Being appointed lieutenant governor seemed to have made little difference in Colonel Gower’s life, outwardly at least. The room into which Creighton was shown by the colonel’s clerk was a bit larger than the one back in Carolina, and the furnishings were a bit more elegant, but there was the same air of impermanence about the place, as though the colonel didn’t expect to stay long.
Gower was in his bedchamber, bent over the battered ironbound war chest. “What is it?” he called over his shoulder.
“I’ve deciphered the message, as you asked.”
“Ah. Good.” His uncle closed the chest and emerged from the bedchamber, carrying a walnut box with brass corners and hinges. He placed the box on his desk and held out a hand for the paper.
Though Creighton was sure Gower would suspect nothing, he couldn’t keep his fingers from trembling slightly as he handed over his translation. He clasped his hands behind his back and tried to appear calm and confident while his uncle examined the counterfeit message. The colonel took an inordinate amount of time with it, as though he needed to go over it several times to make sense of it. At last he folded the paper slowly, deliberately, and raised his leaden eyes to Creighton. “Where is the key?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The key,” Gower repeated impatiently. “What you used to decipher the code. I want to see how you did it.”
Creighton hesitated only a moment. “There is none. I merely substituted letters for numbers. It’s a tedious process, with a lot of trial and error. That’s why it took so long.”
“Trial and error, eh?” The colonel unfolded the paper and surveyed it again. “I find it curious that there are so few erasures and corrections.”
“I used a separate piece of paper for the trials and errors.”
The colonel nodded. Then he said, rather amiably, “I don’t believe you.”
Creighton somehow contrived to make his voice sound indignant and not panicky. “Do you suppose I made all that up?” He snatched the paper angrily from his uncle’s hand and waved it about. “You ask me to decipher it, so I rack my brain for hours on end, despite the constant pain in my head, and this is the thanks I get?”
The colonel seemed amused at this outburst. “You always were good at feigning injury. When you were a small boy, I once gave you a slap on the wrist for pulling at my wig. You howled as though I’d broken something, and wouldn’t leave off until your mother bribed you with sweetmeats.” Gower glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I’d call your bluff, and have you demonstrate for me exactly how you came up with that . . . dubious message, but I haven’t the time. I have an appointment shortly, one that I must keep.”
He turned to the box, unfastened the brass clasp, and lifted the lid. Inside, couched in red velvet, was a brace of ornate dueling pistols with walnut stocks and brass butt plates. “We will resume our discussion when I return.” He took up one of the pistols and wiped the oil from its barrel with a cloth. “Presuming, of course, that I do return.”
“You’re going to fight a duel?”
The colonel gave him a disdainful look. “You always were quick to grasp the obvious, too.”
“With whom?” Creighton asked, though he had the unpleasant feeling that he knew the answer.
“With your compatriot, Mr. Arnold.”
“Arnold? Why?”
Gower held the pistol at arm’s length and sighted down the barrel. “I accused him of being a spy. He took offense, and challenged me.”
“But—but why would you accuse him? When we spoke this morning, you seemed satisfied that he could be trusted.”
“That was before he began quizzing me about Washington—much the way you had just done.” Gower cocked the hammer of the flintlock and pulled the trigger. Creighton flinched as the flint struck the frizzen, sending up a small shower of sparks.
“I didn’t quiz you about Washington. I merely wondered what had become of him.”
“Well, perhaps you should ask the person who wrote that.” The colonel waved the pistol at the paper in Creighton’s hand. “Apparently he knows. Assuming, of course, that what you’ve printed there is the actual message, and not just a sham, designed to trick me into revealing Washington’s whereabouts.”
“You’re implying that I’m a spy, too, and I resent it!”
“Do you? Then perhaps you should challenge me as well. I could accommodate you in . . .” He consulted the clock again. “Say, half an hour, when I’ve done with Arnold. Oh, by the by . . . I believe he wishes you to be his second. I’ve chosen Hale as mine, if you’d be so good as to inform him.”
“You’re making a mistake!” Creighton said desperately. “Arnold is no spy, nor am I!”
Gower shrugged. “Even if that were so, it would make no difference. It’s a question of honor, now.”
“You’d kill a man, or be killed yourself, for no reason?”
“Satisfying one’s honor is reason enough. Without his honor, a gentleman has nothing. Did your father never teach you that?”
“No,” Creighton said grimly. “He taught me that without his life, a gentleman has nothing.”
The colonel turned that wolfish gaze on him again. “When a man turns traitor,” he said pointedly, “he forfeits both his life and his honor.”
“What my father did was not treason!” Creighton fought back the tears that stung his eyes. “What he did was right!”
