Chapter XVII

It was my turn to laugh. “Finish your wine,” I said.

His eyes were cool, suddenly wary. “You think I shall be drunken?”

“Of course not! But you so obviously enjoy it, I think you should have your fill of it before you die.”

The laughter went from his eyes, and he measured me coolly, carefully. “Sackett, it has been said that I am the greatest swordsman in Port Royal, perhaps the greatest in Europe.”

“I do not doubt it, but you are not now in Europe, nor are all the great swordsmen in Port Royal. After all”—I gestured widely—“they are mostly rabble. They cut and slash. What do they know?”

“And in Carolina?”

“Swordsmen are rare. We live by the musket and pistol there.”

“So?”

“We shall see. And a pity, too, for you are a rare companion, and I was looking forward to talking to you of books and writing men, of magicians and satyrs, of gods and heroes. You spoke of a family?”

He dismissed them with a gesture. “That is long ago. They have forgotten me.”

“Then I shall not have to worry.”

“Worry?” He was scowling now.

“About sending word to them that you are dead, nor disposing of your belongings—if you have any.”

“You are a fool,” he said irritably. “You speak like a child.”

But half my glass was gone, so I lifted it to my lips, tasted the wine, and put the glass down, and I took my time. No doubt he was a superb swordsman. No doubt he was confident. There were few good swordsmen in Virginia, Carolina, or Plymouth in these days, for men who were swordsmen had not yet begun to come across the sea. There were fighting men like Capt. John Smith, only he had returned to England. No doubt Bogardus, if that was his name, felt sure of winning.

I had rarely fought with a sword, yet from earliest childhood my father had trained me as his father had trained him, and I had the added advantage of working as a boy with Jublain, Jeremy Ring, and, above all, with Sakim. Not only was the Moslem a superb swordsman, but his style was entirely different from that of Europe. Therein, I hoped, would lie my advantage, if such it was, for he would be unprepared, I hoped, for that style of fencing.

But that I must conceal at first. I must seem orthodox and careful, defending myself as best I could and allowing him to believe I was more clumsy than skillful, then suddenly to try a trick upon him unused in the West.

The difficulty might be that at some time he had served in the Moslem countries and knew all that I knew. It was a risk I must take. Even if he knew, he might not expect such moves from me.

“Do you do this sort of thing often?” I asked. “I mean, do you kill men for money?”

“Why else? I am not such a fool as to kill them for amusement or just to be killing. It is simply I have found it more restful than piracy and an easier means to a living. If it is conscience you are thinking of, I have none. Men enter the world to die. I merely expedite matters.”

“Or have them expedited for you.”

He shrugged. “So far I live.”

“Shall we order something to eat? If you are to die, I would not have it said you were hungry when you went out.”

We ordered a meal, and I sat back in my chair and looked at him. He seemed undisturbed, but this I did not believe, for I was accepting the situation with more ease than he could have expected. He had thought to surprise me, and he had, yet my recovery had been swift and complete, and I was much less disturbed than he must have expected.

Now I was proposing that we dine, and he must have been puzzled by my reaction.

“You see,” I continued, “your comment that you intend to kill me can be nothing but mildly interesting. Since I was a child, those of my family have been constantly threatened with death. I was born on a buffalo robe in the heat of an Indian battle with a swordsman standing above my mother to defend her during her labor.

“Since that day I have never known one in which my life was not in danger. Naturally you cannot expect me to be alarmed by your statement that you intend to kill me. Actually it greatly simplifies matters.”

He scowled at me. I expect he had believed his calm statement would frighten or alarm me, and my manner irritated him. “Simplifies? What do you mean by that?”

The wine was good. I was no judge of such things, lacking experience, but to me it tasted well. “It is obvious, I should think. Here I have been attacked a number of times and from all sides, unexpectedly and in numbers. Now I no longer have to concern myself with that. Now I know my attacker. I know where the attack will come from and by whom. It makes it very easy.”

“You will die nonetheless.”

I laughed. “Who can say? You know what you can do, and that is very helpful. You are no doubt skilled, or you would not have survived, but I, too, have survived, and I think in a harsher world than yours.”

“We will fight with swords. It is my weapon.”

“Shall we? If this is to be a duel, then I am the challenged party and have the choice of weapons.”

He glared at me. “I have chosen the weapons. When I kill you, it will be with a sword.”

