sharkubill's pemberley: 2009

MR. PRICE’S GROG FOR THE SOUL

Beat to quarters on the drum
Roll ‘em for a wounded dog.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Swear a bit and pass the grog

And I think that old Sir Tom
Who’s indeed a dullish dog
Should liven up his gloomy home
Swear a bit and pass the grog.

When we clear for action boys, (beat to quarters on the drum)
Take a little prayer to Heaven, and a good stiff swig of rum.
Pray for goodly afterlife for every dead sea dog
Take a breath and swear a bit and pass along the grog.

When that French broadside swept the deck, I felt the shot hit me, belly and leg, and I went down. Made the sergeant hoist me on my pins so I could direct the musket fire from my Marines, but he took one in the neck, and I couldn’t stand alone. Yelled for a private, but before one could get there I was down again and don’t remember a ******######### thing until I woke up in sick bay with a ++++++ of a butcher of a Navy surgeon carving at me with his bloody gut ripper. I damned him heartily, then thought that maybe I wouldn’t see the sun over the yardarm again and muttered an old prayer. “Our Father, “ says I, “Who art in Heaven”—you know the rest, at least by XXX you oughter.

Then Hankey, our chaplain, showed up, just as the xxxxx sawbones finished my gut and was starting on my leg. “Sam Price, “ he says, “Have ye said your prayers?”

“I have,” says I, “and be damned to ye for thinking ye’d need to ask.”

He lugs his flask out of his pocket and puts it to my gob. “Drink Old Jordan, Sam,” he says, and ye’ll feel better.” And I did.

The old boy stood by me while the loblolly boys (that’s what we called the bloody wound dressers when we weren’t calling them other things) wrapped their ###### rags around me, and he gave me more of his flask—count on old Hankey for the best, not gut rot Navy rum, but good Dutch gin—Hollands, or I’m a land lubber.

Before I passed out again, I swore at the dressers, said another prayer with Hankey, and drained his flask. As I was going under, I heard him give me a blessing, and say, “Sam, when things are bad, swear a bit and pray a bit, and pass along the grog.”

When the smoke is densest and the cannon smites your ears
You’re too busy fighting to think about your fears.
When a round ball breaks your bone, and your belly’s in a fog
That’s the time to swear a bit, pray, and pass the grog.

Well, I’ve had advice aplenty, and took a little, and be damned to most of it, but Chaplain Hankey’s was the best, and I never forget it. There’s chaplains and chaplains, and some ought to be put over the side, but old Hankey was the best—too bad we don’t have bishops aboard. He would have looked good in a bishop’s gear. I remember him talking to a young midshipman once. We knew we were in for action in a trice, and the younker was shaking like a loose sail. Old Hankey put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Curse the Frenchies boy, to open your throat, then say a fast prayer.” The boy gulped, and brought out a word or two, then went on with a short prayer. Hankey pulled out one of his flasks, and poured a good drain down the younker’s throat, and said, “Remember boy, the Lord takes care of sailors and marines. He has to, because nobody else will.” The boy stood to action like a good ‘un, and he’s commander now—all because Hankey had him swear a bit and pray a bit and passed along the grog.

When I make my Frances angry—happens now and then
She don’t shed no tears, but she does curse out all men.
Calls me good-for-nothing drunken dirty old sea dog
Then she’ll swear and pray a bit and pass along the grog

Whatever made the lovely Frances Ward take me for her life’s mate, I can’t explain, not to you, not to anybody, not even to me, but she did. Now and then she does her share of swearing about it—Frances can wind her tongue around some salty words. Then she mutters a prayer for forgiveness (as if she needs any), and as often as not passes along the grog, having lowered the level herself. We rub along as well as most—a lot better than one of her high and mighty nieces—and I don’t think she would trade her limping, growling old devil of a disabled Marine for her stiff neck brother-in-law. I can’t see old Tom the baronet as any great lover—had 4 young ‘uns, and I’d bet a quart of good rum that it was once or maybe twice a year that he applied his high and mighty self to getting ‘em. Now with mine, there were as many chances as there are lead balls in a broadside. Ask Frances, and she’ll tell you. She would too—got over her fine lady finicking here in Portsmouth, and calls a spade a spade when she don’t call it a *********** shovel. I won’t pretend things are always fair weather, but fair weather always comes back, and while we whistle for a fair wind we swear a bit and pray a bit and pass along the grog.

