Chapter Forty Two The Challenge - Osceola the Seminole by Mayne Reid
At the time of which I write duelling was not uncommon in the United States army. In war-time, it is not uncommon yet, as I can testify from late experience. It is contrary to the regulations of the American service — as I believe it is of every other in the civilised world. Notwithstanding, an infringement of the code militaire in this regard, is usually looked upon with leniency — more often "winked at" than punished. This much I can affirm — that any officer in the American army who has received the "lie direct," will find more honour in the breach of this military rule than in its observance.
After all that has been said and written about duelling, the outcry against it is a sad sham, at least in the United States of America — nothing less than a piece of superb hypocrisy. Universal as has been this condemnation, I should not like to take shelter under it. I well know that it would not protect me from being called by that ugly appellation, "poltroon." I have noticed over and over again, that the newspapers loudest in their declamations against duelling, are the first to fling "coward" in the teeth of him who refuses to fight.
It is even so. In America, moral courage, though much be-praised, does not find ready credence. A refusal to meet the man who may challenge you is not thus explained. It is called "backing out," "shewing the white feather;" and he who does this, need look no more upon his ladye-love; she would "flog him with her garters."
More than once have I heard this threat, spoken by pretty lips, and in the centre of a brilliant circle. His moral courage must be great who would provoke such chastisement. With such a sentiment over the land, then, I had nailed Arens Ringgold for a meeting; and I joyed to think I had done so without compromising my secret.
But ah! it was a painful provocation he had given me; and if he had been the greatest coward in the world, he could not have been more wretched than I, as I returned to my quarters.
My jovial companion could no longer cheer me, though it was not fear for the coming fight that clouded my spirits. Far from it — far otherwise. I scarcely thought of that. My thoughts were of Maümee — of what I had just heard. She was false — false — betraying, herself betrayed — lost — lost forever!
In truth was I wretched. One thing alone could have rendered me more so — an obstacle to the anticipated meeting — anything to hinder my revenge. On the duel now rested my hopes. It might enable me to disembarrass my heart of the hot blood that was burning it. Not all — unless he too stood before me — he, the seducer who had made this misery. Would I could find pretext for challenging him. I should do so yet. Why had I not? Why did I not strike him for that smile? I could have fought them both at the same time, one after the other.
Thus I raved, with Gallagher by my side. My friend knew not all my secret. He asked what I had got "aginst the aide-de-cong."
"Say the word, Geordie, boy, an’ we’ll make a four-handed game ov it. Be Saint Pathrick! I’d like mightily to take the shine out of that purty paycock!"
"No, Gallagher, no. It’s not your affair; you could not give me satisfaction for that. Let us wait till we know more. I cannot believe it — I cannot believe it."
"Believe what?"
"Not now, my friend. When it is over I shall explain."
"All right, my boy! Charley Gallagher’s not the man to disturb your saycrets. Now let’s look to the bull-dogs, an’ make shure they’re in barking condition. I hope the scamps won’t blab at head-quarters, an’ disappoint us after all."
It was my only fear. I knew that arrest was possible — probable — certain, if my adversary wished it. Arrest would put an end to the affair; and I should be left in a worse position than ever. Ringgold’s father was gone — I had ascertained this favourable circumstance; but no matter. The commander-in-chief was the friend of the family — a word in his ear would be sufficient. I feared that the aide-de-camp Scott, instructed by Arens, might whisper that word.
"After all, he daren’t," said Gallagher; "you driv the nail home, an’ clinched it. He daren’t do the dhirty thing — not a bit of it; it might get wind, an’ thin he’d have the kettle to his tail; besides, ma bohill, he wants to kill you anyhow; so he ought to be glad of the fine handy chance you’ve given him. He’s not a bad shot, they say. Never fear, Geordie, boy! he won’t back out this time; he must fight — he will fight. Ha! I told you so. See, yonder comes Apollo Belvidare! Holy Moses! how Phoebus shines!"
A knock — "Come in," — the door was opened, and the aide-de-camp appeared in full uniform.
"To arrest me," thought I, and my heart fell.
But no; the freshly written note spoke a different purpose, and I was relieved. It was the challenge.
"Lieutenant Randolph, I believe," said the gentleman, advancing towards me.
I pointed to Gallagher, but made no reply.
"I am to understand that Captain Gallagher is your friend."
I nodded assent.
The two faced each other, and the next instant were en rapport; talking the matter over as cool as cucumbers and sweet as sugar-plums.
From observation, I hazard this remark — that the politeness exhibited between the seconds in a duel cannot be surpassed by that of the most accomplished courtiers in the world.
The time occupied in the business was brief. Gallagher well knew the routine, and I saw that the other was not entirely unacquainted with it. In five minutes, everything was arranged — place, weapons, and distance.
I nodded; Gallagher made a sweeping salaam; the aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and withdrew.
I shall not trouble you with my reflections previous to the duel, nor yet with many details of the affair itself. Accounts of these deadly encounters are common enough in books, and their sameness will serve as my excuse for not describing one.
Ours differed only from the ordinary kind in the weapon used. We fought with rifles, instead of swords or pistols. It was my choice — as the challenged party, I had the right — but it was equally agreeable to my adversary, who was as well skilled in the use of the rifle as I. I chose this weapon because it was the deadliest.
The time arranged was an hour before sunset. I had urged this early meeting in fear of interruption; the place, a spot of level ground near the edge of the little pond where I had met Haj-Ewa; the distance, ten paces.
We met — took our places, back to back — waited for the ominous signal, "one, two, three," — received it — faced rapidly round — and fired at each other.
I heard the "hist" of the leaden pellet as it passed my ear, but felt no stroke.
The smoke puffed upward. I saw my antagonist upon the ground: he was not dead; he was writhing and groaning.
The seconds, and several spectators who were present, ran up to him, but I kept my ground.
"Well, Gallagher?" I asked, as my friend came back to me.
"Winged, by japers! You’ve spoilt the use ov his dexter arm — bone broke above the ilbow-joint."
"That all?"
"Arrah, sowl! aren’t it enough? Hear how the hound whimpers!"
I felt as the tiger is said to feel after tasting blood, though I cannot now account for my ferocity. The man had sought my life — I thirsted for his. This combined with the other thought had nigh driven me mad.
I was not satisfied, and would make no apology; but my antagonist had had enough; he was eager to be taken from the ground on any terms, and thus the affair ended.
It was my first duel, but not my last.