University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

It was some weeks after the funeral of Gideon
Fairfax, that Bacon, attracted by the genial warmth
of a summer day, sauntered out for the first time,
in company with his friend Dudley, to seek the
usual rendezvous of the young Cavaliers. Scarcely
were they seated in the Tap of the “Arms,”
before Philip Ludwell hastily entered, touched
his castor formally to Bacon and Dudley, and
handed to the former a note, fastened with a
silken cord, and sealed with the arms of the House
of Berkley. Bacon cut the cord and read the note,
without changing countenance, and then handed
it to Dudley, who had no sooner perused its contents,
than they both arose, retired to a private
room, and called for pen, ink and paper. The
latter soon returned with an answer, sealed in like
manner, and handed it to Ludwell, who again
formally bowing retired. The first ran thus:

The following morning at sunrise, two parties of
Cavaliers landed from their boats at a secluded inlet,
on the southern extremity of Hog Island, immediately
opposite the city, but screened from
view by the depth of the overshadowing forest. A
surgeon with his assistant soon followed.

The two parties exchanged formal but courtly
salutations, and immediately proceeded to the
business of their meeting. A level grass-plot,
firm under the pressure of the foot, and sufficiently

cleared for the purpose, had long been set apart
as the battle ground on similar occasions, and was
now easily found.

When all the parties were arrived at this spot,
the seconds proceeded to measure the swords in
presence of their principals. This of course was
a mere formality required by the usages of the
times, as the length of the weapons was already
known and settled between themselves.

The two young Cavaliers about to engage in
deadly strife, were perhaps as nearly matched in
skill and courage as any that could be found in
the Colony. Both were in the daily practice of
the foils, as a matter of education no less than of
amusement. Both were impetuous by nature, and
rash in their actions, and both came upon the field
longing for vengeance in requital of wrongs which
each supposed he had received at the hands of the
other.

Beverely was in the enjoyment of ruddy health,
and buoyant animal impulses, but his antagonist
was pale, thin, and evidently labouring under depression
of spirits, as well as feebleness of body.
To a hasty and superficial observer, this state of
the parties would have seemed decidedly unfavourable
to the latter; but it is very questionable
whether the high health and robust strength of
Beverly were not more than counterbalanced by
the subdued but steady composure evinced by his
antagonist, the result of long confinement and depletion.

With a slight inclination of the head in formal
salutation, each advanced a foot and crossed his
blade with that of his antagonist. The eyes of
each were instantly riveted upon his enemy, with
the steady and deadly ferocity of two wild beasts
of prey. The pause continued a few moments, as
if each were striving to measure the hatred of the
other; a few rapid and skilful thrusts and parries
were exchanged, and then another interval of suspense
and inactivity ensued. The next effort was
longer and more fiercely contested, and the intentions
of each in this uncomplicated warfare were
more readily distinguished. Beverly was at each
successive trial becoming more and more ferocious,
while his antagonist was as evidently acting on
the defensive, if not attempting to disarm him.
This now apparent intention of the latter, might be
the necessary result of his present comparative debility,
of policy—aiming to take advantage of his opponent's
impetuosity, or of his promise to Virginia.
But from whatever cause it sprung, Dudley thought
it a most hazardous experiment to depend upon
disarming so skilful a swordsman, and was accordingly
under the most lively apprehensions for the
fate of his friend. These were not however of
long continuance, for at the next onset, Beverly,
forgetting himself for a moment, as he impetuously
flashed his weapon in deadly and rapid thrusts,
cried, “Ha, Sir Bastard, have at your coward's
heart.” In the next instant Bacon's sword pierced
his body—his eyes glared wildly for an instant,

his sword fell from his powerless hand, and as Bacon
Withdrew the weapon, Beverly uttered a
groan and fell prostrate upon the earth.

Bacon stood listlessly wiping his sword-blade
upon his handkerchief, his eyes abstractedly fixed
upon the fallen youth, like one without thought or
reason, or rather so deeply buried in thought as to
be almost unconscious of the scene before him.
His thoughts were upon his promise to Virginia,
to act only upon the defensive. This he had interpreted
far more literally than the fair girl herself
had designed, and it was his intention so to
act throughout the struggle, had not his patience
and forbearance been overcome by the taunting
exclamation of his adversary, just preceding the
last fatal onset.

All the circumstances passed rapidly through
his mind, until his meditations settled into the
most poignant regret; not a little aggravated when
Beverly opened his eyes, and held up his hand to
Bacon, feebly exclaming, “Bacon, forgive me; I
wronged you both first and last. I see it now
when it is too late, but it is never too late to ask
forgiveness for an injury.” Bacon grasped his
hand, and flung himself prostrate at his side in an
instant. “Before God, Beverly, it was not my intention,
when I came to the field, to do this deed;
my whole effort at first was to disarm you. Forgiveness
lies with you, not with me. I have done
you an irreparable injury, yours was but the result
of thoughtless impetuosity, for which I as

freely forgive you, as it was hastily and heedlessly
offered. May God forgive us both.”

