It was a clear, gusty night when he emerged on the lawn at the side entrance of the house. For two hours with the faint and freakish light of candle ends he had been rummaging over old chests and boxes in the attic. The aspect of the desolate, deserted place that had held his young master, a tenant dear to his loyal heart, wrung from him a sigh. Sometimes he dropped his hands, lifted himself from his crouching attitude to a kneeling posture, looked wistfully about the dreary, dusty silence, shook his head sorrowfully to and fro, and then once more addressed himself to his search. When he began to find the various articles he desired, he grew tremulous, agitated. His breath was fast, and now and again he must needs check himself in his disposition to fluent soliloquy lest some one overhear in his sonorous voice such significant words as would reveal his intention. When these seizures supervened, he became anxious concerning the possible betrayal of his enterprise by the feeble light cast from the windows, and ever and anon he screened the bit of candle behind a trunk or some massive piece of furniture. He knew that the house wasa marked spot; the events of the day had rendered the locality of special and suspicious interest to all the camps in the vicinity. Many an eye was turned thither, he was aware, as the evening drew on, and in fact he hardly dared to light the tiny tapers till he had heard tattoo sound and taps beat. The tents were lost in darkness and slumber, but there were the camp and quarter guards, and soon would come the patrol and grand rounds. The sentries about the house gave him less anxiety.
"They be 'bleeged to know we-all keep some of our stuff in the garrit—mought be huntin' fur suthin' fur dat ar Yankee man's nicked haid. ButI ain't!" he soliloquized.
When at last he had found all he desired, he extinguished the light and quietly waited. Thus in the darkness the place was even more grewsome with its associations of concealment and flight, the imminence of his young master's capture and violent death. He heard his heart plunge at every stir of the wind, every clash of the boughs, and he muttered: "Dat pore chile wuz denied a light. His Pa p'intedly wouldn't 'low him a candle, fur fear folks would spy it out. An' here he set an' waited in de ever-lastin' night!"
Old Ephraim suffered here in the dark from a terror which had loosed its hold on his young master long ago,—the fear of the supernatural. Ghosts of many types, "ha'nts," headless horrors,spectral sounds from the other world, direful prognostications of signs, all in grisly procession passed and repassed and crowded the garret to suffocation. It would be impossible to imagine what the old gray-headed negro saw and heard as he crouched on the dusty floor, and listened to the rout of the wind in the trees, and watched the eerie aspect of the old furniture, itself associated with the long-gone dead, as the moon and the gust-driven shadowy clouds flickered and faded and flickered and faded across the dim spaces. When suddenly a shrill sound pierced the ghostly solitude, he fell prone in complete surrender on the floor, terrified, his nerves almost shattered. An inarticulate scream came again and again, and then a low chuckling chatter. A screech-owl, a tiny thing, had alighted on the window-sill, and hearing the stir, turned its head without shifting its body, its great round eyes encountering the reproachful rolling stare of old Ephraim as he tremulously gathered himself from the floor. Taking a package under his arm under the long coat he wore, he at last went noiselessly and swiftly down the stairs.
He looked out heedfully for Judge Roscoe, whom he did not wish to encounter.
"Marster hes been a jedge, an' dey say he hes set on de bench—dough I dunno whut fur dat's so oncommon, fur mos' ennybody kin set on a bench! He's sot in his own cushionedarm-chair in de lawbrary whut kin lean backwards on a spring, and recline his foots upwards, an' dat's a deal ch'icer dan enny bench I knows on! But he's been a jedge, an' he's got book-larnin', but somehow I 'low he ain't tricky enough ter be up terdiskink. I ain't gwine ter let him know nuffin'."
When fairly out of the house all suggestion of secrecy and caution vanished. The old darkey flung his feet on the stone steps with a noisy impact, and before he reached the pavement, he had burst into song, marking the time with an emphatic rhythm—a wide blare of melody with a great baritone voice, that sounded far down the bosky recesses of the grove, all dappled with shadow and sheen.
"Rise an' shine,children!Rise an'shine, children!Rise an' shine,children!De angels bid me ter come along!O-h-h, I want ter go ter heaben when I die—"
He broke off suddenly. He did not wait to be challenged by the sentry as he turned, but greeted him with a sort of plaintive humility and a mendicant's confiding manner.
"Marse Soldier, could ye gimme a chaw of terbacker, please, sir?"
The soldier would not have allowed even one of his own officers to pass from the house or enter it without the countersign, but he was thrown off his guard by this personal appeal;and although he could not comply with the request, not being given to the bad habit of "chawin' terbacker," he shifted his weapon from hand to hand while he rummaged his pockets for "fine-cut" for the pipe of old Ephraim—the fraud, who was amply supplied.
"Neb mind—neb mind," the old man said deprecatingly. "Thanky, sah, thanky! Dere's anodder soldier round de front po'ch—mebbe he's got a chaw!"
And this sentinel, having listened to the colloquy with his comrade, as well as distance would permit, adopted his friendly tactics and was able to produce the requisite "chaw." He naturally supposed the countersign had been demanded and given at the door whence the servant of the house emerged, for after unctuous and profuse thanks old Ephraim swung off down the hill with another great gush of song—"I want ter go ter heaben when I die—" echoing far over the grove and the silent camps beyond.
Listening to the resounding progress of his departure the first sentry thought of course that in letting him pass his comrade had taken the countersign. It was only a vague thought, however, cast after him. "That old night-hawk is bound for the river, I guess, going fishing," for nocturnal angling was the favorite sport of the darkeys of the region.
The soldier did not even notice when the surge of the chant gave way to a musical whistle, stillcarrying the air with great spirit and a sort of enthusiasm of rhythm, "An' de angels bid me ter come along." Still less did he discriminate the difference in the change of sound, not immediately apparent, so elusive was it, and difficult to describe, when a whistle of a different timbre took up the air and finished the phrase—"I'll shout salvation as I fly!" After a pause Uncle Ephraim was in the distance, humming now, and soon all sound ceased. Both the sentinels would have sworn he had quitted the grove.
But it was not alone the wind among the young firs that tossed their branches to and fro, when trembling, terrorized, casting now and then a horrified, rebuking glance at the radiant moon, as the flying scud drew back and left the sphere undimmed, he sought the spot he had marked when the responsive whistle had apprised him that his signal was understood and answered. At length he paused to catch his breath and wipe the cold drops from his brow.
"Lawdy massy! dese yere shines dat dis yere Rebel cuts up will be de death ob me—ef dey ain't de death ob himse'f fust!"
He judged from his close observation he was on the spot—yet he could not ascertain it. Suddenly hard by the roots of a great lush specimen of a Norway spruce, the boughs lying far on the ground, his foot slipped on the thick spread of the fallen needles. He could not recover himself. He was going down—down. His courageall evaporated. He would have screamed if he could. In his terror he had almost lost consciousness till all at once he felt a strong grasp of aid and heard a familiar smothered laugh that restored his faculties with the realization of success and the recognition of a friend at hand.
