O’Connor briefly informed his cousins of the position in which he was placed, requesting them at the same time to accompany him to the field, and this having been settled, we separated, each to his own apartment. I had wished to sit up with O’Connor, who had matters to arrange sufficient to employ him until the hour appointed for M’Donough’s visit; but he would not hear of it, and I was forced, though sorely against my will, to leave him without a companion. I went to my room, and, in a state of excitement which I cannot describe, I paced for hours up and down its narrow precincts. I could not — who could? — analyse the strange, contradictory, torturing feelings which, while I recoiled in shrinking horror from the scene which the morning was to bring, yet forced me to wish the intervening time annihilated; each hour that the clock told seemed to vibrate and tinkle through every nerve; my agitation was dreadful; fancy conjured up the forms of those who filled my thoughts with more than the vividness of reality; things seemed to glide through the dusky shadows of the room. I saw the dreaded form of Fitzgerald — I heard the hated laugh of the captain — and again the features of O’Connor would appear before me, with ghastly distinctness, pale and writhed in death, the gouts of gore clotted in the mouth, and the eyeballs glared and staring. Scared with the visions which seemed to throng with unceasing rapidity and vividness, I threw open the window and looked out upon the quiet scene around. I turned my eyes in the direction of the town; a heavy cloud was lowering darkly about it, and I, in impious frenzy, prayed to God that it might burst in avenging fires upon the murderous wretch who lay beneath. At length, sick and giddy with excess of excitement, I threw myself upon the bed without removing my clothes, and endeavoured to compose myself so far as to remain quiet until the hour for our assembling should arrive.
A few minutes before four o’clock I stole noiselessly downstairs, and made my way to the small study already mentioned. A candle was burning within; and, when I opened the door, O’Connor was reading a book, which, on seeing me, he hastily closed, colouring slightly as he did so. We exchanged a cordial but mournful greeting; and after a slight pause he said, laying his hand upon the volume which he had shut a moment before:
‘Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though I cannot say that I have much hope as to the issue of this morning’s rencounter. I shall avoid half the danger. If I must fall, I am determined I shall not go down to the grave with his blood upon my hands. I have resolved not to fire at Fitzgerald — that is, to fire in such a direction as to assure myself against hitting him. Do not say a word of this to the O’Gradys. Your doing so would only produce fruitless altercation; they could not understand my motives. I feel convinced that I shall not leave the field alive. If I must die to-day, I shall avoid an awful aggravation of wretchedness. Purcell,’ he continued, after a little space, ‘I was so weak as to feel almost ashamed of the manner in which I was occupied as you entered the room. Yes, I — I who will be, before this evening, a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed to have spent my last moment of reflection in prayer. God pardon me! God pardon me!’ he repeated.
I took his hand and pressed it, but I could not speak. I sought for words of comfort, but they would not come. To have uttered one cheering sentence I must have contradicted every impression of my own mind. I felt too much awed to attempt it. Shortly afterwards, M’Donough arrived. No wretched patient ever underwent a more thrilling revulsion at the first sight of the case of surgical instruments under which he had to suffer, than did I upon beholding a certain oblong flat mahogany box, bound with brass, and of about two feet in length, laid upon the table in the hall. O’Connor, thanking him for his punctuality, requested him to come into his study for a moment, when, with a melancholy collectedness, he proceeded to make arrangements for our witnessing his will. The document was a brief one, and the whole matter was just arranged, when the two O’Gradys crept softly into the room.
‘So! last will and testament,’ said the elder. ‘Why, you have a very BLUE notion of these matters. I tell you, you need not be uneasy. I remember very well, when young Ryan of Ballykealey met M’Neil the duellist, bets ran twenty to one against him. I stole away from school, and had a peep at the fun as well as the best of them. They fired together. Ryan received the ball through the collar of his coat, and M’Neil in the temple; he spun like a top: it was a most unexpected thing, and disappointed his friends damnably. It was admitted, however, to have been very pretty shooting upon both sides. To be sure,’ he continued, pointing to the will, ‘you are in the right to keep upon the safe side of fortune; but then, there is no occasion to be altogether so devilish down in the mouth as you appear to be.’
