UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH
At this late date I doubt greatly if my situation at that time was
so desperate as I then conceived it. I question now whether the death
sentence would ever have been executed. But then, with the memory of
Sheridan's rage and my own hot-headed retort, I fully believed my fate
was destined to be that of the condemned spy, unless she who alone might
tell the whole truth should voluntarily do so. That circumstances had
left me in the power of one whose fierce dislike was already evident was
beyond question, and I had yielded to his goading to such an extent
as to give those in authority every excuse for the exercise of extreme
military power. Yet of one thing I was firmly resolved--no thoughtless
word of mine should ever endanger the reputation of Edith Brennan. Right
or wrong, I would go to a death of dishonor before I would speak without
her authority. Love and pride conspired to make this decision adamant.
There might, indeed, be no reason why I should not speak with utmost
freedom; but as to this I could not judge, and therefore preferred the
safer side of silence. The action of Brennan had impressed this upon me
as a duty; had caused me to feel that I could best serve her by blotting
out the adventures of the night before. Seemingly it was her own
desire, and as a gentleman, an officer, a man of honor, I might not even
question that decree.
Deeply as these considerations would have affected me under ordinary
conditions, one doubt now overshadowed them all. Was the man I struck
the husband of the woman I loved? This was what I desired to know even
above my own fate. I scarcely doubted, yet would not yield the slight
hope I retained that it might prove otherwise. A trick of chance speech
seemed to solve the problem, to answer that question which I durst not
ask directly.
“Come,” said Caton, briefly, and I turned and accompanied him without
thought of resistance. At the front door he ordered the little squad of
waiting soldiers to fall in, and taking me by the arm, led the way
down the gravelled path to the road. I was impressed by his seeming
carelessness, but as we cleared the gateway he spoke, and his words
helped me to comprehend.
“Captain Wayne,” he said quietly, so that the words could not be
overheard, “you do not recognize me, but I was the officer who conducted
you to headquarters when you brought the flag in at Wilson Creek. Of
course I must perform the duty given me, but I wish you to understand
that I wholly believe your word.”
He stopped, extended his hand, and I accepted it silently.
“There must surely be some grave personal reason which seals your lips?”
he questioned.
“There is.”
“I thought as much. I chanced to overhear the words, or rather a
portion of them, which Brennan whispered, and have no doubt if they were
explained to the General he would feel more kindly disposed toward you.”
It was asked as a question, and I felt obliged to reply.
“I appreciate deeply your desire to aid me, but there are circumstances
involving others which compel me for the present to silence. Indeed
my possible fate does not so greatly trouble me, only that I possess
a strong desire to have freedom long enough to cross swords with this
major of yours. The quarrel between us has become bitterly personal, and
I hunger for a chance to have it out. Do you know, is he a man who would
fight?”
The young fellow stiffened slightly.
“We are serving upon the same staff,” he said more abruptly, “and while
we have never been close friends, yet I cannot honorably take sides
against him. He has been out twice within the last three years to my
knowledge, and is not devoid either of courage or skill. Possibly,
however, the arrival of his wife may make him less a fire-eater.”
“His wife?”
I stopped so suddenly that he involuntarily tightened his grip upon my
arm as though suspicious of an attempt to escape.
“Do you,” I asked, gaining some slight control over myself, “refer to
the lady who came in with his party last evening?”
“Most certainly; she was presented to all of us as Mrs. Brennan, she has
been assigned rooms at his quarters, and she wears a wedding-ring. Far
too fine a woman in my judgment for such a master, but then that is not
so uncommon a mistake in marriage. Why, come to think about it, you
must have met her yourself. Have you reason to suspect this is not their
relationship?”
“Not in the least,” I hastened to answer, fearful lest my thoughtless
exclamation might become the basis for camp gossip. “Indeed I was
scarcely in the lady's presence at all coming in, as I was left in
charge of the sergeant.”
He looked at me keenly through the darkness.
“It seems somewhat curious to me that such deep enmity has grown up
between you two in so short a time. One almost suspects, as in most
cases, there may be a woman at the bottom of it.”
I laughed carelessly.
“Not in the least, my friend. But there are indignities a captor can
show to his prisoner which no true gentleman would ever be guilty of and
no soldier would forgive.”
I could see in the torch-light his face flush with sudden indignation.
“You are right,” he returned heartily, “and from my knowledge of Brennan
I can understand your meaning. What business has such a man to possess a
wife?”
Perhaps he felt that he had already said too much, for we tramped on
in silence until we drew near a large, square white building standing
directly beside the road.
“This is the old Culverton tavern, known as the Mansion House,” he
said. “It is a tremendous big building for this country, with as fine a
ballroom in it as I have seen since leaving New York. We utilize it for
almost every military purpose, and among others some of the strong rooms
in the basement are found valuable for the safe-keeping of important
prisoners.”
We mounted the front steps as he was speaking, passing through a cordon
of guards, and in the wide hallway I was turned over to the officer in
charge.
“Good-night, Captain,” said Caton, kindly extending his hand. “You may
rest assured that I shall say all I can in your favor, but it is to be
regretted that Brennan has great influence just now at headquarters, and
Sheridan is not a man to lightly overlook those hasty words you spoke to
him.”
I could only thank him most warmly for his interest, realizing fully
from his grave manner my desperate situation, and follow my silent
conductor down some narrow and steep stairs until we stood upon the
cemented floor of the basement. Here a heavy door in the stone division
wall was opened; I was pushed forward into the dense darkness within,
and the lock clicked dully behind me. So thick was the wall I could not
even distinguish the retreating steps of the jailer.
