she skirted the halted cavalry, searching the intervals where the troop
captains sat their horses, naked sabres curving up over their shoulder
straps.
"Not this one! Not _this_ one," her little heart beat hurriedly; and
then, without warning, panic came, and she spurred up to the major of
the first squadron.
"Where is Captain Stanley?" Her voice almost broke.
"With his troop, I suppose--'F,'" replied that officer calmly; and her
heart leaped and the color flooded her face as she saluted, wheeled, and
rode on in heavenly certainty.
A New York regiment, fresh from the North, was passing now, its
magnificent band playing "Twinkling Stars"; and the horses of the
cavalry began to dance and paw and toss their heads.
One splendid black animal reared suddenly and shook its mane out; and at
the same moment she saw _him_--knew him--drew bridle, her heart in her
mouth, her body all a-tremble.
He was mastering the black horse that had reared, sitting his saddle
easily, almost carelessly, his long, yellow-striped legs loosely
graceful, his straight, slim figure perfect in poise and balance.
And now the trumpets were sounding; captain after captain turned in his
saddle, swung his sabre forward, repeating the order: "Forward--march!
Forward--march!"
The Special Messenger whirled her horse and sped to the head of the
column.
"I was just beginning to wonder--" began the colonel, when she broke in,
breathless:
"_May_ I ride with Captain Stanley of F, sir?"
"Certainly," he replied, surprised and a trifle amused. She hesitated,
nervously picking at her bridle, then said: "When you once get me
through their lines--I mean, after I am safely through and you are ready
to turn around and leave me--I--I would like--to--to----"
"Yes?" inquired the colonel, gently, divining some "last message" to
deliver. For they were desperate chances that she was taking, and those
in the beleaguered city would show her no mercy if they ever caught her
within its battered bastions.
But the Special Messenger only said: "Before your regiment goes back,
may I tell Captain Stanley who I am?"
The colonel's face fell.
"Nobody is supposed to have any idea who you are----"
"I know it. But is there any harm if I only tell it to--to just this
one, single man?" she asked, earnestly, not aware that her eyes as well
as her voice were pleading--that her whole body, bent forward in the
saddle, had become eloquent with a confession as winning as it was
innocent.
The colonel looked curiously into the eager, flushed face, framed in its
setting of dark, curly hair, then he lifted a gauntleted hand from his
bridle and slowly stroked his crisp mustache upward to hide the smile he
could not control.
"I did not know," he said gravely, "that Captain Stanley was
the--ah--'one' and 'only' man."
She blushed furiously, the vivid color ran from throat to temple,
burning her ears till they looked like rose petals caught in her dark
hair.
"You may tell Captain Stanley--if you must," observed the colonel of the
Fourth Missouri. He was gazing absently straight between his horse's
ears when he spoke. After a few moments he looked at the sky where,
overhead, the afterglow pulsated in bands of fire.
"I always thought," he murmured to himself, "that old Stanley was in
love with that Southern girl he saw at Sandy River.... I had no idea he
knew the Special Messenger. It appears that I am slightly in error."
And, very thoughtfully, he continued to twist his mustache skyward as he
rode on.
When he ventured to glance around again the Special Messenger had
disappeared.
"Fancy!" he muttered; "fancy old Stanley knowing the mystery of the
three armies! And, by gad, gentlemen!" addressing, _sotto voce_, the
entire regiment, as he turned in his stirrups and looked back at the
darkening column behind him--"by gad! gentlemen of the Fourth Dragoons,
no prettier woman ever sat a saddle than is riding this moment with the
captain of Troop F!"
What Captain Stanley saw riding up to him through the dull afterglow was
a slightly built youth in the uniform of the regular cavalry, yellow
trimming on collar, yellow welts about the seams of the jacket, yellow
stripes on the breeches; and, as the youth drew bridle, saluted, and
turned to ride forward beside him, he caught sight of a lieutenant's
shoulder straps on the sergeant's shell jacket.
