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  Mr Watkins’ seconds were Captain Henderson and Lieutenant the Honourable John Huntley. It was Henderson, the older man, who replied: “We accept all that you say, Captain Bastable, but it does not help the officer we are here to represent. Should he apologize now he would have to resign his commission and remain branded for ever as a coward. No, sir, we can’t advise him to withdraw at this stage. Do you agree, Mr Huntley?”

  “No question, egad, sir! Mr Watkins must stand by his words or quit the army.”

  “But please remember, gentlemen, that he is of an age when it is easy to be mistaken and easier still to say more than you intend. I should feel differently about this if Mr Delancey were called out by an officer of his own age, by a man who has been in battle.”

  “His next opponent,” said Mr Huntley, “will be just such a man as you describe—Captain Hilliard.”

  “His next opponent? What do you mean, sir?”

  “Mr Huntley speaks out of turn,” said Henderson, frowning. “However, the damage is done. Our whole mess, 23 of us, agreed to avenge poor Moncrieff’s death. All would fight Mr Delancey in turn and we drew lots to decide the order in which we should challenge him. Watkins came first and Hilliard, second. I myself came third.”

  “But this is a plan for murder! Who could expect to survive 23 duels?”

  “It won’t come to that. He won’t survive the second. Hilliard used to be our fencing instructor and he is a dead shot with a pistol. He is sure to kill his opponent either way.”

  “So you see,” said Huntley, “why Watkins can’t withdraw.” He didn’t challenge Delancey because he was drunk but because there was a lottery and he lost—I mean to say, he won.”

  “Very well, then, gentlemen. On the subject of any further encounters, I shall report to my senior officer. Do I take it that the seconds are agreed and that no apology will be made on either side?”

  “No apology, sir,” said Henderson.

  “No apology, sir,” echoed Bassett.

  “Right. You may proceed.”

  As the sky grew lighter, turning from grey to pink, the seconds chose a piece of level ground, inspected the swords again and agreed that the principals should face north and south. Captain Bastable, the surgeon and the surgeon’s orderly stood well back under a tree. Delancey and Watkins then removed their coats, handing them to their seconds, took the swords which they were offered and were led to the positions allotted them about five yards apart.

  Delancey shivered a little and hoped that nobody would notice. Then he looked across at his opponent. Watkins was white-faced, trembling and almost absurdly woebegone. Perhaps he had a headache from the night before? Perhaps he had begun the day by seeking inspiration in the bottle? His own tremors passing, Delancey felt sorry for the wretched boy he was to encounter. It was bad luck for Watkins that the fight was to take place. There had been that discussion between the seconds and Captain Bastable—it had looked as if apologies would be made and the affair end tamely. But that was not really possible, as all the seconds must have agreed. One’s honour must be defended! How? By killing or wounding that miserable and stupid schoolboy? Why should the fool have picked the quarrel in the first place? Why couldn’t he quarrel with someone else? At last the preliminaries were over. Two of the seconds fell back and the two more senior took post between the combatants. “Advance!” said Captain Henderson and the duellists walked towards each other until Bassett could take the two sword points and bring them into contact. “On guard!” said Henderson and the two points drew apart again. “Engage!” said Henderson and the fight began. The blades dashed warily and Delancey began to test his opponent. It was at once obvious that the boy was no swordsman. He had been taught to stand on guard and told how to lunge. That was about the extent of his knowledge and it would not save him. The danger was that he would be driven by despair into some wild attack. . . . Delancey tapped the opposing blade aside and feinted, observing the clumsy parry which left his opponent exposed on the other side. He tried to remember the disarming stroke, the sharp counter with the forte against the foible. He would keep that for later, though. What would the boy try to do in the meanwhile? Had he made any sort of plan? It seemed not, for the aimless play went on in its aimless fashion. Delancey looked at his opponent’s face and tried to guess what its agonized expression foreshadowed. Yes, the grimaces seemed to suggest some desperate resolve. He was going to lunge! A few seconds later there was a clumsy feint, a moment’s hesitation and then the convulsive attack, which was wide of the target and left the boy off balance. Delancey brought his left foot up to his right, straightened his sword arm and aimed at his opponent’s right shoulder. In this, the elementary thrust, the swordsman acts defensively but allows an incautious antagonist to impale himself. Standing stiffly to attention, Delancey felt a slight jar up his right arm. His point had sunk about two inches into the flesh just below the collar bone. Watkins’ expression changed, his angry grimace turning to childish surprise. There was a red stain spreading on his shirt and he looked down at it. A second later he dropped his sword, fainted and collapsed in a blood-stained heap. The surgeon ran forward, knelt down and produced swabs and a bandage. The seconds came forward and Bassett took the sword from Delancey. The fight was over, having lasted about a minute and a half.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt the boy,” said Delancey to the surgeon, much as if the whole thing had been an accident.

  “He’ll be none the worse,” replied the surgeon with calm certainty. “You chose the right place for a flesh wound.”

