THE HIGH RESOLVE OF YOUTH
War was declared. The President, James Madison, proclaimed it June 18,
1812. Hostilities opened promptly. True, England's navy was largely
engaged with France in the tremendous effort to keep Napoleon confined
within the boundaries that he had at one time assented to by treaty, but
at that period she had over a thousand vessels afloat, while America had
only seventeen warships in her navy to brave them.
There was a call for men and money. The Indian troubles had been
fomented largely by England. There had been fighting on the borders, but
the battle of Tippecanoe had broken the power of Tecumseh--for the time,
at least. But now the hopes of the Indian chieftain revived, and the
country was beset by both land and naval warfare.
The town had been all along opposed to war. It had been said of Boston a
few years before that she was like Tyre of old, and that her ships
whitened every sea. Still, now that the fiat had gone forth, the latent
enthusiasm came to the surface, and men were eager to enlist. A company
had been studying naval tactics at Charlestown, and most of them offered
their services, filled with the enthusiasm of youth and brimming with
indignation at the treatment our sailors were continually receiving.
Still, the little navy had proudly distinguished itself in the
Mediterranean, and the _Constitution_ had gained for herself the
sobriquet of "Old Ironsides"--a Boston-built vessel, though the live
oak, the red cedar, and the pitch pine had come from South Carolina. But
Paul Revere had furnished the copper bolts and spikes, and when the ship
was recoppered, later on, that came from the same place. Ephraim Thayer,
at the South End, had made her gun carriages, and her sails were
manufactured in the Old Granary building.
"A bunch of pine boards with a bit of striped bunting" had been the
enemy's disdainful description of our youthful navy. And now they were
to try their prowess with the Mistress of the Seas, who had defeated the
combined navies of Europe. No wonder the country stood astounded over
its own daring.
Everything afloat was hurriedly equipped as a war vessel. The solid,
far-sighted men of New York and New England shook their heads over the
great mistake Congress and the President had made.
Warren Leverett began to talk about enlisting. Business had been running
behind. True, he could appeal to his brother-in-law King. He had sounded
Hollis, who declared he had all he could do to keep afloat himself.
Mrs. Leverett besought him to take no hasty step. What could they do
without him? They might break up the home. Electa would be glad to have
Betty--there were some things she could do, but Aunt Priscilla--whose
health was really poor----
Aunt Priscilla understood the drift presently, and the perplexity.
Warren admitted that if he had some money to tide him over he would
fight through. The war couldn't last forever.
"And you never thought of me!" declared Aunt Priscilla, pretending to be
quite indignant. "See here, Warren Leverett, when I made my will I
looked out for you and Betty. Mary Manning shan't hoard up any of my
money, and 'Lecty King, thank the Lord, doesn't want it. So if you're to
have it in the end you may as well take some of it now, fursisee. I
shall have enough to last my time out. And I'm settled and comfortable
here and don't want to be routed out and set down elsewhere."
Warren and his mother were surprised and overcome by the offer. He would
take it only on condition that he should pay Aunt Priscilla the
interest.
But his business stirred up wonderfully. Still, they all felt it was
very generous in Aunt Priscilla, whose money had really been her idol.
Doris had gone over from her music lesson one afternoon. They were
always so glad to see her. Aunt Priscilla thought a piano in such times
as these was almost defying Providence. But even the promise of that did
not spoil Doris, and they were always glad to see her drop in and hear
her dainty bits of news.
They wanted very much to keep her to supper.
"Why, they"--which meant the family at home--"will be sure you have
stayed here or at the Royalls'. Mr. Winslow has given ever so much money
toward the fitting out of a vessel. They are all very patriotic. And
Cary's uncle, Mr. March, has gone in heart and hand. I don't know which
is right," said Betty with a sigh, "but now that we are in it I hope we
will win."
But Doris was afraid Miss Recompense would feel anxious, and she
promised to come in a few days and stay to supper.
It was very odd that just as she reached the corner Cousin Cary should
cross the street and join her.
"I have been down having a talk with Warren," he said as if in
explanation. "I wish I had a good, plodding business head like that, and
Warren isn't lacking in the higher qualities, either. If there was money
enough to keep the house going, he would enlist. He had almost resolved
to when this stir in business came."
