CHAPTER
XVIII
A DUEL BY MOONLIGHT
When Hamilton, after running some distance, saw that he was gaining
upon Alice and would soon overtake her, it added fresh energy to
his limbs. He had quickly realized the foolishness of what he had
done in visiting the room of his prisoner at so late an hour in
the night. What would his officers and men think? To let Alice escape
would be extremely embarrassing, and to be seen chasing her would
give good ground for ridicule on the part of his entire command.
Therefore his first thought, after passing through the postern and
realizing fully what sort of predicament threatened him, was to
recapture her and return her to the prison room in the block-house
without attracting attention. This now promised to be an easier
task than he had at first feared; for in the moonlight, which on
account of the dispersing clouds, was fast growing stronger, he
saw her seem to falter and weaken. Certainly her flight was checked
and took an eccentric turn, as if some obstruction had barred her
way. He rushed on, not seeing that, as Alice swerved, a man intervened.
Indeed he was within a few strides of laying his hand on her when
he saw her make the strange movement. It was as if, springing suddenly
aside, she had become two persons instead of one. But instantly
the figures coincided again, and in becoming taller faced about
and confronted him.
Hamilton stopped short in his tracks. The dark figure was about
five paces from him. It was not Alice, and a sword flashed dimly
but unmistakably in a ray of the moon. The motion visible was that
of an expert swordsman placing himself firmly on his legs, with
his weapon at guard.
Alice saw the man in her path just in time to avoid running against
him. Lightly as a flying bird, when it whisks itself in a short
semicircle past a tree or a bough, she sprang aside and swung around
to the rear of him, where she could continue her course toward the
town. But in passing she recognized him. It was Father Beret, and
how grim he looked! The discovery was made in the twinkling of an
eye, and its effect was instantaneous, not only checking the force
of her flight, but stopping her and turning her about to gaze before
she had gone five paces farther.
Hamilton's nerve held, startled as he was, when he realized that
an armed man stood before him. Naturally he fell into the error
of thinking that he had been running after this fellow all the way
from the little gate, where, he supposed, Alice had somehow given
him the slip. It was a mere flash of brain-light, so to call it,
struck out by the surprise of this curious discovery. He felt his
bellicose temper leap up furiously at being balked in a way so unexpected
and withal so inexplicable. Of course he did not stand there reasoning
it all out. The rush of impressions came, and at the same time he
acted with promptness. Changing the rapier, which he held in his
right hand, over into his left, he drew a small pistol from the
breast of his coat and fired. The report was sharp and loud; but
it caused no uneasiness or inquiry in the fort, owing to the fact
that Indians invariably emptied their guns when coming into the
town.
Hamilton's aim, although hasty, was not bad. The bullet from his
weapon cut through Father Beret's clothes between his left arm and
his body, slightly creasing the flesh on a rib. Beyond him it struck
heavily and audibly. Alice fell limp and motionless to the soft
wet ground, where cold puddles of water were splintered over with
ice. She lay pitifully crumpled, one arm outstretched in the moonlight.
Father Beret heard the bullet hit her, and turned in time to see
her stagger backward with a hand convulsively pressed over her heart.
Her face, slightly upturned as she reeled, gave the moon a pallid
target for its strengthening rays. Sweet, beautiful, its rigid features
flashed for a second and then half turned away from the light and
went down.
Father Beret uttered a short, thin cry and moved as if to go to
the fallen girl, but just then he saw Hamilton's sword pass over
again into his right hand, and knew that there was no time for anything
but death or fight. The good priest did not shirk what might have
made the readiest of soldiers nervous. Hamilton was known to be
a great swordsman and proud of the distinction. Father Beret had
seen him fence with Farnsworth in remarkable form, touching him
at will, and in ministering to the men in the fort he had heard
them talk of the Governor's incomparable skill.
