He turned to address the two officers, both of whom were red-faced from Sir William’s blunt speaking. “The encounter will take place in a week, not tomorrow, and according to local custom. That is, on horseback on a marked field, with pistols and then broadswords if the pistols miss their marks. I trust this will suit your officer, for he’s an officer of horse and this should suit him well.” He turned to look at Edward. “Do you agree?”
Edward shrugged. “As you please.” He had a feeling he was involved in something quite out of his control.
“Lieutenant Fielding and I will take care of the details if you want to do something else?” Sir William said, prodding him to leave.
“Of course, Sir William,” Edward replied, and turned to ride away.
“Wait!” called one of the officers, “There is another matter we must settle before you leave.”
“What is it that my seconds can’t settle?” asked Edward as he slowly turned his mount about.
“It’s a delicate question, sir, but one we must resolve now. We assume, sir, that, pirate though you were, you are once again a person of honor?”
Edward, who had remained calm, almost detached during the formal challenge, felt his heart begin to beat faster and his stomach to twist, sure signs of his growing anger.
Easy, he thought, slow down, relax, there’s never a time to lose your temper when involved in any part of a duel. Keep your temper cold, for in cold anger do you fight best.
“You ask if I am a gentleman? You wish bona fides of some kind, a certificate of pedigree, a sworn statement as to my ancestry, perhaps?” he replied. He was not controlling his anger well, and his accent of Broad Scots combined with Virginia and Jamaica became more pronounced with each word, as it always did when he was angry or drunk. “Well …—I’ll handle this, Sir William—where should I begin? I canna truly say my antecedents are as prominent as the young Ensign’s, but then, as the wise men say, what man truly knows his father?”
The two officers flushed at the insult.
“There must then be other criteria for a gentleman,” Edward continued. “An education? I hae one, from the College of King James in Edinburgh, not Oxford or Cambridge, but many gentlemen are nae Bachelors, so I canna see that an education is necessary to be a gentleman, though many believe it makes a man so. The King’s Commission? I hae held commissions under three kings—but then so hae many knaves, as knaves have in all armies of all kings. As gentlemen are never knaves, so I’m told, my commission canna serve as evidence. These things are but paper: a man is flesh, blood, and bone.
“Land? I own none, but I could; yet many who are nae gentlemen own land. Coat armor? A title? I bear none. But a man can buy them, yet a gentleman, they say, canna truly buy his nobility, great or petty. Travel? The Grand Tour? I hae seen more of this world than most gentlemen, but haena gone buggering in Florence like many a gentleman has. Gentle manners? They are unrelated to birth: I ken many a peasant with them, and many a gentleman without them. Courage? I hae known noblemen to show base cowardice, and base men to show noble courage.”
Edward paused, his gaze fierce. When the officers blinked nervously, he spoke again. “In all my travels I hae never seen a man’s birth to be a restriction on whether another man could or couldna kill him—except, of course, in the courts of law. A man dinna need be a gentleman to make a gude fight. But something must serve to satisfy you; I canna give you a paper. Hae ye forgotten my name? ‘Tis MacNaughton, and proud I am of it, for a MacNaughton, mud on his boots or nae, is as gude a man as any in the Kingdom and I’ll fight any man to prove it!”
He paused again. Seeing that none would reply, he continued. “You may be satisfied I’ll provide Ensign Ingoldsby with much honor if he fights me, for I hae skill enou’ in arms to challenge him. If he kills me, he may glory in having bested me, and if he dies, no one can say he died by a weak or dishonorable hand, for I’ll fight him well and do my best to kill him. Will you gentlemen,” he said sarcastically, “now be satisfied I’m of suitable cloth to face my challenger’s pistols and sword?”
Woodcock replied as if he were biting his tongue. “We are satisfied. But, sir, you are arrogant in your ways—”
“Shall I take the measure of your bilbo too? We are discussing a duel, nae a minuet, and I see nae need to tread lightly when a man hae decided he must kill me. If we must fight, then let us do so and hae done with it! We are nae dogs sniffing and growling at each other, nae wee lads daring each other to step across a line!” Edward said arrogantly.
