Rocinante had not yet spun entirely about, but the ensign had already ridden past. Edward aimed his pistol to the rear over his shoulder, hussar-style, and fired, but to no avail. A small flash and smoke followed from the vent, then, slightly delayed, a larger flash and plume of smoke from the barrel.
Damned hangfire!
But he was not likely to have hit the young officer anyway.
Already the ensign, more skilled on horseback than Edward had anticipated, had turned swiftly about, backsword now in hand, and was charging at the gallop.
Edward pitched his pistol away, flipped his hand down into the basket-hilt and around the grip of the backsword, and only cantered Rocinante toward the oncoming rider.
No need for a gallop at swords.
The ensign held his sword high and threw an outside cut, screaming as he did. Sparks flew as Edward easily parried it, his blade high and outside. The ensign passed swiftly, leaving the Scotsman to settle for a back stroke that cut through coat but otherwise did no damage.
I’ve paid you for my coat, sir!
The men rode three strides, turned to face each other, spurred their mounts to an easy canter and flung their blades again, each attack parrying the other, the blades sparking brightly.
Edward pulled Rocinante quickly to the right to try for the officer’s crupper, but the ensign did the same. Again they cantered three strides to open the distance, again at each other they came, again at an easy canter.
The ensign stood suddenly in his stirrups and brought his blade down hard toward Edward’s left cheek, but the mounted Scotsman, far taller in the saddle, parried the attack with a prime, and thrust quickly, his point low, to the ensign’s upper chest.
Flesh and bone! Edward thought as his blade struck.
He spurred Rocinante to the right, again to gain the crupper. Ingoldsby, clearly injured, thrust his backsword twice into Rocinante’s haunch. The great animal squealed once and bucked twice.
“Keep under control, damn you!” Edward cursed under his breath.
The ensign spurred his mount away for several strides, then spun about and halted.
“Will you yield?” Edward called.
“Damn you for calling me coward! Never!”
“On my honor I never said such!”
“You lie!”
“You are sore hurt, sir!”
“It’s nothing! I’ll do far worse to you, sir!”
The young officer advanced again, but now only at the trot. Edward waited. Soon the combined weapons of man and horse stood side by side.
No more sweeping strokes for you, ensign! he thought grimly.
Neither duelist could now safely make the broad cuts suitable on horseback at a gallop or canter, but must make tighter, less damaging cuts, or thrusts to the throat or belly—easy in, easy out, and usually fatal. A sweeping cut now, if parried or slipped, would leave the swordsman vulnerable to a counter stroke.
Ingoldsby threw a tight high inside cut. Edward parried it with his hilt high, his point low and immediately riposted with a thrust which the young officer only just escaped by moving his mount sideways.
Why doesn’t the fool yield? Edward wondered. He’s bleeding hard, he can hardly parry anymore; on the next exchange I’ll probably kill him.
Men and horses spun to the right around each other. Noting the ensign’s lowering guard due to his injury, Edward threw a fast, hard outside at his ear. The ensign barely parried it in time: Edward’s blade cut through his hat and across the bridge of his nose.
The ensign turned swiftly and rode three strides away to the jeers of the crowd. Clearly the spectators did not know he was wounded.
“Yield, lad! Yield before you bleed to death!” Edward shouted as the ensign’s seconds, more alert than the crowd, galloped toward the injured officer. “Damn, laddie, you’ve proved your courage! Let’s drink friends and have done with this foolish butcher’s business!”
“Never!”
Edward shook his head. You damn fool, you’re bleeding so much that before long you’ll fall from your mount. All I need do is keep away from you and thereby spare you, but damn if you deserve my mercy, you fool.
But before his seconds arrived, the ensign dug his spurs into his mount and came at Edward at full gallop, hand and sword held high. The Scotsman had no time to slip aside as the young officer aimed a sweeping blow at Rocinante’s head, leaving Edward to lean forward and thrust his blade out over his mount’s head just in time to prevent the ensign’s blow from splitting the animal’s skull.
