“Very well, sir. This one dance,” she said through clenched teeth. She held up her arm for him to take.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Marlowe asked Bickerstaff once he and the governor had returned to the ballroom.
“No.”
“Oh, but I think you are.”
Bickerstaff sniffed by way of reply. “Your meeting with the governor? It went well?” he asked. He sounded as if he could not care less, but Marlowe knew that he was consumed with curiosity.
“Very well. He has—Is that Matthew Wilkenson with whom Mrs. Tinling is dancing?”
“Yes, I believe it is. Now, what has the governor done?”
“He has relieved Allair of his command and asked me to take charge of the Plymouth Prize. I had always supposed there was some kind of animosity between Mrs. Tinling and that young Wilkenson git. Sure she cannot be taken with him?”
“The governor has given you command of the guardship?” Bickerstaff said. His voice incredulous, more so than Marlowe had ever heard. “Relieved a king’s officer? Is this over the affair with the silver?”
“That and other things,” said Marlowe, his eyes never leaving the dancers. “You’ll own that Allair is hardly fit for command of a king’s ship. Is this the first dance they’ve danced?”
“Yes. Nor did Mrs. Tinling seem overly anxious to dance this one, you will no doubt be relieved to know. So are you to have a commission as an officer? A naval captain?”
“Insofar as it is within the governor’s power to issue one, yes. It will be temporary, perhaps, but yes, I shall be a commissioned officer.”
At this Bickerstaff actually smiled. “Now, this is something of an irony, is it not?”
“I quite fail to see why.”
“But tell me, it seems a great coincidence that Nicholson’s silver should end up on your table, and a week later the governor is invited to dine. Are you entirely certain it was an accident?”
Marlowe pulled his gaze from the dance floor, met Bickerstaff’s eye. Bickerstaff could at times be quite irritating, with his exaggerated sense of nobility. “It was an accident, be assured,” he said, leaving it to Bickerstaff to believe that or not. He turned back to the dance floor. Elizabeth was smiling, though the expression did not look entirely genuine. “Son of a bitch.”
“So when do you take command?” Bickerstaff did not press the point about the silver.
“As soon as is convenient.” The music stopped, Wilkenson bowed to Elizabeth and Elizabeth in turn curtsied, and then Wilkenson took her arm and led her off the floor. “Son of a bitch,” Marlowe muttered again, and then to Bickerstaff said, “There is one small problem.”
“What might that be?”
“Allair is apparently unwilling to give over the ship.”
“And what will you do?”
“We, sir, we. We shall convince him of the desirability of doing so.”
Marlowe’s attention was now entirely given to the people across the room. Wilkenson had led Elizabeth over to a knot of his friends, all cut from the same cloth as himself. Well-bred, rich dandies. Families that numbered their time in Virginia by generations.
Marlowe hated the arrogance of that crowd, the disdain they had for all who were not of their class. It was greatly at odds with his own craving for acceptance among the colony’s elite. He tried his best not to think on it.
But he could not ignore it now. Wilkenson still had a hold of Elizabeth’s arm, and though their movements were subtle and people kept blocking his view, it appeared to Marlowe as if he was holding her despite her desire to be released. She seemed to be tugging, just slightly, against his grasp. Wilkenson and his friends were laughing at some unheard joke. Elizabeth was smiling as well, at whatever had been said. Marlowe was certain that the smile was forced.
“Marlowe,” Bickerstaff said softly. “Perhaps we should leave now. I fear the oxtripe I ate is not sitting well with me.”
“Bear up a moment more, sir. I would first like to have a word with some friends of mine.” Marlowe left him there and made his way across the room. He could see words pass between the people as they saw him approach, giggles and glances in his direction. He was afraid that his cheeks were turning red.
“Sir,” he said to Matthew Wilkenson when he arrived at the far end of the ballroom, “you seem to be enjoying some joke, all of you, and I would fain know what amuses you so.”
“It is a private joke we are enjoying.” Wilkenson looked not at Marlowe but at his companions, who were still giggling like idiots. He was half drunk, smiling his stupid, arrogant smile, his eyes never fully meeting Marlowe’s but shifting between him and his tribe.
