THE ESCAPE.
The day was a long and weary one to Calhoun. Between the joy of knowing he
was to be free and his misery over the thought that he must part with
Joyce, his soul was alternately swept with conflicting emotions. Then he
had seen so little of her during the day; she seemed more distant than she
did before she declared her love. How he longed to take her in his arms,
to have her head rest on his breast once more! But she had said that
although it was the first it was to be the last time. What did she mean?
Ah! it must be that he could never embrace her again, never touch her lips
again, until her father had consented to their marriage. When the war was
over he would wring that consent from him.
The thought brought contentment. Yes, it was better that they should part.
Then the news of the terrible battle of Chickamauga had just come, and it
had fired his very soul. The South had won a great victory. Surely this
was the beginning of the end. Independence was near, the war would soon be
at an end, and he longed to be in at the finish. The excitement of war was
once more running riot through his veins.
He little thought of the sacrifice Joyce was making, of the fierce
conflicts she was having with her conscience. She knew that she was doing
wrong, that she was proving a traitor to the flag she loved, that she was
aiding and abetting the enemy; but it was one, only one man, and she loved
him so. Surely this one man, sick and wounded, could do no harm. It was
cruel to shut him up in prison. Thus she reasoned to silence conscience,
but if her reasons had been ten times as weak, love would have won.
All through the day she was making preparations for Calhoun’s departure.
Fortunately the young man who had been engaged to nurse Calhoun during the
night had been taken sick a couple of days before, and as Calhoun rested
well, another had not been engaged. Thus one of the greatest obstacles to
the carrying out of Joyce’s plans was out of the way. She could easily
manage Miss Goodsen. Joyce’s only confidant was the faithful Abe, who
obeyed her without question. In his eyes Missy Joyce could do nothing
wrong. He had been drilled by Joyce until he knew just what to do. He was
to go home, but as soon as it was dark, he was to return, being careful
not to be seen. After he was sure the household was asleep he was to
harness a span of horses, being careful to make no noise, and have a
carriage waiting in a grove a short distance back of the house. Here he
was to wait for further orders from Joyce. Being well acquainted with the
place, and Joyce promising to see that the barn and the carriage-house
were left unlocked, he would have no trouble in carrying out his
instructions.
Night came, and Joyce was in a fever of excitement. Would anything happen
to prevent her carrying out her plans? If she had known that Andrew Harmon
had hired a spy to watch the house she would have been in despair. But the
spy was to watch the window of Calhoun’s room, and was concealed in a
corn-field opposite the house. If he had watched the back instead of the
front of the house, he would have seen some strange doings.
Margaret Goodsen was told that as Calhoun was so well, she could lie down
in an adjoining room. If he needed anything, he could ring a little bell
which stood on a table by his side. The nurse gladly availed herself of
the opportunity to sleep. When the nurse retired Joyce came into the room,
and speaking so that she could hear her, said, “Good night, Lieutenant
Pennington; I hope you will rest well.” Then she whispered, “Here is the
Federal uniform. Have you strength to put it on?”
“Yes, but oh, Joyce—”
She made a swift gesture and pointed to the door of the nurse’s room.
“Here is some money,” she continued, in the same low whisper. “Now, don’t
refuse it; you will need it.”
“I had plenty of money in a belt around me when I was wounded,” whispered
Calhoun.
“The belt, oh, I forgot! The Doctor gave it to me for safe keeping.”
Noiselessly she moved to the bureau, opened a drawer, and returned with
the belt.
“Joyce, I shall not need your money now, but I thank you for the offer.”
“It was nothing. Be sure and be ready,” and she glided from the room.
The minutes were like hours to Calhoun. At one time he had made up his
mind not to accept his proffered liberty, as it might bring serious
trouble on Joyce; but he concluded that he must accept.
