The head and shoulders disappeared. A short pause followed, then the
ladder came slowly down, and the Southerner descended, while Virgie
crouched, a sobbing little heap, beside her doll. But when he reached
the bottom rung, she rose to her feet and ran to meet him, weeping
bitterly.
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, I didn't do it right! I didn't do it right!"
She buried her head in his tattered coat, while he slipped an arm about
her and tried to soothe a sorrow too great for such a tiny heart to
bear.
"But you did do it right," he told her. "It was my fault. Mine! My leg
got cramped, and I had to move." He stooped and kissed her. "It was _my_
fault, honey; but you?--you did it _splendidly_!" He patted her
tear-stained cheek, then turned to his captor, with a grim, hard smile
of resignation to his fate.
"Well, Colonel, you've had a long chase of it; but you've gotten my
brush at last."
The Union soldier faced him, speaking earnestly:
"Captain Cary, you're a brave man--and one of the best scouts in the
Confederate army. I regret this happening--more than I can say." The
Southerner shrugged his shoulders. His Northern captor asked: "Are you
carrying dispatches?"
"No."
"Any other papers?--of any kind?" No answer came, and he added sternly:
"It is quite useless to refuse. Give them to me."
He held out his hand, but his captive only looked him in the eyes; and
the answer, though spoken in an undertone, held a world of quiet
meaning:
"You can take it--_afterwards_."
The Federal officer bit his lip; and yet he could not, would not, be
denied. His request became demand, backed by authority and the right of
might, till Virgie broke in, in a piping voice of indignation:
"You can't have it! It's mine! My pass to Richmon'--from Gen'ral Lee."
Morrison turned slowly from the little rebel to the man.
"Is this true?" he asked.
The Southerner flushed, and for reply produced the rumpled paper from
his boot leg, and handed it over without a word. The Northerner read it
carefully.
"_Pass Virginia Cary and escort through all Confederate lines and
give safe-conduct wherever possible._
"R.E. LEE, _General_."
The reader crushed the paper in his fist, while his hand sank slowly to
his side, then he raised his head and asked, in a voice which was
strangely out of keeping with a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Union Cavalry:
"And who was to be her escort? You?"
The captive nodded, smiling his sad, grim smile; and the captor
swallowed hard as he moved to the cabin door and stood listening to the
muttered rumble of the river guns.
"I'm sorry, Cary," he whispered brokenly; "more sorry than you can
understand."
For a long time no one spoke, then the Southerner went to Virgie,
dropping his hand in tenderness on her tumbled hair.
"Just go into your room, honey; I want to talk to Colonel Morrison." She
looked up at him doubtfully; but he added, with a reassuring smile:
"It's all right, darling. I'll call you in just a minute."
Still Virgie seemed to hesitate. She shifted her doubting eyes toward
the Union officer, turned, and obeyed in silence, closing the door of
the adjoining room behind her. Then the two men faced each other,
without the hampering presence of the child, each conscious of the
coming tragedy that both, till now, had striven manfully to hide. The
one moved forward toward a seat, staggering as he walked, and catching
himself on the table's edge, while the other's hand went out to lend him
aid; but the Southerner waved him off.
"Thank you," he said, as he sank into a chair. "I don't _want_
help--from _you_!"
"Why not?" asked Morrison.
"Because," said Cary, in sullen anger, "I don't ask quarter, nor aid,
from a man who frightens children."
The Northerner's chin went up; and when he replied his voice was
trembling; not in passion, but with a deeper, finer something which had
gripped his admiration for the courage of a child:
"And I wouldn't hurt a hair of her splendid little head!" He paused,
then spoke again, more calmly: "You thought me a beast to frighten her;
but don't you know it was the only thing to do? Otherwise my men might
have had to shoot you--before her eyes." Cary made no answer, though now
he understood; and Morrison went on: "It isn't easy for me to track a
fellow creature down; to take him when he's wounded, practically
unarmed, and turn him over to a firing squad. But it's war, my
friend--one of the merciless realities of war--and you ought to know the
meaning of its name."
