Chapter 11
Foiling
“Classical architects,” said Dickie. “I bet you your last shilling that they were classical architects.” His ratchet spanner clicked loudly as he worked.
“Why do you say that?” asked Max, gazing up at shadowy, wall-high shelves piled with cogs, sprockets, and stacks of sheet metal of one sort or another.
“Because that would be why the Goths involved themselves. You know; the enemy of your enemy is your friend. That sort of thing.”
“Oh.” Max had been thinking that the Goth's appearance had been born from something a little nobler than interdepartmental rivalry. He felt a little deflated by the inventor's pragmatism.
Max had called on Dickie in his 'shed' on his way home from University. His purposes were two-fold; he had wanted to retrieve the copy of the information sheet that Dickie had collected for him after the robot race the previous afternoon, and he had needed to delay so he could hide his damaged face from his Mother in the half light of a late return home.
The information sheet was now safe in his satchel, next to the cover pages from the morning papers and their photographics of Harriet.
“And Wang you say?” asked Dickie, appearing for a moment from beneath the boiler he was working on to grab a couple of rivets, before disappearing from view again.
“Yes, well. Lots of keen boys were rushing up to our table in The Canteen to ask him all about that. It's called Wing Chun. It's their... I mean a Chinese... open hand fighting technique.”
“Go on,” encouraged Dickie, from somewhere beneath the bronze boiler.
“And Wang is pretty good at it, I guess.”
“Right.”
“So yeah it caused a lot of interest in the tea room. We should have just gone home. Oh, and other lads, I guess they might have been architecture hopefuls, were also rushing up wide eyed and telling us; “that was Rowan.” The Goth woman was called Rowan...” There was a bang as Dickie evidently hit his head on the underside of the cylinder in surprise. “... I mean that doesn't mean anything to me...” continued Max until Dickie suddenly reappeared and clambered to his feet.
“Are you sure? Sure they said Rowan?”
“Yes. That's what those others were saying. Why?”
“Max, no one just sees the Lady Rowan!” Dickie looked at Max pleadingly. “I mean I've only glimpsed her face half a dozen times in what? Four years. You'll not telling me that she just walked out in front of you and said “hello!”?”
“No... she didn't say a word. You've lost me Dickie... again.”
Dickie sighed and wiping his hands clean on a rag, sat down on a saw horse to study Max.
“Max did you know anything about University before you started?” Max, now feeling more than a little defensive, was about to reply. “No don't answer. That wasn't fair. Look... Lady Rowan is...” Dickie was momentarily lost for a description “...she is like the queen of the gothic architects. A literal prodigy. I mean she designed St Albans in her second year! And as you know they built it! She is also an enigma, never seen out in the day... apart from today, if what you have been told is true. She exists in the shadows. Or I should say she operates in the shadows, for she has considerable influence in architectural circles. She has graduated but remains to tutor and advise. I don't know where she lives or who brokers for her, but someone must, as it is said that there is no small demand for her design services. I have also heard it said that she is from Spanish extraction and travels back to Europe with some frequency.”
“Right so every department has its top students. Its maxima alumni or in this case alumna,” replied Max.
“But I doubt it was her who came out to look at little old us today.”
“No, I doubt it,” agreed Dickie. He peered at Max a moment longer, a slight look of exasperation showing on his face, before grabbing another couple of rivets and disappearing below once more. Max perused the other wall of Dickie's workshop. It was covered with Da Vinci Esque diagrams and schematics, some Dickie's own work, some belonging to others. Most were 'blow-ups' of particular joints or actions, but some appeared to be plans for full machines or vehicles. The rivet went in with a loud crunch.
“What happened to the ginger?”
“Yeah, Wang 'unlocked' him with another whack to the neck as we were leaving. And boy was he fit to burst! Didn't know if he was going to have another go at us or die of shame,” laughed Max.
“I hope for your sake it wasn't Sampson Rumbold,” said Dickie.
Another rivet went in with a loud crunch.
* * *
Wednesday, finally an uneventful day.
Max was relieved.
After two days of dramas, revelations, relationships, hakas, robot races and finally fist fights and gothic encounters he was ready for a break. The day had all been very simple, in fact it had all been rather nice. His five classes had been blessedly uneventful without Wiremu or Wang, Harriet or Gilbert, Kingi or Dickie, Ginger or Rowan, Jasmine or Horatio Nelson sharing any of them with him.
Max allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as he strolled through the busy university, his bowler pushed slightly forward on his head and a brown paper parcel under his arm.
It had taken the first half of the week but by three o'clock in the afternoon, which it was currently five past by the reckoning of the University clock, he had attended at least one class for each of his seven subject choices. The pleasure came in part from the fact that he had found something to enjoy in each and all of them. Academically it was, most likely, shaping up to be a good year. His course selection did have him spending most of his time in the history department, with only Latin taking him into the English and archaeology across Orion Street and into the museum.
It seemed, at least among his first-year peers, that Wiremu, himself and now Wang were gaining some small notoriety. This was thanks first to the Haka showdown with the five northern students and as of yesterday the brawl with Ginger. For these reasons, Max had avoided entering The Canteen all day. He didn't have any desire to encounter either group.
He hadn't seen Harriet Leith again. This, despite the fact that during the short pauses between his classes he had needlessly left the History building and wandered a circuit past Engineering and its adjoining Streamer's Café. He had been driven on in this particular absurdity by the hope, however slim, of having some contact with her again. Not that he could know how she would react to him after he so rudely blocked her way in the passage between the chemistry and astronomy buildings two nights ago. Most likely she had forgotten about him the moment she turned her back. But maybe she had heard about the fight. It didn't matter, he wanted to see her.
Although for all he knew her timetable might well keep her deep within the mathematics and molten metal of the Engineering Department. His chances weren't greatly aided either by the fact that the Engineering Department had an internal access to Streamers; so, to get her caffeine Harriet needn’t ever set foot outside of her building.
Nor had he come across anyone by the name of Sampson Rumbold. This was a little unsettling, for Dickie had felt it important that, for Max's sake, the ginger haired young man from the fight and this Rumbold not be one in the same. Not that Max needed a name particularly. It was clear, named or not, that he had made another enemy. Max sincerely doubted that Ginger would be the type to give a nervous laugh and a good natured 'forget it mate' handshake at their next meeting. Nor, for his part, was Max going to be backing down in the face of the kind of mindless discrimination that had been displayed by Ginger, any time soon.
