University of Virginia Library

46. CHAPTER XLVI.
HOW CALVERT AND MOLYNEAUX MEET.

Little did Molyneaux suspect how much, and by how many,
he was the subject of consideration at this moment. Ignorant,
arrogant, vain, and maudlin, in his ferocious mood, he thought of
nothing but wreaking his resentment upon the cavaliers he was
about to meet. He dreamed not of the several parties following
in his wake; some of them prepared to pursue him to the death,
with even more tenacity of purpose, though perhaps less personal
feeling, than the Honorable Keppel Craven.

Reaching the sufficient cover of the woods, with a broad space
within the enclosure over which the moon cast an adequate light,
the antagonists paused, their rapiers already naked in their hands.
One of the punch-drinkers, who had somehow tacitly become the
second of Molyneaux, met and conferred with Cavendish, who
acted for Craven.

“Can we not adjust this matter without crossing weapons?”
was the natural question of Molyneaux' friend.

“I do not see how this is possible,” answered Cavendish, with
English phlegm. “My friend has been subjected to a personal
indignity. It is not merely a point of honor; it is an issue of
blood.”

“We then underlie your challenge,” said the other.

“Surely.”

“Will the simple drawing of blood suffice?”

“If it shall amount to the positive disabling of one or other of
the combatants; not else.”

“Then it is the combat à l'outrance.”

Cavendish bowed.

The rapier only.”

“We have hardly any other choice at present.”

“Pshaw, my dear fellow!” cried Molyneaux, staggering forward
and interposing, “what 's the use of this d—d long palaver?
The fellow 's got to fight, has n't he; or has the feeling in
his nose quite worn off? Would he have me give him another
tweak?”

After this, there could be no further preliminaries. Craven,
now keenly excited, confronted him. At once the weapons
crossed each other: a moment's pause, when they clashed, clung,
strove together, flashed in air; and were then worked with the
rapid evolutions known to practised swordsmen.

Craven was well taught in the science; had been taught by
one of the best Italian masters of the time. Molyneaux had had
no such master. But he had been in scores of actual conflicts, for
life and death, with Frenchman and Spaniard, on decks already
slippery with gore. The one had the art in nicer perfection:
the other the fiercer passion for blood; the Hunnish thirst for the
conflict; the muscular power; the eye that had learned to look
on death and ferocity with scorn; the rage that makes battle with
an enemy a passion and delight.

If Craven had agility and art, Molyneaux had a reckless fury,
and a physical force, that may have matched them. Besides, the
degree of drunkenness which might have blinded and stupefied
another person of different temperament, was, in the case of his
Celtic blood, a positive assistance. It had not so far advanced as
to enfeeble his physique, though it staggered it. He had a formidable
brain for punch; and now, yawing still in sailor-fashion,
with his head rolling, but his eyes fixed with a steady, bright
glare, in which the ferocity rose almost to the expression of insanity
— and his rage, under the existing conditions of his case,
was very like insanity — it was astonishing how cool and collected
was his play. It was one thing for his brain and blood to be on
fire; but his sword was as sober as it was keen: his practice was
positively refreshing in contrast with the evident fury of his blood.
He came on guard, passed, made his feints, recovered, with the
ease and simple dexterity of one refining in the schools.

Craven felt that he needed all of his own play. Though enraged

and indignant, he had none of that wolfish venom in his
blood, that tiger-like thirst, which had been all the while at work
with Molyneaux. He could be temperate, and was so, without
being frigid. He felt that so long as he could maintain his present
temper, he was a match for his antagonist; but he also felt,
after a few minutes' play, that he had nothing to spare.

And the play went on.

But it was growing to be work. The steady glare of Molyneaux'
eyes upon his own warned him that the other was preparing
for a vindictive passage. It came, with formidable force.
The Celt was pressing upon the Anglo-Norman: the latter receded
under the very tempest of thrusts put in — receded, but
kept eye and sword firm and steady; and, watching the first cessation
of the shower, he himself now made offensive play; and
succeeded, by an adroit management of one of his Italian master's
favorite feints, in a triumphant lunge which pierced the sword-arm
of his antagonist.

It was but a flesh-wound — the hurt was slight, though sharp;
and, with a positive roar, like that of a wounded bull, now desperate,
our Celt rushed upon the Englishman, beat down his guard,
had him at his mercy, was about to send the rapier home to his
heart, when he was suddenly caught, clasped by the body from
behind, his arms drawn back and fettered by a powerful gripe,
which not only prevented his thrust, but deprived him of all capacity
for resistance. Craven recovered himself, but lowered the
point of his weapon, and, with the instant spirit of the gentleman,
interposed:—

“Why do you interfere, sirrah? How dare you pass between
gentlemen thus? Stand by me, my friends, and rescue Sir Richard
Molyneaux!”

