CHAPTER XLIX.
A BUNDLE OF HOPES
Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of the baker’s widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on getting better, now that the weather was cool once more.
“Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin’, dtat’s a fect. ’Specially ven yo’ vife comin’. Dough I could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt.”
“But maybe you couldn’t take care of her as well as I can,” said the happy Richling.
“Oh, tdat’s a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself.”
Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as his business often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, just withdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly; for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary’s expected coming.
“So’y, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, whipping away the pastry crumbs from his lap with a handkerchief and wiping his mouth, “not to encounteh you a lill biffo’, to join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the same time whilce it invigo’ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup – as the maxim say. I dunno by what fawmule she makes that coffee, but ’tis astonishin’ how ’tis good, in fact. I dunno if you’ll billieve me, but I feel almost I could pahtake anotheh cup – ? ’Tis the tooth.” He gave Richling time to make any handsome offer that might spontaneously suggest itself, but seeing that the response was only an over-gay expression of face, he added, “But I conclude no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I have discovud, – that too much coffee millytates ag’inst the chi’og’aphy; and thus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is elected.”
“Yes,” rejoined Richling, “and there’s no telling what the result will be.”
“You co’ect, Mistoo Itchlin.” Narcisse tried to look troubled.
“I’ve got a bit of private news that I don’t think you’ve heard,” said Richling. And the Creole rejoined promptly: —
“Well, I thought I saw something on yo’ thoughts – if you’ll excuse my tautology. Thass a ve’y diffycult to p’event sometime’. But, Mistoo Itchlin, I trus’ ’tis not you ’ave allowed somebody to swin’le you? – confiding them too indiscweetly, in fact?” He took a pretty attitude, his eyes reposing in Richling’s.
Richling laughed outright.
“No, nothing of that kind. No, I” —
“Well, I’m ve’y glad,” interrupted Narcisse.
“Oh, no, ’tisn’t trouble at all! I’ve sent for Mrs. Richling. We’re going to resume housekeeping.”
Narcisse gave a glad start, took his hat off, passed it to his left hand, extended his right, bowed from the middle with princely grace, and, with joy breaking all over his face, said: —
“Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, – shake!”
They shook.
“Yesseh – an’ many ’appy ’eturn! I dunno if you kin billieve that, Mistoo Itchlin; but I was juz about to ’ead that in yo’ physio’nomie! Yesseh. But, Mistoo Itchlin, when shall the happy o’casion take effect?”
“Pretty soon. Not as soon as I thought, for I got a despatch yesterday, saying her mother is very ill, and of course I telegraphed her to stay till her mother is at least convalescent. But I think that will be soon. Her mother has had these attacks before. I have good hopes that before long Mrs. Richling will actually be here.”
Richling began to move away down the crowded market-house, but Narcisse said: —
“Thass yo’ di’ection? ’Tis the same, mine. We may accompany togetheh – if you’ll allow yo’ ’umble suvvant?”
“Come along! You do me honor!” Richling laid his hand on Narcisse’s shoulder and they went at a gait quickened by the happy husband’s elation. Narcisse was very proud of the touch, and, as they began to traverse the vegetable market, took the most populous arcade.
“Mistoo Itchlin,” he began again, “I muz congwatulate you! You know I always admiah yo’ lady to excess. But appopo of that news, I might infawm you some intelligens consunning myseff.”
“Good!” exclaimed Richling. “For it’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Yesseh, – as you may say, – yes. Faw in fact, Mistoo Itchlin, I ’ave ass Dr. Seveeah to haugment me.”
“Hurrah!” cried Richling. He coughed and laughed and moved aside to a pillar and coughed, until people looked at him, and lifted his eyes, tired but smiling, and, paying his compliments to the paroxysm in one or two ill-wishes, wiped his eyes at last, and said: —
“And the Doctor augmented you?”
“Well, no, I can’t say that – not p’ecisely.”
“Why, what did he do?”
“Well, he ’efuse’ me, in fact.”
“Why – but that isn’t good news, then.”
