ENTOMBED
I had not suspected it; however obvious it may appear now to those who
read this tale, the possibility that she had been masquerading in an
officer's uniform, indulging in warlike deeds, had never once occurred to
me. She was so thoroughly feminine that her acknowledgment came as a
distinct shock. I had, it is true, seen sufficient of life to be of
charitable mind, and yet there was that within me which instantly
revolted. She read all this in my face, but fronted me without the quiver
of an eyelash, firmly withdrawing her hand.
"It is easy to perceive your disapproval," she said more coldly, "but I
have no further explanation to make. I am sorry to have you think ill of
me, but I felt that perhaps you might realize my action was justified."
"It is not that," I hastened to explain, ashamed of myself. "I have not
lost faith in you. But I was brought up in a strict school; my mother was
almost puritanical in her rules of conduct, and I have never entirely
outgrown her conception of feminine limitations. I am sure you have only
done what is right and womanly. Do not permit my first surprise to end
our friendship."
"That is for you to determine, Major Lawrence. I have confessed, and thus
cleared my conscience of deceit. Some day you may also learn the cause of
my action, but in the meantime it must bear your disapproval. However, we
need discuss the matter no longer--"
She sprang to the door, and glanced out into the hall, stepping back once
more as Peter appeared. His eyes swept the room in silent observation.
"Captain Grant and the two officers with him have concluded their meal,
Mistress Claire," he announced calmly, "and one of them has gone for a
file of soldiers to begin the search of the house."
"Very well, Peter; go back and assist them. I will see to the safe
concealment of Major Lawrence."
He bowed graciously, and disappeared.
"You have not given me your pardon," I implored as our eyes again met.
"There is nothing to pardon, to my knowledge. I respect you because of
your sense of propriety, but we cannot talk longer now. You must enter
the passage at once."
"You will give me your hand first?"
"Gladly," and I felt its firm pressure, her face brightened by a smile.
"Now let us remember rather the danger, the necessity of concealment, and
not delay too long. Wait a moment, Major; is it true you absolutely trust
me?"
"It certainly is."
"I am going to put that to the test. You have papers you desire to give
at once into the hands of General Washington. You may be detained here
some time, but I have with me an Indian who could take them across the
Delaware to-night. It is not the first time he has made that journey.
Will you confide them to me?"
Our eyes were looking directly into each other. I may have hesitated an
instant, confused by the unexpected request, yet there was something in
the expression of the girl's face which swept doubt swiftly aside. I
could not question her honesty, her faith. Strange as her actions seemed
I was compelled to trust her. Why should I not? She was saving my life,
and she had it in her power, by the mere speaking of a word, to betray me
to those who would take the papers from me by force. Without a word I
took them from an inner pocket, and gave them to her. The red lips
smiled, the blue eyes brightening.
"Tonepah shall leave within the hour," she promised, thrusting the small
packet into the bosom of her dress. "Now step within, Major, and I will
close the door."
I did as she requested, hearing the click of the lock behind me, and
being as instantly plunged into darkness. I waited a moment, my foot upon
the first narrow stair, listening. No sound reached me from without, and,
with her animated face still before me in memory, I began to slowly feel
my way down the circular staircase. There was nothing dangerous about the
passage, but with only the bare stone wall to touch with the hand I was
obliged to grope along blindly. The huge chimney had evidently been
erected merely for concealment, and I marvelled at the ingenuity of its
construction. I failed to count the steps, but I went around and around
so many times, pressed against the smooth wall, that I knew I must be
well below the basement of the house before I finally stood at the
bottom. I groped forward in the intense darkness, feeling with
outstretched hands. The first object encountered was a rough table, the
surface of which I explored, discovering thereon a candlestick with flint
and steel beside it. With relief I struck a spark, and a yellow flame
revealed my surroundings.
What I saw was a low room some fifteen feet square, the walls and roof
apparently of stone securely mortared, the only exit the narrow circular
stairs. The floor was of earth. Opposite me was a bunk slightly elevated,
containing a blanket or two, and a fairly comfortable chair built from a
barrel. An old coat and hat hung from a nail at the head of the bunk. On
a shelf near by was an earthen crock, and two candles, and beneath this,
on the floor, was a sawed-off gun and two pistols, with a small supply of
powder and balls, the former wrapped in an oiled cloth. It was in truth a
gloomy, desolate hole, although dry enough. For want of something better
to do I went over and picked up the pistols; the lock of one was broken,
but the other seemed serviceable, and, after snapping the flint, I loaded
the weapon, and slipped it into my pocket. Somehow its possession yielded
me a new measure of courage, although I had no reason to suppose I would
be called upon to use the ancient relic.
There was little to examine, but I tramped about nervously, tapping the
walls, and convincing myself of their solidity, and, finally, tired by
this useless exercise, seated myself in the chair. It was like being
buried in a tomb, not a sound reaching my strained ears, but at last the
spirit of depression vanished, and my mind began to grapple with the
problems confronting me. I felt no regret at having entrusted my papers
to Mistress Mortimer. There was no occasion for her attempting to trick
me, and the contents of the packet were not sufficiently important to
cause me any great worriment. Besides, I was beginning to believe that
the sympathies of the girl were altogether with us. If so, what was she
doing, or attempting to do? It could be no light undertaking which had
led her to assume male attire, and enter upon the adventure of the
evening before. She was evidently making use of the resemblance between
herself and her brother to accomplish concealment. Yet for what purpose?
to serve which cause? The best I could do was to guess blindly at the
answer. Let that be what it might, my own personal faith in her should
not waver. I had looked down into the depth of those blue eyes and read
truth there; I had felt the clasp of her warm hand and it held me firm.
