by J M Hemmings
‘Filthy little Scotch bastard!’
Watson flung his rum bottle with all his might at William’s head, but he managed to duck and avoid the hurtling projectile, which sailed with a whoosh through the space where his face had just been, spewing rum as it tumbled. William stood up straight again, shaking his head as he brushed some spilled liquor off of his shoulders.
‘Go chase your stupid bottle. Follow it, an’ dunnae come back,’ he said in a dry, even tone.
‘You fink that because you’s an officer’s pet, you’re special now? Is that what you fink, Cake?! Let’s bloody well see, let’s see just ‘ow bleedin’ special you are,’ Watson hissed, and with this he drew his sabre and began advancing on William.
‘Oy! Are you bloody mad, Watty?!’ Michael shouted, springing to his feet. ‘This is live, sharp steel you’re playing with! These’re no’ training blades!’
He lunged forward and grabbed Watson by his sword arm, but as quick as a flash, despite his drunkenness, Watson spun around on his heels and crashed his left elbow into Michael’s jaw. Michael grunted, swayed briefly, and then crumpled to his knees, reeling and dazed from the force of the blow.
‘Watson, you evil bastard!’ Paul snarled, unsheathing his sabre. ‘Andrew, draw your sword! Watty, you’ll face three ay us wi’ sabres if you come a step further!’
However, before Paul could make another move William held up a hand to stop him.
‘No Paul, this here is my battle. I’m going tae put a stop tae this once an’ fir all.’
William then drew his sabre from its scabbard. Holding it in a loose grip, he turned to face the advancing Watson in a mid-guard stance.
‘Think about what you’re doing, Watty,’ William warned as the big man continued to advance on him. ‘Use your damned brain an’ bloody well think about it.’
Watson merely growled, twirling his sabre in his right hand as he prepared to strike. William and Watson began circling one another, keeping the campfire between them as they did. The flickering flames illuminated both men’s faces, throwing splashes of intense chiaroscuro shadow, alternating with blazes of orange and yellow flares, across their features.
‘Let’s see what you’re really made of, Cake,’ Watson growled. ‘Come on, stop ‘iding behind those flames like a bleedin’ meater!’
Watson lunged forward suddenly and wildly, slashing his blade through the fire at William, but he was easily able to evade the clumsy strike.
‘Fight me!’ Watson snarled. ‘Stop running, you coward!’
‘This is your last chance tae put tha’ blade down,’ William warned. ‘Put it down an’ walk away, now.’
‘That’s right you fool!’ Paul cried in agreement. ‘Put the sword away an’ come tae your blasted senses, man!’
‘Bah!’
Watson kicked a mass of burning coals and embers from the fire at William, but he sprang nimbly to the side and avoided the shotgun-blast of hot projectiles.
‘I’ve ‘ad it wiff’ you!’ Watson shouted, and he leaped clean over the fire and hacked at William, who parried the vicious but uncoordinated blow, counterattacking with a whistling, lightning-fast riposte that caught Watson on the side of his head with the flat of the blade. The big man yelped in pain and stumbled back, clutching at his head with his left hand but keeping his sabre pointed at William with his right.
‘That cut could ay ended your sorry life had Will used the edge ay the blade, Watty!’ Paul jeered from the sidelines. ‘We’d all be laughin’ at the three wee drops ay brain, because that’s all there’d bloody well be, drippin’ out your split-open skull right now!’
‘Shut up!’ Watson hissed, still clutching his head, which was ringing and smarting terribly. ‘Bleedin’ shut your trap!’
‘Stop this folly now, Watty,’ William said, still speaking in a calm and even tone. ‘I’ve given you one warning. The next one’ll hurt a great deal more.’
William was putting Captain Liversage’s teachings into action here with great success; he was fully in control of the base emotions of fear and anger, and he was able to feel every muscle, tendon and joint in his body all working in flowing unison. The sword had become an extension of his arm; a living, dynamic body part, melded to his flesh, bone and sinew. He watched Watson staggering towards him in an attempt to make another assault, and he looked for the signs in his opponent’s most minute and subtle of movements – cues which to the initiated were glaring road signs, screaming out the exact course of action the hapless combatant was about to take.
‘Show me how you dance, Watty. Show me your moves, boyo,’ William whispered under his breath.