"Yes, I know," returned the Southerner, with all the pent-up bitterness
of a hopeless struggle and defeat; "it has taken three years to teach
me--_and I know_! Look at me!" he cried, as he stood up in his rags and
spread his arms. "Look at my country, swept as bare as a stubble field!
You've whipped us, maybe, with your millions of money and your endless
men, and now you are warring with the women and the children!" He turned
his back and spoke in the deep intensity of scorn: "A fine thing,
Colonel! And may you get your ... reward!"
The Northerner set his lips in a thin, cold line; but curbed his wrath
and answered the accusation quietly:
"There are two sides to the question, Cary; _but there must be one
flag_!"
"Then fly your flag in justice!" the Southerner retorted hotly, wheeling
on his enemy, with blazing eyes and with hands that shook in the stress
of passion. "A while ago you called me a brave man and a good scout;
and, because I'm both, your people have set a price on me. Five hundred
dollars--alive or dead!" He laughed; a hoarse, harsh travesty of mirth,
and added, with a lip that curled in withering contempt: "Alive or dead!
A gentleman and a scout!--for just half the price of one good, sound
nigger! By Heaven, it makes me proud!"
Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison looked across the table at his prisoner, and
answered gravely, yet with a touch of sternness in his military tone:
"You are more than a scout, Cary. You've carried dispatches, and
intercepted ours; for both of which, if taken, you would have been a
prisoner of war, no more. But you've entered our lines--not in a uniform
of gray, _but blue_--and you've cost us the loss of two important
battles."
"And had you done the same," returned the Southerner, "for you it would
have meant promotion. I've served my cause as best I could; in the
saddle or the rifle pit; in the woods, or creeping through your lines.
If I've cost you a battle, my life is a puny price to pay, and I'd pay
it without a sigh." He paused and sank into his seat. "For myself, I
don't care much. I'm worn out, anyway; and I only wanted to get my
little girl to Richmond." At the thought of Virgie his anger returned to
him, and he once more staggered to his feet.
"But you," he accused, "you've beaten a baby by the force of arms!
You've run me to earth--and you've blocked her chance! It's Virgie you
are fighting now--not me--yes, just as if you rode her down with a troop
of horse! A fine thing, Colonel! For you, a brevet! For me, a firing
squad! Well, call in your men and get it over!" Again he smiled; a grim,
slow smile of bitterness and scorn. "Bravo, Colonel Morrison! Bravo! You
add one other glory to your conquering sword--and, besides, you'll
receive five hundred dollars in reward!"
The Northerner turned upon him fiercely, goaded at last to the
breaking-point in a struggle as black and awful as the struggle of his
brother-foe.
"Stop it, man!" he cried. "I order you to stop! It's duty!--not a
miserable reward!" His cheeks were flaming; his muscles quivered, and
his fists were clenched. "Do you actually suppose," he asked, "that I'm
proud of this? Do you think I'm wringing blood out of your heart and
mine--for money?"
They faced each other, two crouching, snarling animals, the raw,
primeval passions of their hearts released, each seeing through a mist
of red; a mist that had risen up to roll across a mighty land and plunge
its noblest sons into a bloody ruck of war.
They faced each other, silently; then slowly the features of the
Southerner relaxed. His bitterness was laid aside. He spoke, in the
soft, slow accent of his people--an accent so impossible to a trick of
print or pen.
"I'm glad you feel that way; and maybe, after all, you're doing what you
think is right. Yes--and I know it's hard." He stopped, then stepped a
little nearer, timidly, as Virgie might have done. "Colonel," he said,
scarce audibly, "I ask you just one thing; not for myself, but for
her--for Virgie. Get the poor little tad through your lines, will
you?--and--and don't let her know--about _me_."
His captor did not answer him in words, because of the pain that took
him by the throat; but his hand went out, till it reached another hand
that gripped it gratefully.
"Thank you, Morrison," said the prisoner simply. "If it wasn't war
times--"
He choked, and said no more; yet silence proved more eloquent than human
speech. They were men--brave men--and both were grateful; the one,
because an enemy would keep his unspoken word; the other, because a
doomed man understood.
