It was a fair morning in August, the twentieth day after the eventful
21st of July. Beverly was busy with his military duties, and Harold, who
had already fully recovered from his wounds, was enjoying, in company
with Oriana, a pleasant canter over the neighboring country. They came
to where the rolling meadow subsided into a level plain of considerable
extent on either side of the road. At its verge a thick forest formed a
dark background, beyond which the peering summits of green hills showed
that the landscape was rugged and uneven. Oriana slackened her pace, and
pointed out over the broad expanse of level country.
"You see this plain that stretches to our right and left?"
"Of course I do," replied Harold.
"Yes; but I want you to mark it well," she continued, with a significant
glance; "and also that stretch of woodland yonder, beyond which, you
see, the country rises again."
"Yes, a wild country, I should judge, like that to the left, where we
fought your batteries a month ago."
"It is, indeed, a wild country as you say. There are ravines there, and
deep glens, fringed with almost impenetrable shrubbery, and deep down in
these recesses flows many a winding water-course, lined and overarched
with twisted foliage. Are you skillful at threading a woodland
labyrinth?"
"Yes; my surveying expeditions have schooled me pretty well. Why do you
ask? Do you want me to guide you through the wilderness, in search of a
hermit's cave."
"Perhaps; women have all manner of caprices, you know. But I want you to
pay attention to those landmarks. Over yonder, there are some nooks that
would do well to hide a runaway. I have explored some of them myself,
for I passed some months here formerly, before the war. Poor Miranda's
family resided once in the little cottage where we are stopping now.
That is why I came from Richmond to spend a few days and be with
Beverly. I little thought that my coming would bring me to Miranda's
death-bed. Look there, now: you have a better view of where the forest
ascends into the hilly ground."
"Why are you so topographical to-day? One would think you were tempting
me to run away," said Harold, smiling, as he followed her pointing
finger with his eyes.
"No; I know you would not do that, because Beverly, you know, has
pledged himself for your safe-keeping."
"Very true; and I am therefore a closer prisoner than if I were loaded
down with chains. When do you return to Richmond?"
"I shall return on the day after to-morrow. Beverly has been charged
with an important service, and will be absent for several weeks. But he
can procure your parole, if you wish, and you can come to the old
manor-house again."
"I think I shall not accept parole," replied Harold, thoughtfully. "I
must escape, if possible, for Arthur's sake. Beverly, of course, will
release himself from all obligations about me, before he goes?"
"Yes, to-morrow; but you will be strictly guarded, unless you give
parole. See here, I have a little present for you; it is not very
pretty, but it is useful."
She handed him a small pocket-compass, set in a brass case.
"You can have this too," she added, drawing a small but strong and sharp
poignard from her bosom. "But you must promise me never to use it except
to save your life?"
"I will promise that cheerfully," said Harold, as he received the
precious gifts.
"To-morrow we will ride out again. We will have the same horses that
bear us so bravely now. Do you note how strong and well-bred is the
noble animal you ride?"
"Yes," said Harold, patting the glorious arch of his steed's neck. "He's
a fine fellow, and fleet, I warrant."
"Fleet as the winds. There are few in this neighborhood that can match
him. Let us go home now. You need not tell Beverly that I have given you
presents. And be ready to ride to-morrow at four o'clock precisely."
He understood her thoroughly, and they cantered homeward, conversing
upon indifferent subjects and reverting no further to their previous
somewhat enigmatical theme.
On the following afternoon, at four o'clock precisely, the horses were
at the door, and five minutes afterward a mounted officer, followed by
two troopers, galloped up the lane and drew rein at the gateway.
Harold was arranging the girths of Oriana's saddle, and she herself was
standing in her riding-habit beside the porch. The officer, dismounting,
approached her and raised his cap in respectful salute. He was young and
well-looking, evidently one accustomed to polite society.
"Good afternoon, Captain Haralson," said Oriana, with her most gracious
smile. "I am very glad to see you, although, as you bring your military
escort, I presume you come to see Beverly upon business, and not for the
friendly visit you promised me. But Beverly is not here."
"I left him at the camp on duty, Miss Weems," replied the captain. "It
is my misfortune that my own duties have been too strict of late to
permit me the pleasure of my contemplated visit."
"I must bide my time, captain. Let me introduce my friend. Captain Hare,
our prisoner, Mr. Haralson; but I know you will help me to make him
forget it, when I tell you that he was my brother's schoolmate and is
our old and valued friend."
The young officer took Harold frankly by the hand, but he looked grave
and somewhat disconcerted as he answered:
"Captain Hare, as a soldier, will forgive me that my duty compels me to
play a most ungracious part upon our first acquaintance. I have orders
to return with him to headquarters, where I trust his acceptance of
parole will enable me to avail myself of your introduction to show him
what courtesy our camp life admits, in atonement for the execution of my
present unpleasant devoir."
"I shall esteem your acquaintance the more highly," answered Harold,
"that you know so well to blend your soldiership with kindness. I am
entirely at your disposition, sir, having only to apologize to Miss
Weems for the deprivation of her contemplated ride."
"Oh, no, we must not lose our ride," said Oriana. "It is perhaps the
last we shall enjoy together, and such a lovely afternoon. I am sure
that Captain Haralson is too gallant to interrupt our excursion."
She turned to him with an arch smile, but he looked serious as he
replied:
"Alas! Miss Weems, our gallantry receives some rude rebuffs in the harsh
school of the soldier. It grieves me to mar your harmless recreation,
but even that mortification I must endure when it comes in the strict
line of my duty."
"But your duty does not forbid you to take a canter with us this
charming afternoon. Now put away that military sternness, which does not
become you at all, and help me to mount my pretty Nelly, who is getting
impatient to be off. And so am I. Come, you will get into camp in due
season, for we will go only as far as the Run, and canter all the way."
