by Bill Peschel
We walked into the circle of torchlight where gathered the surgeons in their black coats and tall hats, their leather bags with their saws and lancets at their feet. There was one of Dietrich’s gentleman friends, solemn as an owl. His eyebrows shot up at my costume, and so shocked was he that he lapsed into German.
“Was zur Hölle ist das?” I opened my mouth but Twichell stepped in.
“It’s how we do it in Nevada. Official dueling outfit.”
Everyone looked to Dietrich von Nordmark. He was too polished to react, but coolly nodded. A faint contemptuous smile played on his lips. To my surprise, I chuckled. My brandy-fueled courage flared up, and my hands itched to carve his smile off his face. The rest of my corpse-to-be disagreed. My legs shivered like a wet dog, and my bowels turned to water. All the while a steady drone of words filled my ears. A referee was announcing the rules of the bout, and asking the traditional questions about the sanity of the participants and their desire to fight. Dietrich made his declarations loudly and proudly; I nodded. I paid it all no mind. He was going to disregard the rules and kill me anyway, and then shrug it off as an accident.
My temper did not improve with Twichell’s continued fiddling with my mask. His fingers dug into the back of my head as if he was finding nits.
“Pace off!” the judge declared. The suddenness of his words shocked me into action. My legs had been given permission to move, and they did not need encouragement. I jerked back, nearly knocking over Twichell, and stepped off the six paces, little heeding if it were the right direction or not. Let Dietrich adjust himself to match me was my opinion on the matter.
“Ready?” I took one last look around at life. The torches. The circle of light. The eternal darkness beyond. The few witnesses to the slaughter. Dietrich made preliminary waves with his sword, and the sharpened blade caught the light and spread it against the dark like butter.
“Fight!”
I shook my head to clear the remains of the brandy, and as I did I went blind. I panicked. I could hear Dietrich’s approach in the grass, and I leaped back, waving my sword to ward him off.
“Halt! Halt! His mask’s off,” Twichell cried. I adjusted the leather and my vision returned. Twichell had leaped between us, risking impalement. “The strap broke!”
Dietrich uttered a growl from deep in his throat. You could feel his frustration at being denied his execution.
Twichell grabbed my elbow and hustled me toward the carriage. I could hear a gentlemen offer a replacement mask from the count’s supply, but he ignored them. “Won’t be a minute. We have another one.”
“Let’s take several minutes,” I said to him in a low voice. My legs were shaking so much that if we stopped moving I could collapse to the ground. “In fact, make it a couple hours. Or a year? I’m not in a hurry. Don’t hustle on my account.” But he seemed eager to repair the damage, because with his iron grip on my arm he nearly frog-marched me to the carriage. He opened the door and thrust me in. In the dim light I could see a hooded and cloaked figure bent over and working his pants into his boots.
Twichell pulled the door shut behind him and tugged aside the curtains. “They’re milling about on the field,” Twichell said. “You got time. Sam, give me your hat and coat. My God, that was close! I didn’t know which of you was going to stick it to me first. Did you have to wave your sword around like a blind man?” He was jubilant at my discomfort.
“That’s because I was, you idiot!” I ripped off the mask and threw it on the floor.
Then I got the shock of my life, for the stranger finished with the boots and said:—
“Keep your eyes peeled, Twichell. Like what you see, Mark?” The stranger pulled back the hood and brushed back the cloak.
“Irene?”
Twichell chuckled and handed her my outfit. She was wearing a dueling mask, from which peeped a moustache just like mine. A thousand questions flooded my brain, but all I could say was, “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your life,” she took my hat and adjusted the cloak over her shoulders.
“That pleases me mightily. It’s well worth preserving.” With the immediate threat of oblivion receding, I was feeling more my old self. “He’ll see right through you.”
“He’ll see you. He already got a close look at you. I’ll take your position and between his expectations and the torchlight I’ll pass long enough to get what I want. See?” She tilted her head this way and that. Now that she was completely clothed, I thought she could pass. Only the shape of her chin gave the game away.
