Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “What?”

  “They’re still firing on Sumter, I tell you, and if the fort doesn’t hold out do you think I’m going to sit around the house like a pussy cat? Do you think I’m going to business every day as though nothing was happening to the country I’m living in? I tell you now — you and mother and father — that I’m not built that way — —”

  Ailsa rose in bed, snatched the paper from his grasp, and leaning on one arm gazed down at the flaring head-lines:

  THE WAR BEGUN

  Very Exciting News from Charleston

  Bombardment of Fort Sumter Commenced

  Terrible Fire from the Secessionists’ Batteries

  Brilliant Defence of Maj. Anderson

  Reckless Bravery of the Confederate States Troops.

  And, scanning it to the end, cried out:

  “He hasn’t hauled down his flag! What are you so excited about?”

  “I — I’m excited, of course! He can’t possibly hold out with only eighty men and nothing to feed them on. Something’s got to be done!” he added, walking up and down the room. “I’ve made fun of the militia — like everybody else — but Jimmy Lent is getting ready, and I’m doing nothing! Do you hear what I’m saying, Ailsa?”

  She looked up from the newspaper, sitting there cross-legged under the coverlet.

  “I hear you, Steve. I don’t know what you mean by ‘something’s got to be done.’ Major Anderson is doing what he can — bless him!”

  “That’s all right, but the thing isn’t going to stop there.”

  “Stop where?”

  “At Sumter. They’ll begin firing on Fortress Monroe and Pensacola — I — how do you know they’re not already thinking about bombarding Washington? Virginia is going out of the Union; the entire South is out, or going. Yesterday, I didn’t suppose there was any use in trying to get them back again. Father did, but I didn’t. I think it’s got to be done, now. And the question is, Ailsa, whose going to do it?”

  But she was fiercely absorbed again in the news, leaning close over the paper, tumbled dull-gold hair falling around her bare shoulders, breath coming faster and more irregularly as she read the incredible story and strove to comprehend its cataclysmic significance.

  “If others are going, I am,” repeated her cousin sullenly.

  “Going where, Steve? — Oh —— —”

  She dropped the paper and looked up, startled; and he looked back at her, defiant, without a flicker in those characteristic family eyes of his, clear as azure, steady to punishment given or taken — good eyes for a boy to inherit. And he inherited them from his rebel mother.

  “Father can’t keep me home if other people go,” he said.

  “Wait until other people go.” She reached out and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Things are happening too fast, Steve, too fast for everybody to quite understand just yet. Everybody will do what is the thing to do; the family will do what it ought to. . . . Has your mother seen this?”

  “Yes. Neither she nor father have dared speak about it before us—” He made a gesture of quick despair, walked to the window and back.

  “It’s a terrible thing, Ailsa, to have mother feel as she does.”

  “How could she feel otherwise?”

  “I’ve done my best to explain to her — —”

  “O Steve! You! — when it’s a matter between her soul and God!”

  He said, reddening: “It’s a matter of common-sense — I don’t mean to insult mother — but — good Lord, a nation is a nation, but a state is only a state! I — hang it all — what’s the use of trying to explain what is born in one — —”

  “The contrary was born in your mother, Steve. Don’t ever talk to her this way. And — go out, please, I wish to dress.”

  He went away, saying over his shoulders: “I only wanted to tell you that I’m not inclined to sit sucking my thumb if other men go, and you can say so to father, who has forbidden me to mention the subject to him again until I have his permission.”

  But he went away to business that morning with his father, as usual; and when evening came the two men returned, anxious, dead tired, having passed most of the day standing in the dense throngs that choked every street around the bulletin boards of the newspaper offices.

  Ailsa had not been out during the day, nor had Mrs. Craig, except for an hour’s drive in the family coupe around the district where preliminary surveys for the new Prospect Park were being pushed.