“And I would know what you are laughing at,” Marlowe said. “And you, ma’am,” he turned to Elizabeth, “does this gentleman amuse you, or would you wish me to remove his hand from your arm?”
“Pray, sir, it is none of your affair.” Elizabeth’s voice had a desperate, humiliated tone.
“Yes,” said Wilkenson, “it is none of your affair.”
“If a lady is suffering an insult, sir, then it is most certainly my affair.”
“Oh, you are indeed a noble one.” Laughter spewed through Wilkenson’s closed lips as if he could not contain himself. “It seems there are many pretensions of nobility tonight.” He looked quickly at Marlowe, then back at his friends. They were averting their eyes, as if Marlowe was something shameful.
“I would ask you to explain yourself, sir,” Marlowe said. “But first to take your hand from the lady’s arm.”
“Please, Mr. Marlowe, I am quite well,” said Elizabeth. She did not sound well at all.
“I shall attend to my affairs, sir,” said Wilkenson, “and I suggest you do the same. Begone, you upstart crow.” He turned and grinned at his friends, looking for them to share his delight. But they were nervous now, and rewarded him with no more than half-smiles and muted chuckles.
“I said take your hand from the lady’s arm.”
Marlowe grabbed Wilkenson’s hand in a crushing grip and removed it from Elizabeth’s arm, as easy as taking a toy from a baby’s fist.
Wilkenson managed at last to jerk his hand from Marlowe’s grasp. “You lay a hand on me, you bastard?”
“I shall lay a boot on your arse, sir, if you do not apologize to the lady.”
“Marlowe, please,” Elizabeth implored, but it was beyond that now.
Wilkenson was red in the face, lips pressed tight together. He glanced at his friends for support, but they would not meet his eyes, and that seemed to make him angrier still. “You dare to touch me? Do you think you can impress us with your bloody money and your lies of noble birth. I can well guess at the truth about you, sir, easier than you think, and I am not afraid to tell others.”
“If you wish to discuss affairs between you and me, then we may do so, but I will not tolerate your insulting a lady.”
“Well, this is rich,” he said, his voice loud enough to make others turn and listen. “A scoundrel and a liar, an upstart with pretensions of gentle birth, coming to the aid of another one of that ilk, and a slut to boot.”
There was an unnatural quiet around them, as if they were not a part of the ball taking place in the rest of the room.
“For the sake of harmony in this colony I might be willing to suffer insult to myself,” said Marlowe, “but I cannot tolerate such words spoken about a lady. I must demand satisfaction.”
This brought Wilkenson up short, at least for a second. How could the silly bastard have expected anything less? Marlowe wondered. Wilkenson had been too long allowed to do as he wished, his behavior beyond challenge.
“Oh, for the love of God!” Elizabeth glared at Wilkenson and then Marlowe and then stamped off.
Wilkenson watched her go and then turned to Marlowe. He hesitated, and his eyes went wide, then narrow. “Very well, then, you shall have it.” The arrogance was gone from his voice, as was the mirth. He had now put himself in the way of real danger. He glanced again at his frien
ds.
“Very good, sir. I shall send my man to meet yours,” Marlowe said, then turned and walked back to where Bickerstaff was standing. He did not turn to see what reaction his challenge had received.
“You seem to have thrown them into some great consternation,” Bickerstaff said as Marlowe stepped up next to him.
“I should imagine. I have called the pup Wilkenson out.”
“Was that wise?”
“Wise or not, I had no choice. Will you be my second?”
“You need not ask.”
“I am grateful to you, sir. Now perhaps you would be so kind as to go speak with his man and work out the details of this thing. I shall wait outside.”
“I should be delighted. Shall I request a meeting at dawn tomorrow?”
“That would be most agreeable.”
“Shall I allow him the choice of weapons?”
“Certainly,” Marlowe said. “He will choose pistols, of course. They always do.”
The hour before dawn was gray and deep green. A mist like gauze hung in the trees and all but obscured the far end of the field on which they were to meet. The air was cool and fresh and moist. And still, utterly still. From far away a rooster sounded, and then another, but there was no other sound than that. It was the kind of morning, peculiar to the tidewater, that makes it seem the most perfect place on earth, the original garden.
