Pirates of Savannah: The Complete Trilogy - Colonial Historical Fiction Action Adventure (Pirates of Savannah (Adult Version))

by Tarrin P. Lupo

  Chapter 9

  Dueling at Noon

  Patrick’s weeping soon turned to focused rage. He could not stop pacing the Freeman's tiny home. The Freeman family and the doctor were still in shock. The old skinny man yelled at Isaac in Jewish tongue and forbid him to take part in the duel. Isaac stubbornly ignored him and dismissed his orders shaking his head. Indentures were not allowed to make any challenge until their contract was fulfilled. Both servants, due to the egregiousness of the insult, ignored this custom.

  Isaac spoke up after being silent for so long. “We need a strategy to level this challenge.”

  “I have dueled once in my life, but it be with an axe," Archibald interjected. "This Potts is a cur. He lacks the courage to fight by blade. He will choose pistol which in turn will mean pistols for the seconds. This is fortunate though because Mr. Edgeington was wearing a very fine blade and I assume he is a very skilled swordsman. We don’t want blade combat. I do assume if Mr. Potts killed four men already, he has more pistol experience than you, lad," he soberly addressed Patrick. “So you will have to get him in an up close and personal duel.”

  “Agreed. He would never challenge us to blade or fist,” Isaac concurred.

  “That being the case, let us get as much pistol play as possible between now and then," Archibald resolved. "Boys! Go fetch the dueling pistols and as much shot and powder as we can find.”

  The entire family marched by torchlight to the shot marked pine tree. Shots echoed through the dark marshes all night long as the two men honed their killing craft. They ran out of shot by mid-morning and returned to the blacksmith’s house. Marian and Heather fetched fresh bread and eggs for what could be the duelers' last meal. The combatants sat in stoic silence. They stayed focused, rehearsing the correct pistol firing procedures repeatedly in their minds.

  Amos came limping in with a bandaged foot. He stated solemnly, “Father, the noon hour is approaching. We need to depart.”

  “Lads, do you have any last orders for me?” Archibald sadly inquired. He felt strange calling two men 'lads' as they were about to encounter grave battle, but he needed to comfort himself as much as Patrick and Isaac.

  Patrick replied with a dry mouth at last, “I like the ocean. Bury me at sea if it is not too much trouble. And if that letter ever finds my family in London, tell them I was thinking about them in the end.” Patrick then stared out the window.

  “The doctor knows where to find my sister. Ask her to make sure I get a proper Jewish burial,” Isaac asked.

  The group slowly got up and embraced each other. The hugs were heart filled as the Freeman’s had come to love Patrick as family already. The duelers finished their final goodbyes and walked in lockstep down the dusty road.

  “Isaac, you don’t have to risk your life as my second. I can still request single combat,” Patrick offered.

  “You would do this for me. It is an honor to be there for you now. I will be your second, but be sure to demand cross shots for me. I want to see this Jew hater shit his pants while he dies,” Isaac smiled. Patrick nodded as they continued down the road out of town.

  * * *

  1740 Map of Savannah showing Thunderbolt

  As they approached Thunderbolt, they saw Potts and Edgeington sipping tea under the shade of the two lightning scarred trees. A large crowd had already gathered. The tall aristocrat had bragged all night in the tavern where he was staying about how he would “end this heathen’s bloodline forever”. It seemed that every Jew in the village came out to support Isaac, thanks to the doctor. It was no longer a secret event hidden away from the authorities. Mari Anna, Prudence and their families also showed for support, quietly holding back their frightened tears. On the edge of the crowd, watching intently, was the Madam April Sky and a few of her women of ill repute, painted and dressed for the morbid occasion.

  “We thought you had pissed your leg and ran off like a kicked dog,” Mr. Potts called out insulting Patrick and Isaac while playing to the gathered crowd. With faces like grave stones, Patrick and Isaac only had cold stares for a response. The aristocrat flourished with a handkerchief in his hand, continuing with his theatrics. “Well, no reason to delay your deaths any longer," he smiled evilly. "Shall we establish the rules to this duel?" He continued, "Blacksmith, we have chosen you to proxy.”

  “I accept your offer," Archibald responded. "First, an understanding of terms must be met. Do all parties agree this is a duel to the death with seconds?”

