Paton who had heard what was said rushed into the house. He did not believe it, I think. In a trice he was out again. “I can’t open the door,” he panted. “The bed is against it. Round the house, Major!”
He led the way, we ran round the house. At the back the little window, ten feet from the ground, was open. Below it a plot of rough orchard ground, in which two or three trees had been felled, ran down to a branch. On the farther side of the water were some horse lines. We stared up at the window. “But, d — mme, man, he couldn’t do it!” Paton cried. “He couldn’t pass. Burton is as fat as butter!”
I swore. “That’s what I forgot!” I said. “He’s padded! He’s as lean as a herring!”
We ran round to the front again. The hallooing came faintly up the road. Already all the camp in that direction was roused and in a ferment. Two troopers galloped by us as we reached the road. An officer followed, spurring furiously. “That’s Swanton on the bay that won the match last week,” Paton said; and he yelled “Forrard away! After him! If Burton is on a common troop-horse,” he continued, “and he cannot have had time to pick and choose, his start won’t save him! The bay will be at his girths within five miles!”
“If they are to catch him they must do it quickly,”
I groaned. “If he draws clear of the settlement, he knows the roads and they don’t.”
“He’ll be afraid to extend his horse until the alarm overtakes him,” Paton answered. “He would be stopped if he did, and questioned. There are many on the roads this morning. Haybittle noticed him, you see. But what does it all mean, Craven?” he continued.
We were standing, looking down the road. Half a hundred others, all staring the same way, were grouped about us. “He’s gone to warn Sumter,” I said dully. The excitement was dying down in me and I was beginning to see what lay before me — whether he escaped or were taken. “If he reaches Sumter before Wemyss attacks — and Wemyss may not attack before daybreak — heaven help us! The surprise will be on the wrong side!”
Paton whistled. “Our poor lads!” he said.
For a moment my anger rose anew. But, Paton looking curiously at me and wondering, I don’t doubt, why I had given the man the chance to escape, my heart sank again. Wilmer’s determined act, his grim persistence in his damnable mission, had sunk me below anything I had foreseen. If he escaped, the blood of our men lay on my conscience. If he were taken, I had bargained with him to no purpose, and soiled my hands to no end. My act must send him to the gallows, my very voice must witness against him! And Con? Ay, poor Con, indeed, I thought. For even as I stood stricken and miserable, gazing with scores of sight-seers down the road, and waiting for the first news of the issue, she rose before my mind’s eye, tall and slender and grave and dressed in white, as I had seen her on that evening, when she had flung herself into her father’s arms; the father whom I, then crouching in pain in the saddle below, was destined to bring to this! To bring to this! I thought with horror of my arrival at the Bluff, of the lights, the barking dogs, the blacks’ grinning faces and staring eyeballs! I thought with terror of her cry that ill would come of it — ill would come of it! I felt myself the blind tool of fate working out a tragedy, which had begun beside poor Simms’s body in that little clearing fringed with the red sumach bushes!
Why, oh why had not the man been content to stay where I had placed him? And why, oh why — I saw the error now — had I not taken the parole he had offered me? I did not doubt that he would have kept it, if I had trusted him. But I had refused it, and the chance of striking a new and final blow had tempted him to my undoing.
So different were my thoughts from the unconscious Paton’s, as shoulder to shoulder we stared down the road; while round us the crowd grew dense and men of the 23rd tossed questions from one to the other, and troopers of the Legion coming up from Headquarters drew bridle to learn what was on foot — until presently their numbers blocked the road. Bare-armed men, still rubbing bit or lock, made wagers on the result, and peered into the distance for the first flutter of news. A spy? Men swore grimly. “Hell! I hope they catch him!” they growled.
Presently into the thick of this crowd there rode up the Brigadier, asking with objurgations what the men meant by blocking the road. The nearest to him gave ground, those farther away explained. One or two pointed to me. He pushed his horse through the throng to my side.
“What’s this rubbish they are telling me?” he exclaimed peevishly. “Burton, man? A spy? It’s impossible! You can’t be in earnest?”
