‘Can you, Father? Isn’t he—’
‘The best shot in England? A rumour largely put about by himself.’ He lifted the mask to his forehead and turned now to wink at Jack. ‘Besides, never faced an Absolute, has he?’
The party halted a few hundred paces into the open country, just past a series of market gardens newly turned and fertilized for the sowing. A ripe smell came from them, for the nightsoil men of the city sold their collections to the owners of these plots and hundreds like them around London. A strong wind crammed the savour of the excrement into their nostrils, had most there raising kerchiefs; it had also cleared all cloud away, leaving the full moon to ensilver the little that was there, the close-cropped, glistening wet grass, an empty sheep pen with broken staves, the party of cloaked men settling at its edge.
‘A fine night for a clear shot, is it not, sir?’ said the president, approaching Jack and his father. He gestured to where two of Craster’s friends waited. ‘The terms, sir?’
Sir James, who had been quietly contemplating the ground, now roused himself. ‘Indeed, the terms. But before we talk with them, a word with you, if I may, sir?’
Jack watched the pair walk off, the Gargoyle and Mr Punch, immediately in quiet and intense conversation. Then he looked across to the group and the figure standing slightly detached from it. Craster looked back, for a moment both boys stared, not moving, not blinking. Then each simultaneously turned away, Jack to gaze up into the moon, seeking there the figures from old Morwenna’s rhymes: the dog, the cow, the spoon.
In a few moments his father returned. ‘That’s all settled then,’ he declared briskly. ‘Both sides agree: the president himself is to have the checking and the loading of the guns for they are his, fetched from his boat here. It is to be one shot apiece and one shot only.’
Jack flushed. ‘One? But what if I miss?’
‘And he misses you? Why then, you shake hands and walk away and no harm done.’
‘No … harm?’ Jack had begun to shiver, but no longer from cold or fear. ‘That … scum ravished Clothilde Guen, brutalized her, an innocent, a sweet …’ A flash of bloodstains, of tears, jammed the words in his throat. He coughed, swallowed. ‘I intend to kill him.’
‘That may be. There’s enmity between you and your cousin I can never comprehend – though I felt much the same about his father. But if you do not put a killing ball into him you will not fulfil your intention this night.’ Jack made to speak but his father grabbed his shoulder. ‘Look at me, boy. No, look at me! This is not about Clothilde any more. If she was harmed as you say, we must allow the Law to deal with that. So this is no longer about vengeance. This is about honour. A man’s honour is his life; without it we are nothing, less, and our family name is nought. When you stand facing him, you stand for nothing but that name, just as he stands for it. For all the Absolutes that have preceded you and all the Absolutes to come.’
‘But if you had seen her, Father—’
The hand pulled the collar roughly. ‘Have you listened, boy? She is a matter for another day, other ground. This day is now only about honour. And whether you live, live crippled, or die, honour will be satisfied by a single shot.’
‘And if I die …’ Tears came then, lodged in his eyes, sprung from many sources of anger and fear.
‘We are born astride a grave, my boy,’ Sir James said softly, looking away, ‘live your life knowing that, and you will live your life.’
The president called them to order. Releasing his son’s collar, straightening it with a flick, Sir James pushed Jack towards the ground, where the president handed the elder Absolute a pistol. Craster was waiting on a level patch of cropped grass. Jack, his father beside him, walked quickly to stand just behind a cross gouged in the grass, turning from there to face his cousin. He was no more than a dozen paces away.
His father was speaking softly to him again. With an effort, Jack tried to listen to what he was saying.
‘… my first time … a blur … body side on … reduce target … finger off trigger … raise … breathe … sight … squeeze …’
Words flew at him, words he recognized that yet had little meaning. He found he had stopped breathing and decided to take in air. Then he found he was taking too much, that he suddenly wanted to laugh. How absurd it all suddenly was. The fertilizing shit, the masked men, his hated cousin. How absurd!
With a final squeeze, his father moved away, to rest ten paces back, the same to the side. When he settled, the president began to speak. Again words passed, again he took some in but not all.
