Фредерик Марриет
Percival Keene
“Yes, sir,” said the doctor, “that you certainly are; you have the same fever on you as Captain W. Singular.”
“Yes, but it will be rather too singular, doctor. Poor W had obloquy enough on account of his illness; and if a second captain in the navy were to be obliged to send a similar excuse, we should be at a pretty discount with the red-coats. If you can do any thing for me, do; but it must be perfectly understood that fight to-morrow evening I will, even if I am carried to the ground.”
“Certainly, Captain Delmar, if it is possible. I think that a little blood must be taken from you immediately, and probably the fever may subside.”
But before his arm could be bound up, the captain became incoherent in his discourse; and after the bleeding had been performed, when he attempted to look at his papers, he was so confused that he found it impossible, and was obliged to be put to bed immediately. When the surgeon came out of his bed-room, he said to us, “He’ll never get up to fight that duel, depend upon it; the fever increases—it may be that he may never rise again—I fear it is the yellow fever.”
“A bad job,” replied the master—“a very bad job indeed; two captains in the navy receiving challenges, and both sending excuses on account of illness. The service will be disgraced. I’ll fight the soldier myself.”
“That will never do,” replied the surgeon; “it will not help the captain that he has sent one of his officers in his stead. Steward, make a bed up here in this room; I shall not leave the house to-night.”
“It’s of no use my staying here,” observed the master: “nor you either, Keene: let’s go on board, and we will be here early to-morrow morning. Confounded bad job this. Good-bye.”
The master and I returned to the boat. I had been reflecting a good deal on the disgrace which would, at all events for a certain period, be thrown upon the service and Captain Delmar by this unfortunate circumstance, and before I had gone up the ship’s side I had made up my mind. As soon as we were on board, I requested the master to allow me to speak to him in his cabin; and when we were there, after canvassing the question, and pointing out to him what discredit would ensue, and working him up into a great state of irritation, I then proposed to him what I considered to be the best course to pursue. “Every one says how like I am to Captain Delmar, Mr Smith,” said I.
“If you were his own son, you could not be more so,” replied the master.
“Well, sir, I am now as tall as he is: the colour of my hair is lighter, certainly; but the captain wears a wig. Now, sir, I am perfectly sure that if I were to put on the captain’s uniform and wig, as the duel is to take place in the evening, they never could find out that it was not the captain; and as for a good shot, I think I can hit a button as well as the best duellist in existence.”
The master bit his lips, and was silent for a short time. At last he said, “What you propose is certainly very easy; but why should you risk your life for Captain Delmar?”
“Why, did you not offer to do it just now for the honour of the service? I have that feeling, and moreover wish to serve Captain Delmar, who has been my patron. What’s the life of a midshipman worth, even if I were to fall?—nothing.”
“That’s true enough,” replied the master bluntly; and then correcting himself, he added, “that is, midshipmen in general; but I think you may be worth something by-and-by. However, Keene, I do think, on the whole, it’s a very good plan; and if the Captain is not better to-morrow, we will then consider it more seriously. I have an idea that you are more likely to pin the fellow than the captain, who, although as brave a man as can be, he has not, I believe, fired twenty pistols in his life. Good night; and I hardly need say we must keep our secret.”
“Never fear, sir. Good night.”
I went to my hammock, quite overjoyed at the half-consent given by the master to my proposition. It would give me such a claim on Captain Delmar, if I survived; and if I fell, at all events he would cherish my memory; but as for falling, I felt sure that I should not. I had a presentiment (probably no more than the buoyant hope of youth) that I should be the victor. At all events, I went to sleep very soundly, and did not wake until I was roused up by the quartermaster on the following morning.
After breakfast the master requested a boat to be manned, and we went on shore. On our arrival at the house, we found the surgeon in great anxiety: the captain was in a state of delirium, and the fever was at the highest.
“How is he?” demanded the master.
“More likely to go out of the world himself than to send another out of it,” replied the surgeon. “He cannot well be worse, and that is all that I can say. He has been raving all night, and I have been obliged to take nearly two pounds of blood from him; and, Mr Keene,” continued the surgeon, “he talks a great deal of you and other persons. You may go in to him, if you please; for I have as much as possible kept the servants away—they will talk.”
“Bob Cross is down below, sir,” replied I: “he is the safest man to wait upon him.”
