85. LXXXV.
THE SINGLE COMBAT
We had followed the enemy for more than half a mile, when,
all at once, twenty yards in front, I saw Fenwick. He was
mounted upon a splendid bay, and wore a pistol and sabre.
Mordaunt had already recognized him, and was pursuing him
like an avenging Nemesis, apparently forgetful of all else.
“At last!” I heard him say, with a hoarse growl, through his
close-set teeth.
And, without another word, he darted upon his adversary.
Mordaunt's horse, driven on with bloody spurs, made long and
desperate leaps—I saw his rider rise to his full height in the
saddle—then his weapon passed to his left shoulder, and I knew
that he was about to make, as he came up with his adversary,
that terrible “right cut” which I had seen him deliver in battle.
The thundering stride of his great black brought him opposite
Fenwick. I saw his sabre gleam in the moonlight as it whirled
—when, suddenly, Fenwick's horse fell, shot through the body
by one of the cavalrymen behind, and Mordaunt's blow passed
over the rider's head.
In an instant Fenwick was on his feet, and, as Mordaunt rode
at him, fired. The bullet pierced the neck of the black, and he
staggered forward—Mordaunt leaping from the saddle as he
fell.
Then he rushed upon Fenwick, and they closed, breast to
breast, in a mortal struggle.
Absorbed by this passionate encounter, I forgot all else, and
checked my horse to witness it.
Fenwick was evidently an excellent swordsman, and I saw that
he was brave; but he was no match for his adversary. Mordaunt
drove him, step by step, across the road, toward a gigantic
oak, which stretched its gnarled branches above, in the moonlight—and
then, with his back against the trunk, Fenwick could
retreat no further.
The moon shone full upon his face—it was distorted by an expression
which might have done honor to the mythologic furies.
He struck at Mordaunt with the fury of despair—then the combat
terminated.
Rushing upon him, with his sabre at tierce point, Mordaunt
drove the keen weapon through his breast, and the point was
buried in the tree beyond.
Fenwick remained erect—stretched out his arms—and his
sword fell from his grasp.
“Die!” exclaimed Mordaunt, folding his arms, and speaking
in a tone which it is impossible to describe. “But, before your
black soul goes before its Judge, reply to me!”
Fenwick's drooping eyes slowly opened. He looked at his
adversary as the bleeding wolf caught in the trap looks at the
huntsman—sidewise, with sullen and bloodshot eyes.
“Why did you make my existence one life-long agony?” said
Mordaunt, hoarsely. “What harm had I done you, that you
should render me thus wretched?”
“I hated you!” came in a savage murmur from Fenwick; and
the blood rushed to his lips, as he glared at his enemy.
“Why did you hate me?”
“Because she loved you.”
Mordaunt's face grew rigid.
“Enough of that. What brought you here to-night?”
“To carry off the other.”
“Violet Grafton?”
“Yes,” he gasped.
“And kill me, if you found me there?”
“Yes! hate! hate! hate! eternal hate for you—that—goes
with me—I die with that!”—
And again stretching out his arms, Fenwick fell forward, the
sword snapping in his body.
At this moment, heavy firing came from the front, and
rapidly drew near. Saltoun's detachment, which had pursued
the enemy, were evidently returning at a gallop, hotly pursued in
their turn—and, in a few moments, the scattered horsemen came
in sight, with the enemy on their heels.
As one of our own men fled past us, a bullet pierced his back,
and he fell mortally wounded from the saddle.
I seized the rein of his horse, and threw it to Mordaunt, who
got into the saddle. Under his energetic appeals the men
rallied in a measure; but young Harry Saltoun soon appeared,
falling back like the rest.
“It's no go, Colonel!” he exclaimed; “they have more than
a regiment, and are pressing me back, in spite of all I can do!
Here they are!”
The whole detachment was now seen falling back in disorder
before the enemy.
“Steady! shouted Mordaunt. “All right, boys! Re-enforcements
will soon be here!”
And, giving a quick order to Lieutenant Saltoun, who galloped
off, Mordaunt took command of the detachment, slowly retiring
as the enemy pressed him.
This movement was effected with masterly nerve and coolness—
at every step the enemy were met by skilfully disposed sharpshooters—and,
before Mordaunt had been pressed back half a mile,
the force for which Saltoun had gone arrived. It was the remainder
of Mordaunt's regiment; and it had no sooner appeared
than he placed himself at the head of it, and charged the
Federal column, which proved to be nearly a brigade.
An obstinate fight followed, in which neither side gained any
advantage—and then a desultory firing ensued. Daylight approached.
Mordaunt and myself had ridden forward to make a reconnoissance
with Harry Saltoun, when suddenly the young man
was seen to reel in his saddle, and if I had not passed my arm
around him he would have fallen.
“What's the matter?” I said, as he raised his head.
“I was shot yonder,” he replied, trying to smile as he spoke,
“in the charge at the house! It is nothing”—
And he fainted.
The bullet had passed through the same arm which had been
wounded on the Rapidan, inflicting a painful injury. The sleeve
and gauntlet of the young man were drenched in blood; but he
had said nothing, followed the enemy, ridden, and brought re-enforcements,
and then charged at the head of his company. “It
was nothing”—but he had fainted at last.
He was placed upon a litter, and sent back to Elm Cottage,
with a note from Mordaunt to Violet Grafton.
Afterward I knew that, in sending the youth there, Mordaunt
had a double motive, and performed one of those actions which
only great souls are equal to. But one of the worst faults of a
writer is to anticipate.
At daylight the enemy retired, and Mordaunt immediately
pressed forward.
As we passed the gigantic oak where the bloody combat between
Mordaunt and his enemy had taken place, I looked for the
body of Fenwick.
It was not visible. The enemy had no doubt carried it off
with the rest of their dead, except those at Elm Cottage.
I looked at Mordaunt's face. In the dark eyes was the fierce
glare of the tiger who has just torn his prey limb from limb.
