4(return)Census of 1885.
After the greetings were over, Elizabeth, looking at Stephen Archdale, realized fully the difficulties of her task. She was to go through with it alone she perceived, for her father had turned away and taken up a spyglass that had been brought him at the moment, and was absorbed in looking through it at the new fascine battery. Evidently he expected her to give Captain Archdale the history of the facts and conclusions that had brought her father and herself to Louisburg. As she looked at the young man in his strength, she felt more than ever the necessity for speaking. He knew well enough that Mr. Edmonson hated him, and that was necessary to be known. And yet, speech was hard, for even though he could never imagine Edmonson's contemptible insinuations, still before he believed in his own danger he might have to learn his enemy's foiled purpose toward herself; and to be sought for her fortune was not a thing that Elizabeth felt proud of. Her head drooped a little as the young man stood watching her, and the color began to come into her face. Then the courage that was in her, and the power that she had of rising above petty considerations into grandeur, came upon her like an access of physical strength. The strong necessity filled her, and the thought that she might be bringing life where she had almost brought death, at least death of joy, lighted her face. Still she hesitated for a moment, but it was only to study how she should begin. Shall she give him Katie's letter at once, and in her name warn him to take care of the life that was of so much value to his betrothed? No, for with Katie's letter in his hand, he could not listen carefully to Elizabeth's words, he could think only of what was within. His thoughts would refuse to have to do with danger; they would be busy with joy. That must wait.
"We have come here, my father and I," she began, "to say one word to you, Captain Archdale. We talked it over, and we saw no other way."
"You are pale," cried Stephen suddenly. "You must be very tired. Let us sit down here while you tell me." And he pointed to a coil of rope at hand. But she shook her head.
"I am not tired, thank you; I am disappointed that I can't go back immediately, that I must wait until to-morrow, when the dispatches will be ready."
"You need not," he cried. "The General shall let you go if you wish it. I will insist upon it. The dispatches can go some other way. If the Governorwants news in such haste, he would do better to send us some powder to make them out of. He was enough in a hurry to get us off, to give us something to do after we are here."
"I should think you had something to do," she said pointing to the battlements of Louisburg which at that distance and from that angle looked as if no shot had ever been fired against them. "But don't on any account speak to the General. We are glad to do even so little for the cause. And perhaps it's not that that makes me pale. I don't know. I have a warning hard to deliver to you. I have come hundreds of miles to do it. I will give it to you immediately, for you may need it at any moment." She drew closer to him, and laid one hand upon his arm as if to prevent his losing by any chance the words she had to say. Her gesture had an impressiveness that made him realize as much as her face did how terribly in earnest she was.
"It must be something about Katie," he thought. And the vision of Lord Bulchester rose before him clearly.
"Listen," said Elizabeth absorbed in her attempt to make him feel what she feared would seem incredible to him. "Stray shots have picked off many superfluous kings in the world—and men and the world not been the wiser. This is what some one said when the war was being talked of, said at your house, and said in speaking of you."
"Said it to you?" interposed Archdale with a quick breath.
"Oh, no, but about you, I am sure,sure, though it has taken me all this time to find it out. And,—oh, wait a moment,—the man who said it was your guest then, and he is here now, else we should not have come; he is here, perhaps he is close by you every day, and he,—he is meaning the shot for you." She waited a moment drawing a breath of relief that she had begun. "You know he is your enemy?" she went on with a longing to be spared explanations.
She was spared them.
"I do know it," said Archdale looking at her, and as she met his eyes a great relief swept over her. Her warning had been heard and believed, she was sure of that. She heard Archdale thanking her, and assuring her that he would give good heed to her warning. And she had not had to tell why Edmonson hated him, she had not even been obliged to utter the name that she was coming to hate. "Do you know?" she had asked wonderingly, and he had told it to her. Did he know the man so thoroughly, then? And were there other causes of hatred, possibly money causes, that had spared her?
She had told her listener more than she dreamed, far more than her words. She had stood before him in the noblest guise a human being can wear, that of a preserver from evil fate; she had looked at him out of holy depths in her clear eyes, she had turned upon him a face in which expression had marvellously brought out physical beauty. Also, in her unconsciousness that he knew the reason of his danger, she had looked at him with a wonder at his ready credulity before there had come her smile of relief that she need speak no more. He knew Edmonson's story, knew how this play at marriage between Elizabeth and himself had interfered with the other's plans, guessed the further truth, looked ather, and muttered under his breath:—"Poor fellow!" It was with his own eyes, and not another man's that Archdale saw Elizabeth. Yet, it was not in human nature that she should not seem the more interesting as she stood there, since he had learned his own life to be in danger because another man had found her so desirable, and so unapproachable. Watching Elizabeth, he acquitted Edmonson of mercenary motives, whatever they might once have been. His appreciation had no thought of appropriation in it. Katie was his love. But comprehension of Elizabeth made him glad that their mistake had saved her from Edmonson. And then again after a moment he muttered under his breath:—"Poor fellow!"
