6. VI.
THE VENDETTA.
In the fine April mornings, often before the sun had risen, I
was accustomed to take long walks, which more than once extended
far into the country.
At daylight, on the morning succeeding the scene just described,
I know not what chance directed my steps toward
Hollywood Cemetery, on the banks of the James, above the
city.
Entering the grounds, which at that early hour were quite deserted,
I strolled on to the hill upon which Monroe lies buried,
and, throwing myself beneath a tall elm which grows there,
gazed with admiration upon the fair landscape. Below murmured
the falls, foaming around the islands with their drooping
foliage; straight across shot the long white line of the Petersburg
bridge, and to the left appeared the crowding roofs of the
city, above which rose the snow-white pillars of the Capitol,
brilliant in the first rays of the sun.
I was gazing in silence at this beautiful spectacle, and listening
dreamily to the song of an oriole in the elm above, when the
sound of wheels on the gravel road by which I had ascended the
hill attracted my attention. Looking in the direction of the sound,
I saw two hacks, from which four gentlemen descended, saluting
each other as they did so. Then, without loss of time, they
ascended the hill, and the whole party paused in an open space
not ten yards from my elm. They could not see me, as I was
stretched upon the grass, and a row of cedar bushes around a
group of graves intervened. But I could see perfectly, as I
looked through an opening, and in two of the party recognized
the horsemen of the previous evening.
These affairs are rarely private, and I had no hesitation in remaining.
To this I was impelled by a strong sentiment of curiosity.
My attention was immediately riveted to the face of the pursuer
on the preceding evening. He was tall, powerful, and with
a face resembling bronze. His eyes, as black as night, sparkled
under raven eyebrows, and his heavy mustache and beard were
of the same color. But his expression was more striking than
all else. Never have I seen a fiercer satisfaction in the human
face. A species of instinct told me that nothing but the gratification
of some long-brooding passion—some cherished vengeance
—could bring that gladiator-like smile to the lips of a human
being.
His opponent's face expressed rather bitter hatred than satisfaction
at the approaching encounter. It was plain from his
sullen and lowering brow that he thirsted for his adversary's
blood, but not so evident that he welcomed the prospect of a
fair and open contest. With his small keen eyes, his thin lips,
and overhanging brows, I should have set him down for one who
would prefer doing away with an enemy by treachery—and
afterward I came to know that this estimate of the man was
entirely correct.
It was evidently the snake opposed to the tiger—not so bold,
but equally dangerous.
The preliminaries were soon arranged. The seconds were
evidently old practitioners, and their proceedings were matter-of-fact
and business-like.
“This spot, I think, is suitable,” said one of them, “except
for that ugly object there.” And he pointed to a newly-dug
grave.
“It is a matter of indifference to us, sir,” returned the other
second, “as the fire will naturally be across the line of the
sun.”
“That is just, sir, and if entirely agreeable to you, we will
now proceed.”
His associate bowed, and they proceeded to measure off the
ground. The sound of pistols striking against their case was
then heard, and the click of the triggers as they were tried.
A short pause then followed—they were loading the weapons.
When this was accomplished, they were handed to the principals.
One of the seconds then said:
“Gentlemen, I shall give the word, which will be, `Are you
ready? Fire! One, two, three'—the fire to be delivered after
the word `one' and before the word `three.' ”
The principals listened in silence, standing half-faced to the
right and left, the weapons pointed toward the ground.
“Before, however, this affair proceeds further,” continued the
speaker, “I consider it my duty to make a statement in the
hearing of all. I was called on last night by Mr. Fenwick, with
whom I have only a slight acquaintance,” and the speaker turned
toward the individual pursued and overtaken on the Brook road
—“who requested that I would act for him in an affair to take
place this morning. I consented with pleasure, but to my surprise
was informed by Mr. Fenwick that he could not state the
cause of the meeting—he could only assure me that it was unavoidable.
I need not say, gentlemen; that such a state of things
is awkward. The affair is wholly informal. No correspondence
can hereafter be published, and both principals and seconds may be
placed in a most disagreeable position. I yielded to Mr. Fenwick's
representations that he was an entire stranger and knew scarcely
any one besides myself; but I again ask that the grounds of the
present meeting may be stated, in order that the affair may be
honorably arranged, or, in case it unfortunately is obliged to
proceed, that none of the parties may be placed in a false
position.”
The speaker ceased, and a brief pause followed. It was broken
by the deep voice of Fenwick's adversary.
“I reply, sir, that the affair cannot be arranged,” he said.
“You will pardon me for asking why?”
“For reasons which cannot be now explained.”
The second looked doubtful.
“I am not convinced, sir—” he began, when the man of the
bronzed face, with a fierce glow in his eyes, interrupted him.
“Well, sir,” he said, in a voice so cold and menacing that
it sent a thrill through me, “I will endeavor to convince you
that valid grounds exist for the encounter about to take place
—as take place it will, with or without witnesses. Suppose,
sir, that one human being has sworn against another that oath
of vengeance which, in Corsica, is called the
vendetta! No
matter what may be the reason—it may be a family feud,
descending from generation to generation, or it may be for an
offence, personal to the individual—the origin of it is nothing to
the point! Well, suppose, sir, that you are the person who has
registered that oath! Say it is
your soul that cries out for the
blood of this adversary, and that, after long years spent in
searching for and awaiting him, you find him! Say that you
discover him at the moment when he is skulking in the dark!—
when he is plotting against your country as the secret agent of
her enemies!”—
“Impossible, sir!” exclaimed the second, almost recoiling as
he spoke.
