Duelling in a New World Read online

  He flips onto his head the dark top hat with rolled brim. “Not that one, my friend,” the Baron says. “Your ears will freeze.” White ignores him. If he is to die, he wants to go out in style.

  They move out into the quiet of dawn and turn their steps towards the Parliament Buildings. Piles of snow lie everywhere, and they sometimes have to leap over drifts in order to move forward. There is no wind, and the smoke from a dozen chimneys rises straight into the sky. It is utterly quiet, thank God, except for the occasional barking dog and the plop of falling snow from an overladen pine branch. Even the roosters have not yet awakened to herald the day.

  “Thank the Lord for the silence,” the Baron says. “I hope we shall be able to enact this affair without interference from some bloody do-gooder.”

  They arrive at the grove of woods behind the Parliament Buildings. Beyond that grove lies the bay, that bay he has grown to love so much. Small is waiting in front of the grove, a tall figure barely visible in the dim light. Beside him is Macdonnell, magistrate of the town, dressed in a drab greatcoat.

  “Good day to you both,” White says, relishing the irony of those words. Macdonnell makes a gagging noise in his throat, and White feels his ire rising. “Glad to see you here, sir. No doubt as magistrate you have dealt only with minor offences: drunkenness, selling spirits without a licence, and the like. You will no doubt be happy now to oversee and encourage a murder.”

  Baron de Hoen tugs on his sleeve. “Leave it. What is the point of this sarcasm?”

  Small, he sees now, has his pistol already in hand. The Baron notices the weapon at the same time. “Hold on, hold on,” he says to Macdonnell. “Does Mr. Small have an equivalent pistol for Mr. White?”

  Macdonnell looks confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Both opponents must have equivalent pistols so that one man does not have an advantage over the other. Produce that second pistol now, sir.”

  “But we have only one,” Macdonnell says. “It’s Mr. Small’s. He has been practising with—” He breaks off, evidently realizing he has said too much.

  “Quite so,” the Baron says, “and exactly what I would expect from a man who has not the slightest notion of gentlemanly conduct.” He walks up to Small, takes another look at his pistol, and then another, more intense look. “Good Lord,” he says, his voice rising. “This pistol has a rifled barrel. Another disgusting breach of etiquette. Have you not read the Code Duello of 1777 which sets forth twenty-six provisions for proper duelling? Give over your weapon to me this instant, sir, or throw it into that snowbank.” He turns to White. “Can you believe such duplicity?”

  White has no idea what breach Small has committed with this rifled barrel, nor does he have any idea what code the Baron is blathering on about, but he does not want to reveal his utter ignorance in front of his adversary, so he merely shakes his head.

  The Baron opens his mahogany case. It is lined with velvet and contains, as White expected, a pair of duelling pistols. He thrusts the case towards Small and Macdonnell. “Choose one of these. They are true flintlock duelling pistols. None of those dastardly grooves in the barrel that you have tried to get away with.”

  They are long, slender pistols, engraved in silver with floral designs that recall the wayside flowers of England White once loved. It is hard to believe that such beautifully crafted objects could be weapons for killing. He watches as his opponent, obviously impressed, puts out his hand to draw out one of the pistols.

  “Beautiful, beautiful, are they not?” The Baron actually licks his lips, savouring the moment. “On them were lavished the best of the talents of woodcarver, metal worker, engraver, and silversmith. I have treasured these pistols for more than twenty-five years.”

  True, perhaps, but White cannot bring himself to touch them. The Baron waits for a second or two, then draws out the second pistol. “Now,” he says to Macdonnell, “the assailants must wait while we load the weapons. They must watch to ensure that we follow prescribed procedures.”

  As soon as the Baron draws forth the black gunpowder from its copper container and measures it, White feels his head begin to pound. He looks away, out at the bay which he can just see through a gap in the woods. Far off is the figure of a man on snowshoes. It may be his Indian friend. Goodbye, Abel. Perhaps as you reset your traps today, you will come upon blood on the snow just as I once did all those months ago in Niagara. Goodbye, Yvette, I pray that by now you have a living babe and a loving husband to nurture with your dandelion wine and whitefish stew . . .

  The Baron thrusts the pistol into his hand, giving him a jab in the ribs at the same time. “Wake up, sir. Time to get on with it. The town will be alive in a few minutes.” He raises his voice in command. “We will now mark out ten paces from this point. You, Mr. White, walk in that direction; and you, Mr. Small, in that one. When you have done that, turn so that you are facing each other, and I will set forth the rules for what follows.”

  White and Small do as they are told, obedient children before a stern master.

  “Now, face each other square on. No side presentation. On command, you shall then raise your pistols. I will ask the question, ‘Are you ready?’ and wait for your answer. Then I will say, ‘Fire!’ You must fire within three seconds of the command at most. There must be no taking of time to aim carefully. These are the rules of the Code Duello. Do you understand what I have said?”

