called out. “Major Nash!”
“What is it, Captain?”
“I understand you are going to
do a spot of night-shooting, sir, but I wanted to let you know we
just collared the pirate trying to sneak into the guardroom. We are
taking him to the tack room off the stables. You were right about
him being strange. There is something queer about him. And his
flintlocks look queer too. I’ve never seen anything like them for
weapons.”
Nash wondered what the captain
meant by queer but he had no time to dwell on it. He wondered if
the pirate was a deadly foreign assassin. “Keep a close eye on him,
Captain. I’ll be back shortly to deal with him.”
“Not likely,” came a cocky
whisper in the dark.
Prince Sergei, Mr Blague and
General de Merville had arrived ahead of them. The field of honour
had been chosen. A clearing in a small wood of Copper Beeches was
the spot. Two lanterns were already spaced twenty feet apart and
the midpoint from which the two duellists would count off was
marked by a fallen branch.
Prince Sergei, being the most
experienced with duels, explained the methodus pugnandi to
make sure there was no confusion.
“Stand back to back where you
see the log. General de Merville will give the word to begin
counting off ten paces. You should reach the lantern which is your
‘point’ to turn and take aim. You will not be firing alternatively.
You will fire simultaneously when the signal ‘fire’ is given by Sir
James Damery. Good luck, gentlemen.”
It doesn’t matter how brave or
confident a man is, when he is looking death in the eye in the form
a loaded gun, it is a frightening experience. Add a cold winter’s
night, a dark wood, a moonless sky, tendrils of mist, two
flickering lanterns casting sinister shadows, silhouetting your
opponent, turning him into a supernatural demon, and the blood in a
man’s veins can curdle.
“Take up your positions,
gentlemen,” said Prince Sergei when the duelling pistols had been
handed out and loaded.
It was fifteen minutes before
midnight. There was plenty of time to settle things and still get
back to the pavilion in time to find a spot on the veranda and
enjoy the choreography of fireworks that would usher in the new
century. Captain Thompson could deal with the grisly aftermath
should one man be seriously injured which was the most likely
scenario. Most duels, despite being outlawed, no longer resulted in
death simply because most men were no longer accurate enough with
their aim, and that was in broad daylight. Dark shifting shadows
writhed in mist, distorted by flickering lamplight, would make the
job even more difficult.
Sir James Damery tried one more
time to call the whole thing off. “No change of heart?” he said
hopefully as the duellists stood back to back.
“This is your chance to save
yourself, Nash,” whispered Moriarty.
“I’m going to enjoy plugging
you between the eyes, Jim.”
“You’ll be dead before I
blink.”
“I’m not planning to wait for
you to blink.”
“Even if you survive, you don’t
stand a chance with her.”
“More chance than a bankrupt
Fenian.”
“That’s my point, Nash. She
doesn’t like stupid men.”
“She’ll fancy an Irish corpse
even less.”
They were interrupted by
General de Merville. “Count off to ten, gentlemen.”
And so the pacing began until
they reached the ‘point’, turned and aimed their pistols.
Damery drew breath and was
about to call, “Fire!” when a loud explosion filled the air.
At first, the three observers
thought the duellists had fired early but the blast came from the
direction of the pavilion.
“Dammit!” cussed Mr Blague,
squinting through the tracery of bare winter branches. “They’ve
started the fireworks early.”
Neither Nash nor Moriarty could
afford to get distracted; nerves stretched to breaking, bodies
poised on a knife-edge, eyes fixed on the target, neither dared to
blink.
The next explosion came a few
heartbeats later and in that instant both
“What is it, Captain?”
“I understand you are going to
do a spot of night-shooting, sir, but I wanted to let you know we
just collared the pirate trying to sneak into the guardroom. We are
taking him to the tack room off the stables. You were right about
him being strange. There is something queer about him. And his
flintlocks look queer too. I’ve never seen anything like them for
weapons.”
Nash wondered what the captain
meant by queer but he had no time to dwell on it. He wondered if
the pirate was a deadly foreign assassin. “Keep a close eye on him,
Captain. I’ll be back shortly to deal with him.”
“Not likely,” came a cocky
whisper in the dark.
Prince Sergei, Mr Blague and
General de Merville had arrived ahead of them. The field of honour
had been chosen. A clearing in a small wood of Copper Beeches was
the spot. Two lanterns were already spaced twenty feet apart and
the midpoint from which the two duellists would count off was
marked by a fallen branch.
Prince Sergei, being the most
experienced with duels, explained the methodus pugnandi to
make sure there was no confusion.
“Stand back to back where you
see the log. General de Merville will give the word to begin
counting off ten paces. You should reach the lantern which is your
‘point’ to turn and take aim. You will not be firing alternatively.
You will fire simultaneously when the signal ‘fire’ is given by Sir
James Damery. Good luck, gentlemen.”
It doesn’t matter how brave or
confident a man is, when he is looking death in the eye in the form
a loaded gun, it is a frightening experience. Add a cold winter’s
night, a dark wood, a moonless sky, tendrils of mist, two
flickering lanterns casting sinister shadows, silhouetting your
opponent, turning him into a supernatural demon, and the blood in a
man’s veins can curdle.
“Take up your positions,
gentlemen,” said Prince Sergei when the duelling pistols had been
handed out and loaded.
It was fifteen minutes before
midnight. There was plenty of time to settle things and still get
back to the pavilion in time to find a spot on the veranda and
enjoy the choreography of fireworks that would usher in the new
century. Captain Thompson could deal with the grisly aftermath
should one man be seriously injured which was the most likely
scenario. Most duels, despite being outlawed, no longer resulted in
death simply because most men were no longer accurate enough with
their aim, and that was in broad daylight. Dark shifting shadows
writhed in mist, distorted by flickering lamplight, would make the
job even more difficult.
Sir James Damery tried one more
time to call the whole thing off. “No change of heart?” he said
hopefully as the duellists stood back to back.
“This is your chance to save
yourself, Nash,” whispered Moriarty.
“I’m going to enjoy plugging
you between the eyes, Jim.”
“You’ll be dead before I
blink.”
“I’m not planning to wait for
you to blink.”
“Even if you survive, you don’t
stand a chance with her.”
“More chance than a bankrupt
Fenian.”
“That’s my point, Nash. She
doesn’t like stupid men.”
“She’ll fancy an Irish corpse
even less.”
They were interrupted by
General de Merville. “Count off to ten, gentlemen.”
And so the pacing began until
they reached the ‘point’, turned and aimed their pistols.
Damery drew breath and was
about to call, “Fire!” when a loud explosion filled the air.
At first, the three observers
thought the duellists had fired early but the blast came from the
direction of the pavilion.
“Dammit!” cussed Mr Blague,
squinting through the tracery of bare winter branches. “They’ve
started the fireworks early.”
Neither Nash nor Moriarty could
afford to get distracted; nerves stretched to breaking, bodies
poised on a knife-edge, eyes fixed on the target, neither dared to
blink.
The next explosion came a few
heartbeats later and in that instant both
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