PRESCOTT'S ORDEAL
Prescott was awakened from his sleep by his mother, who came to him in
suppressed anxiety, telling him that a soldier was in the outer room
with a message demanding his instant presence at headquarters. At once
there flitted through his mind a dream of that long night, now passed,
the flight together, the ride, the warm and luminous presence beside him
and the last sight of her as she passed over the hill to the fires that
burned in the Northern camp. A dream it was, vague and misty as the
darkness through which they had passed, but it left a delight, vague and
misty like itself, that refused to be dispelled by the belief that this
message was from Mr. Sefton, who intended to strike where his armour was
weakest.
With the power of repression inherited from his Puritan mother he hid
from her pleasure and apprehension alike, saying:
"Some garrison duty, mother. You know in such a time of war I can't
expect to live here forever in ease and luxury."
The letter handed to him by the messenger, an impassive Confederate
soldier in butternut gray, was from the commandant of the forces in
Richmond, ordering him to report to Mr. Sefton for instructions. Here
were all his apprehensions justified. The search had been made, the
soldiers had gone to the cottage of Miss Grayson, the girl was not
there, and the Secretary now turned to him, Robert Prescott, as if he
were her custodian, demanding her, or determined to know what he had
done with her. Well, his own position was uncertain, but she at least
was safe--far beyond the lines of Richmond, now with her own people,
and neither the hand of Sefton nor of any other could touch her. That
thought shed a pleasant glow, all the more grateful because it was he
who had helped her. But toward the Secretary he felt only defiance.
As he went forth to obey the summons the city was bright, all white and
silver and gold in its sheet of ice, with a wintry but golden sun above;
but something was missing from Richmond, nevertheless. It suddenly
occurred to him that Miss Grayson must be very lonely in her bleak
little cottage.
He went undisturbed by guards to the Secretary's room--the Confederate
Government was never immediately surrounded with bayonets--and knocked
upon the door. A complete absence of state and formality prevailed.
The Secretary was not alone, and Prescott was not surprised. The
President of the Confederacy himself sat near the window, and just
beyond him was Wood, in a great armchair, looking bored. There were
present, too, General Winder, the commander of the forces in the city,
another General or two and members of the Cabinet.
"An inquisition," thought Prescott. "This disappointed Secretary would
ruin me."
The saving thought occurred to him that if he had known of Miss
Catherwood's presence in Richmond Mr. Sefton also had known of it. The
wily Secretary must have in view some other purpose than to betray him,
when by so doing he would also betray himself. Prescott gathered
courage, and saluting, stood respectfully, though in the attitude of one
who sought no favour.
All the men in the room looked at him, some with admiration of the
strong young figure and the open, manly face, others with inquiry. He
wondered that Wood, a man who belonged essentially to the field of
battle, should be there; but the cavalry leader, for his great
achievements, was high in the esteem of the Confederate Government.
It was the Secretary, Mr. Sefton, who spoke, for the others seemed
involuntarily to leave to him subjects requiring craft and guile--a
tribute or not as one chooses to take it.
"The subject upon which we have called you is not new to us nor to you,"
said the Secretary in expressionless tones. "We revert to the question
of a spy--a woman. It is now known that it was a woman who stole the
important papers from the office of the President. The secret service of
General Winder has learned that she has been in this city all the
while--that is, until the last night or two."
He paused here a few moments as if he would mark the effect of his
words, and his eyes and those of Prescott met. Prescott tried to read
what he saw there--to pierce the subconscious depths, and he felt as if
he perceived the soul of this man--a mighty ambition under a silky
exterior, and a character in which a dual nature struggled. Then his
eyes wandered a moment to Wood. Both he and Sefton were mountaineers in
the beginning, and what a contrast now! But he stood waiting for the
Secretary to proceed.
"It has become known to us," continued the Secretary, "that this
dangerous spy--dangerous because of the example she has set, and because
of the connections that she may have here--has just escaped from the
city. She was concealed in the house of Miss Charlotte Grayson, a
well-known Northern sympathizer--a house which you are now known,
Captain Prescott, to have visited more than once."
Prescott looked again into the Secretary's eyes and a flash of
intelligence passed between them. He read once more in their depths the
desire of this man to torture him--to drag him to the edge of the abyss,
but not to push him over.