A priest is, in perhaps all cases but the last out of a thousand,
a man of peace, not to be forced into a fight; but the exceptional
one out of the ten hundred it is well not to stir up if you are
looking for an easy victim. Hamilton was in the habit of considering
every antagonist immediately conquerable. His domineering spirit
could not, when opposed, reckon with any possibility of disaster.
As he sprang toward Father Beret there was a mutual recognition
and, we speak guardedly, something that sounded exactly like an
exchange of furious execrations. As for Father Beret's words, they
may have been a mere priestly formula of objurgation.
The moon was accommodating. With a beautiful white splendor it entered
a space of cloudless sky, where it seemed to slip along the dusky
blue surface among the stars, far over in the west.
"It's you, is it?" Hamilton exclaimed between teeth that
almost crushed one another. "You prowling hypocrite of hell!"
Father Beret said something. It was not complimentary, and it sounded
sulphurous, if not profane. Remember, however, that a priest can
scarcely hope to be better than Peter, and Peter did actually make
the Simon pure remark when hard pressed. At all events Father Beret
said something with vigorous emphasis, and met Hamilton half way.
Both men, stimulated to the finger-tips by a draught of imperious
passion, fairly plunged to the inevitable conflict. Ah, if Alice
could have seen her beautiful weapons cross, if she could have heard
the fine, far-reaching clink, clink, clink, while sparks leaped
forth, dazzling even in the moonlight; if she could have noted the
admirable, nay, the amazing, play, as the men, regaining coolness
to some extent, gathered their forces and fell cautiously to the
deadly work, it would have been enough to change the cold shimmer
of her face to a flash of warm delight. For she would have understood
every feint, longe, parry, and seen at a glance how Father Beret
set the pace and led the race at the beginning. She would have understood;
for Father Beret had taught her all she knew about the art of fencing.
Hamilton quickly felt, and with a sense of its strangeness, the
priest's masterly command of his weapon. The surprise called up
all his caution and cleverness. Before he could adjust himself to
such an unexpected condition he came near being spitted outright
by a pretty pass under his guard. The narrow escape, while it put
him on his best mettle, sent a wave of superstition through his
brain. He recalled what Barlow had jocularly said about the doings
of the devil-priest or priest-devil at Roussillon place on that
night when the patrol guard attempted to take Gaspard Roussillon.
Was this, indeed, Father Beret, that gentle old man, now before
him, or was it an avenging demon from the shades?
The thought flitted electrically across his mind, while he deftly
parried, feinted, longed, giving his dark antagonist all he could
do to meet the play. Priest or devil, he thought, he cared not which,
he would reach its vitals presently. Yet there lingered with him
a haunting half-fear, or tenuous awe, which may have aided, rather
than hindered his excellent swordsmanship.
Under foot it was slushy with mud, water and ice, the consistency
varying from a somewhat solid crust to puddles that half inundated
Hamilton's boots and quite overflowed Father Beret's moccasins.
An execrable field for the little matter in hand. They gradually
shifted position. Now it was the Governor, then the priest, who
had advantage as to the light. For some time Father Beret seemed
quite the shiftier and surer fighter, but (was it his age telling
on him?) he lost perceptibly in suppleness. Still Hamilton failed
to touch him. There was a baffling something in the old man's escape
now and again from what ought to have been an inevitable stroke.
Was it luck? It seemed to Hamilton more than that--a sort of uncanny
evasion. Or was it supreme mastery, the last and subtlest reach
of the fencer's craft?
Youth forced age slowly backward in the struggle, which at times
took on spurts so furious that the slender blades, becoming mere
glints of acicular steel, split the moonlight back and forth, up
and down, so that their meetings, following one another in a well-
nigh continuous stroke, sent a jarring noise through the air. Father
Beret lost inch by inch, until the fighting was almost over the
body of Alice; and now for the first time Hamilton became aware
of that motionless something with the white, luminous face in profile
against the ground; but he did not let even that unsettle his fencing
gaze, which followed the sunken and dusky eyes of his adversary.
