"I'll tell you why. I lived in New York, but I thought the South was in
the right. Then they drafted me; and I tried to tell them it was an
outrage, but they gave me the choice between Fort Lafayette and Kay's
Cavalry.... And I took the Cavalry and waited.... I wouldn't have gone
as far as to fight against the flag--if they had let me alone.... I only
had my private opinion that the South was more in the right than we--the
North--was.... I'm old enough to have an opinion about niggers, and I'm
no coward either.... They drove me to this; I didn't want to kill people
who were more in the right than we were.... But they made me enlist--and
I couldn't stand it.... And now, if I've got to fight, I'll fight
bullies and brutes who----"
He ended with a gesture--an angry, foolish boast, shaking his weapon
toward the north. Then, hot, panting, sullenly sensible of his fatigue,
he laid the pistol on the table and glowered at the floor.
She could have taken him, unarmed, at any moment, now.
"Soldier," she said gently, "listen to me."
He looked up with heavy-lidded eyes.
"I am trying to help you to safety," she said.
A hot flush of mortification mantled his face:
"Thank you.... I ought to have known; I--I am ashamed of what I
said--what I did."
"You were only a little frightened; I am not angry."
"You understand, don't you?"
"A--little."
"You are Southern, then?" he said; and in spite of himself his heavy
lids began to droop again.
"No; Northern," she replied.
His eyes flew wide open at that, and he straightened up in his chair.
"Are you afraid of me, Soldier?"
"No," he said, ashamed again. "But--you're going to tell on me after I
am gone."
"No."
"Why not?" he demanded suspiciously.
She leaned both elbows on the table, and resting her chin on both palms,
smiled at him.
"Because," she said, "you are going to tell on yourself, Roy."
"What!" he blurted out in angry astonishment.
"You are going to tell on yourself.... You are going back to your
regiment.... It will be your own idea, too; it _has_ been your own idea
all the while--your secret desire every moment since you deserted----"
"Are you crazy!" he cried, aghast; "or do you think I am?"
"--ever since you deserted," she went on, dark eyes looking deep into
his, "it has been your desire to go back.... Fear held you; rage
hardened your heart; dread of death as your punishment; angry brooding
on what you believed was a terrible injustice done you--all these drove
you to panic.... Don't scowl at me: don't say what is on your lips to
say. You are only a tired, frightened boy--scarcely eighteen, are you?
And at eighteen no heart can really be a traitor."
"Traitor!" he repeated, losing all his angry color.
"It is a bad word, isn't it, Roy? Lying hidden and starving in the
forest through the black nights you had to fight that word away from
you--drive it out of your half-crazed senses--often--didn't you? Don't
you think I know, my boy, what a dreadful future you faced, lying there
through the stifling nights while they hunted you to hang you?
"I know, also, that what you did you did in a moment of insane rage. I
know that the moment it was done you would, in your secret soul, have
given the world to have undone it."
"No!" he cried. "I was right!"
She rose, walked to the door, and seated herself on the sill, looking up
at the stars.
For an hour she sat there, silent. Behind her, leaning heavily on the
table, he crouched, hot eyes wide, pulse heavy in throat and body. And
at last, without turning, she called to him--three times, very gently,
speaking his name; and at the third call he rose and came stumbling
toward her.
"Sit here."
He sank down beside her on the sill.
"Are you very tired?"
"Yes."
She placed one arm around him, drawing his hot head down on her
shoulder.
"How foolish you have been," she whispered. "But, of course, your mother
must not know it.... There is no reason to tell her--ever.... Because
you went quite mad for a little while--and nobody is blamed for mental
sickness.... How bright the stars are.... What a heavenly coolness after
that dreadful work.... How feverish you are! I think that your regiment
believes you roamed away while suffering from sunstroke.... Their
Colonel is a good friend of mine. Tell him you're sorry."
His head lay heavily on her shoulder; she laid a fresh hand over his
eyes.
"If the South is right, if we of the North are right, God knows better
than you or I, Roy.... And if you are so bewildered that you have no
deep conviction either way I think you may trust Him who set you among
Kay's Cavalry.... God never betrayed a human soul in honest doubt."
"It--it was the flag!--that was the hardest to get over--" he began, and
choked, smothering the dry sob against her breast.
"I know, dear.... The old flag means so much--it means all that our
fathers have been, all that we ought to be for the world's sake. Anger,
private resentment, bitterness under tyranny--these are little things;
for, after all, the flag still stands for what we ought to be--you and I
and those who misuse us, wittingly or otherwise.... Where are the
papers you took?"
