Palace of His Excellency
Captain-General Sabas Marin y Gonzalez
Plaza de Armas, Havana
10:20 a.m., Tuesday
25 September 1888
Boreau and I stared at each other as the sour-faced president of the jury was introduced. He was a veteran fencing master named Gondolfo, who looked old enough to have fought under Napoleon. The president got right down to business, introducing the jury members and announcing the rules of combat. They were simple. The match would continue without time limit until the first man scored five “touches” of his saber on the other. The areas of the body open for attack, by slashing or thrusting, would be everything above the hips, including the head and hands.
One of the jury members took a piece of white chalk and ran it up and down our blades. That was to mark the hits on our black jackets. He then examined the very tips of the blades, making sure they were bent back and blunted. The other man inspected our masks, then the piste. When they were finished, the jurymen took their positions and bobbed their heads to Gondolfo, who stood ramrod straight and clapped his hands for quiet.
“The combatants will now execute their salutes!”
Boreau went first. Facing the captain-general, he whipped his saber up and across his front in a dramatic demonstration of control and speed, coming to attention with a click of his heels and ending up with the bell guard at his face and the blade absolutely vertical. He then swept it down to his right front, the rippled swish clearly audible. Don Sabas acknowledged the salute with a leisurely nod.
In similar beautiful fashion, Boreau saluted the president of the jury and the other members of the jury, each of whom reacted by bowing slightly. His final salute was to me, which he managed to accomplish with a gross sense of disdain, barely lifting his bell guard to his face and refusing to look me in the eye.
Not to be outdone in the theatrical department, I stamped to attention—I’ve seen enough Brits do it to get the hang of the maneuver—and faced Don Sabas, flourishing my blade in a wide S-shaped arc from the floor to the present-arms position in front of my face. I then did the same for each member of the jury. Finally, I made my salute to Boreau, with the added touch of pressing the forte section of the blade, the strongest part just above the guard, to my lips while smiling at him. The kiss of death, delivered with haughty pleasure, as it were.
This impertinence elicited just what I’d hoped for, a low growl of fury from Boreau. Oh, yes, he was aching to kill me, all right. It was all he could do not to run me through right then and there, which would be an exceedingly bad breech of manners since old Gondolfo hadn’t given the word to start yet.
Ten seconds later the president of the jury ordered, “Masks!” We both put on our masks and stood in the prescribed stance: right foot advanced and pointed precisely forward, the left foot one length astern and pointed an exact ninety degrees to port, with both knees slightly flexed and the saber pointing downward at forty-five degrees.
The assembly grew hushed. Behind Boreau, I noticed a mature woman in the audience flutter a fan for air, her bejeweled bosom heaving in very apparent anticipation.
Gondolfo shouted, “En garde!”
Boreau lifted his saber. I could hear his breathing, deep and rhythmic, exhaling like a steam engine. He chose the classic position of foil fencers. His hand was extended and raised to just below the level of his shoulder and slightly to the left of his line of body, the upper arm and forearm in the traditional right angle. His blade slowly elevated to a forty-five-degree upward angle. I noticed the tip didn’t shake at all.
I chose the same opening position. Not as a preference but as a feint, as if I was an experienced foil fencer too. Waiting for the word from Gondolfo, I studied Boreau’s perfect body position through the mesh of my mask and willed my hand to do what Nicolas had drilled into me, remain loose but in control. Stand your ground, let the fingers direct the saber, and make the other man expend the energy.
The Hungarian’s words came back to me: “Ach, Peter, you are so very American. Your movements are too clumsy and easy to discern in advance. Kindly remember to relax your saber hand, so that it is more supple and therefore more difficult to predict or counter. Allow your hand to do the work. And above all, enjoy the combat . . .”
“Commence!” Gondolfo ordered.
I was still registering the order as Boreau raced toward me, his blade leveled at my chest. I parried it up and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. He wanted me to do that, taking my movement and turning it into his real attack. His saber lifted up and then instantly slashed down.
Thwack! Boreau’s blade came down hard, cleaving into the top of my mask’s helmet. The classic cavalryman’s move. Without that protection, I would have been dead right then. As it was, I stood there stunned at the speed and weight of the attack, wondering far too late if my helmet had the regulation amount of leather padding. But, of course, there was no time to ponder such things, and one is not supposed to remove the helmet and contemplate the size of the dent he has just endured.
“Touché,” I said, belatedly, in the traditional admission of a hit upon me.
“Un touché à Boreau!” announced Gondolfo. The Spanish audience applauded. Laughter came from somewhere.
I heard, “En garde!” and seconds later, “Commence!”
