Gone to Texas (6 page)

Ahead in the darkness loomed the bulk of the riding hall. O'Connor caught his arm and spun him around.

"Maybe Gil's right," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Maybe this
is
foolish."

"It's worse than that," opined Bryant mournfully.

"What?" rasped Christopher. "You've had a change of heart, O'Connor? You? Well, if you have, then go on. I release you from your obligation to serve as my second."

"It isn't me that I'm concerned about," said O'Connor, offended. "It's you. Vickers is an expert with the sword. You should have chosen pistols. As the challenged, it was your choice. You are an excellent shot. As good as your grandfather, I wager."

"No. I must use the cutlass."

"Why? You didn't even want the flaming thing yesterday."

"It is fitting that I use the cutlass."

"Fitting? What does that mean? You'll hack each other into bloody pieces."

"I have no intention of killing him."

O'Connor was flabbergasted. "No intention of . . . then you'll die for certain."

"Give me the cutlass and go back to the barracks."

O'Connor refused to relinquish the cutlass, wrapped in the tasseled carriage blanket, which he carried under one arm.

"No," he said grimly. "I'll see this through."

"Then come on. I mustn't be late for my own funeral, remember?"

Christopher turned for the riding hall. O'Connor and Bryan exchanged glances.

"I've never seen him like this," said Bryant, clearly worried. "What's gotten into him?"

O'Connor shrugged.

The riding hall was a cavernous stone structure with carriage doors at the north and south ends. Rows of large slanted casements ten feet from the ground along the eastern and western walls were designed to flood the interior with natural light. Sand had been dredged up in vast quantities from the river to provide a surface for the hall.

When Christopher stepped inside the hall he was assailed by the pungent aroma of horses. But the place was empty, except for Vickers and Morgan, standing in the center of the hall, a lantern at their feet emitting mustard yellow light, their cloaked figures throwing elongated shadows. As Christopher and his companions approached, Morgan took Vickers' cloak. Vickers stood there, watching Christopher, and the blade of his saber whispered and gleamed in the lantern light as he flicked his wrist, nervous or impatient or both.

"Gentlemen," said Morgan, with arctic formality. "We are ready to proceed. What rules shall apply?"

"None," said O'Connor. "Unless you are willing to accept first blood."

Morgan glanced at Vickers, who gave a curt shake of the head.

"Considering the enormity of the insult to the Vickers name and family honor, that will not suffice," said Morgan.

"Insult?" Christopher laughed, a sharp and derisive sound which darkened Vickers' face. Proper etiquette of the
code duello
required the principals to remain silent and aloof from the arrangements as made by the seconds, but tonight Christopher was in no mood to give even a moment's consideration to rules. "What insult? You bloody damned fool. If anyone should bear the
blame for Emily Cooper's suicide it is you and your family, Vickers. You care so for her honor, yet you scorned her, because what she had done embarrassed you. You're a hypocrite."

"And you, sir, are a scoundrel and a liar!" cried Vickers, the words thick with rage.

Christopher shook his head and turned scornfully away, shedding his cloak and placing the garment in Bryant's keeping. O'Connor unwrapped the cutlass and tossed it to him. Christopher caught it deftly, tested its weight. The blade was heavier than the cavalry saber which he had become accustomed to.

"No rules then," said O'Connor. "We can proceed."

There was one rule, unspoken. Both O'Connor and Morgan were armed with pistols. As seconds, they would be obliged to use their weapons if one of the principals displayed cowardice. Christopher was aware that if he lost his nerve and tried to run Morgan would be within his rights to shoot him down like a dog.

But he had no intention of running. In fact, to his surprise, he found himself quite calm and clearheaded. Adrenaline surged through his veins. His throat was dry, and there was a dull, persistent ache between his shoulder blades. But his hands were steady.

"Gentlemen, if you are ready?" said Morgan.

Vickers nodded.

"I'm ready," said Christopher, his voice clear as a bell.

Morgan, O'Connor, and Bryant backed away to give the combatants plenty of room.

Vickers extended his saber, dropping into the swordsman's crouch, body turned sideways to his adversary, the stance wide apart and bent at the knees, his free hand resting lightly on his hip. Christopher batted the saber away with the flat of the cutlass blade.

"Begin," said Morgan.

