THE "FIELD OF HONOR"
Chief of Police Burke lingered late in his office that Saturday
afternoon. Twilight had passed into dusk, through which the street lamps
were beginning to glimmer, leaping here and there into sudden luminance
as the lamp-lighter made his rounds. Deep in the complexities of police
reports Burke had scarcely noted the entrance of a police clerk who
lighted the swinging lamp overhead. And he was only dimly aware of faint
knocking at his door. It came a second, a third time before he roused
himself. "Come in," he called, none too graciously.
The door opened with an inrush of wind which caused his lamp to flicker.
Before him stood a slight and well-gowned woman, heavily veiled. She was
trembling. He looked at her expectantly, but she did not speak.
"Please be seated, madam," said the chief of police.
But she continued to stand. Presently words came to her. "Can you stop a
duel? Will you?" Her hands went out in a gesture of supplication,
involuntary, unstudiedly dramatic.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "What duel?"
"Senator Broderick ... Justice Terry," a wealth of hate was in her
utterance of the second name. "They fight at sunrise Monday morning."
"It's not our custom to--interfere in such cases," Burke said slowly.
"What would you have me do? Arrest them?"
"Anything," she cried. "Oh--ANYTHING!"
He looked at her searchingly. "If you will raise your veil, madam, I
will talk with you further. Otherwise I must bid you goodnight."
For a moment she stood motionless. Then her hand went upward, stripped
the covering from her features. "Now," she asked him, in a half-shamed
whisper, "will you help me?"
"Yes ... Mrs. Windham," said Burke.
* * * * *
At daybreak on a raw, cold Monday morning, Broderick, with his seconds,
Joe McKibben and Dave Colton, arrived at the upper end of Lake Merced.
Terry and his seconds were already waiting. The principals, clad in long
overcoats, did not salute each other. Broderick looked toward the sea.
Terry stood implacable and silent, turning now and then to spit into the
sun dried grass. The seconds conferred with each other. All seemed ready
to begin when an officer, springing from a foam-flecked horse, rushed up
to Broderick and shouted, "You are under arrest."
Broderick turned half-bewildered. He was very tired, for he had not
slept the night before. "Arrest?" he said blankly.
"You and Justice Terry," said the officer; "I've warrants for ye both.
Come along and no nonsense. This duel is stopped."
Terry began an angry denunciation of the officer, but his seconds,
Calhoun Benham and Colonel Thomas Hayes, persuaded him at length into a
blustering submission. Principals and seconds, feeling like the actors
in an ill-considered farce, rode off together. Later they were summoned
to appear before Judge Coon.
* * * * *
"The whole thing was a farce," Benito told his wife. "The case was
dismissed. Our prosecuting counsel asked the judge to put them under
bonds to keep the peace. But he refused."
"Then the fight will go on?" asked Alice. Her face was white.
"Doubtless," said Benito gloomily. "They say that Terry's been
practicing with a pair of French pistols during the past two months and
hopes to use them at the meeting. Old 'Natchez,' the gunsmith, tells me
one's a tricky weapon ... discharges now and then before the
trigger's pressed."
"Why--that would be murder," Alice spoke aghast. "You must find David's
seconds and warn them."
"I've tried all afternoon to locate them ... they're hidden ... afraid
of arrest."
* * * * *
Despite the secrecy with which the second meeting was arranged, some
three score spectators were already assembled at the duelling ground
when Broderick and Terry arrived. It was not far from where they had met
on the previous morning, but no officer appeared to interrupt their
combat. Both men looked nervous and worn, especially Broderick, who had
spent the night in a flea-infested hut on the ocean shore at the
suggestion of his seconds who feared further interference. Terry had
fared better, being quartered at the farm house of a friend who provided
breakfast and a flask of rum.
The seconds tossed for position and those of Broderick won. The choice
of pistols, too, was left to chance, which favored Terry. Joe McKibben
thought he saw a smile light the faces of Benham and Hayes, a smile of
secret understanding. The French pistols were produced and Hayes, with
seeming care, selected one of them. McKibben took the other. He saw
Benham whisper something to Terry as the latter grasped his weapon, saw
the judge's eyes light with a sudden satisfaction.
"You will fire between the words 'one' and 'two'," Colton announced
crisply. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"
Terry answered "Yes" immediately. Broderick, who was endeavoring to
adjust the unfamiliar stock of the foreign pistol to his grasp, did not
hear. McKibben repeated, "Are you ready, Dave?" in an undertone.
Broderick looked up with nervous and apologetic haste, "Yes, yes, quite
ready," he replied.
"One," called Colton. Broderick's pistol spoke. Discharged apparently
before aim could be taken; his bullet struck the ground at Terry's feet.
Broderick, now defenseless, waited quietly. "Two," the word came. Terry,
who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered
himself. His face was distorted with pain. Slowly he sank to one knee;
sidewise upon his elbow, then lay prone.
* * * * *
It was Sunday, September 18th. In the plaza a catafalque had been
erected, draped in black. Upon it stood a casket covered with flowers.
An immense crowd was about it, strangely silent. Across the platform a
constant stream of people filed, each stopping a moment to gaze at a
face that lay still and peaceful, seemingly composed in sleep. It was a
keen and striking face; the forehead bespoke intellect and high resolve;
the jaw and chin indomitable; aggressive bravery. Over all there was a
stamp of sadness and of loneliness that caught one's heart. Friends,
political compatriots and erstwhile enemies paid David Broderick a final
tribute as they passed; few without a twitching of the lips. Tears ran
down the faces of both men and women. The crowd murmured. Then the
splendid moving voice of Colonel Baker poured forth an oration like Mark
Anthony above the bier of Caesar:
"Citizens of California: A Senator lies dead.... It is not
fit that such a man should pass into the tomb unheralded;
that such a life should steal, unnoticed, to its close. It is
not fit that such a death should call forth no rebuke...."
His majestic voice rolled on, telling of Broderick's work, his
character, devotion to the people. He assailed the practice of duelling,
the bitter hatreds of a slave-impassioned South. His voice shook with
emotion as he ended:
"Thus, O brave heart! we bear thee to thy rest. As in life no
other voice so rung its trumpet blast upon the ear of
freemen, so in death its echoes will reverberate amid our
valleys and mountains until truth and valor cease to appeal
to the human heart.
"Good friend! True hero! Hail and farewell."
[Illustration: Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick
staggered, recovered himself. Slowly he sank to one knee.]