“‘Tain’t the Special Messenger, ma’am, is it?” he inquired hoarsely. “The boys is tellin’ how you was ketched down to — —”
She made him a sign for silence as the officer of the guard came up — an ill-tempered, heavily-bandaged young man.
“What the — —” he began, but, seeing a woman’s muddy skirt in the lantern light, checked his speech.
The corporal whispered in his ear; both stared. “I guess it’s all right,” said the officer. “Won’t you come in? The general is asleep; he’s got half an hour more, but I’ll wake him if you say so.”
“I can wait half an hour.”
“Take her horse,” said the officer briefly, then led the way up the steps of a white porch buried under trumpet vines in heavy bloom.
The door stood open, so did every window on the ground floor, for the July night was hot. A sentry stood inside the wide hall, resting on his rifle, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cap pushed back on his flushed young forehead.
There was a candle burning in the room on the right; an old artillery officer leaned over the center table, asleep, round, red face buried in his arms, sabre tucked snugly between his legs, like the tail of a sleeping dog; an aide-de-camp slept heavily on a mahogany sofa, jacket unbuttoned, showing the white, powerful muscles of his chest, all glistening with perspiration. Beside the open window sat a thin figure in the uniform of a signal officer, and at first when the Special Messenger looked at him she thought he also was asleep.
Then, as though her entrance had awakened him, he straightened up, passed one long hand over his face, looked at her through the candlelight, and rose with a grace too unconscious not to have been inherited.
The bandaged officer of the guard made a slovenly gesture, half salute, half indicative: “The Messenger,” he announced, and, half turning on his heel as he left the room, “our signal officer, Captain West,” in deference to a convention almost forgotten.
Captain West drew forward an armchair; the Special Messenger sank into its tufted depths and stripped the gauntlets from her sun-tanned hands — narrow hands, smooth as a child’s, now wearily coiling up the lustrous braids which sagged to her shoulders under the felt riding hat. And all the while, from beneath level brows, her dark, distrait eyes were wandering from the signal officer to the sleeping major of artillery, to the aide snoring on the sofa, to the trumpet vines hanging motionless outside the open window. But all she really saw was Captain West.
He appeared somewhat young and thin, his blond hair and mustache were burned hay-color. He was adjusting eyeglasses to a narrow, well-cut nose; under a scanty mustache his mouth had fallen into pleasant lines, the nearsighted eyes, now regarding her normally from behind the glasses, seemed clear, unusually pleasant, even a trifle mischievous.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked respectfully.
“After the general is awake — if I might have the use of a room — and a little fresh water—” Speech died in her throat; some of the color died in her face, too.
“Did you wish me to awake him now? If your business is urgent I will,” said Captain West.
She did not reply; an imperceptible twitching tightened her lips; then the young mouth relaxed, drooping a trifle at the corners. Lying there, so outwardly calm, her tired, faraway gaze fixed absently on him, she seemed on the verge of slumber.
“If your business is urgent,” he was repeating pleasantly. But she made no answer.
Urgent? No, not now. It had been urgent a second or two ago. But not now. There was time — time to lie there looking at him, time to try to realize such things as triumph, accomplishment, the excitement of achievement; time to relax from the long, long strain and lie nerveless, without strength, yielding languidly to the reaction from a task well done.
So this was success? A pitiful curiosity made her eyes wistful for an instant. Success? It had not come as she expected.
Was her long quest over? Was this the finish? Had all ended here — here at headquarters, whither she had returned to take up, patiently, the lost trail once more?
Her dark gaze rested on this man dreamily; but her heart, after its first painful bound of astonishment, was beating now with heavy, sickened intelligence. The triumph had come too suddenly.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
She was not hungry. There was a bucket of water and a soldier’s tin cup on the window sill; and, forestalling him instinctively, she reached over, plunged the cup into the tepid depths and drank.
“I was going to offer you some,” he said, amused; and over the brimming cup she smiled back, shuddering.
“If you care to lie down for a few moments I’ll move that youngster off the sofa,” he suggested.
But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.
“Can’t you sleep? You are white as death. I’ll call you in an hour,” he ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so terrible in her ears — so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable tremor of revolt.
“What did you ask me?”
“I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour — —”
Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more merciful to her at this time to-morrow — or the next day — or ever again. And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin, muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field glasses and holster.
“Are you the famous Special Messenger? — if it is not a military indiscretion to name you,” he asked, with a glint of humor in his pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered there, too — the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly feeling came over her — faintness, which passed — repugnance, which gave birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was afraid of herself — of failing in duty; she understood that she could not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No; there was more for her to do, a chance — barely a miracle of chance — that she might be mistaken.
“Why do you think I am the Special Messenger, Captain West?”
