Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘He gave me the choice, my dear.’

  ‘You? But that will be murder.’

  ‘It will be an execution. There is a difference.’

  She took a step into the room, biting her lip. ‘Gilbert …’

  ‘My dear! Would you beg for his life?’ She inhaled, slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you might wish to. I have been anticipating the pleasure of refusing.’

  Her breath came out in a rush. ‘Name your price, Gilbert. Resumption of relations, as you might wish them to be … anything.’

  Steyne stood up. ‘As you once suggested to me, my dear girl, I have sought, and found, sufficient pleasure elsewhere. That I have been patient with you for so long is because I always knew that McGann would come seeking you eventually. I told you that I would wait, and then kill him, don’t you remember? I now propose to do that. The challenge was made before gentlemen, and is perfectly legal. So will the outcome be, whatever it is.’

  ‘And if I say, no?’

  ‘You cannot, Elizabeth. Nor, in these circumstances, can you achieve anything but your own downfall by running into the street shrieking, sodomy. Simply because no one will believe you, in this instance. They will all know you are attempting to avenge the death of your dead paramour. You will be the best hated woman in London. And when the mob pelts you with rotten apples, why, I shall smile. Because now that McGann has brought your relationship out into the open, my name is tarnished anyway, unless I shoot him down like the animal he is.’

  She stared at him, but knew that he meant every word of what he said. She thought that if she possessed one of those pistols, she would shoot him down now, even if they burned her alive for petty treason, which was the prescribed punishment for husband murder. But she knew too that she could never do that, because of Toby.

  ‘Where is he spending the night?’ she asked.

  ‘I have no idea. And if I did, I would not tell you.’

  ‘At least tell me where, and when, the duel is to be,’ she said.

  ‘So that you can come along and watch? Why, do you know, I think that might be a splendid idea. Bring the boy. We will have a celebration, afterwards. Clapham Common, at dawn. You may ride in my carriage, if you choose.’

  *

  Harry guided his horse through the dawn mist, on to the open heath, drew rein, looking from left to right, and urged the mount forward again as he saw the waiting carriage and the group of men. His heartbeat was slow and steady, as was his breathing. If he had not wanted it to come to this, as it had he must make himself hate enough to kill a man, for hopefully the last time. He was well aware that Gilbert Steyne was an experienced duellist, while this would be his first such encounter. But it could be no more difficult than commanding a ship into battle, and he had trained himself to be an accurate if by no means quick pistol shot, and besides … he had survived too much to believe he could be brought down by the hand of such a man.

  He drew rein again, when some fifty yards from the group, and dismounted. The gentlemen held a hasty conference, then one of their number walked towards him. ‘You still have no second, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I knew no one in London,’ Harry told him.

  ‘I see. Well, that cannot be. Will you permit me to act for you, sir? My name is James Steele.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Gladly,’ Harry said, and squeezed the offered fingers.

  ‘A moment.’ Steele returned to the waiting group, to come back to Harry a moment later, carrying an open pistol case. ‘The weapons belong to Lord Steyne,’ he explained. ‘But I have inspected the loading and priming myself, and can assure you they are in perfect order. Will you choose one? They are the same weight.’

  Harry took out the one nearest to him; it was certainly a beautifully balanced weapon, and a beautifully made one too, a mass of ornate carving on both butt and barrel.

  ‘Now, sir …’

  ‘Harry!’

  Harry raised his head, gazed at Elizabeth, wrapped in a dark grey pelisse, Steyne’s hand on her arm as he propelled her forward; by her side there walked a three-year-old boy. His heart gave an enormous lurch.

  ‘He … he made me come, Harry,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But I would have wanted to, anyway.’ She bit her lip, gazed at his splendid clothes, tears gathering in her eyes.

  ‘She wanted to have a last look at you,’ Steyne smiled.

  ‘My lord, this is most irregular,’ Steele protested. ‘My principal may well have his aim distracted.’

  ‘Or improved,’ Steyne pointed out. ‘Who can tell? Is it not correct that a man should see what he is fighting for?’

