CALHOUN AWAKES TO LIFE.
For two weeks Calhoun hovered between life and death; but at last his
rugged constitution conquered. During this time Joyce was unremitting in
her attention. “I must save him for the sake of Mark,” she would say, “I
cannot bear to have his blood on Mark’s hands.”
In speaking to Joyce’s aunt, Matilda Goodsen said: “The poor child will
hardly let me do anything; she wants to do it all.”
Miss Crawford fretted and fumed, but it did no good. In this Joyce would
have her way.
Calhoun’s fever had been growing less day by day, and the time came when
it left him, and he lay in a quiet and restful slumber. But his breathing
was so faint, Joyce was almost afraid it was the sleep which precedes
death.
It was near the close of an August day. The weather had been warm and
sultry, but a thunder shower had cooled and cleared the atmosphere, and
the earth was rejoicing in the baptism it had received. The trees seemed
to ripple with laughter, as the breeze shook the raindrops from their
leaves. The grass was greener, the flowers brighter on account of that
same baptism. The birds sang a sweeter song. What is more beautiful than
nature after a summer shower!
It was at such a time that Calhoun awoke to life and consciousness. A
delicious lethargy was over him. He felt no pain, and his bed was so soft,
he seemed to be resting on a fleecy cloud. He tried to raise his hand, and
found to his surprise he could not move a finger. Even his eyes for a time
refused to open. Slowly his memory came back to him; how in the fierce
conflict he tried to break through the line and sought to cut down an
officer who opposed him. Then there came a flash, a shock—and he
remembered nothing more. Where was he now? Had he passed through that
great change called death? By a great effort he opened his eyes, and was
bewildered. He was in a strange room. By an open window sat a young girl.
She had been reading, but the book was now lying idly in her lap, and she
was looking apparently into vacancy. The rays of the setting sun streamed
in through the windows, and touched hair and face and clothes with its
golden beams. Calhoun thought he had never seen a being so lovely; her
beauty was such as he fancied could be found only in the realms above, yet
she was mortal. He could not take his eyes from her. She turned her head,
and saw him gazing at her. Uttering a little exclamation of surprise, she
arose and came swiftly but noiselessly to his side.
“Who are you? Where am I?” Calhoun whispered, faintly.
“Hush! hush!” she said, in low, sweet tones, “you must not talk. You have
been sick—very sick. You are better now.”
She gave him a cordial. He took it, and with a gentle sigh, closed his
eyes, and sank to sleep again. Before he was quite gone, it seemed to him
that soft, tremulous lips touched his forehead, and a tear-drop fell upon
his cheek. Its memory remained with him as a beautiful dream, and it was
long years before he knew it was not a dream.
Doctor Hopkins was delighted when he called in the evening and learned
that his patient had awaked with his fever gone, and in his right mind.
“All that he needs now,” he said, “is careful nursing, and he will get
well. But mind, do not let him talk, and tell him nothing of what has
happened, until he gains a little strength.”
From that time Calhoun gained slowly, but surely. When he became strong
enough to bear it, Joyce told him all that had happened. He could scarcely
realize that over a month had passed since he had been wounded.
“Then that stand of mine did not save Morgan,” said Calhoun, sorrowfully.
“No, he was taken a few hours afterwards,” answered Joyce. “He and his
officers are now in the penitentiary at Columbus.”
Calhoun could hardly believe what he heard. “Then we are to be treated as
felons, are we?” he asked, bitterly.
“They are afraid he might escape from a military prison,” replied Joyce.
“But the people are very bitter against him. Some are clamoring that he be
tried and executed.”
“They will not dare do that,” exclaimed Calhoun, excitedly.
“No, I do not think there is any danger that way,” replied Joyce; “but
they want to keep him safe.”
“Well they may, but Morgan will yet make them trouble. No prison will hold
him long.”
“There, there, don’t let us talk about it any more,” said Joyce; “it will
worry you back into a fever.”
“You have saved my life,” said Calhoun, fervently. “How can I ever repay
you for what you have done?”
Joyce did not reply.
Calhoun lay silent for some time, and then suddenly said: “I am one of
Morgan’s hated officers, and yet you are caring for me as for a brother.
What makes you do it?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” said Joyce; “I have a dear brother in the army. I am
only doing by you as I would have him done by, if he should fall wounded.
And then—” Joyce stopped; she could not tell him it was her brother who
had shot him.
A great light came to Calhoun. “Joyce! Joyce!” he cried, “I now
understand. It was your brother who shot me.”
“Oh! forgive him! forgive him!” cried Joyce. “He told me it was to save
his own life that he did it.”
