Sunday dawned, and the people flocked to the churches. But even in the
house of God were dissension and strife. From the Carvel pew at Dr.
Posthelwaite's Virginia saw men and women rise from their knees and
walk out--their faces pale with anger. At St. Mark's the prayer for
the President of the United States was omitted. Mr. Russell and Mr.
Catherwood nodded approvingly over the sermon in which the South was
justified, and the sanction of Holy Writ laid upon her Institution.
With not indifferent elation these gentlemen watched the departure of
brethren with whom they had labored for many years, save only when Mr.
Brinsmade walked down the aisle never to return. So it is that war, like
a devastating flood, creeps insistent into the most sacred places, and
will not be denied. Mr. Davitt, at least, preached that day to an united
congregation,--which is to say that none of them went out. Mr. Hopper,
who now shared a pew with Miss Crane, listened as usual with a most
reverent attention. The clouds were low and the streets wet as people
walked home to dinner, to discuss, many in passion and some in sorrow,
the doings of the morning. A certain clergyman had prayed to be
delivered from the Irish, the Dutch, and the Devil. Was it he who
started the old rumor which made such havoc that afternoon? Those
barbarians of the foreign city to the south, drunk with power, were to
sack and loot the city. How it flew across street and alley, from
yard to yard, and from house to house! Privileged Ned ran into the
dining-room where Virginia and her aunt were sitting, his eyes rolling
and his face ashen with terror, crying out that the Dutch were marching
on the city, firebrands in hand and murder in their hearts.
“De Gen'ral done gib out er procl'mation, Miss Jinny,” he cried. “De
Gen'ral done say in dat procl'mation dat he ain't got no control ober de
Dutch soldiers.”
Mrs. Colfax fainted.
“Oh Miss Jinny, ain't you gwineter Glencoe? Ain't you gwineter flee
away? Every fambly on dis here street's gwine away--is packin' up fo' de
country. Doan't you hear 'em, Miss Jinny? What'll your pa say to Ned of
he ain't make you clear out! Doan't you hear de carridges a-rattlin' off
to de country?”
Virginia rose in agitation, yet trying to be calm, and to remember
that the safety of the household depended upon her alone. That was her
thought,--bred into her by generations,--the safety of the household,
of the humblest slave whose happiness and welfare depended upon her
father's bounty. How she longed in that instant for her father or
Captain Lige, for some man's strength, to depend upon. Would there be
wisdom in flight?
“Do you want to go, Ned?” she asked. She has seen her aunt swoon before,
and her maid Susan knows well what to do. “Do you want to go, Ned?”
“Laws Mussy, no, Miss Jinny. One nigger laik me doan't make no
difference. My Marsa he say: 'Whaffor you leave ma house to be ramsacked
by de Dutch?'
“What I gwineter answer? Oh Miss Jinny, you an' Miss Lill an' Mammy
Easter an' Susan's gwine with Jackson, an' de othah niggahs can walk.
Ephum an' me'll jes' put up de shutters an' load de Colonel's gun.”
By this time the room was filled with excited negroes, some crying,
and some laughing hysterically. Uncle Ben had come in from the kitchen;
Jackson was there, and the women were a wailing bunch in the corner by
the sideboard. Old Ephum, impassive, and Ned stood together. Virginia's
eye rested upon them, and the light of love and affection was in it. She
went to the window. Yes, carriages were indeed rattling outside, though
a sharp shower was falling. Across the street Alphonse, M. Renault's
butler, was depositing bags and bundles on the steps. M. Renault himself
bustled out into the rain, gesticulating excitedly. Spying her at the
window, he put his hands to his mouth, cried out something, and ran in
again. Virginia flung open the sash and listened for the dreaded sound
of drums. Then she crossed quickly over to where her aunt was lying on
the lounge.
“O Jinny,” murmured that lady, who had revived, “can't you do something?
Haven't you done anything? They will be here any moment to burn us, to
murder us--to--oh, my poor boy! Why isn't he here to protect his mother!
Why was Comyn so senseless, so thoughtless, as to leave us at such a
time!”
