“I’ll tell you, Peter. If one man fences well, and another is but an indifferent hand at it, it is clear that the first will run the other through the body; but if the other knows nothing at all about it, why, then, Peter, the case is not quite so clear: because the good fencer is almost as much puzzled by your ignorance as you are by his skill, and you become on more equal terms. Now, Peter, I’ve made up my mind that I’ll run that fellow through the body, and so I will, as sure as I am an O’Brien.”
“Well, I hope you will; but pray do not be too sure.”
“It’s feeling sure that will make me able to do it, Peter. By the blood of the O’Briens! didn’t he slap me with his sword, as if I were a clown in the pantomime—Peter, I’ll kill the harlequin scoundrel, and my word’s as good as my bond!”
By this time we had arrived at the ground. The French lieutenant stripped to his shirt and trowsers; O’Brien did the same, kicking his boots off, and standing upon the wet grass in his stockings. The swords were measured, and handed to them: they took their distance, and set to. I must say that I was breathless with anxiety; the idea of losing O’Brien struck me with grief and terror. I then felt the value of all his kindness to me, and would have taken his place, and have been run through the body, rather than he should have been hurt. At first, O’Brien put himself in the correct attitude of defence, in imitation of the lieutenant, but this was for a very few seconds: he suddenly made a spring, and rushed on his adversary, stabbing at him with a velocity quite astonishing, the lieutenant parrying in his defence, until at last he had an opportunity of lounging at O’Brien. O’Brien, who no longer kept his left arm raised in equipoise, caught the sword of the lieutenant at within six inches of the point, and directing it under his left arm, as he rushed in, passed his own through the lieutenant’s body. It was all over in less than a minute the lieutenant did not live half-an-hour afterwards. The French officers were very much surprised at the result, for they perceived at once that O’Brien knew nothing of fencing. O’Brien gathered a tuft of grass, wiped the sword, which he presented to the officer to whom it belonged, and thanking the major and the whole of them for their impartiality and gentlemanlike conduct, led the way to the square, where he again took his station in the ranks of the prisoners.
Shortly after, the major commandant came up to us, and asked whether we would accept of our parole, as, in that case, we might travel as we pleased. We consented, with many thanks for his civility and kindness; but I could not help thinking at the time, that the French officers were a little mortified at O’Brien’s success, although they were too honourable to express the feeling.
I had almost forgot to say, that on our return after the duel, the cutter’s midshipman called out to O’Brien, requesting him to state to the commandant that he was also an officer; but O’Brien replied, that there was no evidence for it but his bare word. If he were an officer, he must prove it himself, as everything in his appearance flatly contradicted his assertion.
“It’s very hard,” replied the midshipman, “that because my jacket’s a little tarry or so, I must lose my rank.”
“My dear fellow,” replied O’Brien, “it’s not because your jacket’s a little tarry; it is because what the Frenchman call your tout ensemble is quite disgraceful in an officer. Look at your face in the first puddle, and you’ll find that it would dirty the water you look into.”
“Well, it’s very hard,” replied the midshipman, “that I must go on eating this black rye bread; and very unkind of you.”
“It’s very kind of me, you spalpeen of the Snapper. Prison will be a paradise to you, when you get into good commons. How you’ll relish your grub by-and-by! So now shut your pan, or by the tail of Jonah’s whale, I’ll swear you’re a Spaniard.”