Fully extended Lipton might have seemed vulnerable to those watching; Pearce knew better, knew that the major had not sought the opening without first ensuring that there was no way Pearce could respond in kind – the naval blade had been pushed well out of the way of inflicting any harm. Then Pearce ducked and the thrust he delivered was so unusual and so far from the manual of swordplay that Lipton was thrown for the split second needed to delay his response.
The point that took him in the right foot and drove right through to the ground was different in the sense he was astounded enough to let Pearce haul it out and back away, as he later described it – not with much in the way of self-regard or boasting – more like a scurrying cockroach than a man of honour. In the miniscule pause that allowed him, Pearce had time to look at his arm and see the blood staining his sleeve, this while Lipton, no fool, withdrew himself, not easily, for it was plain he was so wounded in his foot that he was forced to limp: Pearce’s blade had clearly damaged bone as well as muscle and skin.
‘That, sir, was a coward’s stroke,’ Lipton shouted.
‘I have drawn blood, sir, and so have you, therefore I rest content.’
‘Damn you, I do not.’
The fury was back, the eyes alight and the blood rush to the face apparent. Walcott was calling in vain from the sidelines that honour had been satisfied, the blood Pearce was emitting obvious. But his superior either could not hear him or was not listening for he came on, seeking the conclusion he had promised, and Pearce was hard put to keep him at bay. Yet by constant movement, mostly backwards, he was putting pressure on Lipton’s wounded foot, and it took no great insight to see in the soldier’s eyes that he was suffering pain with every move and doubly so when he was obliged to put his whole weight upon it.
John Pearce had never had any intention of killing Lipton, though he knew and had accepted he would have to if there were no other way to survive. Now he had a better method, which was just to keep moving so that the major would be the author of his own downfall. Another opening came when Lipton, jabbing forward, caused himself so much discomfort that he had to quickly alter his balance and that left him precariously balanced on his one good foot.
With an utter disregard for the tenets of what might be called chivalry or gentlemanly behaviour, Pearce stepped forward and took the good leg from under Lipton with a sweep of his own. The major tried to hop onto his wounded foot, but that would not support him and he went over onto his back, skilled enough to keep his blade sufficiently active to stop his opponent from an easy follow-through.
Somehow he drove Pearce back enough to seek to get to his feet and he was on his knees, having to thrust and parry above his head height which opened him to the next blow. The Pearce boot that came up and took him on the chest sent him flying in a way from which there was no recovery. An incensed Walcott had levelled his pistol, though he was too confused to use it. Did use of any other part of the body constitute a barred weapon? Was it iniquitous enough to allow him to shoot John Pearce?
Digby, seeing a finger begin to depress the trigger, knocked the barrel up in the air, which was just as well for the soldier. Michael O’Hagan, standing only a few feet away from Walcott, had seen what he was about and there was a marlinspike in his hand. Had the gun been used, it was not a shot that Major Lipton’s second would have survived.
‘Both men have drawn blood, Mr Walcott,’ Digby called. ‘Honour can demand no more.’
Looking at Digby, then back out to the fighting arena and unable, because of the navy man’s upward pressure, to bring his pistol to bear, Walcott was stymied. With his principal now on his back and at the mercy of the sword hovering very close to his throat, while the foot of his opponent pinned the blade of Lipton’s weapon to the burnt grass, there was really no choice but to agree, even if he could not hear what was being said between the combatants.
‘I will let you rise, Major Lipton, but this contest is at an end.’
‘You’d best kill me, Pearce, for as God is my judge, I will do that to you given the chance.’
‘What a pity you oblige me to look to my own security.’
With that Pearce, in an act so cold-blooded he was later ashamed, drove his blade into Lipton’s upper arm and sliced hard, which brought forth a scream, as muscles were ripped apart.
‘I hope, sir, that I have now rendered you incapable of ever engaging in a duel again, though I take no pleasure from having done so. It is, however, preferable to slicing open your heart.’
Behind Pearce, Walcott had sought to bring his pistol back to bear: it was not done to assault an opponent who was hors de combat. He looked shocked when the hand grabbed his arm, even more so when he realised the act had been carried out by a common seaman, trebly so when his pistol was taken from that hand as easily as it would be removed from a baby.
‘Sure, Your Honour, enough has been done this day to satisfy any man.’
Walcott’s fellow officers had gone for their own swords, but the hilts were barely lifted half an inch before Michael O’Hagan had that very same primed and ready-to-fire pistol aimed at them, while Digby had used his hand to stop Walcott drawing his sword. There was a moment when everyone froze, unsure of how to proceed in a situation that was confusing.
That was broken by Taberly, who burst into loud laughter, almost choking when he spoke. ‘Damn me, what a to-do, eh? I ain’t ever seen the like. It would make for a raree show, and if I am out of pocket for it, then I will say it was worth the price of admission.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Digby said, addressing the army men, ‘I suggest you see to your superior and get him to the local lazaretto.’
The doctor was already beside Lipton, John Pearce standing back to let him administer the necessary treatment. It was then that the first drip of blood fell from Pearce’s fingertips and onto the grass.
