Captain Adam (34 page)

"Y'see, he's got this reputation to keep up. All he does is seduce

women and skewer men. But he's running out of men who'll meet him in the field."

"I take it he's not running out of women who'll meet him in bed?"

"You never run out of them here."

A bee, Chumley buzzed about, conferring with this man and that, peering into the surgeon's bag, pacing the ground, studying the sky, measuring the swords, hefting the long heavy saber the referee would wield as well as the thick leather sleeve the referee would wear, in general assuring himself that everything was correct. Adam was left alone. He had been informed, and most earnestly, that it would be strictly de trof for him even to glance at his adversay until the time came to fight. Nevertheless, as was natural, he did sneak a look; and despite himself, despite his memory of Maisie, he nodded approval. Sir Jervis Johnston here in the watery light of dawn cut a far better figure than he had in the coffee house. He stood straighter; and though still affecting the languid wave of the hand, the deprecating lazy shrug, he was alive and alert. He smiled and chatted with his friends, as though sharing a bottle with them, and scrupulously refrained from taking any part in the preliminary arrangements or even showing any interest in these.

Adam sighed. He forced himself to look away.

London was still. Not even a beggar prowled, not even a whore. The only light that showed was at a window of the Brown Tun a short distance away. The Brown Tun, being obedient to the municipal regulations, was officially closed; but arrangements had been made to keep its back door unlocked for the benefit of the spectators' thirst, perhaps that of the principals, too, or one of them, after the affair of honor was ended.

Chumley minced back. He looked as though he was having a hard time to keep from clapping his hands in excitement.

"Now remember—be grave!"

"When do we start?"

"Everything is in order. At this stage it's customary for each second to make a last-minute plea with his principal, to see if he can't talk him out of it. That's what I'm supposed to be doing to you now. But nobody ever takes it seriously."

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Isee.

"Now in a minute Dr. Russell'll address hoth of you, formally asking you if you can't settle your differences in some other manner than combat with arms—that's the usual phrase, or something like that. Nobody pays any attention to this either, ordinarily. It's just ceremony. But this morning when he makes that announcement I'm going to step forward and say 'Gentlemen, my principal has something to say.' Then you speak up. You express your willingness to apologize. It'll be expected, this morn-

ing. I hope you've got it prepared? I, uh, I wouldn't want it to be anything uncouth."

"It'll be in perfect English," Adam promised him.

"Then the Brown Tun. They've ordered some of this new wine from Champagne. It's charged with bubbles of air. A new process some monk invented. Frightfully expensive stuff."

He helped Adam off with his coat and waistcoat, and folded these, together with Adam's hat and his neck band, in a neat pile. He shook his head at the cuts in Adam's shirt.

"La, you look as if you'd been fighting already."

"I have. But this is the only shirt I've got. I mean, that's lawn."

"Well, it'll have to do— Ah, here we are!"

The surgeon, a lumpy man, took the center of the field. As though addressing a vast throng he made a speech calling for reconciliation. It was full of pompous inanities but at least it was short. At its end he looked at the man who stood next to Sir Jervis Johnston—all the others had withdrawn—and that man shook his head. Then the surgeon looked at John Chumley, who stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Gentlemen, my principal has something to say."

Adam, too, stepped forward. He and Jervis Johnston for the first time this morning looked directly at one another. Sir Jervis was appropriately serious, a model of decorum.

"All I've got to say," said Adam, "is, 'Let's get on with the fight.' We've wasted too much time already."

Chumley was white with what Adam assumed was rage, and he trembled when he brought the sword.

"You broke your promise, sir!"

"I made no promise."

"I'll repudiate you! I'll walk away!"

"You don't dare, now. You'd look too silly."

"But— But, damn me, Captain, I never thought it'd come to this! Truth is, I— I can't stand the sight of blood!"

"Then you'd better not look," said Adam.

He took the sword and swished it. It was lighter and somewhat less whippy, somewhat stiffer, than his own; but it was a good blade, exquisitely balanced. He nodded.

"All right."

Chumley wetted his lips, straightened his shoulders.

