"This is neither the time nor place in which to tell me so," she interrupted. Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, she broke down and burst into tears. It was only a very few moments before she controlled herself, and forced herself to speak clearly, though she did so with manifest difficulty.
"Please forget what you have just said," she began. "I realise your position. I understand. I think I know what you have been thinking. You have contemplated a crime for my sake,—the highest crime of all. For my sake you have been tempted to sacrifice not only your life—which to a brave man means little—but your honour, which is more precious to a brave man than all else in the world. Tell me, please, and tell me quickly, that you have put that temptation aside—that you have utterly repudiated the horrible thought."
"I have done so certainly," he replied, in a hard voice. "But why do you care so much for that?"
"Why? Because your honour—all honour—is precious to me, and I could not respect you if you had consented to the thought of dishonour even in your mind. I should loathe and detest your soul if for my sake or any sake you could have done that. No, don't interrupt me, please," seeing that he was trying to speak, "let me finish. I, too, am under orders, one of which is to keep my lips sealed. But under such circumstances as these I may disobey my orders without dishonour. I am not a soldier. Let me tell you a little, then, so that you may not suffer on my account. No harm will come to me when you take me, as you must, to General Stuart. I am here by his own orders, and I was over there," motioning toward the enemy's lines, "with his full knowledge and consent. There. That is all I may tell you."
The strong man turned deathly pale under the shock of the relief that the young woman's words brought to his mind. For a moment Agatha thought that he would fall, but recovering himself, he ejaculated, "Thank God!" and those were the only words he spoke for a space.
He presently ordered the horses brought, and helped Agatha to mount.
"Can you manage to ride a McClellan saddle?" he asked. "There is no other to be had."
"I suppose not," Agatha answered, with returning spirits. "I suppose the quartermaster's department does not issue side-saddles to the mounted artillery for the use of errant damsels whom they capture. But I can do very well on a cavalry saddle."
Agatha was well-nigh exhausted by the terrible strain she had endured. She could scarcely sustain herself in the saddle, as she and Baillie set out, her maid riding a-pillion behind her. She would have liked—if she had dared risk it—to keep the silence of extreme weariness during the journey to Stuart's headquarters, two or three miles away, but in fact she talked incessantly, in a hard, constrained voice, limiting the conversation strictly to external matters. She asked her companion about his battery, the number and character of his guns, how many men he might have under his command, the nature of his duties, and many other things, chatter about which served as a substitute for the more personal conversation that she was determined to avoid. She was fencing for position, and her purpose was plain enough to Baillie Pegram, but at the end of the ride the girl herself was more inscrutably a riddle to him than she had been before. For just as they arrived, and when it was too late for him to say any word in reply, she suddenly turned to him, and said:
"Before we part, Captain Pegram, I want to thank you for all you have done for me, and still more for what you have felt—I mean your wish to save me. I am very grateful, but—"
There she broke off, leaving him to torture himself with almost maddening conjectures as to what should have followed that bewildering "but."
At that moment Stuart, who had heard of the capture and was waiting, came hurriedly from the piazza of his headquarters to greet and welcome the arriving pair. With strong arms he lifted the girl from her saddle and placed her on her feet, as he might have done with an infant child. For he was a giant in strength, and his muscles were as obedient to his will as were the troopers who so eagerly followed him in every fray.
Seeing the girl's bedraggled condition, and understanding how sorely shaken her nerves must be, he made no reference to the circumstances of her coming, but cheerily said:
"I am doubly fortunate, Miss Agatha, in having you again for a visitor, and in having the ladies of my household with me just now; for God bless these Virginia women," addressing this part of his remark to Captain Pegram, "they are always with us when we need them."
With that he hurried Agatha into the house, and placed her in feminine charge, with orders that she should have food and rest and sleep, and especially that she should not be annoyed by any questionings until such time as she should herself desire to speak with him.
"You will remain with us to dinner, Captain Pegram, if you please. There are matters about which I wish to talk with you."
When the two were left alone, he said:
"Tell me, now, all you know about how Miss Agatha became your prisoner—the details, I mean."
When Baillie had finished the narrative, expressing wonder that the girl had passed unharmed through that hailstorm of canister, Stuart said, simply:
"I'm glad your gun practice was no better."
"So am I," the young man answered.
It was not until late in the afternoon that Stuart was summoned to meet his guest, who was also his prisoner. She had in the meantime divested herself and her maid of their burden, and the precious drug had been carefully packed for shipment under guard to Richmond. She had also slept long and well after her breakfast, and was now as fresh and as full of spirit as if she had known no hardship, and passed through no danger.
Before the dinner hour, Stuart had taken pains to send away all the members of his staff, each upon some errand manufactured for the occasion. At dinner there was no one present but his own family, Agatha, and Captain Baillie Pegram.
Stuart was all eagerness to learn not only the results, but the details of the perilous journey, and to that end he required Agatha to begin at the beginning and relate each day's experience. She did so, explaining the arrangements she had made for her underground railway, and telling him of a plan she had formed to give to that line a number of termini at various points in Virginia, each under charge of some trusty "Dixie girl," in order that there might be no interruption of the traffic, whatever the future movements of the two armies might be.
"It's the very crookedest railroad you ever heard of, General," she added, when her account of it was finished, "but I expect it to do a considerable traffic. I am to be its general freight agent, and I have impressed all my agents with the fact that the preservation of our secret is of far greater importance than the safe delivery of any one consignment of goods. They will take plenty of time at every step, and not risk discovery for the sake of speed."
"That is excellent. But I wish I had suggested to you to make some arrangement by which you might—"
"O, I did that," she interrupted. "I took a leaf out of your book. Of course, it will often be possible to get little letters through, but letters are very dangerous—at least, when they say anything. So I have taken your signal-words as my model, and laboriously constructed a system by which I can say the most dangerous things in a letter without seeming to say anything at all."
"By signal-words?"
"Yes, partly, but more in other ways."
"For example?"
"Well, if I send a foolish, chattering girl's note about nothing, and I happen to write it in a 'back hand,' that fact will tell my correspondent what I want to tell her. So if I write in an ordinary hand, that will mean something quite different. In the same way, if I write, 'My dear Mary,' it will signify one thing, while 'Dear Mary' will mean another; I've arranged fourteen different forms of address, each having its own particular meaning. The punctuation will mean something, too, and the way I sign myself, and the colour of my ink, and the occasional slight misspelling of a word—all these and a dozen other things are carefully arranged for, so that I can tell a friend pretty nearly anything I please, while seeming only to tell her the colour of my new gown—if I ever have a new gown again—or anything else of the kind that girls are fond of writing letters about."
"But you and all your correspondents must have copies of your code for all this. Isn't there great danger that one or another of them may be discovered?"
The girl laughed before answering.
