The redcoats! Tristan grinned with satisfaction. The fucker has no way out now!
More gasps rang out aloud in the silence that followed Watkins’ words before patrons started whispering to each other, sharing their thoughts on the unexpected delight which had been added to the night’s festivities. No doubt it would make the coffee-house rounds the next morning with profound haste, for every person in attendance firmly understood the significance of the situation.
‘Is this true, Percival?’
‘Are you going to take that drunk’s word over my own? And this bastard’s too?’ Percival snapped at his father in a pathetic attempt before he exploded in rage. ‘I had your word, Mr Watkins!’ he snarled, pointing his finger at the midget.
‘Oh, right. You did,’ mumbled Watkins. ‘You also said there’d be no survivors.’ He walked towards Percival and threw the credence at his feet. The pouch flew open and spilled its shiny contents. ‘I’m sorry, Captain Bradford, but a sop like that is not enough to end up swinging from the gallows as a co-accused murderer. You will find it all accounted for, sir.’
The admiral was completely caught off-guard with the events, which were unfolding at such an alarming rate that it left him dazed. He struggled desperately to comprehend the forces that were transpiring against his own blood, and for once in his life, he was without question or answer, and ended up joining his son and almost everybody else in the hall staring at the golden mess at Percival’s feet.
Tristan could see Percival too was grappling with the situation, one he had not expected to find himself in tonight of all nights. His hand had not left his stiletto while he patiently waited to see what his adversary’s next move would be. There was only one thing he was certain of – Percy was running out of options.
‘And you, Conway, do you share this view? That my crew murdered your sailors?’
‘You know that I do.’
‘Then based on your accusation, to defend my honour and that of my men, I challenge you to duel, sir.’
The Admiral grabbed his son by the shoulder, yanking him around. ‘Percival, you will do no such—‘
‘I accept your challenge,’ said Tristan, without a flinch.
‘You can’t!’ contended the admiral. ‘I won’t allow it. For heaven’s sake, if a naval crime has been committed, it belongs in front of the Court of Admiralty.’
‘Until one of us has expired,’ said Tristan, ignoring the rampant father and addressing the son, who was now evidently filled with confidence that he could rectify and perhaps even salvage some honour out of a desperate situation.
‘Agreed.’
‘This is utter madness! Francis, talk to your boy!’
‘I’m afraid the challenge has been accepted, Admiral,’ replied Cutcliffe coolly. ‘And it appears the first terms have already been agreed to. I will assist Mr Conway. Who shall be your second?’
The admiral’s mouth gaped open as his tranquil night erupted into an uncontrollable nightmare, like the great fire which had scorched the city and turned it to ashes. ‘I…I will.’
‘Very well, I shall contact you over the coming days to agree on the terms and location.’
‘Yes,’ said the admiral, lost in his own thoughts.
While excited voices rumbled throughout the hall, the Old Man leaned closer to Tristan, and said, ‘I’d much rather spend the rest of my night in the tavern down the road. Besides, we got what we came for. What do you say, lad?’
‘That sounds like a great idea, sir.’
As the two men walked back to the main entrance, the captain was reminded of the story of Moses, who had parted the sea with his staff. Officers and guests gave way and allowed them through unhindered. There was no animosity, no sneers and no grunts. Only a muted reverence.
When they arrived outside, they were greeted by dusk, and it hinted of a pleasant evening ahead. The courtyard was filled to the brim with carriages. Their drivers, who were hunched together in groups, smoked and talked gaily. A night when good coin was to be made had contributed to their jovial moods. On their left, a less fortunate coachman was cursing out loud as he scooped up horse shit with a short shovel. The man, who had greeted them at the door, directed the clean-up and loudly reminded the other drivers about their duties. When the doorkeeper saw the captain and his mysterious friend, he called out with a baffled voice, ’Do you need a coach, sir?’
‘Splendid evening for a walk, isn’t it, lad?’ the Old Man asked of Tristan.
‘I could do with a walk, sir.’
‘No, thank you, kind man. I think we’ll walk,’ answered the captain, to which the doorkeeper nodded, still puzzled by their early departure.
As they made their way through horses and carriages, Tristan asked, ‘Did everything work out as you had planned, sir?’
‘Even better than I had planned, lad.’
‘Sir, you know I’ve never duelled before, right? Nor can I remember ever witnessing one.’
‘Don’t let that bother you, son. He challenged you, so you get to pick the weapon of choice. Now, leave all of that in my capable hands.’
‘That is easier said than done, sir. Speaking quite frankly, ‘tis my life we’re talking about after all.’
‘The odds are no different than climbing on board a piece of glorified wood and departing for the unknown, or trampling through the African wilderness, lad. And you’re not doing this for yourself. Remind yourself of that every single day you draw air into those lungs and I promise, by the time the decisive day arrives, you’ll have peace beyond your wildest imagination.’ Cutcliffe grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him in the middle of the road. ‘Have faith, lad, if not in my words, then remember this: righteousness shall always prevail over wickedness. ‘Tis a fact of life, and the good book reminds us so.’