“Sir Richard Fiddlestick!” said the powerful fellow who had
our lieutenant, struggling furiously, in his clutches —

“Stand back, gentlemen, and do not let his majesty's servants
in the execution of their duty. I am Captain Florence O'Sullivan,
commander of the guard, and this is the famous pirate-captain,
Calvert; I have the council's warrant for his capture, under his
majesty's proclamation. Disperse, and leave this fellow in my
hands. You have done him too much honor, Mr. Craven, in crossing
weapons with him.”

“Ho! ho! ho!” were the only ejaculations of Molyneaux, as
he heard these words. They caused him to renew his struggles
more violently than ever. Powerful of frame as was O'Sullivan,
he had not been able to get him down.

Craven was reluctant to withdraw; but Cavendish, seizing him
by the arm, forced him away.

“It is not well for us to be seen further in this business,” said
he, as he drew him off.

Meanwhile, the punch-drinking companions of Molyneaux disappeared
among the shrubbery the moment they recognised the
chief of police. Our Celt was abandoned to the officer of justice,
whose myrmidons, four or five in number, were now busy in helping
to secure the prisoner.

But, with a surprise as sudden and unexpected as his seizure
had been to Molyneaux, the redoubtable Captain O'Sullivan received
a buffet under the ear from some unknown but well-practised
hand — so well delivered, an upraking blow, of tremendous
force — under which he dropped down as quickly as the bullock
beneath the stroke of the butcher, and lay perfectly insensible!
At the same moment, a score of stout sea-dogs, cudgel in hand,
made in among the squad of local police, and, laying their staves
about them with hearty good will, dispersed Dogberry, Verges,
and the rest, in the twinkling of an eye. No need to show the
pistols — to spring locks or pull triggers.

Molyneaux was rescued, but too much stupefied by these successive
changes in his condition to understand a syllable as yet.
But he stood up, freed, and shook himself, even as a great Newfoundland
dog just out of the water.

The person who rescued him seized him by the hand:—

“Come, Lieutenant Molyneaux, we have no time to lose. This
fellow will recover in a moment or two, and he might trouble us.
Let us away!”

“It is Captain Calvert,” said the lieutenant, meekly.

There was no answer. Calvert, for it was he, led the way in
silence.

Molyneaux was becoming sobered and ashamed.

“Captain Calvert,” continued he, apologetically, though with
some effort, “I am ashamed, sir, of all this business—”

“Let us not talk of it now.”

“But I must talk of it, sir. You have saved me from the gallows,
I suppose.”

“Very likely,” answered the other, dryly. “But, come on!”

And he hurried forward, as if to escape any further explanation.

Molyneaux was piqued, but followed. What else could he
do?

They reached the edge of a creek. The solid citizens of the
present Charleston, when they look at the marble walls of the
new custom-house, will perhaps be surprised to be told that the
said creek ran into the city under the piled foundations of the
said fabric, and made its way, somewhat sinuously, into the very
heart of the town, finding its terminus not far from the present
massive structure called at this day the Charleston hotel.

Here, our rover and his lieutenant found a boat, with but two
rowers, though the vessel was large enough for a dozen. Into
this they got; the captain taking the seat at the tiller, and sounding
the little ivory whistle which he carried.

They may have waited some ten minutes before the seamen
began to appear. Molyneaux several times attempted to break
the silence, by apologetic and atoning speeches, but Calvert bluffed
him off. He sat moodily taciturn. The lieutenant gradually
sobered, and became moody also.

When all the sailors were reported, the boat put off without a
word. She was rowed out into the river, and headed up-stream.
After an hour's pulling, she was brought to, in-shore, at a point
subsequently well known as Hampstead. The whole party, two
excepted, went ashore, as if under previous orders of the captain.
Here they found themselves upon the banks of the stream, a tolerably
high piece of headland, with a thick wood of pines and
oaks contiguous.

Among the party here assembled were Jack Belcher and the
ancient Tom Bowling, Master Franks. They had, it appears,
brought the boat round, having the assistance of four other oarsmen,
from Ashley to Cooper river. It was the same boat which
had witnessed the fearful strife with the old pirate Fowler, and
his final surrender to the fishes.

When fairly landed, Calvert said, abruptly:—

“Lieutenant Molyneaux, we must have some talk together.

Belcher, you and Franks take the men off; keep them distant a
hundred yards or so. If Mr. Molyneaux, after our interview,
comes out to you, take him aboard the ship. Do not inquire
whither I go. Belcher alone will follow, and find me out. He
knows what I design, and will act according to my instructions.”

Belcher seized his hand and wrung it with a passionate grasp
of emotion, amounting to agony, while his eyes gushed with tears.

“Go, now, Jack, and remember! Do as I have commanded.
You see that the thing is unavoidable.”

