Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I am still,” said the Special Messenger thoughtfully. “I like men.... A man — the right one — could easily make me love him. And I am afraid there are more than one ‘right one.’ I have often been on the sentimental border.... But they died, or went away — or I did.... The trouble with me is, as you say, that I am emotional, and very, very tender-hearted.... It is sometimes difficult to be loyal — to care for duty — to care for the Union more than for a man. Not that there is any danger of my proving untrue — —”

  “No,” murmured the Nurse, “loyalty is your inheritance.”

  “Yes, we—” she named her family under her breath— “are traditionally trustworthy. It is part of us — our race was always, will always be.... But — to see a man near death — and to care for him a little — even a rebel — and to know that one word might save him — only one little disloyal word!”

  “No man would save you at that expense,” said the Nurse disdainfully. “I know men.”

  “Do you? I don’t — in that way. There was once an officer — a noncombatant. I could have loved him.... Once there was a Confederate cavalryman. I struck him senseless with my revolver-butt — and I might have — cared for him. He was very young.... I never can forget him. It is hard, dear, the business I am engaged in.... But it has never spoiled my interest in men — or my capacity for loving one of them. I am afraid I am easily moved.”

  She rose and stood erect, to adjust her soft riding hat, her youthfully slender figure in charming relief against the window.

  “Won’t you let me brew a little tea for you?” asked the Nurse. “Don’t leave me so soon.”

  “When do you go on duty?”

  “In about ten minutes. It will be easier to-morrow, when we send our sick North. Will you come in to-morrow?”

  The Special Messenger shook her head dreamily.

  “I don’t know — I don’t know.... Good-by.”

  “Are you going on duty?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  The Nurse rose and put both arms around her.

  “I am so afraid for you,” she said; “and it has been so good to see you.... I don’t know whether we’ll ever meet again — —”

  Her voice was obliterated in the noisy outburst of bugles sounding the noon sick-call.

  They went out together, where the Messenger’s horse was tied under the trees. Beyond, through the pines, glimmered the tents of an emergency hospital. And now, in the open air not very far away, they could hear picket firing.

  “Do be careful,” said the blue-eyed Nurse. “They say you do such audacious things; and every day somebody says you have been taken, or hanged, or shot. Dear, you are so young and so pretty — —”

  “So are you. Don’t catch fever or smallpox or die from a scratch from a poisoned knife.... Good-by once more.”

  They kissed each other. A hospital orderly, passing hurriedly, stopped to hold her stirrup; she mounted, thanked the orderly, waved a smiling adieu to her old schoolmate, and, swinging her powerful horse westward, trotted off through the woods, passing the camp sentinels with a nod and a low-spoken word.

  Farther out in the woods she encountered the first line of pickets; showed her credentials, then urged her horse forward at a gallop.

  “Not that way!” shouted an officer, starting to run after her; “the Johnnies are out there!”

  She turned in her saddle and nodded reassuringly, then spurred on again, expecting to jump the Union advance-guard every moment.

  There seemed to be no firing anywhere in the vicinity; nothing to be seen but dusky pine woods; and after she had advanced almost to the edge of a little clearing, and not encountering the outer line of Union pickets, she drew bridle and sat stock still in her saddle, searching in every direction with alert eyes.

  Nothing moved; the heated scent of the Southern pines hung heavy in the forest; in the long, dry swale-grass of the clearing, yellow butterflies were flying lazily; on a dead branch above her a huge woodpecker, with pointed, silky cap, uttered a querulous cry from moment to moment.

  She strained her dainty, close-set ears; no sound of man stirred in this wilderness — only the lonely bird-cry from above; only the ceaseless monotone of the pine crests stirred by some high breeze unfelt below.

  A forest path, apparently leading west, attracted her attention; into this she steered her horse and continued, even after her compass had warned her that the path was now running directly south.