“Easy there, gentlemen!” said Sir William, “One duel at a time! We must be civilized as we prepare to kill each other. Edward, go and look after Molly, we’ll take care of the details.”
Edward rode away, coldly furious at the questioning of his ancestry and almost as furious at his own temper. It was a killing mood, a cold blooded thinking-without-thinking mood. Had he to fight the Ensign right now he would likely prevail, his cold hand thoughtlessly but effectively managing pistol, horse, and blade. He would calm down soon, and would be quite cool when it came time to fight, his nerves under control but still providing the edge he would need.
He looked for Molly among the crowd. Eventually he noticed a woman he thought might be her, speaking, or perhaps arguing, with a cloaked man. Both were mounted. Edward pulled a small perspective glass from his pocket and inspected the twain. There was nothing suspicious about them other than that they were alone, some three hundred yards or more away from everyone else, and may have been speaking to each other heatedly. He was certain the woman was Molly, but could learn nothing more of the man she was speaking to. His mount was sturdy, his clothing plain. He appeared unarmed. Edward watched for a minute more, then walked his horse toward them. Eventually Molly looked his way but seemed not to react. Moments later the man rode off at a canter, his hand waving in the air.
Molly turned her horse toward Edward and met him halfway.
“There’s talk of a duel,” she said when they met. “Is it true?”
“It seems everyone here except me knew about it. I certainly didn’t expect a crowd to know about it before I did. As a matter of fact, I think even you knew of it before I did.”
She ignored the obvious accusation. “Don’t duels usually draw crowds?”
“Not in England, because they’re against the law, even though a fair number engage in them—soldiers, drunk lawyers, gentlemen and noblemen with nothing better to do.”
“So you’ll join these fools?”
“I’m sure I’m not yet done with playing the fool. But better a fool than a coward.”
“You don’t have to fight this duel.”
“What you mean is that you don’t want me to. Why?”
“For practical reasons that mean a lot to Sir William: if you die here your venture dies too.”
“That doesn’t seem to bother Sir William.”
“Perhaps I have other reasons.”
“You’re betrothed and I’m not looking for a wife.”
She flushed angrily. “You assume too much! Don’t take my suggestion earlier that we avoid the races as anything other than concern for a friend, to keep him from foolish harm.”
“I’m suitably chastised, Mistress O’Meary,” he said.
“I doubt it, sir! Good luck, Captain MacNaughton,” she said and rode off without another word.
Sir William and Lieutenant Fielding arrived before Edward could follow her.
“The betting continues, lad!” said Sir William, grinning widely. “Two or three months in advance would be better, but there’ll be plenty of interest as it is. You’ll have a grand audience, sir! I’ll make certain the constable and his hired officers don’t interfere, and the magistrate has already made some wagers, on you of course. I hear the betting among the soldiers will likely be evenly divided between the two of you. Their commanders won’t be a problem as long as the issue is settled honorably. Of course, some of them will prefer it if their lad wins, but that’s not the outcome I fo
resee. Kill the officer, or at least put him hors de combat, and I can then prevail on others to invest in your venture. Don’t disappoint me!”
“I’ll try not to disappoint myself,” Edward said wryly.
“Do that. We’ll speak more later; the first race begins soon. I’m running a horse against the Viscount Brennan, and I want you at my side for luck. Mine’s an evilly fast one, sired by the Turkish mount Colonel Byerly rode at the Boyne. When the day is done we’ll ride home together and speak some more. There’s much to prepare.” His countenance changed. “And, strictly between us, I don’t think you should spend too much time with Molly, at least not between now and the day of the duel. It’s your business, of course, but beware. She has strange ways sometimes, even for a woman. She’s seen hard times, not that we all haven’t, but they’ve affected her more than most of us. You need no distractions. Keep to the Dutch woman instead, she won’t play any games.”
“Of course, Sir William. But if you’ll both excuse me for a few minutes, I need to think a few things over.”
