with the clean sheet spread the night before, and swept the floor.
On the table she had discovered, carefully folded up, the greater
portion of a stocking, knitting needles still sticking in it, the ball
of gray yarn attached. But she could not endure to sit there; she must
have more space to watch for what she knew was coming. Her hair she
twisted up as best she might, set the pink sunbonnet on her head,
smoothed out the worn print dress, which was not long enough to hide her
slim bare ankles, and went out, taking her knitting with her.
Upon the hill along the edges of the pasture where the woods cast a
luminous shadow she found a comfortable seat in the sun-dried grasses,
and here she curled up, examining the knitting in her hands, eyes lifted
every moment to steal a glance around the sunlit solitude.
An hour crept by, marked by the sun in mounting splendor; the sweet
scent of drying grass and fern filled her lungs; the birds' choral
thrilled her with the loveliness of life. A little Southern song
trembled on her lips, and her hushed voice murmuring was soft as the
wild bees' humming:
"Ah, who could couple thought of war and crime
With such a blessed time?
Who, in the west wind's aromatic breath,
Could hear the call of Death?"
The gentle Southern poet's flowing rhythm was echoed by the distant
stream:
" ... A fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings--you know not why--
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant----"
She lifted her eyes, fixing them upon the willow thicket below, where
the green tops swayed as though furrowed by a sudden wind; and watching
calmly, her lips whispered on, following the quaint rhythm:
"And yet no sooner shall the Spring awake
The voice of wood and brake
Than she shall rouse--for all her tranquil charms--
A million men to arms."
The willow tops were tossing violently. She watched them, murmuring:
"Oh! standing on this desecrated mold,
Methinks that I behold,
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring--kneeling on the sod,
And calling with the voice of all her rills
Upon the ancient hills
To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves
Who turn her meads to graves."
Her whisper ceased; she sat, lips parted, eyes fastened on the willows.
Suddenly a horseman broke through the thicket, then another, another,
carbines slung, sabres jingling, rider following rider at a canter,
sitting their horses superbly--the graceful, reckless, matchless cavalry
under whose glittering gray curtain the most magnificent army that the
South ever saw was moving straight into the heart of the Union.
Fascinated, she watched an officer dismount, advance to the house, enter
the open doorway, and disappear. Minute after minute passed; the
troopers quietly sat their saddles; the frightened chickens ventured
back, roaming curiously about these strange horses that stood there
stamping, whisking their tails, tossing impatient heads in the sunshine.
Presently the officer reappeared and walked straight to the barn, a
trooper dismounting to follow him. They remained in the barn for a few
moments only, then hurried out again, heads raised, scanning the low
circling hills. Ah! Now they caught sight of her! She saw the officer
come swinging up the hillside, buttons, spurs, and sword hilt glittering
in the sun; she watched his coming with a calm almost terrible in its
breathless concentration. Nearer, nearer he came, mounting the easy
slope with a quick, boyish swing; and now he had halted, slouch hat
aloft; and she heard his pleasant, youthful voice:
"I reckon you haven't seen a stranger pass this way, ma'am, have you?"
"There was a lady came last night," she answered innocently.
"That's the one!" he said, in his quick, eager voice. "Can you tell me
where she went?"
"She said she was going west."
"Has she gone?"
"She left the house when I did," answered the girl simply.
"Riding!" he exclaimed. "She came on a hoss, I reckon?"
"Yes."
"And she rode west?"
"I saw her going west," she nodded, resuming her knitting.
The officer turned toward the troopers below, drew out a handkerchief
and whipped the air with it for a second or two, then made a sweeping
motion with his arm, and drawing his sabre struck it downward four
times.
Instantly the knot of troopers fell apart, scattering out and spurring
westward in diverging lines; the officer watched them until the last
horse had disappeared, then he lazily sheathed his sabre, unbuckled a
field glass, adjusted it, and seated himself on the grass beside her.
"Have you lived here long?" he asked pleasantly, setting the glass to
his eye and carefully readjusting the lens.
"No."
"Your father is living, is he not?"
She did not reply.
"I reckon Gilson's command met him a piece back in the scrub, driving a
wagon and a fine horse."