"Even you, General Stuart, must have found out that it is difficult to discover what is in a young woman's mind. This code exists nowhere else in the world. We've all learned it by heart, and can recite it backward or forward or even sideways. No word of it has ever been written down on paper, or ever will be. You gentlemen are fond of saying that we women cannot keep a secret. You shall see how well we keep this."
"O, as to that," answered Stuart, "I never shared any such belief. Why, women keep secrets so well that we never know even what they think of us. Is not that so, Captain Pegram?"
"Yes, and perhaps it is fortunate for us, too, sometimes."
"But I did betray a secret to Captain Pegram this morning," Agatha continued, speaking gravely now. "He seemed so troubled at having to arrest me under the circumstances in which I seemed to have placed myself, that I relieved his mind by telling him I was acting under your orders, or, at least, with your consent."
"Perhaps you'd like to prefer charges against the captain? I dare say he was very stern and inconsiderate."
Instantly the girl flushed, and speaking with unusual seriousness, she answered:
"I beg to assure you, General Stuart, that Captain Pegram was altogether generous and kind to me—far more so than I had a right to expect. I can never sufficiently thank him."
To Baillie, this speech was inscrutable and bewildering. It might mean one thing, or another—much or little—according to the interpretation put upon the words. It might refer only to Baillie's care for her physical comfort and safety, or, as Baillie scarcely dared believe, it might obliquely include in its intent, an acknowledgment of the passionate declaration of love that he had been betrayed into making. It might be interpreted to mean that the words surprised from his lips were not unwelcome to her who had heard them. She had bidden him forget what he had said, but might it not be that she herself remembered and was not displeased with the recollection?
He resolved to ask her for the answer to that riddle at the earliest possible moment, but for the present he flushed crimson and kept silent.
Stuart, however, had accomplished his purpose. He had found out, or believed that he had found out, what he wished to know concerning the attitude of these two toward each other, and he was mightily pleased with the discovery. He abruptly changed the course of the conversation.
"When would you like to go to your home, Miss Agatha?"
"I should like to set out early to-morrow, General, if I may—if I am released from arrest."
"O, I shall not release you yet. You are much too dangerous a conspirator for that. I shall send you home under guard, and I have selected Captain Pegram to be your safe-keeper. I shall send him with you, under orders to remain at Willoughby for a week, keeping you under close surveillance. If at the end of that time he finds you sufficiently subdued, he will have orders to put you on parole, and return to his command. As he and you are 'almost strangers,' he will be a safer judge of the propriety of releasing you than any other officer I could send for that purpose."
The two were sorely embarrassed by this announcement, coming as it did without warning to either. Neither knew what to say, or whether the arrangement was welcome or unwelcome to the other. The sudden announcement of it, at any rate, was very embarrassing to both, and Pegram received it with a feeling of consternation for the moment. In the next instant, he realised the opportunity it would give him to renew the morning's conversation, and to learn definitely what Agatha's attitude toward him was to be after such a declaration as he had made. For whatever else happens, an avowal of that kind, made with such earnestness, never fails to work some change in a true woman's mind and soul. Baillie managed, with some difficulty, to say:
"I will be glad to carry out your orders, General."
Agatha said nothing. What she thought and felt, it would be idle to inquire.
A situation which might have become embarrassing, had it been prolonged, was relieved at that moment by the arrival of a courier who had come in hot haste with messages from the front.
The enemy was moving upon Fairfax Court-house in three columns and in strong force. The light of battle came into Stuart's eyes as he received the news, and he issued hurried orders to his staff-officers as one after another they came up at a gallop. To Agatha he said:
"Remain here, you and the other ladies, unless orders come for you to leave. I must borrow Captain Pegram from your service for a time, if I may."
"Gladly!" answered the girl, and her tone sorely puzzled Baillie Pegram. But there was no time for speculation upon its meaning, for Stuart turned to him and ordered:
"Take your battery down the Vienna road, and act with Fitz Lee or whomever else you find there. Move rapidly, but spare your horses all you can."
Then hurriedly turning to the couriers and staff-officers who stood by their horses, he issued orders with the rapidity of one who recites the alphabet or the multiplication table. Within the space of two minutes he had assigned every brigade and regiment under his command to its post and duty, and had sent to General Johnston at Centreville a request that infantry supports might be moved forward and held within call in case of need. A minute later he was a-gallop for the front.
Baillie had preceded him, and even before the general had reached Fairfax Court-house, Pegram's battery was hurrying down the Vienna road, with the First and Fourth Regiments of Virginia cavalry just in front. It was the work of a very few moments to form these forces and others that were coming up, into a line of battle, facing the enemy, but by the time they were in position, Stuart himself came up and took command.
"Tell Captain Pegram," he said to a staff-officer, "to advance his battery to the brow of the hill yonder, and open a vigorous fire upon whatever he finds in front. Order Colonel Jones of the First Regiment to take position immediately in rear of the battery, and support it at all hazards."
Within less time than it takes to write the words, Baillie Pegram's guns were hurling shrapnel into the face of the enemy, whose response was menacingly slow and deliberate.
"That looks," said Stuart, presently, to one who rode by his side, "as if they meant business this time. Send orders to the infantry in rear to form a second line, and be ready in case we are beaten back."
It should be explained that during the autumn of 1861 McClellan sent out many expeditions, each wearing the aspect of an advance in force against the Confederate position at Centreville. These movements were in reality intended as threats, and nothing more. The chief purpose of them was to keep the Confederates uneasy, and at the same time to accustom the Federal volunteers to stand fire and to contemplate battle in earnest as the serious business of the soldier.
These advances were made always with a brave show of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, and with all the seeming of the vanguard of an army intending battle. But after a heavy skirmish the columns were always withdrawn, leaving only picket-lines at the front. McClellan was not yet ready to offer battle. It was during that period that President Lincoln, weary of McClellan's delay and inactivity, sarcastically said that if the general had no use for the army, he (Lincoln) would like to borrow it for awhile.
But this day's movement differed in some respects from those that had gone before. It involved a much heavier force, for one thing, and the proportion of artillery to the other arms was greater. Still more significant was the fact that the commander of the expedition, instead of making the customary dash, threw forward a heavy skirmish-line, holding his main body in reserve, and otherwise conducting himself after the fashion of a general sent to hold the front with as little fighting as might be, until a much heavier force could be brought up.
It was Stuart's duty, as the commander of the cavalry, to find out as quickly as possible what lay behind the lines that confronted him, in order that he might know and report precisely what and how much the movement meant. To that end he sent for Colonel Jones, of the First Regiment, and when that most unmilitary-looking of hard fighters presented himself in his faded yellow coat, the pot hat which he always wore at that time, and with his peculiar nasal drawl, Stuart gave the order:
"Take your right company and ride to the right around the flank of the enemy's line. Find out what it amounts to. See if there are baggage and ammunition trains in rear, and if they mean business. The whole thing is probably as hollow as a gourd, but it may be otherwise. Go and find out."
