Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  Two male servants stepped forward, and Matt watched Ferguson remove his cape and mask and give it to them. Matt waited until they were ready and then did the same. He looked toward Franklin, but the man’s disappointed frown had not changed. Matt understood his concern. The feeling Matt had in his stomach was like sitting in a twenty-first-century rollercoaster, ready for it to start. He was prepared for the ride, but didn’t know what to expect, and he hated roller coasters.

  When the servants had stepped away with their capes and masks, Ferguson collected his blades in one hand and then motioned to the steps for Matt to walk up on the platform. Matt grabbed his weapons, climbed the steps and walked to the center of the ring to wait for Ferguson to join him. Ferguson began talking as he reached the top of the steps. “As is our tradition, there’s a demonstration of skill before the combat,” he shouted. Matt’s apprehension peaked at the word “combat,” again questioning what he had gotten himself into, but he made sure to meet Fergusons eyes with his best look of boredom. “Mr. Miller,” Ferguson called. “Do you agree to four or five displays of skill?”

  Matt had raised his blade and was examining it. The blunt edges and point gave him some confidence that he would survive the evening. He answered Ferguson’s question as if he was speaking directly to his sword. “Perhaps three,” Matt called out. “Your guests are anxious for the combat, as am I.” Applause went up. Ferguson gave Matt a sly smile. Matt recognized his opponent’s eagerness to have the crowd on his side and assumed he’d not concede their applause so readily.

  “Americans!” Ferguson shouted. “We know how impatient they are…bating when their taxes should be paid.” The crowd laughed.

  Matt readied a witty criticism of Britain, but Franklin, who had stepped closer, put his hand up in a subtle gesture to convince him to take the high road. Matt answered Ferguson’s taunt with an elegant and generous bow. “A display of attacks, high and low, as our first?” Matt questioned loudly. There was enough clapping for Matt to realize that Franklin’s instinct to leave the insult unanswered had been correct. Matt set his dagger on the platform to the side.

  Ferguson repeated Matt’s bow. “So it shall be,” he called. He also dropped his short blade. Both men now faced each other.

  “Much of the sword is automatic,” Ferguson announced. “Actions occur instantaneously. The body knows whether to defend or attack before the mind can command. On-guard, Mr. Miller.”

  Matt raised his blade.

  “At attack to the face,” Ferguson said, “may not be fatal, but even a glancing blow brings much bleeding and pain. Some can come from high.” Ferguson made a high thrust towards Matt’s face and then swept the sword to Matt’s left. Matt met his blade in an upward motion with a sharp clink as he helped it continue its path out and away. Thrusts to the face were a favorite of his sword master, Henry Duncan, in Richmond.

  “A perfect counter,” Ferguson called. “Now the low!” Ferguson thrust low. Matt circled his sword around Ferguson’s to push his blade out and down. Ferguson repeated his attack, this time stronger and faster and it took all Matt’s skill to deflect his blade on this second low thrust. “Now a high attack by Mr. Miller,” Ferguson said inviting Matt to take the offensive.

  Matt held his blade out parallel to the ground, with his elbow bent. He was not going to broadcast whether his attack would come from high or low. He snapped forward and up at Ferguson’s face. Ferguson easily countered, pushing Matt’s sword while stepping away. Matt did not pause but continued with another attack, now, from above. Ferguson circled his blade from under Matt’s and defended again. This time though, Ferguson sliced at Matt’s face in a counter and Matt reacted just in time. Matt reset his stance and reminded himself even a demonstration could become deadly.

  “Now an attack to the middle,” Ferguson said as he held his blade up non-threateningly. “There are two places. The belly is an easy target, but the blow is rarely fatal until the battle is finished. Such a wound will make an opponent reckless and unpredictable. I prefer chest strikes, which oft serve to end the battle abruptly. If not fatal, such an injury may persuade an opponent to yield. On-guard, Mr. Miller.” Ferguson leveled his sword pointing at Matt and circled it.