She said nothing; her steady fingers worked the needles, and presently
he heard her softly counting the stitches as she turned the heel.
"He said we'd find his 'Cynthy' here," observed the youthful officer,
lowering his glass. "Are you Cynthia Gray, ma'am?"
"He named me Cynthia," she said, with a smile.
He plucked a blade of grass, and placing it between his white teeth,
gazed at her so steadily that she dropped a stitch, recovered it, and
presently he saw her lips resuming the silent count. He reseated himself
on the grass, laying his field glass beside him.
"I reckon your folk are all Yankee," he ventured softly.
She nodded.
"Are you afraid of us? Do you hate us, ma'am?"
She shook her head, stealing a glance at him from her lovely eyes. If
that was part of her profession, she had learned it well; for he laughed
and stretched out, resting easily on one elbow, looking up at her
admiringly under her faded sunbonnet.
"Are you ever lonely here?" he inquired gravely.
Again her dark eyes rested on him shyly, but she shook her head in
silence.
"Never lonely without anybody to talk to?" he persisted, removing his
slouched army hat and passing his hands over his forehead.
"What have I to say to anybody?" she asked coquettishly.
A little breeze sprang up, stirring his curly hair and fluttering the
dangling strings of her sunbonnet. He lay at full length there, a
slender, athletic figure in his faded gray uniform, idly pulling the
grass up to twist and braid into a thin green rope.
The strange exhilaration that danger had brought had now subsided; she
glanced at him indifferently, noting the well-shaped head, the boyish
outlines of face and figure. He was no older than she--and not very wise
for his years.
Presently, very far away, the dulled report of a carbine sounded,
stirring a deadened echo among the hills.
"What's that?" she exclaimed.
"Yank, I reckon," he drawled, rising to his feet and fixing his field
glass steadily on the hills beyond.
"Are you going to have a battle here?" she asked.
He laughed. "Oh, no, Miss Cynthia. That's only bushwhacking."
"But--but where are they shooting?"
He pointed to the west. "There's Yankee cavalry loafing in the hills. I
reckon we'll gobble 'em, too. But don't _you_ worry, Miss Cynthia," he
added gallantly. "_I_ shall be here to-night, and by sunrise there won't
be a soldier within ten miles of you."
"Within ten miles," she murmured; "ten miles is too near. I--I think I
will go back to the house."
He looked down at her; she raised her dark eyes to him; then he bowed
and gallantly held out both hands, and she laid her hands in his,
suffering him to lift her to her feet.
The brief contact set the color mounting to his sunburnt temples; it had
been a long while since he had touched a young girl's hand.
"I wonder," she said, "whether you would care to share my dinner?"
She spoke naturally, curiously; all idea of danger was over; she was
free to follow her own instincts, which were amiable. Besides, the boy
was a gentleman.
"If it wouldn't be too much to ask--too inconvenient--" He hesitated,
hat in hand, handsome face brightening.
"No; I want you to come," she answered simply, and took his hand in
hers.
A deeper color swept his face as they descended the gentle slope
together, she amused and quietly diverted by his shyness, and thinking
how she meant to give this boyish rebel a better dinner than he had had
for many a long mile.
And she did, he aiding her with the vegetables, she mixing johnnycake
for the entire squad, slicing the bacon, and setting the coffee to boil.
Toward midday the scouting squad returned, to find their officer
shelling peas on the cabin steps, and a young girl, sleeves at her
shoulders, stirring something very vigorously in a large black
kettle--something that exhaled an odor which made the lank troopers lick
their gaunt lips in furtive hope.
The sergeant of the troop reported; the officer nodded and waved the
horsemen away to the barn, where they were presently seen squatting
patiently in a row, sniffing the aroma that floated from the cabin door.
"Did your men find the lady?" she asked, looking out at him where he
sat, busy with the peas.
"No, Miss Cynthia. But if she went west she's run into the whole
Confederate cavalry. Our business is to see she doesn't double back
here."
"Why do you follow her?"
"Ah, Miss Cynthia," he said gravely, "she is that 'Special Messenger'
who has done us more damage than a whole Yankee army corps. We've got
to stop her this time--and I reckon we will."
