Bloody Island was situated in the middle of the Mississippi River. The only way on or off was by boat unless a person was foolish enough to try to swim and contend with the sometimes swift currents that swept past the narrow island on both sides. No one lived there. Birds made their homes in the few trees and occasional snakes and frogs paid the place a visit, but otherwise a shroud of deathly stillness normally blanketed the island from one end to the other.
Decades ago, shortly after the turn of the century, the island had been the site of a duel between two prominent St. Louis residents in which one of the participants received a ball through the heart and bled copiously before dying. Ever since, the nickname Bloody Island had stuck.
Over the decades scores of duels were held there. The island was isolated and afforded privacy. More importantly, the duelists need not worry about accidentally hitting innocent bystanders since only the aggrieved parties and their seconds would be present. The field of honor had claimed the lives of seven of the city’s most distinguished citizens, not to mention all those who barely rated a mention in the newspaper.
Nate had viewed the island from a distance several times, but he had never been as close as now. The rowboat in which he sat was making slow progress from the riverbank to the island as the oarsman labored strenuously. He sat in the stern, facing forward. In the middle seat was a local boatman, who added to his meager income by ferrying duelists. Near the bow sat Shakespeare and Tricky Dick, the latter fidgeting nervously and frequently licking his lips.
Nate could see another rowboat already on the shore of Bloody Island. Close by were three men and a woman with radiant blond hair. Adeline! What was she doing there? Women, as a matter of decorum, were rarely present at duels. He wondered if Rhey had brought her deliberately, knowing full well her presence would distract him.
The current jostled the rowboat and the oarsman grunted as he struggled to keep the boat steady.
Nate glanced down at his flintlocks and swallowed. Although he had been the challenger, he couldn’t quite believe he was actually going to take part in a duel. He knew a lot about them, as did most everyone else in the country. Duels were the accepted way of resolving otherwise irreconcilable disputes, and many famous men had fought a duel at one time or another.
President Andrew Jackson himself was a noted duelist. Before assuming the presidency he had nearly lost his life when his opponent struck him in the chest a second prior to his own fatal shot. The heavy coat Jackson often wore had saved his life by stopping the ball before it could reach his heart.
Then there had been the relatively recent duel between Secretary of State Henry Clay and Senator John Randolph of Virginia. Both had emerged unscathed, but the fact that such notable political figures routinely engaged in duels testified to the widespread practice by both the high and the low.
And here he was about to do the same, Nate reflected. They were almost to the island now, the boatman making for a strip of shore near the other rowboat. He remembered how fiercely Winona had clung to him before he left Tricky Dick Harrington’s and the worried look in Zachary’s eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t let them down.
A tall man in a beaver hat approached as the boatman beached his small craft. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he welcomed them. “I’m Abner Collins, one of Rhey Debussy’s seconds.”
Nate had to wait until Shakespeare, Tricky Dick, and the boatman stepped out before he could do the same. He walked over to Collins. “This is Shakespeare McNair and Dick
Harrington,” he introduced his friends. “They will serve as my witnesses.”
Debussy’s party walked up, Rhey Debussy standing rigid and stern.
“May I introduce Maurice Evans,” Collins said, indicating a short man sporting tremendous sideburns.
There were nods all around.
“Since Monsieur Debussy has been challenged, he has the choice of weapons,” Collins mentioned.
“I know,” Nate said, dreading a miscalculation on his part. According to the stories making the rounds, Rhey had slain four men in duels, each time with a pistol. Rhey was neither an accomplished swordsman nor very skilled with a knife. As Nate was a competent marksman, he was counting on Rhey selecting pistols as the weapon of choice. “Has he decided?”
“He has,” Collins confirmed. “He has selected flintlocks and graciously allows you to use your own if you wish.”
“Thank you,” Nate said, relieved. By the strict code of conduct all duelists adhered to, Debussy had the right not only to pick the type of weapons used but the actual weapons themselves. Frequently the challenged party would arrive at the prearranged site bearing a set of pistols or swords with which he was intimately familiar but which his opponent had never so much as touched; the opponent was thus at a distinct disadvantage. Since Rhey was an accomplished duelist and aware of the edge he would have by supplying the arms, Nate wondered why Debussy was allowing him to use his own gun. It didn’t quite make sense.
