The Virginian Colonel remained in one chamber of the tavern, occupied
with gloomy preparations for the ensuing meeting; his adversary in the
other room thought fit to make his testamentary dispositions, too, and
dictated, by his obedient brother and secretary, a grandiloquent letter
to his mother, of whom, and by that writing, he took a solemn farewell.
She would hardly, he supposed, pursue the scheme which she had in view
(a peculiar satirical emphasis was laid upon the scheme which she had
in view), after the event of that morning, should he fall, as, probably,
would be the case.
“My dear, dear George, don't say that!” cried the affrighted secretary.
“'As probably will be the case,'” George persisted with great majesty.
“You know what a good shot Colonel George is, Harry. I, myself, am
pretty fair at a mark, and 'tis probable that one or both of us will
drop.--'I scarcely suppose you will carry out the intentions you have
at present in view.'” This was uttered in a tone of still greater
bitterness than George had used even in the previous phrase. Harry wept
as he took it down.
“You see I say nothing; Madame Esmond's name does not even appear in the
quarrel. Do you not remember in our grandfather's life of himself, how
he says that Lord Castlewood fought Lord Mohun on a pretext of a quarrel
at cards? and never so much as hinted at the lady's name, who was the
real cause of the duel? I took my hint, I confess, from that, Harry.
Our mother is not compromised in the--Why, child, what have you been
writing, and who taught thee to spell?” Harry had written the last
words “in view,” in vew, and a great blot of salt water from his honest,
boyish eyes may have obliterated some other bad spelling.
“I can't think about the spelling now, Georgy,” whimpered George's
clerk. “I'm too miserable for that. I begin to think, perhaps it's all
nonsense, perhaps Colonel George never----”
“Never meant to take possession of Castlewood; never gave himself airs,
and patronised us there; never advised my mother to have me flogged,
never intended to marry her; never insulted me, and was insulted before
the king's officers; never wrote to his brother to say we should be the
better for his parental authority? The paper is there,” cried the young
man, slapping his breast-pocket, “and if anything happens to me, Harry
Warrington, you will find it on my corse!”
“Write yourself, Georgy, I can't write,” says Harry, digging his fists
into his eyes, and smearing over the whole composition, bad spelling and
all, with his elbows.
On this, George, taking another sheet of paper, sate down at his
brother's place, and produced a composition in which he introduced the
longest words, the grandest Latin quotations, and the most profound
satire of which the youthful scribe was master. He desired that his
negro boy, Sady, should be set free; that his Horace, a choice of his
books, and, if possible, a suitable provision should be made for his
affectionate tutor, Mr. Dempster; that his silver fruit-knife, his
music-books, and harpsichord, should be given to little Fanny Mountain;
and that his brother should take a lock of his hair, and wear it in
memory of his ever fond and faithfully attached George. And he sealed
the document with the seal of arms that his grandfather had worn.
“The watch, of course, will be yours,” said George, taking out his
grandfather's gold watch, and looking at it. “Why, two hours and a-half
are gone! 'Tis time that Sady should be back with the pistols. Take the
watch, Harry dear.”
“It's no good!” cried out Harry, flinging his arms round his brother.
“If he fights you, I'll fight him, too. If he kills my Georgy, ---- him,
he shall have a shot at me!” and the poor lad uttered more than one of
those expressions, which are said peculiarly to affect recording angels,
who have to take them down at celestial chanceries.
Meanwhile, General Braddock's new aide-de-camp had written five letters
in his large resolute hand, and sealed them with his seal. One was to
his mother, at Mount Vernon; one to his brother; one was addressed M. C.
only; and one to his Excellency, Major-General Braddock. “And one, young
gentleman, is for your mother, Madam Esmond,” said the boys' informant.
Again the recording angel had to fly off with a violent expression,
which parted from the lips of George Warrington. The chancery previously
mentioned was crowded with such cases, and the messengers must have been
for ever on the wing. But I fear for young George and his oath there was
no excuse; for it was an execration uttered from a heart full of hatred,
and rage, and jealousy.
It was the landlord of the tavern who communicated these facts to the
young men. The Captain had put on his old militia uniform to do honour
to the occasion, and informed the boys that the Colonel was walking up
and down the garden a-waiting for 'em, and that the Reg'lars was a'most
sober, too, by this time.
A plot of ground near the Captain's log-house had been enclosed with
shingles, and cleared for a kitchen-garden; there indeed paced Colonel
Washington, his hands behind his back, his head bowed down, a grave
sorrow on his handsome face. The negro servants were crowded at the
palings, and looking over. The officers under the porch had wakened
up also, as their host remarked. Captain Waring was walking, almost
steadily, under the balcony formed by the sloping porch and roof of the
wooden house; and Captain Grace was lolling over the railing, with eyes
which stared very much, though perhaps they did not see very clearly.
Benson's was a famous rendezvous for cock-fights, horse-matches, boxing,
and wrestling-matches, such as brought the Virginian country-folks
together. There had been many brawls at Benson's, and men who came
thither sound and sober, had gone thence with ribs broken and eyes
gouged out. And squires, and farmers, and negroes, all participated in
the sport.
There, then, stalked the tall young Colonel, plunged in dismal
meditation. There was no way out of his scrape, but the usual cruel one,
which the laws of honour and the practice of the country ordered. Goaded
into fury by the impertinence of a boy, he had used insulting words. The
young man had asked for reparation. He was shocked to think that George
Warrington's jealousy and revenge should have rankled in the young
fellow so long but the wrong had been the Colonel's, and he was bound to
pay the forfeit.