  Harry looked at Toby, and the boy gazed back. He had not been told of his true father. But he would be told. He looked at Elizabeth in turn. ‘I have come to fetch you,’ he said. ‘And this was the only way it could honourably be done.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But Harry …’

  ‘When I leave here, this morning,’ Harry said, ‘I mean to travel to Ireland to find my mother and brother and sister, and then with them cross the Atlantic to a new home. Will you and the boy come with me, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes. But Harry …’

  ‘When you leave this field, McGann, it will be in a pine box,’ Steyne said. ‘Now, return to the carriage, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth hesitated. ‘God speed you, Harry,’ she said, then turned and walked back to the waiting carriage, Toby at her side.

  Two other men had approached. ‘I am the referee, Captain McGann,’ said one of them. He also carried a pistol. ‘My name is William Garrard.’

  ‘Mr Garrard,’ Harry acknowledged.

  ‘And this is the surgeon in attendance, Dr Grant.’

  ‘Doctor.’ Harry acknowledged him in turn. ‘Captain McGann,’ Garrard said. ‘What has just happened is most irregular. Lord Steyne, I am surprised and dismayed by your behaviour, in bringing your wife and son to this place, when … ah … it could be said that they have had some indirect influence on the reasons for us being here at all. Captain McGann, it is my duty to inform you that in all the circumstances, if you wish, this affair can be postponed, or indeed cancelled altogether, with no stain on your honour.’

  Harry looked at Steyne, who smiled despite the rebuke he had just received. Then he looked at the carriage. For him to walk away now, however justified, and however it might preserve his life, would be to lose Elizabeth and Toby forever. ‘I am content that the matter should be settled now, Mr Garrard,’ he said. ‘But I thank you for your impartial judgement.’

  ‘So be it,’ Garrard said. ‘Well, gentlemen, you will take your marked places at a distance of twenty paces from one another, and when I drop my handkerchief, you may fire at will. There will be only one exchange, and if neither of you is harmed, then we shall all thank God.’

  ‘One exchange will be sufficient,’ Steyne said.

  Garrard glanced at him, then looked at Harry again, clearly having been warned by Lord Steele of the American’s inexperience. ‘It is further my duty to inform you, gentlemen, that if either of you fires or indeed attempts to level his pistol before my handkerchief leaves my hand, it will be my further duty to shoot him dead. Kindly take your places.’

  Lord Steele and Steyne’s second had already measured out the ground, and Steele showed Harry where to stand. ‘How many duels have you fought?’ he said.

  ‘This is a new experience for me,’ Harry said.

  ‘My God! Steyne is an expert. At least remember to present a side view to him, Captain McGann. And fire as quickly as you may; he is very fast. Good fortune.’

  ‘I thank you,’ Harry said, and stared at Steyne, who faced him, lips twisted in contempt. Garrard took his place equidistant between them, and only a few yards out of the line of fire, so that they could both see him with equal ease. There was hardly a sound above a bird call, and then the rumble of a carriage in the distance as Garrard raised his handkerchief, held it in the gentle breeze for a moment, and then let it fa
ll. Harry took a long breath, raised his pistol as steadily as he could, determined to sight carefully along the barrel which was the only way he knew how to shoot, and realised that Steyne was already staring at him down the barrel of his pistol, and that above the weapon there was a little eddy of smoke. He was more surprised than concerned, even as he found himself no longer standing, but lying on the ground, breathless and feeling exactly as if he had been kicked in the thigh by a mule.

  Men stood around him, while he gasped for air. ‘Harry!’ Elizabeth screamed, falling to her knees beside him. ‘Oh, Harry!’

  ‘Damnation,’ Steyne said, also standing above him. ‘Do you know, I forgot the fellow’s height, and fired at my usual level? I had intended to blow his head off.’

  ‘You have done sufficient damage for one day, my lord,’ Garrard said, grimly. ‘He will never use that leg again. The thigh bone must be shattered.’

  ‘A surgeon,’ Elizabeth was gasping. ‘Oh, Dr Grant, please.’

  ‘I will stop the bleeding, my lady,’ Grant said. ‘But I must take him to town before I can see if anything can be done about the leg.’