"You are very, very kind," he said to her.
"Don't think me rude," she answered with a smile. "But, you know we must have done this for any one. Only,"—and her voice became earnest again, "I was very grateful that the least thing came to me for you and Katie. I have not done with Katie yet" she added, "here is something that I have brought you from her." And she handed him a letter. "She gave me this as I was leaving," she said.
"Thank you," he said again, and holding it clasped in his hand, stood not looking at it, but as if he still had something to say. "Has Bulchester gone yet, Mistress Royal?" he asked abruptly at last.
"No. But I think that he must be very hard to send away, and Katie you know hates to say anything unkind. She doesn't see that it is the kindest way in the end. We shall not go until to-morrow, you know. If you have any letters, we shall be so glad to take them."
"Thank you once more." He stood still a moment. "The earl may be wise to stay on the field," he said. "I may be swept off conveniently. Yes, he is wise to wait and see what the fortunes of war will do for him."
"Oh! Mr. Archdale," cried Elizabeth, between indignation and tears at his want of faith. "How can you not trust her? Your letter that she was so eager to send will prove how wrong you are." Here Mr. Royal sauntered up, and the conversation turned upon the scene before them.
But in the midst of Archdale's description of one of their skirmishes a signal was given from the new battery. "They are signalling for me," he said. "My place is in command of those guns. I am sorry to leave my story half told, but I must go. I shall try to see you to-morrow." And with a hasty farewell he sprang into the boat. As he was rowed away, Elizabeth saw him put his hand into the pocket where he had slipped Katie's letter, and draw this out.
She sat down again in her favorite place on deck, laid her arms on the railing of the schooner and her face upon them. Now that her errand was done, she became aware that she was very tired. She sat so quiet that she seemed to be asleep. But she was only in a day-dream in which the thought of which she was most conscious was wonder that Archdale could doubt Katie. Had she not always been a coquette? And had she not always loved him? Yet Elizabeth wished that she could have said that Lord Bulchester had gone, wished that she could have seen Stephen Archdale's face brighten a little before he left them, perhaps forever; she had not forgotten the danger of his post. Nancy softly drewher chair close. But Elizabeth made no movement. She sat with her face still buried, thinking, remembering, longing to be at home again, counting the hours until they should probably sail.
Suddenly she started up. For there had come light that she saw through the dark folds that she had been pressing her eyes against. To her there was a sound as if the heavens were being rent, and she felt a trembling of the earth, as if it shook with terror at the spectacle. She stood a moment bewildered. It seemed as if the light never paled at all, but only changed its place sometimes; the roar was terrific, it never ceased, or lulled, and the water beneath them tossed and hissed in rage at its bed being so shaken. Nancy's hand sought her companion's with a reassuring pressure, for speech was impossible. But Elizabeth had only been unprepared. She recovered herself and smiled her thanks. Then she sat down again with her face toward the city and watched this cannonade, terrible to men grown grey in the service, as officers from the fleet bore witness, and to the enemy deadly.
For the fascine battery had opened fire.
At midnight General Pepperell sent for Archdale to detail him for special service the next day.
"Why! what's the matter?" he cried, looking at the young man as he came into the tent.
"Nothing, General Pepperell. I am quite ready for service," replied Stephen haughtily.
"Ah!—Yes. Glad of that," returned the General, and he went on to give his orders, watching the other's pale face as he did so, and reading there strong emotion of some kind.
When he was alone, and his dispatches had all been written, he sat musing for a time, as little disturbed by the glare and the thunder about him as if stillness were an unknown thing. His cogitations did not seem satisfactory, for he frowned more than once. "What's the matter with the fellow?" he muttered. "Something has gone wrong. I've seen an uneasiness for a long time. Now the blow has fallen. Poor fellow! he doesn't take life easy. The news is it, I wonder? or the letter?" He sat for a while carefully nursing his left knee, while his thoughts gradually went back to military matters, and worked there diligently. At last he straightened himself, clapped this same knee with vigor, put both feet to the ground and, rising, took up from his improvised table—a log turned endwise,—a paper upon which he made a note with a worn pencil from his pocket. "Yes," he cried, "I can do that. It's the only thing I can do. And I need it so much they will not mind." He finished by a smile. "Strange I hadn't thought of it before," he said.
Then he threw himself down upon his bed of boughs and moss, and with the terrific din about him slept the sleep of weariness. At sunrise, according to his directions, an orderly roused him.
Archdale had already gone with his reconnoitering party. His heart was bitter against the conditions of his life, and he felt that it would be no misfortune, perhaps quite the contrary, if Edmonson's plan were not interfered with. "It'sbeyond her comprehension," he said to himself. "How confident she was. What will she say when she knows?"
