Complete weird tales of.., p.444
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 444
“I know, also, that what you did you did in a moment of insane rage. I know that the moment it was done you would, in your secret soul, have given the world to have undone it.”
“No!” he cried. “I was right!”
She rose, walked to the door, and seated herself on the sill, looking up at the stars.
For an hour she sat there, silent. Behind her, leaning heavily on the table, he crouched, hot eyes wide, pulse heavy in throat and body. And at last, without turning, she called to him — three times, very gently, speaking his name; and at the third call he rose and came stumbling toward her.
“Sit here.”
He sank down beside her on the sill.
“Are you very tired?”
“Yes.”
She placed one arm around him, drawing his hot head down on her shoulder.
“How foolish you have been,” she whispered. “But, of course, your mother must not know it.... There is no reason to tell her — ever.... Because you went quite mad for a little while — and nobody is blamed for mental sickness.... How bright the stars are.... What a heavenly coolness after that dreadful work.... How feverish you are! I think that your regiment believes you roamed away while suffering from sunstroke.... Their Colonel is a good friend of mine. Tell him you’re sorry.”
His head lay heavily on her shoulder; she laid a fresh hand over his eyes.
“If the South is right, if we of the North are right, God knows better than you or I, Roy.... And if you are so bewildered that you have no deep conviction either way I think you may trust Him who set you among Kay’s Cavalry.... God never betrayed a human soul in honest doubt.”
“It — it was the flag! — that was the hardest to get over—” he began, and choked, smothering the dry sob against her breast.
“I know, dear.... The old flag means so much — it means all that our fathers have been, all that we ought to be for the world’s sake. Anger, private resentment, bitterness under tyranny — these are little things; for, after all, the flag still stands for what we ought to be — you and I and those who misuse us, wittingly or otherwise.... Where are the papers you took?”
He pressed his feverish face closer to her shoulder and fumbled at the buttons of his jacket.
“Here?” she asked softly, aiding him with deft fingers; and in a moment she had secured them.
For a while she held him there, cradling him; and his dry, burning face seemed to scorch her shoulder.
Dawn was in the sky when she unclosed her eyes — a cool, gray dawn, hinting of rain.
She looked down at the boy. His head lay across her lap; he slept, motionless as the dead.
The sun rose, a pale spot on the gray horizon.
“Come,” she said gently. And again, “Come; I want you to take me across the ferry.”
He rose and stood swaying on his feet, rubbing both eyes with briar-torn fists.
“You will take me, won’t you, Roy?”
“Where?”
“Back to your regiment.”
“Yes — I’ll take you.”
For a few moments she was busy gathering up her spools and linen.
“You carry my saddlebags,” she said, “and I’ll take the kitten. Isn’t it cunning, Roy? Do look at the poor little thing! We can’t leave it here.”
Following, laden with her saddlebags, he stammered:
“Do — d-do you think they’ll shoot me?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “Be careful of the ferry steps; they are dreadfully shaky.”
She began the descent, clasping the kitten in both arms; the boy followed. Seated in the punt, they stowed away the saddlebags and the kitten, then he picked up the pole, looked at her, hesitated. She waited.
“I guess the old man will have me shot.... But — I am going back,” he said, as though to himself.
She watched him; he looked up.
“You’re right, ma’am. I must have been crazy. Everybody reads about traitors — in school.... Nobody ever forgets their names.... I don’t want my name in school books.”
“Like Benedict Arnold’s,” she said; and he quivered from head to foot.
“Oh, cricky!” he burst out, horrified; “how close I came to it! Have you got those papers safe?”
“Yes, Roy.”
“Then I’ll go. I don’t care what they do to me.”
As he rose with the pole, far away in the woods across the river a cavalry band began to play. Faint and clear the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner rose from among the trees and floated over the water; the boy stood spellbound, mouth open; then, as the far music died away, he sank back into the boat, deathly pale.
“I — I ought to be hung!” he whispered.
The Messenger picked up the fallen pole, set it, and drove the punt out into the river. Behind her, huddled in the stern, the prodigal wept, uncomforted, head buried in his shaking arms; and the kitten, being afraid, left the shelter of the thwarts and crept up on his knees, sitting there and looking out at the unstable world of water in round-eyed apprehension.
As the punt grated on the northern shore the Messenger drove her pole into the mud, upright, and leaned on it.
“Roy,” she said, looking back over her shoulder.
The boy rubbed his wet eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and got up.
“Are you afraid?”
“Not now.”
“That is well.... You’ll be punished.... Not severely.... For you came back of your own accord — repentant.... Tell me, were you really afraid that the Special Messenger might catch you?”
“Yes, I was,” he said simply. “That’s why I acted so rough with you.... I didn’t know; they say any woman you see may be the Special Messenger.... So I took no chances.... Who are you, anyway?”
“Only a friend of yours,” she said, smiling. “Please pick up my kitten. Thank you.... And some day, when you’ve been very, very good, I’ll ask Colonel Kay to let you take me fishing.”
And she stepped lightly ashore; the boy followed, holding the kitten under one arm and drying his grimy eyes on his sleeve.
