De Bergerac, saying loudly the French equivalent of "Hah!," lunged. He was almost blindingly swift, as Burton knew from the Frenchman's reputation and from his one duel with him. However, Burton was also exceedingly quick. And, having spent many years on Earth and here in practice, his reaction to any particular attack was automatic.
De Bergerac, without feinting, had thrust toward Burton's upper arm. Burton parried and then riposted, that is, counterattacked. De Bergerac parried this and then thrust over Burton's blade, but Burton attempted a stop thrust, using the bellguard of his epée to deflect his opponent's tip and at the same time (almost) driving his own point into de Bergerac's forearm.
But de Bergerac counterparried and then quickly thrust around Burton's bellguard at Burton's forearm again. This maneuver was called the "dig" or the "peck."
Burton deflected the point again, though the edge of the blade drove along his arm. It burned, but it did not draw blood.
Dueling with the foil or the epée was something like trying to thread a moving needle. The tip of the attacker's blade was the end of the thread; the defender's, the eye of the needle. The eye should be very small and in this situation was. But in a second or less the thread-end would become the eye as the defender attacked. Two great swordsmen presented to each other very small openings which instantly closed and then reopened as the tip moved about in a small circle.
In competitive foil dueling, the target was only that part of the opponent's body exclusive of the head, arms, and legs but including the groin. In deadly combat, however, the head and the entire body were a target. If, somehow, a big toe was open, it should be skewered, could it be done without exposing the attacker to his antagonist's point.
It was an axiom that the fencer with a perfect defense could not lose. What then if both duelers had a perfect defense? Was it a case of the irresistible meeting the immovable? No. Human beings were neither. One of the perfect defenders would tire before the other or perhaps something in the milieu was to the slight or even great advantage of one fencer. This could be something on the floor to cause slipping or, in this situation, some object, a piece of blasted furniture, a bottle, a corpse over which one might stumble. Or, as when de Bergerac had fought Burton during the raid, a shout from a third party might distract a dueler for a fraction of a second, just enough for the cat-swift and eagle-eyed opponent to drive his sword into the other.
Burton was thinking of this with the edge of his mind while the main part concentrated on the dance of blades. His opponent was taller than he and had a longer reach. This was not necessarily to Burton's disadvantage. If he got into close quarters where the Frenchman's longer reach did not matter, then Burton would have the advantage.
De Bergerac knew this, as he knew everything about fencing, and so he maintained the distance proper for his benefit.
Metal rang upon metal while the breaths of the two hissed. De Bergerac, maintaining his straight-arm, position, concentrated his attacks upon Burton's wrist and forearm to keep himself out of range of Burton's weapon.
The Englishman used a bent-arm position to make slanting thrusts, to bind his foe's blade, to "envelop" it. The binds were pushed with his blade against the other to make it go from one side to another. The envelopments were continuous binds in which the point of his blade made complete circles.
Meanwhile, he studied the Frenchman for weaknesses, just as the Frenchman was studying him. He found none. He hoped that de Bergerac, who was also analyzing him, would fail to discover any flaws.
As in their first encounter, they had established a definite rhythm of thrust and parry, riposte and counterparry. Even the feints became part of the pattern, since neither was fooled and thus left an opening.
Both were waiting for the opening which would not close quickly enough. The sweat ran down de Bergerac's face, streaking it where the liquid cleaned off the gunpowder grime. The salty liquid kept running into Burton's eyes, stinging them. Then he would retreat swiftly and wipe off his forehead and eyes with the back of his free hand. Most of the time, the small Frenchman took advantage of this break to mop his own forehead with a small cloth stuck between his waist and the upper end of his towel-kilt. These intervals kept getting more and more frequent, not only to wipe their faces but to recover their wind.
During one of these, Burton removed a breast-cloth from a dead woman to blot up the sweat. Then, watching de Bergerac to make sure that he wouldn't make a flèche, a running attack, he tied the cloth around his head. De Bergerac stooped down and tore off a breast-cloth from another corpse to make a headband for himself.
Burton's mouth was very dry. His tongue felt as if it were as large and hard as a cucumber. He croaked, "A momentary truce, Monsieur de Bergerac. Let's both drink something before we die of thirst."
"Agreed."
Burton walked behind the bar, but the pipes of the sinks were empty. He went to the cabinet which the Frenchman had opened and brought out a bottle of purple passion. He removed the plastic stopper with his teeth and spat it out. He offered de Bergerac the first drink, but it was refused. He drank deeply and then handed the bottle over the bar to de Bergerac. The liquid burned in his throat and warmed his chest and guts. It helped his thirst somewhat, but he would not be satisfied until he got water.
De Bergerac held the bottle up against the light.
"Ah! You have swallowed three ounces, my friend. I shall do the same to insure an equal amount of inebriation in myself. It would not do if I were to kill you because you were drunker than I. You would then complain of unfairness, and the question of who is the superior swordsman would still be unanswered."
Burton laughed in his curious fashion between his teeth.
De Bergerac started, then said, "You sound like a cat, my friend."
He drank and when he put the bottle down, he coughed, his eyes tearing.
