CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning had been bitterly cold, a fog blanketing the river and the town: Lovette, as he’d gone aloft into the mist for his morning’s practice with the topmaul, had puffed frost into the air like a steam engine. The midshipman was in good spirits, enjoying his reprieve from the inevitable bullet; Favian had cautioned him about tiring himself with excessive practice.
The mist faded early in the morning, and as noon approached, the river began to fill up with small boats, each filled with a battered local waterman and a collection of the well-dressed gentry. The news had spread like wildfire, and it seemed that half the city’s population was on the levee. Favian and his officers were dressed formally, waiting for the boat that would bring Levesque and his party to the schooner. A boat had already set off from Carolina, carrying Patterson and his officers, ready to witness the Navy’s proud defense of its honor. Another boat was being filled alongside Malachi’s Revenge.
Fontenoy had been invited, but had declined; apparently he was not yet ready to appear in public after his humiliation two nights before, and then there had been sightings of M. Listeau walking the streets carrying his horsewhip. Yet winks of lights were flashing from Franklin’s quarterdeck: there were men with long glasses trained on Louisiana’s, main yardarm. The duel between Lovette and Levesque would be a public spectacle spoken of for years, both by the Kalmucks and the Creoles.
There was a challenge and response from Louisiana’s quartermaster, followed by the assembly of the welcome party at the entry port. Patterson came aboard to the whistling of pipes and the rattling of officers’ swords from their scabbards, Favian returning his salute as Patterson uncovered. “Damned bad business, Captain Markham,” Patterson said.
“I am confident the outcome will be favorable, Captain,” Favian said.
“That’s not what I mean,” Patterson said. “I’m not certain how the town will take it— if the Creoles think we’re mocking them by perverting their sacred traditions of honor, this may outrage them. The Navy is held in little enough repute as it is, sir.”
“I’m sure the Navy is capable of defending its honor,” Favian said. “But in the case of this little dandified bravo, the more mockery the better. Levesque deserves whatever humiliation we give him.”
Patterson scowled and said nothing. Perhaps he did not agree.
There was another sharp whistle at the entry port, and Gideon Markham appeared on the quarterdeck. Favian and Patterson returned his bow. Favian wondered if he should tell Gideon of Campaspe’s little plot; he decided to wait until later.
“Allow me to introduce my officers, gentlemen,” Gideon said. “Mr. Martin, my first officer. Mr. Willard, my second; Mr. Clowes, the third; Mr. Allen of the gentleman volunteers.”
“Happy to meet’ee. Captain Favian,” said Finch Martin cheerfully. “Sorry I didn’t get to see ye t’other day— it’s been five years or more, ain’t it? I was ashore on business— had to find some clapped-up whore who had spiced one of the men of his prize money an’ given him a dose at th’ same time. I got the money back, minus ten percent for my services.” He leered and scratched his gray hair, while Patterson stared in amazement.
Favian had known Finch Martin all his life; Martin was a Portsmouth character of long standing. Dwarfish, grizzled, his face weathered like an old post and fixed in a constant insinuant leer, Martin was at least seventy, a dissipated Revolutionary remnant who had once served as Malachi Markham’s sailing master. He was a superb sailor and a masterful vulgarian; he made no secret of the fact that the considerable fortune he’d made privateering in the Revolution had been spent in a decade-long spree of gambling, drink, and whoring, after which he’d had to return to the sea to earn his bread. Favian had no idea how Martin and the puritanical Gideon managed to exist on the same ship; there must have been some interesting compromises.
“Mr. Martin, it’s good to see you again,” he said. “I trust you are well?”
“Weil enough to visit Corinth from time to time and play buttock ball with Miss Laycock.” He grinned, after first looking over his shoulder to make certain Gideon was out of earshot. Patterson stared at the man in shock.
“I am glad to hear it,” Favian said. There was little else to say. It was clear that Gideon, at least once out of hearing, had little control over Martin’s language.
“Beg pardon, sir.” It was Phillip Stanhope, his hat raised at the salute. “Lieutenant Levesque and M. le Chevalier are putting out from shore.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stanhope. Please go aloft with Mr. Lovette. He may want to exercise a little in the fighting top to warm his limbs.”