“Yes, sir,” I said sorrowfully; and I knew that with those words I cast the die. “He was fighting against us at King’s Mountain. He is disguised, but I knew the man — after a time.”
“His name is not Burton?”
“No, sir,” I said. “His name is Wilmer.”
“What? The man who—” he stopped. He looked oddly at me, and raised his eyebrows. My story was pretty well known in the camp by this time. Paton had spread it. “Why, the very man that you—”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “The man who captured me — and treated me well.”
“Well, I am d — d! But there, I hope to God they take him, all the same! Why he’s known everything, shared in everything, sat at our very tables! Not a loyalist has been trusted farther, or known more! He must have cost us hundreds of our poor fellows, if this be true. He’s—”
“He’s a brave man, General,” I said, speaking on I know not what impulse.
“And he’ll look very well on a rope!” Webster retorted. “Still, Craven, I’m sorry for you.”
I could say nothing to that, and a few moments later an end was put to our suspense. A man came into sight far down the road, galloping towards us. As he drew nearer I saw that it was a sutler on a wretched nag. He waved a rag above his head, a signal which was greeted by the crowd with a volley of cheers and cries. “They’ve caught him! Hurrah! They’ve caught him!” a score of voices shouted.
I could not speak. Alike the tragedy of it, and the pity of it took me by the throat, and choked me. I could have sworn at the heedless jeering crowd, I could have spat curses at them. I waited only until another man came up and confirmed the news. Then I went into the house and hid myself.
Afterwards I learned that the horse which Wilmer had seized was a sorry beast incapable of a gallop and well-known in the troop. Viewed before he had gone a mile, and aware that he was out-paced, the fugitive had turned off the road, hoping to hide in the woods. But to do this he had had to face his horse at a ditch, and the brute instead of leaping it, had bundled into it. Before Wilmer could free himself or rise from the ground his pursuers had come up with him.
I have said that I went into the house and hid myself. Poor Con! The girl’s face rose before me, and dragged at my heartstrings. I saw her, as I had seen her many times, bending her dark head over the spinning-wheel, while the pigeons pecked about her feet, and the cattle came lowing through the ford, and round the home pastures and the quiet homestead stretched the encircling woods, and the misty hills; and I turned my face to the wall and I wished that I had never been born! My poor Con!
* — * — * — * —
Owing to my lord’s absence from the camp during the greater part of the day a court for the trial of the prisoner could not be assembled until four in the afternoon. I dare not describe what those intervening hours were to me, how long, how miserable, how cruelly armed with remorse and upbraidings! Nor will I say much of the trial. The result from the first was certain; there was no defence and there was other evidence than mine. Since his disguise had been taken from him two men in the camp, one a Tory from the Waxhaws, the other a deserter, had recognized the prisoner; and for a time I hoped that the Court, having a complete case, would dispense with my presence. My position, and the fact that he had spared my life and sheltered me in his house had become generally known, and many felt for me. But the laws of discipline are strict, and duty, when the lives of men hang upon its performance, is harshly interpreted. The Court sa
w no reason why I should be spared. At any rate they did not spare me.
When the time to enter came I was possessed by a sharp fear of one moment — the moment when I should meet Wilmer’s eyes. They had taken his stuffed clothes from him and brushed the powder from his hair, and when I entered he stood between his guards, a lean, straight sinewy Southerner, very like the man who had stood over me with a Deckhard in the little clearing. The light fell on his face, and he was smiling. Whatever of inward quailing, whatever of the natural human shrinking from the approach of death he felt, he masked to perfection. As for the moment I had so much feared, it was over before I was aware.
“Hello, Major!” he said, and he nodded to me pleasantly. I don’t know what my face showed, but he nodded again, as if he would have me know that all was well with him and that he bore me no malice. “You want another sup of whisky, Major,” he cried genially.
“I need hardly ask you after that,” the President said, clasping his hands about the hilt of the sword which stood between his knees, “if you know the prisoner?”
“I do, sir.”
