The Rosetta Key

Mine was more complicated. I hollowed its haft, lined it with lead, doubled its wrapping for my own added insulation, and—just before my opponent arrived—held its butt end against a stout wire leading from the cranking machine I had built to generate a frictional charge.

I was spinning away, storing electricity in the steel of my weapon, when my opponent appeared in the courtyard.

Ned squinted. “What’s that then, you bloody Yankee tinkerer?”

“Magic,” I said.

“Hey, I wants a fair fight now!”

“And you shall get it, blade to blade. Your muscle to my brain.

Nothing fairer than that, eh?”

“Ethan, he’ll split you like a bolt of wood,” Jericho warned, as I’d coached. “This is madness. You stand no chance against Big Ned.”

“Honor requires that we cross blades,” I recited with equally rehearsed resignation, “no matter what his skill and size.” I suppose it’s not sporting to lead on a bull, but what matador doesn’t wave a cape?

I gave some minutes for a crowd of assembled sailors to bet against me—I covered them all, with a loan from the metallurgist, figuring I might as well make a profit from all this bother—and then took a fencing stance on the garden path where we’d duel. I liked to think the harem girls were watching from above, and I knew Djezzar was.

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“On guard, you big bully!” I cried. “If I lose I’ll give you every shilling, but if you lose, then you’re beholden to me!”

“If you lose, I’ll take what I’m owed from the steaks and chops I’ll have turned you into!” The crowd roared at this wit and Ned preened.

Then he charged and swung.

I parried.

I wish I could report there was some gallant and expert swordplay as I deftly countered his brute force with athletic skill. Instead, as steel touched steel, there was simply a blaze of sparks and a sharp report like a gunshot that made the spectators cry and jump. Our blades merely touched, yet Ned flew backward as if he’d been kicked by a mule. His cutlass went flying, narrowly missing one of his shipmates, and he crashed down like Goliath and lay there, eyes rolled back in his head. The sword stung in my own hand, but I’d been insulated from the worst of the jolt. The air had a burning smell.

Was he dead?

I touched him with my sword tip. He jerked like one of Galvani’s frogs.

The crowd was utterly silent, in awe.

Finally Ned shuddered, blinked, and cringed. “Don’t touch me!”

“You shouldn’t test your betters, Ned.”

“Blimey, what did you do?”

“Magic,” I said again. I pointed my sword at the others. “I won at cards fairly, and won this duel. Now. Who else wants to challenge me?” They backed off as if I had leprosy. A boatswain hurriedly tossed me the purse of bets he’d held. God bless the foolish gambling instincts of British sailors.

Ned woozily sat up. “No one’s ever bested me before. Not even my pappy, not once I got to be eight or nine and could thrash him.”

“Will you respect me finally?”

He waggled his head to clear it. “I’m beholden, you said. You’ve got strange powers, guv’nor. I see that now. You always survive, no matter what side you’re on.”

“I just use my brain, Ned. If you’d ally with me, I’d teach you to do the same.”

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“Aye. I wants to serve with you, not fight.” Clumsily, he struggled to his feet and swayed. I could imagine the unearthly tingling he still felt. Electricity hurts. “You others, you listen to me,” he croaked.

“Don’t cross the American. And if you do, you have to deal with me.

We’s partners, we is.” He gave me a hug, like a giant ape.

“Don’t touch the sword, man!”

“Oh yes.” He stepped hastily away.

“Now, I need your help making more magic, but this time against the French. I need a fellow who can crank my apparatus like the devil himself. Can you do that, Ned?”

“If you don’t touch me.”

“No, we’re even,” I confirmed. “Now we can be friends.”

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There was an odd lull as the French burrowed like ants toward the walls of Acre, putting their remaining cannon in place. They dug and we waited, with that sluggish fatalism that wears down the besieged. It was Holy Week, so in the spirit of the holidays, Smith and Bonaparte agreed to a prisoner exchange, trading back the men taken in raids and skirmishing. Djezzar paced his walls like a restless cat, muttering about the damnation of Christians and all infidels, and then sat in a great chair on the corner tower to motivate his soldiers by glaring with his fierce eye. I labored on my electrical scheme, but it was difficult to get Jericho’s help because the Butcher, Smith, and Phelipeaux kept sending down a steady stream of armory requests. In close combat on the ramparts, with little time to reload, steel would be as important as gunpowder.