of all good citizens to prepare for the crisis. Let there be but one
voice among us. Let every arm be raised to defend our country; our
country demands our aid. She expects that every free man will be found
at his post in the hour of danger, and that every free citizen of New
York will do his duty.”
This appeal was answered with a prompt and stirring enthusiasm.
Volunteer associations pressed forward without regard to party or
situation in life. The ground of self-defence was a common ground, and
rich and poor worked together on the same works, intermingling their
labours with patriotic emulation. The Bowling Green and Brooklyn Heights
were like military camps; indeed, the whole city was one great company
enrolled to save New York, or perish with it. On the twenty-sixth day of
August the _Evening Post_ announced the taking of Washington and the
flight of the President, and the wildest excitement prevailed; and on
the following morning, the press unanimously called:
TO ARMS! CITIZENS, TO ARMS!
YOUR CAPITAL IS TAKEN! PREPARE TO DEFEND OUR CITY TO THE LAST
EXTREMITY! THIS IS NO TIME TO TALK! WE MUST ACT AND ACT WITH
VIGOUR, OR WE ARE LOST!
In the meantime the government had revised its instructions to the
envoys for peace. The rights stipulated for in 1813 and 1814 they were
told to abandon; and “_if necessary waive every point for which the war
was commenced_.” Nothing could more urgently describe the urgent
necessity of the country, which, indeed, was financially and
commercially on the brink of ruin. Her harbours were blockaded;
communications coastwise between all ports cut off; ships rotting in
every creek and cove where they could find security, and the immense
annual products of the country mouldering in warehouses. The sources of
profitable labour were dried up, and the currency considered as
irredeemable paper. Nor were these things the worst features of the
situation. A still more dangerous symptom of the national emergency was
the hostility of certain portions of the Union. Secession in some States
was a proposition not unlikely to become a fact; while the credit of the
government was exhausted, and the war apparently as far from a close as
ever it had been.
The winter also was very severe, the Hudson frozen across to Jersey
City, and the Sound frozen across from the mainland to Sands Point.
There was much poverty and suffering, and a great gloom and depression
owing to the apparent failure of the Peace Commissioners at Ghent to
effect any reasonable agreement. Yet among the military social
entertainments were frequent, and the people prominent in New York
social life still kept up the pretence of fashion, and gave dinners,
balls, and theatre parties, which had a kind of half-hearted semblance
of gaiety.
Sapphira Bloommaert availed herself of the reasonable excuse which
public calamity gave her to retire from everything society called
“pleasure”; therefore her absence from Annette’s entertainments escaped
the unpleasant notice it would otherwise have received. Annette was able
to parry all inquiries on two grounds; first, on Sappha’s national
sympathy; or, if this reason was incredulously received, mysteriously to
associate Mr. Murray’s name with that of his country. “Sappha was so
sensitive; her country was in distress, and then also, her lover was in
danger. Yes, Mr. Murray had joined General Jackson at New Orleans, and
every one knew what a reckless soldier General Jackson was. Of course
Sappha was not in a dancing mood. She could understand. For if Mr. St.
Ange was with General Jackson, she would be incapable of seeing any one,
even her dearest friends.”
People thought with her, or not with her, Annette cared little. They had
been given reasons for Sappha’s absence from social affairs, and they
could not, to her face, go beyond them. But Achille was not to be so
easily put off. He himself had taken to the judge the information that
Leonard was with General Jackson; and after this honourable certainty of
her lover’s position he saw no reason for Sappha’s seclusion.
“Why does Sappha decline all our invitations, Annette?” he asked one
night, after a rather disappointing dance. “We do miss her so much.”
“I endure her absence very comfortably,” replied Annette. “Sappha has
been ill-natured with me ever since---- Oh, for a long time. How do you
like Miss Bogardus?”
“Very well, she accommodates herself perfectly; but why is Sappha at
disagreement with you? It is a pity. Our parties do not succeed without
her. She is so lovely, so enchanting in her grace and kindness.”
“Well, then, you may accustom yourself to do without her beauty, and
enchantments, and grace, and kindness. She will never enter this house
again! There now! I know it! and I am not broken-hearted, Achille.”
“Madame is what she calls joking?”
