University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
A JOUST AT UTTERANCE.

We had not travelled far on our return to Swallow
Barn, before we arrived at a hamlet that stands
at the intersection of a cross road. This consists of
a little store, a wheelwright's shop, and one or two
cottages, with their outhouses. The store was of
that miscellaneous character which is adapted to the
multifarious wants of a country neighbourhood, and
displayed a tempting assortment of queensware,
rat-traps, tin kettles, hats, fiddles, shoes, calicoes,
cheese, sugar, allspice, jackknives and jewsharps,—
the greater part of which was announced in staring
capitals on the window-shutter, with the persuasive
addition, that they were all of the best quality and to
be had on the most accommodating terms. The rival
establishment of the wheelwright was an old shed
sadly bedaubed with the remainder colours of the
paint brush, and with some preposterous exaggerations
in charcoal of distinguished military men mounted
on preternaturally prancing steeds; and, near the
door, a bran-new, blue wagon, and a crimson plough
showed the activity of the trade.

As may readily be conjectured, this mart of custom
was not without its due proportion of that industious,
thriving and reputable class of comers

who laudably devote their energies to disputation,
loud swearing, bets and whiskey,—a class which, to
the glory of our land, is surprisingly rife in every
country side. Some six or seven of these worthies
were congregated on the rail of the piazza, which
extended across the front of the store, like so many
strange fowls roosting along a pole. The length of
our previous ride and the heat of the day made it
necessary that we should stop here for a short time
to get water for our horses. We accordingly dismounted.

Fairbourne excited the curiosity of the inhabitants
of the porch; and Ned, who seemed to be well acquainted
with the persons about him, answered their
many questions with his customary good-humour.
During this brief intercourse, one of the party approached
with a swaggering step, and began to pry,
with rather an obtrusive familiarity, into the odd
equipment of the hawk. His air was that of a
shabby gentleman. He had an immense pair of
whiskers, a dirty shirt, and a coat that might be said
to be on its last legs; but this, however, was buttoned
at the waist with a certain spruce and conceited
effect. As Ned held the bird upon his hand,
this complacent gentleman brought himself, first, into
a rather troublesome contact, and finally threw his
arm across Hazard's shoulder. Ned, at first, gently
repelled him, but as the other still intruded upon him,
and placed himself again in the same situation—

“Softly, Mr. Rutherford!” he said, slipping away
from beneath the extended arm; “you will excuse
me, but I am averse to bearing such a burden.”

“You are more nice than neighbourly, Ned
Hazard,” replied the other, stiffly erecting his person.
“I think I can remember a time when even
you, sir, would not have found me burdensome: that
time may come again.”

“I am not in the habit,” rejoined Ned, “of arguing
the right to shake off whatever annoys me.”

“Aye, aye!” said the other, walking to the opposite
end of the porch. “There are dogs enough to
bark at the wounded lion, that dare not look him in
the face when he is in health. It is easy enough
to learn, as the world goes, what is likely to annoy
a fair-weather friend. Honesty is of the tailor's
making—”

These and many other expressions of the like import
were muttered sullenly by the speaker, with such
glances towards Hazard as indicated the deep offence
he had taken at the rebuke just given.

This man had been originally educated in liberal
studies, and had commenced his career not
without some character in the country, but had
fallen into disgrace through vicious habits. An
unfortunate reputation for brilliant talents, in early
life, had misled him into the belief that the care
by which a good name is won and preserved
is a useless virtue, and that self-control is a tax
which only men of inferior parts pay for success.
This delusion brought about the usual penalties;
first, disappointment, then debauch, and after that,
in a natural sequence, the total wreck of worldly
hopes:—a brief history which is often told of men,
and varied only in the subordinate incidents which
colour the common outline.

Rutherford still retained, (as it generally happens
to a vain man,) unimpaired by the severe judgment
of the world, his original exaggerated opinion of the
extent of his abilities; but, having lost the occasions
for their display, he became noted only by a domineering
temper, a boastful spirit, a supreme hatred
of those in better circumstances than himself, and,
sometimes, by excessive and ferocious intemperance.

His conduct on the present occasion passed unheeded.
Hazard had no disposition to embroil himself
with a man of this description, and therefore
made no reply to these muttered overflowings of his
spleen.

“I have seen your bird before, Mr. Ned Hazard,”
said a plain countryman, who sat without a coat on
the bench of the piazza. “If I am not mistaken, that
hawk belonged to one of Mr. Tracy's daughters,
over here at the Brakes.”

“It did,” replied Ned; “she has nursed it with her
own hand.”

“Well, I have been studying,” said another,
“ever since you came here, to find out what all these
things are stuck about its legs for. It is the most
unaccountablest thing to me! I don't consider one of
these here hawks no more than vermin. What is it
good for, Mr. Hazard, any how?”

“Indeed, I declare I can't exactly tell,” answered
Ned. “In the old time they kept hawks pretty
much as we keep hounds,—to hunt game with.”

