A young officer, whose red face was rendered extremely conspicuous by the blue of his uniform, led the rush of his soldiers as they came tumbling gallantly into the hall.
“Up there, men!” he cried, catching instant sight of me, and pointing. “Get that Johnny with the girl.”
As they sprang eagerly forward over the dead bodies littering the floor at the foot of the stairs, Brennan scrambled unsteadily to his feet, and halted them with imperious gesture.
“Leave him alone!” he commanded. “That is the commander of the Confederate detachment who came to our aid. The guerillas have fled down the hallway, and are most of them outside by now. Wayne,” he turned and glanced up at us, his face instantly darkening at the tableau, “kindly assist the ladies to descend; we must get them out of this shambles.”
He lifted them one by one and with ceremonious politeness across the ghastly pile of dead and wounded men.
“Escort them to the library,” he suggested, as I hesitated. “That room will probably be found clear.”
I was somewhat surprised that Brennan should not have come personally to the aid of his wife, but as he ignored her presence utterly, I at once offered her my arm, and silently led the way to the room designated, the others following as best they might. The apartment was unoccupied, exhibiting no signs of the late struggle, and I found comfortable resting places for all. Miss Minor was yet sobbing softly, her face hidden upon her mother's shoulder, and I felt constrained to speak with her.
“I shall go at once” I said kindly, “to ascertain all I can regarding Lieutenant Caton, and will bring you word.”
She thanked me with a glance of her dark eyes clouded with tears, but as I turned hastily away to execute this errand, Mrs. Brennan laid restraining hand upon my arm.
“Captain Wayne,” she said with much seriousness, “you are very unselfish, but you must not go until your own wounds have been attended to; they may be far more serious than you apprehend.”
“My wounds?” I almost laughed at the gravity of her face, for although exhausted, I was unconscious of any injury. “They must be trivial indeed, for I was not even aware I had any.”
“But you have!” she insisted, her eyes full upon me. “Your hair is fairly clotted with blood, while your shoulder is torn and bruised until it is horrible to look upon.”
As I gazed at her, surprised by the anxiety she so openly displayed, I chanced to behold myself reflected within a large mirror directly across the room. One glance was sufficient to convince me her words were fully justified. My remains of uniform literally clung to me in rags, my bare shoulder looked a contused mass of battered flesh, my hair was matted, and my face blackened by powder stains and streaked with blood.
“I certainly do appear disreputable enough,” I admitted; “but I can assure you it is nothing sufficiently serious to require immediate attention. Indeed a little water is probably all I need. Besides, why should I care—was it not all received for your sake?”
I spoke the pronoun so strongly she could not well ignore my obvious meaning, nor did she endeavor to escape the inference. Her face, yet white from the strain of the past few hours, became rosy in an instant, and her eyes fell.
“I know,” she answered softly. “Perhaps that may be why I am so exceedingly anxious your injuries should be attended to.”
As I stepped without, and closed the door behind me, I was at once startled by the rapid firing of shots from the rear of the house, and the next moment I encountered the young, red-faced officer hurrying along the hallway at the head of a squad of Federal cavalrymen. Recognizing me in the gloom of the passage he paused suddenly.
“I owe you a belated apology, Captain,” he exclaimed cordially, “for having mistaken you for one of those miscreants, but really your appearance was not flattering.”
“Having viewed myself since within a mirror,” I replied, “I am prepared to acknowledge the mistake a most natural one. However, I am grateful to be out of the scrape, and can scarcely find fault with my rescuers. Five minutes more would have witnessed the end.”
“We rode hard,” he said, “and were in saddle within fifteen minutes after the arrival of your courier. You evidently made a hard fight of it; the house bears testimony to a terrible struggle. We are rejoicing to learn that Lieutenant Caton was merely stunned; we believed him dead at first, and he is far too fine a fellow to go in that way.”
“He is truly living, then?” I exclaimed, greatly relieved. “Miss Minor, to whom he is engaged, is sorrowing over his possible fate in the library yonder. Could not two of your men assist him to her? She would do more to hasten his recovery than any one.”
“Certainly,” was the instant response. “Haines, you and McDonald get the officer out of the front room; carry him in there where the ladies are, and then rejoin us.”
