"Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you. And there is no letter to-day. Will you have a few peaches
to eat on the way? I always give the mail-carrier some of my peaches to
eat."
Miss Carryl lifted a big, blue china bowl full of superb, white,
rare-ripe peaches, and, coming to the veranda's edge, motioned the
Messenger to open the saddlebags. Into it she poured a number of
peaches.
"They are perfectly ripe," she said; "I hope you will like them."
"Thank'y, ma'am."
"And, Soldier," she turned to add with careless grace, "if you would be
kind enough to drop the pits back into the saddlebag and give them to
Mr. Deal he would be glad of them for planting."
"Yes'm; I will----"
"How many peaches did I give you? Have you enough?"
"Plenty, ma'am; you gave me seven, ma'am."
"Seven? Take two more--I insist--that makes nine, I think. Good day; and
thank you."
But the Messenger did not hear; there was something far more interesting
to occupy her mind--a row of straw-thatched beehives under the fruit
trees at the eastern end of the house.
From moment to moment, homing or outgoing bees sped like bullets across
her line of vision; the hives were busy now that a gleam of pale
sunshine lay across the grass. One bee, leaving the hive, came humming
around the Cherokee roses. The Messenger saw the little insect alight
and begin to scramble about, plundering the pollen-powdered blossom. The
bee was a yellow one.
Suddenly the Messenger gathered bridle and touched her hat; and away she
spurred, putting her horse to a dead run.
Passing the inner lines, she halted to give and receive the password,
then tossed a bunch of letters to the corporal, and spurred forward.
Halted by the outer pickets, she exchanged amenities again, rid herself
of the remainder of the mail, and rode forward, loosening the revolver
in her holster. Then she ate her first peach.
It was delicious--a delicate, dripping, snow-white pulp, stained with
pink where the pit rested. There was nothing suspicious about that pit,
or any of the others when she broke the fragrant fruit in halves and
carefully investigated. Then she tore off the seal and opened the bag
and examined each of the twenty dry pits within. Not one had been
tampered with.
Her horse had been walking along the moist, fragrant road; a few moments
later she passed the last cavalry picket, and at the same moment she
caught sight of John Deal's farm.
The house was neat and white and small; orchards stretched in every
direction; a few beehives stood under the fruit trees near a well.
A big, good-humored looking man came out into the path as the Messenger
drew bridle, greeted the horse with a caress and its rider with a
pleasant salute.
"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, taking the sack of pits. "I
reckon we're bound to have more fine weather. What's this--some peach
pits from Miss Carryl?"
"Nine," nodded the Messenger.
"Nine! I'll have nine fine young trees this time three years, I reckon.
Thank you, suh. How's things over to the Co't House?"
"Troops arriving all the while," said the Messenger carelessly.
"Comin' _in_?"
"Lots."
"Sho! I heard they was sendin' 'em East."
"Oh, some. We've got to have elbow-room. Can't pack two army corps into
Osage Court House."
"Two a'my co'ps, suh?"
"More or less."
John Deal balanced the sack in the palm of one work-worn hand and looked
hard at the Messenger. He could see only her eyes.
[Illustration: "'Turn around,' said the Special Messenger."]
"Reckon you ain't the same trooper as come yesterday."
"No."
"What might be yoh regiment?"
The Messenger was looking hard at the beehives. The door of one of the
hives, a new one, was shut.
"What regiment did you say, suh?" repeated Deal, showing his teeth in a
friendly grin; and suddenly froze rigid as he found himself inspecting
the round, smoky muzzle of a six-shooter.
"Turn around," said the Special Messenger. Her voice was even and
passionless.
John Deal turned.
"Cross your hands behind your back. Quickly, please! Now back up to this
horse. Closer!"
There was a glimmer, a click; and the man stood handcuffed.
"Sit down on the grass with your back against that tree. Make yourself
comfortable."
Deal squatted awkwardly, settled, and turned a pallid face to the
Messenger.
"What'n hell's this mean?" he demanded.
"Don't move and don't shout," said the Messenger. "If you do I'll have
to gag you. I'm only going over there to take a look at your bees."
The pallor on the man's face was dreadful, but he continued to stare at
the Messenger coolly enough.
"It's a damned outrage!" he began thickly. "I had a pass from your
Colonel----"
"If you don't keep quiet I'll have to tie up your face," observed the
Messenger, dismounting and flinging aside her cloak.