Narcisse gave his head a bright, argumentative twitch.
“Yesseh. ’Tis t’ue he ’efuse’; but ad the same time – I dunno – I thing he wasn’ so mad about it as he make out. An’ you know thass one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, whilce they got life they got hope; and hence I ente’tain the same.”
They had reached that flagged area without covering or inclosure, before the third of the three old market-houses, where those dealers in the entire miscellanies of a housewife’s equipment, excepting only stoves and furniture, spread their wares and fabrics in the open weather before the Bazar market rose to give them refuge. He grew suddenly fierce.
“But any’ow I don’t care! I had the spunk to ass ’im, an’ he din ’ave the spunk to dischawge me! All he can do; ’tis to shake the fis’ of impatience.” He was looking into his companion’s face, as they walked, with an eye distended with defiance.
“Look out!” exclaimed Richling, reaching a hurried hand to draw him aside. Narcisse swerved just in time to avoid stepping into a pile of crockery, but in so doing went full into the arms of a stately female figure dressed in the crispest French calico and embarrassed with numerous small packages of dry goods. The bundles flew hither and yon. Narcisse tried to catch the largest as he saw it going, but only sent it farther than it would have gone, and as it struck the ground it burst like a pomegranate. But the contents were white: little thin, square-folded fractions of barred jaconet and white flannel; rolls of slender white lutestring ribbon; very narrow papers of tiny white pearl buttons, minute white worsted socks, spools of white floss, cards of safety-pins, pieces of white castile soap, etc.
“Mille pardons, madame!” exclaimed Narcisse; “I make you a thousan’ poddons, madam!”
He was ill-prepared for the majestic wrath that flashed from the eyes and radiated from the whole dilating, and subsiding, and reëxpanding, and rising, and stiffening form of Kate Ristofalo!
“Officerr,” she panted, – for instantly there was a crowd, and a man with the silver-crescent badge was switching the assemblage on the legs with his cane to make room, – “Officerr,” she gasped, levelling her tremulous finger at Narcisse, “arrist that man!”
“Mrs. Ristofalo!” exclaimed Richling, “don’t do that! It was all an accident! Why, don’t you see it’s Narcisse, – my friend?”
“Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, sur, he did! Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, he did!” And up she went and down she went, shortening and lengthening, swelling and decreasing. “Yes, yes, I know yer frind; indeed I do! I paid two dollars and a half fur his acquaintans nigh upon three years agone, sur. Yer frind!” And still she went up and down, enlarging, diminishing, heaving her breath and waving her chin around, and saying, in broken utterances, – while a hackman on her right held his whip in her auditor’s face, crying, “Carriage, sir? Carriage, sir?” —
“Why didn’ – he rin agin – a man, sur! I – I – oh! I wish Mr. Ristofalah war heer! – to teach um how – to walk! – Yer frind, sur – ixposing me!” She pointed to Narcisse and the policeman gathering up the scattered lot of tiny things. Her eyes filled with tears, but still shot lightning. “If he’s hurrted me, he’s got ’o suffer fur ud, Mr. Richlin’!” And she expanded again.
“Carriage, sir, carriage?” continued the man with the whip.
“Yes!” said Richling and Mrs. Ristofalo in a breath. She took his arm, the hackman seized the bundles from the policeman, threw open his hack door, laid the bundles on the front seat, and let down the folding steps. The crowd dwindled away to a few urchins.
“Officerr,” said Mrs. Ristofalo, her foot on the step and composure once more in her voice, “ye needn’t arrist um. I could of done ud, sur,” she added to Narcisse himself, “but I’m too much of a laydy, sur!” And she sank together and stretched herself up once more, entered the vehicle, and sat with a perpendicular back, her arms folded on her still heaving bosom, and her head high.
As to her ability to have that arrest made, Kate Ristofalo was in error. Narcisse smiled to himself; for he was conscious of one advantage that overtopped all the sacredness of female helplessness, public right, or any other thing whatsoever. It lay in the simple fact that he was acquainted with the policeman. He bowed blandly to the officer, stepped backward, touching his hat, and walked away, the policeman imitating each movement with the promptness and faithfulness of a mirror.
