University of Virginia Library

LEGEND SIXTH.
THE DUEL:
OR, COURAGE THAT IS NOT AFRAID OF THE NAME OF “COWARD.”

The morrow came.

The room of the Colonel in the Inn of
Alexandria, was the theatre of a remarkable
scene. Through the uncurtained windows
came the light of the early dawn, and there
you might behold a glimpse of a river, glimmering
faintly in the ray of a fading star.

Silence reigned through the chamber —
silence and gloom — although some twenty
persons were assembled there. In one corner
stood the bed, with unruffled coverlet; in the
centre was the table, and around were seated
the gentlemen who had been summoned as
witnesses of the approaching Duel.

These gentlemen — some of whom were
officers in the Colonel's regiment, others
planters of broad lands and immense fortunes
— sat in silence, gazing with folded arms upon
the table which stood in the centre, or though
the gloom into each others' faces.

The bluff Captain was there, but he had
forgotten all his apt sayings about Honor and
Chivalry; near him the Ensign, whose pale
face, paler in fact than ever, indicated a night
of anxious thought, and then our friend the
Planter, who although the hour was early, and
he had not yet broken his fast, still pressed
a cigar between his lips, and hid his face in a
curtain of smoke.

The Colonel and the challenged man alone
were absent. As for the Colonel, he was in
the next room, attending to his letters, and —
perchance — to his last will and testament.

The first ray of sunrise shot through the
window and trembled upon the vacant table.

As if that beam, breaking in upon the gloom,
had unloosened their hearts and tongues, the
gentlemen began to whisper with each other.
One spoke of the sad and fatal necessity of
Murder involved in the Code of Honor —
another of the widows and orphans who had
been made by that blessed code — a third of
the efficacy of a sword thrust, in healing
broken hearts, or of the short and easy method
of patching up “self-respect” by a — pistol
shot.

Some spoke of the character of the young
Colonel, who, but twenty-two years old, might
be cold and stiff before an hour was gone.

And others of his antagonist — of the virtues
which bound him to the hearts of many dear
friends — of the ties which held him fast to
life. Before an hour, very possibly, that
antagonist would be a — corpse.

Our friend, the bluff Captain closed all argument
by the emphatic — “The Colonel's
been struck and he must fight!” The Planter
said nothing, but smoked his cigar; maybe he
was thinking of his home, and calling to mind
the Mother who might hear of the Colonel's
death, ere the day was two hours older.

As for the Ensign, he had nothing to say.
It was his part to see that the weapons of
murder were fairly prepared, and that the
murder itself was done according to rule. That
was all he had to do with the matter. And he
waited for the hour of the performance with
commendable impatience.

At last the Ensign pulled out his watch,
and announced the hour of — “Seven!”

There was a general movement, and at the
same moment the two doors of the chamber
were suddenly opened.

Through the door opening into the hall,
came a very tall, slim gentleman with a pistol-case
under his arm.

“The second of Mr. Payne!” burst from
twenty tongues

And this tall slim gentleman, with the pistol-case
under his arm, was followed by a gentleman
whose short and stout form — well
knit withal — and not unpleasing features,
indicated the antagonist of the Colonel, Mr.
Payne himself, who yesterday levelled the
popular favorite in the dust.

The second bowed and laid his pistol-case
on the table; Mr. Payne bowed and folded
his arms. His courage was unquestioned, but
his face was impressed with an expression of
seriousness — maybe — gloom.

“The Colonel is good with the rifle, good
with the pistol, good with the small sword!”
So the whisper ran round the room.

“And he'll wing his man,” rather rudely
whispered the Captain.

The Ensign rose, bowed twice, once to Mr.
Payne, then to the second, and then in low
tones, began to confer with the second upon
the arms to be used, and the form to be observed
in the approaching duel. Their whispers
alone broke the breathless stillness. With
rifle or with sword, or with pistol? Here in
this room, or in the open air? Shall a fallen
'kerchief be the signal for them to begin?
How many thrusts, how many shots, how
much blood before “satisfaction” is given?

Such was the hurried conversation of the
“seconds,” conducted in animated whispers,
now with a bow and again with a smile. The
politest man in the world is the “second” of
a duel.

Meanwhile Mr. Payne stood alone — his
arms folded — his eyes now fixed on the
mantel-piece, now wandering to the window.
Perchance he felt that his position was rather
awkward; or thought how cheerful the sunshine
looked, and how gloomy it would seem, if in
an hour or more, those beams would light up
the cold face of a corpse — or the cold faces
of two corpses.

Mr. Payne awaited with great impatience
for the end of the second's conversation, and
for the coming of — his antagonist.

We have forgotten the opening of the other
door. Through that door the Colonel came,
at the very moment that Mr. Payne and his
friend strode through the other. He remained
for a moment concealed by the shadow of the
bed, and then stepped suddenly into view,
before the very eyes of Mr. Payne.

