“Well spoken,” approved Monsieur Beaumont.
“Good lad,” added Frank Parker, more cheerfully than he had spoken before. “You’re my nephew. I’m responsible for you, and I dislike to see you in danger. But you’re acting as I’d wish you to act.”
Colonel O’Rourke then plunged into a complex dissertation on the intricacies of the dueling code. Ben sat silently, absorbing as much as he could. To him, it seemed that a man’s seconds had everything to do except stand up to shoot and be shot at. Indeed, certain situations demanded that they even do some of the shooting, for in the case of a principal’s infraction of a rule, his opponent’s seconds were required in honor to fire at him themselves.
“Are there any questions you would ask?” wound up the Colonel at last, leaning back in his chair.
“None of you or Casimir,” replied Ben. “The big question to me is still Kirwin. Why did he squabble with me? Why did he take issue on some silly question about the steamboat?”
“He’s a bully,” said Colonel O’Rourke. “Such men look for fights, as for amusements. He’ll be none the worse for a bullet through his body.”
“I agree!” cried Achille Beaumont. “Heaven will not prosper him to hurt Ben, on whom he forced his stupid insults.”
Frank Parker was invited to stay the night and accepted. Ben finally excused himself and went upstairs.
He paused in the upper hall, stepped off twenty paces, and studied the distance. He had no doubt of his ability to hit a man with a pistol at so close a range. But, once more, he vexed himself with wondering why he should do so. Finally he went to his room and took pen and paper.
He wrote letters to his father and mother, saying that he was to fight a duel, assuring them as well as he could that it was nothing he might avoid, and signing himself their affectionate and dutiful son. When he had sealed them with wax and addressed the envelopes, he sat thinking for a moment. Then he pulled another sheet of paper toward himself and wrote briefly:
Dear Mademoiselle Felise:
I take leave to thank you heartily for the concern and friendship you voiced to me today. As I write, I am confident that no great harm will come to me, and that perhaps we can sail together on an excursion on the steamboat New Orleans, with your estimable parents.
Most truly yours,
Benjamin Franklin Parker
Casimir looked in at the door, and Ben gave him the three sealed letters. “Send them off if by chance I don’t survive Mr. Kirwin’s attentions tomorrow,” he said.
Casimir glanced at Felise’s name on the third folded paper, smiled faintly, almost said something, then thought better of it.
“We will take dinner early tonight,” he told Ben.
The meal was a quiet one, but Ben found himself surprisingly hungry. Later in the evening, two young officers of the Voltigeurs called to say that they had heard of the challenge. Both offered rather pompous congratulations on Ben’s conduct, and wished him all good luck on the morrow.
At ten o’clock that night, Ben went to bed and fell asleep almost at once.
Shortly after five thirty in the morning, Casimir came in to prod him awake.
“Up so early?” mumbled Ben, yawning and stretching.
“What a question! ” exclaimed Casimir. “I rose an hour ago, and I have prayed, as I think, to every saint in the calendar that they may protect you. The Cathedral will blaze with my candles when I have fetched you safe home again.”
“Oh, yes.” Ben remembered the duel. “Thank you, Casimir.”
He rose, scrubbed his face, and combed his fair hair. Then he dressed with more care than usual, in ruffled shirt, frock coat, riding breeches, and shiny top boots. Casimir, watching, nodded his solemn approval.
“Your appearance will impress all concerned,” he predicted. “I congratulate myself that I have instructed you so well about clothes.”
Ben smiled into the mirror as he knotted his cravat. “I hope I don’t make an impressive corpse,” he said.
“Ha, do not say such unlucky things. Are you not aware that this is the thirteenth of the month?”
Ben’s smile grew broader. “It was the thirteenth of the month when I first arrived in New Orleans. Somebody reminded me that what was well begun on the thirteenth might be lucky, or something like that. No, wait, that was a Friday. This is a Sunday. Don’t worry about bad fortune for me, Casimir j maybe it will be Kirwin who’ll have the bad fortune.”
They descended to eat coffee and rolls. Frank Parker and Achille Beaumont silently shook hands with both of them.
Then Colonel O’Rourke entered, impeccable in bottle green, with a silver-mounted mahogany case tucked under his arm. He led them out to where a carriage waited in the quiet dimness of earliest dawn, with a Negro driver holding the reins.