A suspicion tickled me. I grabbed the mask and held it up to the light. I could dimly make out the neat cut in the strap. The cooler I got, the more I thought, and that’s when the penny fell. I reached into Twichell’s pocket and pulled out his flask. “You’re slicker than greased lightning; you planned this, didn’t you?” The brandy burned, but not so much. Must have taken off a layer last time.
Twichell laughed and slapped his knee. “Hear that, Miss Adler? I said he isn’t as dumb as you thought.” He took the flask back, gave it a pull, and handed it back. “You get yourself into the oddest scrapes. She told me what this was about while you nodded off. Didn’t have much choice except to trust her and do as she asked.”
“Are they doing anything out there?” she said.
“Still waiting, but looking at us. We’d best get going.” She picked up her sword.
“Why?” I said, although I thought I knew the answer.
“Dietrich thinks he can do what he wants with me. With impunity.” She adjusted the cape to cover her shoulders. I noticed that her bosoms did not show as prominently as before, and I suspected tighter bandages or the removal of whatever illusions she’d used. “I’m no child. I knew there would be an end to the affair. He’s about to be married, did you know that?”
I confess I hadn’t.
“That hurt, but he expected me to become his mistress. ‘Aren’t you American girls all like that?’” Her impression of Dietrich would have made a dog laugh, but for her seriousness. She was about to risk her life, and that scared me.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “He’s about to learn the difference between an ‘Ah-MER-i-kan’ girl and a Jersey girl.”
Twichell said: “They’re coming.”
“Stay hidden,” she ordered me. “Douse the light.”
Twichell turned down the lamp, leaving us in darkness. I jumped onto the seat next to the door, which opened and they got out.
“Sind Sie bereit?” I heard.
“He is,” Twichell said. “We had to adjust the new mask to get it to fit.”
“Good! Herr Dietrich was concerned . . .” their conversation faded as they marched away.
I jumped down, tugged the curtain a crack, and received another shock. Walking away from the coach was Twichell and Clemens. Adler strutted, but as Clemens she shambled and weaved. Watching me walk away to my assumed death was one of the more peculiar experiences in my life.
The torches had burned for awhile so the light was beginning to dim. Dietrich was impatient, marching back and forth, sweeping the grass with his blade. He gave “me” a curt nod as Adler took my position ten yards away from him. The duel resumed. The field was silent but for the sound of the torches rippling in the breeze. Adler was still playing me, slump-shouldered, her head down and trembling like a horse in a thunderstorm. Dietrich was preening. He approached with an insolent stride and without any preliminaries slashed at the face. He intended to lay open my check, and would have if Adler, with not even a glance, parried the blow. The clash of steel on steel carried to the coach.
Dietrich essayed another swipe. Again her blade countered, followed by a step forward and a slash by return mail which he blocked. He had intended to humiliate me with easy attacks. He wouldn’t treat me like a real opponent, only a dog to be beaten. She could have taken advantage of this; a lightning riposte would have ended the bout. She wanted to show that he failed. She was saying with her sword, “If y
ou want to score off me, you’ll have to do better than that.” No attack on a man’s body can cut deeper than the one on his pride.
Dietrich stamped. He grunted. He barked as he slashed. He roared as he was defeated. Adler countered each attack, the pace increasing until her blade was in a near-constant motion. From the carriage, I cheered and stamped my approval. I hoped she speared the bastard.
He was in a murderous mood at seeing his stratagems being consistently defeated. They launched into a flurry of blows and counterthrusts and ripostes, moving back and forth with each step marked by chiming blades. The onlookers realized that something was wrong, but they couldn’t put their finger on it. They cried out for the duelists to stop, and Dietrich disengaged, his chest heaving for air. He waved his friends into silence, and that was the moment that Adler flung off her hat and pulled up her mask. Her chin was up and her posture, even from a great distance, shouted unconquerable defiance to the man she once loved.
