If Jack loved fencing, he was mad about sailing. From his earliest days he and his father would be out on Narragansett Bay, tacking and jibing, running, reaching, sailing the rail under one or another of the boats. Indeed, Jack’s earliest memory was of sitting in the bilge of some boat—he could not recall which—his bottom wet with the water sloshing around and looking up at his father, smiling, his eyes moving from the sail to the bow, to windward, to leeward. A sailor’s eye, a weather eye. He had loved his father so profoundly at that moment.
Year by year, boat by boat, Jack learned the ways of wind and sea. By the age of nine he was taking his parents and siblings out on the water, insisting they were passengers, no more, insisting that every aspect of handling the boat was his alone. And he did it, did it well, brought them to where they were bound, whether it was a picnic on Hog Island or Prudence Island, or a run down to Newport. “Captain Jack,” his mother called him, to his secret delight, or, “my sweet little sailor-boy,” with which he was less thrilled.
The thrust-to-the-chest moment in Jack and Isaac’s sailing life came when Jack was still ten. It came on an August day, a perfect day, if perhaps a bit lighter of wind than they might have wished. His father had acquired two identical boats from whatever magic place boats seemed to materialize, twelve-foot jolly boats with lug rigs, and he and Jack had taken to racing them in Bristol Bay or out between Prudence Island and Pappasquash Point. They had been at it for months, at least several times a week, and Jack had loved every bit of it; it was companionship with his father and command of his own vessel, diminutive though it might be, all at once.
But when it came to racing, he did not win. For all his concentration, for all the minute sail trim and delicate hand on the tiller, he could not coax more speed out of his boat than his father could, regardless of the conditions, and Isaac would give a good-natured laugh as his boat glided over whatever imaginary finish line they had agreed upon, a boat length or more ahead of Jack. And Jack would try to tamp down his frustration.
It was different on that day in August. It did not start out different, not in any way. They had crossed the starting line on starboard tack and perfectly even, but despite the light winds favoring Jack, who weighed half of what his father did, Isaac was able to inch his boat to weather until he had half a boat length on him. And then a full boat length, and drawing ahead as they worked their nimble white craft to weather, tack on tack, like cavalrymen fighting on horseback, jockeying for position.
Jack had tacked around to larboard, hoping to creep up on his father, but Isaac had tacked above him, covering him, giving him no room to pass. Isaac handled his boat the way a master violinist handled his instrument, and he sacrificed not an inch with every tack he made, and Jack could only try to emulate that.
Jack’s eyes were everywhere; to weather, to lee, on the sails, on his father’s boat, on his course. That was his father’s training. And so Jack did not miss the cat’s paw of wind coming from the west, the telltale ruffle of water as the small gust approached. He waited for his father to tack around, to pick up the lift that would come with the breeze before Jack did. But he didn’t. Happy with his lead, Isaac maintained course and speed as Jack swung his tiller in an arc, set the sail flapping through the wind.
He caught a glimpse of Isaac looking back in surprise as the cat’s paw enveloped his son’s boat, heeled it over, set the water gurgling down its side. Jack leaned to weather to hold the boat straighter and felt the little burst of speed. A second or two later the cat’s paw found Isaac’s boat, but it was too late. Jack had head reached on him, tacked to cover, and two minutes after that he crossed the line they had agreed upon, between Providence Point and the old battery, his father trailing astern.
Isaac luffed up beside him, his arm raised in congratulations. “Well done, Jack, well done!” he said, and there was genuine pride in his voice, and a touch of sadness as well. Jack was surprised by the sadness, because he imagined it was a sadness born of losing, and he had thought his father a bigger man than that. But when he related the story to his mother, she had put her arm around him and said, “Of course your father was sad. Not about losing. About what it means. Which is that you are growing up.”
All this Jack thought about as he dressed, such reminiscing a rare indulgence for him, until he was interrupted by Oliver Tucker, who tapped lightly on the door and said, “We best be going, sir.”
