James Nelson: The Guardship

And then he changed his mind.

Now what in the hell is happening to me? he thought as he lowered the gun a quarter of an inch and aimed it at Wilkenson’s shoulder. If he did not kill the little bastard, there was

every chance that the rumors would start again. But still he could

not do it. He could not kill him.

I am a fool and I shall regret this, he thought.

It took Marlowe just three seconds to come to that uncharacteristically charitable decision, but that was longer than Wilkenson’s courage could hold out.

“No! God, no!” Matthew Wilkenson screamed, twisting, ducking, just as Marlowe pulled the trigger. The ball, carefully aimed at Wilkenson’s shoulder, struck him right in the head.

Through the cloud of gray smoke Marlowe saw Wilkenson lift off the ground, literally lift off his feet, and fly back, arms thrust out, the fine mist of blood blown from the back of his head caught in the rays of the early sun. He came to rest flat on his back.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” George Wilkenson ran over to where his brother lay. Marlowe walked over there as well, at a more leisurely pace, and Bickerstaff joined him.

“He almost bested you,” Bickerstaff observed, looking at the rent in Marlowe’s sleeve just below the shoulder. Ten inches from his heart.

“Almost.”

Matthew Wilkenson was sprawled out on the grass, arms and legs flung out, dead eyes open, staring at the sky. He had left a path where his body had slid through the dew. In his forehead was a hole the size of a doubloon. His head rested in a growing puddle of blood. Dr. Smith leaned over and closed Matthew’s eyes. George Wilkenson was on hands and knees, vomiting.

Marlowe shook his head as he looked at the dead man. He was sorry that young Wilkenson had died, he had not intended to kill him. He did not feel remorse; he had seen too many men killed, had killed too many himself, to feel that. He was just sorry.

After a long moment, during which the only sound to be heard was George Wilkenson’s retching, Marlowe said, “I believe that honor has been satisfied.”

“You bastard, you son of a whore.” George Wilkenson looked up at him, a long thread of vomit hanging from his lips.

“You killed him.”

“Yes. It is customary in a duel.”

“You didn’t have to kill him, you son of a bitch. You could have…you didn’t have to kill him.”

“If he had stood like a man, rather than flinching like a coward, then he would still be alive.”

“You bastard. Whoreson.”

“Now, see here,” Marlowe was starting to lose his patience, “perhaps you are accustomed to playacting when it comes to affairs of honor, but I am not. I will suffer only so much abusive language from you. If you think you have been wronged, then I suggest you play the man and do something about it. We have the pistols here. If you care to demand satisfaction, then let us have it out here and now.”

Wilkenson said nothing, only glared at Marlowe, his eyes wet.

“There’s been quite enough of this for one day,” said Dr. Smith.

“I am in agreement, Doctor,” said Bickerstaff.

“Very well.” Marlowe dropped the pistol to the ground. “But hear me, Wilkenson. Your brother wronged me and he insulted a lady in an unpardonable manner, and still I gave him the chance to apologize and save his life. Now, you can tell your family, and anyone so inclined, that any man spreading malicious gossip about me or insulting a lady with whom I have a friendship had best be prepared to meet me on this field. I will suffer no such insults. Good day, sir.”

He turned and walked toward the end of the field to which his horse had retreated. He could hear Bickerstaff’s boots on the grass just behind him.

“You lowered your aim, Marlowe. I saw that. Perhaps we shall make a gentleman of you yet.”

“And if the Wilkensons are typical of the breed, I’m not so sure I fancy being one. Stupid bastard. I gave him ample opportunity to save his life.”

“I think perhaps the gentle people of this colony are not accustomed to duels ending in death.”

“Well, if they are going to play at being men, then they had best get accustomed to playing rough.”

Perhaps it was best this way, he thought. Half-measures would never do in a case where his very honor was at stake. His honor and that of Elizabeth Tinling.

Had Wilkenson made a public apology, that would have been one thing; Marlowe and Elizabeth would have been vindicated and Wilkenson humiliated, and he would have never mentioned it again.

But if he had lived through a duel, with honor satisfied, then the insults might have come around again, and with more vehemence. Wilkenson would have grown restless under the shame of Marlowe’s having allowed him to live. No, insults and innuendo such as the ones Matthew Wilkenson was promoting could not go unanswered. They would spread like the plague if they did, and then Marlowe and Elizabeth would be shunned by the better sort in the colony.

Well, honor is satisfied now, he thought. Matthew Wilkinson was forever silenced, and George Wilkinson was too much of a coward to risk his brother’s fate. The rumors had been stopped dead. Stopped, Marlowe hoped, before anyone would guess at the truth of the matter.

JEAN-PIERRE LEROIS staggered out of his tent, squinting and blinking in the late-morning Caribbean sun. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His head pounded with the onslaught of light. He pulled his battered hat lower over his eyes, took another pull from the whiskey bottle in his hand, and surveyed his domain.

Off to the east, scattered among the green forest, was the small town of Nassau, in reality no more than a few houses, shops, and taverns. The majority of the island’s population, some two hundred or so men and perhaps fifty women, were scattered along the half-mile stretch of beach on which LeRois’s tent was pitched. But they were not, strictly speaking, citizens of New Providence or any other place. They were men on the account. The Brethren of the Coast who had just recently discovered the sparsely inhabited island as a nearly ideal base for their tribe. They were pirates.

The lot of them, the crews of the three decrepit ships at anchor just off the beach, were making their home on the white sand. Sleeping wherever they had passed out, or gambling, or cooking, or eating, or fornicating. And they were all drinking, all those who were still conscious-drinking bitter wine or “kill devil” rum or rumfustian, made of beer, gin, sherry, raw eggs, and whatever else happened to be available.

LeRois scowled. He looked around. His skin was burned so dark, he looked more like an Arab than a Frenchman. Those parts of his face not covered with beard were splattered with dark spots where burned gunpowder had embedded itself in his skin.

He scratched distractedly at his jaw. There was something dried and crusty in his beard, he did not know what. He could smell the stink of his own clothes, his black and faded broadcloth coat, his wool waistcoat and cotton shirt, all of which had, at one time, been fine apparel. It was his custom twice a year to shed his clothes-coat and waistcoat, his shirt and breeches and stockings, the wide red sash he wore around his waist-and burn them all, replacing them with whatever new clothes he could buy or take.

The new clothing was a mark of his good fortune and his God-given right to command. But their last cruise had not been a success. He had found no clothes worth taking, no money with which to buy new. Another blow to his already waning authority.

He took a long drink from the bottle. The liquor burned as it went down, but it was a reassuring sensation. The edges of his sobriety dulled. The beach, the tents, the blue sky, and the clear aqua sea seemed too sharp, too vivid, too real. He drank again.