CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS.
Captain O'Blunderbuss was a gentleman of Irish extraction, and,
according to his own account, possessed of vast estates in the Emerald
Island; but it was evident to all his friends that the rents were very
irregularly paid, inasmuch as their gallant proprietor was frequently
under the necessity of soliciting the loan of a guinea, and when he
could not obtain that sum, his demand would suddenly drop to
half-a-crown or even eighteen-pence.
But whenever the Captain talked of his estates, no one ventured to
suggest a doubt relative to their existence; for the gallant officer was
a notorious duellist, having been engaged as principal in thirty-seven
of those pleasant little contests, and as second in ninety-two more.
He was about forty-five years of age, and of exceedingly fierce
appearance. His crown was entirely bald; but huge bushes of red hair
stuck out between his temples and his ears—enormous whiskers of the same
meteoric hue and portent covered half his face—and a formidable pair of
moustaches, red also, curled ominously over his upper lip, the ends
being twisted and greased so as to look like two small tails.
In person he was tall, thin, but not ill-made. He held himself
particularly upright; and as he wore a military undress coat, all
frogged and braided in the Polish fashion, and grey trousers with red
stripes down the legs, he really looked like what he called himself and
was called by others—namely, a CAPTAIN.
But he was not wont to be more explicit relative to his military
services than he was definite concerning the locality of his estates. No
one knew, and assuredly no one ever ventured to ask him, to what
regiment he had belonged. He stated himself to be _unattached_; and that
was sufficient.
We should, as faithful chroniclers, observe that it _had_ been
whispered—but then, scandal is so rife in this wicked world!—that
Captain O'Blunderbuss was never in the army at all, and that his
formidable name was merely an assumed one; and the newsmongers who
propagated these reports behind the gallant gentleman's back, not only
ridiculed the idea of his estates, but actually carried their malignant
spite so far as to insinuate that he was once the driver of a
jaunting-car in Dublin, and at that period bore the name of Teddy
O'Flaherty.
Be all this as it may, it is nevertheless very certain that Captain
O'Blunderbuss was a great man about town—that he was nodded to by
loungers in the Park—shaken hands with by dandies in Bond Street—and
invariably chosen as a second in every duel that took place on Wormwood
Scrubs, Wimbledon Common, or Battersea Fields.
Such was the terrible individual who was standing on the rug, in a most
ferocious attitude, when Sir Christopher Blunt entered the drawing-room.
The Captain desisted from twirling his moustaches, and indulged in a
good long stare at the knight, whose half-ludicrous, half-doleful
appearance was certainly remarkable enough to attract an unusual degree
of attention.
"You resayved my car-r-d, Sir Christopher Blunt?" said the Captain,
speaking in a strong Irish accent, and rattling the r in a truly
menacing manner.
"Yes, sir—I received the card of Captain O'Blunderbuss," replied Sir
Christopher, not knowing what to think or make of his strange visitor.
"And, sure, I'm Capthain O'Blunther-r-buss!" exclaimed the military
gentleman, twirling his moustache; "and I've come on the par-rt of my
friend Capthain Morthaunt—an honour-r-able man, Sir-r Christopher
Blunt!" added the gentleman emphatically, looking awfully fierce at the
same time, just as if the unfortunate knight entertained the idea of
questioning the honour of Captain Mordaunt.
"I—I've no doubt of it, sir," stammered the intimidated Blunt, looking
more wretched in proportion as the tone of his visitor became more
excited.
"By the power-rs, I'm glad ye don't doubt it!" cried the Captain; "or
you'd find yerself desayved in yer man. Well, Sir-r Christopher, the
shor-t and the long of the affair is just this:—My friend Capthain
Mordaunt feels himself aggraved on behalf of his sisther-r, and he's put
the little business into my hands to manage for-r him."
"I'm convinced that Captain Mordaunt could not have chosen a better
friend, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the knight, scarcely able to utter
a word, so sorely was he oppressed by vague alarms. "But I hope—that is,
I mean, I—in a word——"
"What do ye mane?" demanded the Captain, advancing a pace or two towards
the knight.