Then, as she walked toward the little row of beehives, carrying only her
riding whip, the farmer's eyes grew round and a dull flush empurpled his
face and neck.
"By God!" he gasped; "it's _her_!" and said not another word.
She advanced cautiously toward the hives; very carefully, with the butt
of her whip, she closed the sliding door over every exit, then seated
herself in the grass within arm's length of the hives and, crossing her
spurred boots, leaned forward, expectant, motionless.
A bee arrived, plunder-laden, dropped on the sill and began to walk
toward the closed entrance of his hive. Finding it blocked, the insect
buzzed angrily. Another bee whizzed by her and lit on the sill of
another hive; another came, another, and another.
Very gingerly, as each insect alighted, she raised the sliding door and
let it enter. Deal watched her, fascinated.
An hour passed; she had admitted hundreds of bees, always closing the
door behind each new arrival. Then something darted through the range of
her vision and alighted, buzzing awkwardly on the sill of a hive--an
ordinary, yellow-brown honey bee, yet differing from the others in that
its thighs seemed to be snow-white.
Quick as a flash the Messenger leaned forward and caught the insect in
her gloved fingers, holding it by the wings flat over the back.
Its abdomen dilated and twisted, and the tiny sting was thrust out,
vainly searching the enemy; but the Messenger, drawing a pin from her
jacket, deftly released the two white encumbrances from the insect's
thighs--two thin cylinders of finest tissue paper, and flung the angry
insect high into the air. It circled, returned to the hive, and she let
it in.
There was a groan from the manacled man under the trees; she gave him a
rapid glance, shook her head in warning, and, leaning forward, deftly
lifted a second white-thighed bee from the hive over which it was
scrambling in a bewildered sort of way.
A third, fourth, and fifth bee arrived in quick succession; she robbed
them all of their tissue-paper cylinders. Then for a while no more
arrived, and she wondered whether her guess had been correct, that the
nine peaches and wet pits meant to John Deal that nine bees were to be
expected--eager home-comers, which he had sent to his mistress and
which, as she required their services, she released, certain that they
would find their old hives on John Deal's farm and carry to him the
messages she sent.
And they came at last--the sixth, seventh--then after a long interval
the eighth--and, finally, the ninth bee whizzed up to the hive and fell,
scrambling, its movements embarrassed by the tiny, tissue cylinders.
The Messenger waited another hour; there were no more messengers among
the bees that arrived.
Then she opened every hive door, rose, walked over to the closed hive
that stood apart and opened the door of that.
A _black_ honeybee crawled out, rose into the air, and started due
south; another followed, then three, then a dozen; and then the hive
vomited a swarm of _black_ bees which sped southward.
Sandy River lay due south; also, the home-hive from which they had been
taken and confined as prisoners; also, a certain famous officer lingered
at Sandy River--one, General J. E. B. Stuart, very much interested in
the beehives belonging to a friend of his, a Mr. Enderly.
When she had relieved each messenger-bee of its tissue-paper dispatch,
she had taken the precaution to number each tiny cylinder, in order of
its arrival, from one to nine. Now she counted them, looked over each
message, laid them carefully away between the leaves of a pocket
notebook, slipped it into the breast of her jacket, and, rising, walked
over to John Deal.
"Here is the key to those handcuffs," she said, hanging it around his
neck by the bit of cord on which it was dangling. "Somebody at Sandy
River will unlock them for you. But it would be better, Mr. Deal, if you
remained outside our lines until this war is ended. I don't blame
you--I'm sorry for you--and for your mistress."
She set toe to stirrup, mounted easily, fastened her cloak around her.
"I'm really sorry," she said. "I hope nobody will injure your pretty
farm. Good-by."
Miss Carryl was standing at the end of the beautiful, oak-shaded avenue
when the Messenger, arriving at full speed, drew bridle and whirled her
horse.
Looking straight into the pretty Southern woman's eyes, she said
gravely:
"Miss Carryl, your bees have double stings. I am very sorry for
you--very, very sorry. I hope your property will he respected while you
are at Sandy River."
"What do you mean?" asked Miss Carryl. Over her pale features a painful
tremor played.
"You know what I mean. And I am afraid you had better go at once. John
Deal is already on his way."
There was a long silence. Miss Carryl found her voice at length.
"Thank you," she said without a tremor. "Will I have any trouble in
passing the Yankee lines?"
"Here is your passport. I had prepared it."
