For a while the clear radiance of the stars lighted the looming mountains; but when wastes of naked rock gave place to ragged woods, lakes and pits of darkness spread suddenly before her; every gully, every ravine brimmed level with treacherous shadows, masking the sheer fall of rock plunging downward into fathomless depths.
Again and again, as she skirted the unseen edges of destruction, chill winds from unsuspected deeps halted her; she dared not light the lantern, dared not halt, dared not even hesitate. And so, fighting down terror, she toiled on, dragging her disabled horse, until, just before dawn, the exhausted creature refused to stir another foot.
Desperate, breathless, trembling on the verge of exhaustion, with the last remnants of nervous strength she stripped saddle and bridle from the animal; then her nerves gave way and she buried her face against her horse’s reeking, heaving shoulders.
“I’ve got to go on, dear,” she whispered; “I’ll try to come back to you.... See what a pretty stream this is,” she added, half hysterically, “and such lots of fresh, sweet grass.... Oh, my little horse — my little horse! I’m so tired — so tired!”
The horse turned his gentle head, mumbling her shoulder with soft, dusty lips; she stifled a sob, lifted saddle, saddlebags, and bridle and carried them up the rocky bank of the stream to a little hollow. Here she dropped them, unstrapped her revolver and placed it with them, then drew from the saddlebags a homespun gown, sunbonnet, and a pair of coarse shoes, and laid them out on the moss.
Fatigue rendered her limbs unsteady; her fingers twitched as she fumbled with button and buckle, but at last spurred boots, stockings, jacket, and dusty riding skirt fell from her; undergarments dropped in a circle around her bare feet; she stepped out of them, paused to twist up her dark hair tightly, then, crossing the moss to the stream’s edge, picked her way out among the boulders to the brimming rim of a pool.
In the exquisite shock of the water the blood whipped her skin; fatigue vanished through the crystal magic; shoulder-deep she waded, crimson-cheeked, then let herself drift, afloat, stretching out in ecstasy until every aching muscle thrilled with the delicious reaction.
Overhead, tree swallows darted through a sky of pink and saffron, pulsating with the promise of the sun; the tinted peak of a mountain, jaggedly mirrored in the unquiet pool, suddenly glowed crimson, and the reflections ran crisscross through the rocking water, lacing it with fiery needles.
She looked like some delicate dawn-sprite as she waded ashore — a slender, unreal shape in the rosy glow, while behind her, from the dim ravine, ghosts of the mountain mist floated, rising like a company of slim, white angels drifting to the sky.
All around her now the sweet, bewildered murmur of purple martins grew into sustained melody; thrush and mocking bird, thrasher and cardinal, sang from every leafy slope; and through the rushing music of bird and pouring waterfall the fairy drumming of the cock-o’-the-pines rang out in endless, elfin reveille.
While she was managing to dry herself and dress, her horse limped off into the grassy swale below to drink in the stream and feed among the tender grasses.
Before she drew on the homespun gown she tucked her linen map into an inner skirt pocket, flat against her right thigh; then, fastening on the shabby skirt, she rolled up her riding habit, laid it with lantern, revolver, saddle, bridle, boots, and bags, in the hollow and covered all over with heaps of fragrant dead leaves and branches. It was the best she could do, and the time was short.
Her horse raised his wise, gentle head, and looked across the stream at her as she hastened past, then limped stiffly toward her.
“Oh, I can’t stand it if you hobble after me!” she wailed under her breath. “Dearest — dearest — I will surely come back to you. Good-by — good-by!”
