The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (31 page)

“He would have been better to speak with me, and you should have told him so.” Davison grumbled, having missed King's barb. “I'd have put him straight as far as any legal status is concerned.”

“Then you would have brought yourself a great deal of trouble,” King retorted. “It is not unknown for writs to be raised against officers, especially those who abuse their authority.”

Davison flushed. King's statement, taken in conjunction with the knowledge that Potterton was seeking legal advice, had hit him in a sensitive spot. “You, sir, are an arrogant cur,” he spat back, conscious, as were they both, of the sharp intakes of breath from the other officers present. “I shall thank you to refrain from meddling with my affairs and division.”

“I have no wish to interfere, and will gladly allow you to settle matters for yourself,” King told him.

“After setting Potterton with a lawyer,” Davison gave a brief laugh. “I call that a rogue's trick, and it does you no credit.”

King swallowed; Davison had now insulted him twice, but he was determined not to lower himself to such a level. He went to speak, but was surprised to find himself beaten by Lewis, usually the least forthcoming of the wardroom officers.

“I fail to see why you are quite so concerned,” the fifth lieutenant said gently. “If, as you say, Potterton has no case, then surely it can not worry you what action he brings?”

“I remind you, sir, that this is a wardroom,” Davison replied, turning on the junior man. “Home of officers and gentlemen. If you wish to be considered as either, I suggest placing a guard upon your tongue.”

“Mr Lewis has a commission every bit as valid as yours,” King pointed out, as steadily as he could. “And I think you should apologise for that remark.”

“Apologise? To a lower deck reject?”

“A gentleman would apologise,” King replied. The second lieutenant had now insulted two of his fellow officers, and was definitely on dangerous ground.

“Are you saying I am no gentleman?” Davison asked.

“Let the circumstances speak for themselves,” King sighed, and was disconcerted to notice a faint look of triumph appear on the younger man's face.

“Then you have affronted me, sir,” the younger man stated with confidence. “And for that I shall demand satisfaction.”

––––––––

I
t was early morning and, from the height of the tiny plateau, the town below appeared bathed in a soft mist which had been invisible during their ascent. King climbed down from the small horse which had carried him from the dockyard and stretched his legs. With
Prometheus
still alongside the mole, there had been little difficultly in leaving the ship, and Lewis had done well in securing a guide and mounts at that hour. He secretly hoped Davison might have been less lucky. The man had been snoring loudly in his cabin when they left the wardroom: he may even over-sleep, or awaken and decide that words spoken in haste might just as easily be forgotten. Failing that, Caulfield, Banks, or even Reynolds, the new marine captain who had replaced Donaldson, might have got wind of what was about. Duelling, although still relatively common, remained illegal and was definitely falling out of fashion in the Royal Navy. King was sure that morning's example would be stamped upon, should any of the senior officers hear of it.

However the unbreakable rules of honour meant that he could not give word. And he was equally certain Lewis, his official second, or Manning, who had agreed to attend as surgeon, would never have dreamed of speaking to another of the affair. And even if there had been no horses available, or a positive ban on travelling about the rock, King knew in his heart that Davison would appear. And so, indeed, it turned out.

The first they saw of his party was a panting man who reached the tiny clearing with obvious relief, and could well have run the entire way. Then, in a shaft of sudden sunlight, Davison and his second made their entrance. They were aboard two fine cavalry horses that stood several hands higher than the sad examples King, Lewis and Manning had ridden. Both men were in full dress, whereas King had only bothered to don duck trousers and a plain jacket. Manning and Lewis were more conventionally attired; the latter wore undress tunic and second best britches, whereas Manning was functionally smart, if mildly funereal, in his black surgeon's uniform. But all were positively shabby when viewed against Davison's tailored and flowing broadcloth, white silk stockings, and buttons that positively glowed in the first rays of what promised to be another glorious day.