The surgeon and his assistant now interfered in
the prosecution of their professional duties. While
these were in progress, all parties were silent in
breathless attention; not a change of the doctor's
countenance escaped them. At length he arose,
and deliberately wiping and replacing his instruments
in their case, walked thoughtfully some
paces from the wounded youth.

Bacon dared not follow to ask the fate of his patient,
but Dudley, with breathless eagerness pursued
his footsteps, and demanded to know in few words
his fate. “Life or death, Doctor?” he hastily exclaimed,
as if he expected an answer in like short
and expressive terms.

“Ours is not one of the exact sciences as to prognostication,”
said Dr. Roland. “The wound extends
from the anterior part of the thorax.”

“Dont tell me about the thorax, doctor, tell me
whether there is life or death?”

“The pleura and the right lobe of the lungs have
been wounded, consequently there will be great inflammation
succeeding, both from the pleuretic and
pulmonary excitement. These are the unchangeable
laws of the animal economy, and will not yield
were the son of Charles himself lying before us.”

“O damn the animal economy. Can't you say
in one word, life or death?”

“No, I cannot, Master Dudley. All I can say at
present is, that it is my hope and belief, if properly

managed, that he will not die from the hemorrhage,
and that his chance of life depends upon his
weathering out the inflammation mentioned.”

“There is a reasonable hope then! Thank you,
doctor, thank you; may God send that his life be
spared.” Uttering this fervent ejaculation he joined
his companions, who now held a consultation as
to the most judicious plan of removing the wounded
youth. One proposed that he should remain
at a cottage upon the island; but the surgeon decided
that he might be removed in a boat to the
city as easily as he could be carried to the cottage.
He was accordingly extended upon a rude litter,
and deposited in the most convenient boat, upon
such a bed as they could hastily construct of cloaks
and bushes.

They had scarcely emerged from the shrubbery
overhanging the margin of the river, when a rustling
noise was heard, similar to that made by the
flight of a large flock of birds, and in the next instant
a shower of Indian arrows fell harmless in
the water, succeeded by an astounding yell of
twenty or more savages, indistinctly seen through
the dense fog rising from the stream. Their light
bark canoes, of variegated colours, could scarcely
be distinguished as they rode upon the waves like
huge aquatic birds. The savage warriors were
standing perfectly erect, notwithstanding the motion
of the waves and the vigorous exertions of those
squaws who officiated at the oar and helm. Bows
were already strung in their hands, and they were

again in the act of leveling them upon the party,
when Bacon, seizing a duck gun from the bottom
of the boat, fired into the midst of the foremost
canoe. Three huge painted warriors leaped into the
water and yelled and struggled for an instant before
they sunk to rise no more. Another discharge
of arrows, and another shot from Bacon's weapon,
with like success, considerably damped the ardour
of the pursuit. Bacon and his party had in the
mean time urged the boat containing Beverly and
the surgeon far ahead and out of reach of their missiles,
while they protected their retreat. Having
suffered the enemy to come within striking distance,
he was now enabled to see that they were Chickahominies,
and readily comprehended their motives.
He was himself the object of their pursuit. They
had watched his movements for the purpose of
avenging the death of their chief and his followers.
So prompt and efficient, however, was the defence
of the party sought, that after a few harmless
flights of arrows, and a few returns from the fire-arms
of the white party, they hastily retreated, and
in a short time their canoes were only seen like distant
speeks on the circumscribved horizon, as they
scudded away before the rising volumes of vapour
for fear the dawning day should betray them and
their hostile attitude to the notice of the citizens.

As Bacon and Dudley stepped upon the shore in
front of the palisade, the other party having landed
and disappeared before their arrival, they stood
to gaze over the water for an instant to ascertain

whether any of the savages yet lingered upon the
scene. The fog was rapidly rising from the water,
so that their line of vision was uninterrupted for
some distance over the bay between the islands.

They could just perceive their late enemies
doubling the southern point of the island upon
which they stood, and were about to retire, supposing
all further apprehension from that quarter
at an end, when they discovered the dim outlines
of some one upon the southern end of the island,
making signals with a white handkerchief. They
immediately and silently moved along the shore,
under cover of the palisade, until they came within
such a distance of the object which had attracted
their attention, that they could discern who it was
themselves, at the same time remaining undiscovered.
It was Wyanokee! Her appearance at this
early hour and solitary place, and her equivocal
employment, produced the greatest astonishment
and mortification in the mind of Bacon. Until
this moment he would have pledged his life for
her truth and fidelity. Ever since the encounter
with the Indians, he had been wondering in his
own mind, how they had pursued him so exactly
to the secret place of their rendezvous. Now he
recollected that Wyanokee had passed through the
gallery of the State House on the preceding evening,
where Dudley and himself were practising.
She might have overhead some of their conversation.
Her presence at such a place had excited a
momentary surprise at the time, but it all passed

over, under the usual idea that Wyanokee was
every where. She often glided about like a spirit,
yet no one knew whither she was going, or the
purpose of her movements. “Can it be possible,”
said Bacon to himself, “that Wyanokee has been
treacherous?”

