But one bright Thursday April morning, as Richling was sitting, half dressed, by an open window of his room in Dr. Sevier’s house, leaning on the arm of his soft chair and looking out at the passers on the street, among whom he had begun to notice some singular evidences of excitement, there came from a slender Gothic church-spire that was highest of all in the city, just beyond a few roofs in front of him, the clear, sudden, brazen peal of its one great bell.
“Fire,” thought Richling; and yet, he knew not why, wondered where Dr. Sevier might be. He had not seen him that morning. A high official had sent for him at sunrise and he had not returned.
“Clang,” went the bell again, and the softer ding—dang—dong of others, struck at the same instant, came floating in from various distances. And then it clanged again—and again—and again—the loud one near, the soft ones, one by one, after it—six, seven, eight, nine—ah! stop there! stop there! But still the alarm pealed on; ten—alas! alas!—eleven—oh, oh, the women and children!—twelve! And then the fainter, final asseverations of the more distant bells—twelve! twelve! twelve!—and a hundred and seventy thousand souls knew by that sign that the foe had passed the forts. New Orleans had fallen.
Richling dressed himself hurriedly and went out. Everywhere drums were beating to arms. Couriers and aides-de-camp were galloping here and there. Men in uniform were hurrying on foot to this and that rendezvous. Crowds of the idle and poor were streaming out toward the levee. Carriages and cabs rattled frantically from place to place; men ran out-of-doors and leaped into them and leaped out of them and sprang up stair-ways; hundreds of all manner of vehicles, fit and unfit to carry passengers and goods, crowded toward the railroad depots and steam-boat landings; women ran into the streets wringing their hands and holding their brows; and children stood in the door-ways and gate-ways and trembled and called and cried.
Richling took the new Dauphine street-car. Far down in the Third district, where there was a silence like that of a village lane, he approached a little cottage painted with Venetian red, setting in its garden of oranges, pomegranates, and bananas, and marigolds, and coxcombs behind its white paling fence and green gate.
The gate was open. In it stood a tall, strong woman, good-looking, rosy, and neatly dressed. That she was tall you could prove by the gate, and that she was strong, by the graceful muscularity with which she held two infants,—pretty, swarthy little fellows, with joyous black eyes, and evidently of one age and parentage,—each in the hollow of a fine, round arm. There was just a hint of emotional disorder in her shining hair and a trace of tears about her eyes. As the visitor drew near, a fresh show of distressed exaltation was visible in the slight play of her form.
“Ah! Mr. Richlin’,” she cried, the moment he came within hearing, “‘the dispot’s heels is on our shores!’” Tears filled her eyes again. Mike, the bruiser, in his sixth year, who had been leaning backward against her knees and covering his legs with her skirts, ran forward and clasped the visitor’s lower limbs with the nerve and intention of a wrestler. Kate followed with the cherubs. They were Raphael’s.
“Yes, it’s terrible,” said Richling.
“Ah! no, Mr. Richlin’,” replied Kate, lifting her head proudly as she returned with him toward the gate, “it’s outrageouz; but it’s not terrible. At least it’s not for me, Mr. Richlin’. I’m only Mrs. Captain Ristofalah; and whin I see the collonels’ and gin’r’ls’ ladies a-prancin’ around in their carridges I feel my humility; but it’s my djuty to be brave, sur! An’ I’ll help to fight thim, sur, if the min can’t do ud. Mr. Richlin’, my husband is the intimit frind of Gin’r’l Garrybaldy, sur! I’ll help to burrin the cittee, sur!—rather nor give ud up to thim vandjals! Come in, Mr. Richlin’; come in.” She led the way up the narrow shell-walk. “Come ’n, sur, it may be the last time ye’ do ud before the flames is leppin’ from the roof! Ah! I knowed ye’d come. I was a-lookin’ for ye. I knowed ye’d prove yerself that frind in need that he’s the frind indeed! Take a seat an’ sit down.” She faced about on the vine-covered porch, and dropped into a rocking-chair, her eyes still at the point of overflow. “But ah! Mr. Richlin’, where’s all thim flatterers that fawned around uz in the days of tytled prosperity?”
Richling said nothing; he had not seen any throngs of that sort.