_The Star-Spangled Banner._
From time to time during the day came news of a possible engagement.
Frigates, bomb-ketches, and small vessels were reported to be ranging
themselves in position to cannonade the fort and the town. Off North
Point lay the ships of the line. In the night began the debarkation of
the British, and by noon the next day a battle was imminent. It was
an anxious time for those within the town, whose brothers, husbands,
sons, or lovers had gone out to meet the enemy. Aunt Martha religiously
refrained from idleness, and vigorously scraped her lint when she was
doing nothing else. Lettice and Betty helped her by fits and starts.
“But I cannot keep my mind on anything,” said Lettice. “I am so
nervous, so anxious.”
“You’d much better be occupied,” returned her aunt, patting a soft
pile of her linen scrapings. But Lettice did not respond; she went to
the window and looked out. Few persons were to be seen on the street.
It was raining, and she wondered how those on their camp ground were
faring.
All day Sunday there came reports of the further movements of the
British, who had by this time landed their troops at North Point; and
what might be next expected no one knew, though all feared ill news. “I
shall not stay at home from church,” Aunt Martha declared, “for if ever
there was a time when one should attend to her religious duties, it is
to-day. You will come with me, Lettice?”
“I suppose I might as well, for I shall be just as miserable if I stay
at home, and I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing I am
doing the right thing by going.”
“That is not the right spirit,” Aunt Martha objected. “It should be a
privilege, and I think you should feel it so.”
“Well, I will try to; but I know I cannot keep my mind on the sermon
for one instant. I shall be thinking of what is going on outside
the city.” Yet she accompanied her aunt without further words, and
announced at the dinner-table that she believed it had done her good to
go.
Shortly after noon of the following day came flying reports that a
battle was in progress. Next came the news that the British general,
Ross, had been killed. After this were various reports, and,
throughout the night, stragglers brought in accounts of the day’s
action. The next morning early came a sudden, ominous sound. Lettice
jumped from her bed. It was six o’clock. She ran to her sister Betty’s
room. The baby, terrified by the sudden noise, was crying with fright.
“Isn’t it a hideous sound!” said Lettice, placing herself at the foot
of the bed. “Hark! it gets worse and worse; it fairly shakes the house
to its foundations. Oh, Betty, do you suppose they will get near enough
to bombard the city?”
“If they can get past the forts. Pray Heaven they do not!”
All day the sombre sound of the cannonading continued. At three in the
afternoon it grew fiercer, and those who waited in terror, now feared
that their beloved town would share the fate of Washington. From the
windows Lettice and Betty watched the ascending rockets, and as night
came on and the fearful booming continued, becoming louder and fiercer,
it seemed as if every brick in the house must fall about their ears.
Suddenly the noise increased in volume. It sounded nearer. What did it
mean? Betty and Lettice, with one accord, rushed out into the street.
Throngs of anxious people, with pale faces and terror-stricken eyes,
were gathered there. “What does it mean?” they whispered one to another.
All at once, as suddenly, a stillness fell. It was an awe-inspiring
silence. Betty clung to Lettice, crying, “Oh, Letty, we are lost!”
But the bombs and rockets again began to illumine the sky, though now
at a greater distance, and when the morning broke upon those who had
sleeplessly kept their vigil in the streets of the threatened city, the
danger was over. Baltimore was saved.
That night the British sailed away, and then those who, so short a time
before, had appeared a sadly anxious company, driven by fear from their
homes, now gayly paraded the streets, cheering and shouting as the
triumphant troops marched by.
“I am glad we stayed. I am truly glad, for all that it was so terrible.
I am glad to get rid of my recollections of Washington,” Lettice
exclaimed. “They have gone, Aunt Martha! They have gone, Betty! Do you
realize that it was a victory?” And, seizing the baby, she danced him
up and down till he screamed with mirth and excitement.
They had hardly recovered from their joy at the victory, and the
delight in welcoming home the ones who had done so much toward winning
it, when other glad tidings came to them. Weak, miserable, fever-wasted
though he was, it was a day of rejoicing for them all that brought Joe
home again. Big Pat Flynn and William lifted the wasted figure from the
carriage to the house, and Lettice, who was on the lookout for him, ran
to the door. She burst into tears as she saw the mournful, hollow eyes,
and Aunt Martha, close upon her heels, chid her with:--
“That is a pretty way to welcome the boy! Why, Joe--” And then she,
too, lost control of herself, and, leaning on Lettice’s shoulder, began
to weep.