All these corroborating circumstances, together
with her present attitude, answered in the affirmative.
Notwithstanding the strong conviction of
this unwelcome fact which now settled on his mind,
he could not believe her deliberately bent on his
destruction. He had seen her exhibit many noble
traits of character in trying situations. Besides,
she was somewhat under his protection, and we
are always inclined to love those whom we have
served. She was also Virginia's pupil, and the latter
was proud of her as such, and he himself had felt
a sort of complacency at the progress of the maiden
under her tuition. His imagination had often
dwelt upon her imaginary perfections, as so many
reflected beauties from Virginia's guileless heart
and cultivated mind. No, he could not believe
her thus meanly treacherous. Some native impulse
must have been roused, some secret spring
of her long hidden and dormant nature, must have
been touched. Her savage ideas of patriotism had
fired her to revenge the death of her nation's chief.

Notwithstanding these palliating suggestions
which rose in his mind on the doubtful attitude
in which he had detected her, his reflections were
by no means pleasing, as he locked his arm in

Dudley's, and retired from the shore. Every
thing seemed to him to conspire against his happiness.
First, there was the old and ever present
cause of solicitude in relation to his own origin,
the doubtful nature of which had been the remote
cause of the unhappy rencounter of the morning.
Then there was the new attitude in which he was
placed towards Virginia, by the death of her
father, together with the tantalizing, partial revelations
of the anonymous letters and gold locket,
which that event had thrown into his possession,
with the thousand surmises, half formed hopes,
and resolutions resulting from them. Upon the
whole, however, he could not but feel, in the midst
of these various depressing circumstances, that his
chance for success in an application for the hand
of Virginia was greater with the widowed lady of
the murdered Fairfax than it would have been
were he alive. He knew the high position in
which he stood in that lady's favour. He knew
her contempt for worldly show, pomp and circumstance—he
had always known it, but now he
knew something of the cause in the revelations of
her own history. He knew that she had boldly
indulged the first predilections of her own young
heart at the expense of her father's and her brother's
favour; and his hopes were strong, that when he
should present himself before her in something of
a like attitude, as an applicant for the hand of her
fair daughter, her own recollections would rise up
before her in his favour. That there would be difficulties
to surmount, and prejudices to subdue, he
knew full well. That Sir William Berkley would
exert his power to the utmost, to prevent such a consummation
he also knew; but the consent of Mrs.
Fairfax once gained, he resolved to brave the opposition
if he could not subdue the prejudices of
the Governor.

The unhappy business of the morning would in
all probability hasten the contending elements to a
crisis. The Governor would soon know of the
meeting and its result; he would in all probability
inquire into the cause of the quarrel, and his
shrewd insight into the motives of human action
would very soon discover that there were hidden
impulses operating, which caused the insult to be
given, and kindred ones in the opposite party
which rendered the offence so much the more heinous
and unpardonable. In short, he would discover
that there was a lady at the bottom of the whole
affair; and that this lady was his own fair niece;
and that the two gentlemen who had just contended
in deadly strife, were rivals for the possession
of her favour. Such being the process of reasoning
in the Governor's mind, Bacon knew him too
well to suppose that he would delay the matter
long before he endeavoured to bring it to a conclusion.
Indeed he believed (and the reader knows
how truly) that his excellency already saw the advantages
of the connexion as vividly as his nephew
apprehended the sterling qualities of the lady.
Such being the case, the result of the morning's

meeting, if it did not prove fatal to his rival's life,
would in all probability precipitate the matter at
once to an issue. The Governor would no sooner
ascertain that Beverly was out of danger than he
would take the business in his own hands, and how
he would manage it, and what means he would take
to accomplish his ends, Bacon's personal experience
in other matters fully taught him. He resolved
therefore to be beforehand with him, to
present his own claims first, to attempt to conciliate
the lady of his late patron, before her ear had
been poisoned by the violent abuse which he knew
would be heaped upon him, as well as by contempt
for his origin. But could he imbrue his hand in
the blood of his rival and then present it for acceptance?
Could he precipitate his claims before
the family in their present melancholy state?

These were the subjects of his reflection, as the
two youths entered the gates of the city,—and here
another difficulty arose; if he should immediately
present himself before the family, the news of the
meeting having preceded him, even without broaching
the subject before alluded to, would not the
feelings excited in the mind of Virginia and her
mother be unfavourable to his claims? Then again,
should he leave rumour with her hundred tongues
to explain to the maiden the reasons which had induced
him to accept the challenge from her kinsman,
would not his cause be still more prejudiced?
Finally, therefore, after taking all these things into
consideration, he came to the conclusion that it

was best to wait some favourable news from his
wounded rival before presenting himself, or in case
of the worst result, to absent himself from the city
altogether for a time.

Accordingly the youths bent their footsteps to
Dudley's lodgings, there to await intelligence concerning
Beverly. It is hardly necessary to remind
the reader that duelling in that day, so far
from being considered criminal, was the sole test
to which all differences between gentlemen were
submitted. The influence of the custom has been
handed down, variously modified by the circumstances
of the times, from one generation to another,
until it has reached our own.