The French Prize (38 page)

“Wentworth's second will meet you there,” Jack nodded to a spot halfway between the men, “and he'll have Wentworth's sword and the two of you will see that there's no great difference in the weapons, length or anything like that.”

“Oh, I see,” Tucker said. He took the sword and walked away and Chandler met him in the middle of the space. They exchanged swords and looked them over, though Biddlecomb suspected Tucker had no idea of what he was looking for. Then both men turned and headed toward him.

“Good morrow, Captain Biddlecomb,” Chandler said in his crisp British way.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Biddlecomb said.

“Mr. Wentworth asks that I relate to you that he would consider honor to be satisfied if you were to make a private apology to him,” Chandler said.

Biddlecomb thought about that. A private apology, not a public one. Wentworth was making it easy for him to get out of this fight if he wished, which would suggest that Wentworth wished to get out of the fight, which Jack took to mean that he was afraid. Ironically, just the supposition that had led to this whole brouhaha. “No, sir, I do not believe an apology is owed by me,” Jack said.

“Very well,” Chandler said. “That being the case, Mr. Wentworth asks if you will agree to make this fight to first blood.”

First blood
 … Jack thought. Wentworth did not want to fight to the death, or until some great mischief was done.
He is a damned bloody coward
. But Jack considered himself a merciful man, so he said, “Very well, then, first blood.”

Chandler returned to Wentworth's side. Jack stretched his arms and legs, took a few practice lunges. He would not have killed Wentworth in any case, he was not one of those who took pleasure in dispatching his fellow man. Dueling was as addictive as drink, he knew, and while he did on occasion wrestle with a fondness for drink, dueling still held no great fascination for him.

A few moments later he saw Wentworth stepping toward the center of the space, Chandler at his side, and he stepped forward as well. “Come along, Tucker,” he prompted his first mate and Tucker hurried after him. The four men met in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by a half circle of spectators thirty feet inland. Wentworth stood about fifteen feet away, holding his sword easily at his side. A beautiful weapon, just as Jack suspected it would be. He could just make out various exotic inlays in the hand guard, could see the mirror finish of the steel.

But he was thinking about Wentworth, not his sword. Thinking about the first moment he had seen him, sitting so arrogantly at the table in the great cabin, assuming everything there was his for the taking.
This has been a long time coming
, Jack thought, and he was pleased that the moment had at last arrived.

“Gentlemen,” Chandler said, nodding to each man. “This shall be a fight to first blood. At the sight of first blood the wounded man's second will raise his arm, the other second will cry out, “Strike up your swords!” and each combatant will disengage. They will remain in the
en guarde
position until such time as it is affirmed that first blood has been drawn. Is this acceptable?”

Jack nodded but he was not really listening. He was looking hard at Wentworth, because a big part of winning this sort of thing was finding a weakness one could exploit. He was looking for fear, looking for intimidation, hesitancy. But Wentworth was looking back at him, his face as expressionless as a bust of Caesar, and Jack had to admit he did not look afraid.

“Very well,” Chandler said next. “Pray, each of you step back a few paces. Good.” He held up a handkerchief. “
En guarde
!” Jack took the familiar position, his body folding into the stance with ease, perfectly natural. Wentworth went
en guarde
as well, and even that little movement was done with fluidity and grace.

Then Chandler dropped the cloth. It fluttered to the ground and its landing was the cue to begin. But neither man rushed into the fight, and indeed ten seconds after the handkerchief had settled they were still just inching toward one another, eyes focused on blades, and arms, and the eyes of their opponent.

Jack took two small advances, extended his sword arm just a bit, probing. He did not know what to expect from Wentworth, and now was the time to get the measure of his opposite, now was the time to poke about for weaknesses that could prove fatal. Metaphorically fatal.

Wentworth extended as well, and now their blades were overlapping. Jack pressed down on Wentworth's blade, just pushed it aside with the slightest pressure, and Wentworth did not offer any sort of resistance. Jack pressed a bit more, moving Wentworth's point out of the line of attack, leaving a straight shot in to Wentworth's chest. He tensed his back leg. Release Wentworth's blade, go straight in, and he could give Wentworth a nice, deep cut across the shoulder or arm and end this all.