‘Mr Walcott,’ Digby said in a whisper, as the soldier edged round him to go and look at Lipton. ‘Can I suggest we all depart this place now and in peace, for if anyone seeks to take recourse to arms we will end up with a bloody brawl and someone dead.’
The reply was stiff. ‘I suggest, sir, that you get your principal away from here forthwith, for I will not answer for the behaviour of my comrades after such a display.’
‘O’Hagan, get Mr Pearce to our hack.’
Michael, walking backwards so that the pistol was still aimed, closed with Pearce and took his good arm. ‘Come, John-boy, let us see to your wound.’
‘He wanted to kill me, Michael, he said so and I had no choice.’
‘Then only God in heaven knows why he’s still breathing, for it is sure he would not be so if he had been fighting me.’
Digby went to the coach in which the doctor had previously laid out his instruments and from there he took several bandages. Making for their conveyance, and the stupefied driver who had watched these mad foreigners at their games, he found Taberly already there and preparing to clamber aboard.
‘Sir, can I suggest that with Mr Pearce wounded there will not be the same space as there was on the way here.’
‘You’re not suggesting I walk!’
‘No, sir, but unless you intend to take over from me the duty of seeing to Mr Pearce’s wound, I will suggest that standing on the rear rack with his servant might be best.’
Pearce and Michael arrived just as Taberly was about to respond and that had him looking from Digby to the wounded man with distaste for both. John Pearce handed Digby the sword he still had, this as his second handed O’Hagan a bandage.
‘I leave it to you, Henry, to return this to its rightful owner.’
‘If you don’t want it,’ Taberly growled, ‘I will take it as a trophy. It might make up for some of my losses. Mind, there is another way. Lend me your man O’Hagan for a bout or two and I will make us all a pile.’
Digby had taken the sword; Michael was holding and seeking to bandage Pearce’s upper left arm. It was an indication to just how Taberly had got under the skin of a man bot
h wounded and tired that the punch to the point of the jaw was both produced and effective enough to send the premier of HMS Leander flying, his hat travelling somewhat further than his body.
‘That’s your reward,’ Pearce spat, ‘and by God I hope you challenge me for it.’
Taberly did not respond; he could not, being out cold.
Michael whispered in his ear, ‘Sure, ’tis a fine thing you’ve done, John-boy.’
He was not talking about the sword fight.
If he had hoped for sympathy from Emily he got none; instead she made no attempt to hide her fury at being duped, which left Pearce stuttering justifications that fell on deaf ears, this as she stitched his cut, making no attempt at gentility, and these were assertions, as well as the hissed reactions to the needle, that had Michael O’Hagan chortling from the other side of the door.
His friend’s final excuse to escape this physical and verbal drubbing was to say he needed to see to matters aboard ship, and that he would stay aboard overnight, which subsequently allowed the Irishman to relay to his shipmates all that had occurred, a blow-by-blow account that all agreed should have seen a corpse, though it ended in much laughter when they heard how their captain’s lady had reduced to jelly a man who was not the kind to shy away from trouble.
When he went ashore again the next day, it was with an agreement that he would meet up with his leave-taking Pelicans later in the day. They were making ready and prettying themselves up to follow, their rendezvous to take place in a tavern well away from what could be called the fleshpots of Leghorn. These bagnios, much frequented by privateers as well as navy hands allowed ashore on leave, were too raucous and too full of prostitution for the kind of quiet talk Pearce had in mind.
Crossing the harbour he saw that HMS Leander was in the process of weighing, no doubt to return to San Fiorenzo and the fleet, which produced mixed feelings; he had clouted the premier and the repercussions of that were an unknown for the swine was well above him in rank, merely by service time, and it was strictly forbidden, for obvious reasons, to strike a senior officer.
Then there was Henry Digby, to whom he owed a great deal and if he had been effusive in his thanks he knew that the affair had left his second in a parlous position vis-à-vis Taberly. There was nothing he could do, given comings and goings were the very stuff of naval life. He could only hope that Digby would not suffer too much from the man’s malice.
He found Emily, if not in tears, with clear evidence that she had been crying. Naturally assuming it to be because of his duel he did not enquire too much, only doing so when, having suggested that they go for a promenade and perhaps to seek out the tavern where he could meet his friends, she flatly refused to leave the lodging house. When he pressed for an explanation that was when tears flowed again and the tale of what had occurred was dragged out of her.
‘Who insulted you and what did they say?’
‘Best you do not know, John.’
‘It is vital that I do, Emily.’
‘Why, so you can risk your life again?’
‘Tell me.’
‘No.’
It took time and much persistence, plus pleading and many a reassuring hug, but eventually the story came out, in fits and starts and only on the condition he would not react to it. Pearce said little as she relayed the tale, seething as he was; to allow Emily to see that would not serve so he had to be content with an agreement to return from meeting his Pelicans to dine with her. He departed carrying with him her good wishes; however, instead of searching for Michael et al, he headed for another destination entirely.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Pensione d’Ambrosio was in the old quarter of the town, in a narrow alleyway of high buildings that cut out the sun, the sign above the entrance naming it, Pearce assumed, as that of the owner. Once through the low doorway he found himself in a room stained dark with years of smoke from pipes added to that from the huge fireplace which, at this time of year, was redundant, given the one used for cooking seemed to be located elsewhere.
