The Captain from Connecticut

Chapter XXII

HUBBARD was positively masterful.

"Don't walk too fast, sir," he said, and the "sir" was a most perfunctory addition. "We can't have you ar­riving out of breath."

He looked at his watch, and up at the brightening sky from which the rain still dripped monotonously.

"Just right," he said. "We don't want to wait when we get there. And no gentleman would keep the other side waiting, although I've known it done."

They passed a small gang of Negroes on their way to work in the fields, and the dark faces all turned to see this odd spectacle of two white men on foot in the rain before dawn. A babble of talk burst from the group — every member of it had heard the gossip about the quarrel between the English captain and the American captain, and what was to happen this morning.

"It's round this corner, sir," said Hubbard. "You can walk a bit slower — if you please, sir. Damn this rain."

Round the corner Murray was waiting, and Downing with a big case of instruments resting on the ground at his feet. Their faces were pale in the brightening dawn. And here came Fane, with Doctor Clarke beside him, and in the background Peabody caught a glimpse of Davenant and Maitland.

"You're sure those gloves are comfortable, sir?" said Hubbard. "Better to show white than have an awkward grip on the trigger."

"They're all right," said Peabody, passing the fore­finger of his left hand between the fingers of his right. They were a pair of dark doeskin gloves lent by Hub­bard; only his face would catch the light now that he had on his black stock and cravat and blue trousers. Fane was approaching, and Hubbard went to meet him, uncovering and bowing with the utmost formality. Downing and Clarke went off with their instruments into a nook in the canebrake out of the line of fire, leaving Murray alone. He caught Peabody's eye and smiled a sickly smile, so sickly that it made Peabody grin — the Baltimore lad was so acutely nervous, and this period of waiting was trying him hard, and his clothes were soaked.

Hubbard took the case of pistols from under his arm and opened it before Fane. He slid a ramrod down each barrel; each pistol was charged.

"I loaded 'em last night in case of rain this morning, sir," he said. "I'll draw the charges if you like — "

"Please do not trouble, sir," said Fane.

"Would you please be so kind as to keep off the rain while I prime, sir?" said Hubbard.

Fane opened his cloak and held out the breast of it horizontally, and Hubbard held each weapon in turn under this exiguous shelter, close against Fane's bosom, while he filled each priming pan with fine powder from the small canister he produced from his pocket.

"Have you seen the new percussion caps they are making in London, sir?" asked Fane, his polite small talk tinged with professional interest.

"Too damned newfangled for my liking, sir," said Hubbard. "There, sir. Is that to your satisfaction? Then please take your choice, sir."

"With the weapons under their cloaks to screen them from the rain they looked up at the sky.

"The light's fair in any direction with these clouds," said Fane. "Better station them with the wind abeam."

"I agree," said Hubbard.

They stepped out twelve paces apart and looked round at their principals who came up and were posted on the exact spots indicated. Peabody saw Davenant's face for the first time since yesterday. It was composed, stolid, philosophic. Peabody knew himself to be calm and his hand was steady, so that his heart was joyful.

"Sir," said Hubbard. "I must ask you if it is not pos­sible, even at this last moment, to compose your dif­ferences with Captain Davenant and prevent the effusion of blood?"

"Not a chance," said Peabody.

Fane had posed the same question to Davenant.

"Never," said Davenant, steadily.

"Then you will please turn your backs," said Hub­bard. He raised his voice. "I will call 'One — two — three — Fire!' You will remain still until the word 'Fire,' when you will turn and fire at your leisure. Cap­tain Fane, did your principal hear what I said, or shall I repeat?"

"My principal heard," said Fane.

Hubbard took the pistol from under his coat and put it into Peabody's hand; the butt felt reassuringly solid through the doeskin glove. Peabody made sure of his grip, made sure his finger was securely against the trigger, raised the pistol so that his eye was along the barrel, made sure that there was no chance of his feet slipping. He tensed himself ready to wheel round while Hubbard's footsteps died away.

"One!" came Hubbard's voice. "Two — three — Fire!"

Peabody swung round, careful to point his right shoulder to his enemy so as to reduce the surface pre­sented to the shot. Davenant's face showed clear at the end of the pistol-barrel, and he began a steady squeeze on the trigger. At that moment came a bang and a puff of smoke. Davenant had fired — presumably he had fired as he wheeled. The aim must have been poor, for Peabody did not even feel the wind of the bullet. Davenant was at his mercy now, and he could take his own time over his shot. Not that there was any need, for Davenant's face, seen clearly through the rain, was there along his pistol-barrel. As surely as anything in this life he could place a bullet right between his eyes and kill him. Davenant's eyes looked back at him without a sign of faltering.