In the morning, Elizabeth standing beside her father turned a tired face toward the shore as she watched General Pepperell's approach. Sleep had been impossible to her in the strangeness and terror of her surroundings.
"You are very thoughtful to come to bid us good-bye," she said, giving him her hand as he stepped on board.
He smiled, and still holding it, asked after a moment's hesitation, "Should you be very much disappointed if I begged you not to return this morning?"
She certainly looked so for a moment, before she answered: "If it will help, if I can be of any use, I am ready to stay. Are there soldiers in the hospitals? Can we do anything for them, Nancy and I?"
He caught at the diversion readily. "The hospitals? Yes, I should be very glad, infinitely obliged to you, if you would pay them a visit. I've not a doubt that your suggestions would make the poor fellows more comfortable, and there are a number of new ones there this morning. I'm sorry to say our health record is discouraging. Not that I'm discouraged, but I want to put this business through as quickly as possible." Then he turned to Mr. Royal. "I must tell you both," he said, "that I came to you this morning bent upon purposes of destruction, (though, happily, not to yourselves,) and not purposes of health, except of saving lives by making the work as short as possible. I should like this schooner. I have an immediate use for it, and in two days, or, at the outside, three, I'm going to send to Boston. Will you permit me to take this as a fire-ship, and will you remain under my especial care until this other vessel sails?" He turned to Elizabeth as he spoke. "If you consent," he said to her, "I am quite sure your father will. It will be a great favor to me, and I hope to the cause, if you do. But I won't insist upon it. If you say so you shall go this morning."
Elizabeth glanced at her father, "But I don't say so," she answered. "I am compelled to stay if my father consents. It's not you that make me but a stronger power. You won't be offended if I call patriotism a stronger power?" And she smiled at him.
"Thank you, my dear," he said with a gravity which showed that she had touched him. "You shall not regret your sacrifice."
In the course of conversation he told Mr. Royal that Archdale had been sent off at dawn upon an exploring expedition. "I want to find out how near to us the Indians are," he said, "they are hanging about somewhere. You will not see him to-day."
That morning, Elizabeth was rowed ashore with Nancy, and under an escort they went to the hospitals; not for a visit of inspection, as it turned out, but as workers. Nancy had had experience in illness, and Elizabeth was an apt pupil. Before the day was over the poor fellows lying there felt a change. There were no luxuries to be had for them, but their beds were made a little softer with added moss and leaves, the relays of fresh water from the brook running through the encampment were increased. One dying man had closed his eyes in theconviction that the last words he had sent to his mother would reach her; he had watched Elizabeth write them down, and she had promised to put a lock of his hair into the letter. He was sure that she would do it, and he died happier for the thought. Altogether, in many ways the comfortless tents grew less comfortless, for Elizabeth interpreted literally the general's permission to do here what she chose. The eyes of the soldiers followed both women with delight, and one rugged fellow, a backwoods man, whose cheerfulness not even a broken leg and a great gash in his forehead could destroy, volunteered the statement: "By George! whether in peace or war we need our women." This was responded to by a cheer from the inmates of his tent. The demonstration was all the more touching, because its endeavor to be rousing was marred in the execution by the physical weakness of the cheerers.
They spent that night on shore. Elizabeth's tent was next her father's and a few rods from the general quarters. As Mr. Royal left her, she stood a moment at the swinging door of her strange room, and looked at the stars and at the scene so new to her on which they were shining. Then leaving it reluctantly, for it fascinated her, she laid down upon the woodland couch prepared for her, and was soon as soundly asleep as her maid near by, while around the tent patrolled the special guard set by General Pepperell.
The next day also was spent in the hospital. In the course of the afternoon, Nancy, looking over the Bay in a vain search for the schooner which had brought them, said; "I wonder how we really shall get home, and when?"
"As General Pepperell promised us," answered her mistress. "And probably we shall leave to-morrow. I expect to hear from him about it then. So does my father; he was speaking of it this morning."
They were right; the next day the General told them that the "Smithhurst" would sail that afternoon with prisoners of war from the "Vigilant," a captured French vessel. "She is one of the ships that Governor Shirley has sent for to guard the coast," he said to Elizabeth speaking of the "Smithhurst." "She goes to Boston first to report and discharge her prisoners. Be ready at four o'clock. If I can, I will take you to the vessel myself; but if that is impossible, everything is arranged for your comfort. Your father is at the battery, I have just left him there. He is undeniably fond of powder. I've told him about this." Elizabeth was in one of the hospital tents when Pepperell came to her with this news. She staid there with Nancy all the morning, and at noon when her father came and took her away for awhile to rest, she had an earnest talk with him upon some subject that left her grave and pleased.
After a time she went back to the hospitals again. At the last moment the General sent an escort with word that he had been detained. Just before this message arrived, Elizabeth called her maid aside.