The journey through the hushed, sleeping town to the Fortin Plantation did not take many minutes. When they reached a grassy meadow bordered with rather gloomily drooping trees, they found another carriage there before them and a small group of men standing near it.
“Pull up here,” Colonel O’Rourke bade his driver; then he got out and walked to meet one of the group, who was coming toward him. It was Bernard de Marigny, spruce but solemn. The two shook hands and conferred in earnest whispers. Another of the group joined them, and finally all three came back to the carriage where Ben and Casimir sat waiting.
“Monsieur Parker,” said the Colonel, “allow me to present Monsieur le Docteur Juneau, who is here in his professional capacity.”
Dr. Juneau was pudgy and round-cheeked. He removed his tall hat, showing thin gray hair, and bowed. Quietly he expressed the hope that he saw Monsieur Parker in good health.
“We need delay no longer,” continued Colonel O’Rourke. “The sun is not yet risen, but the sky is clear and there will be light enough for our business. Ben, remain in the carriage while Casimir comes with us.”
Casimir stepped out and went with the Colonel, De Marigny, and Dr. Juneau to join the others. Sitting quietly, Ben looked across to where Kirwin moved clear of the new conference and stood alone and motionless. Kirwin wore a long dark coat buttoned to his sharp chin, and in his hand he held his beaver hat. He smoked a cigar. Its end glowed in the dawn like a baleful red eye.
After some moments of discussion, Casimir and the Colonel returned to the carriage.
“We have cast a coin,” announced Colonel O’Rourke, “and have decided that we shall use my pistols. That means that De Marigny will pronounce the word to fire. Is it understood?”
“Perfectly,” nodded Ben.
“Now you may come out of the carriage.”
Ben did so. He was somewhat surprised and glad to find that he felt calm and confident.
“Come,” the Colonel said to him. “Stay close at my side.”
Casimir walked ahead of them and joined Auguste Duralde, Kirwin’s other second. Together this pair stepped off the distance from north to south, twenty paces in a straight line. Meanwhile, Colonel O’Rourke and De Marigny opened the mahogany pistol case and began to load the weapons with painstaking care.
When they had finished, De Marigny looked up.
“Let us place our friends,” he said.
Colonel O’Rourke conducted Ben to the southern end of the twenty-pace line. With a hand on Ben’s shoulder, he made him stop in position. “Now,” he directed, “stand so, with your right side turned toward him.”
Silently Ben obeyed. Opposite them, Duralde was setting Kirwin in a similar pose. Kirwin tossed away his glowing cigar and handed his hat to Duralde. He then turned his scowling face to gaze at Ben with calculating attention, as though probing with his eyes for a vital spot. The gray light, growing stronger, reminded Ben of the cloudy day on which he had hunted Jethro Wicks.
Casimir came and stood before Ben. In his right hand he held one of the pistols, grasped midway on the barrel, with the butt projecting forward. It was a handsome piece, fully a foot long but slimly and gracefully made, with silver filigree around
the lock. Casimir’s olive face looked pale and worried.
Meanwhile, De Marigny crossed between the two firing points and stood at some paces to the eastward, facing a point midway between. Opposite him Colonel O’Rourke took his stand, straight and motionless. Ben saw that each of them held a pistol at his right side, the muzzle pointing to the earth.
“Messieurs, are you ready?” came the clear voice of De Marigny.
Casimir held out the pistol. Ben took it by the curved butt and slid his finger over the trigger.
“The saints keep you, Ben,” whispered his friend; then, more loudly, “We are ready, Monsieur.” He walked away.
“Ready here,” announced Duralde, and stepped well clear of Kirwin.
“Messieurs,” said De Marigny, “you are to elevate the muzzles of your pistols. Kindly do so.”
Ben raised his weapon to point at the sky, his arm crooked. He saw Kirwin do the same. In that moment, Ben decided what he would do. With his thumb he drew back the hammer.
“I will speak the following words of direction,” went on De Marigny. “ ‘Ready—fire.’ I will then count, ‘One, two, three.’ You may aim and discharge your pistols only after the word ‘fire’ and before the count of ‘three.’ If you do not understand, please say so now.”