He pressed his feverish face closer to her shoulder and fumbled at the
buttons of his jacket.
"Here?" she asked softly, aiding him with deft fingers; and in a moment
she had secured them.
For a while she held him there, cradling him; and his dry, burning face
seemed to scorch her shoulder.
Dawn was in the sky when she unclosed her eyes--a cool, gray dawn,
hinting of rain.
She looked down at the boy. His head lay across her lap; he slept,
motionless as the dead.
The sun rose, a pale spot on the gray horizon.
"Come," she said gently. And again, "Come; I want you to take me across
the ferry."
He rose and stood swaying on his feet, rubbing both eyes with briar-torn
fists.
"You will take me, won't you, Roy?"
"Where?"
"Back to your regiment."
"Yes--I'll take you."
For a few moments she was busy gathering up her spools and linen.
"You carry my saddlebags," she said, "and I'll take the kitten. Isn't it
cunning, Roy? Do look at the poor little thing! We can't leave it here."
Following, laden with her saddlebags, he stammered:
"Do--d-do you think they'll shoot me?"
"No," she said, smiling. "Be careful of the ferry steps; they are
dreadfully shaky."
She began the descent, clasping the kitten in both arms; the boy
followed. Seated in the punt, they stowed away the saddlebags and the
kitten, then he picked up the pole, looked at her, hesitated. She
waited.
"I guess the old man will have me shot.... But--I am going back," he
said, as though to himself.
She watched him; he looked up.
"You're right, ma'am. I must have been crazy. Everybody reads about
traitors--in school.... Nobody ever forgets their names.... I don't want
my name in school books."
"Like Benedict Arnold's," she said; and he quivered from head to foot.
"Oh, cricky!" he burst out, horrified; "how close I came to it! Have you
got those papers safe?"
"Yes, Roy."
"Then I'll go. I don't care what they do to me."
As he rose with the pole, far away in the woods across the river a
cavalry band began to play. Faint and clear the strains of the
Star-Spangled Banner rose from among the trees and floated over the
water; the boy stood spellbound, mouth open; then, as the far music died
away, he sank back into the boat, deathly pale.
"I--I ought to be hung!" he whispered.
The Messenger picked up the fallen pole, set it, and drove the punt out
into the river. Behind her, huddled in the stern, the prodigal wept,
uncomforted, head buried in his shaking arms; and the kitten, being
afraid, left the shelter of the thwarts and crept up on his knees,
sitting there and looking out at the unstable world of water in
round-eyed apprehension.
As the punt grated on the northern shore the Messenger drove her pole
into the mud, upright, and leaned on it.
"Roy," she said, looking back over her shoulder.
The boy rubbed his wet eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and got up.
"Are you afraid?"
"Not now."
"That is well.... You'll be punished.... Not severely.... For you came
back of your own accord--repentant.... Tell me, were you really afraid
that the Special Messenger might catch you?"
"Yes, I was," he said simply. "That's why I acted so rough with you....
I didn't know; they say any woman you see may be the Special
Messenger.... So I took no chances.... Who are you, anyway?"
"Only a friend of yours," she said, smiling. "Please pick up my kitten.
Thank you.... And some day, when you've been very, very good, I'll ask
Colonel Kay to let you take me fishing."
And she stepped lightly ashore; the boy followed, holding the kitten
under one arm and drying his grimy eyes on his sleeve.
VI
AN AIR-LINE
"As for me," continued Colonel Gay bitterly, "I'm driven almost frantic
by this conspiracy. Whenever a regiment arrives or leaves, whenever a
train stirs--yes, by Heaven, every time a locomotive toots or a mule
brays or a chicken has the pip--_somebody_ informs the Johnnies, and
every detail is known to them within a few hours!"
The Special Messenger seated herself on the edge of the camp table. "I
suppose they are very disagreeable to you about it at headquarters."
"Yes, they are--but how can I help it? Somehow or other, whatever is
done or said or even thought in this devilish supply camp is immediately
reported to Jeb Stuart; every movement of trains and troops leaks out;
he'll know to-night what I ate for breakfast this morning--I'll bet on
that. And, Messenger, let me tell you something. Joking aside, this
thing is worrying me sick. Can you help me?"
"I'll try," she said. "Headquarters sent me. They're very anxious up
there about the railroad."
