‘Sure, he’s not short of faith, is he?’
Looking at Lipton, and noticing that in his shirt he carried a bit of a paunch, Pearce pulled his shirt over his head. ‘Then let’s hope he’s short on puff, Michael.’
His Irish friend handed him the replacement. ‘I have seen you swing a blade, John-boy, and if it helps I have no fear for you.’
The reply was given in a low voice and it was dismal, made more so by the muffling of fresh linen, this as Digby came back from his talk with Walcott. ‘Then it will not reassure you to know that you are on your own, Michael.’
As Pearce’s head emerged from the garment he noticed his second was slowly shaking his head.
‘He will still not accept an apology. John, he wants your blood.’
Looking past him, Pearce could see that Taberly was breaking his promise; if no actual money was exchanged the slapping of hands indicated wagers were being laid, he assumed by the enthusiasm of the bullocks, against him. Drawing the attention of Digby to this the response was a useless, ‘what could he do’ sort of shrug.
Bets agreed, an unashamed Taberly came to join them, his voice full of faux good spirits, this as he pulled a watch from his coat pocket. ‘I have you down to last at least five minutes, Pearce, the bullocks have you down for a maximum of two, so don’t you go succumbing too quick, d’ye hear?’
‘I will tell you now, Taberly,’ Pearce hissed, ‘that my first act at the conclusion of this fight might be to slice off the hand you would use to collect your winnings.’
It was now Taberly who produced a studied yawn, speaking in a derisory tone as he turned away. ‘Then it is as well my largest wager, Pearce, is that you will not survive the encounter at all.’
‘Sure I’ll see to him afore we depart this place.’
‘Don’t, Michael, he’s not worth hanging for. There’s a letter in my coat pocket, if the worst occurs make sure my lady gets it.’
Walcott had gone to the centre of the glade; in his outstretched arms lay two swords and it was time, obviously, for the contestants to choose their weapons. O’Hagan crossed himself as Pearce walked towards the spot, Lipton doing likewise. Once there Pearce looked into the man’s eyes and saw there not a trace of emotion; he could only hope he sent the same impression out as that to which he was being exposed.
‘I leave it for you to choose, Lieutenant Pearce,’ Lipton said, pulling a cloth from his waistband and wiping off what small traces of sweat had accumulated from his practice. ‘It is a matter of indifference to me which blade I employ.’
There was no discernible difference between them and as he took the guarded hilt of one, with the royal coat of arms prominently embossed, Pearce felt the weight of the weapon. That told him it was lighter than the naval hanger he was accustomed to employ in the rare training exercises he engaged in aboard ship, but heavier than the rapier on which he had been schooled.
The blade was thicker than the latter and longer than the hanger, coming to a sharp point, and he could see that it had been honed all along the leading edge, as it would be for a fighting engagement. Designed for cutting as well as stabbing, it was very far from the lightweight weapon on which he had learnt swordplay, the sort which he would have expected to employ in a duel, not that he had ever fought one or intended to do so.
But he had received proper instruction in fencing: when his father, lodged safely in Paris, had said he wanted his only son to be coached in the arts of polite society, it was based on the conviction that such abilities should be gifted to all. This was in addition, of course, to lessons in mathematics, Greek, Latin and French most of all, as well as horse riding, dancing and the skill of conversation.
The city might be in the throes of Revolution but it had yet to descend into the chaos of the Terror and such schooling was still readily available. The whole process of learning had refined a rather rustic John Pearce and, added to his increasingly fine appearance, had made him an attraction in the salon with both men and women. In the latter case it had led to many a bedroom; what it would do on a duelling field had never been part of the exercise.
Lipton had taken a step back and was swishing again, his sword blade hissing as it cut the air, but his eyes never left those of Pearce, who, when he sought to do likewise, was treated to a sort of executioner’s grin. Walcott, with Digby just behind his shoulder, was droning the rules of the encounter: these being simply that the first drawing of blood would be the sign of satisfaction and that the weapons employed were the only ones allowed. Then he produced a pistol and gave it a slight wave.
