11 We See a Play
I awoke the next morning with Mercer pulling my arm.
“Are you going to sleep all day?” he asked. “Your kinsman, Major Northcote, has gone already, and breakfast is waiting for the rest of us.”
The company was rather grim and quiet at the breakfast table, and Major Northcote’s early departure alone caused no comment. An hour or two later another coach from Philadelphia for New York, fortunately with but few passengers, picked us up, and we continued our journey along a muddy road, but on a day of sunshine and brightness, over an earth on which the hues of spring were deepening. Night was coming when we reached Paulus Hook, and taking the boat in order to cross the North River we saw the lights of New York twinkling on the farther shore. As our company was about to separate Mr. Starbuck, who knew that we would come to Boston, asked us to visit him there, and promised to give us any help that he could.
We had selected Fraunce’s Tavern as our stopping place, and being somewhat wearied by the long journey we proceeded to it at once. Early the next morning I went to the new City Hall to present one of my letters from Mr. Gallatin to Mayor Jacob Radcliffe. He received me in kindly fashion, promised to give me all the assistance he could, and asked me to call upon him at his house. I thanked him, and, noticing that others were waiting to see him, I went out and rejoined Courtenay and Mercer, who were waiting in the fine little park on the north side of which the City Hall stands. At the southeast corner of the park we saw another building that attracted my attention, and which a watchman told us was the famous Park Theatre.
We approached the theatre more closely and saw from some bills printed in very large letters that George Frederick Cooke, the renowned English actor, was to play Richard III there that night. This was an opportunity that none of us dreamed of missing.
I bought three tickets for the evening’s performance, and then we strolled through the city, noting the great business and activity of its people and the large amount of building that was going on, despite the heavy losses caused by the embargo and the confiscation of our ships by England and France. We soon wandered to the north end of the town to Canal Street, as they now call the new avenue across the island, through the centre of which flowed the canal dug by the Dutch, generations ago. The work on this fine avenue had just been completed. It was one hundred feet wide, with the ditch or little canal flowing down the centre, while on each side was a broad drive lined with fine residences. There were shade trees and some benches, and we took seats on one of the latter to enjoy the bright morning.
Presently a wisp of a man came along and sat down on one end of our bench. He was of my own age, but very far from my size. His raiment was abundant and gorgeous to behold, the most brilliant portions of it being an embroidered waistcoat, which flamed in the rays of the sun, and a great blue silk muffler or tie wound around his throat. He carried a large cane, which at intervals he twirled skilfully and daintily around his fingers, and he had sprinkled himself with such strong perfumes that the wind got a touch of them all.
Presently his cane, in one of its many revolutions, struck lightly against me. I expected him to ask my pardon, but not seeming to notice it he continued his twirling of the cane and his bowings to the ladies, varying both now and then with a great yawn.
“Sir, you owe me an apology,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder, not really caring for the blow but curious to hear what he would say.
He looked at me as if he had not noticed my presence before.
“Ah, true, I forgot,” he said, smothering a yawn with a small white hand that had rings on it. “Consider it done.”
He interested me and I pursued the subject.
“Sir,” I said, “I do not consider anything done until it is done.”
“Then I apologize,” he said in languid tones.
He said nothing more for some time, and we sat watching the people. A dozen marines in the English uniform passed. I guessed that they were a detachment from the British war ships on watch at the entrance to the harbour, and my heart burned at this evidence of our disgrace and of Great Britain’s arrogance and hostility.
“They should not be allowed to put foot on shore,” I said to Courtenay. “These are the men who impress and murder our sailors, confiscate our ships, and insult us all over the world.”
“We’ll fight ’em yet,” said Felix.
“And if you fight them, do you think you will whip them?” asked the fop, suddenly speaking up.
“I would think very little of the American who didn’t think so,” said Mercer.
“I don’t think it,” said the dandy. “Don’t you know that Great Britain is the most glorious of all nations?”
