"Wish I knew how far up the north road the lieutenant went. I've got some business up towards the Tennessee. I belong to a missionary society hereabouts, and yet I don't like to take that long ride alone."
I hear the corporal mutter a rather unflattering comment on that statement; and it occurs to me that there is more of the odor of bad whiskey than sanctity about the member of the missionary society. He reminds me of Mr. Stiggins; and Mr. Stiggins makes one more attempt.
"Whar am I most like to catch the boys by dinner-time?"
"Don't know."
The member looks incredulous and indignant; and after a long survey of every object in range about the camp, turns his dejected steed slowly around and shambles off, with the parting shot,—
"Reckon you never did know nothin', did you?" To which the corporal responds,—
"No; and if I did, I wouldn't tell you, Johnny."
Stiggins strikes a canter on reaching the main road, and disappears on the trail of the cavalry. Presently Harrod returns, greatly surprised at Amory's sudden expedition, and curious as to the source from which he derives his information. I hardly know what to say, but finally get out of it by the explanation that it was all "confidential," and that I could say nothing on the subject until his return.
On the drive home we come suddenly upon the troop itself, looking tired and dusty, but returning from the two days' trip to Tishomingo partially successful, and with six rough-looking specimens of "corn-crackers" footing it along between the horsemen. They found no trace of Smith, the marshal tells us, as the men go filing by; but, after all, their luck has been good, and six of the worst characters are now securely under guard.
The major, he tells us, had stopped at Judge Summers's, and expected to find us there; so we whip up and hurry on.
A brisk drive brings us to the plantation in a very few minutes. As we rattle up to the doorway, Harrod catches sight of Mr. Peyton lounging on the portico by the open window of the parlor, for once in his life paying little or no attention to Miss Kitty, who is seated on the old wicker-work sofa, some distance from him, pouting and puzzled.
Harrod warns me to say not a word of Lieutenant Amory's expedition until Peyton is out of the way. Old Jake detains him a moment about "dis yer Hicks's mule done broke into the gyarden las' night," and I move on into the house.
In the parlor are the judge, Major Vinton, and Pauline; the first listening, the second narrating, the third as complete a contrast to Miss Kit as can be imagined. Vinton rises and greets me. He looks dusty, tanned, and travel-stained, but more soldierly than ever in his dark-blue jacket and heavy boots. After Harrod's entrance he resumes his story,—he was telling of the capture of the Ku-Klux,—talking frankly and as though none but friends were near. Harrod shifts uneasily in his chair and glances nervously towards the window. Peyton is invisible, but, beyond doubt, there, and a listener.
It is vain to attempt to warn the major; by this time Peyton knows the whole story, knows who had aided the troops in their search, knows just how the evidence was procured which led to the arrest of the six victims, and doubtless his black-list is swelled by the addition of several names destined to become the recipients of Ku-Klux attentions.
Lunch is announced, and we all sit down at the table, Peyton and Kit coming in from the porch and endeavoring to ignore Major Vinton, a circumstance which apparently renders him no uneasiness whatever. He talks constantly with Pauline, and never gives a glance at the pair. Harrod and I are nervous. I watch Peyton closely, and it requires no penetration to see that not a word of Vinton's is lost on him.
Suddenly there comes the clatter of hoofs on the ground without; the clank of a cavalry sabre, and, a moment after, the ring of spurred heels along the hall. A servant announces the major's orderly; and, begging the major not to rise, the judge directs that the trooper be shown in.
Just as I thought, it is Amory's letter.
"Sergeant Malone said that it was to be given the major directly he returned. Them was the loot'nant's orders, and he told me to ride right over with it, sir," says the orderly. And, apologizing to Miss Summers, the Major opens it and begins to read.
I glance at Harrod; his eyes are fixed on Peyton; Peyton's furtively watching Vinton. Another minute and Vinton has risen to his feet; an eager, flashing light in his eyes, but his voice steady and calm as ever, as he says,—
"Gallop back. Tell Sergeant Malone to send me a dozen men, armed and mounted at once, and you bring my other horse." Away goes the orderly, and then in reply to the wistful look of inquiry in Pauline's eyes, the major says,—
"I must be off again. Amory has obtained information as to the whereabouts of Smith and some of his gang, and has started after them, but with only five men, too few to cope with such desperadoes. He has four hours the start of me now, and 'twill be nearly five before my men can get here; but I must reach him before he attempts to recross the Tennessee."
I cannot be mistaken in Peyton's start of astonishment. Instantly his face turns pale; the secret is out, his complicity perhaps detected. Lunch is forgotten, and we all rise and leave the table. Harrod manages to whisper a caution to the major to say nothing more while Peyton is near, whereat Vinton looks vacant and aghast. Five minutes more and Peyton and Kitty are missed,—gone out for a walk, the servant says. Then Harrod explains, and Vinton looks as though biting his own tongue off close to the roots would be the most congenial and exhilarating recreation that could be suggested. He is annoyed beyond expression, but it is too late now. Peyton is off; no one knows which way, and in half an hour all the real or supposable Ku-Klux in the county will know of the danger that threatens them; know, too, how small a force young Amory has taken with him in his hurried raid to the Tennessee; and, ten to one, if he succeed in capturing Smith, he cannot attempt to recross the river without having to fight his way through.
All this is canvassed in the anxious council that ensues. No time is to be lost; he must be reinforced at once. Harrod orders out his two horses; old Jake is hastily summoned and told to bring up his charger, "Bob"; and while the horses are being saddled, Vinton decides on his plan. He and Harrod are to gallop on after Amory; old Jake to ride down to meet the troopers, with orders to make all speed possible to the Tennessee. I am possessed with an immediate thirst for human gore, and want to go with the major; but there is no other horse, and I couldn't ride without shaking myself to pieces and capsizing every hundred yards or so if there were. To me, therefore, is assigned the cheerful duty of remaining at the plantation and watching Peyton's movements should he return.
Just before the horses are brought around, Kitty comes back, alone. She looks white and scared, and hurries up the steps as though anxious to avoid us, but Harrod intercepts and leads her to one side. She grows paler as he questions and talks to her; and suddenly bursts into tears, and rushes past him into the house.
"He's gone, by heaven!" says Harrod, as he rejoins us. "Kitty says he took the overseer's horse and galloped off towards the north."
"Here, Jake," says Vinton, "waste no time now; ride as though the devil chased you. Tell Sergeant Malone to follow as fast as he can. Don't spare the horses!"
Jake makes a spring; lights on his stomach on old "Bob's" withers; swings himself round; and barely waiting to get his seat, makes vigorous play with both heels on his pet's astonished ribs, and with a "Yoop, da!" our Ethiopian aide-de-camp clatters away. Then comes a hurried and anxious leave-taking with Pauline and the judge, and in another minute our two soldiers trot out to the road. We watch the gallant forms till the riders disappear, and then turn silently away. Pauline's eyes are dim with tears, and she seeks her own room.
That was a wretched afternoon and evening. Kitty never appeared. Pauline came down to tea and tried to entertain me during the long hours that dragged slowly away; but we started at every sound, and when midnight came she retired altogether. We had hoped for news, but none reached us.
The judge dozed fitfully in his easy-chair, but I was too much excited to feel the least drowsiness; so, cigar in mouth, I strolled out to the gate and gazed longingly up the dim, shadowy vista through the woods where lay the road to the Tennessee along which our first news, good or bad, must come.