A great hallooing and shouting, such as negroes use, who love noise at
all times, and especially delight to yell and scream when galloping on
horseback, was now heard at a distance, and all the heads, woolly and
powdered, were turned in the direction of this outcry. It came from the
road over which our travellers had themselves passed three hours before,
and presently the clattering of a horse's hoofs was heard, and now Mr.
Sady made his appearance on his foaming horse, and actually fired a
pistol off in the midst of a prodigious uproar from his woolly brethren.
Then he fired another pistol off, to which noises Sady's horse, which
had carried Harry Warrington on many a hunt, was perfectly accustomed;
and now he was in the courtyard, surrounded by a score of his bawling
comrades, and was descending amidst fluttering fowls and turkeys,
kicking horses and shrieking frantic pigs; and brother-negroes crowded
round him, to whom he instantly began to talk and chatter.
“Sady, sir, come here!” roars out Master Harry.
“Sady, come here! Confound you!” shouts Master George. (Again the
recording angel is in requisition, and has to be off on one of his
endless errands to the register office.) “Come directly, mas'r,” says
Sady, and resumes his conversation with his woolly brethren. He grins.
He takes the pistols out of the holster. He snaps the locks. He points
them at a grunter, which plunges through the farmyard. He points down
the road, over which he has just galloped, and towards which the woolly
heads again turn. He says again, “Comin', mas'r. Everybody a-comin'.”
And now, the gallop of other horses is heard. And who is yonder? Little
Mr. Dempster, spurring and digging into his pony; and that lady in a
riding-habit on Madam Esmond's little horse, can it be Madam Esmond? No.
It is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Mountain on Madam's grey!
“O Lor! O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hurray!” A chorus of negroes rises
up. “Here dey are!” Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain have clattered
into the yard, have jumped from their horses, have elbowed through the
negroes, have rushed into the house, have run through it and across the
porch, where the British officers are sitting in muzzy astonishment;
have run down the stairs to the garden where George and Harry are
walking, their tall enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ere
George Warrington has had time sternly to say, “What do you do here,
madam?” Mrs. Mountain has flung her arms round his neck and cries:
“Oh, George, my darling! It's a mistake! It's a mistake, and is all my
fault!”
“What's a mistake?” asks George, majestically separating himself from
the embrace.
“What is it, Mounty?” cries Harry, all of a tremble.
“That paper I took out of his portfolio, that paper I picked up,
children; where the Colonel says he is going to marry a widow with two
children. Who should it be but you, children, and who should it be but
your mother?”
“Well?”
“Well, it's--it's not your mother. It's that little widow Custis whom
the Colonel is going to marry. He'd always take a rich one; I knew he
would. It's not Mrs. Rachel Warrington. He told Madam so to-day, just
before he was going away, and that the marriage was to come off after
the campaign. And--and your mother is furious, boys. And when Sady came
for the pistols, and told the whole house how you were going to fight,
I told him to fire the pistols off; and I galloped after him, and I've
nearly broken my poor old bones in coming to you.”
“I have a mind to break Mr. Sady's,” growled George. “I specially
enjoined the villain not to say a word.”
“Thank God he did, brother!” said poor Harry. “Thank God he did!”
“What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servant
telling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?” asks Mr.
George, still in wrath.
“You have shown your proofs before, George,” says Harry, respectfully.
“And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our old friend,--our
grandfather's old friend. For it was a mistake and there is no quarrel
now, dear, is there? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression.”
“I certainly acted under a wrong impression,” owns George, “but----”
“George! George Washington!” Harry here cries out, springing over
the cabbage-garden towards the bowling-green, where the Colonel was
stalking, and though we cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands
out, and with the eagerness of youth, and with a hundred blunders, and
with love and affection thrilling in his honest voice we imagine the lad
telling his tale to his friend.
There was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our manners
now, but which then lingered. When Harry had finished his artless story,
his friend the Colonel took him fairly to his arms, and held him to
his heart: and his voice faltered as he said, “Thank God, thank God for
this!”
“Oh, George,” said Harry, who felt now how he loved his friend with all
his heart, “how I wish I was going with you on the campaign!” The other
pressed both the boy's hands, in a grasp of friendship, which each knew
never would slacken.
Then the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his hand to Harry's elder
brother. Perhaps Harry wondered that the two did not embrace as he and
the Colonel had just done. But, though hands were joined, the salutation
was only formal and stern on both sides.
“I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washington,” George said, “and
must apologise, not for the error, but for much of my late behaviour
which has resulted from it.”
“The error was mine! It was I who found that paper in your room, and
showed it to George, and was jealous of you, Colonel. All women are
jealous,” cried Mrs. Mountain.
“'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes off my paper, madam,”
said Mr. Washington. “You will permit me to say so. A great deal of
mischief has come because I chose to keep a secret which concerned only
myself and another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart has
been black with anger against me, and my feeling towards him has, I own,
scarce been more friendly. All this pain might have been spared to both
of us, had my private papers only been read by those for whom they were
written. I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should betray
me into hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! Farewell, George! And
take a true friend's advice, and try and be less ready to think evil of
your friends. We shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons
for the enemy. Gentlemen! if you remember this scene to-morrow, you
will know where to find me.” And with a very stately bow to the English
officers, the Colonel left the abashed company, and speedily rode away.