Complete weird tales of.., p.438
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 438
Now she needed more light, so she opened the door wide and pushed aside the curtain. A fragment of cracked mirror was nailed to the door. She faced it, rapidly undoing the glossy masses of her hair; then lifting her gown, she buckled the army belt underneath, slipped the revolver into it, smoothed out the calico, and crossed the floor to the bed again, at the foot of which a pair of woman’s coarse, low shoes stood on the carpetless floor. Into these she slipped her naked feet.
He was waiting for her when she came out into the yellow evening light, squatting there in his buckboard, reins sagging.
“There’s kindlin’ to last a week,” he said, “the ax is in the barn, an’ ye’ll find a bin full o’ corn meal there an’ a side o’ bacon in the cellar. Them hens,” he added wistfully “is Dominickers. She was fond o’ them — an’ the Chiny ducks, too.”
“I’ll be kind to them,” she said.
He rested his lean jaw in one huge hand, musing, dim-eyed, silent. Far away a cow bell tinkled, and he turned his head, peering out across the tangled pasture lot.
“We called our caow Jinny,” he said. “She’s saucy and likes to plague folks. But I don’t never chase her; no, ma’am. You jest set there by them pasture bars, kinder foxin’ that you ain’t thinkin’ o’ nothin’, and Jinny she’ll come along purty soon.”
The girl nodded.
“Waal,” he muttered, rousing up, “I guess it’s time to go.” He looked at her, his eyes resting upon the clothing of his dead wife.
“You see,” he said, “I’ve give all I’ve got to the Union. Now, ma’am, what shall I tell our boys if I git through?”
In a low, clear voice she gave him the message to Reynolds, repeating it slowly until he nodded his comprehension.
“If they turn you back,” she said, “and if they follow you here, remember I’m your daughter.”
He nodded again. “My Cynthy.”
“Cynthia?”
“Yaas, ‘m. Cynthy was her name, you see; James is mine, endin’ in Gray. I’ll come back when I can. I guess there’s vittles to spare an’ garden sass — —”
He passed his great cracked knuckles over his face again, digging hastily into the corners of his eyes, then leaned forward and shook the rusty reins.
“Git up!” he said thoughtfully, and the ancient buckboard creaked away into the thickening twilight.
She watched him from the door, lingering there, listening to the creak of the wheels long after he had disappeared. She was deadly tired — too tired to eat, too tired to think — yet there was more to be done before she closed her eyes. The blanket on the bed she spread upon the floor, laid in it her saddle and bridle, boots, papers, map, and clothing, and made a bundle; then slinging it on her slender back, she carried it up the ladder to the loft under the roof.
Ten minutes later she lay on the bed below, the back of one hand across her closed eyes, breathing deeply as a sleeping child — the most notorious spy in all America, the famous “Special Messenger,” carrying locked under her smooth young breast a secret the consequence of which no man could dare to dream of.
* * * * *
Dawn silvering the east aroused her. Cockcrow, ducks quacking, the lowing of the cow, the swelling melody of wild birds — these were the sounds that filled her waking ears.
Motionless there on the bed in the dim room, delicate bare arms outstretched, hair tumbled over brow and shoulder, she lay, lost in fearless retrospection — absolutely fearless, for courage was hers without effort; peril exhilarated like wine, without reaction; every nerve and contour of her body was instinct with daring, and only the languor of her dark eyes misled the judgment of those she had to deal with.
Presently she sat up in bed, yawned lightly, tapping her red lips with the tips of her fingers; then, drawing her revolver from beneath the pillow, she examined the cylinder, replaced the weapon, and sprang out of bed, stretching her arms, a faint smile hovering on her face.
The water in the stream was cold, but not too cold for her, nor were the coarse towels too rough, sending the blood racing through her from head to foot.
