Thomas Ochiltree (30 page)

Putzi nodded.

“He is,” the lieutenant replied.

“Very well, then,” Wroclinski said, “if you have no objections, let us proceed.”

The two seconds placed the papers to one side. Wroclinski then carefully opened the polished rosewood box that contained the dueling pistols von Falkenburg had inherited from his father. Inherited after one of them had put a bullet through its owner’s chest, and an end to his life. Von Falkenburg could not help wondering which of the matched pair had done so.

The weapons were nothing like von Falkenburg’s service revolver. They were single-shot, black-powder pistols with percussion caps, and they fired a solid round ball. They had originally been purchased by von Falkenburg’s great-grandfather at a time when they represented the latest development in firearms. Now they belonged to a class of weapons for which only one purpose remained: the purpose to which they were about to be put. The antiquated etiquette of dueling had never accepted modern guns.

The two seconds carefully measured the black gunpowder down the muzzles and into the barrels, then wrapped each bullet in an oiled leather disk. Using polished brass ramrods, they pushed the bullets down the muzzles and made sure they were properly seated on the powder charge.

There was a terrible fascination to watching the preparation of his own very possible death, von Falkenburg realized. He saw the percussion caps be put in place. When the hammer fell on them, a spark would flash down a tiny hole to the powder charge in the breech.

The seconds had agreed in accordance with instructions received from their principals that Putzi should have the choice of weapons. Von Falkenburg watched Putzi’s hand carefully to see if it trembled or hesitated. It did neither. Putzi reached out and picked up the weapon his life would depend on as casually as he might pick up a brandy snifter.

Was that the gun that killed Father?
von Falkenburg wondered.

He took the remaining gun.

“It has been agreed that the first shots will be exchanged at twenty paces, the second at fifteen, and the third and subsequent ones at ten, is that not so?” Wroclinski said.

“That is my understanding of the agreement,” the lieutenant replied.

One thing was certain, von Falkenburg knew. If by a miracle both he and Putzi were left standing after the exchange at twenty paces, only one would be after the distance was reduced to fifteen.

And that one would most likely be Putzi. For as the aggrieved party, he had the first shot on each exchange. It was in part to counter that advantage that von Falkenburg had insisted through Wroclinski that the first exchange take place at twenty paces, although that was murderous enough.

The seconds paced out the distance. Von Falkenburg walked up and stood beside Wroclinski. He found himself facing Putzi. He tried to read the emotion which lay behind the expression on his face. Hatred? Calculation? Amusement? But he could not. As usual, the mask was impenetrable. The look of irony on Putzi’s lips was the same that von Falkenburg had always seen there – except for that one time it was replaced by rage when von Falkenburg had insulted him in the dining room of the Sacher.

The two seconds had withdrawn to one side.

“Very well, gentlemen, you may begin,” Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen said. “My principal has the first shot, and may fire when ready. Is that not so, Count Wroclinski?”

Wroclinski nodded.

Calmly, slowly, intently, Putzi raised his pistol and pointed it at von Falkenburg. Von Falkenburg suddenly realized how hollow its muzzle looked. Perhaps this was the same muzzle which was the last thing on earth his father had seen.

He felt his heart hammer under his tunic.

God, why doesn’t he fire?

A cat playing with a mouse? von Falkenburg wondered, his throat dry. Or just a rational decision to take careful aim?

Seconds which seemed like minutes crawled by, and still Putzi did not fire.

And then he
did
!

Von Falkenburg felt the sledge-hammer blow against the right side of his head at the instant he saw the black hole facing him turn into a cloud of gray, with a hard orange center which vanished instantly.

He reeled back and fell heavily on the grass, his pistol still clutched in his hand. He heard a voice say, “no, Doctor!”

That was Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen. Rubinstein must have made start forward. The lieutenant was only doing his job, von Falkenburg knew. As long as the duel continued, neither combatant could receive medical attention – that was reserved for the sole survivor.