A perspiration suddenly flooded his body, however, and began to
drip across his face. His arm was tiring. A doubt crept like a chill
into his heart. Then the priest appeared to add a cubit to his stature
and waver strangely in the soft light. Behind him, low against the
sky, a wide winged owl shot noiselessly across just above the prairie.
The soul of a true priest is double: it is the soul of a saint and
the soul of a worldly man. What is most beautiful in this duality
is the supreme courage with which the saintly spirit attacks the
worldly and so often heroically masters it. In the beginning of
the fight Father Beret let a passion of the earthly body take him
by storm. It was well for Governor Henry Hamilton that the priest
was so wrought upon as to unsettle his nerves, otherwise there would
have been an evil heart impaled midway of Father Beret's rapier.
A little later the saintly spirit began to assert itself, feebly
indeed, but surely. Then it was that Father Beret seemed to be losing
agility for a while as he backstepped away from Hamilton's increasing
energy of assault. In his heart the priest was saying: "I will
not murder him. I must not do that. He deserves death, but vengeance
is not mine. I will disarm him." Step by step he retreated,
playing erratically to make an opening for a trick he meant to use.
It was singularly loose play, a sort of wavering, shifty, incomprehensible
show of carelessness, that caused Hamilton to entertain a doubt,
which was really a fear, as to what was going to happen; for, notwithstanding
all this neglect of due precaution on the priest's part, to touch
him seemed impossible, miraculously so, and every plan of attack
dissolved into futility in the most maddening way.
"Priest, devil or ghost!" raged Hamilton, with a froth
gathering around his mouth; "I'll kill you, or--"
He made a longe, when his adversary left an opening which appeared
absolutely beyond defence. It was a quick, dextrous, vicious thrust.
The blade leaped toward Father Beret's heart with a twinkle like
lightning.
At that moment, although warily alert and hopeful that his opportunity
was at hand, Father Beret came near losing his life; for as he side-stepped
and easily parried Hamilton's thrust, which he had invited, thinking
to entangle his blade and disarm him, he caught his foot in Alice's
skirt and stumbled, nearly falling across her. It would have been
easy for Hamilton to run him through, had he instantly followed
up the advantage. But the moonlight on Alice's face struck his eyes,
and by that indirect ray of vision which is often strangely effective,
he recognized her lying there. It was a disconcerting thing for
him, but he rallied instantly and sprang aside, taking a new position
just in time to face Father Beret again. A chill crept up his back.
The horror which he could not shake off enraged him beyond measure.
Gathering fresh energy, he renewed the assault with desperate steadiness
the highest product of absolutely molten fury.
Father Beret felt the dangerous access of power in his antagonist's
arm, and knew that a crisis had arrived. He could not be careless
now. Here was a swordsman of the best school calling upon him for
all the skill and strength and cunning that he could command. Again
the saintly element was near being thrown aside by the worldly in
the old man's breast. Alice lying there seemed mutely demanding
that he avenge her. A riotous something in his blood clamored for
a quick and certain act in this drama by moonlight--a tragic close
by a stroke of terrible yet perfectly fitting justice.
There was but the space of a breath for the conflict in the priest's
heart, yet during that little time he reasoned the case and quoted
scripture to himself.
"Domine, percutimus in gladio?" rang through his mind.
"Lord, shall we smite with the sword?"
Hamilton seemed to make answer to this with a dazzling display of
skill. The rapiers sang a strange song above the sleeping girl,
a lullaby with coruscations of death in every keen note.
Father Beret was thinking of Alice. His brain, playing double, calculated
with lightning swiftness the chances and movements of that whirlwind
rush of fight, while at the same time it swept through a retrospect
of all the years since Alice came into his life. How he had watched
her grow and bloom; how he had taught her, trained her mind and
soul and body to high things, loved her with a fatherly passion
unbounded, guarded her from the coarse and lawless influences of
her surroundings. Like the tolling of an infinitely melancholy bell,
all this went through his breast and brain, and, blending with a
furious current of whatever passions were deadly dangerous in his
nature, swept as a storm bearing its awful force into his sword-arm.
