there was incipient demoralisation already in the offices of craig & son. young gentlemen perched on high benches still searched city maps and explored high-way and by-way with compass and pencil-point, but their ears were alert to every shout from the streets, and their interest remained centred in the newspaper bulletins across the way, where excited crowds clamoured for details not forthcoming.
all day, just outside the glass doors of the office, broadway streamed with people; and here, where the human counter currents running north and south encountered amid the racket of omnibuses, carts, carriages, and drays, a vast overflow spread turbulently, eddying out around the recruiting stations and newspaper offices which faced the city park.
sidewalks swarmed, the park was packed solid. overhead flags flew from every flag pole, over every portal, across every alley and street and square—big nags, little flags, flags of silk, of cotton, of linen, of bunting, all waving wide in the spring sunshine, or hanging like great drenched flowers in the winnowing april rain.
and it was very hard for the young gentlemen in the offices of
craig & son to keep their minds on their business.
berkley had a small room to himself, a chair, a desk, a city map suspended against the wall, and no clients. such occasional commissions as craig & son were able to give him constituted his sole source of income.
he also had every variety of time on his hands—leisure to walk to the window and walk back again, and then walk all around the room—leisure to go out and solicit business in a city where already business was on the edge of chaos and still sliding—leisure to sit for hours in his chair and reflect upon anything he chose—leisure to be hungry and satisfy the inclination with philosophy. he was perfectly at liberty to choose any subject and think about it. but he spent most of his time in trying to prevent himself from thinking.
however, from his window, the street views now were usually interesting; he was an unconvinced spectator of the mob which started for the daily news office, hissing, cat-calling, yelling: "show your colours!" "run up your colours!" he saw the mob visit the journal of commerce, and then turn on the herald, yelling insult and bellowing threats which promptly inspired that journal to execute a political flip-flap that set the entire city smiling.
stephen, who had conceived a younger man's furtive admiration for berkley and his rumoured misdemeanours, often came into his room when opportunity offered. that morning he chanced in for a moment and found berkley at the window chewing the end of a pencil, perhaps in lieu of the cigar he could no longer afford.
"these are spectacular times," observed the latter, with a gesture toward the street below. "observe yonder ladylike warrior in brand-new regimentals. apparently, stephen, he's a votary of mars and pants for carnage; but in reality he continues to remain the sartorial artist whose pants are more politely emitted. he emitted these—" patting his trousers with a ruler. "on what goose has this my tailor fed that he hath grown so sightly!"
they stood watching the crowds, once brightened only by the red shirts of firemen or the blue and brass of a policeman, but now varied with weird uniforms, or parts of uniforms, constructed on every known and unknown pattern, military and unmilitary, foreign and domestic. the immortal army at coventry was not more variegated.
"there's a new poster across the street," said stephen. he indicated a big advertisement decorated with a flying eagle.
down with secession!
the government appeals to the
new york fire department for one regiment of zouaves!
companies will select their own officers. the roll is
at engine house 138, west broadway.
elsworth, col: zouaves.
"that's a good, regiment to enlist in, isn't it?" said the boy restlessly.
"cavalry for me," replied berkley, unsmiling; "they can run faster."
"i'm serious," said stephen. "if i had a chance—" he turned on berkley: "why don't you, enlist? there's nothing to stop you, is there?"
"nothing except constitutional timidity."
"then why don't you?"
berkley laughed. "well, for one thing, i'm not sure how i'd behave in battle. i might be intelligent enough to run; i might be ass enough to fight. the enemy would have to take its chances."
the boy laughed, too, turned to the window, and suddenly caught
berkley by the arm:
"look! there's something going on down by the astor house!"