His face darkened as the men designated departed on their errand.
“I really require all the force I possess,” he said doubtfully. “It seems impossible to dislodge those rascals back yonder. What we need is a field howitzer.”
“I have been wondering at the firing; pretty lively, isn't it? Have some of those fellows made a stand?”
“Yes; quite a crowd of them have succeeded in barricading themselves in the kitchen, and it is so arranged as to prove an exceedingly awkward place to attack. We have had three men hit already, in spite of every precaution, and I am seeking now to discover some means of forcing their position from the hall. Their leader appears to be a bullet-headed Dutchman about as easy to manage as a mule.”
The words aroused me to a possibility.
“A Dutchman, you say? and in the kitchen? Have you had sight of the fellow?”
“Merely a glimpse, and that over a rifle-barrel. He has a round, dull face, with a big flat nose.”
“That idiot is my sergeant, Lieutenant, and supposes he is still fighting guerillas.”
The Lieutenant looked at me in surprise, then burst into a peal of laughter. “Well, if that is true,” he cried, “I most sincerely hope you will call him off before he succeeds in cleaning out our entire troop.”
I started down the hallway toward the point of firing. There was a sharp jog in the wall leading to the kitchen door, and as I approached it some soldiers stationed there warned me to be careful.
“They're perfect devils to shoot, sir,” said one respectfully, “an' the Dutchman fetches his man every time.”
“Oh, it will be all right, boys,” I replied confidently. “He'll know me.”
Before me as I stepped forth was a double door of oak, the upper half partially open.
“Sergeant,” I cried, “come out; the fight is all over.”
For answer a bullet whizzed past me, chugging into the wall at my back, and I skipped around the corner with a celerity of movement which caused the fellows watching me to grin with delight.
“Find me a white cloth of some kind,” I demanded as soon as I reached cover, and now thoroughly angered. “We shall see if that wooden-headed old fool knows the meaning of a flag of truce.”
They succeeded in securing me a torn pillow-slip from somewhere, and sheltering my body as best I might behind the wall angle I waved it violently in full view of the kitchen door. For a few moments it remained apparently unnoted, and then Ebers's round, placid countenance looked suspiciously through the slight aperture.
“Did you give op?” he questioned anxiously.
“Give up nothing,” I retorted, my temper thoroughly exhausted. “Come out of that! You are firing on your own friends.”
He put his fat fingers to his nose and wiggled them derisively.
“Dot is too thin,” he said meaningly. “You dink me von ol' fool, but I show you. By Chiminy, I want no friends—you shoot me der ear off, and I fights mit you good and blenty. Der is dings to eat in der bantry, and you be damned.”
He drew back, leaving merely the black muzzle of his gun projecting across the top of the lower door.
“Ebers,” I called out at the top of my voice, “unless you obey my orders I'LL have you strung up by your own men. Open that door!”
The fat, puzzled face peered once more cautiously over the menacing gun-barrel.
“Is dot you, Captain?”
“Yes, come out; the fight is all over.”
“No, vos it?” and he flung open the lower half of the door. “Veil, I vos not sorry. Have ve vipped dem already?”
“Yes, it's all done with. Take your men out of there, and go into camp somewhere in the yard. Seek out our wounded and attend to them as soon as possible. Are your men hungry?”
“Veil, maybe dey vos not quite full, but dere is a ham in der bantry dot vould pe bretty good mit der stomach.”
“Take it along with you; only hurry up, and attend at once to what I have told you.”
I watched closely until they had all passed out, and then turned to the highly amused Federal lieutenant.
“You surely have a character in that fellow,” he said good-humoredly, “and I can bear witness he is a fighter when the time comes.”
I left them, remembering then my own need. By using the back stairway I avoided unpleasant contact with the traces of conflict yet visible at the front of the house, and finally discovered a bathroom which afforded facilities for cleansing my flesh wounds and making my general appearance more presentable. I found I could do little to improve the condition of my clothing, but after making such changes for the better as were possible, soaking the clotted blood from out my hair, and washing the powder stains from my face, I felt I should no longer prove an object of aversion even to the critical eyes of the women, who would fully realize the cause for my torn and begrimed uniform.