“Her greatness and glory may be what you say,” I said, “but she is also the most bitter and arrogant enemy that we have.”
“All our fault! all our fault!” he said, waving his cane. “We should not have rebelled against her kind care and protection. Naturally she chastises us now with a firm hand. But his Majesty and his advisers mean it for our own good, and, besides, they are engaged now in a mortal struggle to save the world from the dominion of the usurper, despot, and tyrant, Bonaparte.”
This was a little more than I expected. I had heard that there were some fops and half-breed Americans in the Eastern cities who preached such a doctrine, but I did not look for anything so extreme. Such talk would have sounded perfectly natural from Major Northcote.
“Do you, then,” I asked, “defend Great Britain in her aggressions upon us?”
“Certainly,” he replied with much superciliousness. “With our chaotic government we are bound to go to pieces in time, and we will be reannexed by her. She has the only proper and permanent form of government.”
This was the man, and not I, to whom Major Northcote should have preached his doctrines.
“Do you want a king?” I asked.
“Why, yes, of course!”
“Then you should emigrate.”
“We shall see who is to emigrate,” he said.
He began to twirl his cane again, and whistled some foreign air. In a few minutes he rose and strolled away, still whistling and twirling his cane.
“A curious little fellow,” said Mercer, looking after the little woman-man.
“At any rate, we’ll never see him again,” said Courtenay, “and I’m glad of it. But I wonder what his name is.”
We continued our wanderings about the city, but returned to our tavern before dusk, wishing to array ourselves in our best for the play, as we understood that it was very fashionable and a great crowd was likely to be present. These toilets completed to our satisfaction we went to the theatre, and found that the people were arriving already. Our tickets gave us seats close to the stage, where the view would be good, but I found some difficulty in disposing of my knees. Then we watched the people enter. I recognised Mayor Radcliffe as he passed to his box, and another man, who came in a moment later, was, as I learned afterward, the celebrated De Witt Clinton, then a candidate for the lieutenant-governorship of the State, much to the surprise of everybody, who thought him above anything but the governorship. He was followed soon by Governor Tompkins himself, who was down on a short visit from Albany. We saw also the people of New York, those noted for wealth and social position, and the theatre, when it was filled, was the most glittering show that I had ever beheld, both the men and the women being dressed with great richness.
But the curtain rose on the plots and passions of the humpbacked Richard, and while I was absorbed in the play a little man pushed by me, followed by two or three others. It seemed to me to be an affront to everybody that they should come in so late, disturbing more punctual people and forcing a large man like myself to shove his knees under him that they might have room to pass. This annoyance was not decreased when I looked around and saw that the little man was the fop with whom we had had the small passage of words in the morning, and whom I had never expected to see again. He sank down in the seat on my right, Courtenay and Mercer being on my left, and, putting a little round glass to his eye, stared at me for a moment with an air of languid insolence. Then he turned and talked in exhausted tones to his companions. I heard something about “Western giant,” but caught nothing more, as I turned my attention to the stage, though I had taken time to notice that his three companions were men of the same stripe as himself.
When the first act closed and the curtain fell, the fops began to talk and to tell each other how tiresome it all was. There were no real actors now, at least one would have to go to Europe to see them, and nobody would expect a player of great merit to come to such a country as this. I had an idea that they meant to annoy us, and soon became convinced of it, for they looked directly at us.
“If you don’t like the play,” I said to the little man, “why did you come? One does not come here to do penance.”
He put his glass again to his eye and gave me a very supercilious stare.
“Do you know,” said he, “that it is my own exclusive business whether I like the play or not?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said; “you may have the right not to like it, but we also have the right to demand that you keep your opinions to yourself and not disturb the audience by uttering them.”
The fop was about to reply, but the curtain was rising on another act, and our neighbours were demanding silence so emphatically that he was compelled to obey. I was glad of it, as I wanted to watch the play, and, besides, it was no place for petty wrangling. I was already ashamed of my part in it.