On the crest of the ridge she cast one swift, tearful glance behind. The horse, evidently feeling better, was rolling in the grass, all four hoofs waving at the sky. And she laughed through the tears, and drew from her pockets a morsel of dry bread which she had saved from the saddlebags. This she nibbled as she walked, taking her bearings from the sun and the sweep of the southern mountain slopes; and listening, always listening, for the jingle and clank of the Confederate flying battery that was surely following along somewhere on that parallel road which she had missed, hidden from her view only by a curtain of forest, the width of which she had no time to investigate. Nor did she know for certain that she had outstripped the Confederate column in the race for the pass — a desperate race, although the men of that flying column, which was hastening to turn the pass into a pitfall for the North, had not the faintest suspicion that the famous Special Messenger was racing with them to forestall them, or even that their secret was no longer a secret.
In hot haste from the south hills she had come to warn Benton’s division of the ambuscade preparing for it, riding by highway and byway, her heart in her mouth, taking every perilous chance. And now, at the last moment, here in the West Virginian Mountains, almost within sight of the pass itself, disaster threatened — the human machine was giving out.
There were just two chances that Benton might yet be saved — that his leisurely advance had, by some miracle, already occupied the pass, or, if not, that she could get through and meet Benton in time to stop him.
She had been told that there was a cabin at the pass, and that the mountaineer who lived there was a Union man.
Thinking of these things as she crossed the ridge, she came suddenly into full view of the pass. It lay there just below her; there could be no mistake. A stony road wound along the stream, flanked by forest-clad heights; she recognized the timber bridge over the ravine, which had been described to her, the corduroy way across the swamp, the single, squat cabin crowning a half-cleared hillock. She realized at a glance the awful trap that this silent, deadly place could be turned into; for one rushing moment her widening eyes could almost see blue masses of men in disorder, crushed into that horrible defile; her ears seemed to ring with their death cries, the rippling roar of rifle fire. Then, with a sharp, indrawn breath, she hastened forward, taking the descent at a run. And at the same moment three gray-jacketed cavalrymen cantered into the road below, crossed the timber bridge at a gallop, and disappeared in the pass, carbines poised.
She had arrived a minute too late; the pass was closed!
Toiling breathlessly up the bushy hillock, crouching, bending, creeping across the stony open where scant grass grew in a meager garden, she reached the cabin. It was empty; a fire smoldered under a kettle in which potatoes were boiling; ash cakes crisped on the hearth, bacon sizzled in a frying pan set close to the embers.
But where was the tenant?
A shout from the road below brought her to the door; then she dropped flat on her stomach, crawled forward, and looked over the slope.
A red-haired old man, in his shirt sleeves, carrying a fishing pole, was running down the road, chased by two gray-jacketed troopers. He ran well, throwing away his pole and the string of slimy fish he had been carrying; but, half way across the stream, they rode him down and caught him, driving their horses straight into the shallow flood; and a few moments later a fresh squad of cavalry trotted up, forced the prisoner to mount a led horse, and, surrounding him, galloped rapidly away southward.
The Special Messenger lay perfectly still and flat, watching, listening, waiting, coolly alert for a shadow of a chance to slip out and through the pass; but there was to be no such chance now, for a dozen troopers came into view, running their lean horses at top speed, and wheeled straight into the pass. A full squadron followed, their solid galloping waking clattering echoes among the rocks. Then her delicate ears caught a distant, ominous sound — nearer, louder, ringing, thudding, jarring, pounding — the racket of field artillery arriving at full speed.
And into sight dashed a flying battery, guns and limbers bouncing and thumping, whips cracking, chains crashing, the six-horse teams on a dead run.
An officer drew bridle and threw his horse on its hau
nches; the first team rushed on to the pass with a clash and clank of wheels and chains, swung wide in a demi-tour, dropped a dully glistening gun, and then came trampling back. The second, third, and fourth teams, guns and caissons, swerved to the right of the hillock and came plunging up the bushy slope, horses straining and scrambling, trampling through the wretched garden to the level grass above.
One by one the gun teams swung in a half circle, each dropped its mud-spattered gun, the cannoneers sprang to unhook the trails, the frantic, half-maddened horses were lashed to the rear.
The Special Messenger rose quietly to her feet, and at the same instant a passing cannoneer turned and saw her in the doorway.