Peabody's first instinct was one of mercy. He did not want Davenant's life. He did not want to kill anyone except to the benefit of the United States of America. It raced through his mind that Hunningford had told him of the imminent possibility of peace — the peace of the years to come would not be helped by a memory of a captain slain in a duel. He just had time to point the pistol vertically into the air before it went off.

The four seconds came pressing forward.

"My principal has stood your principal's fire," said Hubbard, and Peabody noticed that Hubbard's voice sounded strained. All that careful unconcern had been merely a pose, and he was off his guard now and showed it. "He has deliberately missed. Honor is completely satisfied, and both parties will leave the ground."

"No second shot?" asked Maitland, and Hubbard turned upon him with an icy politeness barely conceal­ing his poor opinion of a man who could display such ignorance of the code of honor.

"Your principal had his shot and it was not returned," he said. "You cannot expect him to be accorded further opportunities."

That was perfectly true — it had been at the back of Peabody's mind when he missed. A duelist whose life had been spared must remain satisfied with that.

"Mr. Hubbard is quite right," said Fane. "Both parties must leave the ground. But I must remind everyone that this is a most suitable opportunity, now that honor is satisfied, to make whatever concessions are compatible with honor and gentlemanly conduct. Mr. Hubbard, would you perhaps be good enough to approach your principal again?"

Hubbard strode over to Peabody and spoke in a low voice.

"You could accept an apology, sir," he said. "You could do a good deal more than that, even, seeing that you've stood his fire."

"What happens if I don't?" asked Peabody. He was vague on the point — he was familiar with the code of honor but had never come across the practical applica­tion of this particular item.

"Nothing," said Hubbard. "You can never admit his existence, sir, that's all, and the same with him. You never see each other when you meet. It's awkward when you're in the same ship — I saw it with Clough and Brown in the old Constitution — but as things are, it'll hardly affect you."

"I see," said Peabody. It probably would not affect him much, not even though Davenant was on a familiar footing with his wife's aunt. He would probably never again have dealings with Davenant now that the affair of the Susanna was settled. And then at that very moment the germ of an idea came into his mind, en­gendered by this thought. He might be able to wring very considerable advantages for the service if he could keep in touch with Davenant.

"Fane and I will be speaking together," explained Hubbard further. "Fane might be able to make a lot of concessions, seeing that the world will not know who made the first advance, so to speak."

"I'll accept anything in reason," said Peabody. "I can leave it all to you, I know, Hubbard. But I don't want to be put out of touch with Davenant if it can possibly be helped. Remember that."

"I will, sir," said Hubbard, and turned back. Fane left Davenant a moment later and joined him, and the two talked together in low voices. Davenant and Peabody stood and fidgeted in the drenching rain — their eyes met once and Peabody had difficulty, in his present ex­citement over his new plan, in keeping his features in their proper expression of stony indifference. Hubbard came back.

"He's ready," he said, "to express through Fane pro­found regret that the incident ever happened. That's not a full apology, sir. It's only a half-measure, and if shots hadn't been exchanged I should strongly advise against acceptance. But as things are, and remembering what you told me about wanting to remain in touch, I've taken it upon myself to accept."

"Good," said Peabody. "What do I do now?"

"Merely acknowledge him, sir, before we leave the ground."

All very well, thought Peabody, to say that so airily, but actually it was a difficult moment. Peabody felt positively awkward as he came up to Davenant. He made his stiff spine bend in the middle.

"Your servant, sir," he said.

Davenant bowed with an equal lack of grace.

"Your servant, sir," and then, constraint suddenly vanishing, "Dammit, man, I'm glad I missed you."

Walking home Hubbard and Murray and Downing were in the highest spirits despite their wet clothes.

"By God, sir," said Hubbard. "This'll look well in the newspapers at home. You spared his life, sir. I could see that. I could see how you had him along your pistol."

"Davenant's a dead shot," said Downing.

"Yes, sir," said Murray. "They say he can hit a pigeon on the wing."

"I didn't tell you that, sir, before you met him," said Hubbard with a laugh.

No, damn you, thought Peabody, a little embittered at the thought, and he said nothing.

"He's lost some of his reputation now, anyway," said Downing.

"I can't think how he came to miss," said Murray.

"He shot from the waist without sighting," said Hubbard. "That takes practice."

"But it looked to me," said Murray, "as if he couldn't miss."

"So it did to me, by God," said Hubbard. "Did you hear the bullet, sir?"

"No," said Peabody.

It was a most unpleasant conversation in his opinion, although he could not have said why, seeing that the affair was over. There was Anne standing at the door of the house, and she ran down the path through the rain when she saw them. She threw herself into Peabody's arms without shame, and he kissed her without shame in the presence of his subordinates. He had purged himself of his inward doubts, he had put this happiness of his at the disposition of Providence, and Providence had returned it to him, so that shame had disappeared. Coffee was waiting for them, and the usual glass of rum which they all refused to touch.

