University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Scott.

The day appointed for the prize-play was mild
and clear; and as the anticipation of the sport had
created a stir throughout the province, there was
reason to expect a large attendance.

Stark Whittle had, within a year past, emigrated
to the dominions of the Proprietary, from Jamaica,
and by dint of trumpeting his own renown—an act
for which the professors of his craft were somewhat
distinguished—had obtained the repute of a skilful
master of fence. Sergeant Travers had been several
years in the province, and had already established
his fame, in more than one trial, with such wandering
professors of the Noble Science as, at that era, were
to be found in every quarter of Christendom. Great
expectations were therefore entertained of an encounter
of rare interest to the men of the sword—a class
which might be said to have comprehended not only
the military men of the times, and such gentlemen

in civil life as were educated in the use of the weapon,
but also that extensive circle of idlers, boasters,
tavern-frequenters, and sport-loving gentry which
have always passed under the denomination of choice
spirits.

Under the direction of Colonel Talbot—the patron
of all sports and pastimes in the province—a platform,
or stage of deal boards, about twenty feet square and
three feet above the ground, had been constructed,
near the centre of the common in the rear of the
Town House. A few paces from the platform stood
a flag-staff, from which floated a forked pennon bearing
the device of the provincial arms, ambitiously
executed in oil by Master Bister, the artist of the
city. On a skirt of the common, some six or eight
tents marked the position of the Court of Guard,
formed by the garrison of the fort, under the command
of Nicholas Verbrack, the Lieutenant. Opposite
to this encampment, a range of booths had been
erected by the townspeople, where was displayed
every variety of refreshment which the housekeeping
stores of the proprietors might afford. These booths
were distinguished by various devices in the way of
signs; one presenting a banner hung out on a pole
with a rude representation of a Cock in jack-boots
and sword, with his neck stretched as in the act of
crowing, and a label from his bill having written
on it,

whilst another manifested its partizanship for the adverse
champion, by the device of a bull in armour,
reared on his hind legs, with the inscription,
Others were designated simply by a green bush, the
old sign of good wine within. Amongst these temporary
sheds was especially to be noted one which
was surmounted by a towering staff bearing a flag
embellished with the cross of St. Andrew, whose proprietor
was sufficiently indicated by a flaring and, to
say the truth, not very perspicuous portraiture of the
Crow and Archer, from the pallet of Master Bister.
Sundry legends, scrawled in charcoal over the front
of the booth, expressed the utmost impartiality between
the combatants and their several friends, as
might be read in such as “Honour to the brave.”
“A fair field and no favours,” and others of similar
import equally guarded against the accident of denoting
the party of the host. Within the shed the
saucy face of our jolly dame Dorothy might have
been seen, long before the appointed hour of the combat,
as she busied herself in adjusting matters to meet
the expected pressure of the day.

Such was the picture presented on the Town Common
about noon. Already a large number of the
inland inhabitants had arrived, and troops of new
comers were every moment seen halting their horses
in the vicinity of the common: others were discerned
as far off as the inequalities of the country allowed,
journeying down from the distant highlands, or moving
forward in disorderly squadrons across the plain

by every road which led to the town. The river presented
a scene not less animated. Boats of various
sizes, from a pinnace down to a canoe, were sprinkled
over the whole expanse of water, ferrying across
the inhabitants who resided beyond the St. Mary's
river, as well as many from the opposite shore of the
Potomac. The hostel of Master Weasel was thronged
with guests, and every ale-house and ordinary of inferior
note bore testimony to the attraction which the
projected prize-play presented to the country people
both far and near.

Meantime the combatants were not yet accessible
to the sight of the inquisitive crowd. They were
each in charge of their respective friends. Stark
Whittle had selected Captain Coode as his patron,
and was now lodged in the house of the burgess,
where he was attended by a troop of those professional
backers who are ever at hand on occasions of
sport with their advice,—men who, whether imbued
with skill or not, are still prone to take the credit of
being well versed in the mysteries of the game.
These were now busy, or affected to be so, in preparing
their champion for his encounter, exhibiting
all that show of science in the minutiæ of the craft,
which belongs to their class. Under their direction,
the swordsman had been, for several days, put under
a diet which was alleged to be scrupulously regulated
to produce the due quantum of strength without
an increase of bulk; he had been breathed a certain
number of hours each day in the exercise of his
weapon; and now that the moment of trial was at
hand, great exactness and care were displayed in

anointing his limbs with bear's grease, to give them
their requisite suppleness. The same precautions,
with the same pedantry, were bestowed upon Sergeant
Travers, who, still shut up in the Fort, was
undergoing the discipline of Captain Dauntrees and
Arnold de la Grange,—both of these worthies claiming
to be adepts in this important matter of training
for a prize play.