For the first time that Creighton could recall, his uncle’s face registered surprise. “You know what truly became of him, then?”
“Yes!” Creighton hissed. “And I know what your part in it was!” He backed toward the door. “I’ll be Arnold’s second, willingly. And I hope to God that he shoots straight through your black heart!”
———
Creighton had never had occasion to participate in a duel, either as a principal or as a second. But he knew the procedures and the unwritten code of honor that governed them, from listening to the knights of the tavern recount their exploits. All of them had fought or seconded in at least one duel.
Thomas Kern had once agreed to be a second for his cousin, only to find himself shooting it out with the opponent’s second, who insisted that his cousin’s misfire must count as a shot. After firing three totally ineffectual shots apiece, they had reconciled, and so had the two principals.
Aside from Roger Davy, whose smallest finger had been shot off, none had suffered a serious wound. The acknowledged purpose of dueling was, after all, not to kill your opponent, but to satisfy your honor and his. In minor disputes, combatants had been known to “dumb fire,” or discharge their weapons into the air, so as not to risk actually harming one another.
But that was the English way of dueling. Americans seemed less concerned with honor than they were with winning, by whatever means necessary.
Hale was apparently well acquainted with duels, too. “It’s up to the colonel to pick the weapons,” he said, “as well as the time and place. Obviously he’s chosen pistols. Did he say when or where they’d meet?”
“He didn’t say where. He said something about half an hour—and that was ten minutes ago.”
“Well, there’s only one place here where duels are fought—Gage Hill.” Hale shook his head. “I wish they’d waited until morning, as the code duello requires. It’d be easier to talk them out of it if they had a chance to cool down.”
“Neither one is going to apologize or back down, no matter how long they wait or what we say.”
“Probably not. But it’s our duty as seconds to try.”
The lieutenant was right. Though the colonel might deserve to be shot, it would serve no purpose; it wouldn’t bring back Creighton’s father—or Franklin. As for Arnold, if he had betrayed the Patriots, then he, too, deserved whatever he got. But Creighton still couldn’t be certain whose side the man was on. He sighed. “In that case,” he said, “we’d better hurry.”
———
When they reached the top of Gage Hill, both men were waiting. Arnold was pacing about impatiently; Gower leaned nonchalantly against a tree with the box of pistols at his feet.
“I didn’t bring powder or bullets,” Hale whispered. “That should delay things a bit.” But as they drew nearer, they saw that the colonel had also brought an ammunition case and a powder horn. “So much for that,” Hale muttered. “Go see if you can reason with your man. I’ll talk to mine—for all the good it’ll do.”
Creighton approached the general; before he could speak, Arnold said, “Why didn’t you tell me he was your uncle?”
“I didn’t think you’d trust me, if you knew.”
“You have no qualms about seconding me, against him?”
“None. But are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“If I don’t, it’s as much as admitting that I’m a spy.”
Creighton leaned in closer and said softly, “You are a spy.” The question was, for which side?
“Gower doesn’t know that. He’s only guessing.”
“Well, I don’t see how killing him—or getting yourself killed—is going to change his mind.”
“The fact that I’m willing to fight may convince him that he accused me unjustly.”
“And what if it doesn’t?”
Arnold shrugged. “One way or the other, he won’t be able to accuse me again.”
When Hale and Creighton met again in the center of the field, the lieutenant was carrying the pistols, the powder, and the ammunition case. “I take it you couldn’t talk him out of it,” Creighton said.
Hale shook his head. “And you?”
“No.”
“Well.” Hale handed one of the pistols to Creighton. “Is that weapon all right with you? The colonel says he likes the balance of this one better.”
Creighton looked the pistol over. “I don’t suppose it matters.”
“Probably not, but—” Hale moved nearer and murmured, “Check it carefully anyway, lad.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.
Creighton blinked in puzzlement, and glanced toward the colonel. “You—you don’t think he’d—”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just saying, check it carefully, eh?”
Creighton tested the hammer; it moved freely. He checked the screw that held the flint in place; it was tight. He examined the touch hole and the inside of the barrel; they were clean.
“You know how to load it?” the lieutenant asked.
“Of course. We practiced marksmanship in school.” Creighton poured a charge of powder down the barrel, wrapped a lead ball in a paper wad and pushed it into place with the ramrod, then primed the pan with a little powder.
Hale nodded approvingly. “That’s got it.” He cast a glance around the field. “How does twenty paces sound to you? They’re less likely to hit each other than they would be at ten.”
“All right, I suppose.”
“The colonel prefers to fire at pleasure, not at a signal. Any objections?”
Creighton’s throat seemed too dry and tight to answer, so he simply shook his head. Hale held out his hand and Creighton grasped it limply; the feeling seemed to have deserted his fingers. “Good luck to your man,” the lieutenant said.
