Carrie Bebris - The Matters at Mansfield

“You may have it,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said.

Darcy strode back to his cousin and looked at him sharply. “By consenting to alternate fire, you might never have an opportunity to take your own shot.”

“I know.”

“Do you intend to let him use his own pistols? Recall that his weapons are rifled.”

“I have not forgotten.” His gaze was on the viscount, who was becoming increasingly agitated. “However, if we demand to inspect the barrels, he will consider that an insult to his honor, and he will then call me out, or you, or perhaps us both, and there will never be an end to this until all of us end up like Henry Crawford.” He shook his head. “No — let him use his pistols, and take the first shot, and let us proceed directly to the field as he has asked. He is so distraught that perhaps his aim will be hindered, and we can end this affair with no one getting injured.”

“No one? Do you intend to delope?”

“If his shot misses, I will. My purpose is justice for Anne, not the slaying of an old man.”

The arrangements were settled. As there was no presiding officer, Darcy took on that role as well, insofar as asking the innkeeper to send the village surgeon, or quack, or whatever passed for a medical man there, to attend them at the field.

At long last he found an opportunity to embrace Elizabeth and determine with certainty that she was well. The strength of his hold expressed more than he had words to say. When he finally released her, the pistol in the pocket of his greatcoat swung forward, striking against her.

“Ouch,” she said with surprise. “What is that?”

“The viscount’s fourth pistol,” he said in a voice low enough so that others would not hear. “I am still carrying it since going to London. It is of no use to me, as it is unloaded, but I am certainly not going to return it to him.”

“He seems to have quite enough weaponry as it is.”

They all proceeded to the field. The ladies and the viscount’s servant stood to one side. They were soon joined by the village surgeon. As Edinburgh boasted a Royal College of Surgeons superior to London’s, Darcy hoped for his cousin’s sake that Gretna Green’s medical man knew what he was about should the need for his services arise.

The gentlemen removed their greatcoats; Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Sennex also stripped down to their shirtsleeves to prove that neither wore any manner of concealed armor. Darcy handed his greatcoat to Elizabeth, pressed her hand, and went to dispatch his duties.

Before the duel could commence, the weapons needed to be loaded by the seconds in each other’s presence to ensure they were charged smooth and single. Though Darcy and the colonel knew perfectly well that the viscount’s bores were not smooth, protocol must nonetheless be followed. Colonel Fitzwilliam handed Darcy his pistol, along with two powder flasks, the powder measure, a pouch of balls, and a patch tin.

Under the supervision of Lord Sennex, Darcy took one of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s military pistols and dumped the existing charge by firing it into the ground. He then removed the ramrod from the underside of the barrel, half-cocked the hammer, and poured black powder from the larger flask into the measure. Thirty grains would propel the ball with sufficient force at the agreed-upon firing range. He sent the powder down the barrel.

He next withdrew a lead ball from the pouch and opened the tin. Instead of the linen patches he expected to find, the tin held circles of silk. He regarded his cousin in question.

The colonel shrugged. “I visited Hardwick’s shop while you were in London.”

Darcy took one of the oiled patches and centered it on the end of the muzzle. He placed the ball over it, then rammed the load down the bore, firmly seating the patch and ball atop the powder. He secured the ramrod back onto the pistol.

One step remained.

From the other flask, he poured a small amount of fine priming powder into the pan. He then snapped the frizzen into place and presented the pistol to Lord Sennex for inspection.

The viscount took the weapon, looked into the bore, and returned it to Darcy.

“I am satisfied that the bore is smooth and the charge fairly loaded.”

Darcy handed the pistol to Colonel Fitzwilliam, then emptied and reloaded his cousin’s other pistol.

Lord Sennex next discharged and loaded his weapons, following the same process as had Darcy. When he presented the large pistols for inspection, Darcy looked into the bores. From this angle, the tops of the bores indeed appeared smooth, but he knew better. He met his cousin’s gaze.

Colonel Fitzwilliam remained resolute. “We are satisfied,” he said.

Once the viscount finished charging his two primary pistols, he reloaded the second-sized gun, though no one anticipated its use. Darcy watched him place the priming powder into the pan and close the frizzen.

With all the pistols charged, Colonel Fitzwilliam took the field with one while Darcy held the other in reserve to give to his cousin after the first round of fire. Lord Sennex retained one of his large pistols, placing the other and the smaller pistol in the open case off to the side of the field, near the spectators.

The principals met in the center of the field, fully cocked their pistols, and pointed them skyward. At Darcy’s word, they counted their paces.

Lord Sennex moved slowly, the ordeal of the past several days having taken an obvious toll. Though Colonel Fitzwilliam carried himself with military bearing, Darcy knew that he, too, was not at his best.

They turned and faced each other. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood steady as Lord Sennex lowered his weapon and took his shot.

It hit.

The ball struck Colonel Fitzwilliam’s right arm, causing him to nearly drop his weapon. He gripped his elbow. Blood seeped past his fingers.

Thankfully, the viscount’s aim was not as accurate as it had been when he had settled the duel between Mr. Crawford and Neville. Darcy moved toward his cousin, but the colonel motioned him away. He refused the surgeon’s attention, as well.

After a minute or two, he recovered himself. Though his arm trembled, Colonel Fitzwilliam stood firm. He raised his weapon.

And fired into the air.

Lord Sennex released an outraged cry. “You insult me by deloping? Do you think that because I am old, I cannot submit to your fire like a man?”

Now that the colonel had fired, Darcy approached his cousin. His left hand was slick with blood. His shirtsleeve was ripped, the fabric stained crimson.

“The wound is not serious,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “The ball passed straight through the flesh and did not hit bone. But my hand shakes so much that even had I not planned to delope, I would have been unable to hit him.”

“Then that ends the business for today.”

The viscount strode over to them. “Is the colonel injured or is he not?”

“He is injured enough that his hand shakes,” Darcy said. “We will have to continue this on the morrow.”

“Why?” he barked. “What difference makes impaired aim if he is only going to shoot into the air?”

“We all know the rules of the Code. A wound sufficient to make the hand shake postpones completion of the duel.”

“The Code also forbids firing into the air. If Colonel Fitzwilliam is not courageous enough to kill me, he should not have issued the challenge.”

“Deloping is common practice, despite that prohibition.”

“If the colonel will not acknowledge that rule, I do not acknowledge the other. We will finish this today.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Let us.”

Lord Sennex stormed off to exchange his used pistol for the loaded one. Colonel Fitzwilliam handed Darcy his discharged weapon. His hand trembled so badly that he could hardly raise it.