Chapter IV: Part TWO: What She Became (1)

II

SPECIAL MESSENGER

On the third day the pursuit had become so hot, so unerring, that she dared no longer follow the rutty cart road. Toward sundown she wheeled her big bony roan into a cow path which twisted through alders for a mile or two, emerging at length on a vast stretch of rolling country, where rounded hills glimmered golden in the rays of the declining sun. Tall underbrush flanked the slopes; little streams ran darkling through the thickets; the ground was moist, even on the ridges; and she could not hope to cover the deep imprint of her horse's feet.

She drew bridle, listening, her dark eyes fixed on the setting sun. There was no sound save the breathing of her horse, the far sweet trailing song of a spotted sparrow, the undertones of some hidden rill welling up through matted tangles of vine and fern and long wild grasses.

Sitting her worn saddle, sensitive face partly turned, she listened, her eyes sweeping the bit of open ground behind her. Nothing moved there.

Presently she slipped off one gauntlet, fumbled in her corsage, drew out a crumpled paper, and spread it flat. It was a map. With one finger she traced her road, bending in her saddle, eyebrows gathering in perplexity. Back and forth moved the finger, now hovering here and there in hesitation, now lifted to her lips in silent uncertainty. Twice she turned her head, intensely alert, but there was no sound save the cawing of crows winging across the deepening crimson in the west.

At last she folded the map and thrust it into the bosom of her mud-splashed habit; then, looping up the skirt of her kirtle, she dismounted, leading her horse straight into the oak scrub and on through a dim mile of woodland, always descending, until the clear rushing music of a stream warned her, and she came out along the thicket's edge into a grassy vale among the hills.

A cabin stood there, blue smoke lazily rising from the chimney; a hen or two sat huddled on the shafts of an ancient buckboard standing by the door. In the clear, saffron-tinted evening light some ducks sailed and steered about the surface of a muddy puddle by the barn, sousing their heads, wriggling their tails contentedly.

As she walked toward the shanty, leading her horse, an old man appeared at the open doorway, milking stool under one gaunt arm, tin pail dangling from the other. Astonished, he regarded the girl steadily, answering her low, quick greeting with a nod of his unkempt gray head.

"How far is the pike?" she asked.

"It might be six mile," he said, staring.

"Is there a wood road?"

He nodded.

"Where does it lead?"

"It leads just now," he replied grimly, "into a hell's mint o' rebels. What's your business in these parts, ma'am?"

Her business was to trust no one, yet there had been occasions when she had been forced to such a risk. This was one. She looked around at the house, the dismantled buckboard tenanted by roosting chickens, the ducks in the puddle, the narrow strip of pasture fringing the darkening woods. She looked into his weather-ravaged visage, searching the small eyes that twinkled at her intently out of a mass of wrinkles.

"Are you a Union man?" she asked.

His face hardened; a slow color crept into the skin above his sharp cheek bones. "What's that to you?" he demanded.

"Here in Pennsylvania we expect to find Union sentiments. Besides, you just now spoke of rebels----"

"Yes, an' I'll say it again," he repeated doggedly; "the Pennsylvany line is crawlin' with rebels, an' they'll butt into our cavalry before morning."

She laughed, stepping nearer, the muddy skirt of her habit lifted.

"I must get to Reynolds's corps to-night," she said confidingly. "I came through the lines three days ago; their cavalry have followed me ever since. I can't shake them off; they'll be here by morning--as soon as there's light enough to trace my horse."

She looked back at the blue woods thoughtfully, patting her horse's sleek neck.

He followed her glance, then his narrowing eyes focused on her as she turned her head toward him again.

"What name?" he asked harshly, hand to his large ear.

She smiled, raising her riding whip in quaint salute; and in a low voice she named herself demurely.

There was a long silence.

"Gosh!" he muttered, fascinated gaze never leaving her; "to think that you are that there gal! I heard tell you was young, an' then I heard tell you was old an' fat, ma'am. I guess there ain't many has seen you to take notice. I guess you must be hard run to even tell me who ye be?"

She said quietly: "I think they mean to get me this time. Is there a clear road anywhere? Even if I leave my horse and travel afoot?"

