Far Foreign (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 9)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Sir Frederick may read whatever he wishes into my words, Admiral. If he does not like them, then the remedy lies in his hands, though, to be sure, he does not seem to be much of a fighting gentleman!”

  That was taking insult beyond the limit that could be ignored; acceptance of those words must be accompanied by the resignation of his commission, effectively to admit their truth. Frederick shrugged and then drew himself to attention.

  “Would you care to name your friends, Brigadier Morton? I am sure Mr Dalby, my first lieutenant, would be happy to make such arrangements as are customary with them.”

  Commodore and brigadier were appointments of effectively equivalent position and as such there was no disciplinary bar to a meeting.

  Admiral Stirling made another attempt to achieve a peaceful outcome.

  “Gentlemen! The Spanish can be the only party to gain from this unfortunate turn out. Either the Army or the Navy must lose, temporarily I pray, the services of a senior officer as a result of this dispute. I beg of you to resolve your differences in some other way! There is no need for formal apology, of that I am certain; a simple withdrawal of carelessly expressed words will be more than sufficient, will it not, Sir Frederick?”

  “It will, sir. I have no wish to fight Brigadier Morton.”

  “I can readily believe that, Sir Frederick!”

  Morton’s response was a deliberate provocation, a worsening of the offence. Frederick turned on his heel, made his leave of Admiral Stirling and walked out before the situation should degenerate into a vulgar brawl.

  “Mr Dalby, I would wish you to make arrangements with the friends of Brigadier Morton, if you would be so good. For the earliest possible time, of course; tomorrow would be ideal.”

  The news spread through the ship within minutes; Frederick cancelled all shore work parties for that day, not wanting his people to set about the first soldiers they should come across.

  Dalby came back to the ship two hours later, shaking his head in dismay.

  “I suggested swords, sir, but the soldiers demanded pistols. It would seem that their man is a fraction portly to go on the skip with a blade!”

  “He would die of a heart-attack on the first pass, Mr Dalby. When?”

  “Dawn, sir, as is traditional. On the expanse of turf and sands that runs along from the quayside, sir. There is a flattish north-south stretch that will be fair for the rising sun, it seems. It is too public for my liking, sir, but the men who know the town could think of no better alternative.”

  “It will do, Mr Dalby. Inform the surgeon. I shall ask Sir Iain to stand with you, sir.”

  “He accused you of cowardice? You, of all people, Sir Frederick! The man must be mad!”

  Sir Iain was most indignant, had to be vigorously persuaded not to go on shore in pursuit of a senior army officer of his own.

  “He is worried that he will be defeated, Sir Iain, and that he will discover his career destroyed as a result. Add to that a naturally bad temper and an uncertain state of health and we have this ridiculous and unnecessary meeting in the morning. I shall put a ball into him if I possibly can – I am damned if I shall delope after the insult he offered me – and he will probably die from the shock – a heart attack or an apoplexy almost a certainty!”

  Sir Iain shook his head; duels were actively discouraged in England but were far more of a commonplace on foreign postings. It was by no means uncommon for officers to kill each other overseas, but it always eventually became known at home and cast a very slight shadow on the officer in question. Refusal to fight after the insinuation of cowardice had been made was totally unacceptable under the Military Code, however; the duel must go ahead, in this instance would probably be overlooked in England because the insult was simply intolerable.

  “Was provision made for a second shot, Sir Frederick?”

  “I do not know. I did not enquire of Mr Dalby.”

  Sang-froid was all very well but this was taking matters to the extreme; Dalby was called to the cabin.

  “Second shot, sir? It was mentioned, sir, and I informed the major who spoke to me that it was highly unlikely to be necessary, but that if he thought it desirable then we had no objection.”

  “Well said, Mr Dalby. Please take care not to offend the major to the extent that you find yourself stood up with him!”