"Hesh! Hesh!" he said imperatively. "Dat laffin' an' laffin' is gwine ter be dedestruction ob you an' all yer house, an' 'fore de Lawd, ole Ephraim, too!"
He had no response, but he had submitted himself to guidance. He was being led along a downward course in a narrow subterranean passage, his feet shuffling and kicking uncertainly as he ludicrously sought for the ground and to accommodate his gait to the easy accustomed stride of his conductor. They made more than one turn before Julius paused and said: "We might as well stop here, Uncle Ephraim. We can sit down on the rocks. Did my father send me any message? Is the officer much hurt?"
"Do you think you kin pitch folks down them steep steers, an' not hurt 'em, you owdacious, mischievious chile! His head is consider'ble nicked,—an' dat's a fac'!"
"Is that all?" said Julius, evidently much relieved. "What word did my father send me?"
"No word! He didn't know whar dee is—an' I didn't tell him whar I was goin' ter hunt fur dee."
"Oh, but hemustknow—he must not be left so uneasy. Oh, how I wish I had never come to disturb and endanger my good father!"
It was dark, and he did not care that Uncle Ephraim should hear his sobs.
"Now, look-a-yere, Marse Julius, chile—de less folks knows 'bout dee, de less dey is liable ter be anxious. What you reckon I brung dee?"
"Some supper?"
"Lawd, no! I ain't hed time ter git ye supper."
"Some money? I don't want any money. My father gave me money in case of any necessity when I was to run the pickets—gold!" He chinked some coins alluringly in his pocket.
"'Tain't money. It's—cloes!"
"Clothes?" said Julius, uncertainly.
"'Twas dat ar tarrifyin' Rebel uniform dat got dee in dis trouble ter-day. Ye got ter change dem cloes. Ye can't run de pickets, an' ye can't git out'n de lines nohow in dem cloes."
Julius hesitated. The uniform was in one sense a protection. To be taken in his proper character, even lurking in hiding, did not necessarily expose him to the accusation of being a spy which capture in disguise would inevitably fix upon him.
"What clothes did you bring,—Aunt Chaney's?" he asked, prefiguring a female disguise, and reflecting on the ample size and notable height of the cook.
A sort of sharp yelp of dismay came out of thedarkness. Old Ephraim wriggled and shuffled his feet audibly on the rocks in his effort at emphasis and absolute negation.
"Marse Julius you is gonederanged! Surely, surely, you is los' what sense you ever had! Chaney wouldn't loan ye ez much ez a apern or a skirt out'n her chist ter save ye from de pit o' perdition! I hes been reckless and darin' in my time, but de Lawd knows I never was so forsook by Providence as ter set out ter carry off any wearin' apparel belongin' ter dat 'oman, what's gin ober ter de love o' de cloes in her chist. Dat chist is de idol ob datdestracted heathen 'oman, an' de debbil will burn her well for de love o' de vanities she's got tucked away dar. Chaney's cloes! Gawd A'mighty!Chaney'scloes! BorryChaney'scloes!"
"Well, whose clothes, then, Uncle Ephraim? You know I couldn't get into the citizen's clothes I left at home. I'm three inches taller, and a deal stouter. And it would be dangerous to try to buy clothes."
"Lissen; I disremembered dere wuz a trunk in de garret what wuz brung down from de Devrett place when de Yankees tore down de house an' built de fort. It b'longed ter yer cousin Frank's wife's brother, an' wuz sent home atter de war broke out when he died in some outlandish place—I dunno whar, in heathen land. As I knowed he wuz tall an' spare, I 'lowed de cloes mought fit dee. So I opened de trunk—an' decloes wuz comical; but not as comical as a Rebel uniform in dese days an' dis place."
Julius had a vague vision of himself, robed in the comicalities of the dress of the Orient,—Japanese or Arabian or Turkish,—seeking an escape in obscurity and inconspicuousness, through the closely drawn Federal lines.
"Oh, Uncle Ephraim!" he whined, almost in tears, because of the futility of every device, every hope.
"You wait till I show dem ter dee!" exclaimed Uncle Ephraim, hustling out the bundle from under his coat.
It proved to be a small portmanteau that had been itself enclosed in the trunk. This much was discernible by the sense of touch. Old Ephraim placed it on the ground, and then, lowering his voice mysteriously, he asked solemnly, "Marse Julius, is you sure acquainted with dis place?"
"I certainly am," declared Julius, the tense vibration of triumph in his voice. "I know it from end to end!"
"Den, ef I wuz ter strike a light, could dem sentries see hit at de furder e-end?"
"Not to save their souls. We're ever so far down, and the tunnel has already made three turns."
"Ef dey wuz ter follow us, dey couldn't crope up unbeknownst on us?"
"They'd break their necks at the entrance if they didn't know the place or have a ladder."
"Dere is a ladder ter de stable, dough," the old man urged, vaguely uneasy.
"We'd hear 'em putting it down."
"Dat's so! Dat's so!" cried Uncle Ephraim, all cheerful alacrity once more.
He forthwith struck a match and lighted one of his candle ends, which he fixed on the ledge of the rock by holding it inverted for a few minutes, then on the hot drippings placing the taper erect. He had shielded it with his hand during this process, and on perceiving no draught whatever, looked up in amazement at the strange surroundings—a rugged stone tunnel stretching far along into the dense blackness of the distance, fifteen feet in height, perhaps, and of varying width,—about ten feet where they stood; evidently this was an offshoot of some extensive subterranean system, not uncommon in the cavernous limestone country, therefore exciting scant interest, and perhaps never heretofore explored, even in part, save by Julius and the Devrett boys when it might be made a factor in Christmas fun.
"De Lawd-a-massy," exclaimed Uncle Ephraim, looking about in awe and by no means prepossessed in favor of the aspect of the place. "Is disher de bestibule ob hell?"
But the attention of Julius was concentrated on the portmanteau, a very genteel-looking receptacle, which when open disclosed the garments that Uncle Ephraim considered so comical. Theywere, indeed, a contrast with his standard of proper attire for a "gemman of quality"—this being the judge's fine black broadcloth, with a black satin waistcoat and stock, and with linen laid in plaits, the collar standing in two sharp points. But for the first time that day Julius had a sudden hope of deliverance. No kaftan, kimono, nor burnoose as he had feared, but he was turning in his hands a soft, rough-surfaced tweed of a dark fawn color, with tiny checks of the style called invisible, the coat bound with a silk braid on which Uncle Ephraim laid a finger of doubt and inquiry, looking drearily up into the young man's face. For this was a novel finish indeed in those days.
"These are of English make," said the discerning Julius, beginning to understand that the foreign "heathen land" to which old Ephraim had referred was England. Julius now remembered that his cousin's brother-in-law, James Wrayburn, had been sojourning there at the time of his death. The garments had lain in the garret for more than a year, but in those days so slow was the transmission of styles across the Atlantic that the cut was by no means antiquated, indeed was in accord with the fashion that was familiar on the main street of the town. There was a hat of soft felt of a deep brown, and the old servant had added from the trunk two or three white Marseilles waistcoats and some neckties and linen.