“That’s a pretty way to welcome the boy!” laughed William. “Here,
Betty, can’t you do better than that?” And Betty, whose chin was
quivering, gulped down a rising sob and smiled, saying: “You dear Joe,
how glad I am to see you! Welcome home, Joe! Welcome home!”
“Heigho, Mars Joe!” came a small pert voice. “Fo’ de Lawd, but yuh look
lak a ole rooster what los’ he tail fedders.”
“Halloo, Danny! Where did you pop from? If I look like a scarecrow now,
how do you think I looked when I started for home, before I had a good
lot of fresh air and something to eat? Why, I’m a good-looking fellow
to what I was,” said Joe, laughing weakly.
Danny snickered, and Aunt Martha turned, saying severely: “Danny, leave
the room, and don’t let me hear another word from you. Bring Joe into
the sitting room, boys, and we’ll make the dear child comfortable;”
which, indeed, they did, so that within twenty-four hours he was
looking better.
Lettice’s first thought was of Patsey, and she despatched a letter to
her as quickly as possible, and there were at least two perfectly happy
persons under that roof when Patsey responded in person.
But on top of this came a sad letter from Lettice’s father. “Our dear
Tom, my brave first-born, has gone from me,” he wrote. “He died to save
my life, for in a hand-to-hand fight, he threw himself between me and
my enemy, shouting, ‘I’ll save you, father,’ and he received the blow
that would have finished me. I trust that I yet have one son left, and
though I would not have him serve his country less well than those that
have been taken, I pray he may be spared to us, and I beseech him not
to expose himself to unnecessary perils.”
“Dear old Tom,” Lettice murmured, with softly falling tears, “it seems
as if he returned simply to retrieve himself and to leave behind a
loving memory of him. We can be proud of him, now. But oh, Jamie has
gone, and Tom has gone, and all I have left is Brother William. Even
Lutie is taken from me.”
But a few days after this came a surprise for Lettice. Danny, with
dancing eyes, and ducking his head as he gave frequent smothered bursts
of laughter, appeared at the sitting room door where Lettice sat with
her Cousin Joe and Patsey.
“Somebody out hyar ter see yuh, Miss Letty,” Danny announced, and then
he ran.
“Come back here, you rascal,” called Joe. “Haven’t you any better
manners? Tell Miss Letty who it is.”
Danny rolled his eyes toward the door. “She say I isn’t to tell, suh.”
“Oh, well, never mind, I’ll go,” Lettice said. She opened the door
and stepped out upon the porch. In one corner stood a figure in blue
sunbonnet and checked gingham frock; it looked strangely familiar. With
the sound of the closing of the door the figure started forward, and a
soft voice said: “Praise de Lawd, dat mah Miss Letty. I is got back.”
“Lutie!” cried Lettice, running toward the girl and throwing her arms
around her. “Where have you been all this time?”
“’Deed, miss, I doesn’t know. Dem Britishers done tek me off an’ ca’y
me somewhars, I dunno whar nor wha’fo’, an’ when de man what say he
own me gits killed in dat battle yuh-alls has, I gits a chanst to
run away, an’ I tu’ns mah face todes Baltimo’, an’ I keeps a-inchin’
along, a-inchin’ along twel I gits hyar, an’ hyar I is. Law, Miss
Letty, yuh nuvver thought I done run away mahse’f? No, ma’am, I ain’ no
such notion. I yo’ own gal, an’ I don’ nuvver want no other mistis.”
Lettice, in sheer delight, gazed at her as if she could not believe her
eyes. “I skeered yuh git ma’ied, Miss Letty,” Lutie went on, “an’ go
off yonder wid dat Mars Clinton.”
“You need never be afraid of that,” said Lettice, decidedly.
Lutie twisted her bonnet strings around her finger. “Miss Letty, is yuh
know what become of Jubal?” she asked miserably.
Lettice shook her head.
“I knows,” said Lutie, solemnly; “de po’ mizzible sinnah is gone to
glory, an’ I see him go. Yass, ma’am; dey blow him into kingdom come,
’cause he such a sneakin’ varmint, an’ he try to do dem redcoats lak
he done yuh-alls, an’ dey don’ stan’ no such wucks, no ma’am, an’ dey
ups an’ shoots him. Miss Letty, Danny say young Mars Torm done gone to
glory, too. Is dat so?”