‘You will allow,’ said O’Connor, ‘that the chances are heavily against me.’
‘Why, let me see,’ he replied, ‘not so hollow a thin, either. Let me see, we’ll say about four to one against you; you may chance to throw doublets like him I told you of, and then what becomes of the odds I’d like to know? But let things go as they will, I’ll give and take four to one, in pounds and tens of pounds. There, M’Donough, there’s a GET for you; b — t me, if it is not. Poh! the fellow is stolen away,’ he continued, observing that the object of his proposal had left the room; ‘but d —— it, Purcell, you are fond of a SOFT THING, too, in a quiet way — I’m sure you are — so curse me if I do not make you the same offeris it a go?’
I was too much disgusted to make any reply, but I believe my looks expressed my feelings sufficiently, for in a moment he said:
‘Well, I see there is nothing to be done, so we may as well be stirring. M’Donough, myself, and my brother will saddle the horses in a jiffy, while you and Purcell settle anything which remains to be arranged.’
So saying, he left the room with as much alacrity as if it were to prepare for a foxhunt. Selfish, heartless fool! I have often since heard him spoken of as A CURSED GOODNATURED DOG and a D —— GOOD FELLOW; but such eulogies as these are not calculated to mitigate the abhorrence with which his conduct upon that morning inspired me.
The chill mists of night were still hovering on the landscape as our party left the castle. It was a raw, comfortless morning — a kind of drizzling fog hung heavily over the scene, dimming the light of the sun, which had now risen, into a pale and even a grey glimmer. As the appointed hour was fast approaching, it was proposed that we should enter the race-ground at a point close to the stand-house — a measure which would save us a ride of nearly two miles, over a broken road; at which distance there was an open entrance into the race-ground. Here, accordingly, we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the care of a country fellow who happened to be stirring at that early hour, we proceeded up a narrow lane, over a side wall of which we were to climb into the open ground where stood the now deserted building, under which the meeting was to take place. Our progress was intercepted by the unexpected appearance of an old woman, who, in the scarlet cloak which is the picturesque characteristic of the female peasantry of the south, was moving slowly down the avenue to meet us, uttering that peculiarly wild and piteous lamentation well known by the name of ‘the Irish cry,’ accompanied throughout by all the customary gesticulation of passionate grief. This rencounter was more awkward than we had at first anticipated; for, upon a nearer approach, the person proved to be no other than an old attached dependent of the family, and who had herself nursed O’Connor. She quickened her pace as we advanced almost to a run; and, throwing her arms round O’Connor’s neck, she poured forth such a torrent of lamentation, reproach, and endearment, as showed that she was aware of the nature of our purpose, whence and by what means I knew not. It was in vain that he sought to satisfy her by evasion, and gently to extricate himself from her embrace. She knelt upon the ground, and clasped her arms round his legs, uttering all the while such touching supplications, such cutting and passionate expressions of woe, as went to my very heart.
At length, with much difficulty, we passed this most painful interruption; and, crossing the boundary wall, were placed beyond her reach. The O’Gradys damned her fo
r a troublesome hag, and passed on with O’Connor, but I remained behind for a moment. The poor woman looked hopelessly at the high wall which separated her from him she had loved from infancy, and to be with whom at that minute she would have given worlds, she took her seat upon a solitary stone under the opposite wall, and there, in a low, subdued key, she continued to utter her sorrow in words so desolate, yet expressing such a tenderness of devotion as wrung my heart.
‘My poor woman,’ I said, laying my hand gently upon her shoulder, ‘you will make yourself ill; the morning is very cold, and your cloak is but a thin defence against the damp and chill. Pray return home and take this; it may be useful to you.’
So saying, I dropped a purse, with what money I had about me, into her lap, but it lay there unheeded; she did not hear me.
‘Oh I my child, my child, my darlin’,’ she sobbed, ‘are you gone from me? are you gone from me? Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen, you’ll never come back alive to me again. The crathur that slept on my bosom — the lovin’ crathur that I was so proud of — they’ll kill him, they’ll kill him. Oh, voh! voh!’
