The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (7 page)

American Presidents were not
averse to fighting duels either, notably Andrew Jackson; and
Abraham Lincoln would have if his second had not interfered.
Vice-President Aaron Burr, and Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander
Hamilton, had also fought a duel. It was a rite of passage for
politicians and it proved they understood the great American
dream.

Sir James Damery still had no
solution but at least a duel would turn the spotlight away from
things like Fenians. He liked both Nash and Moriarty enormously.
They were both courageous and clever and the sort of men the Empire
needed. Maybe they would both shoot in the air. What did they call
it? Dumb shooting? Deloping? It had been known to happen, though it
went against the accepted rules of conduct.

Failing that, at least it meant
the Russian would not throw down the gauntlet to the heir to the
throne, which is probably why he had brought the duelling pistols
along in the first place. Just as Freddy Cazenove could not risk
being labelled a lily-livered coward, neither could any other man,
including the Prince of Wales, risk turning down a duel if openly
challenged.

In other words, a duel between
two officers was preferable to a duel between Prince Sergei and the
Prince Regent.

Major Inigo Nash measured his
chances. He was not reckless or foolhardy, but that’s not to say he
didn’t take risks. Of course he did. A man couldn’t survive long in
a foreign hell-hole without taking risks, and he’d been in most of
them, but he preferred the odds to be on his side. Maybe this was
meant to be. While waltzing with the Countess he had imagined
taking out his revolver, aiming up at the balcony, and shooting Jim
between the eyes.

Colonel Moriarty fought to
downplay his eagerness. He struggled to keep the light out of his
Irish eyes and the cocky smile off his face. Duels were second
nature to him. He was a crack shot and his hand was rock steady.
Most men weren’t used to the weightiness of an old-fashioned
duelling pistol and the way it fit into a man’s hand. They had
grown accustomed to Webleys and Derringers and Smith & Wessons.
They didn’t take into account the length of the barrel and how to
use it to aim at the heart of a target. They never allowed for the
stiffness of the old-style trigger. Even with one hand tied behind
his back and a blindfold he couldn’t miss. He could smell fear at
fifty paces. At ten paces it was like shooting at a stationery
omnibus.

Damery waited for the howls of
protest but there were none. “So be it,” he said sternly. “It is
customary to allow for a change of heart. Shall we say tomorrow at
dawn?”

“Why wait?” challenged the
American. “I say let them settle it now. We can get it over with
before the fireworks start.”

“This is a matter of personal
honour,” added the Russian. “We are not deciding on a time for a
picnic.”

“But there’s no light,” pointed
out Damery.

“Perhaps you think they should
throw billiard balls at each other like those two idiotic
Frenchmen, or perhaps beat each other over the head with pork
sausages like Bismark and Virchow!” He was alluding to the Code
Duello that allowed men to choose their own weapons, and his
sarcastic tone drew some sniggers.

“Duelling with lanterns is
permitted,” argued General de Merville, leaping up from his perch.
“When I was a lad fencing manuals included lessons with lanterns.
They were permitted for parrying blows and blinding an opponent.
The tradition of placing the left arm behind the back stems from
holding the lantern to the rear. We can set up two lanterns on the
ground at the ‘points’, meaning where the men stand and turn.”

“What about the field of
honour?” asked Damery, who was starting to have second thoughts.
“The cricket pitch has been turned into a carriage park.”

“We don’t need much space,”
barked General de Merville, who was already at the door with one
hand on the knob. “Twenty paces ought to do it; the greater the
grievance the shorter the number of paces.” He looked from Nash to
Moriarty. “Will twenty paces suit?”

“Ten,” declared Major Nash.

Moriarty fought valiantly to
suppress his delight. “Ten suits me.”

“What about seconds?” asked
Damery, who wanted everything to be in accord with the Code
Duello.