In the meantime, Stuart had dismounted a part of his forces, and ordered them with their carbines to form a skirmish-line on foot in front. The rest of his men—three thousand stalwart young cavaliers, mounted upon horses that had pedigrees behind them—were drawn up in double ranks wherever there was space for a regiment, a company, or a squad of them to stand.
Then came half an hour of waiting. The enemy had thrown additional infantry forward, and the skirmishing grew steadily heavier, as if the Federal skirmish-line were being reinforced from moment to moment.
In fact, that heavy advance-line embraced all there was of the Federal movement, as Colonel Jones discovered, when with a single company of horsemen he gained the enemy's rear. There were no baggage or provision or ammunition trains to indicate a serious purpose of giving battle.
The captain of the company which Colonel Jones had taken with him on this mission of discovery, was a reticent person, but a man of quick wits, ready resource, and a daring that always had a relish of humour in it. When Colonel Jones suggested a return march around the enemy's left flank, the captain asked:
"Why not take a short cut?" and when asked for his meaning, answered:
"It's an egg-shell, that line. The quickest way of letting Stuart know the fact, it seems to me, would be to break through right here. He won't be long in getting to windward of the situation when he sees us coming."
The suggestion was instantly acted upon, with a startling dramatic result. With a yell that made them seem a regiment of howling demons, the fifty or sixty men charged upon the rear of the line and broke through it. Even before the head of their little column showed itself on the farther side, their yells had made sufficient report of the facts to the alert mind of Jeb Stuart. He instantly led his entire force forward to the charge.
There was a clatter of hoofs, a clangour of sabres, a rattle of small arms, and a roar from Baillie Pegram's guns. Everything was shrouded in an impenetrable cloud of dust and powder-smoke.
The enemy stood fast for a time, resisting obstinately and fairly checking the tremendous onset. It was not until a brigade of infantry and three full batteries had been brought into action that the Federals gave way. Even then, they retreated in orderly fashion, with no suggestion of panic or loss of cohesion.
"George B. McClellan has at last got his army into fighting shape," commented Stuart, when all was over. "He's going to give us trouble from this time forth."
The Federals were in full retreat, but their steadiness did not encourage Stuart to send small forces in pursuit. He contented himself with advancing his line half a mile for purposes of observation, after which, as the night was falling, he ordered a general return of his regiments to their encampments.
When all was over, there were found to be many empty saddles in Stuart's command. Among them was that which Baillie Pegram had ridden during the morning's journey with Agatha Ronald.
The reports which came to Stuart from the several commands that evening included one from the senior lieutenant of Baillie Pegram's battery. After reading it, Stuart took Agatha aside, and said:
"I have news which it will not be pleasant for you to hear. Captain Pegram is badly wounded, and in the hands of the enemy."
The girl paled to the lips, but controlled herself, and replied in a voice constrained but steady:
"Tell me about it, General—all of it, please."
"I'll tell you all that is known. Captain Pegram is an unusually energetic officer, with a bad habit of getting himself wounded. His battery to-day was in the extreme advance, but it seems that a little hill just in front of him interfered with the fire of one of his guns, and so he advanced with that piece to the crest of the mound. At that moment the enemy made a dash at that point, and it became necessary to retire the gun to prevent its capture. Pegram gave orders to that effect, and they were executed. But almost as the orders left his lips, he fell from his horse with a bullet-hole through his body. His men tried to bring him off, but that involved the risk of losing the gun, so he peremptorily ordered them to save the gun and leave him where he lay. The enemy's line swarmed over the little hill, and when our men recovered it, Pegram was nowhere to be found. The enemy had evidently carried him to the rear to care for him as a wounded prisoner."
"Can anything be done?" the girl asked, still with an apparent calm that would have deceived a less sagacious observer than Stuart.
"I could send a flag of truce to-morrow to ask concerning him, but it would be of no use. You see the enemy refuses as yet to recognise our rights as belligerents, and will not communicate with us in proper form. Their answer would come back addressed to me, but carefully lacking all indication of my character as an officer in the Confederate army. Under my orders I could not receive a communication so addressed. It would be of no use, therefore, to inquire, and in any case we could not secure his exchange, as we have now no exchange cartel in force. I do not see that we can do anything."
The young woman stood silent for a full minute, while Stuart looked at her, full of an admiration for the courage she was manifesting. At last she asked:
"General, will you send to the camp of Captain Pegram's battery, and bid his servant report here to me at once?"
For reply Stuart called Corporal Hagan—the swarthy giant who had charge of his couriers—and ordered him to send a courier on Agatha's mission without delay.
Half an hour later Sam presented himself with eyes red from weeping, and Agatha proceeded at once to business.
"You care a great deal for your master, don't you, Sam?"
"Kyar for Mas' Baillie? Ain't I his nigga? An' ain't he de mastah of Warlock? Kyar for him? Why, Mis' Agatha, I'se ready to lay down an' die dis heah very minute 'case he's done got hisse'f shot an' captured."
"Then you are willing to take some risks for his sake?"
"Sho' as shootin' I is. Yes, sho'er'n shootin', 'case shootin' ain't always sho'. Jes' you tell me how to do anything for Mas' Baillie, an' then bet all the money you done got, an' put your mortal soul into de bet, dat Sam'll face de very debil hisse'f to carry out yer 'structions."
"I believe you, Sam, and I'm going to trust you. You will go with me to Willoughby to-morrow. We'll start soon in the morning and get there before night. From there I'm going to send you north to find your master. I'll tell you how to do it. When you find him, you are to stay with him and nurse him, no matter where he is. And when he gets well enough, you must find some way of setting him free from the hospital so that he can make his way back to Virginia again."
"But, Mis' Agatha, how's I to—"
"Never mind the details now. I'll tell you about all that when I get my plans ready. I'll tell you everything you must do and how to do it, so far as I can, and you must depend on your wits for the rest. You're pretty quick, I think."
"Yes'm; anyhow I kin see through a millstone ef there's a hole through it. But, Mis' Agatha, is you sho' 'nuff gwine to tell me how to fin' Mas' Baillie an' take kyar o' him?"
Agatha reassured him, and sent him off to sleep in order to be ready for their early start in the morning. Then she joined Stuart and asked him:
"Did you pick up any prisoners near the point where Captain Pegram fell?"
"I really don't know. Why?"
"Why, if you did you'd know to what command they belonged, and that would help me."
"Help you? Why, what are you planning?"
"To find Captain Pegram."
"But how?"
"Through my agents,—and Sam, his body-servant."