This time I was a bit quicker on the draw, getting my blade over and down to the left into the number one position of parry, where it descends from the hand held at chest level. That was enough to block Boreau’s slashing molinello attack on my chest, but before I could riposte effectively, Boreau had jumped away. The man was all over the narrow piste, lunging and backing, while I remained pretty much in my original position. There was no way I could match his footwork.
Boreau began a rapid advance, his saber cutting through the air, reaching out for me. With no time for fancy moves, I feinted to the left, then slashed upward and across my front, parrying his saber. Since I didn’t move, he ended up running into me, a corps-à-corps situation where our bodies came into contact. Before Gondolfo could call for us to separate, I tapped Boreau on the arm with my blade, leaving a nice white chalk mark. Point for me.
This sort of back and forth thing went on for the next ten minutes—an eternity when you’re faced with a homicidal maniac. His attacks on me were hard, slashing hits. I felt a trickle on my abdomen after Boreau had done another lower molinello attack, ripping hard into my guts. I hoped the padding had held and that it was sweat. That point got him an ovation from the Spanish and a groan from the Americans. Another of Boreau’s hits was a slash exactly on the bone of my right forearm, the pain seriously degrading my strength and saber control.
My own clumsy hits were lightweight, without powerful follow-through, but I managed, using Nicolas’s and Hutton’s techniques, to land four touches to Boreau’s three. If the match had been on style or machismo, he would have already won, but it wasn’t. And unlike me, I could see that the bastard—I was long past the point of niceties—wasn’t hurting or tired at all. But I did have him infuriated by my score, plainly ready to cast all caution aside.
Breathing heavily now, I willed myself to silent exhales, trying to slow my heart as it pounded in my chest. My clothes were soaked from the incredible humidity in the courtyard. I was beyond caring what I looked like. The mask had turned into a slimy, claustrophobic tomb for my face, but there was no way to remove it and wipe away the sweat before we would begin again. The scent of frangipani and jasmine was just a memory. All I smelled now was fear.
“Commence!” shouted Gondolfo.
Boreau advanced steadily, then did a ballestra, the Italian jumping lunge attack that changes tempo and catches the opponent off guard. He feinted to my right, then again to my right. That and the ballestra were enough to confuse me, and I left my vulnerable left side open. It took only the fraction of a second for him to take advantage of my lapse. Before I knew it, his saber was making a wide swinging arc, the blade flying toward the left side of my neck. It was obvious what he was doing. Boreau was going to slash through my mask and open my carotid artery.
The accidental coup de grâce.
I turned my body quickly to face the threat, but my left hand remained where it had been, now next to the left side of my head instead of behind it. That was a basic error—you always keep your unprotected left hand and arm behind you. I realized my mistake as the tip of his saber sliced through it.
The hand slowed and deflected the blow enough to allow me to instinctively duck as the blade went over my head. Pain was instantaneous and severe, like the hand was on fire. I shook it and blood splattered everywhere. Several women screamed.
Boreau’s attack had such force to it that he spun almost all the way around, but he quickly corrected and used his momentum to advance for another attack. I was stumbling backward, into the warning area near the end of the piste, when Gondolfo pointed to Boreau and yelled, “Basta!”—“Enough!” Boreau shook his head in disgust and took up the standing position on his half of the piste, chest heaving with fury.
The president of the jury came to me. “Commander Wake, blood has been drawn, and the match will now end. With this new touch by Lieutenant Commander Boreau, you both now have a tie at four points each. An honorable end. Congratulations. And now we will attend to your wound.”
I examined my bleeding hand. Because it was blunted, the tip of Boreau’s saber had opened a very ragged, three-inch cut along the bottom edge of the hand, perhaps half an inch deep. It hurt like hell, but the pain cleared my head and filled it with anger.
Rork dashed over with a cloth and bound up the hand tightly. Glancing at Boreau, he grumbled, “That bloody friggin’ Spic bastard’s—” then stopped, seeing my reaction and abruptly remembering our mutual agreement of a month earlier. We had both agreed to lessen our cursing and diminish derogatory ethnic slurs.
Rork had no illusion that the pact was mainly aimed at him, for he, like all bosuns, could swear a blue streak. What I never could understand, though, was how he, who suffered like so many Irish immigrants from derogatory myths about his people and faith, could be such a xenophobe regarding other cultures. So “we” decided to change that. From then on, no more Dagos, Spics, Krauts, Frogs, Rag Heads, Camel Jockies, Chinks, Limeys, Poufs, Micks, Wops, Cheesers, or Polacks would emerge from that Irish mouth, or a penny would be forfeited each time. I am pleased to report that the cursing had diminished by that day in Havana but must admit the efforts against ethnic epithets weren’t going as well. Back in Washington, a jar was already filled with penance.
