SPOLIA OPIMA
Dunwody remained seated at the table, carelessly shuffling the
cards between his fingers. Once in a while he cast an amused
glance toward Carlisle, and at last remarked, as though continuing
an arrested thought:
"Amanuensis, is she?" He chuckled. The other ventured no reply.
"My dear sir, at your age, I congratulate you! The choice of an
amanuensis is one very important for a public man, not less so, I
imagine, for a military man. Consider the need--"
"I think that will do, my dear Dunwody," rejoined Carlisle at
length, the hot blood in his face. "Frankly, this conversation is
unwelcome to me."
"I'll tell you what I'll do with you," exclaimed the Missourian
suddenly. "I'll bet you every cent in this pile of my winnings
here that that young lady isn't your amanuensis, and never has
been. I'll bet its like that she is no relative of yours. I'll
bet it all over again that she is the most beautiful woman that
ever set foot on a boat on this river, or ever set foot on any
land. Moreover, I'll bet again--"
"You might win a certain share of these wagers," smiled the young
officer, willing to pass by a possible argument. "Moreover, I am
quite willing to discuss arrangements for changing the term of
servitude of this young lady. I've been doing a little thinking
about one or two matters since this morning."
"What!"
"Quite right. I wouldn't care to restrain her in any way, if she
cared to travel in other company. Our work is well advanced toward
completion, as it is."
"Yet you came here with her? Then what--?"
"Never mind what the relation may have been, my dear fellow. It
irks me now. Especially does this sort of conversation irk me,
because it is not fair to the young lady herself."
Dunwody drew in his breath with a strong sigh. He sat up straight
in his chair, then rested an arm on the table, as he leaned forward
toward the other. "A young lady has had a poor protector who would
not protect her name. Of course!"
"In any case," smiled Carlisle, forcing the frown away from his
face, "my fortunes need mending now. Do you think I could continue
a journey down the river in company so strong at cards as yours?
At a later time, if you like, I will endeavor to get my revenge."
"Suppose you have it now," said Dunwody calmly. "Haven't you just
heard me say I haven't the means?"
"You have as much as I have."
"Tut! tut! I don't borrow to play cards."
"You do not need to borrow. I say, your stake equals mine, and we
will play at evens, too. Come, deal one hand, poker between two,
and to the hilt."
The other man looked at him and gazed at the heaped pile of coins
and notes which lay before him. He himself was no pale-blooded
opponent, nor usually disposed to slight the opportunities of the
game. "I don't understand," said he finally. "Certainly I am not
willing to pledge my land and 'niggers,' like our friend from
Belmont here. Perhaps my fall has been hard enough not to tempt me
to go on with my sort of luck. Suppose I decline!"
"You don't understand me," said Dunwody, looking him fair in the
face. "I said that your stake can easily be equal with this on the
table. I'll play you just two out of three jack-pots between the
two of us. You see my stake."
"But mine?"
"You can make it even by writing one name--and correctly--here on a
piece of paper. Full value--yes, ten times as much as mine! You
are giving odds, man!"
"I don't understand you."
"You don't want to understand me. Come, now. You, as an army man,
ought to know something of the history of poker in these United
States. Listen, my friend. Do you recall a certain game played by
a man higher in authority--younger than he is to-day--a game played
upon a snowbound train in the North country? Do you remember what
the stakes were--then? Do you recall that that man later became a
president of the United States? Come. There is fine precedent for
our little enterprise."
The swift flush on the face of the other man made his answer.
Dunwody went on mercilessly:
"He played then much as you do now. There was against him then, as
there is now against you, a man who admired not so much just one
woman in all the world as, let us say, one particular woman then
and there present. Perhaps you remember his name--Mr. Parish--later
ennobled by the German government and long known as a land baron in
New York. Come! Think of it! Picture that snowbound train, that
great citizen, and Parish, playing and playing, until at last it
came to the question of a woman--not so beautiful as this one here,
but in her own way shrewd, _the same sort of woman_, I might
say--mysterious, beautiful, and--no, don't protest, and I'll not
describe. You remember very well her name. It was pleasant
property not so long ago for everybody. They played for the _love_,
not for the hand, of that woman. Parish won her. Do you remember
now?"
