by John Jakes
Smith held out his hands. In each lay a dueling pistol. A matched pair, Billy noted, further proof the roadside meeting was not accidental. Men simply didn’t go for an afternoon’s gallop packing such pistols in their saddlebags.
“I will load these with powder and ball in plain view of both you gentlemen. Then, starting back to back, you will take ten paces at my command. After the tenth you may turn and fire at will. Any questions?”
“No,” Forbes said, rolling up one sleeve, then the other.
“Get on with it,” Billy said.
Mocking him with another bow, Smith knelt in the grass, opened his saddlebag, and drew out two powder flasks, one about a third the size of the other. From the larger flask he poured propellant powder down the muzzle of the first pistol. After he seated the ball and a cloth patch, he primed the frizzen with the finer-grained powder from the small flask.
He handed the gun to Forbes, who gave it a cursory inspection and nodded. Forbes seemed more interested in watching his friend steady the second pistol between his legs, muzzle uppermost.
Billy saw Smith reach for the large flask again. Forbes cleared his throat. Billy turned toward him.
“You don’t object to a man pissing before he fights, do you?” Billy shook his head. “Then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to hold this till I come back.”
He was already extending his pistol. Billy had to take it, and as a consequence he didn’t see Smith shift the position of the flask over the muzzle of the gun he was loading. Most of the propellant powder spilled into the thick grass.
It had been well planned and accomplished in a twinkling. Forbes’s distracting query had drawn Billy’s attention at the proper moment; the maneuver with the powder had gone unnoticed. All anyone saw was Smith crouching, the pistol partially obscured by his knee and the waving grass.
Smith finished seating the second ball, primed the pistol, and said, “There.” He rose and held the heavy gun, which now contained too little powder to propel the ball with anything like its designed muzzle velocity. It was in no way a lethal weapon.
At the spot where Smith had crouched down, Billy noticed a few powder grains speckling the grass. He thought of asking that the pistols be exchanged but quickly squashed his suspicion. Not even a jealous suitor would stoop so low as to tamper with weapons used in an affair of honor.
Forbes returned. Billy handed him the first pistol. Smith extended the second gun. “Thank you,” Billy said, and took it.
Smith cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we commence?”
64
“IS BILLY HAZARD HERE?” Madeline asked. About five minutes had passed since her arrival at Mont Royal. Charles had helped her inside to the library and sent for Orry, who stood with his back against the closed doors, a stricken expression on his face.
“He left,” Charles told her. “With Brett. They’re going to catch a northbound train at the flag stop. They were married two hours ago.”
“Married,” Madeline repeated in a dazed way. “That must have something to do with it.”
“With what?” Orry said.
His voice was sharper than he intended, but he was being battered by emotion: joy that sprang from her unexpected arrival, grief that wrenched him when he looked at her poor, wasted face. She had lost even more weight, but something far worse had happened to her, although he didn’t know what it was.
“Forbes,” she whispered. “Forbes and his friend Preston Smith. They left Resolute just before I did. I overheard them speaking to Justin about—about killing Billy. Someone from here must have brought word that he and Brett were leaving.”
Charles bit down on the stub of the cigar, which had gone out. “Could it be the boy you saw outside?”
“I don’t know.” Madeline’s eyes had acquired a queer, glassy fix. “It must be.”
“Which boy are you talking about?” Orry wanted to know.
Charles’s expression was bleak now, forbidding. “Ashton’s boy, Rex. I’ll find him.”
He crossed to the door. Orry passed him, striding to Madeline. “You’re certain they were talking about harming Billy?” Charles stopped at the door, awaiting her answer.
“The word I heard was killing.” She fought an impulse to weep; she couldn’t seem to control herself. “Killing.”
Orry scowled. “By Christ, I’ll speak to Justin about—”
“There’s no time,” Madeline cried. “And Justin doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve left him.”
Orry stared, not understanding.
“Left him,” she said again. “I’m never going back to—” Before she could finish, she pitched forward in a faint.
