New Orleans, April 2, 1848
Tendrils of morning fog drifted through the live oaks of St. Anthony’s Garden. Nestled behind St. Louis Cathedral’s towering spires, the garden was an Old-World masterpiece transplanted to the New World. Brick pathways formed a cross that met at a gurgling fountain filled with water lilies. Manicured hedges of boxwood created intimate alcoves. Magnolia trees joined the oaks overhead, their white blossoms hanging like faint ornaments in the pre-dawn light. The air carried a perfume of jasmine mingled with damp soil and the muddy overlay of the nearby Mississippi River.
The aristocracy of New Orleans often gathered here, not for solitude or prayer, but for that peculiar form of justice settled with powder and lead. Duels were good theater, and this morning’s contest pitted two successful cotton merchants against each other—Joseph Armand and Nicholas LeDoux. Their story had spilled into the gossip pages of The Times-Picayune, alleging that LeDoux made an unwanted advance towards Armand’s wife, Camille.
Fueled by gossip and bloodlust, the morning’s crowd was unusually large. Somewhere in the foliage, a mockingbird began its repertoire, oblivious to the human drama about to unfold.
“Here he comes!” a woman’s voice sounded from the spectators.
Jospeh Armand’s carriage rattled to a stop on Royal Street just as the cathedral bells tolled six a.m. He emerged wearing a rich burgundy coat cut in French fashion. Strikingly handsome, he was tall and broad-chested, his curly black hair professionally coiffed. A vain man, he arrogantly displayed his wealth and social standing, but he also had the reputation of being fair in his business practice. That is, if you had the guts to stand up to him.
As he walked past the spectators lining the pathways, he tried to hide the trembling of his hand that held the .50 caliber flintlock dueling pistol, its walnut stock gleaming with brass fittings.
Nicholas LeDoux appeared from the opposite direction, announced by murmurs in the crowd. He was leaner, his features sharper, his dark hair streaked with gray. He carried himself with easy grace, his deep blue coat longer than Joseph’s, suggesting his merchant dealings in British territories. A devout Catholic, he worshipped every Sunday with his family in the cathedral. and unlike Armand, he used his wealth to support local charities. He had recently donated large sums to Sisters of the Holy Family, the first Catholic order for women of African descent. That association was slowly eroding his views on slavery. The fact that his whole enterprise was built on the backs of enslaved people had begun to weigh on his conscience.
As he strode towards Armand, LeDoux’s face was pale but steady, his jaw set in with a determination that masked his own fear.
The rivals halted and locked eyes beneath two trees nicknamed “the dueling oaks.”
“Joseph,” said LeDoux with a nod of his head.
Armand answered only with a sneer.
Another man stepped up behind them—Monsieur Beauregard, chosen as the sole referee in lieu of traditional seconds. He was a portly merchant in his sixties dressed in black, his white hair tied back with a ribbon. The Bishop himself had asked him to assume a larger role in these conflicts. “Dueling,” said the cleric, “has gotten woefully out of hand. I trust you can be a modifying influence to avert some of this bloodshed.” Beauregard had reluctantly agreed, but he took no pleasure in the task. He had presided over eleven duels, and three men had died under his supervision. But he had also deescalated a half dozen others, so he persisted.
He knew Armand and LeDoux, having shared drinks and merriment with them at high society parties. He also knew the backstory of this moment, and he found it dubious that LeDoux would have done such a thing. Nonetheless, it was not his place to second guess.
“Gentlemen,” Beauregard’s baritone voice silenced both the crowd and the mockingbird. “Before we proceed, is there no possibility of reconciliation? Is there no way we can avoid the untimely fate that might await one of you this morning?”
Joseph’s response was sharp and immediate. “The insult to my wife’s virtue cannot be reconciled with words. Only blood will answer.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened. “I maintain my innocence, but if Monsieur Armand demands satisfaction, I will give it. My honor is as dear to me as his.”
The crowd shifted, drawing their collective breath. There would be no turning back.
Beauregard sighed heavily. “Then let me examine your weapons.”
They presented their pistols, and after inspecting them thoroughly, Beauregard handed them back.
“Here are the terms. Stand back-to-back. At my count, take fifteen paces. Then, at my command, turn and fire at will. No second shots. May God have mercy on both of you.”
The men pressed their backs together. Joseph felt Nicholas’s warmth through their coats, and sensed a rapid breathing that matched his own. The pistol felt like ice in his hand.
“One!” Beauregard’s voice rang out.
Joseph stepped forward, crushing a small flower.
“Two!”
The crowd fell utterly silent.
“Three!”
Somewhere in the crowd, a woman sobbed softly. Joseph thought of Camille, of her tears three nights ago as she had described Nicholas’s hand upon her arm and his suggestion that they meet privately. His rage rekindled with each step.
“Ten!”
Nicholas’s heart hammered against his ribs. He had shot targets and had once killed a cottonmouth that threatened his daughter, but he had never aimed at a man. He thought of his wife, Jeanette, pleading with him that very morning to reject this rash and foolish challenge.
“Fifteen! Turn and fire!”
Joseph spun, raising his pistol. Across wet grass and mist, Nicholas did the same. For one seemingly eternal instant, they stood frozen.
Then they fired their pistols fired as one. Thunderous cracks echoed off the cathedral’s stones and sent birds exploding from the trees. White smoke bloomed, obscuring everything.
When it cleared, both men lay on the ground.
