Pistols For Two
Jun. 6th, 2016 01:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Pistols For Two, Coffee For One
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Summary: An officer finds himself in an affair of honour. Portsmouth, 1785.
Author's Note: Answering a prompt fromsharpiefan
Were he any other man, or at least of a more forgiving temper, he would not have allowed himself to be goaded into confrontation. Certainly not a confrontation of this sort. A little self-restraint went a very long way, his father had always said, and yet that was the one thing Jonathan Collins had always lacked. He had never really developed it either, despite repeated attempts. Much to his constant annoyance. Well. He supposed he must have some manner of moderation in him or he would have not lasted long in the Corps, but it was not enough. That lack of self-restraint was truly why he stood here on this grassy patch of ground, far enough removed from town to hopefully ensure safety from any unwanted interlopers.
The pistol felt like a kedge anchor in his hand as he held it down at his side with an air of forced nonchalance. Only a few paces away, his oppoonent stood facing him, his own pistol levelled and gently smoking, its deadly load discharged. Quite harmlessly, thank the Lord. Collins had felt the ball fan past dangerously close to his ear, near enough to ruffle his hair but to do no injury. A lucky miss, perhaps? Or evidence of his challenger's hopeless aim? It hardly mattered. The shot had missed. His opponent, that insolent boy, was staring at him with an expression of useless disbelief and not a little horror, as Collins' own pistol came up. If he was merciful, he would delope. That would settle this absurd business to everyone's satisfaction.
Yet... he recalled his young challenger's words. The hot objection the lad had raised against Collins' simply being present at the party, small and select as it was. The declaration, made so proudly, that he was a Simcoe and the eldest son now that his brother, a certain Lieutenant Matthew Simcoe, had been killed. Lost - no, murdered - because a certain Captain of Marines had allowed his men to commit the terrible sin of mutiny. It then fell to him, Henry Simcoe, the lad declared, to exact satisfaction for his brother's death, and would Mister Colilns - he had been so careful to emphasise that - care to meet him?
It bore so many similarities to the challenge flung at him by James Pettiton five years before that Collins had nearly accepted on the spot. Good sense, in that moment, led him to refuse. There was absolutely no use in it but, in an aggravating echo of that Pettiton affair, Henry Simcoe would not accept refusal or apology. Thus... here they all stood. Collins, his pistol levelled and cocked, Simcoe with his pistol still pointing toward him in terrified disbelief, the two seconds, and the skinny, balding surgeon. Here they stood and the outcome of this miserable, needless business rested solely on his shoulders.
God damn it.
His finger curled around the trigger, any reservations about the action slipping away like the tide. After all, he had been the challenged party. That Simcoe, the supposed insulted party, could not shoot was not a fault for which Collins would feel any sympathy.
The pistol barked as it fired, a billow of powder smoke obscuring the ball as it leaped forth from the barrel. His opponent, that poor fool, gave a great cry of pain as he crumpled to the ground like a man mortally hit. His second and the surgeon rushed toward him, the latter with his ominous black bag in hand. There. That was an end to it. Collins turned away, his interest in the young man's welfare non-existant. The boy would live but he would remember for the rest of his life how it felt to catch a ball. It was good luck to him that he had only been hit through the arm. Perhaps it might teach him some self-restraint in future.
That thought nearly made him laugh. To cover up the moment of inappropriate mirth, Collins shoved the empty pistol at the sleepy-eyed lieutenant who had acted his second. "Go home, Mister Walker."
"Gladly, sir," said Walker.
No word of this affair would come out of Walker. Collins was absolutely assured of that. He would not have asked the lieutenant to act for him otherwise. With a now-unforced air of calm, Collins retrieved his coat and hat from where they had been tossed aside. This was not the first time he had shot a man but, though it was the first in such circumstances, he felt no guilt over it. Henry Simcoe would not be borne away in a coffin and that was all that ultimately mattered. Of course, if he attempted any of this again...
A cup of coffee was in order, Collins decided as he shrugged into his coat, before crossing to where his horse stood quietly, tethered as it was to a limb of a nearby tree. The Rusty Anchor produced a splendid brew. He would go there. A pity that neither of his closer friends could join him. Captain Alderbury had sailed late the previous afternoon and Lieutenant Forsythe was away on recruiting duties. Collins gathered the reins then pulled himself up into the saddle.
Or maybe it was as well. All things considered... coffee for one was just the thing.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Summary: An officer finds himself in an affair of honour. Portsmouth, 1785.
