It was the balloons, red and yellow and white bubbles rising up and scattering into the blue sky over a rocky seascape, that led Matthew Roving. In search of someone who could teach him how to survive a duel, Matthew had sought the man known as The Fight Master all over Newport. Apparently he had no fixed address, this Shoddy Cutts—"look for a little brown car the size of a muffin tin," the chubby Roddy Soard had said. "Look for picnics, fairs, and festivals." Circling the listings in a free newspaper, then pedaling The Quaint Misbehaving Home for Wayward Salt's rackety 10-speed bike for hours, Matthew had nearly exhausted his possibilities, not to mention himself, when he saw the balloons. And followed them. And found a middle school fair at Brenton Point State Park.
Strolling amid the concession booths and games, Matthew came across an enclosed grass area, empty except for a folding chair and an umbrella stand filled with colorful soft-foam sabers. "Beat Zorro," said a sign. "Three Minutes for $3."
Matthew called out, and a short, finely muscled man with long white hair pulled back in a ponytail emerged from a neighboring tent. After the usual aggravating conversation—why didn't anyone ever believe him when he said he wanted to learn to use a sword?—they were stalemated. Matthew then threw down three crumpled dollars. "Let's just fight." When Shoddy Cutts laughed and agreed, Matthew nodded at the tent: "Got any real edged weapons in there?"
Shoddy shrugged, threw open the tent flap. When Matthew stepped in, at first it was too dark to see. "Choose your weapon," said Shoddy Cutts.
All around the tent, which was furnished entirely in rich dark Afghan and Oriental carpets and an infinite variety of tasseled pillows, were swords and edged weapons: bundles of flimsy rapiers, tied by velvet ribbons; pikestaffs and poleaxes; broadswords and Claymores. "How about this?" He handed Matthew a fencing rapier, then stared at the green onion Matthew was nibbling on. "That must make you popular with the girls."
"It's just a habit I picked up," said Matthew, blushing. It was true, though: he liked the way the strong biting taste of the onion cleaned his nasal passages and seemed to draw his nerves to attention. He hefted the rapier, then saw, behind Shoddy Cutts, a jumbled pile of archaic weapons wrapped in a worn piece of rug in the corner of the tent: a dagger, a scimitar, a kris, a heavy navy cutlass. He pointed. "That one."
Shoddy, surprised, picked it up, ran a thumb along the blade. "It's not a fencing blade, this one. The edge is the thing, not the point. Pick another."
"No. You said it was my choice, and that's what I choose." Matthew turned to go out to the grass enclosure, but Shoddy held up a hand. "Please, let's keep it inside. Don't want children trying this at home." He tried a smile, which came out more of a grimace. "Help me clear a space."
When all the pillows and piles of weapons had been pushed to the sides, the carpeted floor of the tent was just large enough for the two to face each other and have half a dozen feet of space. "Tight fit," said Matthew. Shoddy replied: "In a duel, my friend, the object is to face your opponent, not run away."
Shoddy threw Matthew a heavy quilted jacket to put on, with thigh pads. They squared off, Matthew assuming the stance he'd learned from the captain on the Dartmouth. Shoddy raised an eyebrow, lifted the tip of his rapier to touch that of Matthew's cutlass. "Feel free to come at me as strong as you like," he said. To Matthew's questioning look, he added, "If you manage to stick me, I've no claim to being a fight-master, do I?" He paused. "However, in a duel it is considered in poor form to aim at the head. It also exposes the belly to disembowelment."
Tip-to-tip they stood, Matthew with his left hand behind his back, feeling the weight of the blade, his fingers sweaty on the grip. On the Dartmouth, Matthew had always waited for the captain to start things off, but he had to get Shoddy Cutts's attention, and fast. He withdrew his tip, made a short jab, hopped back, shifted his weight to his forward foot, and swung short, hard as he could, like a check-swing with a baseball bat. As he expected, Shoddy blocked the cutlass down near the hilt of his rapier, but the shock snapped the blade off with a clean crisp ringing sound. It flew end-over-end and plunged into a pillow.
Shoddy stared at the shorn hilt and guard in his hand. "These are—expensive. Here, I'll get another . . ." He seemed preoccupied as he rummaged for a rapier.
"Would that be allowed in a duel, getting a new sword?"