"Is it a hangin' matter?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

Presently he said: "The hull blame country's crawlin' with rebel cavalry. I was to Mink Creek, an' they was passin' on the pike, wagons an' guns as fur as I could see. They levied on Swamp Holler at sunup; they was on every road along the State line. There ain't no road nor cow path clear that way."

"And none the other way," she said. "Can't you help me?"

He looked at her gravely, then his small eyes swept the limited landscape.

"A hangin' matter," he mused, scratching his gray head reflectively. "An' if they ketch you here, I guess I'll go to Libby, too. Hey?"

He passed his labor-worn hand over his eyes, pressing the lids, and stood so, minute after minute, buried in thought.

"Waal," he said, dropping his hand and blinking in the ruddy glow from the west, "I guess I ain't done nothin' fur the Union yet, but I'm a-goin' to now, miss."

He looked around once more, his eyes resting on familiar scenery, then he set down milking stool and pail and shuffled out to where her horse stood.

"Guess I'll hev to hitch your hoss up to that there buckboard," he drawled. "My old nag is dead two year since. You go in, miss, an' dress in them clothes a-hangin' onto that peg by the bed," he added, with an effort. "Use 'em easy; they was _hers_."

She entered the single room of the cabin, where stove, table, chair, and bed were the only furniture. A single cheap print gown and a sunbonnet hung from a nail at the bed's foot, and she reached up and unhooked the garment. It was ragged but clean, and the bonnet freshly ironed.

Through the window she saw the old man unsaddling her horse and fitting him with rusty harness. She closed the cabin door, drew the curtain at the window, and began to unbutton her riding jacket. As her clothing fell from her, garment after garment, that desperate look came into her pale young face again, and she drew from her pocket a heavy army revolver and laid it on the chair beside her. There was scarce light enough left to see by in the room. She sat down, dragging off her spurred boots, stripping the fine silk stockings from her feet, then rose and drew on the faded print gown.

Now she needed more light, so she opened the door wide and pushed aside the curtain. A fragment of cracked mirror was nailed to the door. She faced it, rapidly undoing the glossy masses of her hair; then lifting her gown, she buckled the army belt underneath, slipped the revolver into it, smoothed out the calico, and crossed the floor to the bed again, at the foot of which a pair of woman's coarse, low shoes stood on the carpetless floor. Into these she slipped her naked feet.

He was waiting for her when she came out into the yellow evening light, squatting there in his buckboard, reins sagging.

"There's kindlin' to last a week," he said, "the ax is in the barn, an' ye'll find a bin full o' corn meal there an' a side o' bacon in the cellar. Them hens," he added wistfully "is Dominickers. _She_ was fond o' them--an' the Chiny ducks, too."

"I'll be kind to them," she said.

He rested his lean jaw in one huge hand, musing, dim-eyed, silent. Far away a cow bell tinkled, and he turned his head, peering out across the tangled pasture lot.

"We called our caow Jinny," he said. "She's saucy and likes to plague folks. But I don't never chase her; no, ma'am. You jest set there by them pasture bars, kinder foxin' that you ain't thinkin' o' nothin', and Jinny she'll come along purty soon."

The girl nodded.

"Waal," he muttered, rousing up, "I guess it's time to go." He looked at her, his eyes resting upon the clothing of his dead wife.

"You see," he said, "I've give all I've got to the Union. Now, ma'am, what shall I tell our boys if I git through?"

In a low, clear voice she gave him the message to Reynolds, repeating it slowly until he nodded his comprehension.

"If they turn you back," she said, "and if they follow you here, remember I'm your daughter."

He nodded again. "My Cynthy."

"Cynthia?"

"Yaas, 'm. Cynthy was _her_ name, you see; James is mine, endin' in Gray. I'll come back when I can. I guess there's vittles to spare an' garden sass----"

He passed his great cracked knuckles over his face again, digging hastily into the corners of his eyes, then leaned forward and shook the rusty reins.

"Git up!" he said thoughtfully, and the ancient buckboard creaked away into the thickening twilight.

She watched him from the door, lingering there, listening to the creak of the wheels long after he had disappeared. She was deadly tired--too tired to eat, too tired to think--yet there was more to be done before she closed her eyes. The blanket on the bed she spread upon the floor, laid in it her saddle and bridle, boots, papers, map, and clothing, and made a bundle; then slinging it on her slender back, she carried it up the ladder to the loft under the roof.

