THE REBEL
While Betty Winter was still brooding in angry resentment over the
problem of John Vaughan's guilt in sharing the treason of his Chief, the
army was suddenly swung into the field to contest Lee's invasion of
Maryland.
The daring venture of the Confederate leader had developed with
startling rapidity. The President was elated over the probable
annihilation of his army. He knew that half of them were practically
barefooted and in rags. He also knew that McClellan outnumbered Lee and
Jackson two to one and that the Southerners, no longer on the defensive,
but aggressors, would be at an enormous disadvantage in Maryland
territory.
That Lee was walking into a death trap he was morally sure.
The Confederate leader was not blind to the dangers of his undertaking.
Conditions in the South practically forced the step. It was of the
utmost importance that he should have full and accurate information
before his move, and a group of the coolest and bravest young men in his
army were called on to go into Washington as scouts and spies and bring
this report. Men who knew the city were needed.
Among the ten selected for the important mission was Ned Vaughan. He had
been promoted for gallantry on the field at Malvern Hill, and wore the
stripes of a lieutenant. He begged for the privilege of risking his life
in this work and his Colonel could not deny him. He had proven on two
occasions his skill on secret work as a scout before the second battle
of Bull Run. His wide circle of friends in Washington and the utter
change in his personal appearance by the growth of a beard made his
chances of success the best of any man in the group.
He was anxious to render his country the greatest possible service in
such a crisis, but there was another motive of resistless power. He was
mad to see Betty Winter. He knew her too well to believe that if he took
his life in his hand to look into her eyes she could betray him.
His disguise in the uniform of a Federal Captain was perfect, his forged
pass beyond suspicion. He passed the lines of the Union army
unchallenged and spent his first night in Washington in Joe Hall's
famous gambling saloon on Pennsylvania Avenue. He arrived too late to
make any attempt to see Betty. He stood for half an hour on the corner
of the street, gazing with wistful eyes at the light in her window. He
dared not call and involve her in the possibility of suspicion. He must
wait with caution until she left the house and he could speak to her
without being recognized. If he failed to get this chance he would write
her as a last resort.
In Hall's place he found scores of Congressmen and men from every
department of the Government service. Old Thaddeus Stevens, the leader
of the war party in the House, was playing for heavy stakes, his sullen
hard face set with grim determination.
He watched a young clerk from the War Department stake his last dollar,
lose, and stagger from the table with a haunted, desperate look. Ned
followed him into two saloons and saw the bartenders refuse him credit.
He walked through the door of the last saloon, his legs trembling and
his white lips twitching, stopped and leaned against the wall of the
little bookstore on the corner, the flickering street lamp showing dimly
his ghastly face and eyes.
Ned glanced uneasily behind him to see that he had not been followed. He
had left under the impression that a secret service man had seen them
both leave. He knew that Baker, the head of the Department, might know
the name of every clerk who frequented a gambling den. No one was in
sight and he debated for a moment the problem of offering this boy the
bribe to get from Stanton's office the information he wanted.
It was a question of character and his judgment of it. Could he speak
the word to this boy that might send one or both to the gallows? He was
well born. His father was a man of sterling integrity and a firm
supporter of the Union. The boy was twenty-two years old and had been a
pet in the fast circle of society in which he had moved for the last
three years. If his love for his country were the real thing, he would
hand Ned over as a spy without a moment's hesitation. If the mania for
gambling had done its work he would do anything for money.
Ned's own life was in the decision. He took another look into the
haggard face and made up his mind.
He started on as if to pass him, stopped suddenly and extended his hand:
"Hello, Dick, what's up?"
The boy glowered at him and answered with a snarl:
"I don't know you----"
Ned drew a sigh of relief. One danger was passed. He couldn't recognize
him. The rest should be easy.
"You don't need to, my boy," he whispered. "You're looking for a
friend--money?"
"Yes. I'll sell my soul into hell for it right now," he gasped.
"You don't need to do that." Ned drew two hundred dollars in gold from
his pocket and clinked the coin.
"You see that gold?"
"Yes, yes--what do you want for it?"