Two o'clock came first, and I was then reading, in a distracted style, in the library. The clocks had barely ceased striking when my eager ears caught the sound of hoof-beats rapidly nearing us. Down went the book; and in a minute I was at the gate, just in time to meet the horseman, a corporal of Vinton's troop.
"We've got the Ku-Klux all right, sir," he says, as he reins in his jaded steed, "but we had to fight half the county. The lieutenant's wounded, and so is Monahan, one of the men, sir. They are bringing them here, and I'm to ride right on for the doctor."
Off he goes before I can ask more. Pauline meets me as I return to the hall. She is pale as death and her whole frame shakes as she says, "Tell me everything, Mr. Brandon."
"Harrod and Vinton are safe; Amory and one of his men are hurt, and they are bringing them here," I answer.
She saw by my face that there had been a fight. What her woman's heart craved, was to know that those she loved were safe, unhurt, and returning to her. Then the next minute she is all sympathy, all tenderness, even, for our boy sabreur; and she occupies herself with preparations for his reception and nursing.
While we are talking, who should come noiselessly down the stairs but Kitty, dressed in a loose blue wrapper; her lovely hair falling down her back and thrown from her temples and forehead, her eyes red with weeping. Pauline's heart is full, and the sight of this sorrowing little object is too much for her; she opens her arms and takes her to her heart, and Kitty's sobs break out afresh.
"I know that something has happened," she cries; "do tell me. You all think I care for Ned Peyton, but I don't—I don't! And he was frightful to-day, and—and—if he did what he said he was going to do I'll never speak to him again."
Pauline tries to comfort and soothe her, but I want to know what Peyton's threat was; and have the unblushing hard-heartedness to ask.
"He declared that he would raise forty men and kill every man Lieutenant Amory had with him. He frightened me so that I did not know what to do. Oh, Paulie, what has happened?"
"We don't know yet, Kitty. Harrod is bringing Mr. Amory here. He was wounded, and there has been a fight, but we hope it was not serious."
Poor little Kit starts back in horror, and then sobs harder than ever. It is impossible to comfort the child. She is possessed with the idea that in some way or other she has been instrumental in bringing the affair about. She is terrified at learning the part Peyton has played, and bitterly reproaches herself for the uneasiness her flirtation had caused us all. She is the most abject little penitent I ever saw, and her distress is something overpowering to a susceptible old bachelor. In the course of an hour she is persuaded to return to her room, but not without the interchange of multitudinous embraces and kisses,—Pauline, of course, being the party of the second part.
It is nearly daybreak when Harrod arrives, convoying a rusty old carriage which he has obtained somewhere along the Tennessee; and from this our young soldier is tenderly lifted by two of his troop and carried to the room opposite mine in the wing. Poor fellow! it is hard to recognize in the pallid, blood-stained, senseless form the gallant young officer of the night on the train.
While the doctor was examining his hurts and dressing the wounds, Harrod gave me a hurried account of what had happened. Amory had reached the Tennessee about two in the afternoon, and, leaving his horses on the south bank in charge of one man, crossed quickly and completely took "Eustice's" with its precious garrison of desperadoes by surprise. Luckily, Smith had but two of his gang with him. They hardly had time to think of resistance. Hank was found stretched out in bed and swearing cheerfully over the unexpected turn of affairs, but had sense enough to acknowledge that his Yankee adversary "had the drop on him," and surrendered at discretion. Securing him and his two chums, but leaving the other inmates of "Eustice's" unmolested, Amory in less than an hour and a half landed his party once more on the south bank, and, after procuring food for his men and horses and resting another hour, started on the back-track about five in the evening; moving slowly, as his horses were jaded and his three prisoners had to foot it.
Their road was bordered by thick woods, and ran through an almost uninhabited tract. Hank was suffering apparently a great deal of pain from the fever of his wound, and, after sullenly plodding along about a mile, began showing signs of great distress. He was offered a horse, but declared that riding would hurt him just as much, and finally stopped short, swearing that "Ef you un's expects to git me to yer d—d camp this yer night you've got to do a heap of toting." Finding that he was really weak and sick, Amory was too soft-hearted to insist; and so a brief halt was ordered while one of the men went in search of a farm-wagon. Just at night-fall a horseman came cantering rapidly up the road, at sight of whom the prisoners exchanged quick, eager glances of intelligence, and attempted to spring to their feet and attract his attention. No sooner, however, had he espied the party than he stopped short; reined his horse about; and, digging spur into him, disappeared at a gallop into the shadows of the forest.
The whole thing was so sudden that no pursuit was made. Ten minutes after, there came the distant sound of a shrill, prolonged whistle, and Amory, thoroughly aroused, ordered a mount and immediate start.
Strange to say, Hank moved on with great alacrity. No man ever rose from so brief a rest so thoroughly invigorated. Once or twice more the same whistle was heard, but nothing could be seen, as darkness had set in.
Silently and anxiously the little party moved on, Amory riding several yards in advance, peering cautiously about and listening eagerly to every sound. All of a sudden from thick darkness came blinding flashes,—the ringing reports of musketry and pistols, and the regular old-time rebel yell.
Amory reeled. His horse reared wildly, and then, with a snort of terror, plunged down the road; his rider dragging over his side.
Of the next five minutes, none of the men could give a collected account. The sergeant had done his duty well, however; had kept his men together; and, what with superior discipline and the rapid fire from their magazine carbines, his little party proved too plucky for their assailants. There was a sound of scrambling and scattering among the shrubbery and of clambering over the rail-fence by the roadside. The fire suddenly ceased and the troopers were masters of the situation. During the excitement, one of the prisoners had managed to crawl off; while Hank and the other specimen adopted the tactics of throwing themselves flat on their faces. The soldiers were eager to pursue and capture some of the band; but the sergeant was wary and cautious; kept them on the defensive; secured his two remaining prisoners; and was just about ordering a search for their lieutenant, when the well-known and welcome voice of the major was heard down the road, and in a moment he and Harrod dashed up to the spot. Then came eager inquiries and the search for Amory; and presently a cry from one of the men announced that he was found. Hurrying to the spot, they discovered him, bleeding, bruised, and senseless, by the roadside; one deep gash was cut on his forehead, from which the blood was oozing rapidly; a bullet-hole and a little red streak in the shoulder of his jacket told where one at least of the ambuscading villains had made his mark; while the moan of pain that followed when they strove tenderly to raise him from the ground proved that our boy was suffering from still other injuries; but for all that, thank God! alive, perhaps safe.
It was long before the men could find a farm-house; longer still before they came in with the lumbering old rattletrap of a carriage which their major had directed them to secure at any cost; and all this time poor Amory lay with his head on Vinton's lap, utterly unconscious of the latter's grief, of his almost womanly tenderness; but at last they were able to lift him into the improvised ambulance; and while the troopers, now reinforced by the small party which had followed Vinton, took charge of the prisoners, with orders to turn them over to the marshal at Sandbrook, the others drove carefully and slowly homewards, and so once more Mars was in our midst,—now our pet and hero.
All night long we watched him. All next day he tossed in feverish delirium; and when night came, Vinton and Pauline were bending over him striving to soothe and calm the boy in his restless pain. He spoke but little. Muttered words, half-broken sentences, incoherent all of them, were the only things we could win from him. He knew none of us; though he appeared to recognize Vinton's voice better than any. At last, late in the evening, when the doctor had forced an anodyne between his set teeth, Amory's muscles relaxed, he threw his unwounded arm wearily over his face and murmured, "I give up,—I'm whipped."
