Marmaduke Merry: A Tale of Naval Adventures in Bygone Days

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Not at all, sir. I am simply stating the fact, that I cannot clearly recall having uttered the expressions you mention,” said my cousin.

“Then you do not deny that you said something of the sort; indeed something to afford my friend Captain Staghorn sufficient ground for demanding an ample and perfect apology?” said the Major, in his former slow way.

“I shall deny nothing,” said my cousin, at length nettled beyond endurance. He must be, too, I was certain, well aware of Captain Staghorn’s reputation as a dead shot, and on that account resolved to go out and fight him. In those days, for an officer of the army of navy to refuse to fight a duel, however thrust on him, was to be disgraced in the eyes of his professional brethren, poor weak mortals like themselves. They forgot that the code of honour by which they chose to act, was not the code by which they were to be tried in another world.

“Then, Commander Ceaton, you cannot, of course, refuse to give Captain Staghorn the satisfaction he demands?” said the Major.

“Certainly not,” answered my cousin.

“You, of course, have a friend with whom I may settle preliminaries,” said the major. “The sooner these affairs are got over the better.”

“Undoubtedly,” said my cousin, with unusual bitterness in his tone. “My first-lieutenant wid act for me. He is a man of honour and a friend. I have perfect confidence in him. I will send him to you.”

I moved away from the skylight. My cousin came on deck, where he was joined by Mr Sandford, who, after a minute’s conversation, went into the cabin. He and the major very quickly came on deck, the latter bowing stiffly as he descended to his boat alongside. I felt very much inclined to walk up to him, and to say, “If your friend shoots my cousin, and brother that is to be, I’ll shoot you;” but I did not. I, however, watched with no friendly eyes the soldier officer, as he sat in his boat stiff as a ramrod, while he returned to the Daring. I pondered how I could prevent this duel. I felt that it was not fair that one man who had never held a duelling-pistol in his hand, should be compelled to fight another who could snuff a candle at twelve paces without putting it out. I wanted to find out when and where they were to meet.

My cousin returned to the cabin with Mr Sandford. The latter remained with him for some time, and when he returned on deck he looked very grave and sad. Never more clearly were the evils of duelling brought home to me. Here was a man in the prime of life, who might long be useful to his country and mankind, about to be murdered, simply because he would not apologise for expressions which he could not recollect having uttered. My poor sister Bertha, too—how miserable his untimely death would make her.

I walked the deck feeling more unhappy than I had ever before done. The midshipmen of the corvette kept aloof from me, fancying that my cousin had communicated some ill news, or perhaps that I was in disgrace. I don’t know. I was glad that no one came and spoke to me. The dinner hour at last arrived, and I went into the cabin. Of course I was supposed not to know anything about the contemplated duel, and I tried to appear as cheerful as before. Besides Mr Sandford, the purser dined in the cabin, and no allusion even was made to the major’s visit. My cousin endeavoured to keep up the conversation, and smiled at the purser’s bad puns, which he had probably heard a hundred times before. I talked whenever I could about home—the dear old hall—my sisters and brothers, and my father and mother. I observed that a shade of pain passed over his countenance whenever I mentioned my sisters. I was unwise in doing so, unless it could have had the effect of shaking his resolution, and inducing him to send to Captain Staghorn, and to tell him that of men the world might say what they chose, but that he would not go forth to break the law of God, to take his life or to lose his own. But why do I say that? I now know that nothing but the love of God, and of God’s law implanted in his heart, would have induced him thus to act. Abstractedly he knew that he was about to do a wrong thing, but had he been really making God’s law the rule of his life, he would not have hesitated one moment, but the moment Major O’Grady had opened the subject, he would have told him plainly that he feared God more than man; that if he wronged Captain Staghorn, even though unintentionally, he would make him all the amends in his power, but that fight he would not. His conduct, however, very clearly showed—brave, and honest, and generous, and kind-hearted as he was, a man to be esteemed and loved—that he feared man, and what man might say, more than God, and how God would judge. Numbers act thus; but numbers perish of a plague. That there are many, does not save them.