A Divided Command (12 page)

‘Mr Digby, do you wish to add anything?’

It was with a strained voice that his second responded. ‘No, nothing.’

‘Then once I give the call,’ Walcott announced, ‘you may commence. God be with you and may the best man win.’

Walking backwards, both Walcott and Digby got well away from any initial swing of the metal before the major’s second called out in a loud voice to engage. Lipton had adopted the classic fencer’s pose, legs spread fore and aft, front knee bent, his sword held out at an angle in front of him; it was clear he was inviting Pearce to make the primary assault and he showed deep annoyance when his opponent did not even raise his blade.

‘Are you going to fight, sir, or is your intention to hold out so your fellow tar can collect his wagers?’

‘The first time I met you, Major Lipton, I thought that you might be short on brains – a typical bullock, in fact.’

‘Fight, damn you,’ the major spat.

‘On the second occasion,’ Pearce responded, keeping his voice even, regardless of the difficulty in doing so, ‘in your refusal to accept a sincere apology you confirmed it. You took a ball in Gibraltar and, given you lost, if that does not mark you out as a dunce I do not know what else would.’

He had set out to rile Lipton, to throw him off his carefully adopted demeanour, assuming that for all his appearance of
calm his blood must be in just as much turmoil. Yet it was not the insults from his opponent that launched the furious Lipton assault, but the call of Taberly echoing through the glade.

‘Come along, my hearties, or are we to expire from boredom?’

Lipton came forward, two fast paces on his front foot, his blade held steady till he could get close enough to swipe. But Pearce was not there; he had taken an equal number of steps back and still kept his weapon away from a fighting posture.

‘It takes a man of spectacular stupidity to do the same thing twice and, having failed at the first attempt, to expect a different outcome in the repeat.’

Lipton lost it then and came on at a rush, it was in his eyes, the holding of which Pearce had never surrendered, for in those, his instructors had told him, lay the intentions of an opponent. Hold his gaze: watch the sword hand and be alert for the drop of a shoulder, the twitching of which will send you a message of intent; trust to instinct for there is not time to think of how to respond.

The blades clashed for the first time as Pearce parried Lipton’s heavy swipe, sending out a ringing sound and sparks, as well as a tingling sensation up the defending arm. Pearce had to work hard not to have his blade swept so far to one side that he opened himself up, and he also was obliged to retreat in the face of Lipton’s furious onslaught. The blades clashed repeatedly, with Pearce hoping for that moment when the rush of Lipton blood would leave some part of his body exposed, an upper arm being best.

That such an assault suddenly ceased came as an unwelcome surprise, for Lipton stood back and if he was breathing heavily there was no sign that it was the cause of
him breaking off. What was signalled was more worrying, for it seemed as if the army man’s brow had cleared, indicating that he had realised how his opponent had set out to put him off, drawing him, by insults, into using brute force instead of skill.

‘So I am stupid, Mr Pearce?’ he asked, his face breaking into a wry smile. ‘Perhaps we shall see which trait is of more use for a fighting man, the brains you clearly claim for yourself or my ability to employ my weapon as a soldier should.’

‘Competence in one does not indicate possession in the other, Major Lipton. Indeed it could be said that only a complete fool could be engaged as we are in this place. I, at least, have the excuse of having been pressed into it.’

‘Indeed you have, sir, and you have tried to play the coward card by proffering an apology.’

The smile widened but it held no warmth.

‘And clever you seeks to put me off my game, but it will not serve, so know this: for the blows that you have landed upon me, delivered in a manner that fits with the shy slug that you are, added to the insults you have advanced this day, satisfaction for me will no longer be served by a mere effusion of blood – in short, a cut.’

There followed a deliberate pause, to give more credence to what came next.

‘I now intend, sir, that this should be an encounter, fought as the French say,
à outrance
! That means, Mr Pearce, that one of us will likely perish in this place and I do not intend that it should be me.’ With that Lipton resumed his fighting pose. ‘Now, shall we continue or are you minded to do as you have done in the past and flee?’

