Sword of Fortune

by Christopher Nicole

  But not Barbara Smythe. He was at least being spared that ordeal, Richard thought, although he knew she would have had no thought of saving him from any ordeal, only herself.

  He was, however, glad of her absence. Ballantine and Albert had done their utmost for him. He was wearing his best suit and had been granted the privilege of a hot bath and a careful shave before the trial began, yet two months in that stinking, stuffy over-heated cell had left him looking pale and ill.

  It was sufficiently embarrassing to be able to identify other acquaintances, including Amy Holder, who actually gave him a smile of encouragement; no one else did. No doubt she was regretting that this unfortunate business had prevented him from calling that Sunday afternoon…

  ‘And what is your estimate of Mr Bryant’s ability as a marksman, Mr Forsythe?’ Rhodes asked.

  Ballantine gave another grunt, but this was not an objection. He was unhappy with the way his case was being torn to shreds, just as he was unhappy with the composition of the jury, which consisted of eight officers and only four civilians.

  ‘Ah…’ Albert went even redder. ‘He is an excellent shot.’

  ‘Would you say a crack shot?’

  ‘Ah…yes, he is a crack shot.’

  ‘Do you know of any boast which the accused has been wont to make?’

  ‘Ah…’ Albert licked his lips.

  ‘Surely this is hearsay, m’lud?’ Ballantine suggested.

  Did the accused make this boast to you in person, Mr Forsythe?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Ah…yes, m’lud.’

  ‘Then you may tell us what it was.’

  Albert licked his lips again. ‘Richard was fond of saying that he could shoot the eye out of a monkey at twenty paces.’

  Rhodes smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Forsythe.’

  ‘Mr Ballantine?’ invited the judge.

  ‘Mr Forsythe,’ Ballantine said. ‘You have testified that my client spends some of his spare time target shooting. You should know. Am I right in assuming that you have shared a bungalow with Mr Bryant since his arrival in Bombay?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘Therefore you know him better than anyone else on the island?’

  ‘I think I do, sir.’ Albert was on happier ground, now.

  ‘Then will you tell the court if Mr Bryant has ever taken part in a duel before?’

  ‘Certainly not in Bombay, sir.’

  ‘Will you tell the court if Mr Bryant has ever fired at a human being before, from any cause whatsoever.’

  ‘To my knowledge he has not, sir.’

  ‘Do you ever practise with a pistol, Mr Forsythe?’

  ‘From time to time, sir.’

  ‘Have you ever fought a duel?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Have you ever had occasion to fire at a human being?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a rustle in the court, but Ballantine was unmoved; he had expected the answer.

  ‘What was the reason?’

  ‘There was a burglar in my bungalow, sir.’

  ‘Was this before, or after, Mr Bryant arrived in Bombay?’

  ‘Before, sir.’

  ‘I see. So you awoke to find a burglar in your house, and you picked up your pistol and fired at him. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, sir…my hand was shaking too much to take proper aim.’

  ‘Shaking? Were you shaking with fear of the burglar?’

  Albert appeared to consider. ‘I do not think so, sir. He was already endeavouring to escape as rapidly as possible.’

  ‘Then why was your hand shaking?’

  ‘Well, sir...’

  ‘I put it to you that your hand was shaking because this was the first time you had ever levelled a loaded pistol at another human being with the intention of firing it.’

  ‘Why, yes, sir. I suppose that would be it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Forsythe.’

  Something had been retrieved.

  ‘But it is not going as well as I had hoped,’ Ballantine confessed, as he and Richard shared lunch. ‘We have been let down by Smythe.’

  ‘Smythe? What has he got to do with it?’

  ‘My dear boy, he is the senior factor. His support would have been invaluable. And I have asked for it. As he is your employer, I requested him to appear in your defence as a character witness. Were he to do so, and declare to the court that in his opinion you were the last person on earth who would wish to kill a fellow man, well, we would be home and dry. He’s a great friend of Trant’s, too. That would be important.’