A glance from the window told me the Federal cavalrymen were bearing out the dead and depositing them beyond view of the house in the deserted negro cabins. Ebers and one or two of my own men were standing near, carefully scanning the uncovered faces as they were borne past, while scraps of conversation overheard brought the information that the long dining-room where I had passed the night on guard had been converted into a temporary hospital.
Irresolute as to my next action, I passed out into the upper hall. It was deserted and strangely silent, seemingly far removed from all those terrible scenes so lately enacted in the rooms beneath. My head by this time throbbed with pain; I desired to be alone, to think, to map out my future course before proceeding down the stairs to meet the others. With this in view I sank down in complete weariness upon a convenient settee. I could hear the sound of muffled voices below, while an occasional order was spoken loud enough to reach me; but I was utterly alone, and my thoughts wandered, as though the strain of the past few hours had completely wrecked all my mental faculties. It was Edith Brennan—Edith Brennan—who remained constantly before me, and wherever my eyes wandered they beheld the same fail-face, which tantalized me by its presence and mocked me in every resolve I sought to form. There was no safety for me—and none for her, as I now verily believed—save in my immediate departure. We could be together no longer without my unlocking sealed lips and giving utterance to words she could not listen to, words she must never hear. I was yet struggling to force this decision into action when complete fatigue overcame me. My heavy head sank back upon the arm of the settee, and deep sleep closed my eyes.
It was in my dreams I felt it first,—a light, moist touch upon my burning forehead,—and I imagined I was a child once more, back at the old home, caressed by the soft hand of my mother. But as consciousness slowly returned I began to realize dimly where I was, and that I was no longer alone. A gentle hand was stroking back the hair from off my temples, while the barest uplift of my eyelids revealed the folds of a dark blue skirt pressed close to my side. Instantly I realized who must be the wearer, and remained motionless until I could better control my first unwise impulse.
She spoke no word, and I cautiously opened my eyes and glanced up into her face. For a time she remained unaware of my awakening, and sat there silently stroking my forehead, her gaze fixed musingly upon the window at the farther end of the hall. Doubtless she had been sitting thus for some time, and had become absorbed in her own reflections, for I lay there drinking in her beauty for several moments before she chanced to glance downward and observe that I was awake. The evidences of past exposure and strain were not absent from her features, yet had not robbed her of that delicate charm which to my mind separated her so widely from all others,—her rounded cheek yet retained the fresh hue of perfect health, her clear, thoughtful eyes were soft and earnest, while the luxuriant hair, swept back from off the broad, low forehead, had been tastefully arranged and exhibited no signs of neglect. It was not a perfect face, for there was unmistakable pride in it, nor would I venture to term it faultless in contour or regularity of outline, but it was distinctly lovable, and the dearest face for ever in all this world to me. How regally was the proud head poised upon the round, swelling throat, and with what regularity her bosom rose and fell to her soft breathing. I think the very intensity of my gaze awakened her from reverie, for she turned almost with a start and looked down upon me. As our eyes met, a warm wave of color dyed her throat and cheeks crimson.
“Why,” she exclaimed in momentary confusion, “I supposed I should know before you awoke, and have ample time to escape unobserved.”
“Possibly if you had been noting the symptoms of your patient with greater care, you would.”
“True, I was dreaming,” she admitted, “and had almost forgotten where I was.”
“Could I purchase your dream? I was intently studying your face as you sat there, yet was unable to determine whether your reflections were pleasant or unpleasant.”
“They were merely foolish,” was the frank response, “but such as they were they are certainly not for sale. You are better, Captain Wayne?”
“How could I fail to be better with so delightful a nurse? I confess I am tempted to say no, so as to regain the soft touch of your palm upon my temple; but it was really nothing more serious than fatigue that had overcome me. I scarcely know how I chanced to fall asleep. I merely sat down here for a rest; it was very quiet, and that was the last I remember. Have I been lying here long?”
“There is a rule of evidence, I believe, which protects a suspected person from incriminating himself, but I will acknowledge that I have been here all of half an hour,” she answered, too proud to deny her part. “The people below were wondering where you could have gone, and I undertook a search upon my own account. Yes, sir,” somewhat archly, “I was afraid lest your injuries were more serious than you believed them to be. I discovered you lying here. You were resting very uncomfortably when I first came, and I felt it my duty to render your position as easy as possible. I did not forget that your fatigue came in our defence.”
