CHAPTER V
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE STRONG ROOM
As she heard his departing footstep on the porch the poor girl threw herself down upon her knees and lifted her hands.
"The South and—and—he, mistaken, but still—ah, where is my duty? The ship and Rhett Sempland! I love him. I cannot let him go! It would be wicked. God pity me! But how, how to prevent it? If I can only delay him until to-morrow, I can tell the general everything, and—is there a way, is there a way, O God?"
She thought deeply, every atom in her being concentrated on the problem which tore her between love and duty, devotion to the cause of the South and those other appeals, which, finding lodgment in her heart, moved her so profoundly. She wrestled with the question as to where her duty lay as Jacob wrestled with the angel of old, and if she did not conquer, at least she decided.
Determining on a desperate course of action, she rose to her feet and sharply struck a bell by her side on the table. The house was an ancient mansion when it had been rented by her aunt and herself three years before. It dated back to Colonial times. There was a strong room in it, the windows of which were barred. It would make a safe prison for any one. He should be put in there and be kept there until morning. He would be safe there. No harm would come to the ship, and when the general knew, he would forgive her. She would tell him the first thing in the morning.
It would cause her lover pain and grief, this summary action of hers, but she could explain it to him, too; and he would forgive her also and she would reward him with herself! There was compensation in that, she thought proudly and tenderly.
"Cæsar," she said, as the aged butler made his appearance in response to the bell, "send Joe and Sam and Cato to me. Boys," she continued, as three stalwart young negroes presented themselves before her soon after, "Mr. Sempland is coming here to-night to see me. I—he—" she found it somewhat difficult to explain. "General Beauregard wants him detained here. I cannot let him get away. Show him into the strong room on the other side of the house when he asks for me, and then lock the door on him. Don't let him get out under any circumstances until to-morrow, but on no account are you to do him any hurt. You hear? You understand?"
"Ya-as, Miss Fanny, I specs we does," answered Cato, the oldest and most intelligent of the three.
"Cæsar, you lead him into the strong room. Say I will meet him there in a moment. He won't suspect anything, I reckon. The rest of you stay in the passage, and as soon as he enters lock the door upon him. Don't neglect that! He'll try to get out. He may break the door down. But you must keep him there, even if he attempts to kill you—unless I say for you to release him."
The three slaves were devoted to their young mistress and, accepting her orders without a question, they at once began their preparations to carry them out. As they were talking together a light step sounded on the porch. There was a ring at the door. The men hurried to their places of concealment. Miss Fanny Glen hid in the dark drawing-room, as Cæsar shuffled along the hall to the front door.
"Your mistress has sent for me," said Sempland. And from where she stood in the drawing-room, Fanny Glen's heart leaped at the tones of his voice.
"Yas, suh," returned the darky, obsequiously ushering him through the hall. "Step right dis way, suh, Mass' Sempland. Miss Fanny done axes you to go in dis room at de end ob de passage, suh. An' she tol' me she gwine be wid you in a minute, suh."
The room was one which Sempland had never entered before. It was small, furnished like a library or office, with several large closets and an old iron safe, and had two grated windows and one heavy mahogany door. It had formerly been used as an office and as a treasure room. Seeing the visitor safe within, Cæsar calmly withdrew, and as he adroitly coughed violently in the passage Sempland did not hear the ponderous key turning in the old-fashioned lock. He waited a few minutes, and then, as time was precious, he looked around for a bell. Seeing none he walked to the door, laid his hand upon the knob, and tried to open it. It did not give.
"Locked!" he muttered in surprise.
Raising his hand he struck a light blow on the panels, but there was no reply. Then he called out and received no answer. He struck and called again and again, his voice rising to a shout while his hands were bleeding from the blows he had rained on the hard surface. Finally a voice came to him faintly through the door.
"Wat's de matta, suh?"
"Open this door instantly, you black dog! Where is Miss Glen?"
"She's a-comin', suh."
"I wish to see her immediately!" he cried imperiously, kicking and battering again upon the door in furious rage, which was stilled the instant he heard her voice outside.
"Mr. Sempland?"
"What is the meaning of this action, this outrage, Miss Glen?" he cried. "You sent for me. I came. Why am I locked in here? Open the door! I must leave immediately!"
"You are locked in here by my orders, Mr. Sempland," said Fanny Glen, nervously.
"Impossible! For what reason?"
