Now I needed to put my plan, such as it was, in action. “I cannot assemble seconds on so short notice; in any case, I have not come to fight.” I stepped forward again, holding my hands out, to show that I had come unarmed. I knew that I would not have been expected to bring my own weapon to a duel, but the gesture seemed important.
“Then have you come to apologize?” Reynold Holt stepped forward, limping slightly.
“If Mr. Staunton will accept it, yes,” I said. Deep inside, I knew I had done nothing to warrant an apology; but my purpose was not to preserve some imagined purity of character, but to assuage Mr. Staunton’s anger. As yet, he had said nothing, and so I could not gauge his mood. The success of my strategy depended entirely on whether he was willing to forgive an injury that existed only in his imagination.
“Mr. Cabot, I am glad to hear you say that,” said Dr. Soupape. “I have seen more than my share of gunplay and killing, and would as soon live out my life without seeing any more.” He turned to face my challenger. “Percy, you see. Mr. Cabot wishes to apologize.”
Staunton stepped forward, slowly, not quite steady on his feet. “He wishes to evade the consequences of his actions,” he said in a dreadful voice. “I believe him to be a coward, and nothing more.”
“If he were a coward, he would not have come at all,” said Marcus Keyes, laying a hand on Staunton’s arm. “Hear him out, Percy. There’s no reason to go through with the duel.”
Staunton glared at him. “That is for me to decide. I am the injured party, and I have a right to satisfaction. Don’t try to force me into anything, gentlemen. My honor has been tarnished, and it will take more than a mealy-mouthed apology from a yellow-bellied Yankee to restore it to its proper luster.”
The devil take these Southerners and their honor, I thought, and then felt ashamed of myself. I could not afford to let my anger get the better of me. I knew myself to be no coward, whatever Staunton’s benighted notions on the topic. I would make my apology and hope it was sufficient.
“Mr. Staunton, I have reflected on the events of yesterday and feel that I owe you an apology,” I began. “While I must insist that no impropriety took place, either on my part or on that of Mrs. Staunton, I recognize that the appearance of improper conduct is also to be avoided, and I sincerely regret having in any way failed to maintain proper decorum in my visit to your house. What you saw was not what you believe it to be; I am sure that your wife will tell you the truth of the matter. But I am genuinely sorry for having caused you grief.”
All the time I spoke, I kept my most sober expression, and looked him frankly in the face, trying to read his response. But the waxing light revealed his face to be even more contorted and masklike in its anger than I remembered it from our confrontation in his library. Was the man ill? He seemed far different from the host I had seen at the dinner table only two nights before. As I finished speaking, I held out my hand and said, “I hope we can be on friendly terms again. I have never intended you any injury or insult, and I don’t want to begin now.”
Staunton looked down at the proffered hand, an unreadable expression on his face. The corner of his mouth gave a twitch, and then he pointed his finger directly at me. “You lie, sir!” He practically shrieked the sentence, and I involuntarily fell back a step as he continued. “You think you can talk your way out of the trouble you have stirred up, but it will not be so easy as that. I’ll listen to no more lies. My wife had a mouthful of them to feed me, too! Either stand up to me today, or take your cowardly hide out of my sight. But I promise you, sir, if you walk away without giving me satisfaction this morning, I will hunt you down wherever you stay within New Orleans.” He turned on his heel and walked away, followed closely by Reynold Holt. I stared at him, stunned by his intransigence. The shadows in the park were lightening; dawn was almost here.
“My God, what does the man want?” whispered Dr. Soupape, his face pale. He turned to me. “Mr. Cabot, Percy is not at all himself today. I cannot say what he is likely to do. If he were to listen to me, he would be at home under medical supervision. Nor is it my place to advise you; but if it were, I would tell you to take his threats very seriously. I fear that he will attempt to carry out his promise to hunt you down. I know of a place across the river where you can stay, if you want. He will not look for you there.”
