‘Ah, Lieutenant Hansam. We are indeed honoured.’
Frampton muttered into Jennings’ ear: ‘Careful, Aubrey. I hear that he is a damned fine soldier.’
Jennings stiffened and, still smiling at Steel, spoke in a similar whisper to his second. ‘My dear Charles. Taking part in a few scraps in the Swedish war does not turn a man into a hero.’
‘They say, Aubrey, that he accounted for forty Russians single-handed at the battle of Narva. And that after Riga the King of Sweden himself presented him with a gold medal.’
‘Narva. Riga. What nonsense. Those names mean nothing. And now are we not allied to the Danes? Sweden’s enemies. I hardly think that Mister Steel will want to boast much of his relationship with the Swedish throne. Besides. Killing a few Russian savages? That’s not real war. Not the way gentlemen do battle.’
He drew from his cuff a crisp, white lace handkerchief and applied it gently to his delicate nose. ‘And that is precisely what I intend to demonstrate.’
Jennings walked forward.
‘Think now, Steel. Do you really want this end? Think on it. Do you really want to die in a tavern brawl. Were you aware perhaps that I had studied in London, under no less than the renowned Monsieur Besson? Perhaps you are familiar with him. He has taught the arme blanche in most of the courts of Europe.’
Steel did not reply. He merely drew his sword and assumed the en garde position.
Jennings instantly did the same. As Hansam hastened to Steel’s side, Jennings’ second walked to meet him. The two men shook hands and retired a few paces behind their friends.
The room had fallen silent now. Tables and chairs were pushed aside and most of the officers who had not already left began to make their exits into the street until only a small group of unwary subalterns remained. The staff too had long retreated behind the bar. The silence was broken suddenly by the sharp clang of metal on metal as Jennings tapped Steel’s blade.
Steel disengaged, circling Jennings’ sword with a deft flick of the wrist and made a slashing cut across the centre to unsettle his opponent. But Jennings had seen the move coming and side-stepped, returning to the en garde with the tip of his blade pointing directly at Steel’s side. He might have plunged it deep in, and the fact that he did not made it clear to Steel that he was only playing. Jennings spoke.
‘Oh come now, Steel. That was but a poke. I would not make use of such a thrust but with a ruffian. Have you nothing better to offer me?’
Steel raised his arm to the tierce position so that his blade was pointing directly downwards at Jennings, leaving his own body apparently unguarded. Jennings slapped at the blade with a clang of metal on metal and levelled his own sword, which came within an inch of Steel’s abdomen. Both men were sweating hard now. They pulled away for an instant, regaining their balance. Then circled and moved their blades around each other without touching. Steel’s sword made a marked contrast to Jennings’ lighter, standard issue infantry sword. But what it lacked in weight, the Major’s weapon made up in speed. Steel recovered his blade into the cavalry en garde, ready to slice at Jennings, but as he did so his opponent made a neat side-step and brought the tip of his own sword swiftly into contact with the Lieutenant’s arm, tearing the cloth of his shirt. Within seconds a thin red line had begun to darken the white cloth. Frampton spoke.
‘A hit to Major Jennings. First blood. Continue, gentlemen.’
Steel, appearing unaware of the damage to his arm, although actually in acute pain, took care to keep his blade as it was – pointing heavenward and poker-straight. If only, he thought, if only he will make one small error. Then I shall have him. He knew how easily his great blade could fall and with what force. How, given but a split-second his cut would sever Jennings’ sword arm and finish this business. But he could not find a way in. The man was too good. For all his foppishness and evident cowardice, it was clear that Jennings had not lied about his prowess with a sword. Steel began to walk to the right, encouraging his opponent to do the same until both men were circling slowly on the spot. Now. He thought. Now. If I can take the advantage. Just move for an instant to the left and then it will all be over. He prepared to make his move. Shifted the balance on his feet. Now. Now is the moment. The air hung heavy with anticipation. Now. It must be, now. But before Steel could strike the door of the tavern flew open with such force that its studded wooden surface banged hard against the wall.
The sudden noise broke the spell. Steel and Jennings stopped their dance of death and, frozen to the spot, turned their heads towards the light. Before they had a chance to renew the fight, the room had filled with a dozen redcoats armed with muskets. While two of them levelled their bayonets at the duellists, the others formed two lines through which another figure now entered the inn. A Colonel, a man in his late forties, clad in a neatly tailored dark blue coat, trimmed with red and gold lace. A Colonel on the British Staff.
The man strode forward purposefully towards Steel and Jennings, a grave expression on his face.
Hansam, moving quickly, pushed in behind Jennings to stand in front of the Colonel, attempting to block his view. He began to speak, quickly.
‘Good day, Sir. May I present myself. Lieutenant Henry Hansam of Farquharson’s. I imagine, Colonel, that you are wondering quite reasonably what exactly is taking place and I would not blame you one bit for entertaining such thoughts. What you see here, Colonel, what in fact Lieutenant Steel here was doing, Sir, was merely demonstrating to Major Jennings the relative virtues of the broadsword as opposed to the rapier.’
He wrested Steel’s sword from his grasp and proferred it to the Colonel.
‘This is the very sword in question you see, Sir. Quite a Queen amongst blades, would you not agree?’ Hansam pushed the hilt of the sword closer to the Colonel’s face, inviting inspection. ‘It was made by Ferrara, Sir, d’you see?’
But the Colonel did not care to see the sword. Fixing his gimlet eyes on Steel’s, he spoke. ‘Lieutenant. Perhaps you would care to explain to me yourself exactly what is going on here. You are aware are you not of the penalty for duelling? Particularly among officers of Her Majesty’s army in the field. And you appear to have drawn blood.’
Steel looked at his arm. The shirt around the cut was stained a deep red. ‘Sir. Yes, Sir.’
‘Yes, Sir. A court martial, Sir, with death as the ultimate penalty.’
The Colonel turned to Jennings. And you, Major Jennings. It is Major Jennings, is it not? You too should know better than this.’
‘I. Colonel …’ Jennings thought fast. ‘I have to say that I was provoked, Sir.’
‘That is as may be, Major. But you are the senior officer present, are you not?’
The subalterns attempted as best they could to melt into the shadows. The Colonel did not wait for Jennings’ reply.
‘Why don’t you just put up your sword, Sir, and we’ll say no more of it. And what of you, Mister Steel. What of you? I think that you had better come with me. Your sword, if I may, Lieutenant.’
Steel took his sword from Hansam, reversing it so that he held only the blade, and handed it hilt first to the Colonel who, signalling to two armed sentries to bring up the rear, led the way out of the tavern followed by Steel and Hansam. Steel presumed the worst. Jennings of course could be exonerated. Related to Farquharson