There was no sign of inward tumult under her smooth, flushed mask as she lay back, elbows set on the chair’s padded arms, hands clasped together. Over them she gazed serenely at the signal officer. And he looked back at her.
“Other spies come to headquarters,” he said, “but you are the only one so far who embodies my ideal of the highly mysterious Special Messenger.”
“Do I appear mysterious?”
“Not unattractively so,” he said, smiling.
“I have heard,” she said, “that the Union spy whom they call the Special Messenger is middle-aged and fat.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” he nodded, with a twinkle in his gray eyes— “and I’ve heard also that she’s red-headed, peppered with freckles, and — according to report — bow-legged from too many cross-saddles.”
“Please observe my single spur,” she said, extending her slender, booted foot; “and you will notice that I don’t fit that passport.”
“My idea of her passport itemizes every feature you possess,” he said, laughing; “five feet seven; dark hair, brown eyes, regular features, small, well-shaped hands — —”
“Please — Captain West!”
“I beg your pardon—” very serious.
“I am not offended.... What time is it, if you please?”
He lifted the candle, looked clo
sely at his watch and informed her; she expressed disbelief, and stretched out her hand for the watch. He may not have noticed it; he returned the watch to his pocket.
She sank back in her chair, very thoughtful. Her glimpse of the monogram on the back of the watch had not lasted long enough. Was it an M or a W she had seen?
The room was hot; the aide on the sofa ceased snoring; one spurred heel had fallen to the floor, where it trailed limply. Once or twice he muttered nonsense in his sleep.
The major of artillery grunted, lifted a congested face from the cradle of his folded arms, blinked at them stupidly, then his heavy, close-clipped head fell into his arms again. The candle glimmered on his tarnished shoulder straps.
A few moments later a door at the end of the room creaked and a fully-lathered visage protruded. Two gimlet eyes surveyed the scene; a mouth all awry from a sabre-slash closed grimly as Captain West rose to attention.
“Is there any fresh water?” asked the general. “There’s a dead mouse in this pail.”
At the sound of his voice the aide awoke, got onto his feet, took the pail, and wandered off into the house somewhere; the artillery officer rose with a dreadful yawn, and picked up his forage cap and gauntlets.
Then he yawned again, showing every yellow tooth in his head.
The general opened his door wider, standing wiry and erect in boots and breeches. His flannel shirt was open at the throat; lather covered his features, making the distorted smile that crept over them unusually hideous.
“Well, I’m glad to see you,” he said to the Special Messenger; “come in while I shave. West, is there anything to eat? All right; I’m ready for it. Come in, Messenger, come in!”
She entered, closing the bedroom door; the general shook hands with her slyly, saying, “I’m devilish glad you got through, ma’am. Have any trouble down below?”
“Some, General.”
He nodded and began to shave; she stripped off her tight outer jacket, laid it on the table, and, ripping the lining stitches, extracted some maps and shreds of soft paper covered with notes and figures.
Over these, half shaved, the general stooped, razor in hand, eyes following her forefinger as she traced in silence the lines she had drawn. There was no need for her to speak, no reason for him to inquire; her maps were perfectly clear, every route named, every regiment, every battery labeled, every total added up.
Without a word she called his attention to the railroad and the note regarding the number of trains.
“We’ve got to get at it, somehow,” he said. “What are those?”
“Siege batteries, General — on the march.”
His mutilated mouth relaxed into a grin.
“They seem to be allfired sure of us. What are they saying down below?”
“They talk of being in Washington by the fifteenth, sir.”
“Oh.... What’s that topographical symbol — here?” placing one finger on the map.
“That is the Moray Mansion — or was.”
“Was?”
“Our cavalry burned it two weeks ago Thursday.”
“Find anything to help you there?”
She nodded.
The general returned to his shaving, completed it, came back and examined the papers again.
“That infantry, there,” he said, “are you sure it’s Longstreet’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t see Longstreet, did you?”
“Yes, sir; and talked with him.”
The general’s body servant knocked, announcing breakfast, and left the general’s boots and tunic, both carefully brushed. When he had gone out again, the Special Messenger said very quietly:
“I expect to report on the Moray matter before night.”
The general buckled in his belt and hooked up his sword.
“If you can nail that fellow,” he said, speaking very slowly, “I guess you can come pretty close to getting whatever you ask for from Washington.”
For a moment she stood very silent there, her ripped jacket hanging limp over her arm; then, with a pallid smile:
“Anything I ask for? Did you say that, sir?”
He nodded.
“Even if I ask for — his pardon?”
The general laughed a distorted laugh.
“I guess we’ll bar that,” he said. “Will you breakfast, ma’am? The next room is free, if you want it.”
Headquarters bugles began to sound as she crossed the hall, jacket dangling over her arm, and pushed open the door of a darkened room. The air within was stifling, she opened a window and thrust back the blinds, and at the same moment the ringing crack of a rifled cannon shattered the silence of dawn. Very, very far away a dull boom replied.