Achille asked this question in a cold, even voice, but if Annette had
been a wise woman she would have regarded the look in his eyes and the
stern set of his lips as ominous and implacable. On the contrary, she
defied them, being roused to that attitude by a number of little
annoyances, of which this inquiry concerning Sappha was the culmination.
She flung down the bracelet she had been unclasping in a temper, and
answered:
“One does not joke about Sapphira Bloommaert. No, indeed! A girl that
cannot understand a little mistake--a mere slip of the tongue.”
“You astonish me, Annette,” answered Achille. “I have always considered
your cousin as most amiable--most easy to persuade. What slip, what
mistake, did you make?”
“I do not care to talk about Sappha any longer. I am weary.”
“Then madame must sleep and rest. I can myself ask Sappha; perhaps I may
rectify the little mistake--the slip----”
“Oh, Achille, do let the subject drop!”
“It interests, it excites me. There is a wrong; that is unfortunate. I
may put it right. When did the little mistake occur?”
Then Annette perceived that she must tell the story herself or have the
whole subject reopened. The latter course, with her uncle, aunt, and
grandmother all opposed to her, was not to be endured. She was
undressing her hair, and she turned round and faced Achille with its
pale beauty streaming over her shoulders and emphasising the living
whiteness of her face and throat; and Achille experienced again that
singular sense of repulsion and fascination she had first inspired in
his heart; for she looked more like some angry elfin creature than a
mere mortal woman.
“Achille,” she said, “it will give me pleasure to tell you how I
offended my cousin, who is lovely, so enchanting in her grace and
kindness. You remember the morning that you had to attend to Leonard
Murray’s duel? Very well, you went away without considering me. I was
forced to get up, order the carriage, and ride as fast as possible to
see my uncle.”
“What for? What reason? None whatever.”
“I wanted uncle Gerardus to find you--to stop you----”
“You followed me--you sent your uncle to follow me. I surely do not
understand!”
“Uncle would have nothing to do with the affair, and he treated me
rudely.”
“Rudely? I must see about that.”
“Good gracious, Achille! I mean unkindly. He would not interfere, and he
told me not to trouble Sappha--and I was afraid for you.”
“_Mon Dieu_, Annette! Afraid for me!”
“And the very sight of Sappha was more than I could bear. All this
trouble for me because of her cowardly lover, and so I told her what
every one was calling Leonard. You know very well what that was. And she
got angry, and that made me say a thing I was sorry for afterwards; and
I told her that I was sorry, and she made believe to forgive me, but
Sappha does not forgive right; and not even grandmother or uncle
Gerardus can make her.”
“What thing was it you said?”
“I said every respectable person would shut their doors against Leonard
Murray, and that I supposed I should have to shut my doors; and so now
she will not come here. She says she never will come, unless Leonard
comes with her.”
“Madame reminds me. This truly is madame’s house, and madame has the
right to shut her doors against any one she wishes to affront. I must
protect my friend, I must ask him to a house whose doors stand open for
him. To-morrow I shall conclude the purchase of the Mowatt place, and we
shall remove to it. I know not what day Mr. Murray may return, and the
possibility of his being turned away from madame’s house fills me with
anxiety.”
“Oh, Achille! Achille! We cannot leave this house. Grandfather de Vries
only gave it to me on condition we lived in it. We shall lose the place,
and it is valuable property. Oh, Achille!”
“Madame must understand that I would rather lose the property than lose
my friend.”
From this position Achille would not retire, and Annette’s friends would
not interfere. Madame said “she had no control over Annette’s finances,
and that it was De Vries’ way to keep a string tied to every dollar not
entirely under his own hand. And when Annette grew sentimental over the
place, as “one of her wedding gifts” and “her bride home,” madame said:
“Full of memories it was, before you were born, Annette, and they are
not all pleasant ones. At the cost of your purse, your tongue has
talked; I hope, then, you will remember the lesson you pay dearly for.”
Mrs. Bloommaert thought the Mowatt house would be healthier for Jonaca.
It was high and sunny, and she advised her niece to accept it cheerfully
on that ground. But the judge administered the most consoling opinion,
for he laughed at Annette’s fears and said, “Batavius de Vries was _non
compos mentis_ and incapable of making any change in his will that would
stand.” This assurance set Annette firmly on her feet. She accepted the
inevitable as if it was precisely the thing she had been longing for.
