12 At the Dueling Ground

We awoke early, and Courtenay went out to the shops to buy some things which he said he needed. He returned presently with two or three bundles, but I did not ask him about them, having the business with Van Steenkerk on my mind. Then, at Courtenay’s suggestion, we ate a good solid breakfast.

“A general always likes to feed his soldiers well before going into battle,” said Courtenay, “and Mercer and I will do that much for you. We can’t afford to let this wisp of a fop beat you.”

Then we went out for a short stroll through the town before going over to the meeting place, Courtenay carrying a long black bag under his arm. But with such a serious business on our hands we soon tired of sightseeing, and, taking the ferry, crossed over to Brooklyn, going thence to the designated spot, a quiet open place near the sea and beyond the Narrows. We found no one there to meet us, and Courtenay, looking at his watch, informed us that we were at least three quarters of an hour ahead of time. At his suggestion we walked on a bit.

Passing through some trees, we saw two large ships anchored near the shore. They were war ships, for the muzzles of guns in tiers looked at us. Over both floated the British flag. A small schooner, a trading vessel which flew the American colors, was anchored between them, and a boat containing men in the British uniform was passing from her to the smaller of the two war ships.

“What ships are those?” asked Mercer of a farmer who was leaning against a tree looking at the frigates.

“Don’t you know?” he replied. “I thought everybody knew those two ships.”

“We are strangers here,” said Mercer.

“The ship farthest out,” said the farmer, “is the British fifty-gun frigate Leander, and the other is the British thirty-eight-gun frigate Guerriere. They are here to find out where all American vessels are going, or from what place they come, and also they search them to take out of them any sailors who may be of British birth, and at the same time any American sailors that they want. I’ve seen them with as many as half a dozen of our ships at once halted under their guns to be searched. See, they’ve been going through that schooner now, and I guess they’ve taken a man out of her, for there’s one in the boat that has no uniform on.”

They ascended the deck of the Guerriere, and we could see plainly that the man who wore no uniform was a prisoner, probably an American, for the New England men were fine sailors, better than the English, and the British captains took them wherever they could.

We had been hearing for years of these things, but we never thought we should witness such an immeasurable disgrace. History tells us that there were thousands of such instances, and here were the frigates on watch at the entrance to our most important port, as they had been for months and years, searching our ships and carrying off our men with perfect impunity, almost in sight of the city of New York, and that too with all the circumstances of arrogance and insult. Can you wonder that so many of us hated the English then?

I noticed the Guerriere carefully. Of all the English ships on our coast this had won the most evil fame, and was the best hated. She was the most active in overhauling our vessels and in kidnapping our sailors, and it was her captain who would enter the name of his ship as a kind of defiance upon the log books of the vessels which she had searched; and it was the same Guerriere that caused her name to be printed in immense letters extending the full length of her fore-topsail, that the American captains might see it from afar and tremble.

So it was no wonder that I watched with interest a ship which not only delighted to inflict outrage upon Americans, but to insult them also. She was a fine frigate, that the English had taken from the French and fitted up in perfect style. Her prow, of white and gold, was turned slightly toward us, and her carved figurehead rose and fell with the gentle lap of the water.

“And that’s the Guerriere?” I said to the farmer.

“That’s the Guerriere,” he replied, “and her men have boasted a thousand times in that city over there that they can sink any American ship that floats.”

I will confess that I was afraid the boast was true. You must understand the reputation that the English navy then held throughout the world. In all the naval wars and innumerable sea combats with France, Spain, Denmark, and Holland, since the middle of the preceding century, she had been uniformly victorious. In scores of sea fights with these antagonists, ship for ship, she had lost but five or six frigates, and she had captured enough from them or sunk enough of theirs to make a huge navy. She had destroyed the fleet of Napoleon in Aboukir Bay, and again had crushed the combined fleets of France and Spain at Trafalgar—an event that was still fresh in the memory of us all. A British thirty-eight-gun frigate was always good enough for a French fifty, and never hesitated to attack a Spaniard of twice her size, and would whip her too. All of us remembered Nelson’s reply to the Spanish admiral who, captured by him, asked him to say in his report that he had fought well. “Yes,” replied the great English sea fighter, “you fought very well for a Spaniard.” Now the English swept the sea with a thousand ships of war, and were mistress of it everywhere. They felt their victories and their pride too, and never hesitated to show it. Only the officers and sailors of our own little navy, twenty ships all told, the biggest a forty-four, maintained that they could meet the British and beat them too, ship for ship, gun for gun, and man for man. But we landsmen, Americans even, did not believe them. Such was then the glory of the British navy, and the fear that it inspired, allied as courage and superior skill seemed to be with overwhelming members.

