty, sahib,’ said Hanif.

  Richard awoke with a start. He had been asleep after all, and very soundly. He sat up, rubbed his eyes. His head was a trifle heavy, but apart from that he felt fine.

  Hanif had hot water ready, and Richard was dressed in ten minutes. Forsythe was also ready.

  ‘Who provides the pistols?’ he asked.

  ‘We do.’ Richard opened his pistol case, inspected the two guns, then took out his bag of powder and bullets.

  ‘God, you’re a cool one,’ Forsythe said. ‘My hands are shaking. Cut myself shaving, damn it!’

  ‘Drink some coffee,’ Richard recommended. ‘And just think, in half an hour we will be back here, eating breakfast. What’s the weather doing, Hanif?’

  ‘Rain has stopped, sahib.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for, at least. Come along, Albert. Drink up. Maybe you’d like a drop of brandy as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ Albert said. ‘I would. What about you?’

  Richard considered. One slug of brandy could do him no harm.

  ‘Why not?’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to our first duel.’

  ‘May it also be our last,’ Albert said fervently.

  *

  They mounted their horses and rode down to the beach. As they passed the Jain temple Richard looked up the road towards the Point, but it was of course empty. Barbara was in bed, little dreaming that two men were about to exchange fire because of her.

  They rode down to the beach, dismounted, and led their horses on to the sand, tethering them to the bushes. Four other horses and their riders were already there.

  ‘Dr Mayne,’ Galpin said.

  Richard and Albert shook hands with him.

  ‘And Major Gillespie.’

  The major, a short, fervent-looking man, peered at Richard. ‘A bad business,’ he commented. ‘I hope you know well what you do.’

  ‘I do what I must,’ Richard replied, and looked past Galpin at Ford, who had hung back, and was at that moment taking off his jacket.

  ‘Well, I must now ask you if you will forgo this matter and shake hands,’ the major said.

  ‘Willingly,’ Richard agreed. ‘If Mr Ford will withdraw his remarks concerning my fitness for a drawing-room.’

  ‘You insulted Miss Smythe,’ Ford growled.

  Who thoroughly deserved to be insulted, Richard was tempted to remark but decided against it. That would only enrage Ford all over again. ‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’

  Gillespie looked from face to face, then sighed. ‘Very good
, gentlemen. Have you brought the weapons, Mr Forsythe?’

  Albert produced the case, which was opened by Galpin. He took each gun out in turn, looked at it, peered along the barrel, and frowned.

  ‘These are of good workmanship. And well kept.’

  ‘Of course,’ Richard said shortly.

  Galpin’s head came up sharply.

  ‘Load the damn things,’ Ford snapped. He was definitely nervous.

  Galpin and Albert loaded the two guns, and Galpin held them out to Ford, who seized the one nearest to him.

  Richard took the other. The feel of the butt in his hand immediately gave him confidence.

  ‘There will, at any rate, be only one exchange of fire,’ the major announced, and drew his own pistol. ‘You understand the rules, gentlemen. No man’s arm is to move until the handkerchief has left my hand. Will you measure the distances, Mr Galpin, Mr Forsythe?’

  Galpin and Albert stood back to back on the sand, and walked away from each other for ten paces. Ford and Richard then took their respective places, facing each other. Gillespie stood between them, and some six feet to the right of the line of fire.

  ‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’

  ‘Ready,’ Ford said.

  ‘Ready,’ Richard said.

  ‘Well, then...’ Gillespie’s left hand rose above his head, the handkerchief fluttering from his fingers; his right hand hung at his side holding the pistol with which it was his duty to shoot any protagonist who attempted to fire early.

  He seemed to stand there for a very long time, while Richard was conscious of the sun rising above the trees to his right and immediately warming the morning, of the rippling surf, and of the sandflies seething around him.

  And of standing here with Barbara in his arms.

  Concentrate. He must concentrate. He stared at Ford, who was staring back at him. He would shoot over Ford’s left shoulder, near enough to make the lout feel the wind of the bullet, at any event. He would…

  The handkerchief left Gillespie’s fingers, and fluttered to the ground. Richard swallowed…how dry his throat was…and lifted his arm. In front him there was suddenly just a white blur. Ford’s shirt. Left shoulder, he thought. Left shoulder.

  But he was in his garden, and in front of him was the wooden target, with the wide slodge of white paint to represent the man’s torso…

  The pistol exploded. He never heard Ford’s shot.

  The blur cleared, and he gazed at the lieutenant, lying on his back on the sand, arms and legs sprawled. The pistol had fallen from his hand.

  There was a moment’s silence as the sound of the shot winged away into the morning.

  Then Galpin said, ‘Good God!’

  Mayne ran forward, knelt beside Ford. Richard slowly walked across the sand, as did Albert and Gillespie.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Mayne muttered in horrified tones. ‘Shot clear through the heart.’

  Diary of Miss Barbara Smythe, 2 October 1779

  What a catastrophe! Richard has killed Mr Ford in a duel! He has been arrested! He is to be charged with murder!!!

  I am appalled. He is such a fool!!! I did not even like Mr Ford. But Richard’s behaviour at the dance was unforgiveable.

  Had he challenged Andrew, now, it would still have been unforgiveable, but it would have made some sense.

  Why are men such fools? Everything was going so very well! Andrew on Thursdays, and Richard on Mondays. Never could two men be so different, and yet equally attractive. My leaning was towards Richard, though, until today. He was such a dear boy!

  But now he is a murderer!

  Uncle Jonathan is furious! And I believe he suspects. Well, he must have seen Richard kiss my nose. Everyone must have seen that.

  I should have slapped his face. Better a scene than a murder!