  “Aye,” all four combatants replied in unison glaring at each other.

  “The first man challenged has choice of weapon for the rest. I lay these out for your choosing and, remember, you may also pick open hand.” Archibald opened the large bag his son was carrying and displayed the arms on the ground. Four hunting swords of similar length, four dirks and four pistols were displayed. Mr. Potts inspected each choice of arms carefully, turning the dirks slowly in his hand but the crowd gasped when he finally reached for the broadswords. Isaac and Patrick both looked at each other attempting to conceal their cold panic, neither had much experience with a blade. Mr. Potts then abruptly changed his mind and picked up a dueling pistol. The Queen Anne flintlock pistols were a proper matching set crafted specifically for dueling. The other two pistols were similar in look but were aged and worn. They were borrowed that morning from Prudence's father, the tailor. Potts looked the crowd over then searched Patrick's eyes, hoping the younger man would tip his hand, and then nodded to Freeman to indicate he had chosen. Archibald then gathered the pistols, dividing the fine Queen Anne’s pistols between Potts and Patrick and then gave Isaac and Mr. Edgeington the mismatched flintlocks. The four men then loaded their pistols carefully while listening to the instructions.

  Archibald spoke loudly so the entire crowd could hear, “The challenged may set the paces.”

  “I choose twenty,” the smug jeweler announced.

  “As I thought, you coward," Patrick snarled. "Too afraid to face me like a man.”

  “You do not want me to have any challenge at all? Suit yourself, sir. I will oblige. Ten paces,” the arrogant aristocrat played to the crowd.

  “A brave gentleman would accept the terms of cross shot as well,” Patrick baited Potts's ego.

  “You make this too easy, boy," Potts smirked. "Accepted.”

  With the rules agreed upon, Archibald then paced the ten steps and stuck a sword in the ground. He repeated the procedure in the opposite direction.

  “I also thought you might like to know what happened to your lovely mother and sisters," Potts began to snicker, smiling at his lap dog, Edgeington. "My associate Mr. Edgeington helped them gain employment at London’s most renowned brothel. That is, after he enjoyed them himself.”

  Patrick started to raise his pistol but Isaac grabbed the barrel and pushed it towards the earth. “Not like that," Isaac whispered, reassuring Patrick. "Soon enough, friend.”

  Archibald then instructed nervously with his voice almost quivering, “Take your marks, gentlemen. When I drop this cloth, you will exchange one round of fire."

  All four men fell as silent as death as they approached the swords sticking out of the ground. The crowd backed away from the line of fire and grew very anxious. It was so quiet that a light autumn breeze could be heard rustling through the leaves of the ancient burned trees above them. The four duelists then took their prospective places. Patrick mirrored Mr. Potts walking five paces over, and behind them were their seconds. Archibald gulped a hard swallow and lifted the red linen handkerchief in the air so all parties could see. Patrick turned straight on, exposing his entire body to the aristocrat as a challenge. To not be branded a coward in front of the large crowd, Mr. Potts reluctantly matched his posture to Patrick's. The duelers were all sweating, perspiration dotting their foreheads and their pistol grips becoming moist with anticipation. Time seemed to slow down, as if swimming through molasses, as Patrick watched the red cloth drop from Archibald’s hand. The entire world went silent.


  The virgin dueler saw Mr. Potts raise his pistol and was immediately overwrought with panic and fear. Patrick nervously stumbled with his pistol, pulling the trigger and firing into the ground. His eyes and nose burnt as his senses became overwhelmed with white smoke. Patrick then felt a punch to the side of his head. His knees crumpled and he slowly fell to the ground. His head felt afire and his eyesight filled with crimson. As he lay on the ground, he saw Isaac lying next to him. Forgetting his own pain, Patrick became extremely upset to see his best friend was holding his right arm, now covered in blood. Patrick's ears were like church bells on Easter Sunday; the ringing was deafening. Mr. Potts' weasel-like voice was laughing hysterically at the inexperienced dueler and his bloody friend who was lying at his side, moaning.

  “Dandy of a shot, boy!" Potts taunted. "Were you trying to shoot the devil before you meet him?”

