Secret Service

“Where is your order for this?” she asked.

Arrelsford stared at her in surprise.

“Get out of my way,” he said curtly; “I have a word or two to say to you after I have been upstairs.”

“Show me your order,” persisted the girl, who made not the slightest attempt to give way.

“It’s Department business and I don’t require an order.”

“You are mistaken about that,” said Caroline with astonishing resourcefulness. “This is a private house, it isn’t the telegraph office or the Secret Service Department. If you want to go upstairs or see anybody against their will, you will have to bring an order. I don’t know much, but I know enough for that.”

Arrelsford turned to Mrs. Varney.

“Am I to understand, madam,” he began, “that you refuse – ”

But before Mrs. Varney could answer, the soldiers Arrelsford had brought with him gave way before the advent of a sergeant and another party of men. The Sergeant advanced directly to Mrs. Varney, touched his cap to her, and began:

“Are you the lady that lives here, ma’am?”

“Yes, I am Mrs. Varney.”

“I have an order from General Randolph’s office to search this house for – ”

“Just in time,” said Arrelsford, stepping toward the Sergeant; “I will go through the house with you.”

“Can’t go through on this order,” said the Sergeant shortly.

“You were sent here to – ” began Mrs. Varney.

“Yes; sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but we’ll have to be quick about it. If we don’t find him here we’ve got to follow him down Franklin Street; he’s over this way somewhere.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Man named Thorne, Captain of Artillery,” answered the Sergeant; “that’s what he went by, at least. Here, two of you this way! That room in there and the back of the house. Two of you outside,” pointing to the windows. “Cut off those windows. The rest upstairs.”

The men rapidly dispersed, obeying the commands of the Sergeant, and began a thorough search of the house. Caroline Mitford preceded them up the stairs to Edith’s room. Arrelsford, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped toward the door and went out, followed by his men. Without a word of acknowledgment or even a bow to Mrs. Varney, he and his men presently left the house. As he did so, two of the Sergeant’s men reëntered the room, shoving old Jonas roughly before them. The man’s livery was torn and dirty, his head was bound up, and he showed signs of the rough handling he had undergone.

“Where did you get that?” asked the Sergeant contemptuously.

“He was locked in a closet, sir.”

“What were you doing in there?” He turned to the old negro. “If you don’t answer me, we will shoot the life out of you.” He raised his revolver threateningly. “Belongs to you, I reckon,” he said to Mrs. Varney.

“Yes, my butler; they locked him up. Mr. Arrelsford wants him for carrying a message.”

“That’s all right,” said the Sergeant. “If he wants him, he can have him. We’re looking for some one else. Put him back in his closet. Here, this room! Be quick now! Cover that door. Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

“Do what you please,” said Mrs. Varney; “I have nothing on earth to conceal.”

As the men hurriedly withdrew to continue their search, the voice of a newcomer was heard on the porch. The words came to them clearly:

“Here, lend a hand, somebody, will you?”

The next moment General Varney’s orderly entered the room, caught sight of the Sergeant, saluted, and then turned to Mrs. Varney.

“I’ve brought back your boy, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney faintly; “what do you mean – ?”

“We never got out to General Varney’s. We ran into a Yankee raiding party, cavalry, down here about three miles. Our home-guard was galloping by on the run to head them off, and before I knew what he was about, the boy was in with ’em, riding like mad. There was a bit of a skirmish, and he got a clip across the neck. Nothing at all, ma’am. He rode back all the way, and – ”

“Oh, my boy! He’s hurt – he’s hurt – ”

“Nothing serious, ma’am; don’t upset yourself,” returned the orderly reassuringly.

“Where did you – ”

But that moment the object of their solicitude himself appeared on the scene. The boy was very pale, and his neck was bandaged. Two of the Sergeant’s men supported him.

“Oh, Wilfred!” cried his mother; “my boy!”

“It’s nothing, mother,” said Wilfred, motioning her away. “You don’t understand.” The boy tried to free himself from the men who still held him by the arm. “What do you want to hold me like that for?” he expostulated, as he drew himself away and took a few steps. “You see I can walk,” he protested.

His words were brave, but his performance was weak. His mother came close to him and extended her arms toward him. But Wilfred was a soldier now, and he did not want any scenes. Therefore, with a great effort, he took her hand in as casual a manner as possible, quite like a stranger paying an afternoon call.