“We don’t need seconds,”
hectored General de Merville. “These two men don’t need someone
else to measure the ground for them. They can count to ten. They
don’t need someone to hold their hand. And they don’t expect
someone else to step in for them in case they don’t understand the
mechanics of the weapon. Let’s get this over and done with by
midnight. Then we can enjoy the fireworks. I’ll organize for two
lanterns from Captain Thompson and I’ll let him know there will be
some bullets fired in the trees by the lake so that there is no
panic. I’ll tell him we are doing a spot of night-shooting. We
don’t want to encourage any sightseers.”

“I’ll get the pistols,” offered
the Russian eagerly. “Each one comes in its own velvet-lined,
mahogany case with six silver cartridges. They are fairly heavy. Mr
Blague would you care to carry one and I will carry the other?
We’ll meet up by the lake.”

General de Merville rushed
away, followed by Mr Blague and Prince Sergei. Sir Damery and the
two duellists remained.

“Not too late to pull out,”
said Damery hopefully, but even as he said it he knew it was
pointless. This was
not
about honour or satisfaction. This
was
not
about first blood where the first wound no matter
how minor ended the duel. This was about a fight to the finish.
What was the term? A l’outrance?

According to the Code Duello
each man would fire one shot. If no one was hit (in this case
unlikely) then the challenger (presumably Nash) could declare
satisfaction and the duel would end without fatality.

If the challenger was not
satisfied, a second round would be fired. In the event of another
miss the same thing would occur and a third round would take
place.

It was unprecedented to have
more than three rounds. It was considered uncivilized and patently
ridiculous. It reflected badly on the duellists. To intentionally
miss was worse. It was the equivalent of a dishonourable discharge.
No man would ever live it down.

“I suggest we have a quick
brandy in the smoking room and then head down to the lake. No one
is to mention to any other man he meets, or woman, that a duel is
about to take place. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear,” said Nash.

“Understood,” said
Moriarty.

Damery paused at the door and
held out his hand. “I’ll hold onto the other weapons for the time
being, Major Nash.”

The Countess was dancing with
the Prince of Wales when the trio of men passed through the foyer.
She presumed Colonel Moriarty was under arrest and being escorted
to the nearest cell. Once again she felt immensely sorry for him
but if any man was able to sabotage himself, it was the
Irishman.

As the men were crossing the
lawn Captain Thompson called out. “Major Nash!”

“What is it, Captain?”

“I understand you are going to
do a spot of night-shooting, sir, but I wanted to let you know we
just collared the pirate trying to sneak into the guardroom. We are
taking him to the tack room off the stables. You were right about
him being strange. There is something queer about him. And his
flintlocks look queer too. I’ve never seen anything like them for
weapons.”

Nash wondered what the captain
meant by queer but he had no time to dwell on it. He wondered if
the pirate was a deadly foreign assassin. “Keep a close eye on him,
Captain. I’ll be back shortly to deal with him.”

“Not likely,” came a cocky
whisper in the dark.

Prince Sergei, Mr Blague and
General de Merville had arrived ahead of them. The field of honour
had been chosen. A clearing in a small wood of Copper Beeches was
the spot. Two lanterns were already spaced twenty feet apart and
the midpoint from which the two duellists would count off was
marked by a fallen branch.

Prince Sergei, being the most
experienced with duels, explained the
methodus pugnandi
to
make sure there was no confusion.

“Stand back to back where you
see the log. General de Merville will give the word to begin
counting off ten paces. You should reach the lantern which is your
‘point’ to turn and take aim. You will not be firing alternatively.
You will fire simultaneously when the signal ‘fire’ is given by Sir
James Damery. Good luck, gentlemen.”

It doesn’t matter how brave or
confident a man is, when he is looking death in the eye in the form
a loaded gun, it is a frightening experience. Add a cold winter’s
night, a dark wood, a moonless sky, tendrils of mist, two
flickering lanterns casting sinister shadows, silhouetting your
opponent, turning him into a supernatural demon, and the blood in a
man’s veins can curdle.

“Take up your positions,
gentlemen,” said Prince Sergei when the duelling pistols had been
handed out and loaded.