The younger man sat looking at him silently, his face now grown
quite pale. "I am unwilling, sir, to allow any man to mention such
details regarding the past life of my commander-in-chief, a
president of the United States. It is not seemly. My profession
should free me, by its very nature, from conversation such as this.
My errand should free me. My place as a gentleman should free me,
and her, from such discussion. It must, it shall, sir!"
"Forgive me," said Dunwody, coloring. "Your rebuke is just. I ask
your pardon freely; but remember, what I say here is between us
two, and no one else. Why deny yourself the luxury of remembering
such a game as that? It was a man's game, and well worth the
playing. Your former head of the army, at least, lost; and he
paid. The other won. All Ogdensburg can tell you about that
to-day. They lived there--together--Parish and the woman, till he
went abroad. Yes, and she was a prisoner there not simply for a
short time; she lived and died there. Whatever Parish did, whoever
he was, he never loved any other woman as he did that one. And by
the Lord! when it comes to that, no other woman in that town ever
was loved more than she by everybody. Odd creatures, women, eh?
Who can find them out? Who can weigh them, who can plumb their
souls? But, my God! who can do without them?"
Carlisle made no answer, and Dunwody went on. "She had political
intrigues back of her, just as this woman here has, for all I know.
But one lost in that game, and the other, won. I've often wondered
about that particular game of cards, my friend,--whether after all
she loved the man who won her, right or wrong,--what became of
her,--who she was? But now, tell me, was not our drunken friend
right? Has human nature changed since Rome? And has not the
conqueror always ruled? Have not the _spolia opima_, the rarest
prizes, always been his?"
Carlisle only sat silent, looking at him, pale now, and rigid. He
still made no comment.
"So now I say," went on Dunwody, "here is that same situation,
twice in one lifetime! It's ominous, for somebody. There is
trouble in the air, for some or all of us. But I say I offer you
fair play, even, man to man. I ask no questions. I will not take
any answers, any more than those two would have allowed any, that
day on the train there, when they played, ten years or more ago.
That was a foreign woman. So is this, I think. She is the most
beautiful woman I have ever seen. I have looked her in the face.
I shall never see such another face again. Man, I'm mad over her.
And you've just said you'd loose your hold on her, whatever it
is--for her sake. By God! once my hold was on her, she never
should get away--again."
"What do you propose?" asked the other hoarsely.
"I propose only to offer you that same game over again!" replied
Dunwody. "Man, what an uncanny thing this is! But, remember one
thing,--no matter what comes, I shall never mention our meeting
here. I am not your keeper."
"Sir," broke out the other, "you embarrass me unspeakably. You do
not know the circumstances. I can not tell--"
"Pardon me, I make no taunts, and I have said I tell no tales. But
my word of honor, man,--I will play you,--two out of three, to
see--who takes her." His voice was low, tense, savage.