"Well, youngster," he said, smiling, "don't they clothe you in the
regulars? You're as eccentric as our butternut friends yonder."
"I couldn't buy a full uniform," she said truthfully. She did not add
that she had left at a minute's notice for the most dangerous
undertaking ever asked of her, borrowing discarded makeshifts anywhere
at hazard.
"Are you a West Pointer?"
"No."
"Oh! You've their seat--and their shapely leanness. Are you going with
us?"
"Where are _you_ going?"
Stanley laughed. "I'm sure I don't know. It looks to me as though we
were riding straight into rebeldom."
"Don't you know why?" she asked, looking at him from under the shadow of
her visor.
"No. Do you?"
"Yes."
After a pause: "Well," he said, laughing, "are you going to tell me?"
"Yes--later."
Neck and neck, knee and knee they rode forward at the head of the Black
Horse troop, along a road which became dusky beyond the first patch of
woods.
After the inner camp lines had been passed the regiment halted while a
troop was detailed as flankers and an advanced guard galloped off ahead.
Along the road behind, the guns of the Rhode Island Battery came
thudding and bumping up, halting with a dull clash of chains.
Stanley said: "This is one of Baring's pet raids; we've done it dozens
of times. Once our entire division rode around Beauregard; but I didn't
see the old, blue star division flag this time, so I guess we're going
it alone. Hello! There's infantry! We must be close to the extreme
outposts."
In the dusk they were passing a pasture where, guarded by sentinels, lay
piled, in endless, straight rows, knapsacks, blankets, shelter tents,
and long lines of stacked Springfield rifles. Soldiers with the white
strings of canteens crossing their breasts were journeying to and from a
stream that ran, darkling, out of the tangled woodland on their right.
On the opposite side of the road were the lines of the Seventieth
Indiana, their colors, furled in oilcloth, lying horizontally across the
forks of two stacks of rifles. Under them lay the color guard; the
scabbarded swords of the colonel and his staff were stuck upright in
the ground, and the blanket-swathed figures of the officers in poncho
and havelock reposed close by.
The other regiment was the Eleventh Maine. Their colonel, strapped with
his silver eagles, was watching the disposal of the colors by a sergeant
wearing the broad stripe, blue diamond and triple underscoring on each
sleeve. With the sergeant marched eight corporals, long-limbed, rugged
giants of the color company, decorated with the narrow stripe and double
chevron.
A few minutes later the cavalry moved out past the pickets, then swung
due south.
Night had fallen--a clear, starlit, blossom-scented dimness freshening
the air.
The Special Messenger, head bent, was still riding with Captain Stanley,
evidently preferring his company so openly, so persistently, that the
other officers, a little amused, looked sideways at the youngster from
time to time.
After a while Stanley said pleasantly: "We haven't exchanged names yet,
and you haven't told me why a regular is riding with us to-night."
"On special service," she said in a low voice.
"And your name and regiment?"
She did not appear to hear him; he glanced at her askance.
"You seem to be very young," he said.
"The colonel of the Ninetieth Rhode Island fell at twenty-two."
He nodded gravely. "It is a war of young men. I think Baring himself is
only twenty-five. He's breveted brigadier, too."
"And you?" she asked timidly.
He laughed. "Thirty; and a thousand in experience."
"I, too," she said softly.
"You? Thirty?"
"No, only twenty-four; but your peer in experience."
"Your voice sounds Southern," he said in his pleasant voice, inviting
confidence.
"Yes; my home was at Sandy River."
Out of the corners of her eyes she saw him start and look around at
her--felt his stern gaze questioning her; and rode straight on before
her without response or apparent consciousness.
"Sandy River?" he repeated in a strained voice. "Did you say you lived
there?"
"Yes," indifferently.
The captain rode for a while in silence, then, carelessly: "There was, I
believe, a family living there before the war--the Westcotes."
"Yes." She could scarcely utter a word for the suffocating throb of her
heart.
"You knew them?"
"Yes."
"Do--do they still live at Sandy River?"
"The house still stands. Major Westcote is dead."