He was poised to spring when Wentworth dropped his blade and the resistance holding Jack's in line was suddenly gone. His blade swung to the left as Wentworth's sword circled around and came darting in, snake-fast, and Jack, ready to move forward, now had to leap back and try for an awkward, backhand parry.

He connected, knocked Wentworth's blade aside, but Wentworth circled again, came in again and Jack stepped back and parried, a prettier move, Jack having recovered his wits a bit.

They both came
en guarde
once more, and Jack could see now that Wentworth was not afraid, he was not uncertain, and when it came to swordplay, he was very, very good.

 

25

Jack took a few steps back and lowered his sword. Not enough that he was undefended, or looked as if he was unready. He did not think he could fool Wentworth into making an attack by appearing unprepared. He just needed a moment to reassess, and he knew enough to marshal the strength in his arm. This might take longer than he thought, and if there was one thing he knew about swordplay, it was that it was damned exhausting.

Wentworth closed the distance, just a bit. His sword did not drop or waver, it was held in a textbook
en guarde
stance, like a copperplate from Angelo's
L'
É
cole des armes.
The point was steady at first, but as he neared it began to move a bit, up and down, side to side, in the way a snake might entrance its prey. But Jack was not entranced. He let Wentworth come on, and then swept his own sword up, beat the blade, made a lunge at Wentworth. It was not a lunge meant to strike, but rather to send Wentworth back, to throw his balance off for just that instant.

And it worked. Wentworth parried, stepped back, was still regaining his stance when Jack made up the distance, like a cat pouncing. He could see the surprise in Wentworth's face when he saw Jack coming, following up on the lunge with never a pause. Then it was Jack's turn to be surprised as Wentworth knocked Jack's thrust aside, stepped closer and swung at Jack's head with the hand guard of his sword.

Jack jerked his head back and felt the metal scrape along his cheek. He leapt back, touched the cheek with his left hand but his fingers came away clean, no blood. The swing had put Wentworth off balance, which Jack exploited, stepping in fast, thrusting, meeting Wentworth's blade, disengaging, thrusting. Wentworth stepped back once and he stepped back again, pushed along by the ferocity of Jack's offensive. He made no counterattack because Jack would not let him, and the most that he could do was back away and continue to turn Jack's blade aside.

Step for step they went, Wentworth backing away from Jack's flashing sword, working his own like it was the bow of a violin, the actions quick, precise, the angle perfectly gauged to keep the wicked point of Jack's weapon from getting past the arc of Wentworth's defense.

And then Jack saw what Wentworth was about. The man was fast, damned fast. He could do this all day, let Jack wear himself down with this brutal attack, keep turning his blade aside until Jack could no longer lift his arm. Already he could feel himself tiring. Any swordsman Jack had ever fought before would have been bleeding by now, but Wentworth seemed to just be working up a sweat.

So Jack stopped. He let his arm fall and turned his back on Wentworth and walked off to the spot where he had started the attack. His ears strained to hear any sound of movement behind. His eyes were locked on the faces of the men watching, because if Wentworth came at him Jack knew he would see it there. Five, six, seven paces and then he heard the light crunch of feet on gravel, saw the spectators clench as they braced for the sight of Wentworth running Jack through, and he spun on his heel and his sword came up and swept across his chest in a great arc.

He could see Wentworth was not trying to stab him in the back but rather smack him with the flat of his sword, get his attention. Still, Jack hit Wentworth's blade as it was coming at him, not a subtle parry but an ugly blow, wielding his weapon more like a cutlass than a fine sword. He knocked Wentworth's blade aside, turning Wentworth's fine forward momentum into a stumbling mess. Wentworth was too close for Jack to thrust with his sword and finish it, but Wentworth's face was there, right there, and Jack punched him with the handgrip of his weapon just as Wentworth had done to him.

Wentworth staggered again, straightened, stepped back quickly, weapon raised, ready for Jack to come at him, but Jack held his ground. Wentworth reached up with his hand and touched his face where Jack had punched him, the mirror image of Jack's motion, checked his fingertips for blood. But there was nothing. Jack's blow had not broken the skin. Honor was not satisfied.