Vinton could hardly help smiling. "He thinks himself in one of his old cadet fights," said he. "Those fellows at West Point settle all difficulties with their fists, and this youngster was eternally in some row or other; he'd fight the biggest man in the corps on the slightest provocation."
We were all wearied with watching, and it was a glad sight when our pugilistic patient dropped off into a deep sleep. Vinton had to go back to camp to look after his men. Harrod was tired out and had sought his room. I had agreed to sit by Amory's bedside until midnight, as they had expelled me from the sick-room and made me sleep all morning "on account of age." Pauline was just giving a smoothing touch to the pillows when the door softly opened and who should come in but Kitty.
Yes, Kitty, our rampant little rebel Kit, who but a few days before had seen fit to snub our wounded boy simply because he was a "Yank" and wore the uniform which Uncle Sam has condemned his men-at-arms to suffer in. But how changed was Kitty now! Once or twice during the day she had stolen to the door or waylaid Pauline in the halls, always with a white, tear-stained, anxious face and a wistful inquiry as to how Mr. Amory was doing; then she would creep lonely and homesick back to her room; probably have a good long cry; and then down-stairs again for still another and later bulletin.
She had smoothed back her soft golden hair now; bathed away all but a few traces of the tears that had flown so copiously during the last thirty-six hours; and in her simple yet daintily-fitting dress, looked more womanly, more gentle and attractive, than I had ever seen her.
Walking quietly up to us, she put her little white hand on Pauline's shoulder, saying,—
"You go now, Paulie; it's my turn. You've all been working here and must be tired and sleepy. I'm going to play nurse now." And for a minute the corners of the pretty mouth twitch, and the soft-gray eyes fill, as though our little heroine were again on the verge of a relapse into lamentation. Pauline's arm is round her in an instant, and she draws her close to her bosom as she says,—
"It is just like you, darling; I knew you would want to come." And then follows the invariable exchange of caresses so indispensable among tender-hearted young ladies on such occasions. Not that I disapprove of it. Oh, no! Only one can hardly expect to be "counted out" from all participation in such ceremonies and yet stand by and look on with unmoved and unenvying complacency.
Ten minutes more and Pauline has gone, with a good-night to both. The judge comes in and bends with almost fatherly interest over the sleeping boy; and as Kitty seats herself quietly by the bedside, goes round and kisses her, saying, "You are more like your dear mother to-night than I ever saw you."
Kit looks up in his face without a word, but in affection that is eloquent in itself. Then her little hand busies itself about the bandage on Amory's forehead, and my occupation is gone. Leaving her to attend to that, the judge and I seat ourselves at the open fireplace, waking and dozing alternately.
The doctor pronounced him better when he came next morning to dress the wounds. Mars spent most of the time in sleeping. Never did patient meet with care and attention more tender, more constant. Either Pauline or Kit was at his bedside. The old judge would come in with every hour or so. Vinton galloped over from camp and spent the afternoon; and as for myself, I was becoming vastly interested in helping Kitty, when, as bad luck would have it, old Jake brought me what he termed a "tallygraff" when he came back from Sandbrook late at evening with the mail; and the tallygraff sent me hurrying back to Holly Springs by first train the following day.
It was with no satisfaction whatever that I bade them all adieu; though my heart lightened up when the doctor reported our "sub" improving. We all thought he recognized Vinton when the latter arrived in the morning to drive over with me.
We all thought, too, that a week at the utmost would bring me back with them in time to resume my functions as assistant nurse; but it was fully a month before my business could be completed, and by that time no further occasion existed for my services.
"We've had quite a little series of adventures, major," said I, as we whirled along towards the station, "and for one, I shouldn't be surprised if a spice of romance were to be thrown in; a love-affair, in fact. What do you think?"
Vinton knocked the ashes off his cigar on the dash-board; replaced his cigar between his teeth with great deliberation; smiled very quietly, not to say suggestively, to himself; gave a tug or two at his moustache, and then said,—
"Amory and Miss Kit you mean. Well,—I can't say. To tell the truth, I've been thinking for some time past that he has left his heart up North somewhere,—some old West Point affair, you know; writes long letters every now and then, and won't let me see the address; drops them in the postal-car himself, instead of sending them by the company mail; gets a dainty missive now and then, lady's handwriting, pretty monogram; and blushes, too, when I 'devil' him about Syracuse; they are postmarked from there. May not amount to much, of course. These youngsters get into that sentimental sort of vein at the Academy and seem to think it the correct thing to be spoony over somebody all the time."
That struck me as being a long speech for Vinton, a man of few words ordinarily. It occurred to me, too, that he was suspicious of his own affair's being the one to which I referred, and wanted to head me off. Oh, the perversity of human nature! That made me press the point and return to the subject. (Pauline afterwards said it was the meanest thing I ever did in my life. How little she knew me!)
"Don't dash my expectations in that way, Vinton. If Amory and Miss Kit don't carry out my plan and fall in love, I'll have to fall back upon you and Miss Pauline, you know; and just imagine how the judge and Harrod would feel at having to give her up. Besides, old fellow, you and I are cut out for confirmed old bachelors. Can't expect a young and attractive girl like her, who could marry anybody, to settle down to an unsettled and nomadic existence in the army; that's altogether too much for so little, don't you see?"
"Job's comforters" would have proven a dead failure in comparison with that effort. It was mean, but there was something exhilarating about it for all that. What man, raised in a large family of sisters, doesn't grow up as I was raised,—a tease?
Vinton is too old a campaigner, however, and sees my game; grins expressively, and behaves with commendable nonchalance.
"I'll put the matter in train when I get back, Brandon, and try and arrange it between the young people to your satisfaction, so that you won't have to fall back on anything so utterly problematical as the other suggestion." That was all he had to say on the subject.
We reached Sandbrook; the train came; and in a moment more I was standing on the rear platform watching the tall, stalwart, soldierly form that waved me good-by, growing dim and dimmer in the distance.
That night found me at Holly Springs and in consultation with the United States marshal and the commanding officer of the little garrison of infantrymen. To the care of the last named, our captured Ku-Klux had been turned over, together with a few more of their fraternity, recent acquisitions, one of whom, the marshal informed me, was badly wounded and in hospital. He had been arrested the day after the ambuscade at a farm-house within five miles of the spot, and duly forwarded to join his Klan at their new and much anathematized rendezvous.
On my expressing a desire to see him, the captain obligingly conducted me into the neat little hospital-tent, only a few steps from his own; and there, stretched out at full length, with a bandaged shoulder and a woe-begone countenance, was my missionary friend—Stiggins.
It was easy enough to conjecture how he came by his wound, though his own statement of the occurrence had surrounded him with a halo of martyrdom up to the time of my arrival. Stiggins had stoutly maintained that the Ku-Klux had shot him; that he was a law-abiding man, and that he hadn't seen a blue-coated soldier since the war. But when Stiggins caught sight of me he looked very much as though he had been lying, and in all human probability he had.
I said nothing to the officers on the subject until afterwards; when, in examining the articles which were in his possession at the time of his arrest, I came across a letter written in a hand I knew well enough, appointing a meeting with one J. Bostwick, and signed "Peyton." It was dated the night Harrod and Master Ned arrived at the plantation.
Stiggins swore he didn't know Peyton; never had seen him; "that note didn't belong to him nohow," and lied with a volubility and earnestness that would have done credit to a Jew in a clothing-store. But no information as to Peyton's whereabouts could be extracted from him or his unwounded confederates; nor could they be induced to give any clue which might lead to his implication. Whatever they were otherwise, they were game to the backbone; and stood by one another throughout their captivity and the trial which followed.