Creighton started to say, “And to yours,” but then he hesitated and frowned.
“What is it?” Hale said.
“It’s just that . . . it doesn’t seem right, wishing one person luck in shooting another.”
“I wasn’t. I was wishing him luck in not getting shot.”
“Oh,” Creighton said. “Good luck to your man, too, then.”
When the colonel had taken up his position, Hale measured off twenty paces and showed Arnold where to stand. Then he stepped out of the line of fire and called, “At your pleasure, gentlemen!”
The colonel turned sideways, as a swordsman does, to offer as small a target as possible. Arnold chose to face his opponent head-on. Both men raised their weapons and cocked them. Before either had time to aim properly, the colonel’s pistol discharged with a puff of smoke and a sharp report.
Arnold gave a grunt of pain and staggered slightly, but quickly recovered. His face drawn and grim, he took aim and squeezed the trigger of his weapon. Though the hammer fell on the frizzen, there was no smoke and no sound—nothing. With a curse, Arnold lowered the pistol and examined it. His left arm was clamped tightly to his side; beneath it, a red stain was spreading across the fabric of his coat.
The colonel had calmly set about reloading his pistol. “Wait!” Creighton cried. “There’s a problem with his weapon!” Gower ignored him. “Lieutenant Hale! Will you stop your man?”
“Your man’s misfire counts as a shot,” Hale said regretfully. “He’ll have to reload.”
“How can he reload if his weapon hasn’t fired?” Creighton hurried over to Arnold, who was still trying to find the problem. “I loaded it correctly! I’m certain of it!” Creighton glanced toward the colonel. Gower had finished loading and was raising the pistol for another shot. “No!” Creighton stepped in front of Arnold. “Give him a moment! There’s something wrong!”
“I always said you were useless!” Gower shouted. “You can’t even load a pistol properly! Stand aside now, or I’ll put a ball through your empty head!”
“I won’t!” Creighton flung his arms wide, inviting Gower to shoot him. The colonel hesitated, obviously uncertain for once what to do. Then an arm pushed Creighton roughly out of the way. He fell on to one knee. Before he could recover he heard two reports, almost on top of each other, one at a distance and one close at hand.
He sprang to his feet, glancing frantically from Arnold to his uncle and back again. For a moment neither man moved; it seemed that both shots had missed their mark. Then the colonel’s shooting arm went limp and the pistol fell from his grasp. Slowly he sank to his knees and then, just as slowly, sagged sideways. Hale caught him before he struck the ground.
Creighton turned to Arnold. As the man lowered his pistol, Creighton saw to his astonishment that it wasn’t the same weapon that had misfired. This was a plainer model, with a steel butt plate and a stock made of oak. The more ornate pistol lay in the grass at his feet. “Where did—how did you—”
“I had it beneath my coat,” Arnold said. “Prepare for the worst, remember?” He bent over, grimacing with pain, and retrieved the fallen pistol. “The misfire was not due to anything you did or didn’t do.” He pulled back the hammer and ran a finger along the face of the frizzen. “Someone has coated this with a thin layer of clear varnish so it won’t strike a spark.”
“My uncle,” Creighton murmured. Feeling unsteady, almost dizzy, he covered the twenty paces to where the colonel lay and knelt beside him. The man’s head hung limp; his eyes were closed; his breathing was labored and rasping. A trickle of blood issued from the corner of his mouth.
Gower seemed to sense Creighton’s presence and languidly opened his eyes. Though he was clearly trying to speak, no sound came out. One hand was pressed to the side of his chest; when he raised it, he revealed a neat, blood-ringed hole in his waistcoat. Creighton guessed that because of his uncle’s sideways stance, the ball had passed though both of his lungs. Gower beckoned weakly to him.
Creighton leaned over until his ear was a few inches from the man’s mouth. The colonel uttered something that was scarcely more than a sigh. Then his eyes closed again and his head lolled backward. Arnold crouched and placed two fingers on the colonel’s throat, feeling for a pulse. Then he shook his head. “He’s gone.” Creighton got to his feet and stood looking about, feeling dazed and dreamlike. Arnold rose and placed a hand on his shoulder, but Creighton pulled away, wanting no comfort, especially from someone who might be no more trustworthy than his uncle had been.
Arnold turned to Hale. “What did the colonel say?”
“I couldn’t hear,” the lieutenant replied.
Creighton put a hand to his head, which had begun to throb again. He had heard Gower’s last words clearly enough, but he wasn’t certain that he understood them, or that he should divulge them to either of these men. What the colonel had said was, “St. Marks. Number four.”