Cary opened the door of his daughter's room and called to her. She came
in quickly, a question in her big brown eyes.
"Daddy," she said, "you talked a mighty long time. It was a heap more
than jus' a minute."
"Was it?" he asked, and forced a smile. "Well, you see, we had a lot to
say." He seated himself and, drawing her between his knees, took both
her hands. "Now listen, honey; I'm going away with this gentleman,
and--" He stopped as she looked up doubtfully; then added a dash of
gayety to his tender tone: "Oh, but he _invited_ me. And think! He's
coming back for _you_--to-day--to send you up to Richmond. Now, isn't
that just fine?"
Virgie looked slowly from her father to the Union soldier, who stood
with downcast eyes, his back to them.
"Daddy," she whispered, "he's a right good Yankee--isn't he?"
"Yes, dear," her father murmured sadly, and in yearning love for the
baby he must leave behind; "yes--he's mighty good!"
He knelt and folded her in his arms, kissing her, over and over, while
his hand went fluttering about her soft brown throat; then he wrenched
himself away, but stood for a lingering instant more, his hands
outstretched, atremble for a last and lingering touch, his heart a
racing protest at the parting he must speak.
"Cary!"
It was Morrison who spoke, in mercy for the man; and once more Cary
understood. He turned to cross the broken door; to face a firing squad
in the hot, brown woods; to cross the gulf which stretched beyond the
rumble of the guns and the snarling lip of war. But even as he turned, a
baby's voice called out, in cheerful parting, which he himself had
failed to speak:
"Good-by, Daddy-man. I'll see you up in Richmon'."
The eyes of the two men met and held, in the hardest moment of it all;
for well they knew this hopeful prophecy could never be fulfilled.
Morrison sighed and moved toward the door; but, from its threshold, he
could see his troopers returning at a trot across the fields.
"Wait," he said to Cary; "I'd rather my men shouldn't know I've talked
with you." He pointed to the scuttle in the ceiling. "Would you mind if
I asked you to go back again? Hurry! They are coming."
The captured scout saluted, crossed to the ladder, and began to mount.
At the top he paused to smile and blow a kiss to Virgie, then
disappeared, drew up the ladder after him, and closed the trap.
The captor stood in silence, waiting for his men; yet, while he stood,
the little rebel pattered to his side, slipping her hand in his
confidingly.
"Mr. Yankee," she asked, and looked up into his face, "are you goin' to
let Daddy come to Richmon', too?"
Morrison withdrew his hand from hers--withdrew it sharply--flung himself
into a seat beside the table, and began to scribble on the back of
Virgie's rumpled pass; while the child stood watching, trusting, with
the simple trust of her little mother-heart.
In a moment or two, the troopers came hurrying in, with Corporal Dudley
in the lead. He stood at attention, saluted his superior, and made his
report of failure in the search.
"Nothing sir. No tracks around the spring, and no traces of the fellow
anywhere; but--" He stopped. His keen eyes marked the changed position
of the table and followed upward. He saw the outlines of the scuttle
above his head, and smiled. "But I'm glad to see that you've had better
luck yourself."
"Yes, Corporal," said Morrison, with a sharp return of his military
tone, "I think I've found the fox's hole at last." He rose and gave his
orders briskly. "Push that table forward!--there!--below the trap! Two
of you get on it!" He turned to the Corporal, while he himself climbed
up and stood beside his men. "Light that candle and pass it up to me!"
The orders were obeyed. "Now, boys, boost me!--and we'll have him out."
They raised him, till he pushed the trap aside and thrust his head and
shoulders through the opening. From below they could see him as he waved
the lighted candle to and fro, and presently they heard his voice, that
sounded deep and muffled in the shallow loft:
"All right, boys! You can let me down."
He slid to the table and sprang lightly to the floor, facing his
troopers with a smile, half-humorous, half in seeming disappointment, as
he glanced at Virgie.