Incensed by Christopher's insolence, Vickers sprang forward like a horse released from the starting gate,
slashing with the saber, a mighty downward stroke that could have split Christopher from the skull to sternum—except that Christopher deftly parried the blow and stepped aside to avoid Vickers' charge. With a snarl of rage Vickers passed him, off balance, then whirled and struck again, this time a horizontal stroke. The point of the saber grazed Christopher below the ribs, ripping his shirt and slicing his flesh and stinging like a thousand angry fire ants, but he knew the pain was worse than the wound, which was superficial.

The two men circled. Vickers lunged again, and Christopher stepped in to meet him. Steel rang against steel. Their blades locked at the guards, Vickers hooked a leg behind one of Christopher's and muscled his opponent off balance. Christopher fell and rolled to avoid the slashing saber, coming to his feet with an agile grace in time to parry another thrust. This left Vickers open to a blow to the face, and Christopher's fist landed solidly on the other's jawbone, driving him to one knee.

"No rules!" shouted O'Connor, a reminder for Morgan's benefit.

Vickers hurled a handful of sand into Christopher's face. Momentarily blinded, Christopher staggered backward as Vickers pounced like a jungle cat, seizing the advantage. Christopher blocked one stroke by sheer luck and then moved sideways, under another, gasping as Vickers' blade bit deeply into the flesh of his sword arm, above the elbow. An exultant cry escaped Vickers' lips. Christopher clutched at the wound as searing pain jolted his body. Blood gushed through his clawing fingers. Vickers pressed him, slashing with the saber again, like a man possessed. Sparks flew as blade clashed against blade. The two men pushed apart and circled.

Breathing hard, Christopher blinked sweat out of his eyes. Blood had soaked his shirt and was now beginning to drip into his hand, making his grip on the hilt of the Tripolitan cutlass a precarious one. Distant thunder
rolled across the sky. Morgan, O'Connor, and Bryant stood by, silent and rigid spectators. Christopher could hear little else above the harsh rasp of the breath in his throat. As he and Vickers circled warily, the single lamp threw their shadows in a grotesque dance of death against the somber gray stone walls of the riding hall.

For the first time in his life Christopher stared death in the face. Until a moment ago he had considered himself invulnerable, a common delusion among youth. But now he realized he wasn't immortal. Adam Vickers was going to cut him into bloody pieces. He felt his strength ebbing as his blood made black splotches in the sand.

Vickers knew he had the upper hand, and his gloating face stirred the embers of Christopher's anger, and the anger gave him new strength, so that when Vickers lunged forward again with another mighty downward stroke of the saber, Christopher was able to overpower him, putting everything he had left into parry and counterstroke. The cutlass blade bit deeply into Vickers' sword arm, below the elbow, breaking the bone. The saber slipped from Vickers' paralyzed fingers. Vickers cried out and dropped abruptly to his knees, a bright spray of scarlet blood gushing from his wound. Christopher raised the cutlass over his head, gripping it with both hands. One stroke and he could decapitate his opponent. But then Vickers looked up and Christopher saw the fear in his eyes, and Vickers held up a hand, a feeble gesture, a plea for mercy, and Christopher came to his senses. The urge to destroy this man who had tormented him for so long passed quickly.

Christopher lowered the cutlass.

Rushing to Vickers' side, Morgan said, "It is over."

Christopher turned away as Morgan ripped Vickers' sleeve at the shoulder seam and used it as a tourniquet on the wounded man's arm, trying to staunch the profuse flow of blood. Suddenly Christopher felt dizzy,
nauseated, and weak in the knees. O'Connor hurried to him, prepared to catch him should he fall, but by sheer force of will Christopher stayed on his feet, an arm laid across his friend's shoulder for support.

"You should have killed him when you had the chance," said O'Connor in a fierce whisper. "I know him. It isn't over. Not by a long shot."

Morgan approached them, spared Christopher a cold glance, and addressed O'Connor, still one second to another. "Mr. Vickers is in need of immediate medical attention."

"As is Mr. Groves."

"I predict Mr. Vickers will never again have the use of that arm."

"He's lucky to be alive," said O'Connor. "Would you rather he were dead? Whatever he has lost this night, he brought it on himself."

Glancing back at Vickers, Morgan said, "I'll bring the doctor here," and left the riding hall with long, quick strides.

