He was answered by a shout of affirmation.
“To the last gun?”
“Yes.”
“To the last man?”
“Yes! Yes! You will stand with us, Bloommaert?”
“Living or dead I will stand with you.” Then he took reverently in his hands the faded glorious rag that Christopher Bloommaert held.
“Look,” he said, in a voice as tender as a woman’s--“look at the flag that never waved over a coward, the flag to which we lifted our eyes when all was dark, and saw victory in its stars. It is a flag made for free men; will you ever let England--ever let any enemy--take it from you?”
“We will die for it!”
“No, you will live for it! You will carry it from victory to victory and fly it in the face of all the world--the flag of a free country--the flag of men that will have nothing else, and nothing less--than absolute liberty and absolute independence.” As he spoke these words he lifted the old banner to his lips, and then held it out to the people.
It was an act of allegiance that embraced every soul present, and was followed by a moment of silence that throbbed with emotion; then the young man who had spoken for the company looked expressively at his comrades, and they turned northward to the city, their hearts burning with a steady fervour of loyalty, and their faces full of that dauntless hope which of its own energy fulfils itself. Quiet they could not long be, and when they reached the upper end of the Bowling Green, they began to sing; softly at first, but gradually gathering into a rattling vocal melody, the fiery passion of loyalty that filled their hearts:
“Here’s to the Squire who goes to parade! Here’s to the citizen soldier! Here’s to the merchant who fights for his trade Whom danger increasing makes bolder. Here’s to the lawyer, who leaving his bar Hastens where honour doth lead, Sir, Changing his gown for the ensigns of war, The cause of his country to plead, Sir! Freedom appears, Every heart cheers, And calls for the help of the brave Volunteers.”
They sang the verse to the gay inspiring music of its old English song, and then gave lustily the cheers it called for. Their echo floated into the Bloommaert house, where the family were sitting down to their belated dinner; for this commonplace event was eagerly accepted as a relief. To eat and to drink, that would mean help and remission, and they had felt until feeling had become prostrating and oppressive.
Christopher made the first remark, and this was to quote the last line of the song, “Calls for the help of the brave Volunteers,” asking after a short pause, “Is it not so, father?”
“Yes, Christopher. I suppose you will sail soon?”
“As soon as my new ship is ready. Peter is hurrying it forward. I am impatient to be off.”
“Have you seen Peter to-day?” asked his mother.
“I saw him, but he was far too busy to talk. The hammers ring in his ship-yard from the first streak of dawn to the last glint of daylight. And now the demand for ships will be doubled.”
“We shall want soldiers as well as sailors, Christopher,” said the judge.
“That is true, father, and they will not be to beg nor to seek. This is a cause that knocks at every man’s door. Leonard Murray is only one of many rich young men who are raising companies at their own expense.”
“Then it _was_ Leonard Murray with those men who were here an hour ago,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “I felt sure of it; but how much he has changed.”
“In some ways, yes; in general he is just the same good fellow he has ever been. I had a few words with him early this morning, and he asked me to give his respectful remembrance to you and to Sapphira.”
“It is four or five years since I saw him; where has he been?”
“He was at Yale nearly two years; then he went with a party as far west as the Mississippi, and down the river to New Orleans. He was staying with the Edward Livingstons until the rumours of war became so positive that he could not doubt their truth. Then he sailed from New Orleans to Norfolk, and so on to Washington. He reached Washington the very day of the proclamation of war and came so rapidly with the news that Mayor Clinton received it some hours before the official notice.”
“And every hour is of the greatest importance now,” said the judge. “Indeed, I have hardly time for my afternoon pipe, for I promised Mr. Clinton to meet him at four o’clock.”
This information hurried the dinner a little, and Judge Bloommaert took his smoke very restlessly. After he had left the house, Christopher did not remain long. His ship’s progress absorbed his thoughts, and he was not a talkative man. His ardour, his national pride, and his hatred of oppression were quite as potent factors with Christopher Bloommaert as with any patriot in New York, but the force they induced was a silent and concentrated one. On land he seemed to be rather a heavy man, slow in his movements and short in his speech; but the passion of his nature was only biding its opportunity, and those who had ever seen Christopher Bloommaert in action on his own deck knew for all time afterwards what miracles physical courage set on fire by patriotism and by personal interest combined might accomplish.
As he was leaving the room he held the open door in his hand a minute, and said: “Mother, do you know that Aaron Burr is back? He put up his sign in Nassau Street yesterday; I saw it this morning.”
“Dear me, Chris! I hope he has come to help his country in her trouble--that would be only right.”
“Help his country! Aaron Burr help! The man is dead.”
“What do you mean, Chris? You said he was back, now you say he is dead.”
“His honour is slain, and all men have lost faith in him. The man is dead.”
He went away with these words, and Sapphira and her mother watched him out of sight. For some minutes they did not speak; then Mrs. Bloommaert asked: “Did you know Leonard Murray this morning, Sapphira?”
“Yes, mother. I knew him at once. I think that he passed the house twice yesterday. I was not quite sure then, but this morning I had not a moment’s doubt. I wish Annette had been here. She will be very much disappointed.”
“Annette would have spoiled everything. I am glad she was not here.”
“Oh, mother!”
“Yes, she would. I will tell you how. When your father was called out, and took his stand on the topmost step, with Christopher and the flag on one side of him and you and I on the other side, do you think Annette would have been satisfied to stand with us? To be only one of a group? That is not Annette’s idea of what is due to Annette.”
“But what could she have done to alter it?”
“She would have said in her pretty, apologetic way that it was ‘too bad to crowd us, and that any place was right for her,’ and, before an answer was possible, she would have slipped past Christopher and seated herself on the second step at his feet. With her long curls and her white frock, and the blue snood in her hair, and the flag above her, she would have made a picture sufficiently lovely to have attracted and distracted every man present. There would have been but a poor, divided enthusiasm; and yet, Annette would have been so naturally and so innocently conspicuous that both your father and Christopher would have been unconscious of her small, selfish diplomacy.”
“Annette is so pretty.”
“And so vain of her beauty.”
“That is true, but I fancy, mother, even the flowers are vain of their beauty. I have noticed often how the roses when in full bloom, sway and bend and put on languishing airs as if they knew they were sweet and lovely. And, to be sure, I have frequently when I have looked in a mirror been very glad I had a fair face and a good form.”
“It was a very indiscreet, I may say a very wrong thing to do.”
There was a short, penitential silence, and then Sapphira said:
“Though to-morrow is Sunday, may I go and see Annette early in the morning? I am sure both grandmother and Annette will like to know about father’s speech.”
“I can assure you that they know all about it already. Kouba was not here to wait on your father when he left the house--why? Because he had gone as fast as possible to his old mistress with the news. Your grandmother gave him to your father when we were married, but it is only with his left hand that Kouba has served us. Your grandmother is still first; he goes to her with all the news of our house; he always has done so, he always will do so. Nassau Street already knows all--and more--that happened on the Bowling Green to-day.”
Mrs. Bloommaert was quite correct in her opinion. Kouba had not even waited to eat his dinner, but had gone at once to “old mistress” with his own account of the event. And as madame was in her room asleep, Annette had been made the recipient of his views. She listened and she understood, without inquiry or dissent, where the information was truthful and where Kouba was embroidering the occurrence with his personal opinions. She accepted all apparently with equal faith, and then told the old man to “go to the kitchen and get his dinner and a bottle of ‘Sopus beer.”