“I see Davison has persuaded one of the new men to support him,” Lewis whispered as the second lieutenant and Marine Lieutenant Locke dismounted. “Presumably he has not been aboard
Prometheus
long enough to judge the cull's true worth.”

King said nothing, although it was somehow comforting to know he was not alone in detesting Davison. The two immaculate officers had begun a discussion with their guide that soon became heated. “And it looks as if their local man wants his money on the capstan head,” Lewis added with something approaching a laugh. “For all their grandeur, he has no intention of losing a fare if Davison ends up dead meat.”

King swallowed dryly. This whole matter had grown out of hand; he felt as if caught within the strands of some complex and intricate netting, and dared not make a move for fear of worsening the situation.

“I'd chance that our new friend Locke ain't too happy about being involved,” Manning said, joining them. From his relaxed demeanour, King had the impression the surgeon was treating the affair as something considerably less important than a cricket match. “Davison leaned on him rather heavily, I believe; their fathers are friends, or something on that line.”

“It was Locke who organised their mounts,” Lewis added. “Spoke to a garrison officer, who also happens to be under the Davison family's thumb, by all accounts. Though I gather he objected more strongly when his precious pistols were requested. From the sight of them I should say both see hard wax and brick dust more often than powder.”

“But reliable weapons, none the less?” King asked anxiously.

“Oh, for sure: I checked them thoroughly.” Lewis assured him. “A pair of Joe Manton's finest. And flinters: no fancy scent bottle locks or exploding pellets.”

King had often fantasised about owning a Manton pistol, but the thought that he might shortly die with one in his hand was not attractive.

“I should not take on so, Thomas,” Manning said, with the first signs of compassion. “The vast majority of duels end with neither party being injured.” Then he considered for a moment before adding, “or if so, it is not always fatal.”

“You have the letter for Juliana?” King asked coldly.

“Indeed, it is in my pocket as I speak,” he agreed. “As is your will.”

“Gentlemen, if all are ready I suggest we proceed,” the voice of Locke, the marine lieutenant, sounded unusually loud and filled the small space easily. A detachment of naval signalmen were billeted on the rise beyond the nearby copse; King wondered if they might even hear of the proceedings and put a stop to them, before deciding that such an event was probably common place. Their clearing was one of the few level pieces of ground on what was a truly colossal hill. And when so many members of the military and naval services were crowded onto one small rock, with the addition of wives, daughters and, doubtless, lovers to make matters more complicated, they would probably be lucky to retain what was such an ideal location for their exclusive use.

“May I suggest twelve paces?” the red-coated officer enquired of Lewis.

“Indeed, sir. Shall we pace together?”

King and Manning watched in silence as the two lieutenants stepped out what seemed to be a remarkably short distance. Davison was standing alone, and apparently unperturbed.

“If you gentlemen will join us,” Locke again, “we may attend to the weapons.”

King stepped forward and almost missed his footing, although Davison's stride was far more confident. Each man joined his second, and for the first time since the previous night, regarded the other face on.

“As seconds, it is now our duty to inspect and load each pistol.” Locke spoke no less softly. “In that time might I suggest both parties examine the motives behind this affair and, if there be a way of avoiding bloodshed, it be taken.”

King continued to stare at Davison, even though the mention of bloodshed sent shivers within. He had thought this would be the moment when sheer terror took over; with the possibility that, in some way or another, he would disgrace himself. But on seeing the man properly, and in the clear light of morning, King felt far more determined to follow matters through to their logical conclusion.

The pistols were soon ready and selected by their seconds; King accepted his from Lewis, and weighed the warm, reassuring piece in his hand. It was perfectly balanced, and would undoubtedly fire as true as any weapon over such a distance. Whether either man was hit or not would depend entirely upon their opponent’s aim and composure.

“Very well, if you are totally decided,” Locke continued, after a suitable pause. “I will ask Mr Manning, as a neutral party, to supervise the proceedings.”

“That man is no more neutral than a second,” Davison protested, speaking out for the first time, and King was quick to detect a slight catch in his voice. “The two have been cronies for years; I demand that one of the guides act in his stead.”

