I suddenly looked up and realized that the sky was beginning to darken. I pulled out my pocket watch and saw that it was after eight o’clock. My stomach also reminded me that it had been some time since our luncheon at Anderson’s café. I decided to knock on Eulalie Echo’s door; after all, my question about the poison would justify the interruption. Even more importantly, Mr. Clemens didn’t know what had happened at the Staunton home; my news would place the murder investigation in a new perspective, which Eulalie Echo might also need to know about.
I stood up, shaking my leg, which had begun to fall asleep. Across the street stood Henry Dodds’s horse, placidly chewing on some weeds growing along the banquette. A group of small girls were skipping rope, accompanying themselves with an incomprehensible rhythmic chant.
I walked to the voodoo woman’s door and raised my hand to knock, but before I could do so, it opened. I started, then looked up to see a tall, powerfully built black man. His face was impassive, his manner quiet but commanding. The fellow looked somehow familiar, although I couldn’t quite place him. “Mr. Cabot,” he said, in a deep voice, almost without inflection.
“I am here to see Mr. Clemens,” I said. “I am his secretary, Mr. Cabot.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “Mr. Clemens left a message for you. He and Eulalie Echo went away—on important business. He might be back tomorrow, or maybe the next day. He said to wait for him at Royal Street.”
“What—when—” I stammered, then managed to frame a coherent question. “Where have they gone?”
“Eulalie didn’t tell me, so I can’t tell you. Don’t you worry; he’s with Eulalie. She will protect him.” I recognized the man now. He was one of the two assistants Mr. Clemens and I had seen in Eulalie’s apartment during our visit.
“But it is absolutely vital that I get a message to him,” I said. “It is a matter of life and death!” The words sounded overly dramatic even to my ears, and yet I knew them to be true.
The man looked at me with an impassive face; he might as well have been carved from ebony or some other rich, dark wood. “Eulalie deals with life and death all day long. Now she’s gone away and taken your master with her. You will have to wait.”
“But—” I should have saved my breath. The man closed the door in my face, his message delivered. I stood there speechless, alone in a strange town and in imminent peril, without the faintest notion how to go about extricating myself.
Henry Dodds drove me to the pension on Royal Street, shaking his head over Mr. Clemens’s disappearance. “I could have told you ’bout that hoodoo woman, but didn’t nobody ask Henry Dodds, no sir. But I ’spect she ain’t goin’ hurt Mr. Twain. Don’t make sense she’d do anything to him.” This last may have been meant to reassure me, but it had the opposite effect.
All manner of possibilities ran through my head. How genuine was the message from Mr. Clemens? Had Mr. Clemens really gone away with Eulalie Echo on his own accord? Or might it have been under duress? Was Eulalie Echo working for herself, or was she the puppet of someone else—Tom Anderson, or some of his criminal associates? Mr. Clemens had insisted on my discretion, but he himself had spoken freely about wanting to solve the Robinson murder case and free the colored cook. Could someone have decided to remove a troublemaker from the scene?
And yet it was perfectly in character that Mr. Clemens would go haring off on some errand that caught his interest. Perhaps Eulalie Echo had material for his book or a clue to the Robinson murder case. Had it not been for my own dilemma, I might not have seen anything at all sinister about it. But my own predicament made it essential that I find him.
Of course, it was possible that he needed my help more than I needed his. He might be a prisoner in Eulalie Echo’s house, guarded by the very man who had just told me he had gone away. My mind conjured up still wilder possibilities: that Staunton and Anderson were in cahoots, and that the scene with Mrs. Staunton had been staged to frighten me. Or perhaps I was meant to go off hunting for Mr. Clemens, leaving the poor cook to rot in prison. All this and more went through my fevered brain as Henry Dodds’s horse clip-clopped his way back toward the French Quarter.