"a massachusetts regiment of embattled farmers arrived in this hamlet last night. i believe they are to pass by here on their way to washington," remarked berkley, opening the window and leaning out.
already dense crowds of people were pushing, fighting, forcing their way past the windows, driven before double lines of police; already distant volleys of cheers sounded; the throb of drums became audible; the cheering sounded shriller, nearer.
past the windows, through broadway, hordes of ragged street arabs came running, scattered into night before another heavy escort of police. and now the on-coming drums could be heard more distinctly; and now two dusty officers marched into view, a colonel of massachusetts infantry attended by a quartermaster of new york militia.
behind them tramped the regimental band of the 6th massachusetts, instruments slung; behind these, filling the street from gutter to gutter, surged the sweating drummers, deafening every ear with their racket; then followed the field and staff, then the yankee regiment, wave on wave of bayonets choking the thoroughfare far as the eye could see, until there seemed no end to their coming, and the cheering had become an unbroken howl.
stephen turned to berkley: "a fellow can't see too much of this kind of thing and stand it very long. those soldiers are no older than i am!"
berkley's ironical reply was drowned in a renewed uproar as the
massachusetts soldiers wheeled and began to file into the astor
house, and the new york militia of the escort swung past hurrahing
for the first northern troops to leave for the front.
that day berkley lunched in imagination only, seriously inclined to exchange his present board and lodgings for a dish of glory and a cot in barracks.
that evening, too, after a boarding-house banquet, and after burgess had done his offices, he took the air instead of other and more expensive distraction; and tired of it thoroughly, and of the solitary silver coin remaining in his pocket.
from his clubs he had already resigned; other and less innocent haunts of his were no longer possible; some desirable people still retained him on their lists, and their houses were probably open to him, but the social instinct was sick; he had no desire to go; no desire even to cross the river for a penny and look again on ailsa paige. so he had, as usual, the evening on his hands, nothing in his pockets, and a very weary heart, under a last year's evening coat. and his lodgings were becoming a horror to him; the landlady's cat had already killed two enormous rats in the hallway; also cabbage had been cooked in the kitchen that day. which left him no other choice than to go out again and take more air.
before midnight he had no longer any coin in his pockets, and he was not drunk yet. the situation seemed hopeless, and he found a policeman and inquired politely for the nearest recruiting station; but when he got there the station was closed, and his kicks on the door brought nobody but a prowling bowery b'hoy, sullenly in quest of single combat. so berkley, being at leisure, accommodated him, picked him up, propped him limply against a doorway, resumed his own hat and coat, and walked thoughtfully and unsteadily homeward, where he slept like an infant in spite of rats, cabbage, and a swollen lip.
next day, however, matters were less cheerful. he had expected to realise a little money out of his last salable trinket—a diamond he had once taken for a debt. but it seemed that the stone couldn't pass muster, and he bestowed it upon burgess, breakfasted on coffee and sour bread, and sauntered downtown quite undisturbed in the brilliant april sunshine.
however, the prospect of a small commission from craig & son buoyed up his natural cheerfulness. all the way downtown he nourished his cane; he hummed lively tunes in his office as he studied his maps and carefully read the real estate reports in the daily papers; and then he wrote another of the letters which he never mailed, strolled out to stephen's desk for a little gossip, reported himself to mr. craig, and finally sallied forth to execute that gentleman's behest upon an upper fifth avenue squatter who had declined to vacate property recently dedicated to blasting, the irish, and general excavation.
in a few moments he found himself involved in the usual crowd. the 8th massachusetts regiment was passing in the wake of the 6th, its sister regiment of the day before, and the enthusiasm and noise were tremendous.
however, he extricated himself and went about his business; found the squatter, argued with the squatter, gracefully dodged a brick from the wife of the squatter, laid a laughing complaint before the proper authorities, and then banqueted in imagination. what a luncheon he had! he was becoming a lucullus at mental feasts.
later, his business affairs and his luncheon terminated, attempting to enter broadway at grand street, he got into a crowd so rough and ungovernable that he couldn't get out of it—an unreasonable, obstinate, struggling mass of men, women, and children so hysterical that the wild demonstrations of the day previous, and of the morning, seemed as nothing compared to this dense, far-spread riot.
broadway from fourth to cortlandt streets was one tossing mass of flags overhead; one mad surge of humanity below. through it battalions of almost exhausted police relieved each other in attempting to keep the roadway clear for the passing of the new york 7th on its way to washington.
driven, crushed, hurled back by the played-out police, the crowds had sagged back into the cross streets. but even here the police charged them repeatedly, and the bewildered people turned struggling to escape, stumbled, swayed, became panic-stricken and lost their heads.
a broadway stage, stranded in canal street, was besieged as a refuge. toward it berkley had been borne in spite of his efforts to extricate himself, incidentally losing his hat in the confusion. at the same moment he heard a quiet, unterrified voice pronounce his name, caught a glimpse of ailsa paige swept past on the human wave, set his shoulders, stemmed the rush from behind, and into the momentary eddy created, ailsa was tossed, undismayed, laughing, and pinned flat against the forward wheel of the stalled stage.