  ‘Would you be allowed to ask him a question like that?’

  ‘No. But it could not be struck until after I had asked it. Then, even if it were struck, the answer would have been heard by the jury. Anyway, there would be other ways of bringing it out. Alas…’ he sighed. ‘The man has utterly refused to appear.’

  ‘Can you not subpoena him?’

  ‘Oh, I can. But he has warned me that he can think of nothing good to say about your character. Thus, to force him to appear would be a disaster.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said grimly, and wondered just how much Barbara had told her uncle.

  ‘So, I am going to have to put you in the box.’

  *

  ‘There is only one question at issue here, Mr Bryant,’ Ballantine said, as Richard stood stiffly in the witness box. ‘When you saw the handkerchief fall from Major Gillespie’s hand on that fateful morning, did you have any intention of harming Lieutenant Ford?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Richard said.

  ‘What was your intention?’

  ‘To fire over his left shoulder.’

  ‘You are on oath, Mr Bryant. Do you still assert that it was your intention to fire over his left shoulder?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And will you further swear that the fact that the bullet struck the unfortunate man was entirely an accident? Caused perhaps by a trembling of the hand?’

  ‘I do not know how the bullet struck Lieutenant Ford. I wish to God it had not.’ Richard said. ‘Perhaps my hand was trembing. I do not know.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bryant.’

  Ballantine sat down, and Rhodes stood up. The crowded courtroom was absolutely quiet, because this was clearly the crux of the matter.

  ‘Have you any idea, Mr Bryant, how many duels have been fought in Bombay in, say, the last ten years?’

  ‘I have not, sir.’

  Rhodes checked his notes. ‘There were twenty-nine, sir. Well, then, would you care to make an estimate of how many of them ended in a fatality?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not one, Mr Bryant. Not one. Because it is the custom merely to exchange shots, and not hit one’s opponent. You are asking this court to believe that that was also your intention. Am I right?’

  ‘That was my intention, sir.’

  Rhodes went on, ‘But was your killing of Mr Ford an accident? We have heard testimony as to your accuracy, your vaunted accuracy, Mr Bryant, with a pistol. We have heard how you have boasted that you could shoot the eye from a monkey at twenty paces. Mr Ford was standing twenty paces away from you, and he presented a much larger target than a monkey’s eye, did he not?’

  Again Richard gave no reply. He did not suppose Rhodes really wanted one.

  ‘Might it not be presumed, Mr Bryant, that a man who boasts of his skill with a pistol, who is inordinately proud of that skill, who talks of what he could do at twenty paces—the very distance which separates antagonists in a duel—has practised with the idea of one day fighting a duel?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Richard said. ‘I practised for the pleasure of it, and because I am interested in a military career.’

  ‘Which you wish to anticipate by murdering one of your future follow officers?’ Rhodes paused to allow a ripple of laughter to circle the court. ‘Mr Bryant,
your advocate has reminded you that you are on oath. Can you swear to this court that when you so assiduously practised with your pistols you were not imagining yourself standing alone in the dawn, facing an adversary, determined to bring him down?’

  ‘I have never imagined myself in such a situation.’

  ‘Ah, but I suggest you did. You trained yourself for such an occurrence exactly as a soldier is trained for war, is trained to kill, is expected to kill, the first time he is sent into battle against an enemy. There can be no question of his being unable to fire because his hand is shaking, simply because he has never fired at a human being before. He has been trained to fire at human beings, as you trained yourself to fire at a human being, and bring him down.’

  Richard said nothing. He did not dare look at the jury.

  ‘Now let me pass on to another point. What were your relations with Mr Ford?’

  ‘We were…acquainted.’

  ‘Did you like him? You are under oath, Mr Bryant.’

  ‘I did not like him, sir.’

  ‘Did you actively dislike him?’

  Richard opened his mouth, and closed it again.

  ‘Would it not be true to say that you loathed Mr Ford, Mr Bryant?’

  ‘I did not pick the quarrel, sir,’ Richard said.

