Happy hearts from year to year
Hail each coming Christmas.”
If any misgivings had crept into their minds that they were to undergo the trying ordeal of a regular school drill for the delectation of patronizing visitors, their apprehensions were soon quieted. With the song ended all the formality. They appreciated their freedom, made the most of it, and abandoned themselves to unrestrained fun in uproarious hilarity. The Ferret caught the infection. Though not quite recovered from the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours, he forgot it, forgot his little cares, forgot his solitude, forgot all in the blessed dissipation of the hour. Unfortunately, he outdid himself.
Floog had meanwhile betaken himself to the nearest tavern, intending to come for his little friend when the festivities were over. He did not retire to bed, but paid for a lodging on a settee in the tap-room. In a few minutes he was sound asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but some time during the night he awoke with a sudden start. A bell was pealing wildly in the still night air. A man partially dressed, his heavy shoes in his hand, dashed past and out into the street. Immediately there was commotion, and the sound of voices was heard in loud and eager discussion. In another moment the tap-room was full of men. Floog hurriedly arose, and, joining the excited group, they all went out. When they came to the triangular opening formed by the confluence of three streets—The Square, as it was rather inappropriately called—they were met by a crowd of men and women as anxious and excited as themselves, and all evidently at a loss what to do or whither to proceed.
Louder and more clamorous the bell rang out its portentous notes; fitfully and frantically it rang in the ears of the now aroused populace. All at once it would stop suddenly, but for a moment only, as if pausing to take breath and gather fresh strength; then it would recommence wilder than before, producing an effect weird and terrifying. It was the old alarm-bell at Van der Meer Castle.
This bell was very ancient, and it hung in a tower behind the castle, connected with it by an arched causeway. It was placed there in feudal times to call together the vassals and adherents of the place in cases of raid or invasion, if for no worthier purpose; and in later times a superstition attached to it that its reawakening portended some calamity, the nature of which, not being specifically stated, was left to conjecture, and gave scope to the prognostications of the wise-acres. Yes, these would say, with the self-complacent air of oracles, when the bell rings it will ring the death-knell of our liberties, and Holland will pass to an alien race. This was the interpretation generally received and accredited by those who had faith in the tradition—a goodly number, which included almost all the old inhabitants. On the other hand, many among the junior members of the community ridiculed the whole thing, scoffed at the prophetic legend as an old woman’s tale, and, spurred perhaps by what they termed the foolish credulity of the elders, who professed an abiding belief in it, they rushed to the opposite extreme, even to the extent of doubting, at least of denying, the very existence of the bell. At any rate it had long ago fallen into disuse, and those who heard it now heard it for the first time.
In the market square this old civic story was anxiously revived and earnestly discussed, while the ominous import of the ringing was speculated upon with troublous forebodings, even by the sceptical, and its inharmonious clangor added tenfold significance to its history. In the midst of the tumult the crowd swayed with a sudden movement, and presently began to waver and divide, as a stalwart form appeared, forcing a passage, and shouting with a persuasive vigor heard above the din: “To the dike! to the dike!” It was Peter Artveldt, the ship-carpenter. His words and example had the effect of an electric shock on the panic-stricken multitude. Shaking off their stupor, they followed him through the town, echoing his cry, “To the dike! to the dike!” and, gathering strength as they proceeded, soon reached the dike, half a mile beyond the northern limit of the town.
Imagination had diverted their fears, not allayed them; and, singular as it seems, no one thought of the dike until the voice of the ship-carpenter like a thunder-clap sounded a warning of the real danger. Up to that moment the dike was to them, as it had been for generations, the firm and effective bulwark of the land.
Their worst fears were realized. The water was flowing through several fissures in the dike, noiselessly stealing in upon the land, until it had flooded the ground up to the cemetery palings. This was not all nor the worst. A hasty survey disclosed the appalling fact that at one point the force of the storm had sapped the foundation; some of its stones, having been displaced, were lying loose in the soft sand and ooze. An instant revealed their peril and the imminence of the danger; had they been but half an hour later nothing could have averted their fate—Steenwykerwold would have been as effectually and irretrievably swallowed up by water as old Herculaneum was by fire, and sadder the story of its chroniclers.
However, it was not a time for reflection, but for action. With such implements as in their haste they had been able to provide themselves after the real nature of the danger became known, they set to work with a will, aided by the invigorating example of Artveldt, who with heroic energy put forth his strenuous powers and directed all their movements. In less than ten minutes they had felled four or five of the cemetery trees; breaking through the gate, they dragged these to the dike, making an effective temporary barrier to the advance of the cruel waters. Yet to guard against a possible recurrence of danger from a renewal of the storm or any untoward accident, until the damage should be permanently repaired, an organized force was appointed, divided into squads of eight, whose duty it was to watch constantly, relieving each other every six hours. These precautions completed, the multitude, in the delirious joy of their deliverance, grew wild with delight and manifested symptoms of frantic disorder. Here again the ascendent spirit of Artveldt made itself felt. “Brothers,” said he, “we have finished a brave night’s work; let us not undo it by making fools of ourselves. No; we will go peaceably to our homes, and a grateful country will say: ‘They were as orderly in the hour of triumph as they were brave in the hour of peril.’ Posterity will keep sacred your memory and look back with grateful eyes to this day, and every future Christmas will be happier for your deed.”