"O, I see. Your underground railroad is to have a passenger traffic. I'll find out what you wish to know. And if you'd like I'll have Sam passed through our lines, after which he can pretend to be a runaway."
"I thought of that," Agatha answered, "but it will not do. I must send him through my friends. You see in Maryland he'll require a slave's pass from a master, and my friends will be his masters, one after another. Besides, they will help me find out in what hospital Captain Pegram is. I've thought it all out. I must first prepare my friends for Sam's coming. With your permission I'll take him with me to Willoughby to-morrow."
"You are a wonderful woman!"
That is all that Stuart said, but it sufficiently suggested the admiration he felt for her courage, her resourcefulness, and her womanly devotion. Bidding her call upon him for any assistance she might need in carrying out her plans, he dismissed her for the night, ordering her to go to sleep precisely as he might have ordered a soldier to go to his tent. But Agatha did not obey as the soldier would have done. She went to bed, indeed, but she could not sleep. Her nerves were all a-quiver as the result of the trying experiences to which she had been subjected, until now her excited brain simply would not sink into quietude. She lay hour after hour staring into the darkness, thinking, thinking, thinking. She remembered the words that suffering on her account had wrung from Baillie Pegram that morning at the bivouac, and she bitterly reproached herself for having given him no worthier answer than a command to forget what he had said. She knew now with what measure of devotion this man loved her, and she knew something else, too, as she lay there in the darkness face to face with her own soul. She knew now that she loved Baillie Pegram with all that was best in her proud and passionate nature. That truth confronted her. It was "naked and not ashamed." Her conscience scourged her for what she regarded as her heartlessness and frivolity in putting aside his declaration of love with the false pretence that it found no response in her own soul.
"I might at least have thanked him," she thought. "I might at least have said to him 'there is no longer war between me and thee.' And now he lies dead perhaps, or on a bed of suffering,—a wounded prisoner in the hands of the enemy. All that I can now do is to search him out and send Sam to nurse and comfort him." Then a new thought came to her. "That is not all that I can do. Shame upon me for thinking so, even for a moment. I can go to him myself, and I will, if God lets him live long enough. I'll take Sam with me. He can be very helpful in the search, with his sharp wits and the freedom from suspicion which his black face will secure him."
The dawn was breaking now, and a score of bugles were musically sounding the reveille in the camps round about. Agatha rose quickly, and without summoning her weary maid, plunged her face into a basin of cold water half a dozen times. Then seeing in her little mirror how hollow-eyed and haggard she was, she wetted a towel and flagellated herself with it till the colour came back and her nerves lost their tremulousness.
So great a transformation did this treatment work, that Stuart complimented her upon her freshness of face when she appeared at the breakfast-table. He had meanwhile secured for her definite information as to the Federal command that had made Pegram prisoner. He had also managed in some way to secure a side-saddle for her to ride upon, and a squad of cavalrymen, under command of a sergeant, was waiting outside to be her escort on her journey.
"Thank you, General, for giving me so good a mount," she said, glancing with a practised eye at the lean but powerful animal provided for her use.
"You should have a better one, if a better were to be had. You deserve it. By the way, you need not send the horse back by the escort. He will not be needed here, for a time at least."
Agatha looked at him, and then at the animal again, this time recognising it as the one that Baillie Pegram had ridden by her side twenty-four hours before.
"He belongs to Captain Pegram, I believe," she answered.
"Yes, his second horse, and he is specially careful of him."
"I'll see that the animal is well cared for," answered the girl, "until—"
She did not finish the sentence, and Stuart turned away, pretending not to see the tears that stood beneath her eyelids.
News of Agatha's safe return to Virginia had been sent to Colonel Archer by a courier, on the morning of her arrival at Stuart's headquarters, and the octogenarian promenaded up and down the porch all the next day, during her homeward journey.
He had greatly grieved to have his "ladybird" undertake her late perilous enterprise at all. But with him at least Agatha was accustomed to have her way, and moreover the spirit of the old soldier was strong within him still, so that he was intensely in sympathy with Agatha's courageous purpose to render such service as a woman might to the cause that both had at heart.
But Agatha had a harder task before her now. Remembering the heart-broken tone in which he had bidden her good-bye on the former occasion, and easily imagining the suffering he must have endured during her absence, both from loneliness and from apprehension for her safety, she thought with something like terror of her new necessity of leaving him again, almost in the very hour of his joy at her return. For it was her resolute purpose to set out again within a very few days,—as soon, indeed, as she could feel confidence that her preliminary letters would reach their destination before her own arrival there.
There were other matters that troubled her, too. She must tell her Chummie the reason for her second journey, and that would be a distressing thing for her to do. She must tell him frankly—for she would never in the least trifle with truth, especially in dealing with him—that she had learned to love Baillie Pegram, and that she had in effect put it out of possibility that Baillie Pegram should ever ask for knowledge of that fact.
To a woman of her sensitively proud nature, such a confession, even to her grandfather, seemed almost shameful. She shrank from the very thought of it, and flushed crimson every time it came to her mind during that long day's ride. Yet not for one moment did she falter in her determination to undergo the ordeal. Not for one moment did she entertain a thought of evading the painful confession, or in any way disguising the truth. So much was due to her grandfather, and never in her life had she cheated him of his dues as Chummie. It was due to herself also. To shrink from a duty because of its painfulness would be cowardice, and there was no touch or trace of that most detestable weakness in her soul.
"Anyhow," she resolved, "I'll let him have one whole day of joy before I grieve him with the news that I must go away again. And in telling him of my first journey I'll say as little as I can about the dangers encountered and the hardships endured; I'll make as much of a frolic of it as I can in the telling. Surely there will be no untruthfulness in that."
That day's journey was a long one, but the start was early, and Baillie Pegram's horse was a willing one, as that energetic young man's horses were apt to be, while as for the troopers of the escort, they and their horses were accustomed to follow at any pace their leader might set. It was barely three o'clock in the afternoon, therefore, when the cavalcade arrived at Willoughby, and Agatha threw herself into the old gentleman's arms.
"Oh, Agatha!"
"Oh, Chummie!"
That at first was all that the two could say. When Colonel Archer found voice he greeted the troopers and bade them leave their horses to the care of his servants. For the men were of that class, socially, to which Colonel Archer belonged, and there was no thought at that time in Virginia of treating a gentleman otherwise than as a gentleman, merely because he happened to be a private soldier.
"You will be my guests for the night," the host said, quite as if that settled the matter. But the sergeant had orders which he must obey,—orders which Stuart, with his unfailing foresight, had probably given, to make sure that the presence of his men at Willoughby overnight might not spoil an occasion of tender affection.