  Harry used his left hand to push his torso from the earth. The entire morning was rotating about his head, but he had got his breathing back under control. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, as evenly as he could. ‘You are behaving in a most unseemly fashion. I have not yet fired my pistol.’

  They stared at him.

  ‘Harry,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You are seriously wounded.’

  ‘I will fire,’ Harry said.

  Garrard looked at Steyne. ‘He is within his rights.’

  ‘Only if he can stand,’ Steyne sneered.

  ‘I will stand,’ Harry said. ‘When you are ready, my lord.’

  Steyne looked at him, and for a moment his face gave a twitch of apprehension. Then he remembered that not only was Harry badly wounded, but that he was probably no shot as well. ‘As you wish,’ he said, and walked back to his mark, his still smoking pistol hanging from his fingers. ‘He cannot be assisted,’ he reminded the waiting men.

  ‘Captain McGann,’ Lord Steele begged. ‘You have fought with honour. Now …’

  ‘I mean to kill him, sir,’ Harry said. ‘Stand aside.’

  Steele hesitated, looked at Garrard, and received a nod. He stepped back, and Harry drew a great breath and rose to his knees. Then he discovered he could put no weight on his left leg, and that indeed any attempt to do so caused him the most excruciating pain, as the shock was beginning to wear off. While between his legs was gathering a steadily growing pool of blood, and the morning rotated more and more. Soon he would faint. Soon.

  He clamped his jaws together, tucked the pistol into his belt, put both hands on the ground, tensed all his muscles, and with a mighty heave thrust himself upwards, turning round twice as he did so, hopping, but keeping his balance with an enormous act of will. He shook his head to clear his brain, ascertained where his mark was, and hopped to it. Swaying, on his one leg, he drew the pistol, while Steyne watched him in disbelief.

  Slowly he levelled the weapon, trembling like a tree about to fall before the axe, tensing all his muscles to hold his hand steady. Then he looked down the barrel of the gun, at Steyne’s face, at the expression slowly changing from contempt to fear, as he at last realised what was about to happen to him. One last moment of hate, Harry thought, and then I am done. But that last moment was necessary, or neither he nor Elizabeth nor the boy could look forward to any sort of life at all.

  Harry squeezed the trigger. Steyne half turned, and fell to the ground, shot through the head.

  EPILOGUE – Long Island, 1794

  The horseman followed a leafy lane, to his right a broad expanse of meadow on which grazed a small herd of cattle. It was a warm morning, and every so often he reined his mount to a standstill, to take off his hat and wipe his brow clear of sweat. Then his face lit up, as he saw a little girl, perhaps eight years old, seated on a rail fence, about fifty yards away; behind her, over the trees, there rose a wisp of smoke.

  He walked his horse towards her, and raised his hat. ‘Good morning to you, young lady. Would I be addressing Miss McGann?’

  She shook her head, totally unalarmed by the appearance of a stranger. ‘My name is Palmer. You’ve come to see Pa?’

  ‘I’ve actually come to see Mr McGann.’

  ‘You could as well see Pa,’ the girl said. ‘We’re all one family. Mr McGann is my uncle.’

  ‘Then it is your uncle I have come to see.’ She shrugged, and pointed. ‘It’s a couple of miles further on. But Pa will be disappointed. He likes chatting with strangers. Especially seafaring men.’

  The stranger frowned. ‘How did you guess I was a seafaring man?’

  ‘You wear a blue coat.’ She grinned at him. ‘And you don’t look too happy on that horse.’ The man grinned back, and raised his hat again. ‘Tell your Pa that Thomas Truxton will call on him, after he’s seen Mr McGann.’

  *

  A couple of miles, she had said. Truxton reckoned it was more like five. But five miles of the most pleasant country, a great deal of it cultivated. And all apparently owned by the two families which now lived so closely connected. He thought that if he ever had to leave the sea, this was the life he would choose. Because here on Long Island the sea was never far away, to be remembered, and savoured, and even experienced when the winds blew to gale force.

