Chapter VI: Part TWO: What She Became (3)

With a nervous stroke she drove the punt far out into the darkness, then fell into a measured, swinging motion, standing nearer the stern than the bow. There was no sound now but the lapping of water and the man's thick breathing; she strove to pierce the darkness between them, but she could see only a lumpish shadow in the bow where he crouched.

"I reckon you're Roy Allen," she began, but he cut her short:

"Damn it! What's that to you?"

"Nothing. Only Snuyder's gone."

"When?"

"Some days ago, leaving me to ferry folk over.... He told me how to answer you when you called like a cock-o'-the-pines."

"Did he?" The voice was subdued and sullen.

For a while he remained motionless, then, in the dull light of the fog-shrouded stars she saw him face her, and caught the faint sparkle of his weapon resting on his knees, covering her.

"It seems to me," he said fiercely, "that you are asking a good many questions. Which side pays you?"

They were tossing now on the rapid little waves in the center of the river; she had all she could do to keep the punt steady and drive it toward the spot where, against the stars, the oaks lifted their clustered crests.

At the foot of the wooden stairs she tied her boat, and offered to relight the pine knot, but he would not have it and made her grope up the ascent before him.

Over the top of the bank she led him, under the trees, to her door, he close at her heels, revolver in hand. And there, on the sill, she faced him.

"What do you want here?" she asked; "supper?"

"Go into the house and strike a light," he said, and followed her in. And, as she turned from the blazing splinter, he caught her by the arm, feeling roughly for a concealed weapon. Face aflame, she struggled out of his clutch; and he was as red as she as they confronted one another, breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm--h-half-crazed, I think.... If you're what you look, God knows I meant you no insult.... But--but--their damned spies are everywhere. I've stood too much--I've been in hell for two weeks----"

He wiped his mouth with a trembling, raw hand, but his sunken eyes still glared and the pallor once more blanched his sunken face.

"I'll not touch you again," he said hoarsely; "I'm not a beast--not _that_ kind. But I'm starving. Is there anything--_anything_, I tell you? I--I am not--very--strong."

She looked calmly into the ravaged, but still boyish features; saw him swing, reeling a little, on his heels as he steadied himself with one hand against the table.

"Sit down," she said in a low voice.

He sank into a chair, resting the hand which clutched the revolver on the table.

Without a word she went about the business of the moment, rekindled the ashes, filled the fry pan with mush and bacon. A little while afterwards she set the smoking food before him, and seated herself at the opposite side of the table.

The boy ate wolfishly with one hand; the other seemed to have grown fast to the butt of his heavy weapon. She could have bent and shot him under the table had she wished; she could have taken him with her bare hands.

But she only sat there, dark, sorrowful eyes on him, and in pity for his certain doom her under lip trembled at intervals so she could scarcely control it.

"Is there a horse to be had anywhere near here?" he asked, pausing to swallow what his sunken jaws had been working on.

"No; the soldiers have taken everything."

"I will pay--anything if you'll let me have something to ride."

She shook her head.

He went on eating; a slight color had come back into his face.

"I'm sorry I was rough with you," he said, not looking at her.

"Why were you?"

He raised his head wearily.

"I've been hunted so long that I guess it's turned my brain. Except for what you've been good enough to give me, I've had nothing inside me for days, except green leaves and bark and muddy water.... I suppose I can't see straight.... There's a woman they call the Special Messenger;--I thought they might have started her after me.... That shot at the ford seemed to craze me.... So I risked the ferry--seeing your light across--and not knowing whether Snuyder was still here or whether they had set a guard to catch me.... It was Red Ferry or starve; I'm too weak to swim; I waited too long."

And as the food and hot tea warmed him, his vitality returned in a maddened desire for speech after the weeks of terror and silence.

"I don't know who you are," he went on, "but I guess you're not fixed for shooting at me, as every living thing seems to have done for the last fortnight. Maybe you're in Yankee pay, maybe in Confederate; I can't help it. I suppose you'll tell I've been here after I'm gone.... But they'll never get me now!" he bragged, like a truant schoolboy recounting his misdemeanor to an awed companion.

"Who are you?" she asked very gently.

He looked at her defiantly.

"I'm Roy Allen," he said, "of Kay's Cavalry.... If you're fixing to tell the Union people you might as well tell them who fooled 'em!"

"What have you done?"

She inquired so innocently that a hint of shame for his suspicion and brutality toward her reddened his hollow cheeks.

"I'll tell you what I've done," he said. "I've taken to the woods, headed for Dixie, with a shirtful of headquarter papers. That's what I've done.... And perhaps you don't know what that means if they catch me. It means hanging."

"Hanging!" she faltered.

"Yes--if they get me." His voice quivered, but he added boastingly: "No fear of that! I'm too many for old Kay!"

"But--but why did you desert?"

"Why?" he repeated. Then his face turned red and he burst out violently: "I'll tell you why. I lived in New York, but I thought the South was in the right. Then they drafted me; and I tried to tell them it was an outrage, but they gave me the choice between Fort Lafayette and Kay's Cavalry.... And I took the Cavalry and waited.... I wouldn't have gone as far as to fight against the flag--if they had let me alone.... I only had my private opinion that the South was more in the right than we--the North--was.... I'm old enough to have an opinion about niggers, and I'm no coward either.... They drove me to this; I didn't want to kill people who were more in the right than we were.... But they made me enlist--and I couldn't stand it.... And now, if I've got to fight, I'll fight bullies and brutes who----"

He ended with a gesture--an angry, foolish boast, shaking his weapon toward the north. Then, hot, panting, sullenly sensible of his fatigue, he laid the pistol on the table and glowered at the floor.