"There is a suspicion--or perhaps I ought to say a fear--that you have
given aid and comfort to the enemy, this spy, Captain Prescott," said
the Secretary.
Prescott's eyes flashed with indignant fire.
"I have been wounded five times in the service of the Confederacy," he
replied, "and I have here an arm not fully recovered from the impact of
a Northern bullet." He turned his left arm as he spoke. "If that was
giving aid and comfort to the enemy, then I am guilty."
A murmur of approval arose. He had made an impression.
"It was by my side at Chancellorsville that he received one of his
wounds," said Wood in his peculiar slow, drawling tones.
Prescott shot him a swift and grateful glance.
But the Secretary persisted. He was not to be turned aside, not even by
the great men of the Confederacy who sat in the room about him.
"No one doubts the courage of Captain Prescott," he said, "because that
has been proved too often--you see, Captain, we are familiar with your
record--but even the best of men may become exposed to influences that
cause an unconscious change of motive. I repeat that none of us is
superior to it."
Prescott saw at once the hidden meaning in the words, and despite
himself a flush rose to his face. Perhaps it was true.
The Secretary looked away toward the window, his glance seeming to rest
on the white world of winter outside, across which the yellow streaks of
sunlight fell like a golden tracery. He interlaced his fingers
thoughtfully upon his knees while he waited for an answer. But Prescott
had recovered his self-possession.
"I do not know what you mean," he said. "I am not accustomed, perhaps,
to close and delicate analysis of my own motives, but this I will say,
that I have never knowingly done anything that I thought would cause the
Confederacy harm; while, on the contrary, I have done all I could--so
far as my knowledge went--that would do it good."
As he spoke he glanced away from the Secretary toward the others, and he
thought he saw the shadow of a smile on the face of the President. What
did it mean? He was conscious again of the blood flushing to his face.
It was the President himself who next spoke.
"Do you know where this woman is, Captain Prescott?" he asked.
"No, I do not know where she is," he replied, thankful that the question
had come in such a form.
Wood, the mountaineer, moved impatiently. He was of an impetuous
disposition, untrammeled by rule, and he stood in awe of nobody.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I can't exactly see the drift of all this talk.
I'd as soon believe that any of us would be a traitor as Captain
Prescott, an' I don't think we've got much time to waste on matters like
this. Grant's a-comin'. I tell you, gentlemen, we've got to think of
meetin' him and not of huntin' for a woman spy."
He spoke with emphasis, and again Prescott shot him another swift and
grateful glance.
"There is no question of treason, General Wood," said Mr. Sefton
placidly. "None of us would wrong Captain Prescott by imputing to him
such a crime. I merely suggested an unconscious motive that might have
made him deflect for a moment, and for a moment only, from the straight
and narrow path of duty."
Prescott saw a cruel light in the Secretary's eyes and behind it a
suggestion of enjoyment in the power to make men laugh or quiver as he
wished; but he did not flinch, merely repeating:
"I have done my duty to the Confederacy as best I could, and I am ready
to do it again. Even the children among us know that a great battle is
coming, and I ask that I be permitted again to show my loyalty at the
front."
"Good words from a good man," exclaimed Wood.
"General," said the President quietly, "comments either for or against
are not conducive to the progress of an examination."
Wood took the rebuke in good part, lifted a ruler from the table and
with an imaginary pocket-knife began to trim long shavings from it.
Prescott, despite his feeling that he had done no moral wrong--though
technically and in a military sense he had sinned--could not escape the
sensation of being on trial as a criminal, and his heart rose up in
indignant wrath. Those five wounds were ample reply to such a charge.
He felt these questions to be an insult, and cold anger against the
Secretary who was seeking to entrap or torture him rose in his heart.
There came with it a resolve not to betray his part in the escape of the
girl; but they never asked him whether or not he had helped her in her
flight. When he noticed this his feeling of apprehension departed, and
he faced the Secretary, convinced that the duel was with him alone and
that these others were but seconds to whom Mr. Sefton had confided only
a part of what he knew.
The Secretary asked more questions, but again they were of a general
nature and did not come to the point, as he made no mention of Miss
Grayson or her cottage.
Wood said nothing, but he was growing more impatient than ever, and the
imaginary shavings whittled by his imaginary knife were increasing in
length.