  Matt aimed his sword at Ferguson’s torso. Ferguson began another rotation of his blade but surprised Matt with a forward thrust that slashed diagonally across his chest. The edge ripped through Matt’s silk shirt. It would have been fatal with an actual sword. Henry had drilled the defense against this lunge into Matt, but his recognition had come too late.

  “A well-scored tip cut,” Ferguson called. He backed away and swatted his sword in the air three times. “Hopefully Mr. Miller brought his tailor!” The crowd laughed and applauded. Matt bowed.

  “On-guard, Sir Ferguson,” Matt called. He waited for Ferguson to be ready and then walked forward. Ferguson was the first to thrust in an attempt to end Matt’s forward motion. Ferguson’s blade was high, so Matt flicked hard to take his point. Matt jumped forward and thrust into Ferguson’s solar plexus and jumped back immediately before his opponent could counter. This time Matt’s speed had surprised. Ferguson reached up to rub his chest where Matt had bruised him, then put his blade in the air to speak. “Seems Americans are not as helpless in their defense as they claim. Perhaps His Majesty’s soldiers should come home and save the expense.”

  Matt looked again toward Franklin, but the man’s instruction had not changed. Matt should not insult the crowd. “Perhaps now a full parry,” Matt called.

  “A fine plan,” Ferguson answered. “The parry requires all a swordsman’s parts and especially speed. While it rarely wins the duel, one learns much about his opponent.” Ferguson attacked Matt with a flurry at the sound of his last consonant. The surprise was enough to put Matt on his heels, and it took all his concentration to keep up with the slashing of Ferguson’s blade. Ferguson pushed Matt back so swiftly that he was close to falling off the end of the platform. Matt met Ferguson’s blade low on his sword and let it slide close enough to reach out and push Ferguson backward with a closed fist.

  Ferguson glared at Matt like some rule had been broken, but it was no foul in Matt’s mind, so he took the opening to hammer Ferguson steadily until he was driven to the center of the platform. Ferguson regained his composure and mounted his defense to put them in a stalemate.

  “A fine parry,” Ferguson said eventually. He raised his sword in a gesture of neutrality. “Are you ready for combat, Mr. Miller?” Ferguson called out.

  Matt answered with the rhetorical, “I am, Sir Ferguson.”

  The crowd applauded.

  “Two judges to referee the match,” Ferguson announced. “Nathan Trent and Benjamin Franklin, would you come forward?” Franklin and Trent were close, so they were soon climbing the middle steps to the platform. “Mr. Trent,” Ferguson said. “Could you explain the rules of the contest?”

  Trent faced the crowd. “The competitors will be allowed a rapier and a dagger. They will begin when this cravat hits the ground.” Trent waved a bright silver necktie in the air for all to see. “Should a man start before, he is the loser. Once begun, the contest continues until a winner manifests or until one yields. If none yields, the winner will be decided in conference between Dr. Franklin and myself and I will shout out, ‘winner.” A man who continues to fight after the winner is called; he is the loser. Should a man be compelled from the platform or step from it, he is the loser.” Trent paused then said, “Questions?”

  “None,” Matt and Franklin said in unison.

  “Then let the contest begin. Take your positions.”

  Matt walked to where he had dropped his dagger and Ferguson did the same. Matt hefted the smaller weapon after taking a traditional grip, which pointed the blade toward his opponent. He’d use its dull blade only for deflecting Ferguson’s sword. Even in actual combat with a razor sharp blade, it was scarce to land an offensive blow with a short blade when facing a rapier. Matt adjusted his stance from his usual right
foot forward to one where his left foot was closer to the front. The stance gave him a better chance to bind Ferguson's rapier with the small blade and make rapier strikes of his own.

  Matt stood facing Ferguson. They were still further than a sword’s length away from each other. Trent pointed to the center steps to guide Franklin down. He turned, and Matt saw him give a thumbs-up signal. The gesture was something that Matt had used quite often during their time together in Philadelphia. Franklin accompanied it with a wide grin. He looked less worried somehow than when Matt had first stepped up onto the platform. Maybe the demonstration had proven that Matt was competent enough to put on a good show.