The ensign’s blade glanced off to his left. Edward stood tall in his stirrups and from shoulder and elbow brought his own blade across in a powerful backstroke, over his mount’s head and straight at Ingoldsby’s ear. He spurred and pulled Rocinante to the right as he did, and caught a glimpse of the ensign’s blade cutting back toward him.
Shit! he thought as his blade struck and bit, and he knew immediately that it was impossible for him parry the officer’s exchanged stroke.
Rocinante hurled into the ensign’s horse. The great animal squealed as he did, then stumbled, threw his head, and broke the martingale. Something smashed hard into Edward’s face, stunning him, and something else into his foot and ankle. Or was it was the other way around?
The ground is coming up! No! My horse is going down!
Images one after the other filled his eye and mind while a small detached part of him wondered in these few short slow seconds just what the hell was happening.
Am I hit? Is the horse? The ensign, too? Shit-fire!
He slammed into the ground.
Pain, in the ankle, pain in my face, my leg—did the horse land on it? No, it was there before, a pain like an ax biting into my leg....
Dirt and mud flew everywhere. He saw the sky, he saw the horse. His face, something had hit him in the face.
My front teeth, do I still have my front teeth? He couldn’t get his hands up to feel them. You’re on the ground, fool, can’t you smell the mud and grass? Get up! The horse, he’s on your leg, he’s kicking, don’t move, cover your face, I can’t, wait for him to get up, can he get up? He’s moving, get out from under him, get up, get up.
My Ferrara! Where the hell is my sword! Draw your dirk, draw your dirk! Where’s the ensign, damn him! He comes afoot, sword raised, get up you fool—he’s going to kill you! Close with him, command his hilt and thrust, now thrust again... damn, can’t pull the dirk from his armpit, he’s down now, don’t fall… too late.
What the hell’s this around me? People running, the horse kicking on the ground. Copper, a sweet penny in my mouth, no, blood, whose blood? The horse, up now; get up, remount. I’m up again, on my feet, the horse, he’s in pain, go to him, wait, canna, my ankle, did the horse land on it? Where’s the ensign?
One step, another, I can walk, I’m not hurt that badly, take care of the horse, is that blood all over my face? And water, warm water in my boot, how did it get there? The ensign, where’s the ensign? My Ferrara, damn, what happened to my sword? Rocinante, that’s his name, restrain him, he’s bleeding, but he’s on his feet, that’s good, he must be all right, and I’m all right....
Edward’s right leg collapsed and his vision narrowed.
Damn! he thought as he hit the ground, I might finally be killed ….
Chapter 12
Wounds cut and hackt in heat of Fight by a broad Sword…
—Richard Wiseman, Several Chirurgicall Treatises, 1676
“Edward! Stay down, lad, stay down, let us help you!” shouted Sir William as he dismounted and stumbled on his game leg.
Now that his head was down, and his body splayed upon the ground, Edward’s vision and head began to clear.
“Yes, I’m fine, fine, don’t worry about me, Goddammit. The horse, how’s Rocinante?”
“Easy, Edward, lie back, stay where you are.”
“No, I’m fine, Goddammit, I need to see the horse!”
“Damn you, Edward, lie still where you are or I’ll
take a stick to your damn stubborn head! Surgeon! Surgeon!”
Edward tried to stand in spite of Sir William’s restraint, but his ankle immediately gave way. Blood squished and oozed from his right boot. Someone fiddled at his right wrist—his backsword was in fact still there, hanging from the sword knot. A surgeon walked quickly over from a group of bystanders inspecting something on the ground.
“Cut off his boot,” he ordered, and someone began cutting the boot away.
“Pull it off, damn you, I don’t want it cut!”
“It’s already cut, lad.”
“What? What’s wrong, the horse landed on it, so what?”
“Just be patient,” the surgeon said.
“A pun,” Edward muttered through the shock of the blow to his head.
Sir William cut through the thick leather, exposing the bloody flesh beneath.
Damnation, thought Edward, it wasn’t the horse, I felt the ax before we fell. Hellfire, my leg’s been split open! Don’t let it make me a cripple! But I’m alive, I’m still alive.
“Is it shattered?” he asked, fearing the surgeon’s saw.
The surgeon did not answer.
