Absolute Honour (42 page)

‘Make ready to mount,’ came the soft call. ‘Mount!’

The first rank was immediately led by Crawford over the ridge. Stokey, as Cornet, brought over the second, with Jack bringing
up the rear and last. They assembled in their three ranks, halted and waited. To their right, a narrow defile emerged from
the ravine and from this, almost immediately, a column of infantry issued forth. These were the Royal Volunteers, some of
the best of the Portuguese infantry. The terrain did not allow much in the way of marching order and it was not their special
skill anyway, but they went bravely,
eagerly forward, the cheers they would normally have given restrained by the need for surprise. Officers attempted to order
the ranks but the column started to spread as the defile opened out onto the slopes of Villa Velha, and soon the most eager
of the men were rushing past their futilely gesturing leaders.

‘Here we go,’ muttered Worsley to his right and, almost on his words, there came a cry of warning from up the far hill. A
shot followed and, with a universal yell, the fast walk of the infantry became a charge as they rushed upon their foe. The
outlying tents were quickly reached and all could see men rushing into them, hear the screams that ensued.

The more ordered formation of the British Grenadiers now emerged from the defile and marched towards the enemy. At the same
time, Crawford moved to a position a horse’s length before the centre file of the front rank, raised his unbroken arm and
called, ‘Sixteenth will advance one hundred paces. March!’

They had not covered even half the ground when the tumult that had been building ahead soared to a higher pitch. On the southerly
hill, as yet unattacked, Jack suddenly noticed a large number of horses and men. Though they were in some disorder yet, several
troops of cavalry were being rallied. If they achieved it, the Grenadiers, caught on broken ground between the two hills,
would be vulnerable.

Crawford had seen it, too. ‘Halt!’ The Third Troop of the 16th stopped almost as one, slight adjustments being made to dress
the ranks. ‘Draw swords …’ Jack did, then looked to check the dressing, could just see the nose of the man next but one. All
was well.

‘March!’ came the call, and the troop moved forward. Jack had been schooled in what to do as rank and file leader but doing
it was different! He looked at two objects in the distance in line with each other – a flag pole furthest, a bush closer to.
He made himself the third point, covered the
farther with the nearer and advanced toward it, always keeping that man-once-removed’s nose in the edge of his vision.

This was easy enough in the march. Even the trot he did not find too difficult. But the gallop? It was hard to maintain, required
all his concentration. So much so that he had no time to be frightened, barely any to realize that he was in his first true
cavalry charge.

To the piercing notes of the bugle and the cry of ‘Charge!’, the 16th swept down the slope and up into the Spanish camp, the
hooves as synchronous as the lines were straight, so that it seemed as though only one set of hoofbeats sounded. Their standard
of the King’s Cipher streamed before them and suddenly Jack forgot everything: his cold, his dampness, his dreams of vengeance.
All were lost in the soft thunder of their approach.

Some of the rallying Spaniards had pistols and several were fired. The horse to Jack’s right slewed toward him, slipped, and
he needed to pull Lucky’s head sharp away to avoid the tumble. But he had fifty paces to redress into his line, to lower his
head down beside his mount’s, to reach forward with his sword. Not at a standing man as at Valencia de Alcántara. Here their
opponents were also mounted. His blade was extended as if Lucky were a unicorn and the sword was its horn.

The Spanish cavalry were stationary and the 16th smashed into them, sweeping the first milling groups aside, scattering those
behind them. Jack felt his blade connect, saw a body tumble. Then he was passed, no one before him, riderless horses skittering
by, kicking their heels as if free at last of all toil and restraint. Such fight as there was had broken up into separate
encounters – a group here, two couples there, individuals flailing at each other with swords. Up here, the two hilltops almost
merged into one, a slight dip dividing them. Some of the Spaniards had fled along the crests,
towards the thickest cluster of tents, as if shelter could be found behind canvas. Immediately, Jack spurred Lucky after them,
using the fleeing as an excuse to pursue, ignoring the command of the bugle urging the rally. Challenged later, he knew he
could use the excuse of battle madness. If he had just killed someone in the charge, that was an act of war. But there was
no glory in the guttings that were taking place around him now and there was only one other man whose death he sought this
day.