It was not necessarily the captain’s words, but rather the resolute calmness with which they were spoken that eased Tristan’s doubt. Still, while he knew that heading into the unknown provided no odds at all, a duel did so in almost perfect mathematical fashion – he had half a chance of walking away alive.
They walked in silence for most of the way, enjoying the relatively quiet evening together with other amblers, some heading home after a day of hard labour, some making for the nearest tavern to drown what needed drowning, while others sought out the many merriments London had on offer after the sun had set.
‘Where did you find Mr Watkins, sir?’
The captain made way for a lovely young lady. ‘My Lady,’ he said as he tipped his hat. The gallantry shown by the man in uniform brought a shy smile to the girl’s face.
They both stopped, turned and looked at her slender back and waist that were accentuated by the fading light, her pale-yellow dress hiding secrets that stirred a grown man’s imagination. It left the old man wondering when the grief would cease, while the young man wondered when he would lay eyes on his wife again.
‘Beauty has rarely been ugly,’ said the captain, shaking his head. He pried his eyes away from the girl, and the two started down the main road once more. ‘Watkins, you asked? ‘Twas when Purvis mentioned the presence of redcoats on the Yarmouth that I started to have my suspicions. Regardless of my standing within some naval circles, I still have a strong bond with most who know me in person, so the very next day I approached an old friend who’s in charge of records at the naval base. I’ve handed him a few logs over the years. Remember, son, a good bottle of rum can buy you many things from anyone with salt in their blood. Anyway, he obliged my request and confirmed the name of our mystery traveller.
‘A short trip by coach across town and there I found our Mr Watkins. He confessed as soon as I confronted him with details of the massacre and a plethora of witnesses. Hell, he was so scared he showed me the bribe straightaway and even asked me to take it off his hands. I told him he would have a chance to exonerate himself in public and I’d say he did so in a splendid way. The return of the bribe was his personal touch though. I can’t take credit for tha
t, but it got us what we wanted.’
‘That’s why you paid off the man at the door. To let him in.’
‘Money well spent, lad. Watkins did his bit, and after that, it was just a waiting game. See, lad, in moments of madness, guilty men seem to lose their heads and could care less about the words they utter. I was relying on the hot head of either father or son to hand us the duel.’
‘And what the admiral said about the courts?’
‘Lad, if this went through the Court of Admiralty, Percy would’ve walked away unscathed. Even though the admiral is loathed by many, he still holds a lot of sway in the Navy’s highest circles through shared interests. It would’ve exposed all surviving members of the Deliverance, and God only knows what might’ve happened to the lot of you. And lastly, a case in the courts could carry on for months, a situation I’m sure you don’t wish to find yourself in.’
Tristan nodded in agreement because Cutcliffe had just told him what he had anticipated. The matter would never have made its way through a naval court in a righteous manner. A sly fox, the Old Man, he grinned. Nearing the end of Lothbury Street, they could see the tavern loom in front of them.
‘Right, let’s eat and drink. Tomorrow we’ll start to get you ready for the big day.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tristan, inadvertently touching the scar underneath his eye. Doubt was no more. Only the pressing need for revenge. Next to him, Cuthbert suddenly burst out laughing. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘Did you see the look on their faces when that bag burst open?’
‘’Twas a priceless moment, sir,’ chuckled Tristan.
‘That goes without saying, lad. But a thought just came to me.’
Tristan looked at him inquisitively. What is the Old Man on about?
‘I reckon if we head back there first thing in the morning, we would still find the bag with coins lying there. Untouched. For whoever picks it up might be considered guilty by association. Now, doesn’t it feel great, twisting those bastards’ testicles in a tight knot?’
Tristan had not thought of that. He imagined hundreds of men walking around the opened bag of gold, each more scared than the other to touch or even look at its contents. When he caught the captain’s eye, they both burst out laughing, for they had fired the first shot and it had hit the target dead centre.
Unlike the deeds it hosted, the park was a place that oozed serenity. Small birds chirped happily, and red squirrels frolicked in the nearby trees, enjoying the warm weather and bounty that summer had brought.
Under the cover of darkness, the two groups of men had snuck in. First, they had travelled on the main road through the park, where lanterns still lit the way, and now they were making their way through the trees to the secluded spot that had been agreed upon. They did so quietly, yet loudly enough to spook some of the deer that roamed the grounds.
Thursday, 26th June 1707 was the date Tristan had written on the piece of paper he had torn from his diary. By candlelight, in the early hours of the morning and while sleep had evaded him, he had written a letter to his wife and child. He had told them how much he missed them, how much he loved them, how much he wished to see them again. He had left it unsigned. Today was exactly a week after the challenge in Guildhall had taken place. No letters of apology had been exchanged. There had been no pleading, no yielding.
‘’Tis time, lad.’
Tristan nodded and looked at the friendly faces in front of him. Purvis and Finn tried their best to put on brave smiles, while Jabari did not even try.
‘You put a bullet straight between those beady eyes, Tresten, and get this over with.’ The African saw Tristan nod, but little did he know that his long-time friend had ideas of his own.
‘Do I die here today?’ Tristan asked Jabari.