Our food was served, but Rafe Bogardus seemed in no mood to talk. On the other hand, something had loosened my tongue, though normally I talked little. Now, here, I talked over much, perhaps because I could see that it got on his nerves.

“Have you ever fought Indians, Bogardus? They are remarkably good. Not so muscular as some of us but wiry and supple, very quick to move and deadly at close-in combat with tomahawk or knife. They have no discipline, fighting much as they will, each man on his own, so they are rarely a match for us in sustained combat, but for the sudden attack, the quick raid, they are remarkable.”

“You talk too much.” He stared at me with no liking. “It will be a pleasure to kill you.”

Finishing my meal, I pushed back the trencher and emptied what remained of the wine. “Then let’s have at it, shall we?” I believed I had him off balance a mite and meant to keep him so. “I have no more time to dally.” I stood up abruptly and with a gesture swept the dishes into his lap. The crash made people look up, and he sprang to his feet cursing, but I slammed the table against him, pinning him to the wall. Reaching across with my left hand, I took him by the throat and smashed his head hard against the wall. “You talk of killing! Why, you paltry fool! I am inclined to—”

My sudden shoving of the heavy table against him had caught him unawares, and my left hand, powerful from much swinging of an axe, held him tight to the wall. With my right I drew my knife and held the point of it under his nostril. “I’ve a notion to let you have about four inches of this up your nose,” I said, “but you’re hardly worth it.”

We had spectators then, a room full of them. I turned my head slightly. “He’s been paid to kill me,” I said conversationally, “and I don’t think he can do it. I am going to turn him loose now, for, after all, he took the money, and he must make his try.”

“Kill him,” somebody said. “Have done with it. I know the man, and you’ll never have him by the throat again.”

“He shall have his chance to run or fight,” I said, and I flicked his nostril only with the very point of the blade, but it drew blood, which trickled slowly down his lip and his chin. Then I stepped back and dropped the knife into its scabbard.

Rafe Bogardus shoved back the table. The way he moved showed the strength of the man. Surprisingly he was calm.

“All right, you have had your bit of amusement. Now I shall kill you.”

“Like I said,” the same voice said, “you should have killed him while you had him trapped. Never give them a second chance.”

Men pulled back from us, and their women, too. The light had a reddish glow, and there were shadows beyond the tables and chairs. The room, despite its size, was crowded. The atmosphere was hot and close, smelling of the crowded, often unwashed bodies. There was also the smell of rum and tobacco smoke.

Bogardus drew his sword. He was very cool now, and had I ever doubted his ability, I could not do so at this moment, for he held himself with an absolute certainty, sure that he could make his kill.

He discarded his coat, and I did likewise. I drew my own blade with less confidence. The only fighting I had done with a sword had been in these past few days, and little enough that was. My father had been said to have been a swordsman of uncommon skill and the others, also. I had good teachers, but were they really that good?

What possible standard of comparison could I have?

Grimly the thought came to mind. In the next few minutes I would know.

He saluted me. “Now, Sackett, you die!”

He lunged swiftly, and I parried his blade. I think it surprised him, for he may have planned to end it all with that first thrust.

He was more cautious then, discovering that I knew a little, at least. He began to fence, working toward me, pushing me back, deliberately testing me, and I had the good sense to be clumsy, or was it actually that I was awkward? What skill I had I must hold in keeping, and I must fend off his attacks while watching for my chance, nor must I appear to be defending myself with skill.

He was strong. I could feel it in his blade, and he had the delicate touch of the master. He lunged again, and a quick skip back was all that saved me. As it was, the point of his blade ripped my shirt. I heard a gasp from some onlooker, and someone else said, in the almost total silence, “Good, isn’t he?”

Aye, he was good. I discovered that quickly enough and was hard put to defend myself, having no need to feign awkwardness with the speed and skill of his attack. Had it not been for the few fights of the past days, I might have failed, but often it takes little time to recall old skills, and I had fenced hour upon hour with my teachers.

The art of the sword had developed greatly in the past few years, but as in all such things, it had come to be highly stylized. The weapon was controlled largely with the fingers; the cuts were made with the first few inches of the blade. The endeavor was to make light, slicing cuts and not to overpower with great slashing cuts. He was swift, sure, and very strong. My own efforts were largely to stave off his attack, and somehow I managed it.