She could have taken him, unarmed, at any moment, now.

"Soldier," she said gently, "listen to me."

He looked up with heavy-lidded eyes.

"I am trying to help you to safety," she said.

A hot flush of mortification mantled his face:

"Thank you.... I ought to have known; I--I am ashamed of what I said--what I did."

"You were only a little frightened; I am not angry."

"You understand, don't you?"

"A--little."

"You are Southern, then?" he said; and in spite of himself his heavy lids began to droop again.

"No; Northern," she replied.

His eyes flew wide open at that, and he straightened up in his chair.

"Are you afraid of me, Soldier?"

"No," he said, ashamed again. "But--you're going to tell on me after I am gone."

"No."

"Why not?" he demanded suspiciously.

She leaned both elbows on the table, and resting her chin on both palms, smiled at him.

"Because," she said, "you are going to tell on yourself, Roy."

"What!" he blurted out in angry astonishment.

"You are going to tell on yourself.... You are going back to your regiment.... It will be your own idea, too; it _has_ been your own idea all the while--your secret desire every moment since you deserted----"

"Are you crazy!" he cried, aghast; "or do you think I am?"

"--ever since you deserted," she went on, dark eyes looking deep into his, "it has been your desire to go back.... Fear held you; rage hardened your heart; dread of death as your punishment; angry brooding on what you believed was a terrible injustice done you--all these drove you to panic.... Don't scowl at me: don't say what is on your lips to say. You are only a tired, frightened boy--scarcely eighteen, are you? And at eighteen no heart can really be a traitor."

"Traitor!" he repeated, losing all his angry color.

"It is a bad word, isn't it, Roy? Lying hidden and starving in the forest through the black nights you had to fight that word away from you--drive it out of your half-crazed senses--often--didn't you? Don't you think I know, my boy, what a dreadful future you faced, lying there through the stifling nights while they hunted you to hang you?

"I know, also, that what you did you did in a moment of insane rage. I know that the moment it was done you would, in your secret soul, have given the world to have undone it."

"No!" he cried. "I was right!"

She rose, walked to the door, and seated herself on the sill, looking up at the stars.

For an hour she sat there, silent. Behind her, leaning heavily on the table, he crouched, hot eyes wide, pulse heavy in throat and body. And at last, without turning, she called to him--three times, very gently, speaking his name; and at the third call he rose and came stumbling toward her.

"Sit here."

He sank down beside her on the sill.

"Are you very tired?"

"Yes."

She placed one arm around him, drawing his hot head down on her shoulder.

"How foolish you have been," she whispered. "But, of course, your mother must not know it.... There is no reason to tell her--ever.... Because you went quite mad for a little while--and nobody is blamed for mental sickness.... How bright the stars are.... What a heavenly coolness after that dreadful work.... How feverish you are! I think that your regiment believes you roamed away while suffering from sunstroke.... Their Colonel is a good friend of mine. Tell him you're sorry."

His head lay heavily on her shoulder; she laid a fresh hand over his eyes.

"If the South is right, if we of the North are right, God knows better than you or I, Roy.... And if you are so bewildered that you have no deep conviction either way I think you may trust Him who set you among Kay's Cavalry.... God never betrayed a human soul in honest doubt."

"It--it was the flag!--that was the hardest to get over--" he began, and choked, smothering the dry sob against her breast.

"I know, dear.... The old flag means so much--it means all that our fathers have been, all that we ought to be for the world's sake. Anger, private resentment, bitterness under tyranny--these are little things; for, after all, the flag still stands for what we ought to be--you and I and those who misuse us, wittingly or otherwise.... Where are the papers you took?"

He pressed his feverish face closer to her shoulder and fumbled at the buttons of his jacket.

"Here?" she asked softly, aiding him with deft fingers; and in a moment she had secured them.

For a while she held him there, cradling him; and his dry, burning face seemed to scorch her shoulder.

Dawn was in the sky when she unclosed her eyes--a cool, gray dawn, hinting of rain.

She looked down at the boy. His head lay across her lap; he slept, motionless as the dead.

The sun rose, a pale spot on the gray horizon.

"Come," she said gently. And again, "Come; I want you to take me across the ferry."

He rose and stood swaying on his feet, rubbing both eyes with briar-torn fists.

"You will take me, won't you, Roy?"

"Where?"

"Back to your regiment."

"Yes--I'll take you."

For a few moments she was busy gathering up her spools and linen.

"You carry my saddlebags," she said, "and I'll take the kitten. Isn't it cunning, Roy? Do look at the poor little thing! We can't leave it here."

Following, laden with her saddlebags, he stammered:

"Do--d-do you think they'll shoot me?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Be careful of the ferry steps; they are dreadfully shaky."

She began the descent, clasping the kitten in both arms; the boy followed. Seated in the punt, they stowed away the saddlebags and the kitten, then he picked up the pole, looked at her, hesitated. She waited.

"I guess the old man will have me shot.... But--I am going back," he said, as though to himself.

She watched him; he looked up.

"You're right, ma'am. I must have been crazy. Everybody reads about traitors--in school.... Nobody ever forgets their names.... I don't want my name in school books."

