Secret Service

“Mr. Arrelsford is mistaken, General Randolph,” she said quietly, “Captain Thorne has the highest authority in this office.”

Arrelsford started violently and opened his mouth to speak, but General Randolph silenced him with a look. The blood of the old general was up, and it had become impossible for any one to presume in the least degree. Thorne started, too. The blood rushed to his heart. He thought he would choke to death. What did the girl mean?

“The highest authority, sir,” continued Edith Varney, slowly drawing out the commission, which every one but she had forgotten in the excitement, “the authority of the President of the Confederate States of America.”

Well, she had done it for weal or for woe. She had made her decision. Had it been a wise decision? Had she acted for the best? What interest had governed her, love for Thorne, love for her country, or love for her own peace of mind? It was in the hands of General Randolph now. The girl turned slowly away, unable to sustain the burning glances of her lover and the vindictive stare of Arrelsford.

“What’s this?” said General Randolph. “Umph! A Major’s Commission. In command of the Telegraph Department. Major Thorne, I congratulate you.”

“That commission, General Randolph!” exclaimed Arrelsford, his voice rising, “let me explain how she – ”

“That will do from you, sir,” said the General, “you have made enough trouble as it is. I suppose you claim that this is a forgery, too – ”

“Let me tell you, sir,” persisted the Secret Service Agent.

“You have told me enough as it is. Sergeant, take him over to headquarters.”

“Fall in there!” cried the Sergeant of the Guard. “Two of you take the prisoner. Forward, march!”

Two men seized Arrelsford, and the rest of them closed about him. To do the man justice, he made a violent struggle and was only marched out at the point of the bayonet, protesting and crying:

“For God’s sake, he’s in the Yankee Secret Service! He’ll send that despatch out. His brother brought in the signal to-night!”

All the way down the corridor he could be heard yelling and struggling. General Randolph paid not the slightest attention to him. He stepped over to the telegraph table beside which Thorne stood – and with all the force of which he was capable the young man could hardly control the trembling of his knees.

“Major Thorne,” he said reprovingly as Thorne saluted him, “all this delay has been your own fault. If you had only had sense enough to mention this before we would have been saved a damned lot of trouble. There’s your commission, sir.” He handed it to Thorne, who saluted him again as one in a dream. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his officers, “I can’t understand why they have to be so cursed shy about their Secret Service orders! Lieutenant Foray?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take your orders from Major Thorne.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Foray.

“Good-night,” said the General, forgetful of the fact apparently that Edith Varney was still standing by the window.

“Good-night, sir,” answered Thorne.

Foray moved over to the table at the right, while Thorne leaped to his former position, and his hand sought the key. At last he could send his message, there was nothing to prevent him or interrupt him now, he was in command. Could he get it through? For a moment he forgot everything but that, as he clicked out the call again, but he had scarcely pressed the button when Edith Varney stepped to his side.

“Captain Thorne,” she said in a low voice, giving him the old title.

He looked up at her, stopping a moment.

“What I have done gives you time to escape from Richmond,” she continued.

“Escape!” whispered Thorne, clicking the key again. “Impossible!”

“Oh,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm, “you wouldn’t do it – now!”

And again the man’s fingers remained poised over the key as he stared at her.

“I gave it to you to – to save your life. I didn’t think you’d use it for anything else. Oh! You wouldn’t!”

Her voice in its low whisper was agonising. If her face had been white before, what could be said of it now? In a flash Thorne saw all. She had been confident of his guilt, and she had sought to save his life because she loved him, and now because she loved her country she sought to save that too.

The call sounded from the table. Thorne turned to it, bent over it, and listened. It was the call for the message. Then he turned to the woman. She looked at him; just one look. The kind of a look that Christ might have turned upon Peter after those denials when He saw him in the courtyard early on that bitter morning of betrayal. “I saved you,” the girl’s look seemed to say, “I redeemed you and now you betray me!” She spoke no words, words were useless between them. Everything had been said, everything had been done. She could only go. Never woman looked at man nor man looked at woman as these two at each other.

