Jennie drew her handkerchief, waved and sobbed the chorus in reply.
"God bless you, soldiers! Fight for us!"
Four hours later the black gunboats swung at their anchors. The proud little conquered city lay at the mercy of their guns.
Jennie watched them with shining eyes, and that without fear. The Union flag was streaming from every peak and halyard.
The girl rushed home, made a flag five inches long, pinned it to her shoulder and deliberately walked down town. Mattie Morgan joined her at the corner and drew one from the folds of her dress, emboldened by the example.
They marched straight to the State House terrace to take a good look at the Brooklyn lying close inshore. Fifteen or twenty Federal officers were standing on the first terrace, stared at by the crowd as if they were wild beasts.
"Oh, Mattie," Jennie faltered. "We didn't expect to meet these people. What shall we do?"
"Stand by your colors now. There's nothing else to do."
On they marched, hearts thumping painfully with conscious humiliation at their silly bravado. Fine, noble-looking, quiet fellows those officers in blue—refinement and gentlemanly bearing in every movement of their stalwart bodies. They had come ashore as friendly sightseers and stood admiring the beauty of the quaint old town. Jennie's eyes filled with tears of vexation.
"Let's go home, Mattie—"