"Because I—I—"
"By heavens, this is maddening! You don't know what you do! I am ordered to-night on a hazardous expedition. I must be at my post in ten minutes. Let me out instantly!"
"I know," returned the girl.
"Well, then, why don't you open this door? I will say nothing of this—"
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I—I—do not wish you to go out on theDavid."
"What is it to you? How dare you interfere? You said I had done nothing but lie in prison," he replied. "I will show you to-night."
"Not to-night."
"This is madness! Think what you are doing!"
"I can't help it."
"Why not?"
"Because I—I—"
"In God's name, what do you mean?"
"I will not have you take the risk. It is certain death to you, and the admiral's ship—" said the girl, so softly that he could scarce hear her. "You will forgive me when you understand. I shall release you to-morrow. Mercy! Have pity on me, I am almost crazy!"
"Do you know that you will dishonor me? If you care, let me go."
"There is another reason. I will not have theWabashblown up. There is a—a—"
"Another man?" shouted Sempland. "You are a coquette! Let me out, I say! I will get out! My God, was ever a man in such a situation?"
He beat and hammered on the massive door until his bruised hands bled again. He shook it in its frame like a madman. He was exhausted by the violence of his efforts and of his passion. Through it all the girl stood in the hall frightened nearly to death. What mad scheme had she entered upon? Had she strength enough to carry it through? The three servants were terrified also, their eyes rolling in their sockets, their hands nervously fingering their weapons. Suddenly another voice, Cæsar's, broke through the turmoil, reaching even the ear of the desperate man on the other side of the heavy mahogany door. He stopped to listen.
"Miss Fanny," said the butler, "dah's a sojah man at de do', an' he wants to know if Mass' Semplan' is heah."
"Tell him, no," said Fanny Glen, resolutely. "Say he left a half-hour ago."
"My God!" groaned Sempland. "I am a disgraced and ruined man! Listen to me, Fanny Glen! I swear to you, on my honor as a gentleman, if you do not instantly open this door I'll blow my brains out in this room!"
"Oh, you wouldn't do that?"
"I will, so help me God!"
There was conviction in his voice. The girl listening in the passage heard the click of a raised revolver hammer.
"Don't!" she cried in greater terror than ever, "I will open!"
He heard a brief whispered consultation, the key was turned in the lock, and the door was suddenly flung open. Sempland darted toward it on the instant and recoiled from the terrible figure of the little woman barring him with outstretched arms. If he had suffered within, she had suffered without the room. Such a look of mortal agony and anguish he had never seen on any human face. She trembled violently before him. Yet she was resolute not to give way, determined to keep the door. Clustered at her back were the three trembling negroes armed one with a knife, another with a pistol, another with a stout club. He would have swept them out of his path in an instant had it not been for the girl. She stood before him with outstretched arms, her attitude a mixture of defiance and appeal.
"The door was suddenly flung open."
"The door was suddenly flung open."
"It is too late," she said, "you were to go at seven. It is past that now. Saved, saved!"
He could do her no violence, that was certain. He stood silent before her, his head bent toward the floor, thinking deeply. Her heart went out to him then, her soul yearned to him. She had hurt him, he must hate her—and she loved him.
"Will you not come in and speak to me for a moment?" he asked her quietly enough at last.
She signed to the men, stepped forward, the door was closed, and locked behind her, and they were alone.
"Did you think to be of service to me?" he burst out, as she drew near and then paused irresolute, miserable. "You have ruined me for life! I begged that detail. I volunteered. I must get out! They may wait for me. It may not be too late. For God's sake unlock that door!"
She shook her head, she could not trust herself to speak.
"I don't understand you. If it is—love—for me—"
She stared at him beseechingly, mute appeal for mercy, for help, in her lovely eyes.
"You are condemning me to death, to worse than death. I am going!"
"You cannot!"
She came nearer as she spoke. Suddenly he seized her, drew her close to him, held her with his left arm, and there was happiness for her in his touch. She was as a child before his strength. With his right hand he presented his pistol to her temple. He took advantage of her weakness, but only in the service of a higher cause than love of woman, in answer to a greater demand than even she could make. She offered no resistance either. What was the use?
"Boys!" he called out sharply. "Are you there?"
"Yas, suh," answered Cato.
"I have your mistress in my arms, my pistol is at her head. If you do not instantly open the door, I shall kill her where I stand!"