Hank Smith we found domiciled in the prison room where the gang were cooped up. He carried his arm in a sling, and a bed had been provided for his especial accommodation. He was surly and defiant, but accepted a piece of plug tobacco with much avidity, and was kind enough to say that "'Twould be a derned sight better if you handed over a bottle of whiskey with it," which sentiment was unanimously concurred in by the assembled delegates, but vetoed by the captain.
Two weeks passed away, and still was I detained. Then came a summons to Jackson, where the State Legislature was in session. I had written to the judge and to Vinton. The former had been called South on business, but while at Jackson the latter's reply reached me,—a long, and for him, gossipy letter.
Amory was rapidly recovering, and the moment he was well enough to be moved—in fact, as soon as he had his ideas about him—had insisted on being carried to camp. It was in vain that Harrod, Pauline, and Vinton had protested; go he would. No persuasions could induce him to remain where he was a burden and a care to them. Kitty had taken no part in the discussion, and had been but little in the sick-room after he had recognized her; but the poor child was possessed with the idea that he was determined to go simply on her account, and was very miserable in consequence. As a last resort, Pauline, "for whom he has a warm affection," had communicated this fact to her intractable patient, and his pale face had flushed up for an instant and he was at a loss what to say, but finally protested that it had nothing to do with his determination. That evening he asked to see her, and, in an embarrassed but earnest way, thanked her for nursing him so kindly and carefully. "I'll never forget how good you—you all were to me, Miss Carrington." And from that time until the ambulance came for him, two days after, whenever she chanced to come to the room he was very gentle, and in his whole manner seemed anxious to show her that not an atom of resentment or annoyance remained. "Somehow or other there's something wrong," Vinton wrote. "I can't get her to look or talk like her old self; she won't cheer up, and whenever she is in the room both of them are nervous and embarrassed, and though Miss Summers and I have striven to get them into conversation when the doctor would let him talk, it's of no use." Oh, the subtlety of feminine influence! Fancy Vinton in the rôle of match-maker! And so Amory was back again among his men, rapidly improving, but still, as Vinton said, "something was wrong."
Nothing had been heard from or of Peyton except an order for his trunk and personal effects, brought to the colonel by a total stranger. It was conjectured, however, that the judge had gone to Mobile during his trip, and that his troublesome kinsman was to be shipped off to climes where Ku-Klux were unknown, and where his propensities for mischief would have no field for operation. No further complaints of outrages or disorders; everything was quiet and peaceful, and men and horses were having a good rest.
CHAPTER V.
One bright, beautiful evening late in February, it was my good fortune to find myself once more within "twenty minutes of Sandbrook"; this time on no hurried visit, but with the deliberate intention of accepting the cordial invitation of the judge and Harrod to spend a month with them. I was to make their home my headquarters while attending to the limited amount of law business that called me to that vicinity. I had heard several times from the plantation since Vinton's letter, and the very last news I had received was penned by Miss Pauline's own fair hand, telling me in a sweet, happy, womanly letter of what neither you, who have had patience enough to read this, nor I could be in the least degree surprised to learn,—her engagement to Major Vinton. The major himself, she wrote, had been summoned as a witness before a court-martial, and would be gone several days, but back in time to welcome me. Then came a page about Amory: "He has entirely recovered; that is to say, he is as strong and active as ever; but still—I don't know how to express it exactly—he is not the same man he was before that night. You know that the wound in his shoulder was a very slight one, and that his injuries were mainly shocks and bruises received by being thrown and dragged by his wounded horse. When he was well enough to drive about, the major used to bring him here frequently; and I really thought that he and Kitty were going to become great friends, for they wore off much of the old embarrassment and seemed to be getting along so nicely. Then he used to ride over and spend entire afternoons with us; and then, all of a sudden, he stopped coming; only visits us now when he has to; and is so changed, so constrained and moody that I don't know what to make of it. I really believe that Kitty was growing to like him ever so much; and she wonders, I know, at this sudden change. Even when he does come he avoids and barely looks at her."
It was strange; and I puzzled over it for some time. Matchmaking was hardly in my line of business, yet no spinster aunt could have taken more interest in the affair than myself. I was really anxious to get back to the plantation and see what could be made of it.
Harrod and the carriage were at the station to meet me, and a rapid drive in the cool night air soon brought us to the dear old house again; and there on the broad piazza, in the broad, cheerful stream of light from the hall, stood the judge, Vinton, and Pauline; and in a moment I had sprung from the carriage and was receiving their warm and charming welcome. Vinton was as happy in his quiet, undemonstrative way as man could be, and the fond, proud light in his dark eyes as he looked down at the graceful form leaning so trustfully upon his arm, was a sight that made me envious. Presently Kitty came down; but not the Kitty of old. Ah! little girl, what is it that has made those soft eyes so heavy, so sad? What has taken all the color from those round, velvety cheeks? What has become of the ringing, light-hearted laugh that came bubbling up from heart-springs that seemed inexhaustible in their freshness, their gladness? It is of no use to smile and chatter and prate about your pleasure at seeing this antiquarian again. It is of no use to toss your little head and look at me with something of the old coquettish light in your eyes. You can't deceive me, little Kit; you are changed, sadly changed. I, who have been away so long a time, can see what others only partially notice.
During the evening we all gathered in the parlor, talking over the events of my previous visit. Kitty had early tired of any share in the conversation, and sat silent and absent, taking little heed of what was said, though once or twice, when we were not speaking of Amory, she rallied for a moment and made an effort. She had taken a chair near the window, and was more than half the time gazing dreamily out towards the road. At last Vinton said he must get back to camp, bade us all good-night; his orderly came round with the horses, and Pauline went out to see him off, everybody else just at that particular moment finding something of extreme interest which detained him or her in the parlor.
It is odd how long it takes to say good-night under those circumstances. Fully fifteen minutes elapsed before the spurred boot-heels were heard going down the steps; then there was another slight detention,—cause, unknown; time, three minutes and a half,—and finally the clatter of hoofs as they rode off, twenty-seven minutes by the clock after the time when the major had announced that he must be off at once,—couldn't stay another minute.
When the hoof-beats had died away, Pauline came back to us radiant, lovely; and even that tease Harrod could not find it in his heart to say one word on the subject of the major's unaccountable display of unmilitary tardiness, though he looked vastly as though he would like to. Good-nights were exchanged, and soon after I found myself cosily ensconced in my old quarters in the wing.
About noon on the following day Mars trotted up the road, and, throwing his horse's rein over the gate-post, came "clinking" up the walk. His heels were decorated with a pair of huge Mexican spurs, with little pendants of steel attached to the rowels in such a way as to cause a jingling with every movement. I had gone out on the piazza to meet him, and he quickened his pace and waved his cap with a cheery "How are you, Mr. Brandon?" the moment he caught sight of me. As he sprang up the steps I saw that he had at least lost none of his old activity; and though thinner and a trifle paler than when I first met him, it was not at first glance noticeable.
After the excitement of our meeting was over, however, and we were chatting over the Ku-Klux entertainments, I noticed how soon he became just the restless, absent, constrained fellow that Pauline had described. He changed color and started every time a footstep was heard in the hall; greeted Pauline warmly when she came down, and seemed to be more himself when talking with her, but even then his eyes wandered to the doorway. Something was wanting; and at last he made a vigorous effort and stammered an inquiry as to "Miss Carrington's" health.