"Oh, I don't know what his mother would have done! If Uncle Leverett was
alive----"
"He would have consented in a minute. Someone's sons must go," Cary said
decisively. "No, don't go straight home--come over to the Common. Doris,
you are only a little girl, but I want to talk to you. There is no one
else----"
Doris glanced at him in amazement. He was quite generally grave, though
he sometimes teased her, and occasionally read with her and explained
any difficult point. But she always felt so like a very little girl with
him.
They went on in silence, however, until they crossed Common Street and
passed on under the magnificent elms. Clumps of shrubbery were blooming.
Vines ran riotously over supports, and roses and honeysuckle made the
air sweet.
"Doris,"--his voice had a little huskiness in it,--"you are very fond of
father, and he loves you quite as if you were his own child. Oh, I wish
you were! I wish he had half a dozen sons and daughters. If mother had
lived----"
"Yes," Doris said at length, in the long silence broken only by the song
and whistle of myriad birds.
"I don't know how to tell you. I can't soften things, incidents, or
explanations. I am so apt to go straight to the point, and though it may
be honorable, it is not always wisest or best. But I can't help it now.
I have enlisted in the navy. We start for Annapolis this evening."
"Oh, Cary! And Uncle Win----"
"That is it. That gives me a heartache, I must confess. For, you see, I
can't go and tell him in a manly way, as I would like. We have had some
talks over it. I asked him before I was of age, and he refused in the
most decisive manner to consider it. He said if I went I would have to
choose between the country and him, which meant--a separation for years,
maybe. It is strange, too, for he is noble and just and patriotic on
certain lines. I do think he would spend any money on me, give me
everything I could possibly want, but he feels in some way that I am his
and it is my duty to do with my life what he desires, not what I like. I
am talking over your head, you are such a little girl, and so
simple-hearted. And I have really come to love you a great deal, Doris."
She looked up with a soft smile, but there were tears in her eyes.
"You see, a big boy who has no sisters doesn't get used to little girls.
And when he really begins to admire them they are generally older. Then,
I have always been with boys and young men. I was glad when you came,
because father was so interested in you. And I thought he had begun to
love you so much that he wouldn't really mind if I went away. But, you
see, his heart would be big enough for a houseful of children."
"Oh, why do you go? He will be--broken-hearted."
"Little Doris, I shall be broken-hearted if I stay. I shall begin to
hate law--maybe I shall take to drink--young fellows do at times. I know
I shall be just good for nothing. I should like best to talk it over
dispassionately with him, but that can't be done. We should both say
things that would hurt each other and that we should regret all our
lives. I have written him a long letter, but I wanted to tell someone. I
thought of Betty first, and Madam Royall, but no one can comfort him
like you. Then I wanted you to feel, Doris, that I was not an
ungrateful, disobedient son. I wish we could think alike about the war,
but it seems that we cannot. And because you are here,--and, Doris, you
are a very sweet little girl, and you will love him always, I know,--I
give him in your charge. I hope to come back, but the chances of war are
of a fearful sort, and if I should not, will you keep to him always,
Doris? Will you be son and daughter to him as you grow up--oh, Doris,
don't cry! People die every day, you know, staying at home. I have often
thought how sad it was that my mother and both your parents should die
so young----"
His voice broke then. They came to a rustic seat and sat down. He took
her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"If I shouldn't ever come back"--tremulously--"I should like to feel at
the last moment there was someone who would tell him that my very latest
thought was of him and his tender love all my twenty-one years. I want
you to make him feel that it was no disrespect to him, but love for my
country, that impelled me to the step. You will understand it better
when you grow older, and I can trust you to do me full justice and to
be tender to him. And at first, Doris, when I can, I shall write to
you. If he doesn't forbid you, I want you to answer if I can get
letters. This is a sad, sad talk for a little girl----"
Doris tried very hard not to sob. She seemed to understand intuitively
how it was, and that to make any appeal could only pain him without
persuading. If she were as wise and bright as Betty!
"That is all--or if I said any more it would be a repetition, and it is
awfully hard on you. But you will love him and comfort him."
"I shall love him and stay with him all my life," said Doris with tender
solemnity.
They were both too young to understand all that such a promise implied.
"My dear little sister!" He rose and stooping over kissed her on the
fair forehead. "I will walk back to the house with you," he added as she
rose.
Neither of them said a word until they reached the corner. Then he took
both hands and, kissing her again, turned away, feeling that he could
not even utter a good-by.