"Cato, I forbid you to open!" cried Fanny Glen, in a ringing voice, still making no effort to struggle and looking up into the infuriated man's face with the expression of a martyr and an angel. He saw and recognized, but persisted; it was his only way.
"Open instantly!" he said again, "unless you would see your mistress die!"
That was a threat the men could not resist. In a second the door was opened. The awe-struck faces of the blacks peered into the room.
"Throw down your arms, here at my feet, you black hounds!" shouted Sempland. "Quick! Or I fire!"
Instantly knife, pistol, and bludgeon clattered on the floor at his feet.
"Out of the way now! Leave the hall! I want a clear passage!"
"Kill me! Kill me!" cried the girl, "and have done!"
He released her in a moment.
"You have dishonored me," he cried. "I fear it is too late. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. But I love you, I love you!"
He strained her to his breast, pressing a passionate, burning kiss upon her lips. He wasted a few precious seconds, but he could not help it. She threw her arms about his neck and returned his kiss. He could feel her heart beating against his own.
"I cannot let you go!" she cried. "Stay with me and I am yours!"
"I must go!"
He tore himself from her and ran down the passage into the street. She thought she would have fainted at that instant, but something—suspense, the faint possibility of success, doubt—nerved her to action. After a few moments of awful uncertainty she followed Sempland along the hallway, out through the door, and into the night. He was not to be seen. She knew where he had gone, however, and she bent her steps toward the government wharf. She went slowly at first, but finally ran at her greatest speed.
CHAPTER VI
AN ENGINE OF DESTRUCTION
TheDavid, so named because although she was small it was hoped she would strike terror to the huge Goliaths of the Union fleet, was built of boiler iron. She was thirty feet long and of a cigar shape, her greatest diameter being a little less than six feet. She was propelled by a hand engine worked by members of her crew, and could be submerged at pleasure, but experience had shown that once down she usually stayed down with all on board. A résumé of her history has been given. She was a floating, or sinking, death-trap.
Originally she was intended to drag after her a floating torpedo in the hope that she could pass under a vessel's keel and explode the torpedo when she reached the proper position. General Beauregard, however, had positively forbidden that she should be used as a submarine any longer on account of her disastrous behavior, and on this occasion she was provided with a long spar sticking out from her nose, on the end of which was one hundred pounds of powder in a copper cylinder provided with four extremely sensitive tubes of lead containing a highly explosive mixture, which would ignite upon contact with a ship's side or bottom and explode the torpedo.
She was painted a slate-gray, and her ballast was so adjusted that with the seven men who manned her on board, one to steer, one to look after the torpedo, and five to turn the propeller crank, her low hatch scarcely rose above the water. In that condition, and especially at night, she looked like a plank floating on the surface. By hard and conscientious labor her five man-power engine could shove her along at about a speed of four knots. Although the order of General Beauregard that she should not be submerged again had materially diminished the risk which experience had shown was overwhelming, yet the proposed expedition was nevertheless hazardous in the extreme.
In the first place, an excellent lookout was kept on the Union ships on account of the several attempts which had been made against them by similar boats. If she were discovered, one shot striking the boat as she approached, even a rifle shot, would suffice to sink her. No one knew what she would do even if she succeeded in exploding the torpedo. It was scarcely hoped that she could get away from a sinking ship in that event.
The little party of officers grouped on the wharf bade good-by to the men who entered the deadly affair as if they were saying farewell to those about to die. Every preparation had been made, the artillery officer had finally and carefully inspected the torpedo to see if it was in good working order, the men had descended into the cramped narrow little hull of the boat and had made ready to start the propeller. None of them wore any superfluous clothing, for it was oppressively hot in the confined area of the little iron shell, and they might have to swim for their lives anyway—perhaps they would be lucky if they got the chance. In short, everybody was ready and every one was there except the commander of the expedition.
Great secrecy had been observed in the preparations lest there might be a spy in the town, who, learning of the attempt, would communicate the valuable information to the Federal fleet, and so frustrate it. General Beauregard had caused the wharf to be cleared and guarded early in the evening. It was quite dark in February at six o'clock, and no one except his trusted staff officers and Lacy, who had so magnanimously surrendered his opportunity to Sempland, was present.
