The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

The hour of ten arrived, but no communication from “Monsieur Jacques Despard.”

“Perhaps he is hunting up a friend?” I suggested. “We must give him time.”

Eleven o’clock.

“Let’s have a sherry cobbler!” proposed Casey; “we’ll have plenty of time to drink it.”

A couple of those magnificent “sherry cobblers,” for which the Saint Charles is world renowned, were immediately ordered up; and we passed the better half of an hour with the straw between our lips.

Twelve o’clock. Still no Despard – no friend – no challenge!

“I told you so,” said Casey, not triumphantly, but rather in a tone of despondence. “This card’s good for nothing,” he continued, taking the piece of pasteboard from his pocket, and holding it up before his eyes; “a regular sham, I suspect, like the fellow himself – a false name and address – you see it’s in pencil? Ah, mother o’ Moses! I’ll never see that watch again! Sure enough,” continued he, after a pause, “the name’s in print – he’s gone to the expense of having that engraved, or somebody has for him, which is more likely. – No! – he won’t come to time.”

“We must remain at home till dinner. Perhaps they keep late hours here.”

“Late or early, we won’t see Misther Despard till we go after him; an’ by gorra!” cried Casey, striking the table in a most violent manner, “that’s what I mane to do. A man don’t point a pistol at my head, without giving me a chance to return the compliment; and I’m bound to have another try for that watch.”

From Casey’s earnest speech and manner, I saw that he was resolved; and I knew enough of him to be aware that he was a man of strong resolution. Whether a challenge came or not, he was determined that the affair should not drop, till he had some kind of revenge upon Jacques Despard, or, if no such person existed, upon the “swell” who had stolen his repeater.

It certainly appeared as if the card was a sham: for the dinner hour came, and no one had acknowledged it.

We descended, and ate our dinner at the general table d’hôte– such a dinner as can be obtained only in the luxurious hostelrie of the Saint Charles.

We sat over our wine till eight o’clock; but although a few friends joined us at the table, we heard nothing of a hostile visitor. Under the influence of Sillery and Moët, we for the time forgot the unpleasant incidents of the preceding night.

For my part, I should have been glad to have forgotten them altogether, or at all events to have left the matter where it stood; and such was the tenor of my counsels. But it proved of no avail: the fiery Hibernian was determined, as he expressed it, to have his “whack” out: he would either get back his watch or have a “pop” at the thief who stole it.

So resolved was he on carrying out his intention, that I saw it was idle to oppose him.

Certainly it was rather a singular affair; and now that a whole day had passed without any communication from Monsieur Despard, I became more than half convinced that Casey was right, and that the exquisite really had committed the theft. It was his indignant repudiation of the charge that had misled me; but Casey’s constant and earnest asseveration – now strengthened by the after circumstances of the false card, and the failure to make an appearance – satisfied me that we had been in the company of a sharper.

With this conviction I retired for the night, Casey warning me that he should be with me at an early hour in the morning, in order to devise what measures should be taken.

With regard to an early hour, he was too true to his promise. Before six – long before I felt inclined to leave my comfortable bed – he was with me.

He apologised for disturbing me so early, on the score of his being without a watch, and could not tell the time; but I could perceive that the jest was a melancholy one.

“What do you mean to do?”

“Why, to find Master Ruffleshirt, to be sure.”

“Will you not give him an hour’s grace? Perhaps he may send this morning?”

“No chance whatever.”

“It is possible he may have lost your card? Leave it alone till we have had breakfast.”

“Lost my card? No. Besides, he might easily have got over that difficulty. He knew we were on our way to this hotel. Don’t all the world come here? No; that isn’t the fellow’s excuse, and I shan’t eat till I know what is. So, rouse up, my boy! and come along.”

“But where are you going?”

“Number noine, Rue Daw – daw – hang his scribble! Daw – phin, I believe.”

I arose, and dressed myself with as little delay as possible.