"Like Benedict Arnold's," she said; and he quivered from head to foot.

"Oh, cricky!" he burst out, horrified; "how close I came to it! Have you got those papers safe?"

"Yes, Roy."

"Then I'll go. I don't care what they do to me."

As he rose with the pole, far away in the woods across the river a cavalry band began to play. Faint and clear the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner rose from among the trees and floated over the water; the boy stood spellbound, mouth open; then, as the far music died away, he sank back into the boat, deathly pale.

"I--I ought to be hung!" he whispered.

The Messenger picked up the fallen pole, set it, and drove the punt out into the river. Behind her, huddled in the stern, the prodigal wept, uncomforted, head buried in his shaking arms; and the kitten, being afraid, left the shelter of the thwarts and crept up on his knees, sitting there and looking out at the unstable world of water in round-eyed apprehension.

As the punt grated on the northern shore the Messenger drove her pole into the mud, upright, and leaned on it.

"Roy," she said, looking back over her shoulder.

The boy rubbed his wet eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and got up.

"Are you afraid?"

"Not now."

"That is well.... You'll be punished.... Not severely.... For you came back of your own accord--repentant.... Tell me, were you really afraid that the Special Messenger might catch you?"

"Yes, I was," he said simply. "That's why I acted so rough with you.... I didn't know; they say any woman you see may be the Special Messenger.... So I took no chances.... Who are you, anyway?"

"Only a friend of yours," she said, smiling. "Please pick up my kitten. Thank you.... And some day, when you've been very, very good, I'll ask Colonel Kay to let you take me fishing."

And she stepped lightly ashore; the boy followed, holding the kitten under one arm and drying his grimy eyes on his sleeve.

VI

AN AIR-LINE

"As for me," continued Colonel Gay bitterly, "I'm driven almost frantic by this conspiracy. Whenever a regiment arrives or leaves, whenever a train stirs--yes, by Heaven, every time a locomotive toots or a mule brays or a chicken has the pip--_somebody_ informs the Johnnies, and every detail is known to them within a few hours!"

The Special Messenger seated herself on the edge of the camp table. "I suppose they are very disagreeable to you about it at headquarters."

"Yes, they are--but how can I help it? Somehow or other, whatever is done or said or even thought in this devilish supply camp is immediately reported to Jeb Stuart; every movement of trains and troops leaks out; he'll know to-night what I ate for breakfast this morning--I'll bet on that. And, Messenger, let me tell you something. Joking aside, this thing is worrying me sick. Can you help me?"

"I'll try," she said. "Headquarters sent me. They're very anxious up there about the railroad."

"I can't help it!" cried the distracted officer. "On Thursday I had to concentrate the line-patrol to drive Maxon's bushwhackers out of Laurel Siding; and look what Stuart did to me. No sooner were we off than he struck the unguarded section and tore up two miles of track! What am I to do?"

The Special Messenger shook her pretty head in sympathy.

"There's a leak somewhere," insisted the angry officer; "it smells to Heaven, but I can't locate it. Somewhere there's a direct, intelligent and sinister underground communication between Osage Court House and Jeb Stuart at Sandy River--or wherever he is. And what I want you to do is to locate that leak and plug it."

"Of course," murmured the Special Messenger, gently tapping her riding skirt with her whip.

"Because," continued the Colonel, "headquarters is stripping this depot of troops. The Bucktails go to-day; Casson's New York brigade and Darrel's cavalry left yesterday. What remains is a mighty small garrison for a big supply depot--eleven hundred effectives, and they may take some of them at any moment. You see the danger?"

"Yes, I do."

"I've protested; I've pointed out the risk we run; I sent my third messenger to headquarters this afternoon. Of course, they don't intend to leave this depot unguarded--probably they'll send the Vermont troops from the North this week--but between the departure of Casson's column and the theoretical arrival of reënforcements from Preston, we'd be in a bad way if Stuart should raid us in force. And with this irritating and constant leaking out of information I'm horribly afraid he'll strike us as soon as the Bucktails entrain."

"Why don't you hold the Pennsylvania infantry until we can find out where the trouble lies?" asked the girl, raising her dark eyes to the nervous young Colonel.

"I haven't the authority; I've asked for it twice. Orders stand; the Bucktails are going, and I'm worried to death." He shoved his empty pipe into his mouth and bit viciously at the stem.

"Then," she said, "if I'm to do anything I'd better hurry, hadn't I?"

The young officer's face grew grimmer. "Certainly; but I've been a month at it and I'm no wiser. Of course I know you are very celebrated, ma'am; but, really, _do_ you think it likely that you can pick out this hidden mischief-maker before he sends word to Stuart to-night of our deplorable condition?"

"How long have I?"

"About a day."

"When do the Bucktails go?"

"At nine to-night."

"Who knows it?"

"Who doesn't? I can't move a regiment and its baggage in a day, can I? I've given them twenty-four hours to break camp and entrain."

"Does the train master know which troops are going?"

"He has orders to hold three trains, steam up, night and day."

"I see," she murmured, strapping her soft riding hat more securely to her hair with the elastic band. Her eyes had been wandering restlessly around the tent as though searching for something which she could not find.

"Have you a good map of the district?" she asked.

He went to his military chest, opened it, and produced a map. For a while, both hands on the table, she leaned above the map studying the environment.