Somewhere in the Bible it says something about making a joyful noise to the Lord. I don’t know where—only ever read the parts about the sea. I’ve gone down to the sea in ships and done business in the great waters and seen the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. I’ve read the parts about Him stilling the storm, and old Peter trying to walk on the water—I could’ve told him that don’t work very often. Anyhow, we go to the Garrison Chapel here in Portsmouth every Sunday, and I can tell you we make a joyful noise to the Lord. I can roar with the best, and sometimes in tune, and young Sam can out roar me. Frances and Sue sing well, and they do their best to drown out Sam and me. When Fan was here, she tried too. That girl was such a quiet little mouse I’d forget she was here half the time, but in the Chapel, she would go right along with her mother and sister to drown out me. Only time I ever heard the girl speak loud enough to be heard from the next pew. I don’t know where she got her ways, but it warn’t from me nor from her mother. Mice we ain’t. Sometimes some croaking parson asks me why I guzzle the grog, and smoke all the time, and use all them gundeck words and say I’m religious. They don’t ask me more than once, but I do tell them I remember the Lord was always passing around wine. That’s before I tell them some other things, and, as I say, they don’t ask me twice.

There’s Old Sir Tom and Neddy, husband to my Fan ,
And young Tom, now he could be a Portsmouth man
Baronet and Parson, each a dullish, dismal dog
Count on Tom to swear a bit and pass along the grog.

Now take my son-in-law, and by XXXX you can have the moon-faced swab most of the time. He can’t preach a sermon for a sailorman or a Marine. I’ve heard him. Fall asleep after 5 minutes and Frances prods me awake until she falls asleep herself, then we both sleep until it’s time to make a joyful noise unto the Lord again. But he’s got Fan with child twice now, so he’s good for something. The younkers look pretty good. We’ll take the grandson in hand and make something of him down in Portsmouth, but the little girl—now I don’t know. Maybe she’ll be more like Susan, or even her grandmamma; I hope so. Once when Neddy was ranting away in the pulpit and I hadn’t yet gone to sleep, I heard him tell us to count our blessings. Ten times he told us when twice would have been plenty, but that’s his way. Well, I count mine—Frances, William (Commander now, is William), Sue, and the rest, specially the grandchildren. Bless Ned and Fan for them; I don’t have any more that I know about, but I don’t answer for what William and Sam do on those foreign stations, nor Dick up in London. Frances and I get to Mansfield now and then—stay at the Parsonage—how my old Marines would laugh at Lieutenant Price in a parsonage. We don’t stay long, and I have to say the only men around there I give a pinch of wet powder to spend any time with are young Tom and old John Groom that taught Fan to ride. Why in ######## young Neddy didn’t teach her, I don’t know. She would have liked that—more fool her—and what else did the young swab have to do around there. We spend a few hours around the stables, drink a bit—a good bit-- of rum and water, and play cards for shillings, which o’ course gets to be pounds. Tom never wins, but John Groom and I do all right—and without any cheating either. Don’t need to. Tom’s a right good spark, but no card sense after a drain or so of good grog.

Frances would stay at the Park more, but we don’t fit. Portsmouth’s for us, and we know it. We made our bargain with the Lord and one another, and we keep it, and I wouldn’t trade Frances for any woman I ever saw. For one thing, I wouldn’t dare. Besides a tongue like a good sharp cutlass, she knows where my pistols are, and how to load ‘em, and how to shoot ‘em too. Counting blessings, I start with her and end with her.