I did not tell Henry Dodds about Mr. Staunton’s challenge, as I understood it to be. I would have to try to put it off until Mr. Clemens had returned; was it not the custom for the parties to bring seconds with them? I could think of no one else in the city to whom I might appeal for this service. Mr. Cable I barely knew; and the only other men with whom I had more than a nodding acquaintance were Dodds and Buddy Bolden, neither of whom seemed likely to offer to stand with me on a so-called field of honor. A staunch Southerner such as my challenger might indeed take their very presence as a calculated insult. Besides, I was not about to engage in something so barbaric as a duel. No modern, civilized man could take the notion seriously!
I stopped by the room briefly, hoping Mr. Clemens might have sent some message, but there was nothing there. I more or less forced myself to go out and eat. I had very little appetite, but I knew I had best get some nourishment in my body. I returned to the little café just around the corner where Mr. Cable had taken us to meet the police detective, ordered up a bowl of gumbo, and surprised myself by finishing it and ordering a second. I washed it down with two large glasses of iced tea; this was no time to drink anything stronger.
When I returned to the pension, Mme. Bechet met me at the entry way. “There are two gentlemen here to see you,” she said, and my heart came to my throat.
They were waiting for me in Mme. Bechet’s little front room, which doubled as her office. The two were Reynold Holt, Staunton’s brother-in-law, looking as stiff and fierce as he had when first I met him, and another man whom I didn’t recognize: a slightly built fellow with a long face and thick side whiskers, whom I guessed to be a little younger than Staunton. Holt and the other man stood when I entered, and Holt said, “Mr. Cabot, may I introduce Marcus Keyes? I suggest we go to someplace private where we can talk.”
I took them upstairs, hoping that perhaps Mr. Clemens would have returned, but the dark windows quickly disabused me of that hope. Holt and Keyes declined my offer of a drink, and we took seats around the table in Mr. Clemens’s sitting room. There was tension in the air, but Holt came directly to the point of their visit. “Have you appointed seconds, sir? The usual process would be for us to negotiate with them and allow you time to prepare yourself for the morning.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “As you know, I’m a stranger in town; the only person I could really call on is Mr. Clemens, and he has unexpectedly been called away on business. If there were any way to postpone things until his return—”
“That would be most irregular, sir,” said Holt. “My principal is very disturbed. He wishes to resolve this matter without delay.”
“I understand that he is disturbed,” I said, “but I have not been given the opportunity to explain myself, and I wish that I could. I am certain that once he knows the facts of the matter, Mr. Staunton will recognize that nothing untoward took place. Is there any way you gentlemen could persuade Mr. Staunton to give me a chance to defend myself?” Mr. Keyes chuckled, and I suddenly realized that my words could be taken differently than I had intended.
“Pardon me, Mr. Cabot, I surely don’t wish to make light of your situation,” said Keyes, his expression now solemn. “If the whole affair were in my hands, I would be the first to urge a postponement, in hopes that the parties would accept some less drastic means of settling the dispute. But Mr. Staunton is most insistent; I’ve known him since we were boys, and he can be stubborn. But he might listen to you, were you to appear tomorrow and offer an apology. In fact, in your circumstances, I believe I would do exactly that.”
I didn’t think I had done anything to apologize for, but I decided not to press the issue. “And if I were to appear and he insisted on fighting? I have to tell you, gentlemen, I have no experience with this kind of thing. For me to stand up against an expert pistol-shot would be suicide.”
There was a moment of silence as the two men digested this fact. It was, I realized, in some ways an admission of fear on my part. But it was also a tacit indictment of Mr. Staunton’s issuing a challenge to a man untrained in the use of weapons; no gentleman would wish such an unfair advantage.
After a moment, Reynold Holt shook his head. “I am afraid that failure to appear tomorrow would be even riskier. I have seen my brother-in-law in many circumstances over the years, and I would not care to risk his forbearance. He told me in so many words that if you didn’t appear, he would come find you and shoot you where you stand. I tried to reason with him; he is risking enough trouble simply by issuing the challenge. Whatever you may have heard, the law in Louisiana does not turn a blind eye on dueling, sir.