The woman turned, she could trust herself no further. She went blindly toward the door. The man followed her slowly, crushing the commission in his hand, and ever as he went he heard the sound of the call behind him. He stopped halfway between the door and the table and watched her go, and then he turned.

Lieutenant Foray understanding nothing of what had transpired, but hearing the call, had taken Thorne’s place before the table. He had the despatch about which there had been so much trouble, and upon which the whole plan turned, in his hand before him.

“They are calling for that despatch, sir,” he said as Thorne stared at him in agony. “What shall I do with it?”

“Send it,” said the other hoarsely.

“Very good, sir,” answered Foray, seating himself and taking hold of the key, but the first click of the sounder awakened Thorne to action.

“No, no!” he cried. “Stop!” He rushed forward and seized the despatch. “I won’t do it!” he thundered. With his wounded hand and his well one he tore the despatch into fragments. “Revoke the order. Tell them it was a mistake instantly. I refuse to act under this commission!”

BOOK IV

WHAT HAPPENED AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK

CHAPTER XVI

THE TUMULT IN HUMAN HEARTS

Of the many frightful nights in Richmond during the siege, that night was one of the worst. The comparative calmness of the earlier hours of repose of the quiet April evening gave way to pandemonium. The works at Petersburg, desperately held by the Confederates, were miles away from the city to the southward, but such was the tremendous nature of the cannonading that the shocking sounds seemed to be close at hand. Children cowered, women shuddered, and old men prayed as they thought of the furious onslaughts in the battle raging.

The Richmond streets were filled with people, mostly invalids, non-combatants, women, and children. A tremendous attack was being launched by the besiegers somewhere, it was evident. Urgent messengers from General Lee called every reserve out of the garrison at Richmond, and the quiet streets and country highways awoke instantly to life. Such troops as could be spared moved to the front at the double-quick. Every car of the dilapidated railroad was pressed into service. Those who could not be transported by train went on horseback or afoot. The youngest boy and the oldest man alike shouldered their muskets, and with motley clothes, but with hearts aflame, marched to the sound of the cannon. The women, the sick, the wounded and invalid men and the children waited.

Morning would tell the tale. Into the city from which they marched, men and boys would come back; an army nearly as great as had gone forth, but an army halting, maimed, helpless, wounded, suffering, shot to pieces. They had seen it too often not to be able to forecast the scene absolutely. They knew with what heroic determination their veterans, under the great Lee, were fighting back the terrific attacks of their brothers in blue, under the grimly determined Grant. They could hear his great war-hammer ringing on their anvil; a hammer of men, an anvil of men. Plan or no plan, success or no success of some Secret Service operations, some vital point was being wrestled for in a death-grapple between two armies; and all the offensive capacities of the one and all the defensive resources of the other were meeting, as they had been meeting during the long years.

In a time like that, of public peril and public need, private and personal affairs ought to be forgotten, but it was not so. Love and hate, confidence and jealousy, faithfulness and disloyalty, self-sacrifice and revenge, were still in human hearts. And these feelings would put to shame even the passions engendered in the bloody battles of the fearful warfare.

Edith Varney, for instance, had gone out of the telegraph office assured that the sacrifice she had made for her lover had resulted in the betrayal of her country; that Thorne had had not even the common gratitude to accede to her request, although she had saved his life, and, for the time being, his honour. Every cannon-shot, every crashing volley of musketry that came faintly or loudly across the hills seemed pointed straight at her heart. For all she knew, the despatch had been sent, the cunningly devised scheme had been carried out, and into some undefended gap in the lines the Federal troops were pouring. The defence would crumble and the Army would be cut in two; the city of Richmond would be taken, and the Confederacy would be lost.

And she had done it! Would she have done it if she had known? She had certainly expected to establish such a claim upon Thorne by her interposition that he could not disregard it. But if she had known positively that he would have done what she thought he did, would she have sent him to his death? She put the question to herself in agony. And she realised with flushes of shame and waves of contrition that she would not, could not have done this thing. She must have acted as she had, whatever was to come of it. Whatever he was, whatever he did, she loved that man. She need not tell him, she need tell no one, there could be no fruition to that love. She must hide it, bury it in her bosom if she could, but for weal or woe she loved him above everything else, and for all eternity.