"I want you to get for me to-morrow morning the exact number of men in
McClellan's army. I want the figures from Stanton's office--you
understand. I want the name of each command, its numbers and its
officers. I know already half of them. So you can't lie to me. Give me
this information here to-morrow night and the gold is yours. Will you do
it?"
The boy glanced at Ned for a moment:
"I'll see you in hell first. I've a notion to arrest you--damned if I
don't----"
He wheeled and started toward the corner.
Ned's left hand gripped his with the snap of a steel trap, his right
holding his revolver.
"Don't you be a fool. I know that you're ruined. I saw you in Joe
Hall's----"
The boy's jaw dropped.
"You saw me?" he stammered.
"Yes. You're done for, and you know it. Bring me those figures and I'll
double the pile--four hundred dollars."
The weak eyes shifted uneasily. He hesitated and faltered:
"All right. Meet me here at seven o'clock. For God's sake, don't speak
to me if there's anyone in sight."
All next day Ned watched Betty's house in vain. At dark, in despair and
desperation, he wrote a note.
"DEAR MISS BETTY:
"For one look into your dear eyes I am here. I've tried in vain to
meet you. I can't leave without seeing you. I'll wait in the park
at the foot of the avenue to-morrow night at dusk. Just one touch
of your hand and five minutes near you is all I ask----"
There was no signature needed. She would know. He mailed it and hurried
to his appointment.
The boy was prompt. There was no one in sight. Ned hurriedly examined
the sheet of paper, verified the known commands and their numbers and,
convinced of its genuineness, handed the money to the traitor.
"For God's sake, never speak to me again or recognize me in any way," he
begged through chattering teeth. "I got those things from Stanton's desk
and copied them."
Ned nodded, placed the precious document in his pocket, and watched the
fool hurry with swift feet straight to Joe Hall's place and disappear
within.
Betty failed to come at the appointed time and he was heartsick. He
would finish his work in six hours to-morrow and he should not lose a
moment in passing the Federal lines. The precious figures he had bought
were memorized and the paper destroyed. In six hours next day he
completed the drawings of the fort on which information had been asked
and was ready to leave.
But he had not seen Betty. He tried to go and each effort only led him
to the corner from which he watched her house. He lingered until night
and waited an hour again in the dark. And still she had not come. And
then it slowly dawned on him that she must have realized from the moment
she read his message the peril of his position and the danger of his
betrayal in their meeting.
He turned with quick, firm tread to pass the Federal lines without
delay, and walked into the arms of two secret service men.
Without a word he was manacled and led to prison. The boy he had bribed
had been under suspicion since his first visits to Joe Hall's. Stanton
had discovered that his desk had been rummaged. Five of his nine
Southern comrades had been arrested and he was the sixth. The rage of
the Secretary of War had been boundless. He had thrown out a dragnet of
detectives and every suspicious character in the city was passing
through it or landing in prison.
The men stripped him and searched with the touch of experts every stitch
of his clothing, ripped the lining of his coat, opened the soles of his
shoes, split the heels and found nothing. He had been ordered to dress
and given permission to go, when suddenly the officer conducting the
search said:
"Wait!"
Ned stopped in the doorway. It was useless to protest.
"Excuse my persistence, my friend," he said apologetically. "You seem
all right and my men have apparently made a mistake, all the same I'm
going to examine your mouth----"
Ned's eyes suddenly flashed and his figure unconsciously stiffened.
"I thought so!" the officer laughed.
The door was closed and the guard stepped before it.
And then, with quick sure touch as if he saw the object of his search
through the flesh, the detective lifted Ned Vaughan's upper lip and drew
from between his lips and teeth the long, thin, delicately folded
tinfoil within which lay the tissue drawing of the fort.
The drumhead court-martial which followed was brief and formal. The
prisoner refused to give his name or any clue to his identity. He was
condemned to be hanged as a spy at noon the next day and locked in a
cell in the Old Capitol Prison.
On his way they passed Senator Winter's house. Six hours' delay just to
look into her face had cost him his life, but his one hopeless regret
now was that he had failed to see her.
Betty Winter read the account of the sensational arrest and death
sentence. He had been arrested at the trysting place he had appointed.
She dropped the paper with a cry and hurried to the White House. She
thanked God for the loving heart that dwelt there.