"And Stuart? You say he's roaming around somewhere in touch with Sandy River?" she asked, pointing with a pencil to that metropolis on the map.

"The Lord knows where _he_ is!" muttered the Colonel. "He may be a hundred miles south now, and in my back yard to-morrow by breakfast time. But when he's watching us he's usually near Sandy River."

"I see. And these"--drawing her pencil in a wavering line--"are your outposts? I mean those pickets nearest Sandy River."

"They are. Those are rifle pits."

"A grand guard patrols this line?" she asked, rising to her feet.

"Yes; a company of cavalry and a field gun."

"Do you issue passes?"

"Not to the inhabitants."

"Have any people--civilians--asked for passes?"

"I had two applications; one from a Miss Carryl, who lives about a mile beyond here on the Sandy River Road; another from an old farmer, John Deal, who has a fruit and truck farm half a mile outside our lines. He wanted to come in with his produce and I let him for a while. But that leakage worried me, so I stopped him."

"And this Miss Carryl--did she want to go out?"

"She owns the Deal farm. Yes, she wanted to drive over every day; and I let her until, as I say, I felt obliged to stop the whole business--not permit anybody to go out or come in except our own troops."

"And still the leakage continues?"

"It certainly does," he said dryly.

The Special Messenger seated herself on one end of the military chest and gazed absently at space. Her booted foot swung gently at intervals.

"So this Miss Carryl owns John Deal's farm," she mused aloud.

"They run it on shares, I believe."

"Oh! Was she angry when you shut out her tenant, John Deal, and shut her inside the lines?"

"No; she seemed a little surprised--said it was inconvenient--wanted permission to write him."

"You gave it?"

"Yes. I intimated it would save time if she left her letters to him unsealed. She seemed quite willing."

"You read them all, of course, before delivering them?"

"Of course. There was nothing in them except instructions about plowing, fruit picking, and packing, and various bucolic matters."

"Oh! Nothing to be read between the lines? No cipher? No invisible ink? No tricks of any sort?"

"Not one. I had a detective here. He said there was absolutely no harm in the letters, in Miss Carryl, or in John Deal. I have all the letters if you care to look at them; I always keep the originals and allow only copies to be sent to old man Deal."

"Let me see those letters," suggested the Messenger.

The Colonel, who had been sitting on the camp table, got off wearily, rummaged in a dispatch box, and produced three letters, all unsealed.

Two were directed in a delicately flowing, feminine hand to John Deal, Waycross Orchard. The Messenger unfolded the first and read:

Dear Mr. Deal:

Colonel Gay has thought it necessary, for military reasons, to
revoke my pass; and I shall, therefore, be obliged hereafter to
communicate with you by letter only.

I wish, if there are negroes enough remaining in the quarters,
that you would start immediately a seedling orchard of white
Rare-ripe peaches from my orchard here. I have permission to
send the pits to you by the military post-rider who passes my
house. I will send you twenty every day as my peaches ripen.
Please prepare for planting. I hope your rheumatism is better.

Yours very truly,
Evelyn Carryl.

The Messenger's dark eyes lifted dreamily to the Colonel:

"You gave her permission to send the pits by your post-rider?"

"Yes," he said, smiling; "but I always look over them myself. You know the wedding gown of the fairy princess was hidden in a grape seed."

"You are _quite_ sure about the pits?"

"Perfectly."

"Oh! When does the next batch of twenty go?"

"In about an hour. Miss Carryl puts them in a bag and gives them to my messenger who brings them to me. Then I inspect every pit, tie up the bag, seal it, and give it to my messenger. When he takes the mail to the outposts he rides on for half a mile and leaves the sealed bag at Deal's farm."

"Does your messenger know what is in the bag?"

"No, he doesn't."

She nodded, amused, saying carelessly:

"Of course you trust your post-rider?"

"Absolutely."

The Special Messenger swung her foot absently to and fro, and presently opened another letter:

Dear Mr. Deal:

I am sending you twenty more peach pits for planting. What you
write me about the bees is satisfactory. I have received the
bees you sent. There is no reason why you should not make the
exchange with Mr. Enderly, as it will benefit our hives as well
as Mr. Enderly's to cross his Golden Indias with my Blacks.

The Messenger studied the letter thoughtfully; askance, the officer watched the delicate play of expression on her absorbed young face, perhaps a trifle incredulous that so distractingly pretty a woman could be quite as intelligent as people believed.

She looked up at him quietly.

"So you gave Deal permission to send some bees to Miss Carryl and write her a letter?"

"Once. I had the letter brought to me and I sent her a copy. Here it is--the original."

He produced Deal's letter from the dispatch pouch, and the Messenger read:

Miss Evelyn Carryl,
Osage Court House.

Respected Miss:

I send you the bees. I seen Mr. Enderly at Sandy River he says
he is very wishful for to swap bees to cross the breed I says it
shorely can be done if you say so I got the pits and am studyin'
how to plant. The fruit is a rottin' can't the Yankees at Osage
buy some truck nohow off'n me? So no more with respect from

John Deal
Supt.

"That seems rather harmless, doesn't it?" asked the Colonel wearily.

"I don't--know. I _think_ I'll take a look at John Deal's beehives."

"His _beehives_!"

"Yes."

"What for?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know--exactly. I was always fond of bees. They're so useful"--she looked up artlessly--"so clever--quite wonderful, Colonel. Have you ever read anything about bees--how they live and conduct themselves?"

