The rain had doubled in force, smashing onto the roof of the pavilion with a noise that reduced the conflict to distant rolls of thunder. He flicked back the oilskin.
Red Hugh craned to look. ‘Ah, small swords, is it? My, you have taken some care.’ He sighed. ‘And I am sad to see you so resolved, for ’tis a sorry thing to kill a friend.’
‘I’m sure you would know.’
‘I would, God forgive me. I did not think I would ever commit that particular sin again.’
Jack licked at his cracked lips. ‘Are you so certain that you will kill me?’
Red Hugh drained his glass then rose slowly. Jack took a step back. Though both swords were in their scabbards, he had seen how fast this man could strike. ‘My friend, we both know that, if we fight, I will triumph. We’ve crossed swords twice and both times I have taken you.’ A harder edge came to the lilting voice. ‘And you must know that this time I will not – cannot – spare you. The moment I saw you in that barracks back there, I realized that you will never rest until I am dead. And I have things yet to do. Spectacular things.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘So, lad, a last appeal. Shall we forswear honour this once and save ourselves the unpleasantness?’
Jack swallowed, eyeing the man, his easy confidence. But there was nothing he could say. Here, at last, there was nothing. He shook his head.
Red Hugh sighed, the hand dropped. ‘Then let us to it.’
They stepped away from each other, hands reaching for the sheathed weapons, then moved till they each stood at either end of the table. The tent was long, about the same length as Jack’s prison room in Rome had been, but shallower. And from the moment he had entered and gone to the right side of the tent, Jack had begun the fight. For the first rule of fighting a left-hander, Ubaldi had taught him, was keeping to the man’s left side, so blade was level with blade. The table prevented the Irishman from gaining the right.
Both men cleared their scabbards, came en garde. Neither moved. There were perhaps five feet between the tips of their weapons.
Jack felt the tickle in his nose, raised his sword point to the roof. ‘A moment?’ he said, stepping back, then sneezed.
‘Your health.’
‘And yours.’
Both men saluted, came en garde again. The rain drummed even louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see their shadows stretched along one wall. The gap between their blades was distorted, huge, but it reminded him of the differences between the French school the Irishman had trained in, and Jack’s Italian teacher. Red Hugh had always waited at a distance, luring Jack forward, then covering the gap with speed. It was something Jack could not allow again. Like the Roman he’d been taught by, he closed with his opponent in a pace and a lunge.
He looked to the eyes for his enemy’s moves, not his sword point. And he could see the smile in them, the older man reassured that the youth had lost none of his impetuosity. Twice before Jack had attacked just so, twice he’d been beaten. It suited Jack for the man to think him yet rash and he strove hard to confirm it, relying on his speed to counter the ripostes his ‘rashness’ drew upon him.
Three times he thrust, at the man’s chest, belly and groin; three times the man parried, circling Jack’s blade outwards, opening him to the riposte that Red Hugh finally drove home with a lunge of his own. It would have gone through Jack’s whole body if he had not anticipated it, already lightening the weight on his front foot, and thrown himself backwards. It looked as awkward as it was.
‘Oh, lad,’ sighed Red Hugh, coming on.
The thrusts came the other way now, and Jack remembered and used Ubaldi’s second rule for left-handers: no fancy parries, no circles, just straight across the body in quarte, retiring a step with each one. Five came and he did nothing but parry, step back, parry, step back, till his trailing hand reached canvas as his one in Rome had reached wallpaper. There was a bare half-second of hesitation then, and Jack only saw it because he was staring so closely into the Irishman’s eyes. For the first time in their three encounters, McClune had paused to consider an alternative thrust. For the first time he had made a mistake.
Dropping back and low till his shoulder was against the tent wall, Jack sprang forward, sword point aimed diagonally up at the eye. Red Hugh jerked his head to the side, his own blade coming up, encountering air, for Jack had withdrawn his weapon, lunged again straight to the chest. The ground lost was regained. In a jumble of thrusts and missed parries, he ran back the length of the tent and suddenly it was the Irishman whose back was flat to the wall, the Englishman who was pinning him there. Red Hugh tried to pull his sword back, put something into a counter thrust, but his elbow pressed into canvas didn’t give him the force required, the point went high and Jack ducked fast, his own blade pushed up almost square, guiding his enemy’s steel just over his head. And as he did he realized that it was time for the maestro’s secret move.