  They had driven for almost an hour in utter silence. Her sister-in-law’s hand lay clasped in hers, but both looked from the carriage windows without speaking, and the return from the drive found them strangely weary and inclined for the quiet of their own rooms. But Celia Craig could not close her eyes even to feign sleep to herself.

  When husband and son returned at evening, she asked nothing of the news from them, but her upturned face lingered a second or two longer as her husband kissed her, and she clung a little to Stephen, who was inclined to be brief with her.

  Dinner was a miserable failure in that family, which usually had much to compare, much to impart, much badinage and laughter to distribute. But the men were weary and uncommunicative; Estcourt Craig went to his club after dinner; Stephen, now possessing a latch-key, disappeared shortly afterward.

  Paige and Marye did embroidery and gossipped together under the big crystal chandelier while their mother read aloud to them from “Great Expectations,” which was running serially in Harper’s Weekly. Later she read in her prayer-book; later still, fully dressed, she lay across the bed in the alcove staring at the darkness and listening for the sound of her husband’s latch-key in the front door,

  When it sounded, she sprang up and hastily dried her eyes.

  “The children and Ailsa are all abed, Curt. How late you are! It was not very wise of you to go out — being so tired—” She was hovering near him as though to help his weariness with her small offices; she took his hat, stood looking at him, then stepped nearer, laying both hands on his shoulders, and her face against his.

  “I am — already tired of the — war,” she sighed. “Is it ended yet,

  Curt?”

  “There is no more news from Sumter.”

  “You will — love me — best — anyway. Curt — won’t you?”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  She only drew a deep, frightened breath. For within her heart she felt the weight of the new apprehension — the clairvoyant premonition of a rival that she must prepare to encounter — a rival that menaced her peace of mind — a shape, shadowy as yet, but terrible, slowly becoming frightfully denned — a Thing that might one day wean this man from her — husband, and son, too — both perhaps —— .

  “Curt,” she faltered, “it will all come right in the end. Say it.

  I am afraid.”

  “It will come out all right,” he said gently. They kissed, and she turned to the mirror and silently began preparing for the night.

  With the calm notes of church bells floating out across the city, and an April breeze blowing her lace curtains, Ailsa awoke. Overhead she heard the trample of Stephen’s feet as he moved leisurely about his bedroom. Outside her windows in the backyard, early sunshine slanted across shrub and grass and white-washed fence; the Sunday quiet was absolute, save for the church bells.

  She lay there listening and thinking; the church bells ceased; and after a while, lying there, she began to realise that the silence was unnatural — became conscious of something ominous in the intense quiet outside — a far-spread stillness which was more than the hush of Sabbath.

  Whether or not the household was still abed she did not know; no sound came from Celia’s room; nor were Marye and Paige stirring on the floor above when she rose and stole out barefooted to the landing, holding a thin silk chamber robe around her. She paused, listening; the tic-toc of the hall clock accented the silence; the door that led from Celia’s chamber into the hall stood wide open, and there was nobody in sight. Something
drew her to the alcove window, which was raised; through the lace curtains she saw the staff of the family flag set in its iron socket at right angles to the facade — saw the silken folds stirring lazily in the sunshine, tiptoed to the window and peered out.

  As far as her eyes could see, east and west, the street was one rustling mass of flags.

  For a second her heart almost hurt her with its thrilling leap; she caught her breath; the hard tension in her throat was choking her; she dropped to her knees by the sill, drew a corner of the flag to her, and laid her cheek against it.

  Her eyes unclosed and she gazed out upon the world of flags; then, upright, she opened her fingers, and the crinkled edges of the flag, released, floated leisurely out once more into the April sunshine.

  When she had dressed she found the family in the dining-room — her sister-in-law, serene but pale, seated behind the coffee urn, Mr. Craig and Stephen reading the Sunday newspapers, Paige and Marye whispering together over their oatmeal and cream.

  She kissed Celia, dropped the old-fashioned, half-forgotten curtsey to the others, and stood hesitating a moment, one hand resting on Celia’s shoulder.