About an half hour before four o'clock, the common
was filled with the groups of spectators, leaving
the town almost emptied of its inhabitants. These
thronged around the booths, or strolled across the
plain, or took their places at the platform. Nicholas
Verbrack, at this moment, wheeled off his company
from the Court of Guard, and, marching to the scene
of the expected fight, formed them in two ranks, immediately
behind the flag-staff, which might be said
to represent the head of the lists. From this position
he detached sentinels, armed with pikes, who were
posted at intervals, in military fashion, around the
platform, at the distance of some ten paces from it,
beyond which limit the lookers-on were compelled to
retire, leaving the intervening space entirely clear.
The crowd which was thus thrust back, consisted
indifferently of both sexes,—the women, as is always
the case in public shows wherever they may gain admission,
forming no inconsiderable portion of the
mass, and they were now seen elbowing their way
to the front of the throng, and sustaining their positions
there, with as stout resolve as the sturdiest of
their antagonists. Carts, wagons, tumbrels, and sundry
nondescript conveyances, fabricated for the occasion

and laden to their utmost capacity with females,
formed a kind of rear division surrounding the stage.
Several gentlemen, among whom was the Proprietary,
accompanied by his uncle Philip Calvert the
Chancellor, nearly all the members of the Council,
Master Anthony Warden, and others, were seen
grouped together on horseback. Albert Verheyden
with Benedict Leonard had come in the train of this
party, but were now observed in various quarters of
the field, as they rode around to amuse themselves
with the spectacle. Chiseldine, the reverend Master
Yeo, and some others conspicuous in the ranks of
opposition to the Proprietary and his party, were
seen frequently reining up their horses together in
small squads, and as often dispersing, as if under
some occasional suggestion against the propriety of
their consorting too much together in public. Cocklescraft,
with Roche del Carmine and three or four men
in sailors' dress,—the Skipper and his mate being
both armed rather beyond what was usual,—strolled
about the field, without ostensibly participating in the
affairs of either party.

The scene presented a lively and striking spectacle.
The musqueteers in their green livery, drawn up beneath
the pennon that fluttered above the stage; the
motley crowd of persons of both sexes that surrounded
the platform, taxing all the vigilance of the sentinels
to prevent them from pressing beyond their allotted
boundary; the scarlet hoods and glittering
head-gear, wimples, coifs, caps, and bright-coloured
petticoats, mingled in the mass with the russet serge
and round hat of the rustic, and with the gayer holiday-attire

of belted burghers and bluff landholders
arrayed in swords, short cloaks and plumed beavers;
the troops of spectators that moved over the field on
horseback, some with the sober steadiness of age, and
others with the prankishness of young cavaliers anxious
to display their horsemanship in the caracole,
the demi-volte, the courbette, and the various other
points of equestrian skill to which the jargon of that
day supplied names; the bustle of strolling idlers that
hovered about the booths, where the twangling of a
fiddle in one quarter and the rattle of dice in another
rose in a confused din upon the ear, mingled with the
oaths of drinkers and the nimble-tongued and shrill
tones of the authoritative dame of the Crow and
Archer, as she chid or promoted the clamour around
her:—all these images, grouped together on the beautiful
plain of St. Mary's, with that transparent blue
heaven above, and the matchless foliage of the Fall
giving to the forest the hues of the dying dolphin, and
the mild, invigorating coolness of that incomparable
season which ushers in the gradual march of winter,
diffusing health and buoyancy into every frame,—
afforded a picture which was calculated to inspire a
high sense of enjoyment in those who witnessed it,
and which would scarcely fail to produce something
of the same impression if skilfully delineated on the
canvass.

At a signal from Colonel Talbot, a trumpeter bearing
an instrument which, like himself, was covered
with ribands, mounted upon the stage and blew forth
a sprightly summons. When this was repeated thrice,
two small parties were seen entering on the common