"Thank you very cordially, Colonel Archer," answered the sergeant; "but we are under orders to move on toward Loudoun County to-night. We are permitted to rest the horses for three hours only. After that we must march about a dozen miles before sleeping, so that we may complete a little scouting expedition into Loudoun to-morrow. Our orders on that point are peremptory."
"Well, Ladybird, we'll have the gentlemen to dinner at any rate. As soon as I heard of your coming I went out with my gun, and brought back two big wild turkeys, as fat as butter. I thought you might come under escort, so I've had them put both the birds on the spit. I'll wager you gentlemen haven't seen a wild turkey this fall."
So he ran on with his hospitable greetings, managing in his joyous nervousness to upset two of the glasses which he had ordered a servant to bring with the decanters, for the troopers' refreshment. Agatha managed presently to get a word with him aside.
"It is three o'clock, Chummie—an hour before dinner. I'll have time enough to boil myself a little. Think of it, Chummie, I haven't had a hot bath for a whole week!" Then turning to her escort she excused herself until the dinner-hour.
This was an unhappy circumstance, as Agatha learned when she came down, fresh-faced, to the dinner. For, left alone with the troopers, the old gentleman naturally asked them concerning the details of her coming into Stuart's lines, and as the story of her dash through the canister fire was echoing throughout the army, the young fellows grew enthusiastic in their minute descriptions of her peril and her heroism. When Agatha reappeared, therefore, the old gentleman was all a-tremble. He met her at the foot of the stairway, and a little scene followed, which told the girl not only that he knew all that had been most harrowing in her experiences, but that the knowledge of it would make her coming absence cruelly hard for him to bear.
At dinner he found himself too tremulous to carve, and, for the first time in his life, he relinquished that most hospitable of all a host's offices to the younger men.
"Never mind, Ladybird," he said, cheerily, as he saw how greatly troubled she was, "it will pass presently, and you shall find me quite myself again in the morning. We're going after the birds, you know, you and I. I haven't allowed a partridge to be killed on the plantation this fall, so that you might be sure of a good day's sport with Chummie."
Thus it came about that as the old man and the young woman sat in the firelight that evening, after the troopers were gone, Agatha changed her purpose and told him of Baillie Pegram. Delicately, but with perfect candour, she told the whole of the truth.
"I learned to like him very much while I was in Richmond last Christmas, and I was not to blame for that, was I, Chummie? He was so kind to me, so good in a thousand little ways, so gentle in all his strength that he reminded me of you, more than anybody else ever did. I used often to think that he was very much the sort of man you must have been when you were in your twenties. There was no reason, that I knew of, why I should not like him. He was a gentleman, the representative of one of the best families in the State, a man of the highest character, well-educated, travelled, intellectual, and of charming manners. He did more than anybody else—or everybody else for that matter—to make the time pass pleasantly for me. You see how it was, don't you, Chummie?"
The old gentleman nodded his head with a smile, and answered:
"I see how it was, Ladybird. Go on. Tell me all about it."
"Then one day there came a letter from The Oaks. It wasn't just a scolding letter. It was something much worse than that. For if my aunts had scolded me, I shouldn't have stood it."
"What would you have done, Ladybird?" asked the grandfather, with a look of pleased and loving pride upon his countenance.
"I should have come back to Willoughby and you."
"And right welcome you would have been. But go on. What did the old cats—psha! I didn't mean that; I thought I heard a cat yowling as I spoke—what did the good ladies of The Oaks say to you?"
"O, they wrote very kindly and sorrowfully. They were shocked to know that I had permitted something like intimacy to grow up between myself and a young man without consulting them as to the proprieties of the situation. But how could I have done that, Chummie? You see I didn't sit down and say, 'I'm going to be intimate with this young man if my aunts approve.' The friendship just grew, quite naturally, like the grass on a lawn. I didn't think about it at all, and I don't see why I should. I met Mr. Pegram in all the best houses; everybody was fond of him, and everybody spoke of him in the highest terms. Why should I think—"
"You shouldn't, Ladybird. I should have been ashamed of you if you had. Only a vain or morbidly self-conscious girl would have thought in such a case. And only—there goes that confounded cat again—only elderly gentlewomen of secluded lives and a badly perverted sense of propriety would ever have thought of such a thing. But continue, my child. I suppose they told you about that idiotic old quarrel—"
"Yes, Chummie—they told me and they didn't tell me. They never would say what it was all about, or how much there was in it. Indeed, they told me I was guilty of a great irreverence in even asking concerning it. They said it should be quite enough for a well-ordered young woman to know that these people were my father's enemies. As Mr. Baillie Pegram never knew my father, I couldn't understand why he and I should be enemies, but when I said something like that, I saw that the aunties were terribly shocked. I suppose I'm not a 'well-ordered' young lady, Chummie."
"No! Thank God you're not. You are just a sweet, wholesome, lovable girl—and that is very different from what those old—ladies call a 'well-ordered' young woman."
"Well, anyhow," the girl resumed, "I obeyed my instructions. I wrote to Mr. Pegram, telling him there could be no friendship between him and me, and do you know, Chummie, they blamed me more for that than for all the rest. They said it was 'unladylike' and a lot more things, for me to write to him at all. But I never could find out what they thought I ought to have done. I couldn't break off the acquaintance without telling him I must do so, could I?"
"You couldn't, and I'm glad you couldn't. A 'well-ordered' young lady would have done it easily. She would have told a lot of lies about not being at home when he called, or having a headache when he wanted to see her. You couldn't do that because you are honest and truthful, and that's the best thing about you, except your love for your old Chummie, and even that wouldn't be of much account if I couldn't trust its truth and sincerity. Go on, child. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"O, but you must interrupt. That's the only way I know what you're thinking. Well, I went to The Oaks sometime later, and while there I went out one morning for a ride by myself. My poor horse broke his leg, as I told you in a letter, and Mr. Baillie Pegram happened along, and was very kind in helping me out of my trouble. He insisted that I should ride his mare home. I tried all I could to refuse, but he showed me that I simply could not help myself, and so I took the mare,—the same one that was killed under him at Manassas. That time the aunties did actually scold me, or pretty nearly that. So I rebelled, and made up my mind to come back to you at once. Mr. Pegram dined at The Oaks on the day before I started, and he and I had a long talk, but of course it could not change the situation. That was the last I saw of him until the day before the battle of Manassas, when he took a red feather out of my hat and wore it in the battle. He was terribly wounded in the fight, but he sent the feather back to me as he had promised to do. I had quoted to him or let him quote to me the Indian's defiance, 'There is war between me and thee.' It was after that that he insisted upon taking the feather and wearing it through the battle."
The girl paused, but her grandfather said nothing for a whole minute. Perhaps he felt that she needed the pause before speaking further. At last he said, very low and gently:
"Tell me about yesterday morning."