Whilst making my toilette, Casey gave me a hurried sketch of how he intended to proceed. It amounted to little more than a declaration of his intention to make Monsieur Jacques Despard disgorge the stolen property, or fight. In other words, Casey, believing himself to be in a lawless land (and his experience to some extent seemed to justify the belief), had determined upon taking the law into his own hands.

I saw that he no longer contemplated a duel with his light-fingered adversary. On the contrary, he talked only of “pitching into the fellow,” and “taking the worth of his watch out of him.” The angry feeling he exhibited convinced me that he meant what he said; and that the moment he should set eyes on the Frenchman, there would be a “row.”

I saw that this would not do on any account, and for various reasons. Monsieur Jacques Despard, if found at all, would, no doubt, be found to have a fresh cap on the nipple of his pistol; and to be present at a street fight, either as principal or backer, was not to my liking. I had no ambition, either of catching a stray bullet, or of being locked up in the New Orleans Calaboose; and by yielding to Casey’s wish I should be booked for one or the other.

Before completing my toilet, therefore, it occurred to me to suggest a slight change in Casey’s programme – which was to the effect that he should stay where he was, and leave it to me to call at the address upon the card. If it should prove that Monsieur Despard lived there, there would be no difficulty in finding him whenever we should want him. If the contrary, my going alone would be no great waste of time; and we could afterwards adopt such measures as were necessary to bring him to terms.

This advice appeared reasonable, and Casey consented to follow it, charging me, as I left him, with the emphatic message —

“Tell the fellow if he don’t challenge me, I’ll challenge him, by God!”

In five minutes afterwards, I was on my way with the card between my fingers, and walking rapidly towards the Rue Dauphin.

Story 2, Chapter V

Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche

Following the directions, which I had taken from the hotel-porter, I kept down Saint Charles Street, and crossing the Canal, I entered the Rue Royale into the French quarter or “municipality.”

I was informed that by keeping along the Rue Royale for a half-mile or so, I should find the Rue Dauphin leading out of it; and I had, therefore, nothing more to do than to walk directly onward, and look out for the names upon the corners of the streets.

Though it was daylight, the lamps were still faintly glimmering, their nightly allowance of oil not being quite exhausted. The shops and warehouses were yet closed; though here and there might be seen a cabaret or café, that had opened its trap-like doors to catch the early birds – small traders on their way to the great vegetable market – cotton-rollers in sky-blue linen inexpressibles, with their shining steel hooks laid jauntily along their hips; now and then a citizen – clerk or shopkeeper – hurrying along to his place of business. Only those of very early habits were abroad.

I had proceeded down the Rue Royale about a quarter of a mile, and was beginning to look out for the lettering on the corners of the cross streets, when my attention was drawn to an individual coming in the opposite direction. Though he was still at a considerable distance, and we were on different sides of the street, I fancied I recognised him. Each moment brought us nearer to one another; and as I had kept my eyes upon him from the first, I at length became satisfied of the identity of Monsieur Jacques Despard.

“A fortunate encounter,” thought I. “It will save me the trouble of searching for Number 9, Rue Dauphin.”

The dress was different: it was a blue coat instead of a claret, and the ruffles were less conspicuously displayed; but the size, shape, and countenance were the same – as also the hair, moustache, and complexion. It must be my man.

Crossing diagonally, I placed myself on the banquette to await the gentleman’s approach. My position would have hindered him from passing; and the next moment he halted, and we stood face to face.

“Bon jour, Monsieur!” I began.

He made no answer, but stood with his eyes staring widely upon me, in which the expression was simply that of innocent surprise.

“Well counterfeited,” thought I.

“You are early abroad,” I continued. “May I ask Monsieur, what business has brought him into the streets at such an hour of the morning?”

The thought had struck me that he might be on his way to the Saint Charles, to make some inquiry; and I recalled my conjecture about his having mislaid Casey’s card.

“What business, Monsieur, but that of my profession?” and as he made this reply, his dark eye flashed with a kindling indignation – which, of course, I regarded as counterfeit.

“Oh!” said I, in a sneering tone, “it appears that you pursue your profession at all hours. I thought the night was your favourite time. I should have fancied that at this hour you would scarcely have found victims.”