  “I doubt I shall, sir. He was not especially pleased with the duty he had to perform, having, one suspects, certain moral reservations about the propriety of the duello. He did inform me that he would pray for a peaceful resolution of the issue.”

  “Very difficult for the poor man – torn between a duty to his superior and a different obligation to his spiritual master. I am told it is increasingly common in our service as well; the blue light brigade are spreading their influence. My informant believed that these new schools had much to do with it, their dominies often unbeneficed clerics and preaching to the boys at every opportunity. Times are changing, I fear me, Mr Dalby!”

  Dalby was a Catholic by birth and upbringing and, like all others of his faith, had had to forswear himself on taking service under the Crown. He had publicly announced his acceptance of the doctrines of the Established Church and had sworn the oath on the King James Bible when taking his commission as lieutenant; he was not much concerned with the growth of any form of Protestant orthodoxy among his peers.

  “Yes, sir. Times do tend to change, sir, as the years go by.”

  Sir Iain snorted in the background, being always a little quicker to pick up on the nuances of a conversation. He spoke up before Frederick could realise that he was being mocked, however gently.

  “It seems strange, somehow, that Brigadier Morton should offer to gross a provocation with so little justification, sir. He must know that you cannot simply ignore Admiralty orders.”

  “It might be argued that the commanders of the expedition from the Cape had done just that, Sir Iain. We do not know, and probably never will know, exactly what grounds were offered by the people involved, but it is quite certain that they had neither orders to invade the Rio de la Plata nor to cruise the waters of South America. This affair is at most semi-lawful; the admiral and generals involved have some sort of backing, that is almost a certainty, the risk of being shot for mutiny and piracy is far too high otherwise, but they have no order from the King’s ministers. There is a lot of money from the City of London, I suspect, in the background, and a half-promise from some very senior people that success will result in forgiveness, promotions indeed. Brigadier Morton is faced by failure – and he has reason, I must imagine, not to fancy the consequences to him of losing Montevideo. He is a desperate man, or so I read him, and will care very little about the results of tomorrow morning’s affair. His offensive language smacks to me of despair, of his last opportunity lost, leaving him beyond any sensible hope; naturally, he blames me for destroying his future. I could feel sorry for him, but I cannot possibly ignore his words; to do so would be to end my career and my name.”

  Sir Iain could not but agree; Brigadier Morton had made his comments almost in a shout and would certainly have been heard in the outside offices. Rumour must already be spreading through the messes, both army and naval, and there could be no other course than to fight him.

  “How good is your surgeon, sir? Mine is competent, no more – can hold his own as a pox-doctor but possesses little other ability, or not that I have seen.”

  “My man is knowledgeable, I believe, but I fear he may be a fraction bold, inclined towards the heroic measure when given the opportunity. He will be present in the morning, but I rather hope not to call on his services.”

  Bosomtwi rousted Frederick out of his cot a full hour earlier than he thought was necessary.

  “Close shave this morning, isn’t it, sir. And you got to drink you coffee and eat you breakfast. The surgeon he say it better to have an empty belly for in case you get shot there – but, if you do, you finished anyway, isn’t it, so you might as well have a hot bite to
eat, sir. They all knows you fighting this morning, sir, and the men likes to know you sat down to breakfast. Time you finishes you coffee, you call in the master, sir, and talks about the course down south later in the week. Suppose you gets dead, it don’t matter, isn’t it, but if you comes back the men they all know just what sort of man you are, or so they thinks, isn’t it. Do them good, they ones what was prisoners special like, for they ain’t never heard of you and we ain’t had any big fights yet this commission.”

  Kavanagh, quiet in the background, grunted his agreement.

  “The prisoners what was, sir, mostly are fitting in, but they could do with a reason for fighting, sir. The quotamen, they all heard of your name one time or another, and the seamen all know you, but the foreigners don’t, in the normal way of things. This’ll give them something to talk about. I’ll bring your pistols, sir, in case they’re needed. The army bloke is supposed to be supplying them, so Sir Iain, said, but you might not like his.”