"Dee got on good new boots," he observed, glancing down at the young man's feet.
"Ought to be—cost me six hundred dollars!" said Julius.
"Lo!—my Heabenly Friend!" exclaimed Uncle Ephraim, falling back aghast, unaccustomed to the inflations of the currency of the Confederacy.
When the transformation was complete, he looked up from his knees, in which lowly posture he had assisted in drawing down the trousers over the boots, and smiled broadly in satisfaction.
"Dar now!" he exclaimed. "'Fore de Lawd, ye look plumb beau-some in dem comical cloes. Dey becomes ye! Dat they does—dough I ain't never see no such color as they got, 'dout 'twuz on a cow!"
He made up a bundle of the Confederate uniform and stowed it away on one of the ledges. "I don't want dem Yankees ter ever git no closer ter dis yere shed snake-skin dan dey is now."
But after the old man had been assisted to clamber out of "the vestibule of hell" by the stalwart arm of his young master and had disappeared among the firs, Julius made up the uniform into a compact bundle, packed it into the portmanteau, and, putting out the candle, sat down in the obscurities of the subterranean passage to await the enhanced opportunity forescape that the dark clouds, now gathering about the moon, might bring to the fortuitous collocation of circumstance.
When the sentries next heard any suggestion of Uncle Ephraim's presence, he was still singing on his return,—now and then humming and whistling as he came. He was approaching the house from the driveway, having indeed been to the river; he was bringing home a goodly mess of fish.
An hour later there was a more significant landfall than the fate of these finny trophies. Few of the river craft kept their dates of arrival with certainty, and this was especially the case with the general packets. Though the water was high, the operations of the Confederates rendered the passage sometimes unsafe, sometimes impracticable. Now and again the Federal authorities pressed a boat into government service for a time and released it to its owners and its old traffic when the emergency was past. Therefore on this dull night, when no sign or news was received of theCalypso, overdue some ten hours, the wharf became deserted. Hardly a light showed on the river banks or along the spread of the stream, save indistinct gleams in the misty gloom where the picket boats kept up a ceaseless vigilant patrol. The gunboats, with a vaguely saurian suggestion lay with their noses in the mud. Here and there in allotted berths were the ordinary steamboats with their curiously flimsy aspect, as if constructed of white cardboard, silent, disgorged, asleep. The rafts, the coal-barges, the humble skiffs, and flatboats were all tied up for the night. The town had lapsed tosilence and slumber as the hour waxed late. The great pale stream seemed as vacant as the great pale sky.
Suddenly far down the river two lights, close together, high in the air, red and green, shimmering through the mist, struck the attention of a wanderer along the high bluffs near Judge Roscoe's house, even before a hoarse, remonstrant, outspreading sound, the clamor of the whistle three times repeated, hailing the landing, invaded the murky air. It was a spell to rouse all the precincts of the river bank. Lights flickered here and there. Hack drivers, who had given up the expectation of the boat's arrival at any hour that would admit of the transfer of the passengers to the hotel, heard the sound from afar, harnessed their teams in haste, and the carriages came rattling turbulently down the stony declivity to the wharf. Baggage vans, empty and curiously noisy, recklessly jolted along, careening ill-poised and light without their wonted burdens. The omnibuses, with the glow of their dim little front windows to distinguish their approach, were soon on the scene; the driver of one was vociferating with a hackman, because of the lack of lighted carriage lamps, which had caused a collision and the wrenching away of the door and the cover of the step of the "bus," swaying open for want of a cautionary pull on the cord. Loud and turbulent did this wrangle grow, and presentlyit was punctuated by blows. The crowd that the mere sound of a fight summons from invisibility was almost instantly swaying about the scene and hindering the efforts of the police, who found it necessary to interfere, and while both participants were arrested and hurried off to the station in the clutches of the law, they left their respective vehicles like white elephants in the hands of the remainder of the force, two of whom must needs mount the boxes to restrain the "cattle," as the hack driver mournfully called his beasts in commending them to police protection. The horses plunged and reared, terrified at the apparition of theCalypso, now manœuvring and turning in the river, the paddles beating upon the water with a splashing impact as the side-wheels slowly revolved. The ripples were all aglow with the reflection of her red furnace fires, and her cabin lights sent long avenues of white evanescent radiance into the vague riparian glooms. The jangle of the pilot bells and the sound of the exhaust pipes came alternately on the air. And presently the great white structure was motionless, towering up into the gray uncertainties of the night, the black chimneys seeming to fairly touch the clouds, the lacelike guards filled with flitting figures all in wild commotion pressing toward the stairway.
Albeit the discharge of the freight would not take place till morning, the scene was one of great confusion. In accordance with the regulationwhich the military occupation of the country required, the passengers rendered up their passes on deck to the officer who had boarded the vessel for the purpose of receiving them, permitting the travellers to depart one by one through a guarded gate, but it was impossible to identify them after they were once on the wharf. Hence there was naught to distinguish from the other passengers a gentleman carrying a portmanteau, who entered an omnibus, save that the wharf lamps might have shown that he was handsome, taller than common, with a fine presence and gait, and clad in garments of unmistakably English cut and make. The night clerk of the hotel evidently saw nothing else unusual in the stranger as he stood under the gas-jet to register at the desk in the office, almost deserted at this hour—not even in the momentary hesitation when he had the pen in hand. He wrote "John Wray, Junior, Manchester, England," had a room assigned to him, and passed on to the late supper, for which Uncle Ephraim's negligence had prepared him to do ample justice.