The kidnapped sailor was taken upon the deck of the Guerriere, and what became of him I know not. The little schooner turned her sails to the wind, and, her prow cutting the blue water, passed out to sea. It was a bright spring morning in a time of peace, official peace, and his Majesty’s Government of Great Britain was continually extending its good wishes to the United States of America, and trusting that the republic would not yield to the evil influence of the despot and tyrant, Bonaparte; meanwhile a British fleet kept incessant watch at the entrance of every American port, and exercised all the power and arrogance of an overwhelming victor in war with its European neighbours.

The two ships swung placidly in the water. Their spars and masts, tapering and symmetrical in their outlines, formed a black tracery against the sky. The bright uniforms of British officers could be seen upon the decks, and we were near enough to hear now and then a word of command from the officers.

“It’s the money lovers of these Eastern cities who make us stand this,” said Mercer. “I’d fight first if every city we had should be burned to the ground.”

“Come away,” said Courtenay, “I don’t want to see it any longer.”

We walked back toward the spot at which we were to meet Mr. Van Steenkerk and his companions, and saw them approaching, all dressed in the extreme fashion of the day and looking fresh and natty.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Van Steenkerk very politely. “Have you been taking a view of the sea?”

“We have been watching your beloved British, who are engaged in the lawful and peaceful occupation of blockading this port,” said Courtenay.

Van Steenkerk did not reply; I fancy that even he could not defend the scene that we had witnessed. I noticed that Knowlton also carried a black bag under his arm, though it was smaller than Courtenay’s.

“Well, gentlemen, we are assembled for serious business,” said Knowlton.

“Certainly,” said Courtenay, “and since we are here in this quiet spot, I propose that we not only settle the preliminaries, but have the duel also this morning.”

“That suits us exactly,” said Knowlton. “There is no reason whatever for delay.”

“Are you agreed, Mr. Ten Broeck?” asked Courtenay.

“Yes.”

“And you, Mr. Van Steenkerk?” asked Knowlton.

“Yes.”

I retracted some of my bad opinion of the little man. He certainly seemed to be no coward.

“Then there is nothing to do,” said Courtenay, “but to produce the weapons and fight. Of course, we being the challenged have the choice of weapons.”

“Of course, of course,” said Knowlton; “but thinking that we might settle the whole affair while we were here, and that you would not be provided, I brought the weapons along with me, and very good ones they are too.”

He opened his black bag and produced two extremely handsome small swords, exactly alike.

“Not at all,” said Courtenay; “we do not choose swords, since our man has never used one. We choose better weapons; we choose these.”

He opened his own black bag and took out two heavy, long-barrelled rifles, such as we use in the West for bear or buffalo shooting and Indian fighting.

“Why, what do you mean by those?” exclaimed Knowlton.

“I mean that your Mr. Van Steenkerk and our Mr. Ten Broeck are to fight with these at ten paces,” replied Courtenay, as if surprised.

“But one of our principals or both will get killed,” protested Knowlton.

“We have an idea in the West and South that when two men fight a duel it is because they want to kill each other, therefore we give them a chance to do it,” replied Courtenay.

Knowlton looked irresolute. Van Steenkerk had turned slightly pale, and was looking at the rifles, which were lying side by side on the grass. They were certainly weapons of a formidable appearance, heavy of stock, with a long, slender blue barrel, from which a half-ounce ball went unerringly to the chosen mark.

“At ten paces,” said Knowlton in a hesitating tone. “Why, we might as well begin digging the graves for both men. It’s murder.”

“You don’t like ten paces?” said Courtenay.

“No.”

“Then make it five.”

Knowlton whispered for a moment with one of his comrades.

“Such conditions are monstrous, barbaric,” he said. “You can not insist upon them.”

“But we do,” replied Courtenay.

The report of a musket shot came from the sea, its sound doubled in the clear, calm morning.

“Is some one fighting before us?” exclaimed Mercer.

“No, that came from the boats,” said Knowlton.

It was but a step through the trees, and all of us took it, eager to see the cause of the shot.

“Look,” said Courtenay, who was first. “That shot came from the Guerriere.”

A marine standing on the deck of the Guerriere was holding a gun in his hand, and looking intently at the surface of the water. A wisp of smoke rising from the muzzle of his musket floated upward and lost itself in the spars and riggings of the ship.

“What is that on the water?” asked Van Steenkerk.

“A man’s head,” replied Courtenay.

A man was swimming from the ship toward the shore, all hut his head submerged. A bloody streak across the side of the head showed where the musket ball had passed. Even at the distance the face expressed agony, wildness, hope.

“A deserter!” exclaimed Mercer.