Jack looked up at Wentworth, looked in his eyes, trying to guess at the man's next move. Wentworth met his gaze and did the one thing Jack would not have expected: he smiled.

It was not an angry grin or the manic smile of a man set on killing his opponent. It was a friendly smile, a “well done!” sort of smile, and Jack found it at once confusing and annoying. He had meant to draw first blood with an insubstantial scratch, but if Wentworth was going to continue in this insufferable way he might have to end the affair by delivering a more memorable wound.

Jack came
en guarde
, advanced with sword in the fourth position, ready to be done with this. He made a halfhearted lunge, let Wentworth parry, made a circle with his blade, and went in for the kill, one of his best moves, one that almost always found its target, but this time it found only air, as Wentworth stepped easily back.

Then it was Wentworth's turn. There was no smile on his face as he advanced, as his blade came straight, defeated Jack's parry, came again and again. Now it was Jack backing away, turning Wentworth's thrusts aside. He heard a murmur running through the spectators, was certain he heard one of the British officers say something about “five pounds on this Wentworth fellow…” but he heard no more and had no more time to think on it. Thrust, parry, repost, parry, lunge, they moved along the ground, the grass and the sod below their feet uneven and difficult to walk on, no fencing
salon
or the well-manicured lawn of Stanton House.

Jack's eyes flicked from Wentworth's sword to his face, just a glimpse, but he saw what he hoped to see; frustration, sweat. Jack's arm was starting to ache, his breath was coming harder, but he could feel that Wentworth's actions were slowing, his responses more dull. Wentworth thought he could end this with a decisive attack, but like Jack before he had succeeded only in tiring himself.

Now, now is my moment
, Jack thought. Wentworth was not reacting with the
panache
of five minutes before, because five minutes of this sort of intense back-and-forth was enough to tire even a fit man. Jack let Wentworth come on, let his own defense slow, let Wentworth's blade get closer, let his own parries become more awkward. And then, as Wentworth parried in the fifth position, lunged for Jack's chest, Jack took the blade with his own, forced it from the line of attack, and pushed off hard with his left foot, right arm firing off like an arrow from a longbow, and he saw the point of his blade pierce the loose white sleeve of Wentworth's cotton shirt.

Chandler, standing just to the side, raised his arm, paused a moment, then called, “Strike up your swords!” because Tucker had completely forgotten what he was supposed to say. Jack let his sword drop to his side and Wentworth did as well and though they were both supposed to remain
en guarde
they were both far too winded to resist the chance to rest.

“Has Captain Biddlecomb drawn first blood?” Chandler asked. Biddlecomb's eyes were on the rent sleeve. He was looking for the telltale bloom of red on the white cloth but he did not see it.

“I believe not,” Wentworth said. He handed his sword to Chandler and rolled the sleeve up to beyond the point where it was torn. He turned 180 degrees, demonstrating to all that his skin was untouched, blood had not been drawn.

“Very well,” Chandler said. “There is no blood drawn, but will you gentlemen agree that honor has been satisfied?”

Jack and William said, “No” in virtually the same instant, but in neither case was the response overly forceful, as both men were still gasping for breath.

“Very well,” Chandler said and Jack thought he heard a note of exasperation in his voice. “Pray, return to the center, here.” He stepped back to the point where the duel had begun and Wentworth turned and followed and Jack followed him. Tucker followed as well on the inland side, unsure of what was going on. There was nothing energetic in Wentworth's stride, and he seemed to be limping a bit, and that would have made Jack happy if he himself was not dragging his anchors so.

Chandler called for them to come
en guarde
once more. They did, the handkerchief fell, and they came at one another, the athletic grace of the first few moments of the duel all but gone. Jack hacked at Wentworth's sword, hoping to disarm the man, or break the blade, or knock it aside just enough for him to make one little nick in the man's skin, but Wentworth parried in the first position, elbow up, blade down, and Jack felt the shudder through his sword and his arm as steel hit steel.