The Final Duel Transcript (Scotland: A Scottish History Podcast)
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Scotland - A Scottish History Podcast
Episode 56 - The Final Duel
It is 2nd August, 1826. 7am. Two men stand side on to one another, boots wet with morning dew, holding pistols by their sides.
A Navy lieutenant stands counting aloud.
[FV - Lieutenant]
One…
Two...
[NARRATOR]
A young man standing next to him cuts in.
[FV - Millie]
Lower your weapon sir. You may aim on the mark of your second.
[NARR]
The Navy lieutenant begins anew.
[FV: Lieutenant]
One…
Two…
Three…
Gentlemen. Are you ready?
[NARR]
One man’s arm is steady as rock.
The other is shaking from the weight of the pistol. Shaking from the anticipation of his own mortality.
[FV: Lieutenant]
Fire!
When a piece lead shot - a bullet - pierces the flesh, it first must pass through your clothes. You’d think they rip and tear but they don’t. The force of the bullet punches a hole through the fabric and takes the fabric with it.
As it punctures the skin, the force of the shockwave rippling through the air, fragments the bone on either side of the bullet. It, and its new parade of shattered bone, pierce the organ while the shockwave ruptures and traumatises. The tiny scrap of unwashed fabric clinging to the bullet begins the process of infecting the wound before it’s even finished being made.
And then, before the victim feels the pain, the bullet leaves the body and lands innocuously on the ground, leaving behind it a tiny hole where it entered and a vicious, gory hole significantly larger than the entry wound.
It’s about that moment that it all explodes. The searing pain, the shock comes over.
Of course it depends on what kind of bullet… what kind of injury.
But if the bullet passes through the lung, and the heart, and exits through the back… it doesn’t take long to realise.
Time’s up.
This is Scotland, a podcast about history and where we made it. I’m Michael Park.
You’ve never cared for David Landale. Not to say that Landale is a bad man. You don’t have any evidence to the contrary but there’s just something about the way he carries himself.
Like he’s better than you.
Like if he stepped on you in the street, he’d feel the need to use a branch to get you off his shoe.
Even in church on a Sunday you see him looking down his nose at you. Like he was nobility or something, but he’s no better than you, or your brother. You were the town’s money men - what could be more respectable than being a banker?
You’d served. You’d been a Lieutenant in the Fifeshire Militia. What had Landale ever done apart from swan around being well regarded by the people of Kirkcaldy?
They didn’t even know that Landale was almost flat broke. His linen business was losing money hand-over-fist thanks to the defeat of Napoleon. There weren’t as many soldiers needing uniforms.
In fact he’d come to you just that week looking for a thousand pound overdraft.
Your brother had said he could have it. He’d shaken on it, the idiot. But you don’t think Landale can afford to make good on the payments so you write to him and tell him, in the politest possible terms, where he may stick his £1,000.
To say you’re seething as you read a letter from the Bank of Scotland demanding to know why you’ve apparently reneged on an agreement would be an understatement.
That sneaky snake Landale has gone full Karen and spoken to your managers.
You reply that you don’t believe Landale is good for the money and you are merely protecting the interests of the bank, and all of its customers, from being stained by bad credit.
That’ll show him.
People always suck up to him just because he lost his father and then his wife inside six months, but sorry pal, if you can’t make your business ends meet then it’s not going to up to Lieutenant George Morgan to bail you out.
You tell another local businessman that exact thing. In fact, you’re telling anyone who’ll listen that Landale is in financial trouble.
What’s that saying? Gossip’s like glitter. You can never really clear it up, and once you write to Landale and tell him that you expect an apology for him going over your head to moan to the bank, things start to snowball.
Maybe you shouldn’t have signed your letter as Lieutenant George Morgan - that was kind of an aggressive move.
And yet, you were the one who had been wronged. Imagine the temerity of that Landale speaking to your bosses over a handshake.
Landale’s reply lands on your doormat the next morning as you’re cleaning your pistols over breakfast. Surprise, surprise. He won’t do the decent thing and apologise publicly for doubting you.
You make a note in your diary to pop down to the blacksmith and order three dozen pistol balls. You’re going to have to start practicing.
After all, you can’t allow this insult to pass without reaction, but you won’t be challenging that upstart.
As you leave the house, clutching your umbrella despite it being a beautiful spring morning, you know of one way to make sure he challenges you.
