-= 111 =-
16 October, 1782
Charleston, South Carolina
The duel couldn't be arranged that afternoon, so that evening Thomas Heyward found himself being rowed towards HMS
Diana, a twelve-gun brig sent to Charleston to escort three British West Indies Company ships who wished to reopen trade with America.
"Now, sir," the midshipman, a tiny thing of perhaps ten years, whispered as
Diana's hull lurched closer and closer, "you'll be grabbing the manropes there and there, and on the roll heave yourself over. Or shall I call for a boatswain's chair?"
Heyward had no idea what this chair was, but from the boy's tone it sounded demeaning. "I'm sure I'll be fine," he assured the youth.
Up and over. I can do this.
And so he did, Lieutenant Harris noted as Heyward boarded to the boatswain's whistle and the click-stamp of a score marines, offering all the proper honors even to a man they would happily have tried to kill a few months before. Sure, this general boarded more like a flapping, drowning fish than a man, nearly losing his grip on Diana's polished oak rail, but he'd seen landlubbers do far worse. He reached up and almost casually snatched Heyward's hat out of the air where it tried to part company. Tom remembered himself after a gasping moment and saluted the quarterdeck, and the lieutenant's heart warmed to this strange American. He didn't really care one way or the other what happened on land, but he appreciated respect for his ship.
"General Heyward?" Harris stepped forward, and as if some unseen signal had passed between the British sailors their respectful gathering dissolved. "You are very welcome here. My captain begs pardon for not attending to you personally, but he took ill just before we docked and our surgeon's confined him to slops. On behalf of the gun room..of the officers, sir, we hope you will accept our hospitality?"
"Actually, I..." Tom paused, studying the lieutenant. He really just wanted to get this over with, but refusing would be taken as an insult and only make this worse. "I...am thirsty even now. Parched."
"Very good! I have a claret I am sure you will enjoy. I bought it before leaving England last winter, and I think you will find..."
----
After the quite enjoyable claret and a long, sprawling dinner dominated by some kind of turtle, Harris, the warrant officers and their servants more or less migrated to other parts of the ship leaving Tom facing Lieutenant Wilkes, the marine commander. Their polite discussion about tactics and the battles they'd seen slowly died away and Heyward decided the time was right.
"I now aveer to the reason I came here, sir..."
"Yes, sir," Wilkes interrupted quickly, determined to save face. "I apologize for not presenting myself to you, but my duties on ship prevented me."
"It's quite alright."
would have just been thinking about Anne and Jessie anyway. "However, my .. principal seems determined to see this through, so I thought it was important for us to go over the details."
"I quite agree." Wilkes paused. "Since I do not expect you to know marine custom in these matters, shall we fall back on the Code Duello?"
"I've not heard of it," Tom frowned.
"Please wait here." The lieutenant rose, and vanished through a side door. A moment later he came back with a pamphlet. "This is what I had in mind."
The Code Duello had been written in Ireland in 1777 to cover 'dueling and points of honor.' It was widely seen as codifying what was already standard practice in England and America and enjoyed wide support as a means to limit further misunderstandings due to differences in what one or the other might consider acceptable behavior. Heyward scanned the document briefly. Nothing appeared unreasonable, except... "May we assume it's not necessary for the seconds to join in the fight?"
Wilkes smiled briefly. "I wasn't planning on it. The insults in question appear to be highly personalized. I see no reason our principals can't handle this themselves."
Tom continued reading. He'd been prepared to try and negotiate some sort of settlement, which was indeed something seconds were supposed to do, but Daniels' charge of fornication coupled with John's counterclaim of giving his wife 'the lie' were simply too serious to ignore. "I see no way to avoid this," he finally said aloud.
"Does your principal wish to avoid this?" Wilkes leaned back. "I believe mine would argue he should have considered this before taking Mrs. Daniels to his bed."
"No, he's looking forward to it." Tom glanced at the lieutenant. "Tell me, how did your man find her?"
"I'm honestly not certain. Sergeant Daniels boarded us in Boston with orders from his commander in Quebec. He seemed eager to get to Charleston, so he must have had intelligence about her. I know he kept in contact with the clerical offices in York even after you Americans took over, so perhaps they found her."
"Oh." Heyward flushed, remembering a letter he'd sent to them when Cassie couldn't produce any records for her marriage. "At any rate, I believe we touch on why
I would have preferred to avoid this fight. Your man seems sincere. I know John Preston is. We should be asking Mrs... Cassandra what happened."
"Perhaps, General Heyward. I fear it is far too late for that. My principal is a stubborn man."
Tom smiled grimly. "As is mine."
---------
"I haven't thanked you," John told him the next morning. They stood in Preston's parlor, John gulping down a glass of orange juice. He would have preferred something to drink to steady his nerves - the fierce delight of the hunt and vengeance for Daniels' lie made his heart hammer. Last night's anger had faded with the cool, windy dawn and he was calm. Or at least as calm as one could expect.
"For what?" Tom asked. He drank more cautiously from his glass, mentally poring over the details of last night's conversation with Wilkes.
