# War Drums (Sass)/Chapter 24

ON THE white sleeve of Mr. O'Sullivan's shirt above the elbow there was a spot of red no bigger than the end of a man's thumb. Meg Pearson, sitting bolt upright on her horse, her pipe clenched between her teeth, watched that spot with wide, staring eyes. It grew no larger; and presently Meg knew that O'Sullivan's right arm had been pricked but that Falcon's sword point had not yet made the hole that he had promised to make in that arm.
Her gaze shifted to another spot of red. This spot, too, was small; the tip of her finger would have covered it. It was on the front of Falcon's shirt above the right lung. Another pin-prick, Meg knew; but O'Sullivan's promise, also, had come close to fulfilment.
There were times when Meg could not see the swords, so swiftly did they move. They were like the tongues of snakes, and sometimes, as they slid along each other, they gave forth a sound like the hissing of serpents.
There was no sound except the sound of the swords, which was sometimes a hissing as of angry snakes, and sometimes a deadly rasping that was like no ​other sound in the world. Around the two swordsmen, Jock Pearson's pack-horse drivers and Lance Falcon's followers formed a wide circle under the far-spaced trees. Some still sat their horses; others had dismounted; one pock-marked, earringed seaman, his head swathed in a silken yellow scarf, sprawled at full length on the ground, his villainous face supported in cupped hands. It would be a long fight, he perceived, and he would enjoy it in comfort.
It had already lasted longer than most of Lance Falcon's fights. Its first fierce phase was over, the phase of impetuous attack and savage reprisal, the phase of experiment. Falcon knew now that his task was hard, that some strange chance had brought to the New World a fencing master who was equal, perhaps, to the best in Europe.
He had known some of these teachers of the sword; clever men, but inclined to be academic, to insist too much upon form and style. It had pleased his fancy sometimes in the cities of the Continent to match himself against these professional pedants of rapier-play, and there had been only one, a certain De Bon of Paris, whom he had failed to touch with his covered point. Five years had passed since he had fenced with that tall, lanky Frenchman, but there was something in the sword-work of this little Irish pedagogue that recalled the methods of De Bon.
Falcon had drawn first blood. Within the first few minutes of the fight, his point had touched O'Sullivan's arm. But it was a mere touch, not the clean, ​penetrating thrust that he had promised himself and Meg Pearson; and sixty seconds later he had felt O'Sullivan's point prick his chest and had saved himself barely in time. Thus at the outset each had tested the other's mettle, each had learned caution, had perceived the hollowness of the boast that each had uttered.
None knew it, but Mr. Francis O'Sullivan was praying as he fought. With all his adoration of the pagan Greeks, he was a pious man and he was aware that he needed now that help from Heaven which, in time of stress, he had never been loath to ask. If Falcon, like most soldiers of fortune, had felt scorn for the fencing teachers, the schoolmen of the sword, here was one rapier schoolman who had scorned the sword-work of most soldiers. O'Sullivan had tried scores of them, and, while many were good artisans with the rapier, there were not many whom he would rank as artists. But in all the world there were very few men known to him whom he would admit to that exalted rank—Leuthen of Vienna, the Duke of Beaujeu, Vanzetti of Milan, Gotteschalke of Strasbourg, De Bon of Paris, his old fencing partner, Murtzulph the Mohammedan, and perhaps a half-dozen others. And now in raw America, where the rifle was honoured above the sword and where good swordsmen were rare, he had found another artist of the rapier, this Captain Lance Falcon.
So Mr. O'Sullivan prayed, though he was careful that none should be aware of his praying. His smooth ​pink cheeks had lost none of their pink, and, as always, he smiled while he fought; but his heart was solemn within him, for he knew that in a dozen years he had faced no such swordsman as this.
He knew that his was the greater skill the more consummate artistry; but he knew also that the difference was very slight, so slight that Falcon's longer reach and superior strength atoned for it. And while Mr. O'Sullivan prayed, he schemed and studied and calculated, his thoughts reaching into the future even while his hand and eye dealt with the deadly, imminent present. Barring some accident, some unlikely mischance, the victory would come, he believed, to him whose endurance met the test. On this theory he based his battle.
For those who looked on, the world round about them had ceased to exist. To Jock Pearson, to Ugly Meg, to the pack-horse drivers, it had seemed at first an unequal battle. They knew nothing of the art of the sword. They saw a tall, powerful man, a seasoned soldier, bronzed and arrogant and thewed like Jock Pearson himself, great of shoulder, yet slim of waist and clean of limb, matched against a small, plump, white-haired, woman-voiced gentleman who might have been a lawyer's clerk or a minister of the Gospel. To them it appeared that only one ending was possible. And the first stage of the fight had served to confirm their judgment, for at the outset Falcon took the offensive, driving his antagonist before him.