"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "it still 'pears to me that we are wastin'
time. I know Prescott an' he's all right. I don't care two cents whether
or not he helped a woman to escape. S'pose she was young and pretty."
All smiled saved Sefton and Prescott.
"General, would you let gallantry override patriotism?" asked the
President.
"There ain't no woman in the world that can batter down the
Confederacy," replied the other stoutly. "If that is ever done, it'll
take armies to do it, and I move that we adjourn."
The President looked at his watch.
"Yes," he said, "we must go. Mr. Sefton, you may continue the
examination as you will and report to me. Captain Prescott, I bid you
good-day, and express my wish that you may come clear from this ordeal."
Prescott bowed his thanks, but to Wood, whose active intervention in his
behalf had carried much weight, he felt deeper gratitude, though he said
nothing, and still stood in silence as the others went out, leaving him
alone with the Secretary.
Mr. Sefton, too, was silent for a time, still interlacing his fingers
thoughtfully and glancing now and then through the window. Then he
looked at Prescott and his face changed. The cruelty which had lurked in
his eyes disappeared and in its place came a trace of admiration, even
liking.
"Captain Prescott," he said, "you have borne yourself very well for a
man who knew he was wholly in the power of another, made by
circumstances his enemy for the time being."
"I am not wholly in the power of anybody," replied Prescott proudly. "I
repeat that I have done nothing at any time of which I am ashamed or for
which my conscience reproaches me."
"That is irrelevant. It is not any question of shame or conscience,
which are abstract things. It is merely one of fact--that is, whether
you did or did not help Miss Catherwood, the spy, to escape. I am
convinced that you helped her--not that I condemn you for it or that I
am sorry you did so. Perhaps it is for my interest that you have acted
thus. You were absent from your usual haunts yesterday and the night
before, and it was within that time that the spy disappeared from Miss
Grayson's. I have no doubt that you were with her. You see, I did not
press the question when the others were here. I halted at the critical
point. I had that much consideration for you."
He stopped again and the glances of these two strong men met once more;
Prescott's open and defiant, Sefton's cunning and indirect.
"I hear that she is young and very beautiful," said the Secretary
thoughtfully.
Prescott flushed.
"Yes, young and very beautiful," continued the Secretary. "One might
even think that she was more beautiful than Helen Harley."
Prescott said nothing, but the deep flush remained on his face.
"Therefore," continued the Secretary, "I should imagine that your stay
with her was not unpleasant."
"Mr. Sefton," exclaimed Prescott, taking an angry step forward, "your
intimation is an insult and one that I do not propose to endure."
"You mistake my meaning," said the Secretary calmly. "I intended no such
intimation as you thought, but I wonder what Helen Harley would think of
the long period that you have spent with one as young and beautiful as
herself."
He smiled a little, showing his white teeth, and Prescott, thrown off
his guard, replied:
"She would think it a just deed."
"Then you admit that it is true?"
"I admit nothing," replied Prescott firmly. "I merely stated what I
thought would be the opinion of Helen Harley concerning an act of
mercy."
The Secretary smiled.
"Captain Prescott," he said, "I am not sorry that this has happened, but
be assured that I am not disposed to make war upon you now. Shall we let
it be an armed peace for the present?"
He showed a sudden warmth of manner and an easy agreeableness that
Prescott found hard to resist. Rising from the chair, he placed his hand
lightly upon Robert's arm, saying:
"I shall go with you to the street, Captain, if you will let me."
Together they left the room, the Secretary indicating the way, which was
not that by which Prescott had come. They passed through a large office
and here Prescott saw many clerks at work at little desks, four women
among them. Helen Harley was one of the four. She was copying papers,
her head bent down, her brown hair low on her forehead, unconscious of
her observers.
In her simple gray dress she looked not less beautiful than on that day
when, in lilac and rose, drawing every eye, she received General Morgan.
She did not see them as they entered, for her head remained low and the
wintry sunshine from the window gleamed across her brown hair.
The Secretary glanced at her casually, as it were, but Prescott saw a
passing look on his face that he could translate into nothing but
triumphant proprietorship. Mr. Sefton was feeling more confident since
the examination in the room above.
"She works well," he said laconically.
"I expected as much," said Prescott.
"It is not true that people of families used to an easy life cannot
become efficient when hardship arrives," continued the Secretary. "Often
they bring great zeal to their new duties."
