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  Marriott helped the planter out; Amaury supported Blore and propped him against the planter; they leaned against each other and beamed foolishly on the world. Amaury walked with a peculiar stiff-legged gait to the steps, and sat there chin in hand. Dandified young sprigs who clustered at the roadside inspected them and giggled. Carriages and palankeens disgorged dignified Members of Council, middle-aged wives and blushing daughters, self-important Merchants and supercilious officers. Faces froze in disapproving stares; gentlemen armed ladies up the steps, pointedly avoiding Amaury and sniffing at the pair who gyrated shoulder to shoulder in a ludicrous shuffling dance. ‘Damned drunken dogs!’ a major muttered. ‘Will someone take the filthy beasts away?’ The young men laughed; an ensign slapped Marriott’s back and sent him staggering. ‘I envy your debauch!’ he cried. ‘Have you come to beg Our Lord’s forgiveness?’ He darted off to peer through a palankeen’s curtains, and drew back disappointed.

  General Wrangham descended from a modish yellow chaise, and tendered a hand to his lady. Caroline waited on the seat; auburn ringlets flowed from a gay chip hat, a tiny tasselled parasol shaded her face from the sun. Gallants surged to the wheels in an eager rush, and broke beneath an onslaught from the rear which split their ranks like a battering ram.

  Amaury swept off his hat. ‘I believe I have the privilege, Miss Wrangham?’

  Caroline rested her fingers on Amaury’s wrist and stepped lightly from the chaise. They stood for a moment hand in hand. She looked at Amaury beneath her lashes. Her lips parted, and the mischievous twinkle fled from her eyes.

  ‘You have the advantage of me, sir,’ she said in a voice that was hardly a whisper.

  ‘Hugo Amaury, at your service. Upon my conscience, this is the prettiest custom!’

  His eyes glazed. Amaury tottered, swayed, and fell like a stricken oak face-down at his lady’s feet.

  ‘By God,’ swore General Wrangham, ‘how monstrously intolerable!’

  Marriott contemplated sympathetically the red-clad figure which slouched head in hands on the edge of a cot. A flickering candle slanted shadows across an austere cubicle stale with night-long heat. He drank the tea a servant offered, and put down the cup. ‘Are you ready, Todd? I have a carriage waiting at the gate.’ The cadet sighed deeply, and walked with Marriott across the Parade. Gunfire had scattered the crows from roost, sunrise shot saffron streamers from the haze where sky met sea. They mounted a one-horse chaise, a kittareen; Marriott drove through the Black Town’s alleys, turned south on the road to the Mount.

  He broke a heavy silence. ‘Have you handled a pistol before?’

  ‘Never in my life! And this,’ Todd remarked glumly, ‘is scarcely the time to learn.’

  ‘We should have made some practice yesterday. Unhappily I was in no condition ...’

  ‘Nor I, after that sorry debauch at Moubray’s Gardens. My headache lingers yet.’

  ‘You slept well, I trust?’

  ‘Like a hog from dawn till midnight. And then …’ He shook his head.

  Marriott visualized the dark stifling hours on a sweat-soaked bed, the restlessness and remorse that wine induced, the waking nightmares wherein pistol muzzles yawned like the mouths of cannon. A bump in the road flung Todd against him, and he felt him trembling in all his limbs. ‘I shall be surprised,’ he said consolingly, ‘if Anstruther has any greater experience. Pistols tend to throw high; so remember to grip the butt tightly, lock your elbow - and do not linger on the aim.’

  ‘You have been out, Mr Marriott?’

  ‘Not I. A trial, in sober truth, I have no wish to undergo.’

  He whipped up the horse, swung to a track which wound through palms and wiry grass-clumps to the Adyar’s banks, and halted at a sandy bluff scoured out by monsoon floods. They descended to a beach enclosed between cliff and river, a coign from prying eyes and a favourite place for meetings among the quarrelsome men of Madras. Anstruther paced the shingle, hands clasped behind his back and eyes on the ground; Amaury and Surgeon Blore played ducks-and-drakes with pebbles on the water.

  Marriott said, ‘You have the pistols?’

  Amaury tapped the case beneath his arm. ‘A delicate pair of Wogdons. I must warn you, gentlemen’ - he turned on the antagonists a steely gaze - ‘these are hair triggers, sensitive to a thistledown. Keep your fingers clear when you have cocked.’ Anstruther gulped. Todd thrust hands in armpits to control their shaking.

