The storm was gathering, and a black arch of clouds had formed over our
heads; the atmosphere was misty; nature was evidently about to justify
Dr. Pitferge’s presentiments. The steam-ship had slackened her speed,
and the wheels only made three or four revolutions a minute; volumes of
white steam escaped from the half-open valves, the anchor-chains were
cleared, and the British flag floated from the main-mast; these
arrangements Captain Anderson had made preparatory to mooring. The
pilot, standing on the top of the starboard paddle, guided the
steam-ship through the narrow passages; but the tide was already
turning, so that the “Great Eastern” could not yet cross the bar of the
Hudson, and we must wait till next day.
At a quarter to five by the pilot’s order the anchors were let go; the
chains rattled through the hawse-holes with a noise like thunder. I even
thought for a moment that the storm had burst forth. When the anchors
were firmly embedded in the sand, the “Great Eastern” swung round by the
ebb tide, remained motionless, and not a wave disturbed the surface of
the water.
At this moment the steward’s trumpet sounded for the last time; it
called the passengers to their farewell dinner. The “Society of
Freighters” would be prodigal with the champagne, and no one wished to
be absent. An hour later the saloons were crowded with guests, and the
deck deserted.
However, seven persons left their places unoccupied; the two
adversaries, who were going to stake their lives in a duel, the four
seconds, and the Doctor, who was to be present at the engagement. The
time and the place for the meeting had been well chosen; there was not a
creature on deck; the passengers were in the dining-rooms, the sailors
in their berths, the officers absorbed with their own particular
bottles, and not a steersman on board, for the ship was motionless at
anchor.
At ten minutes past five the Doctor and I were joined by Fabian and
Captain Corsican. I had not seen Fabian since the scene in the
smoking-room. He seemed to me sad, but very calm. The thought of the
duel troubled him little, apparently; his mind was elsewhere, and his
eyes wandered restlessly in search of Ellen. He held out his hand to me
without saying a word.
“Has not Harry Drake arrived?” asked the Captain of me.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Let us go to the stern; that is the place of rendezvous.”
Fabian, Captain Corsican, and I, walked along the upper decks; the sky
was growing dark; we heard the distant roar of thunder rumbling along
the horizon. It was like a monotonous bass, enlivened by the hips and
hurrahs issuing from the saloons; flashes of lightning darted through
the black clouds, and the atmosphere was powerfully charged with
electricity.
At twenty minutes past five Harry Drake and his seconds made their
appearance. The gentlemen bowed to us, which honour we strictly
returned. Drake did not utter a word, but his face showed signs of
ill-concealed excitement. He cast a look of malignant hatred on Fabian;
but the latter, leaning against the hatchway, did not even see him; so
absorbed was he in a profound meditation, he seemed not yet to have
thought of the part he was to play in this drama.
In the meanwhile Captain Corsican, addressing himself to the Yankee, one
of Drake’s seconds, asked him for the swords, which the latter presented
to him. They were battle swords, the basket-hilts of which entirely
protected the hand which held them. Corsican took them, bent, and
measured them, and then allowed the Yankee to choose. Whilst these
preparations were being made, Harry Drake had taken off his hat and
jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and turned up his sleeves; then he seized
his sword, and I saw that he was left-handed, which gave him, accustomed
to right-handed antagonists, an unquestionable advantage.
Fabian had not yet left the place where he was standing. One would have
thought that these preparations had nothing to do with him. Captain
Corsican went up to him, touched him, and showed him the sword. Fabian
looked at the glittering steel, and it seemed as if his memory came back
to him at that moment.
He grasped his sword with a firm hand.
“Right!” he murmured; “I remember!”
Then he placed himself opposite Harry Drake, who immediately assumed the
defensive.
“Proceed, gentlemen,” said the Captain.
They immediately crossed swords. From the first clashing of steel,
several rapid passes on both sides, certain extrications, parries, and
thrusts proved to me the equality in strength of the opponents. I
augured well for Fabian. He was cool, self-possessed, and almost
indifferent to the struggle; certainly less affected by it than were his
own seconds. Harry Drake, on the contrary, scowled at him with flashing
eyes and clenched teeth, his head bent forward, and his whole
countenance indicative of a hatred which deprived him of all composure.
He had come there to kill, and kill he would.
After the first engagement, which lasted some minutes, swords were
lowered. With the exception of a slight scratch on Fabian’s arm, neither
of the combatants had been wounded. They rested, and Drake wiped off the
perspiration with which his face was bathed.
The storm now burst forth in all its fury. The thunder was continuous,
and broke out in loud deafening reports; the atmosphere was charged with
electricity to such an extent that the swords were gilded with luminous
crests, like lightning conductors in the midst of thunder clouds.
After a few moments’ rest, Corsican again gave the signal to proceed,
and Fabian and Harry Drake again fell to work.
This time the fight was much more animated; Fabian defending himself
with astounding calmness, Drake madly attacking him. Several times I
expected a stroke from Fabian, which was not even attempted.
Suddenly, after some quick passes, Drake made a rapid stroke. I thought
that Fabian must have been struck in the chest, but, warding off the
blow, he struck Harry Drake’s sword smartly. The latter raised and
covered himself by a swift semi-circle; whilst the lightning rent the
clouds overhead.
Suddenly, and without anything to explain this strange surrender of
himself, Fabian dropped his sword. Had he been mortally wounded without
our noticing it? The blood rushed wildly to my heart. Fabian’s eyes had
grown singularly animated.
“Defend yourself,” roared Drake, drawing himself up like a tiger ready
to spring on to his prey.
I thought that it was all over with Fabian, disarmed as he was. Corsican
threw himself between him and his enemy, to prevent the latter from
striking a defenceless man; but now Harry Drake in his turn stood
motionless.
I turned, and saw Ellen, pale as death, her hands stretched out, coming
towards the duellists. Fabian, fascinated by this apparition, remained
perfectly still.
“You! you!” cried Harry Drake to Ellen; “you here!”
[Illustration: I TURNED, AND SAW ELLEN, PALE AS DEATH.]
His uplifted blade gleamed as though on fire; one might have said it was
the sword of the archangel Michael in the hands of a demon.
Suddenly a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the whole stern. I was
almost knocked down, and felt suffocated, for the air was filled with
sulphur; but by a powerful effort I regained my senses.
I had fallen on one knee, but I got up and looked around. Ellen was
leaning on Fabian. Harry Drake seemed petrified, and remained in the
same position, but his face had grown black.
Had the unhappy man been struck when attracting the lightning with his
blade?
Ellen left Fabian, and went up to Drake with her face full of holy
compassion. She placed her hand on his shoulder; even this light touch
was enough to disturb the equilibrium, and Drake fell to the ground a
corpse.
Ellen bent over the body, whilst we drew back terrified. The wretched
Harry Drake was dead.
“Struck by lightning,” said Dean Pitferge, catching hold of my arm.
“Struck by lightning! Ah! will you not now believe in the intervention
of thunder?”
Had Harry Drake indeed been struck by lightning as Dean Pitferge
affirmed, or rather, as the doctor on board said, had a blood-vessel
broken in his chest? I can only say there was nothing now but a corpse
before our eyes.