The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  Scott Mattaye put his horse to the trot and hurried down the road, amazed. He saw other men pause to gaze at him from the roadside. Women stared from doorways. Children, when they saw him, ran screaming. He did not stop again to ask the time.

  He did not stop again until his horse went lame. By then a high forenoon sun was beating on his plumed felt hat, and the farming country lay before him as beautiful as a picture, incongruously far from war. The horse went lame so suddenly you might have thought he had been shot—a stumble, a sharp snort of pain, and he was limping. After Scott Mattaye was off the saddle, it did not take half a minute to convince him that his horse was through, and, though he had grown callous to the suffering of animals, he had a pang of sorrow.

  The road, he remembered, was sloping down to a ford across a brook. Beyond the ford it wound up again past a rutted lane, which led to a square house of deep-grey limestone, set back perhaps a hundred yards from the roadway.

  That house on its little rise of ground always came back to his memory as aloofly pleasant—heavy chimneys, small-paned windows, a fine, arched doorway of an earlier time. It always seemed to him to speak of kindliness and of sober, decent lives, and to be without a taint of anything sinister or bizarre. A long cattle barn stood behind the house, flanked by young apple trees set in even rows. He looked for half a minute, then hooked the bridle through his arm, walking slowly with his limping horse.

  “Jerry,” he said, “I’m going to leave you yonder.”

  The windows were blank and impassive as he walked up the lane, and everything was silent—too silent.

  “Hello,” he called. “Is anybody home?”

  The sound of his voice was like the breaking of a spell. Two shepherd dogs rushed at him, snarling. A door had slammed and an old man ran towards them with a stick, a picture of towering strength, half worn away by age. A white shirt, bare, scrawny arms and a fine white beard half-way down his chest, but his height was what Scott remembered best. He was very tall.

  “Grandpa!” he heard a child’s voice calling from the house. “Don’t take on so, grandpa! You’ll have another bad turn if you do!”

  The noise of the dogs seemed to ebb away. All his memory of the barnyard seemed to ebb away, leaving only that figure of age—something never to forget. The old man was breathing much too heavily. His shirt and knit suspenders and baggy trousers took nothing from his dignity. Something in his face made his beard like ashes over glowing coals—a mobile, powerful face. His forehead was high. His eyes were serene and steely blue. Scott Mattaye took off his hat and bowed, though the man was plain and not a gentleman.

  “I’m intrudin’, sir,” he said. “My horse—he’s broken down. I reckon that—”

  “Mary Breen!” the old man shouted. “You, Mary Breen!”

  A girl—she could not have been above thirteen—came rushing from the house. Her gingham dress, her face and eyes, had a washed-out look; her bleached yellow pigtails were slapping on her shoulders.

  “Mary Breen,” the old man said, “put up that hoss….I made haste, as I always will, to serve the Lord….Young man, you come with me. This is a day of glory.”

  Scott Mattaye stared at him, bewildered for a moment.

  “Put up that horse,” the old man said, “and put the saddle on the bay that’s waiting….You’ll need another horse for sure. Now, please to follow me.”

  “Sholy, sir,” said Scott. “With great pleasure. I’ll be pleased to settle for another animal, of co’se. Excuse me. Could you let me know the time?”

  He had no premonition on entering the house. He had seen enough peculiar people and places in that war. The tide of war had pushed him into mean kitchens and stables for a night, or just as strangely it had whirled him into dining-rooms of plantation houses, where he had touched on lives which he would never touch again. He did not bother to put an implication on the old man’s words, except that they were friendly. The friendliness brought back Scott’s confidence in inevitable fortune, and he straightened his sash and dusted off his coat.

  “Yes,” the old man said again, “this is a day of glory. I’m glad I’ve lived to see it, because I’m gettin’ old.”