"I can drink this coffee now," said Murray, smacking his lips. "I couldn't swallow a mouthful in the ship be­fore I came up this morning. I hadn't the heart for any­thing."

"The captain drank his," said Hubbard. "I watched him. Not a sign — he might have been getting ready to come on deck at anchor in the Chesapeake."

"The captain's an interesting physiological subject," said Downing, and then, suddenly: "Gentlemen, although this is only coffee, can't we drink his health?"

"The captain!" said Hubbard, raising his cup.

"The captain!" echoed the others — Anne among them — and they drank to him as he grinned awkwardly at the compliment.

"The ship's waiting for us," he said, to change the subject. "I'll see you on board after I've changed my clothes."

The bedroom with its dome of mosquito netting had been put to rights while he was gone; he got himself out dry clothes from the inlaid tallboy — married life played the devil with systematic rotation of his ward­robe when he had to keep half his clothes on land. He laid out a fresh white neckcloth on the dressing table among Anne's tortoise-shell toilet things, shoving aside her reticule to do so. The thing fell with a thump on the floor, and he stooped to pick it up. Two things had rolled out of its open mouth across the polished floor, and he pursued them. Marbles? Beads? He picked them up. They were unexpectedly heavy, of a dull metallic hue. Pistol bullets! He stood looking at the half-inch spheres of lead on his palm, lost in thought.

"Anne!" he called. "Anne!"

She came running — he heard her light step on the stairs — and as she entered the room she saw what he held in his hand and stopped short. The smile that was on her lips remained there, rigid, in shocking contrast with the terror in her eyes. If it had not been for that she might have been able to disarm his suspicions, so utterly incredible had they seemed to him.

"What are these doing here?" he asked, even now more bewildered than stern.

"You — you know," she said. She was sick with fright at the knowledge that her terrible husband had caught her interfering with his precious masculine foolishness — imperiling his precious honor.

"I don't know," he said. "Tell me."

"I took them out," she whispered, faltering. "Aunt Sophie and I."

"But how in the name of — of anything at all ... ?"

"I went into Mr. Hubbard's room," she said. "Aunt Sophie was here. You were asleep, and I crept out. I went into Mr. Hubbard's room when he was asleep. Aunt Sophie waited by the door — I went in my bare feet, and I took the — the pistols. We dug out the — the wads with my stiletto and shook the bullets out."

"But the pistols were loaded — I saw Hubbard test with the ramrod."

"We thought he would. So we had to put in some­thing hard which wouldn't hurt anybody. It was all we could do."

"But what was it you did?"

"It took us a long time to think of something. In the end I got two bits of bread and baked them as hard as I could. I thought they'd fly to powder when the pistols went off and not do any damage."

"You were right," said Peabody, grimly. "And then?"

"That's all. We put the bits of toast into the pistols and stuck the wads in again on top, and I went back into Mr. Hubbard's room and put them back in the case. Mr. Hubbard snored and I nearly dropped them."

"I wish you had," he said bitterly. Her lips had lost their rigidity now and were trembling as he stared at her, the pistol bullets still in his hand. He suddenly re­membered their existence and hurled them with a crash across the room.

"I was going to tell you about it," she said. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But sometime I was going to tell you."

"Much good that would do," he sneered.

And then his saving common sense came to their rescue. After all, he had gone through the affair in good faith. He had stood Davenant's fire and he had not trembled. He had spared Davenant's life in the same good faith as Davenant had tried to take his. And the thought of Davenant, the man who could hit a pigeon on the wing, trying to bring down an American captain with a piece of toast was marvelously funny. A laugh rose suddenly within him quite irrepressibly. And what made the joke more perfect was that the new plan he had in mind — a plan of whose success he was quite certain — would never have stood any chance of success if it had not been for the duel. Davenant would never have listened to his new suggestion for a moment if it were not for the mortification of knowing that all the world had heard that his life had been spared. If he had killed Davenant — and most assuredly if Davenant had killed him — the new plan would have had no chance. That was amusing as well. The laugh that was welling up inside him burst out to the surface beyond his control. He laughed and he laughed. He thought of Hubbard's grave dignity, of Murray's scared apprehension, while all the time two fragments of toast lay hidden in the barrels of the pistols, and that made him laugh the harder.

He turned grave again when another thought struck him.

"What about your aunt?" he asked. "Can she keep the secret?"

"Yes," said Anne, after a moment's serious reflection. "Yes. She would always keep a secret for me. And this time it concerns Captain Davenant. She wouldn't want the world to know about this."

"I suppose not," said Peabody.

Mischief danced in his eyes which were so often cold and hard. Anne's steady gaze met his and she could not help smiling back at him. She smiled — and she laughed, and Peabody laughed back at her.