At a quarter before seven, which was the time Sempland had appointed to return when he left in obedience to Fanny Glen's summons, the general began to feel some uneasiness. He spoke about it to Lacy, but was reassured by that gentleman, who professed full confidence that the young lieutenant would undoubtedly be there in a few moments. He had already of his own motion despatched a soldier to Fanny Glen's house and had learned from him the false news that Sempland had been there and had left. Lacy supposed he had returned to his quarters.
The state of the tide, the necessities of the blockade-runners who hoped to escape that night under cover of the confusion caused by the attack, rendered it absolutely necessary that there should be no delay in the departure of the torpedo boat. The time had been set for seven o'clock, as late as practicable, in order to secure the advantage of settled darkness before the blow was delivered. The party on the wharf waited apprehensively a little longer, conversing in low tones as the moments ran away, and there was great anxiety as to the whereabouts of the missing officer. Seven o'clock struck from the ancient church steeple hard by; still he did not appear.
"General," said Lacy, a few moments later, "if I might suggest, sir—"
"Go on. What is it?"
"It might be well to send for him."
"Never!" said the general, shortly; "it is a soldier's duty to be at the place appointed him at the specified time. I shall not send for him. If he has forgotten himself, his duty, for any cause, he shall suffer the consequences."
Lacy was in despair. He could not understand the situation. He had not the slightest doubt of Sempland's courage. He knew his friend's rigid idea of soldierly duty or honor. Where had he gone? If there had been any way, he would have despatched men to hunt for him in every direction, but the general's prohibition was positive. And for some reason which he could not explain he refrained from saying anything about Sempland's visit to Fanny Glen, merely advising the general, in response to an inquiry, that he had left him to go to his quarters to write a letter.
Five minutes more dragged along.
"General Beauregard," said Lacy at last, "with your permission I will seek him myself."
"No," said the general, sternly, "we can wait no longer. I need you for something else."
"You mean—?"
"I mean that I shall carry out the original plan. Mr. Sempland has forfeited any consideration whatever at our hands."
"Then I am to—?"
Lacy pointed toward theDavid.
"Unless you wish to back out."
"No one has ever used these words to me, sir," answered Lacy, proudly. "I am as ready, as anxious, to go as I ever was. But Sempland—sir, I would stake my life on his fidelity."
"It may be so. I can wait no longer. Will you go, or shall I give up the expedition?"
"Rather than that, sir," said one of his staff officers, "if Major Lacy hesitates, let me go."
"Enough!" said Lacy. "Will you explain to Sempland how it came about? Good-by."
CHAPTER VII
THE HOUR AND THE MAN
Lacy tore off his coat and vest, and threw them on the wharf, saluted the general and stepped into the boat. Some one in the group lifted a lantern. The flickering light fell on the pale faces of the determined men.
"Good-by, sir," said Beauregard. "You, at least, are an officer, a soldier of whom the South is proud. Remember the flagship is your game. She lies at anchor right off the Main Ship Channel. Good luck to you. A colonel's shoulder straps await you here if you come back. God bless you all!"
He wrung the major's hand, watched him step into theDavidand whisper an order to his men, heard him call out "Good-by, sir. If we don't come back, don't forget us," and that was all.
The little boat was shoved away from the wharf by willing hands and in a moment was lost in the darkness of the bay. There was no moon, and the night was dark. There was no light save from the stars. The torpedo boat slipped through the water without making a sound. She became entirely invisible a hundred feet away. The officers rubbed their eyes as they stared in the direction where they had last seen her, almost fearing that she had again sunk beneath the sea. They stayed there perhaps five minutes, at least until the blockade-runners, none of them showing a light of any description, could get under way in obedience to a lantern signal from the general and noiselessly slip down the bay in the wake of the frail little craft which it was hoped would be able to clear the path for them.
"Now," said Beauregard, turning away at last, "for Mr. Sempland. I do not understand it. I never thought him a coward."
"Nor am I, sir!" panted a voice out of the darkness, as a pale and breathless man burst through the group surrounding the general.
"Mr. Sempland!"
"For God's sake, sir, am I in time? The boat?"
"Gone."
"How long? Call her back!"
"It is too late. She has been gone ten minutes. Where were you, sir?"
"Who took her out?"
"Major Lacy. Answer my question, sir!"
"He! My God! I am disgraced! Dishonored! And she—"
"Where were you, sir?"
"I—I—"
The young man hesitated.