And though Achille was astonished at her charming complaisance and
co-operation, he admired her tact, and rewarded it by adorning and
furnishing her rooms in the delicate blues she affected.
The news of this change of residence caused far less surprise and talk
than Annette had anticipated. No one seemed to consider it of much
importance, and the reasons and excuses for her removal which Annette
had prepared were hardly called for. Indeed, most people had interests
of their own to employ all their speculation, for the winter was the
most hopeless one New York had suffered since the commencement of the
war. Many, like Sapphira Bloommaert, refused all invitations to parties
of pleasure; some on patriotic grounds, many more because the financial
pressure of the times forbade extravagance of every kind. And as if to
sanction and strengthen this retirement, the President urged the keeping
of the twelfth day of January, 1815, as a day of fasting, humiliation,
and prayers for peace. The bitter cold, the deep snows, the scarcity of
all necessaries of life, the silence and suspense enforced by the
winter, affected the most careless; and there was an oppressive feeling
and a longing for peace that could not be thrown off.
The reviving stir under this national nightmare did not occur until the
evening of February the eleventh. Sappha was reading to her father the
travels of Mungo Park, and they were much interested in them. Even Mrs.
Bloommaert had let her work fall to her lap, and was listening with
moist eyes to Park’s despair in the desert and his restoration to hope
and life by the sight of a little wild flower in the desolate place.
Suddenly a chorus of exulting shouts filled the Bowling Green. The judge
leaped to his feet.
“_It is peace!_” he cried. “Open the windows! Let us hear! Let us see!”
And at that moment every window on the Bowling Green was thrown open.
Men were pouring from the houses into the street, as a deep harmonius
anthem came rolling down Broadway, into the Bowling Green, an anthem of
one glad note--“_Peace! Peace! Peace!_”
Regardless of all warnings and entreaties, the judge went out. “The news
will keep me warm,” he said; and as he hastily buttoned up his long
coat he looked twenty years younger. “You need not be anxious about
father to-night,” said Sappha to her mother. “He will take no harm, and,
oh, how I wish I could go with him!”
By this time every house in the neighbourhood was illuminated and open;
the women in them calling and waving to each other. The forts were
bellowing the news up and down the river; and for four hours thousands
of men and women were constantly passing through the Bowling Green
carrying torches and crying with jubilant voices the same glad word,
“_Peace! Peace! Peace!_” And above all this joyful hubbub the bells of
Trinity rang clear and strong, echoing between earth and heaven the same
exulting song.
Not until after midnight did the judge return home. He had been a sick
man for a week. He was then quite well, full of hope, almost drunk with
enthusiasm. Hot coffee was waiting for him, but he called for meat, and
insisted on having it. “The doctor has nothing to do with my case
to-night,” he said. “I know what I want, Carlita. I am hungry. I have
spent ten years of life the past four hours. Glad of it--well spent are
they! Give me meat and bread. Oh, then, I will take coffee, but it ought
to be wine--the best wine in the world is not enough.”
He was throwing off his coat as he spoke, and he then went to the
roaring fire and spread out his wet feet to its warmth. His wife looked
with terror at their condition.
“I did not know they were wet, Carlita,” he said. “I never thought of
my feet. Kouba, take off my shoes and stockings and get dry ones. My
feet were too happy to be sick; they never gave me one twinge! Why,
Carlita, I have walked miles to-night, and I am not tired.”
“And you are so hoarse that you can scarcely whisper, Gerardus.”
“Am I? Then I must have been shouting with the rest. I did not know it.
Never mind, the news is worth the shout. Now my feet are dry and warm,
give me my coffee, and something to eat; and I will talk to you--if I
can.”
“Did you see anything of Peter?”
“I met him. He had been to mother’s, and he was coming for me.”
“How did Peter hear so quickly?”
“He was sitting in the office of _The Gazette_ in Hanover Square. Peter
goes there often in the evenings. It is a great place of resort for the
men of that quarter; but being Saturday night no one was there but Mr.