He had no idea where his backbone on this issue had come from. Maybe it was an ancient strain lingering on in his blood. A throwback to his ancestors, Celts pushed south and west to be cornered and oppressed in Cornwall by conquering Saxons. Whatever it was he knew he wouldn't be abandoning Wang to the out-workings of any such prejudice. It was obvious that Wiremu felt the same.
As well as being Chinese Wang was also slight and had glasses, and therefore possessed the classic look of an easy victim. So much so that, despite what Max had witnessed yesterday, he still struggled to accept the fact that Wang was well able to take care of himself. He didn't need Max and Wiremu's help when it came to fights. The reverse was more likely to be true, a point that Max didn't dwell on. But physical violence was only one kind of attack. If Wang was going to survive at Victoria he would also need solidarity and friendship. This too, felt Max, was well in hand.
Wang had very quickly transitioned from being 'a Chinese' to simply being Wang. The name even seemed normal now. It had sounded to Max like an archery term just two short days ago when they first started using it. But try as he might Max could not even recall Wang's full, real, name. He was just Wang.
So there it was. Max, it appeared, had two new friends. He had never seen them coming, never imagined them. Most likely wouldn't have looked for them. One was the adopted and therefore disinherited grandson of the late and last Māori Chief of Aorere. The other was the penniless grandson of an exhausted Chinese miner. Max gave a laugh, almost out loud. For if his own Grandfather wasn't already dead, meeting his friends would have killed him.
Friends were good. What Max didn't want was someone else around the University who he needed to watch out for, Lavisham and The Five were enough. If he had to have enemies, such as Ginger and Co, whoever they were, he would naturally rather them not be powerful. Clearly this fact was behind Dickie's mentioning of a character called Sampson Rumbold the previous evening.
According to the biographic inventor, Harland Jeptha Rumbold was one of the city of Blenheim's leading Classical Architects.
“The Dominion Press...” Dickie had said “...paints Rumbold as an outspoken individual, with an equally charismatic and powerful personality, who is well regarded, along with his architectural work, in both his home town and in neighbouring Nelson's growing central business area.” Dickie had finished by adding; "Sampson Rumbold is the junior version, the son, and if the registry lists are to be trusted, he is new enrolled, this year, at Victoria.”
Dickie had also said that if time, breeding, and normal studious progress have their way, in three years Sampson Rumbold will be the Architectural equivalent of Gilbert Lavisham; educated, rich and with something to prove.
But Max also found it just a little hard to care. Once more Dickie had been filling his head with the names of the rich and powerful and talking like it should matter to him. First it had been stories about Alistair Stewart and long forgotten drama on the high seas, now it was Rumbold, Rowan and issues of conflict between archaic schools of Architecture. Max knew none of it had anything to do with him and none of it would need to. He certainly hadn’t lost any sleep over it last night.
Instead, having avoided his Mother and her discovering of his battle wounds, he had taken his dinner to his room. While eating he had cut the near identical photographics of Harriet from the two morning papers and secreted them inside his copy of Pre-Historic Times, as illustrated by ancient remains, and the manners and customs of modern savages. Then he had laid back in his bed and studied the Dominion League of Robot Wars information sheet that Dickie had held for him.
It was all very technical and consisted of one full side of text covering rules and specifications and a second side featuring a large black lined, five-pointed star. Max was a little shocked by this sinister graphic until he understood that it was simply a map of the proposed race course; in the event of five robots being entered. If, the text stated, six machines came forward then the course would be a six-pointed star. Seven, then seven points. In this way the timings would have to be entered on the day of the race, once all the registrations had been made. This was a good test for the teams. The more important thing about the star patterns, Max understood, was that unlike McCormack's robot race, the lines regularly crossed each other. At those crossings robots would meet and there would be ample opportunity for... combat. Harriet's words had come back to him as he drifted off to sleep; “And we will have our entertainment!”
As he walked Max avoided other students who had paused to greet their friends, either in groups gathered about the quadrangles or in twos and threes leaning against arches or door ways. He had a purpose to his walk, a destination well in mind. A destination that it could be said he had been walking toward since the night at His Lordship's Public House years before. He was making his way to his first fencing class.
As if prearranged Max had begun this new, uneventful day, this normal Wednesday, by once more sharing his morning train ride into the city with Wang and Wiremu. Wang had been very apologetic about the previous days fight and seemed considerably relieved to see that Max was no worse for the experience and that both the swelling and colour of Wiremu's eye was quickly returning to something near normal.
He had then, possibly in order to make amends, proceeded to invite them both to a celebration of the Chinese New Year. An event that would be held in three nights time, at Chinatin.
Max, always up for an adventure, was instantly positive. He also had a couple of questions.
“Do Europeans, and Māori for that matter, go to Chinatin? I mean are we welcome?”
Wang had thought for a moment before answering.
“On occasion yes. But normally only when invited. You would be there as guests of my Grandfather and I,” then having failed to gauge the other two's keenness added; “You would do me a great honour."
“You can forget your honour!" Max had teased. "We would love to come. Wouldn't we Wiremu?” Wiremu had nodded his enthusiasm. “Tell us more... what will happen? I mean what shape will the celebrations take?”
Wang smiled broadly and relaxed then.
“First we will eat at The Golden Dragon. It is the best restaurant. Grandfather has already had me book us a table. Then there will be a dragon parade. After which all the people will gather in the central area, where a stage has been erected. Here you will watch ribbon and flag dances, and martial arts performances.”
“Sounds very interesting. What will you be doing?” asked Wiremu.
“Performing,” replied Wang, with a faint smile.
“Excellent,” pronounced Max, before asking hopefully; “More Wing Chun?”
Wang nodded.
“A little culture then gentlemen,” said Wiremu enacting a pompous English tone, but not losing his usual warm smile.
“I'm looking forward to it Wang,” reflected Max, feeling an epic brewing.
Wang was clearly pleased with their responses and remembering added another detail;
“Oh! And there will be fireworks. Many, many fireworks.”