Neither Ben nor Kirwin spoke. Their eyes were fixed on each other. The silence was so deep that Ben heard a whisper of wind in the grass at his feet. He drew his lungs half full of air and held his breath for greater steadiness.
“Ready!” called De Marigny. “Fire! One—”
Out leaped Ben’s arm, and he touched trigger. His shot cracked in the air like the lash of a great whip, and only that one shot was heard.
Kirwin spun all the way around, half doubled over. He caught his right hand with his left, and he wheezed and groaned as though in pain.
“He has been hit!” cried Duralde, and ran toward Kirwin, followed by De Marigny and Dr. Juneau. Ben stood where he was, and Casimir hurried to his side and took the smoking pistol from his grasp.
“Where did you strike him?” demanded Casimir eagerly.
“I didn’t,” said Ben shortly. “I shot his gun out of his fist, that’s all.”
“But—”
Kirwin cried out in pain. The doctor was examining that injured right hand. Meanwhile, De Marigny turned to address Colonel O’Rourke, gesturing excitedly. After a moment, Ben heard Dr. Juneau’s high-pitched voice:
“I have never seen such a thing upon the field of honor. His right forefinger is badly sprained—the whole hand is disabled—but the skin is not broken. The bullet struck his pistol and knocked it away. His finger was hooked inside the trigger guard, and so became badly twisted. He cannot fire again.”
“I still have my left hand,” spoke up Kirwin, his voice shaking with pain and fury. “I want another try at him.” Another conference took place. Then De Marigny and Colonel O’Rourke approached Ben, side by side, looking very serious.
“My friend demands another fire,” said De Marigny. “He will shoot left-handed.”
“But reflect,” argued Colonel O’Rourke. “He will be at a disadvantage, Monsieur de Marigny. Do you ask us to lower ourselves by taking so superior a position?”
“Oh, I’ll shoot left-handed, too,” broke in Ben, wondering at the careless sound of his own voice. “That ought to even things. Tell him I’m ready whenever he is.”
De Marigny stared, then bowed low.
“Vous etes bien gentil,” he said. “My compliments, Monsieur Parker. Bien> my Colonel, let us load again.”
Ben turned himself around, so that his left side was toward Kirwin. He watched as the doctor bandaged Kirwin’s right hand. Then Casimir came to him with the recharged pistol. Casimir’s face was a study in drawn concern, and Ben grinned and winked one blue eye.
“Is this wise, this left-handed shooting?” Casimir quavered. “You had luck the first time, but what of the second?”
“Trust my luck the second time around, too,” said Ben, “and stop being so nervous. He’s trying to shoot me, not you.”
“Helas!” moaned Casimir. “I’d be less nervous if I were facing him instead of you.”
He departed. The sun began to hint of its rising in a reddish glow to the eastward, as the seconds again moved clear of their principals.
“Elevate your pistols,” commanded De Marigny, and Ben raised his muzzle and drew back the hammer. Kirwin, glaring, did likewise.
“Ready! Fire! One—”
Ben aimed and pulled trigger, and the sound of the shot was quickly followed by a howl from Kirwin, who this time danced around and around the pistol he had dropped.
Again his seconds and the doctor raced to him. Dr. Juneau took one goggling look.
“Sacre nom dyun chameau vert!” he fairly snorted. “It has happened again! Not a wound, but a sprain! ”
Casimir rushed upon Ben and caught him in his arms.
“Ah, ah!” he was exulting. “What—how—it was magnificent, but how did you manage? Such shooting! And I never guessed your skill! ”
“I didn’t want a drop of his blood on my conscience,” replied Ben, “so I just put an end to his ideas of firing any third shot.”
Coolly he lifted the pistol and blew smoke from its muzzle. Then he saw Colonel O’Rourke before him, eyes glowing.
“Trickery!” he accused. “I warned you against foolishness.”
“Your pardon, Colonel,” said Ben. “What you said was not to do any dumb-shooting—not to miss on purpose. I didn’t miss. I gave both his hands a week’s rest.”
The Colonel’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish’s. He wagged his head, as though utterly baffled. Now De Marigny had joined them. His expression had something of fascinated awe.
