Author: Cyrus Townsend Brady
Category: Nonfiction
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CHAPTER IX
THE SWORD OF THE CONSTITUTION
Clothed in his own uniform, but hardly in his right mind, Mr. RichardRevere sat down late in the afternoon to consider the situation.
He had passed a delightfully idle day in the society of the admiraland his granddaughter; principally, it must be confessed, and in sofar as he could contrive it, with the latter. Her cunning fingers hadmended the rents in his uniform, which had been dried and put into apassably wearable condition. The versatility of her education and thevariety of her accomplishments were evidenced to him when he saw thatshe wielded the needle as deftly as she steered the boat.
They had sat on the porch most of the time in the pleasant fallweather, and the dozing old admiral offered but little check to thefreedom of their intercourse. In response to her insistentquestioning, this young Telemachus, cast up by the sea at her feet,poured into the ear of this new Calypso stories of the naval battlesin which he had participated and whose honorable scars he bore. LikeDesdemona, she loved him for the dangers he had passed.
She was familiar with the history of the old navy, of which theadmiral had been one of the brightest stars. Many a tale had the oldman told her of storm and tempest, battle and triumph, shipwreck anddisaster, and his own adventures and distinguished career she knew byheart. Although the great wave of the Civil War had ebbed and flowedfar to the south of them, she and her grandfather had prayerfully andanxiously followed its mighty course, especially on the sea; yet it sohappened that this was the first time that either of them had beenbrought in personal contact with its naval side. A returningvolunteer, a wounded soldier,--for the little town had done itspatriotic part with the rest,--had sometimes brought fresher news ofthe battles than might be read in the papers, but no sailor had cometo tell them how Farragut had damned the torpedoes and steamed throughthe pass until Revere told the thrilling story of the immortal fight.
The admiral waked up while this was being recounted, and he pressedthe young man with the keen questions of a veteran who knew well thesound of battle and had fronted the enemy undismayed. Even the storyof the wound that disabled Revere must be told, in spite of hisreluctance to mention it, and Emily dropped the needle and listenedwith bated breath to the simple and modest recital.
"Were you ever wounded, admiral?" questioned the young sailor, when hehad finished his story.
"Never, by God's providence," said the old man; "though I came near toit once."
"And how was that, sir?"
"Well, sir, when the old _Constitution_ took the _Cyane_ and the_Levant_, a shot from the _Cyane_ struck the hilt of my sword, carriedit away, and slewed me about so that I thought for a moment that I hadbeen hit in the side. It was a Spanish blade, and I prized it highly.I was lucky enough to give some succor to a Spanish brig in distressdown in the West Indies on a certain occasion, years before, and HisMost Catholic Majesty of Spain was pleased to present me with a swordfor it, a beautiful Toledo blade, the finest sword I ever saw. It wasrichly hilted and scabbarded, as became such a weapon, and I alwayswore it in action. Of course, the hilt was ruined by the shot, and thearmorer of the _Constitution_ made a rude guard out of a piece of ironhe took from the _Levant_ after she struck, to replace the brokenhilt, and I've never cared to change it since."
"I saw it this morning in Miss Emily's room," said Revere. "I took theliberty of examining it, and I was struck by the beauty of the bladeand the roughness of the hilt. I quite agree with you, sir. I shouldnot have it changed for anything."
"I call it the sword of the _Constitution_," said Emily.
"How comes it in your room, may I ask, Miss Emily?"
"Grandfather gave it to me. I am the only son of the house, you see,"she continued with a melancholy sigh. "I would that I had been a man."
"That is a wish in which I cannot join you," said the young officer,quickly.
"I think it's a pity," responded the girl, "that so great and gallanta sailor as my grandfather should leave no one to bear his name."
"My dear young lady, his name is borne in our history and upon ourhearts," answered Revere, quickly. "The world will never forget '_OldIronsides_' and her last great fighting captain. The new navy is thechild of the old, and, in a certain sense, we all feel the obligationsof such distinguished ancestry. As for me, that I have been permittedto meet you, sir," he said, turning to the admiral, "in this intimateand familiar way, is one of the proudest moments of my life."
"Is it so?" said the old man, simply; "we only did our duty then, justas you are doing it now. Dave Farragut, now, he was trained in ourschool----"
"And we are trained in his school; so you see here is a connection.Some day we may show what we have learned from him, as he showed whathe had learned from you."
"I doubt it not, young sir, I doubt it not; and while I have no sonsor grandsons to bear my name, yet Emily is a good child. No one couldwish for a better daughter."
"Of that I am quite sure," interrupted the lieutenant, spontaneously.
"And, perhaps," continued the admiral, simply, "in the hands of herchildren the sword of the _Constitution_ may again be drawn in theservice of our beloved country. But where is Barry? The sun is justsetting. He should--Ah, there he is. Evening colors, Mr. Revere," saidthe veteran, rising to his feet as the gun on the terrace boomed outin salute, and standing still until the colors slowly and gracefullyfloated down.
One of the most beautiful of sights is the fall of a flag, when itcomes down by your own hand and betokens no surrender. The decliningbanner lingers in the evening air with sweet reluctance until itfinally drops into waiting hands with a touch like a caress.