The affecting tone, the feeling, the abandonment with which all this was uttered, none can conceive who have not heard the lamentations of the Irish peasantry. It brought tears to my eyes. I saw that no consolation of mine could soothe her grief, so I turned and departed; but as I rapidly traversed the level sward which separated me from my companions, now considerably in advance, I could still hear the wailings of the solitary mourner.
As we approached the stand-house, it was evident that our antagonists had already arrived. Our path lay by the side of a high fence constructed of loose stones, and on turning a sharp angle at its extremity, we found ourselves close to the appointed spot, and within a few yards of a crowd of persons, some mounted and some on foot, evidently awaiting our arrival. The affair had unaccountably taken wind, as the number of the expectants clearly showed; but for this there was now no remedy.
As our little party advanced we were met and saluted by several acquaintances, whom curiosity, if no deeper feeling, had brought to the place. Fitzgerald and the Captain had arrived, and having dismounted, were standing upon the sod. The former, as we approached, bowed slightly and sullenly — while the latter, evidently in high good humour, made his most courteous obeisance. No time was to be lost; and the two seconds immediately withdrew to a slight distance, for the purpose of completing the last minute arrangements. It was a brief but horrible interval — each returned to his principal to communicate the result, which was soon caught up and repeated from mouth to mouth throughout the crowd. I felt a strange and insurmountable reluctance to hear the sickening particulars detailed; and as I stood irresolute at some distance from the principal parties, a topbooted squireen, with a hunting whip in his hand, bustling up to a companion of his, exclaimed:
‘Not fire together! — did you ever hear the like? If Fitzgerald gets the first shot all is over. M’Donough sold the pass, by —— , and that is the long and the short of it.’
The parties now moved down a little to a small level space, suited to the purpose; and the captain, addressing M’Donough, said:
‘Mr. M’Donough, you’ll now have the goodness to toss for choice of ground; as the light comes from the east the line must of course run north and south. Will you be so obliging as to toss up a crown-piece, while I call?’
A coin was instantly chucked into the air. The captain cried, ‘Harp.’ The HEAD was uppermost, and M’Donough immediately made choice of the southern point at which to place his friend — a position which it will be easily seen had the advantage of turning his back upon the light — no trifling superiority of location. The captain turned with a kind of laugh, and said:
‘By —— , sir, you are as cunning as a dead pig; but you forgot one thing. My friend is a left-handed gunner, though never a bit the worse for that; so you see there is no odds as far as the choice of light goes.’
He then proceeded to measure nine paces in a direction running north and south, and the principals took their ground.
‘I must be troublesome to you once again, Mr. M’Donough. One toss more, and everything is complete. We must settle who is to have the FIRST SLAP.’
A piece of money was again thrown into the air; again the captain lost the toss and M’Donough proceeded to load the pistols. I happened to stand near Fitzgerald, and I overheard the captain, with a chuckle, say something to him in which the word ‘cravat’ was repeated. It instantly occurred to me that the captain’s attention was directed to a bright-coloured muffler which O’Connor wore round his neck, and which would afford his antagonist a distinct and favourable mark. I instantly urged him to remove it, and at length, with difficulty, succeeded. He seemed perfectly careless as to any precaution. Everything was now ready; the pistol was placed in O’Connor’s hand, and he only awaited the word from the captain.
M’Creagh then said:
‘Mr. M’Donough, is your principal ready?’
M’Donough replied in the affirmative; and, after a slight pause, the captain, as had been arranged, uttered the words:
‘Ready — fire.’
O’Connor fired, but so wide of the mark that some one in the crowd exclaimed:
‘Fired in the air.’
‘Who says he fired in the air?’ thundered Fitzgerald. ‘By —— he lies, whoever he is.’ There was a silence. ‘But even if he was fool enough to fire in the air, it is not in HIS power to put an end to the quarrel by THAT. D —— my soul, if I am come here to be played with like a child, and by the Almighty —— you shall hear more of this, each and everyone of you, before I’m satisfied.’