Without a moment's hesitation the President ordered a suspension of
sentence and directed that the papers be sent to him for review.
In vain Stanton raged. He shook his fist in the calm, rugged face at
last:
"Dare to interfere with the final execution of this sentence and I shall
resign in five minutes after you issue that pardon! I'll stand for some
things--but not for this--I warn you!"
"I understand your position, Stanton," was the quiet answer. "And I'll
let you know my decision when I've reached it."
With a muttered oath, the Secretary of War left the room.
Betty bent close to his desk and whispered:
"You'll give me three days to get his mother here?"
"Of course I will, child, six days if it's necessary. Get word to her.
If I can't save him, she can say good-bye to her boy. That can't hurt
anybody, can it?"
With a warm grasp of his hand Betty flew to the telegraph office and
three days later she saw for the first time the broken-hearted mother.
The resemblance was so startling between the mother and both sons she
couldn't resist the impulse to throw her arms around her neck.
"I came alone, dear," the mother said brokenly, "because his father is
so bitter. You see we're divided at home, too. I'm with John in his love
for the Union--but his father is bitter against the war. It would do no
good for him to come. He hates the President and says he's responsible
for all the blood and suffering--and so I'm alone--but you'll help me?"
"Yes, I'll help and we'll fight to win."
The mother held her at arms' length a moment:
"How sweet and beautiful you are! How happy I am that you love my John!
I'm proud of you. Is John here?"
Betty's face clouded:
"No. I telegraphed him to come. He answered that a great battle was
about to be fought and that it was absolutely useless to ask for
pardon----"
"But it isn't--is it, dear?"
"No, we'll fight. John doesn't know the President as I do. We'll never
give up--you and I--Mother!"
Again they were in each other's arms in silence. The older woman held
her close.
And then came the long, hard fight.
The President heard the mother's plea with tender patience and shook his
head sorrowfully.
"I'm sorry, dear Madam," he said at last, "to find this case so
dangerous and difficult. Our army is approaching a battle. Tremendous
issues hang on the results. It looks now as if this battle may end the
war. The enemy have as good right to send their brave scouts and spies
among us to learn our secrets as we have to send ours to learn theirs.
They kill our boys without mercy when captured. I have just asked
Jefferson Davis to spare the life of one of the noblest and bravest men
I have ever known. He was caught in Richmond on a daring errand for his
country. They refused and executed him. How can I face my Secretary of
War with such a pardon in my hands?"
The mother's head drooped lower with each sorrowful word and when the
voice ceased she fell on her knees, with clasped hands and streaming
eyes in a voiceless prayer whose dumb agony found the President's heart
more swiftly and terribly than words.
"O my dear little mother, you mustn't do that!" he protested, seizing
her hands and lifting her to her feet. "You mustn't kneel to me, I'm not
God--I'm just a distracted man praying from hour to hour and day to day
for wisdom to do what's right! I can't stand this--you mustn't do such
things--they kill me!"
He threw his big hands into the air with a gesture of despair, his face
corpse-like in its ashen agony. He took a step from her and leaned
against the long table in the centre of the room for support.
Betty whispered something in the mother's ear and led her near again.
"If you'll just give my boy to me alive," she went on in low anguish,
"I'll take him home and keep him there and I'll pledge my life that he
will never again take up arms against the Union----"
"You can guarantee me that?" he interrupted, holding her gaze.
"I'm sure of it. He's noble, high-spirited, the soul of honor. He was
always good and never gave me an hour's sorrow in his life until this
war came----"
The long arm suddenly swung toward his Secretary:
"Have the prisoner, Ned Vaughan, brought here immediately. When he
comes, Madam, I'll see what can be done."
With a sob of joy the mother leaned against Betty, who took her out into
the air until the wagon from the jail should come.
They had led Ned quickly into the President's office before his mother
and Betty knew of his arrival. His wrists were circled with handcuffs.
The President looked over his spectacles at the irons and spoke sharply:
"Take those things off him----"
The guard hesitated, and the high pitched voice rang with angry
authority:
"Take off those handcuffs, I tell you. His mother'll be here in a
minute--take 'em off!"