“Aren’t ye goin’ to get in, Mr. Richlin’?” asked Mrs. Ristofalo. She smiled first and then looked alarmed.
“I – I can’t very well – if you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”
“Ah, Mr. Richlin’!” – she pouted girlishly. “Gettin’ proud!” She gave her head a series of movements, as to say she might be angry if she would, but she wouldn’t. “Ye won’t know uz when Mrs. Richlin’ comes.”
Richling laughed, but she gave a smiling toss to indicate that it was a serious matter.
“Come,” she insisted, patting the seat beside her with honeyed persuasiveness, “come and tell me all about ud. Mr. Ristofalah nivver goes into peticklers, an’ so I har’ly know anny more than jist she’s a-comin’. Come, git in an’ tell me about Mrs. Richlin’ – that is, if ye like the subject – and I don’t believe ye do.” She lifted her finger, shook it roguishly close to her own face, and looked at him sidewise. “Ah, nivver mind, sur! that’s rright! Furgit yer old frinds – maybe ye wudden’t do ud if ye knewn everythin’. But that’s rright; that’s the way with min.” She suddenly changed to subdued earnestness, turned the catch of the door, and, as the door swung open, said: “Come, if ud’s only fur a bit o’ the way – if ud’s only fur a ming-ute. I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye.”
“I must get out at Washington Market,” said Richling, as he got in. The hack hurried down Old Levee street.
“And now,” said she, merriment dancing in her eyes, her folded arms tightening upon her bosom, and her lips struggling against their own smile, “I’m just a good mind not to tell ye at ahll!”
Her humor was contagious and Richling was ready to catch it. His own eye twinkled.
“Well, Mrs. Ristofalo, of course, if you feel any embarrassment” —
“Ye villain!” she cried, with delighted indignation, “I didn’t mean nawthing about that, an’ ye knew ud! Here, git out o’ this carridge!” But she made no effort to eject him.
“Mary and I are interested in all your hopes,” said Richling, smiling softly upon the damaged bundle which he was making into a tight package again on his knee. “You’ll tell me your good news if it’s only that I may tell her, will you not?”
“I will. And it’s joost this, – Mr. Richlin’, – that if there be’s a war Mr. Ristofalah’s to be lit out o’ prison.”
“I’m very glad!” cried Richling, but stopped short, for Mrs. Ristofalo’s growing dignity indicated that there was more to be told.
“I’m sure ye air, Mr. Richlin’; and I’m sure ye’ll be glad – a heap gladder nor I am – that in that case he’s to be Captain Ristofalah.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sur.” The wife laid her palm against her floating ribs and breathed a sigh. “I don’t like ud, Mr. Richlin’. No, sur. I don’t like tytles.” She got her fan from under her handkerchief and set it a-going. “I nivver liked the idee of bein’ a tytled man’s wife. No, sur.” She shook her head, elevating it as she shook it. “It creates too much invy, Mr. Richlin’. Well, good-by.” The carriage was stopping at the Washington Market. “Now, don’t ye mintion it to a livin’ soul, Mr. Richlin’!”
Richling said “No.”
“No, sur; fur there be’s manny a slip ’tuxt the cup an’ the lip, ye know; an’ there may be no war, after all, and we may all be disapp’inted. But he’s bound to be tleared if he’s tried, and don’t ye see – I – I don’t want um to be a captain, anyhow, don’t ye see?”
Richling saw, and they parted.
Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, had his hopes too, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital and his many patients in it and out of it; hopes for his town and his State; hopes for Richling and Mary; and hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the great sisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. After some weeks had passed Dr. Sevier ventured once more to say: —
“Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell you you’re no ordinary sick man. Your life is in danger.”
“Will I be out of danger if I go home?” asked Richling.
Dr. Sevier made no answer.
“Do you still think we may have war?” asked Richling again.
“I know we shall.”