“If you have no objections, I will do the counting,” Collins proposed.
“It’s fine with me.”
“Excellent. I will do a standard ten-count, at which time you both will wheel and fire. As Monsieur Debussy demands satisfaction, you realize that if by some chance both of you should miss, you must reload and duel again.”
“I understand,” Nate said. To demand satisfaction at a duel meant that it must be waged until one of the combatants died. There were duels, like the one between Randolph and Clay, in which both parties walked away unhurt because neither insisted on the ultimate sacrifice.
“Shall we?” Collins said, and motioned at a field bordering the shoreline.
They walked to the field, Nate and his friends bearing to the right, Debussy and his party to the left. Nate saw Adeline staring intently at him, but refused to meet her gaze. He halted after going fifteen yards and handed one of his flintlocks to Shakespeare. “I’ll want this back in a bit,” he said, grinning.
McNair hefted the pistol and frowned. “Remember to turn as soon as you hear the count of ten. Don’t rush your shot, but don’t take forever to aim either.”
“I know what to do,” Nate said.
“Oh?” Shakespeare said, and poked Tricky Dick with an elbow. “He’s never fought a duel in his life yet he acts like an expert.”
“I could never do this,” Tricky Dick said. “I’d rather tangle with a grizzly.”
Nate smiled.
“Gentlemen!” Abner Collins called. He had moved farther into the field and was standing between the two groups. “Shall we begin?”
Grasping the remaining flintlock in his right hand, Nate walked to where Collins stood. Rhey approached and stopped, glaring his spite.
“You both know the code,” Collins said. “Stand back-to-back and wait until I begin my count. At each number take a step. On ten turn and fire. Do either of you have any questions?”
Rhey impatiently shook his head. Nate responded, “No.”
“If you are both ready, assume the position,” Collins directed them.
Nate positioned himself in front of Collins and pivoted on his heel, then felt Rhey’s back bump his as Debussy complied. He held the pistol with the barrel pointed skyward, as was traditional. Memories of the only duel he had personally witnessed flitted through his mind, a contest between two gamblers that had left one man dead, the other seriously wounded. Would he wind up a corpse? he wondered, and shook his head in annoyance to clear his thoughts. Now was not the time to indulge in such speculation.
“Are you ready?” Collins inquired.
“I am,” Rhey replied.
“Yes,” Nate said.
“Then we shall begin,” Collins said, and cleared his throat. “One.”
Nate took a measured stride and felt his mouth abruptly go dry. He also felt oddly flushed.
“Two,” Collins stated loudly, the sound of his hurried footsteps clear as he rapidly backed away from their line of fire.
Again Nate took a pace. His palm had become moist with sweat and he tightened his grip on the flintlock. He began to think that Tricky Dick had been right. He should have jumped Rhey on a darkened street somewhere.
“Three!”
Nate noticed that Collins was calling out each number louder than the one before. He was tempted to look at Shakespeare and Tricky Dick, to be reassured by their presence, but he stared straight ahead as the unwritten rules dictated.
“Four!”
An appalling weakness crept into Nate’s limbs and he managed the step with an effort. What was happening? Was fear taking over? He couldn’t permit that to happen.
“Five!”
The next stride was even harder. He bit his lower lip until it hurt, using pain to force his mind to focus. Slowly the weakness dissipated.
“Six!”
Nate saw a crow wing past the north end of the island and was reminded of the ancient superstition that crows and ravens were harbingers of disaster.
“Seven!”
In fifteen seconds he could be dead. The thought sobered Nate like no other could. Fleeting panic welled up within him, but he suppressed it. He
had chosen this course of action; he must see it through to the end.
“Eight.”
Nate caressed the trigger with his finger and swore he could hear his heart pounding in his chest.
“Nine!”
He used his thumb to cock the piece and tensed his arm muscles for the motion to follow. Strangely, he seemed to have developed extraordinary hearing. The sounds of chirping birds, the lapping of the Mississippi on the shore, and even the buzz of a passing bee were as clear as could be.