from different quarters. That which came from the
direction of the centre of the town, was immediately
descried as Stark Whittle and his party, consisting of
Captain Coode with three or four attendants. The
champion was wrapped in a horseman's cassock that
concealed his figure from observation, whilst beside
him walked his second, a squat, brawny, fierce little
man, with a huge red nose, a squint in one eye, a
scar across his brow, and a large broad-flapped beaver
garnished with a black ostrich feather which
hung backward a span below his shoulder. This
worthy enjoyed the designation of Ensign Tick, being
a decayed officer of Lord Cecil's time, and still
retaining his title, though reduced to a sharking livelihood
in a civil station. He was, like his principal,
shrouded in a cloak: in one hand he bore a pair of
swords, and in the other a small creel or basket containing
a bottle of usquebaugh and sundry commodities
used for the speedy staunching of a wound,—
furniture familiar to the backers of heroes in such
circumstances as those of his principal at the present
moment. The other group came from the quarter of
the Town House, by the road that led up from the
Crow and Archer, where they had betaken themselves
to await the summons: it was composed of
Travers attended by Captain Dauntrees, and his second,
the Sergeant-Major of the musqueteers, bearing
the name of Master Stocket,—one or two privates of
the same corps, and a cortege of bare-headed and
bare-legged boys, that stepped forth at the full compass
of their stride, to keep pace with the rapid movement
of the principals of the party.

As soon as these adverse bands came within the
range of the crowd, lanes were opened for their admission,
and the two champions, advancing to an
open space before the guard of soldiers, there threw
aside their cloaks and sprang upon the stage. They
were instantly followed by their seconds, whilst a
flourish of the trumpet and a long ruffle from the
drums and fifes of the musqueteers announced that
the ceremonies of the fight were about to commence.

The champions were both men of fine shape and
sinew, nearly equal in height and bulk, and both came
to their engagement with apparently composed and
cheerful countenances. The only face of wrath and
fire correspondent to the valorous prowess which had
impelled this warlike meeting, was that of Ensign
Tick. He alone seemed to be duly impressed with
the resentment which a belligerent should indulge in
such a strife. Sergeant-Major Stocket retained a
practised calmness that was altogether professional,
and performed his duty on the stage with exemplary
gravity. The champions were dressed in military
costume; Travers in that of his corps, Whittle in the
cumbrous scarlet coat of the English uniform. Both
wore the heavy wide-legged boot, which, immediately
after mounting the stage, they exchanged for
pumps. As soon as this was done, they were severally
disrobed of their coats, and thus presented for
the combat in their shirt sleeves. A fillet of red riband
was tied around the right arm of the challenger
above the elbow, whilst one of green was similarly
adjusted on the arm of Travers. During the arranging
of these preliminaries, Dauntrees and Coode

had ascended the platform, that they might, as patrons
of the parties, bear testimony to the due observance
of the established laws of the play. When
all was done, and the combatants were announced to
be ready for the encounter, Coode retired from the
stage and took a post at that end of the platform most
remote from the flag-staff, whilst Dauntrees marched
with military precision to a post in front of his company,
where taking a halberd from a sergeant who
held it ready for him, he planted himself, erect and
stately, immediately at the head of his men. The
seconds now advanced, each bearing in his hand a
pair of back-swords of moderate length, and each
selecting one for his principal, these were measured
in public to show,—what had indeed been previously
adjusted by private regulation,—that no advantage
was possessed by either side in the length of weapon,
and after this ceremony they were placed in the
hands of those who were to use them. The seconds
then retired to opposite points on the platform, whilst
the champions themselves, with a praiseworthy courtesy
and some expressions of good will, shook hands;
after which, with a flourish of swords and a gay
alacrity of manner, they wheeled round and took
the stations allotted to them by their seconds.

All this time the utmost silence pervaded the
crowd of spectators. Every one had pressed towards
the stage at the summons of the trumpet: the
booths were deserted, or left with but a solitary
watchman: a sentinel, here and there, in the verge
of the little encampment on the skirt of the common,
was the only moving thing that was not crowded up

to the scene of conflict. The Proprietary and his
friends had a post of honour assigned to them in the
rear of Dauntrees' soldiers, whence they might minutely
observe all that was going on. Chiseldine and
his party occupied a post at the opposite end of the
stage, relatively the same as that of the Proprietary;
but, as no space was kept clear for their accommodation,
they were forced somewhat in the rear of the
crowd of spectators on foot, and a close observer
might have seen in their thoughtful countenances that
other subjects besides the trivial amusements of the
hour occupied their minds.

The champions now took their attitudes of attack
and defence, and forthwith engaged with great vigour.
Blows were made and parried with masterly
address. A quick onset, the assailant pressing his antagonist
across the full length of the stage, was returned
with an assault not less prompt, and the weapons
were wielded with a dexterity and sleight that
almost defied the eye to follow the several strokes
and their counter defences. Nothing was heard but
the clank of steel and the sullen stamp of the combatants
on the boards of the platform, as they gave and
received blows; but, as yet, neither party had gained
advantage; and the seconds, deeming that the first
bout was played long enough, interposed to give their
principals time to breathe.