“And will the soldiers come back,” asked the young man, smilingly, “when they find their lives in danger?”
“Now, Richling, that’s another thing entirely; that’s the battle-field.”
“Isn’t it all the same thing, Doctor? Isn’t it all a battle-field?”
The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. But in a moment he retorted: —
“We take wounded men off the field.”
“They don’t take themselves off,” said Richling, smiling.
“Well,” rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding toward a window, “a good general may order a retreat.”
“Yes, but – maybe I oughtn’t to say what I was thinking” —
“Oh, say it.”
“Well, then, he don’t let his surgeon order it. Doctor,” continued Richling, smiling apologetically as his friend confronted him, “you know, as you say, better than any one else, all that Mary and I have gone through – nearly all – and how we’ve gone through it. Now, if my life should end here shortly, what would the whole thing mean? It would mean nothing. Doctor; it would be meaningless. No, sir; this isn’t the end. Mary and I” – his voice trembled an instant and then was firm again – “are designed for a long life. I argue from the simple fitness of things, – this is not the end.”
Dr. Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, and so remained.
CHAPTER L.
FALL IN!
There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the day before, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was not fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling over the cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the Crescent Rifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better than the best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling “Gauche! gauche!” (“Left! left!”) “Guide right!” – “Portez armes!” and facing around again, throwing their shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance from under their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the drum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated vivandières behind!
What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock-feathers, clattering steeds, pealing salvos, banners, columns, ladies’ favors, balls, concerts, toasts, the Free Gift Lottery – don’t you recollect? – and this uniform and that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, uncle a major, the little rector a chaplain, Captain Ristofalo of the Tiger Rifles; the levee covered with munitions of war, steam-boats unloading troops, troops, troops, from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas; and a supper to this company, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the Washington Artillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and sashed lover, hurried weddings, – no end of them, – a sword to such a one, addresses by such and such, serenades to Miss and to Mademoiselle.
Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago!
And yet – do you not hear them now, coming down the broad, granite-paved, moonlit street, the light that was made for lovers glancing on bayonet and sword soon to be red with brothers’ blood, their brave young hearts already lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and the trumpets waking the midnight stillness with the gay notes of the Cracovienne? —
“Again, again, the pealing drum,
The clashing horn, they come, they come,
And lofty deeds and daring high
Blend with their notes of victory.”
Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dancing; the songs! “Voilà l’Zouzou!” “Dixie!” “Aux armes, vos citoyens!” “The Bonnie Blue Flag!” – it wasn’t bonnie very long. Later the maidens at home learned to sing a little song, – it is among the missing now, – a part of it ran: —
“Sleeping on grassy couches;
Pillowed on hillocks damp;
Of martial fame how little we know
Till brothers are in the camp.”
By and by they began to depart. How many they were! How many, many! We had too lightly let them go. And when all were gone, and they of Carondelet street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray, brittle-shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having their daily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they and the Foreign Legion remained; when sister Jane made lint, and flour was high, and the sounds of commerce were quite hushed, and in the custom-house gun-carriages were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were being cast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were building, and at the rotting wharves the masts of a few empty ships stood like dead trees in a blasted wilderness, and poor soldiers’ wives crowded around the “Free Market,” and grass began to spring up in the streets, – they were many still, while far away; but some marched no more, and others marched on bleeding feet, in rags; and it was very, very hard for some of us to hold the voice steady and sing on through the chorus of the little song: —
“Brave boys are they!
Gone at their country’s call.
And yet – and yet – we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall.”
Oh! Shiloh, Shiloh!
But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream.
“Mistoo Itchlin, in fact ’ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit my style? They got about two poun’ of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only thing – I don’ ligue those epaulette’. So soon ev’ybody see that on me, ’tis ‘Lieut’nan’!’ in thiz place, an’ ‘Lieut’nan’!’ in that place. My de’seh, you’d thing I’m a majo’-gen’l, in fact. Well, of co’se, I don’ ligue that.”
“And so you’re a lieutenant?”
