A STRANGE ENCOUNTER
This incident of old Aunt Dilsey and Sam was but one of many that set
Dorothea to thinking deeply. The summer had passed with but little
change in the village of Washington. September had seen Sherman in
possession of Atlanta; he had occupied Savannah in December and a month
later began his successful march through South Carolina. But the most
significant occurrence of that Autumn was the reëlection of Mr. Lincoln.
This was a confirmation of the unity felt in the North to prosecute the
war to the end and a blasting of the hopes of those Southerners who,
realizing their dwindling resources, had worked to bring about some form
of compromise. The winter of 1865 was a continued history of defeat for
the Confederate armies who opposed Sherman. Charleston was evacuated in
February, and when the Stars and Stripes once more floated over Sumter’s
ruins, it seemed to Dorothea that the end of the war had really come.
For she developed an intense interest in all these matters and it was
hard for her to understand how her cousins could close their eyes to the
clear meaning of events.
Miss Imogene was away upon a visit to other relatives and there was no
one to whom the girl could talk freely, so that her thoughts were in a
somewhat chaotic state. She was surprised sometimes to find herself so
eager for news of the war, as if in some way her personal fortunes were
involved. Now and then she would say to herself that these things made
little difference to an English girl; but immediately there came the
recollection that she was half American.
A rainy spring followed a cold and dismal winter, and although early in
April the weather cleared for a time, it brought no cheer to the South.
General Lee was near Richmond with his army, and about him were the
Union forces under Grant. The Confederacy was making its last stand,
though there were very few in the South who would acknowledge the
condition.
In the May household there was little to indicate that a crisis existed
in the cause for which they all worked. So far the cruelties of war had
passed them by, but one bright morning Hal was brought home by his
colored body-servant, Big Jim, quite out of his senses from a bad saber
wound in the head and a crippled leg. Mrs. May, with admirable
fortitude, welcomed him, glad to have her son back to nurse and thanking
Heaven it was no worse.
Big Jim’s story of the incident reflected a good deal of credit upon
himself and he seemed immensely proud of his successful meeting of the
emergency, and was never tired of talking about it.
“I drug the Lil’ Marse out o’ the battle and the doctor he done fix him
up on the road,” Jim explained. “Den the Colonel, hisself, was brung by
wounded an’ the doctor, he had to go off wif him so he tol’ me to carry
Lil’ Marse to the horspital. But I seen ouah sogers when they comes out
of them places wifout they’s laigs, or they’s arms, or they’s eyes, an’
I says, ‘Big Jim, Ol’ Miss gwine for you somethin’ turrible, if you on’y
brings back chunks of Lil’ Marse,’ so I done brung him (all o’ him,
mind), right here and didn’t go near no horspital, where like as not
they’d done ampitate his haid like they do arms and laigs. Now you-all
fix him up jes’ to suit yourselves.”
That was Big Jim’s story, and from then on the entire household revolved
about the sick-room and even the news of battles became of secondary
importance.
In the afternoon Harriot, being free of her governess, proposed to carry
the news to Corinne; for Mrs. Stewart, in spite of her many threats of
immediate departure, was still in Washington.
“We may get some poundcake, you know,” Harriot suggested as an added
inducement, but there was a lack of conviction in her tone.
“I’ll go if we take the short cut,” Dorothea answered, meaning a path
through a strip of woods on the outskirts of the town, which was a most
beautiful and densely shaded place running for miles through hill and
swamp. It was a favorite resort of Dorothea’s, and she loved to wander
along the narrow path, through the heavy undergrowth, and fancy herself
far away from civilization.
Harriot consented to this cheerfully enough, although she had meant to
drive to her aunt’s, and the two set off.
Corinne was not visible when they arrived, but Mrs. Stewart welcomed
them with her usual cordiality.
“Make yourselves perfectly at home, my dears,” she said in greeting.
“You will excuse me, I know; but I have so many things to do. We are
leaving ’most any day now.”
She rambled on in this strain, coming and going in a great bustle of
excitement through the room in which they sat, as if her departure
really were imminent. She talked just as Dorothea had heard her talk by
the hour, and so familiar was the theme that Dorothea soon lost the
thread of it, her thoughts wandered off to other matters and she sat
idly looking out of the window, which commanded a view of the driveway
up to the house.
“I really don’t know where Corinne is,” Mrs. Stewart explained in one of
her darts into the room. “I think she went into the village for
something, but I can’t be sure. However, she will be home shortly, I
suppose, if she doesn’t stay longer wherever she has gone.”
Dorothea smiled to herself as she heard the words, thinking that
undoubtedly Mrs. Stewart was entirely correct in this statement; but not
caring very much whether she saw Corinne or not.
“And, Harriot,” Mrs. Stewart went on, “you might go and see if there are
not some refreshments to be had. Perhaps there is some fruit cake, but—”
Her voice trailed off as she and the quickly responsive Harriot left the
room.