The girl stirred the soup, salted it, peppered it, lifted the pewter
spoon and tasted it. Presently she called for the peas.
About two o'clock that afternoon a row of half-famished Confederate
cavalrymen sat devouring the best dinner they had eaten in months. There
was potato soup, there was johnnycake, smoking hot coffee, crisp slices
of fragrant bacon, an egg apiece, and a vegetable stew. Trooper after
trooper licked fingers, spoon, and pannikin, loosening leather belts
with gratified sighs; the pickets came cantering in when the relief,
stuffed to repletion, took their places, carbine on thigh.
Flushed from the heat of the stove, arms still bared, the young hostess
sat at table with the officer in command, and watched him in sympathy as
he ate.
She herself ate little, tasting a morsel here and there, drinking at
times from the cup of milk beside her.
"I declare, Miss Cynthia," he said, again and again, "this is the finest
banquet, ma'am, that I ever sat down to."
She only thought, "The boy was starving!" and the indulgent smile
deepened as she sat there watching him, chin resting on her linked
hands.
At last he was satisfied, and a little ashamed, too, of his appetite,
but she told him it was a pleasure to cook for him, and sent him off to
the barn, where presently she spied him propped up in the loft window, a
map spread on his knees, and his field glass tucked under one arm.
And now she had leisure to think again, and she leaned back in her chair
by the window, bared arms folded, ankles crossed, frowning in
meditation.
She must go; the back trail was clear now. But she needed her own
clothing and a horse. Where could she find a horse?
Hour after hour she sat there. He had cantered off into the woods long
since; and all through the long afternoon she sat there scheming,
pondering, a veiled sparkle playing under her half-closed lids. She saw
him returning in the last lingering sun rays, leading his saddled horse
down to the brook, and stand there, one arm flung across the crupper,
while the horse drank and shook his thoroughbred head and lipped the
tender foliage that overhung the water. There was the horse she
required! She must have him.
A few minutes later, bridle over one arm, the young officer came
sauntering up to the doorstep. He was pale, but he smiled when he saw
her, and his weather-beaten hat swept the grass in salute as she came to
the door and looked down at him, hands clasped behind her slender back.
"You look dreadfully tired," she said gently. "Don't you ever sleep?"
He had been forty-eight hours in the saddle, but he only laughed a gay
denial of fatigue.
She descended the steps, walked over to the horse, and patted neck and
shoulder, scanning limb and chest and flank. The horse would do!
"Will you hitch your horse and come in?" she asked sweetly.
"Thank you, ma'am." He passed the bridle through the hitching ring at
the door, and, hat in hand, followed her into the cabin. His boots
dragged a little, but he straightened up, and when she had seated
herself, he sank into a chair, closing his sunken eyes for a moment,
only to open them smiling, and lean forward on the rough table, folding
his arms under him.
"You have been very good to us, Miss Cynthia," he said. "My men want me
to say so."
"Your men are welcome," she answered, resting her cheek on her hand.
There was a long silence, broken by her: "You are dying for sleep. Why
do you deny it? You may lie down on my bed if you wish."
He protested, thanking her, but said he would be glad to sleep in the
hay if she permitted; and he rose, steadying himself by the back of his
chair.
"I always sleep bridle in hand," he said. "A barn floor is luxury for my
horse and me."
That would not do. The horse must remain. She _must_ have that horse!
"I will watch your horse," she said. "Please lie down there. I really
wish it."
"Why, ma'am, I should never venture----"
She looked at him; her heart laughed with content. Here was an easy way
for stern necessity.
"Sleep soundly," she said, with a gay smile; and before he could
interpose, she had slipped out and shut the door behind her.
The evening was calm; the last traces of color were fading from the
zenith. Pacing the circle of the cabin clearing, she counted the
videttes--one in the western pasture, one sitting his saddle in the
forest road to the east, and a horseman to the south, scarcely visible
in the gathering twilight. She passed the barnyard, head lifted
pensively, carefully counting the horses tethered there. Twelve! Then
there was no guard for the northern cattle path--the trail over which
she and they had come!