“Could you not say in yours?” I corrected. “But I have already been more than repaid. Your hand upon my brow was far more restful than I can tell you—its soft stroking mingled in my dreams even before I awoke. It brought back to me the thought of my mother. I do not think I have had a woman's hand press back my hair since I was a child.”
Her eyes fell slightly, and she moved uneasily.
“There was a look of pain upon your face as you lay sleeping, and I thought it might ease you somewhat. I have had some experience as a nurse, you know,” she explained quietly. “You mentioned your mother; is she yet living?”
“She is in Richmond, stopping with friends, but since my capture we have lost all trace of each other. I was reported as having been killed in action, and I doubt if she even yet knows the truth. Everything is so confused in the capital that it is impossible to trace any one not directly connected with the army, once you lose exact knowledge of their whereabouts.”
“Your father, then, is dead?”
“He yielded his life the first year of the war; and our plantation near Charlottesville has been constantly in the track of the armies. One rather important battle, indeed, was fought upon it, so you may realize that it is now desolate, and utterly unfit for habitation.”
“The house yet stands?”
“The chimney and one wall alone remained when I was last there,” I replied, glad of the interest she exhibited. “Fortunately two of the negro cabins were yet standing. Doubtless these will form the nucleus of our home when the war ceases; they will prove a trifle better than the mere sky.”
“The South is certainly paying a terrible price for rebellion,” she said soberly, her fine eyes filled with tears. “Only those of us who have beheld some portion of the sacrifice can ever realize how complete it is.”
“The uselessness of it is what makes it seem now so unutterably sad.”
“Yes,” she assented, “and this the South is beginning to understand. But I cannot help thinking of the joy awaiting your mother when she learns that you are well, after she has mourned you as dead. It will almost repay her for all the rest. How I should love to be the bearer of such news.”
As she spoke she quietly rose to her feet and smiled pleasantly as I took advantage of the opportunity to sit up.
“I thought you must be tired, lying in that position so long; besides, I am sure I have tarried here quite as long as I should, now that I can be of no further service.”
As she gathered her skirts in her hand preparatory to descending the stairs, I yielded to temptation and stopped her. Right or wrong I must yet have one word more.
“I beg of you do not desert me so soon. This may prove our final meeting,—indeed, I fear it must be; surely, then, it need not be so brief a one?”
She paused irresolute, one white hand resting upon the dark stair-rail, her face turned partially aside so I could only guess at its expression.
“Our final meeting?”
She echoed my words as though scarcely comprehending their meaning.
“Yes,” I said, rising and standing before her. “How can we well hope it shall be otherwise? I am not free to remain here, even were it best for other reasons, for I am a soldier under orders. You undoubtedly will proceed North at the earliest possible moment. There is scarcely a probability that in the great wide world we shall meet again.”
“The war will soon be over; perhaps then you may come North also.”
“I scarcely expect to do so. My work then will be to join with my comrades in an effort to rebuild the shattered fortunes of Virginia. When the lines of lives diverge so widely as ours must, the chances are indeed few that they ever meet again.”
“Yes; yet we are free agents.”
“Not always, nor under all circumstances—there are outside influences which cannot be ignored.”
Her head was bowed slightly, but she lifted it now, and I dreamed I saw unshed tears in her eyes.
“But surely you can remain here until we leave?” she questioned, evidently striving not to reveal the depth of interest she felt in the decision. “It will not be until to-morrow that all details are arranged so as to permit of our departure. I had supposed you would certainly be with us until then.”
“Mrs. Brennan!” I exclaimed almost passionately, “do not tempt me! Your wish is a temptation most difficult to resist.”
“Why resist, then?”
She did not look at me, but stood twisting a handkerchief nervously through her fingers. The abrupt question startled me almost into full confession, but fortunately my eyes chanced to fall upon her wedding-ring, and instantly I crushed the mad words back into my throat.
“Because it is right,” I replied slowly, feeling each sentence as a death-blow. “For me to remain can mean only one thing. For that I am ready enough, if I thought you desired it, but I dare not choose such a course myself.”
“You speak in riddles. What is the one thing?”