“Liebchen!” he said hoarsely.
She said something that even now I blush to recall: “Fick dich, du miserabler hurensohn.” She spat and added, “And you fight like a schoolboy, kurzen Schwanz.”
Dietrich whipped off his mask. In three long strides, he re-engaged Adler and in four blows she sliced, and an arc of blood exploded from his face. He screamed and dropped his sword and grabbed his nose.
She backed away, saluted the seconds and the doctors with the élan of a French cavalry officer, picked up her hat and mask and strode for the carriage, her cape billowing behind her. Twichell trailed, looking back cautiously, but never once did she glance back. The doctors ran to Dietrich and tried to work on him, but he shouted defiance at them and tried to rush Adler. Even in the fading torchlight, I shuddered at seeing his face smeared with his blood, his friends holding him back.
Adler entered the carriage, the driver whipped at the horses and we rumbled away. From the window, I saw Dietrich grow smaller and smaller. He tried one last lunge and as the carriage passed through the gate and turned out of sight, the last I saw of him was being borne down to the ground, bellowing in pain and rage.
* * * * *
The next morning I breakfasted with Livy in our glass-enclosed nest. I was a contented man. The ham came from a contented sow, the eggs fresh from excellent hens, and the coffee ground from beans imported from paradise. Last night’s horror seemed to be a dream that faded as the summer sun played across the china on the table, the lace curtains carried a cooling breeze and the Neckar burbled off in the distance. I recounted to Livy my adventures of the previous night, telling her everything but the pronouns. I told about the poker game, but not that I played. I told about seeing Miss Adler in the duel, but not that I participated. It was my most brilliant lie, full of incident and color and concealing all that could cause her distress. I was virtuous in my deceit, a flavorful combination.
I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Twichell and I can begin our walking tour today in the knowledge that Von Nordmark will be more preoccupied with Miss Adler and healing to bother with me. I had finished my tale when the maid entered to place a wrapped package addressed to me by my plate.
Livy set down her cup and watched as I unwrapped it. She gasped as I opened several small boxes to reveal a beautiful ring inside each. A long case disgorged the diamond, pearl, and ruby necklace. I passed them across to her, and as she cooed over each piece, I read the note that accompanied them.
Dear Mr. Twain;
I must leave Heidelberg quickly. Thank you so much for your help. I would have asked Gunter to accompany me last night, but the dear would have fought, and I couldn’t risk getting him hurt. Don’t worry about him, however; he is with me.
I must beg a favor. Dietrich insisted that I return his gifts and had been for some time. I was reluctant, but then remembered my lessons in church back in Red Bank that it was better to forgive and to turn the other cheek. Could you see this package mailed to the address below? You can expect this favor to be repaid someday, with interest, from
I.A.
PS: I apologize for editing the note, but Dietrich needed encouragement. Men can be so obtuse sometimes, wouldn’t you agree? I.
That’s when the whole of her plan had become clear to me. I read the note to Livy but omitted the PS, and added:—
“Humph! The woman’s nerve. Does she consider me her personal postman? I have a mind to drop it in the Neckar. Still, I can’t return them to her. She could be on her way to London, St. Petersburg, Paris, or Warsaw. I suppose I should get this taken care of.”
“This is curious.” Livy was threading the pearls through her fingers.
“You look puzzled, dear. Whatever is the matter?”
“I’m no jeweler, but I could swear these pearls are imitation. They looked so real last night. Do you think the gas lighting could have had something to do with that?”
I rooted through the box and held each piece to the light. Some appeared genuine but some had a feel to them that looked suspicious. It occurred to me that New Jersey girls might forgive, but they never forget. And, when pressed too hard, they make sure to get some of their own back.
I tucked the note in my coat pocket.
“I need to get packing, but I’ll make sure to send them along. Maybe from the train station.” I reconsidered. “Better still, from Switzerland.”