Julius did not appear next morning at the usual breakfast hour. The terrors of the Chinese gong, that was wont to rouse the laggards as it howled about the hotel under the belaborings of a stalwart waiter, failed to stimulate his activity or break his slumber. The fatigues and dangers Julius had encountered had prostratedhim. He was unconsciously recuperating, gathering strength for the rebound. He did not wake, indeed, till near noon. He turned once or twice luxuriously in the comfortably sheeted bed—at his home they had not dared to purloin linen from the household store to furnish his couch in the attic—and then, with his hands clasped under his head, he lay with a mind almost vacant of any conscious process, mechanically, quietly, taking in the details of the place. The sun sifted in at a crevice of the green shutters of the window that opened to the floor and gave upon a wide gallery without—now and again he heard at considerable intervals the passing of a footstep on this gallery. He noticed the wind stir and the flicker of the shadow of foliage on the blinds. The room was in the second story, and he knew that there were trees in a space at the rear of the old-fashioned little hotel. The furniture was of a highly varnished, cleanly, straw-colored aspect, of some cheap wood that refreshingly made no pretentions to be aught but what it was, for on the bureau drawers, the head and foot-boards of the bed, and on the rocking-chair was painted a gay little bouquet of flowers in natural but intense tints. A fresh Chinese matting was on the floor, and muslin curtains hung from poles supported on pins that had a great brass rosette or boss at the extremity. The building enclosed a quadrangle, bounded by the river at the lowerend. On each of the other three sides the wide galleries of the three-story brick edifice overlooked the grassy space. He had learned that the hotel had gone into the hands of a new proprietor, but even were it otherwise he hardly feared recognition, although he had been born and reared in the immediate vicinity. At his time of life a few years work great changes. The boy of nineteen was hardly to be identified in the man of twenty-two, with his mustached lips, his broadened shoulders, his three inches of added height, and the composure, confidence, and capability conferred by those years of activity and emergency and responsibility working at high pressure. Some old resident might recognize the Roscoe eye, but he knew he could trust the kindly associations of "auld lang syne" to avoid the sifting of a casual recollection. Besides, this was hardly likely to befall, for the town was an ever shifting kaleidoscope of confused humanity. It was full of strangers,—Federal officers, on service and unattached, on leave of absence, wounded, and their families; special correspondents; hospital nurses; emissaries of the Sanitary Commission; enterprising promoters of all manner of jobs, and the horde of nondescript non-combatants that hangs on the rear of every army, seeking the many methods of securing a windfall from the vast expenditures of money and goods necessary to maintain a great force on a war footing. Hewas hardly likely to meet any one who had ever known him, or even his father, in his stay at the hotel, which he must contrive by some method to make as short as practicable. Then suddenly a great dismay fell upon him. He lifted his head and gasped as he looked about him for something that was gone! His treacherous memory!—in the prostration of his mental faculties by excitement and fatigue, in the lull of his long slumber, he had forgotten the alias he had registered as his own name on his entrance to the hotel. He thought of half a dozen of the most usual nomenclature, striving to goad his mind to a recognition of each in turn as the one he had selected. He was in desperation. True, he might have an opportunity to study the register and could recognize his own handwriting. But something—anything might occur in the interval in which it might be necessary to give the name he had assumed, and any incongruity with the registered alias would be fatal. Every casual step along the hall on one side, or the gallery on the other, threw him into a sudden tremor as he prefigured a stoppage, a knock, an inquiry—"Are you Mr. Alfred Jones?—here's a note for you. Messenger waits for an answer."
"AndIdon't know whether to answer as Mr. Jones or not!" he said to himself in a panic. He might turn away a note of warning from his father, who possibly had recognized his handwriting on the register, of greeting from Leonorain whose face he had seen an appalled commiseration as he sped past her yesterday in his father's hall; or it might be that some Confederate agent within the lines would hear of his plight and contrive this way to communicate with him. No matter how cautiously worded, his was not a correspondence at this juncture to decline to receive, and to turn lightly over to the investigating scrutiny of all the A. Joneses to whom it might be presented. On the other hand he might "throw all the fat in the fire," should he meddle with the large correspondence of the Jones family by opening sealed missives bearing their name, obviously not intended for him, if he had registered as Abner Smith.
Julius was about to spring up, throw on his clothes, and rush to the register, when the name struck him with the force of conviction.John Wray—That was it!Manchester, England!The address had been selected to take advantage of the typically English clothes. He meditated upon it as he sat upright in bed. He had added the "Junior," for the sake of verisimilitude. He smiled with satisfaction to have regained it. Then—"I must have something to fix that in my memory," he said.
He looked fruitlessly about. He had no paper, save the map in the lining of his boot, no pencil, no pen and ink, naught for a memorandum. Then with his gay youthfulinconsequence—"Constant repetition will settle it—Mr. John Wray—Mr. John Wray; Mr. John Wray. How do you do to-day?"
He threw himself back on his pillow, laughing at the unintentional rhyme.
"I'm a poet—if I did but know it!"
His irrepressible youthful mirth found its account in the most untoward trifles.
"There it is again!" he said to himself, "I have destroyed the sequence of my ideas. I am just as likely now to say, 'I am Mr. Poet'—or perhaps with the notion that I have got to butt out of this somehow—'I am Mr. Goat!'"
He laughed again, yawned lazily, stretched his arms upward, and fell back luxuriously on the bed, resting his tired muscles.
He lay staring at the design of the wall-paper, which was in scrolls of brown that, as they whorled over clear enamelled spaces of creamy white, enclosed an outline in fainter browns and yellow,—a scene of waves breaking on rocks and surmounted by a lighthouse; a far and foreign suggestion to this deeply inland nook, and refreshing, for there was more than vernal warmth in the air. And presently, still repeating—"Mr. John Wray, how do you do to-day?" he slipped off into a half-conscious doze from which he was roused only by a knock at the door.
Downstairs in the hotel there had been the usual stir of the morning. Till a late hour the punkahs had swung back and forth above the long tables in the dining room, each furnished with one of those primitive contrivances for the banishment of flies. The swaying of the pendent fringes of paper rivalled the rustling of the trees in the quadrangle outside, on which the broad, long windows looked, as each punkah-cord was pulled by a specimen of the cheerful and alert pickaninny of that day, keenly interested in all that occurred. Others ran in and out of the kitchen, bearing to the waiters, to be dispensed among the guests, interminable relays of the waffles of those times, golden brown, delicately rich, soft, yet crisp, of a peculiar lightness,—a kind that will be seen no more, despite the food inventions and dietetic improvements, for the artists of that choice cookery are all dead and their receipts only serve to mark the decadence of proficiency.
Strangers of all sorts, officers of the army, civilians from every quarter of the north, filled the public apartments, aimlessly chatting, discussing the news from the front, smoking matutinalcigars, buying papers from the omnipresent newsboys, or reading them in the big arm-chairs within or on the benches under the trees in the quadrangle, glimpsed in attractive verdure through the open doors of the office. There was continual passing through the halls, and groups filled the verandas and stood about on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, for the great brick pillars that supported the roof of the arcade at the height of the third story were anchored at the curb of the pavement, and this colonnade illustrated the forgotten architect's idea of impressiveness.
In the gay sunshine, the streets, with substantial two and three storied buildings on either side, with much effect of big airy windows and now and again a high, iron-railed balcony, were congested with traffic. The pavements were crowded with pedestrians of varying aspect,—freedmen in rags, idle, exhaustlessly zealous of sensation, grotesquely slouching along, eying the shop windows, seeing all that there was to be seen; soldiers in uniform on furlough; citizens of a new migration, having almost superseded the old townsmen, so limited were the latter in number in comparison with the present population of the gorged town; ladies, many the wives and daughters of Federal officers, with an unfamiliar accent and walk, and with toilettes of a more recent style than characterized the native exponents of fashion. Now and againsome passing body of troops filled the avenue,—cavalry, with guidon and trumpet, or a jaunty progress of infantry, to the fife and drum and the tune of "The girl I left behind me!"
At this period the war had focussed a sort of superficial prosperity here. The counters were covered with Northern goods to supply the needs and excite the extravagance of this medley of congregated humanity. Street venders howled their wares in raucous voices that added to the unintelligible clamors of the old highways that were wont to be so dull and quiet and decorous.