She did so, sparing herself at no point. She told of Baillie's outburst, and of the declaration of his love. She told, too, of her chilling answer, and her perversity in so managing the conversation as to prevent a recurrence to the subject. Finally she broke down, saying with streaming eyes:
"Oh, Chummie! I have ruined his life—and my own!"
"I don't know so well about that. He may recover, you know."
"Yes, I know. But what then?" At that she laid her head upon the old man's breast and let herself become a little child again, in an abandonment of grief. And with a childlike confidence and candour she said at last:
"Oh, Chummie! Don't you understand? He can never know. He will always think of me as hard and cold and unresponsive. After what I said to him yesterday morning, he cannot again tell me—why, Chummie, it was as bad as if I had slapped him in the face!"
The old man caressed her till her agitation subsided. Then, speaking in a tone of wisdom which irresistibly carried conviction with it, he said:
"You are wholly wrong, Agatha. Baillie Pegram is much too brave and true, and much too generous a man to let this matter rest where it is. If he recovers, as I pray God he may, be very sure he will come to you again and tell you calmly what he blurted out without meaning to do so, under stress of a trying situation. You must go to sleep now, little girl. You are very weary and greatly overwrought. And we must be up with the sun to-morrow on account of the birds. Good night, dear. You must never leave me again while I live."
There was unsteadiness in his step, as he gallantly ushered her through the doorway, and as he returned to the room to extinguish the solitary lamp. Then a heaviness came over him, and he sat down again in his easy chair before the fire. The logs had ceased to blaze and crackle now, but the old man sat still. The logs fell into a mass of glowing coals after a time, and slowly the coals ceased to glow. One by one they went out. Still he did not move.
There were only ashes in the great fireplace when the morning came and Agatha found her Chummie still sitting there where the fire of his life had so gently gone out.
News of Colonel Archer's death ran rapidly through a State of which he had been one of the foremost citizens, by reason alike of his public services and his private virtues. It quickly reached Stuart's ears, and he promptly sent a courier with a letter of sympathy and friendship, at the end of which he wrote:
"Now, my dear Miss Agatha, I crave a favour at your hands. Your grandfather was a soldier greatly distinguished in two wars. He should have a soldier's burial, and with your permission, which I take for granted, I am ordering a company of dragoons and a battery now stationed at Warrenton and under my command, to move at once to Willoughby, and there pay the last honours to the veteran."
Heart-broken as she was, Agatha met calamity with a fortitude which astonished even herself. She was still scarcely more than a girl, but the blood of a soldier filled her veins,—a soldier who had never flinched from danger or murmured under suffering. "I too will neither flinch nor murmur," she said to herself. "Chummie would like it best to see me brave and resolute, if he could know—and perhaps he does know. I will bear myself as he would like me to."
And she kept that vow to the letter. The tears would mount to her eyelids now and then in spite of her and trickle down her cheeks; but they were silent tears, accompanied by no moanings that were audible; they were the tears of heart-break, not the tears of weakness and self-pity. They were hidden for the most part from human view, and resolutely restrained in the presence of others. And when any of those who thronged about her for her consolation caught momentary sight of them, the effect was like that produced when a strong man weeps.
When the soldiers came she directed an attentive ministry to their comfort, and after the last salutes to the dead had been fired over the grave, she turned to Captain Marshall Pollard, whose battery it was that had paid that tribute of honour, and asked in a steady voice:
"Can you arrange to stay at Willoughby overnight? I have need to talk with you of matters of some importance. It will be very kind and good of you, if you can manage it."
After a moment's reflection, Marshall answered:
"I can stay till midnight, and that will give us time for our talk. I must be at Warrenton at reveille in the morning, but my horse will easily make the distance if I start by one o'clock."
Then he spoke a few words in a low tone to his lieutenant, who took command and marched the battery away, with all heads bared till they had passed out of the grounds.
"Let us not talk of my grandfather, please," said the girl, as the two entered the drawing-room. "Not that I shrink from that," she quickly added. "It can never be painful to me to speak of him. But it might distress you. You knew him and loved him long ago, before—before you and I quarrelled."
She did not shrink from this reference to the past, or try in any way to disguise the truth of it. Her mind was full of the dear dead man's last words spoken in praise of her courage and truthfulness, and she was more resolute than ever to live up to the character he had approved so earnestly and with so much of loving admiration.
"I think we did not quarrel," the young captain responded; "you did not, at any rate. I misjudged you cruelly, and in my anger I falsely accused you in my heart. Believe me, Agatha,"—he had called her so in the old days, and the name came easily to his lips now,—"believe me when I say that I have outlived all that bitterness. Let us be true, loyal friends hereafter, friends who know and trust each other, friends who do not misunderstand."
The girl held out her hand, in response, and made no effort to hide the tears with which she welcomed this healing of the old wounds.
The young man, too, rejoiced in a reconciliation which laid his old love for this woman for ever to rest and planted flowers of friendship upon its grave. He was astonished at his own condition of mind and heart. He learned now the truth that his mad love for Agatha had become completely a thing of the past, and that the bitterness which had at first succeeded it was utterly gone. He could think of her henceforth with a tender affection that had no trace of passion in it. The dead past had buried its dead, and the grass grew green above it.
At that moment dinner was announced, for Agatha had decreed that life at Willoughby should at once resume its accustomed order. "Chummie would like it so," she thought. So the two friends passed through the hall to the dining-room hand in hand, just as they had so often done in the old days before passion had come to disturb their lives.
Marshall had now one supreme desire with respect to Agatha,—a great yearning to comfort her and help her as a brother might. He told her so, when they returned to the drawing-room after dinner, to sit before the great fire of hickory logs during all the remaining hours of Marshall's stay.
"Tell me now," he said, "of your plans, that I may share in them and help you carry them out perhaps. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find Baillie if I can, and nurse him back to health—if it is not too late."
"But he is in the hands of the enemy, you know."
"Yes, I know. That makes it more difficult, but we must not shrink from difficulties. I shall start north to-morrow."
"But how?—Tell me about it, please."
She explained her plans, telling him of the arrangements she had made for bringing medicines through the blockade, transmitting letters, and finding friends at every step in case of need. Then she added:
"I'm going to take Sam with me this time. He is devoted to his master, and his sagacity is extraordinary. I shall depend upon him to help me find where Baillie is, and to do whatever there is to do for him."
"Will you let me have writing materials?" the young man abruptly asked.
Without asking for an explanation, she brought her lap desk, and with the awkwardness which a man always manifests in attempting to use that peculiarly feminine device, he managed to fill two or three sheets. When he had done, he handed the papers to her, saying:
"I can really help, I think. You will need money for your expenses. You must have it in sufficient supply to meet all emergencies, so that you may never be delayed or baffled in any purpose for want of it. And it may easily happen that you shall need a considerable sum at once. Money is the pass-key to many difficult doors. It so happens that I have a very considerable sum invested in railroad and other securities, in the hands of a very close friend of mine in New York. I have written to him to sell out the whole of them and place the proceeds at your disposal in any banks that may be most convenient to you."