  “Neatly done,” said Saunders.

  “That was soon over,” said Bassett.

  In the background Henderson was talking quietly to Huntley: “Watkins hardly knew how to hold a sword—let alone to use it. I’ll wager he had never had a lesson in his life.”

  “Then you’d lose your wager, sir. Hilliard gave him a lesson this morning. I’ll allow that it was his first.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive. With pistols he would have had a chance!”

  “Yes, he started practising as soon as he had drawn the ace from the pack. Hilliard took him out to L’Ancresse and said afterwards that he did fairly well.”

  “I heard that. It’s not as easy to be steady, though, when looking down your opponent’s muzzle at fourteen paces.”

  “Very true, sir.”

  Captain Bastable came up at this moment and said: “A word with you, Captain Henderson. There is to be no talk of any further consequences. . . . That is an order. I shall report to His Highness and—” Bastable was leading Henderson and Huntley away from the fallen man so that Delancey heard no more of the conversation. He realised that he was not supposed to have heard anything.

  “Shall we go to breakfast?” Bassett was asking, not perhaps for the first time.

  “I should like a word with Watkins first.”

  “You can’t,” said Saunders, rather urgently. “He’s not conscious yet. I think we should go now.”

  The surgeon’s orderly had been sent to the barracks and was returning with four other soldiers and a blanket.

  “Very well,” said Delancey. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Four

  ON THE BEACH

  LATER THAT MORNING Delancey made his report to Captain D’Auvergne. The duel had taken place and his opponent had been wounded. This was no news to D’Auvergne, who had been told about it already, but he listened patiently.

  “Mr Watkins is in no danger,” said Delancey, finally. “He has a flesh wound from which he will recover in two or three weeks.”

  “It is all most unfortunate,” said D’Auvergne. “You are in no way to blame, however. I should say, rather, that you have behaved very well; not least so in sparing the bellicose Mr Watkins. I question whether you could have acted more properly in this wretched affair. But the fact remains that the officers of the 42nd are still in an ugly mood. Nor will they be satisfied with the result of this morning’s meeting. I must do what I can to improve the relationships h
ere between the two services. . . .”

  There was a pause and D’Auvergne rose to his feet and paced the room for a minute or so before continuing:

  “You knew, Mr Delancey, when you accepted your recent mission that another officer commands the Royalist. He is an elderly man who has seen much service but was not, in my opinion, the right man to land in darkness on the French coast. I sent him on special duty to Jersey and gave you the temporary command. You did very well and Lord Moira has assured us that your mission was a success. The French are making great efforts to improve the defences of Cherbourg. Jersey is no longer threatened and the summer will be over before they can pose any new threat to our territory. I had hoped to be able to reward you for good service, having you posted to some other vessel in my squadron. This is no longer advisable, nor would it be in your best interests. I shall have vessels based on Jersey and am to move my headquarters there. Unfortunately, however, there is a company of the 42nd in Jersey and the same bad feelings would be aroused.”

  D’Auvergne sat down again at the table and looked almost apologetic as he came to the point: “My orders are that you return to Portsmouth in the sloop Cormorant. She sails this afternoon. You will go on board at once—that is an order—and Bassett will have your sea-chest and other gear sent over from the Royalist. You will remain on board the Cormorant until she sails. I shall give you a letter of recommendation—it is here before me—to Admiral Macbride. You have had more than your share of ill-luck, Mr Delancey, but it is my belief that you will have a successful career in the service. I wish you better luck in your next ship.”

  D’Auvergne signed the letter before him and called Bassett in to seal it. Delancey saw that D’Auvergne had turned his attention to the next problem, a report which had just come in, and would soon have forgotten his existence. Having pocketed his testimonial, Delancey made his bow and withdrew. Bassett came with him to the quayside and to the Cormorant’s boat which was waiting for him. “Good luck!” said Bassett and the coxswain pushed off.

  As the gig pulled away from the stairs and headed seawards, its course led near the southern pier head where there were the usual idlers to be expected there on a fine morning. Apart from the longshoremen stood a small group of ladies out for a stroll and with them Delancey glimpsed the scarlet of military uniforms. As the gig drew nearer he recognized Captain Hilliard and Mr Huntley. An instant later they recognized him and turned to each other with openly expressed amusement. They were too distant for Delancey to hear anything that was said but their gestures were plain. He was seen to be running away! The story would be round St Peter Port by midday, round the island by the evening and would have reached Jersey and the mainland within the next two or three days. Technically he had received no other challenge but gossip would have it that he had refused to fight. There was only one remedy. He must go ashore again and appear publicly at the Golden Lion. His best plan would be to invite Captain Bastable to dine with him before the ship sailed. The thought of the probable sequel made him feel slightly sick but no other course was possible. This time it would have to be pistols. . . .