  “Is the fort holding out?” she asked.

  Stephen looked up angrily, made as though to speak, but a deep flush settled to the roots of his hair and he remained silent.

  “Fort Sumter has surrendered,” said her brother-in-law quietly.

  Celia whispered: “Take your seat now, Honey-bell; your breakfast is getting cold.”

  At church that Sunday the Northern clergy prayed in a dazed sort of way for the Union and for the President; some addressed the Most High as “The God of Battles.” The sun shone brightly; new leaves were startling on every tree in every Northern city; acres of starry banners drooped above thousands of departing congregations, and formed whispering canopies overhead.

  Vespers were solemn; April dusk fell over a million roofs and spires; twinkling gas jets were lighted in street lamps; city, town, and hamlet drew their curtains and bowed their heads in darkness. A dreadful silence fell over the North — a stillness that breeds epochs and the makers of them.

  But the first gray pallor of the dawn awoke a nation for the first time certain of its entity, roaring its comprehension of it from the Lakes to the Potomac, from sea to sea; and the red sun rose over twenty States in solid battle line thundering their loyalty to a Union undivided,

  And on that day rang out the first loud call to arms; and the first battalion of the Northland, seventy-five thousand strong, formed ranks, cheering their insulted flag.

  Then, southward, another flag shot up above the horizon. The world already knew it as The Stars and Bars. And, beside it, from its pointed lance, whipped and snapped and fretted another flag — square, red, crossed by a blue saltier edged with white on which glittered thirteen stars.

  It was the battle flag of the Confederacy flashing the answer to the Northern cheer.

  CHAPTER V

  “Burgess!”

  “Sir?”

  Berkley sat up in bed and viewed his environment with disgust.

  “These new lodgings would make a fair kennel, wouldn’t they,

  Burgess? — if a man isn’t too particular about his dog.”

  The servant entered with a nasty smirk. “Yes, sir; I seen a rat last night.”

  “He’s not the only one, is he, Burgess,” yawned Berkley. “Oh, hell! I’ve got to dress. Did you paint that bathtub? I guess you did, the place reeks like a paint shop. Anyway, it kills less desirable aromas. Where’s the water?”

  He swung his symmetrical body to the bed’s edge, dropped lightly to the carpet, unloosed his night robe, and stretched himself.

  “Was I very drunk, Burgess?”

  “No, sir; you just went to sleep. You haven’t got no headache, have you?”

  “No — but it was only corn whisky. I didn’t remember what I did with it. Is there any left?”

  “Not much, sir.”

  The servant, ugly to the verge of deformity, and wearing invariably the abominable smirk that disgusted others but amused Berkley, went about his duties.

  Berkley blinked at him reflectively, then bathed, dressed, and sat down to a bowl of chocolate and a bit of bread.

  “What the devil was all that row this morning, Burgess?”

  “War, sir. The President has called for seventy-five thousand men. Here it is, sir.” And he laid a morning paper beside the cup of chocolate, which Berkley studied between sips, commenting occasionally aloud:

  “Heavens, Burgess, why, we’re a race of patriots! Now who on earth could have suspected that. . . . Why, we seem to be heroes, too! What do you think of that, Burgess? You’re a hero; I’m a hero; everybody north of Charleston is an embattled citizen or a hero! Isn’t it funny that nobody realised all this before?” . . . He turned the paper leisurely sipping his chocolate. . . . “Of course — the ‘dear old flag’! That’s the cheese, isn’t it, Burgess? Been insulted, hasn’t it? And we’re all going to Charleston to punch that wicked Beauregard in the nose. . . . Burgess, you and I are neglecting our duty as heroes; there’s much shouting to be done yet, much yelling in the streets, much arguing to be done, many, many cocktails to be firmly and uncompromisingly swallowed. Are you prepared to face the serious consequences of being a hero?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Burgess.

  “You merit well of the republic! The country needs you. Here’s half a dollar. Do your duty unflinchingly — at the nearest bar!”