  The tree-growth was younger here; thickets of laurel and holly grew in the undergrowth, and, attempting a short cut out, she became entangled. For a few minutes her horse, stung by the holly, thrashed and floundered about in the maze of tough stems; and when at last she got him free, she was on the edge of another clearing — a burned one, lying like a path of black velvet in the sun. A cabin stood at the farther edge.

  Three forest bridle paths ran west, east, and south from this blackened clearing. She unbuttoned her waist, drew out a map, and, flattening it on her pommel, bent above it in eager silence. And, as she sat studying her map, she became aware of a tremor in the solid earth under her horse’s feet. It grew to a dull jarring vibration — nearer — nearer — nearer — and she hastily backed her horse into the depths of the laurel, sprang to the ground, and placed both gauntleted hands over her horse’s nostrils.

  A moment later the Confederate cavalry swept through the clearing at a trot — a jaunty, gray column, riding two abreast, then falling into single file as they entered the bridle path at a canter.

  She watched them as they flashed by among the pines, sitting their horses beautifully, the wind lifting the broad brims of their soft hats, the sun a bar of gold across each sunburned face.

  There were only a hundred of them — probably some of Ashby’s old riders, for they seemed strangely familiar — but it was not long before they had passed on their gay course, and the last tremor in the forest soil — the last distant rattle of sabre and carbine — died away in the forest silence.

  What were they doing here? She did not know. There seemed no logical reason for the presence of Stuart’s troopers.

  For a while, awaiting their possible collision with the Union outposts, she listened, expecting the far rattle of rifles. No sound came. They must have sheered off east. So, very calmly she addressed herself to the task in hand.

  This must be the burned clearing; her map and the cabin corroborated her belief. Then it was here that she was to meet this unknown man in Confederate uniform and Union pay — a spy like herself — and give him certain information and receive certain information in return.

  Her instructions had been unusually rigid; she was to take every precaution; use native disguise whether or not it might appear necessary, carry no papers, and let any man she might encounter make the advances until she was absolutely certain of him. For there was an ugly rumor afloat that the man she expected had been caught and hanged, and that a Confederate might attempt to impersonate him. So she looked very carefully at her map, then out of the thicket at the burned clearing. There was the wretched cabin named as rendezvous, the little garden patch with standing corn and beans, and here and there a yellowing squash.

  Why had the passing rebel cavalry left all that good food undisturbed?

  Fear, which within her was always latent, always too ready to influence her by masquerading as caution, stirred now. For almost an hour she stood, balancing her field glasses across her saddle, eyes focused on the open cabin door. Nothing stirred there.

  At last, with a slight shiver, she opened her saddle bags and drew out the dress she meant to wear — a dingy, earth-colored thing of gingham.

  Deep in the thicket she undressed, folded her fine linen and silken stockings, laid them away in the saddle bags together with waist and skirt, field glasses, gauntlets, and whip, and the map and papers, which latter, while affording no information to the enemy, would certainly serve to convict her.

  Dressed now in t
he scanty, colorless clothing of a “poor white” of the pine woods, limbs and body tanned with walnut, her slender feet rubbed in dust and then thrust stockingless into shapeless shoes, she let down the dark, lustrous mass of her hair, braided it, tied it with faded ribbon, rubbed her hands in wood mold and crushed green leaves over them till they seemed all stained and marred with toil. Then she gathered an armful of splinter wood.

  Now ready, she tethered her horse, leaving him bitted and saddled; spread out his sack of feed, turned and looked once more at the cabin, then walked noiselessly to the clearing’s edge, carrying her aromatic splinters.

  Underfoot, as she crossed it, the charred grass crumbled to powder; three wild doves flickered up into flight, making a soft clatter and displaying the four white feathers. A quail called from the bean patch.

  The heat was intense in the sun; perspiration streaked her features; her tender feet burned; the cabin seemed a long way off, a wavering blot through the dancing heat devils playing above the fire-scorched open.