Alone, Dorothea looked out of the window, idly watching two people
coming slowly toward the house. As they drew nearer she recognized that
one of the pair was Corinne and beside her was a man, walking painfully
with the aid of a crutch. She had no need to note that his tattered
uniform was the Confederate gray, for the sight of wounded soldiers
struggling back along the roads to their homes was familiar enough. They
passed through the little town daily, singly or in groups of half a
dozen, helping each other as best they might and depending upon the
generosity of the inhabitants for their food from day to day. Of course
every one was kind to them and they were one of the few sources of
information coming into the place.
Dorothea’s heart was touched once more, as it had been at every
encounter with these unfortunate victims of the war, and she had the
impulse to go out to greet the man with a word of encouragement and
sympathy. But she knew Corinne well enough to realize that she would not
welcome any assistance in her ministrations. She had no wish to share
the glory of her good deeds with any one, and, knowing this, Dorothea
kept her seat and watched the two approach.
Evidently the man was badly disabled. Each limping step seemed a painful
effort, and now and then he would stop as if it was impossible to bear
the pain without a rest. As they drew near enough for Dorothea to see
their faces, her view was cut off by the shrubbery and it was not until
she heard Corinne’s voice that she knew they had reached the house. The
stumbling of the wounded man mounting the two or three steps of the
porch and then the stumping of his crutch on the board flooring, were
next audible.
“Sit down here and I will bring you some food,” Corinne said, and there
was the scrape of a chair as the girl pulled it forward.
The window at which Dorothea sat looked out upon the side porch, but as
she heard Corinne come into the house and hurry through it toward the
rear, she rose and crossed the room to get a view of the wounded man.
He was sitting with his back to her, a forlorn, shabby figure, that
seemed shrunken with pain and suffering. Again she had the impulse to go
out to him and at least say a word of what was in her heart; but she
restrained herself, knowing that Corinne would be displeased to find her
there till after she had ministered to the man herself.
But, as Dorothea watched, she saw that the stranger’s head suddenly
turned sharply right and left as if he looked about him. In a moment he
straightened up and then, to her amazement, jumped noiselessly to his
feet and, without a trace of lameness, tiptoed to the edge of the porch,
evidently looking around to see how the land lay.
Instantly the girl realized that this was no ordinary wounded
soldier—that, as a matter of fact, the man was not wounded at all—and
that all the suffering he seemed to show was a sham. And she grew
indignant. He was, in all probability, a deserter, pretending that he
was wounded in order to escape the risks his fellows were forced to run,
and at the same time trading upon the sympathies of those who might
better have saved their charities for more worthy objects.
“He doesn’t deserve food that might be given to really suffering
soldiers,” she thought, and was about to run out to the kitchen to tell
Corinne what she had seen.
But before she had taken a step the man turned and faced her through the
window. With a catch of her breath she recognized him at once. It was
Larry Stanchfield! He was unkempt and none too clean. A two days’ growth
of beard would have disguised his features from his friends; but he had
been like that when Dorothea had last seen him and there was no doubt in
her mind as to who he was. She stopped abruptly and Stanchfield, seeing
her through the window and recognizing her, lifted his hand and beckoned
her to come out to him.
When Dorothea reached the porch, he was back in his chair, once more the
crippled Confederate soldier.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a whisper.
“I am about to be fed against my will,” he answered, with a grin. “The
young lady insisted that I must be taken care of. She met me on the road
and would have it that I come here and be stuffed, although I told her I
needed nothing.”
“Then why did you come?” demanded Dorothea.
“Because if I had been too insistent she would have been suspicious,” he
answered. “I venture to think that there are not many Rebel soldiers,
wounded as badly as I am, who would protest at being taken care of by a
charming young lady. And I don’t want to be shot, you know. I’ve more
important matters to attend to.”
His voice was low but there was a reckless boyishness about it that
contrasted strangely with his appearance.
“But why are you in this part of the country at all?” Dorothea demanded
again. She was worried about him, for, having helped to save him once,
she thought it a useless risk that he should run his head into the
lion’s mouth again.
“I am on my way South to warn our troops,” he replied soberly. “And I
haven’t much time either. The Johnny Rebs are preparing a secret
expedition against the forces Sherman left at Savannah. It’s a very
pretty plan, and, unless I get through, it will make trouble for us. I
know the country and volunteered to carry the word. I wanted to see you
and the charming little lady who helped me before, but I did not believe
I should be lucky enough to meet you, as I couldn’t risk stopping at the
house. I would be miles on my road now, if it hadn’t been for this
zealous young lady. I shall have to run half the night to make up for
it.”
He laughed quietly and looked down at his crutch.
“We did not know whether you had gotten away safely or not,” Dorothea
replied. “We didn’t hear a word about it.”
“Didn’t that Irishman tell you?” Stanchfield asked, in surprise.
“Irishman!” echoed Dorothea, and it was a moment or two before she
realized that Stanchfield was talking of Val Tracy. “Did he help you?”
she demanded, after a slight pause.
“To be sure he did,” came the ready answer, “and I took for granted he
had told you all about it.”