It was fifteen minutes before
midnight. There was plenty of time to settle things and still get
back to the pavilion in time to find a spot on the veranda and
enjoy the choreography of fireworks that would usher in the new
century. Captain Thompson could deal with the grisly aftermath
should one man be seriously injured which was the most likely
scenario. Most duels, despite being outlawed, no longer resulted in
death simply because most men were no longer accurate enough with
their aim, and that was in broad daylight. Dark shifting shadows
writhed in mist, distorted by flickering lamplight, would make the
job even more difficult.

Sir James Damery tried one more
time to call the whole thing off. “No change of heart?” he said
hopefully as the duellists stood back to back.

“This is your chance to save
yourself, Nash,” whispered Moriarty.

“I’m going to enjoy plugging
you between the eyes, Jim.”

“You’ll be dead before I
blink.”

“I’m not planning to wait for
you to blink.”

“Even if you survive, you don’t
stand a chance with her.”

“More chance than a bankrupt
Fenian.”

“That’s my point, Nash. She
doesn’t like stupid men.”

“She’ll fancy an Irish corpse
even less.”

They were interrupted by
General de Merville. “Count off to ten, gentlemen.”

And so the pacing began until
they reached the ‘point’, turned and aimed their pistols.

Damery drew breath and was
about to call, “Fire!” when a loud explosion filled the air.

At first, the three observers
thought the duellists had fired early but the blast came from the
direction of the pavilion.

“Dammit!” cussed Mr Blague,
squinting through the tracery of bare winter branches. “They’ve
started the fireworks early.”

Neither Nash nor Moriarty could
afford to get distracted; nerves stretched to breaking, bodies
poised on a knife-edge, eyes fixed on the target, neither dared to
blink.

The next explosion came a few
heartbeats later and in that instant both Nash and Moriarty knew
they weren’t listening to fireworks.

“A bomb!” shouted Nash,
dropping his weapon and swivelling round to Damery. “Throw me my
gun!”

Damery reacted spontaneously.
He tossed the two young men their weapons and watched them sprint
for the pavilion just as a third bomb went off. General de Merville
suddenly seemed to rouse himself, perhaps only just realising his
beloved daughter was still inside the building. He raced after
them, putting his old war pegs through their paces as fast as they
would go. Damery caught up to his friend, but they had no hope of
catching up to the younger pair. Prince Sergei stayed to collect
his valuable pistols and Mr Blague stayed with him. There was no
telling if the third bomb was the last. The lake was the best place
to be.

Sections of the pavilion were
on fire. Debris and shards of glass were everywhere. Men were
shouting and ladies were screaming; some of the guests were
staggering, some limping, and others needed to be carried; blood
was streaming everywhere. The scene was one of utter chaos.

Nevertheless, from a distance -
say the distance from the pavilion to the lake - it was clear the
damage was not as devastating as it could have been. Whoever set
the bombs had messed up badly. The first two bombs blew the lids
off the domes that stood at either end; the ones that housed the
divans and hookahs. The third bomb went off in the foyer. The huge
ballroom with the airy triptych of domes where the majority of the
guests, cloaked and mantled, were probably gathering prior to
stepping out to the lawn facing the river for the best view of the
fireworks had been miraculously spared.

Moriarty shirt-fronted Nash as
they hurtled up the grassy knoll; his breath came in desperate
heaves. “No playing the fucking hero! Duty comes first!”

“Are you saying we’re on the
same side?”

“We’re never going to be on the
same side, Nash, and not because I’m Irish and you’re stupid, but
because she can only ever choose one of us.”

“Are you denying your Irish
friends had anything to do with those bombs?”

“Did you see those domes blow
sky-high? I was planning to be inside one of them till midnight. If
my friends had anything to do with it then I wouldn’t need any
enemies.”

There was another series of
violent explosions, a burst of panic, and deafening screams. It
took a moment to realize that this time it was the actual
fireworks. They had been set up on a barge on the river and the men
in charge had no idea the three bombs weren’t part of the
entertainment. The sky rained stars and diamonds and the mad
midnight scene became wildly surreal because of what had already
taken place. Some people laughed and others cried. Some, suffering
shock, were too traumatised to care.