“Marlowe,” Bickerstaff said softly. “Perhaps we should leave now. I fear the oxtripe I ate is not sitting well with me.”
“Bear up a moment more, sir. I would first like to have a word with some friends of mine.” Marlowe left him there and made his way across the room. He could see words pass be
tween the people as they saw him approach, giggles and glances in his direction. He was afraid that his cheeks were turning red.
“Sir,” he said to Matthew Wilkenson when he arrived at the far end of the ballroom, “you seem to be enjoying some joke, all of you, and I would fain know what amuses you so.”
“It is a private joke we are enjoying.” Wilkenson looked not at Marlowe but at his companions, who were still giggling like idiots. He was half drunk, smiling his stupid, arrogant smile, his eyes never fully meeting Marlowe’s but shifting between him and his tribe.
“And I would know what you are laughing at,” Marlowe said. “And you, ma’am,” he turned to Elizabeth, “does this gentleman amuse you, or would you wish me to remove his hand from your arm?”
“Pray, sir, it is none of your affair.” Elizabeth’s voice had a desperate, humiliated tone.
“Yes,” said Wilkenson, “it is none of your affair.”
“If a lady is suffering an insult, sir, then it is most certainly my affair.”
“Oh, you are indeed a noble one.” Laughter spewed through Wilkenson’s closed lips as if he could not contain himself. “It seems there are many pretensions of nobility tonight.” He looked quickly at Marlowe, then back at his friends. They were averting their eyes, as if Marlowe was something shameful.
“I would ask you to explain yourself, sir,” Marlowe said. “But first to take your hand from the lady’s arm.”
“Please, Mr. Marlowe, I am quite well,” said Elizabeth. She did not sound well at all.
“I shall attend to my affairs, sir,” said Wilkenson, “and I suggest you do the same. Begone, you upstart crow.” He turned and grinned at his friends, looking for them to share his delight. But they were nervous now, and rewarded him with no more than half-smiles and muted chuckles.
“I said take your hand from the lady’s arm.”
Marlowe grabbed Wilkenson’s hand in a crushing grip and removed it from Elizabeth’s arm, as easy as taking a toy from a baby’s fist.
Wilkenson managed at last to jerk his hand from Marlowe’s grasp. “You lay a hand on me, you bastard?”
“I shall lay a boot on your arse, sir, if you do not apologize to the lady.”
“Marlowe, please,” Elizabeth implored, but it was beyond that now.
Wilkenson was red in the face, lips pressed tight together. He glanced at his friends for support, but they would not meet his eyes, and that seemed to make him angrier still. “You dare to touch me? Do you think you can impress us with your bloody money and your lies of noble birth. I can well guess at the truth about you, sir, easier than you think, and I am not afraid to tell others.”
“If you wish to discuss affairs between you and me, then we may do so, but I will not tolerate your insulting a lady.”
“Well, this is rich,” he said, his voice loud enough to make others turn and listen. “A scoundrel and a liar, an upstart with pretensions of gentle birth, coming to the aid of another one of that ilk, and a slut to boot.”
There was an unnatural quiet around them, as if they were not a part of the ball taking place in the rest of the room.
“For the sake of harmony in this colony I might be willing to suffer insult to myself,” said Marlowe, “but I cannot tolerate such words spoken about a lady. I must demand satisfaction.”
This brought Wilkenson up short, at least for a second. How could the silly bastard have expected anything less? Marlowe wondered. Wilkenson had been too long allowed to do as he wished, his behavior beyond challenge.
“Oh, for the love of God!” Elizabeth glared at Wilkenson and then Marlowe and then stamped off.
Wilkenson watched her go and then turned to Marlowe. He hesitated, and his eyes went wide, then narrow. “Very well, then, you shall have it.” The arrogance was gone from his voice, as was the mirth. He had now put himself in the way of real danger. He glanced again at his friends.
“Very good, sir. I shall send my man to meet yours,” Marlowe said, then turned and walked back to where Bickerstaff was standing. He did not turn to see what reaction his challenge had received.