A second marine appeared on the deck of the Guerriere, and raising his musket fired at the swimming head. The bullet struck the surface of the sea within six inches of the head, dashing water over it, and then skipping like a pebble reached the land and battered itself against a rock not twenty feet from us. The man swam on. I felt a curious sickening sensation. I had never before seen a human head used as a target for bullets.

“Pretty poor marksmanship,” said Courtenay, “and it’s none of my business, but I hope the poor devil will escape.”

Several more shots were fired from the Guerriere at the swimmer, but none touched him. Once he turned his head slightly to look back, and then seemed to swim with increased effort. I could see his face distinctly, and despair showed there. There was foam on his lips.

“That man must have good reason for seeking to escape,” I said.

A boat was swung from the side of the Guerriere, and oarsmen and marines leaped into it. A young officer in bright uniform took command. Under the strong arms of the rowers, the boat sped over the water toward the weakening swimmer.

The fugitive was splashing water, as his strokes grew wilder. I felt the fear of death for him, but the men in the boat did not fire, as they seemed to be sure now of taking the swimmer alive.

“I never saw that man before,” said Courtenay, “but I’d be willing to help him escape if I could.”

The fugitive reached shallow water and ran ashore. Not far away stretched the woods, tempting shelter to a hunted man. But he did not go there. Instead, he ran to us.

“Save me, friends; for the love of God, save me from that ship!” he cried.

He was a young man of good natural frame, but wasted. His clothes seemed to hang upon bones only. I had never before heard a man beg for mercy, and the thrill was painful.

“We can do nothing for a British deserter,” I said, “but run for the woods, and maybe you can escape.”

“I can go no farther,” he said; “my strength is gone. I am not an Englishman, but an American like you. Help me! Will you let me be taken back to that ship and the torture of the cat?”

His face was full of appeal.

“He speaks the truth,” cried Courtenay; “this man is no Englishman, but an American—one of us. Listen how he drops his r’s and softens his vowels. No Englishman ever spoke with that accent. It belongs to us Southerners. What are you, man?”

“A Marylander,” replied the seaman. “I was impressed from the Sally Jones more than seven years ago.”

Then he begged us again to help him. He looked at us with increasing appeal in his eyes, and his face was that of one who had suffered.

Courtenay was excited—much excited. All his hot South Carolina blood flamed up.

“Comrades,” he cried, “we would be disgraced forever if we let them take this man back. Will you not help me to defend him?”

“I will, for one,” I said, unable to resist such an appeal, “but we are not properly armed.”

“You forget the rifles,” said Courtenay.

They were still lying on the ground side by side, and he snatched them up, handing one to me and keeping the other himself. The men in the boat were landing. I heard footsteps beside me, and a voice said:

“Please consider me your friend and ally in this.”

I looked around and saw that little woman-man, that little whipper-snapper, Van Steenkerk, by my side. He held one of the rapiers in his hand, ready for a thrust. He looked ridiculous with his puny figure in his exaggerated clothes, but I recognised the brave man nevertheless.

Knowlton held the other sword, and Mercer had drawn a pistol from somewhere in the interior of his coat. The man stood behind us, panting alike with exhaustion and excitement.

Six men, a lieutenant at their head, landed from the boat and advanced toward us, arms in their hands. I noticed the lieutenant closely. He was a young man, almost as young as myself. They approached us, and stopped in stiff, military fashion at ten feet.

“We wish to take that man behind you,” said the lieutenant; “he is a deserter from his Majesty’s ship Guerriere, which you see there.”

I suppose that he spoke to me, because I was the biggest. He looked suspiciously at us. There was enough to arouse his suspicions, as at least five of us showed arms.

“I do not see what claim you can have upon an American sailor,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“This man is an American sailor, impressed by your countrymen more than seven years ago.”

“I know nothing of that,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I have been on the Guerriere but a year, and I found him there when I came. He is rated as a British seaman. He must go back with us.”

The sailor said not a word, as if his tale once told, he trusted implicitly in its effect upon us.

“This man is an American, born and bred; I know it; I know his father,” I said.

An idea had seized me. He had told us that he used to live on the Baltimore road, and I suddenly remembered the tale of the old blacksmith.

“Is not your name Patterson?” I asked of the man behind us.

“Yes, Patterson—Henry Patterson.”

“Does not your father live on the Baltimore road?”

“Yes, he is a blacksmith there; he was seven years ago.”

“You hear,” I said to the lieutenant. “This man is an American. I know it.”

“I care nothing about that,” he said; “such things are for the captain of the Guerriere or the Admiralty. At any rate, this man is a liar.”

“He is not a liar,” I said; “he tells the truth, and I know it.”

“It is the truth, the gospel truth,” said the sailor.

“Come,” said the lieutenant, “I have no time to waste here in debate. I must carry this deserter back to our ship.”