He found him exactly where he’d thought he would be. Two Spanish officers, who were standing at the entrance of a tent so
large it had to be the Commandant’s, ran as soon as the two Englishmen – Worsley had indeed followed – reined in. Not so the
man inside. He sat at the end of a long table with a glass of wine before him.

‘You know, as soon as I heard that bugle,’ Red Hugh said, ‘I thought to myself: That’s young Absolute on his way.’ He nodded.
‘And was I not right?’

Jack drew a pistol out of his coat and turned to Worsley. ‘My carbine’s on Lucky and you’ll find another pistol in the roll.
Shoot whomever would disturb us and hold the entrance.’

Worsley took the gun and looked at the Irishman. ‘Why don’t I just shoot him?’

‘Keep everyone out,’ Jack said, ‘and I will owe you a debt which will be well rewarded.’

‘I likes the sound of that,’ said Worsley. He stepped outside and, as he did, Jack jerked the stays of the tent flaps. They
fell, and Jack turned at last to face the enemy who had once been his friend.

The silence held for a while – until Jack broke it with a sneeze. ‘Your health!’ declared Red Hugh. ‘That sounds like an evil
cold you have there. Or is it a reoccurrence of the
grippe? If so,’ he smiled, ‘there’s mistletoe in my hat brim still, and I’m certain there’d be a spider about somewhere.’

‘My head’s fine, thank you. And we have no time for your cures.’

‘Now there’s a pity.’ The Irishman cocked his head to one side, listened. ‘Is that because of the furore your lads are causing?
Or because you have come to kill me?’ Jack did not answer. ‘Ah, the latter. Why, lad?’

‘You know why.’

‘Would it be honour?’ He sighed. ‘Of course. A young man’s obsession. I killed my first man because of it and I’ve regretted
it ever since. I would not fight for honour now.’

‘What would you fight for?’

Red Hugh looked to the canvas roof, shrugged. ‘For my life. My family and my Cause.’

‘And I fight for the same.’ Jack had not moved from the entrance and now he did, came forward from the shadows into the light
thrown by the three lamps, laid down the oilskin he was bearing upon the table that ran nearly the length of one wall. He
began to untie it as he spoke. ‘My life in the hazard. My cause, which is opposed to yours and is represented by this uniform
I wear. And my family, whose name you have dishonoured by linking it to your treason.’

‘Ah, honour! What does the poet, Cato, call it? “A fine, imaginary notion.” Its pursuit? “Hunting a shadow.” ’ A sad smile
came. ‘A shadow, Jack. Yet I suspect you fight for something with more substance, do you not? Admit it, man. Isn’t this really
about the girl?’

Jack was silent a long moment. When he spoke, it was with the bitterness of certainty. ‘It used to be. I had only been infatuated
before, never truly cared. When you betrayed me with her, when you used my love for your ends, when you broke my heart …’
He faltered slightly, then went on, ‘I thought then that
there
was reason enough to kill you.’ He shook his head. ‘But I had time to think on it, when you left
me in that prison. It
is
about my honour. And there is nothing imaginary about it.’

The rain had doubled in force, smashing onto the roof of the pavilion with a noise that reduced the conflict to distant rolls
of thunder. He flicked back the oilskin.

Red Hugh craned to look. ‘Ah, small swords, is it? My, you have taken some care.’ He sighed. ‘And I am sad to see you so resolved,
for ’tis a sorry thing to kill a friend.’

‘I’m sure you would know.’

‘I would, God forgive me. I did not think I would ever commit that particular sin again.’

Jack licked at his cracked lips. ‘Are you so certain that you will kill me?’

Red Hugh drained his glass then rose slowly. Jack took a step back. Though both swords were in their scabbards, he had seen
how fast this man could strike. ‘My friend, we both know that, if we fight, I will triumph. We’ve crossed swords twice and
both times I have taken you.’ A harder edge came to the lilting voice. ‘And you must know that this time I will not – cannot
– spare you. The moment I saw you in that barracks back there, I realized that you will never rest until I am dead. And I
have things yet to do. Spectacular things.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘So, lad, a last appeal. Shall we forswear honour this
once and save ourselves the unpleasantness?’

