CHAPTER X.
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Frank found Randolph and a surgeon waiting impatiently.
“D—n it, Lennox, we began to think you had backed
out,” said his friend, heartily shaking him by the hand.
“Do you know its two, and the man is to call for us at three
with the boat, and the supper is cooked to death.”
“I'm as hungry as a shark,” said Frank, who, in the presence
of Randolph, resolutely turned from all reflection.
“A very nice supper, at all events,” said Doctor Wilson.
“Nothing is wanting but time to eat it,” said Frank.
“What's this?”
“Chateau la rose,” replied Randolph, “and devilish good,
too; but mine host says the Champagne is something particular.”
“Come along,” cried Frank, laughing; “let's get at it at
once. How's the tongue?”
“Pretty good!” replied Wilson.
“Egad!” remarked Randolph, “there's nothing like a
first-rate supper on these occasions; only, my good fellow,
a little moderation with the wine, if you please; eat as much
as you like, but wine we must stint you in.”
“Nonsense,” said Frank, who had already filled several
times; “don't fear for me.”
“A clear eye and a steady hand, my boy, and many
more such bumpers as this,” cried Randolph, emptying his
glass.
“Wilson,” said Frank, “you don't drink?”
“Thank you,” replied the young man: “in the night
I'm obliged to be a little careful.”
“What's the matter with you? Dyspepsy?”
“A touch or so.”
“This bird is delicious,” said Frank, feeling a strange
life and spirit under the influence of the excitement, and of
the wine.
“How goes the enemy?” said Randolph.
“Ten minutes to three.”
“No—twenty—you're too fast.”
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“No—ten,” said Wilson, “and rather five than ten. My
watch is very accurate.”
“Then sharp's the word!” said Frank; “just cut that
other cork, will you?”
“No, by G—d! no, Lennox,” said Randolph; “no more.
You must wait: at breakfast as much as you like, but—”
“Oh, one—damn it, do you take me for a boarding-school
girl?”
“Well, then, only one.”
“Success to us!” exclaimed Frank; “I've eaten like a
boa-constrictor. Positively not another go at the Champagne?”
“Not another drop.”
“Well, there's no harm in singing, I suppose?” said
Frank.
“Did you ever see such a madcap?” asked Randolph,
smiling approvingly to Wilson. “That's the stuff we Yankees
are made of. This is the way we meet threats and
bullying. We'll make Pistol eat his leaks. Ah! ha! ha!”
“Ah! ha! ha!” said Frank; “but won't you sing? Don't
you sing, Wilson?”
“No, no,” said Wilson, who did not seem so completely
at his ease as his two companions, and who had the air of
being a guest rather from professional duty than taste.
“Will you sing, Randolph?”
“No—excuse me; my voice is rather in the bullfrog line.
Anything wanted in the way of a trombone, I'm your man!”
“Well, I can sing,” said Frank.
“ `A bumper of Burgundy fill, fill for me,
Give those who prefer it Champagne—” '
and he sang very sweetly and gayly a verse of that popular
melody.
As he was commencing the second, they were interrupted
by a knock at the door.
“Hallo! pull up!” said Randolph.
“It's three, sir,” said the man, who had entered, taking
off his hat. “The boat is ready.”
“Come along, then,” said Randolph. “Push ahead, Wilson!
don't forget your box.”
“Scarcely,” said Wilson, with a grave air.
“And where's the little person that says such sharp
things?” asked Randolph, facetiously.
“The rifle's in yonder corner,” said Wilson.
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“Ah, ha!” exclaimed Randolph, and, handling with an air
of familiarity the formidable instrument, he led the way
out through the deserted street and to the wharf.
“Now, then, governor, where's your boat?”
“Here she is, sir,” replied the man, with a knowing grin.
“Bring her round, Sam.”
“Are you good oarsmen?”
“No mistake.”
“In with you, then; in with you, Wilson. Hallo! old
fellow, don't fall overboard. Hand the box; take care of
the rifle! Now, then, governor.”
“All aboard?”
“All aboard!”
“You'll hold us harmless, gentlemen?” inquired the boatman.
“Why, damn it! certainly,” said Frank. “Who's going
to hurt you?”
“Very well! But pay in advance is our motto: pay to-day
and trust to-morrow. I'm a poor man, with a wife and
twelve children, and—”
“How many at the breast?” asked Frank, laughing.
“Two, sir.”
“Well, there's ten dollars! nearly a dollar apiece for
your brats.”