  Delancey was greeted at the gangway by Saunders who said, “Welcome aboard.” Determined, however, to do the right thing before his courage failed him, Delancey asked at once to see Captain Bastable. He was shown below and Bastable greeted him kindly. Delancey asked at once for a boat to take him ashore. He had one or two calls to make, a debt to pay, his laundry to collect.

  “Unfortunately, Mr Delancey, I have strict orders that you are to remain on board until we sail.”

  “But I have business ashore, sir, and hoped indeed that you would do me the honour of dining with me.”

  “You can send a midshipman to attend to your business in St Peter Port and I will put the gig at his disposal. As for your kind invitation, I am not free to accept it. For me to go ashore with you would conflict with the orders I have received.”

  “But I am sure, sir, that Captain D’Auvergne would condone a slight departure from the letter of his orders. He would understand a case of necessity.”

  “He would understand perfectly. In case of your offering to disobey my order I am to put you under close arrest. Is that sufficiently clear? I hope you will spare me the trouble and embarrassment.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Have I your word, then, that you will not attempt to go ashore?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With that point settled it is now my privilege to invite you to dine with me on board this ship. The fare may not be quite equal to what we might have had at the Golden Lion but it will be better than I could offer you after three months at sea.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  The dinner was excellent and Bastable took the opportunity to drink the health of his guest. “To a notable swordsman!” Delancey bowed but protested that the toast should have been, “To a barely acceptable fencing instructor.” There was no other reference to the morning’s affair and the party ended on a very friendly note.

  The ship sailed soon afterwards and Delancey admired the way in which the trick was done. At one instant the sloop was at anchor, an instant later she was under sail and on the right course. The wind was rising and the sea with it, the Cormorant being close-hauled with spray breaking over her forecastle. Guernsey slid to the windward but the features he could recognize were soon lost in the mist as the sloop headed once more for Portsmouth.

  As on the outward voyage Delancey found himself pacing the deck with Lieutenant Saunders.

  “What will you do now? Will you return to the Grafton?”

  “I am no longer posted to her or to any ship. I was here on temporary duty. All I have now is a letter of recommendation addressed to Admiral Macbride.”

  “But didn’t you know? He is no longer at Portsmouth. I hear that he has gone overseas to a dockyard appointment.”

  “If that is so you behold the picture of a half-pay lieutenant. Where stationed? On the beach.”

  “Your luck will turn, I feel sure of it.”

  “With the reputation of one who has refused a challenge?”

  “But that is nonsense. You fought and I was your second. Captain Bastable was a witness to the meeting and you were not challenged again.”

  “There was another officer ready to challenge me and everyone knew it.”

  “You received no challenge, however, and you left the island under orders from your superior officer.”

  “All that is true but will the soldiers believe it? You know as well as I do what the story is going to be.”

  In his cabin that night Delancey asked himself where he had gone wrong. Should he have made more of a fight at La Gravelle? Should he have chosen to meet young Watkins with pistols? Should he have made the coxswain of the Cormorant’s gig put him ashore again? Unfair it might be but the stain on his reputation was going to be permanent. But was it altogether unfair? D’Auvergne had ordered him to leave Guernsey at once but that was an act of kindness. He knew that this was what Delancey wanted. God knows he had obeyed orders with a sigh of relief. Who wouldn’t? But the real test was coming and he knew that he would fail it. Having reported back to Macbride—no, to the Port Admiral now—a real hero in his position would take the next packet back to Guernsey. He would then be a half-pay lieutenant no longer under D’Auvergne’s orders. A genuine hero would go back to the Golden Lion, ready to be insulted by Captain Hilliard, ready to fight again on the headland and ready, finally, to die with a great reputation for gallantry. But Delancey knew that he would do nothing of the sort. He would rather live with his courage still in question. He might have to quit the navy but what of that? There were other ways of earning a living. He was still thinking of alternatives when he fell asleep.

  Next morning the Cormorant came into Spithead after rounding the Isle of Wight. There was a fleet of merchantmen there awaiting convoy, smart West Indiamen having pride of place but slave ships looking rakish and fast. There were ships of every kind at anchor but t
he craft that caught his eye was a Post Office cutter, almost a twin of the Royalist, his first command—and perhaps his last. She was on her outward passage and came out through the anchorage with the sunlight on her sails and the white foam parted by her stem. Yes, that was just the way the Royalist had looked. He would have liked to possess a picture of her, a watercolour perhaps. Given time, he might have made a drawing himself, for he had taught himself how to use a pencil and believed that the skill of recording what he had seen was proper to his calling. There had been no leisure for that and he found himself wishing that the whole Royalist episode was still to come. But how could he have acted differently? Still wondering what else he could have done, he said goodbye to his friends on board the Cormorant and was rowed ashore soon after the ship had anchored. He took a room at the Star and Garter for the night and left his gear there before reporting to Rear-Admiral Hewett. The Port Admiral was not at his office but the prince’s letter of recommendation was opened without ceremony by his flag lieutenant, a brusque young man called Fothergill.