As the Messenger bent over from the saddle to deliver the pass, somehow
her hat, with its crossed gilt sabres, fell off. She caught it in one
hand; a bright blush mantled throat and face.
The Southern woman looked up at the girl in the saddle, so dramatically
revealed for what she was under the superb accusation of her hair.
"_You?_"
"Yes--God help us both!"
The silence was terrible.
"It scarcely surprises me," murmured Miss Carryl with a steady smile. "I
saw only your eyes before, but they seemed too beautiful for a boy's."
Then she bent her delicately-molded head and studied the passport. The
Messenger, still blushing, drew her hat firmly over her forehead and
fastened a loosened braid. Presently she took up her bridle.
"I will ask Colonel Gay's protection for Waycross House," she said in a
low voice. "I am so dreadfully sorry that this has happened."
"You need not be; I have only tried to do for my people what you are
doing for yours--but I should be glad of a guard for Waycross. _His_
grave is in the orchard there." And with a quiet inclination of the head
she turned away into the oak-bordered avenue, walking slowly toward the
house which, in a few moments, she must leave forever.
In the late sunshine her bees flashed by, seeking the fragrant
home-hives; long, ruddy bars of sunlight lay across grass and tree
trunk; on the lawn the old servant still chopped at the unkempt grass,
and the music of his sickle sounded pleasantly under the trees.
On these things the fair-haired Southern woman looked, and if her eye
dimmed and her pale lip quivered there was nobody to see. And after a
little while she went into the house, slowly, head held high, black
skirt lifted, just clearing the threshold of her ancestors.
Then the Special Messenger, head hanging, wheeled her horse and rode
slowly back to Osage Court House.
She passed the Colonel, who was dismounting just outside his tent, and
saluted him without enthusiasm:
"The leak is stopped, sir. Miss Carryl is going to Sandy River; John
Deal is on his way. They won't come back--and, Colonel, won't you give
special orders that her house is not to be disturbed? She is an old
school friend."
The Colonel stared at her incredulously.
"I'm afraid you still have your doubts about that leak, sir."
"Yes, I have."
She dismounted wearily; an orderly took her horse, and without a word
she and the Colonel entered the tent.
"They used bees for messengers," she said; "that was the leak."
"Bees?"
"Honey bees, Colonel."
For a whole minute he was silent, then burst out:
"Good God! _Bees!_ And if such a--an extraordinary performance were
possible how did _you_ guess it?"
"Oh," she said patiently, "I used them that way when I was a little
girl. Bees, like pigeons, go back to their homes. Look, sir! Here, in
order, are the dispatches, each traced in cipher on a tiny roll of
tissue. They were tied to the bees' thighs."
[Transcriber's Note: in the following cyphers, subscripted numerals
and special symbols are contained in curly brackets, like this: {3}]
And she spread them out in order under his amazed eyes; and this is what
he saw when she pieced them together for him:
EIO{2}W{2} x I{8}W{3} {triangle} NI{7}W{3} x
OII{6}I{5}W{3} x ENI{7}I{7}I{4}I{8}I{5}O{2}
N x I{7}IE x I{4}O{2}I{2} x
N x HI{5} x IO{2}E x
N x O x E x WNW{3} x
W x I{8}E{3}XHN {crescent} x
L x I{3} O{2}XW{3}I{5}W{3}NW{2} x
I{4}I{2} x I{8}W{3}I{7}I{4}LI x NW{3}x
I{5}O{2}HI x O{2}I{4}EI{3}W{3} x
HNI{7}I{7} {circle+} W{2}
"That's all very well," he said, "but how about this hieroglyphic? Do
you think anybody on earth is capable of reading such a thing?"
"Why not?"
"Can _you_?"
"All such ciphers are solved by the same method.... Yes, Colonel, I can
read it very easily."
"Well, would you mind doing so?"