"I'm afraid the little rebel's right again. _He isn't there!_"
"Oh!" cried Virgie, then clapped her hands across her mouth, while the
troopers slowly looked from her into the level eyes of their commanding
officer. He stood before them, straight and tall, a soldier, every inch
of him; and they knew that Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison was lying like a
gentleman. They knew that their chief was staking the name and title of
an honorable soldier against the higher, grander title of "a man."
Only Corporal Dudley stood disconcerted at the startling statement, but
as there was no help for it he could only strangle an oath and give the
order to pass out.
"_'Tention! Right face! Forward! March!_"
They mounted and rode a rod or two away, awaiting orders; while Morrison
stood silently and watched them go. He, too--like Virgie--had wrestled
with a problem, and it stirred him to the depths. As a trooper must
obey, so also must an officer obey a higher will; yes, even as a slave
in iron manacles. The master of war had made his laws; and a servant
broke them, knowingly. A captured scout was a prisoner, no more; a spy
must hang, or fall before the volley of a firing squad. No matter for
his bravery; no matter for the faithful service to his cause, the man
must die! The glory was for another; for one who waved a flag on the
spine of a bloody trench; a trench which his brothers stormed--and gave
the blood. No matter that a spy had made this triumph possible. He had
worn a uniform which was not his own--and the dog must die!
So ruled the god of warfare; still, did war prescribe disgrace and death
for all? If Cary had crept through the Union lines, to reach the side of
a helpless little one--_yes, even in a coat of blue_--would the Great
Tribunal count his deed accursed? Should fearless human love reap no
reward beyond the crashing epitaph of a firing squad, and the powder
smoke that drifted with the passing of a soul?
"No! No!" breathed Morrison. "In God's name, give the man his chance!"
He straightened his back and smiled. He took from the table a rumpled
paper and turned to the littlest factor in the great Rebellion.
"Here, Virgie! Here's your pass to Richmond--for you and your
escort--through the Federal lines."
She came to him slowly, wondering; her tiny body quivering with
suppressed excitement, her voice a whispering caress:
"Do you mean for--for Daddy, too?"
"Yes, you little rebel!" he answered, choking as he laughed; "but I'm
terribly afraid you'll have to pay me--with a kiss."
She sprang into his waiting arms, and kissed him as he raised her up;
but when he would have set her down, her little brown hands, with their
berry-stained fingers, clung tightly about his neck.
"Wait! Wait!" she cried. "Here's another one--for Gertrude! Tell her
it's from Virgie! An' tell her I sent it, 'cause her daddy is jus' the
best damn Yankee that ever was!"
The trap above had opened, and the head and shoulders of the Southerner
appeared; while Morrison looked up and spoke in parting:
"It's all right, Cary. I only ask a soldier's pledge that you take your
little girl to Richmond--nothing more. In passing through our lines,
whatever you see or hear--_forget_!"
A sacred trust it was, of man to man, one brother to another; and
Morrison knew that Herbert Cary would pass through the very center of
the Federal lines, as a _father_, not a spy.
The Southerner tried to speak his gratitude, but the words refused to
come; so he stretched one trembling hand toward his enemy of war, and
eased his heart in a sobbing, broken call:
"_Morrison! Some day it will all--be over!_"
* * * * *
In the cabin's doorway stood Virgie and her father, hand in hand. They
watched a lonely swallow as it dipped across the desolate, unfurrowed
field. They listened to the distant beat of many hoofs on the river road
and the far, faint clink of sabers on the riders' thighs; and when the
sounds were lost to the listeners at last, the notes of a bugle came
whispering back to them, floating, dipping, even as the swallow dipped
across the unfurrowed fields.
But still the two stood lingering in the doorway, hand in hand. The
muddy James took up his murmuring song again; the locusts chanted in the
hot, brown woods to the basso growl of the big, black guns far down the
river.
A sad, sad song it was; yet on its echoes seemed to ride a haunting,
hopeful memory of the rebel's broken call, "Some day it will all be
over!"
And so the guns growled on, slow, sullen, thundering forth the
battle-call of a still unconquered enmity; but only that peace might
walk "some day" in the path of the shrieking shells.