Watson expelled a guttural, garbled shout of aggression and lunged forward with a vicious thrust. William sidestepped the attack with rapid ease and once again struck with blinding quickness at the opening that Watson had exposed with his over-aggressive move. This time, however, William used the edge of the blade, and his counterblow opened up a deep and ugly cut across Watson’s cheek. Viscous blood began oozing from the wound and running down Watson’s stubble-thick jowls, and he cried out in pain and staggered off to the side, almost losing his footing.
‘I could ay had your eye, Watty. If I’d wanted tae, I could ay taken your eye out wi’ that cut.’
William’s voice was flint-sharp, and with a swift epiphany of clarity Watson understood that he could not win this fight. Still, injured pride and drunken rage propelled him on; he refused to back down, even now.
‘Come off it Watty!’ shouted Michael, who was recovering from the brutal elbow Watson had smashed into his jaw earlier. ‘We can all see tha’ Will’s got you licked! You’re pished an’ angry, an’ now you’ve got yoursel’ a wee souvenir on your cheek tha’s gonnae hurt like blazes tomorrow morning! It’s time tae stop this nonsense!’
‘Shut up! All of you, shut up!’ Watson howled, still intent on finishing the fight.
Again he attacked, but now he was far more cautious in his assault, and this time he was able to exchange a handful of feints, parries and blows with William. William, however, moved with the grace of a ballerina and the speed of a flighty cat, and in just a few seconds he had outmanoeuvred his opponent. With a swift duck and an agile dash under a too-wild slash, followed up with a deft leg hook, William sent Watson crashing face-first into the ground. Watson’s sabre fell into the fire and he lay groaning on his stomach, his face a mess of blood, with grass, dirt and leaves from the ground now stuck to the congealing liquid all over his cheeks.
William pressed the edge of his sabre against Watson’s throat.
‘I hope you’ve learned yersel’ a wee lesson here, Watty,’ he said. ‘Dunnae underestimate your opponent, an’ dunnae fight when you’re under the influence.’
William said this in a steady tone of voice, but inside he was aflame with a strange, heady rush; this was a drug that he had never before experienced, and the potent intoxication that it pulsed through his veins and nerves was at once exhilarating and addictive: this was the thing that men called power. Captain Liversage had warned him about this, the most dangerous of all drugs. His words rang clear in William’s mind:
Do not relish in the dominance that these skills with which I am equipping you will give you over others. Never, ever believe yourself to be superior to other beings, even if in some capacity you are. Power is a dangerous addiction, my boy, and it is one that all too often spirals completely out of control, destroying those who seek to harness it for purposes good or evil. It is an ancient and malevolent entity, William, this thing we call ‘power’. It is a demon birthed in the deepest realms of darkness, and it will possess your mind, body and soul with a finality and totality that cannot be fought against. As Cain struck down his own brother, so too will an enslavement to the rush of power cause any individual to commit all sorts of evil deeds against their fellow men in the neverending pursuit of fuelling that terrible addiction. Never fall slave to the damning enthrallment of power, for I tell you this: it will be the end of you, as
surely as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Humility, empathy and selflessness, my boy, those are the only antidotes to the poison called ‘power’. Drink often and deeply of them.
William shouted wordlessly, forcefully jolting himself out of the trance-like state induced by the electrifying feeling of power. He stared down at his sabre blade, with its deadly edge pressing against the vulnerable flesh of Watson’s throat, and he felt a sudden revulsion at the proximity of the sharp metal to the warm, living skin. At this a hot flush of shame and self-disgust washed through his body, and he quickly withdrew his blade and sheathed it. He knelt down and offered a hand to Watson.
‘I’m sorry Watty,’ he said. ‘Here, let me help you up.’
Watson looked up at William with eyes that blazed like those of a cornered panther. He hissed a primal growl through gritted, blood-browned teeth, and gripped William’s extended hand with his left hand.
‘That’s right,’ William said. ‘Come on, up wi’—’
As Watson rose up from the ground, he swung his right fist in a vicious hook that caught William square in his solar plexus and knocked the wind right out of him. Watson jerked his left hand out of William’s, and in the same motion he balled his fist and smashed it against William’s jaw in a cracking left cross. William sank to his knees, stunned and winded, and Watson pounced on top of him, ready to unleash all of his pent-up fury. This time, however, Michael was waiting and ready. He dived across the fire and tore Watson off William, and with one mighty heave he threw the big man to the ground and pinned him down.