"Not in the slightest, sir. The key is extremely simple. I will show
you." And she picked up pencil and paper and wrote:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
"Now," she said, "taking the second letter in each word, we can parallel
that column thus:
N equals the letter A
W equals the letter B
H equals the letter C
O equals the letter D
I equals the letter E
"Then, in the word _six_ we have the letter _I_ again as the second
letter, so we call it I{2}. And, continuing, we have:
I{2} equals the letter F
E equals the letter G
I{3} equals the letter H
I{4} equals the letter I
E{2} equals the letter J
L equals the letter K
W{2} equals the letter L
H{2} equals the letter M
O{2} equals the letter N
I{5} equals the letter O
I{6} equals the letter P
E{3} equals the letter Q
I{7} equals the letter R
I{8} equals the letter S
W{3} equals the letter T
"Now, using these letters for the symbols in the cipher:
EIO{2}W{2} x I{8}W{3} {triangle} NI{7}W{3} x
OII{6}I{5}W{3} x ENI{7}I{7}I{4}I{8}I{5}O{2}
N x I{7}IE x I{4}O{2}I{2} x
N x HI{5} x IO{2}E x
N x O x E x WNW{3} x
W x I{8}E{3}XHN {crescent} x
L x I{3} O{2}XW{3}I{5}W{3}NW{2} x
I{4}I{2} x I{8}W{3}I{7}I{4}LI x NW{3}x
I{5}O{2}HI x O{2}I{4}EI{3}W{3} x
HNI{7}I{7} {circle+} W{2}
"We translate it freely thus, and I'll underline only the words in the
cipher:
Gen'l Stuart (Sandy River?)
(The present) Depot Garrison (of Osage Court House is)
One Reg(iment) (of) Inf(antry)
One Co(mpany of) Eng(ineers)
One Four G(un) Bat(tery)
Two Sq(uadrons) (of) Cav(alry)
Eleven Hun(dred men) Total
If (you) strike (strike) at once (and at) night!
(Signed) Carryl.
"Do you see, Colonel, how very simple it is, after all?"
The Colonel, red and astounded, hung over the paper, laboriously
verifying the cipher and checking off each symbol with its alphabetical
equivalent.
"What's that mark?" he demanded; "this symbol----"
"It stands for the letter U, sir."
"How do you know?"
The Messenger, seated sideways on the camp table, one small foot
swinging, looked down and bit her lip.
"Must I tell you?"
"As you please. And I'll say now that your solving this intricate and
devilish cipher is, to me, a more utterly amazing performance than the
rebel use of bees as messengers."
She shook her head slowly.
"It need not amaze you.... I was born in Sandy River.... And in happier
times--when my parents were living--I spent the school vacations
there.... We had always kept bees.... There was--in those days--a boy.
We were very young and--romantic. We exchanged vows--and bees--and
messages in cipher.... I knew this cipher as soon as I saw it. I
invented it--long ago--for him and me."
"W-well," stammered the bewildered Colonel, "I don't see how----"
"I do, sir. Our girl and boy romance was a summer dream. One day he
dreamed truer. So did the beautiful Miss Carryl.... And the pretty game
I invented for him he taught in turn to his fiancée.... Well, he died in
The Valley.... And I have just given his fiancée her passport. It would
be very kind of you to station a guard at the Carryl place for its
protection. Would you mind giving the order, sir?... _He_ is buried
there."
The Colonel, hands clasped behind him, walked to the tent door.
"Yes," he said, "I'll give the order."
A few moments later the drums of the Bucktails began beating the
assembly.
VII
THE PASS
Her map, which at headquarters was supposed to be reliable, had grossly
misled her; the road bore east instead of north, dwindling, as she
advanced, to a rocky path among the foothills. She had taken the wrong
turn at the forks; there was nothing to direct her any farther--no
landmarks except the general trend of the watercourse, and the dull
cinders of sunset fading to ashes in the west.
It was impossible now to turn back; Carrick's flying column must be
very close on her heels by this time--somewhere yonder in the dusk,
paralleling her own course, with only a dark curtain of forest
intervening.
So all that evening, and far into the starlit night, she struggled
doggedly forward, leading her lamed horse over the mountain, dragging
him through laurel thickets, tangles of azalea and rhododendron,
thrashing across the swift mountain streams that tumbled out of starry,
pine-clad heights, foaming athwart her trail with the rushing sound of
forest winds.
For a while the clear radiance of the stars lighted the looming
mountains; but when wastes of naked rock gave place to ragged woods,
lakes and pits of darkness spread suddenly before her; every gully,
every ravine brimmed level with treacherous shadows, masking the sheer
fall of rock plunging downward into fathomless depths.
Again and again, as she skirted the unseen edges of destruction, chill
winds from unsuspected deeps halted her; she dared not light the
lantern, dared not halt, dared not even hesitate. And so, fighting down
terror, she toiled on, dragging her disabled horse, until, just before
dawn, the exhausted creature refused to stir another foot.