  Aunt Lucy says I must put all thought of him entirely out of my mind. He is a wretch and a villain, and will certainly be sent away from Bombay, at the very least.

  Oh, what a fool!

  He was written me a note, begging my forgiveness, and soliciting my aid. Of all the insolence, seeking to involve me in a murder!

  Besides, what aid could I possibly give him? He suggests that I go to see him. But Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Lucy would be scandalised.

  They might even send me away!!!

  Oh, he is a wretch. I was so enjoying life here in Bombay. It is everything I have ever dreamed of. And I did so like him. He kissed divinely. I was almost tempted to…never mind! Now he must be forgotten. Absolutely and finally, he must be forgotten.

  I wonder who will take his place? I must be more careful. Dear Andrew never importunes. But I do believe he would never consider fighting a duel either.

  Oh, that wretched boy! What sport we could have had together.

  Now I must write him what is called ‘a curt dismissal’.

  3: The Fugitive

  ‘Now, there is no call to look so downhearted, Mr Bryant,’ Sergeant Ballantine pointed out.

  ‘You don’t think so.’ Richard had never felt so downhearted in his life. His surroundings had a great deal to do with it. If he had at least been given a cell to himself, rather than been confined with a bunch of larcenous coolies, it was still a cell, with a barred window which merely looked out on the exercise ground, which doubled as a punishment ground where the coolies were flogged from time to time.

  His furniture consisted of a cot bed, with a single blanket, and a latrine bucket.

  Despite the almost incessant rain, which turned the courtyard into a bog so that mud clung to everything, the cell was intensely hot, and smelt of raw sewage, most of it his at the moment.

  He had not had a bath for forty-eight hours, and he did not know what was happening. Above all, he did not know what was happening at Malabar Point.

  ‘It is a perfectly straightforward case,’ Ballantine insisted. He was a little man with a sharp face, who reminded Richard of a ferret. And he had a ferret-like brain, which was why he was a successful lawyer. ‘Of course you had to be arrested: you killed a man. But it was an accident. That will be our defence.’

  ‘Will they accept that? I shot an officer.’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ Sergeant Ballantine said gleefully. ‘How could anyone expect you, a veritable tyro with a pistol, to shoot dead an officer in His Majesty’s armed forces? Obviously a lucky chance, or should I say, an unlucky one!’

  ‘You think so?’ Richard asked, doubtfully.

  ‘No question of it. Oh, you will be censured for taking part in a duel at all, and especially one in which there has been a fatality. But as the whole thing was so obviously an accident, well…’

  ‘I would like to be able to believe you,’ Richard said. ‘If only I were able to hear from a certain party.

  At that moment the Indian gaoler presented himself at the cell door. ‘A letter, sahib.’

  Richard tore the envelope with frantic haste, snatched the sheet of paper from within. In his despair he had been prepared to forgive even Barbara’s inconstancy, if she would stand by him now.

  ‘Mr Bryant,’ Barbara Smythe had written.

  ‘I acknowledge your communication of today’s date. However, I am afraid that I cannot offer you the support you have the impertinence to claim. Not only would it be improper, but additionally I am bound to condemn your behaviour on every count.

  ‘That you disliked Lieutenant Ford I was aware of. That you should have accepted an invitation to exchange fire with him is reprehensible to both parties. That you should have then shot him down like a dog is unbelievable.

  ‘Believe me, I shall always regret that weakness of my nature which has led to two men exchanging fire over me, the more so as one had murder in his heart.

  ‘Believe me also when I say that I shall be unable, for the rest of my life, to hear your name, much less consider your memory, without the deepest repugnance…’

  Richard crumpled the letter between his fingers. He should have known better than to expect sympathy, or even unders
tanding, from that quarter. Barbara Smythe, beautiful, self-willed, selfish Barbara Smythe, would always act entirely according to her own best interests. Once he had supposed her self-interest was bound up with her love for him. Now he knew better.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Sergeant Ballantine asked.

  Richard handed over the letter without a word.

  The lawyer smoothed the sheet of paper and scanned it. ‘As the Bard has said, frailty, etc,’ he observed. ‘She chooses to take the side of the deceased. And, perhaps, of propriety. We should have expected nothing more. But at least, Mr Bryant, there is no prospect of Miss Smythe being called in court. That would be the height of bad form on the part of the prosecution.’

  ‘And the defence?’

  ‘My dear fellow, it would damn you in the eyes of the public, and more important, the eyes of the jury, were you to expose any relationship you may have had with the lady. No, no, an accident is what we must aim for.’

  As if I care what we aim for, Richard thought after the advocate had left, and he gazed at the letter once again. He had asked for understanding, for sympathy, and above all, for support. But the woman with whom he had fallen head over heels in love, and whom he had believed had fallen in love with him in return, had rejected him utterly.

  How mistaken could a human being be?

  As for what followed, did it matter? Yet must he fight for his life.

  *

  ‘Tell me this, Mr Forsythe,’ said Mr Rhodes, the Prosecuting Attorney. ‘Is it not a fact that the prisoner at the Bar spent almost all of his spare time in practising with a pistol?’

  ‘M’lud,’ Ballantine grunted.

  Mr Justice Trant nodded. ‘You are leading the witness, Mr Rhodes.’

  ‘Very good, m’lud. Then, Mr Forsythe, will you tell the court: how did Mr Bryant spend his spare time?’

  ‘Ah…’ poor Albert went red in the face and gave Richard an apologetic glance. ‘Practising with his pistols.’

  There was a ripple of laughter, and Mr Justice Trant rapped his desk with his gavel. The small courtroom was packed; it was not often that one of the white community was on trial, perhaps for his life. People were even standing at the back, and there were a good number of ladies present.