Sir William looked at Edward and grinned. “Split his head open from side to side, never seen a prettier blow in my life, except once when I was in London—one of only three times I was ever in London, in fact—I saw a Highland soldier strike off the head of a Dutchman. I don’t know which the ensign died of, your backsword or your dirk, but by God, for a moment I thought he might kill you in spite of all when he came at you dying and gurgling and spitting blood. Good that you had the instinct to dirk the bastard when you couldn’t find your sword.”
“He’s dead? I don’t remember... yes, I do now, of course he’s dead. How did I get hurt?”
“Ingoldsby struck your mount in the face just as you struck him. The horse threw his head back, breaking his martingale and striking you hard in your face, then stumbled. I’m surprised the blow didn’t knock you unconscious. Damned if that ensign didn’t stay in the saddle for a moment and take two more swings at you as your mount slipped and went down. Lucky Rocinante didn’t land on you, but your seat is light and you fell away.”
“How is he? The horse, I mean.”
“He’s got a long cut in the face and has been stabbed in his right shoulder and haunch. I don’t think his wounds are serious, though. And I warned you about his forehand!” Sir William grinned again. “But by God, what a day! And you, lad, you’ll be fine, I feel it in my bones. Hell, this surgeon can fix anything! He’s fixed all my wounds, and my horses’ too, and I won’t let him carve anything from you unless there’s no other choice—understand? You’ll be fine, lad, you’ll be fine.”
The surgeon finished his examination. “You’re lucky,” he said, “for you could be missing your foot or even your head. I’ve stanched the bleeding for now, but I can’t work on you here. You’re cut deeply in the ankle and shin, well into the bone. You’re lucky your adversary hadn’t much strength left, otherwise he might’ve taken your foot off. Amazing what a dying man can do. You’ve a couple of small shot in you too, but I think only in the flesh.” He turned to Sir William. “I’ll work on him at Ballydereen.”
Several bystanders lifted Edward clumsily onto a two-horse sledge. One of Sir William’s servants climbed on as well to keep an eye on the Scotsman and keep his leg secure.
Edward looked where several men stood about, some shaking their heads. The young ensign lay dead before them on the wet ground. A crowd of spectators had approached yet kept its distance. An English officer held the ensign’s broadsword, its hilt of ornate chiseled iron surrounding an image of King William. The air was filled with mutterings in Irish and English.
Ensign Ingoldsby lay on his back, his periwig gone. His eyes remained open, glazed as if by tears, and his pupils were wide, one more so than the other. Though much of the blood on his face had been wiped away, much still remained, and the ground around his head was a moist, deep purple, almost black. In the middle of his face was great split that began below his right ear and stopped just beneath his nose; a grotesque wound, yet it seemed at first merely an abstract defect, like a rend in a painting. Only after a moment did the mind recoil.
His limbs had been moved from their splayed positions into those more natural, leaving the body looking passive and relaxed. It exuded a surreal quality, unlike sleep, unlike death, unlike the unnatural quality of bodies laid up for viewing at a wake, unlike bodies in rigor mortis, but rather a sort of detached reality, the body still warm and pliable, as if with the addition of a single spark it might live and breathe again, in spite of the wound in its face and the dirk thrust to the hilt through armpit, shoulder, and throat.
Edward viewed the corpse distantly. The vulgar game was finished, the petty play of expensive consequences was done. The duel had proved only that both men were valiant at arms, that neither was a coward; but such virtues were better proved on the battlefield. Only, perhaps, in his dreams would the finality of this man’s death become truly apparent to Edward. In his waking hours he had neither the time nor inclination to grieve over every absurd death. Too much grief, too much morbid contemplation, and a man was dragged down, unable to live even day by day.
Damn the young fool, Edward thought. Twice I offered to let him yield.
“Let’s go, damn it,” he called to the sledge’s driver. The pain in his ankle remained tolerable, even if excruciating. He had been hurt before. Pain was never so bad as it seemed, or so he always convinced himself so that he could manage it better.
