Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  It was from that dark cover that the firing came, streaking the dawn with explosions of orange and red. Terror leaped in Anya’s chest. She had expected an attack, some attempt to stop Ravel’s carriage, but not this cowardly ambush from cover. With a shout of rage that strained her throat she spurred forward. Only slightly behind her, Marcel and Samson and Elijah did the same.

  The buggy did not stop, but rather picked up speed. There was no cracking whip, however. It was running away, out of control. Now from the thicket came a trio of men. They clung to their mounts like men unaccustomed to the saddle, kicking their horses into a run as they set out after the speeding buggy. They either had not seen Anya and her men, or chose to ignore them. It was a mistake.

  Beside Anya, Samson fired. The weapon he carried was no pistol, but a double-barreled shotgun loaded with ounce balls. It roared like a cannon, setting up thunderous echoes. One of the horsemen ahead threw up his hands and catapulted from the saddle as if struck in the back by a huge fist. The others looked over their shoulders. One turned to shoot with the pistol be held in his fist. The bullet whipped past with a whistling sound. Elijah, yelling an angry oath, fired his own shotgun. The man with the pistol pitched from his horse and was caught by a foot in the stirrup. His horse reared and whinnied, trying to jar him loose. He jerked free and flew to land in the ditch. The third man crouched low on his horse, flinging looks of wild fright over his shoulder. At the first break in the trees, he veered from the road and plunged away over the plowed fields.

  Marcel, riding with the agility of a jockey, moved ahead. He was coming closer to the buggy, closer. He flew past it, reached for the harness of the horse.

  They saw him check, draw his hand back. The buggy was slowing of its own accord. By then Anya was riding even with the driver’s seat. Ravel was on one knee, bracing against the kickboard. He had lost his hat when he had thrown himself to one side to avoid the shot that had torn a hole the size of a man’s fist in the leather upholstery where he had been sitting, but he was unharmed and he had his horse back under control. As the vehicle drew to a stop, he regained his seat. Anya and the others reined in their horses.

  Anya could not speak. She sent a glace to Marcel. He interpreted it in an instant from long practice. Turning to Ravel, he said, “You are all right, m’sieur?”

  “As you see,” Ravel said shortly. “Tell your meddling mistress that she may now go home, before she gets hurt!”

  “Ah, M’sieur Duralde,” Marcel said, his tone gently chiding, “I would not be so unwise. You must give her that message yourself.”

  Ravel turned to Anya. Before he could speak, she said in clipped tones, “Save yourself the trouble. We were on our way to view a duel. I believe you are heading the same way. If our company does not offend you, we will ride with you.” He could not refuse without at least an implied insult to the men who had just rescued him. Still, he tried once more. “Don’t think me ungrateful, for I’m not. There are few who have ever done as much for me. It’s just that a duel is no place for a woman.”

  She would not allow herself to be warmed by his gratitude. “You think I will faint at the sight of blood? I have been present when women were brought to bed for childbirth. By comparison, any bloodletting at this affair can only be paltry.”

  “I would remind you that should anything happen to me, your danger will increase.”

  “I have my guard.”

  “Yours, or mine?”

  “Ours. Does it matter?”

  He looked at her for a long moment before a faint smile tugged at his mouth. He shook his head with slow incredulity. “I don’t suppose it does.”

  “Shall we proceed, then?”

  They did. In a short time they had crossed the bayou and come to the two huge old oaks. Beneath them the dry grass of autumn, mixed with the new green of winter grass, was wet with dew. Morning mists lay upon the surrounding fields, shrouding the carriages that sat waiting. Voices were muffled, ringing with a curious dullness as the men gathered in two knots at either end of the field talked among themselves. They sky was lightning almost perceptibly. A breeze, little more than a breath of air, moved the topmost leaves of the trees. A bird sang and then, when there was no answer, fell into abashed silence.