Lang and Alderman Cebra; and they were just going to shut up the office
when a pilot rushed in. He stood for a moment breathless and speechless,
and while they wondered he gasped out, ‘_Peace! the boat is here with
the treaty!_’ In a minute, Peter says, every one rushed into the Square
shouting _Peace!_ and every window was thrown up, and every one in the
surrounding houses was on the street. And immediately the cry was heard
from all quarters of the city. The news spread like wildfire. No one
could say how it happened, but in less than one hour every waking soul
in New York knew it. Houses were all illuminated, and I wonder if there
was any one left in them, for the streets were crowded with men and
women both; and none thought of the cold, and no one knew that it was
snowing.”
“And now you can hardly speak, Gerardus.”
“I have been shouting, though I did not know that I opened my lips. Such
a song of gladness I shall never hear again, Carlita, in this world. I
am glad I lost my voice in it.”
“Well and good; but what did the Democrats say? Did they----”
“We were all Democrats, and we were all Federalists to-night. Men that
have not spoken to each other for four years shook hands to-night.
Strangers were friends to-night. There were no rich and no poor
to-night. We were all citizens of New York to-night. We were all
brothers. Carlita, Sappha, I would not have missed to-night for anything
in the world.”
“I am afraid you will have to suffer for it, Gerardus.”
“I do not believe it. I never felt better in all my life. Why, here
comes Mr. Goodrich!” And with these words a bright, exulting gentleman
walked into the room.
“Your door stood open, judge,” he said, “and I did not know you were
able to be out, so I thought I would call and rejoice a while with
you.”
“I have been on the street for four hours, Mr. Goodrich; four of the
happiest hours of my life. You know about that?”
“Thank God, I do! I went last night to Miss Dellinger’s concert and ball
at the City Hotel. She was singing _The Death of Lawrence_ when I heard
a strange murmur, and then a wild shout on the street. The next moment
the door of the concert hall was thrown open and a man, breathless with
excitement, rushed in crying ‘_Peace! Peace!_ An English sloop-of-war is
here with the treaty.’ The music instantly ceased, and the hall was
empty in a few minutes. No one thought of the song, no one remembered
the ball. We all, men and women, rushed into the street. Broadway was a
living tide of happy, shouting human beings. Many were bare-headed, and
did not know it. No one cared for the cold. They were white with snow,
and quite indifferent to the fact.”
“I saw them! I was among them! I must have been shouting too, but I was
not aware of it at the time. Have you heard from any one what terms we
have got? Will you believe that I have not thought of ‘terms’ until this
moment?”
“Nor have I, judge. I have heard no one ask about the terms. No one
cares about terms just yet. We have _peace_! That is enough!”
CHAPTER TEN
_The Star of Peace_
The one idea of New York, now that peace was assured, was renovation and
reconstruction. Every one was busy. The war was a dead issue, commerce
was a living one. The passion for trading and building took the place of
the military passion, and the happy sounds of labour and traffic
superseded those of the cannon and the drum.
The preservation of the city had been for four years the dominant care
of its inhabitants; now that it was safe they turned with a vehement
spirit of industry to building up trade and commerce in every direction.
It was under these auspices a joyful city. There was less dancing and
dining, but there was a growing prosperity and content, for all had some
business or handicraft to pursue, and all were full of hope and energy.
And the spirit of reconstruction was as potent in women as in men,
though their arena for its exercise was more restricted. Mrs. Bloommaert
began at once to talk of new carpets and curtains, and of a complete
refurnishing of the principal rooms of the house. And as the spring came
on every dwelling on the Bowling Green caught this fever of
improvement; and first one and then another displayed to passers-by
their fresh paint and their new lace draperies. It was a sign of some
consequence, for it typified the strength of that hope and energy which
embraced domestic comforts and elegancies as part and parcel of their
civic prosperity.
In all the changes made in the Bloommaert house Sappha felt, or at least
affected to feel, a sufficient interest. She could not shadow her
mother’s busy pleasure by any evident want of sympathy, yet it was
sometimes difficult to forget sufficiently her offended lover. Her
soul--that strange, fluttering mystery--had lost its life’s dominant,
the other soul to which it had learned to refer every thought and
desire; and there was now silence or discord where once there had been
sweetest melody. Her suffering, however, was no longer a storm, it was
rather a still, hopeless rain, an unimpassioned grief that seldom found
the natural outlet of tears. But these constant fires of repression and
self-immolation were sacramental as well as sacrificial. They were
strong with absolution also; and thus made calm and sure by much sorrow
and by one love, she gradually came out of trouble with a spirit
tempered as by fire; having lost nothing in the furnace but the dross of
her nobler qualities.