Marcus Keyes had stayed behind with us, and now he stepped close, a strained look on his face. He cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly. “It may not be my place to say so, Mr. Cabot, but I think your best play right now is to offer to stand up to Percy. He’s trying to bluff you, and I think if you call him, he’ll fold.”
“Fold? I’m not sure I follow you.”
Keyes glanced over at Staunton and Holt huddled together, a little distance away, then said in a low voice, “I think Percy means to give you a good scare, but not to hurt you. I don’t see a killing offense here, to be honest, and I’ve told him so. He might just try to wing you, but he can’t do that without risking worse. I don’t think his hand is steady enough. If he’s smart, he’ll delope and declare himself satisfied.”
“I wish I knew that for certain,” I said. “It is my life on the line, you know.”
“Understood,” said Keyes. “But I have only your word that you’re not a crack shot, and that you hold no grudge against my friend. I’m bending the code of honor a good bit to tell you this. After all, you’re supposed to have your own seconds to look after your interests. If you stand up, after what I’ve told you, and put a bullet through Percy’s heart, I’ve as good as killed him myself. Do you follow me?” His face was serious, and his voice insistent.
“Yes, I do follow you,” I said. “Thank you for your advice. I will give it careful consideration.” We stood there a few moments longer, none of us sure what to do next. The light grew, and a few birds began to sing. It struck me with sudden force that these might be the last birds I would ever hear singing. Until that moment, it had not occurred to me that I might really die.
“Let me try to talk to Percy,” said the doctor. “My gray hairs may have some force with him still. I would dearly wish to see this day end with no shots fired.”
“As would I,” I said. “Do your best.” He and Keyes walked over and joined the other two men, and I heard them speaking in low voices, although I could not make out what they said. I was left to consider what my choices might be. Was Staunton serious in his threats? Could I safely elude him? I began to think about slipping off while Staunton was distracted, taking advantage of the dark underbrush to make my escape. But if I did so, how would I carry on my work with Mr. Clemens, if I were constantly looking over my shoulder for an assassin? And where was Mr. Clemens? For all I knew, he was back on Royal Street, reading my note to him at this very moment. And if not, where was he? There were too many imponderables for me to make a clean decision. If only Staunton would back down!
I must have stood there for ten minutes, listening to the voices, at first barely audible, then gradually swelling in volume. I began to make out snatches of the talk, first one, then another of them trying to persuade Staunton to call off the duel. There was no doubt in my mind that all three men were desperately trying to prevent the confrontation. At last I heard the doctor tell Staunton he feared for his health, and Staunton roared out, “I am here for honor, not for health, damn you!” He turned and pointed at me. “Are you ready to stand, or will you run like a Yankee dog?”
I was about to reply when a large closed carriage came rattling up the road at high speed. We all drew back somewhat, wondering who could be rushing to join us, for there seemed no other reason for anyone to be approaching this isolated spot so early in the morning. I thought for a moment that it might be Mr. Clemens, riding to the rescue. But then the carriage stopped, and a slim woman’s form, dressed in black, descended from it. “Percival!” she cried, and rushed toward him. It was Mrs. Eugenia Robinson, his widowed sister-in-law.
“Eugenia! You should not be here,” said Mr. Holt, obviously
surprised at his sister’s dramatic arrival. But she brushed past him and confronted Mr. Staunton.
“It is you—all of you—who should not be here,” she said in a firm voice. “I have spoken to Maria. She has done nothing to be ashamed of. This boy has done nothing.” She pointed at me.
“Words are for women, deeds for men,” said Mr. Staunton in a toneless voice. The light was bright enough by now for me to see his face clearly, and the sight was not reassuring. His mouth wore a cruel smirk, and there was something akin to madness in his eyes. “You have done enough to make my life miserable,” he said to her.
Mrs. Robinson threw her arms around him with a cry of “No!” and for a moment I thought she might yet prevail. But he steeled himself against her, and pushed her into her brother’s arms.
“Get out of the way and let a man defend your sister’s honor,” he snarled. “Reynold, take your sister to her carriage and order the driver to take her home. She does not belong here.” Holt looked undecided for a second, but then he stepped forward and grasped his sister firmly by the arm. She tried to pull away, but was no match for her older brother’s strength.