“How do you do, mother?” he said. “You didn’t expect me back so soon, did you? I will tell you how it was. Don’t you go away, orderly. I will just rest a minute, and then I will go back with you.” Another outburst of the cannon and the frantic pealing of the alarm bells caught his attention. “See, they are ringing the bells calling out the reserves.” He started toward the door. “I will go right now.”

“No, no, Wilfred,” said his mother, taking his arm; “not now, my son.”

“Not now?” said Wilfred, whose weakness was growing apparent. “Do you hear those – those – those bells and – then tell me not – to go – why – ”

He swayed and tottered.

“Stand by there!” cried the Sergeant.

The two men immediately caught hold of him as he fainted. They carried him to the lounge.

“Find some water, will you?” continued the Sergeant. “Put his head down, ma’am, and he’ll be all right in a minute. He’s only fainted.”

One of the privates who had hurried off in search of water soon came back with a basin full, with which Mrs. Varney laved the boy’s head.

“He’ll be all right in a minute,” said the Sergeant. “Come, men.”

He turned as he spoke, and, followed by the men, left the room, leaving Mrs. Varney with Wilfred and the orderly. It was the latter who broke the silence.

“If there isn’t anything else, ma’am, I believe I’d better report back to the General.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Varney, “don’t wait. The wound is dressed, isn’t it?”

“Yes; I took him to the Winder Hospital. They said he would be on his feet in a day or two, but he wants to be kept pretty quiet.”

“Tell the General how it happened.”

“Very well, ma’am,” said the orderly, touching his cap and going out.

The next person to enter the room was Caroline Mitford. The noise of the men searching the house was very plain. Having informed Edith of the meaning of the tumult, she had come downstairs to enquire if they had found Thorne. She came slowly within the door – rather listlessly, in fact. The exciting events of the night in which she had taken part had somewhat sapped her natural vivacity, but she was shocked into instant action when she saw Wilfred stretched upon the sofa.

“Oh!” she breathed in a low, tense whisper; “what is it? Is he – ”

“Caroline dear,” said Mrs. Varney, “it is nothing serious. He isn’t badly hurt. He was cut in the neck and fainted. There, there,” – the woman rose from Wilfred’s side and caught the girl, – “don’t you faint, too, dear.”

“I am not going to faint,” said Caroline desperately. She took Mrs. Varney’s handkerchief from the latter’s hand, and dipped it in the water. “I can take care of him,” she continued, kneeling down by her boyish lover. “I don’t need anybody down here at all. The men are going all over the house and – ”

“But, Caroline – ” began Mrs. Varney.

“Mrs. Varney,” returned the girl, strangely quiet, “there’s a heap of soldiers upstairs, looking in all the rooms. I reckon you’d better go and attend to them. They will be in Edith’s room, or Howard’s, in a minute.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Varney, “and Howard so ill. I must go for a few minutes, anyway. You know what to do?”

“Oh, yes,” answered the girl confidently.

“Bathe his forehead. He isn’t badly hurt, dear. I won’t be long, and he will soon come to, I am sure,” said Mrs. Varney, hastening away.

Presently Wilfred opened his eyes. He stared about him unmeaningly and uncomprehendingly for the moment.

“Wilfred, dear Wilfred,” began the girl in soft, low, caressing tones, “you are not hurt much, are you? Oh, not much! There, you will feel better in just a moment, dear Wilfred.”

“Is there – are you – ?” questioned Wilfred, striving to concentrate his mind on the problem of his whereabouts and her presence.

“Oh, Wilfred, don’t you know me?”

“What are you talking about?” said Wilfred more strongly. “Of course I know you. Where am I?” And as full consciousness came back to him, “What am I doing, anyway? Taking a bath?”

“No, no, Wilfred; you see I am bathing your head. You fainted a little, and – ”

“Fainted!” exclaimed Wilfred in deep disgust. “I fainted!” He made a feeble attempt to rise, but sank back weakly. “Yes, of course, I was in a fight with the Yankees and got wounded somewhere.”

He stopped, puzzled, staring strangely, almost afraid, at Caroline.

“What is it?” asked the girl.