Marlowe and Bickerstaff stood waiting while their horses ran teeth over the lush grass, entirely careless of the drama they were about to witness. The early morning was as comfortable a time of day as one was likely to find in the spring in that country, and Marlowe was thoroughly enjoying the quiet of the place. The brilliant rays of the sun were showing themselves through the thick forest to the east, the light splintering as it worked its way through a thousand leaves, flickering as if the trees themselves were burning.
He had to remind himself of why he was there.
“A lovely morning for a duel,” he said, but softly, not willing to break the silence with his normal tone. “I certainly hope we have one.”
“I can’t imagine we won’t.” Bickerstaff spoke softly as well.
“You are quite certain they understood the time and the place?”
“Quite. They’ll show, depend upon it.”
He did not share Bickerstaff’s certainty. If Wilkenson chose to ignore his challenge, Marlowe could rightly deem him a coward. But if he and his friends chose to ignore him completely, to view him as not worthy of consideration, it might be an even greater humiliation. All of Marlowe’s aspirations of rising like a phoenix in Virginia society would be for naught.
He was starting to grow genuinely concerned when Bickerstaff nodded his head toward the far end of the field.
A coach and four was coming down the road, rattling along, ending the morning quiet. It was a big, yellow painted affair, a coat of arms on the door, and Marlowe recognized it as the Wilkensons’ vehicle. He and Bickerstaff watched in silence as it crossed the open space and pulled up ten feet from where they stood.
George Wilkenson, Matthew’s older brother and apparently his second, stepped out, followed by Jonathan Small, a doctor of physic, the most prominent in Williamsburg.
“A good thought, to bring a doctor,” Bickerstaff said.
“They won’t need him,” said Marlowe. “They would have done better to bring a priest.”
Wilkenson had chosen pistols, which was no surprise to Marlowe. His type, cowards at heart, always did. With swords it was cut and thrust, attack and retreat, a drawn-out affair with too much opportunity for mischief. With pistols it was one shot apiece, honor quickly satisfied and little chance to do harm, and in most cases any harm that was done was slight.
For all that, Matthew Wilkenson was not looking very well that morning. He was quite pale, even waxy, a slight tremor in his hands. He glanced nervously around as Bickerstaff and George examined the pistols, each choosing one for their man and loading it.
Marlowe watched the young pup twisting his fingers together as his brother performed for him the duties of a second, and he found that strange animal, conscience, gnawing, gnawing.
What beast is this? he thought. He was very much in his rights for demanding this satisfaction, after the insult he had suffered, and more so in defending Elizabeth’s honor.
“Bickerstaff,” he said with a sigh, “pray go and tell young Wilkenson that if he will retract his statement in front of those who had occasion to hear it, and apologize to Mrs. Tinling and vow never to spread such lies again, I shall consider honor to be satisfied.”
Bickerstaff said nothing, just cocked an eyebrow at him, then walked across the damp grass toward the enemy’s camp. Marlowe could not hear what was said, but he could see in young Wilkenson’s actions that Bickerstaff’s words had emboldened him. Did the pup construe his charity for fear, his offer as an attempt to save his own skin? He saw Matthew stand more upright and shake his head. Bickerstaff nodded, turned, walked back.
“He says you shall not escape your mortal danger so easy,” Bickerstaff reported, “but if you wish to withdraw the challenge, then, Christian that he is, he will allow you to do so.”
“Such nobility. One rarely sees it these days. Does he think me afraid?”
“I believe he does. He took great courage from your attempt to cut and run.”
“Very well,” Marlowe said. “If he will be a fool to the last, at least he will not die a coward.”
The protocol for the affair, as Bickerstaff and George Wilkenson arranged, was for the duelists to stand ten paces apart, backs to each other, turn on the word, and fire. The seconds paced out the distance, and young Wilkenson and Marlowe took their places.
