It was a minor advantage he had, in the beginning, but it could count; and it amused him. For Wingfield not only had not expected him to draw but never supposed that he would know how to hold his weapon, much less that he would attack.
They had for footing wet rounded cobblestones. Adam slipped, in a lunge, and went to his right knee, his sword hand down; but he was up again swiftly. Wingfield slipped, retreating; but he was back in position before Adam could close. Wingfield retreated further.
There were men on both sides of them and likely enough these men were yelling. Adam didn't know. They told him afterward that he'd laughed aloud throughout the engagement, as though he was having a wonderful time; but he didn't know this, then.
Wingfield retreated. This might have been wholly because he was startled, as Adam supposed, or it might have been because he knew he was backing toward the wharf, where the footing would be better.
The wharf, a town property—simply the wharf to Adam, though it had recently been named Queen's Wharf—was packed gravel between planks and pilings. Wet, the gravel would be firm, not slippy.
Wingfield might have wished he could turn and run to this, but he didn't dare. But the moment he felt the gravel underfoot he made a stand. He caught Adam's blade low and clacked it off, and his own was in for a riposte that almost reached. Then he was back in position, grim.
Adam thrust again. Again he missed—and Wingfield stepped back several paces and lowered his point.
Adam stopped, panting, puzzled. But he kept his point in line.
"You're hit, sir," Wingfield shouted. "An affair of honor ends when one party's been hit!"
There were men on either side, yammering. It all sounded like click-etty-click-click.
Adam had known nothing, no burn or pain. He was breathing short but feeling fine. He was remembering not to grip his sword too hard. He looked past its point now, at Wingfield's face.
"This ain't an affair of honor. It's a brawl. Guard!"
He went in again.
Now he, too, was off the cobbles and onto the gravel. It felt good. He catstepped, his blade steady, threatening, threatening. Wingfield retreated with a dainty sure step, a watchful fighter no longer flustered, who believed that his chance would come soon.
Now they were near the end of the wharf, not a long one.
Adam lunged again, full-length. He was very low, stretched close to the gravel. He had aimed for the right armpit, meaning to slip under the other's guard. Wingfield did not even try to riposte, but arched in and went high on his toes, straightening his sword arm.
Adam's point fell short. Wingfield's was not accurately thrust, by inches. Otherwise Adam would have lost his right eye, perhaps his life, too. Adam sensed the steel go past his ear, though he couldn't have said whether he felt it, it was that close.
For a split-second then Adam knew fear—a tap, a touch, no more. He shook it off.
In fact, the advantage was his. He couldn't go further in—he was stretched full—but as he brought his left leg up for another lunge he knew that Wingfield would have to retreat further.
In the position he was in, Wingfield, about to be attacked again, had no choice. He jumped back—and his left heel struck the stringpiece at the end of the wharf.
That finished the fight. The stringpiece was only a few inches high, but the contact spilled Wingfield's balance. He had to parr)?, and he did; but he couldn't risk a riposte; and Adam pressed in.
Wingfield teetered. His right hand went high, then quickly low. His point was badly out of line.
Adam swept his blade up, no longer threatening with the point. To those who watched it must have seemed a brilliant stroke, but in fact it was easy. Anybody could have done it, just then.
Falling backward, waving his arms wildly, Wingfield no doubt had started to release his grip on the sword. Adam's rapier caught it full in the middle, threw it up, took it out of Wingfield's hand; and Wingfield went over backward into the water.
The sword, after pinwheeling high, fell at Adam's feet. He grinned at it quietly, and picked it up.
Men were all around him, babbling at him, laughing into his face. Other men were reaching down for Captain Wingfield, who made an almighty big fuss there in Narragansett Bay.
"You're hit, Adam!"'
"Punctured your shoulder!"
"Look, Captain, he got you right in the—"
Adam felt the place. It was wet, but then he was pretty wet all over, nigh to being as wet as his late opponent, what with the rain. But when he took his hand away and looked at it, there was blood. This astonished but did not dash him. It couldn't have been serious.
"A smitch of rum'll set that right," he said. "Come on, everybody." "A souvenir for you, Blake," he said soon afterward, when he tossed
Wingfield's weapon on the bar. He dropped some coins there, too. "And
drinks for my friends—all of them!"
All lumpy with lemons, he slowed his step before the home of Obadiah Selden. There was a light in the big room but
none in Deborah's bedroom beside it, and he stood a moment looking at the bedroom window only a few feet away. There was enough light from the large room—the door must have been ajar—to show part of the bedroom wall, and he made out a sampler, marvelously neat, hanging in a frame:
Young Obadias,
David, Josias,
All were pious.
The rain had ceased only recently, and the late afternoon was overcast, dark as night. A breeze shivered the leaves of the maples, shaking loose a shower of raindrops which pittered all about him. He had climbed the hill fast, and what with this, and what with the ale at Blake's, he was a bit winded.
It was inevitable that his thoughts flew to the previous time he had paused at this spot. Then, a clear night, he had felt very pleased with himself, all the world being, as he supposed, just ahead of him. Now he was inclined to be somber. He rolled the lemons around in his pockets, rubbing them against one another, pleased with their sleek dry smoothness.
A shadow came to the window. It was Deborah. He could not tell whether she was facing him or had her back to him, and he didn't know whether, if she faced him, she could see him. But the lower pane was up, and on impulse Adam crossed the patch of grass.
"Deborah," gently.
She did not gasp, did not turn. She must be facing him. Yes, he could see more clearly now: she was facing him.
"I, uh, I'm glad you're not going to have a baby after all."
She didn't say anything, nor did she move. The town, for this hour, was singularly quiet. Lightning bugs began to appear, doggedly battling the breeze. Shaken, long-suspended raindrops thupped into the ground.
It was creepy, saying things to a shadow that didn't answer, or even stir. Maybe she did not hear him? He could have been mistaken about that window. He reached out. No, the pane was raised, sure enough, and his hand went right through and came to rest on the sill an inch from hers.
Now he heard a quick intake of breath, which made him feel more comfortable.
She cleared her throat, and that was a very small sound. It could be that she wasn't sure whether she could make any voice at all come.
"I never did think I was going to have a baby, Captain. How could I, when I've never been near a man?"
He shook his head, bewildered. Deborah Selden would not go skittering here and there in her talk, saying one thing when she meant another, flirting with words in order to flirt with him or whomever.
"Why'd you want to get married then?"
"I—I didn't just want to get married. I wanted to get married to you."
"Well-"
"Have you forgotten that I asked you, right here, before I—I tried to play a deceit?"