"Why don't you answer? Do you realize your position? You begged this detail. Why were you not here?"
"Oh, General Beauregard—"
"How could you forget your honor, the South? Where were you, I say? Answer, or I will have you shot in the morning!"
"I—I—was detained, sir. I—"
"Is that your only excuse, sir?" sternly.
Sempland was in a fearful predicament. To have restrained him by force was an act of high treason. He could only explain himself by implicating the woman he loved. The consequences in either case were dreadful. Fanny Glen a traitor to the South? Beauregard was a stern, inexorable soldier. He would not condone such an offence as hers. That she had failed in her effort to prevent the expedition would mean nothing to the general. Fanny Glen, the pride of Charleston, the woman who had done more for the South than any other woman in the Carolinas, perhaps, to be disgraced, certainly to be punished, it might be—shot!
She had ruined him, but he had kissed her. He could not say the word which would incriminate her and leave him free. He was disgraced already, he would be cashiered. Well, what mattered it? His chance was gone, the woman did not love him. His heart was hot against her. Yet he remembered the scene in the strong room—had she indeed returned his kiss? He closed his lips firmly and said nothing. He would not, he could not betray her, even to himself.
"You do not answer, sir! What excuse have you to offer?"
"None."
"You sought this detail. You forced yourself into the expedition. Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
"Nothing."
"You are under arrest, sir, for disobedience of orders, for dereliction of duty! By heavens!" said the general, striking his left hand with his right, "for cowardice!"
"For God's sake, not that, sir!"
"For cowardice, sir! You knew the expedition was one of extreme hazard. You have no excuse to offer for not having been here. What else is it?"
"Not that, sir! Not that!" pleaded the lieutenant. "Anything but that!"
"A traitor, a coward, I say!"
"General Beauregard!" cried a high-pitched voice out of the darkness, shrill and unnatural with terror and fatigue. The next moment Fanny Glen herself, bareheaded, panting from her rapid run, white-faced in the light cast by the lantern held by the staff officer, pushed through the group surrounding the general.
"Where is Mr. Sempland, sir?" she asked.
"Here, under arrest. He failed to arrive in time. Can you explain it?"
"The boat?"
"Gone."
"Gone? Then who—"
"Major Lacy took it out."
"And theWabash?"
"Will be blown up, please God, if all goes well."
The girl put her face in her hands as if to shut out some dreadful picture. She kept them there for a few seconds, then she lifted her head and looked unsteadily from the severe face of the general to the cold, disdainful countenance of Sempland. The man she loved shrank away from her.
"Useless! Too late!" she murmured, then fell fainting at their feet.
CHAPTER VIII
DEATH OUT OF THE DEEP
At 8.30 that night, February 17, 1864, the little torpedo boat, after having successfully passed the monitors and ironclads anchored just out of range of Fort Sumter, and inside the shoals at the harbor mouth, was stopped about a mile from the outer entrance of the Main Ship Channel, where her quarry had been reported as lying quietly at anchor at nightfall. Success had attended the efforts of her devoted crew so far. By Lacy's command theDavidwas stopped in order to give a little rest, a breathing space, before the last dash at their prey, to the weary seamen who had driven her steadily on since leaving the wharf.
The night was calm and very still. The hatch covers were thrown back, the tired men thrust their heads into the cool, sweet air, so refreshing after the closeness of their badly ventilated vessel, and wetted their fevered, exhausted bodies with the stimulating water of the bay. The artillery officer took advantage of the opportunity to make a careful reëxamination of the torpedo, and Lacy was greatly relieved when he reported that he had everything in good working order, so far as he was able to judge. The young commander of the expedition was the more anxious for success because of the previous failures of similar endeavors. After a ten-minute rest he gave the order to get under way.
"Men," he said coolly, "you know the history of this boat. There's a chance, ay, more than a chance, that none of us will ever come back from this expedition. You knew all that when you volunteered. If we do get out alive, our country will reward us. If we do not, she will not forget us. Shake hands, now. Good-by, and God bless you. Put every pound of muscle you have into that crank when we get within one hundred yards of the frigate, and jump the boat into her. I'll give the signal. I want to strike her hard."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the seamen as cheerfully as if there was only a frolic before them. "We'll do our best. Good-by, and God bless you, sir. We're proud to serve under you whatever comes."
"Thank you. All ready with the torpedo, Captain?"
