Secret Service

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER IX

  THE SHOT THAT KILLED

  A glance through the window showed Captain Thorne that the yard beyond,which had been empty all evening, was now full of armed men. TheCorporal had gone out through the hall door back of the house whence hehad entered. There was no doubt but that the back windows would beequally well guarded. The house was surrounded, no escape was possible.He was trapped, virtually a prisoner, although for the time being, theyhad left him a certain liberty--the liberty of that one large room! Itwas quite evident to him that he was the object of their suspicions, andhe more than feared that his real affiliations had been at lastdiscovered.

  Apparently, there would be no opportunity now in which he could carryout his part in the cunningly devised scheme of attack. "_Plan 3_" wouldinevitably result in failure, as so many previous plans had resulted,because he would not be able to send the orders that would weaken theposition. The best he could hope for, in all probability, was the shortshrift of a spy. He had staked his life on the game and it appeared thathe had lost.

  Nay, more than life had been wagered, honour. He knew the contempt inwhich the spy was held; he knew that even the gallantry and intrepidityof Andre and Hale had not saved them from opprobrium and disgrace.

  And there was even more than honour upon the board. His love! Not theremotest idea of succumbing to the attractions of Edith Varney everentered his head when he attempted the desperate, the fatal role. Atfirst he had regarded the Varney house and herself as a chessboard and apawn in the game. The strength of character which had enabled him toassume the unenviable part he played, because of his country's need, forhis country's good, and which would have carried him through the obloquyand scorn that were sure to be visited upon him--with death at theend!--did not stand him in good stead when it came to thoughts of her.Until he yielded to his passion, and broke his self-imposed vow ofsilence, he had fought a good fight. Now he realised that the woman whoshould accept his affections would compromise herself forever in theeyes of everything she held dear, even if he succeeded and lived, whichwas unlikely.

  He had never, so he fancied, in the least and remotest way given her anyevidence that he loved her. In reality, she had read him like an openbook, as women always do. He had come there that night to get themessage from Jonas, and then to bid her good-bye forever, withoutdisclosing the state of his affections. If he succeeded in manipulatingthe telegraph and carrying out his end of the project, he could see nochance of escape. Ultimate detection and execution appeared certain, andany avowal would therefore be useless. But he had counted without her.She had shown her feelings, and he had fallen. To the temptation of herpresence and her artless disclosure, he had not been able to makeadequate resistance.

  He was the last man on earth to blame her or to reproach her for that;but the fierce, impetuous temperament of the man was overwhelming whenit once broke loose, and he felt that he must tell her or die.

  Because of his iron self-repression for so long he was the less able tostand the pressure in the end. He had thrown everything to the winds,and had told her how he loved her.

  Out there in the moonlight in the rose arbour, the scent of the flowers,the southern night wind, the proximity of the girl, her eyes shininglike stars out of the shadows in which they stood, the pallor of herface, the rise and fall of her bosom, the fluttering of her hand asunwittingly or wittingly, who knows, she touched him, had intoxicatedhim, and his love and passion had broken all bounds, and he had spokento her and she had answered. She loved him. What did that mean to himnow?

  Sometimes woman's love makes duty easy, sometimes it makes it hard.Sometimes it is the crown which victors wear, and sometimes it is thepall that overshadows defeat.

  What Edith Varney knew or suspected concerning him, he could not tell.That she knew something, that she suspected something, had been evident,but whatever her knowledge and suspicion, they were not sufficientlypowerful or telling to prevent her from returning love for love, kissfor kiss. But did she love him in spite of her knowledge and suspicion?The problem was too great for his solution then.

  These things passed through his mind as he stood there by the window,with his hand on his revolver, waiting. It was all he could do.Sometimes even to the most fiery and the most alert of soldiers comesthe conviction that there is nothing to do but wait. And if he thinks ofit, he will sympathise with the women who are left behind in times ofwar, who have little to do but wait.

  The room had suddenly become his world, the walls his horizon, theceiling his sky. At any exit he would find the way barred. Why had theyleft him in the room, free, armed, his revolver in his hand?

  None but the bravest would have entered upon such a career as he hadchosen. His nerves were like steel in the presence of danger. He hadtrembled before the woman in the garden a moment since; the stone wallsof the house were no more rigidly composed than he in the drawing-roomnow. It came to him that there was nothing left but one great battle inthat room unless they shot him from behind door or window or portiere,giving him no chance. If they did confront him openly he would show themthat if he had chosen the Secret Service and the life of a spy he couldfight and die like a man and a soldier. He held some lives within thechamber of his revolver, and they should pay did they give him but achance.

  Indeed, they were already giving him a chance, he thought to himself ashe waited and listened. He was utterly unable to divine why he was atliberty in the room, and why he was left alone, or what was toward.