Doris stood quite still, as if she was stunned. She was not crying in
any positive fashion, but the tears dropped silently. She could not go
indoors, so she went down to the big apple tree that had a seat all
around the trunk. Was Uncle Win at home? Then she heard voices. Miss
Recompense had a visitor, and she was very glad.
The lady, an old friend, stayed to supper. Uncle Win did not make his
appearance. Doris took a book afterward and sat out on the stoop, but
reading was only a pretense. She was frightened now at having a secret,
and it seemed such a solemn thing as she recalled what she had promised.
She would like to spend all her life with Uncle Win; but could she care
for him and make him happy, when the one great love of his life was
gone?
Miss Recompense walked out to the gate with her visitor, and they had a
great many last bits to say, and then she watched her going down the
street.
"Child, you can't see to read," she said to Doris. "I think it is damp.
You had better come in. Mr. Adams will not be home before ten."
Doris entered the lighted hall and stood a moment uncertain.
"How pale and heavy-eyed you look!" exclaimed Miss Recompense. "Does
your head ache? Have they some new trouble in Sudbury Street?"
"Oh, no. But I am tired. I think I will go to bed. Good-night, dear Miss
Recompense," and she gave her a gentle hug.
She cried a little softly to her pillow. Had Cary gone? When Uncle Win
came home he would find the letter. She dreaded to-morrow.
Cary had one more errand before he started. He had said good-by to them
at Madam Royall's and announced his enlistment, but he had asked Alice
to meet him at the foot of the garden. They were not lovers, though he
was perhaps quite in love. And he knew that he had only to speak to gain
his father's consent and have his way to matrimony made easy, since it
was Alice Royall. But he had never been quite sure that she cared for
him with her whole soul, as Isabel had cared for Morris Winslow. And if
he won her--would he, could he go away?
He used to wonder later on how much was pure patriotism and how much a
desire to stand well with Alice Royall. She was proudly patriotic and
had stirred his blood many a time with her wishes and desires for the
country. Grandmamma Royall had laughed a little at her vehemence, and
said it was fortunate she was not a boy.
"I should enlist at once. Or what would be better yet, I would beg
brother Morris to fit out a war ship, and look up the men to command it,
and go in _any_ capacity. I should not wait for a high-up appointment."
When Cary confessed his step first to her, she caught his hands in hers
so soft and delicate.
"I knew you were the stuff out of which heroes were made!" she cried
exultantly. "Oh, Cary, I shall pray for you day and night, and you will
come back crowned with honors."
"If I come back----"
"You will. Take my word for your guerdon. I can't tell you _how_ I know
it, but I am sure you will return. I can see you and the future----"
She paused, flushed with excitement, her eyes intense, her rosy lips
tremulous, and looked, indeed, as if she might be inspired.
So she met him again at the garden gate for a last good-by. Young people
who had been well brought up did not play at love-making in those days,
though they might be warm friends. A girl seldom gave or received
caresses until the elders had signified assent. An engagement was quite
a solemn thing, not lightly to be entered into. And even to himself Cary
seemed very young. All his instincts were those of a gentleman, and in
his father he had had an example of the most punctilious honor.
They walked up and down a few moments. He pressed tender kisses on her
fair hand, about which there always seemed to cling the odor of roses.
And then he tore himself away with a passionate sorrow that his father,
the nearest in human ties of love, could not bid him Godspeed.
The next morning Doris wondered what had happened. There was a
loneliness in the very air, as there had been when Uncle Leverett died.
The sky was overcast, not exactly promising a storm, but soft and
penetrative, as if presaging sorrow.
Oh, yes, she remembered now. She dressed herself and went quietly
downstairs.
"You may as well come and have your breakfast," exclaimed Miss
Recompense. "Your uncle sent down word that he had a headache and begged
not to be disturbed. He was up a long while after he came home last
night; it must have been past midnight when he went to bed. I wish he
did not get so deeply interested in improvements and everything. And if
we are to be bombarded and destroyed I don't see any sense in laying out
new streets and filling up ponds and wasting the money of the town."
It seemed to Doris as if she could not swallow a mouthful. She tried
heroically. Then she went out and gathered a bunch of roses for Uncle
Win's study. She generally read French and Latin a while with him in the
morning. Then she made her bed, dusted her room, put her books in her
satchel and went to school in an unwilling sort of fashion. How long the
morning seemed! Then there was a half-hour in deportment--we should call
it physical culture at present. All the girls were gay and chatty.