After exiting the train, the walk from Central Station to Victoria, through the city, was a good chance to visit any particular outlets or as time allowed 'window shop' the fancy parlours or department stores along the way. Naturally a lot of what was on display wasn't of much interest to the three young men.
That morning however Max led them to Whitwell's Outfitters: finest Bespoke & Haberdashery, on Copenhagen Street, where he had provided his measurements for a fencing costume late the previous year.
“But it's black!” he had said with some surprise, after exchanging his money for a brown paper bag with his name on it and peering inside.
“Yes a little odd,” the clerk had agreed. “Captain Von Tempsky's orders. Said that white was too... well, white.” With that he took the yellow measuring tape from where it was draped around his shoulders and returned, scissors in hand, to his cutting table. Wang gave Max a shrug and the three of them trooped back out.
“Maybe he is starting a pirate crew,” jibed Wiremu, as they walked.
“Who has ever heard of black fencing uniforms?” said Max incredulously. “I hope he can hold to the other traditions a little better.”
“Like lace and cod pieces?” returned Wiremu. Max afforded this a smile.
“Like teaching us to fence properly.”
“You are lucky your sword master isn't Chinese,” added Wang. “Then your uniform would be of red or blue silk and look a little more like pyjamas!
“Yep, that is something, I guess,” agreed Max.
“Actually the black will make you look more like imperial assassins, what the Japanese would call Ninja.” Max looked blank at this so Wang continued, “Anyway I've read one of the Captain Tempsky's books. It's all pretty crazy stuff. Is he even a real sword master?”
“Hey come in here,” interrupted Wiremu, before disappearing into a store front door, the bell clanging loudly as he went.
Max paused to read the slate above the door; 'Cabinetmakers to H.R.H the Duke of Edinburgh - Anton Seuffert & Son' and a paper in the window that stated, 'Every description of Fancy Inlaid Work in New Zealand Wood or other material executed to any design, for Decorative, Domestic, or other purposes. Samples kept on hand.'
“I think I have heard of this fellow,” said Max to Wang, before following Wiremu in.
Inside, the studio-workshop-come-showroom was warm and smelt pleasingly of worked wood and rich oils. But in wafts displeasingly of glue and varnish. A middle-aged craftsman who had been hunched over his work, sat up at his desk and seeing who had entered his shop cried loudly;
“Master Marino!” His accent had Germanic tones that Max couldn't quite place.
“Mr Seuffert,” replied Wiremu, shaking Seuffert's hand over the counter. Then gesturing to Wang and Max introduced them saying “These are my good friends Master Wang and Master Skilton.”
“Well met, Gentlemen,” said Seuffert, using his apron front to wipe the wood dust off his hands, before shaking those of the two newcomers.
“We have just come to look,” said Wiremu. “Being as we are young men of limited means.”
“But of course,” replied the craftsman with a grin, clearly used to such self-effacing honesty from Wiremu and not appearing to begrudge it a bit. “Be my guest.”
When Max saw the work in question he knew at once that Seuffert and Son would not lack for custom.
“Wiremu?” he said in awe as he studied a table top near by. “What? What am I looking at?” Wang and Wiremu joined him. In front of them was an intricately patterned round table top alive with such a range of natural wood colours as to boggle the mind. Golds and honey yellows, reds and ambers, browns, chocolates and dark mahogany, each colour a single tiny tile of polished wood. And not only had these tiles been worked into cunning patterns with both Māori and European influence, such as heart shapes, radiating frames, checkers, and koru, but native birds; fantails and karariki danced through clematis flowers and fern fronds. The painstaking craftsmanship was breathtaking.
“This...” said Wiremu placing a brown finger on the image of a fantail in flight. “...is called Marquetry. The craft of making wood veneer pictures. And this is Parquetry...” he added moving the finger to one of the inlaid frames “...work in geometric designs.”
“It's amazing,” whispered Wang.
“See the natural waves in this totara,” continued Wiremu indicating one of the larger components, a golden tile no bigger than a match box. “They almost make the grain appear three dimensional.” Max could see what he meant. The totara tiles around the very edge, although polished smooth, seemed to stand up with little waves and mountain ranges on them.
“There is no crafting in that,” reflected Wiremu. “It’s a gift of the wood.” Then his hand flitted over the table top and he pointed out the various timbers; the red-brown and at times golden Totara, straw-brown Black Beech or Tawhairauriki, red Rimu, golden and dark brown Miro, orange-brown Matai, honey Kauri, pale Tawa, the pinkish Silver Beech or Tawhai, the red-brown Red Beech called Tawhairaunui and finally Rewarewa, a speckled purplish brown.
When the impromptu lesson had finished and Wiremu seemed to have identified all the woods he could, Max drifted away to study some of the other pieces. There weren't many large items, just one cabinet and a second table, but there were a number of jewellery boxes, chess boards and small gift book covers. These last were designed for the collecting and pressing of ferns and other plant cuttings. Each was crafted and covered in the wondrous wood working, Marquetry and Parquetry. Max was spellbound, and it dawned on him that in this world of gold and coal, and the forging of iron, steel, and bronze, he had been brought to a very unique place.
“Mr Seuffert doesn't keep much in the store...” said Wiremu, at Max's shoulder “...most of what he produces is made to order and goes straight to the great houses of Europe. The Queen even has one of his cabinets.”
“Thank you for bringing us here Wiremu,” said Max, appreciatively studying the top of the second table. The image was of a Māori Pā overlooking a wave tossed bay.
“Master Wiremu,” called Seuffert having just returned to the counter from a back room. “Look what I have here.” He placed a large length of twisted log on the bench.
“Akeake,” pronounce Wiremu, rubbing some of the flaky bark between his fingers. “It's a nice piece, an old tree.”
“Indeed,” said Seuffert, a small smile touching his lips. “But there is more.”
Wiremu looked puzzled.
“It's Chatham Island Akeake! Fresh off the boat last night.”
“Oh really?!” responded Wiremu and the pair fell into a discussion about the various properties of Chatham Island verses other sources of Akeake timber. When they subsided the first classes of the day were drawing near, and it was time to be off. With polite farewells and promises to return the three students had departed the little store to the sound of the door bell's clang.
Out on the street had Wang reflected, “You seem to know your wood Wiremu.”
And Wiremu had smiled.