The younger man sat back in his chair. One knowing his tempestuous
nature might have expected anger, consternation, resentment, to
remain on his face. On the contrary, a sudden light seemed to come
into his countenance. Suddenly he stifled a smile! He passed a
hand across his brow, as though to assure himself. It was not so
much confidence or resolution as half deliberation which shone in
his eye as he cast a glance upon the heap of money on the opposite
side of the table. Yet no sordid thought, no avarice was in his
gaze. It was the look of the fanatic, the knight errant, resolved
upon deed of risk or sacrifice for sake of a woman's wish; but with
it was the amusement of a man who foresaw that difficulties lay
ahead of him who essayed the role of jailer to Josephine, Countess
St. Auban. What now passed across his countenance, little by
little, therefore, was relief, relaxation from a strain, a solution
of some doubtful problem. In brief, there seemed offered to him
now the opportunity to terminate an errand which suddenly had grown
distasteful to him and dangerous both to him and to his charge. At
one stroke he might secure for himself riddance of the company of
an embarrassing companion who already had served notice of her
intention to desert him; and might also keep silent this man, whom
she had asked for aid. As for him, she would take his measure
quickly enough if he presumed in any way. Would not the purpose of
his journey have been accomplished, might not he himself return to
his work, would not each of these three have been served to his or
her own liking, should now the suggestion of this eager man be
accepted? If he won at the cards, why then--if he lost--but that
he resolved not to do! The greatest misfortune possible, to his
perplexed soul, was that the cards should not be against him. As
he reflected upon these things, he hesitated. It was but to gain
time.
"Senator Dunwody," said he, at length, "you and I are from
different parts of the country--from two different worlds, you
might say. You believe in slavery and the extension of it--I
believe in just the reverse. I would sacrifice my professional
future, if need were, in that belief." The other nodded, but his
eyes did not waver.
"Very good! Now, I want to say to you this much. The young lady
who has been with me is dangerous. She is an abolitionist of the
strictest sect. She is very likely an European revolutionist,
among other things. She is dangerous as such. I think I can say
this much, and break no pledge of confidence."
"That isn't how she is dangerous to me. But is that the crime for
which you transport her for life?" smiled the other. His shot came
so close that his companion raised a hand.
"I don't deny, don't explain, don't argue," he retorted curtly. "I
only say that I shall be willing to part with her services and turn
her over to your own care, if you _both_ so like. We know she has
appealed to you for aid. My own errand, if you please, is near to
its close. It has been--"
"Cut the cards, man!" cried the Missourian. It was lucky that he
interrupted. He was just in time to prevent the other from making
the mistake of saying what was the truth--that he was in any case
about to leave the young lady to her own devices, and by her own
request. The game which he most valued now was not on the table
before him. He was playing it in his own mind. In short, duty or
no duty, he was resolved to end the role of jailer and prisoner,
for sake of the prisoner herself. Let others attempt the
unpleasant task if they liked. Let others condemn if they liked.
He, Carlisle, could be jailer no longer. Yet he deliberated well
the risk he ran.
"It would be ruin to me if this were known, Senator Dunwody, and of
that you are perfectly aware."'
"I know that as well as you, but there can be honor even in
politics, war, or--love. I have given you my word. Deal!"
"You are impatient. You rejoice as a strong man to run a race, my
dear sir."
"I _do_ run a race. I _am_ strong. Play! It is in the cards that
I must win."
"But if you should lose?"
"I shall not lose!"
His insistence, his confidence, almost caused the older man to
laugh. "No, my friend," said he to himself, "you shall not lose!"
But what he said aloud was, "You must not be excited, Dunwody. You
may need all your nerve. I thought you cooler in times of stress."
"You don't know me. I don't know myself. Perhaps it is ice in
your blood--I don't know,--it's fire in mine."
"Very well,--I hope you like the cards I have given you." But
there was no ice in the red flush on Carlisle's sanguine face,
"Give me four more," cried the Missourian, flinging down his own
cards with hands that trembled.
"Quite right, sir, you shall have them. But how you tremble! I
wouldn't have so poor a nerve as yours for all the money in the
world, my dear Senator. You act as though there were four hundred
acres of niggers at stake, as Mr. Jones would say!"
"Go on! You don't know what there is at stake."
"So, now. You have your four cards. For myself--though you are so
excited you wouldn't notice it if I did not call your attention to
it--I take but three. You are an infant, man. See that you be not
delivered into the hands of the enemy."
They looked now each into his renewed hand of five cards. Dunwody
swept a stack of money toward the center of the table. "A thousand
dollars against one look from her eye!"
"My dear sir," rejoined the other calmly, "you are raised to the
extent of two glances--one from each eye."