“A personal meeting with Major Brennan.”
The high color deserted her cheeks, and her eyes met mine in sudden inquiry. “Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed with energy. “You and Frank must never meet in that way. You mean a duel?”
I bowed gravely. “I can assure you I earnestly desire to avoid it for your sake, but am aware of no possibility of escape except through my immediate departure.”
“There has been no challenge then?”
“Not formally, yet almost an equivalent—I was permitted to aid in defence of this house only by pledging myself to Major Brennan afterwards.”
“But why need it be—at least now that you have stood together as comrades?”
“I fear,” I said quietly, “that fact will not count for much. We both fought inspired by your presence.”
“Mine!” I hardly knew how to interpret her tone.
“Certainly; you cannot be ignorant that Major Brennan's dislike is based upon your friendship for me.”
“But there is no reason,” she stammered. “He has no cause—”
“His reason I must leave him to explain,” I interrupted, to relieve her evident embarrassment. “His words, however, were extremely explicit; and to ignore them by departure is to imperil my own reputation in both armies. I would do so for no one else in the world but you.”
Her reception of this almost open avowal surprised me. For an instant she remained motionless, her eyes lowered upon the carpet, a flush on either cheek; then they were frankly lifted to mine, and she extended both hands.
“How can I ever thank you?” she asked gravely. “Captain Wayne, you make me trust you utterly, and place me constantly in your debt.”
Her words and manner combined to make me realize the depth of her feeling. But what did they really betoken? Was it merely thankfulness at her husband's escape from peril, or a personal devotion toward myself? I could not determine, but might only venture to believe the first more probable.
“Then you realize that I am right?”
“Yes,” slowly, but making no effort to release her hands. “Yet is no other escape possible?”
“None within my knowledge.”
“And you must go?”
“I must go—unless you bid me stay.”
“Oh, I cannot; I cannot at such a cost!” she cried, and I could feel her body tremble with the intensity of her emotion. “But, Captain Wayne, our friendship surely need not be severed now for ever? I cannot bear to think that it should be. I am no cold, heartless ingrate, and shall never forget what you have done to serve me. I value every sacrifice you have made on my behalf. Let us indeed part now if, as you say, it must be so; yet surely there are happier days in store for both of us—days when the men of this nation will not wear different uniforms and deem it manly to fight and kill each other.”
“The great struggle will certainly cease, possibly within a very few weeks,” I answered, greatly moved by her earnestness, “but I fear the men engaged in it will remain much the same in their natures however they may dress. I can only say this: Were the path clear I would surely find you, no matter where you were hidden.”
She bowed her head against the post of the stair-rail and sobbed silently. I stood without speaking, knowing nothing I could hope to say which would in the least comfort her, for in my own heart abode the same dull despair. At last she looked up, making not the slightest attempt to disguise her emotion.
“How terrible it is that a woman must ever choose between such evils,” she said almost bitterly. “The heart says one thing and duty another all through life, it seems to me. I have seen so much of suffering in these last few months, so much of heartless cruelty, that I cannot bear to be the cause of any more. You and Major Brennan must not meet; but, Captain Wayne, I will not believe that we are to part thus for ever.”
“Do you mean that I am to seek you when the war closes?”
“There will be no time when I shall not most gladly welcome you.”
“Your home?” I asked, wondering still if she could mean all that her words implied. “I have never known where you resided in the North.”
“Stonington, Connecticut.” She smiled at me through the tears yet clinging to her long lashes. “You may never come, of course, yet I shall always feel now that perhaps you will; and that is not like a final good-bye, is it?”
I bowed above the hands I held, and pressed my lips upon them. For the moment I durst not speak, and then—a voice suddenly sounded in the hall below:
“I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Minor; she is probably lying down. I will run up and call her.”
We started as if rudely awakened from a dream, while a sudden expression of fright swept across her face.
“Oh, do not meet him,” she begged piteously. “For my sake do not remain here.”
“I will go down the back stairway,” I returned hastily, “but do you indeed mean it? may I come to you?”
“Yes, yes; but pray go now!”
Unable longer to restrain myself, I clasped her to me, held her for one brief instant strained to my breast, kissed her twice upon lips which had no opportunity for refusal.