Craster’s seconds moved away to their positions. Jack looked at his cousin, who stood with eyes downcast, seemed to see every detail of him: his thick reddish hair held down with oil, the scratches on his cheek from Clothilde’s nails, the flesh bruising where Jack had struck, these wounds beneath the mask his opponent had replaced, as Jack had replaced his. Indeed all the principals in the action wore them, Gods, Imps and Emperors, standing silently, the wind moving their cloaks, an hallucination by moonlight. Central in the group was the huge figure of His Satanic Majesty, Lord Melbury.
The president was still speaking and Jack forced himself to listen. ‘So, gentlemen, I repeat. I will give you three commands: “To your mark.” You will step up. “Make Ready.” You may raise your guns. I will then call out, “Fire.” Once you hear that word, you may act upon it whensoever you please. Not before.’ He stepped back. ‘Gentlemen, to your mark.’
Jack moved to the cross, scraped his feet into the grass. His father had said something about placing them solidly there.
‘Make ready!’
The gun was so heavy! He had barely studied it, had not realized it was such a weight until that moment, until he tried to bring it up. He wanted to use his other hand but knew that was not in the code. Somehow, he brought it level with his shoulder, somehow he pointed it toward the blur Craster had become.
The wind gusted, bringing again that taint from the gardens and the faint sound of the orchestra striking up another quadrille. Was Fanny still there, making a fourth for another dance of humiliation?
‘Fire!’
An explosion came instantly upon the word, something struck his face. He would have cried out if there was any moisture left in his mouth to form a sound. He had heard that a bullet entering the body could feel very different on each occasion – a slap, a punch, a mere tickle. This stung and in the moment he believed he had before true pain came, before he was incapable of the action, he placed his finger on the trigger at last and squeezed.
Craster fell with a shriek. It seemed to Jack he fell almost before the ball had been sent, certainly no later than the exact moment of pressure upon metal. Jack was lowering his gun again, slowly, as slowly and with as much difficulty as he had raised it, as if it were on a crank he could only release tooth by tooth. As it finally pointed downwards, a voice spoke beside him.
‘Are you well, boy?’
His legs gave, he sank and his father caught him, taking the gun from him just before it slipped from his hand. Thus freed, he reached up to his still-smarting cheek, and rubbed. Bringing his hand away, he saw his fingertips were black.
‘Missed you, by God. But he came close.’
Jack croaked, ‘Did I kill him?’
His seconds, the surgeon, all had clustered around the prone Craster. The surgeon called out, ‘We cannot find a wound. We think …’ He continued to search through the clothes. ‘No! No blood! We think he may have swooned. Here you, fetch me some sal volatile from the bag.’
The bottle was fetched, uncorked, held beneath Craster’s nose, now free of his mask. He awoke with another cry. The surgeon looked up. ‘He is well.’
The president stepped forward. ‘Here’s two misses, then. Brave boys and honour satisfied, eh? Will they shake?’
Craster was raised to his feet, Jack pushed towards him. Only now was he emerging from the fog that had sucked him in, though tendrils still clung to him, confusing him still.
r /> Had he missed? Surely, with Craster Absolute before his gun, he hadn’t missed?
The two cousins fell into each other, like drunks, like dancers, like wrestlers closing for a hold. Their hands gripped, their faces were close, the others stepping away to leave them to the reconciliation. So Jack only had to whisper. ‘I’m going to kill you, Craster. One day. Soon. But you won’t have to watch your back. You’ll die looking in my eyes!’
Craster looked in them now, his own bloodshot, gummy. He muttered, ‘Not if you look in mine first.’ Then they were pulled away, their fingers clinging as if reluctant to part.
‘Good lads,’ said the president. ‘And now, sirs—’
‘And now,’ said Sir James, ‘I know how fond you are of the playhouse, my Lord. Since we have had the entr’acte, shall we advance to the play?’
Lord Melbury smiled. ‘Indeed, sir. And do not be comforted by our respective masks. Today Mr Punch will be vanquished and the Devil will triumph.’