“Hey!” he exclaimed; “what you doin’ thar?”
A very young major, spurring up the slope, caught sight of her, too.
“This won’t do!” he began excitedly, pushing his sweating horse up to the door. “I’m sorry, but it won’t do—” He hesitated, perplexed, eyeing this slim, dark-eyed girl, who stood as though dazed there in her ragged homespun and naked feet.
Colonel Carrick, passing at a canter, turned in his saddle, calling out:
“Major Kent! Keep that woman here! It’s too late to send her back.”
The boy-major saluted, then turned to the girl again:
“Who are you?” he asked, vexed.
She seemed unable to reply.
A cannoneer said respectfully:
“Reckon the li’l gal’s jes’ natch’ally skeered o’ we-uns, Major, seein’ how the caval’y ketched her paw down thar in the crick.”
The Major said briefly:
“Your father is a Union man, but nobody is going to hurt him. I’d send you to the rear, too, but there’s no time now. Please go in and shut that door. I’ll see that nobody disturbs you.”
As she was closing the door the young Major called after her:
“Where’s the well?”
As she did not know she only stared at him as though terrified.
“All right,” he said, more gently. “Don’t be frightened. I’ll come back and talk to you in a little while.”
As she shut the door she saw the cannon at the pass limber up, wheel, and go bumping up the hill to rejoin its bespattered fellows on the knoll.
An artilleryman came along and dropped a bundle of picks and shovels which he was carrying to the gunners, who had begun the emplacements; the boyish Major dismounted, subduing his excitement with a dignified frown; and for a while he was very fussy and very busy, aiding the battery captain in placing the guns and verifying the depression.
The position of the masked battery was simply devilish; every gun, hidden completely in the oak-scrub, was now trained on the pass.
Opposite, across the stream, long files of gray infantry were moving to cover among the trees; behind, a battalion arrived to support the guns; below, the cavalry had begun to leave the pass; troopers, dismounted, were carefully removing from the road all traces of their arrival.
Leaning there by the window, the Special Messenger counted the returning fours as troop after troop retired southward and disappeared around the bend of the road.
For a while the picks and shovels of the gunners sounded noisily; concealed riflemen, across the creek, were also busy intrenching. But by noon all sound had ceased in the sunny ravine; there was nothing to be seen from below; not a human voice echoed; not a pick-stroke; only the sweet, rushing sound of the stream filled the silence; only the shadows of the branches moved.
Warned again by the sentinels to close the battered window and keep the door shut, she still watched the gunners, through the dirty window panes, where they now lay under the bushes beside their guns. There was no conversation among them; some of the artillerymen seemed to be asleep; some sprawled belly-deep in the ferns, chewing twigs or idly scraping holes in the soil; a few lay about, eating the remnants of the morning’s scanty rations, chewing strips of bacon rind, and licking the last crumbs from the palms of their grimy hands.
Along the bush-hidden parapet of earth, heaps of ammunition lay — cannister and common shell. She recognized these, and, with a shudder, a long row of smaller projectiles on which soldiers were screwing copper caps — French hand grenades, brought in by blockade runners, and fashioned to explode on impact — so close was to be the coming slaughter of her own people in the road below.
Toward one o’clock the gunners were served noon rations. She watched them eating for a while, then, nerveless, turned back into the single room of the cabin and opened the rear door — so gently and noiselessly that the boyish staff-major who was seated on the sill did not glance around until she spoke, asking his permission to remain there.
“You mustn’t open that door,” he said, looking up, surprised by the sweetness of the voice which he heard now for the first time.
“How can anybody see me from the pass?” she asked innocently. “That is what you are afraid of, isn’t it?”
He shot a perplexed and slightly suspicious glance at her, then the frowning importance faded from his beardless face; he bit a piece out of the soggy corncake he was holding and glanced up at her again, amiably conscious of her attractions; besides, her voice and manner had been a revelation. Evidently her father had had her educated at some valley school remote from these raw solitudes.