  In the very midst of these crowding and tumultuous thoughts which ranthrough his mind in far, far less time than it has taken to record them,he heard a noise at the window at the farther side of the room, as ifsome one fumbled at the catch. Instantly Thorne shrank back behind theportieres of the window he was guarding, not completely concealinghimself but sufficiently hid as to be unobserved except by carefulscrutiny in the dim light. Once more he clutched the butt of hisrevolver swinging at his waist. He bent his body slightly, and even thethought of Edith Varney passed from his mind. He stood ready, powerful,concentrated, determined, confronting an almost certain enemy with thefierce heart and envenomed glance of the fighter at bay.

  He had scarcely assumed this position when the window was opened, and aman was thrust violently through into the room. At the first glance,Thorne as yet unseen, recognised the newcomer as his elder brother,Henry Dumont. Unlike the two famous brothers of the parable, these twoloved each other.

  Thorne's muscles relaxed, his hand still clutched the butt of hisrevolver, he was still alert, but here was not an enemy. He began atonce to fathom something at least of the plan and the purpose of thepeople who had trapped him. In a flash he perceived that his enemieswere not yet in possession of all the facts which would warrant them inlaying hands upon him. He was suspected, but the final evidence uponwhich to turn suspicion into certainty was evidently lacking. He couldfeel, although he could not see them, that every door and window hadeyes, solely for him, and that he was closely watched for some falsemove which would betray him. The plan for which he had ventured so muchwas still possible; he had not yet failed. His heart leaped in hisbreast. The clouds around his horizon lifted a little. There was yet apossibility that he could succeed, that he could carry out his part ofthe cunningly devised and desperate undertaking, the series of events ofwhich this night and the telegraph office were to be the culmination.

  A less cautious and a less resourceful man might have evinced someemotion, might have gone forward or spoken to the newcomer, would haveat least done something to have attracted his attention, but save forthat relaxation of the tension, which no one could by any possibilityobserve, Thorne stood motionless, silent, waiting; just as he might havestood and waited had he been what he seemed and had the newcomer beenutterly unknown and indifferent to him.

  His brother was dressed in the blue uniform of the United States; likethe others it had seen good service, but as Thorne glanced from his ownclothes to those of his
brother, the blood came to his face, it was likeseeing his own flag again. For a fleeting moment he wished that he hadon his own rightful uniform himself and that he had never put it off foranything; but duty is not made up of wishes, gratified or ungratified,and the thought passed as he watched the other man.

  Henry Dumont had been thrust violently into the room by the soldiersoutside. He had been captured, as Arrelsford had said, earlier in theday; he had allowed himself to be taken. He had been thrust into LibbyPrison with dozens of prisoners taken in the same sortie. He had notbeen searched, but then none of the others had been; had he beenselected for that unwonted immunity alone it would have awakened hissuspicions, but the Confederates had made a show of great haste indisposing of their prisoners, and had promised to search them in themorning. Therefore, Henry Dumont had retained the paper which later hehad given Jonas, when by previous arrangement he made his daily visit tothe prison.

  He had been greatly surprised, when about a quarter to nine o'clock, asquad of soldiers had taken him from the prison, had marched himhurriedly through the streets with which he was entirely unfamiliar, andhad taken him to the residence section of the city, and had halted atthe back of a big house. He had asked no questions, and no explanationshad been vouchsafed to him. He was more surprised than ever when he wastaken up to the porch, the window was opened, and he was thrustviolently into a room, so violently that he staggered and had somedifficulty in recovering his balance.

  He made a quick inspection of the room. Thorne, in the deeper shadows atthe farther end of the room was invisible to him. He stood motionlesssave for the turning of his head as he looked around him. He moved a fewsteps toward the end of the room, opposite his entrance, passed by thefar door opening into the back hall which was covered with portieres,and went swiftly toward the near door into the front hall. The door wasslightly ajar, and as he came within range of the opening he saw in theshadows of the hall, crossed bayonets and men. No escape that way!

  He went on past the door toward the large windows at the front of thehouse and in another moment would have been at the front window whereThorne stood. The latter dropped the curtain and stepped out into theroom.

  For the thousandth part of a second the two brothers stared at eachother, and then in a fiercely intense voice, Thorne, playing his part,desperately called out:

  "Halt! You are a prisoner!"

  Both brothers were quick witted, both knew that they were under theclosest observation, both realised that they were expected to betrayrelationship, which would incriminate both, and probably result fatallyfor one and certainly ruin the plan. Thorne's cue was to regard hisbrother as the prisoner whom it was important to arrest, and Dumont'scue was to regard his brother as an enemy with whom it was his duty tostruggle. The minds of the two were made up instantly. With a quickmovement Dumont sought to pass his brother, but with a movement equallyas rapid, Thorne leaped upon him, shouting again:

  "Halt, I say!"

  The two men instantly grappled. It was no mimic struggle that theyengaged in, either. They were of about equal height and weight, ifanything Thorne was the stronger, but this advantage was offset by thefact that he had been recently ill, and the two fought therefore onequal terms at first. It was a fierce, desperate grapple in which theymet. As they struggled violently, both by a common impulse, reeledtoward that part of the room near the mantel which was farthest awayfrom doors or windows, and where they would be the least likely to beoverheard or to be more closely observed. As they fought together,Thorne called out again:

  "Corporal of the Guard, here is your man! Corporal of the Guard, whatare you doing?"