The Colonel eyed her narrowly; she laughed, sprang up from the military chest, and handed back his letters.

"You have already formed your theory?" he inquired with a faintly patronizing air, under which keen disappointment betrayed itself where the grim, drooping mouth tightened.

"Yes, I have. There's a link missing, but--I may find that before night. You can give me--_how_ long?"

"The Bucktails leave at nine. See here, Messenger! With all the civility and respect due you, I----"

"You are bitterly disappointed in me," she finished coolly. "I don't blame you, Colonel Gay."

He was abashed at that, but unconvinced.

"Why do you suspect this Miss Carryl and this man, Deal, when I've showed you how impossible it is that they could send out information?"

"Somehow," she said quietly, "they _do_ send it--if they are the only two people who have had passes, and who now are permitted to correspond."

"But you saw the letters----"

"So did you, Colonel."

"I did!" he said emphatically; "and there's nothing dangerous in them. As for the peach pits----"

"Oh, I'll take your word for them, too," she said, laughing. "When is your post-rider due?"

"In a few minutes, now."

She began to pace backward and forward, the smile still lightly etched on her lips. The officer watched her; puckers of disappointed anxiety creased his forehead; he bit at his pipestem, and thought of the Bucktails. Certainly Stuart would hear of their going; surely before the northern reënforcements arrived the gray riders would come thundering into Osage Court House. Fire, pillage, countless stores wasted, trains destroyed, miles of railroads rendered useless. What, in Heaven's name, could his superiors be thinking of, to run such risk with one of the bases of supplies? Somewhere--_somewhere_, not far from corps headquarters, sat incompetency enthroned--gross negligence--under a pair of starred shoulder straps. And, musing bitterly, he thought he knew to whom those shoulder straps belonged.

"The damn fool!" he muttered, biting at his pipe.

"Colonel," said the Messenger cheerily, "I am going to take the mail to the outposts to-day."

"As you like," he said, without interest.

"I want, also, a pass for Miss Carryl."

"To pass our lines?"

"To pass _out_. She will not care to return."

"Certainly," he said with amiable curiosity.

He scratched off the order and she took it.

"Ask for anything you desire," he said, smiling.

"Then may I have this tent to myself for a little while? And would you be kind enough to send for my saddlebags and my own horse."

The Colonel went to the tent flap, spoke to the trooper on guard. When he came back he said that it was beginning to rain.

"Hard?" she asked, troubled.

"No; just a fine, warm drizzle. It won't last."

"All the better!" she cried, brightening; and it seemed to the young officer as though the sun had gleamed for an instant on the tent wall. But it was only the radiant charm of her, transfiguring, with its youthful brilliancy, the dull light in the tent; and, presently, the Colonel went away, leaving her very busy with her saddlebags.

There was a cavalry trooper's uniform in one bag; she undressed hurriedly and put it on. Over this she threw a long, blue army cloak, turned up the collar, and, twisting her hair tightly around her head, pulled over it the gray, slouch campaign hat, with its crossed sabres of gilt and its yellow braid.

It was a boyish-looking rider who mounted at the Colonel's tent and went cantering away through the warm, misty rain, mail pouch and sabre flopping.

There was no need for her to inquire the way. She knew Waycross, the Carryl home, and John Deal's farm as well as she knew her own home in Sandy River.

The drizzle had laid the dust and washed clean the roadside grass and bushes; birds called expectantly from fence and thorny thicket, as the sun whitened through the mist above; butterflies, clinging to dewy sprays, opened their brilliant wings in anticipation; swallows and martins were already soaring upward again; a clean, sweet, fragrant vapor rose from earth and shrub.

Ahead of her, back from the road, at the end of its private avenue of splendid oaks, an old house glimmered through the trees; and the Special Messenger's eyes were fixed on it steadily as she rode.

Pillar, portico, and porch glistened white amid the leaves; Cherokee roses covered the gallery lattice; an old negro was pretending to mow the unkempt lawn with a sickle, but whenever the wet grass stuck to the blade he sat down to examine the landscape and shake his aged head at the futility of all things mundane. The clatter of the Special Messenger's horse aroused him; at the same instant a graceful woman, dressed in black, came to the edge of the porch and stood there as though waiting.

The big gateway was open; under arched branches the Messenger galloped down the long drive and drew bridle, touching the brim of her slouch hat. And the Southern woman looked into the Messenger's eyes without recognition.

Miss Carryl was fair, yellow-haired and blue-eyed--blonder for the dull contrast of the mourning she wore--and her voice was as colorless as her skin when she bade the trooper good afternoon.

All she could see of this cloaked cavalryman was two dark, youthful eyes above the upturned collar of the cloak, shadowed, too, by the wet hat brim, drooping under gilded crossed sabres.

"You are not the usual mail-carrier?" she asked languidly.

"No, ma'am"--in a nasal voice.

"Colonel Gay sent you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Miss Carryl turned, lifted a small salt sack, and offered it to the Messenger, who leaned wide from her saddle and took it in one hand.

"You are to take this bag to the Deal farm. Colonel Gay has told you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you. And there is no letter to-day. Will you have a few peaches to eat on the way? I always give the mail-carrier some of my peaches to eat."

Miss Carryl lifted a big, blue china bowl full of superb, white, rare-ripe peaches, and, coming to the veranda's edge, motioned the Messenger to open the saddlebags. Into it she poured a number of peaches.