Lipton was good with a blade, something Pearce realised as soon as the major began to fight with a measure of control. Instead of the mad flurry of blows there now ensued a calculated attempt to manoeuvre his opponent into a situation where he would, with patience, eventually leave a gap in his defence. Gone were the flaring eyes and the angry glare, to be replaced with cold reckoning that time was on his side, as was ability. In any contest there is always room for luck, but a good fighter, whatever the weapon employed, will back skill against an unknown quantity like chance every time.

Now the glade rang to the repeated meeting of metal, not the clanging sound of the outset, but the steady tip-tap of blade upon blade, with the occasional scrape as one ran along the other, and given that John Pearce was no amateur himself, those watching became absorbed in what was a fascinating tussle. The words that Lipton had delivered, warning of his intention to kill if he could, had not been
heard by anyone other than the participants, so they had no idea of the changed nature of what they were seeing.

Had he been able to look in their direction, and he dare not take his eyes off Lipton, Pearce would have seen a slight concern in the faces of the major’s colleagues; they knew his proficiency, indeed he had instructed many of his junior officers, so it came as something of a surprise that the whole thing had not ended within the couple of minutes on which they had wagered. They had expected Lipton to play with the navy man a bit before easing his way past his guard to either deliver a cut to the arm or a point through the shoulder or upper thigh.

‘My, my,’ Taberly crowed, ‘had I known our man was so competent I would have wagered more. Do I have any takers for upping their bets?’

‘Surely, sir,’ Digby called over his shoulder, his voice tense, ‘it ill becomes any man to place money on another’s possible wounding.’

Taberly did not raise his voice in reply, but it lacked nothing in terms of reproof because of that. ‘You dare, Mr Digby, to check me? Well, be assured, sir, that I will be checking on you and you may find that your career suffers for it.’

It was Walcott who came to Digby’s rescue by addressing his own companions. ‘I doubt Major Lipton would take kindly to the placing of wagers now. I would therefore urge you, gentlemen, as his second, to keep your powder dry.’

Digby reckoned Walcott too junior to make that a command, but as Lipton’s second he had an authority on this day and in this place that transcended rank and so he could go back to concentrating on the fight.

Pearce was sweating, but so, he noticed, was his opponent, the white linen now stained at the armpits, and he assumed Lipton would, like him, have perspiration running down his spine. Yet so cool was his opponent’s temperament, so sure was he that he was in control, that he found time to use the cloth he carried, running it across his face and forehead while parrying with apparent ease the opposing blade.

Stinging sweat would eventually get into Pearce’s eyes and that would certainly cause trouble, which had him cursing himself for not thinking to carry a cloth in his non-fighting hand. He had only his sleeve to clear his brow and that ran the risk of momentarily clouding his view; he knew he could not afford to lose the lock on Lipton’s eyes, for it would be hard to reconnect in time to avoid giving him an opportunity to strike.

The other worry was that his opponent was clearly in a high state of practice, while he was not. He assumed that Lipton was a person to carry out his daily sword drills – he did not know that he trained his juniors – while he had too many other duties to perform, from the mere running of the ship to training in gunnery and boarding, using a variety of weapons. That left little time to work on a skill that any naval officer would reckon to only rarely use and would, when employed, be in a situation close to mayhem where proficiency was less vital than weight.

Most of what had happened so far had taken place in the shade, but now the rising sun was beginning to top the trees. One side of their glade was bathed in strong light and Pearce realised that Lipton was slowly manoeuvring towards that, which told him that he was not, as he had claimed, stupid. The major was content for the moment to keep him
moving, to threaten but not to expose himself by seeking to prematurely drive his blade home.

There was some comfort in that: the man was showing respect to an opponent he had realised was no novice, but that did not alter the fact that the balance lay against John Pearce and that was a situation that could only deteriorate over time.