Still crouched, he twisted his weapon sharply across and down, elbow and left leg both shooting back. Then, as the Irishman recovered, brought his blade hard back, Jack rose from his crouch, switching hands as he did, dropping the sword into his left. Lunging with his left leg forward, he thrust diagonally up with the whole force of his rising body behind it. The lunge slipped well under the parry that was warding against the right-sided attack. It entered flesh somewhere just below the ribs and did not stop.
Red Hugh’s weapon came across again, the blunt edge of the blade aimed at Jack’s ear. But the blow was weak and Jack ducked it easily, backing away fast, forced to release the sword that would not come.
The Irishman had not moved. He stood there now, weapon lowering to the floor, Jack’s sword lodged in his chest. The pale skin had gone white, making his hair seem even more vibrantly red, as if suddenly shot through with flame. ‘By Christ, man,’ he said, his eyes wide, startled. ‘By …’
He took a pace forward, shuddering, as the sword, which had pierced the tent wall, came out of it. Blood ran from his nose and appeared at his lips, bubbles forming as he tried to speak. Jack moved further away, reaching the opposite wall in rapid steps. Red Hugh fell. His body crumpled straight down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms resting on his thighs, his head lolled over.
Cautiously, Jack approached. The Irishman made an attempt to lift the sword still clutched in his hand, but it slipped from his fingers. Jack stepped in, moved the weapon aside, knelt.
The head came up. Eyes opened. ‘You’ve killed me, Jack.’
‘No.’ Now he was looking at what he’d done, he could not remember why he had done it. ‘I’ll call a surgeon—’
‘I’m past their skills. Not even a McClune could have the curing of this one.’ He coughed and blood surged again through the whitening lips. In a moment Jack had his handkerchief out and was dabbing at the flow, as if cloth could hold in life. ‘ ’Twas well done, lad. I was certain you had not the skill.’
‘I did not. Until Rome.’
‘Rome?’ Another cough, more blood. ‘Please tell me I didn’t spare your life so you could learn to take mine?’ Jack stayed silent, and a little smile came to the reddened mouth. ‘Now isn’t that a thing?’
His voice was fainter now. Jack moved around, so the man could lean back against his knees. ‘Wine?’ he muttered, and Jack reached up, grabbed the bottle, brought it to the Irishman’s lips. When it touched, the eyes opened again.
‘My last pledge,’ he whispered. ‘What shall it be to, Jack? The King across the water?’
Jack watched the liquor flow out of the man’s mouth, then took the bottle and raised it to his own. He shook his head. ‘No, Hugh. To you.’
He drank as a breath came, just one more, an exhalation. Then there were no other sounds save for the rain upon the canvas roof, the fall of blood upon the earth. Jack listened to both and, for the longest time, did not move.
– ELEVEN –
Home
Jack lay on his bed in Absolute House, listening to the roar of London. Four years before that n
oise would have thrilled him, had him seeking in his wardrobe for suitably fashionable attire to wear upon the town. There would have been friends at a rendezvous, some hostelry in Covent Garden or Soho, turtle soup to be eaten there, ale or arrack punch to be drunk, the playhouse to be visited followed by the bagnio, the billiard hall, the brothel; perhaps all these in a night and more.
But that was four years before and his wardrobe contained clothes measured for the boy he’d been then. Even if they’d still been fashionable – which they were decidedly not, that much he had seen in the week he’d been back! – none now fitted him, and he had so far avoided his mother’s offer to accompany him to Jermyn Street for a new set.
