The Belle of Bowling Green
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.”
“Sappha,” said the judge, “I have heard Mr. Murray singing with you at
intervals this afternoon and evening a verse or two that you were
setting to a wonderful bit of music. Try it again, my dear.”
“It is _The March of the Men of Moray_, father. Mr. Murray wrote two or
three verses to it about the _Macedonia_. Come, Leonard,” and she struck
a few ringing chords and looked inspiration into his bending face. Then
out rang the little ballad to the marching music of his clan:
What will they say in England,
When the story there is told,
Of Commodore Decatur,
And his sailor men so bold?
They’ll say it was a gallant fight,
And fairly lost and won;
So honour to the sailor men,
By whom the deed was done!
What will they say in England?
They’ll say with grateful lip,
Now glory to Almighty God,
No Frenchman took the ship!
No Frenchman shot her colours down!
The doomed ship had this grace--
To take her death blow from the hands
Of men of the English race!
And all good honest men and true
Will pray for war to cease;
And merchant ships go to-and-fro
On messages of peace.
And men-of-war sail on the land,
And soldiers plough the sea,
Ere brothers fight, who ought to dwell
In love and unity.
“Thank you, Mr. Murray,” said the judge. “’Tis a stirring melody!”
“’Tis the march of my forefather’s clan, sir.”
“And you have said for America, and for England, what they deserve. We
both love fair play; and I am sure both nations know how to take, either
a victory or a defeat, like men, and gentlemen. God make honourable
peace between us, and that right early!”
To this pious wish the company remaining, departed; but after Leonard
had made his long, sweet adieu, Sappha heard her father gently tapping
on the table the time of “_The March of the Men of Moray_,” as in
pleasant thoughtfulness he hummed to its music,
“They’ll say it was a gallant fight,
And fairly lost and won,
So honour to the sailor men,
By whom the deed was done!”
CHAPTER SIX
_The Miracle of Love_
There had been something more than courtesy in Judge Bloommaert’s
attitude to Leonard that New Year’s night, and Sappha was exceedingly
happy to notice it. If Leonard would only be careful and conciliating,
such favour might be won as would make an acknowledgment of their
engagement pleasantly possible. As it was, Sappha was light-hearted and
hopeful, for surely now Leonard would wait the natural development of
events.
And for a few days the subject was not named; Sappha was busy helping
her mother to put in order the numerous household goods and affairs that
had been disarranged by the licence of the holidays, and Leonard also
had some unusual business, the nature of which he promised to reveal
before the week was over. New Year’s Day fell that year on a Friday, and
on the Tuesday following it Sappha went to visit her grandmother and
cousin. It was a sunshiny, winter day, and the old house on Nassau
Street had such an antique, handsome homelikeness, as made far finer
dwellings look common and vulgar in comparison with it. Madame sat by
the blazing fire writing letters; Annette was marking new towels with
the Bloommaert initials; but when she saw Sappha at the gate she put
away her work and ran to meet her.
Then there was no more writing, and no more sampler letters; the three
women sat down to “talk things over.” And when the _Yule Klap_ presents
and the New Year’s feasts had been discussed, they drifted very
naturally to the guests and to their dressing and conversation. Madame
enjoyed it all, and the morning passed quickly and pleasantly away.
“Grandmother has a secret, Sappha, and I cannot coax it from her,” said
Annette. Then she laid her hand upon madame’s, and added: “Now that
Sappha is here, do tell us both, grandmother.”
“Until Thursday morning I will not tell you,” she answered. “Do you wish
me to break my promise? That is not my way.”
“You promised Achille, eh, grandmother? Oh, I see that I have guessed
correctly--you are smiling, grandmother, and you cannot help it--so
then, it is something Achille is going to do! Very well, Achille shall
tell me. I shall insist upon it.”
They joked, and wondered about “grandmother’s secret,” and ineffectually
begged to share it, until dinner was over; then madame went to her room,
and the girls dropped the subject at once--they had more interesting
matter to discuss.
“Have you seen Leonard since the New Year?” asked Annette. “How
delightfully he conducted himself! How charmingly he sang and talked! I
do believe that uncle Gerardus was quite impressed by his intelligence.
He is very handsome also--does he still make love to you, Sappha?”
“He would not be in the fashion if he omitted the fine words all the
young men say nowadays. I might as well ask you if Achille flatters the
fair Annette in the same silly way?”
“Do you think it silly? I think it is heavenly sweet, and quite proper.
Yes, the dear Achille continually invents new names for me. The ‘fair
Annette’ is out of date. I am now his ‘Heart’s Desire!’ I am afraid he
is distractingly in love with me.”
“But why do you fear it? Are you not in love with the dear Achille?”
“I fear it, because I am sure that I am life or death to him; and I am
not quite sure that I am in love with any one--it is such a
responsibility. Are you in love with Leonard?”
“What is the use of being in love, when you cannot marry for nearly
three years. I have promised father and mother not to engage myself to
any one until after the war.”
“How foolish! Such silly promises ought to be broken--are made to be
broken. Does Leonard want to marry you?”
“I wish you would ask him. In so many ways Leonard is inscrutable. He
has some business on hand now that he is keeping a secret. I think
secrets are in the air. Pray, when will you marry Achille? Or has he not
asked you yet?”
“My dear Sappha, he is the most sensitive of mortals. He says love
should not be talked about--it makes it common; takes off all the bloom
and glory from Cupid’s wings; just as handling the butterfly makes it