"Her--I mean their grandfather?"
She nodded, incapable of speech.
"And"--he hesitated--"and the boy? He used to ride a pony--the most
fascinating little fellow----"
"He is at school in the North."
There was a silence, then the captain turned in his saddle and looked
straight at her.
"Does Miss Westcote live there still?"
"Do you mean Celia Westcote?" asked the Messenger calmly.
"Yes--Celia--" His voice fell softly, making of her name a caressing
cadence. The Special Messenger bent her head lower over her bridle.
"Why do you ask? Did you know her?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
The captain lifted his grave eyes, but the Messenger was not looking at
him.
"I knew her--in a way--better than I ever knew any woman, and I saw her
only three times in all my life. That is your answer--and my excuse for
asking. Does she still live at Sandy River?"
"No."
"Do you know where she has gone?"
"She is somewhere in the South."
"Is she--married?" he asked under his breath.
The Special Messenger looked up at him, smiling in the darkness.
"No," she said. "I heard that she lost her--heart--to a bandmaster of
some cavalry regiment who was killed in action at Sandy River--three
years ago."
The captain straightened in his saddle as though he had been shot; in
the dim light his lean face turned darkly scarlet.
"I see her occasionally," continued the Messenger faintly; "have you any
message--perhaps----"
The captain turned slowly toward her. "Do you know where she is?"
"I expect that she will be within riding distance of me--very soon."
"Is your mission a secret one?"
"Yes."
"And you may see her--before very long?"
"Yes."
"Then tell her," said the captain, "that the bandmaster of the Fourth
Missouri--" He strove to continue; his voice died in his throat.
"Yes--yes--say it," whispered the Special Messenger. "I will tell her;
she will understand--truly she will--whatever you say."
"Tell her--that the bandmaster has--has never forgotten----"
"Yes--yes----"
"Never forgotten her!"
"Yes--oh, yes!"
"That he--he----"
"Yes! Oh, please--please say it--don't be afraid to say--what you wish!"
The captain's voice was not under perfect control.
"Say that he--thinks of her.... Say that--that he--he thought of her
when he was falling--there, in the charge at Sandy River----"
"But he once told her that himself!" she cried. "Has he no more to tell
her?"
And Captain Stanley, aghast, fairly leaped in his stirrups.
"Who are you?" he gasped. "What do _you_ know of----"
His voice was smothered in the sudden out-crash of rifles, through which
startled trumpets sounded, followed by the running explosions of cavalry
carbines.
"Attention! Draw sabres!" rang out a far voice in the increasing uproar.
The night air thrilled with the rushing swish of steel drawn swiftly
across steel.
"Forward!" and "Forward! Forward!" echoed the officers, one after
another.
"Steady--right dress!"--taken up by the troop officers: "Steady--right
dress! By fours--right wheel--march!"
Pell-mell the flanking parties came crashing back out of the dusky
undergrowth, and:
"Steady--trot! Steady--right dress--gallop!" came the orders.
"Gallop!" repeated her captain, blandly; and, under his breath: "We are
going to charge. Quick, tell me who you are!"
"Steady--steady--charge!" came the clear shout from the front.
"Charge! Charge! Charge!" echoed the ringing orders from troop to troop.
In the darkness of the thickets she rode knee to knee with her captain.
The grand stride of her horse thundering along beside his through
obscurity filled her with wild exultation; she loosened curb and snaffle
and spurred forward amid hundreds of plunging horses, now goaded frantic
by the battle clangor of the trumpets.
Everywhere, right and left, the red flash of Confederate rifles ran
along their flanks; here and there a stricken horse reared or stumbled,
rolling over and over; or some bullet-struck rider swayed wide from the
saddle and went down to annihilation.
Fringed with darting flames the cavalry drove on headlong into the
unseen; behind clanked the flying battery, mounted gunners sabering the
dark forms that leaped out of the underbrush; on--on--rushed horses and
guns, riders and cannoneers--a furious, irresistible, chaotic torrent,
thundering through the night.