"Nancy," she said, "you see how many of our soldiers are here, hundreds of them, almost thousands. They are fighting for our homes, even if the battle-ground is so far away. And see how many have been sent in, in the short time we have been here. Do you want to desert them? Tell me how you feel? Shall we go back to our comfortable home, and leave all this suffering behind us,when we might do our little to help? Shall we, Nancy? I have no right to insist upon your staying; but don't you think we ought to stay? and won't you stay with me?"
"Indeed I will," was the quick answer. "I hated to leave the poor fellows, but I did not see what else to do. The General won't like it one bit though. And your father, Mistress Elizabeth?"
"The General has no authority over me. I'm not one of his soldiers. And as to my father, it's all right with him."
Yet she felt very desolate when the ship which was to have carried them had gone with its companion vessel, and from the door of one of the hospital tents she stood watching the white sails in the distance. But it was not that resolution had failed her; for she would have made the same decision over again if she had been called upon at the moment.
As Elizabeth stood at the door of the hospital tent looking after the Smithhurst, General Pepperell came along, alone, in a brown study, his brows knit and his face troubled. For though the French ship-of-war, "Vigilant" had been captured, Louisburg had not, and every day was adding to the list of soldiers in the hospitals. But when he saw her, he stopped, and his expression, at first of surprise, changed to anger.
"What does this mean?" he said abruptly. "The ship has sailed. I sent you word in time."
"Yes," she answered.
"Then what does it mean?" he reiterated, "Why are you here?"
"It means," she returned, resenting the authority of his tone, "that when New England men are fighting and suffering and dying for their country, New England women have not learned how to leave them in their need, and sail away to happy homes. That's what it means, General Pepperell." As she spoke she saw Archdale behind the General; he had come up hastily as Pepperell stood there.
"Thought you were in a desperate hurry to be off," said Pepperell dryly.
Elizabeth blushed. She was convicted of changeableness, and she felt that she had been impatient. "Forgive me," she said. "So I was. But I did not realize then what I ought to do."
"Um! Where's your father?"
"Just gone out in the dispatch boat to the fleet."
"Does he know of this—this enterprise? Of course, though," he corrected himself, "since he has not sailed."
"Yes, of course," she said. "He stays with me. But," she added, "I suppose he expected me to ask you about it first."
"And you knew I wouldn't consent—hey?"
The girl smiled without speaking. "Mr. Royal is over-indulgent," he went on decidedly.
"Perhaps," answered Elizabeth, "He thinks that a little over-indulgence in being useful will not be bad for me. You assured both Nancy and me that we were doing good service, real service, and that you should be sorry to lose us."
"So you have done, and I shall be sorry to lose you, both personally and for the cause. Nevertheless, I shall send you home at once. Your father would never have consented to your staying if he had realized the danger. I never know where the shells will burst. I'll stop work upon that schooner that you came in, and send you home again in it. It's fitting up now as a fire-ship, but it can be made fairly comfortable. Your safety must be considered."
"Why is my safety of any more importance than the soldiers'? No, General, you have no right to send me away. I refuse to go. I am not speaking of military right, understand, but of moral right."
Pepperell gave a low whistle.
"That's it, is it?" he said. "One thing, however; if you stay, you must submit to my orders. You are under military law."
"I surely will. And now thank you," she returned with a smile so winning that, although for her own sake Pepperell had been angry, he relented.
"Oh, of course, it's very good in you, my dear," he said. "Don't think I forget that."
Capt. Archdale had been standing a little apart looking out to sea during a conversation in which he had no place. Now as he perceived the General about to move on, he came forward and spoke to Elizabeth. "You know that you are running a great risk?" he said to her gravely.
"Yes," she answered him, "or at least somewhat of a risk. When did you come back from your reconnoitering party?"
"The night before last," he said, not pursuing a subject that she did not wish to discuss with him. Elizabeth heard something hard in his voice, and saw a new sternness in his face that made her wonder suddenly if Katie's letter had lacked any kindness that Stephen deserved from her as he stood in the midst of danger and death. Could she have shown coquetry, or in any way teased him now?
"Well, good-by for the present, my dear, and Heaven keep you," said the General, giving her hand a cordial pressure. Archdale bowed, and the two went on, Pepperell at first full of praises of Elizabeth's courage, though he regretted her decision. But life and death hung upon his skill and promptness, and he had little time for thoughts of anything but his task. Henceforth he only took care that Mr. Royal and his daughter were as well protected, and as well cared for as circumstances permitted.
Yet, one evening soon afterward, he saw something which for the moment interested him very much. Elizabeth, with Nancy Foster who was now more companion than maid, was walking slowly toward her tent. Both were looking at the gorgeous sunset. Its brilliancy, vying with that of the deadly fireworks, offered a contrast all the more striking in its restfulness and happy promise. The two women had grown somewhat accustomed to the cannonade, and as they went on they seemed to be talking without noticing it. Just then a figure in captain'suniform came quickly up the slope toward them, and with a most respectful salute, stood bare-headed before Elizabeth.