He sighed. Perhaps he should go out? Yet none of his Westminster friends were around. Marks and Ede were on the Grand Tour – Jack shuddered to think what would have happened if they’d brayed his name across the Piazza di Spagna when he was spying there – and Fenby was up at Trinity. And what would they have made of their old Westminster school fellow now anyway? He had accompanied his mother the previous night to Drury Lane, in uniform. He could again. But the theatre, he had discovered, held little delight. Artifice just seemed so … artificial after the reality of war.
He sighed again. He was in a funk, no question about it. He had spent the whole day upon this bed, trying to discover why. Sometimes he thought it was the contrast between the last time he’d lain there, who he’d been then and who was lying there now. The same person, despite the broadening, the tattoos, the scars, yet not the same person at all. Nothing old delighted him. Nothing new had replaced it.
He heard the sound of cannon fire and turned instinctively toward it. It came from Hyde Park where the regiments that had returned from European operations were drilling for the victory parades that would take place the next day. Since the Peace of Paris had been signed in February 1763 just two months before, he knew that his comrades in Canada might only now be hearing the news. It was his good fortune, he supposed, that the 16th were the Queen’s Dragoons and thus had been hurried home from Spain to take part. Just in time, he felt. Fighting had not resumed after Villa Velha due to the winter and then the negotiations, but idleness, port wine and prostitutes had the potential to wreak more damage on the regiment than the Spanish had ever done.
A third sigh galvanized him. This was absurd! He couldn’t lie about like this any longer. He would have to go out. He did have an errand to run. Bibb’s were making him a new sword for the parade, since he’d managed to lose his own one in the aftermath of battle and had survived on a borrowed one since. The sword-makers were in Newport Street, right between the Garden and Soho. He could check on the weapon’s progress and retire to a tavern thereafter for a pint of porter. Or six. It was the one aspect of London of which he could never tire.
His footfall on the stairs drew a shout from the parlour. ‘Who’s there?’ He went across, pushed the door. Sir James sat in a large armchair, newspaper across his knees, a pipe and a bowl of chocolate on a table at his side. Lady Jane perched before a stitching frame pushing thread through cloth.
‘Jack,’ they both declared as one before his mother went on, ‘We didn’t know you were about. Where have you been?’
‘In my room.’
‘You were never wont to be so quiet,’ Sir James grunted. ‘What have you been doing up there?’
‘Nothing, sir. Thinking.’
‘Thinking?’ His father looked at him with suspicion.
Lady Jane gestured to a chair. ‘Sit, Jack. I’ll have Nancy fetch up some chocolate.’
Jack hesitated. ‘I was on my way to Bibb’s, mother. Collect my sword.’
‘Bibb’s, eh? You treat yourself well.’ His father’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’ll come with you, then. Could use a new sabre myself.’
He was half-way out of his chair when Lady Jane spoke again. ‘Jack, the regiment only released you fully to us yesterday and we’ve hardly talked about your adventures. Can you not spare your parents a moment?’
Jack sat reluctantly. It was the lesser of two evils. He and his father had not been alone together and so had never had a chance to discuss Letty. He knew that Sir James had learnt of the dismal outcome and that he’d been horribly gulled in Bath when he’d thought the match was with a noble, influential house. Burgoyne had told Jack so in Portugal. But how much more did his father know?
He sat. A bell was rung, Nancy was summoned then dispatched to fetch another bowl. Fortunately Sir James had become distracted again by the newspaper and went on a prolonged rant about the wickedness of the peace and the concessions made, yet again, to craven Frog and perfidious Dago. It was thus a while, and Jack halfway through his bowl, before the talk returned to him.
‘And so, Jack,’ his mother stuck the needle into the design, crossed her hands in her lap, ‘since you succeeded in writing us only two letters in the four years you have been away, and since you told your father in Bath things he has largely failed to remember,’ she smiled at her husband indulgently, ‘might you not vouchsafe us a tale or two?’
A tale? Which one could he tell his mother? His life as a slave with the Abenaki? His stupidity in love? His slaying of a friend? Did parents truly want to hear all that? Then he suddenly thought of one. ‘I killed a bear in Canada, Mama.’