So he smiled at her, quite willing to be argued with and entertained; and at his suggestion she shyly seated herself on the sill outside in the sunlight.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked encouragingly.
“Not very,” she said, eyes downcast, her clasped hands lying loosely over one knee. The soft, creamy-tinted fingers occupied his attention for a moment; the hand resembled the hand of “quality”; so did the ankle and delicate arch of her naked foot, half imprisoned in the coarse shoe under her skirt’s edge.
He had often heard that some of these mountaineers had pretty children; here, evidently, was a most fascinating example.
“Is your mother living?” he asked pleasantly.
“No, sir.”
He thought to himself that she must resemble her dead mother, because the man whom the cavalry had caught in the creek was a coarse-boned, red-headed ruffian, quite impossible to reconcile as the father of this dark-haired, dark-eyed, young forest creature, with her purely-molded limbs and figure and sensitive fashion of speaking. He turned to her curiously:
“So you have not always lived here on the mountain.”
“No, not always.”
“I suppose you spent a whole year away from home at boarding-school,” he suggested with patronizing politeness.
“Yes, six years at Edgewood,” she said in a low voice.
“What?” he exclaimed, repeating the name of the most fashionable Southern institute for young ladies. “Why, I had a sister there — Margaret Kent. Were you there? And did you ever — er — see my sister?”
“I knew her,” said the Special Messenger absently.
He was very silent for a while, thinking to himself.
“It must have been her mother; that measly old man we caught in the creek is ‘poor white’ all through.” And, munching thoughtfully again on his soggy corncake, he pondered over the strange fate of this fascinating young girl, fashioned to slay the hearts of Southern chivalry — so young, so sweet, so soft of voice and manner, condemned to live life through alone in this shaggy solitude — fated, doubtless, to mate with some loose, lank, shambling, hawk-eyed rustic of the peaks — doomed to bear sickly children, and to fade and dry and wither in the full springtide of her youth and loveliness.
“It’s too bad,” he said fretfully, unconscious that he spoke aloud, unaware, too, that she had risen and was moving idly, with bent head, among the weeds of the truck garden — edging nearer, nearer, to a dark, round object about the size of a small apple, which had rolled into a furrow where the ground was all cut up by the wheel tracks of artillery and hoofs of heavy horses.
There was scarcely a chance that she could pick it up unobs
erved; her ragged skirts covered it; she bent forward as though to tie her shoe, but a sentinel was watching her, so she straightened up carelessly and stood, hands on her hips, dragging one foot idly to and fro, until she had covered the small, round object with sand and gravel.
That object was a loaded French hand grenade, fitted with percussion primer; and it lay last at the end of a long row of similar grenades along the shaded side of the house.
The sentry in the bushes had been watching her; and now he came out along the edge of the laurel tangle, apparently to warn her away, but seeing a staff officer so near her he halted, satisfied that authority had been responsible for her movements. Besides, he had not noticed that a grenade was missing; neither had the major, who now rose and sauntered toward her, balancing his field glasses in one hand.
“There’s ammunition under these bushes,” he said pleasantly; “don’t go any nearer, please. Those grenades might explode if anyone stumbled over them. They’re bad things to handle.”
“Will there be a battle here?” she asked, recoiling from the deadly little bombs.
The Major said, stroking the down on his short upper lip:
“There will probably be a skirmish. I do not dare let you leave this spot till the first shot is fired. But as soon as you hear it you had better run as fast as you can” — he pointed with his field glasses— “to that little ridge over there, and lie down behind the rocks on the other side. Do you understand?”
“Yes — I think so.”
“And you’ll lie there very still until it is — over?”
“I understand. May I go immediately and hide there?”
“Not yet,” he said gently.
“Why?”
“Because your father is a Union man.... And you are Union, too, are you not?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling; “are you afraid of me?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 418