THROUGH THE CAMP OF THE ENEMY
A GLANCE at my watch told me that it was already within a few moments
of midnight. There was, however, no diminution in the festivities, and I
waited in silence until I heard the sentries calling the hour, and then
pressed my way back into the noisy, crowded ballroom. I was stopped
twice by well-meaning officers whom I had met earlier in the evening,
but breaking away from them after the exchange of a sentence or two,
I urged my course as directly as possible toward where the spectacled
brigadier yet held his post as master of ceremonies.
We had been conversing pleasantly for several minutes when Mrs. Brennan
appeared. Standing so as to face the stairs, I saw her first coming
down, and noted that she wore her hat, and had a light walking-cloak
thrown over her shoulders. My heart beat faster as I realized for the
first time that she intended to be my companion.
“Oh, General, I am exceedingly glad to find you yet here,” she exclaimed
as she came up, and extended a neatly gloved hand to him. “I have a
favor to ask which I am told you alone have the authority to grant.”
He bowed gallantly.
“I am very sure,” he returned smilingly, “that Mrs. Brennan will never
request anything which I would not gladly yield.”
She flashed her eyes brightly into his face.
“Most assuredly not. The fact is, General, Colonel Curran, with whom
I see you are already acquainted, was to pass the night at the Major's
quarters, and as he has not yet returned, the duty has naturally
devolved upon me to see our guest safely deposited. We are at the
Mitchell House, you remember, which is beyond the inner lines; and
while, of course, I have been furnished with a pass,” she held up the
paper for his inspection, “and have been also instructed as to the
countersign, I fear this will scarcely suffice for the safe passage of
the Colonel.”
The General laughed good-humoredly, evidently pleased with her
assumption of military knowledge.
“Colonel Curran is certainly to be congratulated upon having found so
charming a guide, madam, and I can assure you I shall most gladly do my
part toward the success of the expedition. The Major was expected back
before this, I believe?”
“He left word that if he had not returned by twelve I was to wait for
him no longer, as he should go directly to his quarters. I find the life
of a soldier to be extremely uncertain.”
“We are our country's servants, madam,” he replied proudly, and then
taking out a pad of blanks from his pocket, turned to me.
“May I ask your full name and rank, Colonel?”
“Patrick L. Curran, Colonel, Sixth Ohio Light Artillery.”
He wrote it down rapidly, tore off the paper, and handed it to me.
“That will take you safely through our inner guard lines,” he said
gravely, “that being as far as my jurisdiction extends. Good-night,
Colonel; good-night, Mrs. Brennan.”
She smiled her good-bye to him, and placed a gloved hand confidingly on
my arm.
“I believe I recall the road and shall find no difficulty in guiding
you,” she said. “At least we cannot go so very far astray.”
How cool and self-possessed she appeared--no hurry, no outward
nervousness marred a single action. I felt my heart throb with new-born
pride of her as I marked the marvellous self-control which characterized
every movement, for I realized now that her risk in the adventure was
scarcely second to my own. As I ventured life, she ventured honor, and I
doubted not hers was the harder task of the two. Yet she gave no outward
sign of struggle; as we crossed the crowded hall I could note no lack of
resolution, no faltering of purpose in either step or voice.
At the door an officer spoke to her.
“Surely you are not leaving us so early, Mrs. Brennan?” he questioned
anxiously. “Why, supper has not even been announced.”
I felt her hand close more tightly upon my arm.
“Unfortunately we must,” she replied, in a tone expressive of deep
regret. “The Major was to go directly to his quarters if he was not here
by midnight, and would surely worry were I still absent. Have you ever
met my friend? Pardon me--Captain Burns, Colonel Curran.”
We bowed ceremoniously, and the next moment Mrs. Brennan and I were out
upon the steps, breathing the cool night air. I glanced curiously at
her face as the gleam of light fell upon it--how calm and reserved she
appeared, and yet her eyes were aglow with intense excitement. At the
foot of the steps she glanced up at the dark, projecting roof far above
us.
“Do you suppose he can possibly be up there yet?” she asked, in a tone
so low as to be inaudible to the ears of the sentry.
“Who? Bungay?” I questioned in surprise, for my thoughts were elsewhere.
“Oh, he was like a cat, and there are trees at the rear. Probably he is
safe long ago, or else a prisoner once more.”
Beyond the gleam of the uncovered windows all was wrapped in complete
darkness, save that here and there we could distinguish the dull red
glare of camp-fires where the company cooks were yet at work, or some
sentry post had been established. All the varied sounds of a congested
camp at night were in the air--the champing and pounding of horses, the
murmur of men's voices, the distant rumbling of heavy wagons, with an
occasional shout, and the noise of axes. It was also evident, from the
numerous flitting lanterns, like so many glow-worms, the late labors of
the cooks, and other unmistakable signs, that active preparations for an
early movement were already well under way.