"They are perfectly ripe," she said; "I hope you will like them."

"Thank'y, ma'am."

"And, Soldier," she turned to add with careless grace, "if you would be kind enough to drop the pits back into the saddlebag and give them to Mr. Deal he would be glad of them for planting."

"Yes'm; I will----"

"How many peaches did I give you? Have you enough?"

"Plenty, ma'am; you gave me seven, ma'am."

"Seven? Take two more--I insist--that makes nine, I think. Good day; and thank you."

But the Messenger did not hear; there was something far more interesting to occupy her mind--a row of straw-thatched beehives under the fruit trees at the eastern end of the house.

From moment to moment, homing or outgoing bees sped like bullets across her line of vision; the hives were busy now that a gleam of pale sunshine lay across the grass. One bee, leaving the hive, came humming around the Cherokee roses. The Messenger saw the little insect alight and begin to scramble about, plundering the pollen-powdered blossom. The bee was a yellow one.

Suddenly the Messenger gathered bridle and touched her hat; and away she spurred, putting her horse to a dead run.

Passing the inner lines, she halted to give and receive the password, then tossed a bunch of letters to the corporal, and spurred forward. Halted by the outer pickets, she exchanged amenities again, rid herself of the remainder of the mail, and rode forward, loosening the revolver in her holster. Then she ate her first peach.

It was delicious--a delicate, dripping, snow-white pulp, stained with pink where the pit rested. There was nothing suspicious about that pit, or any of the others when she broke the fragrant fruit in halves and carefully investigated. Then she tore off the seal and opened the bag and examined each of the twenty dry pits within. Not one had been tampered with.

Her horse had been walking along the moist, fragrant road; a few moments later she passed the last cavalry picket, and at the same moment she caught sight of John Deal's farm.

The house was neat and white and small; orchards stretched in every direction; a few beehives stood under the fruit trees near a well.

A big, good-humored looking man came out into the path as the Messenger drew bridle, greeted the horse with a caress and its rider with a pleasant salute.

"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, taking the sack of pits. "I reckon we're bound to have more fine weather. What's this--some peach pits from Miss Carryl?"

"Nine," nodded the Messenger.

"Nine! I'll have nine fine young trees this time three years, I reckon. Thank you, suh. How's things over to the Co't House?"

"Troops arriving all the while," said the Messenger carelessly.

"Comin' _in_?"

"Lots."

"Sho! I heard they was sendin' 'em East."

"Oh, some. We've got to have elbow-room. Can't pack two army corps into Osage Court House."

"Two a'my co'ps, suh?"

"More or less."

John Deal balanced the sack in the palm of one work-worn hand and looked hard at the Messenger. He could see only her eyes.

"Reckon you ain't the same trooper as come yesterday."

"No."

"What might be yoh regiment?"

The Messenger was looking hard at the beehives. The door of one of the hives, a new one, was shut.

"What regiment did you say, suh?" repeated Deal, showing his teeth in a friendly grin; and suddenly froze rigid as he found himself inspecting the round, smoky muzzle of a six-shooter.

"Turn around," said the Special Messenger. Her voice was even and passionless.

John Deal turned.

"Cross your hands behind your back. Quickly, please! Now back up to this horse. Closer!"

There was a glimmer, a click; and the man stood handcuffed.

"Sit down on the grass with your back against that tree. Make yourself comfortable."

Deal squatted awkwardly, settled, and turned a pallid face to the Messenger.

"What'n hell's this mean?" he demanded.

"Don't move and don't shout," said the Messenger. "If you do I'll have to gag you. I'm only going over there to take a look at your bees."

The pallor on the man's face was dreadful, but he continued to stare at the Messenger coolly enough.

"It's a damned outrage!" he began thickly. "I had a pass from your Colonel----"

"If you don't keep quiet I'll have to tie up your face," observed the Messenger, dismounting and flinging aside her cloak.

Then, as she walked toward the little row of beehives, carrying only her riding whip, the farmer's eyes grew round and a dull flush empurpled his face and neck.

"By God!" he gasped; "it's _her_!" and said not another word.

She advanced cautiously toward the hives; very carefully, with the butt of her whip, she closed the sliding door over every exit, then seated herself in the grass within arm's length of the hives and, crossing her spurred boots, leaned forward, expectant, motionless.

A bee arrived, plunder-laden, dropped on the sill and began to walk toward the closed entrance of his hive. Finding it blocked, the insect buzzed angrily. Another bee whizzed by her and lit on the sill of another hive; another came, another, and another.

Very gingerly, as each insect alighted, she raised the sliding door and let it enter. Deal watched her, fascinated.

An hour passed; she had admitted hundreds of bees, always closing the door behind each new arrival. Then something darted through the range of her vision and alighted, buzzing awkwardly on the sill of a hive--an ordinary, yellow-brown honey bee, yet differing from the others in that its thighs seemed to be snow-white.

Quick as a flash the Messenger leaned forward and caught the insect in her gloved fingers, holding it by the wings flat over the back.

Its abdomen dilated and twisted, and the tiny sting was thrust out, vainly searching the enemy; but the Messenger, drawing a pin from her jacket, deftly released the two white encumbrances from the insect's thighs--two thin cylinders of finest tissue paper, and flung the angry insect high into the air. It circled, returned to the hive, and she let it in.