‘You honourless, back-stabbin’ coward!’ Michael spat. ‘Tae think I’ve called you “friend” in recent days! I’ve dishonoured mysel’ wi’ tha’, I bleeding well have! Pish tae you, Watty!’
‘Bah!’ roared Watson defiantly. ‘Get off o’ me!’
‘Take his sabre away!’ Michael shouted to Andrew, who kicked the sabre out of the flames and picked up the glowing-hot weapon with a rag wrapped around his hand.
‘Got it Mikey,’ Andrew said. ‘This bastard can have it back when he’s slept off this inebriation.’
‘You bloody fookin’ bastards!’ Watson screamed, still struggling against Michael’s lock. ‘I’ll report all of yous to Sergeant Fray, he’ll flay you alive for takin’ my sword!’
‘Wouldn’t tha’ be rich,’ Paul sneered with a smirk. ‘You crawlin’ on hands an’ knees tae the sergeant now, all muddied an’ bloodied up, stinkin’ ay booze, an’ tryin’ tae lay a complaint! Ha! Go right ahead, boyo! We’ll see what the sergeant thinks ay you! We’ve got four witnesses right here who’ll testify that you drew your blade on Will wi’ lethal intent. Go on then, you bastard, try it! Go tae the sergeant right now! Just bloody well try it!’
Watson knew that they were right, so he just howled gutturally in a tempest of impotent frustration.
‘What’s going on ‘ere, then?’ asked a gravelly voice from the darkness beyond the campfire.
‘Smythe!’ Paul shouted. ‘Come over here an’ help us wi’ Watson. He’s blind drunk, an’ he’s been fightin’.’
Private Smythe stepped out of the shadows into the orange light thrown out from the campfire. He looked at Watson, who was growling and still trying to struggle against Michael’s hold, and exhaled a long sigh of disapproval.
‘Watty, Watty, Watty,’ he said with a roll of his eyes. ‘What on earth are we going to do wiff you, then?’
‘These fookin’ meaters, they fookin’—’
‘Hush, hush now m’ lad,’ Smythe interrupted. ‘Whatever nonsense has gone on ‘ere is done, and I’ve got no desire whatsoever to ‘ear about it, like. I’m going to take you down to our tent, an’ you can sleep it off, right? Word is we’re going to ‘ave a bright an’ early start tomorrow, so you’ll need some rest.’
‘But they fookin’—’
‘Not another word, Watty. Otherwise I’ll just keep on’ walking and leave that big lad sat on you all night.’
Watson huffed and spat, but he knew that he had no other option now.
‘If I let you go, are you gonnae attack me?’ Michael asked.
‘No,’ Watson mumbled through gritted teeth.
‘What was tha’ then? I didnae quite hear you.’
‘No, I won’t!’ Watson spat, his face red with a blistering concoction of anger, intoxication and shame, and covered liberally with blood, grit and leaves. ‘I won’t bleedin’ attack you! Now get your fookin’ fat self off o’ me!’
‘You’d best keep your word, boyo,’ Michael said threateningly. ‘There’s five ay us here now against one ay you. Those odds are no’ in your favour.’
‘Just bloody get off me!’
Michael released Watson from his hold and got up cautiously, keeping his eyes on the big man as he did, and then Private Smythe stepped over and helped his friend up. He draped his Watson’s arm over his shoulder and then began to hobble off, half-dragging the huge man, who at this stage was too inebriated to even stay upright.
‘Thanks Smythe!’ Michael called out after them. ‘I’ll bring that bastard’s sword over tae your tent before we go tae sleep.’
‘Have a good night, boys!’ Smythe shouted in response as he and Watson melted into the darkness. ‘There may well be a battle on the morrow, so get yourselves some sound shut-eye!’
The men settled around the fire, with Michael and William dusting themselves off. William’s jaw ached with a dull, persistent throbbing from the heavy punch Watson had landed, and he rubbed at it gingerly, wincing every now and then as his fingers brushed the epicentre of the pain.
Andrew put down Watson’s sword and picked up his guitar and resumed playing, plucking the strings in a gentle and tragic melody as the others started to talk.