“I will pass on that suggestion. Thank you, sir.”
The two midshipmen mounted to the rigging. Favian walked to the entry port to watch the other party approach. M. le Chevalier Jean was unmistakable, his slight figure overdressed in a green jacket with embroidered collar, scarlet sash, a pair of silk cravats, and the Legion of Honor pinned to his breast. Next to him was a gray-haired, black-garbed individual who could only be a surgeon; so the other must be Levesque. The duelist was dressed in a green uniform coat and helmet, presumably that of the Mississippi Dragoons. His trousers were fashionably tight. Favian’s eyes flicked to the welcome party, the appropriate number of sideboys and officers to receive a militia lieutenant.
“Dueling,” said the grim voice of Gideon Markham, standing beside him. “Such a waste. Such an outrage against God,” Favian, his eyes on the approaching boat, could picture his cousin’s scowl. “The Lord trieth the righteous,” Gideon said, “but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.”
“I think today might serve as a lesson to the bullies ashore,” Favian said, unable to think of a biblical tag in reply.
“I pray you are right,” said Gideon.
The pipes blew, and the first through the entry port was de la Tour d’Aurillac, his narrow-set eyes flicking over the deck. He returned Favian’s bow stiffly. Favian noticed he was carrying his distinctive sword cane.
The dragoon lieutenant then came through the entry port; Favian, during the terse introduction and bow, had an impression of fierce black eyes, high color, and restless intensity. Levesque was no taller than de la Tour d’Aurillac; he carried his body well, with an athlete’s assurance. No sword cane, though he carried his dragoon saber. “Perhaps your surgeon would care to remain in the boat,” Favian said. “We already have two boats, one with a surgeon, standing by in the water, in case anyone falls from aloft.” De la Tour d’Aurillac nodded, leaned over the rail, and spoke in French to his surgeon.
“Shall we go to the maintop, gentlemen?” Favian asked. He preceded them up the main shrouds, then swung out inverted on the futtock shrouds, hanging upside down until he hauled himself to the top. “You will not need to follow my example, gentlemen,” he said. “You can work your way through the futtock shrouds and come up through the lubber’s hole, if you like.” The lubber’s hole was an easier way, but, as its name implied, was disdained by those with pretensions of being true seamen.
De la Tour d’Aurillac followed Favian’s advice, squeezing through the futtock shrouds at the cost of one of his coat buttons, but Levesque came up the futtock shrouds, moving slowly but with determination, his dragoon saber dangling down into space..
No fear of heights, Favian thought, good balance. He may be dangerous yet.
On the big platform Favian performed the introductions; Lovette and Levesque bowed stiffly. “We have here a selection of topmauls,” Favian said. “Lieutenant Levesque may choose his weapon.” The topmauls were in pairs, six-pound sledges ranked alongside nine-pounders, twelve-pounders, and the heavy, short-handled twenty-four-pound mauls. Levesque, as expected, chose one of the lightest six-pound topmauls— a six-pound head was enough to do whatever damage had to be done and minimized the possibility of momentum sending one flying clean off the foot-rope at the first swing. Lovette, expressionless, chose the other six-pounder.
This part, Favian knew, had to be scrupulously fair, or at any rate to have the appearance of utter fairness. Duels were marked by their formality, their rigidity, the only things that distinguished them from brawls. Any deviation from the rigid requirements of the code duello would be remarked by the other party, and could result in more challenges, an endless round of bad feeling and spilled blood.
“You will observe that the larboard main yard has been marked in two places by colored line,” Favian went on. “One line is near the yardarm, the other halfway out. Both are over the water; anyone falling will strike the water and not the Louisiana. One of the combatants will stand at the yardarm, behind the place marked by the line. The other will advance from the maintop to stand behind the other line. At a signal, both may advance toward the other. The combat will continue until honor is satisfied. In the event of one combatant wounding the other, the combat will cease until the extent of the injury has been determined. Do you understand?”
Levesque and M. le Chevalier nodded.