“Fool! Who are you? What are you talking of? What means this rudeness?”

“Pooh – pooh! Monsieur Despard; you are not going to get off in that way. Your memory appears short. Perhaps this card will refresh it; or do you repudiate that also?”

“Card! – what card?”

“Look there! – perhaps you will deny having given it?”

“I know nothing of it, Monsieur; but you shall have my card; and for this insult I demand yours in return.”

“It seems idle to make the exchange, after what has already passed.”

Curiosity, however, prompted me. I was desirous of ascertaining whether his first address had been a false one, as Casey had suggested. Hastily scratching the address of the hotel, I handed him my card, taking his in return. To my astonishment I read: —

“Luis De Hauteroche,

16, Rue Royale.”

I should have been puzzled, but the solution was evident. The fellow was no doubt well provided with cards – kept a varied “pack” of them, and this was only another sham one.

I was determined, however, that I should not lose sight of him till I had fairly “treed” him.

“Is this your real address?” I inquired, with an incredulous expression.

“Peste! Monsieur, do you still continue your insults? But you shall give me full satisfaction. It is my professional address. See for yourself.”

And as he said this he pointed to the door of a house, only a few yards from the spot where we were standing.

Among other names painted upon the panel I read:

“Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche,

Avocat.”

“I can be found here at all hours,” said he, passing me and stepping inside the doorway. “But you will not need to seek me, Monsieur. I promise it, my friend shall call upon you without delay.”

The door closing behind him put an end to our “interview.”

For some seconds I stood in a kind of “quandary.” I could not doubt but that it was the same man whom we had met in the drinking saloon. The dress was different – of a more sober cut, though equally elegant – but this was nothing: it was a different hour, and that might account for the change of garments. The tout ensemble was the same – the features, complexion, colour of hair, curl and all.

And still I could not exactly identify the bearing of Monsieur Jacques Despard with that of Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche. The evil expression of eye which I had noticed formerly was not visible to-day; and certainly the behaviour of the young man on the present occasion, had been that of an innocent and insulted gentleman.

Was it possible I could have made a mistake, and had, in transatlantic phrase “waked up the wrong passenger?”

I began to feel misgivings. There was a simple means of satisfying myself – at least a probability of doing so. The Rue Dauphin could not be far off, and might soon be reached. If it should prove that Monsieur Despard lived at Number 9, the mystery would be at an end.

I turned on my heel, and proceeded in the direction of the Rue Dauphin.

Story 2, Chapter VI

Monsieur Jacques Despard

A hundred yards brought me to the corner of this famous street, and twenty more to the front of Number 9, a large crazy looking house, that had the appearance of a common hotel, or cheap boarding-house.

The door stood open, and I could see down a long dark hall. But there was no knocker. A brass-handled bell appeared to be the substitute, under which were the words – “Tirez la sonette.”

I climbed the ricketty steps and rang. A slatternly female – a mulatto – half asleep, came slippering along the hall; and, on reaching the door, drawled out: – “Que voulez vous, Mosheu?”

“Does Monsieur Despard live here?”

“Moss’r Despard? Oui – oui.”

“Will you have the goodness to say that a gentleman wishes a word with him?”

The girl had not time to reply, before a side door was heard creaking open, and a head and shoulders were protruded into the hall. They were those of a man.

Though the hair of the head was tossed and frowsy, and the shirt that covered the shoulders looked as if it had passed through the “beggar’s mangle,” I had no difficulty in recognising the wearer. It was Monsieur Despard – Monsieur Despard en deshabille.

The gentleman evidently regretted his imprudence, and would have withdrawn himself from view. The shirt and shoulders had already disappeared behind the screening of the lintel; but, before the head could be backed in, I had stepped over the threshold and “nailed him” to an interview.

“Monsieur Despard, I believe?” was the interrogative style of my salutation.

“Oui, M’sseu. What is your business?”

“Rather a strange question for you to put, Monsieur Despard. Perhaps you do not remember me?”