“TEN!”
Nate whirled as fast as he could, a lightning spin on the soles of his feet. Then, eerily, he had the illusion that everything was transpiring slowly. He saw Rhey Debussy had also turned, saw Rhey extend his pistol, and remembered to stand sideways to make himself a smaller target as he extended his own flintlock. The birds still chirped, the Mississippi still lapped, yet the sounds were different, impossibly pronounced and melodious. He heard the blast of Debussy’s pistol at the same instant smoke blossomed from the end of the muzzle, and he twisted in pain as an intense stinging sensation lanced his left shoulder. Sighting along the barrel, he saw Debussy’s eyes enlarge in terror a heartbeat before he squeezed the trigger and his gun boomed and kicked ever so slightly in his hand. Nothing happened, though, and he thought he must have missed. Rhey stood there, staring blankly, until suddenly his arms went limp, his knees buckled, and he fell, pitching onto his face.
Just like that it was over.
He slowly lowered his pistol as Collins and Maurice Evans ran to Rhey. Evans rolled Debussy over and both men examined him. Adeline, curiously, stayed where she was, wringing her hands, appearing every inch a frightened little girl rather than the woman she was. He heard someone running toward him and hands clapped him on the back.
“Congratulations, son!” Shakespeare said happily.
“You won!” Tricky Dick added. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Nate felt nothing. He had expected to feel elated if victory was his, but instead he felt a bizarre emptiness deep within. His palm tingled where it touched the flintlock. He wedged the gun under his belt and opened and closed his fingers until the tingling disappeared.
Abner Collins and Evans were walking toward him.
“You have won, monsieur,” Collins announced gravely. “Monsieur Debussy took a ball in the chest that from all indications pierced his heart. We will let everyone know the duel was fair and honorable.”
“Thank you,” Nate said.
“We shall take care of the body,” Collins said. “There is no need for you to remain if you care to leave.”
Nodding absently, Nate headed for the rowboats. His limbs were sluggish and he experienced a desire to lie down on the spot and sleep. Shrugging it off, he gained strength with every step. He was halfway to the river when a shout brought him to a halt.
“Nate! Wait! Please!”
He faced her. His friends continued to the boats without comment. Her golden hair sparkled in the sun and her features were as fresh as the morning dew. She filled out her dress as few women could and swayed suggestively as she walked.
“Spare me a minute of your time,” Adeline entreated, halting and placing a tender hand on his wrist. “It’s all I ask, and after all we once meant to each other it’s the least you can do.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to say how glad I am that you won. I knew you would,” Adeline said, and grinned. “I convinced Rhey to let you use your own pistol. Told him it wouldn’t be fair otherwise and I’d never speak to him again if he didn’t.”
Nate gazed at the body and saw a splash of crimson on Rhey’s chest.
“Now I’m a free woman,” Adeline declared, beaming. “Free to live as I want. To go where I please.” She paused. “And to see whomever I want.”
“That’s nice,” Nate said lamely, and started to leave, but Adeline held onto his wrist, restraining him.
“Hear me out, please,” she said. “I know you must not think very highly of me after all that has happened, and I don’t blame you. You shouldn’t be angry at me, however, because I was as much a pawn in this affair as you were.” She sidled in next to him. “Rhey used me as badly as he used you. It was his idea to try and obtain your inheritance. He made me go along with him and beat me when I objected.” A trace of moisture rimmed her eyes. “Rhey was the one who shot your squaw, not me. He’s the one who should bear all the blame.”
Nate slowly began prying her fingers off his arm.
“I’m not finished yet,” Adeline objected. “Listen, Nate. You and I meant a lot to each other once. Now we can be just like we were. All you have to do is give up your childish notions of living like some grubby Indian and come with me. Think of it! You and I together again! What do you say?”
“No.”
Adeline started as if struck. “But I’m all alone! I have no one besides you! And I have no money. Rhey used the last of our funds to pay a doctor the money we owed him.” Tears poured down her cheeks. “What will I do without you? What will become of me?”
“Who gives a damn?” Nate responded, and walked out of her life forever.