  Patrick shook his head, attempted to collect himself, and slowly sat up. The world seemed to tilt and whirl a little. He then touched his ear which felt like it was burning. When he looked down, he saw his hand was covered in blood. To the scar-faced man’s relief, his second, Isaac, was now sitting up as well. The two wounded friends nodded at each other, confirming they both survived, and then turned their gaze down range.

  Mr. Potts had stopped laughing abruptly. He was gaping in disbelief at his associate, Mr. Edgeington, who was clutching his bleeding chest and gasping desperately for air. The more the man's chest heaved, the redder his shirt became. Patrick thought he looked like a dumb farm animal, finally aware that slaughter was imminent.

  "Reload," Archibald's steely voice commanded. As instructed, Amos and Maximilian ran out and took the pistols from both Patrick’s and Isaac’s hands. They deftly reloaded as Patrick helped Isaac back to his feet.

  Voices in the crowd shrieked at the site of so much blood while others, with a more morbid fascination, clapped and howled for more. Not one soul came to help Potts and Edgeington reload their pistols.

  Edgeington, who seemed to gain some of his sense, spit blood and cursed, “Let me kill this horned Jew fuck. Make Jesus happy before I pass on." He then ordered Potts, "Hurry up! Load those guns and get me to my feet.”

  Mr. Potts paused for a moment. He could see Edgeington's wound was mortal but he moved quickly to follow the instructions. Within a couple of minutes, the four men were again standing at their marks, pistols ready.

  Archibald raised the linen cloth again. Isaac’s bloody right arm hung limp and he was forced to switch pistol hands. Mr. Edgeington was fading fast. His mouth hung agape and he blinked excessively as if he were falling asleep. He swayed his weight from his left foot to his right foot, wobbling like a drunk. The red of his shirt was spreading quickly and the top of his pants were becoming wet with blood.

  Patrick still heard ringing in his ear. Two blurry images of Potts danced before him. Patrick shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. As Potts came somewhat into focus, he hissed a last promise, "I am going to introduce you to the devil with this shot, boy!”

  The crowd grew silent again and it seemed like an eternity until the handkerchief fell. When it was finally released, it was like a leaf, slowly drifting on the warm breeze. Patrick could feel his arm slowing climbing up to his target. A puff of white smoke engulfed Edgeington as a fire eats paper and the man fell like timber that had just been cut down.

  Mr. Potts was taking his time, ensuring he aimed true. His head tilted as his steely gaze stared down the barrel searching for a mortal shot on Patrick. As his site pointed directly at his inexperienced opponent, he was blown off balance and spilled over onto one knee. Potts screamed, grabbing his shattered, bloody shin. When the bloody aristocrat looked up, he was horrified to realize Isaac had trained his gun on him instead of Mr. Edgeington.

  Patrick seized the opportunity. He held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger as Archibald had taught him. There was a click, a puff of white smoke, then the explosion of the shot. Patrick felt death in his hand. When he opened his eyes, the hazy smoke of his pistol was swirling away in the breeze. Patrick watched as the tall aristocrat staggered trying to balance himself on his one good knee and grasp his neck, now spewing with blood. Pott’s struggled to breathe, wheezing as his neck gurgled like a fountain.

  “Send me to the devil, Potts,” Patrick pounded his chest with his pistol hand. “I am right here.”

  Potts raised his pistol, pathetically attempting to stand steady with one of his legs shattered below the knee. His arm shook erratically as he could barely muster the strength to keep the pistol raised above his hip. His pistol cracked, echoing through the woods, creating a small cloud of smoke but the shot was wild. Potts collapsed, drowning in his own blood.

  Patrick and Isaac enter a traditional four man duel

  Patrick shouted at the fallen man, “I hope the devil makes you his whore, you evil fuck!"

  The victorious man was hatefully staring at Potts lying in a puddle of his own blood when he heard his friend screaming. He immediately turned to Isaac who was holding his right hand to his chest as he rocked back and forth. Patrick saw blood running down Isaac's forearm from where his ring finger once was. As he rushed to his friend, he screamed for the doctor. He put his arms around his friend who was sitting on the ground. Isaac screamed, "Fuck!" He gritted his teeth and his eyes were squinting with pain. Isaac looked at his friend, "I'll be okay. It just fucking hurts like all hell." Isaac tried to smile. Patrick nodded dumbly. Isaac could tell his friend was gravely concerned and winced when he spoke, “Forget about me for a moment. Let's make sure we watch those evil bastards die.” Patrick nodded again.