“This world is not so wide but that somewhere in it I shall again find the one woman of my heart,” I whispered passionately, and was gone.
I remembered as I hurried down the back stairway her flushed face, but could recall no look of indignant pride in those clear eyes whose pleasant memory haunted me. She loved me; of this I now felt doubly assured, and the knowledge made my heart light, even while I dreaded the consequences to us both. To have won was much, even although hope of possession did not accompany the winning. Neither of us might ever again blot out those passionate words of love, nor forget the glad meeting of our lips.
I stepped out into the kitchen and came to a sudden pause, facing a table laden with such a variety and abundance of food as had been strange to me for many a long day. Directly opposite, a napkin tucked beneath his double chin, his plate piled high with good things, sat Ebers, while at either end I beheld Mr. and Mrs. Bungay similarly situated. The astonishment of our meeting seemed mutual. The Sergeant, apparently feeling the necessity of explanation, wiped his mouth soberly.
“I vos yoost goin' to fill me op mit der dings like a good soldier, Captain,” he said in anxiety.
“So I perceive,” I answered, my own spirits high. “The long night of fasting must have left quite a vacancy.”
“I vos like a cistern in mein insides, by Chiminy.”
“No doubt; well, I am rather hungry myself. Mrs. Bungay, in memory of old times cannot you spare me a plate? If so, I will take pleasure in joining your happy company. Thank you. I see you have found your man.”
She glared down the table, and the little fellow visibly shrank.
“I have thet, sir,” she answered grimly, “an' I reckon as how he's likely ter stay et hum arter this.”
“But you forget he is my guide,” I protested, not disinclined to test her temper. “Surely, Mrs. Bungay, you would not deprive the South of his valuable service?”
“An' wouldn't I, now? An' didn't thet little whiffit promise me long afore he ever did you uns? Ain't he my nat'ral pertecter? Whut's a lone female a goin' ter dew yere in ther mountings wi'out no man?” Her eyes flashed angrily at me. “Suah, an' if it's jist fightin' as he wants so bad I reckon as how he kin git it et hum wi'out goin' ter no war—anyhow ye kin bet I don't give him up, now I got my hand on him agin, fer ther whole kit an' caboodle of ye. He bean't much ter look et, likely, but he 's my man, an' I reckon as how ther Lord giv' him ter me ter take keer of.”
“Really, Mrs. Bungay,” I insisted, “of course it will prove exceedingly disagreeable to me, and I shall greatly regret being compelled to do anything of the kind, but it is undoubtedly my duty to place Jed under guard and carry him back to camp with me.”
“But suah, an' ye won't, Captain dear?” she pleaded, entirely changing her tone. “Whut good is thet little whiffit ter you uns? There's never so much as a decent fight in him thet I've found in twenty years. Maybe ye think as how I'm jist a bit hard on him; but he's thet gay at times thet he drives me fair crazy. Every lick I ever give him wus fer his own good. Suah now, an' ye never would run off with my man?”
“Come, Jed, what do you say? Are you tired fighting the battles of the Confederacy, and prefer those of home?”
“'Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart,Ellen and I will seek, apart,The refuge of some forest cell,There like the hunted quarry dwell,Till on the mountain and the moor,The stern pursuit be passed and o'er,'”
he quoted humbly. “I like ter read all 'bout fightin' well 'nough, but durn it, Cap, it kinder hurts whin they hits ye on ther head with a gun.” His face lit up suddenly. “'Sides, I sorter wanter hev Mariar git 'quainted with thet thar muel o' mine, Beelzebub.”
“But you've lost him.”
“Nary a durn loss; ye jist can't lose thet muel, he's too blame ornary. He's out thar now, hitched ter a tree, an' a eatin' fit ter bust his biler—never a durn mark on his hide fer all he wint through.”
“Well, I suppose I shall be compelled to let you and Beelzebub go, but it will prove a serious loss to the cause of the South,” I said, my thoughts instantly turned by mention of the mule to matters of more importance. “I expect there will be lively times up your way.”
“Ye kin jist bet thar will,” enthusiastically. “It'll be nip an' tuck, I reckon, but I 'm mighty hopeful o' Mariar. Thet dern muel he needs ter be took down a peg.”