“I don't think there is any need to be frightened,” said Virginia, with
a calmness that made her aunt tremble with anger. “It is probably only a
rumor. Ned, run to Mr. Brinsmade's and ask him about it.”
However loath to go, Ned departed at once. All honor to those old-time
negroes who are now memories, whose devotion to their masters was next
to their love of God. A great fear was in Ned's heart, but he went.
And he believed devoutly that he would never see his young mistress any
more.
And while Ned is running to Mr. Brinsmade's, Mrs. Colfax is summoning
that courage which comes to persons of her character at such times. She
gathers her jewels into a bag, and her fine dresses into her trunk,
with trembling hands, although she is well enough now. The picture of
Clarence in the diamond frame she puts inside the waist of her gown. No,
she will not go to Bellegarde. That is too near the city. With frantic
haste she closes the trunk, which Ephum and Jackson carry downstairs and
place between the seats of the carriage. Ned had had the horses in it
since church time. It is not safe outside. But where to go?
To Glencoe? It is three in the afternoon, and Jackson explains that,
with the load, they would not reach there until midnight, if at all.
To Kirkwood or Webster? Yes; many of the first families live there,
and would take them in for the night. Equipages of all sorts are
passing,--private carriages and public, and corner-stand hacks. The
black drivers are cracking whips over galloping horses.
Pedestrians are hurrying by with bundles under their arms, some running
east, and some west, and some stopping to discuss excitedly the chances
of each direction. From the river comes the hoarse whistle of the boats
breaking the Sabbath stillness there. It is a panic to be remembered.
Virginia leaned against the iron railing of the steps, watching the
scene, and waiting for Ned to return from Mr. Brinsmade's. Her face was
troubled, as well it might be. The most alarming reports were cried up
to her from the street, and she looked every moment for the black smoke
of destruction to appear to the southward. Around her were gathered the
Carvel servants, most of them crying, and imploring her not to leave
them. And when Mrs. Colfax's trunk was brought down and placed in the
carriage where three of them might have ridden to safety, a groan of
despair and entreaty rose from the faithful group that went to her
heart.
“Miss Jinny, you ain't gwineter leave yo' ol mammy?”
“Hush, Mammy,” she said. “No, you shall all go, if I have to stay
myself. Ephum, go to the livery stable and get another carriage.”
She went up into her own deserted room to gather the few things she
would take with her--the little jewellery case with the necklace of
pearls which her great-grandmother had worn at her wedding. Rosetta and
Mammy Easter were of no use, and she had sent them downstairs again.
With a flutter she opened her wardrobe door, to take one last look at
the gowns there. You will pardon her. They were part of happier days
gone by. She fell down on her knees and opened the great drawer at the
bottom, and there on the top lay the dainty gown which had belonged
to Dorothy Manners. A tear fell upon one of the flowers of the stays.
Irresistibly pressed into her mind the memory of Anne's fancy dress
ball,--of the episode by the gate, upon which she had thought so often
with burning face.
The voices below grow louder, but she does not hear. She is folding the
gown hurriedly into a little package. It was her great-grandmother's;
her chief heirloom after the pearls. Silk and satin from Paris are
left behind. With one glance at the bed in which she had slept since
childhood, and at the picture over it which had been her mother's, she
hurries downstairs. And Dorothy Manners's gown is under her arm. On the
landing she stops to brush her eyes with her handkerchief. If only her
father were here!
Ah, here is Ned back again. Has Mr. Brinsmade come?
What did he say? Ned simply pointed out a young man standing on the
steps behind the negroes. Crimson stains were on Virginia's cheeks,
and the package she carried under her arm was like lead. The young
man, although he showed no signs of excitement, reddened too as he came
forward and took off his hat. But the sight of him had acurious effect
upon Virginia, of which she was at first unconscious. A sense of
security came upon her as she looked at his face and listened to his
voice.
“Mr. Brinsmade has gone to the hospital, Miss Carvel,” he said. “Mrs.
Brinsmade asked me to come here with your man in the hope that I might
persuade you to stay where you are.”