The guard quickly removed the manacles and the President turned to him
and his attendants:
"Clear out now. I'll call you when I want you."
Ned bowed:
"Thank you, sir."
"I hope I can do more than that for you, my boy. It all depends on
you----"
The mother's cry of joy stopped him short as she walked into the door.
With a bound she reached Ned's side, clasped him in her arms and kissed
him again and again with the low caressing words that only a mother's
lips can breathe. He loosened her hands tenderly:
"I'm glad you came, dear. It's all right. You mustn't worry. This is
war, you know."
"But we're going to save you, my darling. The President's going to
pardon you. I feel it--I know it. That's why he sent for you. God has
heard my prayer."
"I'm afraid you don't understand these things, dear," Ned replied
tenderly. "The President can't pardon me--no one understands that better
than I do----"
"But he will, darling! He will----"
Ned soothed her and turned to Betty.
"Just a moment, Mother, I wish to speak to Miss Betty."
He took her hand and looked into her face with wistful intensity.
"One long look at the girl of my dreams and I'll wait for you on the
other side! This is not the way I told you I would return, is it? But
it's war. We must take it as it comes--good-bye--dearest----"
"O Ned, Boy, the President will pardon you if you'll be reasonable. You
must, for her sake, if not because I ask it."
"It's sweet of you to try this, dearest, but of course, it's useless.
The President must be just."
The tall figure rose and Ned turned to face his desk.
"Young man," he began gently, "you're a soldier of exceptional training
and intelligence. You knew the danger and the importance of your
mission. You have failed and your life is forfeited to the Nation, but
for your mother's sake, because of her love and her anguish and her
loyalty, I have decided to trust you and send you home on parole in her
custody if you take the oath of allegiance----"
The mother gave a sob of joy.
"I thank you, Mr. President," was the firm reply, "for your generous
offer for my mother's sake, but I cannot take your oath. I have sworn
allegiance to another Government in the righteousness and justice of
whose cause I live and am ready to die----"
"Ned--Ned!" the mother moaned.
"I must, Mother, dear," he firmly went on. "Life is sweet when it's
worth living. But man can not live by bread alone. They have only the
power to kill my body. You ask me to murder my soul."
He paused and turned to the President, whose eyes were shining with
admiration.
"I believe, sir, that I am right and you are wrong. This is war. We must
fight it out. I'm a soldier and a soldier's business is to die."
The tall figure suddenly crossed the space that separated them and
grasped his hand:
"You're a brave man, Ned Vaughan, the kind of man that saves this world
from hell--the kind that makes this Nation great and worth saving whole!
I wish I could keep you here--but I can't. You know that--good-bye----"
"Good-bye, sir," was the firm answer.
The mother began to sob piteously until Betty spoke something softly in
her ear.
Ned turned, pressed her to his heart, and held her in silence. He took
Betty's hand and bent to kiss it.
"You shall not die," she whispered tensely. "I'm going to save you."
She felt the answering pressure and knew that he understood.
Betty held the mother at the door a moment and spoke in low tones:
"I can get permission from the President to delay the execution until
his sister may arrive and say good-bye to him in prison the night before
the execution. Wait and I'll get it now."
The mother stood and gazed in a stupor of dull despair while Betty
pressed to his desk and begged the last favor. It was granted without
hesitation.
[Illustration: "'You're a brave man, Ned Vaughan.'"]
The President wrote the order delaying the death for three days and
handed her his card on which was written:
"Admit the bearer, the sister of the prisoner, Ned Vaughan, the
night before his execution to see him for five minutes.
"A. LINCOLN."
"I'm sorry, little girl, I couldn't do more for _your_ sake--but you
understand?"
Betty nodded, returned the pressure of his hand and hurriedly left the
room.
The hanging was fixed for the following Friday at noon. The pass would
admit his sister on Thursday night. Betty had three days in which to
work. She drew every dollar of her money and went at her task swiftly,
silently, surely, until she reached the guard inside the grim old
prison, who held the keys to the death watch.
She couldn't trust the sister with her daring plan. She might lose her
nerve. She must impersonate her. It was a dangerous piece of work, but
it was not impossible. She had only to pass the inspectors. The guards
inside were her friends.