When I drop anchor up in Heaven, and don’t you think I can’t
Never mind them preachers that wave their arms and rant
My Frances will be there indeed to comfort her sea dog
We won’t swear, but we will pray, and pass along the grog.
DUELLO PART ONE—CHALLENGE AND ARRANGEMENTS

In the tavern at Bournemouth Willoughby tossed off a glass of port and said to his two companions, “Long life to the lovely Marianne, and a plague on my Sophia. Damme, if I don’t get to Marianne one way or another, and to the devil with Sophia.”

Before anyone could answer, a tall, grim man strode to the table, saying in a harsh tone, “A private word with you, Mr. Willoughby.”

As the newcomer and Willoughby retired to a secluded corner, one of the drinking companions remarked, “That’s Colonel Brandon. He looks as if he means mischief.”

Willoughby said, “We have nothing to say to one another, Colonel.”

Brandon handed Willoughby a card, “This gentleman will act for me. He may be found at the address written on the back. Kindly send a friend to him.”

As Willoughby read the card, “Major Bishop, 44th Foot”, Brandon raised his hand and struck backhanded squarely across the mouth. Willoughby staggered back a step, drew his hand across his mouth, and looked with dismay on the blood from his torn lips.
Brandon bowed slightly, turned, strode across the floor, and disappeared through the door, leaving Willoughby staring at the card and rubbing his mouth.

Willoughby’s two friends approached him, one obviously dismayed, the other, a tall, handsome officer, smiling in appreciation of the scene.
Willoughby handed the officer the card. “Wickham, will you act for me.”
“Of course, old fellow. It will be my honor and my pleasure. This affair should bring much credit to all, and I look forward to seeing you wing him. Have you pistols?”

Wickham found the 44th Foot encampment without difficulty, and asked the guard sergeant for Major Bishop. That officer was in his tent, smoking a pipe, drinking wine, and examining a pistol case with obvious satisfaction. Wickham presented his card as the major rose, and the two bowed briefly. “Your servant, Sir,” said the major.

“And I yours, Sir,” replied Wickham, “I presume you know the reason for my call.”

“I do, of course. These pistols, Sir, are Manton’s, Manton of Dublin. I presume you know their reputation.”

“I do indeed. Magnificent, Sir.”

“Do they suit your purpose? I doubt you can find better.”

“They do indeed, Sir. Superior to any my principal or I have. Shall we proceed?

“Wine, Mr. Wickham? Of course you will. Cigar?”

The two officers seated themselves and used a few minutes drinking, smoking, and discussing common acquaintances before proceeding to business.

“There’s a touch of awkwardness,” said the major, “The damned authorities are being quite sniffy about dueling, as there has been a surfeit of late. I propose that we meet three days hence at the White Fox near Portsmouth. Good ground near the inn, and a close-mouthed landlord. Good wine, good fires, good rations. Suitable?”

“Quite so, Major. Damme if the delay isn’t a good scheme. I understand there has been loose talk about the affair, and a few days will see it die out.”

“As the challenged party, you may choose arrangements. Perhaps 30 paces between, and fire at the drop of a scarf.”

Wickham rubbed his chin. “Perhaps 40 paces? As you say, we have the option. Let it be 40 paces if you will be so good. To be honest, Major, I would happily see no untimely demise. Given a little blood, there is much credit to all, but, heart’s blood, we would be in a damned awkward position. Flight abroad might be a necessity. Do they walk, or do we place them?”

“ Let them walk, and let it be 40. But I assure you that my principal is true to the mark, 30, 40, or 50.”

“Well, even a Manton loses some power with an extra 10 paces.”

