James Nelson: The Guardship

Wilkenson watched her go and then turned to Marlowe. He hesitated, and his eyes went wide, then narrow. “Very well, then, you shall have it.” The arrogance was gone from his voice, as was the mirth. He had now put himself in the way of real danger. He glanced again at his friends.

“Very good, sir. I shall send my man to meet yours,” Marlowe said, then turned and walked back to where Bickerstaff was standing. He did not turn to see what reaction his challenge had received.

“You seem to have thrown them into some great consternation,” Bickerstaff said as Marlowe stepped up next to him.

“I should imagine. I have called the pup Wilkenson out.”

“Was that wise?”

“Wise or not, I had no choice. Will you be my second?”

“You need not ask.”

“I am grateful to you, sir. Now perhaps you would be so kind as to go speak with his man and work out the details of this thing. I shall wait outside.”

“I should be delighted. Shall I request a meeting at dawn tomorrow?”

“That would be most agreeable.”

“Shall I allow him the choice of weapons?”

“Certainly,” Marlowe said. “He will choose pistols, of course. They always do.”

The hour before dawn was gray and deep green. A mist like gauze hung in the trees and all but obscured the far end of the field on which they were to meet. The air was cool and fresh and moist. And still, utterly still. From far away a rooster sounded, and then another, but there was no other sound than that. It was the kind of morning, peculiar to the tidewater, that makes it seem the most perfect place on earth, the original garden.

Marlowe and Bickerstaff stood waiting while their horses ran teeth over the lush grass, entirely careless of the drama they were about to witness. The early morning was as comfortable a time of day as one was likely to find in the spring in that country, and Marlowe was thoroughly enjoying the quiet of the place. The brilliant rays of the sun were showing themselves through the thick forest to the east, the light splintering as it worked its way through a thousand leaves, flickering as if the trees themselves were burning.

He had to remind himself of why he was there.

“A lovely morning for a duel,” he said, but softly, not willing to break the silence with his normal tone. “I certainly hope we have one.”

“I can’t imagine we won’t.” Bickerstaff spoke softly as well.

“You are quite certain they understood the time and the place?”

“Quite. They’ll show, depend upon it.”

He did not share Bickerstaff’s certainty. If Wilkenson chose to ignore his challenge, Marlowe could rightly deem him a coward. But if he and his friends chose to ignore him completely, to view him as not worthy of consideration, it might be an even greater humiliation. All of Marlowe’s aspirations of rising like a phoenix in Virginia society would be for naught.

He was starting to grow genuinely concerned when Bickerstaff nodded his head toward the far end of the field.

A coach and four was coming down the road, rattling along, ending the morning quiet. It was a big, yellow painted affair, a coat of arms on the door, and Marlowe recognized it as the Wilkensons’ vehicle. He and Bickerstaff watched in silence as it crossed the open space and pulled up ten feet from where they stood.

George Wilkenson, Matthew’s older brother and apparently his second, stepped out, followed by Jonathan Small, a doctor of physic, the most prominent in Williamsburg.

“A good thought, to bring a doctor,” Bickerstaff said.

“They won’t need him,” said Marlowe. “They would have done better to bring a priest.”

Wilkenson had chosen pistols, which was no surprise to Marlowe. His type, cowards at heart, always did. With swords it was cut and thrust, attack and retreat, a drawn-out affair with too much opportunity for mischief. With pistols it was one shot apiece, honor quickly satisfied and little chance to do harm, and in most cases any harm that was done was slight.

For all that, Matthew Wilkenson was not looking very well that morning. He was quite pale, even waxy, a slight tremor in his hands. He glanced nervously around as Bickerstaff and

George examined the pistols, each choosing one for their man and loading it.

Marlowe watched the young pup twisting his fingers together as his brother performed for him the duties of a second, and he found that strange animal, conscience, gnawing, gnawing.

What beast is this? he thought. He was very much in his rights for demanding this satisfaction, after the insult he had suffered, and more so in defending Elizabeth’s honor.

“Bickerstaff,” he said with a sigh, “pray go and tell young Wilkenson that if he will retract his statement in front of those who had occasion to hear it, and apologize to Mrs. Tinling and vow never to spread such lies again, I shall consider honor to be satisfied.”

Bickerstaff said nothing, just cocked an eyebrow at him, then walked across the damp grass toward the enemy’s camp. Marlowe could not hear what was said, but he could see in young Wilkenson’s actions that Bickerstaff’s words had emboldened him. Did the pup construe his charity for fear, his offer as an attempt to save his own skin? He saw Matthew stand more upright and shake his head. Bickerstaff nodded, turned, walked back.

“He says you shall not escape your mortal danger so easy,” Bickerstaff reported, “but if you wish to withdraw the challenge, then, Christian that he is, he will allow you to do so.”

“Such nobility. One rarely sees it these days. Does he think me afraid?”

“I believe he does. He took great courage from your attempt to cut and run.”

“Very well,” Marlowe said. “If he will be a fool to the last, at least he will not die a coward.”

The protocol for the affair, as Bickerstaff and George Wilkenson arranged, was for the duelists to stand ten paces apart, backs to each other, turn on the word, and fire. The seconds paced out the distance, and young Wilkenson and Marlowe took their places.

Marlowe stood quite still, his pistol held across his chest, and looked out over the field. How very much one’s thoughts are concentrated at a moment such as this, he thought, how very sharp everything seems. The smell of wet grass and the hint of brackish water in the air, the trees, now bathed in orange light, standing over their long shadows, all seemed so very much…present. That was not the first time he had had such thoughts. He understood why some men became addicted to dueling.

“Ready!” George Wilkenson called out. Marlowe could hear the strain in his voice. It occurred to him that Matthew Wilkenson might be an excellent shot, that he, Marlowe, might have real reason to be afraid. But he was not.

“Turn and fire!” He turned, gun still held across his chest, faced Wilkenson thirty feet away. Wilkenson turned as well, turned as quickly as he could, bringing his gun up as he did, desperate to fire first. Marlowe saw the puff of smoke in the pan, the muzzle flash as the gun went off.

Wilkenson was a good shot, a very good shot, as it happened. Marlowe felt the bullet pluck at his coat, heard the frightful buzz as the ball flew past. Had Matthew not been in such a panic, Marlowe would have died. But now Marlowe had all the time he needed to fire back.

He brought his gun up at last and leveled it at Wilkenson’s head. Wilkenson staggered back a step, then another, quite contrary to the protocol of the thing, experiencing the terror, the absolute terror of pending death. Marlowe had seen it before, in the eyes of more men than he cared to recall. He would not make Wilkenson suffer long.

He lined the end of the barrel up with Matthew Wilkenson’s jaw; the slight rise of the ball in flight would put it right through his forehead. His finger caressed the trigger, feeling the resistance of the spring.