“Oh, they are amazing swift, and desperate wicked,—that's
a fact!” said the first speaker. “Did you
never see how spiteful these little king-birds take

after and worry a crow? They are a sort of hawks
too—”

“Many's the time,” said another of the company
“that I have known how to follow a fox from looking
at the crows tracking him across a field; and
I have seen hawks take after vermin just in the same
way.”

“But what is the use,” asked the second speaker
again, “of these here silver rings? and here are
words on one of them, too. Let me see,—`I live—
in my lady's—grace,'—” he continued, straining his
sight to make out the legend.

Rutherford had now approached to the skirts of
the group, and stood leaning against the balustrade
of the porch, with an unsocial and vexed air, as if
disposed to take advantage of whatever might occur
to vent his feelings.

“My lady's grace!” said he, tartly, “My lady's
grace! I suppose we shall hear of my lord's grace,
too, before long! There are some among us who, if
they durst do it, would carry their heads high enough
for such a title. If that stark, old, English tory, Isaac
Tracy, of the Brakes,—as he calls himself—”

“Miles Rutherford,” interrupted Hazard, angrily,
“look to yourself, sir! I am not disposed to put up
with your moody humour. Do not give me cause to
repent my forbearance in not punishing your insolence
at its first outbreak.”

“A better man than you, Ned Hazard,” said the
other, “proudly as you choose to bear yourself, might
have cause to repent his rashness in making such a

threat. Insolence do you call it, sir! Take care that
I do not teach you better to know who I am!”

“I know you already,” replied Ned, “for a brawling
bully—a disturber of the common peace—a
noisy churl—a nuisance, sir, to the whole country
round.”

“I know you,” said Rutherford.—

“Silence!” cried Ned; “Not another word from
your lips, or, by my life! unworthy as you are of the
notice of a gentleman, I will take the pains to chastise
you here upon this spot.”

“Good gentlemen! Good gentlemen! Mercy on
us! Stop them!” exclaimed our old acquaintance,
Hafen Blok, who, until this moment, had been seated
in the store, and now came limping to the porch, on
having recognized Hazard's voice—“For God's
sake, Mr. Ned Hazard, don't put yourself in the way
of Miles Rutherford! Take a fool's advice, Mister
Edward,” he continued, coming up to Ned, and holding
him by the coat: “It isn't fit for such as you to
concern yourself with Miles Rutherford; the man's
half in liquor, and of no account if he wasn't.”

Several others of the company crowded round
Hazard to beg him not to be disturbed by his antagonist.
In the mean time Rutherford had worked himself
up to a pitch of fury, and, springing over the balustrade
upon the ground, he took a station in front of
the house, where, vociferating in his wrath a hundred
opprobrious epithets, he challenged Hazard to come
out of the crowd if he dared to face him.

I interposed to remind Hazard that he should restrain
his anger, nor think of matching himself with

such an enemy. He listened calmly to my remonstrance,
and then laughing, as if nothing had occurred
to ruffle his temper, though it was manifest
that he was much flurried, he remarked in a tone of
assumed good humour,—

“You mistake if you imagine this ruffian moves
me; but still I think it would be doing a public service
if I were to give him a sound threshing here on
his own terms.”

“Don't think of such a thing, Mister Edward!”
said Hafen; “you are not used to such as Miles.
He is close built, and above fourteen stone. You are
hardly a feather to him.”

“You underrate me, Hafen,” replied Ned, smiling,
“and I have a mind to show you that weight is not
so great a matter as a good hand.”

“You are bold to speak amongst your cronies,”
said Rutherford. “You can make a party if you
can't fight. But I shall take the first opportunity,
when I meet you alone, to let you know that when I
choose to speak my mind of such hoary-headed traitors
as old Isaac Tracy, I will not be schooled into
silence by you.”

At these words Hazard turned quickly round to
me, and whispered in my ear, with more agitation of
manner than was usual to him, “I will indulge this
braggart; so, pray don't interrupt me. You need
not be anxious as to the result;” then, speaking to
the assemblage of persons who surrounded him, he
said, “Now, my good friends, I want you to see fair
play, and on no account to interfere with me as long
as I have it.”

With this he left the porch, and stepping out upon
the ground where Rutherford stood, he told him that
he would save him the trouble of any future meeting,
by giving him now what he stood especially in need
of,—a hearty flogging.

Rutherford in a moment threw off his coat. Ned
cooly buttoned his frock up to the chin.

“Good Lord, preserve us!” exclaimed Hafen Blok
again—“Mr. Hazard's gone crazy! Why, Miles
Rutherford ought to manage two of him.”

“I can tell you what,” said one of the lookers-on,
after surveying Ned for a moment, “Ned Hazard's
a pretty hard horse to ride, too; only look at his eye,
—how natural it is!”

By this time the two combatants had taken their
respective positions. Ned stood upon a practised
guard, closely eyeing his antagonist, and waiting the
first favourable moment to deal a blow with effect. It
was easy to perceive that, amongst his various accomplishments,
he had not neglected to acquire the
principles of pugilism. Rutherford's figure was muscular
and active; and, to all appearance, the odds
were certainly very much in his favour. Not a word
was spoken, and an intense interest was manifested
by the whole assembly as to the issue of this singular
encounter.