"Oh! nothing—only——" stammered Sir Christopher, dodging round the table,
for fear that the formidable O'Blunderbuss intended an attack upon him.
"Only what, man?" vociferated the Captain. "Sure, now, ye don't think
I'm afther ayting ye up!"
"No—oh! no! I'm not afraid of any gentleman eating me, exactly,"
observed Sir Christopher. "But if you would state the object of your
visit——"
"Be Jasus! and that's soon done!" exclaimed Captain O'Blunderbuss. "The
shor-rt facts is these:—Capthain Morthaunt is mightily attached to his
sisther-r, Miss Julia, who's a most amiable lady—for I've jist been
breakfasting with her-r and her-r brother at their lodgings in Half Moon
Street. Miss Morthaunt, as per-rhaps you are aware, returned home to her
father's mansion—a sweet place, by the bye, in Connamar-r-ra—when you
desayved her in the most gross—the most infamous manner, by running away
with a lady's-maid instead of her dear self——"
"Captain O'Blunderbuss," said Sir Christopher, "she of whom you speak is
now Lady Blunt."
"And much good may she do ye, Sir Christopher!" exclaimed the Captain.
"But, as I was saying, Miss Morthaunt comes back to London again,
smar-rting under the influence of her wrongs, which her brother has
resolved to avenge. And, therefore, Sir Christopher, you'll be so good
as jist to say whether it shall be on Wor-rmwood Scr-rubs or Wimbledon
Common; and we'll be there punctual to-morrow morning at eight o'clock."
The worthy knight looked perfectly aghast. He began to understand the
real drift of Captain O'Blunderbuss's visit; and he entertained the most
unmitigated abhorrence of the mere idea of a duel.
"Well, Sir Christopher, say the wor-rd!" resumed the gallant gentleman
with as much unconcern as if he were making arrangements for a party of
pleasure. "But per-rhaps ye'd like to consult a frind—or refer-r me to
him. That's the best way! Leave it to your frind and me; and we'll
settle everything so comfortable that you'll not have the least throuble
in the wor-rld. You can get your breakfast a thrifle earlier than
usual——"
"Breakfast!" echoed Sir Christopher, in a deep sepulchral tone;
"breakfast—when one is going out to be shot at!"
"Be the power-rs! and why not?" demanded the warlike Captain. "But here
we are, wasting our precious time, while we ought to be settling the
little business and thrying the pisthols at the Gallery."
"The pistols!" groaned Sir Christopher, his visage lengthening most
awfully, and his under-jaw completely dropping through intense alarm.
"Be Jasus! and what would ye fight with, if it isn't pisthols?" cried
the Captain.
"But pistols—pistols are so apt to—to—kill people," observed the knight,
shaking from head to foot.
"Is it afraid ye are?" demanded Captain O'Blunderbuss, twirling his
moustache, as he surveyed Sir Christopher with cool contempt.
"I do not admit such an imputation," answered the knight; "but I will
not fight with this mad-cap Mordaunt. The law shall be my protection. I
am my own master—I married whom I chose—and I will not be bullied by any
man living."
The astonishment depicted on the countenance of Captain O'Blunderbuss,
as these words met his ears, was mistaken by the knight for a feeling of
apprehension; and thus he had grown bold, or at least energetic in his
language, as he had proceeded.
"Yes, sir," he added emphatically, "the law shall protect me."
"Is it shir-rking that ye mane?" asked the Captain. "Because, if it is,
I shall feel myself bound to administer a dacent drubbing to ye, Sir
Christopher. Why, sir—it's a rale insult to _me_ to refuse to fight with
my frind!"
And, as he uttered these words, the Captain advanced in a menacing
fashion towards the knight.
"Keep off, sir! don't attempt violence against me!" exclaimed Sir
Christopher Blunt, rushing towards the fire-place to seize the poker.