“Thank'ee, sir. Now shove her off, Sam!”
“Let her went,” said Randolph; “keep dark, and row,
you villains, as if the devil were after you.”
“Perhaps he is after some on us.”
“Just mind your oar, will you, my honest friend!” cried
Randolph, in a low voice; “when we wish your jokes, we'll
ask for them.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the man, and, stripping off coat and
waistcoat, and equipping his jaws with an ample quid, he applied
himself to his labour, and the small and heavily-laden
boat darted out from the shadow of the wharf, glided noiselessly
forth among the dark, silent ships which lay around,
and at length gained the broad open bay, when the two
athletic fellows put themselves yet more seriously to their
toil, with a strength which made them fairly fly through the
quiet water.
“That's right, my men; pull hard,” said Randolph; “a
long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
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“What a beautiful, still night!” remarked Frank.
“How perfectly glassy the bay is!” added Wilson.
“Famous weather for a lark!” said Randolph.
They soon receded from the black, long, level town, with
nothing around them but the broad, sleeping flood, through
which the boat cut with a gurgling rush, breaking its mirror
surface into large flakes of phosphoric fire, and over them
the sky and stars, paling before a pearly light, which began
to grow visible in the East. In the spot thus indicated, as
that where the sun was to rise, a few fixed clouds, lying
long, and low, and in singularly level lines, began to be just
tipped with silvery whiteness, which changed, as they proceeded,
to a deeper, brighter hue.
“The day is breaking,” said Wilson. “Beautiful nature,
how—”
But he stopped suddenly, as if recollecting himself, and
Randolph quietly gave him a wink.
“How far is it across here, squire?” asked Randolph.
“About two thousand seven hundred and forty-six yards,
sir,” said the man.
“And that point?”
“Jersey City,” said Frank.
“And Governor's Island, which is that?” inquired Randolph.
“Here, don't you see?” said Frank, “away off to the left,
behind us.”
“Yonder is Weehawk,” said Wilson, “and yonder lies
the 74 gun-ship.”
“And that pretty point ahead?”
“Hoboken,” replied the man.
There was something in these details which struck Frank
strongly. The soft, fresh air, the gentle, soothing motion,
the sight of nature in its calmness, purity, and beauty, going
on with its radiant and sweet changes, as usual, the broadening
daylight, the now stirring clouds, the sight of the distant,
steepled, bristling city, exercised a certain influence,
not only over the young man himself, but over all the little
party bent on their dreadful purpose. It contrasted as much
with their object, as with the flippant jests and smiles with
which that object was pursued. Upon Frank's mind it was
peculiarly impressive. The fumes of the supper and wine
had passed away, and his passion had cooled. All personal
fear, too, had completely disappeared, and the awful image
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in his mind was the body of his murdered friend weltering
in its gore. He was going to do the deed with his
eyes open, with his heart softened. He shuddered, but
shook off the relenting weakness with a sort of savage
coarseness and gayety, most foreign to his real nature, and
which he had several times assumed in the company, the
contagious company of Randolph. Darkly and brutally,
therefore, turning from all thought and feeling, all reflection
of a religious nature, all communion with his Creator, he
resolved, since he was in it, to go through with the matter
like a man.
They were now close on the land. The boat drew near
to a somewhat elevated and beautiful shore, thickly wooded,
even to the edges of the naked rocks, which here and there
projected into the stream. The next moment the keel ran
grazing upon a little sandy beach.
“Land ho!” cried Randolph.
“Take care of the oar, sir,” said the boatman.
“Now, then, my son-a-wax,” said Randolph, “run her
right in here—so, so. Wilson, the rifle. Take care of
your box. By G—d! there they are!”
The party got out. In the actual presence of danger, the
wavering emotions of Frank ceased. The cool courage of
his character gave a manly dignity to his person and a
quiet pride to his step. He felt no longer sure of killing,
or of being killed, but only that he was about engaging in a
serious contest, in which he must bear himself with perfect
composure, and the consequences of which he was prepared
to abide by. He never appeared more at ease in his
life, while Wilson was pale with the deepening interest
of the scene, and even Randolph, although a thoughtless
and flippant duellist, lost a portion of his colour and some
of his natural coolness. The brave man may step forward
to be shot at himself, but the bravest may falter while standing
passively by, to behold the instrument of death directed
against his friend.