She took his arm, and he assisted her to the saddle, won into
acquiescence by her graceful obstinacy, and, in fact, seeing but little
harm the tufted hills rolled into one another like the waves of a
swelling sea, their crests tipped with the slant rays of the descending
sun, and their graceful slopes alternating among purple shadows and
gleams of floating light.
"It is indeed so beautiful," answered Harold, "that I should deem you
might be content to live there as of old, without inviting the terrible
companionship of Mars."
"We do not invite it," said the young captain. "Leave us in peaceful
possession of our own, and no war cries shall echo among those hills. If
Mars has driven his chariot into our homes, he comes at your bidding, an
unwelcome intruder, to be scourged back again."
"At our bidding! No. The first gun that was fired at Sumter summoned
him, and if he should leave his foot-prints deep in your soil, you have
well earned the penalty."
"It will cost you, to inflict it, many such another day's work as that
at Manassas a month ago."
The taunt was spoken hastily, and the young Southron colored as if
ashamed of his discourtesy, and added:
"Forgive me my ungracious speech. It was my first field, sir, and I am
wont to speak of it too boastingly. I shall become more modest, I hope,
when I shall have a better right to be a boaster."
"Oh," replied Harold, "I admit the shame of our discomfiture, and take
it as a good lesson to our negligence and want of purpose. But all that
has passed away. One good whipping has awakened us to an understanding
of the work we have in hand. Henceforth we will apply ourselves to the
task in earnest."
"You think, then, that your government will prosecute the war more
vigorously than before?"
"Undoubtedly. You have heard but the prelude of a gale that shall sweep
every vestige of treason from the land."
"Let it blow on," said the Southron, proudly. "There will be
counter-blasts to meet it. You cannot raise a tempest that will make us
bow our heads."
"Do you not think," interrupted Oriana, "that a large proportion of your
Northern population are ready at least to listen to terms of
separation?"
"No," replied Harold, firmly. "Or if there be any who entertain such
thoughts, we will make them outcasts among us, and the finger of scorn
will be pointed at them as recreant to their holiest duty."
"That is hardly fair," said Oriana. "Why should you scorn or maltreat
those who honestly believe that the doctrine in support of which so many
are ready to stake their lives and their fortunes, may be worthy of
consideration? Do you believe us all mad and wicked people in the
South--people without hearts, and without brains, incapable of forming
an opinion that is worth an argument? If there are some among you who
think we are acting for the best, and Heaven knows we are acting with
sincerity, you should give them at least a hearing, for the sake of
liberty of conscience. Remember, there are millions of us united in
sentiment in the South, and millions, perhaps, abroad who think with us.
How can you decide by your mere impulses where the right lies?"
"We decide by the promptings of our loyal hearts, and by our reason,
which tells us that secession is treason, and that treason must be
crushed."
"Heart and brain have been mistaken ere now," returned Oriana. "But if
you are a type of your countrymen, I see that hard blows alone will
teach you that God has given us the right to think for ourselves."
"Do you believe, then," asked Haralson, "that there can be no peace
between us until one side or the other shall be exhausted and subdued?"
"Not so," replied Harold. "I think that when we have retrieved the
disgrace of Bull Run and given you in addition, some wholesome
chastisement, your better judgment will return to you, and you will
accept forgiveness at our hands and return to your allegiance."
"You are mistaken," said the Southron. "Even were we ready to accept
your terms, you would not be ready to grant them. Should the North
succeed in striking some heavy blow at the South, I will tell you what
will happen; your abolitionists will seize the occasion of the peoples'
exultation to push their doctrine to a consummation. Whenever you shall
hear the tocsin of victory sounding in the North, then listen for the
echoing cry of emancipation--for you will hear it. You will see it in
every column of your daily prints; you will hear your statesmen urging
it in your legislative halls, and your cabinet ministers making it their
theme. And, most dangerous of all, you will hear your generals and
colonels, demagogues, at heart, and soldiers only of occasion, preaching
it to their battalions, and making converts of their subordinates by the
mere influences of their rank and calling. And when your military
chieftains harangue their soldiers upon political themes, think not of
our treason as you call it, but look well to the political freedom that
is still your own. With five hundred thousand armed puppets, moving at
the will of a clique of ambitious epauletted politicians and
experimentalists, you may live to witness, whether we be subdued or not,
a _coup d'etat_ for which there is a precedent not far back in the
annals of republics."
"Have you already learned to contemplate the danger that you are
incurring? Do you at last fear the monster that you have nursed and
strengthened in your midst? Well, if your slaves should rise against
you, surely you cannot blame us for the evil of your own creation."
"It is the hope of your abolitionists, not our fear, that I am
rehearsing. Should your armies obtain a foothold on our soil, we know
that you will put knives and guns into the hands of our slaves, and
incite them to emulate the deeds of their race in San Domingo. You will
parcel out our lands and wealth to your victorious soldiery, not so much
as a reward for their past services, but to seal the bond between them
and the government that will seek to rule by their bayonets. You see, we
know the peril and are prepared to meet it. Should you conquer us, at
the same time you would conquer the liberties of the Northern citizen.
You will be at the mercy of the successful general whose triumph may
make him the idol of the armed millions that alone can accomplish our
subjugation. In the South, butchery and rapine by hordes of desperate
negroes--in the North anarchy and political intrigue, to be merged into
dictatorship and the absolutism of military power. Such would be the
results of your triumph and our defeat."
"Those are the visions of a heated brain," said Harold. "I must confess
that your fighting is better than your logic. There is no danger to our
country that the loyalty of its people cannot overcome--as it will your
rebellion."