Whilst the combatants, in this interval, were refreshing
themselves under the care of their seconds,
the busy murmur of conversation amongst the crowd
announced the interest which the play inspired. Many
tokens of active partisanship began to manifest themselves,

and it was obvious, from the emphasis with
which the commendations were bestowed upon the
new champion Whittle, that he was a decided favourite
of, at least, one party on the field,—a party
composed exclusively of Protestants; whilst those of
the Catholic faith were no less energetic in their advocacy
of Travers. It had already grown to be a
sectarian division of feeling, founded on the well-known
religious professions of the two champions;
and as the Protestants were the most numerous on
the ground, it may be affirmed that Stark Whittle
enlisted the larger share of popular admiration. John
Coode was not backward to foment the party spirit,
which had thus unfortunately begun to be developed,
by such artifices as he well knew how to practise.

“Stark battles with the Papist as old Luther battled
with the Devil,” he said exultingly to a group of
inland proprietors who were casually discussing the
expected issue of the fight; “we shall see this cub of
Papacy disciplined with a wholesome Protestant purgation
presently.”

The din of voices was suddenly stilled by the notes
of the trumpet, announcing the renewal of the fight.
The parties again took their posts; and again the
clash of swords was heard, falling thickly upon the
ear. All was suspense and silence, except that now,
as a casual advantage was gained by one or other of
the combatants, notes of applause and exhortation
rose in half-stifled tones from the friends of either
side, or ejaculations of fear from their opponents,—
these proceeding most frequently from the females.
This passage, however, suddenly terminated by a

stroke from Whittle's sword, the point of which just
severed the skin upon Travers' brow. The appearance
of blood was a signal to drop their points, and
thus the combatants were afforded a second breathing
spell. The wound of Sergeant Travers was no
sooner perceived than the whole party who had
taken such interest in his adversary's success, raised
a shout of exultation that rent the air. This manifestation
of triumph, rousing the partisans of the
opposite champion into a tone of feeling that partook
of defiance, they returned the acclamation with
no less vehemence, taking the word from Talbot as
he galloped round the confines of the crowd—“Success
to Gilbert Travers, a tried master of the Noble
Science!”

In this temper of the bystanders, the third passage
was announced. Again the combatants engaged,
with more than their former vehemence,—for, taking
the hue of their respective adherents, they were
wrought up into a state of ardent hostility, which
showed itself in the acerbity and vigour of their
blows. The spectators were sensibly impelled, as the
struggle waxed fiercer, into more intense and angry
maintenance of their champions, and all other thoughts
seemed now to be absorbed in the desire of victory.
Unlike the former passages, this was accompanied
with all the clamour of incensed rivalry. At no instant
were the voices of partisans lulled into silence.
“Bravo, good Stark!—Well played, Gilbert!”
“Huzza, excellent! By Saint Dunstan, nobly parried,
Sergeant!”—and similar expressions of encouragement,

burst forth from the lips of the excited
groups, as they involuntarily laid their hands upon
their swords, and, breaking through all constraint,
passed up to the frame of the platform. In the
height of this animating impulse, Travers threw
aside a blow which had been directed with great
energy at his breast, and the vigour with which he
parried it swayed the sword of his adversary so far
out of his sphere of defence, as to leave his body
open to the return stroke, which was plied with such
effect as to make a deep incision midway down
Whittle's thigh and thence across the knee, laying
open the flesh, through that whole track, to the bone,
and covering the wounded man with his blood. It
was observed that Whittle's previous stroke had been
thrown with such violence as to cause him to reel
from his footing when the force of the blow was
dashed aside into the air, and many were of opinion
that this slip of the foot was an accident which
should have saved him from the return cut that was
made with such disabling effect. It was instantly
apparent that this hit decided the fight and gave the
victory to the Sergeant of the Musqueteers.

“A Roland for an Oliver!” exclaimed Talbot with
wild exultation. “Admirable, Sergeant!—well done!
—you have shorn the spur of that cock for a while,
at least.”

“Huzza for Travers!” resounded over the field
from the voices of the large party of his friends;
whilst, on the other side, with equal vehemence, was
shouted, “Foul play! Shame, shame! A d—d
Papistical, cowardly trick!”

“I'll meet thee, for a beggarly foister,” cried an
incensed partisan, who sprang upon the platform
and shook his sword in Travers' face—“I'll meet
thee, Master Toasting-iron, when you dare!—I'll
give thee a lesson for striking a man below the
knee.”