The Englishman was a lion, the priest a gladiator. The stars aloft
in the vague, dark, yet splendid, amphitheater were the audience.
It was a question. Would the thumbs go down or up? Life and death
held the chances even; but it was at the will of Heaven, not of
the stars. "Hoc habet" must follow the stroke ordered
from beyond the astral clusters and the dusky blue.
Hamilton pressed, nay rushed, the fight with a weight and at a pace
which could not last. But Father Beret withstood him so firmly that
he made no farther headway; he even lost some ground a moment later.
"You damned Jesuit hypocrite!" he snarled; "you lowest
of a vile brotherhood of liars!"
Then he rushed again, making a magnificent show of strength, quickness
and accuracy. The sparks hissed and crackled from the rasping and
ringing blades.
Father Beret was, in truth, a Jesuit, and as such a zealot; but
he was not a liar or a hypocrite. Being human, he resented an insult.
The saintly spirit in him was strong, yet not strong enough to breast
the indignation which now dashed against it. For a moment it went
down.
"Liar and scoundrel yourself!" he retorted, hoarsely forcing
the words out of his throat. "Spawn of a beastly breed!"
Hamilton saw and felt a change pass over the spirit of the old priest's
movements. Instantly the sword leaping against his own seemed endowed
with subtle cunning and malignant treachery. Before this it had
been difficult enough to meet the fine play and hold fairly even;
now he was startled and confused; but he rose to the emergency with
admirable will power and cleverness.
"Murderer of a poor orphan girl!" Father Beret added with
a hot concentrated accent; "death is too good for you."
Hamilton felt nearer his grave than ever before in all his wild
experience, for somehow doom, shadowy and formless, like the atmosphere
of an awful dream, enmisted those words; but he was no weakling
to quit at the height of desperate conflict. He was strong, expert,
and game to the middle of his heart.
"I'll add a traitor Jesuit to my list of dead," he panted
forth, rising yet again to the extremest tension of his power.
As he did this Father Beret settled himself as you have seen a mighty
horse do in the home stretch of a race. Both men knew that the moment
had arrived for the final act in their impromptu play. It was short,
a duel condensed and crowded into fifteen seconds of time, and it
was rapid beyond the power of words to describe. A bystander, had
there been one, could not have seen what was finally done or how
it was done. Father Beret's sword seemed to be revolving--it was
a halo in front of Hamilton for a mere point of time. The old priest
seemed to crouch and then make a quick motion as if about to leap
backward. A wrench and a snip, as of something violently jerked
from a fastening, were followed by a semicircular flight of Hamilton's
rapier over Father Beret's head to stick in the ground ten feet
behind him. The duel was over, and the whole terrible struggle had
occupied less than three minutes.
With his wrist strained and his fingers almost broken, Hamilton
stumbled forward and would have impaled himself had not Father Beret
turned the point of his weapon aside as he lowered it.
"Surrender, or die!"
That was a strange order for a priest to make, but there could be
no mistaking its authority or the power behind it. Hamilton regained
his footing and looked dazed, wheezing and puffing like a porpoise,
but he clearly understood what was demanded of him.
"If you call out I'll run you through," Father Beret added,
seeing him move his lips as if to shout for help.
The level rapier now reinforced the words. Hamilton let the breath
go noiselessly from his mouth and waved his hand in token of enforced
submission.
"Well, what do you want me to do?" he demanded after a
short pause. "You seem to have me at your mercy. What are your
terms?"
Father Beret hesitated. It was a question difficult to answer.
"Give me your word as a British officer that you will never
again try to harm any person, not an open, armed enemy, in this
town."
Hamilton's gorge rose perversely. He erected himself with lofty
reserve and folded his arms. The dignity of a Lieutenant Governor
leaped into him and took control. Father Beret correctly interpreted
what he saw.
"My people have borne much," he said, "and the killing
of that poor child there will be awfully avenged if I but say the
word. Besides, I can turn every Indian in this wilderness against
you in a single day. You are indeed at my mercy, and I will be merciful
if you will satisfy my demand."