“Why, Joyce, there is nothing to forgive. Your brother is a brave, a
gallant officer. Then he has been here?”
“Yes, and knew you. He bade me nurse you as I would nurse him in like
condition.”
“Just like a brave soldier; but are there none who find fault with my
being here treated like a prince?”
“Yes, one. His name is Andrew Harmon. It was his horse you were riding
when you came here. He seems to hate you, and is doing all he can to have
you taken to Columbus. He says you treated him most brutally when he was
captured.”
“I did kick him,” answered Calhoun, laughing; “he was on the ground
bellowing like a baby. I never saw a more abject coward. I kicked him and
told him to get up.”
“He has a different story,” said Joyce, smiling; and then she told the
wonderful story of Harmon’s capture as related by himself.
“His capacity for lying is equalled only by his cowardice,” said Calhoun,
indignantly.
“Yet he is a man to be feared,” said Joyce, “for he is rich and has
influence, although every one knows him to be a coward.”
The days that passed were the happiest Calhoun had ever spent. He told
Joyce of his Kentucky home, of his cousin Fred, how noble and true he was,
and of his own adventures in raiding with Morgan. She never tired of
listening. Is it strange that these two hearts were drawn close to each
other. They lived in a sweet dream—a dream which did not look to the
future. But almost unknown to them Cupid had come and shot his shafts, and
they had gone true.
The day came when Calhoun was able to be placed in an easy-chair and drawn
to an open window. It was a proud day to him, yet it was the beginning of
sorrow. The Doctor came and congratulated him on his improvement.
“Doctor Hopkins, how can I thank you for your kindness?” he said; “you
have done so much for me.”
“You need not thank me, thank that young lady there,” replied the Doctor,
pointing to Joyce. “She it was who saved your life.”
“I know, no reward I could give would ever repay her,” answered Calhoun.
“I can only offer to be her slave for life.”
“Your offer is not accepted; you are well aware I do not believe in
slavery,” replied Joyce, with a merry laugh.
When the Doctor was ready to go, he asked for a private interview with
Joyce. It was hard work for him to say what he had to say. He choked and
stammered, but at last Joyce understood what he meant. He had promised the
government officials to inform them when Calhoun could be moved without
endangering his life. That time had come. “But,” said he, as he noticed
the white face of Joyce, “I shall recommend that he be allowed to remain
two weeks longer, as there is no danger of his running away in his weak
condition.”
But Joyce hardly heard him. “And—and—this means?” she whispered.
“The penitentiary at Columbus.”
Joyce shuddered. “And—and there is no way to prevent this?”
“None. God knows I would if I could.”
“Thank you, Doctor; I might have known this would have to come, but it is
so sudden.”
The Doctor went out shaking his head. “I am afraid harm has been done,” he
said to himself.
Just as he was getting into his gig to drive away Andrew Harmon came
riding by. He glanced up and saw Calhoun sitting by the window. “So, your
patient is able to sit up,” he exclaimed, with a sneer. “About time he
were in the penitentiary, where he belongs, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know how that concerns you,” replied the Doctor, coldly, as he
drove away.
“Oh ho! my fine fellow. I will show you whether it concerns me or not?”
muttered Harmon, looking after him.
That night Harmon wrote to the authorities at Columbus, stating it as his
opinion that there was a scheme on foot to detain Lieutenant Pennington
until he was well enough to slip away. He was not aware that Doctor
Hopkins had reported on the condition of his patient every week, and had
already sent a letter saying he could be moved with safety, but
recommending he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, on account of his
weak condition. Harmon not only wrote to Columbus, but also to Mr.
Crawford, hinting that it was dangerous for his daughter to care for
Calhoun longer. “You know,” he wrote, “that girls of the age of Joyce are
inclined to be romantic.”
As for Joyce, when the Doctor left her she sank into a chair weak and
faint. She saw Andrew Harmon gazing up at the window where Calhoun was,
and a terror seized her. She now knew that she loved Calhoun, but with
that knowledge also came the thought that her love was hopeless, that even
if Calhoun returned her love, her father would never consent to their
union. He would rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, especially a
hated Morgan raider. Long did she struggle with her own heart, her sense
of duty, her ideas of patriotism; and duty conquered. She would give him
up, but she would save him.
It was evening before she could muster strength to have the desired
interview with Calhoun. When she did enter the room it was with a step so
languid, a face so pinched and drawn, that Calhoun stared in amazement.
“Joyce, what is it?” he cried. “Are you sick?”