Ten minutes later she lay on the bed below, the back of one hand across her closed eyes, breathing deeply as a sleeping child--the most notorious spy in all America, the famous "Special Messenger," carrying locked under her smooth young breast a secret the consequence of which no man could dare to dream of.

* * * * *

Dawn silvering the east aroused her. Cockcrow, ducks quacking, the lowing of the cow, the swelling melody of wild birds--these were the sounds that filled her waking ears.

Motionless there on the bed in the dim room, delicate bare arms outstretched, hair tumbled over brow and shoulder, she lay, lost in fearless retrospection--absolutely fearless, for courage was hers without effort; peril exhilarated like wine, without reaction; every nerve and contour of her body was instinct with daring, and only the languor of her dark eyes misled the judgment of those she had to deal with.

Presently she sat up in bed, yawned lightly, tapping her red lips with the tips of her fingers; then, drawing her revolver from beneath the pillow, she examined the cylinder, replaced the weapon, and sprang out of bed, stretching her arms, a faint smile hovering on her face.

The water in the stream was cold, but not too cold for her, nor were the coarse towels too rough, sending the blood racing through her from head to foot.

Her toilet made, she lighted the fire in the cracked stove, set a pot of water boiling, and went out to the doorstep, calling the feathered flock around her, stirring their meal in a great pan the while her eyes roamed about the open spaces of meadow and pasture for a sign of those who surely must trace her here.

Her breakfast was soon over--an ash cake, a new egg from the barn, a bowl of last night's creamy milk. She ate slowly, seated by the window, raising her head at intervals to watch the forest's edge.

Nobody came; the first pink sunbeams fell level over the pasture; dew sparkled on grass and foliage; birds flitted across her line of vision; the stream sang steadily, flashing in the morning radiance.

One by one the ducks stretched, flapped their snowy wings, wiggled their fat tails, and waddled solemnly down to the water; hens wandered pensively here and there, pecking at morsels that attracted them; the tinkle of the cow bell sounded pleasantly from a near willow thicket.

She washed her dishes, set the scant furniture in place, made up the bed with the clean sheet spread the night before, and swept the floor.

On the table she had discovered, carefully folded up, the greater portion of a stocking, knitting needles still sticking in it, the ball of gray yarn attached. But she could not endure to sit there; she must have more space to watch for what she knew was coming. Her hair she twisted up as best she might, set the pink sunbonnet on her head, smoothed out the worn print dress, which was not long enough to hide her slim bare ankles, and went out, taking her knitting with her.

Upon the hill along the edges of the pasture where the woods cast a luminous shadow she found a comfortable seat in the sun-dried grasses, and here she curled up, examining the knitting in her hands, eyes lifted every moment to steal a glance around the sunlit solitude.

An hour crept by, marked by the sun in mounting splendor; the sweet scent of drying grass and fern filled her lungs; the birds' choral thrilled her with the loveliness of life. A little Southern song trembled on her lips, and her hushed voice murmuring was soft as the wild bees' humming:

"Ah, who could couple thought of war and crime
With such a blessed time?
Who, in the west wind's aromatic breath,
Could hear the call of Death?"

The gentle Southern poet's flowing rhythm was echoed by the distant stream:

" ... A fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings--you know not why--
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant----"

She lifted her eyes, fixing them upon the willow thicket below, where the green tops swayed as though furrowed by a sudden wind; and watching calmly, her lips whispered on, following the quaint rhythm:

"And yet no sooner shall the Spring awake
The voice of wood and brake
Than she shall rouse--for all her tranquil charms--
A million men to arms."

The willow tops were tossing violently. She watched them, murmuring:

"Oh! standing on this desecrated mold,
Methinks that I behold,
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring--kneeling on the sod,
And calling with the voice of all her rills
Upon the ancient hills
To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves
Who turn her meads to graves."

Her whisper ceased; she sat, lips parted, eyes fastened on the willows. Suddenly a horseman broke through the thicket, then another, another, carbines slung, sabres jingling, rider following rider at a canter, sitting their horses superbly--the graceful, reckless, matchless cavalry under whose glittering gray curtain the most magnificent army that the South ever saw was moving straight into the heart of the Union.

