A MAN WITH TWO LIVES
Here is the strange story of David
William Duck, related by himself. Duck is an old man living in Aurora, Illinois,
where he is universally respected. He is commonly known, however, as “Dead
Duck.”
“In
the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the Eighteenth Infantry. My
company was one of those stationed at Fort Phil Kearney, commanded by Colonel
Carrington. The country is more or less familiar with the history of that
garrison, particularly with the slaughter by the Sioux of a detachment of
eighty-one men and officers - not one escaping - through disobedience of orders
by its commander, the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman. When that occurred,
I was trying to make my way with important dispatches to Fort C. F. Smith, on
the Big Horn. As the country swarmed with hostile Indians, I traveled by night
and concealed myself as best I could before daybreak. The better to do so, I
went afoot, armed with a Henry rifle and carrying three days’ rations in my
haversack.
“For my second place of
concealment I chose what seemed in the darkness a narrow cañon leading through
a range of rocky hills. It contained many large bowlders, detached from the
slopes of the hills. Behind one of these, in a clump of sage-brush, I made my
bed for the day, and soon fell asleep. It seemed as if I had hardly closed my
eyes, though in fact it was near midday, when I was awakened by the report of a
rifle, the bullet striking the bowlder just above my body. A band of Indians
had trailed me and had me nearly surrounded; the shot had been fired with an
execrable aim by a fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside above.
The smoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my feet than he was
off his and rolling down the declivity. Then I ran in a stooping posture,
dodging among the clumps of sage-brush in a storm of bullets from invisible
enemies. The rascals did not rise and pursue, which I thought rather queer, for
they must have known by my trail that they had to deal with only one man. The
reason for their inaction was soon made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards
before I reached the limit of my run - the head of the gulch which I had
mistaken for a cañon. It terminated in a concave breast of rock, nearly
vertical and destitute of vegetation. In that cul-de-sac I was caught like a
bear in a pen. Pursuit was needless; they had only to wait.
“They
waited. For two days and nights, crouching behind a rock topped with a growth
of mesquite, and with the cliff at my back, suffering agonies of thirst and
absolutely hopeless of deliverance, I fought the fellows at long
range, firing occasionally at the smoke of their rifles, as they did at that of
mine. Of course, I did not dare to close my eyes at night, and lack of sleep
was a keen torture.
“I
remember the morning of the third day, which I knew was to be my last. I
remember, rather indistinctly, that in my desperation and delirium I sprang out
into the open and began firing my repeating rifle without seeing anybody to
fire at. And I remember no more of that fight.
“The
next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself out of a river just at
nightfall. I had not a rag of clothing and knew nothing of my whereabouts, but
all that night I traveled, cold and footsore, toward the north. At daybreak I
found myself at Fort C. F. Smith, my destination, but without my dispatches.
The first man that I met was a sergeant named William Briscoe, whom I knew very
well. You can fancy his astonishment at seeing me in that condition, and my own
at his asking who the devil I was.
“‘Dave
Duck,’ I answered; ‘who should I be?’
“He
stared like an owl.
“‘You
do look it,’ he said, and I observed that he drew a little away from me.
‘What’s up?’ he added.
“I
told him what had happened to me the day before. He heard me through, still
staring; then he said:
“‘My
dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to inform you that I buried you two
months ago. I was out with a small scouting party and found your body, full of
bullet-holes and newly scalped - somewhat mutilated otherwise, too, I am sorry
to say - right where you say you made your fight. Come to my tent and I’ll show
you your clothing and some letters that I took from your person; the commandant
has your dispatches.’
“He
performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which I resolutely put on;
the letters, which I put into my pocket. He made no objection, then took me to
the commandant, who heard my story and coldly ordered Briscoe to take me to the
guardhouse. On the way I said:
“‘Bill Briscoe, did you
really and truly bury the dead body that you found in these togs?’
“‘Sure,’ he answered -
‘just as I told you. It was Dave Duck, all right; most of us knew him. And now,
you damned impostor, you’d better tell me who you are.’
“‘I’d
give something to know,’ I said.
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