He was trembling with emotion while he spoke and the desire to kill
the man before him was making a frightful struggle with his priestly
conscience; but conscience had the upper hand. Hamilton stood gazing
fixedly, pale as a ghost, his thoughts becoming more and more clear
and logical. He was in a bad situation. Every word that Father Beret
had spoken was true and went home with force. There was no time
for parley or subterfuge; the sword looked as if, eager to find
his heart, it could not be held back another moment. But the wan,
cold face of the girl had more power than the rapier's hungry point.
It made an abject coward of him.
"I am willing to give you my word," he presently said.
"And let me tell you," he went on more rapidly, "I
did not shoot at her. She was behind you,"
"Your word as a British officer?"
Hamilton again stiffened and hesitated, but only for the briefest
space, then said:
"Yes, my word as a British officer."
Father Beret waved his hand with impatience.
"Go, then, back to your place in the fort and disturb, my people
no more. The soul of this poor little girl will haunt you forever.
Go!"
Hamilton stood a little while gazing at the face of Alice with the
horrible wistfulness of remorse. What would he not have given to
rub his eyes and find it all a dream?
He turned away; a cloud scudded across the moon; here and yonder
in the dim town cocks crowed with a lonesome, desultory effect.
Father Beret plucked up the rapier that he had wrenched from Hamilton's
hand. It suggested something.
"Hold!" he called out, "give me the scabbard of this
sword." Hamilton, who was striding vigorously in the direction
of the fort, turned about as the priest hastened to him.
"Give me the scabbard of this rapier; I want it. Take it off."
The command was not gently voiced. A hoarse, half-whisper winged
every word with an imperious threat.
Hamilton obeyed. His hands were not firm; his fingers fumbled nervously;
but he hurried, and Father Beret soon had the rapier sheathed and
secured at his belt beside its mate.
A good and true priest is a burden-bearer. His motto is: Alter alterius
onera portate; bear ye one another's burdens. His soul is enriched
with the cast-off sorrows of those whom he relieves. Father Beret
scarcely felt the weight of Alice's body when he lifted it from
the ground, so heavy was the pressure of his grief. All that her
death meant, not only to him, but to every person who knew her,
came into his heart as the place of refuge consecrated for the indwelling
of pain. He lifted her and bore her as far toward Roussillon place
as he could; but his strength fell short just in front of the little
Bourcier cottage, and half dead he staggered across the veranda
to the door, where he sank exhausted.
After a breathing spell he knocked. The household, fast asleep,
did not hear; but he persisted until the door was opened to him
and his burden.
Captain Farnsworth unclosed his bloodshot eyes, at about eight o'clock
in the morning, quite confused as to his place and surroundings.
He looked about drowsily with a sheepish half- knowledge of having
been very drunk. A purring in his head and a dull ache reminded
him of an abused stomach. He yawned and stretched himself, then
sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. Father Beret was
on his knees before the cross, still as a statue, his clasped hands
extended upward.
Farnsworth's face lighted with recognition, and he smiled rather
bitterly. He recalled everything and felt ashamed, humiliated, self-debased.
He had outraged even a priest's hospitality with his brutish appetite,
and he hated himself for it. Disgust nauseated his soul apace with
the physical sinking and squirming that grew upon him.
"I'm a shabby, worthless dog!" he muttered, with petulant
accent; "why don't you kick me out, Father?"
The priest turned a collapsed and bloodless gray face upon him,
smiled in a tired, perfunctory way, crossed himself absently and
said:
"You have rested well, my son. Hard as the bed is, you have
done it a compliment in the way of sleeping. You young soldiers
understand how to get the most out of things."
"You are too generous, Father, and I can't appreciate it. I
know what I deserve, and you know it, too. Tell me what a brute
and fool I am; it will do me good. Punch me a solid jolt in the
ribs, like the one you gave me not long ago."
"Qui sine peccato est, primus lapidem mittat" said the
priest. "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."