Fascinated, she watched an officer dismount, advance to the house, enter the open doorway, and disappear. Minute after minute passed; the troopers quietly sat their saddles; the frightened chickens ventured back, roaming curiously about these strange horses that stood there stamping, whisking their tails, tossing impatient heads in the sunshine.

Presently the officer reappeared and walked straight to the barn, a trooper dismounting to follow him. They remained in the barn for a few moments only, then hurried out again, heads raised, scanning the low circling hills. Ah! Now they caught sight of her! She saw the officer come swinging up the hillside, buttons, spurs, and sword hilt glittering in the sun; she watched his coming with a calm almost terrible in its breathless concentration. Nearer, nearer he came, mounting the easy slope with a quick, boyish swing; and now he had halted, slouch hat aloft; and she heard his pleasant, youthful voice:

"I reckon you haven't seen a stranger pass this way, ma'am, have you?"

"There was a lady came last night," she answered innocently.

"That's the one!" he said, in his quick, eager voice. "Can you tell me where she went?"

"She said she was going west."

"Has she gone?"

"She left the house when I did," answered the girl simply.

"Riding!" he exclaimed. "She came on a hoss, I reckon?"

"Yes."

"And she rode west?"

"I saw her going west," she nodded, resuming her knitting.

The officer turned toward the troopers below, drew out a handkerchief and whipped the air with it for a second or two, then made a sweeping motion with his arm, and drawing his sabre struck it downward four times.

Instantly the knot of troopers fell apart, scattering out and spurring westward in diverging lines; the officer watched them until the last horse had disappeared, then he lazily sheathed his sabre, unbuckled a field glass, adjusted it, and seated himself on the grass beside her.

"Have you lived here long?" he asked pleasantly, setting the glass to his eye and carefully readjusting the lens.

"No."

"Your father is living, is he not?"

She did not reply.

"I reckon Gilson's command met him a piece back in the scrub, driving a wagon and a fine horse."

She said nothing; her steady fingers worked the needles, and presently he heard her softly counting the stitches as she turned the heel.

"He said we'd find his 'Cynthy' here," observed the youthful officer, lowering his glass. "Are you Cynthia Gray, ma'am?"

"He named me Cynthia," she said, with a smile.

He plucked a blade of grass, and placing it between his white teeth, gazed at her so steadily that she dropped a stitch, recovered it, and presently he saw her lips resuming the silent count. He reseated himself on the grass, laying his field glass beside him.

"I reckon your folk are all Yankee," he ventured softly.

She nodded.

"Are you afraid of us? Do you hate us, ma'am?"

She shook her head, stealing a glance at him from her lovely eyes. If that was part of her profession, she had learned it well; for he laughed and stretched out, resting easily on one elbow, looking up at her admiringly under her faded sunbonnet.

"Are you ever lonely here?" he inquired gravely.

Again her dark eyes rested on him shyly, but she shook her head in silence.

"Never lonely without anybody to talk to?" he persisted, removing his slouched army hat and passing his hands over his forehead.

"What have I to say to anybody?" she asked coquettishly.

A little breeze sprang up, stirring his curly hair and fluttering the dangling strings of her sunbonnet. He lay at full length there, a slender, athletic figure in his faded gray uniform, idly pulling the grass up to twist and braid into a thin green rope.

The strange exhilaration that danger had brought had now subsided; she glanced at him indifferently, noting the well-shaped head, the boyish outlines of face and figure. He was no older than she--and not very wise for his years.

Presently, very far away, the dulled report of a carbine sounded, stirring a deadened echo among the hills.

"What's that?" she exclaimed.

"Yank, I reckon," he drawled, rising to his feet and fixing his field glass steadily on the hills beyond.

"Are you going to have a battle here?" she asked.

He laughed. "Oh, no, Miss Cynthia. That's only bushwhacking."

"But--but where are they shooting?"

He pointed to the west. "There's Yankee cavalry loafing in the hills. I reckon we'll gobble 'em, too. But don't _you_ worry, Miss Cynthia," he added gallantly. "_I_ shall be here to-night, and by sunrise there won't be a soldier within ten miles of you."