  Both White and Small nod their heads, but before the command to raise their pistols comes, there is a loud cry from Macdonnell who runs towards the Baron and tugs at his arm. “Wait a moment, you blackguard! Your man has surely infringed these bloody rules you’re going on about. Look at that greatcoat he is wearing. Five bloody capes! How is my friend to take aim if he cannot see the man’s body? The coat must come off. Now!”

  Clearly, Macdonnell is getting back at the Baron for usurping his authority. White waits, wondering what his second will do.

  “Very well, sir,” the Baron says. He turns to White. “Remove your greatcoat.”

  White throws his coat into the snow.

  “Raise your pistols!”

  White stands in his frock coat shivering uncontrollably. His arms are freezing, and the pistol shakes in his hand. He tries steadying it with both hands. But his gloves are too tight and he cannot seem to grip the thing. Nevertheless I must not turn back now.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes!”

  “Fire!”

  His hand fumbles. There’s a puff of smoke and a blast from somewhere. A huge giant punches him in the abdomen. He crumples into the snow. But snow is white, this is red . . . why . . . Someone is yelling . . . “Get him to Russell”. . .

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  January 4, 1800

  Eliza Russell has sat by Mr. White’s side since three men carried him to the house yestermorn on a stretcher made from his greatcoat. During the long hours, she has moved in and out of sleep. Now as she sees a new day’s light through the window pane, she knows she has weathered the night. Has he?

  She looks at him. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is open and blood trickles down his chin. “Internal bleeding,” Dr. Baldwin told her and Peter. “He will not last the night.” She holds a glass in front of his face and sees the mist upon it. Still alive.

  Job tiptoes in with a good hot cup of tea and a buttered scone. But what she needs most at this moment is the chamber pot. She motions to Job to take her place. Past her brother’s room she goes, listens to his snores, glad she sent him to bed, and that he has had some rest. In her own room, she relieves herself and washes her face, readying herself for the coming hours of the death watch.

  Little William and Charles must not see their Papa in this state, that she knows for certain. She dips a quill in the inkwell on the table by her bookcase and writes a note to Mrs. Page telling her to be a-keeping an eye on their to-ings and fro-ings this day. Last night Mrs. Page brought over a sealed note from Mr. White which she had fo
und in the withdrawing room. Later Peter read it to her as they sat together beside their friend’s bed.

  As she goes back to the death watch, she sees that the trail of blood on the hallway floor is still there. If any good can come from this wretched duel, it will be to have Mrs. Page in this house in the place of the slattern Peggy. And the children, yes, the children. She smiles to think of childish laughter in their midst once again.

  She gives her note to Job. He looks at Mrs. Page’s name on the outside, nods, and indicates that he will deliver it as he is bid.

  Mr. White is in a sort of coma from what she can tell. His breath comes in moans. She sits in the chair by his bed a-wondering what can be done to ease his passing. She must not look at his naked body. No.

  The minutes tick by . . . The Lord forgive her, she must know the worst. She pulls aside the cotton sheet and the blankets they have covered him with and sees the bandage Dr. Baldwin wrapped around his abdomen. Lordy, Lordy. His whole lower body is seized up with a-shivering and a-shaking that will not stop. The bandage itself is soaked in brown-red blood, a dark contrast to the bright red blood that comes a-leaking from his mouth. She cannot look at it, cannot bear to think of what that body must be enduring. She pulls the sheet and blankets back over to cover the worst. Dear Lord, let this end.

  * * *

  The sun has long ago moved out of the window. It is late afternoon. Peter comes in, touches her shoulder, looks at their dying friend, and sighs. “May it all be over with soon,” he says.

  At the sound of her brother’s voice, Mr. White opens his eyes. They are glassy and unfocused, but he seems to be trying to communicate in some way. She and her brother lean in towards him. “Dear, dear friend,” she says.

  Peter looks at her. “Perhaps there are miracles after all,” he says.

  Mr. White struggles to speak, but the sound that comes from his throat, along with a bloody spume, they cannot understand. He is looking at them, that is for certain, and he reaches out a trembling hand towards them. She and Peter grasp it. It goes slack in their grip.

  Moments pass. They look at the still, silent figure before them. “You must rest now, sister,” Peter says at last. “Go and sleep. I shall see to the arrangements.”

  But she cannot rest. After her brother leaves, she sits beside her friend, unwilling to leave his body unattended. She thinks of the day she came upon him and his cook Yvette during the little funeral in the spring garden. How she stood with them as they sang “Joy to the World” with the words about the wonders of God’s love. And she remembers how her friend sat with her and comforted her during those long night hours when her heart near broke over her daughter’s death.

  “I think of the wonders of your love, my friend,” she says aloud. Then she leans forward and kisses the pale face streaked with blood.

  “May you find peace, dear Mr. White.” She remembers the words he spoke to comfort her after Mary’s death. “Fly to another world now, a world free of pain.”

  The End

  Ann Birch is a long-time historical researcher and an award-winning Head of English in several Toronto high schools. She has a Master of Arts degree in CanLit and is currently a fiction writer, editor, lecturer, and workshop facilitator. This is her third novel.