_In Which Is Related an Account of the Duel at Slaughterhouse Point, and
How Virginia Flirts with Profit_
I
Morning was nearing its dreary dawn, cold and dark, and New Orleans
slumbered.
At last the red rim of the rising sun, heralded by the misty flush of
sunrise behind the forests lining the shores of Lake Pontchartrain,
appeared above the level disk and cast its first sleepy rays on the
world—the long, refuse-littered levees of the queenly Mississippi; the
red tile roofs of the Franco-Spanish houses of stuccoed brick; the wide,
deserted avenues, lined with balconies, through whose long French windows
could be had glimpses of lace curtains and brocade upholstery; and the
high white spire of St. Louis Cathedral, which benignantly looked down on
the awakening city from its lofty, kindly height.
On a long point of land to the northwest of the city, surrounded on three
sides by the muddy, swirling waters of the Queen of Rivers and thickly
wooded with dark palmettos and white-blossomed magnolias that stood out
in clear-cut picturesque silhouette against the sky, was a spacious
glade, alive with bright-colored flowers, warmly green climbing vines,
mossy natural lawns of cocoa grass, and ablush with flowering trees.
This bit of paradise on earth, however, was somewhat euphoniously known
to the natives as “Slaughterhouse Point,” and not without reason, for
this fair spot was in truth a slaughterhouse, a human abattoir, as some
had bitterly called it.
Many a strong man, pulsing one moment with life, love, and passion, had
watered the greensward with his blood the next; and many a loving wife or
sweetheart, mother or sister, had suffered in consequence.
And with good reason, for Slaughterhouse Point was _the_ dueling ground
of the gay capital of the Louisianians, of the Little Paris of the New
World. Here the Spanish grandees had settled their quarrels with the
clash of steel and skill of wrist, to be followed by the debonair French
chevaliers’ light rapiers, and the more modern pistol bullets of the
punctilious Creole.
What countless tales might those age-old trees tell if they could but
speak! Of the grievous—and fancied—wrongs wiped out in blood ... of the
strange outcomes, of the counter-duels ... of the hesitant confession
of the dying, and the blessed administration of the father confessors,
brokenly bestowing absolution....
These and much more might these old trees have told, but they could only
tell their tales by the rustlings of their limbs and the sighing of
their leaves, which language is only too unfortunately beyond the human
capacity for understanding.
By now, however, the principals of this dramatic little incident in
American history had assembled and were all too impatiently awaiting
the further rising of the huge celestial orb that was to aid with her
light the purpose of two of their number, each determined to slay the
other, one to avenge his honor, the other to protect himself from that
well-merited vengeance.
Of all this, and much more, doubtless, both the former and present
district attorneys were thinking. Men think strange thoughts at times
like these, but it is stranger still that no one is conscious of it—least
of all, themselves.
They were all there.
Herbert Hemingway, clad in ultra-fashionable clothes; beaver, lace
ruffles, et cetera, as if just about to set out for a quadroon ball at
the St. Philippe Street Theater; and his second, Mr. Cyrus Nash, Esquire,
lately of Kennesettock Point, New Hampshire, also loudly dressed, with
much more ostentation but equally much less taste than his principal,
have just arrived on the scene, and are leaving the carriage of the
former, on the road just outside the historic glade.
John Grymes, together with Monsieur François de Moulin, are already on
the scene and are standing a little to the right of a giant magnolia,
conversing in low tones.
This does not complete the party, however. Two men, obviously physicians,
are standing in and aside, also busying themselves in the mysterious
depths of two little valises. Mr. Grymes, while talking to his second,
watches these two gentlemen of the lancet, and cannot help feeling a
certain fascination in doing so, although this is not the Virginian’s
first duel.
The former district attorney had passed a sleepless night, sitting up in
the library, eying a wine decanter that he dared not touch, yet whose
contents he craved with all his soul. He had been wise enough, however,
to withstand the temptation, and had spent his time at solitaire, which
could not keep him from thinking of a woman who slept in a Virginian
churchyard—of bygone days. John Grymes spent much time with his thoughts
of late; thoughts dug out of secret mental archives.
Therefore he is fit, this morning, and his eye and nerve are steady. It
speaks well for the hard-living Virginian that he did not remove the
tempting decanter all through the night, but left it, with its mute
appeal, to stare him in the face until the gray hours of dawn, to be
finally interrupted by the advent of faithful Scipio, coming to reawaken
the slumbering embers in the huge old fireplace.
That gentleman of color, already introduced to the reader in the episode
of the runaways, is now unobtrusively hidden behind the generous bole of
a magnolia, waiting, round-eyed, to see the outcome of the master’s fight.
He is not the only observer, however.
Slaughterhouse Point, as is known, was already famed for its duels, and
often held large crowds, especially when the duelists were prominent
persons.
This case was no exception to the rule.
Insulted as he had been before a crowded court, an assemblage of
well-known citizens, it was inevitable that all New Orleans would
anticipate a duel, and half of its male population attend, if possible.