That such an activity was in progress seemed obvious from the smells that hit his nostrils: fresh bread mixed with the odour of a dish flavoured with much garlic, something of a surprise given the English aversion to the ingredient.
The army officers, a dozen in number and of varying ages and ranks, were in the lantern-lit room he assumed to be used for dining, for it was a narrow space. They were sat, in shirtsleeves, at a long oak table covered with their breakfast – flagons of wine, filled glasses and an abundance of food: beefsteaks, game birds, a nearly empty tureen of soup and a platter of that fresh bread, the smell of which he had picked up on entry.
The sight of him filling the doorway had a good half of them rising to their feet until a sharp command made them sit down. At the far end of the table sat Major Lipton, his arm in a sling and his face drawn from the pain he must be feeling. He was the man who had issued the order and Pearce assumed him to hold the senior rank present. Having exchanged the appropriate glare with his late opponent Pearce looked around and into the faces of everyone else present.
‘A trio of you bastards insulted my lady yesterday, loudly and in public, calling her by a name I will not use, which was overheard by half the local population.’
It was Lipton who replied, his tone jocular as he made a point of addressing the whole table. ‘Do the Tuscans know the meaning of the word “trollop”?’
The reply came from one of his inferiors, a young fellow with a crop of blond hair and a plump fresh face, probably no more than an ensign, his words accompanied by a hoot, ‘I daresay, sir, they are akin to us in that. They know one when they see one.’
Another officer spoke up, this time with mock seriousness, so grave was his tone. ‘The expression they use locally, Major Lipton, is “puttana”.’
‘Which I believe,’ another interjected, ‘refers to the part of their body by which they ply their trade.’
‘I want their names, Lipton, and I want them to know the next person they’ll talk to will be acting on my behalf.’
‘Good Lord, gentlemen, this fellow means to issue us all a challenge.’
‘Can he do that, sir,’ asked the probable ensign, ‘him being such a low-bred scully?’
The remark was greeted with general laughter and agreement, which left Pearce wondering if this had been rehearsed; it was almost as if the whole thing, including insulting Emily, had been set up to draw him into ridicule. He had to fight to stop himself from yelling insults at them; it took a real effort to keep his voice calm.
‘I think your Major Lipton will attest that before you is a man who can fight.’
‘I have seen cats in alleyways get into the kind of fighting you practise, Pearce.’
‘Lieutenant Pearce!’
Lipton raised his good hand and yawned to imply the barked response had no effect.
‘A rank open to any low-born peasant in the navy and for free, which we do not allow in the better service, where it is incumbent that you be a gentleman and have some means in order to gain entry. Be assured Pearce, we would not welcome you into our mess even if you had money, for you lack the attributes as well as the birth to qualify.’
‘Give me the names of the culprits and I will show them what a blue coat can do with any weapon they care to choose.’
‘I do not think you have yet caught our drift, Pearce; we do not see you as a man entitled to anything other than our contempt. It may be that you are fit to be horsewhipped but there is not a man present in this room who thinks his own reputation would not be sullied by contesting with you in an arena reserved for gentlemen.’
‘If you do not grant me the names I will challenge you all.’
‘Which, at best, will get you some spittle in your face. I think I speak for the service to which I belong when I say that no officer, certainly none in my regiment, will accept a challenge from a swine like you for fear of having to resign their commission in disgrace.’
‘I see I am
amongst cowards.’
The ensign piped up again. ‘Don’t just stand there, man, do what you were bred to and pour us out some wine.’
‘Damn you,’ Pearce responded, moving towards the speaker through a gale of amusement. ‘If you care to step outside the door, you insolent pup, I’ll teach you a lesson with nothing but the toe of my boot.’
His way was barred by the men between him and the speaker, so Pearce had no option but to stop.
‘Get out of here,’ Lipton yelled, half standing too and wincing as he moved. ‘For if you do not I will instruct these fellows to beat you like the product of the gutter that you are. Be assured, that horsewhip I mentioned is to hand and will be employed. Then, following a good drubbing, perhaps you will be tossed in the harbour like a bit of offal as a fitting response to the liberty you took against me.’
They were all standing now bar one, and that was Walcott, who had the decency to look downcast. It was obvious to Pearce that if he persisted the threat would be carried out; just as clear was the fact that he could not fight them all with any chance of success, which left him at a stand. He was not prepared to let go what had happened to Emily, who had been accosted in public. She had endured catcalls not only regarding her relationship with him, but with the added insult that her accusers were happy to spare a coin for a bout, though not much, given she was such damaged goods.
‘Gentlemen,’ Lipton said quietly, ‘I believe it would be best if we resumed the consumption of our breakfast.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Pearce spat in reply. ‘I have seen things floating in my chamber pot more fitting for the title than you lot.’
A Divided Command Page 14
