University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

It was a something sad sight to see good old Mr. Calvert,
till a late hour that night, brushing up the murderous
weapons, adjusting bullets, and cutting out patches,
with all the interested industry of a fire-eater. It was in
vain that his son—his adopted son, rather, for the reader
should know by this time with whom he deals—it was in
vain that he implored him to forego an employment which
really made him melancholy, not on his own, but the
venerable old man's account. Old Calvert was principled
against duelling, as he was principled against war;
but he recognised the necessity in both cases of employing
those modes by which, to prevent wrong, society insists
upon avenging it. He would have preferred that William
Calvert should not go into the field on account of Margaret
Cooper; but, once invited, he recognised in all its
excellence the good counsel of Polonius to his son.

He at least was resolved that William should not go

unprepared and unprovided, in the properest manner, to
do mischief. In the hot days of his own youth, he had
acquired some considerable knowledge of the weapon,
and the laws, rather understood than expressed, which
govern personal combat as it is, or was, practised in our
country. His care was now given, not simply to the
condition of the weapons, but the mind of the combatant.
The modes by which the imagination is rendered obtuse
—the hardening of the nerves—the exercise of the eye
and arm—could not be resorted to in the brief interval
which remained before the appointed hour of conflict;—
and something was due to slumber, without which, all
exercise and instruction would be only thrown away.
But there was much that a judicious mind could do in
acting upon the moral nature of the party; and the conversation
of old Calvert was judiciously addressed to this
point. The young man, who had by this time learned
to know most of the habitual trains of thought by which
his tutor was characterized, readily perceived his object.

“You mistake, my dear sir,” he said, smiling, after the
lapse of an hour, which had been consumed as above described—“You
mistake if you think I shall fail in nerve
or coolness. Be sure, sir, I never felt half so determined
in all my life. The remembrance of Margaret Cooper,—
the sense of former wrong—the loathing hate which I
entertain for this reptile—exclude every feeling from my
soul but one, and that is the deliberate determination to
destroy him if I can.”

“This very intensity, William, will shake your nerves.
No man is more cool than he who obeys no single feeling.
Single feelings become intense and agitating from the
absence or absorption of all the rest.”

“Feel my arm, sir,” he said, extending the limb.

“It is firm, now, William; but if you do not sleep, will
it be so in the morning?”

“Yes—I have no fear of it.”

“But you will go to sleep now? You see I have every
thing ready.”

“No! I cannot, sir. I must write. I have much to
say, which, to leave unsaid, would be criminal. Do you
retire. Hawick will soon be here, who will complete
what you have been doing. He is expert at these matters,
and will neglect nothing. I have penned him a note

to that effect. He will accompany us in the morning.
Do you go to bed now. You cannot, at your time of life,
do without sleep and not suffer. It cannot affect me;—
nay, if I did go to bed, it would be impossible, with these
thoughts in my mind—these feelings in my heart—that I
should close my eyes. I should only toss and tumble,
and become nervous from very uneasiness.”

Having finished, the old man prepared to adopt the suggestion
of the young one. He rose to retire, but the
“good night” faltered on his lips. Young Calvert, who
was walking to and fro, was struck by the accents.
Suddenly turning he rushed to the venerable man, and
fell upon his neck.

“Father!—more than father to me!” exclaimed the
youth—“forgive me if I have offended you. I feel that I
have often erred, but through weakness only, not wilfulness.
You have succoured and strengthened—you have
taught, counselled, and preserved me. Bless me, and
forgive me, my father, if in this I have gone against your
wishes and will;—if I have refused your paternal guidance.
Believe me, I have but one regret at this moment,
and it grows out of the pain which I feel that I inflict on
you. But you will forgive—you will bless me, my dear
father, and should I survive this meeting, I will strive to
atone—to recompense you by the most fond service, for
this one wilfulness!”

“God bless you, my son!—God preserve you!” was
the only reply which the old man could make. His heart
seemed bursting with emotion, and sobs, which he vainly
strove to repress, rose in his throat with a choking, suffocating
rapidity. His tears fell upon the young man's
shoulder while he passionately kissed his cheek.