She fell against Orry’s chest and drove him a step backward, but he managed to catch her and hold her up. “Send someone to help me with her,” he exclaimed to Charles.
Charles nodded, a thunderous look on his face as he left.
“Ashton, where’s your boy?”
His cousin glanced from the silver tea service. She had been about to pour cups for herself and Clarissa in the parlor.
“Do you mean Rex?”
“I do. Where is he?”
Charles’s stark eyes drove the smile from her face. “Outside, I reckon. Whatever is making you so cross?”
She was dissembling desperately; she had heard the buggy arrive just as she and her mother sat down. From the window she had observed Madeline, dirty and ugly as a witch, being helped inside. She hadn’t dared poke her nose out of the parlor for fear something had gone wrong.
Charles didn’t answer her question. As he stalked out, his boots slammed the floor so hard it shook.
With a bright, interested smile, Clarissa said, “I didn’t recognize that young man. Is he a visitor?”
“He’s your nephew, Mama!”
Her tone brought tears to Clarissa’s eyes. Ashton rubbed her cheek with quick little motions. “I’m sorry I burst out like that. I’ve developed the most violent headache all at once—”
“Perhaps the tea will help.”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps.”
Her hand shook as she attempted to pour. She missed the cup and nearly dropped the pot. “Oh, damn.”
The profanity brought a gasp from Clarissa. Ashton slammed the pot back on the tray. Then she leaped up and paced back and forth. Charles was onto something. Definitely onto something. If she appeared too curious, she might incriminate herself—yet did she dare leave him alone with Rex? The boy was just itching to do her ill.
For a minute or so she was wracked by indecision. Finally she dashed out of the room without a word of explanation. Clarissa folded a napkin and began to wipe up the tea the young woman had spilled. So nervous, that girl. Clarissa tried hard to recall her name but could not.
On the kitchen porch, Charles crouched over Rex, one palm resting against the gray cypress siding next to the boy’s ear. He had found Rex gnawing a chunk of salt pork, and before the boy could scramble away, Charles had squatted down and cowed him with that forbidding hand against the wall.
“Rex, I won’t stand for lies, do you understand?”
Desperate dark eyes swept the lawn beyond Charles’s shoulder. The boy knew he was caught. In a small voice he said, “Yessir.”
“You ran all the way to Resolute and back, didn’t you?”
Rex bit his lower lip. Scowling, Charles leaned closer.
“Rex—”
Faintly: “Yes.”
“Who did you speak to over there?”
Another hesitation. “Mist’ LaMotte.”
“Justin LaMotte?”
Rex scratched his head. “No. Mist’ Forbes. I was tole—”
He stopped. Charles prodded:
“Who told you? I want you to say the name of the person who sent you to Resolute.” He already knew it, of course; once he had gotten past his initial surprise and disgust, the plot was all too transparent and believable. He took his hand away from the wall and touched Rex’s arm gently.
“I promise that if y
ou tell me, no harm will come to you.”
The boy struggled with that, studied Charles, and was at last persuaded. Abruptly, a peculiar smile jerked his mouth. But Charles was losing patience.
“Damn it, boy, we haven’t time for this. I want to hear you say—”
“Rex? There you are. I’ve been searching everywhere.”
Charles stood up and turned to see Ashton running toward them.
Breathless, she reached the kitchen porch. “Come along, you imp. I need you this instant.”
“I need an answer from him first,” Charles said.
“But Charles”—a pretty pout, but he thought he detected fear behind it—”I must get ready to drive home.”
“You can’t go until Homer comes back with the carriage.” Heavy irony then. “If we can believe Madeline, that may take a while.”
“Madeline LaMotte? You mean to say she’s here?”
“You watched me help her across the veranda. I saw you trying to hide behind the window curtain.”
Scarlet rose in Ashton’s cheeks. She stammered in uncharacteristic confusion. Charles seized the moment to turn to the boy.
“I’m waiting, Rex. Who sent you to Resolute with the message that Billy and his new wife had left for the train?”