The two parted on good enough terms, but the major felt a twinge of an old ailment in his back. He swore heartily, knowing full well that in three days he was likely to be on his back, unable to rise. He summoned a corporal, and gave him a message to an old friend in Portsmouth. “If I can’t act, he will, and he’s as good a man as I –better for this purpose.” The message included his opinion that his opposing second was a rogue, although a pleasant one, and that some odd arrangements might well be possible. He mused, “If that old devil can’t bring this off to the best, no one can. Not many know of the Walsh and Wallace affair, but I do. Loose tongues can be a blessing.”

DUELLO PART TWO—PLOTTERS AND PLEAS

In the cramped Portsmouth house, the old disabled lieutenant of Marines set down his pipe, took a deep draft from his mug, and growled, “Frances!”

The woman who responded, wiping her wet hands on her hair, was well past her bloom, but still remarkably handsome. Given a little care to hair and dress, with a touch of powder to disguise the lines of care and fatigue, she would have been the beauty of twenty years and a number of children ago. She stood, waiting for her lord to stop growling over his letter and tell her what he wanted. As this took a minute, she picked up his mug and took a deep draft of her own. “All right my girl, listen to this.”

“When I refill your mug.” She drew a bottle from a cabinet, poured a liberal supply into the mug, added water, took another draft, and set it down by the master of the house, who promptly lowered the level further. He tossed her the letter, and considerately passed the candle over to her. She read it carefully, then tossed it back to him. “Neighborly of Bishop to get you into an affair like this, Samuel.”

“Well, girl, I think he’s hinting at something. Man doesn’t want his friend in too much of a pickle. In my service days by xxxxxxx we did things without all this fuss.”

“So he thought of you. I suppose he knows about that affair with Captain Walsh and Captain Wallace, when you and Old Scholey were such useful seconds.”

“Maybe so, Frances. Wonder if he knows your part. Damme, I thought that was all a big secret, but secrets are secrets when one ########## fellow knows the secret, not when Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all know the ********* secret. Then it ain’t a secret. But I’ll need to act, so for the inn tomorrow. Will you come, m’ love? I’ll need you”

At that moment, a carriage was heard at the door, and Rebecca announced “Mrs. Bertram and Susan and what’shisname.” Two young women and a gentleman soberly dressed entered the house, and there was a hullabaloo of greeting, liberally sprinkled with oaths.
The older man’s voice rose above the general hubbub, “Fan! Sue! Neddy! By xxxxxxxx, it’s good to see you.” He swept the two women into a bear hug, shook one hand loose to grasp Neddy’s hand, and swore an assortment of greetings. “Sue, by #####, you’re getting as pretty as your mother. Fan, by ********, you are too! Fan, this marriage is good for you. Nothing like the marriage bed to put roses in a girl’s cheeks and good meat on her bones!”

Fanny blushed, Edmund sputtered, Susan said “Father!”, Mrs .Price said, “Samuel, that’s enough. Stop playing the goat while I get everybody something to drink.”

Mr. Price desisted, but said, after a long survey of the three women, “We are a good-looking family. We are, by xxxxxxxxx!” Fanny remembered that her Aunt Bertram had made the same remark once, minus the oaths, and could not help smiling faintly, but she did wish that her father would not call Edmund “Neddy.”

“Sir,” began Edmund, “We have heard of a most distressing affair in which you appear to be involved, and have come to most earnestly beg you to stop this thing.”

“Some ******* ######## secret! Why ain’t it in the newspapers by *****?

“A hint of it is,” Susan interjected. “Father, this really cannot be.”

“Must be, Sue, Fan, must be. My man challenged that cad; must go forward by ########. I’ll watch that xxxxxxxxx Willowbeast go down by *********.”

Suddenly the old Marine found his two daughters clinging to him and beseeching him for the sake of the colonel, and his own safety, for the sake of religion and humanity, for the sake of the innocent Dashwood family, and their own sakes. Their mother stood apart, with a slight smile on her face, then touched Edmund’s arm. “Stop worrying, Son-in-law, and call off the girls. Mr. Price and I know what’s o’clock in the matter, and all will be well.”