‘Should either party produce a knife, or any other instrument capable of causing a wound, should they resort to picking up and using a rock, then it will be my painful duty to intervene by use of this, and though I will aim to wound, I will not give a thought to the fact that my intervention might be fatal. Do I have your word, gentlemen, that you will abide by what I say?’
In tight breeches, close-fitting stockings and a loosely flapping linen shirt, Pearce was wondering where anyone could conceal anything, never mind a weapon, but he nodded and growled his assent, in the corner of his eye observing the medical fellow was now close to the area of the contest, a towel over one arm and a length of leather trailing from his hand, no doubt the latter to be used as a blood-stopping tourniquet.
‘Mr Digby, do you wish to add anything?’
It was with a strained voice that his second responded. ‘No, nothing.’
‘Then once I give the call,’ Walcott announced, ‘you may commence. God be with you and may the best man win.’
Walking backwards, both Walcott and Digby got well away from any initial swing of the metal before the major’s second called out in a loud voice to engage. Lipton had adopted the classic fencer’s pose, legs spread fore and aft, front knee bent, his sword held out at an angle in front of him; it was clear he was inviting Pearce to make the primary assault and he showed deep annoyance when his opponent did not even raise his blade.
‘Are you going to fight, sir, or is your intention to hold out so your fellow tar can collect his wagers?’
‘The first time I met you, Major Lipton, I thought that you might be short on brains – a typical bullock, in fact.’
‘Fight, damn you,’ the major spat.
‘On the second occasion,’ Pearce responded, keeping his voice even, regardless of the difficulty in doing so, ‘in your refusal to accept a sincere apology you confirmed it. You took a ball in Gibraltar and, given you lost, if that does not mark you out as a dunce I do not know what else would.’
He had set out to rile Lipton, to throw him off his carefully adopted demeanour, assuming that for all his appearance of calm his blood must be in just as much turmoil. Yet it was not the insults from his opponent that launched the furious Lipton assault, but the call of Taberly echoing through the glade.
‘Come along, my hearties, or are we to expire from boredom?’
Lipton came forward, two fast paces on his front foot, his blade held steady till he could get close enough to swipe. But Pearce was not there; he had taken an equal number of steps back and still kept his weapon away from a fighting posture.
‘It takes a man of spectacular stupidity to do the same thing twice and, having failed at the first attempt, to expect a different outcome in the repeat.’
Lipton lost it then and came on at a rush, it was in his eyes, the holding of which Pearce had never surrendered, for in those, his instructors had told him, lay the intentions of an opponent. Hold his gaze: watch the sword hand and be alert for the drop of a shoulder, the twitching of which will send you a message of intent; trust to instinct for there is not time to think of how to respond.
The blades clashed for the first time as Pearce parried Lipton’s heavy swipe, sending out a ringing sound and sparks, as well as a tingling sensation up the defending arm. Pearce had to work hard not to have his blade swept so far to one side that he opened himself up, and he also was obliged to retreat in the face of Lipton�
��s furious onslaught. The blades clashed repeatedly, with Pearce hoping for that moment when the rush of Lipton blood would leave some part of his body exposed, an upper arm being best.
That such an assault suddenly ceased came as an unwelcome surprise, for Lipton stood back and if he was breathing heavily there was no sign that it was the cause of him breaking off. What was signalled was more worrying, for it seemed as if the army man’s brow had cleared, indicating that he had realised how his opponent had set out to put him off, drawing him, by insults, into using brute force instead of skill.
‘So I am stupid, Mr Pearce?’ he asked, his face breaking into a wry smile. ‘Perhaps we shall see which trait is of more use for a fighting man, the brains you clearly claim for yourself or my ability to employ my weapon as a soldier should.’
