THE REMAINS OF TRAGEDY
It must have been the shock of thus realizing suddenly how short a time
remained in which I should have light which restored my senses. I know I
stared at the dim yellow flicker dully at first, and then with a swift
returning consciousness which spurred my brain into activity. In that
instant I hated, despised myself, rebelled at my weakness. Faith in
Claire Mortimer came back to me in a flood of regret. If she had failed,
it was through no fault of hers, and I was no coward to lie there and rot
without making a stern fight for life. When I was found, those who came
upon my body would know that I died struggling, died as a man should,
facing fate with a smile, with hands gripped in the contest. The
resolution served--it was a spur to my pride, instantly driving away
every haunting shadow of evil. Yet where should I turn? To what end
should I devote my energies? It was useless to climb those stairs again.
But there must be a way out. It was impossible to conceive that the
old-time Mortimer--the stern frontiersman who had built this refuge from
possible Indian attack--had made merely a hole in which to hide. That
would have been insanity, for, with the house above aflame, he would have
been cooked to a crisp. No! that was inconceivable; there must have
originally been an exit somewhere. But where? And if discovered would it
be found choked by the _débris_ of a century, a mere _cul de sac_? Surely
none of this present generation knew the existence of any such passage.
Yet it was the single desperate chance remaining, and I dare not let
doubt numb my faculties.
I gripped the old musket as the only instrument at hand, and began
testing the walls. Three sides I rapped, receiving the same dead, dull
response. I was in the darkest corner now, beyond the stairs, still
hopelessly beating the gun barrel against the stone. The dim light
revealed no change in the wall formation, the same irregular expanse of
rubble set in solid mortar, hardened by a century of exposure to the dry
atmosphere. Then to an idle, listless blow there came a hollow, wooden
sound, that caused the heart to leap into the throat. I tried again, a
foot to the left, confident my ears had played me false, but this time
there could be no doubt--there was an opening here back of a wooden
barrier.
Half crazed by this good fortune, I caught up the inch of candle, and
held it before the wall. The dim light scarcely served as an aid, so
ingeniously had the door been painted in resemblance to the mortared
stone. I was compelled to sound again, inch by inch, with the gun barrel
before I could determine the exact dimensions of the opening. Then I
could trace the slight crack where the wood was fitted, nor could I have
done this but for the warping of a board. Wild with apprehension lest my
light fail before the necessary work could be accomplished, I drew out
the single-bladed knife from my pocket, and began widening this crack.
Feverishly as I worked this was slow of accomplishment, yet sliver by
sliver the slight aperture grew, until I wedged in the gun barrel, and
pried out the plank. The rush of air extinguished the candle, yet I cared
nothing, for the air was fresh and pure, promising a clear passage.
God, this was luck! With new courage throbbing through my veins I groped
my way back to the table after flint and steel, and relit the candle
fragment, shadowing the flame with both palms as I returned to where the
plank had been pressed aside. However, I found such precaution
unnecessary, as there was no perceptible draught through the passage now
the opening was clear for the circulation of air. There had been two
planks--thick and of hard wood--composing the entrance to the tunnel, but
I found it impossible to dislodge the second, and was compelled to
squeeze my way through the narrow twelve-inch opening. This was a
difficult task, as I was a man of some weight, but once accomplished I
found myself in a contracted passageway, not to exceed three feet in
width, and perhaps five from floor to roof. Here it was apparently as
well preserved as when first constructed, probably a hundred years or
more ago, the side walls faced with stone, the roof supported by roughly
hewn oak beams. I was convinced there was no great weight of earth
resting upon these, and the tunnel, which I followed without difficulty,
or the discovery of any serious obstruction, for fifty feet, inclined
steadily upward, until, in my judgment, it must have come within a very
few feet of the surface. Here there occurred a sharp turn to the right,
and the excavation advanced almost upon a level.
Knowing nothing of the conformation above, or of the location of
buildings, I was obliged to press forward blindly, conserving the faint
light of the candle, and praying for a free passage. It was an experience
to test the nerves, the intense stillness, the bare, gray walls, cold to
the touch, the beams grazing my head, and upholding that mass of earth
above, the intense darkness before and behind, with only the flickering
radius of yellow light barely illuminating where I trod. Occasionally the
wood creaked ominously, and bits of earth, jarred by my passage, fell
upon me in clods. Altogether it was an experience I have no desire to
repeat, although I was in no actual danger for some distance. Old
Mortimer had built his tunnel well, and through all the years it had held
safely, except where water had soaked through, rotting the timbers. The
candle was sputtering with a final effort to remain alight when I came to
the first serious obstruction. I had barely time in which to mark the
nature of the obstacle before the flame died in the socket, leaving me in
a blackness so profound it was like a weight. For the moment I was
practically paralyzed by fear, my muscles limp, my limbs trembling. Yet
to endeavor to push forward was no more to be dreaded than to attempt
retracing my steps. In one way there was hope; in the other none.