“I agree with you, Keene—send for him, and he shall remain at his bedside.”
The master then spoke with the surgeon, and communicated my proposition; and the surgeon replied, “Well, from what I have learned this night, there is no person who has so great a right to take his place; and perhaps it will be as well, both for the captain’s sake and his own; at all events, I will go with you, and, in case of accident, do my best.”
The matter was, therefore, considered as arranged, and I went into the captain’s room. He was delirious, and constantly crying out about his honour and disgrace; indeed, there is no doubt but that his anxiety to meet his antagonist was one very great cause of the fever having run so high; but at times he changed the subject, and then he spoke of me and my mother. “Where is my boy—my own boy, Percival?” said he—“my pride—where is he? Arabella, you must not be angry with me—no, Arabella; consider the consequence;” and then he would burst out in such fond expressions towards me, that the tears ran down my cheeks as I planted a kiss upon his forehead; for he was insensible, and I could do so without offence.
Bob Cross, who had for some time been at his bedside, wiped the tears from his eyes, and said, “Master Keene, how this man must have suffered to have cloaked his feelings towards you in the way which he has done. However, I am glad to hear all this, and, if necessary, I will tell him of it—ay, if I get seven dozen for it the next minute.”
I remained with Bob Cross at his bedside for the whole day, during which he more than twenty times acknowledged me as his son. As the evening closed in, I prepared in silence for the duty I had to perform. To the surprise of Cross, who was ignorant of what I intended, I stripped off my own clothes and put on those of the captain, and then put his wig over my own hair. I then examined myself in the glass, and was satisfied.
“Well,” said Cross, looking at me, “you do look like the captain himself, and might almost go on board and read the articles of war; but, surely, Master Keene,” added he, looking at the captain as he lay senseless in bed, “this is no time for foolery of this sort.”
“It is no foolery, Bob,” replied I, taking his hand; “I am going to represent the captain and fight a duel for him, or the service will be disgraced.”
“I didn’t know that the captain had a duel to fight,” replied Bob, “although I heard that there had been words.”
I then explained the whole to him. “You are right, Master Keene—right in everything. May God bless you, and send you good luck. I wish I might go with you.”
“No, Bob, that must not be.”
“Then, God bless you, and may you floor the soldier. Lord, what a state I shall be in till I know what has taken place!”
“It will soon be known, Bob; so good-bye, and I trust we shall meet again.” I then went out of the bed-room.
The surgeon actually started when I made my appearance, and acknowledged that the personation was exact. Taking the arm of the surgeon and the master, we set off, the master carrying the pistols, which had been prepared; and in a quarter of an hour we arrived at the place of meeting. My disguise was so complete that we had not hesitated to walk out sooner than we had intended; and we found ourselves the first on the field of action, which I was glad of.
About dusk, which was the time agreed upon and about five minutes after our arrival, our antagonists made their appearance. There was no time to be lost, as there is little or no twilight in the West Indies; so a polite bow was exchanged, and the ground marked out at eight paces by the master and the second of my opponent. A very short parley then took place between Mr Smith and the other gentleman, who officiated for the adjutant, in which it was decided that we should turn back to back, with our pistols ready, and that on the words, “Make ready—present—fire” given in succession, we were to turn round to each other, level, and fire. This made it more difficult to hit; indeed it was almost impossible to take aim, as the words were given so quick after each other; and the great point was, to fire as soon as the word was given.
The first discharge was not lucky for me. I missed my antagonist, and received his bullet in my left shoulder; this did not, however, disable me, and I said nothing about it. The pistols were again loaded and handed to us; and on the signal being given, my adversary’s pistol went off a little before the word “fire” was given, and I felt myself again hit; but I returned the fire with fatal success. The ball went through his body, and he fell. The surgeon, master, and his second, immediately went up, and raised him in a sitting position; but in a few minutes he was senseless.
In the meantime I remained where I was, having dropped my pistol on the ground. That I had an unpleasant pang at the idea of a fellow-creature having fallen by my hand in a duel, I acknowledge; but when I called to mind why I had fought the duel, and that if had saved the honour of the captain (may I not say at once my father’s honour? for that was my feeling), I could not, and did not, repent the deed. But I had not time given me to analyse my feelings; a sensation of faintness rapidly crept over me. The fact was that I had been bleeding profusely; and while the surgeon and the others were still hanging over the expiring adjutant, I dropped and fell fainting on the ground. When I recovered I found myself in bed, and attended on by the surgeon, the master, and Bob Cross.
