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PROLOGUE

York, 1817

The duellists and their seconds agreed to spend the night of July 17 in Elmsley’s barn just north of the town. No one would think of looking for members of York’s élite in such a place. There they would be able to hide from magistrates or family members who might try to put a stop to the wretched affair.

Sam Jarvis and his friend, Henry Boulton, arrived first and climbed up into the loft, where they could stay clear of the pigs and the worst of the stink. There they found a thick bed of hay. Sam cleaned his pistol, and they lay down to try to get some rest.

“How did I get myself into this mess?” Sam said. “Ridout is just a bloody-minded fool. Eighteen years old. And I’m twenty-five and should have known better.”

“He insulted your father, didn’t he? What else could you do?” Boulton gave a loud yawn. “People will give you credit for defending your family’s honour. But we’ve been over all this before, so shut up about it. Please.”

“The pity is, he reminds me of myself at his age. Remember those two Mohawks I almost killed over that squaw I fancied? I’d have gone to prison if Mr. Strachan hadn’t persuaded the magistrate to drop charges.”

“You might as well address all these remarks to the pigs, Jarvis. I’m not listening. I’ve got to get some sleep, and you should do the same.”

They had scarcely settled when the barn door opened and John Ridout and his second, James Small, arrived.

“Just like your old man and your whole bloody family, Jarvis,” Ridout said, coming to the foot of the ladder and shouting up at them. “Take the best spot and expect anyone who’s not part of your tight little circle to fend for themselves.”

Boulton put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Leave it, Jarvis. It’ll all be settled at dawn.”

Sam could hear the curses of the two men below—even over the snorting of the pigs. Eventually they found an empty stall and banged the door shut. The barn grew dark. There was no moon, and the pelting rain leaked through the boards overhead, making an incessant pinging sound on the bare floor in a corner of the loft. Sam lay awake, his nostrils filled with the stink of pig shit, his ears assailed by the rain and Boulton’s snores. Finally, just before dawn, he climbed down the ladder and went into the barnyard.

It would all be over before Elmsley’s farmhand made his morning rounds. Boulton and Small had checked that out. Nevertheless, Sam upturned a pail over the head of a rooster he noticed strutting about the yard. If it couldn’t get its neck up to crow, it couldn’t give off alarms to wake the man up.

Too bad someone had not put a pail over Ridout’s head the day he’d burst into Sam’s father’s office and accused the old man of evading his creditors. “Transferred all your land holdings to that son of yours,” he’d said, pointing to Sam, who had come into the office to help his father. “Now my family will never get back the money you owe us.” Sam’s father, who had gout, hobbled towards Ridout, supporting himself on a crutch the family carpenter had made for him.

“You’ve got an almighty nerve,” Ridout said and shook his fist in the old man’s face. The lout seemed ignorant of the fact that Sam’s father had unloaded on him all the huge debts charged against those land holdings. “You’ll pay them off, son,” he’d said as they signed the papers, “and I can die in peace.”

The clerks in the office were witnesses to the elder Jarvis’s humiliation.

Boulton was right. Any decent man would protect a father’s reputation: that was duty. And duty was the fabric of decency. Sam had grabbed Ridout by the back of his coat and booted him out the door.

Later that day, in full view of everyone on King Street, including the drunks in front of the taverns, Ridout had hit Sam with a cane and injured his hand. Then the scoundrel had sent his friend, Small, to Sam’s house with a challenge to a duel.

Sam walked over the field where the duel was to take place, whacking at the burdocks with his walking stick. Where was his blame in all this? He had done what any good son would have done, damn it.

At daybreak, the other three men emerged into the drizzle. Sam went back to the barn to get his pistol from the loft. Then they counted off eight paces in opposite directions, so that when Sam and Ridout turned to face each other, they were only fifty feet apart. Because Ridout was short-sighted, the four of them had previously agreed to this concession, the usual distance being twelve paces. Then Sam noticed that they were between two large tree stumps. He shouted, “We must pick a new spot!”

Small shook his head in disbelief. “A new spot? What are you talking about?”

“Getting cold feet, are you?” Ridout said.

“Because the stumps make it too easy to sight my pistol quickly.”

Well, he’d done the decent thing. If he died on this miserable morning, people would at least have to acknowledge his fair play.

They chose another field that was clear of stumps and once more took their eight paces. “I’ll give the count,” Henry Boulton said. “It will be ‘one...two... three... fire’!”

The duellists turned, raised their pistols to shoulder height, and waited. Boulton called out from a safe distance. Sam could hear him clearly. “One...two—”

But he got no further.

John Ridout fired on the count of two.

His bullet missed Sam. The boy did not seem to know what he had done. He stood there, his pistol smoking, crying over and over, “Have I hurt you, Jarvis?”

Sam could not answer. He had dropped to his knees in response to the sound of the shot, and his heart was pounding so hard he thought it would break through his chest. He could not believe he was still alive. Then came an anger so huge he could not contain it. Kill the bastard. Kill him.

Small and Boulton rushed from opposite sides of the field to huddle together in the rain.

“Jarvis, you must comply with the duelling code and return the fire,” Small said finally.

“And Ridout must not have the chance to reload,” Boulton said. “The scum has broken all the rules of fair play.”

“Agreed.” This comment came from Small, who seemed ashamed now to be his friend’s second.

So Sam and Ridout marked out their paces for the third time. Turned. Faced each other. Ridout raised his empty pistol to shoulder level. Perhaps it was a pitiful attempt at bravado, but the gesture renewed Sam’s fading rage. He remembered his terror. He fired.

The bullet tore into Ridout’s right shoulder, knocking him backwards. Sam threw his pistol to the ground and ran towards him. The jugular vein had burst open. Blood was everywhere. Pools of it leaked onto Ridout’s waistcoat, spattered onto the weeds, soaked the ground under him. “What have I done? What have I done?” cried Sam, his rage spent. The only response was a moan. Then silence.

“He’s dead, Jarvis. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Boulton pulled him away. “Nothing to be done. We’ve got to get out. Now.”

The three men ran. Like rats. And all the way through the bush back into town, Sam said, over and over, “I fired on an unarmed boy. May God forgive me.”