"I'll not stand it, Captain O'Blunderbuss—I have been a Sheriff in my
time—I once put up for Portsoken—and I'll not submit to any insult."
"Then name your frind, sir!" thundered the gallant officer; "or-r I'll
not lave a whole bone in your skin."
"Well—I will, I will!" ejaculated Sir Christopher, anxious to get rid of
his fire-eating visitor on any terms. "Go to my nephew, Mr. Frank
Curtis: he has killed his man often enough—according to his own
account——"
"Be the power-rs! that jist suits me to a tay!" exclaimed the Captain;
"for may be he and me could jist amuse ourselves with an exchange of
shots afther you and my frind Morthaunt have settled your own small
thrifle. 'T would be a perfect God-send to me; and I've no doubt your
nev-vy will be of the same mind. Where does he hang out?"
Sir Christopher hastily mentioned the address of Mr. Frank Curtis; and
Captain O'Blunderbuss stalked away, hugely delighted at the idea of
being about to form the acquaintance of a gentleman every way so worthy
of his friendship as the knight's nephew appeared to be.
Fierce indeed was the aspect of Captain O'Blunderbuss as he marched
through the streets to the address indicated by the knight; and to the
great joy of the military gentleman, he found, on his arrival, that Mr.
Frank Curtis was at home.
"But he's not up yet, sir," said the spruce-looking tiger who opened the
front door at which the Captain had given one of his tremendous double
knocks.
"Never mind, my boy," exclaimed the visitor in an awe-inspiring tone.
"Your masther will be glad to see me, or I'm mightily desayved."
"What name shall I say, sir?" inquired the tiger.
"Faith! and I'll just take my name up along with me, my lad," returned
the Captain. "Which floor may it be now?"
"First floor, sir,—and the bed-room's at the back."
"By Jasus! you're a smar-rt lad, and a credit to your masther!"
exclaimed the Captain. "The next time I come, I'll make ye a present of
sixpence."
And with these words Captain O'Blunderbuss marched up stairs.
On reaching the landing, he knocked at the back-room door with his fist,
as if he were practising how to fell an ox; and to this peremptory
summons an invitation to "come in" was returned.
The Captain accordingly stalked into the chamber, where Mr. Frank Curtis
was breakfasting in bed, a table well spread being drawn up close by the
side of his couch.
"Be Jasus! I knew you was a boy afther my own heart!" ejaculated the
Captain, as he caught sight of a bottle of whiskey which stood near the
tea-pot: then, closing the door, he advanced up to the bed, and, pulling
off his buckskin glove, said, "Misther Curtis, here's my hand. Tip us
your's, my boy—and let's know each other without any more pother."
Mr. Frank Curtis accepted the proffered hand with delight; for the
amiable deportment of the visitor now relieved his mind from the vague
fears that had been excited in it by the unceremonious entry and
ferocious appearance of the Captain.
"And how are ye, Misther Curtis?" continued this gentleman, drawing a
chair close to the bed, and depositing his gloves in his hat, and his
hat on the table.
"Quite blooming, old fellow, thank'ee!" returned Frank, to whom all this
familiarity was by no means displeasing. "But what will you take? shall
I ring for another cup and plate? or will you take a dram of the
whiskey?"
"The potheen, my boy—the potheen for me!" exclaimed the Captain,
grasping the bottle.
"You'll find it rather good, I fancy," said Curtis. "My friend the
Russian Ambassador sent it round last night, with his best respects——"
"And my respects to him and to you both!" cried the Captain: then,
having drained his glass, he drew a long breath, and said, "Be Jasus!
that's some of the right sor-rt!"
"Help yourself then, old fellow!" said Frank, in as free and easy a
manner as if he had known his visitor all his life. "I can get plenty
more where that came from. Old Brandyokouski, the Polish Ambassador's
butler, has had orders to give me the entire run of his master's cellar;
for me and his Excellency are as thick as two thieves. He is pestering
me from morning to night to dine with him——"
"No wonther, Misther Curtis!" interrupted the Captain; "for you're the
most agreeable jintleman I've the honour to be acquainted with."