‘You gave Watty a damned good trouncing, Will,’ said Michael, who seemed to be genuinely impressed. ‘You’ve come leaps an’ bounds in your swordsmanship since the days you were fumbling about in the training yard.’
‘Aye,’ Paul added. ‘You’d best me wi’out much effort, I’d wager. You’d probably even give ol’ Mikey here a tough time!’
‘That lout was blind drunk,’ William said, blushing suddenly with humility. ‘Any one ay you could ha’ bested him wi’out breakin’ a sweat.’
‘Dunnae be so modest, Will!’ Michael exclaimed, punching William playfully on his shoulder. ‘Aye, Watty was off his arse, but even so he’s one tough blighter, an’ he’s good wi’ a sabre. You stayed cool an’ focused when he came fir you, an’ you moved wi’ astoundin’ speed. Whatever Captain Liversage has been teachin’ you, well, it’s workin’. I’d no’ want tae face you in battle, not these days wi’ your newfound sabre skills.’
‘I didnae enjoy it,’ William countered abruptly. ‘I took no pleasure in defeating Watty. More than anything, I felt pity fir the poor bastard. I didnae want tae hurt him … or did I? When I was caught up in the moment ay the fight, well, I think I did want tae hurt him. It was a strange an’ uncomfortable feeling. At least now I can see it as such, I mean. In the fight, I stayed focused, like how the captain has been training me tae. But I suppose part ay that focus is about finishing off your opponent as quickly as possible, an’ that’s what was on my mind while we were going at it. Aye, I really could ha’ taken out the bastard’s eye wi’ that one stroke, but restraint held me back, so I just sliced his cheek open instead.’
‘‘Twas a deep cut, Will. He’ll be wearing that scar until the end ay his days,’ Paul commented.
William shook his head and sighed, looking down at the ground with a regretful cast in his eyes.
‘Aye, an’ I shouldnae ha’ done that, should I? I could ha’ just slapped his face wi’ the flat ay the blade an’ given him but a bruise. But this thing inside me, this … this darkness, I dunnae, it made me cut him. I dunnae like it, lads.’
‘Dunnae be so hard on yersel’, Will,’ Paul said, squeezing William’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘Look, that bastard was tryin’ tae dae you serious harm. He would ay kil
led you, had you no defended yersel’ an’ defeated him. Any reasonable man would ha’ done the same, in your position.’
‘Paul’s right,’ Michael added, his voice heavy with sombre severity. ‘I saw it in his eyes. He wanted tae kill you, lad, he was full ay murderous rage. I dunnae think I’ve e’er seen that in a person before, an’ it scared me, it did. We’ve all seen Watty pished out ay his skull before, but this time was different. D’you lads no’ agree? I’ve ne’er seen him like tha’ before.’
‘It’s because something terrible is comin’,’ Andrew said, interrupting the conversation suddenly. ‘Tha’s why people are actin’ all uncanny.’
All of the others turned and stared at their usually taciturn friend, who was now speaking in a tone of subdued yet authoritative clarity. His words brought an ominous silence rushing into the tent like water through a smashed dam wall.
‘What dae you mean, Andy?’ Michael asked warily.
‘Dae you lads no’ feel it?’
‘Feel what?’
‘Death.’
A gust of wind howled across the campground, almost extinguishing their fire and spraying the tents around them with eerie, twisting shadows.
‘Death?’ William asked, and as he said this the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck tingled with an eerie dread.
Andrew nodded with a twisted smile.
‘Aye. He walks among us this night. He’s countin’, y’see. Countin’ an’ makin’ lists, lists ay who he’s gonnae take tomorrow. I felt his sickle graze my neck in a dream last night. I felt it lads, an’ when I awoke in the middle ay the night, I saw him standin’ there in the tent wi’ us. The funny thing was, he doesnae look like how they paint him. He doesnae wear a black cloak, an’ he’s not no skeleton. No, see, he’s a really auld man wi’ a long, wispy white beard tha’ reaches down tae his feet. He was there in our tent last night, lads, writin’ our names in his book, this big, ancient tome. He smiled at me an’ laughed … an’ then he vanished.’
An uneasy chill scuttled across William’s skin, setting his nerve endings aflame with icy fire.