CHAPTER VI. AN AIR-LINE
“AS FOR ME,” continued Colonel Gay bitterly, “I’m driven almost frantic by this conspiracy. Whenever a regiment arrives or leaves, whenever a train stirs — yes, by Heaven, every time a locomotive toots or a mule brays or a chicken has the pip — somebody informs the Johnnies, and every detail is known to them within a few hours!”
The Special Messenger seated herself on the edge of the camp table. “I suppose they are very disagreeable to you about it at headquarters.”
“Yes, they are — but how can I help it? Somehow or other, whatever is done or said or even thought in this devilish supply camp is immediately reported to Jeb Stuart; every movement of trains and troops leaks out; he’ll know to-night what I ate for breakfast this morning — I’ll bet on that. And, Messenger, let me tell you something. Joking aside, this thing is worrying me sick. Can you help me?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Headquarters sent me. They’re very anxious up there about the railroad.”
“I can’t help it!” cried the distracted officer. “On Thursday I had to concentrate the line-patrol to drive Maxon’s bushwhackers out of Laurel Siding; and look what Stuart did to me. No sooner were we off than he struck the unguarded section and tore up two miles of track! What am I to do?”
The Special Messenger shook her pretty head in sympathy.
“There’s a leak somewhere,” insisted the angry officer; “it smells to Heaven, but I can’t locate it. Somewhere there’s a direct, intelligent and sinister underground communication between Osage Court House and Jeb Stuart at Sandy River — or wherever he is. And what I want you to do is to locate that leak and plug it.”
“Of course,” murmured the Special Messenger, gently tapping her riding skirt with her whip.
“Because,” continued the Colonel, “headquarters is stripping this depot of troops. The Bucktails go to-day; Casson’s New York brigade and Darrel’s cavalry left yesterday. What remains is a mighty small garrison for a big supply depot — eleven hundred effectives, and they may take some of them at any moment. You see the danger?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve protested; I’ve pointed out the risk we run; I sent my third messenger to headquarters this afternoon. Of course, they don’t intend to leave this depot unguarded — probably they’ll send the Vermont troops from the North this week — but between the departure of Casson’s column and the theoretical arrival of reënforcements from Preston, we’d be in a bad way if Stuart should raid us in force. And with this irritating and constant leaking out of information I’m horribly afraid he’ll strike us as soon as the Bucktails entrain.”
“Why don’t you hold the Pennsylvania infantry until we can find out where the trouble lies?” asked the girl, raising her dark eyes to the nervous young Colonel.
“I haven’t the authority; I’ve asked for it twice. Orders stand; the Bucktails are going, and I’m worried to death.” He shoved his empty pipe into his mouth and bit viciously at the stem.
“Then,” she said, “if I’m to do anything I’d better hurry, hadn’t I?”
The young officer’s face grew grimmer. “Certainly; but I’ve been a month at it and I’m no wiser. Of course I know you are very celebrated, ma’am; but, really, do you think it likely that you can pick out this hidden mischief-maker before he sends word to Stuart to-night of our deplorable condition?”
“How long have I?”
“About a day.”
“When do the Bucktails go?”
“At nine to-night.”
“Who knows it?”
“Who doesn’t? I can’t move a regiment and its baggage in a day, can I? I’ve given them twenty-four hours to break camp and entrain.”
“Does the train master know which troops are going?”
“He has orders to hold three trains, steam up, night and day.”
“I see,” she murmured, strapping her soft riding hat more securely to her hair with the elastic band. Her eyes had been wandering restlessly around the tent as though searching for something which she could not find.
“Have you a good map of the district?” she asked.
He went to his military chest, opened it, and produced a map. For a while, both hands on the table, she leaned above the map studying the environment.
“And Stuart? You say he’s roaming around somewhere in touch with Sandy River?” she asked, pointing with a pencil to that metropolis on the map.
“The Lord knows where he is!” muttered the Colonel. “He may be a hundred miles south now, and in my back yard to-morrow by breakfast time. But when he’s watching us he’s usually near Sandy River.”
“I see. And these” — drawing her pencil in a wavering line— “are your outposts? I mean those pickets nearest Sandy River.”
“They are. Those are rifle pits.”
“A grand guard patrols this line?” she asked, rising to her feet.
“Yes; a company of cavalry and a field gun.”
“Do you issue passes?”
“Not to the inhabitants.”
“Have any people — civilians — asked for passes?”
“I had two applications; one from a Miss Carryl, who lives about a mile beyond here on the Sandy River Road; another from an old farmer, John Deal, who has a fruit and truck farm half a mile outside our lines. He wanted to come in with his produce and I let him for a while. But that leakage worried me, so I stopped him.”
“And this Miss Carryl — did she want to go out?”
“She owns the Deal farm. Yes, she wanted to drive over every day; and I let her until, as I say, I felt obliged to stop the whole business — not permit anybody to go out or come in except our own troops.”
“And still the leakage continues?”
“It certainly does,” he said dryly.
The Special Messenger seated herself on one end of the military chest and gazed absently at space. Her booted foot swung gently at intervals.