"My principal," he announced in a fairly steady voice, "is ready."

Then he quit the field, and Johnston's second likewdse quit the field. This left, besides Adam and Johnston, only the referee, a tall man Adam did not know, who carried the long heavy cavalry saber and wore the

leather arm guard. Adam paid not the slightest attention to the person of the referee, though he did hear his voice as he called out the few and simple rules for this meeting. Adam was gazing at Sir Jervis Johnston, who, dignified if stern, was gazing at him.

They stood about twenty feet apart.

The baronet was stripped of his finery. Like Adam, he was bareheaded. He wore gray stockings, dun-colored breeches, a dun-colored shirt. Nothing about him glittered now, who was by ordinary such a resplendent figure. There was nothing, that is, to catch and guide the eye. There were no buckles on his heelless shoes. No rings flashed on his fingers, no brooch at his throat.

This was as it should be. Sir Jervis Johnston might be the best swordsman in London, as some said, but there was no reason for him to take unnecessary chances.

The referee waved the saber and called out something about the spectators keeping back. Then he left the field.

"Gentlemen, advance and engage at will!"

1^ "I Adam went right in. He had planned this. For one thing,

i_y _L he was nervous and he didn't fancy the audience: the less

fencing, the sooner the fight was over, the better. More important, an immediate, uncomplicated attack would be the most unexpected move he could make. Johnston, with his reputation, would look for a timorous approach. If he was attacked at all, he'd reason, it would be only after a considerable feeling-out period, and certainly the move would be preceded by at least a simple cavazione, whether inside or out, or a mezza cavazione, or some manner of disengagement or counter.

So Adam, without making any attempt to meet Johnston's steel, without trying any pass whatever, swept into a lunge.

A gasp rose from the crowd.

Johnston parried. Without retreating—he didn't get a chance to retreat —he flicked his hand, an instinctive movement. Adam felt no resistance to his blade, but the point had been deflected. Though the lower half of the sword was out of sight, he didn't think he'd hit flesh.

The quillons clanged together. The two men, their faces close in that instant, Adam's being the lower, regarded one another gravely. Johnston was impassive, but in his clear blue eyes Adam Long read respect, even admiration. It had been a near thing.

Neither dared to move.

The referee's saber came between them.

"Disengage, gentlemen. No cut or thrust till the signal's given againl"

They stepped back into guard position, Adam's sword emerging from Johnston's shirt. Johnston stood easy, not swaying. There was no sign of blood. The surgeon hurried to him, while the referee took the center of the field. After a moment the surgeon stepped back.

"He's not touched."

The referee lowered his saber.

"Advance and engage at will!"

Again Adam attacked. But his chance had gone. He would never get near Jervis Johnston now.

Johnston retreated when it pleased him—when he sought to calculate Adam's reach, for example—but he never was flustered. He parried easily and almost absently. There was no excessive motion. Adam could scarcely feel the man's blade.

It can be a dreadful thing not to be able to feel the other's steel. It can induce panic. Adam began to get v^dld, and he was gripping his sword too hard.

Johnston stopped retreating. He had learned all he thought he needed to know. He was neither cutting this fight short, as he might easily have done, nor permitting it to drag unnecessarily. His movements were sweet and sure, but spare, not flashy. Not once had he made any riposte. His blade had always been in line, excepting when he parried Adam's first attack, and its point had constantly threatened Adam's face; but Johnston had not thrust, or even feinted.

Now he nodded. He did not gloat, for he was concentrating; but when he nodded, probably not knowing that he did so, it was as though he had said aloud: "Very well, now we'll go the other way." And he attacked.

Not catching the blade, Adam retreated. He retreated again, as Johnston, stepping with tiny catlike steps, advanced. Johnston didn't hurry, he didn't beat.

Adam made a wild wide counter, sweeping his point far out of line. He caught nothing.

Johnston came on in.

Never in his lonely life had Adam Long felt so alone, so frustrated. He had no chance, and now he knew it. He had stepped far out of his class. There was no such thing as beginner's luck in rapier play, and men like Jervis Johnston did not stumble or make mistakes.