"But, Marshall, you are impoverishing yourself—"
"In the which case," he responded, with his gentle, half-mocking smile, "I should be doing no more than all the rest of us Virginians are doing in this struggle. But I am doing nothing of the kind. I have a plantation, you know, and absolutely nobody dependent upon me. If I survive the war I shall have some land, at any rate, out of which to dig a living. These investments of mine at the North were made long before the war, and I should have sold them out at the beginning of the trouble if I hadn't been too lazy to attend to my affairs. I'm glad now that I was lazy. It enables me to help the two best friends I ever had in this rather lonely world,—Baillie Pegram and you. A man may do as he likes with his own, you know, and this is precisely what I like to do with my securities. Fortunately my friend who has them in charge is a blue-blooded Virginian, who would be fighting with us out there on the lines, if he were not a helpless cripple, fit for nothing, as he wrote to me when the trouble came, but to manage his banking-house. But how are you to get these papers through with you, without risk of discovery?"
"I'll make Sam carry them," she responded. "Nobody will ever think of searching him, particularly as his connection with my affairs will be known to nobody except my friends and co-conspirators."
"What a strategist you are, Agatha! What a general you would have made if you'd happened to be a man!" exclaimed the young man in admiration.
"No," she answered, hesitating for a moment, and then resolutely going on to speak truthfully the thought that was in her. "No, Marshall, for then I should not have had the impulse that teaches me now what to do. Tell me now, about the war. Shall I find Willoughby occupied as a Federal general's headquarters when I get back to Virginia?"
"I don't know. I cannot even guess what the officials at Richmond mean. I only know we have thrown away an opportunity that will never come back to us. The army was full of enthusiasm after Manassas—it is discouraged and depressed now. Then it was strong with the hope and confidence that are born of victory; now it sits there wondering when the enemy will be ready for it to fight again. It was fit for any enterprise then, and the enemy was utterly unfit to resist anything it might have undertaken. But it was not permitted to undertake anything. It was made to lie still, like a pointer in a turkey blind, quivering with eagerness to be up and doing, but restrained by the paralysis of misdirected authority. While we have been doing nothing, the Federal enemy has been swollen to more than twice our numbers. More important still, it has been fashioned by McClellan's skilled hand into as fine a fighting-machine as any general need wish for his tool. The officers have been instructed in their profession, and the men have been taught their trade. Their organisation is perfect, their discipline is almost as good as that of regulars, and their confidence in themselves and their commanders is daily and hourly increasing. Our men have abundant confidence in themselves, but none at all in generals who throw away their opportunities or in a government that touches nothing without paralysing it. Moreover, the Federal army has supply departments behind it that could not be bettered, while ours seem wholly imbecile and incapable. It should have been obvious to every intelligent man at the outset, that with our vastly inferior material resources, our best chance of winning in this war was by bringing to bear from the first all we could of dash and ceaseless activity. We should have taken the aggressive at once and all the time, knowing that every day of delay must strengthen the enemy and weaken us. Instead of that, after winning a great battle in such fashion as well-nigh to destroy for a time the enemy's capacity of resistance, we have taken up a defensive attitude and let the precious opportunity slip from our grasp. It will never return. I do not say that we shall be beaten in the end; I say only that our task is immeasurably more difficult now than it was three months ago, and it is growing more and more difficult every day."
"You are discouraged then?"
"No. I am only depressed. As for courage, we must all of us keep that up to the end. We must be brave to endure as well as to fight,—if we are ever graciously permitted to fight again. But I did not mean to talk of these things. I am only a battery captain. I have no business to think. But unfortunately our army is largely composed of men who can't help thinking. Tell me now, for I must ride presently, is there anything that I can do for you—any way in which I can help you?"
"You will be helping me all the time, just by letting me feel that the old boy and girl friendship is mine again. That is more precious to me than you can imagine. Good-bye, now. Your horse is at the door. Thank you for all, and God bless you."
Agatha's second progress northward was far more difficult of accomplishment than the first had been. Under McClellan's skilled vigilance the armed mob which he found "cowering on the Potomac" in August, had been converted into an army, drilled, disciplined, and familiar with every detail of that military art which it was called upon to practise. The lines west of Washington were far more rigidly drawn and more fully manned than before, and the officers and men who held them exercised a vigilance that had not been thought of a few months earlier.
And this was not the only difficulty that Agatha encountered in her effort to reach Baltimore. A passport system had been inaugurated at the North, under operation of which those who would travel, and especially those who travelled toward Baltimore,—a city whose loyalty to the Union lay under grave suspicion,—must give a satisfactory account of themselves in order to secure the necessary papers. War had begun to bring the country under that despotism which military force always and everywhere regards as the necessary condition of its effectiveness.
It was a strange spectacle that the country presented during that four years of fratricidal strife. A great, free people, the freest on earth, fell to fighting, one part with another part. Each side was battling, as each side sincerely believed, for the cause of liberty; each was unsparingly spending its blood and treasure in order, in Mr. Lincoln's phrase, that "government of the people, by the people, and for the people might not perish from the earth." Yet on both sides a military rule as rigorous as that of Russia laid its iron hand upon the people, and the people submitted themselves to its exactions almost without a murmur. Arbitrary, inquisitorial, intolerant, this military despotism wrought its will both at the North and at the South, overriding laws and disregarding constitutions, making a mockery of chartered rights, and restraining personal liberty in ways that would have caused instant and universal revolt, had such things been attempted by civil authority.
The military arm is a servant which is apt to make itself the unrelenting master of those who invoke its assistance.
Agatha encountered this difficulty while yet inside the Confederate lines. She was not permitted to pass in any northward direction upon any pretence. The authorities at one place under Confederate control forbade her to go to another place under like control. She appealed to Stuart in this emergency, and although his authority did not extend into the Shenandoah Valley, he made such representations to the commandants in that quarter as were sufficient for her purposes.
To get within the Federal lines was a still more perplexing problem. One device after another proved ineffectual, and the girl was almost in despair. She appealed at last to the general in command of the cavalry in that region,—one of those to whom Stuart had written in her behalf,—and he promptly responded:
"At precisely what point have you friends in coöperation with you?"
She named a little town within the Federal line where lived some of her nearest friends.
"I can manage that," he said. "The point is an insignificant one ten miles within their lines. There are pretty certainly no troops there, and the picket-lines in front are not very strong, as nothing could be more improbable than the raid I shall make in that direction. You can ride, of course."