  ‘I understand that. I do not intend to go into the reason for the quarrel, as it is a matter of some delicacy.’ He looked meaningfully at the jury; of course everyone knew the quarrel had been over Barbara Smythe. ‘Nor do I doubt that the loathing between you and Mr Ford was mutual. What I do wish to establish is that when Mr Ford—justifiably, as I understand it—challenged you, you then determined to vent your dislike for him in the most brutal possible manner, for which you had trained yourself ever since your arrival in Bombay, and for which you were as prepared as any soldier.’

  ‘That is not true,’ Richard said. ‘I did not mean to harm him.’

  ‘Are you aware that Mr Ford’s pistol was never fired?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet you can still pretend you did not mean to harm him, when it is obvious that the moment Major Gillespie released his handkerchief, you brought into play all your skill as a marksman, and stuck down Mr Ford, a man for whom weapons were a part of his everyday life, before he could even squeeze the trigger? Come, come, Mr Bryant. Tell the truth. It was your intention to shoot down Mr Ford, an intention you carried out with ruthless precision.’

  ‘I did not mean to kill him,’ Richard muttered. But he was no longer sure whether he was telling the truth.

  *

  ‘You will, of course, be pronounced guilty,’ Ballantine warned Richard as they waited in the still-seething court. ‘Because, of course, you are technically guilty. But the verdict will be accompanied by a recommendation to mercy.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Of course. There is a certain form in these matters. The judge will probably bind you over to keep the peace for a number of years. For Heaven’s sake, there is not a white man in Bombay who does not know that a stroke of ill fortune could have him in the dock instead of you. It is a pity about all that practising, but I cannot believe that will make any difference. You handled that very well.’

  ‘You don’t suppose Trant will be influenced by the opinions of Jonathan Smythe?’

  ‘Because of their friendship? They play cards together every week, but to suggest that Trant would let himself be influenced by any feelings of animosity Smythe may have for you…no, no, that is unthinkable.’

  ‘Court will rise,’ announced the usher.

  Ballantine returned to his seat, and Richard was left alone in the dock. Judge Trant entered and took his place, and the court sat down. Immediately the jury came in.

  ‘Have you reached a verdict?’

  ‘We have,’ said the army colonel who was foreman.

  The clerk held out his hand, and the colonel gave him a folded piece of paper. This was conveyed to the judge, who opened it and looked at it. His expression did not change.

  ‘What is your verdict?’ asked the clerk.

  ‘That the prisoner is guilty of the unlawful killing of Lieutenant Ford.’ There was a gasp in the courtroom, yet everyone must have expected such a verdict.

  Richard could hardly breathe.

  The colonel cleared his throat. ‘But, in the circumstances, my fellows and I wish to recommend the prisoner to your lordship’s mercy.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel Tate,’ Judge Trant said. ‘The prisoner will stand.’

  Richard stood and faced the judge.

  ‘Richard Bryant, you have been found guilty of murder. In view of the established facts there was no other verdict that could be returned against you. The question at issue was never whether you killed Lieutenant Ford. It was whether you intended to kill him, in the course of an illegal duel. Do you understand this?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Richard said.

  ‘Have you nothing to say before I pass sentence upon you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very good. I am aware that it has long been the custom to treat cases of duelling with extreme leniency. I have never subscribed to such a view. Duelling is illegal. Those who indulge in it are breaking the law. It may be possible to regard two young men who go out and exchange shots harmlessly into the air as the victims of custom and high spirits rather than criminals. But they must also understand that should their high spirits lead to tragedy, then they must accept responsibility for what has happened.

  ‘In English jurisprudence, the unlawful taking of life is answered by depriving the murderer in turn of his own life.’

  The judge paused, and Richard was aware of a slow tightening of his stomach muscles even as the hair on his neck seemed to be standing on end.

  ‘In this case,’ the judge went on, ‘the jury has seen fit to add to its verdict a recommendation of mercy. In all the circumstances, having regard to your age and to the fact that it would be unseemly to hang an English Company servant here in Bombay, I am disposed to accept this recommendation.’