"For standing with me," John replied. "I saw how some of
them were looking at us last night, like Cassie was a tramp and I some easily deceived half wit. Christ, the ... the gall of that maggot claiming to be her husband in front of half the town! Mark me, I must have done something to him in the past...killed his brother maybe, and that's why he's spreading his filth. That ends today!"
"Can I ask you one question, though?"
Preston stiffened as if struck. "Go on?"
"What if he's right?"
"He's not right," John replied softly, almost as if in prayer. "And I'll kill any man who says so."
Tom frowned but nodded. "Right then," he said firmly to break the awkward pause. "We've selected the ground and time. The terms are these: At least three shots, unless one man goes down or cries for quarter in which case the matter's resolved. Sergeant Daniels has selected pistols. Are you sure you only want fifteen paces distance?"
"I want to make sure I hit his heart."
Before he could reply, Martha appeared at the door. John's black, heavy set servant curtsied. "Mrs. Preston asks if General Heyward can see her?" Preston gave a quick jerk of his head that might have been a nod, and Tom nodded. "I'll be right there."
--------
Cassandra Preston sat in front of the hearth, despite no fire going nor need for one. She wore a long, navy blue gown and a veiled hat masked her face. She didn't turn as they entered, staring instead into the ashes of her life. "Thank you, Martha," she murmured.
Heyward stood awkwardly for several moments before abandoning convention and pacing to her side. He sat and studied her intently, but still she didn't turn.
"General....Tom. You're John's friend. Won't you stop this?"
"I don't think it can be."
"It could! I offered to go to...Mister Daniels. To force him to withdraw. He'd have none of it though. John is so.." Her voice broke.
"Most women would be glad of a husband so eager to defend their honor," Heyward answered carefully.
"I can take care of my own honor!" she flared, turning to face him. For the first time he saw the black/blue welt on her face. Cassie watched him grow pale and turned away, shielding her face. "Damn you," she whispered.
"John?" he asked bluntly.
"Me. I kept pushing him to stop this madness and he grew angry." She said nothing for a moment, then: "I don't want him to die."
"Which one?" Tom asked as delicately as he could, which wasn't much for her eyes bore into his once more and her tone hardened.
"Either. I can guess what you might think, General, and you may even be right but the truth is I love John. I didn't walk and ride across half the continent to be with him so I could have an easy life, or otherwise use him. Every night we were apart I'd dream of him, every day I'd wish he'd appear. If he were to die, then I might as well die as well! But...Mister Daniels doesn't deserve to die either. What happened wasn't his fault any more than mine. Not really, anyway."
"So what he says is...true?"
"It's not false," she whispered.
-------------
Cassie only came at John's insistence at her seeing justice done, so she stood to one side with Martha and a small crowd of curious onlookers. The combatants were identically dressed, in white vests and pants to make any bloodstains more visible. They stood precisely fifteen paces away, glaring at each other as Wilkes and Heyward stood nearby loading pistols: three for each man. All pistols had smooth barrels, vs. the rifled spirals that made a gun far more deadly, and both seconds painstakingly validated each gun's allowance of powder and shot. Finally they approached Sergeant Daniels, who eyed the proffered pistols before choosing one.
"Sir," Tom told him formally. It pretty much broke this Code Duello, but he had to try one more time. "If you wish to withdraw your ... statement I will speak to my principal on your behalf." Wilkes arched his brow but said nothing.
"Sir, with all respect to
you," Daniels growled, "You may tell your principal that God particularly hates adulterers and fornicators, as he shall soon learn when I remand his soul to hell."
John then chose his pistol. Wilkes saw no need to embarrass himself with a similar rejection, and after a curt nod to Tom assumed his position, equidistant between the combatants and a short distance away. Heyward stood across from him and raised his voice. "On the signal. Ready?"
American and Englishman stood, right sides facing each other, glaring at their opposite over their shoulders with cocked pistols in their hand held overhead. For a moment silence reigned. Cassie's quiet sobs. Somewhere a bird twittered. A butterfly saw fit to fly through their midst before catching the scent of gunpowder and deciding it wanted to be elsewhere.
"FIRE!"
Daniels lowered his arm. His elbow locked with the barrel pointed at John's head and he fired. He might have hit, if John's blow hadn't landed at that moment crushing ribs and piercing his lungs. The British sergeant twisted, his shot whizzed less than a foot over Preston's head and he fell in a crimson pool.
"CASSIE! GET BACK HERE!"
Cassandra ignored her husband and ran to Daniels' side. Wilkes followed more slowly. He knew a fatal wound when he saw one. As Cassie turned him over, blood poured from his mouth and he choked weakly.
"Cass," he whispered. "You...came."
"George, you fool. Why did you have to come?" she sobbed.
"...had to find you."
"Why? Papa was already dead, there was no reason! He made me marry you so you'd pay for his tavern, said the bankers wouldn't give him a loan. I never wanted... George, I'm so sorry."
"...forgive." Though whether George Daniels was begging pardon or offering it never appeared, for with a last gurgled gasp he sank into the darkness at last.
"John?" Tom Heyward turned as his principal stalked away from the slowly dissolving crowd. "Where are you going? John?"