“Percival!” cried Eugenia Robinson. “Go home to Maria while you still can. Better to die in your own bed than here on the cold ground!” Something in her choice of words disturbed me. Did she really believe that I would kill her brother-in-law?
But Staunton ignored her, staring into the distance as Mrs. Robinson was borne away. Then he turned and pointed directly at me. “Sir, will you stand up to me?”
So it had come down to two choices: I could either stand or flee.
There would be nothing cowardly about walking away from this encounter. The man was a practiced duelist, and I had never fired a pistol in my life. More to the point, I rejected the entire notion of settling points of honor by resort to weapons; no civilized man could see it as anything but a barbaric survival from an ignorant past age. Better to walk away without regrets, and leave him to brag about his victory to those who cared about such things. It was the sensible thing to do, and I longed to do it.
But if I fled the city, I left Mr. Clemens to pursue the murder case alone. Moreover, he needed me to run errands, to oversee his writing and lecturing schedules, and to serve as a buffer between him and the ordinary chores of daily existence. I would be leaving my employer without help at a time when he most needed it. And without my help, he would almost certainly have to abandon the search for John Robinson’s murderer, leaving poor Leonard Galloway to face the hangman for a crime I was now certain he did not commit. I could not allow that to happen.
The risk was that I would receive a serious, perhaps fatal, wound by standing up to Staunton. His seconds thought he might deliberately shoot to miss me. And his evident illness might degrade his marksmanship sufficiently to make him miss, even if he were attempting to hit me. But the risk remained; no game played with live ammunition was without danger.
All this went through my mind in the space of perhaps ten seconds. I stood looking at my opponent, more and more convinced that his mind had somehow snapped. I was gambling with my life to face him with a weapon in his hand. He seemed incapable even of standing entirely still; he would occasionally twitch, or lurch unexpectedly as if to catch his balance. It would be suicide to accept the challenge. And yet . . .
“Bring out the pistols,” I said. “We will settle this today.”
Dr. Soupape heaved a great sigh, and looked at me with an expression I hope never to see turned my way again. “First let us take a little walk to a more private place,” he said. We followed him farther into the park, along a path that might have been charming had I been in the mood for scenery, to a majestic grove of oak trees. There was a broad open space here, and the peaceful setting was in sharp contrast to the violent purpose to which we were about to put it.
Dr. Soupape stopped and gestured to Keyes, who brought forth a case that he opened to reveal two pistols. “They are a matched pair,” said the doctor. “Are you familiar with firearms?”
“No,” I admitted.
He shook his head. “I thought as much. Take either one, then. Each has one bullet; I loaded them myself. Pull the trigger and it will fire.” I chose the one nearest to me, and watched Staunton take the other. He opened the mechanism, checked that it was loaded, and closed it with a loud metallic sound. He nodded at me, but I could not fathom his thoughts. He handed the pistol to Reynold Holt, who had returned, and Keyes said to me, “Take off your jacket. I’ll hold the gun.”
“Why?” I asked, handing him the pistol. I slipped out of my jacket and laid it on the grass, feeling the cool morning air for the first time.
“A bullet that hits a button makes a worse wound,” he said, handing me back the pistol, butt first. “No point in taking the chance.”
Staunton had his jacket off, as well, and I noticed for the first time that he was wearing a silk shirt that buttoned in back. Dr. Soupape took us to a level spot of ground and measured off ten paces. “Mr. Cabot, you have the choice of ends.” Just like a football game, I thought. I saw no advantage to either end, and chose the one nearest to the place where we had entered the oak grove. Staunton went to the other, and Dr. Soupape took up a position midway between us, but out of the line of fire. “Are you ready, gentlemen?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” I said, and Staunton said, “Yes.”
“Is there no way to prevail upon you not to continue?” said the doctor, peering at Mr. Staunton. “Surely honor has been satisfied by Mr. Cabot’s willingness to appear.”
