JENNIE'S VISION
Wild rumors of bombardment held Charleston in a spell.
Jennie Barton sat alone on the roof of her aunt's house at two o'clock
on the morning of April 13. The others had gone to bed, certain that the
rumors were false. She had somehow felt the certainty of the crash.
Seated beside the brick coping of the roof she leaned the strong little
chin in her hands, waited and watched. Lights were flickering around the
shore batteries like fireflies winking in the shadows of deep woods. Her
three brothers were there. She might look on their dead faces to-morrow.
Her father had rushed to Charleston from Washington at the first news of
the sailing of the fleet. He had begged and pleaded with General
Beauregard to reduce the Fort immediately, with or without orders from
Davis.
"For God's sake, use your discretion as Commanding General and open
fire. If that fleet reaches Sumter the cause of the Confederacy is lost.
Old Davis is too slow. He's still crying peace, peace, when there is no
peace. The war has begun!"
The General calmly shook his head and asked for instructions.
Besides losing her brothers, she might be an orphan to-morrow. Her
father was quite capable of an attack on Sumter without orders. And if
the bombardment should begin he would probably be roaming over the
harbor from fort to fort, superintending the job under the guns of both
sides.
"If Anderson does not accept the terms of surrender offered he will be
fired on at four o'clock." Jennie repeated the headlines of the extra
with a shiver.
The chimes of St. Michael's struck three. The minutes slowly dragged.
The half hour was sung through the soft balmy air of the Southern
spring.
Dick Welford, too, was behind one of those black guns on the shore. How
handsome he had looked in his bright new uniform! He was a soldier from
the crown of his blond head to the soles of his heavy feet. He had
laughed at danger. She had liked him for that. He hadn't posed. He
hadn't asked for sympathy or admiration. He just marched to his duty
with the quick, firm step of the man who means business.
She was sorry now she hadn't told him how much she liked and admired
him. She might not have another chance--
"Nonsense, of course I will!" she murmured with a toss of her brown
head.
A dog barked across the street, and a wagon rattled hurriedly over the
cobblestones below. A rooster crowed for day.
She looked across the way, and a dark group of whispering women were
huddled in a corner on the roof, their gaze fixed on Sumter.
Another wagon rumbled heavily over the cobbles, and another, and
another. A blue light flamed from Fort Sumter, blinking at intervals.
Anderson was signaling someone. To the fleet that lay on the eastern
horizon beyond the bar, perhaps.
The chimes of St. Michael struck the fatal hour of four. Their sweet
notes rang clear and soft and musical over the dim housetops just as
they had sung to the sleeping world through years of joyous peace.
Jennie sprang to her feet and strained her eyes toward the black lump
that was Sumter out in the harbor. She waited with quick beating heart
for the first flash of red from the shore batteries. It did not come.
Five minutes passed that seemed an hour, and still no sound of war.
Only those wagons were rumbling now at closer intervals--one after the
other in quick succession. They were ammunition trains! The crack of the
drivers' whips could be heard distinctly, and the cries of the men
urging their horses on. The noise became at last a dull, continuous
roar.
The chimes from the old church tower again sang the half hour and then
it came--_a sudden sword leap of red flame on the horizon_! A shell rose
in the sky, glowing in pale phosphorescent trail, and burst in a flash
of blinding flame over the dark lump in the harbor. The flash had
illumined the waters and revealed the clear outlines of the casemates
with their black mouths of steel gaping through the portholes. A roar of
deep, dull thunder shook the world.
Jennie fell on her knees with clasped hands and upturned face. Her lips
were not moving, and no sound came from the little dry throat, but from
the depths of her heart rose the old, old cry of love.
"Lord have mercy on my darling brothers, and keep them safe--let no harm
come to them--and Dick, too--brave and strong!"
The house below was stirring with the rush of hurrying feet in the
corridors and the clatter on the narrow stairs that led to the roof.
They crowded to the edge and gazed seaward. The hum of voices came now
from every house. Women were crying. Some were praying. Men were talking
in low, excited tones.
Jennie paid no attention to the people about her. Her eyes were fixed
on those tongues of flame that circled Sumter.
Anderson was firing now, his big guns flashing their defiant answer to
Beauregard's batteries. Jennie watched the lurid track of his shells
with sickening dread.
A man standing beside her in the gray dawn spoke.
"A waste of ammunition!"
The cannon boomed now with the regular throb of a great human pulse. The
sobs and excited cries and prayers of women had become a part of the
weird scene.
A young mother stood beside Jennie with a baby boy in her arms. He was
delighted with the splendid display and the roar of the guns.
He pointed his fingers to the circling shells and cried:
"'Ook, mamma, 'ook!"
The mother made no answer. Only with her hungry eyes did she follow
their track to the shore. Her mate was there.
The baby clapped his hands and caught the rhythm of the throb and roar
of the cannon in his little voice:
"Boom!--Boom!"
The sun rose from the sea, a ball of dull red fire glowing ominously
through the haze of smoke that hung in the sky.