"Yes, Major Lacy."
"Good! Down everybody, now! Clap to the hatch covers and start the cranks. Easy at first, and when I give the word—hard!"
He seized the spokes of the steering wheel in his steady hands as he spoke. Back of him, to relieve him in case of accident, stood Captain Carlson, the artillery officer. The heavy planks were drawn over the open hatch, locked, and bolted. Silently the men manned the cranks. The little engine of destruction gathered way. It was pitch dark, and very close and hot. There was no sound in the shell save the slight creaking of the cranks and the deep breathing of the crew as they toiled over them.
Forward by the wheel there was a glass hood, which permitted the men who steered to direct the course of the boat. As the sinister sea demon stole through the waters, Lacy caught a sudden glimpse at last of the spars of a heavy ship at anchor before him. The night had cleared somewhat, and although there was no moon, the stars gave sufficient light for him to see the black tracery of masts and yards lifting themselves above the horizon.
How still the looming ship lay. There was scarcely sea enough to tremble the top-hamper of the unsuspecting man-of-war. A faint film of smoke falling lazily from her funnel in the quiet air, with her riding and side-lights, were the only signs of life about her. No more peaceful-looking object floated over the ocean apparently.
"It would be a pity," reflected the man at the wheel for an instant, "to strike her so." But the thought vanished so soon as it had been formulated. His heart leaped in his breast like the hound when he launches himself in that last spring which hurls him on his quarry. Another moment—a few more seconds—
"That will be our game," whispered Lacy to the artillery captain, in a voice in which his feelings spoke.
"Yes."
They were slowly approaching nearer. The bearings of the cranks and screws had been well oiled, and theDavidslipped through the water without a sound. She was so nearly submerged that she scarcely rippled the surface of the sea. There was no white line of foam to betray her movement through the black water. It was almost impossible for any one to detect the approach of the silent terror. There was nothing showing above water except the flat hatch cover, and that to an unpractised eye looked much like a drifting plank.
Yet there were sharp eyes on the ship, and no negligent watch was kept either. When theDavidwas perhaps two hundred feet away, she was seen. The steadiness of her movement proclaimed a thing intelligently driven.
A sharp, sudden cry from the forecastle ahead of them rang through the night. It was so loud and so fraught with alarm that it came in a muffled note to the men in the depths of the torpedo boat. A bugle call rang out, a drum was beaten. The erstwhile silent ship was filled with tumult and clamor.
"They have seen us!" said Lacy. "Ahead!" he cried, hoarsely. "Hard!"
At the same instant the chain cable of the vessel was slipped, bells jangled in her depths, the mighty engines clanked into sudden motion, the screws revolved, and she began slowly to drive astern. But it was too late, the sea devil was too near to be balked of the prey. The men at the cranks of theDavid, working with superhuman energy, fairly hurled the torpedo boat upon the doomed ship. Lacy had time for a single upward glance—his last look at anything! The black railing towering above his head was swarming with men. Flashes of light punctured the darkness. Bullets pattered like rain on the iron. One or two tore through the flimsy shell. A jet of water struck him in the face.
The next second there was a terrific concussion. The torpedo struck the ship just forward the mainmast and exploded, tearing a great hole in the side, extending far below the water-line. In the blaze of light that followed, the men in theDavidcheered wildly, and the next moment blackness overwhelmed them.
On the frigate there was the wildest confusion as the sleeping men below came swarming up on deck. Some of them never succeeded in reaching the hatchways and were drowned where they slept. Some were killed by the explosion. The officers, however, quickly restored order, and as a last resort ordered the surviving men into the rigging, for the water where she lay was shallow, and there they could find safety.
The ship was hopelessly lost. Indeed, she began to sink so soon as the torpedo exploded. The water poured into her vitals, and soon the crash of exploding boilers and the hiss of escaping steam added their quota to the confusion.
Some of the cooler among the officers and men lingered on the decks, small arms in hand, searching the sea on every hand, until the decks were awash. They were looking and hoping for a chance at the boat which had caused them such a terrible disaster, but they never saw her. She had disappeared.
Signals had been burned instantly on the shattered ship. Far up and down the line the lights of moving vessels burning answering signals showed that they were alert to render assistance. Boats, ships' cutters, dashed alongside to render help, and they, too, sought the torpedo boat, but in vain. She was not to be found.