“So this Miss Carryl owns John Deal’s farm,” she mused aloud.
“They run it on shares, I believe.”
“Oh! Was she angry when you shut out her tenant, John Deal, and shut her inside the lines?”
“No; she seemed a little surprised — said it was inconvenient — wanted permission to write him.”
“You gave it?”
“Yes. I intimated it would save time if she left her letters to him unsealed. She seemed quite willing.”
“You read them all, of course, before delivering them?”
“Of course. There was nothing in them except instructions about plowing, fruit picking, and packing, and various bucolic matters.”
“Oh! Nothing to be read between the lines? No cipher? No invisible ink? No tricks of any sort?”
“Not one. I had a detective here. He said there was absolutely no harm in the letters, in Miss Carryl, or in John Deal. I have all the letters if you care to look at them; I always keep the originals and allow only copies to be sent to old man Deal.”
“Let me see those letters,” suggested the Messenger.
The Colonel, who had been sitting on the camp table, got off wearily, rummaged in a dispatch box, and produced three letters, all unsealed.
Two were directed in a delicately flowing, feminine hand to John Deal, Waycross Orchard. The Messenger unfolded the first and read:
Dear Mr. Deal:
Colonel Gay has thought it necessary, for military reasons, to revoke my pass; and I shall, therefore, be obliged hereafter to communicate with you by letter only.
I wish, if there are negroes enough remaining in the quarters, that you would start immediately a seedling orchard of white Rare-ripe peaches from my orchard here. I have permission to send the pits to you by the military post-rider who passes my house. I will send you twenty every day as my peaches ripen. Please prepare for planting. I hope your rheumatism is better.
Yours very truly, Evelyn Carryl.
The Messenger’s dark eyes lifted dreamily to the Colonel:
“You gave her permission to send the pits by your post-rider?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling; “but I always look over them myself. You know the wedding gown of the fairy princess was hidden in a grape seed.”
“You are quite sure about the pits?”
“Perfectly.”
“Oh! When does the next batch of twenty go?”
“In about an hour. Miss Carryl puts them in a bag and gives them to my messenger who brings them to me. Then I inspect every pit, tie up the bag, seal it, and give it to my messenger. When he takes the mail to the outposts he rides on for half a mile and leaves the sealed bag at Deal’s farm.”
“Does your messenger know what is in the bag?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
She nodded, amused, saying carelessly:
“Of course you trust your post-rider?”
“Absolutely.”
The Special Messenger swung her foot absently to and fro, and presently opened another letter:
Dear Mr. Deal:
I am sending you twenty more peach pits for planting. What you write me about the bees is satisfactory. I have received the bees you sent. There is no reason why you should not make the exchange with Mr. Enderly, as it will benefit our hives as well as Mr. Enderly’s to cross his Golden Indias with my Blacks.
The Messenger studied the letter thoughtfully; askance, the officer watched the delicate play of expression on her absorbed young face, perhaps a trifle incredulous that so distractingly pretty a woman could be quite as intelligent as people believed.
She looked up at him quietly.
“So you gave Deal permission to send some bees to Miss Carryl and write her a letter?”
“Once. I had the letter brought to me and I sent her a copy. Here it is — the original.”
He produced Deal’s letter from the dispatch pouch, and the Messenger read:
Miss Evelyn Carryl, Osage Court House.
Respected Miss:
I send you the bees. I seen Mr. Enderly at Sandy River he says he is very wishful for to swap bees to cross the breed I says it shorely can be done if you say so I got the pits and am studyin’ how to plant. The fruit is a rottin’ can’t the Yankees at Osage buy some truck nohow off’n me? So no more with respect from
John Deal Supt.
“That seems rather harmless, doesn’t it?” asked the Colonel wearily.
“I don’t — know. I think I’ll take a look at John Deal’s beehives.”
“His beehives!”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know — exactly. I was always fond of bees. They’re so useful” — she looked up artlessly— “so clever — quite wonderful, Colonel. Have you ever read anything about bees — how they live and conduct themselves?”
The Colonel eyed her narrowly; she laughed, sprang up from the military chest, and handed back his letters.
“You have already formed your theory?” he inquired with a faintly patronizing air, under which keen disappointment betrayed itself where the grim, drooping mouth tightened.
“Yes, I have. There’s a link missing, but — I may find that before night. You can give me — how long?”
“The Bucktails leave at nine. See here, Messenger! With all the civility and respect due you, I — —”
“You are bitterly disappointed in me,” she finished coolly. “I don’t blame you, Colonel Gay.”
He was abashed at that, but unconvinced.
“Why do you suspect this Miss Carryl and this man, Deal, when I’ve showed you how impossible it is that they could send out information?”
“Somehow,” she said quietly, “they do send it — if they are the only two people who have had passes, and who now are permitted to correspond.”
“But you saw the letters — —”
“So did you, Colonel.”
“I did!” he said emphatically; “and there’s nothing dangerous in them. As for the peach pits — —”
“Oh, I’ll take your word for them, too,” she said, laughing. “When is your post-rider due?”