‘The ancestors have been quiet on the matter, Nyegere. In Africa, their voices were strong. Perhaps this is a place where they don’t dwell that often. The honest answer is that I don’t know, my friend, but we haven’t travelled this far only for our paths to part ways here, today. This is all that I know, and for me ‘tis good enough.’
‘You squeeze that trigger as soon as you are given the word,’ said Purvis. ‘There is no honour in taking the first bullet. Whoever’s left standing once the smoke has cleared is all that matters.’
‘They’re waiting, lad,’ said the Old Man.
‘Well, this is it. Wish me luck, fellas.’
‘I shall do no such thing,’ said Finn, ‘but I’ll congratulate you afterwards. I will buy your rich arse all the drink it can handle. You just make it back here, and if you don’t, I get that dashing hat and fetid coat of yours.’
The attempted banter brought on nervous laughter. But the other two chorused the Irishman: ‘You just make it back here.’
The captain had his hand on Tristan’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly as they walked to where the other party was waiting. In his left hand, the Old Man carried Tristan’s case with the newly acquired Swiss pistols, both gleaming with a fresh coat of oil.
Tristan watched the pine trees that surrounded the clearing. They glistened in the morning sun, and their fragrance was sweet and spicy. It took him back to his younger days when he and Finn had taken deer and rabbit from this park. Had they been caught, there could have been disastrous consequences, like castration, or they could even have faced the gallows. He grimaced, not sure which would have been the worst.
Back then, death was a trivial matter…something a young boy could play with heedlessly. They knew what the consequences for thievery were, yet it seemed so far-fetched at the time, almost mythical like they had an invincible innocence, and death was only reserved for the sick, the old, and those who were blatantly unlucky or deserving. Mind you, if Sissy had known, it would have been death by pan. Perhaps she did know, he chuckled softly to himself. What I would give to have those times once more. He looked up to the heavens, above the pine trees and the open ground where the sky was turning blue. It was a clear sunny day in Hyde Park, almost ominously perfect.
‘You’re in a jovial mood,’ said the captain. ‘That’s good. You stay calm and composed, lad, and everything else will take care of itself.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Tristan, not wanting to tell the old Man that nerves had already started to gnaw at his insides. It was a familiar sensation for it burned like the fire he already knew. But it was not the same, and as they walked, he earnestly awaited the peace that the captain had promised him.
As they made their way across the clearing, the captain stomped the ground. London had not seen rain for days, and his foot met the sturdy soil with a dull thud. ‘’Tis a good spot, lad. ‘Tis a good spot.’
They met the Bradfords, who were already waiting at the table that had been set up for the occasion. Icy greetings were exchanged with calmness which added to the eeriness that sprouted up when two people were about to duel each other. Both Percival and his father donned their naval uniforms, honouring the tradition that befitted a duelling officer. Another naval captain, Johnathan Paisley, a man well known to both Cutcliffe and the admiral, served as the referee. He was dressed in civilian clothes for the sake of anonymity, and in a further attempt to free himself of blame, he, like the others in attendance, signed letters absolving themselves as witnesses to the event. It was between them, five men, through which the matter would be settled.
‘I see you have brought some reinforcements of your own,’ said the admiral, who also had a group of men waiting not far from where they had gathered. Tristan looked over his shoulder to where Jabari, the doctor and Finn were standing. He knew that deep down, each one of them was eager to have a go at Percy and would gladly take his place. It was, after all, the time to put things right.
‘That’s correct,’ said the Old Man, ‘and I can assure you they are as well-armed as yours.’
‘Gentlemen, let me remind you. We’re settling a dispute between these two young men. There shall be no other bloodshed. Understood?’ declared Paisley. ‘Otherwi
se, you would force my hand, and the law would be involved.’ His ominous warning was delivered directly to the two elderly men.
Cutcliffe nodded while the admiral grunted his affirmation and dissent simultaneously.
‘Good. Let’s start.’ Paisley asked Cutcliffe to place his case with pistols atop the table next to the admiral’s and, after a brief inspection by himself, asked both parties if they harboured any unease about the pistols of choice. They all approved. When it came to the matter of the secondary weapon, the admiral produced the customary officer’s sword and glanced askance at the stiletto that Cutcliffe had placed on the table. It still looked as good as the day it had come into Tristan’s possession. A lovingly cared-for, shiny instrument of death.
‘What sort of foolery are you trying to pull here, Cutcliffe?’ demanded the admiral.
‘The terms stated sword or dagger, Admiral. I believe this qualifies as a dagger,’ said Cutcliffe.
‘Paisley, what is that thing?’ grumbled the admiral, clearly not satisfied with Cutcliffe’s answer.
‘I believe it to be a stiletto, sir, definitely a form of dagger, and as long as it stays in Mr Conway’s hand during the fight, I see no issue with it. It would appear you have a slight reach advantage, sir.’
‘We need no such thing as an advantage,’ grunted the admiral, then turning to Cutcliffe, who regarded his former commander with blatant impudence, and said, ‘I hope this is the last of your artifice.’
‘There’s no trickery on our part, sir. As Mr Paisley has rightly pointed out, you seem to hold the advantage, for it appears we have brought a knife to a sword fight.’
The Fire Within Page 71