  Anya and the men with her dismounted. Marcel took Ravel’s reins as he alighted from the buggy. Ravel’s seconds started toward him. Murray, with his back rather conspicuously to the road, began to turn. He caught sight of Ravel.

  Anya saw the face of the man who was engaged to Celestine turn white, then red again, saw his mouth fall open, then close so tightly that his lips seemed to disappear. Murray whipped his head to stare back down the road as if expecting to see his men. Then slowly, as if just registering her presence, he turned back to stare at Anya. There was malevolence in his eyes, but she was untouched by it. Lifting her head, she smiled.

  Ravel barely noticed Murray except to follow his gaze directed toward Anya. Ravel saw her smile, the bright pride and glory of it as she stared at the man she had risked so much to save before, and his footsteps faltered. Had there been any truth at all in the story she had told him in the early hours of the morning, or had it been a tale of nonsense concocted to prevent him from appearing on the field? An assassin, she had called him, which might have been the only true indication of her sentiments she had given. Why else would she speak of love, except to sway him to do what she wanted?

  But what of the thugs, hired by Murray to attack him in order to even the odds? Had she routed them out of nothing more than a sense of fair play? It was not impossible; he had benefited from her essential fairness before.

  Anya and Murray. She might despise the things he did and try to stop them, might have relinquished all hope of intimacy between them for the sake of Celestine, but she would not deny what she felt for him. That was her way, the way of many women who loved unwisely.

  The formalities began. The seconds tossed a coin among them to see which representative of the two men would have the privilege of giving the signal to begin. To the losing seconds went the choice of which direction their man would face, though there was little difference as to smoothness of the site or angle of the sun on either end of this field, another reason for its popularity. To Ravel, as the challenged man, went not only the choice of time and place, but also of the weapon with which the contest would be decided. It was to be swords.

  The blades were brought out, a matched pair of small swords in a case lined with white satin. The blades were of Toledo steel, elaborately chased, and the hilts were inlaid in Arabic designs in gold and silver. To Murray went first choice of the blades, as was customary since the swords had been provided by Ravel. He took one gingerly in his hand, hefting it for weight and balance, slicing the air with it a few times. His movements were jerky and there was a frown between his hazel eyes. There could be little doubt that he had never meant matters to go this far.

  The sound of another set of wheels grating on the shell-covered road drew Anya’s attention. A closed carriage drew up a short distance away. A man stepped down and, with all the nonchalance of one out of his morning constitutional, strode toward where she stood. Perfectly dressed in the black that might be suitable should the occasion turn out to be a somber one, it was Gaspard. Anya gave him a strained smile of greeting.

  “Madame Rosa sent me, so that I may tell her what happens,” Gaspard said in low tones. “I would have come for myself if she had not. I feel as responsible as she does.”

  “You?”

  “It seems to me that if she had to choose someone to show up Nicholls, it should have been me.”

  His pride was hurt, Anya thought. For the second time in as many days, she saw him as a man instead of merely Madame Rosa’s perennial escort. “Perhaps she valued your company too much to risk even the possibility of losing it?” she suggested.

  Gaspard gave her a searching look, as if fearing ridicule. After a long moment he said, “Possibly.”

  Anya’s attention was
drawn irresistibly by the business at hand and she turned away. The seconds were directing the principals as to where they must stand, Ravel to the right, Murray to the left. Once in place, they could not move until the signal to begin was given, on pain of being cut down with pistol or sword by the opposing seconds. The two men removed their coats and rolled their sleeves to the elbow. They took up their stances, their swords held loosely at their sides in their right hands, their left fists behind their backs. The seconds moved to their places near the duelists they represented.

  The morning grew brighter. The rising sun sent its first rays above the tree-lined horizon. They danced and sparkled in the dew. They splashed the white linen shirts of the two men with yellow and gleamed with iridescent fire along the blades the duelists held in their hands as they swept them up in a salute. They caught the drift of the white signal handkerchief as it fell to the grass like a snowflake out of its proper climate.