Ashton saw the trap closing. Pretense was useless, but her instinct for self-preservation was strong. She thrust by Cousin Charles, raising her right fist upward. “Rex, you keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you—oh.”
The boy stared at the fist trembling near his face. Charles had blocked its descent by seizing Ashton’s wrist. The boy’s eyes grew large, and Ashton felt sick. She knew what Rex was thinking about: the whipping.
“She did.”
His words had a spitting, stinging sound. Charles sighed and let go of his cousin. She rubbed her wrist.
“What on earth’s he talking about? I don’t have the slightest—”
“Stop it,” Charles broke in. “Madeline told Orry and me everything she overheard at Resolute. Lying won’t help you anymore. Or threatening this boy, either.” He squeezed Rex’s shoulder. “Better get out of here.”
Rex ran.
Charles watched a transformation take place on Ashton’s face then. Her cheeks grew livid, and her smiling pretension disappeared. He could hardly believe what he saw. In a soft, wrathful voice, he said:
“My God—it’s true. You want your own brother-in-law hurt or killed.”
Her silence and her defiant eyes affirmed it. He wasted no time on recriminations. Clutching his saber, he ran like a madman for the stable.
Ashton took a step after him and screamed at the disappearing figure: “It won’t do any good. You’re already too late. Too late.”
“One,” Smith called in a loud voice. The duelists started to walk in opposite directions, eyes straight ahead, pistols at their sides. “Two.” The wind tossed the grass and ruffled shining water in the marsh. Sweat ran down Billy’s neck, soaking the collar of his fine wedding shirt.
To clear his mind of distractions, he fixed his gaze on a low branch of live oak directly in front of him. He examined the feel of the dueling pistol in his hand, thought of how he must raise and fire it.
“Three.”
Brett’s hands were clenched so tightly her forearms ached. She stood by the carriage, wondering how this terrible moment had come to them. Who had told Forbes where they were? It was nearly impossible for him to have come to this particular road by accident.
“Four.”
Homer was standing about six feet to the right of Brett. As the duelists separated, he saw a glance of understanding flash between young LaMotte and his second. Homer had picked up a gray stone about three inches in diameter and now began to drop it nervously from one hand to the other, thinking, Something sure isn’t right about this business.
“Five.”
To Brett’s left, Preston Smith stood by the horses he and Forbes had ridden. He wanted to stay close to his saddlebag in case things didn’t go precisely as planned. He glanced down at his right boot, reassured by the bulge of the special pocket sewn on the outside. Then his eye flicked, past Brett to Homer, who was perspiring and passing a rock from hand to hand. They had nothing to fear from a frightened nigger. A feeling of satisfaction flooded over Smith, a feeling so intense he nearly missed the next count.
“Six.”
Billy’s vision blurred. A panicky feeling tightened his gut and dried his throat. He wanted a last look at Brett. Thoughts went screaming through his brain at incredible speed:
Why should you look at her?
You’ll see her again.
Maybe you won’t.
How did they find us?
A noise intruded at the edge of his awareness, a pounding, soft and steady. He had never known his heart to sound that way.
“Seven.”
Homer knew what he had seen in the sly look that flickered between the friends. He knew what he smelled here in the sunshine. They had plotted young Hazard’s murder, those two. He didn’t know how or why, but he was positive it was true. The thought of what was coming sickened him so badly that he turned to the coach and leaned on the front wheel, his hand closing tight around the stone.
“Eight.”
Brett, too, misinterpreted the drumming sound for a moment. Then she realized she was hearing a horse coming swiftly along the road from Mont Royal. Over the noise of hoofs, a man was shouting.
Smith heard it also. One of the horses he was holding shied and whinnied. That obscured part of the shout:
“—Billy, watch—”
Brett’s eyes flew wide. “That’s Charles.”
“Nine,” Smith called.