Desperate, breathless, trembling on the verge of exhaustion, with the
last remnants of nervous strength she stripped saddle and bridle from
the animal; then her nerves gave way and she buried her face against her
horse's reeking, heaving shoulders.
"I've got to go on, dear," she whispered; "I'll try to come back to
you.... See what a pretty stream this is," she added, half hysterically,
"and such lots of fresh, sweet grass.... Oh, my little horse--my little
horse! I'm so tired--so tired!"
The horse turned his gentle head, mumbling her shoulder with soft, dusty
lips; she stifled a sob, lifted saddle, saddlebags, and bridle and
carried them up the rocky bank of the stream to a little hollow. Here
she dropped them, unstrapped her revolver and placed it with them, then
drew from the saddlebags a homespun gown, sunbonnet, and a pair of
coarse shoes, and laid them out on the moss.
Fatigue rendered her limbs unsteady; her fingers twitched as she fumbled
with button and buckle, but at last spurred boots, stockings, jacket,
and dusty riding skirt fell from her; undergarments dropped in a circle
around her bare feet; she stepped out of them, paused to twist up her
dark hair tightly, then, crossing the moss to the stream's edge, picked
her way out among the boulders to the brimming rim of a pool.
In the exquisite shock of the water the blood whipped her skin; fatigue
vanished through the crystal magic; shoulder-deep she waded,
crimson-cheeked, then let herself drift, afloat, stretching out in
ecstasy until every aching muscle thrilled with the delicious reaction.
Overhead, tree swallows darted through a sky of pink and saffron,
pulsating with the promise of the sun; the tinted peak of a mountain,
jaggedly mirrored in the unquiet pool, suddenly glowed crimson, and the
reflections ran crisscross through the rocking water, lacing it with
fiery needles.
She looked like some delicate dawn-sprite as she waded ashore--a
slender, unreal shape in the rosy glow, while behind her, from the dim
ravine, ghosts of the mountain mist floated, rising like a company of
slim, white angels drifting to the sky.
All around her now the sweet, bewildered murmur of purple martins grew
into sustained melody; thrush and mocking bird, thrasher and cardinal,
sang from every leafy slope; and through the rushing music of bird and
pouring waterfall the fairy drumming of the cock-o'-the-pines rang out
in endless, elfin reveille.
While she was managing to dry herself and dress, her horse limped off
into the grassy swale below to drink in the stream and feed among the
tender grasses.
Before she drew on the homespun gown she tucked her linen map into an
inner skirt pocket, flat against her right thigh; then, fastening on the
shabby skirt, she rolled up her riding habit, laid it with lantern,
revolver, saddle, bridle, boots, and bags, in the hollow and covered all
over with heaps of fragrant dead leaves and branches. It was the best
she could do, and the time was short.
Her horse raised his wise, gentle head, and looked across the stream at
her as she hastened past, then limped stiffly toward her.
"Oh, I can't stand it if you hobble after me!" she wailed under her
breath. "Dearest--dearest--I will surely come back to you.
Good-by--good-by!"
On the crest of the ridge she cast one swift, tearful glance behind.
The horse, evidently feeling better, was rolling in the grass, all four
hoofs waving at the sky. And she laughed through the tears, and drew
from her pockets a morsel of dry bread which she had saved from the
saddlebags. This she nibbled as she walked, taking her bearings from the
sun and the sweep of the southern mountain slopes; and listening, always
listening, for the jingle and clank of the Confederate flying battery
that was surely following along somewhere on that parallel road which
she had missed, hidden from her view only by a curtain of forest, the
width of which she had no time to investigate. Nor did she know for
certain that she had outstripped the Confederate column in the race for
the pass--a desperate race, although the men of that flying column,
which was hastening to turn the pass into a pitfall for the North, had
not the faintest suspicion that the famous Special Messenger was racing
with them to forestall them, or even that their secret was no longer a
secret.
In hot haste from the south hills she had come to warn Benton's division
of the ambuscade preparing for it, riding by highway and byway, her
heart in her mouth, taking every perilous chance. And now, at the last
moment, here in the West Virginian Mountains, almost within sight of the
pass itself, disaster threatened--the human machine was giving out.
There were just two chances that Benton might yet be saved--that his
leisurely advance had, by some miracle, already occupied the pass, or,
if not, that she could get through and meet Benton in time to stop him.
She had been told that there was a cabin at the pass, and that the
mountaineer who lived there was a Union man.