With groping fingers I verified the situation, as that brief glance ere
the candle failed had revealed it. A beam had fallen letting down a mass
of earth, but was wedged in such a way as to leave a small opening above
the floor, barely sufficient for a man to wiggle through. How far even
this slight passage extended, or what worse obstruction lay hidden beyond
was all conjecture. It was a mere chance in which I must risk life in
hope of saving it--I might become helplessly wedged beneath the timbers,
or any movement might precipitate upon me a mass of loosened earth. It
was a horrid thought, the death of a burrowing rat; and I dare not let my
mind dwell upon the dread possibility. Slowly, barely advancing an inch
at a time, I began the venture, my hands blindly groping for the passage,
the cold perspiration bathing my body. The farther I penetrated amid the
_débris_, the greater became the terror dominating me, yet to draw back
was next to impossible. The opening grew more contracted; I could
scarcely force myself forward, digging fingers and toes into the hard
earth floor, the obstructing timber scraping my body. It was an awful,
heartrending struggle, stretched out flat like a snake in the darkness,
the loose earth showering me with each movement. There was more than one
support down; I had to double about to find opening; again and again I
seemed to be against an unsurpassable barrier; twice I dug through a mass
of fallen dirt, once for three solid feet, throwing the loosened earth
either side of me, and pushing it back with my feet, thus utterly
blocking all chance of retreat. Scarcely was this accomplished when
another fall from above came, half burying head and shoulders, and
compelling me to do the work over. The air grew foul and sluggish, but I
was toiling for life, and dug at the _débris_ madly, reckless of what
might fall from above. Better to be crushed, than to die of suffocation,
and the very desperation with which I strove proved my salvation. For
what remained of the roof held, and I struggled through into the firmer
gallery beyond, faint from exhaustion, yet as quickly reviving in the
fresher air. I had reached the end of the passage before I comprehended
the truth. It opened in the side of a gulley, coming out between the
roots of a great tree, and could only have been discovered through
sheerest accident. Years of exposure had plastered the small opening with
clay, and I was compelled to break this away before I could creep through
out into the open air.
I was a wreck in body and mind, my face streaked with earth, my hair
filled with dirt, my clothing torn and disreputable. Laboring for breath,
my fingers raw and bleeding, I lay there, with scarcely enough strength
remaining to keep from rolling to the bottom of the ravine. For some
moments I was incapable of either thought or action, every ounce of
energy having been expended in that last desperate struggle. I lay
panting, with eyes closed, hardly realizing that I was indeed alive.
Slowly, throb by throb, my heart came back into regularity of beat, and
my brain into command. My eyes opened, and I shuddered with horror, as I
recognized that dismal opening into the side of the hill. Clinging to the
tree trunk I attained my feet, still swaying from weakness, and was thus
able to glance about over the edge of the bank, and gain some conception
of my immediate surroundings.
It was early dawn, the eastern sky that shade of pale gray which precedes
the sun, a few, white, fleecy clouds sailing high above, already tinged
with red reflection. I must have been in that earth prison since the
morning of the previous day; it seemed longer, yet even that expiration
of time proved that those who had imprisoned me there had left me to die.
God! I couldn't believe that--not of her! Clear as the evidence appeared,
I yet fought down the thought bitterly, creeping on hands and knees over
the edge of the bank, to where I could sit on the grass, and gaze about
in the growing light. The house was to the left, an apple orchard
between, and a low fence enclosing a garden. I could gain but glimpses of
the mansion through the intervening trees, but it was large, imposing, a
square, old-fashioned house, painted white, with green shutters. It
appeared deserted, and no spirals of smoke ascended from the kitchen
chimney. Apparently not even the servants were yet stirring. However,
there was smoke showing farther to the right, but I had to move before I
could see the cause clearly--the smouldering remains of what must have
been a large barn. I advanced in that direction, skirting the orchard,
and a row of negro cabins. These were deserted, the doors open, and two
of them exhibited evidences of fire. A storehouse had its door battered
in, a huge timber, evidently used as a ram, lying across the threshold,
and many of the boxes and barrels within had been smashed with axes. The
ground all about had been trampled by horses' hoofs, and only a
smouldering fragment of the stables remained.
I stared about perplexed, unable to decipher the meaning of such
destruction. Surely Grant would never dare such a deed with his unarmed
force. Besides Elmhurst was the property of a loyalist, ay! the Colonel
of his regiment. Not even the madness of anger would justify so wanton an
act. The Hessians might be guilty for sake of plunder, but not while
under Grant's command, and knowing they must march under parole through
rebel territory to again attain their own lines. And this had occurred
during the night; indeed, it seemed to me, the raiders must have departed
within an hour, while Grant's column was to take up its march for
Philadelphia as soon as it became dark. Whatever the mystery I could
never hope to solve it loitering there; the house itself would doubtless
reveal the story, and I turned in that direction, skirting the fence, yet
exercising care, for there might still remain defenders within, behind
those green blinds, to mistake me for an enemy. I saw nothing, no sign of
life, as I circled through the trees of the orchard, and came out upon
the grassplot facing the front porch. The sun was up now, and I could
perceive each detail. There was a smashed window to the right, a green
shutter hanging dejectedly by one hinge; the great front door stood wide
open, and the body of a dead man lay across the threshold, a dark stain
of blood extending across the porch floor.