  He followed a lane of rutted cart tracks, and came upon the house, log built, but large, with airy opened windows, and shaded by a stand of elms. From behind the building came the sound of an axe biting into wood. A dog barked, and the Irish wolf hound came bounding off the front porch. The horse side-stepped nervously, and Truxton patted its neck, equally nervously — not of the dog, but of being thrown.

  ‘Bora! Down with you.’ The boy stood on the porch to watch him approach. Truxton knew he had to be just fourteen years old, but he was already tall and strong; there was no doubt about his father.

  ‘You’ll be Toby,’ he said.

  ‘That’s my name, mister.’ The gaze was steady.

  ‘I’ve come to see your pa.’ Truxton’s gaze drifted, to look at the woman who had come on to the porch to stand beside her son. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a mane of golden hair tied at her neck with a ribbon. She wore a simple house gown and slippers, but her beauty was plain to see. He raised his hat, and dismounted. ‘Mrs McGann?’

  She inspected him. ‘I am Elizabeth McGann.’

  ‘Thomas Truxton, ma’am. I sailed with your husband.’

  ‘Then you are welcome, Mr Truxton. Toby, fetch your pa. Tell him we’ve a visitor. You’ll come into the shade, Mr Truxton.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Truxton hitched his horse to the rail, eyed the dog, and climbed the steps, paused there as he heard the dragging sound. He realised he was holding his breath, let it out again, slowly. He had not known what to expect. And was thus totally relieved. Harry McGann had put on a little weight, and he leaned on a stout walking stick, his left leg trailing at his side. But he still carried the axe he had been wielding, and moved with a good deal of the vigour Truxton remembered. And his eyes were bright. ‘Thomas!’ he shouted.

  ‘Harry!’ They shook hands, then embraced. ‘Oh, it is good to see you,’ Harry said. ‘Come in, come in, and sit down.’ He winked. ‘I find standing still a damned nuisance. Movement, now …’ he lowered himself into a rocking chair, watched by his wife.

  Who smiled, as soon as he was settled. ‘I’ll fetch some whisky,’ she said.

  ‘She watches over me like a mother hen,’ Harry said. But his voice was soft with love. ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘I was directed by a Miss Palmer. Says she’s your niece.’

  Harry nodded. ‘She’s the daughter of my sister Jenny, who’s married to John Palmer’s boy.’ Another grin. ‘Just as his daughter is married to my brother Rory. It’s all of a clan we have here now.’

  ‘And a mighty prosperous looking farm,’ Truxton agreed. �
��I’m happy about that. Not all of us have been so fortunate. Or perhaps, so well advised.’

  Harry nodded. ‘You’re thinking of poor John Paul. What exactly did he die of?’

  ‘A hundred and one things. You’d find pneumonia on the death certificate. But he really died of liquor and women, bad food and careless living. And of a broken heart, I guess, most of all.’

  ‘I had heard he won some great victories for the Russians over the Turks.’

  ‘Why, so he did. But it wasn’t as if he’d been flying Old Glory from his masthead, there was the trouble. And he quarrelled with the Russians, as usual. Then he quarrelled with the Empress herself, I believe, and so wound up back in Paris, quarrelling with the French. That hasn’t been too difficult to do, these past five years.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Harry said. ‘John was lucky he didn’t get taken up by the terror.’

  ‘Oh no, Paris mob would ever lay a finger on John Paul Jones,’ Truxton said. ‘He’s always been a kind of national hero over there. Well, he’d have been one over here as well if he’d come home, instead of lurking in Paris writing letters in search of employment. But the saddest thing of all is that he’d just been given an official appointment, as Consul in Algiers … we’ve been having trouble with the Barbary pirates attacking American vessels in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘I heard that too.’ Harry shook his head. ‘One day, Congress will realise that to represent a nation, a growing nation whose merchants want and need to send their ships trading in every port of the world, they have just got to have a navy, to protect those ships, to let all the would-be pirates know that the Stars and Stripes stand for something.’

  ‘Yes,’ Truxton said. ‘Harry, … Congress have realised that.’

  Harry frowned at him.

  ‘They’ve authorised the building of six frigates,’ Truxton said. ‘And these are going to be ships, Harry. Forty-four guns each. Able to take on any other frigate in the world.’