“Then the Germans are not moving on the city?” she said.
In spite of himself, Stephen smiled. It was that smile that angered her,
that made her rebel against the advice he had to offer; that made her
forget the insult he had risked at her hands by coming there. For she
believed him utterly, without reservation. The moment he had spoken she
was convinced that the panic was a silly scare which would be food for
merriment in future years. And yet--was not that smile in derision of
herself--of her friends who were running away? Was it not an assumption
of Northern superiority, to be resented?
“It is only a malicious rumor, Miss Carvel,” he answered. “You have
been told so upon good authority, I suppose,” she said dryly. And at the
change in her tone she saw his face fall.
“I have not,” he replied honestly, “but I will submit it to your own
judgment. Yesterday General Harney superseded Captain Lyon in command
in St. Louis. Some citizens of prominence begged the General to send the
troops away, to avoid further ill-feeling and perhaps--bloodshed.” (They
both winced at the word.) “Colonel Blair represented to the General that
the troops could not be sent away, as they had been enlisted to serve
only in St. Louis; whereupon the General in his proclamation states that
he has no control over these Home Guards. That sentence has been twisted
by some rascal into a confession that the Home Guards are not to be
controlled. I can assure you, Miss Carvel,” added Stephen, speaking
with a force which made her start and thrill, “I can assure you from a
personal knowledge of the German troops that they are not a riotous lot,
and that they are under perfect control. If they were not, there are
enough regulars in the city to repress them.”
He paused. And she was silent, forgetful of the hub-bub around her. It
was then that her aunt called out to her, with distressing shrillness,
from the carriage:-- “Jinny, Jinny, how can you stand there talking to
young men when our lives are in danger?”
She glanced hurriedly at Stephen, who said gently; “I do not wish to
delay you, Miss Carvel, if you are bent upon going.”
She wavered. His tone was not resentful, simply quiet. Ephum turned the
corner of the street, the perspiration running on his black face.
“Miss Jinny, dey ain't no carridges to be had in this town. No'm, not
for fifty dollars.”
This was the occasion for another groan from the negroes, and they began
once more to beseech her not to leave them. In the midst of their cries
she heard her aunt calling from the carriage, where, beside the trunk,
there was just room for her to squeeze in.
“Jinny,” cried that lady, frantically, “are you to go or stay? The
Hessians will be here at any moment. Oh, I cannot stay here to be
murdered!”
Unconsciously the girl glanced again at Stephen. He had not gone, but
was still standing in the rain on the steps, the one figure of strength
and coolness she had seen this afternoon. Distracted, she blamed the
fate which had made this man an enemy. How willingly would she have
leaned upon such as he, and submitted to his guidance. Unluckily at
that moment came down the street a group which had been ludicrous on any
other day, and was, in truth, ludicrous to Stephen then. At the head
of it was a little gentleman with red mutton-chop whiskers, hatless, in
spite of the rain beginning to fall. His face was the very caricature of
terror. His clothes, usually neat, were awry, and his arms were full
of various things, not the least conspicuous of which was a magnificent
bronze clock. It was this object that caught Virginia's eye. But years
passed before she laughed over it. Behind Mr. Cluyme (for it was he)
trotted his family. Mrs. Cluyme, in a pink wrapper, carried an armful
of the family silver; then came Belle with certain articles of feminine
apparel which need not be enumerated, and the three small Cluymes of
various ages brought up the rear.
Mr. Cluyme, at the top of his speed, was come opposite to the carriage
when the lady occupant got out of it. Clutching at his sleeve, she
demanded where he was going. The bronze clock had a narrow escape.
“To the river,” he gasped. “To the river, madame!” His wife coming after
him had a narrower escape still. Mrs. Colfax retained a handful of lace
from the wrapper, the owner of which emitted a shriek of fright.
“Virginia, I am going to the river,” said Mrs. Colfax. “You may go where
you choose. I shall send the carriage back for you. Ned, to the levee!”
Ned did not lift a rein.
“What, you black rascal! You won't obey me?”