On Thursday night at eight o'clock a carriage drew up at the little red
brick house, on whose door flashed the brass plate sign:
ELIZABETH GARLAND, MODISTE
She had made an appointment with Mrs. Lincoln's dressmaker and arranged
for it at this late hour. She must not be seen leaving her father's
house to-night.
She drove rapidly to the Capitol, stopped her carriage at the north end,
entered the building through the Senate wing, quickly passed out again,
and in a few minutes had presented her pass to the commandant of the Old
Capitol Prison.
The woman inspector made the most thorough search and finding nothing
suspicious, allowed her to enter the dimly lighted corridor of the death
watch.
The turnkey loudly announced:
"The sister of the prisoner, Ned Vaughan!"
She met him face to face in the large cell in which the condemned were
allowed to pass their last night on earth. The keen eyes of a guard from
the Inspector's office watched her every act and every movement of her
body.
Ned stared at her. His heart beat with mad joy. She was going to play
his sister's part! He would take her in his arms for the first time and
feel the beat of her heart against his and their lips would meet. He
laughed at death as he looked into her eyes with the hunger of eternity
gleaming in his own.
There could be no hesitation on her part.
She threw both arms around his neck crying:
"Brave, foolish boy!"
He held her close, crushed her with one mad impulse, and slowly relaxed
his arms. She would forgive him for this moment of delirium on the brink
of the grave, but he must be reasonable.
"I am ready to die, now, dearest," he murmured.
She slowly lifted her lips to his in a long kiss--a kiss that thrilled
body and soul--and pressed into his mouth a tiny piece of tissue paper.
She stood holding both his hands for a moment and hesitated, glancing at
the guard from the corner of her eye. He was watching with steady
stolid business-like stare. She must play her part to the end carefully
and boldly.
"I've only this moment just to say good-bye, Boy," she faltered. "I
promised not to stay long." Slowly her arms stole round his neck, and
the blood rushed to his face in scarlet waves.
"Love has made death glorious, dearest," he breathed tenderly. "God
bless you for coming, for all you have done for me, and for all this
holy hour means to my soul--you understand."
The tears were streaming down her cheeks now. The plan might fail after
all--the gallows was there in the jail yard lifting its stark arms in
the lowering sky. She pressed his hands hysterically:
"Yes, yes, I understand."
She turned and hurried to the guard:
"Take me out quickly. I'm going to faint. I can't endure it."
The guard caught her arm, supporting her as she made her way to the
street.
In fifteen minutes she had returned to the dressmaker's and from there
called another carriage and went home.
The guard had no sooner turned his back than Ned Vaughan quickly opened
and read the precious message which gave the plan of escape.
When the sentinel on his corridor was changed at midnight the blond,
blue-eyed boy would be his friend and explain.
When he found the rope ladder concealed on the roof it was raining. He
fastened it carefully in the shadow of an offset in the outer wall and
waited for the appearance of the guard. As he passed the gas lamp post
and the flickering light fell on his face he studied it with care. He
was stupid and allowed the rain to dash straight into his fat face. It
should be easy to reach the shadows by a quick leap when he turned
against the rain and reached the length of his beat.
He calculated to a second the time required to make the descent, threw
himself swiftly to the end of his rope and dropped to the pavement.
In his eagerness to strike the ground on the run, his foot slipped and
he fell. The guard heard and ran back, blinking his stupid eyes through
the rain. He found a young sport who had lost his way in the storm.
"I shay, partner," the fallen drunk blubbered. "What'ell's the matter
here? Ain't this Joe Hall's place?"
"Not by a dam sight."
"Ah, g'long with yer, f-foolishness--man--and open the door--I'm an old
customer--I ain't no secret service man--I'm all right--open her up----"
"Here, here, get up an' move on now, I can't fool with you," the guard
growled good-naturedly. He lifted Ned to his feet and helped him to the
end of his beat, waved him a jolly good-night, and turned to his steady
tramp. The rope was still dangling next morning ten feet above his head.
The sensation that thrilled the War Department was one that made history
for the Nation, as well as the individuals concerned, and for some
unfortunately who were not concerned.