Where was he now? Her interposition had been but for a few moments. The truth was certain to be discovered. There would be no ultimate escape possible for him. She heard shots on occasion nearer than Petersburg, in the city streets. What could they mean? Short, short would be his shrift if they caught him. Had they caught him? Certainly they must, if they had not. She realised with a thrill that she had given him an opportunity to escape and that he had refused it. The sending of that despatch had been more to him than life. Traitor, spy, Secret Service Agent – was there anything that could be said for him? At least he was faithful to his own idea of duty.

She had met Caroline Mitford waiting in the lower hall of the telegraph office, and the two, convoyed by old Martha, had come home together. Many curious glances had been thrown at them, but in these great movements that were toward, no one molested them. The younger girl had seen the agony in her friend’s face. She had timidly sought to question her, but she had received no answer or no satisfaction to her queries. Refusing Caroline’s proffered services when she reached home, Edith had gone straight to her own room and locked the door.

The affair had been irritating beyond expression to Mr. Arrelsford. It had taken him some time to establish his innocence and to get his release from General Randolph’s custody. Meanwhile, everything that he had hoped to prevent had happened. To do him justice, he really loved Edith Varney, and the thought that her actions and her words had caused his own undoing and the failure of his carefully laid plans, filled him with bitterness, which he vented in increased animosity toward Thorne.

These were bitter moments to Mrs. Varney. She had become somewhat used to her husband being in the thick of things, but it was her boy now that was in the ranks. The noise of the cannon and the passing troops threw Howard into a fever of anxiety which was very bad for him.

And those were dreadful moments to Thorne. What had he done? He had risked everything, was ready to pay everything, would, indeed, be forced to do so in the end, and yet he had not done that which he had intended. Had he been false to his duty and to his country when he refused to send that telegram, being given the opportunity? He could not tell. The ethics of the question were beyond his present solution. The opportunity had come to him through a piece of sublime self-sacrifice on the part of the woman, who, knowing him thoroughly and understanding his plan and purpose, had yet perjured herself to save his life.

That life was hers, was it not? He had become her prisoner as much as if she had placed him under lock and key and held him without the possibility of communication with any one. Her honour was involved. No, under the circumstances, he could not send the despatch. The Confederates would certainly kill him if they caught him, and if they did not, and by any providential chance he escaped, his honour would compel him to report the circumstances, the cause of his failure, to his own superiors. Would they court-martial him for not sending the despatch? Would they enter into his feelings, would they understand? Would the woman and her actions be considered by them as determining factors? Would his course be looked upon as justifiable? He could not flatter himself that any one of these things would be so considered by any military court. There would be only two things which would influence his superiors in their judgment of him. Did he get a chance, and having it, did he use it?

The popular idea of a Secret Service Agent, a spy, was that he would stick at nothing. As such men were outside the pale of military brotherhood, so were they supposed to have a code of their own. Well, his code did not permit him to send the despatch when his power to send it had been procured in such a way. It was not so much love for the woman as it was honour – her honour, suddenly put into his keeping – that turned him from the key. When both honour and love were thrown into the scale, there was no possibility of any other action. He could not see any call of duty paramount to them.

He stood looking at Foray for a while, and then, without a further command to that intensely surprised young man, or even a word of explanation, he seized his hat and coat and left the room. Foray was a keen-witted officer, he reviewed the situation briefly, and presently a great light dawned upon him. A certain admiration for Thorne developed in his breast, and as Allison opportunely came back at this juncture, he turned over the telegraph office to his subordinate, and in his turn went out on what he believed to be an exceedingly important errand.