‘A bear, eh?’ Sir James put down the paper and leaned forward. ‘Brown or black?’
‘Black.’
‘Shotgun or rifle?’
‘Fire and rope.’
‘Pardon?’
It was a fortunate choice of story. Time had removed the horror of it, though not the scars the bear’s claws had made upon his calf. These were exposed and the story told with suitable movements and sounds. More bowls of chocolate were ordered and Nancy invited to remain for the recitation, which Jack then had to recommence. By the end, all were laughing hard, with Jack not quite sure how the story had turned into a comedy, yet happy that it was so.
However, he knew that one tale would not suffice. His father especially would want to hear of the recent campaign in Portugal. Indeed, when Nancy went to start supper, his father poured sherry and said, ‘Your mother and I have had a letter from Lieutenant-Colonel Burgoyne. Full of praise for your conduct both in combat and in matters of intelligence.’ He glanced at his wife, smiled. ‘Seems you have inherited from both sides of the family, then. He also says he will have you carry the Sixteenth’s standard in the parade tomorrow.’
Burgoyne had told him the same the day before. It was news that had filled him both with pride and, at the same time, some unaccountable dread. This feeling dominated now, under his father’s beaming smile. He swallowed. ‘Do you, sir, parade tomorrow as well?’
‘Indeed. The Hanoverians I served with in the recent war are not present, of course. But a friend in the Eighth Dragoons, my old unit, has offered me a place with them.’ The smile widened. ‘So even if the Absolutes, pater et filius, did not go to war together, they will celebrate the victory so. Perhaps a vacancy will come up with the Sixteenth, eh? For I have no doubt that there will be many other occasions in the future when we shall have the opportunity of killing Frenchmen side by side. Ecod! Our ancestors have been doing it for seven hundred years now and this latest peace will be merely another interlude in the dispute, mark my words.’
His father raised his glass in salute and drank half of it. Jack automatically raised his, yet it did not quite reach his lips. His mother was frowning, with a darkness in her eyes he now recognized, staring at the men she’d sent off to war, seeing herself doing it again and again. And in her eyes he saw the pair of them reflected back, and beyond them an endless parade of Absolutes, all killing Frenchmen, Spaniards, Scots … Irishmen. Immediately, his mind went to another parade, the one that had come to him in his dream in the tavern in Bristol. His victims. How many had he added since? Just turned twenty and he’d killed – twelve men? Fifteen? He could not remember. Surely it was not a good thing that he could not remember.
It came to him then, in h
er look, in that memory, that if he was as yet uncertain what he wanted from his life, he suddenly and clearly knew what he did not.
‘Actually, I do have something to tell you. I am going to resign my commission.’
The relief when he said it aloud! But he had not a moment to dwell on his good feeling.
‘What’s that?’ The smile still lingered, as if Sir James thought this merely another part of the bear story. ‘Resign? You mean, of course, to go on half-pay.’
It was an option Jack had considered. Many regiments were fully disbanded at war’s end. The 16th were luckier, only losing two troops. Though Burgoyne would object, Jack could volunteer to be one of the officers to go onto the half-pay establishment, collect the paltry money on offer and retain his rank. But there was a catch, as his father now pointed out.
‘That way, when we do fight Frenchie again, you’ll be straight back to your regiment.’
‘But that’s it, sir. I do not believe I wish to live under an obligation to serve.’
‘Obligation?’ Sir James’s brow wrinkled. ‘There is virtually no obligation on half-pay. Not planning on serving with a foreign army, are you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Or entering Holy Orders?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Then I do not see the problem.’
‘I may wish to travel abroad.’
‘Hmm! Thought you would have had enough of that for a while. Still, even that’s possible. You’ll just have to return from your travels when the killing starts.’
And there’s the rub, thought Jack. ‘I do not wish to kill again, sir.’
‘But for your King? Your country?’
‘No, sir. Not for anyone.’
‘What?’ So far his father had kept his temper. This word exploded, threatening others.
But his mother, hitherto silent, now spoke softly. ‘Let us hear what he has to say, James.’
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