All throughout the following week he preserved this sunny mood. He was undoubtedly very busy, for the naval dinner was to be given on the twenty-ninth of December, and he was the director of the committee of young men who were turning the great dining room of the City Hotel into a marine palace. It was his taste which colonnaded it with the masts of ships wreathed with laurel and all the national flags of the world--except that of Great Britain. It was Leonard who devised the greensward, in the midst of which was a real lake, and floating on it a miniature United States war frigate.
It was Leonard, also, who hung behind the dais on which Mayor Clinton, Decatur, Hall, and the officers of the navy were to sit, the mainsail of a ship thirty-three feet by sixteen, on which the American eagle was painted, holding in his beak a scroll bearing these significant words: “Our children are the property of our country.” There were many other transparencies to attend to; besides which, every table was to bear a miniature warship with American colours displayed. And to the five hundred gentlemen of New York, who sat down to the dinner served in that room, these were no childish symbols. They were the palpable, visible signs of a patriotism that meant freedom or death, and nothing less.
In the midst of all the business connected with such preparations, in a time when the things wanted were not always procurable, and had to be supplied by the things that could be obtained, Leonard--whose heart was hot in his work of patriotism--was naturally very busy and very much occupied with the work on hand. Yet he found time sufficient to see Sappha often enough to convince her he had not fallen away from the promise he had made her--“to harbour no unworthy suspicions of any one who loved him.”
At length New Year’s Eve arrived. More than three hundred of New York’s loveliest women had been for weeks preparing for it, and all were eager for the pleasure it promised them.
The Bloommaert party, consisting of the judge, Mrs. Bloommaert, Sappha, and Annette, were early arrivals; and Leonard, who was one of the directors, met them at the door. And he looked so noble, and so handsome, and his manner was so fine and gracious, that even Judge Bloommaert was impressed by his personality, and returned his greeting with unusual warmth. But then, as Leonard reflected, any man who failed in politeness, or even in cordiality, in the presence of three such lovely women as Sappha, Annette, and Mrs. Bloommaert, would surely be something less than human.
Mrs. Bloommaert’s beauty was yet in its ripe perfection. She was as the full blown rose that has not yet dropped a single leaf. She wore a gown of white satin covered with a netting of gold thread; and there was a string of pearls round her throat, and a large comb in form the braids and bows of her glossy black hair. She carried in her hand a little fan of exquisite workmanship, and used it with a grace that no woman in the room, old or young, could imitate.
Sappha’s gown was of white satin of so rich a quality that any trimming on it would have been vulgar and superfluous. Her sandals also were of white satin; and in her beautiful, brown hair there was one white rose; and round her slender throat the necklace of pearls which had come to her among the gifts of the _Yule Klap_. Annette was dressed in a slip of pale blue satin, covered with white gauze of the most transparent quality; a very mist of white over a little cloud of pale blue. Her sandals were blue, and she wore a necklace of turquoise stones cut in the shape of stars and united by a tiny ornament of frosted silver. Her hair hung free, and was loosely curled and confined by a simple band of blue ribbon.
And if Sappha, with her “eyes grey-lit in shadowing hair above,” seemed to wear Love’s very vesture with just that touch of pride that made men wonder and revere, Annette was like a Love from Greuze’s dainty brush--a laughing, dancing, teasing, mocking fairy. Achille was constantly hovering around her, and this evident admiration and attention Sappha was careful to point out to Leonard.
The dance begun at nine o’clock, and at eleven supper was served in a room fitted up like the great cabin of a ship of the line; but after supper dancing was resumed, and continued until nearly two o’clock in the morning. Then reluctantly the happy crowd went to their homes to rest, for it was then New Year’s Day, always a busy, fatiguing anniversary--a day which every one felt it a duty to consecrate to friendship and hospitality.
Indeed, in Judge Bloommaert’s household there was barely time for a little sleep before the parlours were crowded with callers; and all of them brought but one topic of conversation--the arrival of the captive British war vessel, the _Macedonian_. For her conqueror had brought her as far as Hell Gate the day previous, in order that she might arrive on the first of January, and be presented to New York as a “New Year’s Gift.” And, as if good fortune was pleased with this honour to her favourite city, the very breeze that was needed sprang up, and at the very moment it was needed; and amid the shouting crowds that lined the banks of the East River, the captive vessel was taken to the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
“I had the heart-ache for her,” said Leonard. “She carried herself so proudly. I bethought me of how she had borne the living fury of the elements, and the living fury of fiery battle, and I lifted my hat a moment to the wounded ship in her humiliation, just as I would have done to any great soldier or sailor, if I saw them marched between shouting enemies, manacled and helpless.” And at these words the judge regarded him silently; and there was a quivering fire in Sappha’s eyes as she said softly: “You felt as the brave always feel in the presence of a fallen enemy. You remember the motto of the old Plantagenet knights--‘Honour to the vanquished!’”
“I remember. You told me that once before. Do you know your brother Peter would not look at her?”
“That was strange,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. “What was the matter with Peter?”
“Peter always looks on a ship as a woman, and he cannot bear to see her in distress.”
“It is a strange feeling, that, between ships and ship men,” said Dr. Smith. “Sailors all give them consciousness and sympathy, and it is a common thing to hear them say of any craft, ‘she behaves well.’ Captain Tim Barnard of the privateer _General Armstrong_, when chasing an enemy, talks to his ship, as an Arabian to his horse; urges her, entreats her to put forth all her speed, makes her promises of additional guns, or a new flag, and, what is more, he firmly believes she understands and obeys him.”
“Well,” answered the judge, “every one I know connected with shipping speaks as commonly and as naturally of the average life of a ship as they do of the average life of a sailor.”
“Once,” said Achille, “when I was in England I watched from the cliff a ship in danger. She flashed out signals of distress, and her minute guns sounded like the cries of some living creature, and as I looked and listened I saw men running to some boats that were lying half-alive on their stocks, and in a moment they were in the raving, raging sea. Boats and men seemed alike eager and pitiful. And the gallant ship! She was like a mother in extremity--if she must go, she entreated that her sons might be saved.”
“Were they?”
“Yes, all of them; but the next morning her figure-head, looking seaward wistfully, was lying on the beach; and her broken rudder beside it. They were sadder than spoken words. No one saw the ship die. She went down to her grave alone--but I think she was glad of that.”
“Come, come then,” said Peter, who had entered during this conversation, “we need not go so far afield for splendid facts. Let us remember the nineteenth of last August, when Captain Isaac Hull wounded to death the fine British man-of-war _Guerrière_. It was seen at once that her case was hopeless, and the _Constitution_ watched by her all night, and removed not only all her men, but also all their private possessions. On the morning of the twentieth she was ready for her grave. A slow match was applied to her magazine, and the _Constitution_ bore away. At a safe distance she hove to, and the officers and men of both ships stood watching. The guns which had been left shotted soon began to go off. They were the death knells of the dying man-of-war. Presently the flames reached the magazine, a mass of wreckage flew skyward. The _Guerrière_ was no more. But William Storey, who was present, told me every man stood bare-headed as she sank, and that her officers wept, while some of her men blubbered like children.”
“Thank you, Peter,” said the judge. “It is a good thing to hear that Hull was so noble to his prisoners.”
“As for that,” continued Peter, “there wasn’t a touch of ill-will on either side, after the fight was over. Storey said the prisoners and captors sat around the fok’sle together, telling yarns, exchanging tobacco and many little courtesies. Hull is too brave a man to fear brave men. Some captains might have handcuffed the crew, not so Hull; and, indeed, every American sailor on the _Constitution_ felt a manly unwillingness to handcuff enemies who had fought so bravely.”