“But here are your choices, as I see them. If you are really afraid of Percival Staunton, leave town, and quickly. Take him at his word; if you are in New Orleans, he will hunt you down. But if you are a man of your convictions, and know in your heart that you did no wrong, I urge you to appear on the field. He may have cooled off; he may accept an apology; or he may consider his honor satisfied, and delope.”
“Delope? I don’t understand the term.”
“Fire into the air,” said Keyes. “It is a way of satisfying one’s honor without shedding blood. If we can convince Percival that the injury was inadvertent, and that you sincerely regret it, it would be a way for him to salvage his pride without returning an injury for an injury. But I agree with Mr. Holt. You must either agree to meet Percival, or you must depart the city as quickly as possible. I know which is the honorable course, but it would be inappropriate for me to advise you how to conduct yourself. Are you certain you don’t know anyone to stand up with you?”
“Unless Mr. Clemens returns by morning, no.” I thought a moment and decided to press my case with Staunton’s seconds. Perhaps they were more inclined to reason than he. It seemed strange that Mr. Holt, who just yesterday evening had been moody and quick to take offense, was today playing the diplomat for his brother-in-law, who yesterday had been the one to pour oil on troubled waters. Now the roles were reversed. I didn’t know what to believe, but I had best take advantage of the chance to speak my piece. The two men were becoming restless, and it was clear they were eager to be off.
“Tell Mr. Staunton that his wife will corroborate this, that nothing improper happened today. She and I were in the library for half an hour at the most, with servants coming and going. Other than a few polite generalities, our conversation was entirely about literary matters.”
Reynold Holt snorted in derision, and the more formal Mr. Keyes said, “That’s not how Mr. Staunton told it to me. He walked into his own library and found his wife in your arms.”
The injustice of this accusation enraged me, and yet I had no ready reply. How to refute the accusation? Staunton was obviously ready to believe me guilty; he had evidently come home unexpectedly and upon learning that I was in the library with his wife, had assumed the worst. To tell him that what he took for an embrace was merely the result of an accident—that the surprise of his own sudden entrance had caused his wife to lose her balance and fall against me—would brand me as naive. The two men sat with stony faces waiting for my explanation.
“She stumbled and fell,” I said. Holt and Keyes exchanged glances, and I could see that they believed nothing I said. “When Mr. Staunton entered the room, his wife stood to greet him, and she stumbled and fell,” I repeated. It did not sound convincing, even to me.
“Come to City Park, on Metarie Ridge,” said Holt, standing up. “Our party will be at the entrance near Esplanade Street, half an hour before dawn; I believe that sunrise tomorrow is shortly after five. Come there with your seconds, or alone, if you have no friends. Or, if you are a coward, take the next train north; I don’t care. It would simplify things for all concerned.”
“I am no coward,” I said, coming to my own feet. “Tell Mr. Staunton I will be there, by myself, if necessary. But I have no desire to injure him or anyone else.”
“Then let us hope that Mr. Holt and I can persuade Percival to overlook the matter under contention,” said Mr. Keyes. “Because I can assure you that, unless he has changed his mind during the last hour, he has every intention of injuring you.”
16
It should surprise no one to learn that I slept very little that night. I spent a good deal of time mentally turning over the different ways I could imagine the events of the next day turning out, and trying to prepare myself for everything I could foresee. Alas for my mental composure, the majority of my imaginings found me facing Staunton on the field, gun in hand.
I realized I knew almost nothing about the code of honor by which duels were supposedly fought. Vaguely I recalled that the challenged party could dictate choice of weapons, not that I had enough experience with any sort of weapon to make a difference. The code almost certainly did not permit the parties to settle their differences by fisticuffs, which was the only style of fighting in which I might have an advantage over Percy Staunton. I had never fired a pistol in my life, and the closest I had ever come to fencing was in my boyhood, swinging a length of cattail stalk at another boy, similarly armed. My mother had put a stop to it with the admonition “You’ll poke each other’s eyes out.”