Now walking slowly back to the cabin, she dropped her slippers and
mounted the steps on bare feet, quietly opening the door. At first in
the dim light she could see nothing, then her keen ear caught the quiet
sound of his breathing, and she stole over to the bed. He lay there
asleep.
Now seconds meant eternity, perhaps; she mounted the ladder to the
attic, tiptoed over the loose boards, felt around for her packet, and
loosened the blanket.
By sense of touch alone she dressed, belting in the habit with her
girdle, listening, every sense alert. But her hand never shook, her
fingers were deft and steady, fastening button and buckle, looping up
her skirt, strapping the revolver to her girdle. She folded map and
papers noiselessly, tucking them into her bosom; then, carrying her
spurred boots, she crept across the boards again, and descended the
ladder without a sound.
The fading light from the window fell upon the bed where he lay; and she
smiled almost tenderly as she stole by him, he looked so young lying
there, his curly head pillowed on his arms.
Another step and she was beside him; another; she stopped short, and her
heart seemed to cease at the same instant. Was she deceived? Were his
eyes wide open?
Suddenly he sat bolt-upright in the bed, and at the same instant she
bent and struck him a stunning blow with the butt of her revolver.
Breathless, motionless, she saw him fall back and lie there without a
quiver; presently she leaned over him, tore open his jacket and shirt,
and laid her steady hand upon his heart. For a moment she remained
there, looking down into his face; then with a sob she bent and kissed
him on the lips.
* * * * *
At midnight, as she was riding out of the hill scrub, a mounted vidette
hailed her on the Gettysburg pike, holding her there while horseman
after horseman galloped up, and the officer of the guard came cantering
across the fields at the far summons.
A lantern glimmered, flared up; there was a laugh, the sound of a dozen
horses backing, a low voice: "Pass! Special Messenger for headquarters!"
Then the lantern-light flashed and went out; shadowy horsemen wheeled
away east and west, trotting silently to posts across the sod.
Far away among the hills the Special Messenger was riding through the
night, head bent, tight-lipped, her dark eyes wet with tears.
III
ABSOLUTION
Just before daylight the unshaven sentinels at headquarters halted her;
a lank corporal arrived, swinging a lighted lantern, which threw a
yellow radiance over horse and rider. Then she dismounted.
Mud smeared her riding jacket; boots and skirt were clotted with it; so
was the single army spur. Her horse stretched a glossy, sweating neck
and rolled wisely-suspicious eyes at the dazzling light. On the gray
saddle cloth glimmered three gilt letters, C. S. A.
"What name, ma'am?" repeated the corporal, coming closer with lifted
lantern, and passing an inquiring thumb over the ominous letters
embroidered on the saddle cloth.
"No name," she said. "They will understand--inside there."
"That your hoss, ma'am?"
"It seems to be."
"Swap him with a Johnny?"
"No; took him from a Johnny."
"Shucks!" said the corporal, examining the gilt letters. Then, looking
around at her:
"Wa'll, the ginrall, he's some busy."
"Please say that his messenger is here."
"Orders is formuel, ma'am. I dassent----"
She pronounced a word under her breath.
"Hey?"
She nodded.
"Tain't _her_?" demanded the corporal incredulously.
She nodded again. The corporal's lantern and jaw dropped in unison.
"Speak low," she said, smiling.
He leaned toward her; she drew nearer, inclining her pretty, disheveled
head with its disordered braids curling into witchlocks on her
shoulders.
"'Tain't _the_ Special Messenger, ma'am, is it?" he inquired hoarsely.
"The boys is tellin' how you was ketched down to----"
She made him a sign for silence as the officer of the guard came up--an
ill-tempered, heavily-bandaged young man.
"What the ----" he began, but, seeing a woman's muddy skirt in the
lantern light, checked his speech.
The corporal whispered in his ear; both stared. "I guess it's all
right," said the officer. "Won't you come in? The general is asleep;
he's got half an hour more, but I'll wake him if you say so."
"I can wait half an hour."
"Take her horse," said the officer briefly, then led the way up the
steps of a white porch buried under trumpet vines in heavy bloom.
The door stood open, so did every window on the ground floor, for the
July night was hot. A sentry stood inside the wide hall, resting on his
rifle, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cap pushed back on his flushed
young forehead.