Outside, in dusky obscurity, cavalry were mounting; a trooper, pumping water from a well under her window, sang quietly to himself in an undertone as he worked, then went off carrying two brimming buckets.
The sour, burned stench of stale campfires tainted the morning freshness.
She leaned on the sill, looking out into the east. Somewhere yonder, high against the sky, they were signaling with torches. She watched the red flames swinging to right, to left, dipping, circling; other sparks broke out to the north, where two army corps were talking to each other with fire.
As the sky turned gray, one by one the forest-shrouded hills took shape; details began to appear; woodlands grew out of fathomless shadows, fields, fences, a rocky hillock close by, trees in an orchard, some Sibley tents.
And with the coming of day a widening murmur grew out of the invisible, a swelling monotone through which, incessantly, near and distant, broken, cheery little flurries of bugle music, and far and farther still, where mists hung over a vast hollow in the hills, the dropping shots of the outposts thickened to a steady patter, running backward and forward, from east to west, as far as the ear could hear.
A soldier brought her some breakfast; later he came again with her saddlebags and a big bucket of fresh water, taking away her riding habit and boots, which she thrust at him from the half-closed door.
Her bath was primitive enough; a sheet from the bed dried her, the saddlebags yielded some fresh linen, a pair of silk stockings and a comb.
Sitting there behind closed blinds, her smooth body swathed to the waist in a sheet, she combed out the glossy masses of her hair before braiding them once more around her temples; and her dark eyes watched daylight brighten between the slits in the blinds.
The cannonade was gradually becoming tremendous, the guns tuning up by batteries. There was, however, as yet, no platoon firing distinguishable through the sustained crackle of the fusillade; columns of dust, hanging above fields and woodlands, marked the courses of every northern road where wagons and troops were already moving west and south; the fog from the cannon turned the rising sun to a pulsating, cherry-tinted globe.
There was no bird music now from the orchard; here and there a scared oriole or robin flashed through the trees, winging its frightened way out of pandemonium.
The cavalry horses of the escort hung their heads, as though dully enduring the uproar; the horses of the field ambulances parked near the orchard were being backed into the shafts; the band of an infantry regiment, instruments flashing dully, marched up, halted, deposited trombone, clarion and bass drum on the grass and were told off as stretcher-bearers by a smart, Irish sergeant, who wore his cap over one ear.
The shock of the cannonade was terrific; the Special Messenger, buttoning her fresh linen, winced as window and door quivered under the pounding uproar. Then, dressed at last, she opened the shaking blinds and, seating herself by the window, laid her riding jacket across her knees.
There were rents and rips in sleeve and body, but she was not going to sew. On the contrary, she felt about with delicate, tentative fingers, searching through the loosened lining until she found what she was looking for, and, extracting it, laid it on her knees — a photograph, in a thin gold oval, covered with glass.
The po
rtrait was that of a young man — thin, quaintly amused, looking out of the frame at her from behind his spectacles. The mustache appeared to be slighter, the hair a trifle longer than the mustache and hair worn by the signal officer, Captain West. Otherwise, it was the man. And hope died in her breast without a flicker.
Sitting there by the shaking window, with the daguerreotype in her clasped hands, she looked at the summer sky, now all stained and polluted by smoke; the uproar of the guns seemed to be shaking her reason, the tumult within her brain had become chaos, and she scarcely knew what she did as, drawing on both gauntlets and fastening her soft riding hat, she passed through the house to the porch, where the staff officers were already climbing into their saddles. But the general, catching sight of her face at the door, swung his horse and dismounted, and came clanking back into the deserted hallway where she stood.
“What is it?” he asked, lowering his voice so she could hear him under the din of the cannonade.
“The Moray matter.... I want two troopers detailed.”
“Have you nailed him?”
“Yes — I—” She faltered, staring fascinated at the distorted face, marred by a sabre to the hideousness of doom itself. “Yes, I think so. I want two troopers — Burke and Campbell, of the escort, if you don’t mind — —”
“You can have a regiment! Is it far?”
“No.” She steadied her voice with an effort.
“Near my headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“Damnation!” he blazed out, and the oath seemed to shock her to self-mastery.
“Don’t ask me now,” she said. “If it’s Moray, I’ll get him.... What are those troops over there, General?” pointing through the doorway.
“The Excelsiors — Irish Brigade.”
She nodded carelessly. “And where are the signal men? Where is your signal officer stationed — Captain — —”
“Do you mean West? He’s over on that knob, talking to Wilcox with flags. See him, up there against the sky?”
“Yes,” she said.
The general’s gimlet eyes seemed to bore through her. “Is that all?”
“All, thank you,” she motioned with dry lips.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 411