  It never hurt to have alternative barrels but Kavanagh’s suggestion was impossible.

  “Can’t, man! My pistols have rifled barrels. Duelling pistols must be smoothbores.”

  “Not always, sir, not if the two sets of seconds agree.”

  “Must be, Kavanagh. I intend to put the bloody man down, if I possibly can; that means there must be no whispers afterwards that I was using my own, rifled barrels. Everything straight and above board!”

  Kavanagh nodded his acceptance; he had not realised that Frederick had been mortally offended by his opponent’s words.

  “Right, sir. I’ll just see to the launch, sir. Ten minutes, I reckon.”

  The launch was waiting, tied on by the entry port, oars tossed correctly. The crew were in their very best, everything scrubbed clean, the boat spotless, themselves even more so; they had spent the bulk of the night on their preparations. All officers were lined on the quarterdeck, again, all in their best, as if ready for an Admiral’s Inspection. Frederick said nothing, raised his hat to them and followed the surgeon and Dalby into the boat.

  They pushed off and the men fell into a slow, dry, ceremonial stroke, all of the most formal for the benefit of the telescopes that must be observing from every ship in harbour.

  Sir Iain was waiting at the quay, his own launch almost as magnificent as Endymion’s. They exchanged salutes and set out, side by side towards the ground. Sir Iain had been to the site already, ensuring that all was well.

  “There are quite a few of onlookers, sir, including, of all bloody things, one of the regimental bands!”

  “What do they think it is, Astley’s bloody Circus?”

  “The word I had, sir, all on the quiet, was that Brigadier Morton has been playing the tyrant this last month or two. No fewer than four lieutenants are waiting court-martial, charged with disobedience to orders and other offences sufficient to have them broken and sent home cashiered. He has been free with the cat as well; two of his sergeants given five hundred for insubordination among other sentences.”

  “Sergeants? No man flogs his sergeants! How in hell does he expect to present a fighting battalion if he has been putting his sergeants to the triangle? Five hundred, too – a sergeant, in the nature of things, ain’t likely to be a young man, will be lucky to survive that.”

  “Neither did, I am told, sir, and all he said was good riddance to ‘em, if they died for a flogging then they can have been no use in the first place!”

  “It sounds much as if I shall be doing the whole world a favour this morning, Sir Iain, or such is my hope!”

  They arrived correctly, just two minutes before the appointed time, displaying care not to make Frederick’s opponent wait for him; that would have been a sadly ill-mannered act.

  Brigadier Morton’s coach appeared a few seconds after, his horses sweating as if the driver had pushed them hard to avoid lateness. The soldier stood down, ruffled and trying to set his neckcloth straight as if he had been bounced about on rough roads. His seconds, present already, stood forward to his side, exchanged a few words and then marched to meet Dalby and Sir Iain, exchanging bows with careful courtesy.

  A brief discussion – the normal last attempt to resolve the dispute peacefully – and they stepped out onto the waste ground and agreed a place for their principals to meet, kicking a few large stones out from underfoot.

  Admiral Stirling was present as senior remaining officer on station and suggested his flag-captain should conduct the meeting. He had never served with Frederick and the soldiers offered no objection. He was a brisk, almost brusque, gentleman and brought the two together very quickly with their seconds.

  “What distance, gentlemen?”

  Frederick did not speak; this was a matter for the seconds. Sir Iain suggested twenty paces. Brigadier Morton’s man wanted sixteen. Frederick made a silent half-bow of assent and Sir Iain and Dalby signified their agreement.

  “So be it, gentlemen. I must ask you even at this very last minute whether you cannot compound your differences. No? Then let us proceed. On my word, gentlemen, you will turn and take eight regulation paces and will then about face. I shall step back and give you the call to cock your pistols and will then, when you are both armed, instruct you to fire, which you will do in your own time. You both understand? Good. Take your places.”