  The kitchen was very neat. A kettle was humming on the stove, so that the steam made the air humidly pleasant. There were two strong wooden chairs and a deal table, but what he noticed first was the asthmatic, hurried ticking of a clock above the humming of the boiling water. He turned to glance at it where it stood on a shelf between two windows. A dingy clock in a veneered mahogany case—he could shut his eyes and see it still. The hour was just eleven.

  “No,” the old man said, “not here. The parlour’s just this way.”

  He had opened a door to the front entry, and Scott began to smile, amused by the formality which led him to the parlour. He had a glimpse of himself in the entry mirror; his face was thin and brown; and his coat, he was pleased to notice, fitted very well.

  “Here you be,” the old man said, “and we give thanks you’re here.”

  He opened the parlour door as he spoke, and Scott had a whiff of fresh cigar smoke and a blurred vision of a horsehair sofa and of faded floral wallpaper, but he only half saw the room. For a second—the time could not have been long—he stood on the threshold stonily.

  A sabre and a revolver were lying on the parlour table, and behind the table, smoking a cigar, his coat half unbuttoned and his black hat slouched over his eyes, a Federal major was sitting. In that instant of surprise Scott could think of nothing. A sharp nose and deep-brown eyes, florid cheeks, a drooping black mustache half covering a lantern jaw, clean linen, dark blue broadcloth, gold on the shoulders—Scott Mattaye saw it all in an instant, and then, before speech or motion could touch him, the major began to smile.

  “Howdy, Captain James,” the major said. “I saw you from the window. I’m from—you know where. Let’s get down to business. I’ve got a way to ride. Do you want to see my papers?”

  “No,” said Scott; his voice was hoarse. “No, Major.”

  “No doubt about you,” the major said. “New coat, Yankee saddle, Yankee boots. You’ve got your nerve to go among ’em so, and, by gad, you’re young to be in a game like this.”

  The major was watching him curiously, but not suspiciously, beneath the brim of his black hat, and Scott Mattaye had learned to read the capabilities of an individual. Something told him that this officer was an accurate and dangerous man. The major’s hand, with thick, blunt fingers, was resting on the table just six inches away from his pistol butt. Scott could see it from the corner of his eye, and he could notice four notches cut in the black walnut of the butt, telling him in silent voices that the chances were the major would shoot him dead if he made a sudden move. Scott was standing in the doorway, with the old man just behind him. If he should make a move to draw his weapon, before his pistol was out of the holster he knew he would be dead.

  “A dirty game,” the major said with his cigar between his teeth, “a thankless game. You should be more careful, Captain. Your uniform’s too new.”

  Scott Mattaye was not a fool. He knew, if he had not known before, what he was supposed to be and why the major was waiting.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Scott, and he contrived to smile. A little talk, a word, a gesture, and he might have a chance to snatch that pistol from the table. “I agree, sir, it’s a right dirty business, and I detest a—scout….But, excuse me, we’d better be alone.”

  It would help to get the old man out. He turned slowly, until their eyes met—the old man’s eyes were as blue as a china plate at home—and he heard the major laughing.

  “Don’t worry about Pa Breen,” he said. “He’s as straight as string….Father, you go out and close the door.”

  “Young man,” old Mr. Breen said, “don’t fret about me none. I can die for a cause as good as you, I guess. Amen.”

  When he closed the
door, there was no sound outside in the entry, but the farmer must have had the tread of an Indian, because, five seconds later, Scott heard the kitchen door slam shut.

  “The old man’s cracked,” the major said. “You know, one of those fanatic abolitionists—agent in the underground, friend of Garrison and Whittier, leader of the party hereabouts. Why, he’d kill a man in grey as easily as he’d stick a pig, and he’s in the butcher business. They had to hide his pants so he wouldn’t go to Harpers Ferry with Brown.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Scott. “It’s been my observation that he’s a right smart old man.”

  The major tapped his fingers on the table, but some perversity kept them close to the revolver butt.

  “Mad,” said the major. “Ideas drive men mad, when ideas and religion mix….What’s your notion of their strength, James?…Sit down. There’s a chair.”