Thorne found the streets full of people. He had not marked the beginning of the cannonading in the tumult of the office, but the lights, the bells pealing alarms from every church-steeple, the trampling of horses and men, and the roll of the gun-carriages apprised him of what was toward. Trusting that Thorne had been able to carry out his part, Grant was attacking the place indicated by “Plan 3” in heavy force.

What was Thorne to do? Obviously attempt to escape from Richmond, although it would be a matter of extreme difficulty on account of the alarm which now aroused every section. He could not go, either, until he had seen his brother. He surmised that he was dead, but he could not know that; and he determined not to attempt to leave without making assurance double sure. It was a duty he owed to his brother, to his father in the Union Army, and to his superiors in the Federal Secret Service. If that brother were alive, he must be at the Varney house. He fancied that he would run as little chance of being observed in the excitement going in that direction as in any other, and he started to make his way there.

The fact that Edith was there influenced him also. Was the call of love and the living as great, or greater than the call of duty and the dying or the dead? Who shall say?

And the remote chance that he might be observed on the way was taken by his ever-vigilant enemy; for Arrelsford, upon obtaining his freedom, had sent the troops at the disposal of the Secret Service to hunt him down, and one of them caught sight of him. The shout of the observer apprised him of his discovery. He threw one glance behind him and then ran for his life. He had no especial hope of escaping, but he might get to the Varney house ahead of the soldiers, and he might see his brother, and he might see the woman he loved for a moment before he was taken and killed.

If it had not been for the two he would have stopped and given himself up. Somehow he did not care for life. His life was forfeit to the Federals and the Confederates alike. When she thought to save it, Edith Varney had doomed him. Also he felt that she had damned him. But he ran on and on, doubling and turning on his tracks; white-faced, desperate, his breath coming fainter, his heart beating faster, as he ran.

CHAPTER XVII

WILFRED PLAYS THE MAN

A sharp contrast to the noise outside was presented by the quiet of the Varney house inside. The sewing women, in view of the attack and the movements of the boys and the old men, had separated sooner than they had intended and had gone their several ways. Old Jonas, frightened to death, remained locked up in the closet where he had been left by Arrelsford’s men. Martha was upstairs in Howard’s room, making ready to watch over him during the night.

Caroline Mitford had not gone home. She had sent word that she intended to pass the night at the Varney house. Somehow she thought they seemed to need her. She was standing by one of the long front windows in the drawing-room, now a scene of much disorder because of the recent struggle. Tables were thrust aside out of their places, chairs were turned over, and there was a big dark spot on the carpet where Henry Dumont had poured out his life-blood unavailingly.

Caroline stared out of the window at the flashes of light. She listened, with heaving breast and throbbing heart, to the roar of the cannon and the rattle of musketry. She had heard both many times lately, but now it was different, for Wilfred was there. Mrs. Varney came upon her with her hand pressed against her breast, her face white and staring, tears brimming her eyes, but, as usual, Mrs. Varney was so engrossed with her own tremendous troubles that she had little thought for the girl.

“Caroline,” she began anxiously, “tell me what happened. Edith won’t speak to me. She has locked herself up in her room. What was it? Where has she been? What – ”

“She was at the telegraph office,” answered Caroline in a low voice.

“What did she do there? What happened there?”

“I am not sure.”

“But try to tell me, dear.”

“I would if I could, Mrs. Varney, but I was afraid and ran out and waited for her in the hall. The rest of them – ” The girl broke off as the deep tones of the city bells clanged sharply above the diapason of artillery.

“It’s the alarm bell,” said Mrs. Varney.

“Yes,” said Caroline, “they are calling out the last reserves.”

“Yes; hark to the cannonading. Isn’t it awful?” returned Mrs. Varney. “They must be making a terrible attack to-night. Lieutenant Maxwell was right; that quiet spell was a signal.”

“There goes another battery of artillery,” said Caroline, staring through the window. “A man told us that they were sending them all over to Cemetery Hill. That’s where the fighting is, Cemetery Hill.”

“General Varney’s Division is to the right of that position, or was the last time I heard from him,” said Mrs. Varney anxiously.