"I can't help it!" cried the distracted officer. "On Thursday I had to
concentrate the line-patrol to drive Maxon's bushwhackers out of Laurel
Siding; and look what Stuart did to me. No sooner were we off than he
struck the unguarded section and tore up two miles of track! What am I
to do?"
The Special Messenger shook her pretty head in sympathy.
"There's a leak somewhere," insisted the angry officer; "it smells to
Heaven, but I can't locate it. Somewhere there's a direct, intelligent
and sinister underground communication between Osage Court House and Jeb
Stuart at Sandy River--or wherever he is. And what I want you to do is
to locate that leak and plug it."
"Of course," murmured the Special Messenger, gently tapping her riding
skirt with her whip.
"Because," continued the Colonel, "headquarters is stripping this depot
of troops. The Bucktails go to-day; Casson's New York brigade and
Darrel's cavalry left yesterday. What remains is a mighty small garrison
for a big supply depot--eleven hundred effectives, and they may take
some of them at any moment. You see the danger?"
"Yes, I do."
"I've protested; I've pointed out the risk we run; I sent my third
messenger to headquarters this afternoon. Of course, they don't intend
to leave this depot unguarded--probably they'll send the Vermont troops
from the North this week--but between the departure of Casson's column
and the theoretical arrival of reënforcements from Preston, we'd be in a
bad way if Stuart should raid us in force. And with this irritating and
constant leaking out of information I'm horribly afraid he'll strike us
as soon as the Bucktails entrain."
"Why don't you hold the Pennsylvania infantry until we can find out
where the trouble lies?" asked the girl, raising her dark eyes to the
nervous young Colonel.
"I haven't the authority; I've asked for it twice. Orders stand; the
Bucktails are going, and I'm worried to death." He shoved his empty pipe
into his mouth and bit viciously at the stem.
"Then," she said, "if I'm to do anything I'd better hurry, hadn't I?"
The young officer's face grew grimmer. "Certainly; but I've been a month
at it and I'm no wiser. Of course I know you are very celebrated, ma'am;
but, really, _do_ you think it likely that you can pick out this hidden
mischief-maker before he sends word to Stuart to-night of our deplorable
condition?"
"How long have I?"
"About a day."
"When do the Bucktails go?"
"At nine to-night."
"Who knows it?"
"Who doesn't? I can't move a regiment and its baggage in a day, can I?
I've given them twenty-four hours to break camp and entrain."
"Does the train master know which troops are going?"
"He has orders to hold three trains, steam up, night and day."
"I see," she murmured, strapping her soft riding hat more securely to
her hair with the elastic band. Her eyes had been wandering restlessly
around the tent as though searching for something which she could not
find.
"Have you a good map of the district?" she asked.
He went to his military chest, opened it, and produced a map. For a
while, both hands on the table, she leaned above the map studying the
environment.
"And Stuart? You say he's roaming around somewhere in touch with Sandy
River?" she asked, pointing with a pencil to that metropolis on the map.
"The Lord knows where _he_ is!" muttered the Colonel. "He may be a
hundred miles south now, and in my back yard to-morrow by breakfast
time. But when he's watching us he's usually near Sandy River."
"I see. And these"--drawing her pencil in a wavering line--"are your
outposts? I mean those pickets nearest Sandy River."
"They are. Those are rifle pits."
"A grand guard patrols this line?" she asked, rising to her feet.
"Yes; a company of cavalry and a field gun."
"Do you issue passes?"
"Not to the inhabitants."
"Have any people--civilians--asked for passes?"
"I had two applications; one from a Miss Carryl, who lives about a mile
beyond here on the Sandy River Road; another from an old farmer, John
Deal, who has a fruit and truck farm half a mile outside our lines. He
wanted to come in with his produce and I let him for a while. But that
leakage worried me, so I stopped him."
"And this Miss Carryl--did she want to go out?"
"She owns the Deal farm. Yes, she wanted to drive over every day; and I
let her until, as I say, I felt obliged to stop the whole business--not
permit anybody to go out or come in except our own troops."
"And still the leakage continues?"
"It certainly does," he said dryly.
The Special Messenger seated herself on one end of the military chest
and gazed absently at space. Her booted foot swung gently at intervals.
"So this Miss Carryl owns John Deal's farm," she mused aloud.
"They run it on shares, I believe."
"Oh! Was she angry when you shut out her tenant, John Deal, and shut her
inside the lines?"
"No; she seemed a little surprised--said it was inconvenient--wanted
permission to write him."
"You gave it?"
"Yes. I intimated it would save time if she left her letters to him
unsealed. She seemed quite willing."