  ‘We had better load them,’ Marriott said.

  ‘I have already done so.’

  Marriott raised his eyebrows. Usually each second prepared a pistol, precisely measuring powder and tamping wads; and each inspected the other’s handiwork.

  ‘A trifle irregular, is it not?’

  ‘What matter?’ said Amaury brusquely. ‘Do you doubt my competence?’

  Amaury seemed ill-tempered and impatient, neglectful of the courtesies attending affairs of honour. Well, it was devilish early, Marriott thought, and none of them had breakfasted. Let it go. ‘Now, as to distance,’ he continued, ‘I propose six paces.’

  Anstruther squawked. ‘Six - ! God damn you, sir - that is bloody murder!’

  ‘Neither of you, I understand,’ said Amaury remorselessly, ‘is well acquainted with pistols. To avoid a ridiculous farce we must close the range.’

  ‘I understand,’ Todd chattered, ‘that thirty yards is the usual space!’

  ‘You are misinformed,’ said Amaury icily. ‘The pistols will not carry much farther!’

  What, Marriott pondered, was the man about? ‘Twelve paces is the customary distance, Captain Amaury.’

  ‘Butchery!’ Anstruther mouthed.

  ‘Wanton slaughter... a shambles...’ babbled Todd.

  Marriott regarded them with pity. Both were little more than schoolboys: Todd sixteen or seventeen, his opponent a year older; both were shattered by the long night’s vigil, their nerves frayed raw. Had Amaury no compassion? He scanned the inflexible face, and wondered what devils drove him.

  ‘If you are so insistent, gentlemen,’ said Amaury reluctantly, ‘I am compelled to yield. Mr Marriott, pray will you pace twelve?’

  ‘I would p-prefer,’ Anstruther gibbered, ‘that you yourself m-measured the distance!’

  Amaury stared. ‘Your preference does me honour, but... why so?’

  ‘Because,’ Anstruther said in a desolate voice, ‘you have much longer legs.’

  Surgeon Blore guffawed. Amaury glared at him balefully. Marriott stepped the distance, and dropped pebbles on the stations. He took the pistols from their case, and paused.

  ‘Who is the challenger?’

  Todd swallowed. ‘No challenge was given. Neither Anstruther nor I desire an affair which has been forced upon us.’

  ‘Then,’ said Marriott in relief, ‘we can accommodate matters without proceeding to extremities. If both offer to withdraw ...’

  ‘This has gone beyond apology or explanation,’ Amaury said stonily. ‘Only blood will efface the incivilities that passed!’ Marriott looked at him in astonishment. Amaury, of all men, must know a second’s primary duty: to dissuade his principal, within the bounds of honour, from exchanging fire. He opened his mouth to protest, was quelled by the ferocious look in Amaury’s eyes; and lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘Mr Anstruther, I think, offered the provocation and therefore you, Mr Todd, have choice of pistols.’

  Todd took the butt in a quivering hand, ‘For God’s sake don’t touch the trigger!’ Marriott murmured; and handed Anstruther his weapon. They went with dragging feet to their stations.

  ‘Face to face, gentlemen,’ said Amaury grimly, ‘for without turning you will have more chance of hitting the mark!’

  Both duellists trembled violently. Todd’s pistol dangled loosely in his hand. He said, ‘A moment, if you please. Mr Anstruther owes me twenty pagodas; it is very hard that I am obliged to risk my money as well as my life!’

  This desperate pretext for delay almost made Marriott smile. Amaury said, ‘I promise, in t
he event of Mr Anstruther’s death, to pay you the amount due. I conceive,’ he added gravely, ‘there is little risk of my being called upon to do so, since two such dangerous champions will probably both end their lives on the spot!’

  The last vestiges of colour fled from Todd’s face; Anstruther looked ready to vomit. Amaury said impatiently, ‘Cock your pistols, gentlemen!’

  Two wavering barrels pointed to the sky.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Fire!’

  The explosions slammed as one. Anstruther fell headlong and lay still.

  Amaury’s jaw dropped, he looked completely stricken. He ran to the prostrate body, turned it over. Glassy eyes stared sightlessly at the sun. Frantically he ripped open coat and shirt, and felt for the wound. ‘Great God, I could not have …’

  Anstruther sat up. ‘Am I hit?’ he asked dazedly.