With great consternation he changed his verbiage to “Sorry, sir. What I meant to say was that Spaniardo Boreau fella thinks yer done for.” With typical lower-deck wit, he added, “So now that ye’ve got that bugger fooled nice an’ good, go ahead an’ kill ’im.”
“Spaniardo” was Rork’s substitute for previous untoward descriptors of Hispanic people. His opinion of Boreau echoed my thoughts—the man was gloating at that very moment. Gondolfo had offered the perfect way out for me, and logically I should have taken it. My goal was accomplished, and I could stay in nice quarters ashore in Havana. But I wasn’t thinking logically by that point. The mission was completely gone from my mind. There was only Boreau, and I’d be damned if I would quit now while he was standing there, arrogantly planning his final move to ensure my death.
“Precisely, Rork,” I wheezed, trying not to double over in pain. “Glad you recognized my plan. He’s completely overconfident.”
I turned to Gondolfo. “Mr. President, I am fine. It is a minor cut and my own fault for having my left hand in the way. We can go on and finish the match.”
Gondolfo didn’t like that. He’d seen Boreau’s attacks and knew there was something personal going on. This wasn’t an exhibition of skill and sportsmanship.
“I insist, sir,” I told him, probably a little too strongly through my gritted teeth. He scowled, then looked at the now red cloth around my hand.
“Commander . . .” he began, but I interrupted.
“Mr. President, I am sure my adversary did not intentionally target my left hand, but it was a legitimate hit and a minor wound. I don’t need that hand to continue the fencing match. This is a matter of personal honor, so I am now demanding we continue.”
Gondolfo shook his head. “Very well, Commander.”
I turned to the audience and announced, “Touché. Soy listo que continuar. I am ready to continue.”
Admiral Luce had been walking toward me but stopped and went pale when I made my statement. Rork grinned at Luce and pointed to his rubber left hand. “No worries, Admiral. He’ll be right as rain on a Derry mornin’—hand wounds’re me specialty!”
Boreau wiped his saber on his white trouser leg, my blood making a long smear like a trophy. He looked at it, then me, snickering quietly.
Enjoy it now, you son of a demented son of a lunatic, I thought, for my turn is coming.
“The match will continue,” announced Gondolfo, sadly. “The score is now even, la belle, with four touches for each of our honored opponents. The next touch will be the winning point.”
It is customary when a match becomes tied, known as la belle, that the fencers salute each other before resuming. It must have been obvious by that time to the onlookers that Boreau and I were anything but “honored opponents,” but we dutifully executed our flourishes when Gondolfo ordered, “Salute!”
Seconds later, he commanded, “En garde,” then, “Commence!”
And with that, Boreau and I went at it for the final time.
I had gone into the terce, or third, position. It was a slightly higher stance, and the one Hutton taught me for serious saber fighting. Boreau didn’t seem to notice the change and proceeded to attack violently without even feinting. It was what I thought he’d do—another accelerating advance with a beautifully done ballestra, which didn’t confuse me in the least, for in that split second I saw his leveled saber in position for a high molinello slash to my chest.
His mistake.
Because I’d started in the terce stance, I already had my blade up and executed a coulé, sliding my blade along his saber, turning it into a circular envelopment that loosened Boreau’s positive control of his saber. Forcing his blade up and away, I dropped my body down with the left hand on the piste in a very low passata sotto position, denying him a target as he ineffectually swung the saber over my head. Before he could recover, I lunged onward and upward.
A good fencer would probably have done a molinello slash to Boreau’s undefended midsection to score the point, but I was far beyond fencing by that point. With a growl and the last of my strength, I rammed my saber’s tip directly into Boreau’s solar plexus and bulled him backward along the piste until he stumbled and fell. It wasn’t a pretty move, but it worked.
My blade never left him, following Boreau down, the tip ripping the outer layer of padding and traveling up his chest and under the lower edge of his mask toward the throat until, at the last moment, I forced myself to lift it away, putting his mask askew. He tried to stand but was too wobbly and fell rearward again—off the very end of the piste.
The crowd gasped in horror. The despised yanqui had won. The beloved Spanish hero had not only lost but was humiliated. Dead silence. I quickly saluted Boreau and Gondolfo, then the captain-general. Heart pounding and ears ringing, I executed an about-face and walked away.
Thank you, Captain Hutton, for teaching me the passata sotto.