She rarely heard of Leonard. She knew that he was in New Orleans, and
attached to the staff of General Jackson; and so, in the final struggle,
doing his duty to his country. But she never forgot the fact that he
ought to have been in his native city. “It is my fault, all my fault.
No wonder Leonard cannot forgive me,” she said when Mrs. Bloommaert
blamed his absence during the darkest days New York had known.
The news of the victory at New Orleans followed closely on the news of
peace. It was brought to the Bloommaert household by Achille, who
received it with a letter from Mr. Edward Livingston. “Our friend
Leonard Murray was wounded in the right arm,” he added; “rather a bad
sword cut, but he is with the Livingstons, and has every possible care
and attention.”
Annette came in later, and, unaware of her husband’s visit, made a great
deal more of Leonard’s wound than Achille had done. She “hoped it would
not be necessary to resort to amputation--a right arm was so convenient,
not to say necessary. And he got it just for interfering,” she
continued. “An English officer had struck down a man carrying the flag,
and Leonard caught the flag as it was falling, and then of course the
Englishman fell upon Leonard. Leonard always was so interfering--I mean
so ready to do every one’s duty for them. You see it was not his place
to take care of the flag; so he got hurt taking care of it. Grandfather
de Vries always told me never to volunteer, and never to interfere. If a
person does his own work and duty in this world, it is all that can be
expected of him. Poor Leonard!”
“Oh!” said Sappha, “I think you may keep your pity, Annette, for these
poor creatures who never volunteer and never interfere. Suppose every
one had followed your grandfather’s advice, where would America be now?”
“I do not know. It is not my place to look after America,” answered
Annette.
“I will tell you then--it would be under the feet of England.”
“Grandfather de Vries often says there were very good times when the
English were here----”
“Come, come, Annette,” interrupted Mrs. Bloommaert, “you are only
talking nonsense. When do you move into your new house?”
“Next month. Achille is delightfully considerate. All my rooms are
furnished in blue, because he thinks blue so becoming to me; and he
takes my advice entirely about the rest. We shall have the most elegant
dwelling in the city; and I am glad this dreadful war is over. Now I can
get the carpets I desire.”
“Did Mrs. Livingston say anything about the condition of New Orleans?”
asked Mrs. Bloommaert.
“I did not read her letter. Achille desired me to do so, but I have
honour. I would not read Mrs. Livingston’s letter. I do not see why she
should write to my husband. I do not write to Mr. Livingston.”
“She is an old friend of Achille’s. Mr. Livingston is much too busy to
write letters. Perhaps she thought Leonard Murray had friends in New
York who would be glad to hear that he was well cared for.”
“Do you believe that Leonard Murray yet remembers us? I do not. We were
all so kind to the young man, and Achille stood by him when no one else
would. Oh, you need not leave the room, Sappha! I was just going to
praise Leonard a little.”
But Sappha did leave the room, and Mrs. Bloommaert said with some
temper:
“You have done mischief enough, Annette; why can you not let Leonard
alone? You are too unkind to Sappha.”
“Oh, then, aunt, I think it is Sappha who is truly cruel to me. Because
she will not come to our house, I shall have to remove to that ugly
Mowatt place. I hate it. All the pretty furniture in the world will not
make it endurable; and if Sappha will not visit us there, I know not
what Achille will say or do. To be driven from house to house for
Sappha’s temper is not a pleasant or a reasonable thing.”
“Before Sappha’s temper, there was your own temper, Annette; and I am
sure you need not expect Sappha to visit you in your new home unless you
also expect Leonard.”
“I suppose I shall have to write to Leonard, and tell him the trouble I
am in. I think he would come back and get Sappha to forgive me properly,
if I ask him. He was always very fond of me.”
“If you write to Leonard Murray one word about Sapphira Bloommaert I
will never speak to you again, Annette. You may depend upon that! How
can you be so malicious?”
“Malicious! You will misunderstand me, aunt Carlita. I thought perhaps
if I wrote and told Leonard how angry Sappha was, and how Achille had
nearly quarrelled with me about Sappha, he might come back to New York.
And I am sure any one can see that Sappha is breaking her heart about
his desertion of her.”
“Sappha is doing nothing of the kind. Sappha is perfectly happy.”