“M. le Chevalier and I shall spin a coin to determine who has choice of position. Is that agreed?” Two more nods.
Favian fished in his pocket for a five-dollar piece, flipped it spinning into the air, and let it fall to the fighting top as de la Tour d’Aurillac said, “Heads, sir.” Favian peered down at the coin. Tails. He looked at Lovette.
“I will wait at the yardarm, sir,” he said. Favian nodded.
Lovette stripped off his uniform coat, his boots, stockings, and hat; carrying his topmaul, he walked effortlessly and barefoot out on the footrope, one hand lightly touching the heavy yard for balance. Past the marker he turned and faced the maintop, his hip resting against the main yard, the topmaul held in both hands. His pose seemed casual, but Favian could see his high color, the dancing light in his eyes. He was ready and confident of victory; Favian had seen the look before.
“Lieutenant Levesque, you may take your position.” Levesque unclipped his saber, dropped it to the maintop, and then took off his coat and hat. Stooping, he pulled off his half boots, and then reached into his sabretache for a pair of soft leather moccasins. He laced these tightly on his feet and stood up, flexing his knees, testing the moccasins. They would grip the footrope quite well, Favian knew; the man was prepared. Favian looked at Lovette and saw doubt cross the boy’s features. Perhaps this would not be easy.
Levesque, his face absolutely vacant of expression, stepped out onto the footrope, moving carefully, one hand resting along the main yard. He moved back and forth, testing his balance. The footrope trembled under his feet. He looked over his shoulder at his second and nodded.
“M. le Chevalier, you may give the orders to commence if you wish,” Favian said with a nod toward the Frenchman. “May I suggest ready, advance! And hold if a wound is struck?”
De la Tour d’Aurillac bowed. “Honored, sir,” he said. He looked toward the two figures balanced precariously on the footrope. “Gentlemen, I shall call Ready, advance!” he said, raising his voice. “This shall be the signal for you to commence the combat. If I or Captain Markham cry hold, the combat shall cease instantly. Do you understand?”
A pair of terse nods. De la Tour d’Aurillac looked at Favian and bowed again.
“Ready!” he shouted. He raised his cane high; Favian saw its silhouette cast on the planking of the maintop, strangely reminiscent of something he had seen before. The cane dropped, cutting air. “Advance!”
Lovette, his topmaul held two-handed, advanced a confident two paces, then halted. Levesque hesitated, then stepped forward, inching his way along the footrope. He was right-handed, and his left side was turned toward Lovette; his topmaul was held two-handed over his right shoulder; his abdomen pressed against the main yard for balance. Lovette raised his topmaul to a guard position. Levesque, the footrope trembling under him, came to a stop six feet away.
For a moment motion ended; the two combatants were suspended a hundred feet or more above the muddy river, balanced between the sky and silver-threaded water, the object of a hundred flashing spyglasses on shore and on the nearby vessels. Favian felt his heart beat thrice, marking the motionless instant, and then the balance ended and Levesque was moving, springing forward, his hammer coming down. “Cochon!” he roared; Favian could imagine the bared teeth, the sudden ferocity calculated to stun Lovette into a second of helplessness. Lovette stepped back, his motion effortless, and the topmaul swished through empty air. Levesque was off-balance, facing the gulf, his left arm windmilling as the maul tried to drag him into space; and then Lovette stepped forward, a satisfied smile on his face; he touched Levesque’s ribs with the handle of the topmaul and exerted steady pressure..
Levesque went over, arms flailing, legs kicking, the maul arching away from him as man and weapon plummeted into the Father of Waters. From the height of the maintop the splash seemed very small,
The boats arrowed in on the splash, but before they arrived a tiny head broke surface; arms thrashed out. The dragoon was brought back to Louisiana. Lovette, a relieved, exhilarated smile blazing from his flushed face, received Favian’s congratulatory handshake and began to put on his uniform coat. Favian looked down through the lubber’s hole and saw Lieutenant Levesque, his teeth clenched with pain, coming up the shrouds again.
“It is not over!” the lieutenant shouted. “It is not over! I demand we continue!”