“Third! Of the Chasseurs-á-Pied! Coon he’p ’t, in fact; the fellehs elected me. Goin’ at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah continue my sala’y whilce I’m gone. no matteh the len’th. Me, I don’ care, so long the sala’y continue, if that waugh las’ ten yeah! You ah pe’haps goin’ ad the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno ’ow ’tis – I suppose you’ll be aztonizh’ w’en I infawm you – that ball wemine me of that battle of Wattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line’ of Lawd By’on, —
‘Theh was a soun’ of wibalwy by night,
W’en – ’Ush-’ark! – A deep saun’ stwike’ – ?
Thaz by Lawd By’on. Yesseh. Well” —
The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edge against the brass buttons of his képi, and then waved it gracefully abroad: —
“Au ’evoi’, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen’ the city.”
“To-morrow,” in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided just beyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at length grasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last.
A quiet order for attention runs down the column. Attention it is. Another order follows, higher-keyed, longer drawn out, and with one sharp “clack!” the sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as fine a battalion as any in the land of Dixie.
“En avant!” – Narcisse’s heart stands still for joy – “Marche!”
The bugle rings, the drums beat; “tramp, tramp,” in quick succession, go the short-stepping, nimble Creole feet, and the old walls of the Rue Chartres ring again with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days of Villeré and Lafrénière, and in the days of the young Galvez, and in the days of Jackson.
The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down at the “Old Lake End” the steamer for Mobile receives the burden. The gong clangs in her engine-room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of water underneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser-ends whip through the hawse-holes, – she moves; clang goes the gong again – she glides – or is it the crowded wharf that is gliding? – No. – Snatch the kisses! snatch them! Adieu! Adieu! She’s off, huzza – she’s off!
Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors – red, gold, blue, yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of flags, a black veil of smoke sweeping over. Wave, mothers and daughters, wives, sisters, sweethearts – wave, wave; you little know the future!
And now she is a little thing, her white wake following her afar across the green waters, the call of the bugle floating softly back. And now she is a speck. And now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue is all, – and now she is gone. Gone! Gone!
Farewell, soldier boys! Light-hearted, little-forecasting, brave, merry boys! God accept you, our offering of first fruits! See that mother – that wife – take them away; it is too much. Comfort them, father, brother; tell them their tears may be for naught.
“And yet – and yet – we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall.”
Never so glad a day had risen upon the head of Narcisse. For the first time in his life he moved beyond the corporate limits of his native town.
“‘Ezcape fum the aunt, thou sluggud!’” “Au ’evoi’” to his aunt and the uncle of his aunt. “Au ’evoi’! Au ’evoi’!” – desk, pen, book – work, care, thought, restraint – all sinking, sinking beneath the receding horizon of Lake Ponchartrain, and the wide world and a soldier’s life before him.
Farewell, Byronic youth! You are not of so frail a stuff as you have seemed. You shall thirst by day and hunger by night. You shall keep vigil on the sands of the Gulf and on the banks of the Potomac. You shall grow brown, but prettier. You shall shiver in loathsome tatters, yet keep your grace, your courtesy, your joyousness. You shall ditch and lie down in ditches, and shall sing your saucy songs of defiance in the face of the foe, so blackened with powder and dust and smoke that your mother in heaven would not know her child. And you shall borrow to your heart’s content chickens, hogs, rails, milk, buttermilk, sweet potatoes, what not; and shall learn the American songs, and by the camp-fire of Shenandoah valley sing “The years creep slowly by, Lorena” to messmates with shaded eyes, and “Her bright smile haunts me still.” Ah, boy! there’s an old woman still living in the Rue Casa Calvo – your bright smile haunts her still. And there shall be blood on your sword, and blood – twice – thrice – on your brow. Your captain shall die in your arms; and you shall lead charge after charge, and shall step up from rank to rank; and all at once, one day, just in the final onset, with the cheer on your lips, and your red sword waving high, with but one lightning stroke of agony, down, down you shall go in the death of your dearest choice.