"Another thousand for the touch of her glove."
"I come back. You shall have a pair."
"A thousand more to hear the sound of her step--another thousand
for one smile!"
Carlisle's voice trembled, but he forced himself under control.
"My dear sir, you shall have all you wish! I am sure if she could
see you now she herself would be disposed to smile. You do not yet
understand that woman. But now, suppose that the betting has gone
far enough? What cards have you? For myself, I discover that I
have drawn four kings. I trust that you have four aces of your
own."
There was sincerity in this wish, but Dunwody answered gloomily:
"You gave me three tens and a pair of fives, with what I held. You
have won the first round."
He dashed a hand, and cleared the square of matted hair from his
forehead, which now was beaded. Red, florid, full-blooded, balked
in his eagerness, he looked as savage as some denizen of the
ancient forest, in pursuit as reckless, as ill-suited with
ill-fortune.
"My deal," said he, at length, in a voice half a growl. And later,
"How many?"
"I shall, if you please, require but one card," was the quiet
answer. Dunwody himself required two. They sat narrowly eying
each other, although there was in this close duel small advantage
for either except in the run of the cards themselves.
"It is perhaps needless for us to waste time, since I can not
divide my stakes," smiled the younger gentleman.
Again with a half growl, Dunwody threw down his cards, face upward.
His teeth were clenched, all his muscles set, all his attitude
strained, tense.
"You have won, my dear Senator! I failed to improve my four cards,
which, it is true, were of one color, but which I regret to say
still remain of the one color and of no better company!"
"It is even!" exclaimed Dunwody. "Come!"
The cards went around once more, and once more the officer asked
for a single card. Once again he lost.
Dunwody drew back with a deep sigh. "Look!" he said, "of my three
cards, two were what I wanted--aces, aces, man!--four of them! By
every token, I have won. It's fate!"
The face of his opponent was a study. His eyebrows went up in
pleasant expostulation at the other's eagerness. "So, then," said
he, "I suppose I must pay my stake, much to my regret. Ah! how
fortune has run against me to-day. And so, here it is,--I write
her name for you once more--this time her real name, so far as any
in America know it--thus,--Josephine, Countess St. Auban, of
France, of Hungary, of America, abolitionist, visionary, firebrand.
There, then,--though I think you will find the matter of taking
possession somewhat difficult to compass--so far as I am concerned,
she is, with all my heart, yours to have and to hold, _if you can_!
My duty to her is over. Yours begins, I hope!"
Dunwody found no speech. He was pale, and breathing fast.
Gravity increased in the other's demeanor. His face now looked
drawn, weary. "I beg, my dear sir," he said, "nay, I entreat and
command you, to make all gentle and kind use of this which the gods
have given you. I confess nothing whatever, except that I am
hungry and tired to extinction. I congratulate the winner, and
consider myself fortunate to be allowed to go in peace to my own
place--penniless, it is true, but at least with a conscience quite
clear." The frown on his face, the troubled gaze of his eyes,
belied his last words. "It's no part of my conscience to coerce a
woman," he added defiantly. "I can't do it--not any longer."
"It is well to be a cheerful loser," returned Dunwody, at last. "I
couldn't blame any man for being coerced by--her! I admit that I
am. But after this, what will be your plans?"
"I purpose leaving the boat at the first suitable stop, not farther
down than Louisville, at least. Perhaps Cincinnati would be yet
better. By the fortunes of war you will, therefore, stand in my
stead. I've changed my mind, suddenly. I told the young lady that
we would continue on together, even beyond Cairo. But now--well,
to the victor, as Mr. Marcy has said, belong the spoils. Only,
there are some titles which may not be negotiated. A quitclaim is
by no means a warranty. You'll discover that." He smiled grimly.
The other made no answer. He only stood to his full height and
stretched out his great arms. He seemed a figure come down
unchanged from some savage day.