Devil to Pay (6 page)

At supper the Prince of Bouillon was still downcast over the ruin of all his hopes. Saying nothing about the secret side of his activities, he talked generally about the situation in France.

“I begin to doubt whether the monarchy will ever be restored. A society has been torn up by the roots. Can it ever be replanted and take root again? But what nonsense the future generations will be taught! They will be told how poor peasants rose against a tyrant regime. Who will remember the thousands of poor folk who fought and died to save the regime? There have been royalist armies in the field with numbers of up to a hundred thousand. The republicans have been defeated in battle after battle. No one will remember this in the years to come. I wish I could believe that they would win. I would that it was in my power to help them.”

Talk turned to the subject of Guernsey characteristics, on the local ability to reconcile smuggling with religion. D'Auvergne, as a Jerseyman, was interested in the antipathy which existed between the islands but could not explain it.

While this conversation went on, Delancey was half aware of a noisier party being held in the far corner of the parlour. From the glimpse of scarlet he guessed that army officers predominated and from the noise he concluded that they were fairly junior in rank. Glancing that way and half expecting some such move he saw a young ensign rise to his feet and move unsteadily towards him. He was a fair-haired youth, aged nineteen at most, with flushed cheeks and a touch of sweat on his forehead. He stood, swaying, near the naval group and made some sort of a bow, which D'Auvergne returned rather coldly

“Ensign Watkins, gentlemen,” he said, “at your service.” He paused uncertainly, wiped his brow and added, “Of the 42nd Foot.” It seemed for a minute of silence (the other party being quiet now, listening) as if this was the sum total of his message. Then he remembered his next lines and went on with a jerk. “Have—have—have I the honour of ad-ad-ad-addressing Lieutenant—er—Delancey?”

“You have,” said Delancey briefly, rising to his feet.

“Then, sir, I have the further hon-honour of tut-telling you, sir, that you're a coward!”

Delancey, who had been expecting this, answered loudly, ensuring that what he said would be audible to the other officers present:

“And you, Mr Watkins, are a drunken and useless young puppy, of less value to your regiment than its latest recruit, a disgrace to your uniform and a sorrow to your parents. Go back to your nanny, boy, and learn how to wipe your nose!”

“I can use a pistol as well as you!”

“I doubt if you can use a chamber pot.”

“That's an insult!” raged the ensign.

“Maybe,” replied Delancey, “but you address me as ‘Sir.'“

“I demand satisfaction—Sir!”

“Very well. Choose your seconds and ask them to arrange matters with Mr Bassett here. I hope you will agree, sir, to act for me?” Bassett nodded and Delancey sat down again, turning to D'Auvergne and resuming their conversation at the point where it had been interrupted.

“I have always thought, your Highness, that Guernsey is more fortunate than Jersey in its harbour.”

“Very true, Mr Delancey. The time is coming, however, when St Peter Port will be too small. . . .”

As the discussion continued Bassett begged the others to excuse him for a minute. Knowing his purpose, Delancey said to him quietly, “He is the challenger. I choose—swords.” Bassett nodded and went over to the other group.

“. . . but St Peter Port has the advantage in its roadstead, sheltered by Herm in an easterly wind and sheltered by Guernsey itself when the wind is westerly.”

“I am quite of your opinion, your Highness. The harbour of St Helier is on the wrong side of the island.”

Bassett came back and said to Delancey, aside, “Tomorrow at day-break—on the green near the barracks.”

The conversation was resumed again but Delancey drank nothing more. To judge from his behaviour, anyone present would have thought him an experienced duellist and a man of great courage. In point of fact he was neither, having never fought before in an affair of honour and having only an average share of resolution. His heart had missed a beat when he knew that he would be challenged and he frankly dreaded the meeting that was now unavoidable. Had he been a civilian, Mr Watkins might well have changed his mind when sober and made some sort of apology. But to do that an officer would have to resign his commission. There was no future in a line regiment (or in the navy) for a man who had refused a challenge. Nervous as he might be, however, Delancey had shown presence of mind. He had noticed that Watkins spoke of pistols and this had given him his cue to make Watkins the challenger and give himself the choice of weapons. He had promptly chosen swords, guessing that his opponent's fencing skill would be rudimentary. No expert himself, he had taken lessons in his younger days and could at least remember how to stand on guard, how to lunge, how to feint and thrust and parry. Had he been a civilian, Watkins' seconds could have objected that their principal could not give satisfaction with the weapons chosen. But they could raise no such objection on behalf of a commissioned officer. If he could not use a sword he had no business to be wearing one. If Watkins had never had a lesson before—as seemed likely enough—he was going to have one now.