The paving stones roared with the reverberation of wheels. Sometimes endless trains of white-hooded army wagons defiled by; again heavy open transfers; sometimes an ambulance anguish-laden passed slowly, taking the crown of the causeway. Occasionally a light-wheeled buggy whisked about with the unmistakable effect of display and with a military charioteer handling the ribbons, who found the Tennessee blooded roadsters much to his mind. And forever the dray, laden with cotton bales sometimes, and sometimes with boxes, or barrels, or hogsheads, took its drag-tailed way to the depots or to the wharf. All was dominated by the presence of the mule—in force, driven loose in hundreds through the town to some remote scene of usefulness, now drawing the great transfers and drays, now giving an exhibition of the peculiar pertinacity of mule nature by planted hoofs andears laid back and a resolution of immovableness, bringing the whole tumultuous noisy rout to a blockade of such intricacy and cumbrous obstructiveness that one might wonder by what magic the interlocked wheels, the twisted harness, the crowded beasts, the whistling, long-thonged whips and shouting, swearing men were ever disentangled.
These incidents impeded progress, and the passengers from the noon railroad train were disposed to complain and comment, and seemed fit subjects for sympathy, as they interchanged petulant accounts of experiences at the hotel desk, waiting to register. One was apparently not unknown to the clerk now in charge, an affable functionary to the deserving few, altogether stiff and unapproachable to the general public. He was the day clerk, and a far more magnificent individual than the forlorn night bird that languished behind the desk with no company but the wee sma' hours of the clock, and the somnolent bell-boys on their bench, and the watchman, walking hither and thither like a ghost as if his only mission were to be about, and the incoming traveller. The day clerk's courtesy had the grace of a personal compliment as he hurried the book away from the last signer and passed it on to another in the line,—a somewhat portly, red-faced, middle-aged gentleman, with short side-whiskers, of the hairbrush effect and a pale hue, not definitely gray,for he seemed hardly old enough for such tokens of years, and yet the flaxen tint had lost its earlier lustre. His hair was of the same shade, and he wore a stiff hat, a suit of "pepper-and-salt," and a dark overcoat of light weight.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Wray," said the clerk, handing him the pen. "I am sorry I can't give you a room to yourself, but I can put you a bed in your son's room."
The pen was poised uncertainly—the gentleman with the side-whiskers stared.
"Your son got in last night," explained the clerk.
The gentleman still silently stared. He had a close, compact mouth, a cautious mouth, and the lips were now compressed with an expression of waiting incommunicativeness. He evidently had not expected to be confronted with a ready-made family.
The clerk surprised in turn cast on him a glance of keen intentness. In these strenuous times every stranger in the town was liable to suspicion as a Confederate emissary. "I was not on duty, myself, but I thought I saw—ah—here it is," turning the page of the register, "John Wray, Junior, Manchester, England."
For one moment the portly gentleman gazed at the signature as if dumfounded. Then with an air of ready recognition he justified his previous manifestations of extreme surprise by explaining the mistake of the clerk as to the matter of identity.
"Oh, aw, a distant relative," he said, at last. "Ah, aw,—he is the son of a cousin of the same name as mine, 'John Wray.' The younger man is to be associated with me in business. What room? Number ninety?"
And as he was assigned to that haven he took the pen and wrote, "John Wray, Manchester, England."
Thus it was that, awakened by the brisk tap at the door, Julius, leaning out of bed, turned the key, and reached out for the pitcher of ice water for which, being warm and thirsty, he had a drowsy impression that he had rung the bell. Perceiving his mistake, and lifting himself on his elbow, Julius beheld entering this blond and robust stranger, an inexplicable apparition, too solid for a spectre, too prosaic for a fancy.
The visitor stood, when the door had closed, gazing silently down at the recumbent figure, while Julius, amazed at the form which his Nemesis had taken, gazed up silently and lugubriously at the intruder.
All the methods of Mr. John Wray were in conformity with his portly rotundity, his slow respectability, his unimaginative commercialism.
The young man found speech first. "Why this unexpected pleasure?" he asked ceremoniously, but with a satiric inflection.
"Sorry to intrude, I'm sure," said the elder."But my name is John Wray of Manchester, England."
The skies had fallen on Julius. He strove to recover himself.
"And do you like it?" he asked vacuously.
"Youseemed to like it well enough to register it."
"With a 'Junior,' if you please."
The other fixed him with a stare of round blue eyes. "I think I understand you, sir."
"Very possibly," said poor Julius. "I am not very deep."
He was thinking that this was doubtless a military detective, a very usual factor for ferreting out schemes, obnoxious to the Federal government and in aid of the Confederacy. He determined to hold hard and sell his life dear.
"Have you any letters or papers—any written communication for me?"
"None whatever," Julius ventured.
"You knew you would meet me here?" the older man apparently wished to say as little as he might.
"I fancied I should meet you, but not in this manner," said Julius, also enigmatical.
The portly gentleman looked painfully nonplussed and ill at ease, as he sat in the light little yellow rocking-chair, which now and again treacherously tilted backward and caused him a momentary but agitated effort at equilibrium, and Julius vaguely remembered to haveheard that rocking-chairs were not popular in England, and reflected that this worthy was not accustomed to have his centre of gravity so jeopardized.
"I think I should have had ampler voucher. You will pardon me for saying this?" remarked the stranger, at length.
"I will pardon you for saying anything you like," said Julius, politely.
"The Company informed me that a young man familiar with the country—a native, in fact—would meet me here and that I should be afforded means to identify him. I fancied he would have letters. But when I saw the register I supposed this the mark of identification. Am I right?"
"My dear sir, you must not expect me to guarantee your impressions," said Julius. He was glad he was in bed. He felt that he could not have stood up. "I should say, judging from the effect your valuable mental qualities make upon me, that any impression you see fit to entertain would be amply justified by the fact."
He did not know how to appraise the distinction of his own manner and special attractiveness, and he was both amazed and amused to note how Mr. John Wray of Manchester, England, expanded under the compliment.
"I see, I see—I suppose this is even better than a letter, which might have been stolen, ortransferred, or—however, or—shall we proceed to our commercial affairs?"
"I don't usually transact commercial affairs in my night-shirt," said Julius, "but if I look sufficiently businesslike to suit you—just fire away; it's all the same to me."
He was growing reckless. The risk involved in this war of words with the supposed detective was overwhelming his reserves. He did not know certainly of what the man suspected him, how fully informed he might have become. He knew it was imprudent to suggest his withdrawal, for the effort at escape might precipitate immediate arrest. Yet he could no longer spar back and forth.
"However," he said, as if with a second thought, "Ishouldlike a dabble of a bath, first, and to get on my duds, and to have a whack at breakfast, or dinner,—whichever is on parade by this time."
"Certainly—certainly—by all means. I will meet you in the hotel office, and shall we dine together at two?" He held out the dial of his watch.
"At two," assented Julius.