“It's something I enjoy. Call the reading of wood; my third language.”
Max adjusted the brown paper package containing his strange new black uniform and crossed the lawn to the Gymnasium door. He felt frustrated that after all these years he wouldn't be donning 'the white'. Still, he wasn't inclined to disregard Captain Von Tempsky's strange choice straight off. He would let time tell. Of more intrigue was the legendary tutor himself.
As a boy Max had certainly enacted, stick in hand, more than his fair share of the type of sword fights described in 'The Adventurers of Captain Von Tempsky.' They were the kind of battles that left hundreds dead or maimed, but with never more than a nick for the hero. Good stuff for stories, but maybe not for reflecting the actual art. This fact, coupled with the black uniform, didn't offer Max any reassurance about the new fencing tutor. He reminded himself that the books were about Von Tempsky, not by Von Tempsky.
Max slipped between the huge double doors at the front of the Gymnasium.
He had never used a real steel sword before. Sometimes his older brother Gerald would take up a willow stick and match him in running battles around the house, and once he had even let Max draw his army issue sabre from its scabbard. But that had been the extent of it.
Back at the midday break, being keen to avoid The Canteen and any further confrontations with fellow first years, Max and Wiremu had quit the city for the Lighthouse Park. As they climbed Swiftsure Street the pair had discussed their secondary schooling. Questions that had been bought on by Max's remembrance of the last time he had been up to the Egyptian Lighthouse.
It turned out that Wiremu had attended Collingwood Main School, whose campus was in Addingtown, not far from The Yards and a large catchment of railway worker's children. It was a working-class school, a good school for a Māori boy to fit in. In amongst the other minority groups; the Irish and Welsh, the few Dalmatians and Jews, Italians and any others who had found their way 'down under' and away from religious and social unrest back in Europe.
Wiremu it seemed, had enjoyed the schooling, and had done well at his studies. He had never taken the train, but had always walked from the Aorere Pā, up onto the tablelands and along to the school at the edge of the city. Max's school, Rockville Grammar, had played Collingwood Main at sports on numerous occasions, but like Max, Wiremu had never pursued the standards of cricket and rugby football.
Having lunch at the Lighthouse Park hadn’t turned out to be the best idea. For as they gained the summit and before they began looking for some shade under one of the large Manuka trees, the Mount Burnett battery fired its first shot for the afternoon.
Of course, it was the first Wednesday of the month and naturally The Firing was a novelty to fresh first year students, the park was full of them.
“Bet you your lunch The Canteen is empty,” Wiremu said as he surveyed the groups of students spread about the grass on blankets.
“Wang is probably sitting eating his noodles in splendid isolation,” added Max. “Ironic.”
All the same, having made the walk, Max and Wiremu found a spot at the rear of the park and settled in. Here they ate their camp scones and cold mutton, while observing their peers, who in turn watched the effects of the Ordinance Brigade going through its drills.
At each shot, which were often several minutes apart, excited young people would spring to their feet and peer out into the bay, hoping for some evidence of the gunner's accuracy. The floating white targets were in view and on occasion particularly passionate young men would shout loud “Hazzah!” when a shot found its mark. The few ladies present would clap politely the result before returning once more to their conversations.
They had only been eating for a couple of moments when Wiremu pointed up to the balcony of the lighthouse;
“There is Kingi and his band of merry men.”
Sure enough The Five were in attendance, arrayed along the handrail, in prime position to enjoy the show and seeming to take particular interest. Max wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that the big guns faced their homeland.
Only Mahuika had appeared disinterested in the smoke plumes at the top of the mountain, the clap of thunder and the corresponding water spouts out to sea. Her gaze instead had drifted over the crowd. Dark eyes combined with black moko gave her face, at such a distance, a haunting skull like appearance.
“Kai-he-raki,” said Wiremu.
“Pardon?” asked Max.
“A witch.”
Inside the Gymnasium the wide wooden floored corridor carried the muffled sounds, broken rhythms, and shouted instructions, of a boxing class. In another room adjoining the main corridor a number of fast-moving skipping ropes could be heard cutting the air and striking the floor. Max sought out a changing room.
He knew fencing was a vanity, like growing his hair into a ponytail, part of the way he wanted to see himself.
But what of that?
One needed follies to keep from becoming dull, he had decided.
Besides the modern world wasn't so civilised that a young gentleman need not know how to defend himself.
This had been well proven only yesterday. There was no struggle for Max; fencing would become his club, his skill, his mastery, it would be 'his thing', the thing the set him apart from all the others. Thus, he went alone, coveting the class, 'his class' and not wishing to share it with anyone. He had barely mentioned his enrolment to Wiremu out of fear that his friend would also take an interest and decide to come along. Petty, he knew, but it couldn't be the thing that set him apart if everyone was doing it. Max felt ashamed for a moment but resolved not to overthink it.
He pulled on his new black fencing suit. It was a two piece: jacket and trousers. The jacket was light and sported a short standing imperial collar and a double breast, which crossed over to button down the left. It fit well and was a bit suave. Max stuffed his day clothes in one of the lockers, nodded to himself in a full-length mirror and strode off to locate the Salle, the fencing hall. Within moments he stood outside a large door, the slip card of which was clearly labelled in gold lettering; 'Fencing: Captain Von Tempsky.' There was a quiet murmur of voices coming from the other side. Still on time, Max took a breath and entered.
A quick survey revealed that those already present in the room, maybe ten, all wore the new black uniforms. Max didn't meet an eye or stop to talk to any one student. Instead, he crossed to the notice board on the far wall and with falling heart, treated it like the window that it wasn't, and looked out. He had seen enough inside.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Kingi was back at the wall by the door, standing tall in his 'blacks'. Mahuika next to him; uniformed, slumped, scowling on the box seat that ran the perimeter of the room. Ginger, with at least one of his cronies, stood arms folded across his chest, in the middle of the room, ignoring Max's entrance.
Max read an old badminton draw from 1875. His mind raced. His dream invaded. The stone back in his belly, like when he saw Harriet with Gilbert Lavisham. It had been a nice idea. But reality had asserted itself again. Fencing was no longer 'his'. The ownership had been very short.