"Of course."
"Very well. I'll take a strong force, make a dash through the picket-lines, gallop into the town, and make a foray through the region round about. You will follow my column as closely as you can without placing yourself under fire, and when we reach the town, settle yourself with your friends there, turning your horse loose lest he attract attention. You'd better do that just before we reach the town, and walk the rest of the way. Can you wear a walking-skirt under your riding-habit, and slip off the outer—you see I'm a bachelor, Miss Ronald, and don't understand such things."
"You may safely leave all that to my superior feminine sagacity. When shall we start?"
"Whenever you wish. Only we'd better march in the afternoon and reach the town after nightfall. The nights are very dark now, and you will perhaps be able to escape observation in the town. Let me see," looking at his watch, "it's now half past one. We could do the thing this afternoon, if you were ready."
"I can be ready in fifteen minutes," she replied.
"You're very prompt," the officer said, with a suggestion of admiration in his voice.
"O, I'm half-soldier, you know. General Stuart approves me."
"Very well, then. We'll march in half an hour."
The operation was a very simple one, in its military part, at least. The expedition was composed of a force much too strong for resistance by the handful of men available for immediate use on the enemy's part. In the guise of a foraging party it easily dispersed the picket-lines and pushed forward rapidly, taking the little town in its course, but making no halt there. It scoured the country round about, and as soon as Federal forces began to gather for its destruction, it retreated by quite a different route from that by which it had advanced.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when Agatha slipped off her horse in the little Maryland town and left it in charge of a trooper. A five-minutes' walk brought her to the house of her friends, where she was safe.
With her walked her negro maid, who had ridden behind her. That maid's name was Sam, and he quickly divested himself of the feminine outer garments which he had worn over his own clothes. This device had been of Sam's own invention, for that worthy, under stress of circumstances, was rapidly developing into something like genius that gift of diplomacy which he had before employed in discouraging his mammy's efforts to make him her assistant in the kitchen. Sam was a consummate liar whenever lying seemed to him to be necessary or even useful. In the service of his master he had no hesitation in saying, or indeed in doing, anything that might be convenient, and during her long stay north of the Potomac Agatha was far more deeply indebted to Sam's unscrupulousness than she knew. For when he found that his mistress had conscientious objections to his methods, he simply forbore to mention them to her, and carried out his plans on his own responsibility. Long afterward, in relating the experiences of this time to his black companions at Warlock, he made it an interesting feature of his discourse to keep reminding his hearers that, "Mis' Agatha's so dam' hones' dat she wouldn't tell a lie even to a Yankee."
This declaration never failed to open the eyes of the auditors in wonder, and to bring from their lips the half-incredulous response:
"Well, I 'clar to gracious!"
It was Sam who devised and suggested the next step in the present journey. Agatha's arrival at the house, under cover of a very dark night, had been unobserved by any one outside the household, but it was obvious that her remaining there would involve grave danger of discovery. Her presence could not be concealed from the servants of the household, and however loyal these might be to their mistress and her three daughters, who constituted the family, they would very certainly talk, the more especially, if any efforts were made to keep the visitor in hiding in the house. In a town so small—it was only a village, in fact—gossip has quick wings, and there were sure to be some persons there who would promptly report to the military that a young woman from beyond the lines was in hiding in the town.
The whole matter was discussed in family conclave during the night of Agatha's coming, and fortunately Sam was present, for the reason that it was specially necessary to conceal from the household servants the interesting fact that the "maid" who had accompanied a young lady to the place was in truth a stalwart negro boy. He remained in the room, therefore, from which all the servants were rigidly excluded, and thus became familiar with every detail of the puzzling situation. After ingenuity had been fairly exhausted in devising plans only to reject them one after another as impracticable, Sam, whose modesty had never amounted to shyness, boldly broke into the conversation.
"As I figgers it out, Mis' Agatha," he said, "de case is puffec'ly clar. We cawn't stay heah, 'thout a-gittin' tuk up. We cawn't go back South 'thout a-gittin' tuk up an' maybe gittin' hung in de bargain. So we mus' jes' go on Norf, now, immediately, at once."
"But we can't, Sam. You don't understand. We can't travel without passports."
"Couldn't de ladies git a skyar into 'em, an' tell de Yankees dey jes' cawn't an' won't stay any longer in a town whar de rebels is a-comin' gallopin' through de streets, a-yellin' an' a-shootin' an' a-kickin' up de ole Harry? Wouldn't de Yankees give 'em passpo'ts to de Norf den? Wouldn't dey think it natch'rel dat a houseful o' jes' ladies what's got no men-folks to pertect 'em, would be skyar'd out o' der seven senses after sich a performance as dis heah?"
"But, Sam," interposed his mistress, "that wouldn't do me any good or you either. If anybody asked for passports for you and me, the officers would ask who we are and where we came from, and all about it."
"Don't ax 'em fer no passpo't fer you. Jes' let de other ladies ax fer passpo'ts fer demselves, an' a nigga boy to drive de carriage. I'll be de nigga boy. Den one o' de young ladies mout git over her skyar an' jes' stay at home, quiet like, an' let you take her place in de carriage. De young lady wouldn't have to go roun' tellin' folks she's done git over her skyar an' stayed at home. Nobody'd know nuffin' about her bein' heah fer a week, an' by dat time de Yankees would 'a' done fergitten how many folks went away in de carriage."
After some discussion it was agreed that Sam's plan, in its general outline at least, was feasible, and as there was no alternative way out, it was finally decided to adopt the scheme.
"You mus' do it right away den," suggested Sam, "while de skyar is on to folks. Ef you wait, de Yankees'll fin' out de trigger o' de trap, sho'. An' after awhile, all de ladies 'ceptin' you, Mis' Agatha, can git over de skyar an' come home agin."
Sam's plan was aided in its execution by the fact that several other families in the town were genuinely scared by the Confederate raid, and, as soon as the Federal posts were reëstablished, asked for passports under which they might send their women and children to less exposed points. When Agatha's hostess made a like application for herself and daughters, with their negro, "Sam, aged eighteen, five feet seven inches high," and all the rest of the description, no difficulty was encountered in securing the desired papers.
In order that Agatha might go as far northward as possible without having to renew her passport, it was decided that their destination should be at a point well beyond the Pennsylvania border. Agatha had no friends there, and she knew no one of Southern sympathies in the town selected. But thanks to Marshall Pollard, she had command of money in plenty, or would have, as soon as she could send the papers he had given her to New York. It was arranged, therefore, that the little party, in the character of refugees, should take quarters at a hotel until such time as Agatha could renew her journey without her companions. In the meantime, Agatha, by means of correspondence with her friends in Baltimore and Washington, could prosecute her inquiries as to Baillie Pegram's condition and whereabouts.