‘That we shall soon know.’
Lord Melbury gestured to one of his servants who stood holding a pistol case open. ‘Since you come unarmed, sir, perhaps you would care to choose one of mine?’
Sir James peered in. ‘Exquisite. Whitworth’s?’
‘Indeed.’
Sir James reached, lifted a pistol from the red velvet, together with a flask of powder and a ball. ‘I may load myself?’
‘Of course. A single ball, yes?’
Sir James nodded. ‘I thank you, sir.’
‘My great pleasure.’
‘And one that he thinks will be all his, no doubt,’ he muttered as he moved away to his son, holding up the one ball to the whole company, then giving it to Jack together with the flask of powder. ‘It can’t be helped. But one should really try to avoid fighting with another man’s weapons.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘He knows ’em too well.’ Sir James was squinting inside the barrel. ‘Hmm! Not enough light to see by, but I’d wager it’s rifled at the breech.’
‘Rifled?’
‘Aye. Strictly forbidden but hard to prove without cracking the gun open, a sacrilege to one as beautiful as this. But I am sure my Lordship’s reputation is at least partly founded on a rifled barrel. More accurate, see.’ He looked towards Melbury, called. ‘Do she throw, sir?’
‘Hardly at all. An inch to the left, perhaps, at twenty paces.’
‘That’ll mean two to the right at fifteen,’ Sir James said under his breath. He then took the flint out, striking it against the frizzle, replacing it, cocking the gun, touching the trigger, watching the hammer fall and the spark jump. ‘Naturally. Trigger set to a hair. Always check it, Jack, because if you shake and set it off, not only may you shoot a spectator or your own foot, it will count as your shot.’ He blew in the touch-hole, then, taking the rammer from its slot under the barrel, gestured for the powder, wadding and ball.
Jack watched as his father swiftly loaded the gun. ‘You have fought with pistols before, haven’t you, sir?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘And with swords?’
A bottom lip thrust out, a shrug. ‘Three or four times. Prefer it, actually.’ He looked up and a faint smile came. ‘Why do you think I’ve been sending you to the Academy since you were twelve?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I feel I hardly know you, Father.’
Carefully lowering the hammer, Sir James now raised his mask. Jack did the same. ‘You don’t, boy … here,’ he said, pointing to his head, ‘And never have. But you do here.’ He tapped Jack’s chest. ‘You have my blood and that will tell you all you need to know. If this … affair goes against me, just listen to that, to your Absolute blood. And take care of your mother.’
Jack was unable to reply, because the president had called the combatants to their marks – a good pace closer than he had stood facing Craster. He wanted to follow, to stand where his father had stood for him. But he suddenly found his legs would not carry him there. He heard the president reiterate the laws, the words clear this time, the voice coming as if from afar. He wished now that the necessity for these masks was over. All still wore them, because a crowd had gathered from the carriage park, drivers and pillions presenting a shifting backdrop. There was little doubt that some outraged citizen would already have run for the Watch. Yet Jack cursed the necessity; he didn’t want to remember his father as Mr Punch.
‘To your marks.’
They stepped up.
‘Make ready.’
The beautiful, engraved barrels rose to glint in the moonlight. The wind had dropped, as if it too held its breath.
‘Fire.’
Both guns cracked, as if they were only one. For a brief, tiny moment afterwards, the only movement was smoke, rising. Then both men staggered. One fell.
It was the Devil who crashed backwards, his bulk shaking the earth as he hit it. Jack felt it as he moved, his long-trapped feet now free.
‘Father,’ he cried, grabbing at the sinking man who clutched at his son’s arm, pulling himself upright.
‘I think … I think I am well, boy.’
Where Jack held him felt wet. He took his hand away, saw the dark liquid there. ‘You’re wounded, sir.’
‘Aye,’ Sir James ran his tongue around his lips, ‘but not mortally. Believe me, I’ve had a ball or two in me and would know the difference. Rip the cloth away there and let us have a look.’