“I assure you, sir that, as a surgeon, I regard myself as completely objective, when it comes to matters involving human health,” Manning stated firmly. “And may also add that, should you require my attention, it will be given readily and with my full professional competence.” Davison seemed to blanch slightly at the mention of a surgeon's care.

“But this affair was to be carried out at seven,” Manning continued, bringing out his watch and looking at it pointedly. “And we are still a spell light – so will wait until the time is correct.”

“Not so!” Davison protested. “Seven, or five minutes to, it makes no difference. Let us be about our business!”

“We will wait until the hour,” Manning repeated firmly, fixing the young officer with a harsh stare.

The time ticked slowly by, with both King and Davison flashing the occasional glance at their opponent, and the two seconds shifting their stances uncomfortably. The atmosphere was tense but, if Manning had intended the delay to break either man's nerve, he was disappointed. And finally, with what might have been slight reluctance, he looked at his watch once more.

“Very well,” he said, glancing about him. “We may begin. I shall count to ten. After reaching three, either man is at liberty to fire. As soon as I reach ten, there are to be no further shots. You are both reminded that, by colluding in this affair you are contravening number 23 of the Articles of War by which we are all governed, and any officer present may be liable to stand trial by court martial.” He spoke slowly and with cold authority, looking to each man in turn as he did. “That is whether or not any injury is received, while a subsequent death may see whoever is responsible speak for their own life.”

Both men continued to stare at the other although King noticed that Davison was now standing side on, and altered his own stance to match.

“One.”

King raised the hand that held his pistol, which had suddenly become very heavy, and lined the weapon up upon his opponent's torso.

“Two.”

His own chest was starting to hurt in apparent anticipation. Then he hurriedly drew what must have been his first breath for several seconds.

“Three!”

As soon as Manning spoke, there was a flash from Davison's gun that delayed King in firing his own. An odd whirling sound instantly followed, and King was vaguely conscious of the wind of a shot as it passed close by his ear.

“A miss, by God,” someone muttered, but King was uncertain who.

Now he had seven seconds to compose and fire his own pistol but, even as the relief began to flow, he wondered if he were really capable of such an act. From somewhere close by a dog began to bark, and a flock of birds, alerted by the noise, took to the sky.

“Four...”

Manning was still counting the seconds, while King continued to debate. The look on Davison's face said much. It was an odd expression: something between anger and despair. And, as a pistol remained trained upon his heart, raw fear was also becoming increasingly apparent.

“Fire, you damned booby!” the younger lieutenant ordered, just as the surgeon reached six, but everything in King's opponent, from his posture, to the terror in his eyes, said differently. The perfectly balanced pistol remained steady on Davison's chest while King considered the best way of ending matters. He could shoot to deliberately miss, but that might create more problems; Davison was quite capable of seeing the act as an insult, in which case there would have to be a further exchange of bullets.

“Seven...”

Or he could wound the fellow; it might teach the lad a lesson and would make a point – perhaps a slight nick to the arm, or the lower leg? But, despite Manning's attendance, such a wound sustained in the height of summer was likely to turn septic: amputation might then be necessary, or he could even miss and sever an artery.

“Eight...”

This was the first time King had experienced having his thoughts timed, and was amazed at how fast his brain could work. Davison had gone a deathly white, and a sixth sense said the lad might soon run. Much of his assumed importance also appeared to have been shed, even if a steady flow of defiant rubbish still trickled from his mouth. King felt as if he were watching an unruly schoolboy, one caught after having broken a window, and he unconsciously tightened his finger on the trigger.

“Nine...” Now there was only one second left; King had to decide one way or another. 

“Fire, damn you!” Davison repeated, almost in a scream. Then King heard a shot that surely sounded too loud, yet seemed to come from far off. He stared uncomprehendingly at his own weapon, before realising that no one now stood in front of him, and what had been a smart officer was lying in an untidy heap on the ground.