With a mouth now feeling like rough leather, the last thing Pearce needed was the blazing sun on his back, so from being relatively passive he became overtly aggressive, which forced Lipton to retreat a few paces and allowed Pearce to slip past him, leaving the major with his back to the sunlit strip of grass, an act that brought a smile and a nod of near commendation.

Then Lipton spoke, which was annoying: with a mouth so dry Pearce felt he would struggle to respond.

‘It pleases me that you are no neophyte, Mr Pearce, for there is ever a feeling of shame at striking down an opponent who has no chance.’ With that Lipton hurried forward and forced Pearce to the side, reversing the gain his opponent had made with ridiculous ease. ‘And there is an added bonus in that I am allowed to show them the superiority of my own technique.’

With the man almost laughing at him Pearce felt his blood rise; Lipton was setting out to do to him what he had initially done to the major and rile him enough to put him off his stroke. Yet the thought that occurred was not one of anger, but the notion that if matters went on the way they were progressing now, he must lose.

Lipton was prepared to play with him for however long it took to tire Pearce out. Also, it seemed the man was enjoying
the feeling that soon creeping despair would become part of the mental battle. That was as important in this fight as the sword in his hand.

As Pearce knew from his past, when engaged in combat, something happens to the brain – the same sensations that occur in flight – an acute sense of where lie the risks as well as what presents an opportunity for salvation. The angle at which both men now swung showed Michael O’Hagan over the major’s shoulder, his height meaning most of him was in plain view and that triggered a mental image.

For reasons he would never be able to explain, and entirely separate from that with which he was engaged, Pearce was taken back to the windswept and cold alleyway outside the Pelican Tavern at a time when the Irishman was unknown to him, as were the rest of the people with whom he had been pressed.

Why had he chosen that doorway when there were other alternatives? Not just because men were pursuing him seeking to serve upon him a warrant. To avoid that he had made a snap decision that had completely altered his life. If it had seemed like a descent to hell at first, he could now see it as a door that had led to a new and better life: a naval career, real friends and not least Emily Barclay.

Instinct had benefited him then, so surely it must be wise to rely on the same now. There was no future in defence but the end sought by Lipton and that might not be so different if he chose another course. Yet it was doubt against near certainty and that caused John Pearce to suddenly take half a dozen backward steps and use his sleeve to clear his brow, the act catching Lipton by surprise so he was too slow to follow.

As he came forward to close the gap once more Pearce
attacked and with fury, which threw the major off his stroke and forced a retreat. Now the blades were ringing again as Pearce kept up the assault and if he was happy to be moving forward he was also aware that Lipton was defending himself with real capability. The only advantage Pearce had was that he knew what he was about and the major did not.

The opportunity Pearce gave him as part of his onslaught was too good to turn down; he left his left side open enough for Lipton to lunge forward and run the forepart of his blade along the upper naval arm, having rasped along and glanced off his opponent’s metal. Certainly the linen was ripped open and for all John Pearce knew so was he – there was no pain – but the need to take a wound was part of his plan, if a series of interconnected thoughts, impressions and speculative conclusions could ever be so described.

Fully extended Lipton might have seemed vulnerable to those watching; Pearce knew better, knew that the major had not sought the opening without first ensuring that there was no way Pearce could respond in kind – the naval blade had been pushed well out of the way of inflicting any harm. Then Pearce ducked and the thrust he delivered was so unusual and so far from the manual of swordplay that Lipton was thrown for the split second needed to delay his response.

The point that took him in the right foot and drove right through to the ground was different in the sense he was astounded enough to let Pearce haul it out and back away, as he later described it – not with much in the way of self-regard or boasting – more like a scurrying cockroach than a man of honour. In the miniscule pause that allowed him, Pearce had time to look at his arm and see the blood staining his sleeve, this while Lipton, no fool, withdrew
himself, not easily, for it was plain he was so wounded in his foot that he was forced to limp: Pearce’s blade had clearly damaged bone as well as muscle and skin.

‘That, sir, was a coward’s stroke,’ Lipton shouted.

‘I have drawn blood, sir, and so have you, therefore I rest content.’

