A Hiss Before Dying

April 14, 1786 Friday

Two ghostly figures walked in the middle of a silver-gray ground fog covering a level pasture called The Downs. Invisible from the waist down they appeared to glide toward each other. On the opposite sides of this pasture waited carriages, an elegant small enclosed carriage driven by DoRe, a larger carriage driven by Everett Franks, enshrouded by the fog now beginning to rise with the sun. The carriages and horses also seemed otherworldly. Birds awakened. A chirp, a squawk enlivened the air. A herd of deer observed the horses and humans from the edge of a wood, only their elegant heads visible.

John Schuyler took off his hat, offered his hand. “Mr. Tapscott.”

Henry Tapscott, a lean middle-aged man, did the same. “Major Schuyler, I regret the circumstances.”

“As do I, Sir. I have encouraged Mr. Holloway to set this duel aside, to find another means of accommodation. He steadfastly refuses.”

“I fear Mr. Grant is of like mind,” Henry Tapscott, a childhood friend of Yancy Grant, dolorously replied.

“The surgeon we agreed upon is in Mr. Holloway’s carriage.”

“Thank you for bringing him. It was easier for you since he lives near to you. Young fellow but many of those he has treated have lived.”

John craned his neck to look skyward. “The sun is low, but we should make certain they pace off in a north-south direction.”

“Indeed.” Henry nodded. “You would like to inspect the pistols, Sir?” He pulled the highly polished walnut box from under his left arm, turned it toward John, who opened it.

Two beautiful pistols lay side by side in satin, the metal, silver, the wood an even richer walnut than the box. John lifted up one, rubbed the nozzle lightly with his little finger. A thin coating of oil remained on his finger. Then he checked the trigger to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with to fire faster. Putting it back, he picked up the other to repeat the procedure.

“Fine work.”

Henry bowed slightly. “My own, Sir. Yancy has but one pistol, which he has modified.”

John hesitated, couldn’t think of anything else to say, then spoke, “We should get started. The mist is rising.”

“Yes” came the subdued reply.

Both returned to their carriages.

John opened the door for Jeffrey and Thomas Downey, the doctor. Each man sat with his feet placed on a warmed brick.

Wordlessly, Jeffrey climbed down and removed his frock coat. He would be better able to move without it. Henry Tapscott performed the same service for Yancy Grant while Everett Franks, the driver, now on foot, held the horses quiet by their bridles.

The two antagonists walked to the middle of the flat pasture, where Henry repeated the rules of a duel.

“You will stand back to back. I will give the command and you will each walk ten paces, which I will clearly count out. Then you turn and fire. One shot. Should one of you be killed or wounded, the other man shall immediately return to his carriage. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey replied, holding the pistol he had picked out of the offered box.

“Yes,” Yancy also replied.

“Back to back, gentlemen,” Henry ordered.

John and Dr. Downey remained at the carriage. DoRe, sitting in the driver’s seat, had an excellent view. The mist was rising fast. Shortly it would obscure their heads so Henry wanted to get the duel under way wherein each man could see the other.

Just in case, Henry did give them an opportunity. “Would you wish to wait until the ground fog is over your heads?”

“No, I don’t give a damn about ground fog.” Yancy wanted to get it over with, certain he’d drill Jeffrey.

“I agree. Let us begin,” Jeffrey, his back now against Yancy’s, said in an unwavering voice.

John gripped his hands together until his knuckles were white.

Henry, backed away from what would be the line of fire, called in a loud voice, “One, two, three.”

The men, ramrod straight, took each step as called. However, the ground fog appeared to be swirling and rising faster on the south end, Jeffrey’s end.

“Seven, eight, nine, ten. Fire.”

Each man whirled around and for a split second Yancy squinted to see Jeffrey’s upper body, the mist playing tricks. He leveled his pistol, firing.

Jeffrey grunted but stood his ground, firing a split second after Yancy.

“Great God.” Yancy’s left hand grabbed at his right knee while he dropped the pistol. He crumpled.

Jeffrey, standing, watched for a moment then walked, obviously in pain, back to his carriage. A line of blood trickled from his right biceps.

“You are hurt, Sir.” Dr. Downey reached to roll up his sleeve.

“Please go to Mr. Grant first. I believe he suffers a more serious wound.”

Rolling in the wet grass, tears flooded from Yancy’s eyes. Henry knelt down with him, beheld the entry wound in his right kneecap. Putting his hands under Yancy’s shoulders he lifted him up, and Everett, knowing the horses were fine, ran over to help. With a man on each side, they supported him as he hopped in excruciating pain.

Dr. Downey, bag in hand, ran over as the two men leaned Yancy against the side of the carriage. One of the horses took a step so Henry quickly grabbed Yancy as he howled in pain. Everett ran to the horses, again holding them by the bridles, standing between them.

Tersely, Dr. Downey said to Henry, “Cut off the boot.”

Henry reached into his inside pocket, pulled out a good knife, began slicing the boot along the back seam. “Forgive me, old friend, I know this is very painful.”