"Kitty is pretty well, and will be down in a minute. She was writing to Aunt Mary when you came. If I were Kitty I wouldn't come down to see you at all, Mr. Frank Amory, for you've not been near us for the last ten days, and I presume we owe this call entirely to Mr. Brandon."
Poor fellow! he fidgets and looks woe-begone enough; tries hard to plead constant duties, no lack of inclination, etc., and just in the midst of it all, the rustle of skirts and the patter of quick, light footsteps is heard in the hall, and Frank Amory starts up with the flush deepening on his cheek and forehead, and stands facing the doorway as little Kit comes in,—comes in with a face that flushes deeply as his own, with eyes that are raised to his but for one brief second and then seek any other object but the young soldier before her, with a nervous, fluttering reply to his "Good-morning, Miss Carrington; I hope you're well?" and finally, as she subsides into an arm-chair by the window, with an air of mingled relief and apprehension that puzzles me inexpressibly. Amory, meantime, has resumed his seat (on his forage-cap this time), and plunged hastily into a description of a marvellous horse they have just concluded to purchase for officers' use. He must be a marvel; and it is astonishing what an amount of interest Frank takes in telling Pauline all about his performances. Kitty sits by the window listening, but saying not a word; and after this sort of thing has been kept up some twenty minutes Pauline excuses herself.
"Now don't go till I come back, Frank; I'll only be gone a few minutes." And with a glance at me that seems, as Mark Twain says, "perfectly luminous with meaning" to her, but which in my masculine stupidity I fail to comprehend until some minutes after, that young lady makes her exit. Then Mars turns upon me, utterly absorbed in the same horse, and with distracting volubility tells me the same rigmarole he told Pauline, every word of which I had heard. Then he asks questions about Hank Smith that he had asked three or four times already, and just as I'm beginning to wonder whether his accident had not resulted in permanent injury to his mental faculties a servant appears at the door.
"Miss Summers says will Mr. Brandon please come and help her a minute." And as Mr. Brandon obligingly rises to comply with her request, Amory springs up too, whips out his watch, and exclaims,—
"By Jove! how time flies! I told Vinton I'd be back for afternoon stables,—must be off! Good-by, Mr. Brandon; come over to camp and see us. Good-by, Miss Carrington; sorry I have to hurry." And out he goes; clatters down the steps and back to his horse; throws the reins over the animal's head, and vaults into his saddle; and then, with one wave of his hand, dashes off at a mad gallop.
I turned again into the house, and this is what I saw in the parlor. Kitty Carrington, all alone, standing there at the window gazing after Amory as he disappeared down the road; her tiny white hands tightly clinching the window-sill; two great big tears just starting from each eye and trickling slowly, heavily down her cheeks; her dainty form quivering with emotion. Little by little I am beginning to suspect the truth in the matter, and, as I turn softly away without attracting her attention, mentally resolve to unearth the whole secret. Pretty business for a man of my years, you will say, but "we lawyers are curious."
N.B.—Pauline didn't want me at all. It was a ruse to get me away.
For the next three days matters went on in pretty much the same groove. Amory came over to dinner once and was utterly absurd,—handed Miss Kit to her chair, took his allotted place beside her; and hardly addressed one word to her through the entire repast, though he gabbled unceasingly to every one else. Just as soon as we could finish our cigars after dinner, and an adjournment was moved to the parlor, he declared he must be off; said he had a whole heap of commissary returns to make up before morning; and, with the briefest possible good-night to the ladies and the judge, away he went.
Pauline looked puzzled, Vinton amused, and Kitty—out of the window.
That night Mr. G. S. Brandon, who has already played too inquisitive a part in this little affair, resolved, before closing his eyes for a good, old-fashioned sleep, that he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and pry still further; but he never dreamed how odd would be the solution.
CHAPTER VI.
The next day Harrod Summers and I drove over to the cavalry camp to see Amory. It was a crisp, cheery morning, just enough wintry rime in earth and air and sky to make rapid motion a keen delight. As we neared the spot, the mellow notes of the trumpet came floating on the breeze, and as we rounded a bend in the road, we came in sight of the troop itself trotting across a broad open field. Mars was taking advantage of the glorious weather to brush up on company drill, and we had arrived just in time to see it.
It was a very pretty, stirring sight to my eyes; for the dash and spirit of the manœuvres were new to a man whose martial associations had been confined to the curbstones of Broadway, barring that blistering march from Annapolis to the railway, and the month of fêted soldiering at the capital and Camp Cameron in '61. Harrod gazed at it all with professional calm; occasionally giving some brief and altogether too technical explanation of evolutions that were beyond my comprehension. But the one thing which struck me most forcibly was that, though frequently trotting or galloping close to where we sat in the buggy, Mr. Frank Amory never took the faintest notice of us. His whole attention was given to his troop and the drill; and with flashing sabre and animated voice, he darted here and there on his big chestnut sorrel, shouting, exhorting, and on occasion excitedly swearing at some thick-headed trooper; but for all the notice he took of us we might as well have been back at home.
"Rather a cool reception," said I, "considering the youngster was so anxious we should come over."
"Why, that's all right," said Harrod. "It is a breach of military propriety to hold any kind of communication with lookers-on when a fellow's at drill or on parade."
And yet to my civilian notions this struck me as being uncivil. Less than a month afterwards I saw the same young fellow sit like a statue on his horse, and never give the faintest sign of recognition when the girl I knew he—well, that's anticipating—when a party of ladies were driven in carriages past his troop, so close to his horse's nose as to seriously discomfit that quadruped, and one of the young ladies was Miss Carrington. To my undisciplined faculties that sort of thing was incomprehensible. I looked on at the drill for a while, wondering how in the world those fellows could manage to keep their seats in the saddle without grabbing the pommel, when Harrod remarked that he believed he would go on into the village to attend to some business, and leave me at Amory's tent until he returned. Of course I could only assent; and in another moment I was landed in front of the tent which had become so fixed a picture "in my mind's eye" since the afternoon Mr. Stiggins rode in to inquire where the lieutenant and his people had gone. A darky boy officiously brushed off the seat of a camp-chair, saying that "Mos' like drill'd be over in ten minutes." So I sat me down under the canvas to wait.
Amory's tent was not luxurious. It was one of the simple variety known as the "wall" tent, so called probably because for three feet from the ground the sides are vertical and give more room than the "A" tents of the rank and file. A camp-cot occupied one side; a canvas-covered trunk stood at the head. Then on the other side of the tent was a rude field-desk, perched on four legs; the pigeon-holes crammed with portentous-looking blanks and papers, and the lid lowered to a horizontal. On this lay a square of blotting-paper, covered with ink-dabs and some stray papers, an ungainly inkstand, and one or two scattered pens and holders. A looking-glass about the size of one's face was swung on the front pole. A rude washstand was placed near the foot of the bed. A swinging pole, hung under the ridge-pole of the tent, constituted the wardrobe or clothes-closet of the occupant, and from this several garments were pendent. There was no tent floor; the bare ground was the carpet; and but for one little table the abode would have been rude in the extreme as the habitation of a civilized being. The table in question stood at the entrance of the tent, under the "fly" or awning spread in front. A couple of pipes with brier-root stems lay thereon, and a jar of tobacco. But in an easel-frame of soft velvet, a frame rich and handsome, conspicuously so in contrast with all the surroundings, was a photograph—cabinet-size—of a woman's face. It was not there on the occasion of my first visit, nor was the table. But there sat the picture, the first thing one would notice in entering the tent; and, having nothing else to do, I proceeded to examine it.