Eudora told her about a new lace stitch. Grandmamma had been out
yesterday where there was such an elegant Spanish woman with coal-black
eyes and hair. Her family had fled to this country to escape the horrors
of war. They had been rich, but were now quite poor, and she was
thinking of having a needlework class.
Did Eudora know Cary had gone away?
Uncle Win came out to dinner. She was a little late. He glanced up and
gave a faint half-smile, but, oh, how deadly pale he was!
"Dear Uncle Winthrop--is your headache better?" she asked with gentle
solicitude.
"A little," he said gravely.
It was a very quiet meal. Although Mr. Winthrop Adams had a delicate
appearance, he was rarely ill. Now there were deep rings under his eyes,
and the utter depression was sad indeed to behold.
Doris nearly always ran in the study and gossiped girlishly about the
morning's employments. Now she sauntered out on the porch. There was
neither music nor writing class. She wondered if she had better sew. She
was learning to do that quite nicely, but the stocking still remained a
puzzle.
"Doris," said a gentle voice through the open window; and the sadness
pierced her heart.
She rose and went in. Solomon lay on his cushion in the corner, and even
he, she thought, had a troubled look in his eyes. Uncle Win sat by the
table, and there lay Cary's letter.
She put her arms about his neck and pressed her soft warm cheek against
his, so cool that it startled her.
"My clear little Doris," he began. "I am childless. I have no son. Cary
has gone away, against my wishes, in the face of my prohibition. I do
not suppose he will ever return alive. And so I have given him up,
Doris"--his voice failed him. He had meant to say, "You are all I have."
"Uncle Win--may I tell you--I saw him yesterday in the afternoon. And he
told me he had enlisted----"
"Oh, then, you know!" The tone somehow grew harder.
"Dear Uncle Win, I think he could not help going. He was very brave.
And he was sorry, too. His eyes were full of tears while he was talking.
And he asked me----"
"To intercede for him?"
"No--to stay here with you always. He said I was like a little sister.
And I promised. Uncle Win, if you will keep me I will be your little
girl all my life long. I will never leave you. I love you very dearly.
For since Uncle Leverett went away I have given you both loves."
She stood there in silence many minutes. Oh, how comforting was the
clasp of the soft arms about his neck, how consoling the dear, assuring
voice!
"Will you tell me about it?" he said at length.
She was a wise little thing, though I think her chief wisdom lay in her
desire not to give anyone pain. Some few sentences she left out, others
she softened.
"Oh," she said beseechingly, "you will not be angry with him, Uncle
Winthrop? I think it is very brave and heroic in him. It is like some of
the old soldiers in the Latin stories. I shall study hard now, so I can
read about them all. And I shall pray all the time that the war will
come to an end. We shall be so proud and glad when he returns. And then
you will have two children again."
"Yes--we will hope for the war to end speedily. It ought never to have
begun. What can we do against an enemy that has a hundred arms ready to
destroy us? Little Doris, I am glad to have you."
Winthrop Adams was not a man to talk over his sorrows. He had been
wounded to the quick. He had not dreamed that his son would disregard
his wishes. His fatherly pride was up in arms. But he did not turn his
wounded side to the world. He quietly admitted that his son had gone to
Annapolis, and received the congratulations of friends who sincerely
believed it was time to strike.
Salem was busy at her wharves, where peaceable merchantmen were being
transformed into war vessels. Charlestown was all astir, and sailors
donned the uniform proudly. New York and Baltimore joined in the general
activity. The _Constellation_ was fitting out at Norfolk. The
_Chesapeake_, the _United States_, and the _President_ were to be made
famous on history's page. Privateers without number were hurried to the
fore.
The _Constitution_ had quite a reception in New York, and she started
out with high endeavors. She had not gone far, however, before she found
herself followed by three British frigates, and among them the
_Guerriere_, whose captain Commodore Hull had met in New York. To be
captured in this manner--for fighting against such odds would be of no
avail--was not to be thought of, so there was nothing but a race before
him. If he could reach Boston he would save his ship and his men, and
somewhere perhaps gain a victory.