A kind of low murmur, or rather groan, was now raised, and a slight motion was observable in the crowd, as if to intercept Fitzgerald’s passage to his horse. M’Creagh, drawing the horse close to the spot where Fitzgerald stood, threatened, with the most awful imprecations, ‘to blow the brains out of the first man who should dare to press on them.’
O’Connor now interfered, requesting the crowd to forbear, and some degree of order was restored. He then said, ‘that in firing as he did, he had no intention whatever of waiving his right of firing upon Fitzgerald, and of depriving that gentleman of his right of prosecuting the affair to the utmost — that if any person present imagined that he intended to fire in the air, he begged to set him right; since, so far from seeking to exort an unwilling reconciliation, he was determined that no power on earth should induce him to concede one inch of ground to Mr. Fitzgerald.’
This announcement was received with a shout by the crowd, who now resumed their places at either side of the plot of ground which had been measured. The principals took their places once more, and M’Creagh proceeded, with the nicest and most anxious care, to load the pistols; and this task being accomplished, Fitzgerald whispered something in the Captain’s ear, who instantly drew his friend’s horse so as to place him within a step of his rider, and then tightened the girths. This accomplished, Fitzgerald proceeded deliberately to remove his coat, which he threw across his horse in front of the saddle; and then, with the assistance of M’Creagh, he rolled the shirt sleeve up to the shoulder, so as to leave the whole of his muscular arm perfectly naked. A cry of ‘Coward, coward! butcher, butcher!’ arose from the crowd. Fitzgerald paused.
‘Do you object, Mr. M’Donough? and upon what grounds, if you please?’ said he.
‘Certainly he does not,’ replied O’Connor; and, turning to M’Donough, he added, ‘pray let there be no unnecessary delay.’
‘There is no objection, then,’ said Fitzgerald.
‘I object,’ said the younger of the O’Gradys, ‘if nobody else will.’
‘ And who the devil are you, that DARES to object?’ shouted Fitzgerald; ‘and what d — d presumption prompts you to DARE to wag your tongue here?’
‘I am Mr. O’Grady, of Castle Blake,’ replied the young man, now much enraged; ‘and by —— , you shall answer for your language to me.’
‘S
hall I, by —— ? Shall I?’ cried he, with a laugh of brutal scorn; ‘the more the merrier, d — n the doubt of it — so now hold your tongue, for I promise you you shall have business enough of your own to think about, and that before long.’
There was an appalling ferocity in his tone and manner which no words could convey. He seemed transformed; he was actually like a man possessed. Was it possible, I thought, that I beheld the courteous gentleman, the gay, goodhumoured retailer of amusing anecdote with whom, scarce two days ago, I had laughed and chatted, in the blasphemous and murderous ruffian who glared and stormed before me!
O’Connor interposed, and requested that time should not be unnecessarily lost.
‘You have not got a second coat on?’ inquired the Captain. ‘I beg pardon, but my duty to my friend requires that I should ascertain the point.’
O’Connor replied in the negative. The Captain expressed himself as satisfied, adding, in what he meant to be a complimentary strain, ‘that he knew Mr. O’Connor would scorn to employ padding or any unfair mode of protection.’
There was now a breathless silence. O’Connor stood perfectly motionless; and, excepting the deathlike paleness of his features, he exhibited no sign of agitation. His eye was steady — his lip did not tremble — his attitude was calm. The Captain, having re-examined the priming of the pistols, placed one of them in the hand of Fitzgerald. — M’Donough inquired whether the parties were prepared, and having been answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to give the word, ‘Ready.’ Fitzgerald raised his hand, but almost instantly lowered it again. The crowd had pressed too much forward as it appeared, and his eye had been unsteadied by the flapping of the skirt of a frieze riding-coat worn by one of the spectators.
‘In the name of my principal,’ said the Captain, ‘I must and do insist upon these gentlemen moving back a little. We ask but little; fair play, and no favour.’
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 663