Edward and his swelling entourage departed, but it was nearly an hour before they reached Ballydereen. Along the way, a crowd gathered to follow the sledge. They cheered, they wished him well, they called him a hero. A small crowd remained outside the manor house as Edward was carried to the kitchen and laid upon a table. Someone slid a rolled-up cloak beneath his head. His pain was worse now, nearly ninety minutes after the original injury. What had been quite tolerable at first was becoming increasingly distracting. His legs trembled and twitched, as if by kicking or shaking them he could toss away the pain. He ground his teeth and attempted to maintain a stoic disposition.
Fortune, he thought, you fickle bawd, you deserted me today, but I should’ve expected it. Maybe Jane’s right, maybe you’re having your revenge because I ignored you twice.
One of Sir William’s servants brought two bottles.
“Local poteen, Captain MacNaughton, or Irish uiscebagh?” he asked.
“Whiskey!” Edward almost bellowed. He took several swallows, stopping only when the arriving surgeon, his sleeves bloody and rolled up, his hands wet, took the bottle from him.
“A drunken Highlander—and I know you to be a Highlander, or mostly so, for Sir William tells me you are—will hurl my assistants across the room. Best you were sober and awake. A sleeping or drunken patient can’t have his wound cleaned and ligatures tied without risk because he can’t answer questions his surgeon ask. As a fighting man, you know this. I’ll admit, though, that whiskey is often a better cure than my rusty steel,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“I’m not entirely a Hielander,” Edward muttered.
“Even so, it’s my belief that you’ll survive my surgery, but don’t blame me if Fortune decides otherwise. Do you need a parson or priest?”
“Nae, keep the bedrals away. I’m nae papist, nae Presbyter, nae even of the English church.”
“Of which, then? Not that it will matter to my surgery.”
“Of the church of pen and sword, of woman and wine, of wind and weather.”
“As fine as any, I dare say.”
“Another patient?” Edward asked, nodding toward the blood on the surgeon’s sleeves.
“Rocinante.”
“Indeed? He’s well, I hope?” Edward asked sarcastically.
“Quite. I’ve directed an assistant to finish tending his wounds. He’ll soon be under the care of Mistress O’Meary, who, by the way, sen
ds this message: she thanks God for your deliverance, and will attend you as soon as I’ve finished my business with you, and she can’t bear to think of you in pain.”
“Probably likes the horse better.”
“Probably. Mrs. Hardy also sends her well wishes, and I hear there’s a gaggle of young women and older widows outside praying for your recovery. You’ll be well-tended to, sir, and doubtless pleasantly distracted while you heal. Now to your wounds.”
The surgeon drew several steel and pewter instruments from his bag: straight and curved incision and dismembering knives; probes, forceps, and incision shears to spread and penetrate wounds; bone saws whose teeth grinned and wanted to eat flesh.
“Put this musket ball between your teeth, bite down, and do not move. Doubtless you’ve done this before.” He nodded to several men surrounding the table. They grasped Edward by his arms and legs and held him down.
“Ughn!”
“Don’t swallow it,” grinned the surgeon as he began to spread apart the wounds. “Cut and splintered bone, sinews partly severed, much bleeding but not florid. Still, it ought to have stopped by now. On the other hand, a good blood-letting will do you no harm.”
Edward stared at the ceiling while the surgeon washed his hands in his blood. He tried several times to watch the procedure, but his view was obscured by the grimacing faces of the self-appointed assistants.
The whiskey helped to block the pain. It did not remove it, but it made him care less about it, made it seem farther away than it really was. When the surgeon was not probing or cutting, the pain felt merely like a great weight pressing/ crushing/smashing his throbbing foot and mind. But when the surgeon probed the wounds, when he pushed and pried at bone, when he pressed, pulled, tugged, and cut, Edward was forced to grip the sides of the table until he could not feel his hands, forced to bite deeply into the lead bullet between his teeth, forced to curse dully, twice, through the bullet as the pain seared like a sharp, hot knife forced between his bones; it felt as if his foot was being twisted, pulled from his socket, shattered, splintered, torn away bit by bit, muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon, shard of bone by shard of bone, and his mind saw nothing but a burning sun and his voice choked as he tried a third time to shout through his clenched teeth: “Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn!”
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 14