Saying this, he shook off the faithful fellow, and led the way
to the edge of the woods — now Hampstead, and woods no longer.

Molyneaux was mystified. He felt that something unusual was
about to occur, and his guilty conscience made him apprehensive.
But he followed doggedly.

When the two reached the edge of the wood, Calvert paused.
He was a man of terribly direct purpose — no trifler.

“Lieutenant Molyneaux,” he said, “we are now alone together.
I need not say to you that we can no longer sail in company.
Your own conscience will tell you why. I scarcely need add,
that we are foes; that you have long entertained a bitter hostility
to me, and that you have done me such wrong, and meditated
such further wrong, not simply to my life, but to my honor, that
the issue between us must be one of life and death.”

“Do you mean, sir, that we are to fight?” answered the other.

“Nothing less, sir!”

“I can not fight with the man who has just saved my life.”

“That will not do, sir. I have saved your life before; and,
even after this, you have entertained a design against my honor.
Remember, sir, the last speech you made to my wife, this very
night, in which you proposed my death as your dearest hope, and
brutally asserted your purpose to compel her to your wishes!”

“Has she told you this?” asked the other, in husky accents.

“No, sir; but I have been near her, all this night, as her guardian
and protector, and she knew not, no more than you.”

“Captain Calvert in the character of a spy!” said the other,
bitterly.

“When we have to deal with traitors, Lieutenant Molyneaux,
the spy becomes necessary to the safety of the captain, his ship,
his crew, his honor, and the well-being of the people he has in

charge. Hear me, sir! I have done much for you. I liked
you; promoted you; paid you well; fostered you; would have
made a man of you. Your wretched vanity would not be content
with a part — you craved all! You were not content to be second
officer; you wished to be first. You were not content that
your captain's purse was yours; you attempted his honor. You
have wronged me, and insulted my wife. I need not say, after
this, that there is but one necessity before us.”

“Why did you save me from the officers of the law, having a
purpose yourself to slay me?”

“I saved you from the law, because I had, in some degree, contributed
to bring you within its jurisdiction. I saved you, as I
would save, or try to save, the meanest scullion on board my ship.
You yourself, it is true, by your own disobedience of orders,
brought yourself into danger; but I brought you within the sphere
of temptation. I knew your weakness, your vanity, yet left you
in possession of a degree of liberty and power inconsistent with
your judgment. I have done my utmost to save you from the
consequences of your folly. This done, I propose to give you a
chance for escape from other punishment. You have been pleased
to avow your hate of me — your desire to destroy me — and can
not complain that I now afford you the opportunity that you
crave, on equal terms, your sword to mine.”

“I can not draw sword upon you, sir: you have just saved my
life.”

“Think again, Lieutenant Molyneaux. Think that the same
vigilance that has watched over your conduct and safety this
night, has been equally exercised in regard to the ship, and that
nothing has escaped the eyes of one who feels himself conscientiously
bound for the safety of the meanest cabin-boy that works
under his command. I know all, sir.”

“I know not what you mean, sir.”

“God! that a brave man should lie! Know, then, sir, that
Fowler, this night, has paid for his crimes with his life! — that I
well know all the details of that foul conspiracy by which you and
he agreed to seize the ship, and supersede the flag of England
by the bloody banner of piracy! You were to run up the Jolly
Roger—”

“Enough! enough! It is, indeed, your life or mine!”

And Molyneaux, drawing his rapier in an instant, rushed upon
his captain.

The other was not unprepared. The fight was short, but terrific.
Molyneaux was run through the body after a few passes.
He lay weltering in his blood on the ground, but he had his
senses, and, with his senses, a return of proper feeling.

“Forgive me, Captain Calvert, forgive me! I am rightly punished.
I have been an ass, sir; a d—d peacock; a fool, sir —
what a fool! I see it now. Ah, it is all over! What a fool I
have been!”

“I am sorry for you, Molyneaux — very sorry! I would have
saved you. But your death was necessary to the safety of the
crew. You would have led them to piracy and the gallows. I
would save them from both. But, in honor, I felt bound to give
you the one chance for your life, which your personal hostility to
me seemed to require. I have no enmities. I would save you
now, if I could. What can I do for you?”

“Do? Yes! yes! I have a mother — I have sisters — in Ireland.
Wexford — Wexford! Give 'em what is mine. There
is money — much — enough for their wants. Tell them nothing.
Give them the money.”

“It shall be done! What more?”

“Bury me in the sea! not here! Mattress me well. Well
shotted; so that the d—d sharks do not tear me to pieces!”

We spare the rest. So the fool died!

Calvert joined the boat's crew, and the body of Molyneaux was
carried on board. That night, according to his wishes, in shotted
mattress, he was committed to the deep waters of Cooper river!