"Of course. Furthermore, you wouldn't be able to select such a machete"—he stared at Matthew. Matthew blushed, and took the green onion, which he'd automatically fished from his pocket, out of his mouth. Shoddy Cutts stared into his eyes. Then, speaking very slowly, he said: "You've been back." He lowered his new rapier. "Haven't you?"
When Matthew said he didn't know what he meant, Shoddy snorted: "Well, I do. Let me tell you, I'd almost given up hope." He held up a hand. "Don't talk. I understand totally. It can't be easy, carrying that big a secret around. Talk about it, never know when somebody might put you in the looney bin." He laughed bitterly. "As well I know."
As Matthew continued to look on wide-eyed, Shoddy waved. "Don't say a thing. You want to fight a duel? I shall help you. But you must help me help you, so tell me what type of duel—close quarters, I take it? Yes. Action at sea, to judge from the cutlass—no? That's a shame, you're not half bad."
Matthew couldn't bring himself to confess, and decided to pretend he was humoring Shoddy Cutts. "Okay," he said, "what if, like, it was a duel against a gentleman, an English lord, you know, a little older than me. And the dude is, like, really good with a sword."
Shoddy smiled. "Well, first thing is you can never beat a superior fencer by brute assault. So don't attack, lunge, go wild. You can't expect to get lucky, not like you just did with me. You'll just hasten the end."
He picked up his rapier, and handed it to Matthew. "Don't worry, you'll be surprised at how much progress we can make in two or three months." He stopped at the expression on Matthew's face. "How much time do we have?"
"24 hours."
Shoddy Cutts closed his eyes, then opened them and stared at the ceiling of the tent. "There's nothing you can learn in 24 hours."
"What if I ask for quarter? I mean, I'm not that proud."
"Quarter?" Shoddy laughed faintly. "Not in a duel; that's tantamount to admitting you are a coward and a commoner. He will skewer you like a shish-kabob, and rightfully so." He took the cutlass from Matthew and placed it and the rapier on a pillow. He pulled on a plush green velvet jacket and began to button what seemed to be tips of a deer's antlers, cut and polished. "Come on, there is someone I'd like you to meet. He's a Jaegermeister, and from what you're saying, we have but one choice and that is—to go with the gun."
Shoddy Cutts indeed drove a tiny brown muffin tin called a Morris Mini, pinstriped in red, white, and blue. They circled the back side of Brenton Point, drove all the way through Newport down to the Bridge, crossed over to Jamestown, drove to the tip, entered Fort Wetherell Park, and pulled up off a leafy street.
"Follow," said Shoddy. Out of a mess of wild tuberoses and poison ivy they emerged on a rocky bluff, overlooking a familiar derelict scow, anchored in the lee of a scatter of offshore rocks.
"We're going to see Roddy Soard?" asked Matthew.
"What, you know him?"
"He sent me to you!"
"Why, that weaselly rapscallion . . ." Shoddy didn't actually look very surprised.
Neither did ruddy round Roddy, as he peered down over the railing at them, kitten perched on one shoulder. "Well, what took you so long?" he asked peevishly, after Shoddy had narrated how he and Matthew had met.
"I had to at least see what sort of swordsman he was," Shoddy said calmly. "Matthew, give us a date like a good lad, will you?" He sighed at Matthew's puzzlement. "Are we talking 1720, or is it 1660—a good year, wasn't it Roddy? Or are we closer to the Big Event?"
"Sounds like Boston to me," said Roddy Soard, after Matthew had told him 1773. When Matthew nodded yes, Roddy opened a leatherbound Bible stuffed to overflowing with leaves of papers. "Let's see, is Boston filed under Acts, Epistles, or Psalms? Epistles, I believe—ah, yes: Erwin Walster, cousin of Jacob of Saarbruck, goody goody good. Steel-mounted saddle pistols, with hair trigger concealed in the guard, seventeen inches in length, filigree on barrel." He glanced up. "We must be sure to instruct our friend here in the hair trigger."
In a clearing near the shore, when the afternoon was drawing close and the tolling of the bell at Brenton Point could be heard clang-clang-clanging, Roddy and Shoddy—yes, they were brothers—took Matthew out for dueling practice. It was as much a lesson in manners and tactics as in shooting. "Who's your second?" asked Roddy. When Matthew looked at him blankly, he pursed his lips. "Uh-huh. Some passer-by or tavern hero, half-crocked on ale, no doubt. Now listen close, Matthew: Many a duel's decided before the pistol's in the dead man's hand. Do you ken me?"