"Edmonson," commented the General even before he caught sight of his face. "Nobody else has that perfection of manner. Stephen won't condescend to it. Edmonson is the most graceful fellow I know. And, upon honor, I believe he is the most graceless. But his theories can't harm that woman." Yet as Pepperell stood watching the young man's expression now that it was turned toward him, and understood by his gestures the eager flow of words that was greeting Elizabeth, he held his breath a moment with a new perception, muttered a little, and stood staring with the frown deepening on his face. He wanted to catch her answering look, but she had turned about in speaking and her back was toward him. In an impatient movement at this, he changed his own range of vision somewhat, and all at once caught sight of another face, also bent upon Elizabeth with eager curiosity to catch her expression. Pepperell turned away delighted. "After all, he's not too much of a grand seigneur to have a little human curiosity," he chuckled, watching the new figure. "Yes, we'll do very well to go on a reconnoitering expedition together, you and I, Captain Archdale!" And he laughed to himself as he slipped quietly away, without having been perceived. "More news to write to pretty Mistress Katie," he commented, still full of amusement. Then his thoughts went back again to the problem that was growing daily more perplexing. And as he was again becoming absorbed in it, he was conscious of an undercurrent of wonder that he could ever have laughed. The thing next to be done was to make an attack up Island Battery, the one most serviceable to the enemy, most annoying to themselves. So long as that belched forth its fires against them, Warren's fleet must remain outside, and there could be no combined attack upon the city, and Louisburg was still unconquerable. Any day might bring a French fleet to its rescue, and then the game was up. Beyond question, Island Battery must be attacked, but it was a difficult and dangerous attempt, and Pepperell sat with his head upon his hand, thinking of the men that must fall even if it were successful. Still, every day now some among the soldiers were smitten down by disease and the French ships were nearer. It was only a question of sacrificing a part of his army or the whole of it. Warren was right to urge the measure, and it must be pressed upon his Council. But Pepperell felt as if he were being asked to sign a hundred death-warrants.
It was not quite time for the members of his Council to assemble. He went to the nearest battery where the firing was hottest, sighted the direction of the guns, examined the state of the city walls where these had been played upon by them, cheered the gunners with his praise, even jested with one of them, and left the men more full of confidence in him, more desirous than ever to please him, and, if possible, more resolved to win the day. Not a trace of anxiety in his face or his tones had betrayed the weight that was upon him. Then he went back to his tent. The Council had assembled. When he took his place at the head, he had forgotten the incident that a few minutes before had moved him to laughter.
Archdale stood motionless. The underbrush hid him from the speakers, and he was too far off to hear a word. It seemed to him that Elizabeth wished to shorten the interview, for soon Edmonson with another of his inimitable bows retired and she passed on. As Stephen caught sight of her face he saw that it was troubled. "He shall not persecute her," he said to himself. Nancy had gone on while Edmonson was speaking to her mistress, and now Elizabeth following was almost at the door of her temporary home, when a hand was laid heavily upon Archdale's shoulder, and Vaughan's hearty voice cried;—
"Come on! I'm going to speak to our charming, brave young lady there. I want to tell her how proud of her courage I am. Come on! he repeated. Stephen followed. He had not taken her determination in this way. He thought her unwise and rash, and hated to have her there. And yet he could not deny that the camp had seemed a different place since she had entered it.
"You take it that way," he said to Vaughan. "But I think we should be feeling that she may get hit some of these days, or be down with fever."
"We'll hope not," returned the other cheerfully. "Let us look on the bright side. She is doing a work of mercy, and we will trust that a merciful Providence will protect her. We were just talking about you, Mistress Royal," he continued, striding up to Elizabeth and grasping her hand warmly. "Stephen, here, says he's always thinking you'll get hit somehow, or get a fever. I say, look on the bright side of things, 'trust in the Lord,' as old Cromwell used to put it."
"'And keep your powder dry,'" finished Archdale. "It's not safe to quote things by halves. Decidedly, this staying is not a prudent thing."
"I didn't know that beseiging Louisburg could be called a prudent thing," she returned. "And so we're all in the same boat."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Vaughan. "You have him there, Mistress Royal. He's always in the hottest places himself; he likes them best."
"Somebody else likes them, too; somebody else who can capture Royal Battery with thirteen men," said Elizabeth. "I knew long ago that you were a genuine war-horse, Colonel Vaughan. Give me credit for my discernment."
"Yes, yes, I remember," assented the other with the embarrassment of courage at finding itself commended. "But, really, against such a cowardly crew as those fellows were, there's no credit at all to be gained."