“Take your places,” commanded Captain Von Tempsky as he marched into the room. The students were a little lost until, with the flutter of an impatient hand, the Captain indicated the black crosses that were painted on the smooth planks of the floor. Six across and several back. The first two rows were quickly filled. Max took the right most at the front. Ginger behind him, but to the centre, Kingi to the far left.
Captain Gustavus Ferdinand von Tempsky walked like an infantryman, precise, economic, and direct. But he stood like a horseman, legs a-bow. Vintage black cavalry trou complete with a single white stripe and knee-high black leather riding boots enforced the image. However, his plain black shirt was untucked at the waist and unbuttoned at the wrists, somewhat eroding his otherwise military appearance. The long grey shanks and drooping moustache reminded Max for a fleeting moment of a photographic he had once seen of the ill-fated Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer.
A cavalry sabre also hung from Von Tempsky's hip.
Before he spoke the Captain paused to let his keen grey eyes sweep his new class. Likewise Max continued to study the hero of all those penny dreadful paperbacks.
“As I am sure you are vell avare I am Captain Gustavus Ferdinand von Tempsky. You vill call me Captain or if you please Captain von Tempsky.” The Captain's eyes came to rest then on Kingi. “Ah, who have ve here zen? One of our northern students?”
Kingi's chin came up as he answered.
“Kingi Kuratahi,” he responded before adding “Captain Manu-Rau.”
The skin around von Tempsky's eyes tightened and he stared at the big Māori for a long moment. Then, almost unconsciously, like it suddenly pained him, he brushed his forehead with his hand.
“It has been a long time since I have been called zat name. It is a honorarium I vill ask you to desist from using.” Then seeing Mahuika for the first time he said to Kingi; “Please have your voman remove herself from our class.” Kingi muttered something to Mahuika and she, picking up her skirts and shawls, left the room with a dark look.
“Now,” announced the Captain regaining his composure. “Ve are all here to learn ze art of ze sword. To learn how to fence. I shall teach you zis.” Taking a sword from a stand at the front of the class he turned to address them once more.
“Vot is zis?” he demanded of the student in front of him, the tip of the blunted blade swaying before the stunned pupils eyes.
“A... a sword,” he stammered in reply.
“No!” said von Tempsky, spinning on his heel and pacing the open space in front of them. “It is a foil. A marker. It is for marking von's opponent. It is not for attacking von's enemy. Gentlemen ve are here to fence, not to fight. Zis is a noble sport that I vill not have debased by any of your brawling. And I have it on some authority zat a number of you like to brawl. Is zat not right Mr Rumbold!?”
Max's heart shot into his mouth. Dickie had been right, Ginger and Sampson Rumbold were the same lout. Max fixed his stare forward as the Captain's gaze swept the group.
“Let me reiterate zat fencing is the sport of gentlemen. Conducted by gentlemen in accordance with all gentlemanly virtues. However,” continued von Tempsky. “Even in zis modern age every gentleman officer in Her Majesty's service, be zat in army or navy, needs know za art of za sword. For zere vill never be a conflict so great or so complex zat it cannot be reduced to two men facing each other with lengths of cold steel in zeir fists.”
Max was finding the Captain a little hard to follow. If he had it right the basics of what the Captain was saying were that he would teach them to fence, not fight, with foils not swords. But that fighting, with swords, still had much to be recommended to it, even in this modern age. Max wondered if this speech was meant to be some kind of disclaimer, as if the University was distancing itself from training young men to fight. It didn't matter, for as everyone in the room knew, the two things, fencing or fighting, were the same.
“No zat is a foil,” reflected von Tempsky tossing the foil aside. Then whipping his personal weapon from his hip and holding it before them, cried; “Zis is a sword!”
With his left hand he produced a white kerchief and flung it into the air. At once the sabre sliced left and the white silk fell in two. Downward in a silver arc and it became four. Then with the flat of the blade he collected the pieces up before they hit the floor. There was an impressed sound of air being gasped in or exhaled out, from the students.
With fine fingers the Captain plucked the pieces of the ruined kerchief from his sword as he renewed his pacing. Then re-scabbarding his weapon, he approached Kingi.
“One for our long memoried Māori,” he said, pushing a quarter of white silk into Kingi's chest pocket.
“And one for our brawler,” he continued, likewise gifting a part to Sampson Rumbold.
Max wasn't sure what was going on. It was a puzzle to him why these two had been noticed by the Captain. Von Tempsky was hardly some medieval maiden to be handing out keepsakes to her favoured champions. Still Max had a sudden and intense desire to also possess a part of von Tempsky's handkerchief, not for the fabric itself, but the distinction. Even though he had no idea of the true nature of the honour just given Kingi and Sampson, he wished to likewise be separated out from the rest of the class, to be recognised by their strange tutor. He was the one who had wanted this all his life.
Max looked on, working hard to push his pride aside, as The Captain tucked the remaining two parts of his kerchief away in his trouser pocket.
“And now ve proceed zen. But first it will interest you to know zat I have asked last year's class, those trained by ze now retired Mr Fletcher, let us call vem ze 'old class', to postpone zeir attendance by half an hour. Zhus you vill all have a chance to establish yourself in the basics before zhey arrive. Zhey shall attend us for the last two thirds of ze day. To ze art of ze sword zen. On your mark stand zhus.” The Captain, standing sideways to his class, bought his feet together, his right pointing forward, his left pointing to his students, heels a foot apart.
“Make your feet as an L,” he instructed, adding a bend to his knees. The class followed suit and Max discovered, along with most of the rest of his peers, that, as always, he was 'normal'. In other words, he lead from the right. His right foot was forward and thus it would be in his right hand that he would hold his sword... foil. No natural left-handed advantage for him then.
“And the arms zhus,” intoned von Tempsky, completing a stance in which the right hand was held forward about chest level, gripping an imagined weapon and the left was held back, the fist formed loosely behind the head.
“This is called ze En-Guard position. It is ze basic stance in which a fight... or I should say a round is commenced and indeed completed.” The Captain studied his pupils for a moment, checking their positioning, before moving on.
“Now practise advancing and how shall ve say...?” The word seemed to give him some trouble; “Retreating.”
“Step, together, step, together, and back again. Zhus.”
The class, copying their master, moved forward as one. Then when von Tempsky was almost sitting on the front table for the sudden need of space, stepped back. One, two, three.