"Within ten miles," she murmured; "ten miles is too near. I--I think I will go back to the house."

He looked down at her; she raised her dark eyes to him; then he bowed and gallantly held out both hands, and she laid her hands in his, suffering him to lift her to her feet.

The brief contact set the color mounting to his sunburnt temples; it had been a long while since he had touched a young girl's hand.

"I wonder," she said, "whether you would care to share my dinner?"

She spoke naturally, curiously; all idea of danger was over; she was free to follow her own instincts, which were amiable. Besides, the boy was a gentleman.

"If it wouldn't be too much to ask--too inconvenient--" He hesitated, hat in hand, handsome face brightening.

"No; I want you to come," she answered simply, and took his hand in hers.

A deeper color swept his face as they descended the gentle slope together, she amused and quietly diverted by his shyness, and thinking how she meant to give this boyish rebel a better dinner than he had had for many a long mile.

And she did, he aiding her with the vegetables, she mixing johnnycake for the entire squad, slicing the bacon, and setting the coffee to boil.

Toward midday the scouting squad returned, to find their officer shelling peas on the cabin steps, and a young girl, sleeves at her shoulders, stirring something very vigorously in a large black kettle--something that exhaled an odor which made the lank troopers lick their gaunt lips in furtive hope.

The sergeant of the troop reported; the officer nodded and waved the horsemen away to the barn, where they were presently seen squatting patiently in a row, sniffing the aroma that floated from the cabin door.

"Did your men find the lady?" she asked, looking out at him where he sat, busy with the peas.

"No, Miss Cynthia. But if she went west she's run into the whole Confederate cavalry. Our business is to see she doesn't double back here."

"Why do you follow her?"

"Ah, Miss Cynthia," he said gravely, "she is that 'Special Messenger' who has done us more damage than a whole Yankee army corps. We've got to stop her this time--and I reckon we will."

The girl stirred the soup, salted it, peppered it, lifted the pewter spoon and tasted it. Presently she called for the peas.

About two o'clock that afternoon a row of half-famished Confederate cavalrymen sat devouring the best dinner they had eaten in months. There was potato soup, there was johnnycake, smoking hot coffee, crisp slices of fragrant bacon, an egg apiece, and a vegetable stew. Trooper after trooper licked fingers, spoon, and pannikin, loosening leather belts with gratified sighs; the pickets came cantering in when the relief, stuffed to repletion, took their places, carbine on thigh.

Flushed from the heat of the stove, arms still bared, the young hostess sat at table with the officer in command, and watched him in sympathy as he ate.

She herself ate little, tasting a morsel here and there, drinking at times from the cup of milk beside her.

"I declare, Miss Cynthia," he said, again and again, "this is the finest banquet, ma'am, that I ever sat down to."

She only thought, "The boy was starving!" and the indulgent smile deepened as she sat there watching him, chin resting on her linked hands.

At last he was satisfied, and a little ashamed, too, of his appetite, but she told him it was a pleasure to cook for him, and sent him off to the barn, where presently she spied him propped up in the loft window, a map spread on his knees, and his field glass tucked under one arm.

And now she had leisure to think again, and she leaned back in her chair by the window, bared arms folded, ankles crossed, frowning in meditation.

She must go; the back trail was clear now. But she needed her own clothing and a horse. Where could she find a horse?

Hour after hour she sat there. He had cantered off into the woods long since; and all through the long afternoon she sat there scheming, pondering, a veiled sparkle playing under her half-closed lids. She saw him returning in the last lingering sun rays, leading his saddled horse down to the brook, and stand there, one arm flung across the crupper, while the horse drank and shook his thoroughbred head and lipped the tender foliage that overhung the water. There was the horse she required! She must have him.

A few minutes later, bridle over one arm, the young officer came sauntering up to the doorstep. He was pale, but he smiled when he saw her, and his weather-beaten hat swept the grass in salute as she came to the door and looked down at him, hands clasped behind her slender back.

"You look dreadfully tired," she said gently. "Don't you ever sleep?"

He had been forty-eight hours in the saddle, but he only laughed a gay denial of fatigue.

She descended the steps, walked over to the horse, and patted neck and shoulder, scanning limb and chest and flank. The horse would do!