“A moment, sir—I have not yet finished,” said the deep
voice. “Suppose that you pursue this man and he flies, tearing
up the paper which is the proof of his guilt! Suppose that,
mastered by a weak and silly deference to the so-called code of
honor, you offer this man a fair combat instead of putting him
to death!—suppose, lastly, sir, that the adversaries are placed
face to face—the pistols loaded, the hopes of long years of waiting
about to be realized—suppose that, sir!—place yourself in
that situation—and then tell me if you imagine that the man
who has lived for this alone—that I—I, sir!—will forego my
private vengeance!”
There was something so cold and threatening in the deep tones
of the speaker—his eyes burned with a fire so dark and lurid—
that the person whom he had addressed seemed overcome and
unable to find a word of reply.
At last he raised his head, and I could see upon his countenance
an expression of utter bewilderment.
“A stranger affair I never took part in!” he muttered; “and
if my principal is the man he is represented to be—”
The quick ear of the swarthy personage caught the muttered
words.
“Oh! understand me, sir!” he said; “I do not charge your
principal with any thing infamous. I am a gentleman by birth,
and am ready to meet him. You may, therefore, act for him.”
“One moment, sir,” was the reply “I wish to see Mr. Fenwick.”
And, making a sign to his principal, he walked some paces
apart. Fenwick had listened to the words of his adversary with
sullen and lowering brow—with eyes cast down, but lips closely
set. Unable or unwilling to reply, he had evidently resolved to
let the affair take its own course. He was absent for about ten
minutes, conversing with his second, when they returned, and
the latter said:
“I shall continue to act for Mr. Fenwick and now withdraw
all my objections.”
His associate bowed, and in a moment everything was ready.
The word was given: two pistol shots followed, like a single
report; and the man of the bronze face remained unmoved.
Then I looked at Fenwick. For a moment he stood erect, then,
uttering an imprecation, he fell forward on his face.
The seconds hastened to him, and one of them muttered:
“Shot through the lungs—he will be dead in five minutes!”
A hasty consultation was then evidently being held, and, from
the words “gate-keeper's house,” I had no doubt of their intention
to leave the dying man there.
My glance then fell on the man whose bullet had produced this
tragedy. He was standing motionless, with folded arms—the
smoking pistol in his hand—and in his dark, cold features I
thought I read that his vengeance was not even yet satisfied.
I was gazing at him still, when a signal was made to one of the
hack-drivers, and the vehicle ascended the hill. The dying man
was placed in it; his second followed—and then the other principal
and second slowly descended the hill on foot, and entered
their carriage, which rapidly disappeared.
The whole scene had vanished; and I gloomily took my way
back to the city.
On the next morning I read among the “local items” in one
of the journals the following paragraph:—
“Mysterious Affair.—Yesterday morning a fatal rencontre
took place at Hollywood Cemetery, the particulars of which are
yet shrouded in mystery. About sunrise, the gate-keeper, who
occupies a small house at the entrance of the cemetery, heard the
discharge of pistols, and, hastening in the direction of the sound,
met two hacks returning, one of which contained a gentleman
mortally wounded. He was conveyed to the gate-keeper's, and
subsequently to his hotel, where he now lies at the point of
death. The name of the gentleman is Fenwick—that of his
opponent we have not been able to discover.”
On the next day an additional paragraph appeared, headed,
“The Affair at Hollywood.”
“This mysterious affair,” wrote the sensation journalist, “continues
painfully to excite the curiosity of the public. But as yet
no new developments have been made. The seconds and principals—all
but Mr. Fenwick—have disappeared, and the causes
which led to the meeting are entirely unknown. Mr. Fenwick
was yesterday somewhat easier, and may possibly recover, his
physicians say. If the bullet of his adversary had passed the
one-thousandth part of inch nearer to the femoral artery, the
wound would have instantly proved fatal. We expect to be able,
in a day or two, to throw additional light upon this singular
affair.”
Three days afterward the public were inundated with this
additional light.
“We are now able to explain the affair at Hollywood,” wrote
the journalist. “The meeting resulted from a violent scene
which took place between Mr. Fenwick and a noted abolitionist
and tool of the Yankees, who has lately been lurking in this city.
Mr. Fenwick arrested him, and discovered the proofs of his guilt,
but, misled by a false sense of honor, accepted his challenge. The
unhappy result is known; but we are still unable to give the
name of the other party in the duel. Mr. Fenwick, we are happy
to say, is steadily improving, and his physicians declare that he
will soon be able to leave his bed.”
Such was the flood of dazzling light pured on this “mysterious
affair.”
This paragraph, as I learned long afterward, never met the
eye of the person against whom it was directed, or his second, as
they had left the city on the morning succeeding the encounter.
I dropped the paper, and asked myself, for the hundredth time,
the meaning of the whole affair. Who was that man with the
thin, cunning lips, and the eye of the snake?—who that dark personage
with the black eyes and the face of bronze, who had sworn
the vendetta against his adversary?
The curtain fell upon the mystery, and all was dark.