  When Trent had reached the ground, he turned to face the two men. Ferguson said, “Mr. Miller, take care to defend yourself. One can never afford to relax, even with dull blades.”

  “I fret for your good fortune, Sir Ferguson,” Matt called, “The host should be healthy enough at the end of the game to order the sweets and cognac.”

  There was roaring laughter, and Ferguson gave Matt a respectful nod. “Healthy indeed,” Ferguson called.

  “On-guard,” Trent said. He raised the bright necktie above his head, and let it fall to the ground. Ferguson was on Matt like a freight train.

  Chapter 34

  Parley

  Matt retreated backward under the pressure of Ferguson’s onslaught, and his dagger hand went numb after he used it to deflect three successive cutting blows. Matt was teetering on the end of the platform, and so he edged Ferguson to the left. Now, they both backed up to the platforms narrow width, and then, somehow, Ferguson made the mistake of continuing in the rotation, so his back was to the short end. Matt controlled most of the platform.

  Realizing that he had been outsmarted, Ferguson tried to coerce Matt into making a similar turn, but Matt refused to yield, and so Ferguson advanced hard with his leading foot while circling his blade. The combination came with enough strength and speed to make Matt retreat. He stumbled backward and turned slightly to the side to regain his balance. The side motion put Matt low enough for Ferguson to slash at his face and Matt felt a searing pain in his cheek. The dull blade had taken off a chunk of skin. Matt countered as Ferguson’s blade passed from his face. He thrust hard into Ferguson's belly as he was moving away. A sharp tip would have given a lingering and fatal injury, and it was enough to make Ferguson grunt loudly.

  Both men backed away to take stock. Matt saw Ferguson reset his stance by placing his right foot forward to give the maximum amount of reach with his rapier. It minimized his ability to use the dagger. Matt adjusted his stance but was unwilling to match Ferguson exactly. He’d concede rapier reach to protect his left side with the short blade.

  Ferguson advanced with his lead foot, and Matt used the motion and his temporary lack of balance to slash at his face. The opening had been there, but Ferguson had countered with a sweeping of his rapier. Matt followed with his short blade to tie up Ferguson’s sword and slashed hard across Ferguson’s chest, tearing his shirt and drawing blood. Ferguson jumped back and slashed. He came fast at Matt trying to overwhelm him, and Matt could only parry and back away. Suddenly, Matt was losing.

  Ferguson made a downward slash as Matt thrust his sword upward. Ferguson’s blade smacked the elaborate handguard on Matt’s rapier. Matt twisted his wrist and pushed upward. Their swords flew from their wrists and went sailing into the crowd. The men faced each other with short daggers, circling. “Winner,” Franklin shouted. Trent glared at him, but Franklin repeated, “Winner!” and rushed up onto the platform.

  “I’ll not let you bludgeon one another to death,” he whispered. Franklin stepped between them and shouted, “These men have given us an excellent display of swordsmanship. British citizens from both sides of the Atlantic have manifested their parts and courage!” The crowd applauded loudly. After the clapping had diminished, the three men followed one another down the platform.

  When Ferguson was close to Matt, he said, “You were bested.”

  Matt turned to Ferguson and winked.

  Chapter 35

  White Castle

  Matt’s face had stopped bleeding. He had shaken Ferguson’s hand after the party, and the event had ended in seeming goodwill and relative calm. Franklin refused to talk about the fight or his decision to end the duel. Matt had been fine with his stepping in. He hadn’t been hesitant about fighting Ferguson to the end, but Franklin had been right. Both men were looking forward to dark bruises and morning hangovers that neither needed.

  Franklin was boisterous as they walked home. It was late, but revelers and partygoers still packed the London streets. “So many singular women in one place,” Franklin said. “London truly is the greatest city in the world. I find myself in tearing good spirits.”

  “You’re drunk as Davey’s sow,” Matt replied.

  “Wine is constant proof that God loves us,” Franklin replied chuckling. “I’m happy to meet Davey’s fine animal.”

  “I wish I was drunk.”