  Scott Mattaye drew his chair carefully to the opposite side of the table. Being an officer of the staff, he had heard enough rumours and secrets to enable him to twist them plausibly into lies. It surprised him how quickly his mind was working, and as smoothly as his voice.

  “Major,” said Scott, “Marse Bob, he has a heap of men. Reserves have been drawn from the state garrisons. I’m safe saying General Lee’s across the river with a hundred and ten thousand. It’s high tide.”

  He tossed out the number glibly, though he knew he was naming twice the strength. He did so from his knowledge of the Yankee obsession of superior numbers, and he saw that his guess was right. The major whistled softly.

  “You’re high,” he said, “I hope. Can you name the strength of corps?”

  He had never thought of the meaning of information until he sat there, waiting for the Yankee major to move his hand. As he spoke, he could think of armies moving like blind monsters, each groping towards the other to the tune of lies like this. He paused and leaned a trifle across the table.

  “Major,” he said, “have you another of those cigars? I’m perishin’ for a smoke.”

  He gathered his feet under him noiselessly. He could not sit there talking. If he could make the major move his hand, he could push the table over.

  “Beg pardon,” the major said, and reached with his left hand inside his coat and tossed a leather case across the table. “A light?” The major pushed across a silver match safe, still with his left hand. “Believe me, your information’s worth a box of those cigars.”

  A tap on the door made him stop. It was the little girl with the bleached pigtails; she was carrying two glasses and a small stone jug.

  “Why,” said Scott Mattaye, “hello, honeybee!”

  “Grandpop,” said the little girl, “he said to fetch you this.”

  “Set it on the floor,” the major said, “and close the door behind you. We’re not thirsty, sister.”

  “Grandpop,” said the little girl, “he don’t touch it since he was took with spells. Somethin’ ’pears to git aholt of him, like a rope acrost the chest. First a pain under his arm, like, and then acrost the chest.”

  “You tell your grandpop to take a pill,” the major said, “and go out and close the door.”

  The major leaned back in his chair. His deliberation set Scott’s nerves on edge, but the major did not move his hand.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s a quaint, strange world. Here you and I are sitting, smoking good Havanas. There an old man is ‘took with spells.’ And somewhere else two armies are jockeying for position. Suppose they ran into each other blind, neither of them ready. War’s like walking in the dark.”

  “Believe me, sir,” Scott said, and he half forgot what he was supposed to be, “Robert E. Lee is never in the dark. He’s the greatest man alive.”

  “You’ve got the cant,” said the major. “But you don’t believe that, do you? Where’s his cavalry? Off with Stuart, when it should be in front of his army. Either Lee or Stuart’s a plain fool.”

  Scott Mattaye half rose from his chair, and sat down again. Just in time he remembered where he was.

  “Yes, sir,” the major was saying, as though he were reading from a textbook. “Cavalry should form a screen in front of any army of invasion, as any plebe knows at the Point, instead of being detached on a needless mission, moving north-west when the main body’s thirty miles south.”

  Then Scott Mattaye forgot, and spoke before he thought. “Here,” he asked sharply. “How did you know that?”

  The major’s head went forward; his eyes were suddenly sharp: “Why, you sent us word from Hanover yourself.”

  “Hanover?” said Scott, but the major was not listening. At last he had raised his right hand from the table.

  “Hush!” the major said. “Hush! Listen!”

  For a second Scott forgot the hand. The major had good ears. Through the closed windows Scott became conscious of what the major heard, though it was not a sound exactly. It was rather a very faint concussion, a stirring in the air, which might have been summer thunder if the sun were not shining. Even in the parlour Scott could feel its strength.

  “I hear ’em. Guns,” he said.

  Though the major was looking at him, his eyes were blank from listening.

  “Yes,” he said, “a scad of guns. We’ve struck into something heavy….There. You hear?”