Ebers was eating all this time with an eagerness which plainly exhibited his fear lest I should call him to halt before he had entirely filled the aching void in his interior department. I could not fail to note the deep anxiety in his eyes as he watched me furtively.
“Sergeant,” I said, and he started perceptibly.
“I vos not yet done, Captain,” he implored. “Mein Gott, but I vos so hongry as never vos.”
“Oh, eat all you please; I merely wished to question you a little. Did you send out a party to bring in our horses and the sabres?”
“It vos all done already; der horses vos found und der swords. Yaw, I see to all dot; but I vos hongry, und vaited here to fill me op.”
“How many men have we lost?”
He checked them off on the tines of his fork, occasionally pausing to take a bite from the meat held in his other hand.
“Der vos five kilt, Captain; dot vos it. I vos hit mit der ear off, und vos hongry as never vos; Sands is goin' to die, und maybe Elliott vill not get some better; some odders vos hurted, und der guide vos took brisoner.”
“Taken prisoner?”
“Dot is it, Captain; by Chiminy, he vos took by der ear by his voman und led in der house. Vot you calls dot, if he vos not brisoner, hay?”
“Why, she is his wife.”
“Veil, dot may be, too,” he insisted stoutly. “His frau, yaw, dot is it, but by Chiminy, he fights mit her yoost der same, und vos brisoner; und I vos vounded mit der ear off, und vos hongry as never vos.”
“How many men does that leave us fit for duty?” I asked decisively, pushing back my plate and rising from the table.
He counted them up with painful slowness, speaking each name deliberately, as if calling the roll.
“Dere vos twelve, Captain, mit me, but I am not fit for duty widout I eat somedings first.”
“That will do,” I said peremptorily. “You can have fifteen minutes more to complete filling up. In half an hour from now have the men ready for the road.”
“But, Captain,” he protested, “I vould rattle so mit my insides, by Chiminy, dot der horse vould scare.”
“Do exactly as I say, and no more words, Sergeant,” and I turned and left the room.
We must depart, and at once. More than ever now I realized the necessity for haste. I hoped to meet the officer commanding the Federal detachment who had come to our aid, pay him the customary marks of respect, and get away without again coming in contact with Major Brennan. I felt myself pledged to this course of action.
A sentry stationed in the lower hallway informed me the officers were messing together in the front parlor, and I at once headed that way. I paused, however, to visit the wounded for a moment, spoke cheerily to my own men, and then, opening the door quietly, entered the room which I had last left in possession of the guerillas. With the exception of broken windows and bullet-scarred walls little evidence remained of that contest which had raged here with such fury but a few hours previously. There were numerous dark stains upon the carpet, but much of the furniture had been restored to place, while a cheerful wood fire crackled in the open grate. Before it three men were sitting smoking, while upon a small table close at their elbows rested a flat bottle, flanked by several glasses. A single glance sufficed to tell me they were Federal cavalrymen, one being the red-faced lieutenant whom I had already met.
“I am seeking the commander of this detachment,” I explained, as they glanced up in surprise at my entrance unannounced. “I am Captain Wayne, in charge of the Confederate troop which was engaged in defence of this house.”
A portly man with a strong face, and wearing a closely clipped gray beard, arose from a comfortable armchair and advanced with hand extended.
“I am Captain Moorehouse, in command,” he answered cordially, “and am very glad to meet you. Will you not join with us? My second lieutenant, who has positive genius in that line, has unearthed a few bottles of rather choice whiskey which we will divide most gladly.”
“I thank you,” I replied, anxious to meet him as pleasantly as possible, “but I am eager to get away upon my duty as early as may be, and have merely intruded upon you to explain my purpose.”
“Nonsense,” he insisted. “Duty is never quite so urgent as to require a waste of good liquor. Captain Wayne, permit me to present my officers—Lieutenants Warren and Starr, Second New Hampshire Cavalry. If by any luck you were at Gettysburg, you have met before.”
I smiled and accepted the glass held out to me.
“I was certainly there,” I replied in the same spirit with which he had spoken, “and now you recall it, retain a most vivid recollection of meeting several Federal cavalrymen on that occasion, but believe I did not linger to ascertain the number of their regiment. My curiosity was completely satisfied before I reached that point. However, I am far better pleased to renew the acquaintance in this manner.”