"Mordioux! It is certainly not French wine! It is for the barbarians of the North – or Englishmen!"
"You have never tasted it?" Burton said. "Not during the long voyage . . .?"
"I told you I drank very little. Hélas! Never in all my life have I dueled unless absolutely sober. And now I feel the blood singing, my strength beginning to return, though I know it is a falseness, the liquor lying to my senses. Never mind. If I am somewhat drunk and so my reflexes are slow and my judgment numbed, you will be in the same condition."
"That depends upon one's idiosyncratic reaction to alcohol," Burton said. "It may well be that I, who love strong liquor, may be more accustomed to its effects. Hence, I will have an advantage over you."
"We shall see," de Bergerac said, smiling. "Now, monsieur, will you please come out from behind that bar so we may resume our little debate?"
"Certainly," Burton said. He walked to the end of the bar and around it. Why not try la flèche, the running attack? But if his running glide missed or was parried, then he'd be off-balance, exposed to de Bergerac's point. Still, it was possible that he could close in and thus block the Frenchman's blade.
No. Would he consider such a move if he did not have three ounces of fifteen-percent-alcohol purple passion in his bloodstream? No. Forget it.
But what if he picked up the bottle and threw it at the same time he made the flèche? His opponent would have to duck, and this might throw him off his balance.
He stopped when he got opposite the wine bottle. He looked at it for a second while de Bergerac waited. Then, his left hand opened, and he sighed.
The Frenchman smiled, and he bowed a little.
"My compliments, monsieur. I was hoping that you would not succumb to temptation and try something dishonorable. This is a matter to be settled with the blade alone.
"I salute you for understanding this. And I salute you as the greatest duelist I've ever met, and I've met many of the best. It is so sad, so very sad, and utterly regrettable that this, the most magnificent of all duels, unsurpassed anywhere or anytime, should be seen by only us. What a pity! No, it is not a pity. It is a tragedy, a gre
at loss to the world!"
Burton noted that the fellow's speech was slightly slurred. That was to be expected. But was the wily Frenchman exaggerating the effects of the alcohol to make Burton overconfident?
"I agree with you in principle," Burton said, "and I thank you for your compliments. I also must say that you're the greatest swordsman I've ever met. However, monsieur, you spoke a little while ago about my long-windedness. I believe that, though you may be my equal in swordplay, you are my superior in gabbiness."
The Frenchman smiled. "I am as facile with my tongue as with my sword. I gave as much pleasure to the reader of my books and the hearer of my voice as to the spectator of my fencing. I forgot that you are a reticent Anglo-Saxon, monsieur. So I will let my blade speak for me from now on."
"I'll bet you do," Burton said. "En garde!"
Their epees clashed again in thrust, in parry, in riposte, in counterriposte. But each had perfect defense in keeping the proper distance, in the timing, in the calculation, in the decision, and in coordination.
Burton could feel the poisons of fatigue and booze and knew that they must be slowing him down and affecting his judgment. But certainly they were working with equal or greater effect on his foe.
And then, as Burton parried a thrust toward his left upper arm and riposted with his point at de Bergerac's belly, he saw something coming in the doorway by the grand staircase. He leaped far backward and shouted, "Stop!"
De Bergerac saw that Burton was looking past him. He jumped backward to be far enough away from Burton if he were trying to trick him. And he saw the water flowing in a thin layer through the doorway.
He said, breathing hard, "So! The boat has sunk to our deck, Monsieur Burton. We do not have long. We must make an end to this very quickly."
Burton felt very tired. His breathing was harsh. His ribs felt as if knives were pricking them.
He advanced on the Frenchman, intending to make a running glide. But it was de Bergerac who did so. He exploded, seeming to have summoned from somewhere in his narrow body a burst of energy. Perhaps he had spotted finally a weakness in Burton's defense. Or he thought he had. Or he believed that he was the faster now that weariness had slowed his opponent more than it had him.
Whatever his reasons, he miscalculated. Or he may have performed perfectly. But Burton suddenly knew, by de Bergerac's body language, certain subtle muscular actions, a slight squinching of the eyes, what the Frenchman intended to do. He knew because he had been ready to do the same, and he'd had to suppress his body language, the signals, which would tell his foe his next move.
De Bergerac came at him in the running glide, a sliding thrust along the opponent's blade with a slight pressure. It was sometimes used to surprise and might have succeeded if Burton had not been ready, had not, in a sense, been looking into a mirror of himself preparing for the same maneuver.
The successful flash required surprise, speed, and mastery over the opponent's weapon. De Bergerac had the speed, but the surprise was missing, and so he lost the mastery.
A knowledgeable spectator would have said that de Bergerac had the advantage of control. He was more erect than Burton. His hand was higher, thus allowing the fort, the strong part of the blade from the bellguard to the middle, to contact and so master the feeble of Burton's epée, the weak part, that from the middle to the point.
But Burton brought up his fort and turned the blade and drove de Bergerac's down and then crossed over and up to run him through his left shoulder. De Bergerac's face and body turned gray where the powder smoke did not cover it, but he still did not drop his sword. Burton could have killed him then.