She made him a bright reply, and Archdale listened in silence as they talked. But she noticed his gloomy face, and secretly wondered if it was anxiety about Edmonson that troubled him, or if possibly, he was displeased with Katie. But she put away for the second time the latter suggestion. The girl had never looked prettier or been more affectionate than when she had said good-by to her and given her the letter for "poor, brave Stephen," as she had tearfully called him. Archdale could not help listening to Elizabeth; there seemed to be a witchery about her whenever she opened her lips. It was probable that Edmonson felt it, he thought. And he began to wonder how things would all end. Perhaps they should all be shot and the affair wind up like some old tragedy where the board is swept clean for the next players. For his part, too much hadgone from his life to make the rest of it of interest. Elizabeth turned to him.
"Are you busy?" she asked. "I mean are you on duty?"
"No," he answered, wondering what was coming, and noticing that her tall, slight figure seemed all the more elegant for the simplicity of her dress. "Can I do anything for you?" he added.
"Yes, thank you," she answered, "You can, if you are willing. I am going to get some medicine that the doctors have asked me to keep, because it is very powerful, and they were afraid lest some of the men would be careless with it. Nancy is bringing the bandages. Here she is now. Thank you," as the girl put a phial into her hand. "There is extra work to be done to-day," she went on, turning again to Archdale, "and we are short of hands. If you don't mind, and will come, we shall be glad of your help."
Captain Archdale playing at nurse with private soldiers! The young man did not fancy the idea at all; he would much rather have led a forlorn hope.
But no forlorn hope offered, and this did. Of course he would do anything for Mistress Royal, but this was not for her at all. He had half a mind to excuse himself. As the suggestion came to him, he looked into the steady eyes that were watching him fathoming his reluctance, ready for approval or for scorning as the answer might be. His look took in her whole appearance, and set him wondering if the privates, some of whom had been even his neighbors and his boyish playfellows, could offend his dignity more than hers? He began to wonder how her eyes would change if they looked at him approvingly.
"I will go with pleasure, if you'll put up with an awkward fellow," he answered. And Colonel Vaughan who was looking on was not aware that he had hesitated.
Elizabeth's eyes darkened. She smiled and nodded her head slightly, as if to say, "I knew you would do it." But after this the trace of a smile lurked for a moment in the corners of her mouth, as if she might have added: "I know, too, what it has cost you." But she said nothing at all to Archdale. She bade good-by to Colonel Vaughan who protested that he wished he was not upon duty, and turned again toward the hospital. Suddenly Archdale thought that she might have been asking the same thing of Edmonson when she had been talking with him just before. If she had, it was very certain that Edmonson had found an engagement immediately. Upon the whole, Archdale was satisfied to have done what the other would not do. So that it was just as well he did not know that that other had not been asked.
Was there ever another woman in the world like this one, he asked himself late that night, recalling that she had been for hours beside him, treating him just as if he were a crook to raise a soldier's head, if she wanted to rearrange his pillow, or a machine to reel off bandages round that poor Melvin's shattered arm, or to do any other trying service, and never even imagine that he would like to be thanked or treated humanely, while every look and word and thought of hers was for the soldiers. It was so different from what he had always found, and yet there was the nobleness of self-forgetfulness in the difference. But for all this vivid memory of those hours, it was imagination rather than recollection thatoccupied him most with her when she had left him. For he was picturing how she would look, and what she would say, when she read the letter that he had slipped into her hand as she was going away. He recalled her look of amazement, her beginning:—"Why, it's—" and then breaking off abruptly, perceiving that only peculiar circumstances could have made him give her Katie's letter to read, and perhaps divining the truth. For she had suddenly became very grave and had replied absently to his good-night, as on her father's she had turned from the hospital. The young man, wondering how she would receive the news of Katie's treachery, asked himself what she could find now in excuse for the girl who had used her faithful friend as the unconscious messenger of her broken plight? Stephen knew well enough that the old glamour would come back, but to-night he was full only of indignation against Katie. To have used Elizabeth as she had done was an added sin.
"I wish Bulchester joy of her," he muttered, then with a sharp breath recollected that this was only a respite, that he should not always feel too scornful for pain.
Three nights after this there was a silent and solemn procession down to the shore. Island Battery was to be attacked. Here was Archdale's forlorn hope ready for him, if he wanted it now. Every chance of success depended upon secrecy. The venture was so desperate that the General could not make up his mind to pick out the men himself, he called for volunteers. They came forward readily, incited, not only by courage and the desire to end the siege, but by ambition to be distinguished among their comrades who stood about them in hushed expectation. Every soldier off duty and able to crawl to the shore, and some who should not have attempted it were there. Among this crowd stood two women, scarcely apart from the others, and yet everywhere that they moved, given place to with the unobtrusive courtesy that has always marked American men, so that one woman in a host of them feels herself, should danger come, in an army of protectors, and otherwise alone. Elizabeth had meant to be here earlier, and to put herself by the General's side, for her father had gone with dispatches to the fleet, but her duties had detained her, and now she was separated from him by nearly a regiment. She stood silent in an anxiety that did not lessen because she told herself that it was foolish.