"Will you hitch your horse and come in?" she asked sweetly.

"Thank you, ma'am." He passed the bridle through the hitching ring at the door, and, hat in hand, followed her into the cabin. His boots dragged a little, but he straightened up, and when she had seated herself, he sank into a chair, closing his sunken eyes for a moment, only to open them smiling, and lean forward on the rough table, folding his arms under him.

"You have been very good to us, Miss Cynthia," he said. "My men want me to say so."

"Your men are welcome," she answered, resting her cheek on her hand.

There was a long silence, broken by her: "You are dying for sleep. Why do you deny it? You may lie down on my bed if you wish."

He protested, thanking her, but said he would be glad to sleep in the hay if she permitted; and he rose, steadying himself by the back of his chair.

"I always sleep bridle in hand," he said. "A barn floor is luxury for my horse and me."

That would not do. The horse must remain. She _must_ have that horse!

"I will watch your horse," she said. "Please lie down there. I really wish it."

"Why, ma'am, I should never venture----"

She looked at him; her heart laughed with content. Here was an easy way for stern necessity.

"Sleep soundly," she said, with a gay smile; and before he could interpose, she had slipped out and shut the door behind her.

The evening was calm; the last traces of color were fading from the zenith. Pacing the circle of the cabin clearing, she counted the videttes--one in the western pasture, one sitting his saddle in the forest road to the east, and a horseman to the south, scarcely visible in the gathering twilight. She passed the barnyard, head lifted pensively, carefully counting the horses tethered there. Twelve! Then there was no guard for the northern cattle path--the trail over which she and they had come!

Now walking slowly back to the cabin, she dropped her slippers and mounted the steps on bare feet, quietly opening the door. At first in the dim light she could see nothing, then her keen ear caught the quiet sound of his breathing, and she stole over to the bed. He lay there asleep.

Now seconds meant eternity, perhaps; she mounted the ladder to the attic, tiptoed over the loose boards, felt around for her packet, and loosened the blanket.

By sense of touch alone she dressed, belting in the habit with her girdle, listening, every sense alert. But her hand never shook, her fingers were deft and steady, fastening button and buckle, looping up her skirt, strapping the revolver to her girdle. She folded map and papers noiselessly, tucking them into her bosom; then, carrying her spurred boots, she crept across the boards again, and descended the ladder without a sound.

The fading light from the window fell upon the bed where he lay; and she smiled almost tenderly as she stole by him, he looked so young lying there, his curly head pillowed on his arms.

Another step and she was beside him; another; she stopped short, and her heart seemed to cease at the same instant. Was she deceived? Were his eyes wide open?

Suddenly he sat bolt-upright in the bed, and at the same instant she bent and struck him a stunning blow with the butt of her revolver.

Breathless, motionless, she saw him fall back and lie there without a quiver; presently she leaned over him, tore open his jacket and shirt, and laid her steady hand upon his heart. For a moment she remained there, looking down into his face; then with a sob she bent and kissed him on the lips.

* * * * *

At midnight, as she was riding out of the hill scrub, a mounted vidette hailed her on the Gettysburg pike, holding her there while horseman after horseman galloped up, and the officer of the guard came cantering across the fields at the far summons.

A lantern glimmered, flared up; there was a laugh, the sound of a dozen horses backing, a low voice: "Pass! Special Messenger for headquarters!"

Then the lantern-light flashed and went out; shadowy horsemen wheeled away east and west, trotting silently to posts across the sod.

Far away among the hills the Special Messenger was riding through the night, head bent, tight-lipped, her dark eyes wet with tears.

III

ABSOLUTION

Just before daylight the unshaven sentinels at headquarters halted her; a lank corporal arrived, swinging a lighted lantern, which threw a yellow radiance over horse and rider. Then she dismounted.

Mud smeared her riding jacket; boots and skirt were clotted with it; so was the single army spur. Her horse stretched a glossy, sweating neck and rolled wisely-suspicious eyes at the dazzling light. On the gray saddle cloth glimmered three gilt letters, C. S. A.

"What name, ma'am?" repeated the corporal, coming closer with lifted lantern, and passing an inquiring thumb over the ominous letters embroidered on the saddle cloth.