We turned sharply to the left, and proceeded down a comparatively smooth
road, which seemed to me to possess a rock basis, it felt so hard. From
the position of the stars I judged our course to be eastward, but the
night was sufficiently obscured to shroud all objects more than a few
yards distant. Except for the varied camp noises on either side of us
the evening was oppressively still, and the air had the late chill of
high altitudes. Mrs. Brennan pressed more closely to me as we passed
beyond the narrow zone of light, and unconsciously we fell into step
together.
“Are you chilled?” I asked, bending my head toward her.
“Not in the least; but I must confess to nervousness.”
I think we both recalled my wrapping her in the flapping cavalry cloak
the night we were first alone together, for she added quickly: “I am
quite warmly clothed, and have not far to go.”
One often receives certain impressions without in the least knowing
by what means they are conveyed--some peculiar trick of tone or manner
teaching a lesson the lips refrain from expressing. Some such influence
now, unconsciously exerted possibly, made me feel that my companion
preferred to remain silent; that I could best prove my respect for her
by quietly accepting her guidance without attempting converse. We walked
slowly so as not to attract attention, as it was impossible to say that
we were unobserved. Once she slipped upon a stone and I caught her, but
neither spoke. Then there came the sudden clatter of hoofs on the rocky
road behind us. I drew her swiftly aside within the protecting shadow
of a tree, while a mounted officer rode by us at a slashing gait, his
cavalry cape pulled high over his head, and the iron shoes of his horse
striking fire from the flinty rocks. I could feel the heart of the girl
beating wildly against my arm, but without exchanging so much as a word
we crept back into the dark road and pressed on.
A few hundred yards farther a fire burned redly against a pile of logs.
The forms of several men lay outstretched beside it, while a sentry
paced back and forth, in and out of the range of light. We were almost
upon him before he noted our approach, and in his haste he swung his
musket down from his shoulder until the point of its bayonet nearly
touched my breast.
“Halt!” he cried sternly, peering at us in evident surprise. “Halt! this
road is closed.”
“Valley Forge,” whispered the girl, and I noticed how white her face
appeared in the flaming of the fire.
“The word is all right, Miss,” returned the fellow, stoutly, yet without
lowering his obstructing gun. “But we cannot pass any one out on the
countersign alone. If you was going the other way it would answer.”
“But we are returning from the officers' ball,” she urged anxiously,
“and are on our way to Major Brennan's quarters. We have passes.”
As she drew the paper from out her glove one of the men at the fire
sprang to his feet and strode across the narrow road toward us. He was
smooth of face and boyish looking, but wore corporal's stripes.
“What is it, Mapes?” he asked sharply.
Without waiting an answer he took the paper she held out and scanned it
rapidly.
“This is all right,” he said, handing it back, and lifting his cap in
salute. “You may pass, madam. You must pardon us, but the orders are
exceedingly strict to-night. Have you a pass also, Colonel?” I handed it
to him, and after a single glance it was returned.
“Pass them, guard,” he said curtly, standing aside,
Beyond the radiance of the fire she broke the silence.
“I shall only be able to go with you so far as the summit of the hill
yonder, for our quarters are just to the right, and I could furnish no
excuse for being found beyond that point,” she said. “Do you know enough
of the country to make the lines of your army?”
“If this is the Kendallville pike we are on,” I answered, “I have a
pretty clear conception of what lies ahead, but I should be very glad to
know where I am to look for the outer picket.”
“There is one post at the ford over the White Briar,” she replied. “I
chance to know this because Major Brennan selected the station, and
remarked that the stream was so high and rapid as to be impassable at
any other point for miles. But I regret this is as far as my information
extends.”
There was a moment of silence.
“But how may I ever sufficiently thank you for all you have done for me
to-night?” I exclaimed warmly, pressing her arm to my side as I spoke,
with the intensity of feeling which possessed me.
“I require no thanks, save as expressed by your silence,” she returned,
almost coldly, and slightly withdrawing herself. “I have merely repaid
my indebtedness to you.”
I started to say something--what I hardly know--when, almost without
sound of warning, a little squad of horsemen swept over the brow of the
hill in our front, their forms darkly outlined against the starlit sky,
and rode down toward us at a sharp trot. I had barely time to swing my
companion out of the track when they clattered by, their heads bent low
to the wind, and seemingly oblivious to all save the movements of their
leader.
“Sheridan!” I whispered, for even in that dimness I had not failed to
recognize the short, erect figure which rode in front.
The woman shuddered, and drew closer within my protecting shadow. Then
out of the darkness there burst a solitary rider, his horse limping as
if crippled, and would have ridden us down, had I not flung up one hand
and grasped his bridle-rein.
“Great Scott! what have we here?” he cried roughly, peering down at us.
“By all the gods, a woman!”
The hand upon my arm clutched me desperately, and my own heart seemed to
choke back every utterance. The voice was Brennan's.