Ned swung on his seat. “No, indeedy, Miss Lilly, I ain't a-gwine 'thout
young Miss. The Dutch kin cotch me an' hang me, but I ain't a-gwine
'thout Miss Jinny.”
Mrs. Colfax drew her shawl about her shoulders with dignity.
“Very well, Virginia,” she said. “Ill as I am, I shall walk. Bear
witness that I have spent a precious hour trying to save you. If I live
to see your father again, I shall tell him that you preferred to stay
here and carry on disgracefully with a Yankee, that you let your own
aunt risk her life alone in the rain. Come, Susan!”
Virginia was very pale. She did not run down the steps, but she caught
her aunt by the arm ere that lady had taken six paces. The girl's face
frightened Mrs. Colfax into submission, and she let herself be led back
into the carriage beside the trunk. Those words of Mrs. Colfax's stung
Stephen to righteous anger and resentment--for Virginia.
As to himself, he had looked for insult. He turned to go that he might
not look upon her confusion; and hanging on the resolution, swung on his
heel again, his eyes blazeing. He saw in hers the deep blue light of
the skies after an evening's storm. She was calm, and save for a little
quiver of the voice, mistress of herself as she spoke to the group of
cowering servants.
“Mammy,” she said, “get up on the box with Ned. And, Ned, walk the
horses to the levee, so that the rest may follow. Ephum, you stay here
with the house, and I will send Ned back to keep you company.”
With these words, clasping tightly the precious little bundle under her
arm, she stepped into the carriage. Heedless of the risk he ran, sheer
admiration sent Stephen to the carriage door.
“If I can be of any service, Miss Carvel,” he said, “I shall be happy.”
She glanced at him wildly.
“No,” she cried, “no. Drive on, Ned!”
And as the horses slipped and started she slammed the door in his face.
Down on the levee wheels rattled over the white stones washed clean by
the driving rain. The drops pelted the chocolate water into froth, and a
blue veil hid the distant bluffs beyond the Illinois bottom-lands. Down
on the Levee rich and poor battled for places on the landing-stages, and
would have thrown themselves into the flood had there been no boats
to save them from the dreaded Dutch. Attila and his Huns were not
more feared. Oh, the mystery of that foreign city! What might not its
Barbarians do when roused? The rich and poor struggled together; but
money was a power that day, and many were pitilessly turned off because
they did not have the high price to carry them--who knew where?
Boats which screamed, and boats which had a dragon's roar were backing
out of the close ranks where they had stood wheel-house to wheel-house,
and were dodging and bumping in the channel. See, their guards are black
with people! Mrs. Colfax, when they are come out of the narrow street
into the great open space, remarks this with alarm. All the boats will
be gone before they can get near one. But Virginia does not answer. She
is thinking of other things than the steamboats, and wondering whether
it had not been preferable to be killed by Hessians.
Ned spies the 'Barbara Lane'. He knows that her captain, Mr. Vance, is
a friend of the family. What a mighty contempt did Ned and his kind have
for foot passengers! Laying about him with his whip, and shouting at the
top of his voice to make himself heard, he sent the Colonel's Kentucky
bays through the crowd down to the Barbara's landing stage, the people
scampering to the right and left, and the Carvel servants, headed by
Uncle Ben, hanging on to the carriage springs, trailing behind.
Here was a triumph for Ned, indeed! He will tell you to this day how
Mr. Catherwood's carriage was pocketed by drays and bales, and how Mrs.
James's horses were seized by the bridles and turned back. Ned had a
head on his shoulders, and eyes in his head. He spied Captain Vance
himself on the stage, and bade Uncle Ben hold to the horses while he
shouldered his way to that gentleman. The result was that the Captain
came bowing to the carriage door, and offered his own cabin to the
ladies. But the niggers---he would take no niggers except a maid for
each; and he begged Mrs. Colfax's pardon--he could not carry her trunk.