Von Falkenburg struggled first to his knees, then to his feet. The hair on the right side of his head was full of blood, and his head was ringing far worse than it had when it caught that blow from a schnapps bottle in the villa where Helena was being held captive. But he realized that his skull could not be broken, or he would not be standing. Putzi’s shot had been good, but not good enough. It could only have barely creased his skull.

Putzi was still standing in front of him, as seemingly indifferent as if he were watching something in the theater, rather than the efforts of another man to kill him.

Von Falkenburg glanced at his weapon. The percussion cap was still in place. He tried to plant his feet more firmly, despite the whirling sensation in his brain. He raised the pistol, which felt like lead.

He saw the barrel rise until he was looking along it towards Putzi’s chest. His hand trembled as another wave of dizziness swept over him.

Von Falkenburg felt his finger tighten on the trigger. Squeeze off your shot. That was what he had always been told. It seemed like his finger was squeezing very hard indeed, but nothing was happening.

Suddenly he was taken by surprise by the leap of his pistol in his hand, and the loud bang and the cloud of acrid black powder smoke whirling around him.

Through the smoke, Putzi was still standing unperturbed.

Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen stood next to Putzi, then took five paces towards von Falkenburg, while Wroclinski watched him. Putzi walked up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his second, who then retired. The distance had been reduced for the next exchange of shots.

Von Falkenburg blinked as if that would clear the pounding from his head. It did not. He felt Wroclinski’s presence beside him. Wroclinski handed him his reloaded pistol.

Von Falkenburg did not look at Wroclinski. He did not want to see the anxiety he knew must be showing on that normally immobile face.

Putzi raised his gun again. Von Falkenburg knew that objectively, the duel was over. It was impossible for Putzi to miss him at fifteen paces. In a second or two, there would be a bullet in his heart. He found himself wondering what time it was. Was he going to die at 8:00 A.M., as he had promised his colonel?

He looked at Putzi’s face. The mask was slipping. Another expression was appearing. The amused irony that normally marked Putzi’s lips was being replaced by something very different.

Triumph? Yes. Cruelty? Yes. But there was something else, too. Von Falkenburg had not yet deciphered what that something else was when he heard the bang of Putzi’s pistol.

This time a searing pain slashed at the side of his right arm, and his pistol fell from convulsed fingers. He felt the blood ooze from his wound. His knees gave way under him, and he fell on them hard.

Like a beast at bay, he looked up at his tormentor. And he knew that Putzi had intentionally hit him in the arm, so that he could have no chance of firing an effective shot at him. Putzi knew he would shoot with his left hand if necessary as a gesture of defiance. But Putzi would have nothing to fear, and then could savor the pleasure of striding up to his troublesome victim and putting a bullet into him from ten paces like someone shooting a dog.

The whirling in von Falkenburg’s brain and the throbbing in his arm did not prevent his thoughts from racing. He knew that Putzi had tried to kill him on the first shot and been unlucky. In part he was taking that vexation out on him now.

But that was just a part of it. Just a part. Von Falkenburg knew now what that expression on Putzi’s face was. It was something beyond mere cruelty. It was Putzi’s self-satisfied, delighted contemplation of his own evil.

As he knelt before his foe, von Falkenburg turned to glance at Wroclinski and Rubinstein. Both of them, the normally impassive-seeming Wroclinzi as well, wore looks of horror on their faces.

That was because they were good, von Falkenburg realized. Because they knew what compassion and friendship meant. Because they were the exact opposite of Putzi, who had voluntarily chosen evil and who gloried in that choice.

Putzi was planning on shooting him down like a dog.

He was, was he?

Putzi saw all his schemes about to be realized, including the betrayal of his country.

Not yet, Putzi.

The gun was in von Falkenburg’s hand again as he forced his fingers to grip it.

Even though the pain that burned in his arm made him want to scream, he clenched his teeth instead and slowly brought the muzzle up.

Up…up…up….

The bone in his arm must not be broken, he realized.

His head was still spinning, but he paid it no mind.