“God will save you,” he continued, as he broke away,
and sobbing as he went from sight, his broken accents
might still, for a few seconds, be heard in the reiteration
of this one sentence of equal confidence and prayer.

“That is done!—that is over!” said the youth, sinking
into a seat beside the table where the writing materials
were placed;—his hands covered his face for a few moments,
as if to shut from sight the image of the old man's
agony. “That word of parting was my fear, good old
man!” he continued, after the pause of a few moments—
“what a Spartan spirit does he possess! Surely he loves

me quite as well as father ever loved son before. Yet,
with what strength of resolution he prepares the weapon
—prepares to lose me perhaps for ever. I cannot doubt
that the loss will be great to him. It will be the loss of
all. His hope, and the predictions of his hope are all
perilled by this; yet he complains not—he has no reproaches!
Surely, I have been too wanton—too rash—
too precipitate in this business! What to me is Margaret
Cooper! Her beauty, her talents, and that fair fame of
which this reptile has for ever robbed her? She loved me
not—she hearkened not to my prayer of love—to that
love which cannot perish though the object of its devotion,
like a star gone suddenly from a high place at night,
has sunk for ever into darkness. I am not pledged to fight
her battles,—to repair her shame,—to bruise the head of
the reptile by which she was beguiled. Alas! I cannot
reason after this cold fashion. Is it not because of this
reptile that she is nothing to me—and does not this make
her defence every thing, heighten the passion of hate, and
make bloody vengeance a most sacred virtue! It does—
it must. Alfred Stevens, I cannot choose but seek to
take thy life. The imploring beauties of Margaret Cooper
rise before me, and command me. I will try! So help
me God, as I believe, that the sacrifice of the reptile that
crawls to the family altar to leave its slime and venom, is
a duty with man—due to the holiest hopes and affections
of man,—and is praiseworthy in the sight of God! I
cannot choose but believe this. God give me strength to
make my desire performance!”

He raised the pistol, unconsciously, as he spoke. He
pressed it to his forehead. He lifted it in the sight of
Heaven, as if in this way, he solemnized his oath. The
grasp of the weapon in his hand suggested a new train
of emotion.

“I may fall—I may perish! The hopes of this good
old man—my own hopes—may all be set at nought. Can
it be that in a few hours I shall be nothing? This voice
be silent—this arm cold, unconscious, upon this cold
bosom. Strange, terrible fancy!—I must not think of it.
It makes me shudder! It is too late for thoughts
like these. I must be a man now,—a man only.
The mere pang—that is nothing. But he—thrice a
father,—he will feel threefold pangs which shall be more

lasting. Yet, even with him, they cannot endure long.
Who else? My poor, poor mother!”

He paused,—he drew the paper before him—a tear fell
upon the unwritten sheet, and he thrust it away.

“There is one other pain! One thought!” he murmured.
“These high hopes—these schemes of greatness
—these dreams of ambition—stopped suddenly—like rich
flowers blooming late, cut down at midnight by the premature
frost! Oh! if I perish now, how much will be
left undone!”

Once more the youth started to his feet and paced the
chamber. But he soon subdued the rebellious struggles of
his more human nature. Quieted once more he sought to
baffle thought by concentrating himself upon his tasks.
Resuming his place at the table, he seized his pen. Letter
after letter grew beneath his hands; and the faint gray
light of the dawn peeped in at the windows before he had
yet completed the numerous tasks which required his industry.
A tap at the door drew his attention and he opened
it to receive his friend, Major Hawick.

“You are ready,” said Hawick—“but you seem not
to have slept. How's this?—you promised me—”

“But could not keep my promise. I had much to do,
and felt that I could not sleep. I was too much excited.”

“That is unfortunate!”

“It will do no harm. With my temperament I do
things much better when excited than not. The less prepared,
the better prepared.”

“Where's the old gentleman?”