‘Competence in one does not indicate possession in the other, Major Lipton. Indeed it could be said that only a complete fool could be engaged as we are in this place. I, at least, have the excuse of having been pressed into it.’
‘Indeed you have, sir, and you have tried to play the coward card by proffering an apology.’
The smile widened but it held no warmth.
‘And clever you seeks to put me off my game, but it will not serve, so know this: for the blows that you have landed upon me, delivered in a manner that fits with the shy slug that you are, added to the insults you have advanced this day, satisfaction for me will no longer be served by a mere effusion of blood – in short, a cut.’
There followed a deliberate pause, to give more credence to what came next.
‘I now intend, sir, that this should be an encounter, fought as the French say, à outrance! That means, Mr Pearce, that one of us will likely perish in this place and I do not intend that it should be me.’ With that Lipton resumed his fighting pose. ‘Now, shall we continue or are you minded to do as you have done in the past and flee?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lipton was good with a blade, something Pearce realised as soon as the major began to fight with a measure of control. Instead of the mad flurry of blows there now ensued a calculated attempt to manoeuvre his opponent into a situation where he would, with patience, eventually leave a gap in his defence. Gone were the flaring eyes and the angry glare, to be replaced with cold reckoning that time was on his side, as was ability. In any contest there is always room for luck, but a good fighter, whatever the weapon employed, will back skill against an unknown quantity like chance every time.
Now the glade rang to the repeated meeting of metal, not the clanging sound of the outset, but the steady tip-tap of blade upon blade, with the occasional scrape as one ran along the other, and given that John Pearce was no amateur himself, those watching became absorbed in what was a fascinating tussle. The words that Lipton had delivered, warning of his intention to kill if he could, had not been heard by anyone other than the participants, so they had no idea of the changed nature of what they were seeing.
Had he been able to look in their direction, and he dare not take his eyes off Lipton, Pearce would have seen a slight concern in the faces of the major’s colleagues; they knew his proficiency, indeed he had instructed many of his junior officers, so it came as something of a surprise that the whole thing had not ended within the couple of minutes on which they had wagered. They had expected Lipton to play with the navy man a bit before easing his way past his guard to either deliver a cut to the arm or a point through the shoulder or upper thigh.
‘My, my,’ Taberly crowed, ‘had I known our man was so competent I would have wagered more. Do I have any takers for upping their bets?’
‘Surely, sir,’ Digby called over his shoulder, his voice tense, ‘it ill becomes any man to place money on another’s possible wounding.’
Taberly did not raise his voice in reply, but it lacked nothing in terms of reproof because of that. ‘You dare, Mr Digby, to check me? Well, be assured, sir, that I will be checking on you and you may find that your career suffers for it.’
It was Walcott who came to Digby’s rescue by addressing his own companions. ‘I doubt Major Lipton would take kindly to the placing of wagers now. I would therefore urge you, gentlemen, as his second, to keep your powder dry.’
Digby reckoned Walcott too junior to make that a command, but as Lipton’s second he had an authority on this day and in this place that transcended rank and so he could go back to concentrating on the fight.
Pearce was sweating, but so, he noticed, was his opponent, the white linen now stained at the armpits, and he assumed Lipton would, like him, have perspiration running down his spine. Yet so cool was his opponent’s temperament, so sure was he that he was in control, that he found time to use the cloth he carried, running it across his face and forehead while parrying with apparent ease the opposing blade.
Stinging sweat would eventually get into Pearce’s eyes and that would certainly cause trouble, which had him cursing himself for not thinking to carry a cloth in his non-fighting hand. He had only his sleeve to clear his brow and that ran the risk of momentarily clouding his view; he knew he could not afford to lose the lock on Lipton’s eyes, for it would be hard to reconnect in time to avoid giving him an opportunity to strike.