Her toilet made, she lighted the fire in the cracked stove, set a pot of water boiling, and went out to the doorstep, calling the feathered flock around her, stirring their meal in a great pan the while her eyes roamed about the open spaces of meadow and pasture for a sign of those who surely must trace her here.
Her breakfast was soon over — an ash cake, a new egg from the barn, a bowl of last night’s creamy milk. She ate slowly, seated by the window, raising her head at intervals to watch the forest’s edge.
Nobody came; the first pink sunbeams fell level over the pasture; dew sparkled on grass and foliage; birds flitted across her line of vision; the stream sang steadily, flashing in the morning radiance.
One by one the ducks stretched, flapped their snowy wings, wiggled their fat tails, and waddled solemnly down to the water; hens wandered pensively here and there, pecking at morsels that attracted them; the tinkle of the cow bell sounded pleasantly from a near willow thicket.
She washed her dishes, set the scant furniture in place, made up the bed with the clean sheet spread the night before, and swept the floor.
On the table she had discovered, carefully folded up, the greater portion of a stocking, knitting needles still sticking in it, the ball of gray yarn attached. But she could not endure to sit there; she must have more space to watch for what she knew was coming. Her hair she twisted up as best she might, set the pink sunbonnet on her head, smoothed out the worn print dress, which was not long enough to hide her slim bare ankles, and went out, taking her knitting with her.
Upon the hill along the edges of the pasture where the woods cast a luminous shadow she found a comfortable seat in the sun-dried grasses, and here she curled up, examining the knitting in her hands, eyes lifted every moment to steal a glance around the sunlit solitude.
An hour crept by, marked by the sun in mounting splendor; the sweet scent of drying grass and fern filled her lungs; the birds’ choral thrilled her with the loveliness of life. A little Southern song trembled on her lips, and her hushed voice murmuring was soft as the wild bees’ humming:
“Ah, who could couple thought of war and crime With such a blessed time? Who, in the west wind’s aromatic breath, Could hear the call of Death?”
The gentle Southern poet’s flowing rhythm was echoed by the distant stream:
“ ... A fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings — you know not why — A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant — —”
She lifted her eyes, fixing them upon the willow thicket below, where the green tops swayed as though furrowed by a sudden wind; and watching calmly, her lips whispered on, following the quaint rhythm:
“And yet no sooner shall the Spring awake The voice of wood and brake Than she shall rouse — for all her tranquil charms — A million men to arms.”
The willow tops were tossing violently. She watched them, murmuring:
“Oh! standing on this desecrated mold, Methinks that I behold, Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, Spring — kneeling on the sod, And calling with the voice of all her rills Upon the ancient hills To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves Who turn her meads to graves.”
Her whisper ceased; she sat, lips parted, eyes fastened on the willows. Suddenly a horseman broke through the thicket, then another, another, carbines slung, sabres jingling, rider following rider at a canter, sitting their horses superbly — the graceful, reckless, matchless cavalry under whose glittering gray curtain the most magnificent army that the South ever saw was moving straight into the heart of the Union.
Fascinated, she watched an officer dismount, advance to the house, enter the open doorway, and disappear. Minute after minute passed; the troopers quietly sat their saddles; the frightened chickens ventured back, roaming curiously about these strange horses that stood there stamping, whisking their tails, tossing impatient heads in the sunshine.
Presently the officer reappeared and walked straight to the barn, a trooper dismounting to follow him. They remained in the barn for a few moments only, then hurried out again, heads raised, scanning the low circling hills. Ah! Now they caught sight of her! She saw the officer come swinging up the hillside, buttons, spurs, and sword hilt glittering in the sun; she watched his coming with a calm almost terrible in its breathless concentration. Nearer, nearer he came, mounting the easy slope with a quick, boyish swing; and now he had halted, slouch hat aloft; and she heard his pleasant, youthful voice:
“I reckon you haven’t seen a stranger pass this way, ma’am, have you?”
“There was a lady came last night,” she answered innocently.