“Perfectly.”

“And what occurred at our first interview?”

“Equally well – that you were accompanied by a drunken brute who calumniated me.”

“It is not becoming to vilify a gentleman after he has given you his card. Of course you intend to challenge him?”

“Of course I intend nothing of the sort. Parbleu! M’sseu, I should have a busy time of it, were I to notice the babble of every drunken brawler. I can pardon the slang of sling drinkers.”

I had discovered by this time that Monsieur Despard spoke English as fluently as he did French, and also that he was perfectly versed in the slang epithets of our language.

“Come, Monsieur,” said I, “this grandeur will not screen you. It shall be my duty to repeat your elegant phraseology to my friend, who I can promise will not pardon you.”

“That don’t signify.”

“If you are not disposed to send a challenge, you will be compelled to receive one.”

“Oh! that is different. I shall be most happy to accept it.”

“It would save time if you give me the address of your second.”

“Time enough after I have received the challenge.”

“In two hours, then, I shall demand it.”

“Très bien, M’sseu.”

And with a stiff bow the caput of Monsieur Despard disappeared into the dark doorway.

Turning away, I descended the creaking steps, and walked back along the Rue Dauphin.

On reaching the corner of Rue Royale, I paused to reflect. I had ample food for reflection – sufficient almost to bewilder me. Within ten minutes I had succeeded in filling my hands with business enough to last me for the whole of that day and a portion of the next. The object of my halting, therefore, was that I might think over this business, and if possible arrange it into some kind of a definite programme.

An open cabaret close by offered an empty chair and a table. This invited me to enter; and, seating myself inside, I called for some claret and a cigar. These promised to lend a certain perspicuity to my thoughts, that would enable me to set my proceedings in some order.

My first thought was a feeling of regret at having promised Monsieur Despard to call again. I knew that Casey would insist upon a meeting – all the more pertinaciously on hearing what had passed – and I was now more than ever convinced of the absurdity of such a step. What had he to gain by fighting with such a man? Certainly not his watch, and as certainly there was no credit to be derived from such an encounter. What I had just seen and heard, perfectly satisfied me that we were not dealing with a gentleman. The appearance of Monsieur Despard in his morning deshabille – his vulgar behaviour and language – the mise-en-scène in the midst of which I had found him – and above all the nonchalant bravado with which he had treated Casey’s serious charge against him – convinced me that the charge was true; and that instead of a gentleman we had to do with a chevalier d’industrie.

What, then, could Casey gain in measuring weapons with a character of this kind? Certainly nothing to his advantage.

On the other hand he might lose in the encounter, and in all probability he would.

A very painful reflection entered my mind as I dwelt upon this. If the fellow had designed it, he could not have exhibited more skill in bringing circumstances about in his favour; and only now did it occur to me the advantage we had given him. The positions of the parties had become entirely reversed. His adversary now held the citadel: Casey was to be the assailant. If the Frenchman intended to stand up – and under the altered circumstances it was likely he would – I feared for the result. He would have the right of choice; the rapier would unquestionably be the weapon chosen; and from the inexorable laws of the duello there would be no appeal.

As these considerations ran hurriedly through my mind, I began to feel sincerely anxious about the consequences; and blamed myself for permitting my temper – a little frayed by the insulting language – to betray me into, what I now regarded as, a manifest imprudence. “Facile decensus averni, sed revocare gradum.”

There was no retreating from the step I had taken. Casey’s antagonist might be a gambler, a swindler, a suspected thief, but in New Orleans – more especially at the time of which I write – these titles would not rob him of the right to demand the treatment of a gentleman – that is, if he offered to fight as one.

We had gone too far. I knew that we were so compromised that we must carry the thing to an end.

I had but one hope; and this was that Monsieur Despard might after all prove a bavard, and show the white feather.

I must confess, however, that this hope was a very faint one. If the fellow had impressed me with an idea of his vulgarity, he had said or done nothing that could lead me to question his courage.