Carse of Providence at his most brilliant wouldn't have been able to hold off his master, who coldly and exactly advanced.

Adam might just as well have thrown his sword away, for all the good it was doing him.

Well, he thought, this is it.

He retreated.

JSloxv, he thought, I'm going to die.

He stood; for it occurred to him that he might better get killed while going forward than while going back.

He held in a sob so violent that it shook his chest. He attacked.

"Disengagel"

The referee's saber was between them, then the referee himself was. The surgeon came padding over.

The outside of Adam's right forearm showed a thin red line about six inches long, which presently began to fill with blood. The blood broke, some tumbling to one side, some to the other. There wasn't a great deal of it.

Adam stared at it, dumbfounded. He felt nothing there.

The surgeon started to swab it and to squeeze the edges.

"Tut, tut, man. Not deep, and it's clean. You're lucky."

He was lucky indeed. He looked across at Sir Jervis Johnston, who stood with lowered guard, his face grave, eyes attentive and polite. There was the man Adam had almost killed, a minute ago. There was the man who could have killed Adam half a dozen times over, during that minute. This touch was enough to end the fight, since it drew blood. It had been the lightest possible hit in the safest possible place.

Adam shook his head.

"That cut's nothing! I'm not satisfied!"

"Please address your remarks to the field onlv through your representative," the referee said sternly.

"Can't do that," somebody called. "Poor Chum's damn' well swooned, b'God!"

"I repeat," said the referee, "I declare this combat ended."

Johnston passed his sword to his second. He went to Adam, hand out. Adam did not hesitate. He dropped his sword.

They shook hands.

"Damn it. Captain, that was fine fencing! Thank you, sir, thank you! Had me frighted half to death for a while there!"

"Nothing to what you had we, sir!"

Johnston laughed. Everybody laughed, excepting Adam Long. The surgeon was bandaging his arm.

"Our, uh, our little disagreement, Captain— It was about a waistcoat, if I recall correctly?"

"No, sir, it was about a woman," Adam said. "But it's all right now, far as I'm concerned. I guess I don't want to fight you any more."

I^r (f> In the Brown Tun, in the first confusion, before they'd

*~y -^ found their places and the wine had been poured, a non-

descript man sidled up to Adam and touched his elbow.

"You are Captain Long of the Rhode Island colony?"

"That's right. Why?"

The man handed him a paper, which Adam accepted without stopping to think. It was a legal paper, crickly with seals. Adam supposed it to be some legal formality in connection with the duel, which after all, as John Chumley had pointed out, was against the law. The nondescript had vanished. Adam thrust the paper into a pocket.

The wine from Champagne tasted dry and sharp. It pricked the inside of your mouth. It had little bubbles in it, as Chumley had said. They raced up to the surface and pipped, flicking you under the nose as you sipped, making you sneeze. Adam didn't think he liked it.

Passers in the street, still dark between the buildings, must have marveled, as they yawned and blinked, that any all-night revelers could sound so spirited. Again and again the glasses were filled.

Of them all, Adam Long alone was not bright. But he was conscious of his mxanners. After all, he had no complaint. He'd been treated well. These men were fools, but they were fair. They kept pumping his hand, then quickly dropping it, to blurt apologies, and he kept assuring them that the arm, bandaged and hidden by the coat sleeve now, was comfortable.

They would ask what part of the American colonies he came from and did he know So-and-So who lived near Philadelphia or maybe it was Charlestown?

Every one of them, at some time or other, asked him what he thought of London.

"Well, I'll tell you," Adam would answer. "It's all right to visit, but I wouldn't live here if you gave it to me."

Nevertheless they toasted London, as of course they toasted the Queen, and as they toasted also, at Johnston's suggestion, "the Colony of Rhode Island and the brave men it sends forth!" There was a lot of cheering.

What with the wine, and the fact that the party broke up rather abruptly, and also what with Adam's realization that he was something of a guest of honor, and as such had certain obligations, he found himself one of the last to leave.