His blood had soaked the sleeve of his tunic through, but still he raised the pistol.

His hand trembled so that the muzzle danced in front of his eyes, but he steadied it by gripping his wrist with his left hand.

And more than that, he steadied it with an overpowering surge of raw will.

Not yet, Putzi, not yet….

Putzi still stood in front of him, still showing no fear, even though von Falkenburg
knew
that Putzi realized what was going to happen.

But the expression on his face had changed.

It showed puzzlement.

Puzzlement, perhaps, that good, with all its weaknesses, has at least some chance against evil.

Puzzlement and…

…respect.

Von Falkenburg fired.

It was three weeks after the duel, and although von Falkenburg’s arm was still in a sling, Rubinstein had assured him it would recover fully.

Von Falkenburg sat in an ornate anteroom, feeling as nervous as he felt excited; eager for the call to pass through those doors on his right, but hoping too that the call would not come right away.

The doors opened, and a chamberlain said, “this way if you please, Captain.”

And on the other side of those doors, standing next to the high desk where he worked as many as sixteen hours a day, was his Imperial and Royal Majesty, Franz Joseph.

Von Falkenburg bowed very low.

“Good morning. Captain,” the old man said. “I trust your arm will soon be fully healed?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Majesty,” von Falkenburg replied. He could have added that the only reason his arm was still in a sling was because his doctor was also his friend, and extra cautious on that account. But he decided against it. He had no practice in addressing his Emperor. But he suspected that it was better to say less rather than more.

“I am glad it will soon be healed, Captain. I need all the loyal, strong arms I can get.”

Von Falkenburg was not quite sure how to reply to the compliment, but fortunately he did not have to, for the Emperor took up a dossier that was lying on his desk.

“I have here the final report on the affair in which you had the misfortune to be embroiled, Captain. I am sure that Military Intelligence and the General Staff labored long and hard to prepare it. I assume you have been told that it fully exonerates you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“But Captain, I have been an Emperor for many years. And during that time there is at least one thing I have learned: the greater the responsibilities God entrusts one with, the harder it is to get the information one needs in order to carry them out. What sergeant dares tell his lieutenant that there is indiscipline in the platoon?”

Von Falkenburg hoped that he was right in assuming that he was not supposed to answer a rhetorical question such as that.

“Captain,” the old gentleman with the snowy whiskers said, “I am going to ask you to do something which I know your loyalty towards me may make difficult. Tell me what
you
understand this to have all been about.”

Von Falkenburg had never been shown the complete report. But it was not difficult for him to guess what aspect of the affair the Emperor correctly guessed it glossed over – the involvement in the plot of his young relative, the Archduke Karl-Maria.

What
was
difficult was to confirm to the old man the unpalatable truth he clearly already suspected, and thus add to the heavy burdens he already bore as he struggled to keep the Empire together.

Still, von Falkenburg knew where his duty lay: in telling the truth.

“You Majesty,” he said, “from what I saw of the documents on which this report is based, and from what I learned from a certain Colonel von Lauderstein, I believe the story is as follows: Prince Robert von Lipprecht and…and, I regret to say, His Highness the Archduke Karl-Maria…conspired with the Russians to split the Empire and to set up a nominally independent Hungary under Russian domination.”

Von Falkenburg looked closely to see how Franz Joseph would take the blow. As it happened, there was not the slightest change in the old Emperor’s expression, except for a quick blink of the eyelids.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “That is what I suspected after reading this.”

Clearly the authors of the report had not dared omit all mention of Karl-Maria’s activities, aware as they must have been of the Emperor’s legendary attention to detail and insistence on being kept informed.

The old man looked pensive.

“Karl-Maria, King of Hungary…wearer of the Crown of St. Stephan,” he said with more sadness than bitterness in his voice. Clearly, he had no illusions about his young relative’s abilities.

“Your Majesty?” von Falkenburg said. For all his reluctance to speak without being spoken to, there was something he had to say, for the simple reason that he believed it to be the truth.