Author's Note: Answering a prompt from
sharpiefanWere he any other man, or at least of a more forgiving temper, he would not have allowed himself to be goaded into confrontation. Certainly not a confrontation of this sort. A little self-restraint went a very long way, his father had always said, and yet that was the one thing Jonathan Collins had always lacked. He had never really developed it either, despite repeated attempts. Much to his constant annoyance. Well. He supposed he must have some manner of moderation in him or he would have not lasted long in the Corps, but it was not enough. That lack of self-restraint was truly why he stood here on this grassy patch of ground, far enough removed from town to hopefully ensure safety from any unwanted interlopers.
The pistol felt like a kedge anchor in his hand as he held it down at his side with an air of forced nonchalance. Only a few paces away, his oppoonent stood facing him, his own pistol levelled and gently smoking, its deadly load discharged. Quite harmlessly, thank the Lord. Collins had felt the ball fan past dangerously close to his ear, near enough to ruffle his hair but to do no injury. A lucky miss, perhaps? Or evidence of his challenger's hopeless aim? It hardly mattered. The shot had missed. His opponent, that insolent boy, was staring at him with an expression of useless disbelief and not a little horror, as Collins' own pistol came up. If he was merciful, he would delope. That would settle this absurd business to everyone's satisfaction.
Yet... he recalled his young challenger's words. The hot objection the lad had raised against Collins' simply being present at the party, small and select as it was. The declaration, made so proudly, that he was a Simcoe and the eldest son now that his brother, a certain Lieutenant Matthew Simcoe, had been killed. Lost - no, murdered - because a certain Captain of Marines had allowed his men to commit the terrible sin of mutiny. It then fell to him, Henry Simcoe, the lad declared, to exact satisfaction for his brother's death, and would Mister Colilns - he had been so careful to emphasise that - care to meet him?
It bore so many similarities to the challenge flung at him by James Pettiton five years before that Collins had nearly accepted on the spot. Good sense, in that moment, led him to refuse. There was absolutely no use in it but, in an aggravating echo of that Pettiton affair, Henry Simcoe would not accept refusal or apology. Thus... here they all stood. Collins, his pistol levelled and cocked, Simcoe with his pistol still pointing toward him in terrified disbelief, the two seconds, and the skinny, balding surgeon. Here they stood and the outcome of this miserable, needless business rested solely on his shoulders.
God damn it.
His finger curled around the trigger, any reservations about the action slipping away like the tide. After all, he had been the challenged party. That Simcoe, the supposed insulted party, could not shoot was not a fault for which Collins would feel any sympathy.
The pistol barked as it fired, a billow of powder smoke obscuring the ball as it leaped forth from the barrel. His opponent, that poor fool, gave a great cry of pain as he crumpled to the ground like a man mortally hit. His second and the surgeon rushed toward him, the latter with his ominous black bag in hand. There. That was an end to it. Collins turned away, his interest in the young man's welfare non-existant. The boy would live but he would remember for the rest of his life how it felt to catch a ball. It was good luck to him that he had only been hit through the arm. Perhaps it might teach him some self-restraint in future.
That thought nearly made him laugh. To cover up the moment of inappropriate mirth, Collins shoved the empty pistol at the sleepy-eyed lieutenant who had acted his second. "Go home, Mister Walker."
"Gladly, sir," said Walker.
No word of this affair would come out of Walker. Collins was absolutely assured of that. He would not have asked the lieutenant to act for him otherwise. With a now-unforced air of calm, Collins retrieved his coat and hat from where they had been tossed aside. This was not the first time he had shot a man but, though it was the first in such circumstances, he felt no guilt over it. Henry Simcoe would not be borne away in a coffin and that was all that ultimately mattered. Of course, if he attempted any of this again...
A cup of coffee was in order, Collins decided as he shrugged into his coat, before crossing to where his horse stood quietly, tethered as it was to a limb of a nearby tree. The Rusty Anchor produced a splendid brew. He would go there. A pity that neither of his closer friends could join him. Captain Alderbury had sailed late the previous afternoon and Lieutenant Forsythe was away on recruiting duties. Collins gathered the reins then pulled himself up into the saddle.
Or maybe it was as well. All things considered... coffee for one was just the thing.
no subject
Date: 2016-06-06 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-08 06:03 pm (UTC)It's well past time even one of them reappeared, isn't it? :D