Sweat began to bead on my brow, but as I warmed, I felt the old skills returning. He was better than Jeremy Ring, I thought, perhaps as good as Jublain, but not, I believed, as good as my father had been. Sakim? Ah, Sakim was another sort of man, and his style of fencing was much different.

My style was not orthodox, and I could see that disturbed him while it gave him added confidence, for to him it meant only that I did not know what I was doing or knew it not well enough.

The room was hot, the air close. He pressed me hard, striving to work me into a corner, which would impair my movements, for my speed afoot had surprised him. He thrust; I parried and slid my blade along his. He leaped back just in time, or I might have knicked his wrist. He shot me a sudden sharp glance and made a cut to my cheek that I parried with difficulty. He kicked a small bench toward my feet, and as I sprang out of the way, he lunged, his sword point tearing my shirt at the waist.

We fought savagely then, all pretense thrown aside; it was thrust, parry, head and flank cuts, and he drew first blood with a sudden thrust to the head that opened a thin red cut on my cheek. An instant later, and his point found my ribs, just an inch below the heart but wide of it. He grinned wolfishly. “Soon!” he exclaimed. “Soon you shall be dead!”

He pressed hard, and I fell back, working desperately to ward off his continual attacks. He dropped his blade a little, an invitation I declined to accept, but instantly he moved in with a dazzling series of movements that had the spectators cheering. A thrust followed by cuts to the arm, right cheek, head, and chest. How I parried them I will never know, but as he drew back, momentarily overextended, I thrust suddenly and sharply for his throat. The thrust was high and a hair wide of the mark. It ripped the ruffle at his collar but merely scratched his neck.

He was dangerous, too dangerous. I was in serious trouble and knew it. The man was good, very good. He made a riposte to the head following a parry of my thrust.

He was intent now, ready for the kill. Each fencer tends to favor certain moves, those that are easy for him, to the exclusion of others, and a skillful man with a blade will soon determine which of these his opponent is apt to use. Knowing this, I had deliberately been responding to certain moves of his with the accepted counter. Yet to continue to do so would be to let myself be killed, and the trap, if trap it was, could be used but once. His responses were quick and easy, and at any moment now, having learned what he believed I would do to each move of his, he must be ready.

So far I had been lucky. My face was streaming with perspiration. Twice he glanced at my eyes. Was he trying to find fear there? Believe me, there was enough of that, for the man was good, and it had been long since I had fenced enough to matter.

Around us men crowded, gold gleaming from their ears. One huge bearded man had a heavy gold necklace that must have come from looted Inca treasure. They watched, intent, and I was conscious of them only as a backdrop to what happened here. The gleaming blades, the movement in and out, the circling, the darting steel, as in some weird ballet of death where I was at once the participant and the observer. The tricks I knew seemed to find no place here, for the man left no chance. For all his strength, he moved lightly, easily, and with confidence. My arm would grow weary; my strength would go.

He was smiling now, his eyes bright with purpose. He feinted a head cut and then thrust at my ribs. My parry was quick, but I was too far from him for a good thrust at the body, so with a flick of the wrist I cut him along the inner sword arm with the back of the blade.

It sliced, and deep. I saw him wince, saw him start to step back, and attacked instantly. His parry was slow.

There was blood on his sleeve now. Somebody gasped and pointed. There was a splash of blood on the floor. I feinted for the head; he tried to parry, and I thrust hard for the ribs. He stepped back quickly, and I moved in.

He was a swordsman. Even now, his arm badly cut, he fought beautifully. Yet there was death in his face. I could see it, and he knew it. I feinted, held my thrust, then, on the instant, followed through. His parry was started too soon; my point slipped past it, and his recovery was slow. The blade slid ever so neatly along his ribs, through the hide and between the bones, and withdrew almost as if there had been nothing but a shadow there.

Bogardus missed a step, his whole side now stained with blood, red blood in a widening blotch on the side of his shirt.

My point lowered a little. “I have no wish to kill you.”

“I am dead. Finish what you have begun.”

“Have done. You have chosen a poor profession. If you live, choose another.”

“I took money to kill you.”

“Keep the money. You tried.”

Taking up my coat with my left hand, I turned my back on him and went into the crowd, and with my naked blade still in my hand it opened before me.

When I was on the street again, I looked carefully about. This was no time to be careless, but of one thing I was sure. My sightseeing in Jamaica as well as my business were over.

Tomorrow I would find John Tilly, and tomorrow I would take Diana Macklin home.