CHAPTER XI
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.