“Keep quiet, Keene,” said the surgeon, “and all will be well; but keep quiet, that we may have no fever. Here, drink this, and try if you cannot go to sleep.” They raised me up, and I swallowed the mixture; my head was so confused, and I was so weak, that I felt as if I hardly dared breathe, lest my breath should leave my body, and I was glad to find myself again on the pillow. I was soon in a sound seep, from which I did not arouse for many hours, and, as I afterwards was told, had had a very narrow escape, from the exhaustion arising from the excessive haemorrhage.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I could scarcely recall my senses. I saw Bob Cross sometimes, and I heard moaning and talking. I thought the latter was my own voice, but it was Captain Delmar, whose fever still continued, and who was in an alarming state. It was not till the evening, twenty-four hours after the duel, that I could completely recall my senses; then I did, and motioned to Cross that I wanted drink. He gave me some lemonade—it was nectar; he then went out for the surgeon, who came to the bedside, and felt my pulse.
“You’ll do now, my boy,” said he; “get another good sleep to-night, and to-morrow morning you will have nothing to do but to get well.”
“Where am I hit?” said I.
“You had a ball in your shoulder and another in your hip, but they are both extracted; the one in the hip cut through a large vein, and the haemorrhage was so great before you could be brought here, that at one time I thought you were gone. Your life hung upon a thread for hours; but we may thank God that all is right now. You have no fever, and your pulse is getting strong again.”
“How’s the captain, sir?”
“As bad as bad can be just now; but I have hopes of a change for the better.”
“And Captain W, sir?”
“Poor fellow! he is dead; and has so decidedly proved that his fever was not a sham, the soldiers are a little ashamed of themselves—and so they ought to be; but too often good feelings come too late. Now, Keene, you have talked quite enough for to-night; take your sedative mixture, and go to sleep again; to-morrow, I have no doubt, you will be able to ask as many questions as you like.”
“Only one more, sir:– is the adjutant dead?”
“I have not heard,” replied the surgeon; “but we shall know to-morrow: now go to sleep, and good-night.”
When the surgeon left the room, “Bob?” said I.
“Not an answer will I give to-night, Mr Keene,” said Bob Cross; “to-morrow morning we’ll have the rights and wrongs of the whole story. You must obey orders, sir, and go to sleep.”
As I knew Bob would do as he said, I laid my head down, and was soon once more in forgetfulness. It was not daylight. When I again awoke, and found Cross snoring in the chair by the bedside; poor fellow, he had never lain down since he came on shore, when the captain was first taken ill. I felt much better, although my wounds tingled a little, and I was very anxious to know if Captain Delmar was out of danger; but that could not be ascertained till I saw the surgeon. I remained thinking over the events which had passed. I called to mind that the captain, in his delirium, had called me his own boy, his Percival and I felt more happy.
About an hour after I had awoke, the surgeon came into the room. “How is Captain Delmar, sir?” said I.
“I am glad to say that he is much better; but I must wake up poor Cross, who is tired out.”
Cross, who was awake the moment that we spoke, was now on his legs.
“You must go to the captain, and keep the bed-clothes on him, Cross. He is now in a perspiration, and it must not be checked—do you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Bob, walking away into the other room.
“You are all right again, Keene,” said the surgeon, feeling my pulse; “we will look at your wounds by-and-by, and change the dressing.”
“Tell me, sir,” said I, “how have you managed? Nobody has found it out?”
“Oh, no; it is supposed that Captain Delmar is badly wounded, and that you have the yellow fever, and we must keep it up—that is the reason why Bob Cross is the only one allowed to come into the sick rooms. I have no doubt that Captain Delmar will be sensible in a few hours, and then we shall be puzzled what to say to him. Must we tell him the truth?”
“Not at present, sir, at all events: tell him that he has fought the duel, and killed his man; he will think that he did it when he was out of his senses, or else that the fever has driven it from his memory.”
“Well, perhaps that will be the best way just now; it will relieve his mind, for with his return to sensibility will also revive his feelings of disgrace and dishonour; and if they are not checked, the fever may come on again.”