Edmund stared at her, ”How can it be well, Mum? They are going to fight, and Mr. Price will be seconding. How can it be well?”

“Why Edmund,” said his mother-in-law, now smiling broadly, Trust in the Lord. Where’s your clergyman’s faith?” She added to herself , “Trust in two seconds being rogues.”

The matter ended with the entire party agreeing to proceed to the inn where Mr. Price would speak to the colonel and Wickham. He did some grumbling about an affair of honor become a picnic with attendant clergy, while his wife arranged for the Scholeys to take care of the children still at home, but concluded by laughing, and inviting all to drink to the success of the affair. Mrs. Price got wine for all but her husband, who refilled his own mug, and downed it in one long draft while his wife swigged, and the other three sipped.

DUELLO PART THREE--SECONDS

At the inn Mr. Price sought out the colonel, established their common friendship with Major Bishop, and was accepted as a substitute second. Then he turned to finding Wickham, a matter of little difficulty as that gallant officer and gentleman was drinking French brandy in one of the common rooms.

As Mr. Price approached Wickham, his family party entered the room, and he made the proper introductions with less cursing than was his wont. Wickham, graceful as ever, acknowledged with suitable compliments, somewhat flawed by his obvious frank and even lustful looks at Susan, until he caught Mr. Price’s eye upon him. Slightly abashed, he adopted his best manner until Mr. Price suggested that his family withdraw as he had particular business to perform with their new acquaintance.

As the two men sat, Wickham ordered more French brandy, and the old Marine called for rum, “Jamaican, ye swab, in the bottle.”

Mr. Price then drew the case of Manton pistols from one of his capacious pockets, and remarked, “Good duelers these, Mr. Wickham. But let me show you a better, by ********.” From another pocket he drew a pistol of a sort unknown to Wickham, and a leather pouch. “American, this, and I have its twin in my room. Rifled barrel, ye see, and deadly at 60 or 70 paces by ########. Ye don’t drop the ball in with a wad atop. Ye patch it, and ye ram it down on the powder.” Suiting action to speech, he poured a good measure of powder from a copper flask, set a small leather patch in the muzzle, then rammed the patched ball home. He snapped up the frizzen, primed it from the flask, and closed it. “Ready to drop your fellow at a long way, Mr. Wickham. Duel with two of these, and I’ll pound it that there’s work for the surgeon, and the chaplain, and likely the undertaker by xxxxxxx. Fellow bothers my girls, and this American is on the side of Old England. Ye get my drift, and know the course to set?” Wickham gulped, nodded, and expelled a breath of relief as the big pistol was set smoothly on the table.

“Now, Mr. Wickham, to our muttons. We get some honorable gentleman killed, and there’s a lot of xxxxxxxxxx pother. Agreed?”

Wickham nodded, “I’d need to borrow money from Bingley and Darcy to get out of England for a time. Or turn Lydia over to that old Duke that ogles her, and pry money out of him.”

“Hmm. Now, Sir, you are one damned rogue and I’m another, and we want honor satisfied so that we all go home. Agreed?”

“T’would be the most desirable consummation of the affair, but how? Your man’s a good shot, and mine at least fair, and those Mantons are very fine. I’m concerned Sir, and I’m not sure Lydia would take on the Duke; man’s ugly as sin.”

“Be damned to the Duke and to you Wickham. I’ll her no more of such ************ ideas. I know what to do; now listen.” Mr. Price picked up his American pistol as he spoke, rubbing the stock and barrel fondly, and stopping now and then to fix Wickham with an eye like a wet stone.

When Mr. Price concluded, Wickham broke into laughter, “Gadzooks Mr. Price.!! What a scheme! You should be First Lord of the Admiralty, and your wife First Lady!” He called for more brandy as Mr. Price poured the last of his Jamaican into his glass, The two men stood, Wickham still laughing. “A toast Sir—to the two jolliest rogues from Land’s End to the Scottish Border.” They touched glasses and drank.