"You read them all, of course, before delivering them?"
"Of course. There was nothing in them except instructions about plowing,
fruit picking, and packing, and various bucolic matters."
"Oh! Nothing to be read between the lines? No cipher? No invisible ink?
No tricks of any sort?"
"Not one. I had a detective here. He said there was absolutely no harm
in the letters, in Miss Carryl, or in John Deal. I have all the letters
if you care to look at them; I always keep the originals and allow only
copies to be sent to old man Deal."
"Let me see those letters," suggested the Messenger.
The Colonel, who had been sitting on the camp table, got off wearily,
rummaged in a dispatch box, and produced three letters, all unsealed.
Two were directed in a delicately flowing, feminine hand to John Deal,
Waycross Orchard. The Messenger unfolded the first and read:
Dear Mr. Deal:
Colonel Gay has thought it necessary, for military reasons, to
revoke my pass; and I shall, therefore, be obliged hereafter to
communicate with you by letter only.
I wish, if there are negroes enough remaining in the quarters,
that you would start immediately a seedling orchard of white
Rare-ripe peaches from my orchard here. I have permission to
send the pits to you by the military post-rider who passes my
house. I will send you twenty every day as my peaches ripen.
Please prepare for planting. I hope your rheumatism is better.
Yours very truly,
Evelyn Carryl.
The Messenger's dark eyes lifted dreamily to the Colonel:
"You gave her permission to send the pits by your post-rider?"
"Yes," he said, smiling; "but I always look over them myself. You know
the wedding gown of the fairy princess was hidden in a grape seed."
"You are _quite_ sure about the pits?"
"Perfectly."
"Oh! When does the next batch of twenty go?"
"In about an hour. Miss Carryl puts them in a bag and gives them to my
messenger who brings them to me. Then I inspect every pit, tie up the
bag, seal it, and give it to my messenger. When he takes the mail to the
outposts he rides on for half a mile and leaves the sealed bag at Deal's
farm."
"Does your messenger know what is in the bag?"
"No, he doesn't."
She nodded, amused, saying carelessly:
"Of course you trust your post-rider?"
"Absolutely."
The Special Messenger swung her foot absently to and fro, and presently
opened another letter:
Dear Mr. Deal:
I am sending you twenty more peach pits for planting. What you
write me about the bees is satisfactory. I have received the
bees you sent. There is no reason why you should not make the
exchange with Mr. Enderly, as it will benefit our hives as well
as Mr. Enderly's to cross his Golden Indias with my Blacks.
The Messenger studied the letter thoughtfully; askance, the officer
watched the delicate play of expression on her absorbed young face,
perhaps a trifle incredulous that so distractingly pretty a woman could
be quite as intelligent as people believed.
She looked up at him quietly.
"So you gave Deal permission to send some bees to Miss Carryl and write
her a letter?"
"Once. I had the letter brought to me and I sent her a copy. Here it
is--the original."
He produced Deal's letter from the dispatch pouch, and the Messenger
read:
Miss Evelyn Carryl,
Osage Court House.
Respected Miss:
I send you the bees. I seen Mr. Enderly at Sandy River he says
he is very wishful for to swap bees to cross the breed I says it
shorely can be done if you say so I got the pits and am studyin'
how to plant. The fruit is a rottin' can't the Yankees at Osage
buy some truck nohow off'n me? So no more with respect from
John Deal
Supt.
"That seems rather harmless, doesn't it?" asked the Colonel wearily.
"I don't--know. I _think_ I'll take a look at John Deal's beehives."
"His _beehives_!"
"Yes."
"What for?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know--exactly. I was always fond of bees. They're so
useful"--she looked up artlessly--"so clever--quite wonderful, Colonel.
Have you ever read anything about bees--how they live and conduct
themselves?"
The Colonel eyed her narrowly; she laughed, sprang up from the military
chest, and handed back his letters.
"You have already formed your theory?" he inquired with a faintly
patronizing air, under which keen disappointment betrayed itself where
the grim, drooping mouth tightened.
"Yes, I have. There's a link missing, but--I may find that before night.
You can give me--_how_ long?"
"The Bucktails leave at nine. See here, Messenger! With all the civility
and respect due you, I----"
"You are bitterly disappointed in me," she finished coolly. "I don't
blame you, Colonel Gay."
He was abashed at that, but unconvinced.
"Why do you suspect this Miss Carryl and this man, Deal, when I've
showed you how impossible it is that they could send out information?"