  This time there was an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘However, your crime must be punished. Here in Bombay we lack the facilities to imprison a white man without gravely affecting the structure of our society. It is therefore the sentence of this court that you be returned to the cell from whence you came, that you will remain there until the departure of the next ship bound for Britain, on which you will be placed, together with a letter of disposition from this court to the Lord Chancellor, recommending that you be sentenced to whatever term of imprisonment, or any other punishment, His Lordship may consider appropriate. Take the prisoner down.’

  *

  ‘Outrageous!’ Mr Ballantine declared. ‘Absolutely outrageous. And that rider, “any other punishment His Lord-ship may consider appropriate”…why, he is almost inviting the Chancellor to sentence you to death after all! You were quite right, Mr Bryant. Smythe has been at him. But we’ll appeal. Oh, yes, we’ll appeal.’

  ‘Will that stop me being sent home, a criminal?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Well, no, I’m afraid it will not. Our letter of appeal will have to accompany you. I had hoped to drum up a petition as well, signifying the support of your fellows, but it is proving difficult. Perhaps you have been too much your own man during your stay here. Had you played polo…’

  ‘And gambled away my salary every month, and drunk myself insensible every night, and whored until I got the clap,’ Richard interjected, bitterly.

  ‘Well, reprehensible as such pastimes may appear to older heads such as mine, they are taken as aspects of the good-fellowship of youth into which, alas, you have not entered. People think of you, mainly, as being eager to criticise the Company’s methods and appointments, as too brash by half.’ He raised his finger. ‘I am not criticising, Mr Bryant. A man must follow his own path through life. I am just attempting to explain my lack of success. The only signature I have been able to obtain is that of Mr Forsythe.’

  �
�Would you not do better to appeal to the Governor-General?’ Albert asked. He had accompanied the lawyer back to the cell with Richard. ‘He showed some interest in you when last he was here.’

  Richard snapped his fingers. ‘That would be the ticket.’

  ‘Well, I shall do so, of course,’ Ballantine agreed. ‘But I am afraid that no reply can be expected from Calcutta either, until after the next Indiaman calls here, homeward bound. I do not see Trant permitting you to remain pending such a reply. Or even, indeed, permitting such an appeal to a civil authority, even the highest.’

  ‘So I’m done for,’ Richard said. ‘With the sort of letter Trant will write, I’ll be lucky if they don’t lock me up in Newgate and throw away the key. If, as you say, Mr Ballantine, they do not hang me.’

  ‘They may take a completely different point of view. And don’t forget my letter. Courage, boy, courage.’

  *

  There was nothing to do, save stare at the rain. Richard had been returned to the cell in his best suit, but it was now a very dirty best suit. He had nothing else. He was taken out once a day for some exercise, and he was fed twice a day, if what he was served could be called food. Fortunately Albert sent Hanif in twice a week with some real food and a bottle of wine.

  Albert was proving a true friend, but the only friend he had, it seemed. No one else showed the slightest interest in him. He had been wiped from the memory of everyone on the island, and especially from the memory of Barbara Smythe. He wondered whom she was meeting on the beach on Monday mornings now. He was sure he would have been replaced pretty promptly.

  Sometimes, he thought, he would give a great deal to have that slender neck clutched in his fingers, to squeeze and squeeze. So perhaps he could kill, after all. Perhaps he had meant to kill Ford since the day the soldier had tortured that poor Indian woman. How that thought would anger Barbara, who supposed he had killed Ford over her.

  He had never thought himself as possessing the will to kill, although he had known that as a soldier he might have to. As a soldier! Another dream vanished into limbo.

  Instead, he was being returned to England, in chains, a disgrace to his father and his sisters. He might even be hanged.

  Even his dreams of somehow breaking out of the prison, of disappearing into the jungle to become a renegade, a mercenary, seemed futile and childish. Perhaps, for all his boastings, he actually lacked the courage.