  Head bent, she moved on in the shiftless, hopeless fashion of the sort of humanity she was representing, furtively taking her bearings and making such sidelong observations as she dared. To know the shortest way back to her horse might mean life to her. She understood that. Also she fully realized that she might at that very instant be under hostile observation. In her easily excited imagination, all around her the forest seemed to conceal a hundred malevolent eyes. She shivered slightly, wiped the perspiration from her brow with one small bare fist, and plodded on, clutching her lightwood to her rounded breast.

  And now at last she was nearing the open cabin door; and she must not hesitate, must show no suspicion. So she went in, dragging her clumsily-shod feet.

  A very young man in the uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer was seated inside before the empty fireplace of baked clay. He had a bad scar on his temple. She looked at him, simulating dull surprise; he rose and greeted her gracefully.

  “Howdy,” she murmured in response, still staring.

  “Is this your house?” he asked.

  “Suh?” blankly.

  “Is this your house?”

  “I reckon,” she nodded. “How come you-all in my house?”

  He replied with another question:

  “What were you doing in the woods?”

  “Lightwood,” she answered briefly, stacking the fragrant splinters on the table.

  “Do you live here all alone?”

  “Reckon I’m alone when I live heah,” sullenly.

  “What is your name?” He had a trick of coloring easily.

  “What may be yoh name, suh?” she retorted with a little flash of Southern spirit, never entirely quenched even in such as she seemed to be.

  Genuine surprise brought the red back into his face and made it, worn as it was, seem almost handsome. The curious idea came to her that she had seen him before somewhere. At the same moment speech seemed to tremble on his lips; he hesitated, looked at her with a new and sudden keenness, and stood looking.

  “I expected to meet somebody here,” he said at length.

  She did not seem to comprehend.

  “I expected to meet a woman here.”

  “Who? Me?” incredulously.

  He looked her over carefully; looked at her dusty bare ankles, at her walnut-smeared face and throat. She seemed so small, so round-shouldered — so different from what he had expected. They had said that the woman he must find was pretty.

  “Was yuh-all fixin’ to meet up with me?” she repeated with a bold laugh.

  “I — don’t know,” he said. “By the Eternal, I don’t know, ma’am. But I’m going to find out in right smart time. Did you ever hear anybody speak Latin?”

  “Suh?” blankly; and the audacity faded.

  “Latin,” he repeated, a trifle discomfited. “For instance, ‘sic itur.’ Do you know what ‘sic itur’ means?”

  “Sick — what, suh?”

  “‘Sic itur!’ Oh, Lord, she is what she looks like!” he exclaimed in frank despair. He walked to the door, wheeled suddenly, came back and confronted her.

  “Either, ma’am, you are the most consummate actress in this war drama, or you don’t know what I’m saying, and you think me crazy.... And now I’ll ask you once for all: Is this the road?”

  The Special Messenger looked him full in the eyes; then, as by magic, the loveliest of smiles transfigured the dull, blank features; her round shoulders, pendulous arms, slouching pose, melted into superb symmetry, quickening with grace and youth as she straightened up and faced him, erect, supple, laughing, adorable.

  “Sic itur — ad Astra,” she said demurely, and offered him her hand. “Continue,” she added.

  He neither stirred nor spoke; a deep flush mounted to the roots of his short, curly hair. She smiled encouragement, thinking him young and embarrassed, and a trifle chagrined.

  “Continue the Latin formula,” she nodded, laughing; “what follows, if you please — —”

  “Good God!” he broke out hoarsely.

  And suddenly she knew there was nothing to follow except death — his or hers — realized she made an awful mistake — divined in one dreadful instant the unsuspected counter-mine beneath her very feet — cried out as she struck him full in the face with clenched fist, sprang back, whipping the revolver from her ragged bodice, dark eyes ablaze.

  “Now,” she panted, “hands high — and turn your back! Quickly!”