Captain Brooks was to command the expedition, and the number of men needed to accompany him was fast being made up from the eager volunteers. In the dimness she recognized Archdale by an unconscious haughtiness of bearing, and Edmonson's voice, though lowered to suit the demands of the hour, made her shiver. Yet why? Of course they both were here; volunteers were stepping out from the ranks of their companies. But they themselves were not going, neither would they be left here alone together. Boat after boat with scaling ladders was filled with soldiers and shoved off, some of them out of sight in the dimness where the men, lying on their oars, waited for their comrades. In this way one after another disappeared. Things went on well. Elizabeth began to be reassured, to be occupied with the scene about her, to remember the importance of the expedition and how many times it had been unsuccessfullyattempted. She began to think of the attack, of the result, and of the soldiers, to rejoice in them, to be proud of them, and to tremble for them, as one who has no individual interest at stake.
It was only at night that the attempt could be made, only in certain states of the tide, and still at the best time it was a terrible venture; the work was new for the troops; the walls were high, the enemy was vigilant. With a sigh she saw another boat shove off to its fate.
The volunteering slackened, either because so many of the men left were aware that fatigue and illness had undermined their strength, or because the night had grown lowering and the ominous roar of breakers reached them from their landing place. Finally a distinct pause came in answer to the call: "Who next?"—a pause that lasted a minute, and that, had it lasted another, would have meant discouragement, and perhaps despair.
"I," said a firm voice, and Elizabeth saw Stephen Archdale step into the boat. A strange feeling came over her for a moment, then a wave of admiration for his heroism. If he were to die, it would be a soldier's death. Yet, there would be so many to mourn him. If he went to his death in this way, how would Katie feel? General Pepperell started forward, as if to prevent his embarking, then restrained himself. The men responded rapidly after this example, until the boat needed only one more. Then there fell upon Elizabeth's ears, a name more frightful to her than the boom of the surf or the roar of cannon, and Edmonson stepped in and seated himself opposite Archdale.
"Two captains in one boat!" she heard a soldier remonstrate.
"Nonsense! we're full. Shove off instantly, you laggards. Every minute tells," said the newcomer in a hoarse undertone.
Elizabeth sprang forward. "No, no," she cried impetuously, forgetting everything but the terror.
But the calling of the names was going on again, and her voice was unheard, except by a few who stood near her. Before she could make her way up to the General, the boat pulled by the vigorous strokes of the men who had been taunted as laggards, had shot out of sight. "Oh! bring them back, bring back that last boat," she implored Pepperell in such distress that he, knowing her a woman not given to idle fears, felt a sense of impending evil as he answered:
"My dear, I cannot. No boat is sure of meeting it in the dark, and to call would endanger the expedition."
There was no use in explaining now. She would have occasion enough to do it sometime, she feared; and then it would be useless. To-night she could say nothing. All these days she had dreaded what might come, for it did not seem to her that Captain Archdale took any care at all. Still, in the camp, out of general action, and surrounded by others, there had been comparative safety.
Now the hour, the place, and the purpose had met. Through the darkness Stephen Archdale was going to his doom.
The General sent Elizabeth away very kindly. She sent the weary Nancy to bed and went back to the hospital. But anxiety mastered her so that she could not keep her hands from trembling or her voice from faltering when there was most need for steadiness.
"You are exhausted, Mistress Royal, you ought not to be here," said one of the surgeons sternly. "Go and rest."
"Oh, please let me stay," she pleaded with a humility so new that he looked at her with curiosity.
"Hush!" said his assistant making an excuse to draw him aside. "Don't you know she's been watching the men set out for the Fort?"
Elizabeth found words of comfort for a soldier who was mourning because his wife would have no one to look after her, if he died. "I will help her," she said. And then, by the light of the flaring candle, she wrote down the woman's address. She repeated verses of Scripture for some who asked her for them, and found a little steadiness of voice in doing it. But through everything she saw Archdale's vigorous form and heard Edmonson's passionate voice and his words. With such a marksman, and at such range, how could a shot stray!
But she dreaded still more the time when the expedition should return. To-night she bitterly regretted that the General had not been told her errand, and saw that when Mr. Royal urged it, it had been the wish to save her that had made Stephen Archdale ask him not to do it.
Three hours after the start she heard that the expedition had failed. All that was left was returning, the wounded would soon be brought in. Her little strength deserted her for the moment She sank down helpless in the shadow. Then she rose and went forward.
As the boat lay rocking on the waves waiting for the others, Archdale took his bearings. Leaning towards the stern, he said to one of his men:—
"Greene will you change places with me?" If the man had thought the request more than a whim, he would have supposed it to be because the captain considered his new choice a more dangerous post. Archdale seating himself again glanced toward the bow. He was now on the same side with Edmonson and the fourth man from him. It would be somewhat difficult to have the latter's gun go off by accident and be sure of its mark, and Greene was safe so far as exemption from an enemy at hand was concerned. Archdale would have preferred Edmonson's left hand but when it came to disembarking, his enemy should precede him.