“It is over, sir,” Favian insisted firmly. Levesque stood defiantly, dripping on the maintop. He was white-faced, in pain. His left arm clutched at his side; perhaps there were ribs broken.
“Blows were not exchanged,” Levesque gritted. “I missed. He did not strike me. It is not over. Honor was not satisfied.”
“Sir, it is over,” Favian said. “Mr. Lovette gallantly chose to spare your life. I cannot think that you would be so ungracious as to insist we continue. You are hurt. I urge that you see a surgeon.”
“Blows were not exchanged!” Levesque raved. “I insist on continuing the combat!”
Favian looked at de la Tour d’Aurillac. The Frenchman was watching the antics of his principal with an expression of distaste; he turned and said, “Sir, I’m afraid my principal insists. Technically he is correct.”
Rage tore at Favian’s composure as he pictured himself hurling Levesque bodily off the platform, but he throttled the impulse. “I wish to speak privately to my principal,” he said.
The others crowded to the other side of the fighting top, giving a minimal amount of privacy, while Favian leaned close to Lovette and spoke in a low voice. “Mr. Lovette, I’m afraid we shall have to go another round.”
Lovette took a breath. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Kill him,” Favian said. Lovette’s eyes flickered to Favian’s. It was a deliberate decision on Favian’s part; this farce had gone on long enough. Lovette, he knew, had been in the boarding party that had taken Carnation, but had he crossed swords with an enemy in that fight? The British corvette had only resisted for a few seconds before their crew ran for the hatches. Favian hoped the midshipman. was blooded; it would be easier if he’d had experience..
“Kill him if you wish to live,” Favian repeated deliberately. “Or cripple him. Otherwise he’ll keep on fighting until he kills you. Can you do that?”
Lovette glanced at Levesque, seeing the dragoon boiling with rage and dripping Mississippi water, and then looked back at Favian. “I’ll try, sir,” he said.
“Let’s get it over with,” Favian said. “Take your position.”
Lovette took off his uniform coat and folded it neatly, then picked up the six-pound topmaul and stepped out onto the footrope. Favian turned to the other party.
“Lieutenant Levesque, you may continue the fight if you insist,” he said. “But I would like you to know my opinion. It cannot be continued in honor.”
Levesque’s lips curled with contempt. “I do not need lessons in honor from you,” he said.
“Perhaps, sir, you do,” Favian said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He remembered his blade going between Count Gram’s ribs in Norway, the surprise in the rufous bully’s eyes.
The sneer left Levesque’s face. “I will remember that,” he said. He picked up a nine-pound topmaul, wincing with the pain. He held the weapon close to his chest, protectively, and inched out onto the footrope.
He did not stop at the marks, did not wait for M. le Chevalier to give the proper commands. The Frenchman, startled, took an involuntary step forward, as if to intervene. “Hold!” he shouted. “Hold! Attention!” Levesque ignored him.
The man simply wants to kill, Favian thought. This is no longer a duel, no longer protected by the code. I’ll have him hanged for murder if he wins..
“Lovette!” he roared. “Defend yourself!”
Lovette was slow to realize Levesque’s intent; he hesitated before stepping out past the mark, his topmaul raised. “Salaud!” shrieked the Knight Jean. He cleared his sword cane from the scabbard and stepped out onto the footrope, balancing precariously, his teeth bared, ready to run Levesque through if he didn’t obey: too late.
Both men swung; there was a crack as the sledge-hafts came together. There was a second devoted to balance, the footrope shaking wildly, then the topmauls blurred through the air. A pair of squelching thuds: the two combatants hung for a second suspended in air, and then the knight Jean was standing alone on the footrope, looking wide-eyed down at the tumbling figures falling through space, at the inevitable pair of silver splashes. Favian had already launched himself through the air, limbs spread to catch a backstay; he scraped half the skin from his palms in his hurry to reach the deck.
By that time a head had broken water, pale-faced, blood dripping from the ears and nose: Lovette. Of the other there was no sign..
The Mississippi had taken Levesque and with him his mad and brutal code of honor.