You see, gentlemen have a code. Some might call it fragile masculinity, petty-mindedness or downright pig-headed stupidity but it’s a system of honour that you - and even the likes of Landale - live stringently by.
If you’re insulted you have the right, nay - the responsibility, to challenge that insult and demand satisfaction. But Landale’s some wet merchant and you’re a crackshot soldier so if you challenge him? Well, that’s basically murder.
Landale leaves the bookshop and crosses the street in front of you.
If he challenges you…
You’re hitting him on the back with your umbrella before he knows it. Not too hard, just hard enough that he feels it and making enough noise that everyone on the street sees it.
Check mate.
It’s not long before a letter from Landale arrives, challenging you to a duel at Carenden just outside the town. It’s almost the perfect way to get rid of him for good. Do away with this smug denizen of the town and show your prowess on the duelling grounds in the process.
This is going to be the thing that puts George Morgan on the map.
Needless to say, you accept the challenge and immediately start practicing.
You hear that Landale immediately pops off to Edinburgh to buy himself a set of duelling pistols despite having never fired a gun in his life. Cute.
Every duellist needs a good second and you ask a Navy Lieutenant you’re vaguely acquainted with since no-one else will agree. Milne will do, the others complaining about an ‘ungentlemanly assault’ are just idiots.
Milne goes to meet William Millie, the second of Landale and offers him your terms. You’ll both admit you were equally culpable and the whole thing can be called off.
You know fine well he won’t go for it.
And it’ll be the death of him.
And so… it is 2nd August, 1826. 7am. You and David Landale stand side on to one another, boots wet with morning dew, holding pistols by your sides.
Your second stands counting aloud.
[FV - Lieutenant]
One…
Two...
[NARR]
Millie cuts in.
[FV - Millie]
Lower your weapon sir. You may aim on the mark of your second.
[NARR]
Your second begins anew.
[FV: Lieutenant]
One…
Two…
Three…
Gentlemen. Are you ready?
[NARR]
You hold your pistol out ahead of you. Strong as a rock.
Landale’s hand is shaking from the weight of the pistol. Shaking from the anticipation of his own mortality.
[FV: Lieutenant]
Fire!
[Two pistols fire within split second]
You’d think that clothing would rip and tear but they don’t. The force of the bullet punches a hole through the fabric and takes the fabric with it.
Not that infection is going to be a problem for you. You blink in disbelief as you see Landale’s face reappear from the cloud of smoke. He’s staring back at you, more perplexed than jubilant.
You don’t see any holes in his clothes, although your vision has been clearer. You cough. Wetter than most of your coughs. Probably the blood.
The blood.
You drop to your knees, before you feel the pain. The bullet has long since left your body, leaving behind it a tiny hole where it entered and that vicious, ragged hole significantly larger than the entry wound.
You’re dead inside a minute, a traumatic bullet wound to your heart and lungs.
Landale, the reluctant duellist, is the victor and immediately goes into hiding. A warrant is issued for his arrest and a trial date set in Perth.
The merchant, who fled from the duelling grounds and the corpse of his bank manager, to the Lake District, tells the court he will return to face trial.
And he does. A month after your death, weeks after you have been laid to rest in the family plot, after your name has been ignominiously left off the headstone, Landale faces trial for your murder.
You never understood why everyone respected Landale so much. Why people liked him so much. He wasn’t even nobility. Just a merchant that never had a nasty word to say to anyone.
Even the judge agreed. So did the jury. It only took them a few seconds of hushed whispering to return a not guilty verdict. They didn’t even leave the courtroom.
Landale becomes Lord Provost of Kirkcaldy. Marries, and has eleven children.
One of his daughters grows up to marry Alexander Morgan, your nephew. They start a business, the Landale & Morgan Trading Company.
In a way, you’re finally in business together. The pious merchant and the bullying banker.
The final insult to your imagined honour.
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You’ve been listening to Scotland, it was written and produced by me, Michael Park and is a production of Be Quiet Media.
The music for every episode of Scotland is by our very own dashing duellist, Mitch Bain, you can check out more of his work at mitchbain.bequiet.media.
Jamie Mowat does amazing illustrations for us which you can see in our episode art. See more and buy prints at tidlin.com.
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Thanks for listening. Look after each other, wear a mask, don’t get into any duels… we’ll see you next time.