“You shall not do it, sir,” cried Mr. Van Steenkerk, jumping about like a turkey cock and flourishing his little sword in a manner that was dangerous to me, his nearest neighbour. “Damn me, if you shall do it, sir. Listen to me: I love England, and I have long wanted to be an Englishman until this day, but I don’t want to be one now. I came here to fight this gentleman on my left, but I will take great pleasure in fighting you instead. Draw your sword.”

I made a vow that very moment to ask the little dandy his pardon for anything offensive that I had ever said to him, be the greater fault mine or his.

“I have six men armed,” said the lieutenant, “and I say this deserting British sailor shall go with us.”

“I have seven men, at least five of whom are armed,” I said, “and this American sailor shall not go with you. He is on his own soil, and here he shall stay.”

The lieutenant looked at me, and I looked at him. I could see that he was at a loss. Had we been on the deck of the Guerriere the advantage would have been his, but now, on our own ground, it was ours.

“We do not wish bloodshed,” said the lieutenant.

“Neither do we,” said I. Then I added: “We shall certainly resist with arms any attempt to take this man.”

There was no doubt about our attitude, and the look of irresolution appeared again upon his face.

“I shall complain to your Government about this,” he said.

It was an acknowledgment of defeat.

“Do so,” I said. I knew what complaints to governments amounted to in those days.

He looked at his ship. They seemed to be making some kind of a signal there.

“Your name, please?” he said to me.

“It is wholly unnecessary.”

He paused again, then he added:

“But we shall have him back again.”

“Good-bye.”

He marched his men to the boat, and they rowed toward the ship. The sailor began to thank us so profusely that we stopped him.

“Come,” I said, “I think you’ll be a safer man out of sight of that ship.”

We walked swiftly, not stopping until we were deep in the thick woods behind the little town of Brooklyn, and the spars and masts of the Guerriere and her consort were far out of sight. We took the rescued sailor with us, Courtenay holding him by the arm, while Van Steenkerk, still brandishing his sword, went on before. But when we stopped and Courtenay released his hold, the man sank down in a lump upon the ground, overpowered by his efforts.

“Give him some of this,” said Van Steenkerk; “I thought that I might need it myself, and it is timely.”

He handed out a small flask, and Courtenay poured some of the strong liquor into his mouth. He gasped and gurgled, and a little colour appeared in his face.

Van Steenkerk poured another gulp of the hot stuff down his throat, and the man revived and sat up.

His strength steadily increased, and his spirit with it. His rescue seemed to create him anew. By and by he told us of himself, how he had been taken out of the schooner by a ship of the line, and they only laughed at him when he said he was not an Englishman. They didn’t care whether he was or not, and anyhow he was rated as an able-bodied English seaman on board that ship of the line. When he refused to serve they used the cat, and then they used the cat again. On the same ship he had fought in the great battle of Trafalgar, and he did not mind it so much then, in the fury and blaze of the conflict, but when he was doing guard duty in the German Ocean and the North Sea he tried to escape, and was caught, and given to the lash again. A second time he sought to get away, and found only the cat. He was passed from one ship to another and was flogged in each, until he lost the spirit of a man, and was willing to be anything that they said. But when he was sent on to the Guerriere and she came to the American station, he took the first chance to escape, desperate though it was. Such was his story, and many another man had the like to tell.

“We don’t know what will be said about this,” said Courtenay. “We must smuggle him into town somewhere, and then to his home. After that the American and British Governments can settle it between them, if any question is raised.”

Van Steenkerk had put up his sword, and was standing near. I went up to him.

“Mr. Van Steenkerk,” I said, “you and I came out here to fight a duel.”

“Is that so? I have no recollection of it,” he replied.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” I said.

“Then if you insist upon it, it is true, and the duel has been fought,” he replied with a faint gleam in his eye.

“Which of us is dead?” I asked.

“That is the question,” he replied.

“Mr. Van Steenkerk,” I said, “I was mistaken in you; you are a brave and true man.”

“If I have said anything that was offensive to you, Mr. Ten Broeck, I take it back and apologize.”

“Then let us shake hands and be friends.”

We shook hands with the best good will. Yet I was careful about my grip, my hand was so much larger and stronger than his.

“But I’m afraid I’ve disgraced myself by taking this man’s part,” he said ruefully.

“You obeyed your best impulse, that was what you did,” said Mercer, who heard him. It had been a long time since I had seen this dry Tennesseean so moved.

Then we went back to the city, taking the rescued sailor with us. We concealed him that night, and Van Steenkerk put him on the road home the next morning.

“I think we came out of that double affair very well,” said Courtenay that night.

“I think so too,” I said; “but I’m glad the duel with those rifles at ten paces didn’t come off.”

“I never thought it would,” he replied.

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