The Year of the Hangman by Gary Blackwood

Author:Gary Blackwood [Blackwood, Gary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2004-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter TWELVE

Creighton noticed for the first time that Peter was brandishing a flintlock pistol. Dr. Franklin put a hand on the giant’s arm. “Calm down now and tell me where and when.”

Peter took a deep breath. “St. Anthony’s Square! At dawn!”

Franklin glanced through the open door at the sky, which was growing gray around the edges. “Dawn isn’t far off. Luckily, neither is St. Anthony’s.” He eyed the pistol. “What do you intend to do with that?”

Peter looked at the weapon as though he’d just realized he had it. “It’s General Arnold’s—for the duel. He’s asked me to be his second.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Of course.”

“Well, put it away. Guns make me uneasy.”

Peter stuck the pistol into the rear of his waistband.

“I’ll just put some clothing on,” Franklin said.

“Hurry, please.” The giant turned to Creighton. “Can you come, too? We might need your help.”

“My help? To do what?”

“Why, to stop the tarnal duel!”

“You can’t stop a duel. It’s a matter of honor. Besides, hardly anyone ever gets killed. It’s not really a fight so much as it is a formality, a sort of game.”

Peter shook his head. “Not to General Arnold, it an’t. He won’t be satisfied till one of ’em is dead.”

“Then how do you propose to stop him?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said grimly.

To Creighton, duels were much like hangings: though he didn’t much care to participate in one, they inspired in him a certain morbid fascination, a desire to see how the gentlemen involved would conduct themselves. He pulled on his shirt and shoes and emerged from his room just as Peter and Franklin were departing.

“Gad, I hope we an’t too late,” Peter said.

“Well,” observed Dr. Franklin, “if you’ve got the pistol, they’re not likely to start without you.”

“They might use swords. The other fellow is a fencing master.”

“Good heavens,” said Franklin, and limped along a little faster. “Arnold is a brave fellow, but he’s no swordsman.”

By the time they reached St. Anthony’s Square, the edge of the sun was just showing over the horizon. The place was nothing like the main square of the city, only a small grassy field surrounded by trees and shrubs, almost invisible from the street. When they entered the clearing, only one man stood there, looking about impatiently. It was Arnold.

He scowled when he spotted the three of them. “I only wanted a second, Peter, not a third and fourth.”

“I—I just thought—” Peter stammered.

“He fetched me to try to talk some sense into you,” Franklin said. “Where’s your opponent?”

“Late,” said Arnold. “Frenchies are late for everything; it’s in their blood.”

“Oh, don’t make such sweeping generalizations. And don’t tell me about the French. I’ve lived among them, and I know that every one is different, just as every American is different. Now, what’s this about?”

“He called me a mauvais Kaintock. I replied that he was a scurvy Papist, and I knocked him down.”

“Hmm. Fisticuffs. That’s a grave insult.”

“So is calling me a Kaintock.”

“What’s a Kaintock?” Creighton whispered to Peter.

“A body from Kentucky. The French use it to mean you’re crude and vulgar.

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