Footnotes
[back] Fleet Street: A street in central London where between the early 1700s and the 1980s the major newspapers were located. The street became so associated with the newspaper profession, particularly the vulgar tabloids, that reporters were called “Fleet-Streeters” and even prostitutes were called “Fleet Street doves.” Blackfriars: A district in central London that includes Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, and St. Paul’s Cathedral. The name refers to the black vestments worn by the Dominican friars who established a monastery in the area in the 13th century.
[back] Pennorth: Ha’pence: A halfpenny coin, in use until 1969. Pennorth: A contraction of “two penny’s worth.”
[back] Lamb and Lark: A tavern that was still serving pints until 1957. The name possibly referred to a 16th century proverb: “Go to bed with the lamb and rise with the lark.” The building was torn down to make room for an extension of the Times newspaper building.
[back] Braces: In America, these are called suspenders.
[back] King Lud: The Bodega at The Arches no longer exists, but at the time there were eight of these wine bars in the city. The site where the King Lud stood now serves upscale takeaway lunches under the name Leon. The Lud was named in honor of a ruler of the ancient Britons before the Romans came. He is supposedly buried at Ludgate, which was a major gateway into the City of London.
[back] Portugal: The Portugal Hotel and pub was located at 155 Fleet St., now the site of a McDonalds and a NatWest bank branch.
[back] Punch tavern: A pub that was renamed in the 1840s after the satirical magazine when its staff began drinking there. It still exists today.
[back] Bloom: A skin condition caused by drinking alcohol in which the skin exhibits a blotchy redness. It can be confused with rosacea, a chronic condition once known as “gin blossoms” when it was thought to be caused by alcohol.
[back] Gravesend: A port on the River Thames east of London.
[back] Nore: A sandbank at the mouth of the Thames Estuary, east of Gravesend, marking the point where the river meets the North Sea.
[back] North Shields: A town on the north bank at the mouth of the River Tyne in Northumberland.
[back] I gloat: An exhilarating cry, akin to a yodel, so common in the Stalky books that poet Wilfrid Blair (1889-1968) parodied it in “Stalky’s School-Song” (1914):
From Vancouver to Kooringa, from Kamskatga to the Cape
(For Men bulk larger bein’ more remote),
Ye shall hear the talky-talky of your dear old Uncle Stalky—
Fids! Fids! Ye shall hear me gloat!
[back] And at ’em: A series of cries from literature
and history. Blood, Iago, blood: Othello’s cry in Act III, Scene 3 when he demands Cassio’s death to avenge his suspected affair with Desdemona; Let loose the dogs of war! Spoken by Marc Anthony after the assassination in Julius Caesar; Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest! A line from a fictional sea chantey sung in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island; Up, guards, and at ’em: Attributed to the Duke of Wellington at a crucial moment at the Battle of Waterloo (later, he said that he might have said simply, “Stand up, guards!”).
[back] Meeting house: A place of worship for nonconformists or dissenters from the Church of England.
[back] Limehouse: A district in East London known for its extensive wharves and docks. It was also a home for sailors, many of them foreign, and the taverns and prostitutes that profited from them. The growing Chinese presence there sparked xenophobic fears of criminality and drug use. For example, when magazine writer Arthur Henry Ward failed to find evidence of a crime syndicate supposedly run by a Chinese gambling house owner, he used his notes and Limehouse setting to write, under the penname Sax Rohmer, The Mystery of Fu-Manchu (1913).
[back] Birdnesting: The now-illegal hobby of collecting the eggs of wild birds.
[back] He who reads may not run: The first half of this phrase comes from the book of Habakkuk: “The Lord answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it.” In other words, that it is written so clearly that it may be easily understood.
[back] Minerva: The Roman goddess of wisdom, the arts, and magic.
[back] Steiner violin: Possibly a misspelled reference to Jacob Stainer (c. 1617-1683), the Austrian luthier whose violins were highly sought after until Antonio Stradivari produced a version more suited to the large concert halls popular in his time. Very few Stainer violins are known to exist today.