[Illustration: "'Yes,' she gasped, 'The Special
Messenger--noncombatant!'"]
Far behind them now danced and flickered the rifle flames; fainter,
fainter grew the shots; and at last, galloping steadily and, by degrees,
reforming as they rode, the column swung out toward the bushy hills in
the west, slowed to a canter, to a trot, to a walk.
"We are through!" said the Special Messenger, brokenly, breathing fast
as she pulled in her mount and turned in the starlight toward the man
she rode beside.
At the same moment the column halted; and he drew bridle and looked
steadily at her.
All around them was the confusion and turmoil of stamping, panting
horses, the clank of metal, the heavy breathing of men.
"Look at me!" she whispered, baring her head in the starlight. "Quick!
Look at me! Do you know me now? Look at me--if you--love me!"
A low cry broke from him; she held out both arms to him in the dim
light, forcing her horse up against his stirrup.
"If you love me," she breathed, "say so now!"
Leaning free from his saddle he caught her in his arms, held her, looked
into her eyes.
"You?"
"Yes," she gasped, "the Special Messenger--noncombatant!"
"The Special Messenger? _You?_ Good God!"
A dull tattoo of hoofs along the halted column, nearer, nearer,
clattering toward them from the front, and:
"Good-by!" she sobbed; "they're coming for me! Oh--do you love me? Do
you? Life was so dark and dreadful without you! I--I never
forgot--never, never! I----"
Her gloved hands crept higher around the neck of the man who held her
crushed in his arms.
"If I return," she sighed, "will you love me? Don't--don't look at me
that way. I will return--I promise. I love you so! I love you!"
Their lips clung for a second in the darkness, then she swung her horse,
tearing herself free of his arms; and, bared head lifted to the skies,
she turned south, riding all alone out into the starlit waste.
THE END
* * * * * *
OTHER BOOKS
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Mr. Chambers is unquestionably the most popular of American novelists
to-day. He is the author of some thirty books of extraordinary variety
in fiction. He was born in New York, and studied in the studios of Paris
to become an artist. While working at painting he took up writing as a
pastime, and had such immediate success that he soon gave up art and
turned to literature as his life work. Always, as a part of this
interest, he has studied and worked in the field of natural history, so
that to-day he is something of an authority on birds and butterflies, a
confirmed fisherman, and a good shot. All these qualities--the study of
art, the experience with nature, both in the line of sport and as an
entomologist--have put their stamp upon his work, as will be seen by a
glance at his books, for only a few of which there is space here
available.
THE FIRING LINE
The most recent of his works is the third in a group of studies
in American society life. It is full of the swing of good
romance, behind which lies the bright philosophy that the saving
quality in our American families is to come with the injection
of fresh blood into each new generation. The story itself deals
with the adopted daughter of a multimillionaire, who does not
even know her own parentage--a girl from nowhere, with all the
charm and beauty which a bringing up in the midst of wealth can
give her. The hero is a young American of good family who first
meets her at Palm Beach, Florida. Here is a background that Mr.
Chambers loves--the outdoor life of exotic Florida, the
everglades, the hunting, the shooting, and the sea--all in the
midst of that other exotic life which goes with a winter resort
and a large group of the idle rich. The story--already in its
150th thousand--is, perhaps, the author's favorite piece of
work.
THE YOUNGER SET
is also of the social _comédie humaine_ of America, with
its scenes laid in New York and on Long Island. Here again,
behind a romance of love and of society complications, Mr.
Chambers conceals his philosophic suggestions that may be
gathered from the title. The younger set comes into our society
fresh and unspoiled with each generation, and in its way
contributes something of freshness, something of vigor to keep
the social world from going down hill on a grade of decadence.