"climb up!" he said. "place your right foot on the hub!—now the left on the tire!—now step on my shoulder!"
there came a brutal rush from behind; he braced his back to it; she set one foot on the hub, the other on the tire, stepped to his shoulder, swung herself aloft, and crept up over the roof of the stage. here he joined her, offering an arm to steady her as the stage shook under the impact of the reeling masses below.
"how did you get into this mob?" he asked.
"i was caught," she said calmly, steadying herself by the arm he offered and glancing down at the peril below. "celia and i were shopping in grand street at lord and taylor's, and i thought i'd step out of the shop for a moment to see if the 7th was coming, and i ventured too far—i simply could not get back. . . . and—thank you for helping me." she had entirely recovered her serenity; she released his arm and now stood cautiously balanced behind the driver's empty seat, looking curiously out over the turbulent sea of people, where already hundreds of newsboys were racing hither and thither shouting an afternoon extra, which seemed to excite everybody within hearing to frenzy.
"can you hear what they are shouting?" she inquired. "it seems to make people very angry."
"they say that the 6th massachusetts, which passed through here yesterday, was attacked by a mob in baltimore."
"our soldiers!" she said, incredulous. then, clenching her small hands: "if i were colonel lefferts of the 7th i'd march my men through baltimore to-morrow!"
"i believe they expect to go through," he said, amused. "that is what they are for."
the rising uproar around was affecting her; the vivid colour in her lips and cheeks deepened. berkley looked at her, at the cockade with its fluttering red-white-and-blue ribbons on her breast, at the clear, fearless eyes now brilliant with excitement and indignation.
"have you thought of enlisting?" she asked abruptly, without glancing at him.
"yes," he said, "i've ventured that far. it's perfectly safe to think about it. you have no idea, mrs. paige, what warlike sentiments i cautiously entertain in my office chair."
she turned nervously, with a sunny glint of gold hair and fluttering ribbons:
"are you never perfectly serious, mr. berkley? even at such a moment as this?"
"always," he insisted. "i was only philosophising upon these scenes of inexpensive patriotism which fill even the most urbane and peaceful among us full of truculence. . . . i recently saw my tailor wearing a sword, attired in the made-to-measure panoply of battle."
"did that strike you as humorous?"
"no, indeed; it fitted; i am only afraid he may find a soldier's grave before i can settle our sartorial accounts."
there was a levity to his pleasantries which sounded discordant to her amid the solemnly thrilling circumstances impending. for the flower of the city's soldiery was going forth to battle—a thousand gay, thoughtless young fellows summoned from ledger, office, and counting-house; and all about her a million of their neighbours had gathered to see them go.
"applause makes patriots. why should i enlist when merely by cheering others i can stand here and create heroes in battalions?"
"i think," she said, "that there was once another scoffer who remained to pray."
as he did not answer, she sent a swift side glance at him, found him tranquilly surveying the crowd below where, at the corner of canal and broadway, half a dozen zouaves, clothed in their characteristic and brilliant uniforms and wearing hairy knapsacks trussed up behind, were being vociferously acclaimed by the people as they passed, bayonets fixed.
"more heroes," he observed, "made immortal while you wait."
and now ailsa became aware of a steady, sustained sound audible above the tumult around them; a sound like surf washing on a distant reef.
"do you hear that? it's like the roar of the sea," she said. "i believe they're coming; i think i caught a strain of military music a moment ago!"
they rose on tiptoe, straining their ears; even the skylarking gamins who had occupied the stage top behind them, and the driver, who had reappeared, drunk, and resumed his reins and seat, stood up to listen.
above the noise of the cheering, rolling steadily toward them over the human ocean, came the deadened throbbing of drums. a far, thin strain of military music rose, was lost, rose again; the double thudding of the drums sounded nearer; the tempest of cheers became terrific. through it, at intervals, they could catch the clear marching music of the 7th as two platoons of police, sixty strong, arrived, forcing their way into view, followed by a full company of zouaves.