“You seem to have thrown them into some great consternation,” Bickerstaff said as Marlowe stepped up next to him.
“I should imagine. I have called the pup Wilkenson out.”
“Was that wise?”
“Wise or not, I had no choice. Will you be my second?”
“You need not ask.”
“I am grateful to you, sir. Now perhaps you would be so kind as to go speak with his man and work out the details of this thing. I shall wait outside.”
“I should be delighted. Shall I request a meeting at dawn tomorrow?”
“That would be most agreeable.”
“Shall I allow him the choice of weapons?”
“Certainly,” Marlowe said. “He will choose pistols, of course. They always do.”
The hour before dawn was gray and deep green. A mist like gauze hung in the trees and all but obscured the far end of the field on which they were to meet. The air was cool and fresh and moist. And still, utterly still. From far away a rooster sounded, and then another, but there was no other sound than that. It was the kind of morning, peculiar to the tidewater, that makes it seem the most perfect place on earth, the original garden.
Marlowe and Bickerstaff stood waiting while their horses ran teeth over the lush grass, entirely careless of the drama they were about to witness. The early morning was as comfortable a time of day as one was likely to find in the spring in that country, and Marlowe was thoroughly enjoying the quiet of the place. The brilliant rays of the sun were showing themselves through the thick forest to the east, the light splintering as it worked its way through a thousand leaves, flickering as if the trees themselves were burning.
He had to remind himself of why he was there.
“A lovely morning for a duel,” he said, but softly, not willing to break the silence with his normal tone. “I certainly hope we have one.”
“I can’t imagine we won’t.” Bickerstaff spoke softly as well.
“You are quite certain they understood the time and the place?”
“Quite. They’ll show, depend upon it.”
He did not share Bickerstaff’s certainty. If Wilkenson chose to ignore his challenge, Marlowe could rightly deem him a coward. But if he and his friends chose to ignore him completely, to view him as not worthy of consideration, it might be an even greater humiliation. All of Marlowe’s aspirations of rising like a phoenix in Virginia society would be for naught.
He was starting to grow genuinely concerned when Bickerstaff nodded his head toward the far end of the field.
A coach and four was coming down the road, rattling along, ending the morning quiet. It was a big, yellow painted affair, a coat of arms on the door, and Marlowe recognized it as the Wilkensons’ vehicle. He and Bickerstaff watched in silence as it crossed the open space and pulled up ten feet from where they stood.
George Wilkenson, Matthew’s older brother and apparently his second, stepped out, followed by Jonathan Small, a doctor of physic, the most prominent in Williamsburg.
“A good thought, to bring a doctor,” Bickerstaff said.
“They won’t need him,” said Marlowe. “They would have done better to bring a priest.”
Wilkenson had chosen pistols, which was no surprise to Marlowe. His type, cowards at heart, always did. With swords it was cut and thrust, attack and retreat, a drawn-out affair with too much opportunity for mischief. With pistols it was one shot apiece, honor quickly satisfied and little chance to do harm, and in most cases any harm that was done was slight.
For all that, Matthew Wilkenson was not
looking very well that morning. He was quite pale, even waxy, a slight tremor in his hands. He glanced nervously around as Bickerstaff and
George examined the pistols, each choosing one for their man and loading it.
Marlowe watched the young pup twisting his fingers together as his brother performed for him the duties of a second, and he found that strange animal, conscience, gnawing, gnawing.
What beast is this? he thought. He was very much in his rights for demanding this satisfaction, after the insult he had suffered, and more so in defending Elizabeth’s honor.
“Bickerstaff,” he said with a sigh, “pray go and tell young Wilkenson that if he will retract his statement in front of those who had occasion to hear it, and apologize to Mrs. Tinling and vow never to spread such lies again, I shall consider honor to be satisfied.”
Bickerstaff said nothing, just cocked an eyebrow at him, then walked across the damp grass toward the enemy’s camp. Marlowe could not hear what was said, but he could see in young Wilkenson’s actions that Bickerstaff’s words had emboldened him. Did the pup construe his charity for fear, his offer as an attempt to save his own skin? He saw Matthew stand more upright and shake his head. Bickerstaff nodded, turned, walked back.