A sweet, placid, sorrow-worn face; eyes whose wrinkled lids spoke of age, but yet looked calmly, steadfastly into mine. Scanty hair, yet rippling over the brows and temples as though indicating that in years gone by the tresses had been full and luxuriant. Scanty hair, tinged with many a streak of gray, and carried back of the ears in a fashion suggestive of the days that long preceded the war,—the days when Jenny Lind entranced us all at Castle Garden (though I claim to have been but a boy then); when Mario and Grisi were teaching us Knickerbockers the beauties of Italian opera; when Count D'Orsay was the marvel of metropolitan society; when daguerreotypes were first introduced along Broadway. All these I thought of as I looked into this placid face, so refined in its every line; marking, too, that at the throat was clasped a portrait in plain gold frame, the inevitable indication that the wearer was of Southern birth, for none but our Southern women wear thus outwardly the portraits of those they love and have lost. The picture fascinated me; it was so sweet, so simple, so homelike; and, as I stood with it in my hands, I could plainly see the strong likeness between the features and those of my plucky young hero, whom I was half ready to be indignant with for ignoring me ten minutes before. His mother I knew it to be at a glance.
Just then came an orderly bearing a packet of letters. To my intense gratification—I don't know why—he saluted with his unoccupied hand as he said, "Letters for the lieutenant, sir." Was it possible that he thought I might be some staff-officer? He could not—that is, he would not, had he ever seen me straddle a horse—suppose me to be a cavalryman. Perhaps he had heard I was with the lieutenant the night he nabbed Hank Smith; perhaps he—why, perhaps they—the troop—had heard I had charged through the woods to his support. Well, I took with dignified calm the bundle of letters he handed me, and endeavored to look the suppositious character and place them carelessly on the table, when the superscription of the very first one attracted my attention. The writing was strangely familiar. There were four letters,—two "official," long and heavy; two personal, and evidently of feminine authorship. It was my business to lay them on the table. I did nothing of the kind. Holding the package in both hands, I sat stupidly staring at the topmost letter,—a tiny, dainty affair,—and striving to come back from dream-land. Where had I seen that superscription before? There stood the address, "Lieut. Frank Amory, —th U.S. Cavalry, Sandbrook Station, Memphis and Charleston R. R., Alabama," every letter as perfectly traced as though by the hand of an engraver; every i dotted, every t crossed, every capital having its due proportion, every letter wellnigh perfect. The superscription itself was a chirographic marvel. The writing was simply beautiful, and I had seen it before. It was familiar to me, or at least had been well known. Pondering over it, I gazed, of course, at the postmark: a mere blur. Something or some place in New York was all I could make out before it suddenly occurred to me that the whole thing was none of my business anyhow. I set the packet down on the table and strove to shut it from my mind; but there that letter lay on top, staring me in the face; I could not keep my eyes from it. I turned, picked it up and placed it on the desk inside the tent; dropped a handkerchief that was lying there over it; and returned to my place under the fly. I wanted to keep it out of my sight.
Presently, the bustle and laughter among the tents of the soldiers near me gave warning that the troop had come in from drill. The next moment, as I was again holding and looking at the picture in the velvet frame, Mars came springily forward, his sabre and spurs clinking with every stride. He pulled off his gauntlet, and held out his hand with a cheery and cordial "So glad to see you, Mr. Brandon," and then, as I was about to apologize for taking liberties with his belongings, he said,—and how can I throw into the words the tremulous tenderness of his voice?—
"That's mother. My birthday present. It only came a few days ago, and I like to have it out here with me."
And the boy took it from my hands, and stood for a moment, all glowing as he came from his rapid drill, and with the beads of perspiration on his face, and looked fondly at it.
"It's the only decent picture I ever had of her, and, somehow, it almost seems as though she were here now. That Ku-Klux business upset her completely, and the blessed little mother wants me to pull out and resign; but I can't do that."
"I have been admiring it for some time, Mr. Amory. The face attracted me at once, and it was easy to see the family resemblance. May I ask where your mother is living now?"
"In Boston now, but I think she longs to come South again. The North never seemed home to her. Father was in the old army. Perhaps Vinton has told you. He was killed at Fredericksburg, at the head of his brigade; and my uncle, mother's younger brother, died of wounds received in the same fight." Amory's voice faltered a little and his color brightened. "Of course they were on opposite sides," he added, in a lower tone.
I bowed silently. Nothing seemed the appropriate thing to say just then. Presently Amory went on:
"You see I'm about all she has left in the world,—her only son. And when husband and brother were both taken from her at one fell swoop, it made it hard to let me take up father's profession; but it was always his wish, and the only thing I'm fit for, I reckon."
"Do Yankees habitually say 'I reckon'?" I asked, by way of lightening up the rather solemn tone of the conversation.
Mars laughed. "Why," said he, "I'm more than half Southern; born in North Carolina, and spending much of my boyhood there at mother's old home. They used to call me 'reb' the whole time I was a cadet. It is a wonder I wasn't an out-and-out 'reb' too. All mother's people were, and they never have been reconciled to her for sticking to father and his side of the question. Poor little mother," he added, while the tears gathered in his eyes, "she is alone in the world if ever woman was, and I sometimes wonder if I ought not to yield to her wishes and go and be a clerk of some kind."
All the glow, all the life that possessed him as he came in fresh from the exercise of his drill seemed to have left Mars by this time. He was profoundly sad and depressed. That was plainly to be seen. Hoping to find something as a distraction to his gloomy reflections, I called his attention to the mail that had arrived during his absence. He moved negligently towards the desk, raised the handkerchief with weary indifference, and glanced at the packet underneath. Instantly his whole manner changed; the color sprang to his face; his eyes flamed, and a nervous thrill seemed to shoot through his frame. Paying no attention to the others, he had seized the dainty missive that so excited my curiosity, and with a hand that plainly shook tore it open, turned his back to me with the briefest "Excuse me one minute," and was speedily so absorbed in the letter that he never noticed me as I rose and strolled out to the front of the tent and the bright wintry sunshine beyond. The boy needed to be alone.
Fully fifteen minutes passed by before he rejoined me, coming out with a quick, nervous step, and a face that had grown white and almost old in that time. What could be wrong with him?
"Mr. Brandon, I beg your pardon for being so inhospitable. My letters were important, and—and rather a surprise, one of them. It is just about noon. May I offer you a toddy? It's the best I can do."
Mr. Brandon, to the scandal of his principles, decided that on this occasion he would accept the proffered refreshment. It seemed to be a relief to Mars. He bustled about, getting sugar and glasses and some fresh spring water; then speedily tendering me a goblet, produced a black bottle from his trunk.
"Shall I pour for you?" said he. "Say when." And in a moment the juice of the rye and other less harmful ingredients were mingled with the sweetened water.
"You will excuse me," said he. "I never touch it, except—well, that drink I took the night on the train after our tussle with Smith is the only one I've taken since I joined the troop. I promised mother, Mr. Brandon."
The reader has already discovered that Mr. Brandon could readily make a sentimental idiot of himself on slight provocation. Hearing these words of Mr. Amory's and the renewed allusion to the mother who filled so big a place in the boy's heart, Mr. Brandon deposited his glass on the table and held out his hand; took that of the surprised young soldier; gave it a cordial grip; made an abortive attempt to say something neat and appropriate; and broke abruptly off at the first word. Then Harrod came back.