“Not sick, only a little weary,” she answered, as she sank into a chair
and motioned for the nurse to leave them. No sooner was she gone than
Joyce told Calhoun what had happened. Her voice was so passionless that
Calhoun wondered if she cared, wondered if he had been mistaken in
thinking she loved him.
“Joyce, do you care if I go to prison?” he asked.
“Care?” she cried. “The thought is terrible. You shall not go, I will save
you.”
“Joyce! Joyce! tell me that you love me, and it will make my cell in
prison a heaven. Don’t you see that I love you, that you saved my poor
life only that I might give it to you? Joyce, say that you love me!”
For answer she sank on her knees by his bedside and laid her head on his
breast. He put his weak arms around her, and held her close. For a while
she remained still, then gently disengaging his arms, she arose. There was
a look on her face that Calhoun did not understand.
“The first embrace, and the last,” she sighed. “Oh, Calhoun, why did we
ever meet?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his lips growing white.
“I mean that our love is hopeless. Father will never consent to our
marriage. I feel it, know it. Without his consent I shall never marry. But
save you from prison I will.”
“Joyce, you do not love me!” said Calhoun bitterly.
“As my life,” she cried.
“Yet you say you can never marry me!”
“Without my father’s consent I cannot.”
“Joyce, let us not borrow trouble. Even with your father’s consent we
could not marry now. I am a prisoner. The war is going on, but it cannot
last forever. When it is over, when peace is declared, I will come to you.
Then, and not till then, will I ask your father for your hand. Let us hope
the skies will be brighter by that time—that to be one of Morgan’s men
will not be a badge of dishonor, even in the North.”
“Oh, Calhoun, if I could only hope! I will hope. Come to me after the war
is over. Father’s consent may be won. But now the prison, the prison. I
must save you. I have thought it all out.”
“How can you save me, a poor, weak mortal, who cannot take a step without
help?” asked Calhoun.
“Put you in a carriage to-morrow night and take you where they cannot find
you.”
“So soon? The Doctor said he would ask for two weeks. Two more weeks with
you, Joyce—I could afford to go to prison for that.”
“Don’t talk foolishly. I feel if I don’t get you away to-morrow night, I
cannot at all.”
“But you—will it endanger you, Joyce?”
“Not at all!”
“But how will you explain my disappearance?”
“Suppose you have been shamming, better than we thought you were, and so
you gave us the slip.”
“A right mean trick,” said Calhoun.
“No, a Yankee trick, a real good one. Now listen, Calhoun, and I will tell
you all about how I am going to get you away. Some six miles from here a
colored man lives whom my father has greatly befriended. He will do
anything for me I ask. I shall tell him you are a sick soldier, and for
good reasons wish to remain in hiding until you get well.”
“Will he know I am one of Morgan’s men?” asked Calhoun.
“No, he will think you are a Federal soldier. Calhoun, as much as you may
hate it, you must don the Union Blue.”
“That would make a spy of me. No, it wouldn’t either, if I kept clear of
any military post.”
“That’s good. I have a Federal uniform in the house, which will about fit
you. A friendless soldier died here a short time ago. We took him in and
cared for him during his last sickness. He had been discharged for wounds
received at Fair Oaks. Here is the discharge. I think it fits you close
enough, so it may be of use to you.”
She handed him the discharge; he took it and read: “James Brown, age
nineteen; height five feet nine inches; weight one hundred and sixty
pounds; complexion dark; hair and eyes black.”
“Why, Joyce, with that in my pocket, and wearing a Federal uniform, I
could travel anywhere in the North.”
“So I thought. We will cheat that old prison yet. But it is time you were
asleep.”
“God bless you, Joyce,” replied Calhoun. “Give me a kiss before you go.”
She smiled and threw him one as she went out and he had to be content with
that. She had not stopped to consider what the result might be if she
helped Calhoun to escape. Her only thought was to save him from going to
prison. To do this she would dare anything.
The colored man of whom she spoke was to be at the farm in the morning to
do some work. A fear had seized her that she might be too late. The fear
was well grounded. The authorities at Columbus had resolved to move
Calhoun at once. The request of Doctor Hopkins, that he be allowed to
remain two weeks longer, although he said he could be removed without
danger, aroused their suspicion. Not only that, but the letter of Andrew
Harmon to Mr. Crawford had alarmed that gentleman, and he was already on
his way home.
Abram Prather, the colored man, was seen by Joyce as soon as he made his
appearance.
“Missy Joyce, I jes’ do enything fo’ yo.’ Me an’ de ol’ woman will keep
him all right.”
So everything was arranged. Joyce breathed freer, yet she waited
impatiently for the night.