“He says you shall not escape your mortal danger so easy,” Bickerstaff reported, “but if you wish to withdraw the challenge, then, Christian that he is, he will allow you to do so.”
“Such nobility. One rarely sees it these days. Does he think me afraid?”
“I believe he does. He took great courage from your attempt to cut and run.”
“Very well,” Marlowe said. “If he will be a fool to the last, at least he will not die a coward.”
The protocol for the affair, as Bickerstaff and George Wilkenson arranged, was for the duelists to stand ten paces apart, backs to each other, turn on the word, and fire. The seconds paced out the distance, and young Wilkenson and Marlowe took their places.
Marlowe stood quite still, his pistol held across his chest, and looked out over the field. How very much one’s thoughts are concentrated at a moment such as this, he thought, how very sharp everything seems. The smell of wet grass and the hint of brackish water in the air, the trees, now bathed in orange light, standing over their long shadows, all seemed so very much…present. That was not the first time he had had such thoughts. He understood why some men became addicted to dueling.
“Ready!” George Wilkenson called out. Marlowe could hear the strain in his voice. It occurred to him that Matthew Wilkenson might be an excellent shot, that he, Marlowe, might have real reason to be afraid. But he was not.
“Turn and fire!” He turned, gun still held across his chest, faced Wilkenson thirty feet away. Wilkenson turned as well, turned as quickly as he could, bringing his gun up as he did, desperate to fire first. Marlowe saw the puff of smoke in the pan, the muzzle flash as the gun went off.
Wilkenson was a good shot, a very good shot, as it happened. Marlowe felt the bullet pluck at his coat, heard the frightful buzz as the ball flew past. Had Matthew not been in such a panic, Marlowe would have died. But now Marlowe had all the time he needed to fire back.
He brought his gun up at last and leveled it at Wilkenson’s head. Wilkenson staggered back a step, then another, quite contrary to the protocol of the thing, experiencing the terror, the absolute terror of pending death. Marlowe had seen it before, in the eyes of more men than he cared to recall. He would not make Wilkenson suffer long.
He lined the end of the barrel up with Matthew Wilkenson’s jaw; the slight rise of the ball in flight would put it right through his forehead. His finger caressed the trigger, feeling the resistance of the spring.
And then he changed his mind.
Now what in the hell is happening to me? he thought as he lowered the gun a quarter of an inch and aimed it at Wilkenson’s shoulder. If he did not kill the little bastard, there was
every chance that the rumors would start again. But still he could
not do it. He could not kill him.
I am a fool and I shall regret this, he thought.
It took Marlowe just three seconds to come to that uncharacteristically charitable decision, but that was longer than Wilkenson’s courage could hold out.
“No! God, no!” Matthew Wilkenson screamed, twisting, ducking, just as Marlowe pulled the trigger. The ball, carefully aimed at Wilkenson’s shoulder, struck him right in the head.
Through the cloud of gray smoke Marlowe saw Wilkenson lift off the ground, literally lift off his feet, and fly back, arms thrust out, the fine mist of blood blown from the back of his head caught in the rays of the early sun. He came to rest flat on his back.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” George Wilkenson ran over to where his brother lay. Marlowe walked over there as well, at a more leisurely pace, and Bickerstaff joined him.
“He almost bested you,” Bickerstaff observed, looking at the rent in Marlowe’s sleeve just below the shoulder. Ten inches from his heart.
“Almost.”
Matthew Wilkenson was sprawled out on the grass, arms and legs flung out, dead eyes open, staring at the sky. He had left a path where his body had slid through the dew. In his forehead was a hole the size of a doubloon. His head rested in a growing puddle of blood. Dr. Smith leaned over and closed Matthew’s eyes. George Wilkenson was on hands and knees, vomiting.
Marlowe shook his head as he looked at the dead man. He was sorry that young Wilkenson had died, he had not intended to kill him. He did not feel remorse; he had seen too many men killed, had killed too many himself, to feel that. He was just sorry.