  Surgeon Blore probed back and chest, patted belly and thighs. ‘Unscathed,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Not a mark. Here, have some brandy!’

  Anstruther gulped from the flask; a tinge of colour returned to the pallid face. ‘I heard the ball whizz close by my ear,’ he declared, ‘and thought myself struck!’

  He climbed shakily to his feet. Amaury said, ‘Do you wish for a return of fire?’

  ‘Not I!’ said Anstruther emphatically.

  ‘Nor I,’ Todd promised him.

  ‘Well, sirs, you have done all that is required of gentlemen and men of honour. I congratulate you on the gallantry you have shown.’ No hint of irony tinged Amaury’s tone. ‘Will you now shake hands?’

  They shook. Anstruther said, ‘I declare upon my soul I never intended any disgraceful expressions, Mr Todd.’ Todd bowed.

  ‘Very handsomely said, Mr Anstruther. I assure you I carry no ill feelings. Shall we leave?’

  Before they reached the cliff Todd had laid an arm across his opponent’s shoulders; both were chattering excitedly. Blore surveyed them morosely. ‘An unsatisfactory outcome. No call for my attentions - and I like to see a piece of blood.’

  Amaury said pointedly, ‘You may take my chaise to the Fort, Captain Blore, provided you send it back. Marriott and I will stay awhile to clean the pistols.’

  The surgeon tramped away.

  ‘You disappoint me, Hugo,’ said Marriott.

  They sat in the shade of a ramshackle palm-thatched hut near the water’s edge. Amaury abstractedly pumped a cleaning rod in a pistol’s bore. ‘Your displeasure, Charles, is sufficiently obvious. Would you explain?’

  ‘I had not thought you merciless. You positively insisted those two boys should try to kill each other, and allowed them no escape.’

  Amaury measured powder, tamped a wad, selected a ball and rammed it home. A native on the opposite bank herded buffaloes to the water; the creatures wallowed happily, hides gleaming in the sunlight.

  ‘There was no danger. Neither pistol carried ball.’

  Marriott gaped. ‘Then why this ... this parody?’

  Amaury primed the weapon, lowered the hammer. ‘I wanted to frighten them silly!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wanted to impress the utter futility of this honourable - honourable! - charade! Both are very young; the scare may deter them for life.’

  ‘But,’ said Marriott stupidly, ‘you yourself...’

  A vulture circled lazily above their heads, swooped to inspect a stranded fish that rotted on the sand, and flapped away from Amaury’s angry gesture.

  ‘I have been out seven times, and killed five men. One was a dear friend. None had done me harm, nor I them. Inflamed by wine, imagining slights where none was meant I swore my precious honour bruised and killed them like a butcher. Do you think I sleep so easily when those phantoms come to haunt me in the dark?’

  He averted his face, and began to load the second pistol. ‘Nature, Charles, has cursed me with a muscular physique, surpassing aptitude in hand and eye, and a hardy courage - or lack of fear - above the common mean. For these qualities I claim no merit - it was thus that I was born. But mark this: I have known in every duel the certainty of winning. So the contests were unequal, my enemy marked for death directly he toed the line.’

  ‘A hazard in all affairs,’ Marriott said feebly. ‘It is seldom that the parties are equally proficient.’

  The vulture returned, gliding hopefully above his rancid quarry. Amaury watched it absently.

  ‘Which makes the custom more disgraceful,’ he answered grimly. ‘Duelling is an abomination - and I have sworn never again to take the field!’

  Marriott rubbed his nose. ‘A difficult vow to keep.’

  ‘I try to discourage the bravos. My evil reputation is a help - that dual across a handkerchief has echoed afar. Why do you imagine I practise daily at the butts in Fort St George - always, if I can, before an audience? To show them this!’ He cocked and fired the pistols in a single fluid motion: the vulture exploded in blood and feathers and plummeted into the water. The herdsman across the river screeched in fright and scuttled to the tamarisk bushes’ cover.

  ‘Vastly impressive,’ Marriott remarked. ‘Do you intend to deter every potential duellist in Madras? You have set yourself a monstrous task! Now the pistols must be cleaned again. Give them me.’ He busied himself with rod and cloth, arid added inconsequentially, ‘There is a conundrum, Hugo, which persistently has puzzled me. Why should you, a dashaway cavalry captain, have interested yourself in the travails of a lowly Writer like myself?’