The ice broken, we continued to converse freely for several minutes regarding incidents of the war, and I described the peculiar conditions which had brought me to the relief of Brennan's party. Under other circumstances I should have greatly enjoyed this exchange of reminiscences, but the constant haunting fear of the Major's possible entrance at any moment rendered me extremely uneasy, and anxious to be away. Undoubtedly this feeling exhibited itself in my manner, for Captain Moorehouse said finally:
“I realize your natural anxiety to be off, Captain Wayne, and while we should be very glad to keep you with us indefinitely, yet I trust you will feel perfectly free in the matter.”
“I thank you greatly,” I answered, rising as I spoke. “My duty is of such a nature, and has already been so long neglected, that I feel every moment of unnecessary delay to be a crime. I wish you a pleasant return within your own lines, and an early cessation of hostilities.”
I had shaken hands with them all, and turned toward the door, congratulating myself on escaping thus easily, when a new voice broke suddenly in upon my self-satisfaction:
“I trust Captain Wayne is not intending to depart without at least a word with me?”
It was Brennan. He had entered unobserved from the second parlor, and now stood leaning with an almost insolent assumption of languor against the sliding door, his eyes fastened upon me.
“Frankly,” I responded, “I had hoped I might.”
His brows contracted into a frown of anger that seemed to darken his entire face.
“Have you forgotten, then, our compact, or do you simply elect to ignore it?”
I saw the others exchange quick glances of amazement, but I answered coolly:
“The latter supposition is more nearly the truth, Major Brennan. I felt that after what we have just passed through together we could both afford to ignore the past, and consequently was hoping to escape without again encountering you.”
“Indeed!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “But I might have expected it. Gentlemen,” and he turned toward the expectant group, “this man and I have a personal grievance of long standing unsettled. I have sought him for months in vain. When he came last night to our assistance, before I even consented to accept his services I insisted that no occurrence of the defence should prevent our meeting if we both survived. Now he endeavors to sneak away like a whipped cur. I demand satisfaction at his hands, and if it is refused I shall denounce him in both armies.”
My cheeks burned, but before I could control myself sufficiently for answer Moorehouse spoke.
“But, Brennan, see here,” he said anxiously, “surely Captain Wayne has served you well. Is this trouble between you so serious that no amends are possible?”
“None, short of a personal meeting.”
“Captain,” and the perplexed Federal commander, turned toward me, “have you any word of explanation in this unfortunate affair?”
“Very little,” I answered. “I am not even aware that I have done injury to Major Brennan, purposely or otherwise. He has not so much as honored me with information as to his cause for complaint. However, I care very little what it may be. As he has seen fit to denounce me before officers of my own corps, I should be extremely glad to meet him upon that ground alone; but after what we have just passed through together, I felt ready to blot out these past differences. Whatever they may have been, they are not liable to occur again, nor we to meet.”
“They have occurred again since you have been in this house!” Brennan broke forth excitedly. “You are not a coward, but I brand you here and now as sneak and liar! Now will you fight?”
We stood for a moment in utter silence, eye to eye, and I knew there was no help for it. These words, publicly spoken, left me no choice.
“I am at your service, Major Brennan,” I returned sternly, “now, or at any time. But I am unfortunate here in having no officer of my army present, and hence can name no second.”
“Doubtless one of these gentlemen will consent to serve,” he said, his face brightening at my rejoinder.
There was a moment of hesitation, natural enough, for they could scarcely feel like pitting themselves against a brother officer in a quarrel the merits of which were so obscure. I was about to speak, volunteering to stand alone, when some one hastily pushed a way to the front, and Lieutenant Caton, pale but determined, stood at my shoulder.
“It will afford me pleasure to act for Captain Wayne,” he said clearly, “if he will accept my services. Moreover,” he added, with a significant glance at Brennan, “I do this as a friend, and with full confidence that I am upon the right side in the quarrel.”
For a moment no one spoke, Brennan biting his moustache to keep back words he durst not utter. Then Caton turned to me.
“If you will retire to the library, Wayne, I will arrange this matter with whoever may represent Major Brennan.”
With a slight formal bow to those present I quitted the room.