Hour after hour the guns pealed, the windows rattled and the earth
trembled.
Couriers were dashing into the city with reports from the batteries.
Soldiers were marching through the streets. It was reported that the men
from the fleet would attempt a landing.
The women rushed to the little iron balcony and watched the troops
marching to repel them.
In the first line Jennie saw the tall figure of Dick Welford. He glanced
upward, lifted his cap and held it steadily in his hand for four blocks
until they turned and swept out of sight.
Jennie was leaning on the rail with tear-dimmed eyes.
"I wonder why that soldier took his hat off?" her aunt asked.
"Yes--I wonder!" was the soft answer.
By three o'clock it was known that not a man had been killed at either
of the shore batteries and women began to smile and breathe once more.
The newsboys were screaming an extra.
Jennie hurried into the street and bought one.
In big black headlines she read:
RICHMOND AND WASHINGTON ABLAZE WITH EXCITEMENT!
THE NORTH WILD WITH RAGE
VIRGINIA AND NORTH CAROLINA ARMING TO COME TO OUR RESCUE!
She walked rapidly to the water's edge to get the latest news from the
front. A tiny rowboat was deliberately pulling through the harbor
squarely under the guns of Sumter. She watched it with amazement,
looking each moment to see it disappear beneath the waves. It was
probably her foolish father.
With steady, even stroke the boatman pulled for the shore as unconcerned
as if he were listening to the rattle of firecrackers on the fourth of
July.
To her surprise it proved to be a negro. He tied his boat and
deliberately unloaded his supply of vegetables. His stolid, sphinx-like
face showed neither fear nor interest.
"Weren't you afraid of Anderson's cannon, uncle?" Jennie asked.
"Nobum--nobum--"
"You might have been blown to pieces--"
"Nobum--Marse Anderson daresn't hit me!"
"Why not?"
"He knows my marster don't 'low nuttin like dat--I'se too val'eble er
nigger. Nobum, dey ain't none ob 'em gwine ter pester me, an' I ain't
gwine ter meddle wid dem--dey kin des fight hit out twixt 'em--"
Through the long night the steady boom of cannon, and the scream of
shells from the shore.
At one o'clock next day the flagstaff was cut down by a solid shot, and
Sumter was silent.
At three o'clock a mob surged up the street following Senator Barton,
who had just come from the harbor. He was on his way to Beauregard's
headquarters.
Anderson had surrendered.
A strange quiet held the city. There was no jubilation, no bonfires, no
illuminations to celebrate the victory. A sigh of relief for deliverance
from a great danger that had threatened their life--that was all.
The Southern flag was flying now from the battered walls, and the people
were content. They were glad that Beauregard had given old Bob Anderson
the privilege of saluting his flag and marching out with the honors of
war. All they asked was to be let alone.
And they were doubly grateful for the strange Providence that had saved
every soldier's life while the walls of the Fort had been hammered into
a shapeless mass. No blood had yet been spilled on either side. The
President of the Confederacy caught the wonderful news from the wires
with a cry of joy.
"Peace may yet be possible!" he exclaimed excitedly. "No blood has been
spilled in actual conflict--"
His joy was short lived. A rude awakening was in store.
Dick Welford strolled along the brilliantly lighted "Battery" that night
with Jennie's little hand resting on his arm.
"I tell you, Jennie, I was scared!" he was saying with boyish
earnestness. "You see a fellow never knows how he's going to come out of
a close place like that till he tries it. I had a fine uniform and I'd
learned the drill and all that--but I had not smelled brimstone at short
range. I didn't know how I'd do under fire. Now I know I'm a worthy
descendant of my old Scotch-Irish ancestor who held a British officer
before him for a shield and gracefully backed out of danger."
They stopped and gazed over the lazy, shimmering waters of the harbor.
Jennie looked up into his manly face with a glow of pride.
"You're splendid, Dick,--I'm proud of you!"
"Are you?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes. You're just like my brothers."
"Look here now, Jennie," he protested, "don't you go telling me that
you'll be a sister to me. I've got a lot of sisters at home and I don't
need any more--"
"I didn't mean it that way, Dick," she responded tenderly. "My brothers
are just the finest, bravest men that God ever made in this
world--that's what I meant."
"Don't you like me a little?"
"I almost love you to-night--maybe it's our victory--maybe it's the fear
that made me pray for you and the boys on that house top the other
night--I don't know--"
"Did you pray for me?" he asked softly.
"Yes--"
"I ought to be satisfied with that, but I'm not--I want you! Won't you
be mine?"
She smiled into his eager face in a gentle, whimsical way. A half
promise to him was just trembling on her lips when Socola's slender,
erect figure suddenly crossed the street. He lifted his hat with a
genial bow.
Dick ground his teeth in a smothered oath, and Jennie spoke abruptly:
"Come--it's late--we must go in."
Through the long night the girl lay awake with the calm, persistent,
smiling face of the foreigner looking into the depths of her brown
eyes.