by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER SIX.
"TO THE SALUTE!"
The thick "swamp-fog" still hovered above the Crescent City, when acarriage, drawn by two horses, rolled out through one of its suburbs,and on along the Shell Road, and in the direction of Lake Pontchartrain.
It was a close carriage--a hackney--with two men upon the driver's seat,and three inside. Of these last, one was Captain Florence Kearney, andanother Lieutenant Francis Crittenden, both officers of thefilibustering band, with _titles_ not two days old. Now on the wayneither to Texas nor Mexico, but to the shore of Lake Pontchartrain,where many an affair of honour has been settled by the spilling of muchblood. A stranger in New Orleans, and knowing scarce a soul, Kearneyhad bethought him of the young fellow who had been electedfirst-lieutenant, and asked him to act as his second. Crittenden, aKentuckian, being one of those who could not only stand fire, but _eat_it, if the occasion called, eagerly responded to the appeal; and theywere now _en route_ along the Shell Road to meet Carlos Santander andwhoever he might have with him.
The third individual inside the carriage belonged to that profession,one of whose members usually makes the third in a duel--the doctor. Hewas a young man who, in the capacity of surgeon, had attached himself tothe band of filibusters.
Besides the mahogany box balanced upon his thigh there was another lyingon the spare bit of cushion beside him, opposite to where Crittendensat. It was of a somewhat different shape; and no one who had ever seena case of duelling pistols could mistake it for aught else--for it wassuch.
As it had been arranged that swords were to be the weapons, and a pairof these were seen in a corner of the carriage, what could they bewanting with pistols?
It was Kearney who put this question; now for the first time noticingwhat seemed to him a superfluous armament. It was asked of Crittenden,to whom the pistols belonged, as might have been learnt by looking athis name engraved on the indented silver plate.
"Well," answered the Kentuckian, "I'm no great swordsman myself. Iusually prefer pistols, and thought it might be as well to bring a pairalong. I didn't much like the look of your antagonist's friend, andit's got into my head that before leaving the ground I may havesomething to say to _him_ on my own account. So, if it come to that, Ishall take to the barkers."
Kearney smiled, but said nothing, feeling satisfied that in case of anytreachery, he had the right sort of man for his second.
He might have felt further secure, in a still other supporting party,who rode on the box beside the driver. This was a man carrying a longrifle, that stood with the barrel two feet above his shoulders, and thebutt rested between his heavily booted feet.
It was Cris Rock, who had insisted on coming along, as he said, to seethat the fight was all "fair and square." He too had conceived anunfavourable opinion of both the men to be met, from what he had seen ofthem at the _rendezvous_; for Santander's second had also been there.With the usual caution of one accustomed to fighting Indians, he alwayswent armed, usually with his long "pea" rifle.
On reaching a spot of open ground alongside the road, and near the shoreof the lake, the carriage stopped. It was the place of the appointedmeeting, as arranged by the seconds on the preceding day.
Though their antagonists had not yet arrived, Kearney and Crittenden gotout, leaving the young surgeon busied with his cutlery and bandageapparatus.
"I hope you won't have to use them, doctor," remarked Kearney, with alight laugh, as he sprang out of the carriage. "I don't want you topractise upon me till we've made conquest of Mexico."
"And not then, I trust," soberly responded the surgeon.
Crittenden followed, carrying the swords; and the two, leaping acrossthe drain which separated the road from the duelling ground, took standunder a tree.
Rock remained firm on the coach-box, still seated and silent. As thefield was full under his view, and within range of his rifle, he knewthat, like the doctor, he would be near enough if wanted.
Ten minutes passed--most of the time in solemn silence, on the part ofthe principal, with some anxious thoughts. No matter how courageous aman may be--however skilled in weapons, or accustomed to the deadly useof them--he cannot, at such a crisis, help having a certain tremor ofthe heart, if not a misgiving of conscience. He has come there to kill,or be killed; and the thought of either should be sufficient to disturbmental equanimity. At such times, he who is not gifted with naturalcourage had needs have a good cause, and confidence in the weapon to beused. Florence Kearney possessed all three; and though it was his firstappearance in a duel, he had no fear for the result. Even the still,sombre scene, with the long grey moss hanging down from the dark cypresstrees, like the drapery of a hearse, failed to inspire him with dread.If, at times, a slight nervousness came over him, it was instantlydriven off by the thought of the insult he had received--and, perhapsalso, a little by the remembrance of those dark eyes he fancied wouldflash proudly if he triumphed, and weep bitterly were he to sufferdiscomfiture. Very different were his feelings now from those heexperienced less than forty-eight hours before, when he was on his wayto the house of Don Ignacio Valverde. That night, before leaving it, hewas good as sure he possessed the heart of Don Ignacio's daughter.Indeed, she had all but told him so; and was this not enough to nervehim for the encounter near at hand?
