The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862Various
History
The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862
Various
Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Politics and government -- 19th century -- Periodicals
The Colonel was turning to join me at the door, when a well-dressed
young man of very unsteady movements, who was filling a glass at the
counter, and staring at him with a sort of dreamy amazement, stammered
out: 'Moye--run--run a--way, zir! that--k--kant be--by G--d. I
know--him, zir--he's a--a friend of mine, and--I'm--I'm d--d if he an't
hon--honest.'
'About as honest as the Yankees run,' replied the Colonel: 'he's a d--d
thief, sir!'
'Look here--here, zir--don't--don't you--you zay any--thing 'gainst--the
Yankees. D--d if--if I an't--one of 'em mezelf--zir,' said the fellow
staggering toward the Colonel.
'_I_ don't care _what_, you are; you're drunk.'
'You lie--you--you d--d 'ris--'ristocrat--take that,' was the reply, and
the inebriated gentleman aimed a blow, with all his unsteady might, at
the Colonel's face.
The South-Carolinian stepped quickly aside, and dexterously threw his
foot before the other, who--his blow not meeting the expected
resistance--was unable to recover himself, and fell headlong to the
floor. The Colonel turned on his heel, and was walking quietly away,
when the sharp report of a pistol sounded through the apartment, and a
ball tore through the top of his boot, and lodged in the wall within
two feet of where I was standing. With a spring, quick and sure as the
tiger's, the Colonel was on the drunken man. Wrenching away the weapon,
he seized the fellow by the necktie, and drawing him up to nearly his
full hight, dashed him at one throw to the other side of the room. Then
raising the revolver he coolly leveled it to fire.
But a dozen strong men were on him. The pistol was out of his hand, and
his arms were pinioned in an instant; while cries of 'Fair play, sir!'
'He's drunk!' 'Don't hit a man when he's down,' and other like
exclamations, came from all sides.
'Give _me_ fair play, you d--d North-Carolina hounds,' cried the
Colonel, struggling violently to get away, 'and I'll fight the whole
posse of you.'
'One's 'nuff for _you_, ye d--d fire-eatin' 'ristocrat,' said a long,
lean, bushy-haired, be-whiskered individual who was standing near the
counter: 'ef ye wan't ter fight, _I'll_ 'tend to yer case to onst. Let
him go, boys,' he continued as he stepped toward the Colonel, and parted
the crowd that had gathered around him: 'give him the shootin'-iron, and
let's see ef he'll take a man thet's sober.'
I saw serious trouble was impending, and stepping forward, I said to the
last speaker: 'My friend, you have no quarrel with this gentleman. He
has treated that man only as you would have done.'
'P'raps thet's so; but he's a d--d hound of a Seseshener thet's draggin'
us all to h--l; it'll do th' cuntry good to git quit of one on 'em.'
'Whatever his politics are, he's a gentleman, sir, and has done you no
harm--let me beg of you to let him alone.'
'Don't beg any thing for me, Mr. K----' growled the Colonel through his
barred teeth, 'I'll fight the d--d corn-cracker, and his whole race, at
once.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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