“Very good,” Jack said. He buckled the sword belt around his waist, adjusted the way the weapon hung, then blew out the candle, and in the gathering light of dawn followed Tucker, his second, down the stairs and out onto the road.
They walked toward the quay, then Tucker led the way to a wide path that ran off in the other direction and Biddlecomb followed. “Tucker,” Jack said after a few minutes of walking through the thick forest, “do you have any notion of where you are going?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I met with Mr. Wentworth’s second and we agreed to this place.”
“Very thorough, as usual,” Jack said. If he was killed, Tucker would take command of Abigail. Jack wondered if he would be pleased with that, and guessed he probably would not. Tucker was a good mate, but Jack did not think he could find Barbados if there was a trail of breadcrumbs floating on the sea.
At last the forest opened out into a clearing, a wide-open area with short grass that ran down to a sandy beach and the ocean beyond. They were on the south side of the island and the heights to the west had the place still in deep shadows. But Jack was certain they were where they should be, because Wentworth was there with his second, and Lucas Harwar and John Burgess and Noah Maguire and most of the other Abigails, as well as most of the officers of the Warrior and several of the senior dockyard officials, entertainment being hard to come by on that island.
Jack took his place on the open ground thirty feet from Wentworth. Wentworth’s second, he saw, was the British officer, Chandler, which was no surprise. The only Americans on the island were the Abigails, who certainly would not second a man who wished to run their captain through.
It was warm but not hot, and the light was growing with each passing minute. It was a perfect morning for a duel. And then the calm was ruined by the booming, familiar, unwelcome voice of Charles Frost, pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, pray, stop this madness,” his said, his tone somewhere between a command and a plea. “Captain Biddlecomb, killing your passengers is not really the thing, you know. It will not do your career any good.”
“Mr. Frost, please do not interfere in this,” Jack said, his exasperation unchecked. Frost turned in the other direction.
“Mr. Wentworth, please see reason, if any harm comes to Captain Biddlecomb we will never reach Barbados!”
Before Wentworth could reply, Lieutenant Chandler broke away and crossed the ground to where Frost stood. He spoke low, Jack could not hear what he said, but there was no mistaking the forceful and unequivocal manner in which he addressed the big man. Frost listened, frowned, but then he turned and stamped back to join the others.
Jack unbuckled his sword belt, drew the blade and handed it to Tucker, who took it awkwardly. “Ah, and what am I to do with this, Captain?” Tucker asked. He did not have much experience with this sort of thing.
“Wentworth’s second will meet you there,” Jack nodded to a spot halfway between the men, “and he’ll have Wentworth’s sword and the two of you will see that there’s no great difference in the weapons, length or anything like that.”
“Oh, I see,” Tucker said. He took the sword and walked away and Chandler met him in the middle of the space. They exchanged swords and looked them over, though Biddlecomb suspected Tucker had no idea of what he was looking for. Then both men turned and headed toward him.
“Good morrow, Captain Biddlecomb,” Chandler said in his crisp British way.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Biddlecomb said.
“Mr. Wentworth asks that I relate to you that he would con
sider honor to be satisfied if you were to make a private apology to him,” Chandler said.
Biddlecomb thought about that. A private apology, not a public one. Wentworth was making it easy for him to get out of this fight if he wished, which would suggest that Wentworth wished to get out of the fight, which Jack took to mean that he was afraid. Ironically, just the supposition that had led to this whole brouhaha. “No, sir, I do not believe an apology is owed by me,” Jack said.
“Very well,” Chandler said. “That being the case, Mr. Wentworth asks if you will agree to make this fight to first blood.”
First blood … Jack thought. Wentworth did not want to fight to the death, or until some great mischief was done. He is a damned bloody coward. But Jack considered himself a merciful man, so he said, “Very well, then, first blood.”
Chandler returned to Wentworth’s side. Jack stretched his arms and legs, took a few practice lunges. He would not have killed Wentworth in any case, he was not one of those who took pleasure in dispatching his fellow man. Dueling was as addictive as drink, he knew, and while he did on occasion wrestle with a fondness for drink, dueling still held no great fascination for him.