Marlowe stood quite still, his pistol held across his chest, and looked out over the field. How very much one’s thoughts are concentrated at a moment such as this, he thought, how very sharp everything seems. The smell of wet grass and the hint of brackish water in the air, the trees, now bathed in orange light, standing over their long shadows, all seemed so very much…present. That was not the first time he had had such thoughts. He understood why some men became addicted to dueling.
“Ready!” George Wilkenson called out. Marlowe could hear the strain in his voice. It occurred to him that Matthew Wilkenson might be an excellent shot, that he, Marlowe, might have real reason to be afraid. But he was not.
“Turn and fire!” He turned, gun still held across his chest, faced Wilkenson thirty feet away. Wilkenson turned as well, turned as quickly as he could, bringing his gun up as he did, desperate to fire first. Marlowe saw the puff of smoke in the pan, the muzzle flash as the gun went off.
Wilkenson was a good shot, a very good shot, as it happened. Marlowe felt the bullet pluck at his coat, heard the frightful buzz as the ball flew past. Had Matthew not been in such a panic, Marlowe would have died. But now Marlowe had all the time he needed to fire back.
He brought his gun up at last and leveled it at Wilkenson’s head. Wilkenson staggered back a step, then another, quite contrary to the protocol of the thing, experiencing the terror, the absolute terror of pending death. Marlowe had seen it before, in the eyes of more men than he cared to recall. He would not make Wilkenson suffer long.
He lined the end of the barrel up with Matthew Wilkenson’s jaw; the slight rise of the ball in flight would put it right through his forehead. His finger caressed the trigger, feeling the resistance of the spring.
And then he changed his mind.
Now what in the hell is happening to me? he thought as he lowered the gun a quarter of an inch and aimed it at Wilkenson’s shoulder. If he did not kill the little bastard, there was every chance that the rumors would start again. But still he could not do it. He could not kill him.
I am a fool and I shall regret this, he thought.
It took Marlowe just three seconds to come to that uncharacteristically charitable decision, but that was longer than Wilkenson’s courage could hold out.
“No! God, no!�
�� Matthew Wilkenson screamed, twisting, ducking, just as Marlowe pulled the trigger. The ball, carefully aimed at Wilkenson’s shoulder, struck him right in the head.
Through the cloud of gray smoke Marlowe saw Wilkenson lift off the ground, literally lift off his feet, and fly back, arms thrust out, the fine mist of blood blown from the back of his head caught in the rays of the early sun. He came to rest flat on his back.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” George Wilkenson ran over to where his brother lay. Marlowe walked over there as well, at a more leisurely pace, and Bickerstaff joined him.
“He almost bested you,” Bickerstaff observed, looking at the rent in Marlowe’s sleeve just below the shoulder. Ten inches from his heart.
“Almost.”
Matthew Wilkenson was sprawled out on the grass, arms and legs flung out, dead eyes open, staring at the sky. He had left a path where his body had slid through the dew. In his forehead was a hole the size of a doubloon. His head rested in a growing puddle of blood. Dr. Smith leaned over and closed Matthew’s eyes. George Wilkenson was on hands and knees, vomiting.
Marlowe shook his head as he looked at the dead man. He was sorry that young Wilkenson had died, he had not intended to kill him. He did not feel remorse; he had seen too many men killed, had killed too many himself, to feel that. He was just sorry.
After a long moment, during which the only sound to be heard was George Wilkenson’s retching, Marlowe said, “I believe that honor has been satisfied.”
“You bastard, you son of a whore.” George Wilkenson looked up at him, a long thread of vomit hanging from his lips. “You killed him.”
“Yes. It is customary in a duel.”
“You didn’t have to kill him, you son of a bitch. You could have…you didn’t have to kill him.”
“If he had stood like a man, rather than flinching like a coward, then he would still be alive.”
“You bastard. Whoreson.”
“Now, see here,” Marlowe was starting to lose his patience, “perhaps you are accustomed to playacting when it comes to affairs of honor, but I am not. I will suffer only so much abusive language from you. If you think you have been wronged, then I suggest you play the man and do something about it. We have the pistols here. If you care to demand satisfaction, then let us have it out here and now.”
The Guardship Page 3