The two women looked at each other for a moment, both of them thinking the same thought, to which neither dared give utterance. The object of their thought was the boy, and the continuous flashes of light on the horizon seemed to make the situation more horrible.

“I am afraid they are going to have a bad time of it to-night,” said Caroline, drawing the curtains and turning away from the window.

“I’m afraid so,” was the rejoinder. “Now, try to think, dear, who was at the telegraph office? Can’t you tell me something that occurred that will explain Edith’s silence? She looks like death, and – ”

“I can’t tell you anything except that they arrested Mr. Arrelsford.”

“Mr. Arrelsford! You don’t mean that?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Caroline. “General Randolph, – I went and brought him there, because they wouldn’t send my telegram, – he was in a fearful temper – ”

“But Edith? Can’t you tell me what she did?”

“I can’t, Mrs. Varney, for I don’t know. I waited for her in the hall, and when she came out she couldn’t speak. Then we hurried home. I tried to get her to tell me, but she wouldn’t say a word except that her heart was broken, and that’s all I know, Mrs. Varney, truly, truly.”

“I believe you, my dear. I know you would tell me if you could.”

“I certainly would, for I love – ”

There was a loud ring at the front door. It was evidently unlocked, for, without waiting for an answer, it was thrown open, roughly, and through the hall and into the drawing-room stalked Mr. Arrelsford. He was wildly excited, evidently in a tremendous hurry, and utterly oblivious to manners or anything else. He had been checked and thwarted so many times that he was in a bad temper for anything.

“Is your daughter in the house?” he began roughly, without any further preliminaries or salutation, without even removing his hat.

Mrs. Varney drew herself up and looked at him. But he paid no attention to her at all.

“Answer,” he said harshly.

She bowed her head in the affirmative, scarcely able to speak in her indignation at his manner and bearing.

“I wish to see her.”

“I don’t believe she will care to receive you at present,” returned her mother quietly.

“What she cares to do at present is of small consequence. I must see her at once. Shall I go up to her room with these men, or will you have her down here?”

The room had filled with soldiers as the two spoke together.

“Neither the one nor the other, sir,” said Mrs. Varney, who was not in the least afraid of Mr. Arrelsford or his soldiers, “until I know your business with her.”

“My business, – a few questions, – I’ve got a few questions to ask her. Listen to that noise out yonder? Do you hear those guns and the troops passing by? Now, you know what ‘Attack to-night, Plan 3,’ means.”

“Is that the attack!” asked Mrs. Varney.

“That’s the attack. They are breaking through our lines at Cemetery Hill. That was the place indicated by ‘Plan 3.’ We are rushing to the front all the reserves we have, to the last man and boy, but they may not get there in time.”

“What, may I ask, has my daughter to do with it?”

“Do with it? She did it!” asserted Arrelsford bitterly.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney, in a great outburst of indignation. “How dare you!”

“We had him in a trap, under arrest, the telegraph under guard, when she brought in that commission. We would have shot him in a moment, but they took me prisoner and let him go.”

“Impossible!” whispered Mrs. Varney. “You don’t mean – ”

“Yes, she did. She put the game in his hands. He got control of the wires and the despatch went through. As soon as I could get to headquarters I explained, and they saw the trick. They rushed the guard back, but the scoundrel had got away. Foray was gone, too, and Allison knew nothing about it, but we’re after him, and if she knows where he is,” he turned as if to leave the room and ascend the stairs, “I will get it out of her.”

“You don’t suppose that my daughter would – ” began Mrs. Varney.

“I suppose everything.”

“I will not believe it,” persisted the mother.

“We can’t wait for what you believe,” said Arrelsford roughly, this time taking a step toward the door.

Mrs. Varney caught him by the arm.

“Let me speak to her,” she pleaded.

“No, I will see her myself.”

But Miss Mitford, who had been the indirect cause of so much trouble, once more interposed. She had listened to him with scarcely less surprise than that developing in Mrs. Varney’s breast. She took a malicious joy in thwarting the Secret Service Agent. She barred the way, her slight figure in the door, with arms extended.