A few moments later he saw Wentworth stepping toward the center of the space, Chandler at his side, and he stepped forward as well. “Come along, Tucker,” he prompted his first mate and Tucker hurried after him. The four men met in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by a half circle of spectators thirty feet inland. Wentworth stood about fifteen feet away, holding his sword easily at his side. A beautiful weapon, just as Jack suspected it would be. He could just make out various exotic inlays in the hand guard, could see the mirror finish of the steel.
But he was thinking about Wentworth, not his sword. Thinking about the first moment he had seen him, sitting so arrogantly at the table in the great cabin, assuming everything there was his for the taking. This has been a long time coming, Jack thought, and he was pleased that the moment had at last arrived.
“Gentlemen,” Chandler said, nodding to each man. “This shall be a fight to first blood. At the sight of first blood the wounded man’s second will raise his arm, the other second will cry out, “Strike up your swords!” and each combatant will disengage. They will remain in the en guarde position until such time as it is affirmed that first blood has been drawn. Is this acceptable?”
Jack nodded but he was not really listening. He was looking hard at Wentworth, because a big part of winning this sort of thing was finding a weakness one could exploit. He was looking for fear, looking for intimidation, hesitancy. But Wentworth was looking back at him, his face as expressionless as a bust of Caesar, and Jack had to admit he did not look afraid.
“Very well,” Chandler said next. “Pray, each of you step back a few paces. Good.” He held up a handkerchief. “En guarde!” Jack took the familiar position, his body folding into the stance with ease, perfectly natural. Wentworth went en guarde as well, and even that little movement was done with fluidity and grace.
Then Chandler dropped the cloth. It fluttered to the ground and its landing was the cue to begin. But neither man rushed into the fight, and indeed ten seconds after the handkerchief had settled they were still just inching toward one another, eyes focused on blades, and arms, and the eyes of their opponent.
Jack took two small advances, extended his sword arm just a bit, probing. He did not know what to expect from Wentworth, and now was the time to get the measure of his opposite, now was the time to poke about for weaknesses that could prove fatal. Metaphorically fatal.
Wentworth extended as well, and now their blades were overlapping. Jack pressed down on Wentworth’s blade, just pushed it aside with the slightest pressure, and Wentworth did not offer any sort of resistance. Jack pressed a bit more, moving Wentworth’s point out of the line of attack, leaving a straight shot in to Wentworth’s chest. He tensed his back leg. Release Wentworth’s blade, go straight in, and he could give Wentworth a nice, deep cut across the shoulder or arm and end this all.
He was poised to spring when Wentworth dropped his blade and the resistance holding Jack’s in line was suddenly gone. His blade swung to the left as Wentworth’s sword circled around and came darting in, snake-fast, and Jack, ready to move forward, now had to leap back and try for an awkward, backhand parry.
He connected, knocked Wentworth’s blade aside, but Wentworth circled again, came in again and Jack stepped back and parried, a prettier move, Jack having recovered his wits a bit.
They both came en guarde once more, and Jack could see now that Wentworth was not afraid, he was not uncertain, and when it came to swordplay, he was very, very good.
25
Jack took a few steps back and lowered his sword. Not enough that he was undefended, or looked as if he was unready. He did not think he could fool Wentworth into making an attack by appearing unprepared. He just needed a moment to reassess, and he knew enough to marshal the strength in his arm. This might take longer than he thought, and if there was one thing he knew about swordplay, it was that it was damned exhausting.
Wentworth closed the distance, just a bit. His sword did not drop or waver, it was held in a textbook en guarde stance, like a copperplate from Angelo’s L’École des armes. The point was steady at first, but as he neared it began to move a bit, up and down, side to side, in the way a snake might entrance its prey. But Jack was not entranced. He let Wentworth come on, and then swept his own sword up, beat the blade, made a lunge at Wentworth. It was not a lunge meant to strike, but rather to send Wentworth back, to throw his balance off for just that instant.