Swaying, in shock, de Bergerac yet managed a smile. "The first blood is yours, monsieur. You have won. I acknowledge you as the victor. Nor am I ashamed . . ."
Burton said, "Let me help you," and then someone shot off a pistol from the doorway.
De Bergerac pitched forward and fell heavily on his face. A wound in his back close to the lower spine showed where the bullet had entered.
Burton looked at the doorway.
Alice was standing in it, a smoking pistol in her hand.
"My God!" he cried. "You shouldn't have done that, Alice!"
She came running, the water splashing about her ankles.
Burton knelt down and turned the Frenchman over and then got down on his knees and put the man's head in his lap.
Alice stopped by him. "What's the matter? He is an enemy, isn't he?"
"Yes, but he had just surrendered. Do you know who he is? He's Cyrano de Bergerac!"
"Oh, my God!"
De Bergerac opened his eyes. He looked up at Alice. "You should have waited to find out the true situation, madame. But then . . . scarcely anyone ever does."
The water was rising swiftly, and the deck was rapidly tilting at an angle. At this rate, the water would soon be above de Bergerac's head.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
"Burton?"
Burton said, "Yes."
"Now I remember. What a . . . what fools . . . we've been. You must be the Burton whom Clemens spoke of . . . you . . . the Ethical picked you?"
"Yes," Burton said.
"Then . . . why did we fight? I . . . didn't remember . . . too late . . . we . . . should have gone to the tower . . . the tower . . . together. Now . . . I . . ."
Burton bent down to hear the fading voice. "What did you say?"
" . . . hated war . . . stupidity . . ."
Burton thought that de Bergerac had died after that. But a moment later, the Frenchman murmured, "Constance!"
He sighed, and he was gone.
Burton wept.
SECTION 12
The Last 20,000 Miles
39
* * *
Burton and Hargreaves, along with the other survivors, had to face the wrath of La Viro. The tall dark man with the big nose raved and ranted for an hour while he strode back and forth before the assembled "criminals". They stood in front of the smoke-blackened temple, a huge stone structure with incongruous architecture: a Greek portico and Ionian columns with an onion-shaped roof topped by a gigantic carved stone spiral. These features were symbols in the Church of the Second Chance, but, nevertheless, Burton and others thought that the temple was ugly and ludicrous-looking. Oddly enough, the bad taste of La Viro, its designer, helped them endure his tirade. He was right in much of what he said, but much else seemed foolish. However, they were dependent upon him for grails, clothes, and housing. So they did not defend themselves but got some relief from their anger by silently laughing at the hideous temple and the man who'd built it.
At last, La Viro tired of pointing out in vivid detail and imagery how stupid, callous, brutal, murderous, and selfish they were. He threw up his hands and said he was sick of the sight of them. He would retire to the sanctum in the temple and pray for the kas of the Virolanders they'd killed. And also, though they didn't deserve it, for the living and the dead culprits. He turned the survivors over to Frato Fenikso, Brother Phoenix, once known as Hermann Göring.
Göring said, "You look like deservedly chastened children, and I hope you feel like it. But I don't have, at this moment, anyway, much hope for you. That's because of my anger at you. I'll get over it, and then I'll do my best to help you change for the better."
He led them to the rear of the temple where he gave each of them a free grail and enough cloths to keep them warm in the coldest temperatures.
"Anything else you need or want will be up to you to get it," Göring said. He dismissed them, but he called Burton aside.
"Have you heard that Samuel Clemens died of a heart attack?"
Burton nodded.
"Apparently, he thought that Frato Eriko still intended to settle an old score. After all he'd gone through during the battle, this was just too much, the straw that broke the camel's back or, in his case, broke his heart."
"I heard the story from Joe Miller this morning," Burton said.
"Yes. We
ll, unless somebody does something for the titanthrop, he's going to die of a broken heart, too. He really loved Clemens."
Göring asked Burton if he intended to go on to the headwaters. Burton replied that he had not come this far just to quit. He was going to set out for the tower as soon as possible.
"You'll have to build a sailboat. Certainly, Clemens' men won't allow you to go with them in the Post No Bills."
"I don't know about that," Burton said.
"And I suppose that if they refuse, you'll hijack the launch?"
Burton didn't answer.
"Is there no end to your violence?"
"I didn't say I would use force," Burton said. "I intend to talk to Anderson about the trip as soon as possible."
"Anderson was killed. I warn you, Burton, don't shed any more blood here!"
"I'll do all I can to avoid it. I don't like it any more than you do, really. Only, I am a realist."
The smaller launch, the After You, Gascon, had disappeared with all of its crew. No one knew what had happened to it, though some Virolando witnesses thought they'd seen it explode.
"If you really push it, you could get to the headwaters in about thirty days in the launch," Göring said. "But the agents of the Ethicals will get there before you do."
Burton was shocked.
"You know about them?"
"Yes. I talked to both Frigate and Miller last night, trying to help them through their grief. I knew more than you'd think and suspected even more. Correctly, as it turned out. Neither saw any reason to keep silent about the renegade Ethical. I told La Viro, and he's thinking hard about the whole business. It's been a great shock to him, though it hasn't affected his faith any."