“He sleeps still. We will not disturb him. We will
steal out quietly, and I trust every thing will be over before
he wakens. I have left a note for him with these letters.”

But few moments more did they delay. William Calvert
remedied to a certain extent the fatigue of his night
of unrest, by plunging his head into a basin of cold water.
Their preparations were already made; and they issued
forth without noise, and soon found themselves on the field.
Their opponents appeared a few moments after.

“A pleasant morning, gentlemen,” said Mr. Barnabas,
—“but how is it, I do not see my old friend here, eh? I
had a fancy he would not miss it for the world.”

A rustling among the bushes at a little distance at this

moment saved William Calvert from the necessity of
answering the question. There was the old man himself.

“Ah, William,” he said reproachfully—“was this
kind?”

“Truly, sir, it was meant to be so. I would have spared
you this scene if possible.”

“It was not kind, William, but you meant kindly. You
did not know me, my son. Had I not been here with
you in the moment of danger I should always have felt as
if I had suffered shame.”

The youth was touched, and turned aside to conceal his
emotion. The friends of the parties approached in conference.
The irregularity of Major Hawick's attendance
being explained, and excused, under the circumstances, he
remained as a mere spectator. The arrangements then
being under consideration, Mr. Barnabas said casually, and
seemingly with much indifference—

“Well, I suppose, sir, we will set them at twelve
paces!”

“Very singular that you should offer a suggestion on
this subject;” was the reply of Mr. Calvert—“this point
is with us.”

“Oh, surely, surely,—but this being about the usual
distance—”

“It is not ours, sir,” said the other coolly.

“What do you propose then?”

“Five paces, sir,—back to back—wheel and fire within
the words one and two.”

Col. Sharpe, who heard the words, started and grew
suddenly pale.

“A most murderous distance, sir, indeed,” said Mr.
Barnabas gravely. “Are you serious, sir,—do you really
mean to insist on what you say?”

“Certainly, sir, if I ever jested at all, it should not be
on such an occasion. These are our terms.”

“We must submit, of course;” said the other, as he
proceeded to place his principal. While doing this, Col.
Sharpe was observed to speak with him somewhat earnestly.
Mr. Barnabas immediately after, again advanced
to Mr. Calvert and said—

“In consenting to your right, sir, on the subject of distance,
I must at the same time protest against it. The

consequences, sir, must lie on your head only. I have no
doubt that both parties will be blown to the devil!”

Hawick also approached and whispered the elder Calvert,
in earnest expostulation against this arrangement.

“It is impossible for either to escape,” he said; “they
are both firm men, and both will fire with great quickness.
The distance is very unusual, sir, and if the affair ends
fatally the reproach will be great.”

For a moment the old man hesitated and looked bewildered.
His eye earnestly sought the form of William
Calvert, who was calmly walking at a little distance. He
was silent for a few seconds; but, suddenly recovering
himself, he murmured, rather in soliloquy than in answer
to his companion—

“No, no! it must be so—we must take this risk to
avoid a greater. I see through these men—there is no
other way to baffle them.”

He advanced to Mr. Barnabas.

“I see no reason to alter my arrangement. To a brave
man, the nearer to the enemy the better.”

“A good general principle, sir, but liable to abuse;”
said Barnabas—“but as you please. We toss for the
word.”

The word fell to Calvert. The parties were placed,
back to back, with a space of some ten feet between—
space just enough for the grave of one. With the word,
which was rather gasped than syllabled by the old man,
William Calvert wheeled—the first instant glance that
showed him his enemy drew his fire, and was followed by
that of his foe. In the first few moments after, standing
himself, and seeing his enemy still stood, he fancied that
no harm had been done. Already the words were on his
lips to call for the other pistol, when he felt a sudden sickness
and dizziness,—his right thigh grew stiffened, and
he lapsed away upon the earth, just as the old man drew
nigh to his assistance.