“We have never heard a word of you since that night,” Dorothea informed
him. She was so astounded that her thoughts were in a whirl. “Val had
helped him after all—but why had he not told them?” Her mind was a
chaos. She could reason nothing out.
“Hum, that’s funny,” Larry went on, half to himself. “I supposed of
course he had let you know. He was a fine chap, though I must say he
didn’t seem awfully cordial about what he did; but he gave me a good
horse and set me on my way, and I didn’t think it polite to criticize
his manners.”
“But aren’t you running a great risk, now?” Dorothea asked anxiously.
“Not very,” he replied lightly, “and then, if I get into trouble, I
trust I may still count upon you to help me out.”
“I don’t think you can count upon me again,” Dorothea answered
seriously. “I was willing to save you from prison but I don’t think I
could help you defeat the South.”
“Why, aren’t you for the North?” Stanchfield murmured incredulously.
“I’m British,” the girl returned, “but that hasn’t anything to do with
it. It wouldn’t be fair for me to accept the hospitality of my aunt and
cousins and betray their Cause. Do you think it would?”
“But you’re a Red String,” he replied, as if that made everything all
right.
“Oh, but I’m not,” said Dorothea positively.
The young man’s glance fell to the red velvet ribbon on the girl’s wrist
and then sought her face. He was perplexed and a little startled.
“Then who is the Red String? The other lady?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Dorothea replied quickly. “Miss Imogene couldn’t be, you know.
We were just sorry for the prisoners at Andersonville. That was why we
helped you.” At that moment she was convinced that Val Tracy was the
elusive member of that mysterious band of Northern sympathizers, but
this thought she kept to herself.
“Then I suppose you will betray me now?” he questioned. “I shouldn’t
have told you of my mission!”
“I’m neutral, or at least I ought to be,” Dorothea replied, perplexed.
“Anyway, I shan’t betray you. Only you mustn’t expect me to help you,
either.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Corinne, accompanied
by Mrs. Stewart and Harriot. As Dorothea had expected, Corinne was by no
means pleased by this audience to share with her the glory of attending
“one of our wounded heroes,” as she expressed it, and Dorothea watched
the proceedings, half fearful and half amused. Stanchfield became again
the suffering soldier and Dorothea dared not catch his eye for fear she
might laugh out-right. It was no easy matter to keep a straight face
listening to the excessive expressions of sympathy that Mrs. Stewart and
her daughter thought appropriate to the occasion.
The farce kept up till Stanchfield could eat no more and, with many
protestations of thanks, hobbled off, glad, Dorothea knew, to be on the
road with his message that must be delivered.
On their way home Harriot complained that Dorothea was very silent.
“You behave as if you were starving,” Harriot told her, as they strolled
through Coulter Woods.
Dorothea laughed and tried to take an interest in Harriot’s chatter, but
her mind was filled with perplexing thoughts which she was trying vainly
to straighten out. The news that Stanchfield had brought, added to her
mystification. Was Val Tracy the Red String who had eluded her so
persistently? Indeed she could find no other explanation for his share
in the young man’s first escape. Yet it did not seem possible. Tracy was
not the sort of a fellow to sail under false colors of any sort. She
knew that he was not so bitter a foe to the Union as the Southerners
generally were. She realized that he felt much as she did about the
causes of the war; but it would not be like him, once having committed
himself, to play the traitor, which must be the case if indeed he was
one of the Red Strings. And yet, what other explanation was there for
what he had done?
Of Stanchfield and his journey to Savannah she thought also. This time,
however, she did not seem to have the same personal interest that had
played on her sympathies before. He was well and strong and evidently in
the way of being overfed, if his experience at Mrs. Stewart’s was any
measure of his future treatment. Of course, he ran considerable risk;
but he seemed very sure of himself, and his confidence inspired her with
faith that he would pull through and accomplish his mission.
The matter that most perplexed her had to do with herself. She had told
him she was British and therefore neutral in this controversy between
the North and the South. But was she? She was fast coming to the
conclusion that she was neither neutral nor British in her feelings. She
began to find the American part of her taking a vital interest in the
things that went on about her. She was no longer a visitor to America.
She did not wish to be that. Her mother had been an American—one of
these kindly Southern women whose charm made them a welcome wherever
they went. In her heart Dorothea felt the stirrings of her American
blood and a nearer kinship to these aunts and cousins with whom she had
been living.
“You know, Harriot,” she said, after a long silence, “I don’t think the
English people know very much about our country after all.”
The girl beside her looked up with wide-eyed surprise.
“What has that to do with peanut pralines?” she demanded. “Here I’ve
been talking about really interesting things and the first word you’ve
said for hours is something that doesn’t make any difference one way or
the other. I think you _must_ be in love.”
Dorothea laughed outright and brought her thoughts back to her immediate
surroundings.
“I was just thinking aloud,” she remarked lightly.
“That’s the way I always act when I’m hungry,” Harriot replied
practically. “When we get home I’ll get you a glass of milk or some
clabber. Aunt Decent says that’s the best thing there is for an empty
stomach.”