“On behalf of my principal, I ask again if bloodshed might be avoided and a misunderstanding put to rest.”
“If there is a misunderstanding, Mister Fitzgerald, your friend is responsible for it,” Macon wheezed. “Colonel Bell stands ready to accept a full and complete explanation.”
Nolan removed his jacket and placed it over the picket line. Rolling up his sleeves, he walked into the meadow next to Fitzgerald. “I would be pleased to offer my compliments to Colonel Bell,” Nolan said, “but I am afraid he has underestimated my regard for the lady in question.”
“No offense was intended to your female acquaintance,” Macon answered.
“She is more than an acquaintance, sir. On that afternoon she was under my protection. And as much as it pains me to discomfort the colonel, I expect an apology.”
Bell snorted and for the first time walked forward. “I am obligated to explain myself only to a gentleman.”
Fitzgerald said patiently, “A misunderstanding is—”
Bell was agitated and interrupted: “There is no misunderstanding. Philip Nolan is an accomplice of Aaron Burr, and a damnable traitor.”
“Of the first accusation, sir, I readily admit to being acquainted with Colonel Burr. But I am no traitor.”
“You are a damned liar, sir. And a bastard.”
Fitzgerald saw the plain, inimical expression on Judge Macon’s face and the pinched, disgusted attitudes of the men standing by the carriage. There had indeed been more said about Philip Nolan behind his back than to his face. Some of the gossip was merely that, tattletale and innuendo, but some of it was fact.
Bell now mentioned some of the embarrassing circumstances surrounding Nolan’s birth, and spoke with frank disgust about an infamous liaison between Philip’s mother and the British general Sir Henry Clinton during the occupation of Newport in the Revolutionary War. Rising in his own indignation, Bell affirmed Nolan to be not only the miserable by-blow of a skulking British lord, but a traitor sprung from a long line of unchaste, vexatious, and loud-mouthed slatterns. In the face of this harangue Nolan stood rigidly, humiliated and speechless.
It was only Fitzgerald’s parade-ground voice that overcame Bell’s yammering. He barked, “Enough, sir. That is enough.” It was, in fact, more than enough. Shaking with rage, Nolan turned toward the stump and snatched up one of the pistols. The move was so deft and furious that Fitzgerald saw fit to place himself between Nolan and Bell. “Steady, Philip,” Fitzgerald said. “Steady.”
When Nolan had taken possession of the weapon, there had been a flurry among Bell’s partisans. There were half a dozen, and all were armed, except the physician. Should it come to a general engagement (and such things happened in the South), Fitzgerald and Nolan would be at a singular disadvantage.
Fitzgerald was embarrassed for his friend, but he kept rigidly to the protocol of the matter at hand. Fitzgerald turned to Macon. “I assume that we are at an impasse?”
There was a moment of silence. Every man present knew this business must now come to blood. There was no way for Bell to climb down, and as Macon seemed unable to find his tongue, the colonel tried for something poetical. Bell rumbled, “I care more for my honor, and the glory of my country, than I do for my life.”
Nolan stifled a guffaw. “You pompous jackass. You can polish a saddle—now let’s see how you shoot.”
A second pistol box was opened, and Bell took up a weapon. He made a brief show of examining the lock and mechanism and walked about the field aiming it here and there and checking the light. He eventually had a flunky go to the carriage and retrieve his spectacles. He put them on and walked to the spot where Nolan and Fitzgerald waited. The two principals faced each other and the seconds withdrew. Fitzgerald pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat, and Bell and Nolan turned their backs.
Fitzgerald said, “You may ready your pieces.”
The locks snicked back, and Fitzgerald noticed that although Nolan’s expression was firm, even malicious, his hand trembled as the pistol cocked.
“Gentlemen, the distance is ten paces. Upon my signals, you may turn and then fire.”
A horse stamped and blew.
“Colonel Bell, are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Lieutenant Nolan, are you ready?”
“I am, sir.”
“Vous pouvez commencer le marche,” Fitzgerald said. The men stepped out in long soldier’s strides. Fitzgerald lifted the handkerchief to his shoulder. Eight steps. Nine steps. Ten steps.
“Présent!”
Bell lumbered about to find Nolan already facing him, weapon leveled. They stood opposite each other for several seconds while Fitzgerald held the kerchief aloft. Finally Fitzgerald said, “Allez,” and the handkerchief floated to the grass.
Almost at once there was a snap and flash in the pan of Nolan’s weapon. The noise was not loud, only a crack and hiss; it was immediately apparent that Nolan’s pistol had been half cocked and had not discharged. All agreed that this much happened.
The accounts from this point diverged greatly. Nine men were present in the meadow, including the duelists themselves. Five of the witnesses were sworn partisans of Colonel Bell, and only Fitzgerald would ever repeat a version of events that favored Philip Nolan. Bell’s surgeon, Doctor Van Sutter, forever after claimed neutrality, insisting he was not in a position to witness the action or to even to comment as he was not familiar with the code duello.
When the final command was given, Fitzgerald saw plainly that the muzzle of Nolan’s pistol was pointed down and away from Colonel Bell. Though his weapon had misfired, Fitzgerald firmly believed that Nolan had intended to throw away his shot. Even Macon saw that Nolan’s hand was no higher than his waist and his wrist was turned out and away from Bell. Nolan had been first to pull a trigger, but even if the weapon had functioned, the ball would have thumped harmlessly into the ground.
Bell’s supporters claimed that the two men fired “almost instantaneously.” In reality, several seconds passed between the moment Nolan threw away his shot and Colonel Bell aimed and fired. On the field that morning, those several seconds unfolded like a parade of seasons; it was enough time for minds to shape thoughts, for heads to turn, and for words to form. And it was time enough for Colonel Bell to aim deliberately, squeeze the trigger, and hit Nolan squarely.
The ball struck Nolan six inches under the left clavicle, tearing open his shirt and knocking him onto his back. The wound was thought to have killed him instantly. On the ground, Nolan remained motionless for the several seconds it took Fitzgerald to reach him. From the other part of the clearing, Bell yelped with pleasure and there were shouts and halloos from his supporters.
Nolan did not utter a sound, but eventually pulled up his legs and rolled onto his side. The meadow was completely silent; even the locusts and birds were still as Nolan came first to his hands and knees and then, reeling, to his feet. Frothy pink fluid pumped from the wound as he shook off Fitzgerald’s help.
“I can stand,” Nolan choked. His eyes were like an animal’s.
Bell was huddled with his seconds. Nolan said hoarsely, “I shall have a second pistol, Mister Fitzgerald.” Nolan swayed on his feet, and it looked like he would fall any second.
Bell said, “The affair is ended.”
“It is not, sir.” Nolan’s face was ashen. “Two passes must be made before a resolution.”
“Both parties have fired,” Macon said to Fitzgerald. It was not mere hairsplitting. Nolan had pulled the trigger, and neither the accident of his misfire nor his intent to throw away his shot disqualified his actions.
“I am accorded