Jack swallowed, eyeing the man, his easy confidence. But there was nothing he could say. Here, at last, there was nothing.
He shook his head.

Red Hugh sighed, the hand dropped. ‘Then let us to it.’

They stepped away from each other, hands reaching for the sheathed weapons, then moved till they each stood at either end
of the table. The tent was long, about the same length as Jack’s prison room in Rome had been, but shallower. And from the
moment he had entered and gone to the right side of the tent, Jack had begun the fight. For the first rule of fighting a left-hander,
Ubaldi had taught him, was
keeping to the man’s left side, so blade was level with blade. The table prevented the Irishman from gaining the right.

Both men cleared their scabbards, came
en garde.
Neither moved. There were perhaps five feet between the tips of their weapons.

Jack felt the tickle in his nose, raised his sword point to the roof. ‘A moment?’ he said, stepping back, then sneezed.

‘Your health.’

‘And yours.’

Both men saluted, came
en garde
again. The rain drummed even louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see their shadows stretched along one wall.
The gap between their blades was distorted, huge, but it reminded him of the differences between the French school the Irishman
had trained in, and Jack’s Italian teacher. Red Hugh had always waited at a distance, luring Jack forward, then covering the
gap with speed. It was something Jack could not allow again. Like the Roman he’d been taught by, he closed with his opponent
in a pace and a lunge.

He looked to the eyes for his enemy’s moves, not his sword point. And he could see the smile in them, the older man reassured
that the youth had lost none of his impetuosity. Twice before Jack had attacked just so, twice he’d been beaten. It suited
Jack for the man to think him yet rash and he strove hard to confirm it, relying on his speed to counter the ripostes his
‘rashness’ drew upon him.

Three times he thrust, at the man’s chest, belly and groin; three times the man parried, circling Jack’s blade outwards, opening
him to the riposte that Red Hugh finally drove home with a lunge of his own. It would have gone through Jack’s whole body
if he had not anticipated it, already lightening the weight on his front foot, and thrown himself backwards. It looked as
awkward as it was.

‘Oh, lad,’ sighed Red Hugh, coming on.

The thrusts came the other way now, and Jack
remembered and used Ubaldi’s second rule for left-handers: no fancy parries, no circles, just straight across the body in
quarte,
retiring a step with each one. Five came and he did nothing but parry, step back, parry, step back, till his trailing hand
reached canvas as his one in Rome had reached wallpaper. There was a bare half-second of hesitation then, and Jack only saw
it because he was staring so closely into the Irishman’s eyes. For the first time in their three encounters, McClune had paused
to consider an alternative thrust. For the first time he had made a mistake.

Dropping back and low till his shoulder was against the tent wall, Jack sprang forward, sword point aimed diagonally up at
the eye. Red Hugh jerked his head to the side, his own blade coming up, encountering air, for Jack had withdrawn his weapon,
lunged again straight to the chest. The ground lost was regained. In a jumble of thrusts and missed parries, he ran back the
length of the tent and suddenly it was the Irishman whose back was flat to the wall, the Englishman who was pinning him there.
Red Hugh tried to pull his sword back, put something into a counter thrust, but his elbow pressed into canvas didn’t give
him the force required, the point went high and Jack ducked fast, his own blade pushed up almost square, guiding his enemy’s
steel just over his head. And as he did he realized that it was time for the maestro’s secret move.

Still crouched, he twisted his weapon sharply across and down, elbow and left leg both shooting back. Then, as the Irishman
recovered, brought his blade hard back, Jack rose from his crouch, switching hands as he did, dropping the sword into his
left. Lunging with his left leg forward, he thrust diagonally up with the whole force of his rising body behind it. The lunge
slipped well under the parry that was warding against the right-sided attack. It entered flesh somewhere just below the ribs
and did not stop.

Red Hugh’s weapon came across again, the blunt edge of
the blade aimed at Jack’s ear. But the blow was weak and Jack ducked it easily, backing away fast, forced to release the sword
that would not come.

The Irishman had not moved. He stood there now, weapon lowering to the floor, Jack’s sword lodged in his chest. The pale skin
had gone white, making his hair seem even more vibrantly red, as if suddenly shot through with flame. ‘By Christ, man,’ he
said, his eyes wide, startled. ‘By …’