Ah, what a race it was! The men put forth all their strength, all their
ingenuity. At times it seemed as if capture was imminent. By night and
by day, trying every experiment, working until they dropped from sheer
fatigue, and after an hour or two of rest going at it again--Captain
Hull kept her well to the windward, and with various maneuverings
puzzled the pursuers. Then Providence favored them with a fine, driving
rain, and she flew along in the darkness of the night, hardly daring to
hope, but at dawn, after a three days' race, Boston was in sight, and
her enemies were left behind.
But that was not in any sense a complete victory, and she started out
again to face her enemy and conquer if she could, for her captain knew
the British ship _Guerriere_ was lying somewhere in wait for her.
Everybody prayed and hoped. Firing was heard, but at such a distance
from the harbor nothing could be decided.
The frontier losses had been depressing in the extreme. Boston had hung
her flags at half-mast for the brave dead. But suddenly a report came
that the _Constitution_ had been victorious, and that the _Guerriere_
after having been disabled beyond any power of restoration, had been
sent to a watery grave.
In a moment it seemed as if the whole town was in a transport of joy.
Flags were waving everywhere, and a gayly decorated flotilla went out in
the harbor to greet the brave battle-scarred veteran. And when the tale
of the great victory ran from lip to lip the rejoicing was unbounded. A
national salute was fired, which was returned from the ship. The streets
were in festive array and crowded with people who could not restrain
their wild rejoicing. The _Guerriere_, which was to drive the insolent
striped bunting from the face of the seas, had been swept away in a
brief hour and a half, and the bunting waved above her grave. That night
the story was told over in many a home. The loss of the _Constitution_
had been very small compared to that of the _Guerriere_, which had
twenty-three dead and fifty-six wounded; and Captain Dacres headed the
list of prisoners.
There was a grand banquet at the Exchange Coffee House. The freedom of
the city was presented to Captain Hull, and New York sent him a handsome
sword. Congress voted him a gold medal, and Philadelphia a service of
plate.
At one blow the prestige of invincibility claimed for the British navy
was shattered. And now the _Constitution's_ earlier escape from the hot
chase of the three British frigates was understood to be a great race
for the nation's honor and welfare, as well as for their own lives, and
at last the baffled pursuers, out-sailed, out-maneuvered, dropped
behind with no story of success to tell, and were to gnaw their hearts
in bitterness when they heard of this glorious achievement.
Uncle Winthrop took Doris and Betty out in the carriage that they might
see the great rejoicing from all points. Everywhere one heard bits of
the splendid action and the intrepidity of Captain Hull and his men.
"I only wish Cary had been in it," said Betty with sparkling eyes.
Warren told them that when Lieutenant Read came on deck with Captain
Hull's "compliments, and wished to know if they had struck their flag,"
Captain Dacres replied:
"Well--I don't know. Our mizzenmast is gone, our mainmast is gone, and I
think you may say on the whole that we have struck our flag."
One of the points that pleased Mr. Adams very much was the official
report of Captain Dacres, who "wished to acknowledge, as a matter of
courtesy, that the conduct of Captain Hull and his officers to our men
had been that of a brave enemy; the greatest care being taken to prevent
our losing the smallest trifle, and the kindest attention being paid to
the wounded."
More than one officer was to admit the same fact before the war ended,
even if we did not receive the like consideration from our enemies.
"I only wish Cary had been on the _Constitution_," said Betty eagerly.
"I should be proud of the fact to my dying day, and tell it over to my
grandchildren."
A tint of color wavered over Uncle Winthrop's pale face. No one
mentioned Cary, out of a sincere regard for his father, except people
outside who did not know the truth of his sudden departure; though many
of his young personal friends were aware of his interest and his study
on the subject.
Old Boston had a gala time surely. The flags floated for days, and
everyone wore a kind of triumphant aspect. That her own ship, built with
so much native work and equipments, should be the first to which a
British frigate should strike her colors was indeed a triumph. Though
there were not wanting voices across the sea to say the _Guerriere_
should have gone down with flying colors, but even that would have been
impossible.
Miss Recompense and Uncle Winthrop began to discuss Revolutionary times,
and Doris listened with a great deal of interest. She delighted to
identify herself strongly with her adopted country, and in her secret
heart she was proud of Cary, though she could not be quite sure he was
right in the step he had taken. They missed him so much. She tried in
many ways to make up the loss, and her devotion went to her uncle's
heart.
If they could only hear! Not to know where he was seemed so hard to
bear.