"You see, we keep up the customs of the service as near as we can,sir. How is the ship, Barry?" the admiral asked, as the old sailordelivered his report, as he had done the evening before and on all theevenings of their long sojourn on Ship House Point.
"I have a fond fancy, Mr. Revere," resumed the veteran, after thetermination of the customary conversation with the sailor, "that theship and I will sail into the final harbor together. Both of us areold and worn out, laid up in ordinary, waiting for the end. But let usgo into the house. The night air grows chill for me. Emily shall singto us, and then I shall bid you good-night."
The girl's sweet, low voice, although unaccompanied, makes rare musicin the old room. The admiral sits with his eyes closed, a smile uponhis lips, beating the time upon the arm of his chair with his witheredfingers. The songs the girl sings are of the music of the past; thewords, those the admiral heard when he was a boy. Now it is arollicking sea-chorus which bubbles from her young lips, now it is asweet old ballad that his wife sang in the long ago time. His headnods, and he says, softly, under his breath, half in time with therhythm,--
"Ay, just so. When I was a boy, so many years ago!"
Revere listens entranced, though possibly he had arrived at such astate that he would have listened entranced if she had sungbadly,--which she did not. Her voice, though untrained, wasdelightful. It had the naturalness of bird notes, the freshness ofyouth, and the purity that charms the world. The airs werehalf-forgotten things, lingering familiarly in his memory. He may haveheard them when he was a baby in his mother's arms, and she from hermother, and so on down through the long line of ancient ancestrymaternal.
The sweetest songs, are they not the oldest? Have not the peasants ofSicily been singing the music of "Home, Sweet Home," for a thousandyears?
And so the young man listens and loves, the old man listens anddreams, and the girl sings as never before, for this time she knowsthat a young heart beats in harmony with her voice. Alas for the old!he has had his day. Compelling youth enters and displaces him. Emilysings not merely for the past, but with thoughts reaching out into thefuture. When she stops, fain to be persuaded, Revere entreats her tocontinue, he begs for more. She knows not how to refuse, indeed doesnot wish to do so, so she sings on and on.
The admiral sleeps, but what of that? Youth listens, and by and by, asshe strikes something that
he knows, in a fresh, hearty tenor voice heventures to join with her. In the harmony of their voices they almostsee a prophecy of the future harmony of their lives.
Many a time has she sung to the admiral and the old sailor, but neverquite as to-night. And Captain Barry has not been there. The heavyoaken chair, which he made himself from the timbers of the ship, whichstands by the door, and which, in its rude strength, its severeplainness, somehow suggests the man, is empty. To the admiral she hassung like a voice from the past, to Barry her music has been like thatof an angel in heaven, to Revere it is the voice of the woman heloves. But to-night, although he hears the music, Captain Barry willnot come in. He stands on the porch, peering through the blinds.Unskilled as he is in the reading of character, unaccustomed to theobservation of faces, there is no mistaking, even in the sailor'smind, the look in the eyes of Revere.
The young man sits opposite Emily, listening to her, watching her,drinking in the sweetness of the melody and the beauty of her face;the light that is in his eye is the light of a love that has come, notas the oak grows from the tiny seed, slowly developing through theages, and spreading and bourgeoning until it fills the landscape, butthe glory of a passion that has burst upon him with the suddenness ofa tempest, and one that promises to be as irresistible in its onset.And Barry sees it all, divines, knows, feels, and in the light ofanother love recognizes at last his own futile passion. The revelationof hopelessness in the light of hope, of despair in the glow ofsuccess.
Never had the Bostonian been brought in contact with a personalityquite like that of Emily. More beautiful girls, measured by thecanons, he had seen, possibly; wiser in the world's ways, bettertrained, more accustomed to the usages of society, undoubtedly; butnever one so sweet, so innocent, so fresh, so unspoiled, so lovely,and so lovable. As frank as she was beautiful, as brave as she wasinnocent, as pure as she was strong. There was no use denying it; hecould not disguise it; he had loved her from the moment when, standingon the wreck, he saw her steering the skiff in the storm, with herfair hair blown out by the breeze and her face turned up toward him,full of encouragement and entreaty.
And Barry knew it now.
As a young sailor, Revere had flirted and frolicked with many girls,he had been staidly engaged to another for a long time, but not untilthat day had he really loved any one. As for the girl, she had takenhim at his face value; and while it would hardly be just to say thatshe entirely reciprocated his feeling, yet it was easy to see whitherher heart tended and what the end of the acquaintance would be unlesssomething checked the course of the growing interest she felt in theyoung man.
Could Barry check it? He yearned to try. And all these things wereplain to the old sailor. He suddenly found himself dowered with anunwonted ability to reason, to see, to read beneath the surface. 'Twaslove's enlightening touch; hopeless, uncoveting, yet jealous love,that opened his eyes. Love blinds? Ay, but he enlightens, too.
Barry's glance through the window ranged from the dozing admiral tothe adoring young man, and paused over the face, exalted, of the youngwoman. His breath came hard as he gazed, his heart rose in his throatand tried to suffocate him. He clinched his hands, closed his teeth--adangerous man, there, under the moonlight. He cursed the gay younglieutenant under his breath, as Adam might have cursed the serpent whogave him, through the woman, of that tree of knowledge that opened hiseyes and turned his paradise into a hell.