“Certainly, my friend, certainly.”
Edward watched as his seconds trotted off to attend the next race.
Something’s not quite right, he thought, something’s just not quite right.
But he couldn’t put his finger on whatever it was, and for the moment he settled on the hypothesis that his misgivings were due to nothing more than his engaging too closely with Jane and Molly, and thus with Fortune.
She’s trying to beguile me again, he thought, but this time it’s my fault.
He drew a flask of Spanish brandy from a pocket, took a swallow to warm his insides, and suddenly felt certain there were hostile eyes upon him—and not all of them belonging to Ensign Ingoldsby and his seconds.
Chapter 11
So in their own sense Duelling cannot properly vindicat[e]
any opprobrious epithet, but that of a Coward.
—Wm. Anstruther, Essays, Moral and Divine, 1701
A week later Edward was on the currach, well-armed and well-mounted for single combat. An eager crowd looked on, for here was an adventurer who was or had been buccaneer, privateer, naval officer, dragoon, hussar, fencing master, duelist, and pirate—an experienced if sometime reluctant killer ready to kill yet again, this time with an audience. Huntsmen and gamekeepers held the surging tide of four or five hundred spectators back.
It’s like a race-meeting or fair, he thought.
Many of the spectators were women. Most of those of the gentry and nobility were masked and remained in their carriages or on their horses at a distance, but those of the poor, working, and middle classes consorted unmasked in the crowd, although a few did celebrate in small groups in coaches hired for the purpose. Like the men, they had come to see a bloody adventure. Both sexes drank, many smoked, all talked and laughed loudly. The celebratory atmosphere was at odds with the melancholy air played by two fiddlers, “Once I Had a Sweetheart.”
Edward knew Jane was there, and Molly too. A handful of men stood apart from the crowd while trying to look a part of it, and if Edward were still a soldier he would have looked them over. He had no time for such military curiosity today, for his adversary already faced him at the opposite end of the field.
The county trumpeter, known best for his duties at the county assizes, sounded a levet, the trumpet’s notes commanding silence. When he had the crowd’s rapt attention he put a ship’s speaking trumpet to his mouth.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez! Today for honor Captain Edward MacNaughton, famous Scots buccaneer, swordsman of renown, breaker of Spanish heads and despoiler of Spanish riches, will fight Ensign James Ingoldsby, brave soldier to His Majesty King William!”
Poor bastard! Edward thought as he watched Ingoldsby receive the small accolade. The crowd’s already against him, not that it will make much difference once we come to blows.
The trumpeter continued. “These brave men will fight for honor under our Irish rules: two passes at the hand gallop with one pistol each pass, and then with swords on horseback if neither brave man falls, is badly wounded, or begs quarter! The arms of these bold warriors are a brace of pistols loaded with single ball and five swan drops, a cutting sword, and a skean, dirk, or other short blade! I do note one exception to our ancient Irish rules: there will be no distance separating the riders! They may pass as close as they please!”
And thereby be more likely to wound or kill each other, Edward thought cynically.
Under the common rules, the duelists would have ridden against each other at the gallop, separated by posts roughly eight yards apart, and would fire a single pistol at each pass, making it unlikely either would hit the other, except perhaps with a swan drop, which was unlikely to do serious damage. But Edward and the ensign had no need of such humanitarian protections. The ensign intended to kill Edward, and Edward, who cared not whether he killed the ensign, only that the ensign fell and he did not, felt such rules only postponed the quietus.
“Gentlemen, prepare yourselves for battle!” the trumpeter ordered. The crowd looked on in animated silence.
Edward stood in his stirrups to double-check their proper length, having shortened them so that he might stand the taller in the saddle, of great benefit at swords. He settled back into his saddle, tugged at the stiff leather cuffs of his gauntlets, and prepared his arms.