There was a groan from the manacled man under the trees; she gave him a rapid glance, shook her head in warning, and, leaning forward, deftly lifted a second white-thighed bee from the hive over which it was scrambling in a bewildered sort of way.

A third, fourth, and fifth bee arrived in quick succession; she robbed them all of their tissue-paper cylinders. Then for a while no more arrived, and she wondered whether her guess had been correct, that the nine peaches and wet pits meant to John Deal that nine bees were to be expected--eager home-comers, which he had sent to his mistress and which, as she required their services, she released, certain that they would find their old hives on John Deal's farm and carry to him the messages she sent.

And they came at last--the sixth, seventh--then after a long interval the eighth--and, finally, the ninth bee whizzed up to the hive and fell, scrambling, its movements embarrassed by the tiny, tissue cylinders.

The Messenger waited another hour; there were no more messengers among the bees that arrived.

Then she opened every hive door, rose, walked over to the closed hive that stood apart and opened the door of that.

A _black_ honeybee crawled out, rose into the air, and started due south; another followed, then three, then a dozen; and then the hive vomited a swarm of _black_ bees which sped southward.

Sandy River lay due south; also, the home-hive from which they had been taken and confined as prisoners; also, a certain famous officer lingered at Sandy River--one, General J. E. B. Stuart, very much interested in the beehives belonging to a friend of his, a Mr. Enderly.

When she had relieved each messenger-bee of its tissue-paper dispatch, she had taken the precaution to number each tiny cylinder, in order of its arrival, from one to nine. Now she counted them, looked over each message, laid them carefully away between the leaves of a pocket notebook, slipped it into the breast of her jacket, and, rising, walked over to John Deal.

"Here is the key to those handcuffs," she said, hanging it around his neck by the bit of cord on which it was dangling. "Somebody at Sandy River will unlock them for you. But it would be better, Mr. Deal, if you remained outside our lines until this war is ended. I don't blame you--I'm sorry for you--and for your mistress."

She set toe to stirrup, mounted easily, fastened her cloak around her.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "I hope nobody will injure your pretty farm. Good-by."

Miss Carryl was standing at the end of the beautiful, oak-shaded avenue when the Messenger, arriving at full speed, drew bridle and whirled her horse.

Looking straight into the pretty Southern woman's eyes, she said gravely:

"Miss Carryl, your bees have double stings. I am very sorry for you--very, very sorry. I hope your property will he respected while you are at Sandy River."

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Carryl. Over her pale features a painful tremor played.

"You know what I mean. And I am afraid you had better go at once. John Deal is already on his way."

There was a long silence. Miss Carryl found her voice at length.

"Thank you," she said without a tremor. "Will I have any trouble in passing the Yankee lines?"

"Here is your passport. I had prepared it."

As the Messenger bent over from the saddle to deliver the pass, somehow her hat, with its crossed gilt sabres, fell off. She caught it in one hand; a bright blush mantled throat and face.

The Southern woman looked up at the girl in the saddle, so dramatically revealed for what she was under the superb accusation of her hair.

"_You?_"

"Yes--God help us both!"

The silence was terrible.

"It scarcely surprises me," murmured Miss Carryl with a steady smile. "I saw only your eyes before, but they seemed too beautiful for a boy's."

Then she bent her delicately-molded head and studied the passport. The Messenger, still blushing, drew her hat firmly over her forehead and fastened a loosened braid. Presently she took up her bridle.

"I will ask Colonel Gay's protection for Waycross House," she said in a low voice. "I am so dreadfully sorry that this has happened."

"You need not be; I have only tried to do for my people what you are doing for yours--but I should be glad of a guard for Waycross. _His_ grave is in the orchard there." And with a quiet inclination of the head she turned away into the oak-bordered avenue, walking slowly toward the house which, in a few moments, she must leave forever.

In the late sunshine her bees flashed by, seeking the fragrant home-hives; long, ruddy bars of sunlight lay across grass and tree trunk; on the lawn the old servant still chopped at the unkempt grass, and the music of his sickle sounded pleasantly under the trees.

On these things the fair-haired Southern woman looked, and if her eye dimmed and her pale lip quivered there was nobody to see. And after a little while she went into the house, slowly, head held high, black skirt lifted, just clearing the threshold of her ancestors.

Then the Special Messenger, head hanging, wheeled her horse and rode slowly back to Osage Court House.

She passed the Colonel, who was dismounting just outside his tent, and saluted him without enthusiasm:

"The leak is stopped, sir. Miss Carryl is going to Sandy River; John Deal is on his way. They won't come back--and, Colonel, won't you give special orders that her house is not to be disturbed? She is an old school friend."

The Colonel stared at her incredulously.

"I'm afraid you still have your doubts about that leak, sir."

"Yes, I have."

She dismounted wearily; an orderly took her horse, and without a word she and the Colonel entered the tent.

"They used bees for messengers," she said; "that was the leak."

"Bees?"

"Honey bees, Colonel."

For a whole minute he was silent, then burst out:

"Good God! _Bees!_ And if such a--an extraordinary performance were possible how did _you_ guess it?"

"Oh," she said patiently, "I used them that way when I was a little girl. Bees, like pigeons, go back to their homes. Look, sir! Here, in order, are the dispatches, each traced in cipher on a tiny roll of tissue. They were tied to the bees' thighs."