  At that instant the two reeling bodies struck the wall next to themantel with a fearful smash, and a chair that stood by was overturned bya quick movement on the part of Henry Dumont, who did not know hisbrother had already received the important message. In the confusion ofthe moment, he hissed in Thorne's ear:

  "_Attack to-night, plan 3, use telegraph!_ Did you get that?"

  "Yes," returned Thorne, still keeping up the struggle.

  "Good," said Dumont. "They are watching us. Shoot me in the leg."

  "No, I can't do it," whispered Thorne.

  All the while the two men were reeling and staggering and strugglingagainst the wall and furniture. The encounter would have deceived themost suspicious.

  "Shoot, shoot," said the elder.

  "I can't shoot my own brother," the younger panted out.

  "It is the only way to throw them off the scent," persisted Dumont.

  "I won't do it," answered Thorne, and then he shouted again:

  "Corporal of the Guard, I have your prisoner!"

  "Let me go, damn you!" roared Dumont furiously, making another desperateeffort,--"if you don't do it, I will," he added under his breath. "Giveme the revolver!"

  "No, no, Harry," was the whispered reply, and "Surrender, curse you!"the shouted answer. "You'll hurt yourself," he pleaded.

  "I don't care," muttered Dumont. "Let me have it."

  His hands slipped down from Thorne's shoulders and grasped the butt ofthe revolver. The two grappled for it fiercely, but the struggle wasbeginning to tell on Thorne, who was not yet in full possession of hisphysical vitality. His long illness had sapped his strength.

  "Don't, don't, for God's sake!" he whispered, and then shouteddesperately, "Here's your man, Corporal, what's the matter with you?"

  "Give me that gun," said Dumont, and in spite of himself his voice roseagain. There was nothing suspicious in the words, it was what he mighthave said had the battle been a real one; as he spoke by a more violenteffort he wrenched the weapon from the holster and away from Thorne'sdetaining hand. The latter sought desperately to repossess himself ofit.

  "Look out, Harry!" he implored]

  "Look out, Harry! You'll hurt yourself," he implored, but the nextmoment by a superhuman effort Dumont threw him back. As Thornestaggered, Dumont turned the pistol on himself. Recovering himself withincredible swiftness, Thorne leaped at his brother, and the two figureswent down together with a crash in the midst of which rang out the sharpreport of the heavy service weapon. Instead of shooting himselfharmlessly in the side, in the struggle Dumont had unfortunately shothimself through the lung.

  Not at first comprehending exactly what had happened, Thorne rose to hisfeet, took the revolver from the other's hand, and stood over the bodyof his mortally wounded brother, the awful anguish of his heart in hisface. Fortunately, they were near the far end of the room, next thewall, and no one could see the look in Thorne's eyes or the distortionof his features in his horror.

  "Harry!" he whispered. "My God, you have shot yourself!"

  But Henry Dumont was past speaking. He simply smiled at his brother, andclosed his eyes. The next instant the room was filled with light andsound. From every window and door people poured in; the soldiers fromthe porches, from the hall, Mrs. Varney, Arrelsford and Edith; from theother side of the hall a hubbub of screams and cries rose from behindthe locked door where the sewing women sat. Martha brought up the rearwith lights, which Arrelsford took from her and set on the table. Theroom was again brightly illuminated.

  As they crowded through the various entrances, their eyes fell uponThorne. He was leaning nonchalantly against the table, his revolver inhis hand, a look of absolute indifference upon his face. His acting wassuperb had they but known it. He could not betray himself now and makevain his brother's sublime act of self-sacrifice for the cause. Therewas a tumult of shouts and sudden cries:

  "Where is he? What has he done? This way now!"

  Most of those who entered had eyes only for the man lying upon thefloor, blood welling darkly through his grey shirt exposed by theopening of his coat which had been torn apart in the struggle. Threepeople had eyes only for Thorne, the man who hated him, the girl wholoved him, and the woman who suspected him. Between the soldiers andthese three stood the Corporal of the Guard, representing as it were,the impartial law.

  Thorne did not glance once at
the girl who loved him, or at the man whohated him, or at the woman who suspected him. He fixed his eyes upon theCorporal of the Guard.

  "There's your prisoner, Corporal," he said calmly, without a break inhis voice, although such anguish possessed him as he had never beforeexperienced and lived through, but his control was absolutely perfect.

  And his quiet words and quiet demeanour increased the hate of one man,and the suspicions of one woman, and the love and admiration of theother.

  "There's your prisoner," he said, slipping his revolver slowly back intoits holster. "We had a bit of a struggle and I had to shoot him. Lookout for him."

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  BOOK III

  WHAT HAPPENED AT TEN O'CLOCK