It felt right to Max. It felt like what he had seen on that night long ago, at his father's side, in His Lordship's Hotel. A little smile played across his lips as he recalled the Alexandre Dumas novels he had read since.
He could feel his body warming to the steps, coming alive to the stance. He put Rumbold and Kingi's intrusion into his class from his mind.
“This is ze firm foundation from vhich all your attacks shall be launched and all your defences built. Get it right now,” instructed the Captain, pacing again as he spoke. “Like this you not only present ze smallest target to your opponent, but also retain your balance and keep your useless free hand out of ze way! Enough!”
The class ground to a halt. Von Tempsky eyed them sceptically for a moment. He flapped his hand again and they all knew to return to their places on the black crosses.
“We move on. Although in a vay you should always come back to ze en-guard position. Now quickly retrieve a foil and return to your marks.”
The young men surged forward, keen to finally get their hands on an actual sword or as the Captain had corrected, a foil. Pulling blunt ended rapiers from the barrel holders at the front of the room they jostled a little before returning to their places. Max was studying the practice weapon, a simple length of edgeless steel with a small cup guard, a buttoned point and a silver tear drop pommel at the end of the handle, when Sampson Rumbold lent in on his way back to his own mark and hissed;
“Your pet monkey not here to look after you Skilton. Better watch your own back or you could end up with a spike in it!”
Max rolled his eyes, it was all just a little trite, and was about to inform Rumbold that his breath stank. When the braggart whipped his foil around and slashed it across the back of Max's legs! Max only just managed to stop himself from yelping out as intense pain seared diagonally down his left thigh and across his right calf!
When the Captain turned back to the class a moment later Sampson Rumbold was standing casually at his mark awaiting the next instructions. Max, tears welling in his eyes, struggled to simply stand straight. But he would not give Rumbold the satisfaction of seeing him limp to the side or be proven a 'tell-tale'.
Instead, he fought to keep his rage in check. Any question Max might have had about how things lay between himself and Ginger had just been answered. There would be impressive welts on his legs to examine later.
The Captain now had the class practice moving in the en-guard position while holding their new foils. He instructed them to point the tip of the weapon at their imagined opponent’s eyes. This way giving him only the smallest piece of the weapon, the end, a floating silver dot, to observe as he tries to gauge how the next attack will come. It was very clear from the Captain's look that no two foils were to touch during this exercise, or until he said. None did.
Again Max felt the rightness of the stance, of the length of steel in his hand. The cliché line 'the sword became an extension of his body' that he had read countless times in von Tempsky's own books... correction John Smith's books about the Captain, suddenly rang true, despite its over use. The thrill of it temporarily overwhelmed the pain in his legs.
Then there was the sound of feet on the wooden floor outside the Salle, the 'old class' had arrived. A moment later the door opened, and they filed in. As expected all were dressed in traditional white. If Max had felt a stone in his stomach at the presence, in his fencing class, of Ginger and Kingi, then a veritable boulder now threatened to drag him to the floor. The Old Class were led in by Gilbert Lavisham!
Max couldn't believe it.
Is no place free from the son of the Railway Baron?
It seemed right then that anywhere Max wanted to be, Lavisham was there first. It was cruel; Kingi, Rumbold and now Lavisham all together in his fencing class. The Salle suddenly felt very crowded.
“Black!” sneered the new arrival, eyeing the fresh recruit’s unorthodox uniforms scathingly. He held a white sword bag and there was a small clang of metal as he moved further into the room.
“Master Lavisham, you vill not be using your own markers in my class,” stated von Tempsky, giving Gilbert's bag a look of distaste. “And you vill certainly have no use vhat-so-ever for edged weapons! Put them aside now and get a foil from the front before taking your place!”
Another surprise. Did the Captain think Lavisham had an actual sword in his bag?
But as if confirming the point, the black haired accounting student laid his bag on the box seat where Mahuika had been sitting earlier and went to the front to find a new foil. The rest of his white clad classmates filled the space and did the same.
“Miss Leigh,” announced the Captain. “Do you never tire from smashing together pieces of steel?!”
A jolt shot through Max. Harriet was in the room! Dressed in the white, her red hair a single braid down the back of her slender neck and that defiant look, that Max had first seen at last year's robot race, clear in her green eyes.
“As iron sharpens iron...” she quoted selecting a foil from the barrel.
“So one man sharpens another,” finished the Captain. “The verse says man!”
“Then the verse was translated from the Hebrew by an outdated chauvinist pig!” she countered moving to the third row and taking up position on a vacant black cross.
“Ve shall see,” huffed the Captain, nonplussed by Gilbert but ruffled by Harriet. Max felt a smile turn the corner of his mouth. Maybe he could suffer Kingi, Rumbold and potentially Lavisham, for the sake of Harriet.
Of course, the chances of doing something stupid and embarrassing in front of her are very high indeed.
He turned his head to sneak a look at her, he wasn't the only one. She was studying the pommel of her foil, ignoring Von Tempsky at the front. As he watched, she turned and glanced back at him, before returning her solemn attention to the marker. It was an innocent thing, nothing, but Max was sure that he saw, just before he looked away again himself, a small smile touch her lips.
The Captain cleared his throat.
“This is not something zat I allow. A voman in my class. But it appears zat my predecessor, Mr Fletcher, had differing... how shall ve say? Standards. Zhus ze dye is somevhat cast. So to honour his... legacy... I also vill make a provision. For now.”
Max wondered that if, like Professor McCormack, Von Tempsky knew that when it came to Harriet Leith, he was already defeated.
“If you are all ready,” continued the Captain. “Velcome to our previous years fencers.” Then tapping his forefinger to his lips. “It is time, I think, that a little steel touched steel. An exhibition ven, for za sake of instruction. Yes? Very good." The Captain's steel grey eyes roamed the class for a moment. "Let us have come forward one of the best from last year's class... say... Master Lavisham. Come, come." Gilbert left his post and joined Von Tempsky at the front, pulling on his white gloves as he came. "And one of the new intake. Someone fresh." The finger continued to tap his lips as the Captain studied the two black ranks in front of him.