After a long moment, during which the only sound to be heard was George Wilkenson’s retching, Marlowe said, “I believe that honor has been satisfied.”
“You bastard, you son of a whore.” George Wilkenson looked up at him, a long thread of vomit hanging from his lips.
“You killed him.”
“Yes. It is customary in a duel.”
“You didn’t have to kill him, you son of a bitch. You could have…you didn’t have to kill him.”
“If he had stood like a man, rather than flinching like a coward, then he would still be alive.”
“You bastard. Whoreson.”
“Now, see here,” Marlowe was starting to lose his patience, “perhaps you are accustomed to playacting when it comes to affairs of honor, but I am not. I will suffer only so much abusive language from you. If you think you have been wronged, then I suggest you play the man and do something about it. We have the pistols here. If you care to demand satisfaction, then let us have it out here and now.”
Wilkenson said nothing, only glared at Marlowe, his eyes wet.
“There’s been quite enough of this for one day,” said Dr. Smith.
“I am in agreement, Doctor,” said Bickerstaff.
“Very well.” Marlowe dropped the pistol to the ground. “But hear me, Wilkenson. Your brother wronged me and he insulted a lady in an unpardonable manner, and still I gave him the chance to apologize and save his life. Now, you can tell your family, and anyone so inclined, that any man spreading malicious gossip about me or insulting a lady with whom I have a friendship had best be prepared to meet me on this field. I will suffer no such insults. Good day, sir.”
He turned and walked toward the end of the field to which his horse had retreated. He could hear Bickerstaff’s boots on the grass just behind him.
“You lowered your aim, Marlowe. I saw that. Perhaps we shall make a gentleman of you yet.”
“And if the Wilkensons are typical of the breed, I’m not so sure I fancy being one. Stupid bastard. I gave him ample opportunity to save his life.”
“I think perhaps the gentle people of this colony are not accustomed to duels ending in death.”
“Well, if they are going to play at being men, then they had best get accustomed to playing rough.”
Perhaps it was best this way, he thought. Half-measures would never do in a case where his very honor was at stake. H
is honor and that of Elizabeth Tinling.
Had Wilkenson made a public apology, that would have been one thing; Marlowe and Elizabeth would have been vindicated and Wilkenson humiliated, and he would have never mentioned it again.
But if he had lived through a duel, with honor satisfied, then the insults might have come around again, and with more vehemence. Wilkenson would have grown restless under the shame of Marlowe’s having allowed him to live. No, insults and innuendo such as the ones Matthew Wilkenson was promoting could not go unanswered. They would spread like the plague if they did, and then Marlowe and Elizabeth would be shunned by the better sort in the colony.
Well, honor is satisfied now, he thought. Matthew Wilkinson was forever silenced, and George Wilkinson was too much of a coward to risk his brother’s fate. The rumors had been stopped dead. Stopped, Marlowe hoped, before anyone would guess at the truth of the matter.
Chapter 4
JEAN-PIERRE LEROIS staggered out of his tent, squinting and blinking in the late-morning Caribbean sun. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His head pounded with the onslaught of light. He pulled his battered hat lower over his eyes, took another pull from the whiskey bottle in his hand, and surveyed his domain.
Off to the east, scattered among the green forest, was the small town of Nassau, in reality no more than a few houses, shops, and taverns. The majority of the island’s population, some two hundred or so men and perhaps fifty women, were scattered along the half-mile stretch of beach on which LeRois’s tent was pitched. But they were not, strictly speaking, citizens of New Providence or any other place. They were men on the account. The Brethren of the Coast who had just recently discovered the sparsely inhabited island as a nearly ideal base for their tribe. They were pirates.
The lot of them, the crews of the three decrepit ships at anchor just off the beach, were making their home on the white sand. Sleeping wherever they had passed out, or gambling, or cooking, or eating, or fornicating. And they were all drinking, all those who were still conscious-drinking bitter wine or “kill devil” rum or rumfustian, made of beer, gin, sherry, raw eggs, and whatever else happened to be available.
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