Evidently he was a man who demanded rigid service, as the clerks who saw
him bent lower to their task, but Helen did not notice the two until
they were about to pass through a far door. Her cheeks reddened as they
went out, for it hurt her pride that Prescott should see her there--a
mere clerk, honest and ennobling though she knew work to be.
The press of Richmond was not without enterprise even in those days of
war and want, and it was seldom lacking in interest. If not news, then
the pungent comment and criticism of Raymond and Winthrop were sure to
find attentive readers, and on the day following Prescott's interview
with the Secretary they furnished to their readers an uncommonly
attractive story.
It had been discovered that the spy who stole the papers was a beautiful
woman--a young Amazon of wonderful charms. She had been concealed in
Richmond all the while--perhaps she might be in the city yet--and it was
reported that a young Confederate officer, yielding to her fascinations,
had hidden and helped her at the risk of his own ruin.
Here, indeed, was a story full of mystery and attraction; the city
throbbed with it, and all voices were by no means condemnatory. It is a
singular fact that in war people develop an extremely sentimental side,
as if to atone for the harsher impulses that carry them into battle.
Throughout the Civil War the Southerners wrote much so-called poetry and
their newspapers were filled with it. This story of the man and the maid
appealed to them. If the man had fallen--well, he had fallen in a good
cause. He was not the first who had been led astray by the tender, and
therefore pardonable, emotion. What did it matter if she was a Northern
girl and a spy? These were merely added elements to variety and charm.
If he had made a sacrifice of himself, either voluntarily or
involuntarily, it was for a woman, and women understood and forgave.
They wondered what this young officer's name might be--made deft
surmises, and by piecing circumstance to circumstance proved beyond a
doubt that sixteen men were certainly he. It was somewhat tantalizing
that at least half of these men, when accused of the crime, openly
avowed their guilt and said they would do it again. Prescott, who was
left out of all these calculations, owing to the gravity and soberness
of his nature, read the accounts with mingled amusement and vexation.
There was nothing in any of them by which he could be identified, and he
decided not to inquire how the story reached the newspapers, being
satisfied in his own mind that he knew already. The first to speak to
him of the matter was his friend Talbot.
"Bob," he said, "I wonder if this is true. I tried to get Raymond to
tell me where he got the story, but he wouldn't, and as all the
newspapers have it in the same way, I suppose they got it from the same
source. But if there is such a girl, and if she has been here, I hope
she has escaped and that she'll stay escaped."
It was pleasant for Prescott to hear Talbot talk thus, and this opinion
was shared by many others as he soon learned, and his conscience
remained at ease, although he was troubled about Miss Grayson. But he
met her casually on the street about a week afterward and she said:
"I have had a message from some one. She is safe and well and she is
grateful." She would add no more, and Prescott did not dare visit her
house, watched now with a vigilance that he knew he could not escape;
but he wondered often if Lucia Catherwood and he in the heave and drift
of the mighty war should ever meet again.
The gossip of Richmond was not allowed to dwell long on the story of the
spy, with all its alluring mystery of the man and the maid. Greater
events were at hand. A soft wind blew from the South one day. The ice
broke up, the snow melted, the wind continued to blow, the earth
dried--winter was gone and spring in its green robe was coming. The time
of play was over. The armies rose from their sleep in the snows and
began to brush the rust from the cannon. Horses stretched themselves and
generals studied their maps anew. Three years of tremendous war was
gone, but they were prepared for a struggle yet more gigantic.
To those in Richmond able to bear arms was sent an order--"Come at once
to the front"--and among them was Prescott, nothing loath. His mother
kissed him a tearless good-by, hiding her grief and fear under her
Puritan face.
"I feel that this is the end, one way or the other," she said.
"I hope so, mother."
"But it may be long delayed," she added.
To Helen he said a farewell like that of a boy to the girl who has been
his playmate. Although she flushed a little, causing him to flush, too,
deep tenderness was absent from their parting, and there was a slight
constraint that neither could fail to notice.
Talbot was going with him, Wood and Colonel Harley were gone already,
and Winthrop and Raymond said they should be at the front to see. Then
Prescott bade farewell to Richmond, where in the interval of war he had
spent what he now knew to be a golden month or two.