  The band, which had been playing country airs very quietly in the background fell silent to the flourish of the drum-major. A few spectators who felt they might be in the line of a badly aimed ball shuffled back a few steps, and they waited, licking their lips in anticipation.

  “Cock your locks!”

  A few more seconds to allow for a fumble or call for replacement of a faulty pistol, and the flag-captain shouted them to fire.

  Sixteen paces was within reason close for a man-sized target; an eight-inch barrel pistol should be accurate within two inches at twenty-five yards.

  Frederick took a deep breath and brought the barrel to the aim, exhaled slowly and squeezed very gently; he was surprised when the shot came, always a sign of accuracy, of total concentration. He did not notice whether Brigadier Morton had fired, far too much taken up with his own actions. Quite detached from the event, watching from a distance as it were, he saw blood appear on the expanse of white shirt covering the large belly and then observed the man to fall heavily onto the sand in front of him; with some distaste he heard Morton scream repeatedly. That was very poor, he thought; once from the first shock, but after that one should display a proper stoicism. He felt an itch and raised his left hand to his ear, was amazed when it came down bloody; he touched the place again, discovered a nick on its inside edge.

  “I’ll be damned!”

  Sir Iain took an amazed look and produced a clean pocket handkerchief and swabbed the tiny abrasion dry.

  “Just a scratch, Sir Frederick. Another inch and it would have been through your brain! I say, sir, that is in truly bad taste!”

  The band had struck up the Death March from Saul.

  “They might have waited on the poor fellow’s convenience! The noise he is making, he is quite obviously alive yet!”

  Dalby walked across from where he had been conferring with Morton’s seconds.

  “Well, sir, there will be no need for a second shot! I say, sir, did he hit you? Nearly killed you, I would say! He is in very bad case, the surgeons tell us; a matter of time, no more. Squarely in the stomach, sir, gave him a second navel, so our man said!”

  Frederick noted that Dalby seemed quite exhilarated, was displaying far too much enjoyment of the event, taking a vicarious pleasure in the destruction of other mortals. Not necessarily harmful in itself, but he would bear watching in a hot action, for he might not be so excited when the bloodshed came closer to home.

  “What the hell are they doing now?”

  Brigadier Morton had been lifted into his coach, still howling, though not so loud as he weakened, and the band, playing still, had formed into marching column, presumably to serenade his last journey.
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br />   “Well, that might be the Army’s understanding of elegance and good taste, but it ain’t mine, gentlemen!”

  “He had made himself obnoxious, Sir Frederick. I expect they will be playing a jig by the time they get him to his lodging!”

  The word had preceded them and the crew cheered as Frederick returned to the ship; he took off his hat in acknowledgement, deploring their action but forced to recognise their feelings.

  Book Nine: The Duty

  and Destiny Series

  Chapter Six

  Frederick woke next morning and scratched his itching ear, drawing blood and swearing and reflecting that it would have been damned silly to die in such a way. He wondered whether Brigadier Morton had yet succumbed, but really was not too interested – the ill-mannered, bad-tempered clod had deserved all that he had received. He made his way to Admiral Stirling’s shore office to make the arrangements for the squadron’s departure.

  “Wiser perhaps, Sir Frederick, that you should sail on an early day. Brigadier Morton was not well loved by his people, particularly following his behaviour in recent weeks, but he was – is still – a soldier and his death at the hands of a sailor can only provoke trouble. The presence of your lower-deck jacks in the town will not help matters, of course; I was told only an hour ago of a work detail of your men in the yard chanting some vulgar ditty to the tune of the Dead March. No doubt they found it very entertaining.”

  “Ah, yes. ‘Where shall we be in a hundred years from now’, the first line, I believe, sir. Poor Handel must be spinning in his grave!”

  “I notice you make no attempt to offer the succeeding lines, Sir Frederick!”

  “Not in polite company, sir!”

  “You realise, of course, that the song will be the favourite of the whole company for the remainder of the commission?”