Up to this time, the tumult of my thoughts had hindered me from dwelling upon my odd encounter with the young avocat. Since it had only happened fifteen minutes before, of course, I had not forgotten it; and the affair of my friend being, in my mind, now arranged, it became necessary to attend to my own.

So ludicrous was the whole contretemps, that I could scarcely restrain laughter when I thought of it; but there was also a serious side to the question, calculated to prevent any free ebullition of mirth.

Already, perhaps, Monsieur De Hauteroche’s messenger was on his way to the Saint Charles Hotel; and, on arriving there, I might find that besides having to play the easy métier of second in a duel, I should be called upon to enact the more serious rôle of a “principal.”

Might find! there was no might in the matter. I was as certain of it as if I already carried the challenge in my pocket.

I could not help reflecting upon the very awkward dilemma, into which a moment of evil indulgence had plunged both my friend and myself, and upon the very threshold of new world life. It seemed that we were to be initiated into its mysteries by a baptism of blood!

I was less uneasy about my own affair. My chief source of regret was, my having given pain and offence to a young gentleman, who appeared to be one of delicate susceptibility. Certainly my strange behaviour must have astonished him, as much as the after finding of his counterpart, and the resemblance between them, astonished me.

The likeness was really remarkable – though less than it would have been, had Monsieur Despard been in full toilette, as I had first viewed him. The scar upon his cheek, moreover, I now observed and remembered. Why had I not thought of it before?

With regard to my affair with Monsieur De Hauteroche, the course was simple and clear: an unqualified apology. I only hesitated as to the when and where to make it.

Should I go on to the hotel and meet his second? That would be a more ceremonious way of proceeding – the most en règle.

But the apology would require an explanation – the embroglio was curious and complicated – and the explanation could only be properly understood by giving the details viva voce.

I resolved, therefore, to waive all ceremony, and, trusting to the generosity of my accidental enemy, to return to him in propria persona.

Quaffing off my claret; and flinging away the stump of my cigar, I walked directly to Number 16, Rue Royale.

To my gratification I found the young avocat in his office; and I was further satisfied by perceiving that I was in good time. No message had yet been sent to the Saint Charles – though I had no doubt that the military-looking gentleman whom I met in the office was upon the eve of such an errand. My appearance must have been as little expected as that of the “man in the moon.”

I shall not trouble the reader by detailing the apology. The explanation is known already. Suffice it to say, that when Monsieur De Hauteroche heard it, he not only acted in the true spirit of a gentleman; but, from an enemy, became transformed into a friend. Perceiving that I was a stranger, he generously invited me to renew my visit; and, with a hearty laugh at the outré style of our introduction, we parted.

Casey’s more serious affair was still upon my mind; and I hurried home to the hotel.

As I expected, Casey would send the challenge; and, as I almost confidently anticipated, the other accepted it. It ended in a duel, and I need hardly add that swords were the weapons.

I refrain from giving a description of this duel, which differed only from about a million of others – minutely described by romance writers – in being one of the very shortest of combats. At the very first passage Casey received (and I esteemed it very fortunate that he did so) his adversary’s sword through the muscles of his right arm – completely disabling him. That was all the satisfaction he ever got for the loss of his repeater!

Of course this rude thrust ended the combat; and Monsieur Jacques Despard marched off the ground without a scratch upon his person or a blemish on his name.

Casey, however, still asserted – though, of course, not publicly – “that the fellow took the watch;” and I afterwards found good reason to believe he did take it.

Story 2, Chapter VII

Hospitable Friends

Casey’s views were commercial, and New Orleans was not the place where a display of spirit would be likely to damage his prospects. It appeared rather to have an opposite effect; for, before his arm was well out of the sling, I had the gratification to learn that he had received an appointment in one of the large cotton commission houses – a calling sufficiently suited to his temperament.

My own object in visiting the Western World was less definite. I was of that age when travel is attractive – young enough to afford a few years of far niente before entering upon the more serious pursuits of life. In short, I had no object beyond idleness and sight-seeing; and in either way, a month or two may be passed in New Orleans without much danger of suffering from ennui.