And it worked. Wentworth parried, stepped back, was still regaining his stance when Jack made up the distance, like a cat pouncing. He could see the surprise in Wentworth’s face when he saw Jack coming, following up on the lunge with never a pause. Then it was Jack’s turn to be surprised as Wentworth knocked Jack’s thrust aside, stepped closer and swung at Jack’s head with the hand guard of his sword.
Jack jerked his head back and felt the metal scrape along his cheek. He leapt back, touched the cheek with his left hand but his fingers came away clean, no blood. The swing had put Wentworth off balance, which Jack exploited, stepping in fast, thrusting, meeting Wentworth’s blade, disengaging, thrusting. Wentworth stepped back once and he stepped back again, pushed along by the ferocity of Jack’s offensive. He made no counterattack because Jack would not let him, and the most that he could do was back away and continue to turn Jack’s blade aside.
Step for step they went, Wentworth backing away from Jack’s flashing sword, working his own like it was the bow of a violin, the actions quick, precise, the angle perfectly gauged to keep the wicked point of Jack’s weapon from getting past the arc of Wentworth’s defense.
And then Jack saw what Wentworth was about. The man was fast, damned fast. He could do this all day, let Jack wear himself down with this brutal attack, keep turning his blade aside until Jack could no longer lift his arm. Already he could feel himself tiring. Any swordsman Jack had ever fought before would have been bleeding by now, but Wentworth seemed to just be working up a sweat.
So Jack stopped. He let his arm fall and turned his back on Wentworth and walked off to the spot where he had started the attack. His ears strained to hear any sound of movement behind. His eyes were locked on the faces of the men watching, because if Wentworth came at him Jack knew he would see it there. Five, six, seven paces and then he heard the light crunch of feet on gravel, saw the spectators clench as they braced for the sight of Wentworth running Jack through, and he spun on his heel and his sword came up and swept across his chest in a great arc.
He could see Wentworth was not trying to stab him in the back but rather smack him with the flat of his sword, get his attention. Still, Jack hit Wentworth’s blade as it was coming at him, not a subtle parry but an ugly blow, wielding his weapon more like a cutlass than a fine sword. He knocked Wentworth’s blade aside, turning Wentworth’s fine forward momentum into a stumbling mess. Wentwort
h was too close for Jack to thrust with his sword and finish it, but Wentworth’s face was there, right there, and Jack punched him with the handgrip of his weapon just as Wentworth had done to him.
Wentworth staggered again, straightened, stepped back quickly, weapon raised, ready for Jack to come at him, but Jack held his ground. Wentworth reached up with his hand and touched his face where Jack had punched him, the mirror image of Jack’s motion, checked his fingertips for blood. But there was nothing. Jack’s blow had not broken the skin. Honor was not satisfied.
Jack looked up at Wentworth, looked in his eyes, trying to guess at the man’s next move. Wentworth met his gaze and did the one thing Jack would not have expected: he smiled.
It was not an angry grin or the manic smile of a man set on killing his opponent. It was a friendly smile, a “well done!” sort of smile, and Jack found it at once confusing and annoying. He had meant to draw first blood with an insubstantial scratch, but if Wentworth was going to continue in this insufferable way he might have to end the affair by delivering a more memorable wound.
Jack came en guarde, advanced with sword in the fourth position, ready to be done with this. He made a halfhearted lunge, let Wentworth parry, made a circle with his blade, and went in for the kill, one of his best moves, one that almost always found its target, but this time it found only air, as Wentworth stepped easily back.
Then it was Wentworth’s turn. There was no smile on his face as he advanced, as his blade came straight, defeated Jack’s parry, came again and again. Now it was Jack backing away, turning Wentworth’s thrusts aside. He heard a murmur running through the spectators, was certain he heard one of the British officers say something about “five pounds on this Wentworth fellow…” but he heard no more and had no more time to think on it. Thrust, parry, repost, parry, lunge, they moved along the ground, the grass and the sod below their feet uneven and difficult to walk on, no fencing salon or the well-manicured lawn of Stanton House.
The French Prize Page 28