  “No fault but your own,” Franklin became serious, and it made Matt think that he could be wrong about the man’s state of intoxication.

  “We weren’t there to flirt,” Matt said.

  “We certainly weren’t there to fight.”

  “If the host asks you to demonstrate your swordplay, there’s not much you can say besides yes. I had a long discussion with Ferguson in his office.”

  “You learnt only what you were meant to learn.”

  “I talked to many important fellows,” Matt replied. “You should have been around to back me up.”

  “You’re spouting nonsense,” Franklin declared. “Lady Ferguson told me she has four children. She’s a delightful lady and very protective of her family, including her husband. She speaks highly of him.”

  “So?”

  “She worries about his health.”

  “Headaches?”

  “Bruises on his face.”

  “Why bruises?”

  “I have a theory,” Franklin replied. “I suspect they are a source of his success.”

  “The bruises?” Matt asked. “You’re too drunk to be coherent.”

  “Suit yourself,” Franklin replied. “There’s nothing we can do about Sir Ferguson now anyway.”

  “He has a convincing plan.”

  “To change what you believe must occur?”

  “Who’s to say what must occur?”

  “You’re making excuses for some questionable course of action.”

  “I’m not at the excuses stage, yet,” Matt declared.

  “To change the future?”

  “To make a better future.”

  “To play God.”

  “To save one hundred and sixty million lives.”

  “And Ferguson will remain an anonymous benefactor?” Franklin asked.

  “Does it matter when the lives of so many are involved? You’ve spent your time in London trying to change the future.”

  “Any blockhead can see relations between the colonies and the Crown are worse than ever,” Franklin scowled. “I’d be here whether I’d met you or not.”

  “I’ve told you the future, and you’re trying to change it.”

  Franklin brushed Matt off with a wave. “What does Ferguson stand to gain?” he asked.

  “He has ambitions in the British government.”

  “So there is a price for providing this peace?”

  “What’s it matter as long as lives are saved?”

  “How many lives will he trade?”

  “It didn’t involve any.”

  They had reached Franklin’s home. Franklin glanced at Matt and smiled. “You’re right,” he said as he turned the key in the lock. “I’m weary and a bit drunk.”

  Chapter 36

  London Sleeps

  It was almost ten thirty by the glowing dial on Matt’s Rolex. He was lying in bed listening to Franklin’s snores echo through the thin walls of the row home. Matt wanted to blame Franklin for his insomni
a, or that his face was aching from the slash Ferguson had given, but Matt expected his mind would be racing regardless. Franklin had kept Matt awake before with his wheezing and snorting, but tonight the old man’s noise was nothing compared to everything else that filled Matt’s head. If anything, something was comforting about the constant reminder that the Leonardo da Vinci of the eighteenth century was sleeping a snore-shot away.

  Matt sat up in bed. The bright moon, in the cloudless sky, lit the floor through the transparent glass windowpane. Matt scanned the partial white orb through the window, considering that maybe its light was responsible for his restlessness. It was another convenient excuse. The clarity of the glass also provided a limited distraction. Eighteenth-century windows were often of dubious quality and usually added a cloudy yellow tint to the moon, but these new windows were almost entirely transparent. While pondering the glass, it occurred to Matt that it might be bright enough outside to go for a walk, and so he pulled back the covers and got out of bed.

  Matt dressed quietly by the light of the moon, trying his best not to wake Franklin who remained snoring. Matt finished by buckling his shoes and then eased himself down the creaking steps. He grabbed Franklin’s metal-tipped walking stick, which was leaning next to the door, and slipped out onto Craven Street. The street was moderately crowded, and Matt knew that it would stay that way for a few more hours, and so he could walk around in relative anonymity. Nonetheless, he hefted Franklin’s walking stick a couple of times thinking that it was formidable enough to deter someone from trying to take his purse.

  St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, England

  Matt struggled to lock the door behind him but then was on his way. He could see the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral silhouetted against the light of the moon. Lamps were shining from the topmost windows. The cathedral seemed a reasonable destination for a man who had nowhere in particular to go, so he set off with the singular mission of touching its wall.