The bullet had entered the fleshy part of his hip, and had
lodged there, narrowly avoiding the bone. These particulars
were afterwards ascertained. At first, however, the
impression of the old man, and that of Major Hawick,
was, that the wound was mortal. We will not seek to
describe the mental agony of the former. It was now that
his conscience spoke in torturous self upbraidings; and

throwing himself beside the unconscious youth, he moaned
as one who would not be comforted; until assured by the
more closely observing Hawick, who, upon inspecting the
wound, gave him assurance of better things.

Col. Sharpe was more fortunate. He was uninjured,
but he had not escaped untouched. His escape, though
more complete than that of Calvert, had been even yet
more narrow; the bullet of the former actually barking
his skull just above the ear, and slightly lacerating the skin
over his organ of destructiveness. So narrow an escape
made him very anxious to avoid a second experiment,
which William Calvert, feebly striving to rise from the
ground, readily offered himself for. But, while the youth
spoke, his strength failed him, and he soon sunk away in
utter unconsciousness. Thus ended an affair that promised
to be more bloody in its results. Perhaps, it would have
been, but for the arrangement which old Calvert insisted
on. Had the ten paces been acceded, there is little doubt
but that Sharpe, secure in his practice, would have inflicted
a death-wound on his opponent. The alteration of distance,
the necessity of wheeling to fire, and a proximity to
his enemy so close as to leave skill but few if any advantages,
served to disorder his aim, and impair his coolness.
It was with no small degree of satisfaction that he departed,
leaving his enemy hors de combat. We too, shall leave
him, and follow the progress of the more fortunate party,
assured as we are that the wound of our young hero,
though serious, is not dangerous, and that he is in the
hands of those who will refuse sleep to their eyelids so
long as he needs that they should watch.

It will not materially affect the value of this narrative to
omit all farther account of that political canvassing by
which these parties were brought into a juxtaposition so
fruitful of unexpected consequences. It will suffice to say
that, with Calvert removed from the stump, Col. Sharpe
remained master of it. His eloquence that day seemed
far more potential indeed than on ordinary occasions. No
doubt he tried his best, in order to do away with what
Calvert had previously succeeded in doing; but there was
an eclat about his morning's work which materially assisted
the working of his eloquence. The proceedings of the
previous night, and the duel which succeeded it, were
pretty well bruited abroad in the space of a few hours;

and when a man passes with success from the field of
battle to the field of debate, and proves himself equally
the master in both, vulgar wonder knows little stint and
suffers little qualification from circumstances. Nay, the
circumstances themselves are usually perverted to suit the
results; and, in this case, the story, by the zeal of
Sharpe's friends, so far from showing that the quarrel
grew from the facts which did occasion it, was made to
have a political origin entirely—Sharpe being the champion
of one, and Calvert of the other party. It may be
readily conjectured, that Sharpe himself gave as much
encouragement to this report as possible. Bold as he
might be he was not altogether prepared to encounter the
odium to which any notoriety given to the true state of the
case would necessarily subject him. His partisans easily
took their cue from him, and were willing to accept the
affair, as a sign of promise in the political contest which
was to ensue. We may add that it was no unhappy
augury. The friends of Sharpe were triumphant, and
Desha,—one of those mauvaise sujets which a time of
great moral ferment in a country throws upon the surface,
—like scum upon the waters when they are broken up by
floods, and rush beyond their appointed boundaries—was
elevated, most unhappily, to the executive chair of the
state.

Thus much is perhaps essential to what should be known
of these matters in the progress of our story. How much
of this result was due to the unfortunate termination of Calvert's
affair with Sharpe, is difficult to determine. The
friends of the former ascribed their defeat to his wounds,
which disabled him from the prosecution of that canvass
through the state which had been so profitably begun.
They were baffled and dispirited. Their strong man was
low; and gratified with successes already won, and confident
of the future, Col. Sharp closed the night at Bowling
Green by communicating to Beauchampe by letter, his
purpose of visiting him, on his return route—an honour
which, strange enough to Beauchampe himself, did not
afford him that degree of satisfaction which it seemed to
him was only natural that it should.