Tired as I was from the intense strain of the past thirty-six hours,
even my anxious thoughts were insufficient to keep me awake. Feeling my
way cautiously along the wall, I came at last to a wide wooden bench,
and stretching my form at full length upon it, pillowed my head on one
arm, and almost instantly was sound asleep.
When I awoke, sore from my hard bed and stiffened by the uncomfortable
position in which I lay, it was broad daylight. That the morning was,
indeed, well advanced I knew from the single ray of sunlight which
streamed in through a grated window high up in the wall opposite me and
fell like a bar of gold across the rough stone floor. I was alone. Even
in the dark of the previous night I had discovered the sole pretence to
furniture in the place. The room itself proved to be a large and almost
square apartment, probably during the ordinary occupancy of the house a
receptacle for wood or garden produce, but now peculiarly well adapted
to the safeguarding of prisoners.
The solid stone walls were of sufficient height to afford no chance of
reaching the great oak girders that supported the floor above, even
had the doing so offered a favorable opening for escape. There were,
apparently, but three openings of any kind,--the outside window through
which the sunlight streamed, protected by thick bars of iron; a second
opening, quite narrow, and likewise protected by a heavy metal grating;
and the tightly locked door by means of which I had entered. The second,
I concluded, after inspecting it closely, was a mere air passage leading
into some other division of the cellar. I noted these openings idly, and
with scarcely a thought as to the possibility of escape. I had awakened
with strange indifference as to what my fate might be. Such a feeling
was not natural to me, but the fierce emotions of the preceding night
had seemingly robbed me of all my usual buoyancy of hope. In one sense
I yet trusted that Mrs. Brennan would keep her pledge and tell her story
to Sheridan; if she failed to do this, and left me to face the rifles or
the rope, then it made but small odds how soon it should be over. If she
cared for me in the slightest degree she would not let me die unjustly,
and to my mind then she had become the centre of all life.
Despondency is largely a matter of physical condition, and I was still
sufficiently fagged to be in the depths, when the door opened suddenly,
and an ordinary army ration was placed within. The soldier who brought
it did not speak, nor did I attempt to address him; but after
he retired, the appetizing smell of the bacon, together with the
unmistakable flavor of real coffee, drew me irrresistibly that way,
and I made a hearty meal. The food put new life into me, and I fell to
pacing back and forth between the corners of the cell, my mind full of
questioning, yet with a fresh measure of confidence that all would still
be well.
I was yet at it when, without warning, the door once again opened, and
Lieutenant Caton entered. He advanced toward me with outstretched hand,
which I grasped warmly, for I felt how much depended on his friendship,
and resolved to ask him some questions which should solve my last
remaining doubts.
“Captain Wayne,” he began soberly, looking about him, “you are in even
worse stress here than I had supposed, but I shall see to it that you
are furnished with blankets before I leave.”
“You have nothing new, then, to communicate regarding the possibility of
release?” I asked anxiously.
“Alas, no; Brennan appears to hate you with all the animosity of his
strange nature, and his influence is so much stronger than mine that I
have almost been commanded not to mention your name again.”
“But surely,” I urged, “I am to receive the ordinary privilege of a
prisoner of war? General Sheridan will not condemn me without evidence
or trial, merely because in a moment of sudden anger I used hasty words,
which I have ever since regretted?”
Caton shook his head.
“My dear fellow, it is not that. Sheridan is hasty himself, and his
temper often leads him to rash language. No, I am sure he bears you no
malice for what you said. But Brennan has his ear, and has whispered
something to him in confidence--what, I have been unable to
ascertain--which has convinced him that you are deserving of death under
martial law.”
“Without trial?”
“The opportunity of furnishing the information desired will be again
offered you; but, as near as I can learn, the charge preferred against
you is of such a private nature that it is deemed best not to make
it matter for camp talk. Whatever it may be, Sheridan evidently feels
justified in taking the case out from the usual channels, and in using
most drastic measures. I am sorry to bring you such news, especially
as I believe the charges are largely concocted in the brain of him who
makes them, and have but the thinnest circumstantial evidence to
sustain them. Yet Sheridan is thoroughly convinced, and will brook no
interference. The discussion of the case has already led to his using
extremely harsh words to his chief of staff.”
“I am to be shot, then?”
His hand closed warmly over mine. “While there is life there is always
hope,” he answered. “Surely it must be in your power to prove the nature
of your mission within our lines, and the delay thus gained will enable
us to learn and meet these more serious allegations.”
“If I but had time to communicate with General Lee.”
“But now--is there no one, no way by which such representation can
be given this very day? If not full proof of your innocence, then
sufficient, at least, to cause the necessary delay?”
I shook my head. “I know of nothing other than my own unsupported word,”
I answered shortly, “and that is evidently of no value as against Major
Brennan's secret insinuations. When is the hour set?”
“I am not positive that final decision has yet been reached, but I heard
daybreak to-morrow mentioned. The probability of an early movement of
our troops is the excuse urged for such unseemly haste.”
I remained silent for a moment, conscious only of his kindly eyes
reading my face.
“Mrs. Brennan,” I asked finally, recurring to the one thought in which I
retained deep interest,--“does she still remain in the camp?”
“She was with the Major at headquarters this morning. I believe they
breakfasted with the General, but I was on duty so late last night that
I overslept, and thus missed the pleasure of meeting her again.”
We talked for some time longer, and he continued to urge me for some
further word, but I could give him none, and finally the kindly fellow
departed, promising to see me again within a few hours. Greatly as I now
valued his friendship, it was, nevertheless, a relief to be alone with
my thoughts once more.