“Highly irregular,” he said. “Monsieur Kirwin cannot continue, yet he has not been struck in any part of his body. How shall we resolve this dispute?”
Colonel O’Rourke hummed thoughtfully in his throat. “Perhaps,” he suggested slowly, “we can compare it to a disarm with swords. The code expressly states that a disarm is equivalent to a disable.”
De Marigny shrugged. “Name it how you will, there is no doubt but that Monsieur Kirwin has been both disarmed and disabled.” He looked at Ben once more. “Myself, I have never seen the equal of it. What formidable marksmanship!” “Superb,” agreed Casimir.
“All that remains,” went on De Marigny, “is to require that these gentlemen reconcile their differences. But first, permit me. Monsieur Parker, you are young, but you are incredible. How did you gain such skill?”
“I reckon it was my father’s doing,” replied Ben. “He was bound that I’d know how to shoot. He began with me when I was seven, and since then I’ve burned up two barrels of powder and shot away a few good hundredweight of lead.” “And at what mark?” wondered De Marigny.
“He used to make me shoot at a string stretched across a hoop. I had to break it at any point he told me.”
“Par exempte!” exclaimed Colonel O’Rourke.
“My father thinks Pm a little better with a rifle than a pistol.”
Casimir had turned away in his emotion. “And I had thought to give him lessons in shooting,” he groaned.
“Eh, what a story this will make in town,” said De Marigny. “What a stir! But come, there must be reconciliation.”
Escorted by Casimir and the Colonel, Ben met Kirwin halfway between the firing positions. The injured man had both hands tightly swaddled in handkerchiefs, and looked at Ben with sullen eyes. When De Marigny urged him to make peace, he licked his lips.
“The duel’s over,” he said, “and that means the quarrel’s over, too. Let it be so. I shoot right well, Mr. Parker, but you never gave me a chance. Otherwise, I think I’d have nicked you where you live.”
“No more of such talk,” insisted De Marigny. “According to the code, you must now shake hands.”
“Both my hands were nearly torn off,” Kirwin reminded him sourly.
&nbs
p; “Then we pronounce you reconciled,” said Duralde over Kirwin’s shoulder. “Monsieur Parker, my compliments.”
“Mine also,” added De Marigny. “I shall look to another meeting, on more auspicious and cordial terms. Monsieur Kirwin, permit us to see you to your lodgings.”
Ben walked to his own carriage between Casimir and Colonel O’Rourke. He had hard work to keep from laughing aloud in his triumphant relief.
X. To Be a State
On the drive back to town, with the sun coming up brightly to escort the carriage home, there was very little talk. Both Colonel O’Rourke and Casimir kept looking at Ben as though they rode with a rare article, admirable and at the same time a trifle baleful. Casimir took from his pocket the three letters Ben had written and handed them to his friend, who tore them into small bits and scattered them by the roadside. Casimir emitted an exaggeratedly sentimental sigh.
“It is too bad,” he pretended to mourn, “that one of these documents could not be preserved and delivered.”
He meant, of course, the letter to Felise. Ben was happy that the whole matter had so ended as to permit a mild joke.
When they reached the door of the Beaumont house, both Monsieur Beaumont and Frank Parker burst into view. Their worried faces shone as they saw Ben stepping down to the banquette.
“You’re not wounded?” cried Frank Parker.
“Not a hair bent, Uncle,” Ben assured him.
Frank Parker caught Ben’s hand. “Thank heaven for that. But the other fellow, Kirwin. Did you—”
“He’s not exactly wounded, either,” said Ben. “There was no bloodshed at all.”
“Then the quarrel was made up?” suggested Monsieur Beaumont.
“Made up?” echoed Casimir, following Ben in. “Zut alorsy wait until you hear, my Father. Such a feat of arms was never seen before, since first men began to fight in New Orleans.”
In the drawing room, Colonel O’Rourke and Ben left the description of the encounter to Casimir. He told everything dramatically, tramping here and there across the floor, gesturing with wide sweeps of his arms, posing himself now as Ben, now as Kirwin, now as De Marigny or Colonel O’Rourke or Dr. Juneau. Of Ben’s skill in crippling both of Kirwin’s hands without grazing the skin, Casimir made a climax of almost frantic eloquence.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1955 Page 10