So Virginia chose Mammy Easter, whose red and yellow turban was awry
from fear lest she be left behind and Ned was instructed to drive the
rest with all haste to Bellegarde. Captain Vance gave Mrs. Colfax his
arm, and Virginia his eyes. He escorted the ladies to quarters in the
texas, and presently was heard swearing prodigiously as the boat was
cast off. It was said of him that he could turn an oath better than any
man on the river, which was no mean reputation.
Mrs. Colfax was assisted to bed by Susan. Virginia stood by the little
window of the cabin, and as the Barbara paddled and floated down the
river she looked anxiously for signals of a conflagration. Nay, in that
hour she wished that the city might burn. So it is that the best of us
may at times desire misery to thousands that our own malice may be
fed. Virginia longed to see the yellow flame creep along the wet,
gray clouds. Passionate tears came to her eyes at the thought of the
humiliation she had suffered,--and before him, of all men. Could she
ever live with her aunt after what she had said? “Carrying on with that
Yankee!” The horrible injustice of it!
Her anger, too, was still against Stephen. Once more he had been sent by
circumstances to mock her and her people. If the city would only burn,
that his cocksure judgment might for once be mistaken, his calmness for
once broken!
The rain ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun turned the muddy river
to gold. The bluffs shone May-green in the western flood of light, and a
haze hung over the bottom-lands. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of
the city receding to the northward, and the rain had washed the pall
of smoke from over it. On the boat excited voices died down to natural
tones; men smoked on the guards and promenaded on the hurricane deck,
as if this were some pleasant excursion. Women waved to the other boats
flocking after. Laughter was heard, and joking. Mrs. Colfax stirred in
her berth and began to talk.
“Virginia, where are we going?” Virginia did not move
“Jinny!”
She turned. In that hour she remembered that great good-natured man, her
mother's brother, and for his sake Colonel Carvel had put up with much
from his wife's sister in-law. She could pass over, but never forgive
what her aunt had said to her that afternoon. Mrs. Colfax had often been
cruel before, and inconsiderate. But as the girl thought of the speech,
staring out on the waters, it suddenly occurred to her that no lady
would have uttered it. In all her life she had never realized till now
that her aunt was not a lady. From that time forth Virginia's attitude
toward her aunt was changed.
She controlled herself, however, and answered something, and went out
listlessly to find the Captain and inquire the destination of the boat.
Not that this mattered much to her. At the foot of the companionway
leading to the saloon deck she saw, of all people, Mr. Eliphalet Hopper
leaning on the rail, and pensively expectorating on the roof of the
wheel-house. In another mood Virginia would have laughed, for at sight
of her he straightened convulsively, thrust his quid into his cheek, and
removed his hat with more zeal than the grudging deference he usually
accorded to the sex. Clearly Eliphalet would not have chosen the
situation.
“I cal'late we didn't get out any too soon, Miss Carvel,” he remarked,
with a sad attempt at jocoseness. “There won't be a great deal in that
town when the Dutch get through with it.”
“I think that there are enough men left in it to save it,” said
Virginia.
Apparently Mr. Hopper found no suitable answer to this, for he made
none. He continued to glance at her uneasily. There was an impudent
tribute in his look which she resented strongly.
“Where is the Captain?” she demanded.
“He's down below--ma'am,” he replied. “Can--can I do anything?”
“Yes,” she said, with abrupt maliciousness, “you may tell me where you
are going.”
“I cal'late, up the Cumberland River. That's where she's bound for,
if she don't stop before she gets there Guess there ain't many of 'em
inquired where she was goin', or cared much,” he added, with a ghastly
effort to be genial.
“Do you care?” she demanded, curiously. Eliphalet grinned.
“Not a great deal,” he said. Then he felt called upon to defend himself.
“I didn't see any use in gettin' murdered, when I couldn't do anything.”
She left him. He stared after her up the companionway, bit off a
generous piece of tobacco, and ruminated. If to be a genius is to
possess an infinite stock of patience, Mr. Hopper was a genius. There
was patience in his smile. But it was not a pleasant smile to look upon.