Staunton was unmoved. “I’ve heard enough jabber. Get on with it, Alphonse.”
Dr. Soupape then turned to me. “Mr. Cabot, you have many years ahead of you. Do not risk them here today. There is nothing to prove by your presence.”
“I hear you and appreciate your concern, Doctor,” I said. It was all I could do to hold my ground, quite frankly. “But I fear I’m out of choices. Please continue.”
“Very well, gentlemen. May the good Lord have mercy upon us all.” He took the white handkerchief from his breast pocket and said, “I will drop the handkerchief on the count of three. You may then take aim and fire at will.”
Some thirty feet away stood Staunton, his white shirt clearly visible against the bushes behind. I thought I saw him wobble where he stood; he appeared to be seriously ill, I thought. His illness must have affected his mind; there was no other rational explanation for his insistence on actually dueling. “One,” said the doctor.
I lifted the pistol and looked at it. I hadn’t realized they were quite so heavy. It would be difficult to hold steady, especially for a novice. I hoped it would be even more difficult for a man who was apparently having trouble staying on his feet. “Two.” A bird whistled, somewhere off to the left.
I let the pistol fall to my side again. I supposed I still had time to turn and run, if I were so inclined. Staunton gave a lurch to the left, then caught himself upright, glaring at me the entire time. The doctor hesitated until Staunton was fairly on his feet again, then he said, “Three,” and dropped the handkerchief.
I raised my pistol, and saw Staunton bring his up at the same time—slowly and confidently, like a man who had done this a hundred times. I deliberately lifted the pistol straight into the air and fired upward. The report was louder than I had expected, and the kick of the gun nearly tore it from my hand. I had a sudden flash of horror, wondering where the bullet would land. The harsh smell of gunpowder assaulted my nose, as I lowered the pistol to my side again.
Staunton still had not fired. He stood pointing the pistol directly at me; I could see the hole in the muzzle quite clearly. I thought about a hole that size suddenly appearing in my chest, and a chill went up my spine. Still he did not fire. Was he testing my courage, seeing how long I could look death in the eye without breaking and running? Somewhere behind me I heard a voice shouting something, and running footsteps, but I dared not turn and look. Staunton’s arm wavered, and the muzzle lost its ai
m. He lifted his head, then lowered it again to sight the gun at me. This time his arm was steady. He held a direct bead on my heart for a long count of three, his eyes boring into mine. Suddenly, he lurched, caught himself, tried to bring the gun on target again, and then collapsed like a rag doll.
17
There was an almost imperceptible pause as Staunton fell to the ground, as if time were somehow frozen, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Dr. Soupape and Marcus Keyes rushed to the fallen man’s side, while Reynold Holt stood as if thunderstruck, before starting over to join them. I bent to pick up my discarded coat, then began to walk toward the other end of the field to see if there were any way to help my stricken opponent, when a loud voice directly behind me said, “Drop the gun, mister. And put your hands in the air!”
I let the empty pistol fall from my hand and raised my arms above my head. I was about to turn to see who had spoken, but the voice said, “Stay where you are!” and reinforced the point by shoving a hard blunt object into the small of my back. It was all I could do not to fall forward, but I managed to keep my feet. A hand reached out and picked up the pistol, and then a big man in a blue uniform and a tall, rounded helmet came in front of me. A policeman.
“All right,” he said, shaking his billy club in my face. He was clean shaven and broad shouldered; he had a bulbous nose, and bushy eyebrows over inquisitive blue eyes. “You’re under arrest for dueling and for discharging a firearm in public. And you’d better hope you haven’t killed that poor fellow there, or it’ll be a murder charge. You can bet the house on it, mister.” He slipped the pistol into his pocket.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but I didn’t shoot him,” I protested. I wasn’t even certain of that; could my shot into the air have come down, by some evil stroke of fortune, and hit the very man I was so anxious not to harm? It was an absurd notion, yet everything else seemed to have gone wrong this morning. But Staunton had been visibly ill before I fired; surely that was what had felled him, not the pistol shot.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 17