Delancey's other second was to be Lieutenant Saunders of the
Cormorant
whom they met after supper near the town church. He and Bassett went off to make the detailed arrangements—finding a surgeon and measuring the swords—while D'Auvergne and Bastable walked with Delancey down to the harbour.

“I don't pretend to like this business,” said D'Auvergne. “That wretched boy was pushed into this folly by those other officers. I wonder if he could be persuaded to apologize?”

“I hope you don't blame me, your Highness, for acting as I did?”

“You could do nothing else. But I am distressed about tomorrow's meeting and about its probable consequences. If the colonel of the 42nd were here he would put young Watkins on picquet for the next month—and that would be that.”

“I shan't kill him, sir, and I doubt whether he knows how to do any injury to me.”

“Granted that the affair ends as you expect, the result is still unfortunate. You'll gain no credit from punishing that child and officers of the 42nd will still tell stories to your discredit. If you should be wounded, it is worse—you being no match for a mere schoolboy. Meeting an officer of your own age would at least have ended the matter.”

“Very true, sir.”

“I would prevent the meeting if I could. Look—I shall ask you, Captain Bastable, to be present as a senior officer and urge the two principals to use their swords against the French. If Watkins will withdraw his words, will you agree to withdraw yours?” “Certainly, sir.”

“Very well, then. Will you use your influence, then? I shall be very grateful to you.”

“I shall do my best, sir,” said Bastable, “but I am not too sanguine of the result. I should be more hopeful if young Watkins had fought in several campaigns. All would agree then that his courage needed no proof. I suspect, however, that he is newly commissioned and has never smelt powder. He has still to prove himself and to offer an apology now would be no way to do it.”

“Do your best, nevertheless,” urged D'Auvergne, and Bastable said again that he would.

“Goodnight—and good luck!” said D'Auvergne when they parted and Delancey, thanking him, went on board the
Royalist.
He slept badly that night and was already awake when his servant called him at four.

The infantry barracks, where the 42nd Regiment were quartered, stood on the headland to the north of St Peter Port. On a fine summer morning it was no hardship to walk up the lane to the green upon which the barracks fronted. A quarter of an hour brought them to the rendezvous, among the trees near the seaward end of the avenue. At daybreak both parties were there and Captain Bastable called the four seconds together, the two principals standing apart and out of earshot.

“As the senior officer present, gentlemen, I want to urge on you the propriety of settling our difference without resort to arms. Some story has been repeated to the effect that Mr Delancey left Major Moncrieff to be killed while he himself fled, saving his life but sacrificing a comrade. I want you all to understand that this story is totally false. Mr Delancey obeyed the orders he had received from Captain D'Auvergne. I have the captain's authority for assuring you that Mr Delancey brought the cutter away, that there was no other competent navigator present, and that the cutter without him would most probably have been lost. I must also make it clear that Mr Delancey did not escape from the French before the major had already fallen in combat. If Mr Watkins believed a story involving cowardice on the part of Mr Delancey he was completely deceived. You must accept my word for that. I come now to the events of yesterday evening. Believing this story and having drunk, I would suggest, more than he was accustomed to drink, Mr Watkins publicly accused Mr Delancey of cowardice. Words were exchanged in anger and the result was the challenge which brings us here. What I want to say is this: If Mr Watkins, knowing that he was mistaken and knowing that he acted hastily when far from sober, should withdraw his accusation, I can assure you that his explanation will be accepted. May I add that we should none of us think the worse of him? He will quit this field with his reputation untarnished and we should all agree that he had acted like an officer and a gentleman.”

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.