The story deals with a man who, although still young, feels that
his life is practically over because his marriage, through no
fault of his own, has proved a failure and ended in divorce. He
meets a young girl just introduced into society, whose wholesome
youth charms him and leads him back to optimism and life. The
character of _Eileen_ is perhaps one of Mr. Chambers's most
real and most successful creations. The fact that this novel,
after one year, is in its 200th thousand is sufficient proof of
its popularity. In
THE FIGHTING CHANCE
the author still deals with American society, but here his
background is the consideration of the evil influences of
inheritance in old families. The scene is still New York and
Long Island, full of the charm of outdoor life and hunting
episodes. The principal male character _Siward_ is cursed
with the inheritance of drink. _Siward's_ struggles to
conquer his Enemy, and the fighting chance he sees at last in
the affection of a girl, carry on the story to a hopeful finish.
The novel has been published two years and a few months and more
than 250,000 copies have been sold, so that its claims to
success are undeniable.
THE RECKONING
The varied interests of the author which have been suggested
above are sustained in this novel. It is a story of a side light
of the American Revolution, and it makes the fourth novel in a
series of books telling in fiction of the scenes and invoking
the characters in the Mohawk Valley during the war for American
Independence. The first novel of the series was "Cardigan"; the
second, "The Maid-at-Arms"; the third is still to be written,
when the distinguished author can find time; while "The
Reckoning" is the last.
IOLE
Another splendid example of the author's versatility is this
farcical, humorous satire on the _art nouveau_ of to-day.
Mr. Chambers, with all his knowledge of the artistic jargon, has
in this little novel created a pious fraud of a father, who
brings up his eight lovely daughters in the Adirondacks, where
they wear pink pajamas and eat nuts and fruit, and listen to him
while he lectures them and everybody else on art. It is easy to
imagine what happens when several rich and practical young New
Yorkers stumble upon this group. Everybody is happy in the end.
THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS
Here again is a totally different vein of half humor and half
seriousness. Mr. Chambers selects a firm of detectives (based,
by the way, on fact) who guarantee to find lost persons, missing
heirs, etc. In this case the author's fancy and humor suggest to
a young bachelor, who has always had an ideal girl in mind, that
he go and describe her as a real person to _Mr. Keen_, the
Tracer of Lost Persons. He gives his description, and, as may be
supposed, _Mr. Keen_ finds the girl, but after such a
series of episodes, escapes, discoveries and dénouements that it
takes a full-grown novel to accomplish the task.
THE TREE OF HEAVEN
Half in fancy, half in fact, the thread of an occult idea runs
through this weird theme. You cannot, even at the end, be quite
sure whether the author has been making fun of you or not.
Perhaps, if the truth were told, he could not quite tell you
himself. The tale all hangs about one of a group of friends who
lives for years in the Far East and gathers some of the occult
knowledge of that far-off land. Into the woof of an Eastern rug
is woven the soul of a woman. Into the glisten of a scarab is
polished the prophecy of a life. Into the whole charming romance
of the book is woven the thread of an intangible, "creepy,"
mysterious force. What is it? Is it a joke? Who knows?
SOME LADIES IN HASTE
This novel is as widely different from all the others as if
another hand had written it and another mind conceived it. This
time, too, it is impossible to say whether the author is
quizzing our new thought transference and telepathic friends, or
whether he is half inclined to suggest that "there may be
something in it." Here is a character who suddenly discovers
that by concentrating his mind on certain ideas he can inject or
project them into others. And forthwith he sets half a dozen
couples making love to each other in most grotesque surroundings.
They climb trees and become engaged. They put on strange Panlike
costumes and prance about the woods--always charming, always
well bred, always with a touch of romance that makes the reader
read on to the end and finally lay the book down with a smile of
pleasure and a little sigh that it is over so soon.
One might run on for twenty books more, but there is not space enough
even to mention Mr. Chambers's delightful nature books for children,
telling how _Geraldine_ and _Peter_ go wandering through "Outdoor-land,"
"Mountain-Land," "Orchard-Land," "River-Land," "Forest-Land," and
"Garden-Land." They, in turn, are as different from his novels in fancy
and conception as each of his novels from the other. No living writer
has given to the public so varied a list of books with such
extraordinary popularity in all of them as Mr. Robert W. Chambers.