At the same time the ships of the fleet did not move from their appointed stations, and when the blockade-runners came dashing down through the Swash Channel in the hope that the vessels usually stationed there would be withdrawn in the excitement, they were met by a deadly fire from the rifled guns, which rendered it impossible for them to proceed. They turned tail and fled. Two of them succeeded in returning to the harbor. One of them never came back. She was set on fire and burned by the shells of the ships. The monitors and ironclads joined in the battle, the forts returned the fire, and the quiet night was filled with the noise of roaring cannon and exploding shell.
Lacy's had been a gallant and heroic attempt. It had succeeded as to the blowing up of a Federal warship, but it had failed otherwise. By a singular freak of fortune the blow had not fallen upon the vessel for which it had been intended. After dark the fine new sloop-of-warHousatonichad replaced theWabashoff the Main Ship Channel, and she had suffered instead of the flagship.
Although when day broke she was sought for again, nothing more was seen of theDavid. At least not then. With the explosion of the torpedo she had vanished from the face of the waters. For a long time General Beauregard and the people in Charleston waited for tidings of her, but it was not until the war was over and theHousatonicwas raised that the mystery was solved. They found the torpedo boat with her nose pointed toward the hole she had torn in the side of the ship, about a hundred feet away from the wrecked sloop-of-war. She had been riddled with bullets and shattered by the explosion of her own torpedo. She was, of course, filled with water, and in her, at their stations, they found the bodies of her devoted crew, Lacy with his hand on the wheel.
Nothing in life had so become Lacy as the ending of it. It is a proverb that the good men do lies buried with them, the evil is long remembered. It was not so in his case, at any rate, for men forgot everything but the dauntless heroism with which he had laid down his life for his country, and assured his fame.
And, after all, he was not to be pitied for that he died the death of his choice.
CHAPTER IX
MISERABLE PAIR AND MISERABLE NIGHT
Sempland's mind was in a fearful turmoil. It had all come so suddenly and unexpectedly upon him that as yet he hardly realized the gravity of his situation, although it could scarcely be worse. He was under arrest and in confinement, facing such serious charges as neglect of duty, disobedience of orders, treason, cowardice! As to these last, he was so conscious of his loyalty and intrepidity that they did not worry him so much as they might have done. The other things were bad enough, but surely, surely, no one could ever believe him either a traitor or a coward!
His mind did not dwell on his own situation as it might have done, either, if it had not been for Fanny Glen. Instinctively he had stepped forward to gather her in his arms when she fainted before him on the wharf that night, but he had been sternly waved back by the general, and without being given a chance to learn anything about her condition he had been hurried to headquarters and heavily guarded in the room where he was to be held pending Beauregard's further pleasure. As for Fanny Glen, although Sempland could not know it, the surgeon who had been present had speedily revived that young woman, a carriage had been summoned, and she had been taken home under the escort of one of the staff officers.
Sempland was utterly unable to fathom her mysterious conduct. He had thought upon it swiftly as he could during those trying moments which had been so filled with action, but he had not had time, until in the quiet and solitude of his confinement, to give it any calm consideration. He was at a loss to understand her actions.
Was she a traitor to the South? Did she think to prevent the loss of the flagship of the Federal fleet by detaining him? That could not be, for if ever truth and sincerity shone in a woman's face and were evinced in a woman's actions, they were in Fanny Glen's appearance and life. Her patriotism was unquestioned. That hypothesis must be dismissed at once.
Was it because she loved him so that, fancying the expedition promised certain death to him, she had taken this unfortunate method of preserving his life? He had not been too agitated in the strong room of her house to realize as he held her that in some mysterious way she was happy at being in his arms. His heart leaped at the recollection. She had not struggled. She had almost nestled against him.
He could recall the clasp of her arms, the kiss that she had given him, the words that she had said. He was almost sure that she loved him as he thought of these things.
Yet—she had disgraced him, dishonored him! That was not the act of a loving woman. She had shown herself possessed of a full measure of womanly heroism and courage. She knew exactly what was involved in his failure to carry out his orders. How could she have done it? Was it all acting then? Did her kisses betray him? Was she indeed a traitor—and to him? Yet—for whom?
