Glancing up, Jeremy saw the troops of the Second Battalion filing under the arch, stepping carefully as they gazed with morbid curiosity into the faces of the dead. Command carried with it a responsibility, and Jeremy straightened. Buttoning his collar, he murmured, "Thanks, Dirk," and hurried to an inner door, which was shut. Raising the bolt, he peered down a dark corridor that apparently led to another tower. From somewhere in the gloom there came the muffled sounds of musket shots, the sharper retorts of pistols, and the young gunsmith shook himself. Although his men had seen combat and those of the other battalion had not, he was reluctant to let the initiative pass to others. If Sir Ian MacGregor was engaging in a last stand, Jeremy wanted the privilege of capturing him.
"First Platoon, First Battalion," he called, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice, "follow me!"
He plunged into the dark corridor, and the remaining men of the platoon rallied behind him, Dirk in the lead. Ahead there was a maze of passageways, but Jeremy let himself be guided by the sound of firing, which became increasingly loud as he darted first to the left, then left again, then to the right. The men behind him began to shout, and in the narrow, inky corridor the noise reverberated loudly.
The heavy cannonading of the morning and the previous afternoon had jarred loose some of the stones in the flooring, and Jeremy's boot toe struck smartly against a raised slab. A pain shot up his leg. He stumbled and fell to one knee, and the men of the platoon raced past him. Rising, he hobbled after them around a bend, but by the time his leg felt normal they were at least twenty feet ahead of him; although he could no longer see them, he could hear their thick-soled army shoes slapping against the stones.
Now, a few feet to his right, he noticed an inner staircase, and as he glanced toward it a tall figure muffled in a long cloak started down the steps. There was something so furtive, so reminiscent about the way the man moved that Jeremy paused. On quick reflection he realized that it was extraordinary for any man to be wearing a cloak on so hot a day, and without further ado he moved toward the stairs. "You there!" he called, certain that he would recognize the harsh voice of the Scots chamberlain to the Duchess of Glasgow.
There was no reply, but the light sound of the man's hurrying footsteps echoed up the well. Gripping his sword, Jeremy impulsively followed him. It was so dark that he had to feel his way, and occasionally he touched the wall for support. The stones were damp to the touch, so he reasoned that the stairs must be close to the outer sea wall of the Citadel. When he reached the bottom of the steps, a black tunnel stretched out ahead of him, so low that he had to bend almost double as he ran blindly, his left hand stretched out protectively in front of him.
It seemed logical that this dank corridor was a little-used exit from the Citadel. The air was cool and damp but stale, and tiny scraping noises indicated the presence of rats. Jeremy had no idea where the tunnel was leading, but he had already come a considerable distance and he knew that the passage must end somewhere. It did, with unexpected suddenness. The young gunsmith rounded a sharp corner and saw daylight directly ahead.
He came out into the open, and standing ten feet away, waiting for him, was Sir Ian MacGregor. The Scotsman had discarded his cloak; his sword was in his right hand and a cocked pistol in his left. As he recognized Jeremy a hard light came into his eyes and he laughed harshly.
Jeremy looked about wildly. The north outer wall of the Citadel was one hundred and fifty or more feet behind him. The tunnel had opened onto a high-walled courtyard from what appeared to be an innocent one-story stone warehouse, which itself made up one wall. Only the sea side was open and unprotected, and the gentle waters of the Caribbean lapped against the cobbled flooring which extended to the shore line. The two men were completely alone, sealed off in an area that was perhaps twenty feet long and approximately half as wide.
Cursing himself for having failed to reload his own pistol, Jeremy knew that he was helpless. Worst of all, Sir Ian was enjoying the moment, and the knowledge further enraged the young gunsmith. It was bad enough that he was about to die; that his own stupid carelessness had contributed to his downfall made the situation doubly bitter.
"So we met again, impostor—for the last time." The Scotsman savored each word. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Our failure to achieve the brightest dream of this age is due as much to your perfidy as to any other cause." His hand was steady, and the pistol remained pointed at Jeremy. "It gives me even greater joy than you can imagine to see you wearing the uniform of William and Mary. I dare say that your choice of colors seemed a wise one to you when you made it. On the other hand, had you thrown in your lot with us you would have toasted a great victory with us on this very night. As it is, I fear you will dine instead in hell."
Jeremy tried to assume a dignified stance. "What has become of the Duchess?' he asked, dismayed that his voice sounded in his own ears like a hoarse croak.
Sir Ian shrugged indifferently. "Caroline and Tom Murray and I gambled for the highest stakes on earth," he said idly, as though the subject bored him. "I put my fortune into the enterprise and Tom risked the Murray estates. We've gambled— and we've lost. So have you, impostor. Ah well. Is there anything you'd like to say before I put an end to your miserable existence?"
"Yes, MacGregor, there is. You may go to blazes." "No, my brazen charlatan. That is where I am consigning you. Now." The Scotsman, still smiling sardonically, squeezed the trigger of his pistol. There was a faint spark, but the weapon did not fire. Jeremy instantly lunged across the intervening distance, quickly transferring his blade to his left hand. Sir Ian hurriedly cocked the pistol again with his thumb and again pulled the trigger, but for the second time there was no explosion. He hurled the useless pistol wildly, and the young gunsmith ducked. It passed harmlessly over his head, struck the stone wall behind him, and bounced on the cobblestones.
"Perhaps we can conclude a little disagreement that was once interrupted on board the Bonnie Maid," Jeremy suggested, leaping forward and thrusting.
The baronet was ready for him, parried neatly, and in almost the same movement thrust wickedly at the younger man's face. Jeremy danced out of reach, testing the cobbles with the soles of his boots. Dried salt spray gave the stones a gritty feel, so the footing seemed fairly secure. That would be a help, for in a duel that was unwitnessed he knew Sir Ian would resort to any trick. He knew, too, that in any prolonged match the baronet would be a sure winner, for his reach was slightly longer and his physical strength was greater.
So he planned carefully, trying to co-ordinate his over-all tactics in advance. Meanwhile he tried to keep out of the Scotsman's way and retreated slowly, his sword high. To his surprise Sir Ian moved in viciously for a kill, and Jeremy was delighted as he realized that his enemy wanted to end the affair in a hurry too. That made sense, for they might be discovered here at any time, and the rebel chamberlain to a traitorous duchess would be taken prisoner instantly by any Crown troops who found him.
Thus Sir Ian was playing Jeremy's own game, and steel rang against steel as their blades crossed and struck, touched again and slid apart. For an instant the eyes of the two men met, and the young gunsmith read deadly hatred and absolute purpose in his opponent's glance. The afternoon heat was oppressive almost beyond endurance; the sun was shining brightly and the atmosphere was stifling, with no motion of air.
Both were perspiring heavily, and Jeremy longed for an opportunity to shed the tunic of his uniform. He had no chance to pause long enough to open a single button, however, as a rhythm of thrust and parry, slash and riposte was quickly established, and if either man faltered it would certainly be his finish. Sir Ian was combining brute force with skill, and Jeremy needed all of his knowledge and experience as a swordsman to keep the prying, insistent point of the Scotsman's blade from his heart, his throat, his face.