As told by MICHAEL FRANCHIONI
with illustrations by Daniel Marsula

THIS campaign season, when we are again subject to heated political debate, we might reflect on a time in our history when political debate could be truly malicious, slanderous -- or worse. This was a time when pistols at 10 paces, rather than ballots or debate, often settled differences and when offenses, real or imagined, caused men to rise up, passions enflamed, seeking to defend their honor (real or imagined). It could (and did) happen with some regularity in the early days of our nation. This, too, may be a suitable moment to reflect on the last such duel fought in the city of Pittsburgh. Indeed, it was likely the last duel fought in the history of the commonwealth, and it took place just east of Downtown, 200 years ago.

Looking back from our clever 21st-century perch, it is easy to dismiss dueling as foolish, wasteful violence. In post-colonial days, though, the nation and its citizens were still seeking to establish an identity for themselves. Though the political bonds were broken, many still clung to European social customs.

Established in 16th-century Europe, dueling became popular among the aristocracy, the military and politicians. Such "affairs of honor," as historian Joanne Freeman has called them, allowed one to demonstrate their bravery and defend their honor, more than dispatching their rival. Indeed, the custom became refined to the point of simply accepting a challenge sometimes being sufficient for one to claim the high moral ground, without shots being fired.

There was also the custom of "throwing away" one's fire, known by the French term delope. This required one to allow their opponent to fire first, then intentionally miss with their shot. Should their opponent insist on a second shot, he could, as Thomas Fleming wrote in his history of the Hamilton-Burr clash, "be accused of bloodthirsty, even murderous intentions -- a slur no gentleman wanted to incur." Indeed, it is believed Hamilton did just this, to an unfortunate end.

PITTSBURGH'S last duel was waged between TARLETON BATES and THOMAS STEWART, two young men with promising futures in the young city. While their names may not be well known today, the supporting cast reads like a who's who of political names of the day, and of local place-names of the present day.

TARLETON BATES was born May 22, 1775, one of 12 children of Thomas Fleming Bates of Virginia, a Quaker.

At age 18, Tarleton Bates moved to Pittsburgh. He obtained an early job with the Federal Quartermaster's Department, under Maj. Isaac Craig. In 1800, Tarleton was appointed prothonotary of Allegheny County.

Here, Tarleton honed his political and social friendships. In appearance, Tarleton Bates had "a delicate and sensitive nature ... very courteous and gentle in his manners." He was apparently quite fond of one Emily Morgan Neville, daughter of Col. Presley Neville, and granddaughter of Gen. John Neville. However, they never married. Bates was more devoted to local politics. He once remarked, "I believe I am almost the only Pittsburgher who is not ashamed to call himself a Democrat" -- as Republicans were then known -- "and I am sure the appellation will never discredit me." Col. Neville's abhorrence of Democrats "as so many imps of hell" may also have placed some distance between Bates and the colonel's daughter.

By 1805, Bates, together with friends Walter Forward and Henry Baldwin, had become publishers of a local Democrat newspaper, The Tree of Liberty. Forward, then a 19-year-old law clerk to Baldwin, would go on to become a member of Congress and Treasury secretary under President John Tyler. Baldwin, too, would serve in Congress, and later become a justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.

A major supporter of the young paper was Judge Hugh Henry Brackenridge, whose office was next to the paper's on Market Street, near present-day Market Square.

An opposition paper, The Commonwealth, was published by one Ephraim Pentland. Pentland was just 20, and recently settled in Pittsburgh from Philadelphia. The two papers battled vigorously during the bitter gubernatorial election of 1805. The Tree of Liberty supported incumbent Gov. Thomas McKean, while The Commonwealth favored Simon Snyder. Writing in his paper, Pentland displayed an intense hatred of McKean and his supporters, including the Tree of Liberty. Even after the election (won by McKean), the papers continued their sparring. In an article published Christmas Day, 1805, Pentland declared Bates and Baldwin "two of the most abandoned political miscreants that ever disgraced a State."

BATES apparently did not take the time to respond to this particular assault in writing. Rather, he bought a whip, and, on the evening of Jan. 2, 1806, in a "chance" encounter with Pentland on Market Street, attacked him with it.

After being struck a few times, Pentland was able to escape, retreating to the authorities, and to his pen. He wrote in his paper that Baldwin and Steele Semple were with Bates during the attack, referring to these two young attorneys contemptuously as "students of morality." Bates and his friends countered in their paper that Bates acted alone, and mocked Pentland's cowardly nature.

How could Pentland respond to this? He considered filing charges against Bates, but then had another idea: He would challenge Bates to a duel! This would put Bates in a tough spot: Dueling had been outlawed in Pennsylvania since 1794, with a penalty including fines, imprisonment and loss of citizenship. A rising politician like Bates would have much to lose. "On the other hand," as historians James Van Trump and James Cannon have written, "public sentiment still looked upon dueling and duelers as romantic and to defend one's honor was manly."

On Jan. 6, 1806, Pentland sent THOMAS STEWART, a young shopkeeper and son of an Irish clergyman, to personally deliver Pentland's challenge to Bates. Bates declined. That night, Pentland put up posters in town declaring Bates a coward. The next day, Bates wrote in the Tree of Liberty that he declined the challenge because Pentland reported the whipping to authorities, a dishonorable thing for a supposed gentleman. He then dismissed Pentland as a simple "apprentice" and a "man of no social standing."