  He stood still, very pale, one sunburned hand covering the cheek which she had struck. There was blood on it. He heard her breathless voice, warning him to obey, but he only took his hand from his face, looked at the blood on palm and finger, then turned his hopeless eyes on her.

  “Too late,” he said heavily. “But — I’d rather be you than I.... Look out of that window, Messenger!”

  “Put up your hands!”

  “No.”

  “Will you hold up your hands!”

  “No, Messenger.... And I — didn’t — know it was you when I came here. It’s — it’s a dirty business — for an officer.” He sank down on the wooden chair, resting his head between both hands. A single drop of blood fell brightly from his cut cheek.

  The Special Messenger stole a swift, sidelong glance toward the window, hesitated, and, always watching him, slid along the wall toward the door, menacing him at every step with leveled revolver. Then, at the door, she cast one rapid glance at the open field behind her and around. A thrill of horror stiffened her. The entire circle of the burned clearing was ringed with the gray pickets of rebel cavalry.

  The distant men sat motionless on their horses, carbine on thigh. Here and there a distant horse tossed his beautiful head, or perhaps some hat-brim fluttered. There was no other movement, not one sound.

  Crouching to pass the windows beneath the sills she crept, heedless of her prisoner, to the rear door. That avenue to the near clustering woods was closed, too; she saw the glitter of carbines above the laurel.

  “Special Messenger?” She turned toward him, pale as a ghost. “I reckon we’ve got you.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  There was another chair by the table — the only other one. She seated herself, shaking all over, laid her revolver on the table, stared at the weapon, pushed it from her with a nervous shudder, and, ashy of lip and cheek, looked at the man she had struck.

  “Will they — hang me?”

  “I reckon, ma’am. They hung the other one — the man you took me for.”

  “Will there be a — trial?”

  “Drumhead.... They’ve been after you a long, long while.”

  “Then — what are you waiting for?”

  He was silent.

  She found it hard to control the nervous tremor of her limbs and lips. The dryness in her throat made speech difficult.

  “Then — if there is no chance — —”

  He bent forward swiftly and snatched her revolver from the table as her small hand fell heavily upon the spot wh
ere the weapon had rested.

  “Would you do that?” he said in a low voice.

  The desperate young eyes answered him. And, after a throbbing silence: “Won’t you let me?” she asked. “It is indecent to h-hang a — woman — before — men — —”

  He did not answer.

  “Please — please—” she whispered, “give it back to me — if you are a — soldier.... You can go to the door and call them.... Nobody will know.... You can turn your back.... It will only take a second!”

  A big blue-bottle fly came blundering into the room and filled the silence with its noise. Years ago the big blue flies sometimes came into the quiet schoolroom; and how everybody giggled when the taller Miss Poucher, bristling from her prunella shoes to her stiff side-curls, charged indignantly upon the buzzing intruder.

  Dry — eyed, dry — lipped, the Messenger straightened up, quivering, and drew a quick, sharp breath; then her head fell forward, and, resting inert upon the table, she buried her face in her arms. The most dangerous spy in the Union service — the secret agent who had worked more evil to the Confederacy than any single Union army corps — the coolest, most resourceful, most trusted messenger on either side as long as the struggle lasted — caught at last.

  The man, young, Southern, and a gentleman’s son, sat staring at her. He had driven his finger-nails deep into his palms, bitten his underlip till it was raw.

  “Messenger!”

  She made no response.

  “Are you afraid?”

  Her head, prone in her arms, motioned dull negation. It was a lie and he knew it. He looked at the slender column of the neck — stained to a delicate amber — at the nape; and he thought of the rope and the knot under the left ear.

  “Messenger,” he said once more. “I did not know it was you I was to meet. Look at me, in God’s name!”

  She opened her eyes on him, then raised her head.

  “Do you know me now?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Look!”

  He touched the scar on his forehead; but there was no recognition in her eyes.