The surgeon gave me some breakfast this morning, and then dressed my wounds, which he pronounced were doing quite well; and about twelve o’clock the master came on shore with the first lieutenant. The master came into my room after the first lieutenant went away, who had been told by the surgeon that he could not see Captain Delmar—and he, of course, did not wish to come into contact with me, who he supposed had the yellow fever. In the afternoon Captain Delmar woke up from his stupor—the fever had left him, and he had nothing to combat with but extreme debility. “Where am I?” said he, after a pause; and, recollecting himself, he continued to Cross, who was the only person in the room, and who had received his instructions from the surgeon, “How long have I lain here?”
“Ever since the duel, sir.”
“The duel—how do you mean?”
“I mean ever since your honour fought the duel, and killed the soldger officer.”
“Killed—duel—I can’t recollect having fought the duel.”
“Dare say not, your honour,” replied Bob; “you were in a roaring fever at the time; but you would not stay in bed, all the surgeon could do—go you would; but when you had fought, we were obliged to carry you back again.”
“And so I really have fought—I have not the least recollection—I must have been in a high fever indeed. Where’s the surgeon?”
“He’s in the verandah below, sir, speaking to some soldger officers who have come to inquire after your health. Here he comes.”
The surgeon came in, and Captain Delmar then said to him, “Is this all true that Cross has been telling me? Have I really fought a duel and killed my adversary?”
“I regret to say, sir, that he is dead, and was buried yesterday; but, if you please, you must not talk any more at present—you must be quiet for a few hours.”
“Well, doctor, so that my honour is saved, I am content to obey you—it’s very odd—” Here the captain was exhausted, and was silent, and in a few minutes he was again asleep, and remained slumbering till the next morning, when he was much better. He then entered into conversation with the surgeon, making him describe the duel; and the latter did so, so as to satisfy the captain; and he also informed him that I had been taken ill with the fever, and was in the next room.
“Next room!” replied the captain: “why was he not sent on board? Are all the midshipmen who are taken ill to be brought to my house to be cured?”
I overheard this reply of the captain, and it cut me to the heart. I felt what an invincible pride had to be conquered before I could obtain my wishes.
The surgeon answered Captain Delmar,—“As only you and Mr Keene were taken with the fever, I thought it better that he should remain here, than that the ship’s company should take it by his being sent on board. I trust, Captain Delmar, I have done right?”
“Yes, I see,” replied the captain; “you did perfectly right—I did not think of that. I hope Mr Keene is doing well?”
“I trust that we shall get him through it, sir,” replied the surgeon.
“Pray let him have anything that he requires, Mr —; let him want for nothing during his illness and convalescence. He would be a heavy loss to the service,” added the captain.
“He would, indeed, sir,” replied the surgeon.
“Here are the journals of St. Pierre, in which there are several accounts of the duel, most of them incorrect. Some say that you were twice wounded, others once.”
“I dare say they thought so,” replied the captain, “for Cross tells me that I was carried home. It’s very singular that I should have fought in such a condition. Thank you, Mr —; I will read them when I have lain down a little, for I am tired again already.”
The surgeon then informed the captain of the death of Captain W.
“Poor fellow!” replied Captain Delmar. “Well, I will not make any appointments until I am better.” The captain then lay down again, leaving the newspapers on the coverlet.
A week now passed, during which both the captain and I became nearly convalescent: we had both been out of bed, and had remained for a few hours on the sofas in our respective rooms. The surgeon told me that it would be necessary to tell him the truth very soon, and that he thought he would do so on the following day. It did, however, happen that the discovery was not made to him by the surgeon. In the afternoon, when the latter was on board, Captain Delmar felt so strong that he resolved to put on his clothes, and go into the sitting-room. He desired Cross to give them to him, and the first articles handed to him were his trowsers, and Bob quite forgot that I had worn them.
“Why, how’s this?” said the captain—“here’s a hole through the waistband, and they are bloody.”
Bob was so frightened, that he walked out of the room as if he had not heard what the captain had said. It appears that the captain took up his coat, and discovered another hole in the shoulder, with the same marks of blood.
“This is quite a dream,” said the captain, talking to himself—“I’ve no wound, and yet the newspapers say that I was wounded twice. Cross! Cross!—Where is Cross?”