then pandemonium broke loose as the matchless regiment swung into sight. the polished instruments of the musicians flashed in the sun; over the slanting drums the drumsticks rose and fell, but in the thundering cheers not a sound could be heard from brass or parchment.
field and staff passed headed by the colonel; behind jolted two howitzers; behind them glittered the sabre-bayonets of the engineers; then, filling the roadway from sidewalk to sidewalk the perfect ranks of the infantry swept by under burnished bayonets.
they wore their familiar gray and black uniforms, forage caps, and blue overcoats, and carried knapsacks with heavy blankets rolled on top. and new york went mad.
what the household troops are to england the 7th is to america. in its ranks it carries the best that new york has to offer. the polished metal gorgets of its officers reflect a past unstained; its pedigree stretches to the cannon smoke fringing the revolution.
to america the 7th was always the guard; and now, in the lurid obscurity of national disaster, where all things traditional were crashing down, where doubt, distrust, the agony of indecision turned government to ridicule and law to anarchy, there was no doubt, no indecision in the guard. above the terrible clamour of political confusion rolled the drums of the 7th steadily beating the assembly; out of the dust of catastrophe emerged its disciplined gray columns. doubters no longer doubted, uncertainty became conviction; in a situation without a precedent, the precedent was established; the corps d'elite of all state soldiery was answering the national summons; and once more the associated states of north america understood that they were first of all a nation indivisible.
down from window and balcony and roof, sifting among the bayonets, fluttered an unbroken shower of tokens—gloves, flowers, handkerchiefs, tricoloured bunches of ribbon; and here and there a bracelet or some gem-set chain fell flashing through the sun.
ailsa craig, like thousands of her sisters, tore the red-white-and-blue rosette from her breast and flung it down among the bayonets with a tremulous little cheer.
everywhere the crowd was breaking into the street; citizens marched with their hands on the shoulders of the soldiers; old gentlemen toddled along beside strapping sons; brothers passed arms around brothers; here and there a mother hung to the chevroned sleeve of son or husband who was striving to see ahead through blurring eyes; here and there some fair young girl, badged with the national colours, stretched out her arms from the crowd and laid her hands to the lips of her passing lover.
the last shining files of bayonets had passed; the city swarmed like an ant-hill.
berkley's voice was in her ears, cool, good-humoured:
"perhaps we had better try to find mrs. craig. i saw stephen in the crowd, and he saw us, so i do not think your sister-in-law will be worried."
she nodded, suffered him to aid her in the descent to the sidewalk, then drew a deep, unsteady breath and gazed around as though awaking from a dream.
"it certainly was an impressive sight," he said. "the government may thank me for a number of heroes. i'm really quite hoarse."
she made no comment.
"even a thousand well-fed brokers in uniform are bound to be impressive," he meditated aloud.
her face flushed; she walked on ignoring his flippancy, ignoring everything concerning him until, crossing the street, she became aware that he wore no hat.
"did you lose it?" she asked curtly,
"i don't know what happened to that hysterical hat, mrs. paige.
probably it went war mad and followed the soldiers to the ferry.
you can never count on hats. they're flighty."
"you will have to buy another," she said, smiling.
"oh, no," he said carelessly, "what is the use. it will only follow the next regiment out of town. shall we cross?"
"mr. berkley, do you propose to go about town with me, hatless?"
"you have an exceedingly beautiful one. nobody will look at me."
"please be sensible!"
"i am. i'll take you to lord and taylor's, deliver you to your sister-in-law, and then slink home——"
"but i don't wish to go there with a hatless man! i can't understand——"
"well, i'll have to tell you if you drive me to it," he said, looking at her very calmly, but a flush mounted to his cheek-bones; "i have no money—with me."
"why didn't you say so? how absurd not to borrow it from me——"
something in his face checked her; then he laughed.
"there's no reason why you shouldn't know how poor i am," he said.
"it doesn't worry me, so it certainly will not worry you. i can't
afford a hat for a few days—and i'll leave you here if you wish.
why do you look so shocked? oh, well—then we'll stop at genin's.
they know me there."
they stopped at genin's and he bought a hat and charged it, giving his addresses in a low voice; but she heard it.
"is it becoming?" he asked airily, examining the effect in a glass.