  Burgess took the coin with a smirk.

  “Mr. Berkley, the landlady sent word that times is hard.”

  “Bless her soul! They are hard, Burgess. Inform her of my sentiments,” said Berkley cordially. “Now, my hat and cane, if you please. We’re a wonderful people, Burgess; we’ll beat our walking-sticks into bayonets if Mr. Beauregard insists on saying boo to us too many times in succession. . . . And, Burgess?”

  “Sir?”

  “Now that you have waked up this morning to find yourself a hero, I think you’d better find yourself another and more spectacular master. My heroism, for the future, is to be more or less inconspicuous; in fact, I begin the campaign by inserting my own studs and cleaning my own clothes, and keeping out of gaol; and the sooner I go where that kind of glory calls me the sooner my name will be emblazoned in the bright lexicon of youth where there’s no such word as ‘jail.’”,

  “Sir?”

  “In simpler and more archaic phrase, I can’t afford you, Burgess, unless I pilfer for a living.”

  “I don’t eat much, sir.”

  “No, you don’t eat much.”

  “I could quit drinking, sir.”

  “That is really touching, Burgess. This alcohol pickled integument of yours covers a trusting heart. But it won’t do. Heroics in a hall bedroom cut no coupons, my poor friend. Our paths to glory and the grave part just outside the door-sill yonder.”

  “She said I could stay, sir.”

  “Which she?”

  “The landlady. I’m to fetch coal and run errants and wait on table. But you’ll get the best cuts, sir. And after hours I can see to your clothes and linen and boots and hats, and do your errants same like the usual.”

  “Now this is nearly as pathetic as our best fiction,” said Berkley; “ruined master, faithful man — won’t leave — starves slowly at his master’s feet — tootle music very sneaky— ‘transformation! Burgess in heaven, blinking, puzzled, stretching one wing, reflectively scratching his halo with right hind foot. Angel chorus. Burgess appears to enjoy it and lights one of my best cigars — —”

  “Sir?” said Burgess, very red.

  Berkley swung around, levelled his walking-stick, and indicated the pit of his servant’s stomach:

  “Your face is talking now; wait till that begins to yell. It will take more than I’m earning to fill it.”

  He stood a moment, smiling, curious. Then:

  “You’ve been as faithless a valet as any servant who ever watered wine, lost a gi
mcrack, or hooked a weed. Studs, neckcloths, bootjacks, silk socks, pins, underwear — all magically and eventually faded from my wardrobe, wafted to those silent bournes of swag that valets wot of. What in hell do you want to stay here for now, you amusing wastrel?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d prefer to stay with you.”

  “But there’ll be no more pleasant pickings, my poor and faithless steward! If you should convert anything more to your own bank account I’ll be obliged to stroll about naked.”

  “Yes, sir,” muttered Burgess; “I brought back some things last night — them socks, shirt-pins and studs, and the fob. . . . Yes, sir; I fetched ’em back, I did—” A sudden and curious gleam of pride crossed the smirk for an instant;— “I guess my gentleman ain’t agoing to look no worse than the next Fifth Avenue swell he meets — even if he ain’t et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and he don’t dine on no canvas-back at Delmonico’s. No, sir.”

  Berkley sat down on the bed’s edge and laughed until he could scarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance. And every time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness in this thorough-paced rogue — pride in the lustre cast upon himself by the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master. But after reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another. This happened to be an unusual form.

  “Burgess,” he said, “I don’t care how you go to hell. Go with me if you like or go it alone.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves.

  Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself the evening before. It was not there. In fact, at that moment, Burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up and down, leering at the Swedish scullion, and enjoying the last expensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many a day.

  The street, and avenue were seething with people; people stood at their windows looking out at the news-boys who swarmed everywhere, shouting endless extras; people were gathering on corners, in squares, along park railings, under porticos of hotels, and every one of them had a newspaper and was reading.