The other worry was that his opponent was clearly in a high state of practice, while he was not. He assumed that Lipton was a person to carry out his daily sword drills – he did not know that he trained his juniors – while he had too many other duties to perform, from the mere running of the ship to training in gunnery and boarding, using a variety of weapons. That left little time to work on a skill that any naval officer would reckon to only rarely use and would, when employed, be in a situation close to mayhem where proficiency was less vital than weight.
Most of what had happened so far had taken place in the shade, but now the rising sun was beginning to top the trees. One side of their glade was bathed in strong light and Pearce realised that Lipton was slowly manoeuvring towards that, which told him that he was not, as he had claimed, stupid. The major was content for the moment to keep him moving, to threaten but not to expose himself by seeking to prematurely drive his blade home.
There was some comfort in that: the man was showing respect to an opponent he had realised was no novice, but that did not alter the fact that the balance lay against John Pearce and that was a situation that could only deteriorate over time.
With a mouth now feeling like rough leather, the last thing Pearce needed was the blazing sun on his back, so from being relatively passive he became overtly aggressive, which forced Lipton to retreat a few paces and allowed Pearce to slip past him, leaving the major with his back to the sunlit strip of grass, an act that brought a smile and a nod of near commendation.
Then Lipton spoke, which was annoying: with a mouth so dry Pearce felt he would struggle to respond.
‘It pleases me that you are no neophyte, Mr Pearce, for there is ever a feeling of shame at striking down an opponent who has no chance.’ With that Lipton hurried forward and forced Pearce to the side, reversing the gain his opponent had made with ridiculous ease. ‘And there is an added bonus in that I am allowed to show them the superiority of my own technique.’
With the man almost laughing at him Pearce felt his blood rise; Lipton was setting out to do to him what he had initially done to the major and rile him enough to put him off his stroke. Yet the thought that occurred was not one of anger, but the notion that if matters went on the way they were progressing now, he must lose.
Lipton was prepared to play with him for however long it took to tire Pearce out. Also, it seemed the man was enjoying the feeling that soon creeping despair would become part of the mental battle. That was as important in this fight as the sword in his hand.
As Pearce knew from his past, when engaged in combat, something happens to the brain – the same sensations that occur in flight – an acute sense of where lie the risks as well as what presents an opportunity for salvation. The angle at which both men now swung showed Michael O’Haga
n over the major’s shoulder, his height meaning most of him was in plain view and that triggered a mental image.
For reasons he would never be able to explain, and entirely separate from that with which he was engaged, Pearce was taken back to the windswept and cold alleyway outside the Pelican Tavern at a time when the Irishman was unknown to him, as were the rest of the people with whom he had been pressed.
Why had he chosen that doorway when there were other alternatives? Not just because men were pursuing him seeking to serve upon him a warrant. To avoid that he had made a snap decision that had completely altered his life. If it had seemed like a descent to hell at first, he could now see it as a door that had led to a new and better life: a naval career, real friends and not least Emily Barclay.
Instinct had benefited him then, so surely it must be wise to rely on the same now. There was no future in defence but the end sought by Lipton and that might not be so different if he chose another course. Yet it was doubt against near certainty and that caused John Pearce to suddenly take half a dozen backward steps and use his sleeve to clear his brow, the act catching Lipton by surprise so he was too slow to follow.
As he came forward to close the gap once more Pearce attacked and with fury, which threw the major off his stroke and forced a retreat. Now the blades were ringing again as Pearce kept up the assault and if he was happy to be moving forward he was also aware that Lipton was defending himself with real capability. The only advantage Pearce had was that he knew what he was about and the major did not.
The opportunity Pearce gave him as part of his onslaught was too good to turn down; he left his left side open enough for Lipton to lunge forward and run the forepart of his blade along the upper naval arm, having rasped along and glanced off his opponent’s metal. Certainly the linen was ripped open and for all John Pearce knew so was he – there was no pain – but the need to take a wound was part of his plan, if a series of interconnected thoughts, impressions and speculative conclusions could ever be so described.
A Divided Command Page 13