In the private room where the three women and Edmund waited, there was a great deal of tension. Edmund , Fanny. and Susan were praying quietly, while Mrs. Price, far less troubled than her daughters and son-in-law, applied herself to wine, smiling to herself.
When Mr. Price entered, all looked at him hopefully. “Well, Neddy and girls, if that xxxxxxxxxxxx Wickham was an honorable gentleman, this ****** thing would need to go as the code directs, but an honorable gentleman by xxxxx he is not. Man’s a ******* rogue by ##########!. So, this goes to suit you by $$$$$$$$$!. I’ll steer your course as you want. Girls ask me for something, I guess I can do it by xxxxxx.

Susan said, almost hysterically, “I’ve asked you to comb your hair, and you never do.”
The entire party laughed, even Edmund, and the old Marine pulled off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and replaced the hat.

Edmund finally asked, “What will you do Sir?”

Price looked at him for a long moment. “Neddy, them that asks no questions don’t get told no lies. Preach a sermon on that some day.” He shooed the young people off and sat down with his life’s helpmate, who was beginning to giggle. He took out the case of Mantons, selected the ball mould, and handed it to her. “Back to the bakery, Frances my girl. Make ‘em as hard as Rebecca’s biscuits.”

His girl drained her wine, winked, and replied, “Trust me Samuel. Rebecca never baked biscuits like mine, but she’s come close. I’ll see the cook here, and pass me some money for her palm.”

Two hours later, Mr. Price sought out Wickham and showed him two round balls of hard baked dough. He sprinkled a little powder from his copper flask into his palm, and rolled the doughballs until they were a dull gray. “Baked to perfection, Mr. Wickham. Can you tell them from the real thing?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Price. I believe you are not a stranger to these little escapades.”

Mr. Price drew the American pistol from a pocket, laid it on the table, and replied, “That Sir is no matter for discussion by xxxxxxxxx. Tomorrow I will load and count the paces. You will drop the scarf.”

Wickham smiled weakly and nodded. “Until morning, Mr. Price. Success to the meeting.”

DUELLO PART FOUR--MEETING

In the chilly light of post dawn six men assembled in a grove with a narrow glade a few hundred yards from the inn. A big, burly, limping man in civilian clothes with a military and sea going air escorted a tall grim man in black from the east end of the path while a tall, handsome officer in full regimentals escorted a slim, graceful man in black from the west end. The other two, one with a medical case, the other, in regimentals, with a folding stool and table, walked well behind the first pair.

The two men in black stood near the middle of the glade, backs turned to one another. The limping man motioned the doctor and the officer forward. “Mr. Wickham,” he said, “Doctor Slammer, 44th Foot, is our surgeon. Col. Fitzwilliam, 47th Foot, has been good enough to bring a carriage in case of need and this stool and table for loading. Col. Fitzwilliam will observe the loading, and will stand by.” Col. Fitzwilliam opened the stool and table, bowed, and stood by the table. Dr. Slammer opened his case, took several cigars from a pocket, and extended them. “Fine morning for an affair,” he remarked, as Mr. Price and Col. Fitzwilliam accepted cigars. Mr. Price, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Wickham accepted. The four lit their cigars and turned to business, the doctor idly examining a probe.

Mr. Price drew out the Manton pistol case, opened it, and laid pistols, powder flask, and ball pouch on the table. He took each pistol up in turn, inspected them, opened the frizzens, closed them, sounded the bores with an ivory tipped rosewood rod, cocked each and pulled the triggers. A fine shower of sparks poured from each flint. “Satisfactory Gentlemen?” he grunted. Wickham and Fitzwilliam nodded. Mr. Price poured a measure of powder from the silver Manton flask into a small horn and from thence into the muzzle of each pistol. Then he opened the frizzens and primed the pans with powder. He then selected two gray balls from the pouch, inserting one into each muzzle. With the rosewood rod he slid them down the barrels, following each with a small scrap of leather for wadding. “Gentlemen?” Again the nods.