  The tense expression faded from Amaury’s face. ‘We have much in common.’ He smiled at Marriott’s disbelieving look. ‘No, Charles, it is true - and goes beyond a mutual taste for wine and jovial sets. I know about your scrape in Covent Garden. We are both condemned to exile in this pestilential land; the ties that bind us to our English kin are permanently severed. Madras holds other men in the same predicament - rogues and rascals all. You are not. When I heard of your misfortune - so like mine - I sought you out. ’Tis a lucky chance I did.’

  ‘To save me from perdition in the taverns of the Black Town?’

  Amaury shook his head. ‘A gentleman may go to hell in every way he chooses-I would not interfere on any path save one. More than once when in your cups you edged to the brink of being called out. I have told you,’ he said with a twisted smile, ‘my views in that direction. You needed looking after, Charles - I appointed myself your guardian. And devilish troublesome you sometimes were!’

  Marriott cased the pistols, closed the lid. ‘I own my gratitude,’ he said soberly. ‘It was more than I deserved - after two years on Coromandel I am no longer a callow boy like the pair who exchanged blank powder.’

  ‘And all of two years older than they,’ said Amaury, straight- faced. Carriage wheels crunched gravel above the cliff; he rose to his feet. ‘There is my chaise returned. I must go to stable parade. Have you a mind to attend the Assembly Rooms tonight?’

  ‘No. I am not entirely recovered from our late debauch. Will you go?’

  ‘Why not? - one must savour every pleasantry this corner of Hades affords!’

  ‘You will certainly encounter General Wrangham,’ said Marriott doubtfully, ‘and also Caroline. How will you explain your - um - performance at the church?’

  Amaury laughed. ‘I trust she will believe me rendered totally unconscious by her overwhelming beauty!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Solitary on Choultry Plain the Assembly Rooms towered like a battlemented castle, its fortified appearance enhanced by twin bastions embaying a flight of wide stone steps which climbed to pillared portals. From Town and Fort and Garden Houses carriages and palankeens converged on the whitewashed mansion; brightly coated gentlemen, and ladies in silks and satins dismounted from their vehicles and climbed the curving stair. The strains of a minuet floated through the doorway; in the ballroom four hundred chattering voices drowned the band Lord Clive entertained the quality of Madras.

  Marriott, curious to see Amaury’s reception by the Wrangham family, had changed his
mind. Clad soberly in a Writer’s regulation evening dress - black coat, white knee breeches, chapeau bras: a fashion which, years afterwards, Mr Brummell imposed on London’s ton - he arrived at the Rooms with Amaury, a splendid sight in scarlet regimentals. The ballroom ran the length of the building; candles blazed in chandeliers which dangled from the ceiling. Gilt-painted chairs were ranged in rows along the walls. The band trumpeted and fiddled while, seated on a dais, Lord Clive received his guests.

  Amaury raised a quizzing glass and inspected Anstruther who, partnering Caroline, pointed his toes and daintily stepped the minuet’s measures.

  ‘The fellow certainly dances more adroitly than he duels.’

  ‘Who would not, with such a vision to encourage him? Will you ask to lead her out?’

  Amaury grinned. ‘Fortune can be pushed too far. No, I shall await a country dance or a cotillon, and try to insert myself in the set. Come, Charles, let’s find refreshment - Clive serves a passable negus.’

  They walked down the room, pausing to speak with those who watched the dancing. Amaury knew everybody; elderly ladies called his name, and flirted shamelessly; maidens coyly ogled him behind their fans; gentlemen clasped his hand and inquired after his horses and his health. He punctiliously presented Marriott; they bowed politely and resumed their banter with Amaury, that tall, attractive man in silver and red.

  ‘When may we see you at church again, Captain Amaury?’ a judge’s wife asked pertly, eyes wickedly alight. Amaury smiled faintly. ‘Whenever, Lady Caledon, I am assured you will be there to - um - support me!’

  ‘Such a pickle, my dear!’ Marriott heard whispered behind a fan.

  ‘Indeed - but he is such a magnetic charmer, is he not?’

  In a crowded supper room, negus bowls in hand, they found themselves confronted by General Wrangham and his lady. Sir John eyed Amaury coldly, and turned pointedly away. To Marriott he barked, ‘I have awaited a month and more, sir, an explanation - and apology for risking my daughter’s life in your inadequate masoolah! What do you mean by it, hey?’