[Transcriber's Note: in the following cyphers, subscripted numerals and special symbols are contained in curly brackets, like this: {3}]

And she spread them out in order under his amazed eyes; and this is what he saw when she pieced them together for him:

EIO{2}W{2} x I{8}W{3} {triangle} NI{7}W{3} x
OII{6}I{5}W{3} x ENI{7}I{7}I{4}I{8}I{5}O{2}
N x I{7}IE x I{4}O{2}I{2} x
N x HI{5} x IO{2}E x
N x O x E x WNW{3} x
W x I{8}E{3}XHN {crescent} x
L x I{3} O{2}XW{3}I{5}W{3}NW{2} x

I{4}I{2} x I{8}W{3}I{7}I{4}LI x NW{3}x
I{5}O{2}HI x O{2}I{4}EI{3}W{3} x
HNI{7}I{7} {circle+} W{2}

"That's all very well," he said, "but how about this hieroglyphic? Do you think anybody on earth is capable of reading such a thing?"

"Why not?"

"Can _you_?"

"All such ciphers are solved by the same method.... Yes, Colonel, I can read it very easily."

"Well, would you mind doing so?"

"Not in the slightest, sir. The key is extremely simple. I will show you." And she picked up pencil and paper and wrote:

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty

"Now," she said, "taking the second letter in each word, we can parallel that column thus:

N equals the letter A
W equals the letter B
H equals the letter C
O equals the letter D
I equals the letter E

"Then, in the word _six_ we have the letter _I_ again as the second letter, so we call it I{2}. And, continuing, we have:

I{2} equals the letter F
E equals the letter G
I{3} equals the letter H
I{4} equals the letter I
E{2} equals the letter J
L equals the letter K
W{2} equals the letter L
H{2} equals the letter M
O{2} equals the letter N
I{5} equals the letter O
I{6} equals the letter P
E{3} equals the letter Q
I{7} equals the letter R
I{8} equals the letter S
W{3} equals the letter T

"Now, using these letters for the symbols in the cipher:

EIO{2}W{2} x I{8}W{3} {triangle} NI{7}W{3} x
OII{6}I{5}W{3} x ENI{7}I{7}I{4}I{8}I{5}O{2}
N x I{7}IE x I{4}O{2}I{2} x
N x HI{5} x IO{2}E x
N x O x E x WNW{3} x
W x I{8}E{3}XHN {crescent} x
L x I{3} O{2}XW{3}I{5}W{3}NW{2} x

I{4}I{2} x I{8}W{3}I{7}I{4}LI x NW{3}x
I{5}O{2}HI x O{2}I{4}EI{3}W{3} x
HNI{7}I{7} {circle+} W{2}

"We translate it freely thus, and I'll underline only the words in the cipher:

Gen'l Stuart (Sandy River?)

(The present) Depot Garrison (of Osage Court House is)
One Reg(iment) (of) Inf(antry)
One Co(mpany of) Eng(ineers)
One Four G(un) Bat(tery)
Two Sq(uadrons) (of) Cav(alry)
Eleven Hun(dred men) Total
If (you) strike (strike) at once (and at) night!

(Signed) Carryl.

"Do you see, Colonel, how very simple it is, after all?"

The Colonel, red and astounded, hung over the paper, laboriously verifying the cipher and checking off each symbol with its alphabetical equivalent.

"What's that mark?" he demanded; "this symbol----"

"It stands for the letter U, sir."

"How do you know?"

The Messenger, seated sideways on the camp table, one small foot swinging, looked down and bit her lip.

"Must I tell you?"

"As you please. And I'll say now that your solving this intricate and devilish cipher is, to me, a more utterly amazing performance than the rebel use of bees as messengers."

She shook her head slowly.

"It need not amaze you.... I was born in Sandy River.... And in happier times--when my parents were living--I spent the school vacations there.... We had always kept bees.... There was--in those days--a boy. We were very young and--romantic. We exchanged vows--and bees--and messages in cipher.... I knew this cipher as soon as I saw it. I invented it--long ago--for him and me."

"W-well," stammered the bewildered Colonel, "I don't see how----"

"I do, sir. Our girl and boy romance was a summer dream. One day he dreamed truer. So did the beautiful Miss Carryl.... And the pretty game I invented for him he taught in turn to his fiancée.... Well, he died in The Valley.... And I have just given his fiancée her passport. It would be very kind of you to station a guard at the Carryl place for its protection. Would you mind giving the order, sir?... _He_ is buried there."

The Colonel, hands clasped behind him, walked to the tent door.

"Yes," he said, "I'll give the order."

A few moments later the drums of the Bucktails began beating the assembly.

VII

THE PASS

Her map, which at headquarters was supposed to be reliable, had grossly misled her; the road bore east instead of north, dwindling, as she advanced, to a rocky path among the foothills. She had taken the wrong turn at the forks; there was nothing to direct her any farther--no landmarks except the general trend of the watercourse, and the dull cinders of sunset fading to ashes in the west.

It was impossible now to turn back; Carrick's flying column must be very close on her heels by this time--somewhere yonder in the dusk, paralleling her own course, with only a dark curtain of forest intervening.

So all that evening, and far into the starlit night, she struggled doggedly forward, leading her lamed horse over the mountain, dragging him through laurel thickets, tangles of azalea and rhododendron, thrashing across the swift mountain streams that tumbled out of starry, pine-clad heights, foaming athwart her trail with the rushing sound of forest winds.

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.