FullReads

The river seemed afire now with floating chariots of flame.

Slowly, majestically, upward into this fiery sea rode the fleet.

Although many of the negroes had run frightened into the woods, the conflagration revealed an almost unbroken line on either side of the river, watching the spectacular pageant with awe-stricken, ashy faces.

At Bijou a line of men–not the Riffraffs–sat astride the cannon, over the mouths of which they hung their hats or coats.

“I tell yer deze heah Yankees mus’ be monst’ous-sized men. Look at de big eye-holes ‘longside o’ de ship,” said one–a young black fellow.

“Eye-holes!” retorted an old man sitting apart; “dem ain’t no eye-holes, chillen. Dey gun-holes! Dat what dey is! An’ ef you don’t keep yo’ faces straight dey’ll ‘splode out on you ‘fo’ you know it.”

The first speaker rolled backward down the levee, half a dozen following. The old man sat unmoved. Presently a little woolly head peered over the bank.

“What de name o’ dat fust man-o’-war, gran’dad?”

“Name Freedom.” The old man answered without moving. “Freedom comin’ wid guns in ‘er mouf, ready to spit fire, I tell yer!”

“Jeems, heah, say all de no-‘count niggers is gwine be sol’ over ag’in–is dat so, gran’dad?”

“Yas; every feller gwine be sol’ ter ‘isself. An’ a mighty onery, low-down marster heap ob ’em ‘ll git, too.”

* * * * *

It was nearly day when Captain Doc, pale and haggard, joined the crowd upon the levee.

As he stepped upon its brow, a woman, fearing the provocation of his military hat, begged him to remove it.

It might provoke a volley.

Raising the hat, the captain turned and solemnly addressed the crowd:

“My countrymen,” he began, and his voice trembled, “the Riffraffs are disbanded. See!”

He threw the red-plumed thing far out upon the water. And then he turned to them.

“I have just seen an angel pass–to enter–yonder.” A sob closed his throat as he pointed to the sky.

“Her pure blood is on my hands–and, by the help of God, they will shed no more.

“These old guns are playthings–we are broken old men.

“Let us pray.”

And there, out in the glare of the awful fiery spectacle, grown weird in the faint white light of a rising sun, arose the voice of prayer–prayer first for forgiveness of false pride and folly–for the women and children— for the end of the war–for lasting peace.

It was a scene to be remembered. Had anything been lacking in its awful solemnity, it was supplied with a tender potency reaching all hearts, in the knowledge of the dead child, who lay in the little cottage near.

From up and down the levee, as far as the voice had reached, came fervent responses, “Amen!” and “Amen!”

Late in the morning the Riffraffs’ artillery, all but their largest gun, was, by the captain’s command, dumped into the river.

This reserved cannon they planted, mouth upwards, by the roadside on the site of the tragedy–a fitting memorial of the child-martyr.

It was Mrs. Magwire, who, remembering how Idyl had often stolen out and hung a lantern at this dark turn of the “road bend,” began thrusting a pine torch into the cannon’s mouth on dark nights as a slight memorial of her. And those who noticed said she took her rosary there and said her beads.

But Captain Doc had soon made the light his own special care, and until his death, ten years later, the old man never failed to supply this beacon to belated travellers on moonless nights.

After a time a large square lantern took the place of the torch of pine, and grateful wayfarers alongshore, by rein or oar, guided or steered by the glimmer of Saint Idyl’s Light.

Last year the caving bank carried the rusty gun into the water. It is well that time and its sweet symbol, the peace-loving river, should bury forever from sight all record of a family feud half forgotten.

And yet, is it not meet that when the glorious tale of Farragut’s victory is told, the simple story of little Saint Idyl should sometimes follow, as the tender benediction follows the triumphant chant?