Christopher started for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked O'Connor.

Christopher made no reply.

"For God's sake," said his friend, "you must remain still. You are losing a lot of blood."

Christopher kept walking. "I am going to call on the superintendent."

By the tone of his voice it was manifest to O'Connor that he would not be deterred. The Irishman nodded, with an air of resignation. "I'll go with you." He turned to Gil Bryant. "Look after Vickers."

Bryant nodded bleakly.

Outside, a night wind howled in the trees. Distant lightning illuminated the storm clouds. The smell of rain was strong and pungent. The cool, damp breeze on his face revived Christopher. He stumbled several times, but refused to fall. He dragged the cutlass, as though it were
too heavy for him to lift. O'Connor stayed close, ready to help him if he should falter. But Christopher made it to the superintendent's house. Climbing the steps to the porch of the small white clapboard house took the very last of his strength. He managed to raise his fist, and let it fall against the door, leaving smears of blood on the white paint. A light appeared in a window. A latch clattered as it was thrown back. The door swung open. Thayer stood there in a nightshirt, holding a lamp aloft. Standing behind Christopher, O'Connor thought that in any other circumstance Old Silly would look quite silly indeed. But there was nothing amusing about the expression on the old soldier's face.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"I have come to report that I . . . " Christopher almost blacked out. He swayed like a tall pine in a strong wind. His words were slurred together. He struggled to get them out. "I have come to report that I have fought a duel with Cadet Vickers."

Thayer blanched. He looked at O'Connor as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing, and hoped O'Connor would tell him it wasn't so. But he saw nothing in O'Connor's grim face to encourage him to cling to that hope, and Sylvanus Thayer was not one to linger long in a state of denial.

"Why?" he snapped. "You, of all people, Cadet Groves. I thought you had better sense."

"It was a . . . a question of honor, sir."

Thayer's lips were so tightly compressed that his mouth resembled a knife slit. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"Yes, sir."

Thayer glowered at O'Connor. "And you? Why didn't you put a stop to this?"

O'Connor stood stiffly at attention. "Because Christopher is my friend."

"Were you a true friend you would have prevented this from happening."

"He had no recourse."

"No recourse," growled Thayer. He looked Christopher over from head to toe, and then noted for the first time the growing puddle of blood at Christopher's feet. "Bring him inside, O'Connor, and fetch Dr. Rhodes."

"Dr. Rhodes is at the riding hall by now, sir. Looking after Cadet Vickers."

"Vickers isn't dead?"

"No, sir."

"Well, that's something, at least." Thayer turned his attention back to Christopher. "But not enough, I fear, to save you from court-martial."

"No, sir."

Thayer stepped aside to let them enter. Christopher took one step, but the floor seemed suddenly to evaporate beneath his feet, and he pitched forward into a blackness many shades darker than the storm-swept night.

Chapter 6

"Where will you go?" asked O'Connor.

Christopher smiled at his despondent friend. "Home to Kentucky."

"But . . . but what will you do there?"

Christopher shook his head. The smile on his face was strained. He did not care to think too long and hard about the future, as it did not seem to him that he had one.

"I don't know yet," he confessed.

The last of his belongings was packed in the trunk. He closed the lid and secured the latch. O'Connor and Bryant were standing by to transport the trunk to the surrey waiting outside. Christopher was inconvenienced by his arm, which was not only tightly dressed but also immobilized in a sling. Even now, a fortnight after the duel, the slightest movement was painful.

He looked around the room, seeing it for the last time, and memories came flooding back. He remembered the last two years vividly and, now that it was over, his dreams shattered, he thought they would turn out to be the best two years of his life. The last two weeks, however, were vague, and blessedly so, because they were full of anguish, both physical and emotional. The end result was that he was out—dismissed from the United States Military Academy—and on the threshold of a long journey home, by rented surrey across the Alleghenies to a distant landing on the Ohio River, and down
the river on a boat to another landing on Kentucky soil. He dreaded meeting his mother face-to-face. Not that she would be too disappointed. Rebecca Groves had never been enthusiastic about her son embarking on a military career. But Christopher wasn't looking forward to admitting failure—or his participation in an affair of honor. His mother was strongly opposed to dueling, and little wonder.