“Very well Gentlemen,” said Col. Fitzwilliam, “You may place your principals.”

“No damned knee or elbow hits, please Gentlemen,” muttered the doctor around his cigar. The devil to patch up. Ribs not so bad.”

“Slammer, be quiet,” said Fitzwilliam. The doctor replied with a snorting chuckle. Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows, Wickham smiled widely, and Mr. Price spat expertly to one side.

Mr. Price walked with Col. Brandon to the center of the glade while Wickham escorted Willoughby. The two principals kept their eyes averted from one another. They were placed back to back, and Wickham stepped a few paces to the side, drawing a white scarf from his coat, and raising it to arm’s length. Mr. Price moved to the table. “Gentlemen, pace off. One, two----“ At twenty, he said, “You may turn and take aim, Gentlemen. Fire when the scarf drops.”

The two men turned, each facing sidewise to the other, and brought their arms down to the aim. Mr. Price noted with amusement that Willoughby’s hand was unsteady while Brandon’s was firm as a statue. He heard Fitzwilliam murmur, “Brandon has him.”

Smoke rose in fragrant spirals from the cigars of the colonel, the doctor, and the old Marine. They saw Wickham draw a great breath and the scarf dropped.

A flash and a plume of smoke from Willoughby’s pistol, and a hard crack of sound. Brandon stood motionless, then his pistol flashed and cracked. Willoughby raised his face to the sky, dropped his arm, then raised both arms in a gesture of gratitude and relief.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was first to speak. “Honor is satisfied Gentlemen. The affair is ended and we may retire.” The doctor closed his case, remarking, “Easy work, this.” There was somewhat of a bustle as the party broke up, with a series of ‘stirrup cups’ and handshaking. The principals each behaved as if the other was not there, but each shook hands with Dr. Slammer, Col. Fitzwilliam, and the opposing second. Willoughby hurried off to his curricle, parked a few hundred yards down the road near the glade, leaving Wickham to walk to the inn by himself.

Col. Brandon and his second walked down the road together, the colonel speaking first, “Extraordinary, Mr. Price, that I miss at such a range, and with a Manton, too. Even that scoundrel should have come close enough for me to hear the ball.”

“Manton, or no, Colonel, these duelers—well, I don’t trust ‘em by --------. At any rate, honor’s satisfied, and the devil take dueling pistols.”

“Yes, honor is satisfied. Perhaps it’s as well. Blood on my hands, I don’t need that, not as I thought I did. My thanks to you, Mr. Price, and my compliments to your family. I am deeply in your debt Sir.”

“Belay that, Colonel. Honor to serve you. Marine’s honor to the Army. My compliments to your family, Colonel, but you ain’t got one. Well, by xxxxxxxx Sir, get one. Get a family, Sir. I know a bit of this case, and by xxxxxxx and *********, you’re a better man than the other. Get your lady, Colonel. I got mine, by ##########, and you’re a better man than me, even if you’re Army. Get her, Sir.” Brandon shook his head, looking sadly at the ground, and Mr. Price gave him a buffet on the shoulder. “ By xxxxxx and !!!!!!!!, hold your head up and get your lady Make her your wife, by XXXXXXX”

At the inn, Mr. Price found himself overwhelmed with caresses from his wife and daughters, while Edmund pumped his hand like a man drawing water, and managed to accept without much swearing. Edmund looked with more favor on his father-in-law than ever before, and said quietly, “I don’t know how you did this Sir, but my everlasting thanks. I ask no questions, and so will hear no lies.” After a moment, he added with a smile, “But I might preach a sermon on dueling.”

Edmund, Fanny, and Susan left late in the morning; the colonels and the surgeon had gone earlier; Willoughby had hurried off, and Mr. and Mrs. Price looked at one another and decided to remain for the night. His old wounds were hurting after the morning’s exertions, and there was no reason to hurry away from good food, good drink, good fires, and a good bed.