Max's heart began to race. He knew what was going to happen. It felt like fate. Oh he did not want it. But at the same time recognised that it was beyond his control. The train was rolling now, the tracks would lead it to the station. Lavisham had just been described as 'one of the best'. Max only had seconds left. The grey eyes swung around. Max tried not to meet them. They came to rest on him. The finger stopped tapping.
“Mr Skilton, if you vill.”
Max nodded once, strode forward and took his place on the painted line at the front of the class. He turned to face Gilbert, the Captain stood between them. Lavisham looked him up and down, and sneered;
“Skilton? The bird man's brat?”
“Is zhere a problem Mr Lavisham?” asked Von Tempsky, watching Gilbert sternly.
“Not at all Captain,” came the reply, in a tone that told it as a lie. In his mind’s eye Max saw Lavisham crack his knuckles together as he spoke.
Max, not answering, kept his eyes cold and level with his enemy’s.
Fencing Class is proving to be a very illuminating hour and a half.
It had first served to clarify Ginger Rumbold's feelings about Max, views that it now seemed were shared by Gilbert Lavisham. Max doubted that the latter had ever spared him a single thought before this moment. The scorn he now saw in those blue eyes would be the transferred result of their father's many battles. An animosity about which it was clear Gilbert was not gentleman enough to rise above. Of course, if he knew of Max's secret heart for Harriet... such a look of disdain would be well justified.
“A little help,” called the Captain holding up a pair of masks and one pair of gloves in one hand, and a pair of torso protecting Plastron in the other. None in the black ranks moved. Harriet came to Gilbert's aid, taking a set from the Captain and beginning to fit them to her boyfriend. Lavisham didn't acknowledge her, but kept his eyes fixed on Max. Max, his own chin up, returned the stare.
In reality his eyes never left Harriet. This helped him achieve a slightly detached look which may have even irked his adversary a little more. As Harriet worked her face remained blank, near impossible to read, void of any clear emotion. But in the pauses between fastening buckles on the back of Gilbert's plastron, she stole glances at Max.
From the way she held her head, sometimes tipping it sideways, ask-like, Max imagined he could read from her any number of questions about him... and puzzlement... and concern. Max's heart would race whenever her green eyes turned on him and he had to work hard to keep his jaw locked firm and not smile at her.
Therefore, he missed seeing who had come to aid him, until he was standing right in front of him. The white garbed Goth pressed the plastron to Max's chest and passed him the mask and gloves.
“Here, hold these,” he said, before disappearing behind him to fasten the straps. Max held the chest protector in place with his free hand while gripping the mask, gloves, and foil in the other. He had only glimpsed his helper, a pale but handsome, jet black haired young man.
“Don't worry,” his assistant whispered, finishing a buckle. “It won't be a real duel. You two are just going to be the Captain's teaching aids.” Max wondered if he had somehow been able to sense his racing heart, a heart that told him the real duel had started the moment Lavisham learnt his name. “But of course, if you can get past the callouses around his black heart by all means take a shot!” Then a pat on the back and he reappeared around the front. Max noted a well-trimmed goatee beard and pockmarked cheeks, memorial to some survived childhood sickness. Then the steel mesh mask went over his head and a bib to protect the neck fastened under his chin. The gloves were pushed on and Max was re-presented with his foil. A wink and the goth returned to his place.
Max and Gilbert resumed their study of each other. Harriet had also gone.
“Very good,” pronounced Von Tempsky stepping between the combatants. “In foil, zat is the discipline of fencing with ze foil, the only valid target area is ze torso. So points vill only be given for hits landed on ze plastron. Points will likewise be deducted for hits outside zis area. Master Lavisham vill now attack Mr Skilton with a single direct lunge, most likely delivering one point to his plastron. Mr Skilton vill endeavour to turn zis lunge aside with vhot is called a parry. Any questions?” Max shook his head.
“En guard,” announced the Captain at once. The two young men took up the ready stance on the painted line. Instinctively Max bought his foil up vertical, the guard and hilt just below his eyes, before whipping it down again, the formal salute. The action was not mirrored by Lavisham. The Captain examined both stances momentarily before shouting “Begin!”
Gilbert sprung forward at once, not deigning to be lazy with the newcomer, the point of his foil lanced toward Max's chest. At once Max tried to parry, and to everyone’s surprise the thrust was rebuffed.
Lavisham stepped back. Max tried not to smile, but realised that it wouldn't matter, as no one could see his face behind the mask. There was a small smattering of applause from the Whites.
“Again!” called the Captain. And again the whole action was repeated, including the successful parry.
“Mr Skilton. Try a lunge. Master Lavisham will parry.” Max wondered why Von Tempsky had taken to addressing him as Mr Skilton, while referring to Gilbert as only Master Lavisham.
Or Maybe it was Master in a martial arts sense?
Max automatically repeated the salute almost unaware that he was doing it. If questioned he would have guessed that he must have seen it that night at His Lordship's.
“Begin!”
Max waited a moment, then clipping his feet together lunged forward. Lavisham turned the attack aside. No surprise there. A couple of claps from the students.
“Again!”
Max repeated the action and achieved the same result.
“Very good,” announced Von Tempsky. “This time Mr Skilton will lunge again, Master Lavisham will parry, but then go on to Riposte, that is to counter attack after the parry. Mr Skilton will finish with a final parry. Four moves only.” The two fighters nodded.
“Begin!”
Max lunged and Lavisham turned it aside, coming back with the riposte like lightening. Max only just managed to parry it… but parry it he did.
“Very good Mr Skilton,” stated the Captain, clapping his hands before his chin. "Very good indeed."
“Again. Begin.”
Max's foil shot out, was turned aside, and the counter attack came back, passing inside his parry attempt and punching him hard in the chest!
As he rubbed the sore spot Max reflected to himself that his beginner’s luck had held out a lot longer than he and most likely everyone else had expected.
“Give him a rest, Captain,” advised Lavisham, eyeing Max down his nose.
“Mr Skilton?” inquired the Captain, appearing to let Gilbert's condescension of both himself and Max slip.
“I'm more than happy to continue,” bluffed Max, stealing a look into the crowd. Harriet appeared to be watching him closely. Whatever happened now Max felt he had acquitted himself well, there would be no self-imposed 'fool making' today.