There was Lacy—oh, had he repented after all? Had he wished to resume the command he had so reluctantly surrendered? Had she been a party to any plan whereby the matter might be brought about? Was he to be shamed and sacrificed for Lacy's glory and honor by this woman? Perish the thought! Yet why had she fainted on the wharf? Was it at the mention of Lacy's name? Was she alarmed for his safety? If that were the case, why had she not striven to restrain Lacy and allowed him to go in his place?
Suddenly there flashed into his mind that there might be some one on theWabashwhom she wished to protect! Could that be the solution of the mystery? No one knew anything of her origin, her past history. Was she faithful to the South, yet had she a—a—lover in the Union fleet? Was she indeed what he called her, a heartless coquette? He could have sworn from that brief moment when he held her in his arms, when he looked at her, that she loved him. She had returned his kiss. Oh, had she? Was it a dream? A play? To deceive him? Great God! was he going mad?
Of only one thing was he certain. He could never disclose to any one the cause of his failure to present himself on the wharf in time. Whether she loved Lacy, or some one in the Union fleet, made no difference to his love. He would love her till he died. Ay, he would love her even in the face of her treachery, her faithlessness—everything! He hated himself for this, but it was true, he could not deny it.
And he would save her from the consequences of her action at the cost of his life—his honor even. What had he to live for anyway, if she were taken from him? Death might come. It would come. He would make no defence. It was quite within the power of a court-martial to order him shot. And it was quite within the power of a court-martial to punish Fanny Glen, too, if he fastened the culpability for his failure upon her; perhaps not by death, but certainly by disgrace and shame. The city was under martial rule, General Beauregard was supreme. No, he could not expose her to that condemnation—he loved her too well.
Yet he wished that he could hate her, as he paced up and down the long room, stopping at the windows to stare out into the dark in the direction of the sea—where he should have been if all had gone well.
He was too far away to hear the explosion of the torpedo, which was muffled, because it took place under water, but he could hear the batteries of the ships as they opened on the blockade-runners, and the answer from the forts, and he knew that something had happened at any rate. And his suspense as to that added to his wretchedness. Lacy had supplanted him and reaped the glory—again. It was maddening. No one came to bring him any word. The general concluded to postpone his inquiry until the next morning, and Sempland paced the floor the night long in a pitiable condition of wounded love, blasted hope, shattered fame.
At home, not far away, poor Fanny Glen was even more miserable than Rhett Sempland, for she had divined—yes, so soon as the two men had left her presence the afternoon before, she had recognized the fact—that she loved Sempland. Conviction had grown upon her swiftly, and in those moments when she was fearful that he would succeed in his purpose, when she had kept him a prisoner in her home to prevent him from taking out theDavidto try to blow up theWabash, she knew that she loved him.
When he had held her in his arms in that bold and successful effort to escape, when he had strained her to his breast, when he had kissed her—oh, that kiss!—the consciousness of her passion overwhelmed her. The recollection of it even filled her with passionate tenderness. She had not been afraid when he had threatened her with the pistol. She could have died easily then—in his arms, with his kiss upon her lips, his heart beating against her own. He loved her! Nothing else mattered for the moment.
She had endeavored to keep him a prisoner partly for his own sake, but principally for another and greater reason. She had not thought of disgrace or shame to him. It had all come so swiftly. She had no time to reflect at all. She had decided upon impulse, with but one thought at first—to save the Union ship. In her sudden alarm and anxiety she had not realized that she was playing a traitor's part. Or if she had, she had done it willingly, in the belief that the punishment would fall upon her, and that he would be held blameless.
But for whatever reason she had acted as she had, she had failed after all, for another had taken Sempland's part, and the flagship, if theDavidsucceeded, was doomed. Her sacrifice was unavailing. She had lost everything. Sempland had shrunk away from her when she had confronted him and the general on the wharf, and when she had recovered consciousness he was gone. She could not know his heart had gone out to her lying there, nor how they had hurried him away from her prostrate figure.
He would never forgive her—never! she thought miserably. He was under arrest now. What was that word she had caught as she ran toward them? Coward! They would kill him perhaps. She had lost all—love, the ship, everything! Lacy, too, was gone. He had taken the boat out in Sempland's place. Why had she not thought of that possibility? And he had loved her, and he would never come back.
With a misery akin to Sempland's she heard the bombardment which proclaimed that something had happened. Had the flagship been blown up? Nothing was left to her. She would go to the general and tell the truth in the morning, and then—he would be free. They could punish her and she could die. Well, death would be welcome.