Jack did as he was bid. Exposed, the flesh of the bicep was torn near its extremity; the ball had glanced and left, not entered. Clutching a handkerchief to it, Sir James took his own weight then walked towards the men huddled over the figure on the ground.
The surgeon looked up at their approach, shook his head. When his father pushed through, Jack peered from behind him. Lord Melbury lay half on his side, his breath coming short. His red mask had been tipped up to rest on his forehead, his skin a white contrast beneath it. As Sir James leaned down, the eyelids flickered open.
‘Did I miss you, sir?’
‘No. I am hit.’
‘Thank God. My reputation is preserved, at the least,’ Lord Melbury whispered, closing his eyes. And though Jack had only seen it once, years before, when he’d looked down at his uncle in a hole in the ground, he recognized the moment life left.
Someone was tugging at his arm. He looked up, into the gargoyle’s mask above the soldier’s uniform. The president had one arm each on father and son and was encouraging both to rise.
‘I have a boat nearby. This place will not be safe for you shortly, mask or no mask. I urge you both to come.’
They did as they were bid, followed as the soldier and the surgeon – no longer required at the scene – forced through the gawkers who had gathered. More were coming, drawn by shots and rumour, from the carriage park, from the Vauxhall Road.
He led them to the river bank, Jack and the surgeon needing to support his father down the stone steps. They got him in, two servants taking the oars, the surgeon lighting a lantern, removing the handkerchief, reaching into his bag for a salve and some clean linen. The soldier joined them, pushing the vessel off before stepping aboard.
‘I have a carriage t’other side. May I suggest the briefest of calls at your house and then the Star and Garter in Cheapside? Coaches leave there each midnight for Harwich and ships from there each day to Antwerp. I have some gold, if you do not keep enough in your house. More can be sent on later. I recommend the Crown and Pineapple in the port. But Williams here knows it and he will go with you.’
‘You are very kind, sir. Beyond what any gentleman could expect.’ Sir James was squinting behind eyelids lowered now in pain. ‘May I ask why?’
The soldier smiled. ‘“Mine enemy’s enemy is my friend.” You have done me a great service this night, sir, for Lord Melbury was certainly my enemy, across a variety of battlefields. Yet it was not the first time your family has done me a kindness.’
‘I would seek to know more of that, sir. But time prods us. T’was eve
r thus with Absolutes. Yet I wonder if you can extend your thanks with another favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘There is no doubt that I must flee. Lord Melbury’s is too great a name. It would not be the first time and I have friends in Germany, former comrades-in-arms who will shelter me until the vibrations of his fall have passed. But my son’s crime is less, no blood was shed.’
‘He will be caught up in the larger event. He may be called to witness or even prosecuted still.’
‘He’s too young for an exile like this. Yet, if he must away …’ Sir James shuddered against a sudden surge of pain. When his eyes opened again he continued, ‘I always hoped he would follow me into the army. He’s resisted thus far, with fancy ideas gleaned from too much education …’
Jack leaned forward. ‘I will do what must be done, sir, if only you deem it wise.’
‘Oh, I think,’ said the soldier, reaching up to pull off his mask, ‘I may be able to help you there as well.’
It took a moment, because the light from the boat lantern was poor and he had only met him once before; still, recognition came soon enough.
The man who steered the boat was John Burgoyne.
– PART 2 –
War Cry
– ONE –
To War
Yet again, Jack was pitched forward, his head only saved from further bruising by a hastily thrown-out arm. As on the open sea, so here on the St Lawrence River. The West Indiaman Sylphide disdained its delicate name and sought any and every trough in which to wallow. If Jack had been hoping that the term ‘river’ would lead to a lessening in the lurching that was the vessel’s natural gait, he had been swiftly disillusioned. This Canadian waterway could have swallowed ten of the Thames, while its shoals channelled currents that had him wishing for the relative calm of Atlantic swells. Having mastered his stomach two weeks out of the Old World, he’d had to regain control of it all over again five weeks later in the New World. Such control was essential; he did not intend his new commander’s first impression to be of a sickly, green-faced milksop.