"And what's your name, old boy?" asked Frank, as he proceeded with his
breakfast.
"Captain O'Blunderbuss, at your service, my dear frind," was the answer,
while the individual who gave it helped himself to another glass of the
whiskey, which was certainly the best that the _Stilton Cheese_ round
the corner could supply.
"Delighted to form your acquaintance, Captain!" exclaimed Curtis,
suddenly becoming a trifle less familiar,—for the name was well known to
him, in connexion too with the notoriety of a duellist. "And might I
inquire what business——"
"Oh! we'll talk about that presently," interrupted the Captain. "Your
uncle, Sir-r Christopher Blunt, recommended you to me in the strongest
ter-rms—the most flatter-ring ter-rms, I may say——"
"Indeed!" ejaculated Mr. Curtis, with unfeigned surprise—for he had not
seen, nor spoken to the knight for some weeks.
"Be the power-rs! he gave you a splindid char-r-acter, Misther Curtis!"
cried Captain O'Blunderbuss; "and it was quite longing to know ye, I
was. But we'll talk on business presently. I'm in no hurry—and we'll
have a cozie chat first. May be my name is not altogether strange to
ye?"
"By no means," answered Curtis, now thoroughly convinced that the object
of his new friend's visit was altogether of an amicable character. "I
have heard of your renown, and must say that I have envied it. But I've
done a little in the same line myself—chiefly in France, though. I'll be
bound the name of the Marquis of Soupe-Maigre is not unknown to you."
"Yes—I've heard spake of it," returned the Captain, helping himself to
another glass of whiskey.
"Well—the Duke and me fought with small swords for three hours one
morning," continued Frank; "and at length I managed to scratch the
little finger of his left hand. In France, you know, a duel always ends
when the first blood is drawn; and so the Count flung away his sword,
acknowledged that I'd beat him, and we've been bosom friends ever
since."
"Give me your hand, my broth of a boy!" exclaimed the Captain: "I was
not desayved in you! You're as fine spirited as your potheen. Why! be
the power-rs, you're a confir-rmed duellist."
"To be sure! and I have killed my man, too," responded Frank, delighted
to perceive that he had made a deep impression on his companion. "There
was the famous Spaniard, you know—what was his name again? Oh! ah! Don
Juan Stiletto del Guerilla! He was a dreadful fellow—the terror of all
Paris, where he was staying when I was also there. Well, one evening—it
was at the King's fancy-ball—this Portuguese fellow gave himself such
airs that there was no bearing him. He insulted all the gentlemen, and
smirked at all the ladies. At length the Archbishop of Paris, who was in
full canonicals, appealed to me to put down the insolent Italian; I
undertook the task—and picked a quarrel with him in no time. The ladies
all looked upon me as one devoted to death: and though I say it who
shouldn't, a great deal of tender sympathy was shown towards me. Well,
next morning me and the German met on the very top of Montmartre; and in
a quarter of an hour my gentleman was weltering in his blood. That
affair won for me the love of the beautiful Countess of Dunkirk:—but she
is gone down to the tomb—and I am left behind to mourn her loss!"
And Mr. Frank Curtis took a large bite of a muffin, doubtless to subdue
the sigh which rose to his lips at this sad reminiscence.
"Be the holy poker-r! it's a touching business," cried the Captain, who
had by this time fully seen through the mendacious braggadocio of Mr.
Frank Curtis, and had come to the conclusion that he was as great a
coward in reality as his uncle.
But the gallant Captain O'Blunderbuss did not choose to suffer the young
gentleman to perceive that he understood him, as the whiskey was too
much to his taste to allow him to lose the chance of emptying the bottle
by a too precipitate rupture.
Frank, firmly believing that all his fine stories were taken as gospel
by his visitor, rattled away in his usual style—heaping lie upon lie at
such a rate, that, had his falsehoods been mountains, the piling thereof
would have outdone the feats of Titan with Ossa and Pelion.