  The blades of the two men came together with a sharp, musical chiming, tapping, testing. The men circled warily, feinting and parrying as each searched out the strength of the other’s wrist, the depth of his knowledge. They shifted back and forth, leaving trails in the wet grass. Each watched for an opening, dividing his attention in these first moments between the face of the opposite man and the tip of his sword.

  Slowly the tempo increased. Murray lunged and Ravel parried, giving ground, then in a sudden display of skill, pressed the younger man back. He did not pursue his advantage, but recoiled, holding his guard. Emboldened, Murray attacked, using one clever stratagem after another. Ravel defended himself with each appropriate countermeasure, sometimes deflecting a wicked ruse with a device so brilliant that it brought murmurs of admiration from the men watching.

  Regardless, time and again Ravel failed to follow through. It was as if he held himself in check, keeping the full range of his skill in reserve.

  Gaspard said in puzzlement, almost to himself, “What is he doing?”

  Anya, watching with her heart choking her, could find no answer.

  Perspiration appeared in a sheen on Murray’s forehead. The breathing of both men grew deeper. In the intense quiet, the scuffling of their footsteps in the grass was loud. Their shirts, growing limp and damp in the moist morning air, clung to their shoulders and upper arms, and their trousers were molded to the muscles of their thighs. Ravel’s hair curled over his head, falling toward his eyes, and he flung it back with a quick impatient jerk of his head.

  Baffled rage crept into Murray’s face. He redoubled his efforts so that is blade darted and sang. He made a sudden lunge that Ravel parried in seconde at the last moment. The small swords scraped in a shower of orange sparks. Then in an instant Murray whirled the tip of his blade in a riposte and leaned in extension toward Ravel. There was an odd movement, almost a hesitation in the swordplay, as if Ravel began a defense and deliberately abandoned it. When Murray drew back, there was a red stain on Ravel’s sleeve.

  The seconds ran forward and thrust a sword between the two men, knocking Murray’s blade aside as he tried to thrust again at Ravel, who was already dropping his guard. The two men disengaged. Ravel’s representative bowed to Murray. “In keeping with the code, sir, I must now ask you if honor is satisfied.”

  There was a greenish tinge to Murray’s skin and a hunted look in his eyes as he stared at Ravel. His victory had been a fluke; he had been allowed a small bloodletting and he knew it. His role now was to declare himself satisfied and permit the contest to end. It was apparent that he would like to comply, but either he had more courage than suspected, or else he had more to fear from capitulating than he did from continuing. His answer, when it came, was bald.

  “No, damn you!”

  Ravel’s seconds exchanged a grim glance among themselves, but had no choice except to step back and signal that the match resume.

  Again the clanging swordplay began, the attack and parry and riposte, the advance and retreat. But now the concentration of the two men was more circumscribed, fastened only to the glittering tip of the other man’s sword. Their breathing was harsh. Ravel’s movements, however, took on the lithe, controlled quality of long practice, as if he could go on at the pace he was setting forever.

  And it was he who set the pace. Murray was overmatched; if it had not been plain before, it was now. He was a competent swordsman, but he was facing a master. Only some wild piece of luck, some mistake by Ravel, could give him a victory. A dozen times Ravel could have drawn blood, could even have killed him, still he contained himself. As Murray’s rage and fear increased, his sword arm began to tremble and his lunges became wilder, more violent.

  There was a movement so swift Anya could not follow it. The swords grated together with a sound that tore at the nerves, sliding along each other until the hilts met with a furious clang. The two men strained against each other face to face, wrist to wrist, knee to knee.

  Murray, panting, demanded, “What do you think you’re doing, Duralde?”

  “Giving you satisfaction. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I want you dead!”

  “Denial, they say, is good for the soul.”