That gentleman started back with involuntary
surprise, as he caught first, a glimpse of
his antagonist's shadow, and then a full view
of that antagonist himself.

A murmur swelled through the apartment,
at the contrast presented by the personal
appearance of Mr. Payne, as compared with
the tall and imposing figure of the Virginia
Colonel. Not that Mr. Payne was at all an
unhandsome man, nor that his firm features
lack expression, but the Colonel was a man
whom you would remark not only for the
majesty of his stature, but for the expression
of his face, among a crowd of ten thousand
men.

And a burning blush overspread Mr. Payne's
face, as he saw his antagonist standing before
him, looking into his face — wearing the very
uniform which he had worn yesterday —
bearing upon his brow the livid scar of that
fatal insult.

But Mr. Payne had no time for thought.

“We have arranged the preliminaries,”
exclaimed the seconds, turning suddenly round,
and starting with surprise as they beheld their
principals standing face to face.

Again Mr. Payne blushed as he saw the
eye of the Colonel fixed upon him, and then
folding his arms, he knit his brow and gazed
sternly into his antagonist's face.

The gentlemen present rose with one movement.
You might have heard the beating of
your own heart, all was so breathlessly still.
Not a spectator but anticipated a personal conflict.

“Mr. Payne,” the Colonel began.

Mr. Payne retreated a step, still folding his
arms.

“Yesterday I called you `Liar!”'

“You did,” cried Payne, with a flush of
anger. “And —”

“You levelled me to the ground,” continued
the Colonel. “Behold the mark of your blow!”

He paused — the silence deepened. The
Colonel's voice and look were calm, but firm;
Payne's face was flushed; his eye indignant.

“And now, sir, I have a word to say to
you,” continued the Colonel, still calm and
firm. “And first let me ask a question. Is
it manly — is it Christian, to attempt to justify
a wrong by a murder? Or, is it more
generous, more just, to confess a wrong with

frankness, and solicit forgiveness from the
injured? Yesterday I applied an unjust and
ungentlemanly epithet to you — you promptly
avenged yourself — are you satisfied? Here's
my hand — let us be friends!”

Long before the words had passed from the
Colonel's mouth — long before the spectators
recovered from their stupefaction — Payne had
flung both hands toward his antagonist. The
tears were streaming from his eyes.

The seconds recoiled — the audience had
no speech; they could only stand and look.

Then the Colonel, with the mark on his
forehead, led Mr. Payne toward the table. A
decanter stood there, with two glasses.

“Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, filling a
glass and handing it to Payne, and then raising
one to his own lips —“I give you the health
of my good friend, Mr. Payne.”

They emptied their glasses with one impulse.

“And now, gentlemen, allow me to hope,
that when, in after time, you recall the various
personal combats which you have witnessed,
you will remember with something like
admiration the Duel of Mr. Payne and his
enemy, George Washington!”

Was there one man in that assemblage who
could have called young Washington, Coward?

And it was because he had “courage enough
to bear the name of Coward,” that he became
the man of counsel and of Battle — the
Deliverer of a Country — the President of a
free People — his name the watchword of all
time.

For a moment let us glance upon a far
different scene, which took place after the
Revolution.

There is the blush of dawn upon the
Hudson. In a glade, shaded by rocks overgrown
with vines, and canopied by a glimpse
of blue sky, two men stand ready for the Duel.

In other words, they have come here, in the
silence of the morning time, to do Murder, in
accordance with the rules of Honor.

Both of the same age — the very prime of
mature manhood — renowned alike in the
history of their country — they stand apart,
while the “seconds” load the pistols and
measure the ground.

One attracts your attention with his great
forehead, indented between the brows, and
swelling with the sublime proportions of a
great soul.

That is Alexander Hamilton.

The other wins your gaze, not only by his
forehead, but by the indescribable, almost
supernatural fascination of his eyes.

That is Aaron Burr.

They have been together in the Revolution,
in the tent of Washington,— amid the perils
of battle, — among the wintry hills of Valley
Forge.

Both great intellects, renowned alike for eloquence
and courage; they have come here, to
steal side-long glances at each other for a little
while — and then stand back to back, and, at
a word, wheel and murder.

Burr challenges Hamilton, but Hamilton,
unlike Washington, has not the “Courage to
bear the name of Coward.” Hamilton, convinced,
as any man in his senses must be, that
the law of Duel is simply a law of Murder,
accepts the challenge, and flings his life away
like Abner of old.

Gaze upon the cold face of Alexander
Hamilton — behold Aaron Burr shrink shudderingly
away from the corpse — and then
contrast the conduct of Hamilton and Burr,
the one accepting the challenge tendered by
the other — with the sublime courage of
Washington —“a Courage which was not
afraid of the name of Coward.”