“Tell your story, witness.”
The sharp, business-like tone steadied me, helped me. With a calmness that surprised myself I stated that the prisoner before the Court, who passed in Camp, and in disguise, under the name of Burton, was the same man who under the name of Wilmer had fought against us at King’s Mountain, and had there taken me when wounded, and cared for me in his own house.
“You were present,” the President asked, “when the plans for Major Wemyss’s advance were discussed at Headquarters before my Lord Rawdon?”
“I was, sir.”
“Was the prisoner also there?”
“He was, sir.”
“In disguise and under a false name?”
I bowed.
“He was taking part in the debate as one knowing the district?”
“He was.”
“You recognize the prisoner beyond a shadow of a doubt?”
“I do.”
Had the prisoner any questions to ask the witness? He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. No, he had none. Other formalities followed — curt, decent, all in order. A stranger coming in, ignorant of the issue, would have thought that the matter at stake was trivial. The President’s eye was already collecting the votes of the other members of the Court, when I intervened. I stood forward. I desired to say something. —
“Be short, sir. On what point?”
The prisoner’s admirable and humane conduct to me, which by preserving my life had directly wrought his undoing. I desired some delay, and a reference to Lord Cornwallis —
“The matter is irrelevant to the charge,” the President said, stopping me harshly. “You can stand back, sir. Stand back!”
Finding — guilty. Sentence — in the usual form. Execution — within twenty-four hours. All subject to confirmation by the acting Commander-in-Chief.
“The Court is closed.”
I have but sketched the scene, having no heart for more and no wish to linger over it. There are hours so painful and situations so humiliating that the memory shrinks from traversing the old ground. Wilmer, on his side, had no ground for hope, and so could bear himself bravely and with an effort could add magnanimity to courage. He could smile on me, call me “Major” in the old tone, banter me grimly. But my part was harder. To meet his eyes, aware of the return I had made; to know that I, whose life he had saved and whom he had taken to his home, had doomed him to an ignominious death; to shrink from the compassionate looks of friends and the curious gaze of those who scented a new sensation and enjoyed it; and as a background to all this to see in fancy the ashen face and woful eyes of the girl I loved and had orphaned, the girl who far away in that peaceful scene knew nothing of what was passing here — with all this was it wonderful that when I went back to my quarters Paton refused to leave me?
“No, I am not going,” he said. “You are too near the rocks, Major! It’s no good looking at me as if you could kill me. I brought you away from that place, I know, and I’m d — d sorry that I did! When you are next taken you may rot in Continental dungeons till the end of time for me! I’ll not interfere I warrant you. I’ve had my lesson. All the same, Major, listen! You’re taking this too hardly. It’s no fault of yours. The man himself doesn’t blame you. He had his chance. He knew the stake, he went double or quits, and he lost; and he’s going to pay. Through you? Well, or through me or through another — what does it matter?”
“And Con? His daughter?” I said. “It’s the same to her, I suppose! Oh, it’s a jest, a d — d fine jest that fate has played me, isn’t it!” And I laughed in his face, scaring him sadly, he told me afterwards.
For two or three minutes he was silent. Then he touched me on the shoulder. “I was afraid of this,” he said softly. “See, here, man, you’ll be the better for doing something. Go and see my lord. He’s a gentleman. Tell him. Tell him all. See him before he goes out in the morning — he will be dining now. I excused you, of course. I don’t think he’ll grant your request; frankly I don’t think he dare grant it — it’s a flagrant case! But you will be doing something!”
I agreed, miserably, because there was nothing else I could do. But I had no hope of the result. And the slow and wretched hours went by while I walked the room in a fever of suspense, and Paton in spite of my angry remonstrances stayed with me, sometimes poring over a soldier’s song-book by the light of the single candle, and at others going down for a few moments to answer some curious friend. I could not face them myself, and when the first came, I started to my feet. “Don’t for God’s sake,” I cried, “tell them!”
“Lord, no!” he answered. “Do you think I’m an ass, Major? Your arm’s the size of my leg — that’ll do for them! It’s all they’ll hear from me!”