Very near now--close to commencing. The rumbling of wheels heardthrough the drooping festoonery of the trees, proclaimed that a secondcarriage was approaching along the Shell Road. It could only be thatcontaining the antagonists. And it was that. In less than ten minutesafter, it drew up on the causeway, about twenty paces to the rear of theone already arrived. Two men got out, who, although wrapped in cloaksand looking as large as giants through the thick mist, could berecognised as Carlos Santander and his second. There was a thirdindividual, who, like the young surgeon, remained by the carriage--nodoubt a doctor, too,--making the duelling party symmetrical andcomplete.
Santander and his friend having pulled off their cloaks and tossed themback into the carriage, turned towards the wet ditch, and also leapedover it.
The first performed the feat somewhat awkwardly, drooping down upon thefurther bank with a ponderous thud. He was a large, heavily built man--altogether unlike one possessing the activity necessary for a goodswordsman.
His antagonist might have augured well from his apparent clumsiness, butfor what he had heard of him. For Carlos Santander, though having therepute of a swaggerer, with some suspicion of cowardice, had provedhimself a dangerous adversary by twice killing his man. His second--aFrench-Creole, called Duperon--enjoyed a similar reputation, he, too,having been several times engaged in affairs that resulted fatally. Atthis period New Orleans was emphatically the city of the _duello_--forthis speciality, perhaps the most noted in the world.
As already said, Florence Kearney knew the sort of man he had to meet,and this being his own first appearance in a duelling field, he mightwell have been excused for feeling some anxiety as to the result. Itwas so slight, however, as not to betray itself, either in his looks orgestures. Confiding in his skill, gained by many a set-to with buttonedfoils, and supported, as he was, by the gallant young Kentuckian, heknew nothing that could be called fear. Instead, as his antagonistadvanced towards the spot where he was standing, and he looked at thehandsome, yet sinister face--his thoughts at the same time reverting toLuisa Valverde, and the insult upon him in her presence--his nerves, notat all unsteady, now became firm as steel. Indeed, the self-confident,almost jaunty air, with which his adversary came upon the ground, so farfrom shaking them--the effect, no doubt, intended--but braced them themore.
When the new-comers had advanced a certain distance into the meadow,Crittenden, forsaking his stand under the tree, stepped out to meetthem, Kearney following a few paces behind.
A sort of quadruple bow was the exchanged salutation; then theprincipals remained apart, the seconds drawing nigher to one another,and entering upon the required conference.
Only a few
words passed between them, as but few were required; theweapons, distance, and mode of giving the word, having all beenpre-arranged.
There was no talk of apology--nor thought of it being either offered oraccepted. By their attitude, and in their looks, both the challengedand challenger showed a full, firm determination to fight.
Duperon did not seem to care much one way or the other, and theKentuckian was not the sort to seek conciliation--with an insult such ashis captain had received calling for chastisement.
After the preliminaries were passed over, the seconds again separated--each to attend upon his principal.
The young Irishman took off his coat, and rolled back his shirt sleevesup to the elbow. Santander, on the other hand, who wore a red flannelshirt under his ample _sacque_, simply threw aside the latter, leavingthe shirt sleeves as they were, buttoned around the wrist.
Everybody was now silent; the hackney-drivers on their boxes, thedoctors, the gigantic Texan, all looming large and spectral-like throughthe still lingering mist, while the streamers of Spanish moss hangingfrom the cypresses around were appropriate drapery for such a scene.
In the midst of the death-like silence a voice broke in, coming from thetop of a tall cypress standing near. Strange and wild, it was enoughnot only to startle, but awe the stoutest heart. A shrill, continuedcachinnation, which, though human-like, could scarce be ascribed toaught human, save the laughter of a maniac.
It frightened no one there, all knowing what it was--the cackling cry ofthe white-headed eagle.
As it ended, but before its echoes had ceased reverberating among thetrees, another sound, equally awe-inspiring, woke the echoes of theforest further down. This, the _whoo-whoo-whooa_ of the great southernowl, seemingly a groan in answer to the eagle's laugh.
In all countries, and throughout all ages, the hooting of the owl hasbeen superstitiously dreaded as ominous of death, and might havedismayed our duellists, had they been men of the common kind of courage.Neither were, or seemed not to be; for, as the lugubrious notes werestill echoing in their ears, they advanced, and with rapiers upraised,stood confronting each other, but one look on their faces, and onethought in their hearts--"_to kill_!"