“Yes,” replied Lettice, “he died bravely, Lutie; poor dear Tom. Come
in, now, and pay your respects to Miss Betty and the rest. Aunt Martha
will have to let me keep you this time, for I don’t intend to have you
out of my sight till we are rid of the British for good and all.”
Lutie willingly sought Miss Betty, and Lettice reëntered the room she
had just left. She saw her Cousin Joe quietly sleeping, one cheek
resting on Patsey’s hand, which she would not withdraw from its
position. Although the lines of suffering were still apparent upon
Joe’s face, a happy smile played around his mouth, and Patsey’s eyes
wore a look of supreme content.
That evening, when Lettice’s brother William came in, he drew from
his pocket a small printed paper in handbill form. “Here, Lettice,”
he said, “your friend, Mr. Francis Key, has distinguished himself.
It seems he was on board one of the British ships the night of the
bombardment--”
“A prisoner?” Lettice interrupted.
“Yes; he went to try to gain the release of Dr. Beanes, of Upper
Marlborough, and was detained during the engagement. You can imagine
his feelings; uncertain as to the result of the battle, and anxiously
waiting through the long night for some sign to relieve his doubts and
fears. The occasion, however, has given us a beautiful ode. Mr. Key,
after being kept some time on board a British vessel, the _Surprise_,
was at last returned to his own cartel ship, the _Minden_, and there,
on the back of a letter, he wrote the song I have just handed to you.”
“What is it called?” Betty asked.
“The Bombardment of Fort McHenry,” Lettice read from her paper.
“Read it out, Lettice,” said her Cousin Joe, and she began:--
“‘Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed by the twilight’s last gleaming?’”
She read it through to the end to a group of attentive listeners.
“Fine! Beautiful! A noble production!” came the comments.
“It is not generally known that Mr. Key wrote it,” William went on to
say, “but his uncle, Judge Nicholson, told me that it was a fact, and
that Frank had showed it to him, and that he, being vastly pleased with
it, took it to the office of the _Baltimore American_ and had a number
of copies printed, one of which he gave to me. Every one is singing it,
and it promises to become very popular. The tune is that of ‘Anacreon
in Heaven.’ You know it, Joe; come, join in. Come, Betty, come,
Lettice, let us try it;” and the Star-Spangled Banner was given with
spirit and fervor. Several passers-by, catching the tune, started up
the air and went singing on their way, so that after the song indoors
was ended, from the distance could be heard, lustily shouted:--
“‘’Tis the Star-Spangled Banner! Oh, long may it wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!’”
It was toward Christmas that Lettice, coming into her aunt’s room one
day, found the good lady pondering over two letters which she had been
reading. “Your father and your uncle are on their way home,” she
announced abruptly.
“Oh, how very glad I am!” cried the girl. “There are some good things
left for us, after all, Aunt Martha; though sometimes, when I think of
this war and all it has cost me, I feel as if it had stripped me of
everything.”
“This war, indeed; yes, I don’t half blame my brother for calling
it an unrighteous proceeding.” She tapped the letter she had just
been reading; then she burst out again: “But we would have been
cowards not to have fought for our rights. New Englander as I am, I
must confess that the Federalists are going too far. What does this
convention at Hartford mean but an attempt to dissever the Union? For
all that Edward excuses it on the ground of an effort to thwart an
incompetent government, it means nothing more nor less than an ugly
word--secession.”
“Oh, Aunt Martha, really?”
“That’s what it looks like. However, let us hope it will not come
about. Here, you may read the letter; there is one enclosed from Rhoda
which will give you her news, such as it is.”
Lettice read the two letters and returned them without a word; then
she went to the window and looked out. “I am very fond of Rhoda,” she
remarked after a little while. “Her letter did not show that she was
in very good spirits, Aunt Martha.”
“Rhoda is not one to show great enthusiasm,” Aunt Martha replied.
“No, I know that; but she does sometimes write more cheerfully. I
wonder will she ever marry.”
Her aunt made no answer, but instead, arose and observed, “I must get
the house well in order for Thomas’s home-coming.”
“Will they be here in time for the wedding?”
“They will make the effort.”
“I believe Patsey would be perfectly willing to wait for the sake of
having Uncle Tom here.”
“I don’t believe in putting off weddings,” said Betty, coming in.
“It has already been put off once. You must have a new gown for the
occasion, Lettice. I have been telling you that for weeks; it isn’t
like you to be so indifferent to such things.”
“There is time enough before New Year’s Eve.”