“Push it at him now, Master Hardthrust,” exclaimed
a second, following in the steps of the new
challenger; “he deserves no better than to be put
on his defence where he stands—for a filthy Roman
as he is. A foul cut below the knee, and at a man
who had lost his footing! That is the upshot of his
valour!”

These invaders of the platform were instantly
confronted by two or three of the opposite party who
ascended the stage to drag them off;—and, in turn,
some dozens of either complexion in the quarrel
sprang to the aid of their respective friends—thus
presenting on both sides a compact body of excited
opponents fiercely bent on mischief.

Talbot was instantly off his horse, and, sword in
hand, rushed to the scene of broil, calling upon
Dauntrees to advance his men and make a clear
stage. Swords were drawn in all quarters, and the
first person with whom Talbot came in conflict was
John Coode, who, with his naked weapon in his hand,
was stimulating his partisans to commence an assault.
Talbot seized him by the front of his coat,
and presenting the point of his sword to his breast,
cried out—“Swiller of the leavings of a tap room!
by my hand, if thou openest thy rotten throat with

but a cough, I will thrust my sword ell deep into thy
worthless body. Begone, hound!”

And with this word he pushed the burgess violently
over the edge of the platform on the brink of
which he stood. In a moment the musqueteers were
marched by Dauntrees, in solid mass, upon the stage,
and the threatened rioters were thus expelled from
the seat of contest. Holding this position, the troops
had the command of the field, and by threatening to
fire, which Dauntrees, with the trained coolness of
an old soldier, announced, in a stentorian voice, he
would certainly do if further violence were menaced,
Chiseldine, Coode and their companions, amongst
whom was Parson Yeo, interfered to quiet the
tumult and draw off their adherents. During all
this commotion, Corporal Abbot was seen on the
outer skirt of the crowd, brandishing his weapon,
and hurrying to and fro with a look which had wrath
enough in it to annihilate the whole Church of Rome,
yet mixed up with a discretion which would have
left a casual spectator at a loss to determine exactly
on what side he was arrayed. “Odso!” he ejaculated;
“let me into that skirmish! I will teach them
orderly behaviour,—the varlets! Shall we have
brawls put upon us? Shall we digest cold iron
against our will? No, by my belt—not whilst my
name is Abbot! The fight will be this way anon—
and, I warrant you, my hand is in it.”

“Put up thy sword, thou venturesome fool,” exclaimed
Verbrack, who in hurrying round the confines
of the crowd with a small party of the musqueteers,
encountered the man of war in the height of

his ire—“put up thy sword—nor stand vapouring
here like a grain thrasher!”—which exhortation the
Lieutenant accompanied with a slight blow across
the offender's shoulders, laid on with the flat of his
sword.

“Ha, ha! venturesome, you may find me, truly,
Master Lieutenant; but, as thou say'st, it is a good
example to put up our weapons when headstrong
men might be led off by evil examples;” with which
sage reflection the wrath of the Corporal suddenly
surceased, and his weapon was immediately consigned
to its sheath, whence it was not abstracted for
full five seconds after the Lieutenant had disappeared.

Godfrey had, at the first symptom of confusion,
retired from the field, and Cocklescraft, with his seamen,
stood by an unconcerned spectator of the whole
scene—nor passed a word with any one, except that
at one moment, when stalking around the platform
the halberd of Dauntrees accidently, and without the
observation of the Captain, was protruded across his
path. The Skipper disdaining to walk out of the
way of this impediment, drew his sword and struck
it down, saying fiercely as he did it,—

“Find other service for your pike, than to stop my
wandering.”

“By my troth, saucy master,” replied Dauntrees,
“but I will speedily find service for my pike that shall
teach thee more civil behaviour. But pass on, sir,
you have a license in the Port to go free of all notice
except such as shall give thee accommodation in the
stocks.”

Lord Baltimore, with the graver gentlemen of his

suite, rode around the scene of disorder manifesting
the utmost concern, and exhorting all whom
he might address with any hope of persuasion, to retire
quietly from the field. The old Collector, however,
was not the most docile of his adherents; for the
veteran's blood had risen to fever heat, and he repeatedly
charged the rioters, cane in hand, with
strenuous reproof of their misconduct, expressed in
no very dainty terms. By degrees the authors of
these tumults began to withdraw from the scene of
action and to form themselves into detached bodies
far apart, where their rage was allowed to spend itself
in unchallenged vituperation and rebuke of their
antagonists, and finally to subside, at least, into a
manageable degree of resentment.