Mr Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester

Hether and Cleveland and Danvers and Preston exchanged dubious glances.

“Let the winner of the spin choose,” said Preston at length.

“Very well, gentlemen. Please call, Mr Hornblower.”

“Tails!” said Hornblower as the gold piece spun in the air.

Masters caught it and clapped a hand over it.

“Tails it is,” said Masters, lifting his hand and revealing the coin to the grouped seconds. “Please make your choice.”

Hepplewhite held out the two pistols to him, death in one hand and life in the other. It was a grim moment. There was only pure chance to direct him; it called for a little effort to force his hand out.

“I’ll have this one,” he said; as he touched it the weapon seemed icy cold.

“Then now I have done what was required of me,” said Masters. “The rest is for you gentlemen to carry out.”

“Take this one, Simpson,” said Hepplewhite. “And be careful how you handle yours, Mr Hornblower. You’re a public danger.”

The man was still grinning, gloating over the fact that someone else was in mortal danger while he himself was in none. Simpson took the pistol Hepplewhite offered him and settled it into his hand; once more his eyes met Hornblower’s, but there was neither recognition nor expression in them.

“There are no distances to step out,” Danvers was saying. “One spot’s as good as another. It’s level enough here.”

“Very good,” said Hether. “Will you stand here, Mr Simpson?”

Preston beckoned to Hornblower, who walked over. It was not easy to appear brisk and unconcerned. Preston took him by the arm and stood him up in front of Simpson, almost breast to breast — close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

“For the last time, gentlemen,” said Masters loudly. “Cannot you be reconciled?”

There was no answer from anybody, only deep silence, during which it seemed to Hornblower that the frantic beating of his heart must be clearly audible. The silence was broken by an exclamation from Hether.

“We haven’t settled who’s to give the word!” he said. “Who’s going to?”

“Let’s ask Mr Masters to give it,” said Danvers.

Hornblower did not look round. He was looking steadfastly at the grey sky past Simpson’s right ear — somehow he could not look him in the face, and he had no idea where Simpson was looking. The end of the world as he knew it was close to him — soon there might be a bullet through his heart.

“I will do it if you are agreed, gentlemen,” he heard Masters say.

The grey sky was featureless; for this last look on the world he might as well have been blindfolded. Masters raised his voice again.

“I will say ‘one, two, three, fire’,” he announced, “with those intervals. At the last word, gentlemen, you can fire as you will. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” came Simpson’s voice, almost in Hornblower’s ear, it seemed.

“Yes,” said Hornblower. He could hear the strain in his own voice.

“One,” said Masters, and Hornblower felt at that moment the muzzle of Simpson’s pistol against his left ribs, and he raised his own.

It was in that second that he decided he could not kill Simpson even if it were in his power, and he went on lifting his pistol, forcing himself to look to see that it was pressed against the point of Simpson’s shoulder. A slight wound would suffice.

“Two,” said Masters. “Three. Fire!”

Hornblower pulled his trigger. There was a click and a spurt of smoke from the lock of his pistol. The priming had gone off but no more — his was the unloaded weapon, and he knew what it was to die. A tenth of a second later there was a click and spurt of smoke from Simpson’s pistol against his heart. Stiff and still they both stood, slow to realize what had happened.

“A miss-fire, by God!” said Danvers.

The seconds crowded round them.

“Give me those pistols!” said Masters, taking them from the weak hands that held them. “The loaded one might be hanging fire, and we don’t want it to go off now.”

“Which was the loaded one?” asked Hether, consumed with curiosity.

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