At length the Captain began to thrust in a few words edgeways, as the
contents of the bottle got lower and lower.
"Your uncle, Misther Curtis, seems a nice old jintleman. His face was
rarely plasthered this mornin', as if he'd been in the war-r-rs a
thrifle or so."
"Perhaps his wife had been giving him a taste of her claws?" said Frank,
with a coarse giggle.
"Be Saint Path-rick! and that's just what struck me!" exclaimed the
Captain.
"She's a very devil, I know," continued Frank. "But, I say, old
fellow—what little business was it that took you to old Sir
Christopher's, and made him refer you to me?"
[Illustration]
"Is it the little business?" cried the Captain. "Och? and be Jasus!
then, it's jist that affair of my friend Morthaunt, who manes to shoot
Sir Christopher-r to-mor-r-row mor-r-r-ning before breakfast."
"Shoot Sir Christopher!" ejaculated Frank, apparently more surprised
than annoyed.
"Or else jist get shot himself, be the power-rs!" added Captain
O'Blunderbuss. "And it's becase it's myself that's Morthaunt's frind,
Sir Christopher has referred me to you as his frind."
"Then it's a regular duel?" said Frank, opening his eyes wider and
wider.
"The purtiest little affair I ever had a finger in, Misther Curtis,"
responded the Captain, now looking tremendously fierce; for although he
had imbibed at least a pint of pure spirit without experiencing the
least inconvenience in respect to his brain, the effects were
nevertheless apparent in an awful rubicundity of countenance: "the
purtiest little affair, certainly," he continued; "and it now only
remains for you and me jist to settle the place—time being of cour-rse
in the mornin at eight."
"And do you mean to say that my old uncle has agreed to fight this duel
with Captain Mordaunt?" inquired Frank.
"Be Jasus! it's for you to bring him to the scratch, Misther Curtis; or
else——"
"Or else what?" demanded the young gentleman, oppressed by a vague
presentiment of evil.
"Or else, be the holy poker-r! you must fight _me_!" returned Captain
O'Blunderbuss, twirling his moustache in the coolest and calmest manner
possible.
"Fight _you_?" ejaculated Frank, turning ashy pale.
"As a matther of cour-rse!" answered the Captain. "A famous duellist
like Misther Curtis, can't be at a loss on a point of honour."
"But why the devil should I fight _you_?" demanded the young gentleman,
his heart palpitating audibly.
"Why the devil shouldn't ye?" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss. "Answer
me that, my frind?"
"My dear sir—it's really—I mean, you—that is to say, I think, with all
due deference——" stammered Frank, growing every moment more and more
alarmed.
"Be Jasus! I've said nothing I don't mane to stick to!" exclaimed the
martial gentleman, now assuming an expression of countenance so fierce
that Frank Curtis began to have serious misgivings that his visitor
intended to assault him then and there.
"But, my dear Captain——this proceeding——" said Frank, assuming a tone of
excruciating politeness.
"Is going on beautifully, Misther Curtis. And so, as you seem to have a
little delicacy in putting yourself too for-rward in the matther,"
continued the Captain, "we'll jist say Battersea Fields, to-morrow
mornin', at eight o'clock. Good bye, Misther Curtis."
With these words the Captain took up his hat, and stalked majestically
out of the room, banging the door violently after him.
Frank Curtis fell back in his bed, and gave vent to his feelings in a
deep groan.
The door opened again with a crash; and the Captain thrust in his
inflamed visage, exclaiming, "Ye'll remember, Misther Curtis, that I
hould ye responsible in this matther; and that if ye can't bring the
uncle to the scratch, ye must come yourself; or, be Jasus! I'll be
afther ye to the inds of the ear-rth!"
The head was withdrawn again, and the door once more slammed violently.
Frank Curtis gave a hollow moan, thrust himself down in the bed, and
drew the clothes over his face, as if to shut out some dreadful spectre
from his sight.