The Duel from The Bootlegger’s Widow

“Good morning, Master. I trust our punctuality has not unnerved you.”
Suddenly they were there: Rawdon’s voice, disingenuous as ever, and George, with his seafaring second. A young lad from the grounds at Nankilly accompanied Rawdon.
“Thank you for your concern, Rawdon. I assure you I am fully prepared to defend my honour.” Richard dismounted and approached the boy from Nankilly. “You are to be my second, I take it, young fellow. I am sure you are experienced in such matters.”
“Young Ned is a promising lad, Master Richard. He comes with Mr Galsworthy’s blessing, ain’t that right, lad?”
“He do, Mr Rawdon, Sir. He do so wish me well of it, Sir.” Ned looked down in confusion.
George Trewarren and his boy surveyed the clearing. George had recognised in the lad a sound character behind the fear and had given him care and protection in the early months of pressed service. Back in commission as the French posed a renewed threat, he had ensured the boy was in his crew. At barely twelve years the lad would have given his life for his master. Now George used the opportunity to instruct him in close inspection of the lie of the land as they strolled the length of the clearing, heads close together, boy nodding repeatedly, as young Ned stared, mouth open, and Richard thought again of the martyred king’s second shirt.
Rawdon had taken a small wooden table from his saddle bag and set it at the centre of the clearing. As he limped towards it with a wooden case, he called the seconds to him. He released the ornamental catch and opened the polished walnut lid. Ned’s mouth opened wider. Two identical pistols, each curved into its own compartment, lay neatly in the velvet-lined box. Two stubby cow horns filled with powder and two black lead balls lay in boxes between the pistols.
“Wogdons,” said Rawdon, “five years old, unused, kept dry. They are single-shot flintlocks. Choose your weapon; they are the exact same, one to the other.”
George’s boy leaned forward and reached for the furthest one against the hinge. He turned and felt it in his hand, balancing its weight. Ned continued gawping until further prompted when he reached awkwardly into the box, lifted the remaining pistol by the barrel, narrowly managing to avoid dropping it. Richard and George stood a little aloof, not catching each other’s eye.
“Now lad, tell me, what do you notice about the barrel?”
“Smooth barrelled, Sir. Will take a good shot to hit with this, Sir.” The boy held the barrel toward him and looked down it, one eye closed.
“Your’n’ be the same, lad?” Rawdon watched Ned follow the boy’s example.
“I do think so, Sir, I do.”
“Now each take the powder horn in turn, ram the powder down even and hard. That’s it; load the balls.” Rawdon watched them carefully. “Now lay them down one each side and withdraw.”
“Gentlemen, approach the table if ye please.” Both men approached with slow strides, heads high, avoiding each other’s gaze. “I not be knowing if ye gentles be familiarised with these here Wogdons?” Neither gave any indication. “Then I do mind ye there be but one lead ball in each, but it be a mighty big’un and could take a man’s arm off, if aimed aright, or should I say awrong, gentles?” His sickly smile pleased neither cousin. “I shall ask ye both to stand back to back right level with this table. I s’ll count ye through ten paces. When I have spoke the tenth, ye shall turn and fire in yer own time, remembering yer weapons will add a jot of time the selves afore they discharge. Is all clear, gentles?” Both nodded.
“Very well, gentles, take your places, hold your pistols facing up and plain to see. Seconds! Stand ye clear ‘til both shots be discharged. After, attend any wound in your master.” The seconds retreated to the edge of the trees.
“May he whose honour be sullied be avenged. Gentles, are you set? Then let us count down the paces.”
As the count reached ten both men turned. A quiver ran down Richard’s arm as he saw George had already turned and aimed. He raised his pistol, the quiver setting the trigger finger in motion, so that his belated pose pretended to aim at George’s heart. A small puff of smoke from George’s pistol caused Richard to fall to his knees, the crack that followed sent the half inch of lead through his riding boot, gouging through the flesh and muscle of his calf and on into the scrub beyond. He screamed in pain, as his own bullet lodged in a tree away to the left of his prey at thrice the height of a man.
“Ensure his wound is cared for Rawdon. It is nought but a scratch, I fancy. Twas not my intention to harm him more. Inform Miss Sophia, if you will, Rawdon, and good day to you. Come, lad.” George placed the weapon on the table, mounted his horse with the boy in front and rode off towards the port. Rawdon turned towards Richard. Ned was bent over him, struggling to remove the blood-filled boot. Richard lay on his back moaning softly. He screamed again as a sudden shaft of pain shot through his leg. Ned fell back, clutching the boot in triumph.
“I am not one of your cows, you clod!”
“Begging yer pardon, Sir, I has to get the boot off, Sir.”
Rawdon turned away to conceal a smile.
“Can you use the leg at all, Sir? ’Tes likely it will stiffen, Sir, if it stop bleeding. Here boy, staunch the wound with this old saddle cloth. I thought one or other might have such need.”