Forbes turned around, his confidence melting. He didn’t need to look at sallow, frightened Smith to know the horseman signaled the undoing of their plan. Billy had stopped responding to the count. He stood watching the road in an expectant way. Rage and desperation took possession of Forbes. He had a clear shot at the back of Billy’s head. Smith had forgotten to call ten. No matter. Forbes raised his arm shoulder-high and leveled the gun.
Homer was aware of the penalty for attacking a white man, but he couldn’t stand by and see murder done. He flung his right arm back, then forward.
Smith didn’t exactly understand what the black man was doing, but he recognized it as threatening. He yelled and bowled past Brett. As he ran, he reached toward his right boot.
The stone went sailing toward Forbes as he squeezed the trigger. Brett saw that the stone would miss by a yard or more. But it did its work anyway, arcing into Forbes’s field of vision and causing him to jerk his head to the left. His pistol arm jerked too. An explosion—a puff of smoke—
The stone thumped into the wind-whipped grass. Forbes’s jaw dropped. Billy turned around, staring at his adversary.
Smith had knocked Brett against the carriage as he passed. She straightened; Billy was unhurt. The mounted man was in sight. “Charles!” she cried. The word was muffled by a guttural scream.
She spun around, flung a hand to her lips. Smith’s face was a grimacing mask as he grunted and pulled his right hand back. Out of Homer’s stomach came the blade of the bowie knife Smith had snatched from his boot.
“Oh.” Homer stared at the torn and bloodied front of his shirt. “Oh,” he said again in surprise and pain as he started to topple sideways. Smith shoved with his free hand to help him along. Homer died as he fell.
Belatedly, Billy realized a ball had buzzed past his ear. Except for the distraction of the rock Homer had thrown, the ball would probably have hit him.
Charles reined his sweat-covered horse. He was still in uniform. His saber sheath banged his leg as he started to dismount. Billy wrenched his eyes back to Forbes—Forbes who had fired before the final count. Tried to shoot him in the back. Shaking with anger, Billy lifted the dueling pistol and took aim. He touched the hair trigger. There was a flash at the frizzen—a crack that seemed somehow small and flat.
&
nbsp; Forbes hadn’t changed position by so much as one inch. Billy had aimed for the center of his breastbone. How could the ball have missed such a large, stationary target?
Then, some ten paces away on a patch of bare earth, something dark caught his eye. He stalked toward it, watched it define itself to lead-colored metal. The ball. The ball from his pistol, lying there spent—
He recalled Smith’s crouching while he loaded the weapons, recalled spotting spilled powder. They had carefully planned to short the charge in his pistol. He swore an oath and flung his gun into the grass.
“Forbes!”
Forbes spun in response to the shout from Smith, who threw his bowie knife by the tip, flipping it end over end. Forbes let the knife land in the grass near his feet, then snatched it up. He shifted the knife to his left hand. Then, out of his right boot, he snaked a second one, identical in design but unbloodied and two inches longer.
The sun struck silver flashes from his hands as he sidestepped toward Billy. “Sorry your shot missed.” Forbes uttered a crazy kind of laugh. “Bet you’re a whole lot sorrier.”
“I didn’t miss. The ball never came close to you. It’s lying right over there in that bare place. There wasn’t a full charge of powder in my gun.”
“Smart fucking Yankee, aren’t you?”
Wind lifted Forbes’s hair, then pasted it against his sweaty forehead. Empty-handed, Billy backed away. One step, then another. Forbes came on, scuttling sideways like a crab.
“You shouldn’t have messed with Brett. Shouldn’t have set foot in South Carolina. Reckon they’ll send you home in a sack, but I guarantee your kin won’t want to open it and look at you.”
He moved the right-hand knife in a small circle, then started the same kind of motion with the left one. “Not after I fix up your face.”
Billy retreated again. He decided to make a dash to the nearest tree, try to tear off a limb before one of those knives—
“Billy.”
The voice wrenched his attention toward the carriage. Smith had disappeared. Charles had reached Brett; his collar was unfastened, his light blue trousers dirty. His face was wrathful as he pitched his saber into the field.