It was tempting to believe that in the clear light of dawn, when I gave my word as a gentleman that nothing had happened between me and Mrs. Staunton, and then apologized, that Mr. Staunton would give up his grudge. I could imagine myself in months to come, telling my old friends about my “duel” in New Orleans, and laughing at it all. Yet I could still see the livid face of Percival Staunton, ordering me from his house. My only real hope was that his seconds were correct in their belief that they could talk him out of it.
I did spend the better part of an hour writing to my parents. My conscience reminded me that my letters had been getting shorter and shorter as the distance from home increased, and I made up for it with a long letter. On the final page, I told them of the possibility that tomorrow might be my last day, and tried to say such things as I thought might be comforting. I wrote another note to Mr. Clemens, informing him of the events of the day, of my intimations concerning Staunton’s possible guilt in the murder of his brother-in-law, Robinson, and other information I thought might be of use to him in following up the case. In the event of my death, I asked him to forward my letter to my parents. Should I survive, I would send it myself, sans the final page.
I thought at first of making out a will, but then realized that in the absence of witnesses it would be without force. In any case, I had little enough property to be concerned with—really, little more than my clothes and the small amount of money I had saved. At last, I simply added a line to my note to Mr. Clemens, asking him to forward my personal effects to my parents. I had a moment of regret that there was so little to pass along, and no one besides my parents to pass it to. I felt I should have made more of an impression on the world than I had so far. But it was a bit too late in the day for such self-recrimination; should I survive the morning, it would be time enough to consider such things.
I did at last extinguish the light and try to sleep. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I knelt by my bedside and said my prayers. I had not prayed more sincerely since I was a little boy, yet I felt like a hypocrite. Surely God would see through my sudden return to piety. I could only pray that he would not hold me guilty for my falling away from regular prayer. But raised as I was in the heart of New England, I had been given plentiful reminders of the fate of sinners in the hands of an angry God, and only occasional hints of divine mercy. Still, I felt that if I were destined to meet my maker the next morning, I would be remiss not to renew my acquaintance with him. I prayed a long while.
I closed my eyes for a very short time; when I opened them again, my watch told me it was nearly four o’clock. I splashed cold water on my face and dressed hurriedly. I was surprised to find myself wondering about
the proper dress for such an occasion; was it customary to appear in one’s best clothes, or would that be taken as a sign of arrogance? At last I laughed at myself and put on my ordinary daytime clothes. I was going to the meeting place not to fight a man, but to talk him out of fighting. I could not allow myself to be drawn into the tawdry drama of dueling, with all its outmoded conventions.
The morning was pleasantly cool and slightly misty in our location a few short blocks from the river. I found a café open and gulped down a cup of hot black coffee. I had heard somewhere that it was best to avoid eating just before a duel, but I felt I needed at least a cup of coffee to have my wits at their sharpest—besides which, I did not intend to fight anyone. There were a couple of carriage drivers waiting by the river side of Jackson Square. I had a moment of regret that Henry Dodds was not one of them; instead, my driver was a short, chubby fellow with a sleepy-looking round face, who was not in the mood for talking. And once we were on the road, neither was I. I had made up my mind what I was going to do, and there was no reason to worry about anything else.
There were four men waiting in the shadows of the trees at the entrance to City Park. My driver looked over the scene and gave me a curious glance, but took his fare and drove away. I would worry about getting home when it was time. I stepped toward the waiting group, saying, “Gentlemen, I am here.”
“Are you alone, sir? It is customary to bring seconds to protect your interests.” I recognized the voice, full of concern, as that of Dr. Soupape, and stepped closer to the trees. I could see the other men with him, now: Reynold Holt, Marcus Keyes, and Percival Staunton.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 16