A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1)

by William Scott

  *

  The sound was like an explosion and simultaneously a loud thump emanated from a tree as a branch shattered near him. Pierce immediately dropped to the ground like a heavy sac, his body rigid in shock. His wide eyes darted around the area as he looked for danger. Dusk had fallen and a mist was forming, hiding the smoke that would tell him from where the sound originated. Was someone trying to shoot him? It hadn’t sounded like a gunshot, but his only experience with guns was from television, which couldn’t be used as a baseline. To his left he heard footsteps approaching, so he covered his head with his arms in meager defence.

  “Sir, it appears that you have killed one of the villagers,” stated a calm and passionless voice, “again”.

  “Damn, what in the hell was he doing this far from the village,” replied a more passionate voice with a southern accent. This same voice continued but much louder and in the opposite direction. “You’re lucky this time Willy! This should have been you!”

  More footsteps approached and Pierce could feel that a group was starting to gather near him.

  “If you were to kill me Colonel,” replied a cool voice, “who would you duel with?”

  “Hmph. Bunch of no-good, honourless…” The voiced started to trail off as it moved away.

  Sensing that he probably wasn’t in too much danger, Pierce removed his arms from around his head and looked up. The motion made a man beside the wounded tree immediately look down at him.

  “Not dead sir!” he exclaimed and Pierce recognized the first voice he heard.

  “Not dead indeed,” replied the voice he associated with Willy.

  Standing up slowly, Pierce started to take stock of his surroundings and the people filling it. Beside the tree a man was prying something out of it with a metal tool. Just to his left a much larger man stood motionless. Upon closer examination Pierce thought they were wearing the same outfits as the men who attacked him in his Ottawa apartment. They must be from the Manor, he reasoned.

  “What the hell are you doing breaking up a duel boy?” questioned a man quickly approaching from behind the two near the tree. “Willy!” he shouted in Pierce’s direction, making him look backwards at the man who must be Willy. “Willy, this ragamuffin’s appearance disqualifies the duel. I demand we restart!”

  “It’s late Colonel, very close to dinner,” Willy replied with a yawn and a shrug. “Perhaps we can reconvene tomorrow?”

  “Very well, but my honour will not stand a longer delay.” Turning towards Pierce, he regained some of his fierceness. “So just who the hell are you? You’re a long way from the village boy.”

  “I’m a long way from the village,” Pierce replied equaling the Colonel’s tone, “because I live here. My name’s Pierce.” Then taking in the Colonel’s attire; a light grey suit, white shirt, and a black string tie he continued. “And you appear to be Colonel Sanders.”

  The Colonel immediately changed his demeanor, but instead of becoming more furious, he turned genial. Pierce decided he was the type to bluster and berate servants for the smallest infraction, but allowed more latitude to his peers.

  “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Colonel Buford, from Georgia. Where was this Colonel Sanders from?”

  “Kentucky,” deadpanned Pierce wondering if anyone understood the comparison.

  “I served with many Kentuckians, but never a Sanders. Good riflemen those lads, but much better horses. I had a horse named Spirit that was raised in Kentucky…”

  “I have found it sir,” interrupted the servant by the tree, displaying a set of large tweezers presumably holding the fired bullet. The Colonel walked over to him to inspect it, continuing his story of the majestic and unequalled horse.

  “You’ll have to excuse the Colonel,” offered Willy as he approached to stand beside Pierce, “he’s a lunatic.”

  “Why would you have a duel with a lunatic?”

  “Because he’s a lunatic with crooked dueling pistols. The safest place to be when those monsters are loaded is directly in front of them.” Extending his hand he introduced himself, “I’m Wilhelm Schell. Please don’t call me Willy, I allow the Colonel to because…”

  “He’s a lunatic?” added Pierce with a raised eyebrow.

  “Because he’d continue to call me that even if I corrected him,” replied Schell with a smile. He motioned Pierce to join him on the walk back to the Manor as they followed the Colonel and his man across the clearing.

  The group made their journey through an impressive arboretum in the failing light of dusk. Enormous trees dotted the vast grassy expanse surrounding them. Their path seemed to consistently meander up a slight grade, though the going was not so difficult that they couldn’t speak to one another. Noting his name, his straw haired and blue eyed Nordic appearance, Pierce enquired on his origins. Schell acquiesced and told him he descended from an old Prussian family and had grown up outside Berlin. Pierce explained that he had just arrived at the Manor from Ottawa, where he had grown up. Overhearing the two, the Colonel jumped in with his own questions.

  “I’ve never heard of Ottawa myself, but from the sounds of you I’d say it’s from the North. You’re not a Yankee are you?” He eyed Pierce narrowly, awaiting the response.

  “Canadian, actually.”

  “Canadian? Well that’s nearly the same thing as a Yankee.”

  “I’ll grant you there are similarities,” accepted Pierce with sarcastic graciousness, “much like a Texan and a Georgian are nearly the same.”

  “Exactly,” agreed the Colonel too quickly. “No, wait… That’s not what I…” He trailed off knowing his argument was lost and decided to abandon it to another diatribe on Canada. An old neighbour of his had lost a handful of slaves that had jumped on some mysterious train to Canada.

  “Apparently the tracks ran underground, but damned if we could find them anywhere. You’d think that the construction of an underground railroad would have left more of a trace…”

  Pierce looked over to the shrugging Schell. “The Colonel’s a very literal man.”

  “…Piracy, that’s what it, was. Simply stealing property is what they were doing. Stealing it and storing it in Canada out of the owners reach. You were lucky we were fighting a war, or we would have marched straight up to Canada and brought back what was ours.” He finished the speech pointing accusingly at Pierce.

  “Never fear Colonel, the South will rise again,” replied Pierce, unable to help himself.

  The Colonel seemed to calm down and a mischievous grin spread across his face. He was no longer a wound up toy soldier, bouncing from one subject to another. He emanated the silent power of a confident leader, one born from the carnage and chaos of battle.

  “How very prophetic Mr. Pierce. I agree with you and plan to see that day myself.”