  Scott could hear, and he could see. In that same instant the officer turned his head towards the direction of the sound, and then Scott moved. He was very quick in those days, when a sudden motion might make the difference between life and death. That Yankee moved also, but he was not fast enough. Scott had snatched the pistol up, and he was stepping backward.

  “Here, you!” the Major shouted. “Set that down!”

  “Mister major,” Scott told him, “yo’ step backward from that table and keep down yo’ voice, if yo’ want to save yo’ skin….That’s better, Major….You’ve told me somethin’ right valuable. General Stuart will be pleased to know he’s got a spy out with him. I’ll be surprised if that spy keeps livin’ long.”

  The major was a cool man. He leaned against the wall, twisting an end of his mustache and speaking in a careful nasal drawl.

  “All right for now,” the major said, “but you listen to me, staff officer. A spy’s more valuable than you or me. I hope you realize I’ll do my best to stop you if I can.”

  Scott smiled back at him. “I realize,” he said. “That’s why I beg of you to stand right still. If there’s a battle yonder, I’m goin’ to it, mister major, and yo’ horse is goin’ with me.”

  “You’ve got a most consoling voice,” the major said.

  “Put your hands above your head,” said Scott.

  Then he knew that there was something wrong. The major’s eyes had narrowed and he was looking across Scott’s shoulder towards the little parlour door.

  “Certainly,” the major said. “Don’t get excited, Johnny.”

  There was a creak of a floorboard behind him. He remembered the impulse to turn and the certainty that something was just behind him, but almost with the impulse a weight landed on his back and he was pitching forward.

  Scott fired just as he was falling, so that the crash of the shot and the smell of black powder blended with a taste of sulphur in his mouth. Someone had him by the throat. He kicked to free himself, but someone held his legs.

  “Tie his hands,” he heard the major say. “Steady. He’s all right.”

  He was choking; flashes of searing light were darting across his eyes.

  “Breen”—another voice was speaking—a soft Southern voice—“take yo’ hands off him. We’ve got him all right now.”

  Then he was struggling to his feet. His hands were tied behind him, and he noticed that a cloud of powder smoke was rising softly towards the ceiling. There was a haze before his eyes and a drumming in his ears.

  “Scott,” someone was saying, “I’m right
sorry it is you.”

  The haze was lifting like a curtain, until he could see the room again. The major was perhaps four feet away, lighting another of his cigars. Old Breen, with one of his braces snapped, leaned against the table. Scott could hear the old man’s breath.

  “Hush, hush,” it seemed to say. “Hush, hush.”

  There was a fourth man in the room, in Confederate uniform. Scott felt a wave of nausea as he saw him. The man was Travis Greene, whom he had met that very morning.

  “Johnny,” the major said, “you stand still.”

  “So it’s you, Trav, is it?” Scott Mattaye was saying.

  The other cleared his throat, looked at Scott and then away.

  “Scott,” he said, “I reported to the general your horse looked mighty bad. He sent me on to follow you. I was looking for a chance to get away. Scott, I’m sorry it should be you.”

  Scott Mattaye answered dully. “Trav,” he said, “I won’t say what I think.”

  “I reckon I don’t mind,” said Greene. “That’s part of it.”

  Scott drew in his breath. The old man’s breathing, with its wheezing haste, was all that disturbed him.

  “Trav,” he said, “you better keep out of our lines, if once I get away.”

  “Scott,” said Greene again, “it makes me sick it’s you.”

  Then the major was speaking impersonally, almost kindly: “Listen, Johnny. I’d take you back as prisoner if I dared to run the risk, but we’re too close to rebel cavalry for anything like that. This officer”—he waved his cigar slowly and was careful with his words—“this officer is going back where he’s useful, son. You see my point. There’s no hard feeling in it; you and I don’t amount to shucks. This officer is going back, and there must be no—er—chance of your going. See my point?”

  Scott moistened his lips.

  “I understand,” he said. “Well, I’d be pleased if you get it over with. Perhaps we’d all be pleased.”