In his mind he checked each step as he made it. Draw and hang your backsword from the right wrist, make sure the sword knot’s secure. Draw and cock the pistol in the right holster, put it back. Draw the left, cock it, hold it in front of the lock with thumb and forefinger, barrel to the left, hold the reins with the smaller fingers and make sure to shorten the reins on the left, as Rocinante pulls to the right, done. Draw the right pistol, point it skyward, flints are new and sharp, vents are clear, we’re ready, Goddamn it, we’re ready!
His heart pounded harder and faster, his mouth was dry and he felt butterflies in his stomach. Rocinante pawed the ground, shook his head, and shuddered. A horse in the distance whinnied. Rocinante whinnied back.
Edward touched his right pistol to the brim of his hat. His adversary, one hundred yards away, returned the salute in the same manner.
He’s showing some panache, or at least replying to it, Edward thought. He’s not so scared that he can’t fight.
“Are you ready?” shouted the trumpeter.
Edward checked his feet in his stirrups and breathed deeply. Rocinante stamped the ground and tossed his head, then moved his forefeet to and fro as if he were dancing in place. Edward pulled slightly on the reins and Rocinante threw his head powerfully back, restrained only by the martingale.
Easy, boy, no time for an argument with you now; it’s the man and horse down the course we need to fight. We’ll be off in a moment; I hate waiting too. We’ll do this in one pass, all right? Steady there, steady, my Quixotic comrade-in-arms.
Edward raised his right arm, pistol in hand, straight up over his head to signal he was ready. Ingoldsby did the same.
The trumpeter raised his speaking trumpet to his mouth and his smallsword, a red handkerchief tied at the point, to the sky.
“Gentlemen! At the gallop… Charge!” he bellowed and sharply swung his smallsword down.
And they were off!
Give him spur, lean in but keep out of the saddle, use his head for cover, cluck to him, there we go, we’re almost flying!
Fourteen hundred pounds of muscle, breath, and bone raced down the course. The wind teared Edward’s eyes and only the weight of the skull cap stitched inside his hat kept it on his head. He could only imagine what he must look like on the huge, dark horse whose wide nostrils blew white fire like some demon from hell.
Head down, keep your head down! Keep the horse off his forehand … Go! Go! Go! Here he comes!
Edward brought his pistol to bear.
Ready …. Edward prepared to suddenly cut across the ensign’s path. Fire to the left, force him to do the same, he’s probably not comfortable shooting
like this .… Damn him!
The ensign had ridden just a bit wide, forcing Edward to fire conventionally, to his right. He saw the ensign’s pistol aimed at him.
Almost there, wait, wait … Fire!
Edward fired a hair before they came abreast, as did his enemy. A tight column of invisible flame passed his cheek; smoke burned his eyes.
Something’s on fire! Dammit!
He flung his empty pistol away and rubbed his gloved hand over the smoldering tow he discovered on his coat.
Christ, a good coat almost ruined, he realized, I’ll have to patch the damned thing, then wondered at the absurdity of the thought under the circumstances.
Quickly but carefully now, come about, get your other pistol ready!
He gripped his second pistol and pulled Rocinante swiftly about to the left on his haunches.
Hellfire, the little bastard’s got a nimble beast, he’s already charging at me!
Edward spurred his mount forward, pulling slightly on the reins as he did. Rocinante reared in response. Edward released the reins, touched him again with the spurs, and with a jump and buck Rocinante leaped to the gallop.
The horse raced ahead furiously, less under control now and more on his forehand than he ought to be.
Let him have the rein, Edward cautioned himself, he’ll buck if you pull him back.
Edward brought his pistol to bear; this time he intended pass so closely their boots would touch. Yet suddenly the ensign cut across from right to left as Edward had himself intended to do on the first pass!
Edward was neither novice nor fool on horseback. From Hungarian hussars he had learned such tricks and their counters. Immediately he pulled Rocinante around to his left, but the great horse was not nimble enough and his head blocked Edward’s aim.
He saw the twin flashes of vent and muzzle, heard the crack of pistol, and was blinded by gun smoke.
What the hell! he cursed as he felt two dull blows, followed immediately by pains sharp yet dull in his left thigh and buttock. Only small shot!
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 13