“That’s the one!” he said, in his quick, eager voice. “Can you tell me where she went?”
“She said she was going west.”
“Has she gone?”
“She left the house when I did,” answered the girl simply.
“Riding!” he exclaimed. “She came on a hoss, I reckon?”
“Yes.”
“And she rode west?”
“I saw her going west,” she nodded, resuming her knitting.
The officer turned toward the troopers below, drew out a handkerchief and whipped the air with it for a second or two, then made a sweeping motion with his arm, and drawing his sabre struck it downward four times.
Instantly the knot of troopers fell apart, scattering out and spurring westward in diverging lines; the officer watched them until the last horse had disappeared, then he lazily sheathed his sabre, unbuckled a field glass, adjusted it, and seated himself on the grass beside her.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked pleasantly, setting the glass to his eye and carefully readjusting the lens.
“No.”
“Your father is living, is he not?”
She did not reply.
“I reckon Gilson’s command met him a piece back in the scrub, driving a wagon and a fine horse.”
She said nothing; her steady fingers worked the needles, and presently he heard her softly counting the stitches as she turned the heel.
“He said we’d find his ‘Cynthy’ here,” observed the youthful officer, lowering his glass. “Are you Cynthia Gray, ma’am?”
“He named me Cynthia,” she said, with a smile.
He plucked a blade of grass, and placing it between his white teeth, gazed at her so steadily that she dropped a stitch, recovered it, and presently he saw her lips resuming the silent count. He reseated himself on the grass, laying his field glass beside him.
“I reckon your folk are all Yankee,” he ventured softly.
She nodded.
“Are you afraid of us? Do you hate us, ma’am?”
She shook her head, stealing a glance at him from her lovely eyes. If that was part of her profession, she had learned it well; for he laughed and stretched out, resting easily on one elbow, looking up at her admiringly under her faded sunbonnet.
“Are you ever lonely here?” he inquired gravely.
Again her dark eyes rested on him shyly, but she shook her head in silence.
“Never lonely without anybody to talk to?” he persisted, removing his slouched army hat and passing his hands over his forehead.
“What have I to say to anybody?” she asked coquettishly.
A little breeze sprang up, stirring his curly hair and fluttering the dangling strings of her sunbonnet. He lay at full length there, a slender, athletic figure in his faded gray uniform, idly pulling the grass up to twist and braid into a thin green rope.
The strange exhilaration that danger had brought had now subsided; she glanced at him indifferently, noting the well-shaped head, the boyish outlines of face and figure. He was no older than she — and not very wise for his years.
Presently, very far away, the dulled report of a carbine sounded, stirring a deadened echo among the hills.
“What’s that?” she exclaimed.
“Yank, I reckon,” he drawled, rising to his feet and fixing his field glass steadily on the hills beyond.
“Are you going to have a battle here?” she asked.
He laughed. “Oh, no, Miss Cynthia. That’s only bushwhacking.”
“But — but where are they shooting?”
He pointed to the west. “There’s Yankee cavalry loafing in the hills. I reckon we’ll gobble ‘em, too. But don’t you worry, Miss Cynthia,” he added gallantly. “I shall be here to-night, and by sunrise there won’t be a soldier within ten miles of you.”
“Within ten miles,” she murmured; “ten miles is too near. I — I think I will go back to the house.”
He looked down at her; she raised her dark eyes to him; then he bowed and gallantly held out both hands, and she laid her hands in his, suffering him to lift her to her feet.
The brief contact set the color mounting to his sunburnt temples; it had been a long while since he had touched a young girl’s hand.
“I wonder,” she said, “whether you would care to share my dinner?”
She spoke naturally, curiously; all idea of danger was over; she was free to follow her own instincts, which were amiable. Besides, the boy was a gentleman.
“If it wouldn’t be too much to ask — too inconvenient—” He hesitated, hat in hand, handsome face brightening.