His friend was in such polite haste to be gone that he shuffled and plunged awkwardly on his gaitered feet, fairly stumbling over his portmanteau near the door as he opened it; then he went down the hall with a brisk, elastic step. Julius lay dumfounded, staring at theportmanteau, which was of an English make and bore the letters, J. Wray, Manchester, England, on one side. He rose and turned it about. It had not been hastily arranged to mislead him. The lettering had been done long ago. The receptacle was evidently travel-worn, and stamped deep in the bottom was the makers' name, trunk manufacturers, Manchester, England.
Julius dressed in haste, his heart once more agitated with the hope of deliverance. He could hardly control his nerves, his eager desire that this might prove merely an odd coincidence, instead of a detective's deep-laid scheme. It began to seem that the man's name might be really John Wray of Manchester, England, some army jobber, or speculator, perhaps—the country was full of them. He said he had expected to meet an "agent of the company," who knew the country.
"Iknow the country," said Julius, capably; "I know the country to a t-y ty. I can give him all the information he wants, free, gratis, and for nothing."
Yet in naught, he resolved, would he betray himself. This mistake, on the contrary, might open to him some means of getting through the lines and back to his command with this map—this precious plan of the defences of the place that would be of distinct value to the cause of the Confederacy.
He therefore cast aside his half-formulatedscheme of seeking escape from the supposed detective through the street. He had remembered that there were stairs on the galleries, leading from one floor to another, and thence to the quadrangle, as well as the great main staircase from the hallways into the office. He at last took his way, however, down this main staircase, with its blatant publicity, and its shifting groups of Federal officers and busy, newly imported civilians. He recognized the wisdom of his boldness almost immediately. Mr. John Wray of Manchester, England, standing conferring amicably with a cluster of worthies of that marked commercial aspect, alertness, and vim of expression, which imply the successful business man of the heady, venturesome type, since known as "plungers," turned and perceived him, and catching his eye beckoned to him with great empressement.
"Allow me, gentlemen, to introduce Mr. John Wray, Junior—the son of my cousin, John Wray," he said.
There ensued the usual greetings, the usual stir of hand-shaking, and if any eye in the office had chanced to note the newcomer with the faint suggestion of doubt or interest or suspicion, which a stranger is apt to excite, it evaporated at once, for the elder Mr. Wray was well known in the hotel and the town, having been here often before, and was a very sufficient voucher for any kinsman.
Genial indeed this group proved at dinner, seated on either side of the upper portion of one of the long tables. Julius found it accorded with his subsidiary character as youthful kinsman of one of the chief spokesmen to maintain an intelligent and receptive silence. Once or twice one of the more jovial of his newly acquired cousin'sconfrèresgave him a glance and lifted his wine-glass with a nod, as who should say, "To you, sir," in the midst of the general discourse.
This was eagerly commercial, for the most part, and piecing the details together as he plied his knife and fork, Julius learned that his new friend was interested in a flourishing American concern which had large government contracts for ready-made army clothing, the woollen cloth and other textile fabrics being supplied from Manchester, and was indeed one of the English agents. He could not reconcile anything that he heard with a requisite for caution or for any service which he could perform, necessitating secrecy or an alias, or his sudden and affectionate adoption as a kinsman.
"It is a trait of piety to trust in Providence," Julius reflected in this quiescent state. "But I doubt if my confiding reliance in this fix can be set down to my credit. For the Lord knows there's nothing else to do!"
He created the impression of a decorous, well-bred youth, and in the fashionable English clothes he looked little less British than the elder JohnWray. There was so much good-fellowship that it was natural that the postprandial cigars with a decanter and glasses should be taken out to a summer-house in the quadrangle, where at one extremity the river had a slant of the westering sun on its surface. The hills of the distance were of a dull grapelike blue against an intensely turquoise sky; the magnolia trees above their heads already bore fine cream-white blossoms among the densely green and glossy foliage, and the surrounding town was cut off from sight and sound by the three encompassing sides of the hotel. Yet it was not a solitary place. No one looking at the group could imagine it had been chosen for seclusion. From the galleries of each of the three stories a glance could command it. Guests were continually sauntering into and out of the office. Here and there a Federal officer strolled along the little esplanade above the water-side. On the lower veranda two elderly men—one a chaplain—were playing very slowly and with great circumspection a game of chess. There were onlookers here, with whom time seemed no object, calmly studying the moves, solaced by a meditative cigar, and at long intervals showing a flicker of excitement at the magic word, "Check!"
The summer-house had already a thatch of vines, but bare columns upheld the roof, and it occupied a little circular space of gravel, whence a broad gravel walk ran toward each point ofthe compass. An approach could be instantly observed, a step instantly heard, and therefore it did not seem to Julius altogether incongruous that business of importance and details of secrecy should presently be broached. The table in the centre was all at once covered with papers, and he began to understand the mysteries that had hitherto baffled him when gradually the details of a very bold and extensive blockade-running scheme were unfolded.
This was in defiance, of course, of the Federal regulations, and in so far militated against no interest of the government that Julius had sworn to serve. But it was a private enterprise for personal profit, and whether the export of cotton from the country to England at this juncture accorded with the policy of the Confederate States he had no means of knowing. At one time, he was aware, there existed an impression that the official withholding of such shipments as could be effected by running the blockade tended to create such paucity of the staple in the English market as might influence the already pronounced disposition of the British to interfere in aid of the Confederacy, and bringing the war to an end remove this restriction of manufactures and trade. All this was beyond his province. He held very still, remained keenly observant, watching for the loophole that might enable him to quit these tortuous ways for the very simple matter of fighting the battles of his section. Afterthese various turmoils of doubt, and hope, and despair, it would be a mere trifle to charge with his company to the muzzles of the biggest howitzers that ever bellowed.
He discovered that these men were in correspondence with secret agents in the Confederacy; they spoke of various depots of the cotton which presently developed as mere caches—bales hidden in swamps, to be brought out only by such craft as could navigate bayous, or in deserted gin-houses on abandoned plantations, or in old tumble-down warehouses on the outskirts of towns,—never much at any one point, but all that could be found and bought, and concealed and held, to be gotten away at last to a foreign market. The system sought to reach to the Gulf of Mexico, to gather up the scattered wayside stores, and either by taking advantage of some lapse of Federal vigilance, or else by strategy, to run the blockade with a ship-load, and away for England! Thus the enterprise was contrary to the policy of both factions. The Company's gold would recruit the endurance of the South, and yet he knew that the Confederate authorities had put the torch to thousands of bales rather than let the cotton fall into their enemy's hands—the precious commodity, then selling at amazing prices in the markets of New York.
Suddenly his own personality came into the scheme with an abruptness that made his head whirl.
"How is it," demanded a sharp-featured man, who had sparse sandy hair, very straight, very thin, the head almost bald on top extending the effect of the forehead, watery-blue eyes that nevertheless made out very accurately the surrounding country, metaphorically considered, a somewhat wrinkled face albeit he was not old—"how is it that your cousin should be so well acquainted with the country? I take it that he is an Englishman, too!"