Gasping, Yancy whispered, “Do what you have to do.”

The boot off, Dr. Downey removed a sharpened pair of long-nosed scissors from his bag to cut away the breeches. Once they were cut above the knee, dropped into the grass, the young man knelt down, carefully examining the front of Yancy’s knee and equally carefully lifting up his leg, then looked at the back.

“Your kneecap is smashed, Sir. The bullet has exited. I will not have to dig it out, which would only add to your distress, but I must lay you down flat, straighten your leg. Henry will hold you while I do so, as that will be painful. Then I must bandage your knee to immobilize it. You are bleeding but not profusely. Once you are home you must have the bone bits removed or you will always be in pain.”

John hurried over to help lift Yancy flat on his back. Yancy, a big man, would be difficult for Henry to maneuver. First, Henry pulled a canvas cover from the carriage, spreading it on the ground.

John, enormously strong, picked up Yancy slowly and bent from his own knees to gently lay him down on the canvas, now with Henry’s help.

“Do it now, Sir. Remove the bone bits.”

Dr. Downey nodded, knelt down, too, began the work of cleaning away blood, bits of cartilage, and flesh. Henry held Yancy’s hand as the man tried not to scream when Dr. Downey had to cut and fold back more flesh so he could see the damage. However, tears rolled down Yancy’s face.

Looking up at John, he said, “Thank you and forgive me.” He hoarsely continued, “I cannot stop these tears.”

John took his other hand as he had remained on his knees. “I have seen generals weep, Yancy. No need for forgiveness.”

“Then forgive me for being,” he paused, “an ass. I caused such an uproar at Ewing’s celebration.”

John smiled at him. “No one was bored.”

“I will never ride in a race again.” The tears continued.

“No, but you will always be a horseman and you will breed animals that can run. I pray for your recovery.” John stood up.

Yancy stifled a groan as Dr. Downey cut away another piece of torn cartilage.

“I must do this, Sir, else as you heal it will sometimes entangle what remains of your knee. This won’t take much longer,” he said consolingly.

“Do what you must.” Yancy repeated the phrase, then said to John, “Is Mr. Holloway wounded?”

“Upper arm. He will be fine.”

“I am glad.” Yancy breathed deeply as more cartilage and bone bits were removed.

Dr. Downey, young eyes, worked quickly and carefully. He dabbed at the blood. Fortunately, there wasn’t a great deal at the knee. Noticing this, John wished he had been the surgeon to his old regiment.

“Dr. Downey, we will wait until you have completed your work on Mr. Grant,” John said.

“Ah, thank you. Better Mr. Grant not be in his carriage bounced around longer than necessary.” He looked at Henry. “It won’t be much longer.” Then he looked directly into Yancy’s eyes. “In time, some of your bone may grow a bit but this knee will never be able to support weight. You will need a brace and a crutch.”

Yancy tried to smile. “At least I am alive.”

“I will return to Mr. Holloway,” John informed them all, then thought perhaps another kind of healing might take place. “Although wounded himself, Mr. Holloway insisted that Dr. Downey attend to you first, Yancy. I sincerely hope you two can find a way to reach an accord.”

“I’ll never like him, never.” Yancy sighed, then took a ragged intake of breath as more cartilage was cleaned up as well as a bit of flapping flesh now sewed around the shattered knee. “But I will do my best to be,” he paused “civilized.”

John slightly bowed, then returned to the carriage where DoRe, down from his driving seat, had cut away Jeffrey’s shirt. Jeffrey was bleeding more than Yancy.

“Do you think the bullet hit your bone?” John inquired.

“No.” Jeffrey removed his hand from the hole in his arm.

“You are most fortunate. Dr. Downey can fix you up. He said he wouldn’t be long with Yancy.”

“What is his wound?”

“You blew apart his kneecap,” John stated.

“Ah.” The young man exhaled.

—

Three hours later, DoRe drove down the long Big Rawly drive as Maureen flew out of the house.

“You’re alive! Oh, thank God, you are alive!” She went to hug and kiss him, she couldn’t contain herself, and then noticed the torn shirt and the blood. “What happened? How bad is it? Oh, get out of this carriage and into the house.”

John stepped out, smiled up at DoRe. “He will be fine, Mrs. Holloway, fine.”

She never asked about Yancy, shepherded Jeffrey into the house, calling orders to all and sundry as she did so.

John climbed up next to DoRe as they drove to the stables. One of the young men brought out his horse, all groomed, relaxed and happy. John tipped the man, mounted up, and was at Cloverfields within forty minutes since he walked most of the way. The entire episode had exhausted him.

Catherine, down at the stables, hearing the slow hoofbeats, dashed out to see her handsome husband nearing the stable.

“How so?” She reached him.

“Both alive. Jeffrey’s hit in the arm. He’ll be fine. Yancy, on the other hand, has a shot-up kneecap. I suppose he will walk eventually with a cane or crutches but I doubt he will ride again.”

“I do hope this is the end of it.”

“I think it is. Neither one flinched. Let us hope this is a new day.”