The curtain went down again, and the people began to talk.
“Mr. Cooke is a great actor,” I said.
“But he is an Englishman,” spoke up the little fop in an ironical tone, “and surely you will not admit that an Englishman can do anything well.”
“His nationality is nothing to me,” I said. “I speak only of the actor.”
“I have no doubt,” he said in the same ironical tone, “that he will be extremely pleased to hear that he has won the approval of a young man just from the banks of the Ohio.”
“I’ll thank you not to speak to me again,” I said. “I don’t want to be seen in conversation with you. I don’t know any of these people around us, but I may in time, and they would remember it against me.”
His eyes flashed angrily at me. but the curtain was rising on the last act and I turned my eyes to the stage, where I kept them until the play was over.
There was a great bustle and much noise as the people rose to go. They began to talk of the play and many things as they put on their cloaks and other wraps. I came back with regret from the victorious field of Bosworth to the year of my own time—1811.
“Will you kindly let us pass?”
It was the little fop who was speaking, and while his words were polite his tone was not.
“You are blocking up all the aisle with your large Western body,” he continued.
His comrades laughed, and he made some more sneering allusions to what he was pleased to consider my lack of tone and fashion, assuming that I was ignorant because I came from the West. He was decidedly insulting, and I know my face turned red. Courtenay and Mercer too looked angry.
“Just a moment,” I said politely, “and I will clear the way for you.”
I had brought my heavy frieze overcoat with me, thinking that the night might turn cold, as spring was as yet by no means a certainty in the New York latitude. I put my arms through the sleeves, drew the coat upon my shoulders, and hastily began to button it, that I might move on and give the little man and his comrades a clear path. The fop was standing almost against me, holding his cane stiffly and perpendicularly in his hand, like a soldier with a bayonet at drill. He, too, wore a big coat, with the edges sticking out in front like great frills.
In my haste, I will not undertake to account for it otherwise, we were so close together, I buttoned the button of my overcoat into the buttonhole of his, and then started quickly to leave the theatre, Courtenay and Mercer going on ahead.
“I will not delay you further,” I said as I took the first step. “I apologize for the inconvenience that I have caused you already.”
Nearly all of the people were out of the theatre, and hence there was nothing to prevent my hurrying. But when I had got a dozen steps, cries and curses arose, and I noticed something dragging at me.
“Release me, sir! Release me! What do you mean by such a gross insult? This is unpardonable! Release me this instant!”
I looked down in surprise, and there, pinned like a bouquet to the second button of my overcoat, was that little man; but failing to appreciate the honour, he was as red as a tomato in the face, and was crying out and squirming like a butterfly.
“I beg your pardon,” I cried as I unbuttoned him from me and put him safely on his feet on the floor. “I hope you will forgive me. It was an accident—an awkward one—but still an accident. I did not notice, and I trust you will overlook it.”
I thought I would try some of the sarcasm of which he seemed to be so fond, and it was effective. The red in his face deepened; in fact, I imagined that I could see a purple streak in it.
“You have insulted me and exposed me to ignominy before all these people,” he cried, “and you will have to give me satisfaction!”
About a dozen people were still left in the theatre, and they stopped and looked at us with amusement and curiosity.
“But he has apologized already,” said Courtenay, in the corners of whose mouth I could see a faint smile. “What else do you ask?”
“Take that, and I will let you know later,” he said furiously, thrusting a small card into my hand.
I looked at it and read, engraved in its centre, this large name:
Horace Walpole Van Steenkeek.
“What am I to do with this?” I asked, not yet suspecting his meaning.
“Keep it,” he said, “and I will let you know. That is my name, sir.”
“Let me see it,” said Mercer, reaching over and taking it from my hand. He examined it critically.
“The name is too large for you, Mr. Van Steenkerk,” he said, “and, besides, it’s too much of a mixture; the first half is English, decidedly English, but the last half is Dutch, decidedly Dutch.”