“Zis time zen Master Lavisham to lunge, Mr Skilton parry and riposte.” The apparent slight in application of titles seemed to be completely lost on Gilbert.
“En-guard. Begin.”
Lavisham came in fast. Max staggered back. A second blow to the chest. No riposte then, Max hadn’t even made the parry. Von Tempsky tried to study his face through the mesh.
“Once more I believe.”
Max saluted.
“En-guard. Begin.”
Lavisham tapped his leading foot on the ground. Some kind of feign. Then sprung forward with the lunge. Max parried the silver blur, somehow reading it right, and turned the spike aside. Then his own wrist was rolling over, his foil whipping the air, and he drove forward. Impact! Lavisham was falling back, gripping his chest. He pulled his mask off, his face red with anger.
“Beginners luck!” he retorted, before seeming to realise that he was making an ass of himself. “Again!” he demanded. There was hearty round of applause.
It looked to Max like Harriet was biting her lip to suppress a smile. The green danced in her eyes. Max felt confused and tried to refocus on the task at hand.
Forget the girl, kill the monster.
He knew Lavisham was the better fencer and that any second his silly luck would be shown for what it was.
“I must admit,” began the Captain. “Zat I am finding zis all rather entertaining.” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “A proper duel zen gentlemen?”
“Of course,” replied Lavisham at once.
“If you think it wise,” said Max to the Captain.
“It cannot hurt.” The Captain snapped his fingers together. “A short round. Ze first to four. Ze rest of the class vill be growing eager to put into practice some of vot zey have seen so far. Master Lavisham, you are the senior here, Mr Skilton has never to my knowledge fenced before, ze onus for a clean match is on you.”
Gilbert nodded once. Max imagined he could see his eyes burning red within the dark mask.
“Mr Skilton. When a point is von both fencers are to disengage and return to ze en-guard position to avait my command. Any questions?”
Max shook his head.
“Very vell. En-guard.”
Max and Gilbert slipped into position, Max bypassed the salute, knowing that it would be wasted. He was nervous now. His luck had brought him a long way, maybe too far.
If it could only hold... it would be amazing, if not... predictable.
He risked a look at the Goth who had helped him kit up and who had promised him that it wouldn't be a real fight. He was standing straight, his whiskered chin cupped between forefinger and thumb.
A slight nod of the head communicated his encouragement.
“Begin!”
Both Max and Gilbert lunged forward. Both landed hits.
“Nil all,” judged Von Tempsky. “En-guard. Begin.”
This time they were more reserved. Gilbert feigned a couple of jabs that Max batted away. He had no idea if that was the right thing to do or not but felt it somehow best to maintain contact with his adversary's sword. Max thrust forward. Gilbert parried with ease. Max thrust again, pretending he had learnt something from the last attempt. Gilbert parried and riposted. Max parried the counter just in time. He swallowed, the thrust appeared to have been aimed for his neck.
Max whipped the air with his foil a couple of times and readied himself. Lavisham lunged in, Max bungled the parry, and Gilbert landed a point. One hit to the stomach. Max was glad for the plastron.
“Lavisham von point,” intoned the Captain. “En-guard. Begin.”
Gilbert thrust in. Max parried and riposted, a long lunge... almost closed his eyes in fear... Smack! A solid hit to Gilbert's chest! The accountant would likewise be glad of the plastron. Lavisham hissed loudly and drew himself up, then shaking out his muscles stalked around the line for a moment. Max could tell he was angry. This was something, according to the story books, that he should be able to use against him.
“Von point to each. En-guard. Begin!”
Gilbert lunged wide angling his tip in toward Max at the last second. Max parried. Gilbert lunged again. Max parried. Gilbert thrust a third time. The room was silent but for the shuffle of quick feet and the fast 'clack' of the two fighter’s weapons. Max parried and riposted. Gilbert parried. Max thrust in once, twice, Gilbert parried once, twice, riposted and... hit! A snort of satisfaction. Max rubbed the centre of his chest. It didn't so much hurt as need some kind of consolation. A rub would have to do.
“Lavisham two, Skilton von. Gentlemen, ready? En-guard. Begin.”
Max knew he had no idea what he was doing. Protecting his pride was his only goal now. He wished he could wipe the sweat from his eyes. Lavisham thrust, Max parried, Lavisham lunged, Max parried that too, and thrust a counter. Gilbert turned it away and trust. Max forced the attack wide, Gilbert grunted in frustration and drove in a second time, Max batted it away, riposted, was parried, Gilbert's foil raced in and hit! Another point on Max's chest. But then without warning... smack! Lavisham brought the side of his foil across Max's thigh! Max's grunted, part in shock, part in pain. An illegal move on an unprotected area!
“Mr Lavisham! Warning!” roared the Captain. “Lavisham three, Skilton von.”
So much for one point deduction for hits outside the plastron. Must be the Captain wants to get the duel over with and the rest of the class to work.
Lavisham whipped the air with his foil, he was clearly agitated. There was one point left in it.
“En-guard. Begin!”
Max with the lunge. Gilbert parried and riposted. Max parried. The pair stood back and sized each other up. Gilbert sprung in, thrust, Max turned it aside! His own foil snaked out and almost took Lavisham in the gut.
So close.
Gilbert came at him again. Max parried and riposted, Gilbert counter-parried and riposted, Max parried, thrust, parry, riposte, lunge... bang!
The final hit to Max's chest protector. It was over.
But is wasn't! Gilbert struck again hitting the plastron a second time! Max staggered back!
“Stop!” shouted von Tempsky.
But Lavisham didn't stop, he whipped Max on the arm. Max cried out and then something seemed to break inside the accounting student and he rained blows on the newcomer. One catching Max on the gloved hand which he had instinctively thrown up to cover his head.
“Enough!” roared the Captain again. And Lavisham finally fell back panting, only to shout at Max,
“What are you doing here Skilton?! You're useless!”
Max, cradled his hand and although shaken, chose not to raise his tone;
“I'm here to learn to fence. This is my first lesson. Who did you expect? D'Artagnan?!”
This bought a good number of sniggers and a couple of open laughs from the other students. Von Tempsky managed, despite his rage, a lopsided smile. Harriet, Max saw, seemed to be stifling a smile with her hand. Gilbert Lavisham smashed his foil to the floor and stormed from the room.