There was a candle burning in the room on the right; an old artillery
officer leaned over the center table, asleep, round, red face buried in
his arms, sabre tucked snugly between his legs, like the tail of a
sleeping dog; an aide-de-camp slept heavily on a mahogany sofa, jacket
unbuttoned, showing the white, powerful muscles of his chest, all
glistening with perspiration. Beside the open window sat a thin figure
in the uniform of a signal officer, and at first when the Special
Messenger looked at him she thought he also was asleep.
Then, as though her entrance had awakened him, he straightened up,
passed one long hand over his face, looked at her through the
candlelight, and rose with a grace too unconscious not to have been
inherited.
The bandaged officer of the guard made a slovenly gesture, half salute,
half indicative: "The Messenger," he announced, and, half turning on his
heel as he left the room, "our signal officer, Captain West," in
deference to a convention almost forgotten.
Captain West drew forward an armchair; the Special Messenger sank into
its tufted depths and stripped the gauntlets from her sun-tanned
hands--narrow hands, smooth as a child's, now wearily coiling up the
lustrous braids which sagged to her shoulders under the felt riding
hat. And all the while, from beneath level brows, her dark, distrait
eyes were wandering from the signal officer to the sleeping major of
artillery, to the aide snoring on the sofa, to the trumpet vines hanging
motionless outside the open window. But all she really saw was Captain
West.
He appeared somewhat young and thin, his blond hair and mustache were
burned hay-color. He was adjusting eyeglasses to a narrow, well-cut
nose; under a scanty mustache his mouth had fallen into pleasant lines,
the nearsighted eyes, now regarding her normally from behind the
glasses, seemed clear, unusually pleasant, even a trifle mischievous.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked respectfully.
"After the general is awake--if I might have the use of a room--and a
little fresh water--" Speech died in her throat; some of the color died
in her face, too.
"Did you wish me to awake him now? If your business is urgent I will,"
said Captain West.
She did not reply; an imperceptible twitching tightened her lips; then
the young mouth relaxed, drooping a trifle at the corners. Lying there,
so outwardly calm, her tired, faraway gaze fixed absently on him, she
seemed on the verge of slumber.
"If your business is urgent," he was repeating pleasantly. But she made
no answer.
Urgent? No, not now. It had been urgent a second or two ago. But not
now. There was time--time to lie there looking at him, time to try to
realize such things as triumph, accomplishment, the excitement of
achievement; time to relax from the long, long strain and lie nerveless,
without strength, yielding languidly to the reaction from a task well
done.
So this was success? A pitiful curiosity made her eyes wistful for an
instant. Success? It had not come as she expected.
Was her long quest over? Was this the finish? Had all ended here--here
at headquarters, whither she had returned to take up, patiently, the
lost trail once more?
Her dark gaze rested on this man dreamily; but her heart, after its
first painful bound of astonishment, was beating now with heavy,
sickened intelligence. The triumph had come too suddenly.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She was not hungry. There was a bucket of water and a soldier's tin cup
on the window sill; and, forestalling him instinctively, she reached
over, plunged the cup into the tepid depths and drank.
"I was going to offer you some," he said, amused; and over the brimming
cup she smiled back, shuddering.
"If you care to lie down for a few moments I'll move that youngster off
the sofa," he suggested.
But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.
"Can't you sleep? You are white as death. I'll call you in an hour," he
ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so
terrible in her ears--so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable
tremor of revolt.
"What did you ask me?"
"I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour----"
Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more
merciful to her at this time to-morrow--or the next day--or ever again.
And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying
every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin,
muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced
with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well
groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field
glasses and holster.
"Are you the famous Special Messenger?--if it is not a military
indiscretion to name you," he asked, with a glint of humor in his
pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered
there, too--the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly
daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had
thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably
conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to
recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly
feeling came over her--faintness, which passed--repugnance, which gave
birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary
necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every
chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was
afraid of herself--of failing in duty; she understood that she _could_
not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No;
there was more for her to do, a chance--barely a miracle of chance--that
she might be mistaken.