During the first onset Ned acted entirely on the
defensive, and parried his opponent's blows with
complete success. In the next moment he changed
the character of the war, and pressed upon Rutherford
with such science and effect, as very soon to
demonstrate that he had the entire command of the

game. From this period the contest assumed, on
the part of Hazard, a cheerful aspect. He struck
his blows with a countenance of so much gaiety,
that a spectator would have imagined he buffeted
his adversary in mere sport, were it not for the blood
that streamed down Rutherford's face, and the dogged
earnestness that sat upon the brow of the belaboured
man. Wilful seemed to take a great interest
in the affray, and curveted around the parties, barking,
sometimes violently, and springing towards his
master's opponent. On such occasions Ned would
call out to him, with the utmost composure, and order
him away, but without the least interruption to
his employment; and Wilful, as if assured by his
master's cool tone of voice, would yield instant obedience
to the mandate, and take his place amongst
the by-standers.

For the space of two or three minutes nothing
was heard but the sullen sound of lusty blows,
planted with admirable adroitness on the breast and
face of Miles Rutherford, whose blows in return
were blindly and awkwardly spent upon the air.
At last, the furious bully, worn down by abortive
displays of strength, and perplexed by the vigorous
assaults of his enemy, began to give ground and show
signs of discomfiture. Ned, as fresh almost as at
first, now pressed more severely upon him, and, with
one decisive stroke, prostrated him upon the earth.

At this incident a shout arose from the crowd,
and every one eagerly interceded to exhort Ned to
spare his adversary farther pain. Ned stepped a
pace back, as he looked upon his recumbent foe,
and composedly said—

“I will not strike him whilst he is down. But if
he wishes to renew the battle, I will allow him to
get upon his legs,—and he shall even have time to
breathe.”

Rutherford slowly got up; and, without again
placing himself in an attitude of offence, began to
vent his displeasure in wild and profane execrations.
Several of the persons nearest took hold of him, as
if with a purpose to expostulate against his further
prosecution of the fight; but this restraint only made
him the more frantic. In the midst of this uproar,
Ned again approached him, saying, “Miles Rutherford,
it little becomes you as a man to be unburthening
your malice in words. We have come to blows,
and if you are not yet satisfied with the issue of this
meeting, I pledge you a fair field, and as much of
this game as you have a relish for. Let the crowd
stand back!”

After looking a moment at Hazard in profound
silence, Rutherford's discretion seemed suddenly to
sway his courage; and, dropping his arms by his
side in token of defeat, he muttered, in a smothered
and confused voice, “It's no use, Ned Hazard, for
me to strike at you. You have had the advantage
of training.”

“You should have counted the cost of your insolence,”
replied Ned, “before you indulged it. The
tongue of a braggart is always more apt than his
hand,” he continued, taking a white handkerchief
from his pocket, and wiping his brow, and, at the
same time unbuttoning his coat and adjusting his
dress. “You have disturbed the country with your

quarrelsome humours long enough; so take the lesson
you have got to-day, and profit by it. Hafen,
get me some water; my hands are bloody.”

At this instant the group of amused and gratified
spectators mingled promiscuously together, and
made the welkin ring with cheers of triumph and
exultation.

“That I should have lived to see such a thing as
this!” vociferated Hafen, as he went to get the water.
“Didn't I always say Mister Ned Hazard
was the very best bottom in the country!”

“I fight fair,” murmured Miles Rutherford, as if
struggling under the rebuke of the company, and endeavouring
to make the best of his situation, “but I
am not conquered. Another time—by Hell!—another
time! and Ned Hazard shall rue this day. That
proud coxcomb has practised the art and strikes
backhanded. The devil could not parry such blows.”

“What does he say?” asked Ned.

“Miles, you are beaten!” exclaimed half a dozen
voices, “and you can't make any thing else out of it.
So be off!” saying this, several individuals gathered
round him to persuade him to leave the ground.

“It is immaterial,” said Miles; and taking up his
coat from the ground, he walked towards the neighbouring
dwellings in a sad and confused plight.

“I am a fool,” said Hazard in my ear, “to permit
myself to be ruffled by this scoundrel; but I am
not sorry that I have taken advantage of my anger
to give him what he has long deserved.”

Ned now began gradually to recover his gaiety,
and, after a short space, having washed his hands

and recruited himself from the severe toil in which
he had been engaged, he took Fairbourne from one of
the crowd, to whom the charge of the bird had been
committed, and we mounted our horses amidst the
congratulations of the whole hamlet for the salutary
discipline which Ned had inflicted upon his splenetic
antagonist.

In less than an hour we regained Swallow Barn:
returning like knights to a bannered castle from a
successful inroad,—flushed with heat and victory,—
covered with dust and glory; our enemies subdued
and our lady's pledge redeemed.