Virginia did not see it. She had told her aunt the news, and stood
in the breeze on the hurricane deck looking southward, with her hand
shading her eyes. The 'Barbara Lane' happened to be a boat with a
record, and her name was often in the papers. She had already caught up
with and distanced others which had had half an hour's start of her, and
was near the head of the procession.
Virginia presently became aware that people were gathering around her in
knots, gazing at a boat coming toward them. Others had been met which,
on learning the dread news, turned back. But this one kept her bow
steadily up the current, although she had passed within a biscuit-toss
of the leader of the line of refugees. It was then that Captain Vance's
hairy head appeared above the deck.
“Dang me!” he said, “if here ain't pig-headed Brent, steaming the
'Jewanita' straight to destruction.”
“Oh, are you sure it's Captain Brent?” cried Virginia. The Captain
looked around in surprise.
“If that there was Shreve's old Enterprise come to life again, I'd lay
cotton to sawdust that Brent had her. Danged if he wouldn't take her
right into the jaws of the Dutch.”
The Captain's words spread, and caused considerable excitement. On board
the Barbara Lane were many gentlemen who had begun to be shamefaced over
their panic, and these went in a body to the Captain and asked him to
communicate with the 'Juanita'. Whereupon a certain number of whistles
were sounded, and the Barbara's bows headed for the other side of the
channel.
As the Juanita drew near, Virginia saw the square figure and clean,
smooth-shaven face of Captain Lige standing in front of his wheel-house
Peace crept back into her soul, and she tingled with joy as the bells
clanged and the bucket-planks churned, and the great New Orleans packet
crept slowly to the Barbara's side.
“You ain't goin' in, Brent?” shouted the Barbara's captain.
“Why not?” responded Mr. Brent. At the sound of his voice Virginia could
have wept.
“The Dutch are sacking the city,” said Vance. “Didn't they tell you?”
“The Dutch--hell!” said Mr. Brent, calmly. “Who's afraid of the Dutch?”
A general titter went along the guards, and Virginia blushed. Why could
not the Captain see her?
“I'm on my reg'lar trip, of course,” said Vance. Out there on the sunlit
river the situation seemed to call for an apology.
“Seems to be a little more loaded than common,” remarked Captain Lige,
dryly, at which there was another general laugh.
“If you're really goin' up,” said Captain Vance, “I reckon there's a few
here would like to be massacred, if you'll take 'em.”
“Certainly,” answered Mr. Brent; “I'm bound for the barbecue.” And he
gave a command.
While the two great boats were manoeuvring, and slashing with one wheel
and the other, the gongs sounding, Virginia ran into the cabin.
“Oh, Aunt Lillian,” she exclaimed, “here is Captain Lige and the
Juanita, and he is going to take us back with him. He says there is no
danger.”
It its unnecessary here to repeat the moral persuasion which Virginia
used to get her aunt up and dressed. That lady, when she had heard the
whistle and the gongs, had let her imagination loose. Turning her face
to the wall, she was in the act of repeating her prayers as her niece
entered.
A big stevedore carried her down two decks to where the gang-plank
was thrown across. Captain Lige himself was at the other end. His face
lighted, Pushing the people aside, he rushed across, snatched the lady
from the negro's arms, crying:
“Jinny! Jinny Carvel! Well, if this ain't fortunate.” The stevedore's
services were required for Mammy Easter. And behind the burly shield
thus formed, a stoutish gentleman slipped over, all unnoticed, with a
carpet-bag in his hand It bore the initials E. H.
The plank was drawn in. The great wheels began to turn and hiss, the
Barbara's passengers waved good-by to the foolhardy lunatics who had
elected to go back into the jaws of destruction. Mrs. Colfax was put
into a cabin; and Virginia, in a glow, climbed with Captain Lige to the
hurricane deck. There they stood for a while in silence, watching the
broad stern of the Barbara growing smaller. “Just to think,” Miss Carvel
remarked, with a little hysterical sigh, “just to think that some of
those people brought bronze clocks instead of tooth-brushes.”
“And what did you bring, my girl?” asked the Captain, glancing at the
parcel she held so tightly under her arm.
He never knew why she blushed so furiously.