The longest night has an end; and mercifully this was not one of the longest. For about midnight, worn out by my feelings and broken by the fatigue of the journey from Rocky Mount, I lay down, and promptly I fell asleep and slept like a log till long after reveillé had sounded, and the camp was astir. The awakening was dreary; but, thank God, I drew strength from the new day. The sharpest agony had passed, I was now master of myself, resigned to the worst and prepared for it. True, I felt myself years older, I saw in life a tragedy. But in my sleep I had risen to the tragic level, and, waking, I knew that it became me to face life with the dignity with which her father was confronting death.
CHAPTER X
THE WOMAN’S PART
You no doubt are acquainted with the great attention and tenderness shown my son at Camden by all the British officers that he has seen, and the Gentlemen of the Faculty, as well as the maternal kindness of Mrs. Clay.
CORRESPONDENCE OF MRS. PINKNEY.
I was at Headquarters soon after nine in the morning. There are joints in the armor of all, the great have their bowels, and I have no doubt that had he told the truth, my lord would have given much to avoid me and my petition. But he did not try to do so, and in the spirit which now inspired me, I recognised the law under which we all lay. He, I, the man who must suffer, all moved in the clutch of remorseless duty, all were forced on by the mind that over-rode the body and its preferences.
Willing or unwilling, he met me with much kindness. “What is it, Craven?” he said. “But I fear, I very much fear that I know your errand.”
“If you could see me alone, my lord?” I said.
“Certainly I will.” He nodded to Haldane and in a moment we were left together.
I told him the story, all the story; and he heard me with sympathy. I have said that he was a man of my age, not yet thirty, but authority had given him force and decision, and the patience that goes with those qualities. “In Lord Cornwallis’s absence, it lies with you, my lord,” I concluded, when I had told my tale, “to confirm the finding and sentence. The man’s life is forfeit, I cannot deny it. I do not attempt to say otherwise. But the circumstances are such — he gave me my life, I am taki
ng his — that I am compelled to put forward my own services and implore on my own account what I cannot ask, my lord, on his. If he were confined in the West Indies, for the duration of the war, or were sent to England—”
He stopped me. “My dear Craven, the thing is impossible,” he said gently. “Impossible! You must see that for yourself. In another man’s case you would see it. I should be unworthy of command, unworthy of the post I hold, unworthy of the obedience of the men whose lives are in my hands, if I listened to you! Frankly, I could not hold up my head if I did this. And that is not all,” he continued in a firmer tone. “I have news, by express this moment. Wemyss’s force has been repulsed, badly repulsed near Fishdam. He is wounded and a prisoner. The account that we have is confused, but it is certain that the enemy knew that the attack was coming and awaited it a gunshot behind their campfires; so that when our poor lads ran in they came under a heavy fire from the woods. I have not a doubt, therefore, that this man, Wilmer, had a confederate in the camp, and short as his time was, contrived to pass on tidings of the change of date.”
It was a home blow and I reeled under it. I had had little hope before; I had none now. Still I had made up my mind as to my duty, and I strove afresh to move him. He listened for a moment. Then he cut me short.
“No!” he replied, more curtly, “No! you have no case. The punishment of a spy is known, fixed, unalterable, Craven. It was carried out in the case of Major André, a hard, an extreme case. But it was carried out. This is a flagrant case. You ask an impossibility, man, and you ought to know it!”
“Then I will trouble your lordship for one moment only,” I said. “I have a duty to the King — I have discharged it by informing against Captain Wilmer; I have discharged it at great cost to myself. But I have a duty, also, to the man who saved my life at the price, as it has turned out, of his own! That duty I have not discharged until I have done all that it is in my power to do to save him. May I remind your lordship that my father has supported the government steadily and consistently in the House with two votes, and has never sought a return in place or pension. Were he here, I will answer for it, that he would not only indorse the request I make that this man’s life be spared, but that he would consider its allowance a full return for all his services in the past.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 625