“Yes, but time flies. Come, go down with me and select it. There will
be nothing so good for you as a shopping expedition. I must stop in
Lovely Lane to attend to a matter, and then we will give ourselves up
to choosing your bridesmaid gown. Lutie can look after the boy, I
suppose.”
“Yes, and will be glad to do it. I must look out for a gay calico for
Lutie’s Christmas.”
“You spoil her,” remarked Aunt Martha.
“Maybe; but I am so glad to have her with me again.”
She came down a little later, cloaked and tippeted, her curls peeping
from under her beaver hat. Betty looked at her mischievously. “You are
decked out fairly well, Letty. I’ll warrant more than one head will be
turned over a shoulder to look after you this morning.”
“I care not whether any turn,” sighed Lettice.
“Ah-h, that accounts for your pensiveness; your poor little heart has
slipped its leash, and you are pining for--Did I hear Aunt Martha say
she had a letter from Rhoda? Lettice, you are not mourning for Robert
Clinton?”
“How many times must I tell you, no, no, no!” replied Lettice,
pettishly. “I don’t care a whit for him, as you know well; yet, all
this morning’s news has brought back the past very vividly, and makes
me remember that my home is gone; and my two brothers--one lies on the
shores of the great lakes, and one in our own forsaken graveyard. To
think that, after all, poor Tom should be denied a resting-place beside
his own kith and kin.”
“What matters that to him? He has won himself a lasting name for
courage and faithfulness, and that is a comfort. Now do put by these
sad thoughts and let us talk of the wedding. Oh, by the way, I heard a
piece of news; William says Becky Lowe is to marry Stephen Dean. He has
won his lady-love after all these years of devotion. There is nothing
like perseverance, you see. Poor Birket!”
“Why, poor Birket?”
“Because he didn’t persevere; he was too easily set back.”
“Now, Betty, I never had a single thought of Birket. He is a nice lad,
but too young for my liking.”
“I know that, my dear grandmother, and I do not forget that your true
love is a sailor lad.”
“You mean he was. My dear love will never again be a sailor.”
“There are other things he can be. He has been true to his word, has
he, Lettice?”
“Of course,” she returned proudly. “If he made a promise to William,
he will keep it to the bitter end.”
“Well, it is a great thing to be able to have faith in one’s true love.
Here we are. Now let us see what we can find to make my little sister
outshine the bride.” And they were soon absorbed in turning over mulls
and muslins, till they settled upon what suited them. Then came a visit
to the mantua-maker, and the two returned home in fine spirits.
The days sped by, till the last day of the year brought Patsey’s
wedding-day. Sylvia’s Ramble was opened to receive all the Hopkins
tribe, and Aunt Martha, more excited than Lettice had ever seen her,
went around with a duster from room to room.
“Do sit down, Aunt Martha,” her niece begged. “You will be tired out
before night, and these rooms are already as clean as hands can make
them.”
“My child, I can’t sit down. Why, Lettice, I am to see my husband
to-day, after all these years.” She faltered, and mechanically moved
her duster back and forth upon the already polished table, on which,
all at once, a tear dropped. “There, I am getting in my dotage,” said
Aunt Martha, turning away, ashamed of this evidence of emotion. “Hark!
Lettice, do I hear wheels?”
Lettice ran to the door. “Only Mose from the store, Aunt Martha,” she
reported. “The boat is not in yet.”
But it was not long before there was a shout and a hurrah, a clatter of
hoofs and a rumble of wheels, the shrill laughter of little children,
as the pickaninnies scampered to open the gates; and in they swept, the
long-absent soldiers in the carriage, Joe and William on horseback,
Patrick behind them all on a lively mule; then in another moment the
master of Sylvia’s Ramble was at home again, while Lettice, laughing
and crying, was clasping her father’s neck and gazing with loving eyes
at his tanned, weather-beaten face. “Father, my dear, dear daddy, you
are here safe and sound!”
“Here, you people,” cried Joe, “I want you to know this is my
wedding-day, and I expect all the fuss to be made over me.”
“Pshaw!” cried Lettice, gayly. “People can get married any day, but it
isn’t every day that one has a chance of welcoming back war-stained
veterans.”
“Can get married any day, eh? Well, I haven’t found that I could, or
I’d have been a Benedict something over a year.”
“This is better than Dartmoor Prison, isn’t it, Joe?” said his uncle.
“Sh! Sh! Let us have no such reminiscences to-day,” said Betty. And
then they all went into the house to discuss the dinner, over the
preparation of which Aunt Martha had spent much anxious thought.