  They both turned to their fallen enemies. Edgeington was crumpled into a ball like a calf that had just been slaughtered. His eyes were vacant and his open mouth seemed to kiss the ground. The corpse’s buttocks were stained brown from where his bowels evacuated when his life left him. Isaac smiled when he realized his prediction came true, indeed he actually made “The Jew hater shit his pants”. Potts was still struggling. His body convulsed. Some gathered around him but they all knew he was done. Potts then made a terrible sound, like a cough muffled by a wet quilt, as blood bubbled from his neck. Patrick's vision finally cleared and he could see the pupils of Potts's eyes constrict to the size of a pin head. He gurgled one final, bloody cough and his pupils became as wide as a schilling as the last bit of color left the flesh of his face. Potts finally stopped moving.

  Archibald immediately took control of the situation and urged the girls to collect the weapons before the redcoats arrived. He ordered Maximilian and Amos to drag the bodies of Potts and Edgeington into the swamps and to cover them well until they became a gator’s dinner. He then instructed Dr. Nunis to bring Isaac and Patrick back to the Freeman home to treat them. The crowd quickly dissipated as the Freemans scurried to work. Within minutes, there was no sign the duel had ever happened in Thunderbolt.

  * * *

  Dr. Nunis was struggling to stop the bleeding from Isaac’s stump of a finger. Isaac had been shot a second time but still had managed to get a miraculous shot into Mr. Potts before the pain overtook him. Both duelers had been overtaken by the battle, numb to pain and to the world, focused only on killing. Patrick had never killed a man or anything, for that matter. The reality of what had happened began to sink in and he succumbed to emotion. He cried and cursed, occasionally pounding a table or wall, and was wracked with guilt for his wounded friend.

  When Patrick had finally calmed, Archibald meticulously cleaned the blood from his indenture’s head and ear. Freeman examined his hairline, delicately combing Patrick's hair from the wound, and surmised, “Lad, I see lots of blood but no real injury. This is the luckiest dueling wound I've ever seen." The apprentice’s eyes blinked as he listened. Archibald smiled grimly and stated, "You just lost some skin and you might have another scar, but you will be fine.”

  The doctor walked over to Archibald and Patrick, wiping blood from his hands with a rag and announced, “The bu
llet passed through the muscle in Isaac's arm. It will be numb for a while but it'll recover." The doctor's voice lowered with seriousness, "The finger though, that's a different and more complicated case. We'll have to take fire to it to stop the bleeding. We should burn it now while his senses are vacant.”

  The blacksmith’s sons were instructed to stoke the fire pit to heat the coals. When the fire was ready, Archibald sunk a cattle branding iron deep into the embers until the steel glowed. He then carefully removed it and handed it to the doctor. The entire Freeman family gathered around the table where the hulking Isaac lay and held him by his arms and legs. Marian parted his jaw and put a wooden spoon handle in his mouth. Once Isaac was secured, the doctor did not hesitate and quickly placed the glowing iron on the bleeding stump. Isaac let out a piercing scream. His back arched with pain as he ripped his arms and legs from the combined grasp of the Freeman family. He raised the smoldering stump of his finger towards the heavens and spat out Marian's wooden spoon. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Isaac, now jolted out of his stupor by the pain, stood on his feet and the first thing he noticed was two muskets pointed at his chest.

  The group, so busy struggling to hold down the giant Jew, never noticed the group of armed redcoats that had appeared in the yard. Sergeant Luthor reported, “Commander, this must be them. They be covered with blood.”

  Commander Kingsley strutted into the yard and stated, “Indeed, they match the description of the duelers.” His face was stern like a statue as he gave his order, "Take them to Oglethorpe for judgment. Shoot any of these barnacle colonialists that resist."

  The Freeman family anguished with fear. Their feet were like stone, unmoving in front of the armed British troops. Dr. Nunis pushed his way forward and demanded, “I am escorting these men. I am not done treating this patient.”

  In an annoyed tone, Kingsley complied, "So be it."