“My family is one of the oldest, and therefore one of the best in New York,” said the little man proudly, “and my name is representative of my blood and race—pure Dutch on my father’s side, pure English on my mother’s side.”
“Therefore you can not take an insult,” said one of his friends, “and this gentleman must fight you.”
“That is so!” said Mr. Van Steenkerk emphatically.
I was astonished. I had not suspected so much.
“Do you mean that I must fight a duel with you?” I asked.
“Certainly, unless you are afraid,” replied Mr. Van Steenkerk.
Now, we fought duels in Kentucky and Tennessee, but here in the North and East they were condemned, which seemed to me an entirely proper view to take of them. Moreover, the great shock caused by the killing of Mr. Hamilton by Mr. Burr in sight of this very city was remembered by everybody. New York was the last place in which I expected to receive a challenge to a deadly combat.
“Nonsense,” said Mercer quickly; “my friend, Mr. Philip Ten Broeck, of Kentucky, is not afraid of you or anybody else; but he, like Mr. Courtenay and myself, thinks it absurd to fight a duel over such a trivial matter. There is no cause of quarrel; you can not name one yourself.”
But they would have it that I must fight, and their belligerency increased with our reluctance. The cooler our tempers became, the warmer grew theirs. Mr. Van Steenkerk’s chief friend was introduced as Mr. Percy Knowlton; the names of the others I forget. We gave them our names, and, as they were turning out the lights and closing the theatre, we walked out into the park together, where we stopped in a group.
“Then,” said Courtenay, “you gentlemen can not rest satisfied unless our Mr. Ten Broeck fights your Mr. Van Steenkerk.”
“Unless he is willing to be branded as a coward,” said Mr. Knowlton.
“That, of course, is impossible,” said Courtenay, “and since you have no other alternative, Ten Broeck shall fight him.”
“But I don’t want to,” I protested.
“You shall do it nevertheless,” said Courtenay firmly. “The choice of weapons is ours. We will meet you somewhere to-morrow and arrange the details; where shall it be?”
“I would propose the old duelling ground at Weehawken,” said Mr. Knowlton, “but it would be better not to go there. But I know a good quiet spot over on Long Island that will do.”
He named a place far back of the little town of Brooklyn, near the sea, and described it so that we could not miss it.
We agreed to this, and saying good night to each other very politely went to our respective lodgings.
Courtenay, Mercer, and I had a bed each in a large room on the third floor of Fraunce’s Tavern. Felix lighted the lamp, and we sat down and looked at each other. I was in no very good humour, and I was willing to say that I was not.
“What do you mean, Felix,” I asked, “by making me fight that little fellow with the big English-Dutch name? Why, I can’t fight such a man!”
“You can and you shall,” said Courtenay.
“But,” I protested, “I was sent up here on important business by the Government, and I have no right to fight. I wouldn’t mind it so much if he were a man of near my own size, but I couldn’t kill a doll like that; it would be a disgrace, and it would be a still greater disgrace to be killed by him.”
Both Mercer and Courtenay laughed.
“But you will have to fight, Phil,” said Courtenay; “if you don’t those fellows will post you all over town as a coward, and you can’t stand that, however much you may be opposed to duelling. It would be a lifelong disgrace to you at home. You are in this muddle, and you will have to fight your way out of it, literally.”
I recognised the truth of what he said.
“Sit there,” he continued, “and Tom and I will talk this over. Remember that you are completely in our hands, and will have nothing to do until you face your antagonist and the word is given to you to fight.”
They withdrew into a corner and began to talk in low tones, while I sat in my chair and stared glumly through the window at the darkness. I was both angry and ashamed at being drawn into such an affair, and my shame was all the greater because I believed that it was partly my own fault. I should have treated the little dandy with contempt, ignoring all his sneers. Evidently he was not a coward, whatever his other faults might be.
Courtenay and Mercer announced that the conference was over, and we went to bed. Wearied by the events of the day, I slept soon and soundly, despite the prospects for the morrow.