"am i the bully boy with the eye of glass, mrs. paige?"
"you are, indeed," she said, laughing. "shall we find celia?"
but they could not find her sister-in-law in the shop, which was now refilling with excited people.
"celia non est," he observed cheerfully. "the office is closed by this time. may i see you safely to brooklyn?"
she turned to the ferry stage which was now drawing up at the curb; he assisted her to mount, then entered himself, humming under his breath:
"to brooklyn! to brooklyn!
so be it. amen.
clippity, cloppity, back again!"
on the stony way to the ferry he chatted cheerfully, irresponsibly, but he soon became convinced that the girl beside him was not listening, so he talked at random to amuse himself, amiably accepting her pre-occupation.
"how those broker warriors did step out, in spite of illinois central and a sadly sagging list! at the morning board pacific mail fell 3 1/2, new york central 1/4, hudson river 1/4, harlem preferred 1/2, illinois central 3/4. . . . i don't care. . . . you won't care, but the last quotations were tennessee 6's, 41, a 41 1/2. . . . there's absolutely nothing doing in money or exchange. the bankers are asking 107 a 1/2 but sell nothing. on call you can borrow money at four and five per cent—" he glanced sideways at her, ironically, satisfied that she paid no heed—"you might, but i can't, ailsa. i can't borrow anything from anybody at any per cent whatever. i know; i've tried. meanwhile, few and tottering are my stocks, also they continue downward on their hellward way.
"margins wiped, out in war,
profits are scattered far,
i'll to the nearest bar,
ailsa oroon!"
he hummed to himself, walking-stick under his chin, his new hat not absolutely straight on his well-shaped head.
a ferry-boat lay in the slip; they walked forward and stood in the crowd by the bow chains. the flag new over castle william; late sunshine turned river and bay to a harbour in fairyland, where, through the golden haze, far away between forests of pennant-dressed masts, a warship lay all aglitter, the sun striking fire from her guns and bright work, and setting every red bar of her flag ablaze.
"the pocahontas, sloop of war from charleston bar," said a man in the crowd. "she came in this morning at high water. she got to sumter too late."
"yes. powhatan had already knocked the head off john smith," observed berkley thoughtfully. "they did these things better in colonial days."
several people began to discuss the inaction of the fleet off charleston bar during the bombardment; the navy was freely denounced and defended, and berkley, pleased that he had started a row, listened complacently, inserting a word here and there calculated to incite several prominent citizens to fisticuffs. and the ferry-boat started with everybody getting madder.
but when fisticuffs appeared imminent in mid-stream, out of somewhat tardy consideration for ailsa he set free the dove of peace.
"perhaps," he remarked pleasantly, "the fleet couldn't cross the bar. i've heard of such things."
and as nobody had thought of that, hostilities were averted.
paddle-wheels churning, the rotund boat swung into the brooklyn dock. her gunwales rubbed and squeaked along the straining piles green with sea slime; deck chains clinked, cog-wheels clattered, the stifling smell of dock water gave place to the fresher odour of the streets.
"i would like to walk uptown," said ailsa paige. "i really don't care to sit still in a car for two miles. you need not come any farther—unless you care to."
he said airily: "a country ramble with a pretty girl is always agreeable to me. i'll come if you'll let me."
she looked up at him, perplexed, undecided.
"are you making fun of brooklyn, or of me?"
"of neither. may i come?"
"if you care to," she said.
they walked on together up fulton street, following the stream of returning sight-seers and business men, passing recruiting stations where red-legged infantry of the 14th city regiment stood in groups reading the extras just issued by the eagle and brooklyn times concerning the bloody riot in baltimore and the attack on the 6th massachusetts. everywhere, too, soldiers of the 13th, 38th, and 70th regiments of city infantry, in blue state uniforms, were marching about briskly, full of the business of recruiting and of their departure, which was scheduled for the twenty-third of april.
already the complexion of the brooklyn civic sidewalk crowds was everywhere brightened by military uniforms; cavalrymen of the troop of dragoons attached to the 8th new york, jaunty lancers from the troop of lancers attached to the 69th new york, riflemen in green epaulettes and facings, zouaves in red, blue, and brown uniforms came hurrying down the stony street to fulton ferry on their return from witnessing a parade of the 14th brooklyn at fort greene. and every figure in uniform thrilled the girl with suppressed excitement and pride.
berkley, eyeing them askance, began blandly:
"citizens of martial minds,
uniforms of wondrous kinds,
wonderful the sights we see—
ailsa, you'll agree with me."