Bob, who had taken refuge in my room, where we overheard everything he said, whispered, “It’s no use now, Mr Keene,—I must tell it all; never fear me, I know how to do it.” And then he obeyed the captain’s summons, leaving me in a state of great nervous anxiety.
“Cross,” said the captain sternly, “I insist upon knowing the truth: I have been deceived by my officers. Did I, or did I not, fight this duel?”
“Well, sir,” replied Cross, “the truth was only kept back from you till you were quite well again, and I suppose I must tell it to you now. You were too ill, and you raved about our honour, and that you were disgraced, and that—”
“Well, go on, sir.”
“I will, Captain Delmar; but I hope you’ll not be angry, sir. Mr Keene could not bear to see you in that way, and he said he would lay down his life for you at any time, and he begged Mr Smith, the master, to allow him to fight the duel, because he said that he was so like you in person (which, somehow or other he is, that’s certain), that no one would know it was him if he put on your honour’s wig and uniform: that’s how it was, sir.”
“Go on,” said the captain.
“Well, sir, the master could not bear the sneering of the sogers on shore, and he consented that Mr Keene should take your place, which he did, sir; and I hope you will not be angry with Mr Keene, for it’s your old coat, sir, and I think it may have a piece let in, that it won’t be seen.”
Cross then went on describing the whole affair—of course praising me—and told the captain that everybody on board, as well as on shore, thought that he was wounded and that I had been taken with the yellow fever, and that nobody knew the real truth except the master, the surgeon, and himself.
“Is Mr Keene seriously hurt?” inquired the captain, after a pause.
“No, sir; the doctor says he will do very well. He was as near gone as ever a man was: at one time his breath would not move a feather—all the blood was out of his body.”
For a minute the captain made no reply; at last he said, in a quiet tone, “You may leave the room, Cross.”
What were the thoughts and feelings of Captain Delmar when he was left to reflect upon the information which he had received, I cannot tell but that he was not angry I inferred by the tone in which he desired Cross to leave the room. I was absorbed in my own feelings, when the surgeon entered the room, and gave me a letter. “Here’s a schooner just come in with despatches from the admiral,” said the surgeon: “the second lieutenant has brought them on shore for the captain, and among the letters from England I found this one for you. I have seen Cross,” continued the surgeon, nodding his head significantly as he left the room.
“The second lieutenant, with despatches, sir,” reported Bob Cross to the captain in the other room—“Shall I show him in?”
“No, I am not well; desire him to send them in by you,” replied the captain.
While the captain was busy with his despatches, I read my letter, which was from my mother, enclosing a copy of one from my grandmother, announcing my mother’s death. Of course there were a great many dying wishes; but that was a matter of course. I felt happy that this letter to the captain arrived at such a propitious time, as I knew that the announcement of my mother’s death would be a great point in my favour. That it ought not to have been, I confess; but I knew whom I had to deal with: the captain was ashamed of his intimacy, and the claims of my mother upon him, but not so much ashamed of me; and, now that she was removed, probably he might not be at all ashamed. My mother was no relation, and below him—I was his own flesh and blood, and half ennobled by so being.
The captain sent on board orders for getting under weigh. It appeared that the admiral had written to him, desiring him to sail for the coast of South America, to look after a French frigate, and that, as there was no farther occasion for so large a force at Martinique, he was to leave the next senior officer in command; but this was Captain W, who had died of the fever.
As senior in command, Captain Delmar then filled up the vacancy; the captain of a corvette was appointed to Captain W’s ship; our first lieutenant to the command of the corvette; but the lieutenant’s vacancy was not filled up, much to the surprise of the officers of the squadron. This was the work of the afternoon; in the evening the master was sent for, and a consultation held with him and the surgeon, which ended in the captain’s consenting to go on board with his arm in a sling, as if he had been wounded, and my being put into a cot, and removed on board to the captain’s cabin, as if still too weak with the fever to quit my bed. Cross was enjoined silence, and I was made acquainted by the surgeon with the result of the conference.
The next morning we were all embarked, and we hove the anchor up, and made sail to the southward. It must be observed, that I had neither seen nor had any communications with the captain, during the whole of this time. He was informed by the surgeon that I was in great distress of mind at the news of my mother’s death, and that my recovery would be retarded in consequence.