"Why, no, he is not," candidly answered Mr. John Wray, and Julius had an instinct to clutch at him from across the table to hinder the divulging of the imposture, "and, in fact, he is not my kinsman at all. I should be extremely glad if he were," and he smiled suavely across the table at Julius. "He is, I understand, a native of this region." And forthwith he told the story of the register.
The spare, businesslike man, whose name was Burrage, at once laid his cigar down on the table with its ash carefully disposed over the edge.
"And did he bring no letters?"
"None; very properly. It is most unwise to multiply papers in the hands of outside parties."
"But he should have had something definite."
"I think the registry of the name very definite." Mr. John Wray reddened slightly. He was not in the habit of being called in question for precipitancy.
"It strikes me as a most fantastic whim on thepart of the Company. You might not have interpreted it correctly—taken as you were by surprise," Mr. Burrage rejoined. Then, "Didyouhave any specific instructions to guide you personally?" The querist turned full on the young man, much to Mr. John Wray's disapproval. But Julius answered easily:—
"None at all. It is my business to hold myself subject to orders."
"What is your name?" queried Mr. Burrage.
"At present—John Wray, very much at your service," Julius replied glibly; then with a sudden recollection of the vicissitudes of "Mr. Poet" and "Mr. Goat," he burst into his irresistible laugh, that cleared the frown from the brow of the actual Mr. John Wray and his colleagues, and caused the officers pacing along the esplanade, their shadows long now in the sun, to glance in the direction of the sound, sympathetic with the unknown jest.
Mr. Burrage pressed the matter no farther, but as he took up his cigar again, filliping off the ash with a delicate gesture, and placed it between his teeth once more, no physiognomist would have been required to discern in his resolute facial expression a firm determination to have full advices on this subject before he should ever lose sight of the very prepossessing young man introduced by Mr. John Wray.
"He goes out with the little steamboat down the river. I think a packet leaves to-morrow."Mr. Wray began to explain the simplicity of the duties devolving upon Julius in order to demonstrate his own perspicacity and regard for precaution. "At her stoppages he visits the plantations on his list, notifies the men in charge of the cotton to get it out on the rafts and flatboats and to be ready to float down—there's a full sufficiency of water on the shoals now—to where the steamer we have chartered, bought, in fact, can pick it up. Then he returns on the next packet. It is a trip of a hundred miles or so."
Julius felt his heart beat tumultuously in the prospect of escape—to be out of the town once more! But to-morrow! what in the interval might betide!
"The point is to have our own steamboat clear fairly with the upper-country consignment. The rest she picks up as she goes. She is known as a packet to the river pickets; they won't be aware she has changed her trade till she has gone. But meantime to get the cotton collected it is necessary to have a man familiar with the country. On the way down or the return trip, in the distracted state of the region, politically, and its physical aspect as a nearly unexplored wilderness, it would be simply impossible for a stranger to cope with any disasters or difficulties, if one could be found to undertake the trip."
Julius was astonished at himself when heheard his own voice blandly suggest—"Come with me, Mr. Burrage! You would enjoy the trip—beautiful scenery! I should have the benefit of your long experience in matters of business, and you could avail yourself of my knowledge of the country and the people—the methods and the manners."
He was in admiration of his own astuteness. His intuition had captured the emergency. He had perceived in Mr. Burrage's face unmistakable indications that he would play the obstructive. He would detain the supposed agent here, and would not intrust him with the necessary instructions in this difficult and most compromising business, until the fullest advices could be had from the distant promoters of the enterprise, who were presumed to have sent hither "John Wray, Junior."
The suggestion of Julius met with instantaneous favor among the group, except, indeed, that Mr. Burrage himself looked disconcerted, surprised, definitely at a loss. It removed all possible objections to the employment of this agent with no other credentials than the name on the register—but at this moment Mr. Burrage thought that perhaps the coincidence would have struck him with more force had the name been his own and the registry anticipated his arrival. Time was of importance. No one more than the experienced man of business realizes the Protean capacity for change appertainingto that combination of cause and effect called opportunity. What is possible to-day may be relegated to the regions of everlasting regret to-morrow. Everything was favorable at the moment, feasible. The future stood with the boon of success in an outstretched hand. Delay was hardly to be contemplated. The proposition that Mr. Burrage should accompany the agent of his own company on a tour of important negotiation, and at no sacrifice of personal ease, was at once so reasonable and so indicative of the fairest intentions that he was ashamed of the cautionary doubt he had entertained. All at once the journey seemed too much trouble. The matter had already been adjusted, he said. The plan might well stand as Mr. Wray had arranged it.
But Mr. Wray, too, added his insistence. "Nothing could be better," he declared.
And as Mr. Burrage demurred, and half apologized, and was distinctly out of countenance, Mr. Wray compassionately overlooked all his disquieting cautions and protested with cordiality that the change would be an advantage. Some difficulty might arise, some reluctance to deliver the cotton they had already purchased, some doubt as to the locality where it was stored,—they used this expression rather than "hidden," though Julius apprehended that its cache was now a cane-brake and now a rock house or cave, and now a tongue of dry land ina network of bayous and swamps,—some failure of facilities in respect to men or water carriage or land transportation, with all of which this young gentleman, new to the arrangements and the enterprise, might find it difficult to cope successfully. Such unforeseen obstacles might require a divergence from the original plan and the agent's instructions. But Mr. Burrage, a member of the Company, could meet and provide for all these emergencies, and yet with such a guide be as assured and as confident of his footing in this strange country as if he himself were a native. It was the happiest suggestion! It enabled him to make a long arm, as it were, and manipulate the matter in effect without a proxy.
"And meantime it will be strange indeed if I cannot make a long leg!" thought Julius, triumphantly.
The actual Mr. Wray was treated everywhere with all possible consideration and due regard to the fact that he was a British subject. The neutrality of Great Britain was considered exceedingly precarious, and there was no disposition to twist the tail of the Lion, albeit this appendage was whisked about in a way that ever and anon provoked that catastrophe. The British Lion was supposed in some quarters to be solicitous of a grievance which would justify a roar of exceeding wrath. In this instance, however, there was no necessity of withholding the favorasked by a British subject, Mr. John Wray,—for a pass for his cousin, Mr. John Wray, Junior, of Manchester, England, and his friend, Mr. Alfred Burrage.
That night the two slept on the crowded steamer, as she was to cast off at a very early hour. Long, long did Julius lie awake in his berth in the tiny stateroom peculiar to the architecture of the "stern-wheeler." The good Mr. Burrage in the berth below snored in satisfaction with the events of the day, untroubled as to the morrow. Julius had been so tormented by vacillations, by the untoward "about-face" movements of the probable, so hampered by the unexpected, so repeatedly disappointed, that even now he could not believe in his good fortune. Something, somehow, would snatch the cup from his lips. But in the midst of his turmoil of emotion he had a distinct sense of gratitude that the preservation of his safety had involved no forwarding of equivocal interests. The affairs of the Company were doubtless such as many were seeking to prosecute with varying chances of success. He would report the scheme to his commanding officer, however, and he could forecast the reply, "One of hundreds." But, at all events, the map in his boot-lining was a matter of no slight import. He could hardly wait to spread it on a drumhead before his Colonel's eyes, and solicit the honor of leading the enterprise he had planned.