"No name," she said. "They will understand--inside there."

"That your hoss, ma'am?"

"It seems to be."

"Swap him with a Johnny?"

"No; took him from a Johnny."

"Shucks!" said the corporal, examining the gilt letters. Then, looking around at her:

"Wa'll, the ginrall, he's some busy."

"Please say that his messenger is here."

"Orders is formuel, ma'am. I dassent----"

She pronounced a word under her breath.

"Hey?"

She nodded.

"Tain't _her_?" demanded the corporal incredulously.

She nodded again. The corporal's lantern and jaw dropped in unison.

"Speak low," she said, smiling.

He leaned toward her; she drew nearer, inclining her pretty, disheveled head with its disordered braids curling into witchlocks on her shoulders.

"'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 closely 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 portrait 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.

"Are you properly fixed? What do you carry--a revolver?"

She nodded in silence.

"All right. Your troopers will be waiting outside.... Get him, in one way or another; do you understand?"

"Yes."

A few moments later the staff galloped off and the escort clattered behind, minus two troopers, who sat on the edge of the veranda in their blue-and-yellow shell jackets, carbines slung, poking at the grass with the edges of their battered steel scabbards.

The Special Messenger came out presently, and the two troopers rose to salute. All around her thundered the guns; sky and earth were trembling as she led the way through an orchard heavy with green fruit. A volunteer nurse was gathering the hard little apples for cooking; she turned, her apron full, as the Special Messenger passed, and the two women, both young, looked at one another through the sunshine--looked, and turned away, each to her appointed destiny.

Smoke, drifting back from the batteries, became thicker beyond the orchard. Not very far away the ruddy sparkle of exploding Confederate shells lighted the obscurity. Farther beyond the flames of the Union guns danced red through the cannon gloom.

Higher on the hill, however, the air became clearer; a man outlined in the void was swinging signal flags against the sky.

"Wait here," said the Special Messenger to Troopers Burke and Campbell, and they unslung carbines, and leaned quietly against their feeding horses, watching her climb the crest.

The crest was bathed in early sunlight, an aërial island jutting up above a smoky sea. From the terrible, veiled maelstrom roaring below, battle thunder reverberated and the lightning of the guns flared incessantly.

For a moment, poised, she looked down into the inferno, striving to penetrate the hollow, then glanced out beyond, over fields and woods where sunlight patched the world beyond the edges of the dark pall.

Behind her Captain West, field glasses leveled, seemed to be intent upon his own business.

She sat down on the grassy acclivity. Below her, far below, Confederate shells were constantly striking the base of the hill. A mile away black squares checkered a slope; beyond the squares a wood was suddenly belted with smoke, and behind her she heard the swinging signal flags begin to whistle and snap in the hill wind. She had sat there a long while before Captain West spoke to her, standing tall and thin beside her; some half-serious, half-humorous pleasantry--nothing for her to answer. But she looked up into his face, and he became silent, and after a while he moved away.

A little while later the artillery duel subsided and finally died out abruptly, leaving a comparative calm, broken only by slow and very deliberate picket firing.

The signal men laid aside their soiled flags and began munching hardtack; Captain West came over, bringing his own rations to offer her, but she refused with a gesture, sitting there, chin propped in her palms, elbows indenting her knees.

"Are you not hungry or thirsty?" he asked.

"No."

He had carelessly seated himself on the natural rocky parapet, spurred boots dangling over space. For one wild instant she hoped he might slip and fall headlong--and his blood be upon the hands of his Maker.

Sitting near one another they remained silent, restless-eyed, brooding above the battle-scarred world. As he rose to go he spoke once or twice to her with that haunting softness of voice which had begun to torture her; but her replies were very brief; and he said nothing more.

At intervals during the afternoon orderlies came to the hill; one or two general officers and their staffs arrived for brief consultations, and departed at a sharp gallop down hill.

About three o'clock there came an unexpected roar of artillery from the Union left; minute by minute the racket swelled as battery after battery joined in the din.

Behind her the signal flags were fluttering wildly once more; a priest, standing near her, turned nodding:

"Our boys will be going in before sundown," he said quietly.

"Are you Father Corby, chaplain of the Excelsiors?"

"Yes, madam."