Ross looked at the weapons, and grunted.
Jack removed his coat, and, at Dawes’ request, opened his shirt to show that he was not wearing any cuirass or other device to ward off a thrust. Ross did the same.
The standing ground having been marked out by Clark and Dawes, the protagonists then faced them and drew lengths of grass to determine initial position. They turned and faced each other as required by the code d’honneur. Jack’s blade of grass was the longer; he took up a position, knowing that the sun would soon rise over his shoulder, pushing its rays through the eucalypts surrounding the clearing, burning off the thin mist that lay indolently among the trees. It should be full in Ross’s face within minutes.
Clark allowed two feet between the points of their swords. Both then used the left hand to grasp the tops of their breeches, thereby removing that arm as a target, and ensuring that the left hand was not used in the combat.
With eyes half closed, Clark spoke the words of command; ‘Gentlemen, en guard!’ Then after a short pause, ‘Allez’ and Ross immediately made an attack. A poorly executed, clumsy and wild attack, but which surprised the observers. Almost caught, Jack clashed and pushed him away, to quickly recover his balance. The Major’s sword tip circled slowly, searching for an opening. The steel clashed once more as Jack initiated a move, vaulting swiftly to his right, throwing the Major off guard momentarily, as his sword arm moved to follow Jack, too late realizing that he was jumping back, now to the other side, and the point brushed Ross’s right hip.
‘Stand still and fight me, ye pup!’ he growled.
‘I will, Ross, but my way, not yours,’ he snapped back.
Ross came on again, harder this time, and steel scraped against steel, as Jack parried each thrust, swiftly and without effort. He felt calm, his eyes in contact with those cold, and dark eyes of Ross.
His balance was very good; the line good, but he wanted Ross closer - the distance was too great. He thanked his father once more, this time for the summers spent with M. Le Brun, the French Maitre d’Armes; all those hours in his salle in The Haymarket.
He tried a froissant and was surprised to see Ross lose his composure. So, Jack thought, you now know I have trained. He advanced, with a second, similar move, but this time Ross was prepared and parried well, following with a lunge. Jack had hoped for this and quickly feigned a retreat, drawing Ross on and trapped his sword with a Prise du Fer, swiftly completing his tactic with a Reprise d’Attaque and a lunge of his own, catching the Major high on his right shoulder. Ross grunted, baring his teeth. A small red stain appeared and spread down his shirt.
‘Halt!’ Called Lieutenant Long. ‘Gentlemen, the combat is over.’ He was smiling. ‘Well done, Jack. Handsomely done, very pretty work.’
William Dawes added, ‘Indeed it was, Jack. Clearly, you have studied under a master!’
Some innate sense made Jack move sideways as Ross now slashed with his weapon, the air whistling as the blade sliced by his nose. He saw Ross’s snarling mouth and he swung with the pommel, striking bone and teeth, scarlet spraying from his mouth. The Major fell at his feet. He did not move as the point of Jack’s weapon touched the back of his neck.
‘This is over, Ross! Do you understand that man? Be grateful I at least, have honour left and do not choose to do more, for surely you deserve to be run through. Never forget this day, for I never shall.’
Within the shadows of the eucalypts, Governor Phillip and Captain Collins stood still. Collins indicated to Sergeant Packer to lower the musket that was still pointing at the prostrated and defeated commander of His Majesty’s Corps of Marines in New South Wales.
Jack Vizzard moved away, leaving Lieutenant Ralph Clark to administer to the fallen Major. Collecting his coat from William Dawes, he walked back to the hut, back to Mary.
First Fleet Page 29