Fatefully, though, Bates did not stop there. He went on to say that the messenger, Stewart, must have been "ignorant of the circumstances, for no gentleman knowing them could be the bearer of such a message from such a man."

Now it was Stewart's turn to take offense. Pressed on by Pentland and local lawyer William Wilkins (for whom Wilkinsburg is named), Stewart demanded an apology from Bates. Not receiving one, on Jan. 7, Stewart challenged Bates to a duel. Bates accepted.

Now the formalities of the duel would play out. Wilkins would act as Stewart's "second," and Morgan Neville, son of the colonel, would act as Bates'. The duel would be fought the next day, far enough from town to escape the notice of the authorities, in present-day Oakland.

THOUGH lacking a full first-person account of the duel, we can easily imagine the proceedings:

Early that damp, wintry morning, Bates and Stewart made their way out of town in boats, accompanied by their seconds, and perhaps a physician or other individual, rowing up the Monongahela to a point near where a stream called Three Mile Run made its way out of the hills, down a small valley and into the river. Pulling their boats aground on the north shore, the party then made its way up the valley on foot, coming to a "grassy glade" after a few hundred yards. There, with the breath of the men visible in the air, the party paused to catch its wind, and to continue the potentially fatal ritual.

The seconds prepared the pistols, loading a measure of powder and a smooth ball in each. The duelists stood 10 paces apart, facing each other. Standing back to back, then marching 10 paces, turning and firing, was not typical -- aiming these weapons was difficult enough from a stationary position. The short, smooth bore of the pistols, an imprecise measure of powder and an only approximately spherical ball made the weapons wildly inaccurate, even as close as 10 paces. Only about one duel in 14 proved fatal. Still ...

Bates and Stewart took their pistols from their seconds in their right hands, and assumed a dueling stance: Each stood with his right leg in front of the left, looking over his right shoulder and extended right arm. Such a sideways stance offered less body surface as a target for one's opponent. In addition, by holding the pistol slightly to the left, it might deflect the opponent's shot. The attending parties may have stood with their backs to the duelists; in the event charges were brought against any participant, they could honestly testify that they did not witness the shooting.

One of the attending party would ask the men if they were ready, then give the command to fire: "Ready?" Both Bates and Stewart nodded. "Fire!"

Two pistols clapped, small clouds of smoke appeared before each man. As the smoke cleared, both men remained standing, facing each other, each shot traveling on into the woods behind the other. The sound of Three Mile Run, perhaps crackling with ice nearby, underlaid the echoes of the shots.

Often, duelists would consider their honor preserved after a single shot, and the matter concluded. They had defended their honor and proven their bravery. Each, then, might repair to a nearby tavern with their supporters, to toast their valor, their gallantry and their continuing lives. If such an idea crossed the mind of any man along Three Mile Run that morning, however, they kept silent.

Their seconds reloaded the weapons and handed them back to he duelists. Again: "Ready? ... Fire!" And again, the pistols' report echoed in the hills. Bates' shot followed his first into the woods. Stewart's shot, though, struck Bates in the chest. He fell to the ground. The rest of the party hurried over to him; a physician may have been summoned. There was little to be done, though; Bates was dead within the hour.

ON JAN. 14, with the cooperation of both Wilkins and Neville, the Pittsburgh Gazette briefly reported the duel, noting that the "behaviour of the principals ... was perfectly calm and undaunted, and this unfortunate transaction was conducted in conformity to the arrangements, which had been previously made, and to the strictest rules of honor."

Walter Forward wrote: "Thus perished one of the best men, who by a long series of systematic persecution was drawn to this dreadful fate. The public has lost an invaluable servant, society one of its brightest ornaments, the poor their best friend."

Bates' funeral was the largest seen in Pittsburgh to that point. He was buried in the burying ground located along present-day Sixth Avenue, now next to Trinity Cathedral. In accordance with Quaker custom, the grave of Tarleton Bates bore only a very simple marking, if any.

Stewart fled to Baltimore, and never returned. His second, attorney William Wilkins, was censured by the bar for his participation in the duel. He moved to Kentucky for a year. He later returned, though, served in the Pennsylvania Legislature and went on to become a member of Congress and President Tyler's secretary of war -- in the same Cabinet in which Bates supporter Henry Baldwin served as Treasury secretary!

Perhaps the strangest twist of fate in the entire story is that Ephraim Pentland -- the underlying cause of the death of prothonotary Tarleton Bates -- himself became prothonotary in 1808, and held the position for 10 years.

Dueling faded from life in the eastern United States, but remained a part of the young nation's wild frontier as it expanded westward. As late as the 1850s, in fact, a San Francisco newspaper was accepting notices of challenges for publication daily. Pittsburghers of the day might have shaken their heads at the barbarism of their western brethren, as they put their own dueling past behind them.

Duels of our region are all but forgotten now. The precise location of the Bates grave in the Trinity Cathedral burying ground has long been lost. Similarly, Three Mile Run was long ago paved over as a storm sewer. The only ready reminder of these events may be found in the name of the street which runs from the Monongahela River up into Oakland, near the site of the duel: Bates Street.

But if you venture out that way, in the relative quiet of early morning, you might still hear the faint echoes of Pittsburgh's last duel, fought 200 years ago, on Jan. 8, 1806.