He had gone to the hearth and was taking from the embers an earthen
saucer, or shallow bowl, in which some fragrant broth simmered and
steamed.
"A man who has slept as long as you have, my son, usually has
a somewhat delicate appetite. Now, here is a soup, not especially
satisfying to the taste of a gourmet like yourself, but possessing
the soothing quality that is good for one just aroused from an unusual
nap. I offer it, my son, propter stomachum tuum, et frequentes tuas
infirmitates (on account of thy stomach, and thine often infirmities).
This soup will go to the right spot."
While speaking he brought the hot bowl to Farnsworth and set it
on the bedcover before him, then fetched a big horn spoon.
The fragrance of pungent roots and herbs, blent with a savory waft
of buffalo meat, greeted the Captain's sense, and the anticipation
itself cheered his aching throat. It made him feel greedy and in
a hurry. The first spoonful, a trifle bitter, was not so pleasant
at the beginning, but a moment after he swallowed it a hot prickling
set in and seemed to dart through him from extremity to extremity.
Slowly, as he ate, the taste grew more agreeable, and all the effects
of his debauch disappeared. It was like magic; his blood warmed
and glowed, as if touched with mysterious fire.
"What is this in this soup, Father Beret, that makes it so
searching and refreshing?" he demanded, when the bowl was empty.
Father Beret shook his head and smiled drolly.
"That I cannot divulge, my son, owing to a promise I had to
make to the aged Indian who gave me the secret. It is the elixir
of the Miamis. Only their consecrated medicine men hold the recipe.
The stimulation is but temporary."
Just then someone knocked on the door. Father Beret opened it to
one of Hamilton's aides,
"Your pardon, Father, but hearing Captain Farnsworth's voice
I made bold to knock."
"What is it, Bobby?" Farnsworth called out.
"Nothing, only the Governor has been having you looked for
in every nook and corner of the fort and town. You'd better report
at once, or hell be having us drag the river for your body."
"All right, Lieutenant, go back and keep mum, that's a dear
boy, and I'll shuffle into Colonel Hamilton's august presence before
many minutes."
The aide laughed and went his way whistling a merry tune.
"Now I am sure to get what I deserve, with usury at forty per
cent in advance," said Farnsworth dryly, shrugging his shoulders
with undissembled dread of Hamilton's wrath. But the anticipation
was not realized. The Governor received Farnsworth stiffly enough,
yet in a way that suggested a suppressed desire to avoid explanations
on the Captain's part and a reprimand on his own. In fact, Hamilton
was hoping that something would turn up to shield him from the effect
of his terrible midnight adventure, which seemed the darker the
more he thought of it. He had a slow, numb conscience, lying deep
where it was hard to reach, and when a qualm somehow entered it
he endured in secret what most men would have cast off or confessed.
He was haunted, if not with remorse, at least by a dread of something
most disagreeable in connection with what he had done. Alice's white
face had impressed itself indelibly on his memory, so that it met
his inner vision at every turn. He was afraid to converse with Farnsworth
lest she should come up for discussion; consequently their interview
was curt and formal.
It was soon discovered that Alice had escaped from the stockade,
and some show of search was made for her by Hamilton's order, but
Farnsworth looked to it that the order was not carried out. He thought
he saw at once that his chief knew where she was. The mystery perplexed
and pained the young man, and caused him to fear all sorts of evil;
but there was a chance that Alice had found a safe retreat and he
knew that nothing but ill could befall her if she were discovered
and brought back to the fort. Therefore his search for her became
his own secret and for his own heart's ease. And doubtless he would
have found her; for even handicapped and distorted love like his
is lynx-eyed and sure on the track of its object; but a great event
intervened and swept away his opportunity.
Hamilton's uneasiness, which was that of a strong, misguided nature
trying to justify itself amid a confusion of unmanageable doubts
and misgivings, now vented itself in a resumption of the repairs
he had been making at certain points in the fort. These he completed
just in time for the coming of Clark. |