It was equally easy for anyone to guess the location of the coming
encounter. Such personal meetings were very seldom held in any other
place but Slaughterhouse Point.
Therefore, quite a large gathering has assembled. This heterogeneous
crowd is largely made up of the Creole gentry, prominent bankers,
merchants, and others of that class; but there are also a sprinkling
of Americans, friends of both combatants. There is no likelihood of
interference on the part of the local authorities. No Creole would dream
of interfering in an affair of honor, while an American official, if he
did hold personal views about the wisdom of dueling, discreetly shut his
official eyes, especially if present.
At last the preliminaries have been settled.
The sun has risen in its glorious entirety and flooded the grove with its
golden light. Out on the sparkling, muddy Mississippi a river barge has
come to anchor. One sees that it holds a goodly crowd of gentlemen, all
of whom, apparently, have an excellent view of the proceedings.
Gone indeed are the days when affairs of honor were purely personal
encounters between the two principals, to be conducted as privately
as possible. In these times one cannot even fight privately, cry the
Creoles, without making a large public spectacle. It is all the cursed
ideas of this new hare-brained government, they declare in unison. In the
olden days; ah, then gentlemen were _gentlemen_....
Yet these same aristocratic ranters cannot keep away from a duel, if they
are remotely interested in it. So it goes....
The principals are in their places, pistols in hand, with their coats
and beavers lying on the sward ... their sleeves rolled up ... ruffles
loosened.
Old Sieur de la Follette, veteran of a hundred duels, is to give the word.
He raises his elegantly shaped hand, still ungnarled by the hand of
Time. Apparently the last-named old gentleman has passed him by out of
pure respect for his many praiseworthy qualities (so say the Creoles,
at least)—for his love of sport, his gameness, his keen sense of honor,
his scrupulous sense of fairness ... all these go toward the making up
of old Etienne de la Follette, prince of duelists, with twenty duels and
fourteen love affairs to his credit.
It is said, secretly, of course, that he was once the lover of a
_duchesse_. No wonder he is held with such respect in the dreamy land of
the Creoles! It is such as he that remind us of duels in the moonlight;
serenades under trellised balconies; black-eyed demoiselles and peruked
gallants; balls, fêtes, levées; grand bediamonded dames; scented,
bejeweled fops.
The Sieur de la Follette is a human milestone in history.
But we digress!
The Sieur raises his hand.
A dead silence falls on the crowd.
The duelists, back to back, walk ten paces from each other, and halt,
pistol in hand.
Hemingway is white-faced; his eyes glittering, a hectic flush in his pale
cheek. Grymes is cool, collected, and his face is as stern as that of
the great Roman father who ordered the death of his own son. The honor
of a Virginian, a Grymes, is no small thing. Beware who shalt presume
to besmirch it! It is the Grymes way to wipe out an insult in blood. An
exaltation—a lust to kill—fills him; thrills him.
The white-haired nobleman with the gray imperial speaks:
“_Un—Deux—Trois!_”
As a man they wheel about, pistols extended.
Two shots are heard as one. Hemingway has fired first, Grymes an instant
later....
The crowd peers through the haze.
The smoke clears quickly. One of the duelists, dropping his smoking
weapon, clutches at his side, makes a half turn, and crumples up on the
green turf, to lie there inert. The other stands for a moment—straight,
stern, with the mien of an avenging god—for a moment only. Then, throwing
aside his still smoking instrument of death, he quickly reaches the side
of his former opponent.
For one moment the heart of John Grymes is like a frozen stone.... Has
he killed his man? After all, flashes through his mind, the district
attorney but stood up for the courage of his convictions. The Virginian
cannot help but admire that sort of man. And now that he has apparently
killed his adversary, it is the nature of the high-strung Grymes to
glorify his enemy. His mood of exaltation has dropped from him like a
cloak—his lust for revenge vanished into thin air.
But Hemingway is not dead.
The doctors have quickly taken charge and are making an examination. The
senior physician, a tall, baldish man, looks up to meet the mute question
in Grymes’s eyes.
“He will live, sir,” says he, “but the ball has gone through his hip. Mr.
Hemingway will be crippled for life!” He turns back to his patient.
John Grymes stares down at the body of his enemy for a moment, his face
impassive. Then, without a word, he turns, slowly puts on his coat and
hat, and, followed by De Moulin, enters his carriage. The proud Scipio,
fairly radiating joy, cracks his whip over the heads of the blacks. The
carriage quickly disappears down the road, headed south, for New Orleans.
There is now a general exodus.
The motionless figure of the unconscious district attorney is carried
to the carriage and is rapidly driven away toward town, followed, at
intervals, by a string of horseback riders and carriages.
The barge on the river hauls up its anchor and soon disappears
downstream, vanishing behind a bend of cottonwoods.
Slaughterhouse Point is again deserted; steeped in the flaming radiance
of the newly-risen sun.
The sighing magnolias have a new tale to add to their repertory.