(Belle Brezing’s refined bawdy house, 59 Megowan Street, Lexington, Kentucky, 1894)
The parlor at Belle Brezing’s was warm and inviting that evening. Crimson velvet curtains shut out the autumn chill; lamps glowed on gilt-framed mirrors and mahogany Queen Anne tables. Perfume mingled with cigar smoke, softened by the rustle of silk and bursts of laughter. Belle herself presided in emerald satin, one hand on her crystal flute as she surveyed her well-schooled girls making easy conversation with the gentlemen.
At the center sat Gen. Basil W. Duke—famed Morgan’s Raider—genial, sharp-eyed, his mustache twitching with amusement. To his right lounged Col. Jack “Dirk Knife” Chinn, resplendent in ascot and patterned waistcoat, his laugh booming over every jest. Opposite them, Congressman Willie Breckinridge, florid and silver-haired, sipped a weak Old Crow, delighted to hold the floor, and holding an unlit cigar.
“General Duke,” Breckinridge declared, “you have discoursed on railroads, tariffs, and bourbon—each a Kentucky necessity. But what is your opinion on the suppression of dueling?
Surely you agree our legislature sought the higher plane.”
A ripple of mirth moved through the room. Sallie Fleming, whose popularity rivaled her décolletage, fluttered her fan. “Why, I like a man who fights for a lady’s honor,” she said.
“Though it does depend on who wins.”
Laughter rose. Duke lifted his glass.
“My dear Congressman, the General Assembly has a peculiar genius—not for discouraging combat—but for tormenting politicians. To decree that a man convicted of dueling may hold no office and practice no law? Sir, you strike the Kentuckian at the heart of his pleasures. Denied office, he becomes a lawyer. Denied law, he seeks office. Denied both—he runs for Congress.”
The parlor erupted. Breckinridge bowed with a rueful smile.
From her corner Josie Roe, the sharp-tongued redhead, leaned forward. “Well said, General. But do you truly favor the duel? Seems a dreadful waste of handsome men.”
Duke bowed. “Madam, I favor no quarrel. But if one must occur, the duel is the least dishonest: two men, equally armed, equally imperiled. The coward finds no advantage; the bully, no refuge. Even a poor shot has a chance—more than he has in a street fight, where the other fellow begins by shooting him in the back.”
Chinn slapped his thigh. “True enough! More men in Frankfort fall to surprise than to honor at dawn. With pistols, a man knows when to stand tall.”
Belle raised her glass with an arch smile. “And how many quarrels in this town were provoked by bourbon? If we banned whiskey instead of dueling, we might save lives—though it would ruin my business.”
“That,” Duke said with mock gravity, “would be tyranny of the blackest sort. Far better we banish the legislature than bourbon.”
Laughter rolled through the room. Sallie leaned toward Breckinridge and stage-whispered, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you politicians settled your rows with pistols at dawn? It might leave more offices for others.”
Breckinridge drew himself up. “Madam, if that were the case, there would be no one left to govern Kentucky.”
“Then we should be better governed,” Josie shot back, to general delight.
“How charming,” Chinn chuckled.
Belle smiled, lifting her chin. “Charm, gentlemen, is a woman’s protection in a world built for men. We wear kindness like armor—and sharpen our smiles to a razor’s edge.”
Duke rose slightly, glass in hand. “To honor—whether on the field or in the parlor. In Kentucky, neither is ever without its combat.”
Glasses clinked. Laughter rose again. And Belle’s parlor glowed brighter for the Raider’s well-timed toast.
Richard Day | Lexington