"Better cushions?" asked Edmonson with a sneering laugh under which he tried to hide his anger. "Can't see any other motive for your running the risk of capsizing us."
"It is very presumptuous to do anything for which Captain Edmonson cannot see the motive," returned Archdale haughtily.
"By Heavens!" cried Edmonson in another moment "You're bound to die in character if it come to a question of dying and of course it will with some of us."
Stephen made no answer. He felt more strongly than ever that he needed good eyes and firm nerves. To be killed like a rat in a trap! His blood ran too warm in his veins to submit tamely to this. When the struggle should come yonder it mattered little whether it was by Edmonson's shot or another's, for if he fell in the heat of the conflict it would always be said that he died a soldier's death. And if he lived to come back Edmonson, should take boat first. He turned himself slightly toward his foe, and sat silent and observant.
Had Elizabeth noticed them enter the boat together? He had thought of saying good-by, for his volunteering was no sudden resolve, but had been his determination from the first. But if he died, what real difference would that make to her? And if he came back, the leave taking would seem an absurdity. He seemed still to see the outline of her slender figure, as with her shawl wrapped about her like a mantle she had stood bare-headed in the cold May evening.
Had he dreamed that Edmonson had learned of Katie's desertion, and was full of rage at every word of courtesy or interest that he spoke to Elizabeth, he would have felt his chance of life still less.
"Can't you hitch along, you fellow next me?" cried Edmonson. "I'm so cramped here I can't move a muscle, and I suspect we shall want them all in good order pretty soon. We are coming up to the old walls. Swift and steady, boys. Every man be ready with his muskets."
As he spoke, he took up his own weapon and examined it in the dimness. Then, still holding it in his right hand, he laid that arm along the edge of the boat as if to relieve it from the cramped position he had complained of. Archdale saw that the muzzle was pointed directly at him and that the hand which held it in apparent carelessness was working almost imperceptibly towards the trigger. That would not be touched quite yet, however, a shot now would alarm the garrison and be inexcusable. The accident would happen in the excitement of landing. Archdale's left hand that he with as great indifference as Edmonson's laid upon the boat's edge was steady. He leaned forward a little to be out of range, and they went on in silence.
The clouds grew denser, the waves swelled more and more at the violence of the wind, and the storm, nearer every minute, seemed about to unite with the fiery storm that awaited the devoted band.
"Look," said Archdale suddenly, "I believe they have discovered us." He raised his left hand as he spoke, and pointed to the Battery. Lights were glancing there, and something had given it an air of ponderous observation, as if eyes were looking through the walls and movements going on behind them. All the men scanned the battery earnestly except the speaker whose eyes were watchfully turned upon his neighbor, and who for reward saw Edmonson's fingers covertly placing themselves on the trigger, while his face was still toward the fortifications.
"Yes, it's all up with us," cried the latter, "we are discovered," In the movement of speech he was turning to Archdale, preparatory to dropping measuring eyes upon the musket, when the latter called out:—
"See! they are going to fire." And with the words he dropped his left arm with a swift and accidental sweep by which his hand hitting forcibly against Edmonson's which was unprepared, struck it off the boat into the water. The pistol sent its ball spinning into the sea, running along Archdale's sleeve as it passed. The pistol itself lay under the water for the instant that Edmonson's hand rested there. The flintlock was wet, the weapon was useless.
Its owner turned upon his clumsy companion in a rage. But before he could speak the guns of the battery blazed out, and in the iron shower that followed there was no thought for anything but that of saving themselves as much as possible.
Round shot would have danced over the water and left them comparatively safe; but in the deadly hail of langrage such escape was impossible. Every moment of it inflicted torturing wounds or death. The boats were beeched with all speed at the foot of the monster which belched forth this red hot torrent wounding wherever it fell. But they had been thrown into confusion, and while some of them struggled to the shore, the occupants of others in their terror drew back out of harm's way, and left their comrades to their fate. Edmonson's was not the only flintlock wet, as the soldiers, weary and dispirited, toiled up from the surf. They tried their scaling ladders, they fought for a time with that desperate courage which never forsook them. Their captain cheered them with his bravest words and deeds, and Archdale and Edmonson were foremost in every post of danger until one fell badly wounded.
But from the first the expedition was doomed. After an hour's conflict the recall was sounded, and the remnant of the scaling party straggled and staggered to their boats, some carrying wounded comrades, some themselves wounded and faint. But many had been taken prisoners by the French, and many lay dead and dying. Elizabeth stood waiting for the wounded to be brought in, and for the roll of the dead. The first man who came walking steadily toward her, turning about at every few steps to see that the men behind him were carrying their burden on their stretchers carefully, was Archdale.
"You?" she said wonderingly. "I thought—I was afraid—."
"Yes, I have come back," he answered; "and it is through your warning. Such as my life is, you have saved it."