But there were more practiced eyes than these in ​that circle of spectators. Falcon's men knew a swordsman when they saw one, and the blades had scarcely crossed before those veterans gave O'Sullivan his due. It was then that he of the yellow scarf and the earrings stretched himself upon the ground to rest his limbs while he watched. He counted himself a connoisseur, this pock-marked cutthroat, and he saw this fight as no three-minute affair. He had no doubt of the outcome, for he had followed Falcon for years and had seen him in action many times; but he figured the little white-haired man a hard nut to crack.
A horror came upon Meg Pearson. It drove the colour from her furrowed cheeks and set her limbs shaking. It was a horror of the swords. Like serpents' tongues they were, the darting, flickering tongues of deadly serpents. She could not get the thought out of her head; it possessed her utterly and turned her blood to icy water.
She had seen men fight and die. She had seen knives flash and strike home in the frequent brawls of the hard-bitten pack-horse men. She had heard the whine of arrows and the hum of rifle bullets in Indian ambuscades along the Great Wilderness Path. She had seen the bodies of women, their heads still bloody where the scalps had been lifted. Yet now there was an unknown horror upon her, and the courage was gone from her, and her eyes were wide with terror of those darting, flickering serpent-tongues of steel.
To Meg there was something in the spectacle that ​was like black magic. The deadly flickering serpent-tongues struck and struck and struck, yet could not find their mark. Death rode on those flashing points, but some incomprehensible wizardry defied the death that rode there. It was necromancy; it smacked of the supernatural, and her horror grew. But to the pock-faced pirate, stretched upon the ground, his puckered eyes appraising every thrust and parry, it was not necromancy, it was not horrible. On the contrary, it was divinely beautiful. His connoisseur's soul was in rapture; he revelled in the most perfect display of swordsmanship that he had ever seen.
In truth, there was much that was beautiful about that fight. There was its almost flawless artistry, the art of the rapier in its perfect consummation. There was Falcon's strength and grace, which was like the terrible, beautiful, smooth strength and grace of the royal tiger. There was O'Sullivan's deftness and quickness and lightness, which somehow brought to mind a swallow on the wing. And there was another beautiful thing about it—it was a gentleman's fight. Once Falcon backed against a pine trunk and his opponent could have killed him. Once O'Sullivan stumbled on a tussock of grass and was for an instant at Falcon's mercy. But neither blade struck home.
A time came when Meg Pearson knew somehow—though how she knew it she could not tell—that the crisis was near. It was, perhaps, that mysterious prevision which is granted to some when tragedy impends. She knew it, and that was all; but while she ​knew mysteriously that the end was at hand, she did not know what that end would be.
There was no perceptible change. Both were tired, but one seemed no wearier than the other. They fought as they had been fighting for an eternity—warily, carefully, circling each other like panthers, advancing, retreating, retreating, advancing, feinting, thrusting, parrying, eye to eye and blade to blade.
Yet, while in this sense there was no change, there was something new that now made its presence felt, a subtle, invisible thing, but very real—an intenser deadliness.
Meg felt it first, perhaps because she was a woman, but soon there were others who felt it also. The pock-marked earringed pirate felt it, and his avid eyes glittered with a more savage light; and somehow that mysterious knowledge, which none could question, although there was no palpable thing upon which to base it, spread from man to man until all that eager circle of spectators possessed it, and eyes widened and lips tightened as they awaited the end that was coming soon.
It came; and there was forewarning of it; but none in the circle caught the warning. They lived for nothing in that moment except the spectacle before them. Their whole being was concentrated in their eyes; all their other senses were dulled. In the woods to the west an owl hooted; in the woods to the east another answered it. Jock Pearson and Ugly Meg, his wife, were old in the ways of the woods, and there were ​good woodsmen among the pack drivers. All must have heard the two owls hoot, but none was aware of the sound. In that moment of tense, taut expectation, with the climax of the drama at hand, none wondered why it was that owls were hooting in the broad light of day.
A minute passed. They no longer circled each other like panthers. They fought now as though they were rooted to the ground. The darting swords were like living light. O'Sullivan's smile had become a ghastly grin and his pink cheeks had turned gray. Falcon's face was haggard and drawn; his eyes were like those of a madman; in his forehead a great vein bulged and pumped.
Close at hand an owl hooted again. And instantly at that signal the empty forest sprang to life.
Meg Pearson heard the whine of an arrow passing close above her shoulder. Before she could turn her head, a rifle shot shattered the silence, another and another, and all at once the air was thick with arrows raining in from every side. Then bedlam broke—a hell of yells and savage, ear-splitting whoops. It was as though the forest itself had gone suddenly mad, for though jets of flame and puffs of smoke were visible amid the trees, no foeman showed himself.
Meg knew in an instant that all was lost. She felt a stinging pain in her shoulder. She saw men pitch from their plunging horses. She saw Jock Pearson rise in his stirrups and wrench a long shaft out of his side: She heard him shout "Ride for it, Meg! They've ​done me." She saw him sway in his saddle, then fall. In an instant she was on the ground beside him, her hand on his heart; and in another instant she was in the saddle again.