___
The room in Charity Hospital smelled of carbolic acid and blood. It was just after sunset, the glow of a kerosene lantern casting a dim yellow light. Joseph Armand had been conscious for about an hour. His chest was wrapped in bandages that made each breath painful. The ball had entered just below his right collarbone, missing his lung by an inch. Dr. Mercier called it miraculous.
A heavy canvas curtain divided the room into two parts, each holding a bed. Beyond it, Joseph heard another man’s raspy breathing and occasional moans. A nurse moved between the patients, pausing on the other side of the curtain.
“Monsieur LeDoux, you must drink this broth.”
Joseph’s eyes flew open. LeDoux? Nicholas LeDoux?
The irony struck like a blow. They had tried to murder each other at dawn, but now shared the same room, too weak to stand.
“Nicholas?” Armand called in a weak voice. “Is that you?”
The response from beyond the curtain was also weak but unmistakable. “Joseph?”
“Yes, it’s me, Nicholas.” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts and feelings. “It seems we are both poor shots.”
Long silence followed. Then, from LeDoux: “I thought I killed you. When I saw you fall…”
“I thought the same. I suppose we’re both fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on your perspective.”
Another silence. “I never touched your wife, Joseph. Not in the way she suggested.”
Joseph closed his eyes, weary to his bones. “Then why accept the challenge?”
“What choice did I have? To refuse would admit guilt and brand me a coward. My business, my reputation, and my children’s futures—all of it would be ruined. So I came prepared to die for honor, even though I was falsely impugned.”
Joseph felt something shift in his chest. “Tell me exactly what happened at the Deveraux ball.”
“I was near the terrace. Camille approached me. She approached me, Joseph. She laid her hand upon my arm and said you’d been neglecting her, caring more for your cotton than your wife. She asked if I might call upon her to discuss how to invest her household allowance. Frankly, I thought it was odd, and I quickly told her that such a conversation should rightfully include you. That was all. The next day, you sent your second to my house with the challenge.”
Joseph lay in the dim light. Perhaps his injury had weakened his defenses, but he suddenly felt the full weight of truth. He knew his wife–her moods, her need for attention, her talent for dramatic embellishment. He had leapt to defend her honor without questioning her account. He could blame her, but he knew it was his own damned pride that had almost cost a human life. And she was certainly right about his work draining attention from her.
“I nearly killed you,” Joseph whispered.
“We nearly killed each other. I aimed for your heart. I meant to leave your wife a widow. For what? Vanity and an antiquated notion of honor?”
Absurdity overwhelmed Joseph. A laugh escaped his lips, painful but genuine. “I am an idiot, Nicholas. And you, too, for accepting my challenge. Absolute idiots.”
Nicholas laughed too, dissolving into painful coughs. “Complete fools. They should write an opera about our epic stupidity.”
When their chuckling subsided, a new silence fell.
“Your cotton exports,” Nicholas said eventually. “You ship primarily to Manchester?”
“Liverpool. Though I’m making some headway in establishing Manchester contacts. And you?”
“Manchester and Leeds. But Liverpool has eluded me. The established houses refuse newcomers.”
Joseph’s mind began working. “I have three ships in rotation. But British tariffs cut margins. I’ve been seeking ways to increase the volume on each passage.”
“I have prime warehousing on Tchoupitoulas Street,” said LeDoux, “holding three times what I can adequately ship. Last season I left two hundred bales waiting, and the prices dropped.”
“If you had guaranteed shipping…”
“And if you had better storage facilities and wider British contacts…”
Possibilities bloomed between them like the magnolias in St. Anthony’s Garden. Combined resources, shared costs, expanded markets. They both knew that their competition had cost them both.
“We could,” Joseph said slowly, “in theory, form a partnership.”
“Armand and LeDoux. Or LeDoux and Armand?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Over the following hour, two wounded men discussed tonnage and tariffs, credit and contracts. They spoke of the growing British demand and how a unified operation could be formidable.
Dr. Mercier arrived, making his last rounds of the day. He pulled back the curtain briefly—the first time they saw each other, pale and bandaged.
“Look upon your handiwork, gentleman. You’ll both live, though you’ll carry scars. You were fortunate.”
“Perhaps more than we had imagined,” said Nicholas.
The doctor looked at both of them again, then shook his head with a sigh. “I don’t understand this world,” he said, then turned and left.
After he’d gone, Joseph spoke softly. “Nicholas, when we recover, we should draw up partnership papers.”
“Equal shares in everything?”
“Equal shares, equal voice, equal responsibility.”
“Just one more thing,” said LeDoux. “I would insist that we give a percentage of our profit to those who are less fortunate. After all, Joseph, we have been blessed with so much.”
“I will accommodate your charitable nature,” said Armand. “I’m sure your God, if he even exists, knows that I need more tolerance.” He paused. “And Nicholas? I am truly sorry. For doubting you, for the challenge, for all of it.”
“And I apologize as well for accepting rather than insisting on truth. Perhaps we both needed to learn about pride and trust.”
As evening fell over Charity Hospital and the city of New Orleans, two former enemies planned their future as partners. Armand and LeDoux would become one of the South’s most successful cotton operations, weathering the Civil War, passing through generations, a legacy of prosperity born from near-tragedy.
But none of that was visible yet. For now, they were simply two foolish men who had learned that honor without wisdom is foolhardy, and that the greatest victories sometimes come from the duels we survive rather than win.
Outside, the city prepared for another sultry night. In St. Anthony’s Garden, the magnolias continued their eternal blooming, indifferent to both human folly and human grace.
Krin Van Tatenhove - Words & Images 