Page 5 of Confounding Oaths
From the shadow of a nearby coach, two large men emerged.They were not, to my expert eye, professional ruffians, but height and weight can make up for all manner of deficiencies in other areas.
“Make him stand,” commanded the major, and the larger of the two large men stooped to haul Mr. Caesar up by his collar.
And I was just shifting my shape to something more airborne, in order that I might watch proceedings from a better vantage, when from the direction of the townhouse, a low, London voice asked: “Is there a problem?”
Chapter Two
The voice, as I amsure perspicacious readers have already surmised, belonged to Captain James. And never, in a long career of being rather glad to see members of His Majesty’s army, had Mr. Caesar been so glad to see a member of His Majesty’s army. Although admittedly, present circumstances took something of the shine off of his earlier fantasies of rescue.
“This is no concern of yours, James,” spat the major. “Run back to your band of misfits.”
Captain James looked from the major to Mr. Caesar, to the men, and back to the major. “No.”
“Why, you insolent—Bailey, Roberts, deal with this reprobate. Then we’ll get back to business.”
There was something about the way Captain James stepped forwards that, to Mr. Caesar, read as a warning and, to me, read as a threat. There is a certain way of moving, you see, a certain mix of grace and confidence that is found only in a certain kind of person. Heracles had it, and Theseus. And several other overrated pricks. This, his movements said, was a man who could slaydragons. Not that there are any of those left to be slain anymore. Possibly because people kept slaying them.
Bailey and Roberts, for the moment, unhanded Mr. Caesar and turned their attention to the captain. Turned, but did not advance.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded the major. “Thrash him.”
Ignoring the commentary, the captain looked to the taller of the men. “Bailey?” he asked. “It’s not Jim Bailey, is it?”
“That’s me,” said Jim Bailey.
“I know your sister. Good woman, does laundry off Tower Street.”
Jim Bailey hesitated.
“Not sure how she’d feel about you laying hands on gentlemen and officers,” the captain went on.
“Man’s got to work,” replied Jim Bailey, sounding genuinely apologetic. And he was right—it’s by far my least favourite feature of the mortal world.
“True that,” the captain said. “Well, when next you see her, tell her I’m sorry I had to do this.”
Before Jim Bailey could ask what, precisely, the captain was sorry he had to do, the captain had done it. He crossed the distance between them so fast that the major was still exhorting his men to start fighting several seconds after the fight had already begun.
I am not, as longtime readers will already know, an expert in matters of violence. But even I will admit that the captain had a wonderful poetry to his actions. His initial strike against Bailey had been a precise kick to the mark, which put the man down long enough that he could focus for crucial moments on Roberts, who came swinging wildly only to find his blow caught and answered with a sharp jab to the throat.
With his job on the line, Jim Bailey came back to the fight withwhat I personally considered a commendable lack of enthusiasm. Putting his head down, he threw himself into a half-hearted tackle that the captain sidestepped, jerking a knee into the man’s ribs as he passed.
With the largely innocent working gentlemen dispatched, or at least severely incommoded, Captain James turned his attention to the major and said: “Try your luck?”
“Certainly not,” Major Bloodworth blustered. “An officer, arealofficer, does not stoop to brawling.”
Straightening his shirt, Mr. Caesar regained at least some of his composure. “You mean he gets others to brawl for him?”
While it had been intended as a slight, the major didn’t take it as one. “What do you think war is, you pampered fop?”
Mr. Caesar would admit tofop—indeed he rather relished the descriptor—but he had never been pampered. “A place where bold men give their lives so small men can make their reputations?”
Apparently being as unsuited to words as he was to actions, the major stood staring at Mr. Caesar and Captain James, occasionally glancing to his servants in the hope that they would be inspired to new violence on his behalf. They were not.
“I have friends at court,” he warned, apparently deciding that threats were always de rigueur. “You will regret this. Both of you. By God, sir”—he directed his ire now solely towards the captain—“I’ll have your commission and then your hide.”
When neither Captain James nor Mr. Caesar rose to the provocation, the major huffed out one last “Good day to you” and, Bailey and Roberts hobbling in his wake, clambered into his carriage and left.
The immediate danger having passed, Mr. Caesar experienced that sudden enervation which biological creatures are prone to asadrenaline abates. All at once unsteady on his feet, he sat back down rather heavily.