As for Joyce, she went to her room and threw herself down on a lounge. Her
heart was beating tumultuously; every little noise startled her like the
report of a gun. She waited in fear and apprehension. At length the clock
struck eleven. “They must be all asleep by this time,” she thought. She
arose and softly went downstairs, carrying blankets and pillows. She
stopped and listened as she stepped out of doors. There was no moon, it
was slightly cloudy, and darkness was over everything. Without hesitating
she made her way through the back yard and the barn lot to the grove,
where she had told Abe to be in waiting. She found that the faithful
fellow had everything in readiness.
“Abe, I want you to come with me now and get the sick soldier. Drive
through the lane until you reach the road; then drive straight to your
house. The road is not much frequented, and you will not be apt to meet
any one at this time of night. If you do, say nothing. Leave the soldier
when you get home, drive straight back the way you came. Turn the horses
into the pasture, put the harness and carriage where you found them. Be
careful and make no noise. When you have done this go home again and be
sure you get there before daylight. It’s a hard night’s work I have put on
you, Abe, but I will pay you well for it. Now, take off your boots and
come with me.”
The obedient fellow did as he was bid, and followed Joyce into the house
and to Calhoun’s room.
“Take him to the carriage,” whispered Joyce.
The stalwart Abe took Calhoun in his arms as if he had been a child, and
carried him to the carriage.
“Now, Abe, remember and do just as I told you,” said Joyce.
“Yes, Missy, I ’member ebberyting.”
She went to the side of the carriage, arranged the pillows and comforts
around Calhoun, and then gave him her hand. “Good-bye,” she whispered;
“may God keep you safe.”
The hand was cold as death, and Calhoun felt that she was trembling
violently.
“Joyce! Joyce! is this to be our leave-taking?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Are you not coming to see me where I am going?”
“No, I dare not; we must not see each other again until—until the war is
over.”
“Without a kiss, Joyce. Joyce, I—”
“Hush! you have no right to ask for one, I much less right to give it.
Come when the war is over, and then”—Her voice broke, and she turned and
fled into the darkness.
How Joyce got back into the house she never knew. She fell on her bed
half-unconscious. The strain upon her had been terrible, and the effect
might have been serious if tears had not come to her relief. After a
violent paroxysm of sobbing, she grew calmer, and tired nature asserted
itself, and she fell asleep.
It was yet early morning when she was aroused by a cry from Miss Goodsen,
and that lady came rushing into her room, wringing her hands and crying,
“He is gone! He is gone!”
“Who is gone?” asked Joyce, springing up as if in amazement.
Miss Goodsen, in her excitement did not notice that Joyce was fully
dressed. “The wounded Rebel, Lieutenant Pennington,” she fairly shrieked.
“Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?” and she wrung her hands in her
distress.
Joyce ran to Calhoun’s room; sure enough it was empty. “Stop your noise,”
she said, sharply, to Miss Goodsen. “If any one is to blame, I am. They
will do nothing with you. It may be he became delirious during the night
and has wandered off. We must have the house and premises searched.”
The noise had aroused the whole household. The utmost excitement
prevailed. Miss Crawford was frantic. She was sure they would all be sent
to prison, and she upbraided Joyce for not getting another male nurse to
watch him during the night. The house and the premises were thoroughly
searched, but nothing was found of the missing man. The neighborhood was
aroused and a thorough search of the surrounding country began.
Joyce took to her room with a raging headache. The afternoon brought a
couple of deputy marshals from Columbus. They had come to convey Calhoun
to prison, and were astonished when told that the prisoner had escaped.
Miss Goodsen was closely questioned. She had looked in once during the
night. The Lieutenant was awake, but said he was comfortable and wanted
nothing. She then went to sleep and did not awake until morning. She found
Joyce in her room, who was overcome when told that her patient was gone.
She had not heard the slightest sound during the night.
Doctor Hopkins was summoned. The old Doctor was thunderstruck when he
heard the news. He could scarcely believe it. To add to the mystery,
Calhoun’s Confederate uniform was found. Apparently he had gone away with
only his night clothes on. Doctor Hopkins at once gave it as his opinion
that Calhoun had been seized with a sudden delirium and had stolen out of
the house and wandered away; no doubt the body would be found somewhere.
His professional services were needed in the care of Joyce, for she seemed
to be completely prostrated, and had a high fever.