‘Damn you, I do not.’

The fury was back, the eyes alight and the blood rush to the face apparent. Walcott was calling in vain from the sidelines that honour had been satisfied, the blood Pearce was emitting obvious. But his superior either could not hear him or was not listening for he came on, seeking the conclusion he had promised, and Pearce was hard put to keep him at bay. Yet by constant movement, mostly backwards, he was putting pressure on Lipton’s wounded foot, and it took no great insight to see in the soldier’s eyes that he was suffering pain with every move and doubly so when he was obliged to put his whole weight upon it.

John Pearce had never had any intention of killing Lipton, though he knew and had accepted he would have to if there were no other way to survive. Now he had a better method, which was just to keep moving so that the major would be the author of his own downfall. Another opening came when Lipton, jabbing forward, caused himself so much discomfort that he had to quickly alter his balance and that left him precariously balanced on his one good foot.

With an utter disregard for the tenets of what might be called chivalry or gentlemanly behaviour, Pearce stepped forward and took the good leg from under Lipton with a sweep of his own. The major tried to hop onto his wounded foot, but that would not support him and he went over onto
his back, skilled enough to keep his blade sufficiently active to stop his opponent from an easy follow-through.

Somehow he drove Pearce back enough to seek to get to his feet and he was on his knees, having to thrust and parry above his head height which opened him to the next blow. The Pearce boot that came up and took him on the chest sent him flying in a way from which there was no recovery. An incensed Walcott had levelled his pistol, though he was too confused to use it. Did use of any other part of the body constitute a barred weapon? Was it iniquitous enough to allow him to shoot John Pearce?

Digby, seeing a finger begin to depress the trigger, knocked the barrel up in the air, which was just as well for the soldier. Michael O’Hagan, standing only a few feet away from Walcott, had seen what he was about and there was a marlinspike in his hand. Had the gun been used, it was not a shot that Major Lipton’s second would have survived.

‘Both men have drawn blood, Mr Walcott,’ Digby called. ‘Honour can demand no more.’

Looking at Digby, then back out to the fighting arena and unable, because of the navy man’s upward pressure, to bring his pistol to bear, Walcott was stymied. With his principal now on his back and at the mercy of the sword hovering very close to his throat, while the foot of his opponent pinned the blade of Lipton’s weapon to the burnt grass, there was really no choice but to agree, even if he could not hear what was being said between the combatants.

‘I will let you rise, Major Lipton, but this contest is at an end.’

‘You’d best kill me, Pearce, for as God is my judge, I will do that to you given the chance.’

‘What a pity you oblige me to look to my own security.’

With that Pearce, in an act so cold-blooded he was later ashamed, drove his blade into Lipton’s upper arm and sliced hard, which brought forth a scream, as muscles were ripped apart.

‘I hope, sir, that I have now rendered you incapable of ever engaging in a duel again, though I take no pleasure from having done so. It is, however, preferable to slicing open your heart.’

Behind Pearce, Walcott had sought to bring his pistol back to bear: it was not done to assault an opponent who was
hors de combat
. He looked shocked when the hand grabbed his arm, even more so when he realised the act had been carried out by a common seaman, trebly so when his pistol was taken from that hand as easily as it would be removed from a baby.

‘Sure, Your Honour, enough has been done this day to satisfy any man.’

Walcott’s fellow officers had gone for their own swords, but the hilts were barely lifted half an inch before Michael O’Hagan had that very same primed and ready-to-fire pistol aimed at them, while Digby had used his hand to stop Walcott drawing his sword. There was a moment when everyone froze, unsure of how to proceed in a situation that was confusing.

That was broken by Taberly, who burst into loud laughter, almost choking when he spoke. ‘Damn me, what a to-do, eh? I ain’t ever seen the like. It would make for a raree show, and if I am out of pocket for it, then I will say it was worth the price of admission.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Digby said, addressing the army men, ‘I
suggest you see to your superior and get him to the local lazaretto.’