  Ravel spared a brief look at Anya where she stood with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes wide as she watched them. What she had found in this tainted specimen of manhood he did not know, but if it was possible, he would preserve him for her. It would be far better if he removed Murray, better for New Orleans, better for Anya. He lacked the courage. It was not that he was without the will to strike the final blow; he could so easily end the fight and Murray’s life. But not in front of Anya. He could not bring himself to kill the man she loved, could not bear to face the condemnation in her eyes, not again.

  It would have been better if he and Murray had been equally matched, if there had been more danger. He cursed the conceit in Nicholls that had allowed him to think he was a swordsman because of a few lessons in Exchange Alley. Instead, it was the same as it had been so often in the past; Ravel’s skill learned in a thousand passages at arms with the master who had been his stepfather had given him an unfair advantage. To bring to bear all the ancient moves, tricks, and wily subterfuges that he knew would remove the element of honor from the contest, turning it instead into a rite of murder. And though it was a betrayal of his friends and the cause he supported to refrain, he must, because Anya was there. He could not play the assassin, or even the role of scourge that he had been given, certainly not while she watched.

  Anya met Ravel’s glance, as swift and lethal as the flick of a sword, and felt that it struck deep inside her. She saw the desolation behind it, the futility and the pain, with a terrible recognition. It was just so Ravel had looked when she had accused him of murdering Jean all those years ago. Here on this field, she was his bête noire, a reminder of the inescapable past. That was his handicap, the thing that kept him from exerting his expertise, from protecting himself fully from the man trying to kill him. A small miscalculation, a moment of inattention, and it could be fatal.

  Murray wrenched himself backward, stumbling, slipping in the dew-wet grass. The movement was so familiar that it sent a shiver along Ravel’s spine. Just so Jean had slipped in the dew on that night, here on this very field, under these old oaks with their swaying moss.

  The duel could not continue like this. It must be ended one way or another. He waited, poised and patient, until Murray recovered, then in a crackling display of technique, with his blade winking like silver, snicking, slithering, grimly scraping, he began to advance upon his opponent. Murray gave ground, defending himself with teeth clenched and sweat pouring into his eyes. It availed him little. Ravel’s wrist was as tempered and pliant as his sword, and both were directed by vivid thought and implacable will.

  There was a feint, a riposte. The blades ground edge to edge. Ravel’s swirled, adhering, bending, prizing. Murray’s grip was broken and his sword spun end over end, landing in the grass with a dull clatter.

  Once more the ritual
was observed. It was obvious to everyone assembled there on that field that Ravel could as easily have spitted Murray. When the younger man refused to accept his defeat, when he once again declared himself unsatisfied, the rumble of the discussion among the seconds and the attending surgeon was loud. Nevertheless, at a gesture from Ravel, Murray’s small sword was retrieved and wiped dry. The match went on.

  What would Ravel do now? The answer was not long in coming. The swords tapped like the ringing of a set of bells, they flashed like lightning, crossing, leveling, and when the two men drew apart, there was blood on Ravel’s opposite arm.

  Once more he had allowed himself to be nicked. The wound was deeper than the first, for it was fast turning his sleeve to crimson. Surely now Murray could not refuse to stop.

  He could. He did. The surgeon tied a strip of bandage around Ravel’s arm and the two men faced each other again.

  A shudder rippled over Anya. It was followed by another and another. The clash of the blades grated on her nerves so that she wanted to scream. How much longer could it go on? There must be something she could do, but what? What?

  Gaspard shook his head. “Never, but never, have I seen anything like it. It’s magnificent!”

  Anya turned her head to stare at him as if he were mad. “What are you talking about?”

  “Wait. Wait and see,” he answered, and gave a low, admiring laugh.

  Anya turned from the older man, watching with straining eyes. Another injury, this time in Ravel’s side as he twisted, leaping back to avoid a violent thrust. The question was a mere formality. Murray gasped out his refusal, but there was jubilation in his eyes. Oblivious of the hard stares of Ravel’s seconds, he was waiting for a moment of misjudgment, for the mistake that would give him the chance to finish the other man. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as the duel continued.