"Somehow," she said quietly, "they _do_ send it--if they are the only
two people who have had passes, and who now are permitted to
correspond."
"But you saw the letters----"
"So did you, Colonel."
"I did!" he said emphatically; "and there's nothing dangerous in them.
As for the peach pits----"
"Oh, I'll take your word for them, too," she said, laughing. "When is
your post-rider due?"
"In a few minutes, now."
She began to pace backward and forward, the smile still lightly etched
on her lips. The officer watched her; puckers of disappointed anxiety
creased his forehead; he bit at his pipestem, and thought of the
Bucktails. Certainly Stuart would hear of their going; surely before the
northern reënforcements arrived the gray riders would come thundering
into Osage Court House. Fire, pillage, countless stores wasted, trains
destroyed, miles of railroads rendered useless. What, in Heaven's name,
could his superiors be thinking of, to run such risk with one of the
bases of supplies? Somewhere--_somewhere_, not far from corps
headquarters, sat incompetency enthroned--gross negligence--under a pair
of starred shoulder straps. And, musing bitterly, he thought he knew to
whom those shoulder straps belonged.
"The damn fool!" he muttered, biting at his pipe.
"Colonel," said the Messenger cheerily, "I am going to take the mail to
the outposts to-day."
"As you like," he said, without interest.
"I want, also, a pass for Miss Carryl."
"To pass our lines?"
"To pass _out_. She will not care to return."
"Certainly," he said with amiable curiosity.
He scratched off the order and she took it.
"Ask for anything you desire," he said, smiling.
"Then may I have this tent to myself for a little while? And would you
be kind enough to send for my saddlebags and my own horse."
The Colonel went to the tent flap, spoke to the trooper on guard. When
he came back he said that it was beginning to rain.
"Hard?" she asked, troubled.
"No; just a fine, warm drizzle. It won't last."
"All the better!" she cried, brightening; and it seemed to the young
officer as though the sun had gleamed for an instant on the tent wall.
But it was only the radiant charm of her, transfiguring, with its
youthful brilliancy, the dull light in the tent; and, presently, the
Colonel went away, leaving her very busy with her saddlebags.
There was a cavalry trooper's uniform in one bag; she undressed
hurriedly and put it on. Over this she threw a long, blue army cloak,
turned up the collar, and, twisting her hair tightly around her head,
pulled over it the gray, slouch campaign hat, with its crossed sabres of
gilt and its yellow braid.
It was a boyish-looking rider who mounted at the Colonel's tent and went
cantering away through the warm, misty rain, mail pouch and sabre
flopping.
There was no need for her to inquire the way. She knew Waycross, the
Carryl home, and John Deal's farm as well as she knew her own home in
Sandy River.
The drizzle had laid the dust and washed clean the roadside grass and
bushes; birds called expectantly from fence and thorny thicket, as the
sun whitened through the mist above; butterflies, clinging to dewy
sprays, opened their brilliant wings in anticipation; swallows and
martins were already soaring upward again; a clean, sweet, fragrant
vapor rose from earth and shrub.
Ahead of her, back from the road, at the end of its private avenue of
splendid oaks, an old house glimmered through the trees; and the Special
Messenger's eyes were fixed on it steadily as she rode.
Pillar, portico, and porch glistened white amid the leaves; Cherokee
roses covered the gallery lattice; an old negro was pretending to mow
the unkempt lawn with a sickle, but whenever the wet grass stuck to the
blade he sat down to examine the landscape and shake his aged head at
the futility of all things mundane. The clatter of the Special
Messenger's horse aroused him; at the same instant a graceful woman,
dressed in black, came to the edge of the porch and stood there as
though waiting.
The big gateway was open; under arched branches the Messenger galloped
down the long drive and drew bridle, touching the brim of her slouch
hat. And the Southern woman looked into the Messenger's eyes without
recognition.
Miss Carryl was fair, yellow-haired and blue-eyed--blonder for the dull
contrast of the mourning she wore--and her voice was as colorless as her
skin when she bade the trooper good afternoon.
All she could see of this cloaked cavalryman was two dark, youthful eyes
above the upturned collar of the cloak, shadowed, too, by the wet hat
brim, drooping under gilded crossed sabres.
"You are not the usual mail-carrier?" she asked languidly.
"No, ma'am"--in a nasal voice.
"Colonel Gay sent you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Miss Carryl turned, lifted a small salt sack, and offered it to the
Messenger, who leaned wide from her saddle and took it in one hand.