“You had better remain here, my good fellows,” said
Frank to the boatmen. “Lie quiet. Some of us will want
you in half an hour.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
But these men were rather too much interested in the
progress of the little drama to obey. Hastily mooring their
boat, therefore, to a large stone, with eager feet they stole
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noiselessly up after the rest of the party, who were too
much occupied with other thoughts to pay them any attention,
and planted themselves close to the scene of action,
where they could, with an undisturbed luxury, be spectators
of this—in the nineteenth century—fashionable, honourable,
oft-repeated, oft-yet-to-be-repeated scene. We may
all have an opportunity of testing, like them, the excitement
which used to give Commodus and Nero an appetite for
breakfast.
“Now, Lennox,” said Randolph, in a low voice, his flippant
manner entirely changed, “I understand you to assure
me of your intention to fire to the best of your skill?”
“Certainly,” said Frank. “I have not come here to
play.”
The parties now approached each other, and calm and
courteous greetings were interchanged. The rifles were
immediately loaded, and the distance measured with deliberate
and careful precision. A few words were exchanged
between White and Randolph. The principals were ordered
to their places, and the pieces handed to them.
“Anything more, my boy?” whispered Randolph.
“Nothing,” replied Frank, with a bright smile.
“When I say three, gentlemen!” said the business-like
voice of Randolph, as all receded and left the opponents
planted upon the green, level lawn, erect, silent, and alone.
There was one moment's pause.
Randolph advanced a step to give the signal.
“One—two—three!”
Each piece was discharged as he spoke. Frank sprang
into the air and fell heavily to the ground, like an eagle
which a skilful huntsman has brought from the clouds,
while the blue smoke rolled slowly off, curling away upon
the dim morning light, and up through the green branches.
All present rushed to the spot. The unfortunate young
man lay extended at full length, writhing in great pain and
absolutely weltering in gore, which gushed from his breast
and mouth. His eyes were turned inward in the convulsion
of nature's last appalling struggle.
Glendenning, from whose face horror had drained every
trace of colour, staggered forward, and threw himself upon
his knees with clasped hands, gasping for breath.
“Frank! Frank!” he rather shrieked than said, in a
hoarse voice.
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But, on catching a full view of the face, he stopped, petrified
and dumb. It was death he was looking at. The countenance
was undergoing a frightful change. A stream of
blood, apparently exhaustless, continued to flow from the
wound. Wilson cut away the clothing in awful silence.
Drops of sweat had burst out on the forehead of the dying
man, who, with lustreless and broken eyes, sunken cheeks,
the nose sharpened with the strain of the great agony, was
obviously undergoing a last crisis.
“Frank! Frank!” gasped Glendenning, his hair rising
with terror, “speak to me!”
“I, I, for—” but he could not proceed.
“Doctor! save him! it's nothing,” said Glendenning.
“He's fainting. See! see! Doctor, quick! why don't
you save him?”
“The lung!” said Wilson, in a low voice—“it has perforated
the lung.”
“My—mother—” gasped Frank. “Tell her—that—”
He fell back.
“But do something, doctor,” said Glendenning. “Your
instruments—your art—he's fainting, doctor. G—d d—n it!
why don't you do something?”
“My dear sir,” said the surgeon, dropping the heavy
hand with a singular smile, “it's perfectly absurd. He's
quite dead.”
“Dead?”
“Dead!”
And the word went round from one blanched face to
another.
“Now, then,” cried White, “I hope Colonel Nicholson
will be satisfied.”
“Poor devil!” muttered the boatman, “his jig's up.”
“Farewell, noble heart!” cried Randolph, dashing the
quick-coming tears from his eyes.
“Poor young fellow,” said White, looking at his watch.
“Now, Glendenning, we must be off.”
“Dead!” echoed Glendenning, aghast, dripping with
cold sweat, and staring at the outstretched, stiffening body
and rigid countenance, which had already assumed a marble
fixedness. “Frank! Frank!”
There was no answer, there was no motion; and he
stood gazing on the face of his dead friend.
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“It will pass in a moment,” said White, quietly, to the
surgeon. “Be a man: come! there is no time to lose.”
Glendenning, with a bewildered stare, suffered himself to
be led off. Once he looked back. Once he looked up and
around, as a fiend just out of hell might gaze upon the upper
world of light, and joy, and peace, and beauty. Once he
murmured, “Oh God, his mother!” then dashing his clinched
fist against his forehead, he pursued his flight to the boat
in silence.
Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1843], A romance of New York volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf099v2].