But was he, indeed, destined to escape, to come off scatheless from this heady venture!
"If ever I see the command again, by thunder, I'll stick to them as long as I live. If ever I can lay hold of my sword again, I swear my right hand shall never be far from its hilt!"
In the early hours of the night the loading of the cargo was still unfinished. The calls of the deck-hands, the vociferations of the mate, which were of an intensity, a fervor, a mad strenuousness, that might seem never heard before out of Bedlam, the clash and commotion of boxes and barrels, the lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep, for the lower deck was given over to the transportation of army supplies, sounded erratically, now louder, now moderated, dying away and again rising in agitated vibrations. Sometimes, as he lay, a great flare of light illumined the tiny apartment as the torches, carried by the roustabouts on shore, cast eerie vistas into the darkness, and he could see the closely fitted white planking of the ceiling just above his head, the white coverlet, and through the glass door, that served too as window, the railing of the guards without and the dim glimpse of the first street of the town—River Avenue—about on a level with his eye, so deep was the declivity to the wharf.
Quiet came gradually. The grating and shifting of the cargo ceased first; the boat was fully loaded at length. Then the voices became subdued,—oncea snatch of song, and again a burst of laughing banter between the roustabouts going up into the town and the deck-hands about to turn in on the boat. Now it was so quiet that he could distinguish the flow of the current. Yet he could not sleep. Once he seemed near unconsciousness when he heard the clash of iron as the stoker was banking the fires, for steam was up. Then Julius lay in unbroken silence, till an owl hooted from out the Roscoe woods down the river. There was home! He thought of his father with so filial a tenderness that the mere recollection might be accounted a prayer. In that dense mass of foliage off toward the west, under the stars and the moon, stood the silent house, invisible at the distance, but every slant of the roof, every contour of the chimneys, every window and door,—nay, every moulding of the cornice, was as present to his contemplation as if he beheld it in floods of matutinal sunshine. "Oh, bless it!" he breathed. "Bless it, and all it holds!"
With dreary melancholy he fell to gazing out at the real instead,—at the vague slant to the wharf in the flickering moonlight, and the dim warning glow of a lantern on an obstructive pile of brick on the crest of River Avenue. Somehow the trivial thing had a spell to hold his eyes, as he watched it with a mournful, dull apprehension of what might betide, for he feared to hope still to escape—so often had this hopeallured and disappointed him. Would something happen at the last moment—and what would the next disaster be?
Therefore when he suddenly became sensible that the boat was moving swiftly, strongly, in midcurrent under a full head of steam, he felt a great revulsion of emotion. Floods of sunshine suffused the guards and, shining through the glass section of the door, sent a wakening beam into his face. A glance without apprised him that while he slept the town was left far behind, the fort, the camps, the pickets, all the features of grim-visaged war, and now great forest masses pressed down to the craggy banks on either side. The moment of deliverance was near,—it was at hand,—and as he dressed in the extreme of haste, he listened expectantly for the whistle of the boat, for it was approaching a little town on the opposite side where a landing was always made. Julius hardly feared the entrance of any passenger who might recognize him, but he took his way into the saloon and asked for breakfast, in order that thus employed he might have time to reconnoitre. The boat, however, barely touched the wharf, and when he emerged and joined Mr. Burrage on the deck there was something so breezily triumphant in his manner that the observant elder man looked askance at him with a conscious lack of comprehension. He thought he was evidently mistaken if he had imagined he had gauged this youth. Hisbreeding was far above his humble and subsidiary employment, and his manner singularly well poised and assured. There was a hint of dignity, of command, in his pose and the glance of his eye. He was perfectly courteous; he did not forget to apologize for a lapse of attention, albeit absorbed in a certain undercurrent of excitement. He did not hear what Mr. Burrage had said of the news from the front in the morning paper, and upon its repetition accepted the proffered sheet with thanks and threw himself into a chair beside his elderly fellow-passenger. He had hardly read ten words before he lifted his head with a certain alert expectancy, like the head of a listening deer. The whistle of the boat had sounded again, the hoarse, discordant howl common to river steamers, an acoustic infliction even at a distance, and truly lamentable close at hand, but it was not this that had caught his attention. The boat was turning in midstream and heading for the shore, now backing at the signal of her pilot's bells, peremptorily jangling, now going forward with a jerk, and again swinging slowly around, and at last slipping forward easily toward the wood-yard where great piles of ready-cut fuel awaited her.
An alien sound had also caught Mr. Burrage's attention.
"What is that?" he demanded of the captain of the steamboat, who held a field-glass and was looking eagerly toward the woods.
"Musketry," replied the captain, succinctly.
"There is some engagement taking place in the forest?" inquired Mr. Burrage.
"Seems so," said the captain.
"And are you—are you going to land?"
"Must have wood—that's my regular depot," returned the steamboatman.
"You had best return to Roanoke City instead," urged Mr. Burrage, aghast.
"Need wood forthat!"
"But the boat will be captured by the Rebels. Why don't you burn the freight?"
"Beeves ain't convenient for fuel on the hoof."
"Oh, I reckon the captain can wood and get off," said Julius, good-naturedly, reassuring Mr. Burrage. "Nobody is thinking about this boat now." Then, as a sharper volley smote the air, he added, "I think I'll look into this a bit," rose and took his way through the groups of excited passengers and down to the lower deck.
The "mud clerk," the roustabouts, the wood-yard contingent, made quick work of fuelling the steamer, and she was once more in midstream, forging ahead at high speed, before it occurred to Mr. Burrage to compare notes with his young colleague and ascertain if he had learned aught of what forces were engaged.
He was not easily found, and Mr. Burrage asked the captain of his whereabouts.
"He must have got left by the boat," said thecaptain, as if the packet were a sentient thing and subject to whims.
Mr. Burrage, gravely disturbed, caused inquiry to be circulated among the hands and officials,—all, in effect, who had set foot onterra firma.
"Who? that young dandy with the long hair?" said the "mud clerk," staring, his measuring staff still in his hand. "Why, that manintendedto land. He had his portmanteau and walked off along the road as unconcerned as if he was going home. I was too busy measuring the wood to pass the time of day, thinking the riverbank was alive with guerillas."
His departure remained a mystery to Mr. Burrage. As to the topographical features of his involved scheme he was powerless to prosecute this phase alone. The simple expedient of sticking to the packet and retracing his way on her return trip brought him at last to a consultation with hisconfrères, who also long pondered fruitlessly on the strange meeting and its result. About this time the agent or guide, provided by the Company, presented himself with due credentials from the main office,—a heavy, dull, somewhat sullen man, with no further capacity, or will, indeed, than a lenient interpretation of his duty might require.