Death on a Pale Horse by Donald Thomas Page B

out. So long as he remained within their reach, he should be a target for their vengeance.
    It was an extraordinary sentence, vindictive but surely ineffectual. There was one thing more. Should Moran ever again make application to serve Her Majesty the Queen, in a military or civil capacity, any member present would be absolved from his oath of secrecy. The proceedings of the present tribunal would be communicated to the unit or body considering such application. From respect to the late Mrs. Putney-Wilson and Major Henry Putney-Wilson, those proceedings should not otherwise be made public. An oath of secrecy would presently be taken by the members of the court and the other officers in attendance. Unfortunately, with so many excitable young men present, these oaths were not worth the breath expended in uttering them.
    This promised to be a comprehensive destruction of Rawdon Moran’s career. If ever there were an outcast, it would be he. But standing there at that moment, he looked round at what he seemed to regard as a litter of yapping puppies. His words were smoothly contemptuous and he almost spat the syllables in their smooth young faces
    â€œIn time, gentlemen, I may take my leave of this regiment. Meanwhile, I have no intention whatever of sending in my papers. Now that this pantomime is over, I shall be obliged for the return of my sword. If not, I shall report, as a matter of honour, that it has been stolen by a common thief among you here.”
    Honour was soiled in the mouth of such a scoundrel as this! But the bluff of the subalterns’ court-martial had been called. These young officers had applied justice intended for minor social misdemeanours to a form of murder—and it had failed them. Then, before any of them could speak, a tall, pale, dark-haired man stood up at the far end of the prosecutor’s table. He had sat quietly and almost hesitantly throughout the proceedings without once offering to take part. This was Major Henry Putney-Wilson.
    â€œMr. President, sir, I am not a member of this court. However, if you will allow me, I will lay aside for a while my obligation to the manual of military law and even, as some will think, my regard for the Christian religion. Since he scorns common decency and common justice alike, I require Captain Moran to afford me that satisfaction which one gentleman owes to another.”
    The onlookers watched in silence. This formula had only one meaning. Major Putney-Wilson had challenged Moran to a duel. By this date, duelling was illegal and seldom heard of between British officers. Such exchanges as occurred were invariably fought with pistols. But Major Putney-Wilson was no kind of shot. Moran could cut the heart out of the ace of spades at thirty-seven paces. If ever a man deserved the cliché of signing his own death warrant, it was the major at that moment.
    Captain Canning was about to intervene, but Moran was there first. The mess-room rang with a short burst of scornful laughter.
    â€œDuelling, sir, is a game for schoolboys. A game of chance. At twenty, I could shoot the buttons from a man’s epaulettes at thirty paces and never singe his tunic. But I was once challenged in my Oxford days at Magdalen College, and I fought a duel. We met in Christ Church Meadows at dawn. I shot at this idiot who had called me out. The distance was not thirty paces. Yet I missed. The other fellow was a milksop who had never truly handled a pistol in his life. Look at this!”
    He pulled back his tunic cuff and undid the link of his shirt. There was a small track upon the skin over the bone where no yellow hair grew, rather as if it had been shaved. He buttoned his sleeve and looked round at them all.
    â€œI knew no better at twenty, gentlemen. A close-run thing indeed! But now? Duelling? No, thank you very much! Let us rather roll a pair of dice or cut the cards!”
    Though he was fierce enough in his humour, the worst of Rawdon Moran was a