“No; I want you to come,” she answered simply, and took his hand in hers.
A deeper color swept his face as they descended the gentle slope together, she amused and quietly diverted by his shyness, and thinking how she meant to give this boyish rebel a better dinner than he had had for many a long mile.
And she did, he aiding her with the vegetables, she mixing johnnycake for the entire squad, slicing the bacon, and setting the coffee to boil.
Toward midday the scouting squad returned, to find their officer shelling peas on the cabin steps, and a young girl, sleeves at her shoulders, stirring something very vigorously in a large black kettle — something that exhaled an odor which made the lank troopers lick their gaunt lips in furtive hope.
The sergeant of the troop reported; the officer nodded and waved the horsemen away to the barn, where they were presently seen squatting patiently in a row, sniffing the aroma that floated from the cabin door.
“Did your men find the lady?” she asked, looking out at him where he sat, busy with the peas.
“No, Miss Cynthia. But if she went west she’s run into the whole Confederate cavalry. Our business is to see she doesn’t double back here.”
“Why do you follow her?”
“Ah, Miss Cynthia,” he said gravely, “she is that ‘Special Messenger’ who has done us more damage than a whole Yankee army corps. We’ve got to stop her this time — and I reckon we will.”
The girl stirred the soup, salted it, peppered it, lifted the pewter spoon and tasted it. Presently she called for the peas.
About two o’clock that afternoon a row of half-famished Confederate cavalrymen sat devouring the best dinner they had eaten in months. There was potato soup, there was johnnycake, smoking hot coffee, crisp slices of fragrant bacon, an egg apiece, and a vegetable stew. Trooper after trooper licked fingers, spoon, and pannikin, loosening leather belts with gratified sighs; the pickets came cantering in when the relief, stuffed to repletion, took their places, carbine on thigh.
Flushed from the heat of the stove, arms still bared, the young hostess sat at table with the officer in command, and watched him in sympathy as he ate.
She herself ate little, tasting a morsel here and there, drinking at times from the cup of milk beside her.
“I declare, Miss Cynthia,” he said, again and again, “this is the finest banquet, ma’am, that I ever sat down to.”
She only thought, “The boy was starving!” and the indulgent smile deepened as she sat there watching him, chin resting on her linked hands.
At last he was satisfied, and a little ashamed, too, of his appetite, but she told him it was a pleasure to cook for him, and sent him off to the barn, where presently she spied him propped up in the loft window, a map spread on his knees, and his field glass tucked under one arm.
And now she had leisure to think again, and she leaned back in her chair by the window, bared arms folded, ankles crossed, frowning in meditation.
She must go; the back trail was clear now. But she needed her own clothing and a horse. Where could she find a horse?
Hour after hour she sat there. He had cantered off into the woods long since; and all through the long afternoon she sat there scheming, pondering, a veiled sparkle playing under her half-closed lids. She saw him returning in the last lingering sun rays, leading his saddled horse down to the brook, and stand there, one arm flung across the crupper, while the horse drank and shook his thoroughbred head and lipped the tender foliage that overhung the water. There was the horse she required! She must have him.
A few minutes later, bridle over one arm, the young officer came sauntering up to the doorstep. He was pale, but he smiled when he saw her, and his weather-beaten hat swept the grass in salute as she came to the door and looked down at him, hands clasped behind her slender back.
“You look dreadfully tired,” she said gently. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
He had been forty-eight hours in the saddle, but he only laughed a gay denial of fatigue.
She descended the steps, walked over to the horse, and patted neck and shoulder, scanning limb and chest and flank. The horse would do!
“Will you hitch your horse and come in?” she asked sweetly.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He passed the bridle through the hitching ring at the door, and, hat in hand, followed her into the cabin. His boots dragged a little, but he straightened up, and when she had seated herself, he sank into a chair, closing his sunken eyes for a moment, only to open them smiling, and lean forward on the rough table, folding his arms under him.