O'Sullivan heard her voice above the tumult, pitiful and shrill and frenzied, crying out, "Damn them, they've killed my Jock!" He saw her wheel her plunging horse and dash straight into the forest to the right where the war whoops were loudest and where now he could see naked brown forms flitting here and there amid the tree trunks. He saw her hurl her rifle from her as she galloped on and snatch her tomahawk from her belt. Then a strong hand grasped him from behind and pulled him down upon the ground.
Half-lying, half-kneeling, he twisted his body sideways and saw Falcon lying beside him close to a fallen horse. He heard Falcon's voice whisper hoarsely, "Lie still, old swordsman"; felt Falcon's heavy hand upon his back pressing and holding him down. Four dead men lay near him; five riderless horses milled about or stood staring, their nostrils wide. Down the Path he heard a thunder of hoof-beats and, raising his head a little, he saw horsemen galloping away in the direction of Charles Town, while behind them the Path was filled with plumed and painted warriors, yelling like mad, and in the woods on either side other warriors fired at the fugitives.
A mental numbness came over him as he lay watch​ing the pursuit. He was aware of a strange indifference, as though he were a mere spectator at a show. In the midst of this he heard Falcon's voice speaking very calmly.
"Eh, pedagogue," the voice said. "The long-winded, most damned pirate can teach you a trick or two, after all. D'ye hear me, man?"
O'Sullivan nodded.
"They think we're dead," Falcon continued quickly, "but in a minute they'll be back for our scalps. My horse bolted, but the big roan yonder will carry my weight. You try for the gray. If you get him, ride up the Path and ride hard. Ready? Now, go!"
In the same instant they leaped to their feet and dashed for the horses; and behind them immediately a wild whoop rang out, followed by a fierce chorus of yells and a scattered volley of shots.
The big roan was Jock Pearson's horse, a veteran of the wilderness, trained to stand where his rider left him. Falcon reached him, grasped the bridle, swung to his back, raced away up the Path. The gray horse jerked his head aside as O'Sullivan sprang for the bridle rein, reared, and trotted out of reach.
Beyond the gray stood quietly a sorrel Chicasaw pony that had belonged to one of Pearson's pack drivers, while beyond him again the laden ponies of the pack train snorted and tossed their heads. O'Sullivan knew that the sorrel was his only hope. The ​yells behind him were louder, nearer, but there were no more shots, and in an instant he understood why.
In front of him and to his right a naked warrior came leaping straight toward him, a long-shafted steel tomahawk in his lifted right hand, a rifle in his left. His high headdress of eagle feathers, the elaborate pattern of his black and vermilion paint proclaimed his exalted rank. At twenty paces he hurled the tomahawk. It whirled through the air, a streak of bluish light, so swiftly that the eye could not see the revolving handle.
Yet it was no swifter than Falcon's rapier thrusts had been; and O'Sullivan was ready for it. He felt the wind of it as the steel hatchet blade cleft the air where his head had been a fraction of a second before. He was down on his hands and knees when the tomahawk passed over him. He had scarcely regained his feet when the tall Indian, leaping onward at full speed, spitted himself upon O'Sullivan's sword.
The Chicasaw pony still stood where he had been standing, ears back, tail switching, fidgeting a little on his feet, but too well trained to bolt. O'Sullivan was an indifferent horseman but agile as a cat. With yells and whoops ringing in his ears, with bullets and arrows singing past him, his foot fumbled at the stirrup; yet somehow he got himself on the horse's back, and by some miracle no missile touched him as the pony raced away up the Path.
It had been quick work. Since their dash for the ​horses scarcely two minutes had elapsed. The sorrel was faster than the roan and bore a lighter load. Not long after the whoops behind him had died away, O'Sullivan saw Falcon in the Path ahead, riding hard, his chin over his shoulder. At sight of O'Sullivan, he checked the roan's stride slightly until the other was close behind him; then for three miles or so they pushed on at a swinging gallop. At last Falcon reined in. As O'Sullivan ranged abreast of him, the Irishman spoke:
"Captain Falcon," he said, "if you had not pulled me down upon the ground, Francis O'Sullivan would be a'dead man now. Some day, God willing, I'll repay the debt."
Falcon's strong teeth gleamed under his moustache.
"You owe me nothing," he replied gruffly. "If I had not pulled you down, Lance Falcon would be a dead man, too. I saved you to save my own scalp, which was already wriggling on my head, and which still feels none too secure because I know not the ways of this damned heathen-infested wilderness."
"Nor I," said O'Sullivan, "but, by Paul, I can learn."
"It means, I take it," Falcon continued, "that the Cherokee rising has come. They are between us and the town. We cannot win back to the coast. We must . . . "
With an oath, he jerked his horse back upon its haunches.
"God's blood!" he cried. "We are cut off!
​In the Path ahead stood a tall Indian, a rifle in one hand, the other held high, palm outward.
"The Lord hath His eyes upon us," said O'Sullivan quietly. "To us poor babes in the wilderness a guide has been granted. It is Lachlan's man, Striking Hawk."