1821 - The Battle for Palembang

7: And They Call it Honour (Kentshire, England, Spring 1820)

Kentshire, 1820

They met near an abandoned farm several miles outside London. Cool spring winds blew across their faces which still hung of last night's drink; their faces too, of fear and a scent of steadfastness, forced as it might be, but even the toughest soldier was too, a human being. And no human being, at least one of the reasonable kind, would have neither heart nor mind to kill another one of its own.

Yet here they were. And the price was death.

Or dishonour.

Accompanying them were their seconds, Thomas Hull appearing for Lieutenant James Simpson and another finely-dressed dragoon captain appearing for Major The Hon. Graham Beauford. Standing between the two men, and observer of the proceedings normally applied to such occasions, was Major-General Sir Richard Crawford himself, who had been host to the party and someone who had known and commanded both men during the Hundred Days' campaign in 1815.

The two cold-faced men were told to come close to each other to be first, briefed, then second, given their weapons of war.

It was a morning that none other in the world could share of its beauty. The birds sung and the flowers had sprung up and revealed themselves in a vast meadow of pleasantries, a dozen colours all in their prime and in their loveliness.

The sky, too, reflected the quality of the day at hand. Instead of the gloomy, grim days that reflected the English spring, the sky was as spotless as an Italian summer. Shining were the sun and far away the clouds of the unlimited azure... perhaps they shied away for the gods wanted to see what was to happen that day.

Simpson thought once and twice and thrice for his demands of vice and Tom Hull advised him of resolutions that were if peace and not of the rolling of dice; But when Sir Richard asked, "Are the two gentlemen reconciled, and the swords be laid aside?" Neither man offered respite. Only burning fire in their eyes... Timeless honour the price.

"No, sir," said James. "Unless Major Beauford takes back his words of insult."

Though Beauford gave no answer that satisfied James, only a smirk in return.

Sir Richard continued. "I must warn you that these swords are not of the matched-type and neither are they smallswords... they are weapons of war. Said Sir Richard. "But 'tis what you two gentlemen have owned and agreed to use according to each other's preference in combat. Although the laws of such occasions dictate that matched smallswords be used, the intention of the parties must be upheld... as is the law of contract."

Both sides nodded. One was to yield or die, and until that point, the fighting shall cease not. Englishmen killing Englishmen, what price would a Frenchman pay to sight!

"I know both men either by the gazettes and recommendations of their actions in Waterloo while also being their regimental commander," he nodded to Simpson, "Or through personal and familial connection. What I could say about this day is that it would be a shame that England would lose at least one among her finest sword-arms by sundown. But so be it, and damn your young souls!" He said the last part grunting. "Lieutenant James Simpson and Major the Honourable Graham Beauford, draw your swords and take up positions!"

And surely they did. James took his pattern sabre, the same sabre he carried in Waterloo, shouldered it and headed off at a pace of quick march; Graham, on the other hand, had a sword that was smithed for him, given to him by his father. They took up their stances and the appalling difference in style–and some say in eloquence–could be seen.

Simpson stood right leg front, his steps led by his 1796 Pattern Light Infantry Sabre. One hand was set free both to trick and grapple and he took a low stance to firm his knees. Beauford stood differently. His back was straight, sword front, one hand upon his hip. His body was tilted to reduce the size of his figure.