"Brandon," said he, "there's the mischief to pay in New Orleans. I've just received the papers, and it looks as though there would be riot and bloodshed with a vengeance."
"What's up now?" I asked, with vivid interest.
"It seems to be a breaking out of the old row. Two legislatures, you know, and a double-headed executive. More troops are ordered there."
I eagerly took the paper and read the headlines. The same old story, only worse and more of it. The State-house beleaguered; the metropolitan police armed with Winchesters and manning a battery; the citizens holding indignation meetings and organizing for defence against usurping State government; two riots on Canal Street, and a member of one legislature shot down by the sergeant-at-arms of the other; a great mob organizing to attack the governor and the State-house, etc., etc. It all looked familiar enough. I had seen the same thing but a short time before. It was simply a new eruption of the old volcano, but a grave one, unless I utterly misjudged the indications.
"Amory," said Harrod, "mount your horse and come over to dinner with us. Mr. Brandon and I must go back, for there are matters in the mail which require my attention at once."
But Amory said he could not leave. In Vinton's absence he felt that he ought to stick to camp. We drove back as we came.
Both the young ladies were on the gallery when we drove up. Harrod shook his head in response to the look of inquiry in Pauline's eyes.
"Not back yet, and no news of him,—unless—unless—there should be something in this letter," said he, with provoking gravity and deliberation, as he felt in every pocket of his garments in apparently vain search, while the quizzical look in his face proclaimed that he was purposely reserving the right pocket for the last.
Miss Summers stood with exemplary patience and outstretched hand. At last the eagerly-expected letter was produced, and Harrod and I went in to talk over the startling tidings from New Orleans. The next moment we heard Pauline's rapid step in the hall and ascending the stairs; heard her go hurriedly to her room and close the door, Harrod looked puzzled and a little worried.
"I hope there is no bad news from Vinton," he said. "That rush to her room is unlike her." Then the swish of Kitty's skirts was heard. Harrod stepped out and spoke some words to her in a low tone. Her reply was anxious and startled in its hurried intonation, but the words were indistinct.
"She says Pauline did not read her letter through at all, but sprang up with tears in her eyes and merely said she must run up-stairs a few minutes. What do you suppose is wrong?"
Of course I had no explanation to offer. Pauline did not return for an hour. When she again appeared she was very pale and quiet. Harrod meantime had taken a horse and ridden off to Sandbrook, where he wanted to reach the telegraph-office. It was late in the evening when he returned. I had been reading in the library for some time while the ladies were at the piano. He strode into the hall and stood at the parlor-door.
"Pauline, did the major tell you in his letter?" he asked.
"Tell me what?" she inquired, with quickly rising color.
"That their orders had come?" She hesitated and made no reply. Quickly he stepped forward and threw his arm around her, tenderly kissing her forehead.
"You'll make a soldier's wife, Pauline. You can keep a secret."
And now, looking quickly at Miss Kitty, I saw that she had risen and was eagerly gazing at them, a strange, wistful light in her sweet young face.
"What is it all, colonel?" I inquired.
"The cavalry left for New Orleans at dark. Amory got telegraphic orders soon after we left, and Vinton came in from the West by the evening train and took command at the station. Neither of them had time to come out here to say good-by," he added, with an involuntary glance at Kitty, while still holding Pauline's hand in his own.
"You saw Major Vinton?" Pauline calmly asked.
"Yes, dear. I have a note for you. He was only there thirty minutes. Amory had the troop, horses and all, on the cars before the Memphis train got in."
She took her note and with him walked into the library. Irresolutely I stepped out on the gallery a moment. Then returning for a cigar or something consolatory, I nearly collided with Miss Kitty at the parlor-door. She recoiled a pace; then with her bonny head bowed in her hands, with great sobs shaking her slender form, my unheroic little heroine rushed past me and up the stairs to her own room. I felt like a spy.
CHAPTER VII.
The next few days passed somewhat gloomily. Eager interest centred in the daily paper from New Orleans. The Times in those days was "run" entirely in the interest of a strong faction not inaptly termed "carpet-baggers." Few of the Republican party of the white element had been natives and property-owners in the State before the war. All of the colored race, most of them at least, had been residents perhaps, but held as property rather than as property-owners. The Picayune, always the representative of the old régime in the South, was naturally the journal which found its way into our distant household. Its pictures of affairs in the Crescent City were startling beyond question, and its columns were filled with grave portent of riot, insurrection, and bloodshed.
Judge Summers was visibly worried by its reports. Harrod looked gloomy and ill at ease; Pauline very grave; Kitty picturesquely doleful. All, however, seemed to relax no effort to make me feel at home and "entertained," but the evident cloud overshadowed me. I began to want to get away.
If all New Orleans were swept by the flames, my personal losses would be slight; but the small library I owned would be an excuse. My confidence that neither side would set fire to anything was only equalled by that which I felt that both would join forces to put it out if they did. For two years we had been having just the same exhilarating experiences, and it never came to burning anything but a little powder. Sometimes one side, sometimes another would raise a huge mob, and with much pomp and parade, with much blatant speech-making and wide publication of their intentions, would march noisily through the streets towards some public building, at that moment held by the opposite party, avowedly for the purpose of taking it by force of arms. The first year there had been some desultory shooting, but no casualties to speak of. The second there had been less damage, though far more display; for by this time there were three parties in the field. Then, however, Uncle Sam assumed the rôle of peace-maker; sent a general thither with his staff (giving him a major-general's title and a major's force), with vague orders as to what he was to do, as I chanced to know, beyond keeping the peace and upholding the law and the constituted authorities. As three parties claimed to be the "constituted authorities," it seemed embarrassing at times to tell which to uphold. Washington officials declined to decide for him, so the veteran soldier hit on the happy expedient of upholding the party that was attacked. This put him squarely in the right so far as keeping the peace was concerned; for whichever crowd sallied forth to whip the other, invariably found a small battalion of bayonets, or on one occasion a solitary aide-de-camp representing the United States. They would not "fire on the flag"; so retired to thunder at one another through the press. But it put him squarely in the wrong where settling the question for good and all was concerned. So long as the factions felt sure they would not be allowed to fight, the more they talked about doing it; and the real sufferers were the patient, plodding infantry officers and men, who were kept trudging up and down, night and day, from town to barracks. They were tired, hungry, jaded-looking fellows that winter. I had called three of them into my room one chill morning after they had been standing all night on the curbstones of the State-house waiting for an attack they knew would never come; warmed them up with coffee or cocktails as they might prefer; then one of them opened his heart.
"This whole thing is the most infernal farce," said he. "Ten to one the true way to stop it is to send us miles away and let them get at one another. The Lord knows I'd afford them every encouragement. They don't want to fight. If old General Fitz Blazes would only send me with my company behind instead of between these howling idiots they'd evaporate quick enough."
Well I recalled every bit of this! It was when the "radical" party was split up into local factions, each demanding the State-house—and the Treasury; but—things were different now. The old residents, the business men, the representative citizens of the city had stood that sort of thing just as long as human endurance and their ebbing purses could stand it. They now had organized and risen against the perturbed State authorities; and when that class of men began shooting somebody was going to be hurt. As yet nothing aggressive had been done; but the Republican government was tottering on its Louisiana throne, and appealed for aid. This it was that was sending troops from all directions to the Crescent City. I decided to go and protect my lares and penates, trivial though they might be.