"are you utterly without human feeling?" she demanded. "because, if you are, there isn't the slightest use of my pretending to be civil to you any longer."
"have you been pretending?"
"i suppose you think me destitute of humour," she said, "but there is nothing humourous about patriotism and self-sacrifice to me, and nothing very admirable about those who mock it."
her cheeks were deeply flushed; she looked straight ahead of her as she walked beside him.
yet, even now the swift little flash of anger revealed an inner glimpse to her of her unaltered desire to know this man; of her interest in him—of something about him that attracted her but defied analysis—-or had defied it until, pursuing it too far one day, she had halted suddenly and backed away.
then, curiously, reflectively, little by little, she retraced her steps. and curiosity urged her to investigate in detail the four fears—fear of the known in another, fear of the unknown in another, fear of the known in one's self, fear of the unknown in one's self. that halted her again, for she knew now that it was something within herself that threatened her. but it was his nearness to her that evoked it.
for she saw, now that her real inclination was to be with him, that she had liked him from the first, had found him agreeable—pleasant past belief—and that, although there seemed to be no reason for her liking, no excuse, nothing to explain her half-fearful pleasure in his presence, and her desire for it, she did desire it. and for the first time since her widowhood she felt that she had been living her life out along lines that lay closer to solitude than to the happy freedom of which she had reluctantly dreamed locked in the manacles of a loveless marriage.
for her marriage had been one of romantic pity, born of the ignorance of her immaturity; and she was very young when she became the wife of warfield paige—celia's brother—a gentle, sweet-tempered invalid, dreamy, romantic, and pitifully confident of life, the days of which were already numbered.
of the spiritual passions she knew a little—of the passion of pity, of consent, of self-sacrifice, of response to spiritual need. but neither in her early immaturity nor in later adolescence had she ever before entertained even the most innocent inclination for a man. man's attractions, physical and personal, had left only the lightest of surface impressions—until the advent of this man.
to what in him was she responsive? what intellectual charm had he revealed? what latent spiritual excellence did she suspect? what were his lesser qualities—the simpler moral virtues—the admirable attributes which a woman could recognise. nay, where even were the nobler failings, the forgivable faults, the promise of future things?
her uplifted, questioning eyes searched and fell. only the clear-cut beauty of his head answered her, only the body's grace.
she sometimes suspected pity as her one besetting sin. was it pity for this man—a young man only twenty-four, her own age, so cheerful under the crushing weight of material ruin? was it his poverty that appealed?
was it her instinct to protect? if all she heard was true, he sorely needed protection from himself. for tales of him had filtered to her young ears—indefinite rumours of unworthy things—of youth wasted and manhood threatened—of excesses incomprehensible to her, and to those who hinted them to her.
was it his solitude in the world for which she was sorry? she had no parents, either. but she had their house and their memories concrete in every picture, every curtain, every chair and sofa. twilight whispered of them through every hallway, every room; dawn was instinct with their unseen spirits, sweetening everything in the quiet old house. . . . and that day she had learned where he lived. and she dared not imagine how.
they turned together into the quiet, tree-shaded street, and, in the mellow sunset light, something about it, and the pleasant vine-hung house, and the sense of restfulness moved her with a wistful impulse that he, too, should share a little of the home welcome that awaited her from her own kin.
"will you remain and dine with us, mr. berkley?"
he looked up, so frankly surprised at her kindness that it hurt her all through.
"i want to be friends with you," she said impulsively. "didn't you know it?"
they had halted at the foot of the stoop.
"i should think you could see how easy it would he for us to become friends," she said with pretty self-possession. but her heart was beating violently.
his pulses, too, were rapping out a message to his intelligence:
"you had better not go in," it ran. "you are not fit to go in.
you had better keep away from her. you know what will happen if
you don't."
as they entered the house her sister-in-law rose from the piano in the front parlour and came forward.
"were you worried, dearest?" cried ailsa gaily. "i really couldn't help it. and mr. berkley lost his hat, and i've brought him back to dinner."