“Poor girl,” said the Doctor, “the excitement has been too much for her.”
If he suspected anything he kept his secret well.
The spy employed by Andrew Harmon reported that he had not seen or heard
anything suspicious during the night, so that gentleman concluded to say
nothing, as he did not wish it to be known that he had had the house
secretly watched.
Mr. Crawford returned the day after the escape. He was greatly exercised
over what had happened, and blamed every one that Calhoun had been kept so
long as he had. Poor Joyce came in for her share, but she wisely held her
peace. The country was scoured for miles around, but nothing was seen or
heard of the escaped prisoner, and at last the excitement died out.
Joyce did not lack news from Calhoun. The faithful Abe kept her fully
informed. Joyce told him that both of them would go to prison if it was
known what they had done, and he kept the secret well. He reported that
Calhoun was gaining rapidly, and would soon be able to go his way. “He
want to see yo’ awful bad befo’ he goes,” said Abe.
But Joyce resolutely refused. It would not do either of them any good. One
day the negro brought her a letter. It was from Calhoun, telling her that
when she received it he would be gone. He thought it cruel that she had
not come to see him just once. He closed as follows:
“Joyce, I feel that my life is yours, for you saved it. Not only that, but
to you I now owe my liberty, and I realize the struggle you have had to do
as you have done. But be of good cheer. When the war is over the thunder
of the last cannon will hardly have died away before I shall be at your
side. Till then adieu.”
That letter was very precious to Joyce. Before the war was over it was
nearly worn out by being read and reread.
Shortly after Mr. Crawford’s return he was asked by Andrew Harmon for
permission to pay his addresses to his daughter. Harmon hoped that if he
had her father’s permission to pay his addresses to her, Joyce’s coldness
might disappear.
Mr. Crawford did not like the man, but he was rich and had a certain
amount of political influence. Mr. Crawford was thinking of being a
candidate for Congress at the approaching election, and he did not wish to
offend Harmon, but he secretly hoped that Joyce would refuse him; in this
he was not disappointed. She was indignant that her father had listened to
Harmon, even to the extent that he had. “Why, father, I have heard you
call him cowardly and dishonest,” she exclaimed, “and to think that you
told him you would leave it entirely to me.”
“I did not wish to offend him,” meekly replied Mr. Crawford, “and I had
confidence in your judgment. I was almost certain you would refuse him.”
“Will you always have such confidence in my judgment?” asked Joyce,
quickly.
“What do you mean?” asked her father.
“Suppose I should wish to marry one of whom you did not approve?”
“That is another proposition,” said Mr. Crawford. “You might have been so
foolish as to fall in love with that Morgan Rebel and horse-thief you took
care of so long. If so, I had rather see you dead than married to him.”
Poor Joyce! Did her father suspect anything? She caught her breath, and
came near falling. Quickly recovering herself, she answered. “At least he
was a brave man. But everybody says he is dead, and mortals do not wed
ghosts.”
“It is to be sincerely hoped he is dead,” replied Mr. Crawford, for he had
noticed his daughter’s confusion, and an uneasiness took possession of
him. But much to Joyce’s relief he did not question her further.
Andrew Harmon was beside himself with rage when told by Mr. Crawford that,
while his daughter was sensible of the great honor he would bestow upon
her, she was still very young, and had no idea of marrying any one at
present.
Harmon determined to have revenge on Joyce, and began slyly to circulate
reports that Joyce Crawford, if she chose, could tell a great deal about
the escape of the Rebel officer. In fact, half of his sickness was
shammed.
These rumors came to the ears of Mark Crawford. He had been promoted to a
colonelcy for gallantry at Chickamauga. During the winter, while the army
lay still around Chattanooga, he had come home on furlough. While at home
he sought out Harmon and gave him as fine a thrashing as a man ever
received, warning him if he ever heard of him connecting his sister with
the escape of Calhoun again he would break every bone in his body. The
only revenge Harmon durst take was to defeat Mr. Crawford in his
aspirations for a nomination for Congress.