My heart beat more rapidly as I reviewed all that had transpired between
us, and I began to realize how deep was the interest with which she had
already inspired me. I had met many women--daughters of the best
homes--but never before a Claire Mortimer. The very mystery with which
she was invested lured me to her, and yet beyond this there existed a
charm indefinable that held me captive. She was a gay, laughing spirit,
but with a steadiness of character in reserve ever provocative of
surprise. I could never be sure which mood was uppermost, or which best
represented the real womanhood. Nor could I decide in which guise she
appealed to me the most. Hers was a witchery yielding no opportunity for
escape.
Heaven alone knows how long I remained there motionless, my mind
elsewhere, drifting idly backward to the old home, reviewing the years of
war that had transformed me from boy to man as though by some magic. The
varied incidents of march, camp, and battle were like dreams, so swiftly
did they pass across the retina of the brain, each stirring event leading
to another as I climbed from the ranks to command. Yet at the end of all
came again the vision of Claire Mortimer, and I was seeing in her blue
eyes the hope of the future. The candle sputtering fitfully aroused me to
the passing of time, and I lit another, and placed it in the candlestick.
Surely the search of the house would be completed by this time, but
perhaps the intention was to keep me concealed until Grant and his men
had finally departed.
The silence and loneliness caused me to become restless. I could not
entirely throw off the sense of being buried alive in this dismal hole. I
wondered if there was any way of escape, if that secret door was not
locked and unlocked only from without. A desire to ascertain led me to
take candle in hand, and climb the circular staircase, examining the wall
as I passed upward. The interior of the chimney revealed nothing. While I
felt convinced there must also be a false fireplace on the first floor,
so as to carry out the deception, the dim candle light made no revealment
of its position. I could judge very nearly where it should appear, and I
sounded the wall thereabout carefully both above and below without
result. Nor did any noise reach me to disclose a thinness of partition.
Convinced of the solidity of the wall at this spot I continued higher
until I came to the end of the passage. To my surprise the conditions
here were practically the same. Had I not entered at this point I could
never have been convinced that there was an opening. From within it
defied discovery, for nothing confronted my eyes but mortared stone. I
could trace no crack, no semblance of a hinge, no secret spring. I felt
along the surface, inch by inch, with my finger tips, pressing against
each slight irregularity, but without result. My ear held to the side
wall heard nothing--apparently I was sealed in helplessly, but for the
assistance of friends without; no effort on my part could ever bring
release. For a moment, as I realized all this, the cold perspiration
stood in drops upon my forehead, and I noted the trembling of the hand
holding the candlestick. There was a horror to the thought hard to
explain--perhaps I would be left immured until my small stock of candles
was exhausted, and this dismal hole plunged in cave-like darkness; only
two persons knew of my predicament, or were capable of releasing me. What
if something should occur making it impossible for either to act? What if
this was a trick, and I had been actually buried alive? I grew morbid,
suspicious, almost convinced that I was the victim of conspiracy. Then,
somehow, a flash of courage returned, and I caught at these fears, as
memory of those honest blue eyes came again. I would not permit such a
thought to dominate me; it was not possible--the very conception was
insanity.
Yet I went over the rough surface again before retracing my steps down to
the room below. All this must have taken fully an hour of time, and the
strain of disappointment left me tired, as though I had done a day's
work. I sank back into the chair, watching the candle burn away, trying
in vain to think out some course of action if those above failed me. I
had no reason to believe they would, and yet the long time I had been
there--apparently much longer than it really was--the certainty that my
means of light were fast being exhausted, the awful silence and
loneliness, left upon me a horror against which I struggled in vain. I
can hardly conceive that I slept, and yet I certainly lost consciousness,
for, when I aroused myself, I was in pitch darkness.
I felt dazed, bewildered, but as my hand felt the edge of the table I
comprehended where I was, and what had occurred. Groping about I found
flint and steel, and that last candle, which I forced into the
candlestick. The tiny yellow flame was like a message from the gods. How
I watched it, every nerve tingling, as it burned lower and lower. Would
it last until help came, or was I destined to remain pinned up in the
darkness of this ghastly grave? Why, I must have been there for
hours--hours. The burning out of the candles proved that. Surely I could
doubt no longer this was a trick, a cowardly, cruel trick! If help had
been coming it would have reached me before this. The day must have
passed, and much of the night. Grant and his party would have marched
away long before this on the road to Philadelphia. What could have
occurred, then, to prevent Peter or the girl from setting me free? Could
they have been forced into accompanying the soldiers? Could they have
forgotten? Could they deliberately leave me there to die?
My brain whirled with incipient madness, as such questions haunted me
unceasingly. I lost faith in everything, even her, and cursed aloud,
hating the echoes of my own voice. It seemed as though those walls, that
low roof, were crushing me, as if the close, foul air was suffocating. I
recall tearing open the front of my shirt to gain easier breath. I walked
about beating with bare hands the rough stone, muttering to myself words
without meaning. The candle had burned down until barely an inch
remained.