First, Mr. Price wanted a final word with Wickham, whom he found in the public room over his usual French brandy. “ A word, Mr. Wickham, and then, by +++++++, we can have done.” The word, quite naturally, began with orders to the bar, Mr. Price requiring his usual rum, but two glasses. After a preliminary toast to one another’s health and the salutary outcome of the affair, Mr. Price said, “Down the road a piece with me Mr. Wickham. I have something to show you and something to say.”

Mr. Price took one glass with him, and set it on a convenient post near the inn door. Wickham, puzzled, looked at him but asked nothing. They sauntered down the road until Mr. Price stopped, and asked, “How far are we from the door, Mr. Wickham?”

“Fifty, or perhaps fifty five paces. Why ever?”

“Mr. Wickham, sir, there are secrets and secrets, by *********. and some secrets must go to the grave. Yes, by xxxxxx, to the grave. Like the honor of some girls, by ######. Right to the grave.” He drew the American pistol from his pocket, cocked it, took quick aim, and fired. The glass he had set on the post disintegrated. “You follow me, Mr. Wickham?”

“Indeed, Sir, I do. To the grave, secrets and honor. To the grave.”

They walked back together, Wickham remarking, “I’ll borrow a bit from Bingley anyhow, he’s an easy touch. And Lydia wouldn’t care for the Duke. She’ll be glad to see me, but I’ll wager she’s even now flirting with at least 12 officers at once.” They parted on easy enough terms.

In the inn Mrs. Price remarked that the landlord wanted a shilling for the broken glass.
“We’ll give him thrupence, Frances unless he wants a broken head by xxxxxx.”

The two smiled at one another, and a thought struck both. Mrs. Price spoke first. “Samuel, it has been a busy day, but all the business is done. Shall we retire to our room and remember why we joined in marriage?”

“Done, by #######.” And the twain mounted the stairs, entered their room and closed the door.

DUELLO -- EPILOGUE

Three months after the affair, Mr. and Mrs. Price were at home, when a van arrived, and the driver asked if they were Mr. and Mrs. Price. Receiving an affirmative answer, he hauled out a large, heavy box. Man and wife stared at one another, but the box was plainly addressed to them.

When it was opened, they found a letter atop the cloth covering the contents.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Price, I am forever in your debt, and here is a small payment of it. Some persons, and I name no names, are less discreet than they might be. I compliment Mr. Price as a fine second, and Mrs. Price as a fine baker. Please accept these tokens of my gratitude and esteem. I have taken the advice Mr. Price so kindly and forcefully gave me, and my hopes are high.

Christopher Brandon

Below the cover were a ball gown for Mrs. Price, another for Susan Price, a dozen bottles of fine port, and a dozen bottles of fine Jamaica rum.

“I shall look very fine for the next assembly,” said Mrs. Price, “And so will Sue if she is back from Mansfield in time, and you Samuel will need to brush up a bit, get your best coat cleaned, and, for heaven’s sake, comb your hair.”

“xxxxxxx ####### ******* !!!!!!!!!!” said Mr. Price, and reached for a bottle of rum.

“How did it get out, Frances? A fine xxxxx secret. If I thought that $$$$$$$$$ Wickhound…Now, it’ll be done over again. Xxxxxx ******** ########!!!!!!!”

“No, it will not Samuel. Colonel Brandon is a fine gentleman, but no sort of fool, and only a fool would resurrect such a *********matter. Susan knew I was baking something, and she saw the ball mould. She is the cleverest of all the girls, and she knows the Misses Dashwood. Anyway, the Colonel suspected something, as he indicated to you, and he was also glad enough to have no blood on his hands. Have done, Samuel. Now, open a bottle of wine for me, drink your rum, and we shall retire upstairs with me while I try on my new gown, and remember again why we married.”

“Capital, Frances, by XXXXXX! Spread canvas, and we are for topside.”

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Thursday, May 14, 2009

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