To my relief, yet surprise, the moment I mentioned this to Colonel Summers his face lighted up with an expression of delight.
"Mr. Brandon, we'll go together, and as soon as you like."
Noticing my evident surprise, he added, "To tell the truth I ought to go, and at once. Will you come into father's library and let me explain?"
Assenting, as a matter of course, I followed him. Pauline was seated by her father's side as we entered, writing, as she often did, from his dictation.
"Father," broke in the colonel, abruptly, "we can spare you all that work. Mr. Brandon tells me he has decided to go at once to New Orleans. I will go with him, and take the papers."
The judge rose somewhat slowly—anxiety had told on him very much in the last day or two—and greeted me with his old-fashioned courtesy.
"It is a source of great regret to me—to us all—that you should leave us; yet you have doubtless anxieties, as indeed I have,—great ones,—and I wish it were in my power to go myself; but that cannot be, for a fortnight at least; and by that time, as things are looking now, it may be too late,—it may be too late. My son will tell you——" he broke off suddenly.
Miss Summers had risen; her sweet, thoroughbred face had grown a little paler of late, and she stood anxiously regarding her father, but saying not a word. For some moments we sat in general conversation; then, noticing how tired the judge was looking, I rose, saying it was time to make preparations.
Two hours later, the old carriage rattled up to the steps. The colonel stood aside, holding some final consultation with his father. Miss Summers, with a blush that was vastly becoming to her, handed me a letter for the major. "As yet, you know, Major Vinton has not been able to send me his New Orleans address. They are barely there by this time; but you were so incautious as to offer to take anything to him, so I burden you with this."
Kitty Carrington was looking on with wistful eyes.
"And you, little lady? what note or message will you intrust to me?"
She had smoothed back her bright hair. She was looking again as she had the night she begged to play nurse over our unconscious Mars. She looked older, graver, but so gentle, so patient in the trouble that had come into her young life. Whatever that trouble might have been I could not say. There was something very pathetic about the slender little figure as she stood there.
For all answer to my question, she shook her head, smiling rather sadly, yet striving to throw archness into her accompanying gesture. The faint shrug of her pretty shoulders, the forward movement of her hands, with open and extended palms,—something so Southern in it all. I could not help noting it. Possibly I stared, as previous confessions indicate that I had that adventurous night in the cars.
My rudeness caused her to turn sharply away with heightened color.
Then came general good-byes, good speeds, good lucks, promises to write,—those promises, like so many others, made only to be broken. We clambered into the carriage. Already the driver was gathering his whip and reins; had "chucked" to his sleepy team. Harrod was sitting on the side nearest the group on the steps; I craning my neck forward for a last look at them. Kitty was eagerly bending forward; her lips parted, her eyes dilated, her fingers working nervously. Already the wheels had begun to crunch through the gravel, when with sudden movement she darted like a bird down the steps.
"Harrod!" she cried.
"Hold on, driver," was the response, as he bent to the doorway to meet her.
Standing on tiptoe, her tiny white hands clutching his arm, a vivid color shooting over her face, her eyes one moment nervously, apprehensively, reproachfully glancing at me, plainly saying, "Please don't listen," then, raised to his bronzed, tender face, as he bent ear towards her lips in response to the evident appeal. She rapidly whispered half a dozen words. "Do you understand? Sure you understand?" she questioned eagerly, as now she leaned back, looking up into his eyes.
He bent still farther, kissed her forehead. "Sure," he nodded. "Sure."
Then back she sprang. Crack went the whip, and we rolled away towards the gate.
Looking back, my eyes took in for the last time the old home; and the picture lingers with me, will live with me to the end of my lonely life. The red-gold light of the setting sun streamed in all its glory on the southern front of the quaint plantation house. The tangled shrubbery, the sombre line of the dense forest beyond the fields, the vines and tendrils that clung about the gallery railing and the wooden pillars, the low-hanging eaves, the moss-covered line of porch-roof,—all were tinged, gilded, gleaming here and there with the warmth and glow of the gladness-giving rays. The windows above blazed with their reflected glory. Even old Blondo's curly hide and Jake Biggs's woolly pate gained a lustre they never knew before. All around the evidences of approaching decay and present dilapidation, so general throughout the bright sunny South years after the war, all around the homeliest objects, the wheelbarrow and garden tools, there clung a tinge of gladness in answering homage to the declining king of day; but, central figures of all, the trio we left upon the steps, they fairly stood in a halo of mellow gold. The gray-haired gentleman waving his thin hand in parting salutation; the noble, womanly girl at his side, half supporting, half leaning upon him; and on the lower stair, kissing her hand, waving her dainty kerchief, her eyes dancing, her cheeks aflame, her white teeth flashing through the parted lips, her fragile form all radiance, all sweet, glowing, girlish beauty, stood Kitty Carrington; she who but a moment before had seemed so patiently sad.
"Did you ever see anything prettier?" I gasped, as at last the winding roadway hid them from our sight.
"Kitty, Brandon?—she's a darling!" was the warm-hearted answer.
That was precisely my opinion.
All the way into Sandbrook I was tortured with curiosity to know the purport of the mysterious parting whisper. It would not do to let Colonel Summers suspect that of me; neither would it answer to propound any question. We had much to talk of that is of no interest and has no bearing on our story, but it kept us employed until we reached the station.
Our train was due at 7.45, going west, the same hour at which the troops had left. Their single passenger-car and the four freight-cars on which their horses were carried had been coupled to the regular train. They had gone, we learned, to Grand Junction; thence down the Mississippi Central. The station-master was an old army friend of the colonel's. He received us with all courtesy, and immediately asked us into his own little office.
"Reckon you'd best just make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen; that train's nigh onto two hours late, near as I can make it."
"Two hours late! Why, that will ruin our connection!" exclaimed Harrod.
"They're going to try and make the Central wait over," was the answer, "but I'd bet high on our being later'n we think for. Once a fellow gets off his schedule on this road, he's more apt to be losing all the time than gaining."
The colonel and I looked at each other a moment in some dismay. Quandary though it was, there was nothing for it but to wait, and wait we did, two—three hours. The darkness grew intense back towards the Tennessee; the loungers in the waiting-room or platform in groups of two or three, rose, yawned, stretched themselves, "'Lowed t'warn't no use waitin'; could see the derned train any other night just as well," and took themselves and their tobacco-juice off. The lights across the way, beyond the tracks, died out one by one, until only those two were left which represented the rival saloons, still keeping open for the presumable benefit of some prowler hoping to get trusted for a drink. Finally only the station-master and ourselves were left, all drowsy, but the former still seated, with his one remaining hand close to his telegraph instrument. Still no news of the train. I began to doze.
It could not have been more than ten or fifteen minutes before the clicking of the instrument aroused me. Having long since ceased to care whether the train now came or not, since we had heard by nine that the Central would not wait, I only sleepily gazed at the operator. The colonel had gone asleep, and the sound did not awake him. But another moment the expression on the face of the man sitting so intently over his table aroused me to eagerness. At first professionally indifferent, it grew suddenly clouded; then a look of keen distress came upon it as he quickly glanced around at his old comrade.
I involuntarily sprang up and approached the table. He had written half the message, then dropped pencil and hammered away at the key.
"For him," said he, with a backward jerk of the head to indicate the colonel.
It seemed an endless time before he could get the thing straightened out and the message written.
"Please wake him," said he.
I gently shook Harrod's shoulder. He started up with soldierly promptitude.