Matthew looked at Shoddy for help. He shrugged. "I just do swords, honestly," he said. His brother held up a flintlock pistol. "The duelists never prepare the weapons. The seconds are responsible for loading and priming the pistol. If your second should let your rival's second take on the job, he may just undercharge your ball or let a drop of moisture fall in your priming-pan. Then you will die. So get yourself a good second.
"Now to tactics. When you have both inspected the pistols, which is your right and an expectation, be prepared for some sort of gambit. A clever duelist may suggest some twist: change the distance from 20 paces to 15, or to 10. He may make it seem cowardly to refuse, yet you must have wit to neutralize his suggestion, because you can be sure there is a tree on his property full of lead balls put into a painted heart at that distance. You probably should mention an astigmatism if he desires a longer distance. If he suggests a shorter distance, you must have a ready response, because shorter is deadlier. Here's a good one: ‘We are not butchers of grouse, who need beaters to raise game six inches from our muzzles, sirrah. If you are not proud of your aim, retire and practice until your nerves are more steady.' Think you can remember that?"
The afternoon contained many more such treasures of dueling lore, most of which Matthew promptly forgot. Every so often, as a reward for staying awake, Roddy charged a pistol and let Matthew shoot it. That was fun, and weird: from the time he squeezed (never pulled or yanked) the trigger, the gun seemed to take an eternity to go off. First the hammer with the flint gripped in its vise fell on the strike-plate, scraping up a spray of sparks which ignited the powder in the pan, which communicated through a pin-hole to the chamber where the powder charge had been rammed. On top of this, black powder burned rather slowly, so it felt as if minutes had passed between the triggering and the leisurely back-kick of recoil.
It was dusk when Shoddy Cutts paused from his incessant hacking of sawgrass with a walking stick. "Hair trigger time?" Roddy Soard nodded. He gave the pistol to Shoddy, having him hold it on his outstretched palms like an offering, as it would be in the duel. "Pretend, friend, we have two pistols here. Now, when the guns are presented, you have the right to inspect both weapons. You will see that, on the underside of the trigger guard here, there is a screw-head. On most pistols that is all it is—a screw. However, on the set of guns you are going to procure from Erwin Walster, cousin of the best Jaegermeister in Europe, the screw when depressed and slid forward activates a hair trigger. You will have two choices going in—either you activate your hair trigger, or your rival's.
"There are advantages either way. If your trigger is set, you can fire your pistol without your rival anticipating it. A good duelist watches the index finger, not the second finger which tickles the hair trigger. He will not have time to react.
"However, if you are uncertain of your aim, which seems to be the case here, simply set the hair trigger on your rival's pistol when you examine it. He will in all likelihood accidentally fire the pistol at some point in leveling or waiting, and it will miss. Once the pistol is discharged, you may either kill him or shoot into the air, but the duel is over. Honor has been satisfied."
Matthew practiced examining the gun and pushing the screw-head. "This is the sort of stuff that went on in those days, huh?" he asked. "I mean, they really cheated like this?"
"All the time," Roddy assured him. "The so-called nobility, they love playing with a stacked deck."
It was now dark, and the lights of Newport across the Bay were delicate as Japanese lanterns. Matthew felt a sense of calm now that he had a plan. He smiled at Shoddy. "I guess we'll work on sword-play some other time." The Fight-Master nodded, then glanced over at his brother the Jagermeister. "Speaking of which, " he said, "Roddy, isn't it time we gave Matthew here an honorable excuse for using pistols instead of swords?"
"I wasn't forgetting," Roddy said, sighing. "Matthew, are you absolutely sure you mustn't get into a sword-fight with this chap?"
"Oh, absolutely—he'd skewer me like a—like a shish-kabob."
"Then you shall need an unimpeachable excuse. Give me your hand, please." Matthew reached out and took Roddy Soard's extended hand. The moment their fingertips touched, Roddy laced his fingers through Matthew's, pulled toward him, reached in with his other hand, bent Matthew's third finger as far back as it would go and then, after a short sympathetic glance into Matthew's eyes, broke it.
Matthew screamed with pain, and fainted.