“See here,” he began seriously; “I will tell you one thing right now. I am not going to load you up with a cripple, not much.”

His resignation was wonderful.

“Cripple!” exclaimed Caroline, bewildered.

“I reckon I’ve got an arm knocked off, haven’t I?”

“No, you haven’t, Wilfred; they are both on all right.”

“Perhaps it was a hand that they shot away?”

“Not a single one,” said Caroline.

“Are my – my ears on all right?”

“Yes,” answered the girl. “You needn’t bother about them for a moment.”

Wilfred staked all on the last question.

“How many legs have I got left?”

“All of them,” answered Caroline; “every one.”

“Then, if there’s enough of me left to – to amount to anything – you’ll take charge of it, just the same? How about that?”

“That’s all right,” said the girl, burying her face on his shoulder.

Wilfred got hold of her hand and kissed it passionately. He seemed quite strong enough for that.

“I tried to send you a telegram but they wouldn’t let me,” whispered Caroline suddenly, raising her head and looking at him.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say in it?”

But here the girl’s courage failed her.

“Tell me what you said,” persisted Wilfred.

“It was something very nice,” faltered poor Caroline.

“It was, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Was it as nice as this?” asked Wilfred, suddenly lifting his head and kissing her.

“I don’t know about that,” stammered Caroline, blushing a beautiful crimson, “but it was very nice. I wouldn’t have tried to telegraph it if it was something bad, would I?”

“Well, if it was so good,” said Wilfred, “why on earth didn’t you send it?”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Caroline; “how could I when they wouldn’t let me?”

“Wouldn’t let you?”

“I should think not. They had a dreadful time at the telegraph office.”

“At the telegraph office; were you there?” Wilfred made a violent effort to recollect. “I have it,” he said in stronger tones; “they told me at the hospital. I must get up.”

“No, no; you mustn’t,” said Caroline, interposing.

“Don’t,” said Wilfred; “I have to attend to it.” He spoke with a stern, strange decision, entirely foreign to his previous idle love-making. “I know all about Thorne. He gets hold of our Department Telegraph and sends out a false order, weakens our defences at Cemetery Hill.” The boy got to his feet by this time, steadying himself by Caroline’s shoulder. “They are down on us in a moment.” A look of pain, not physical, shot across his face, but he mastered it. “And she gave it to him, the commission; my sister Edith!” he continued bitterly.

“Oh!” said Caroline; “you know – ”

“I know this. If my father were here, he’d see her. As he isn’t here, I will attend to it. Send her to me.”

He spoke weakly, but in a clear voice and a most imperative manner. He took his hand off Caroline’s shoulder. If he were to deal with this, so grave and critical a situation, he must do it without feminine support. By a great effort he held himself resolutely erect, repeating his command.

“Send her to me.”

“No,” said Caroline faintly, just as Mrs. Varney reëntered the room.

“What is it?” asked the mother.

“He wants to see Edith,” returned the girl.

“Not now, Wilfred,” persisted Mrs. Varney; “you are weak and ill, and Edith – ”

“Tell her to come here, I must see her at once,” repeated Wilfred.

Mrs. Varney instantly divined the reason. Caroline had told him about the telegraph office, but she could see no advantage to be gained by the interview he sought.

“It won’t do you any good, Wilfred,” she said. “She won’t speak a word to anybody about it.”

“I don’t want her to speak to me,” returned the boy grimly; “I am going to speak to her.”

“But some other time, Wilfred,” urged his mother.

“No, no; immediately,” but as no one made the slightest effort toward complying with his demand, “Very well,” he continued, moving slowly toward the door, and by a determined effort keeping his feet. “If you won’t send her to me, I will – ”

“There, there,” said Mrs. Varney, interposing swiftly; “if you must, you must. Since you insist, I will call her.”

“I do insist.”

“Stay with him, dear,” said Mrs. Varney to Caroline, “and I will go and call her.”

“No,” said Wilfred, “I want to see her alone.”

Wondering much at this move of her boy-lover, but somehow feeling that Wilfred represented his father and the law, Caroline, after one long look at his pale but composed face, turned and followed Mrs. Varney out of the room.

CHAPTER XVIII

CAPTAIN THORNE JUSTIFIES HIMSELF

After the two women had left him, Wilfred stood motionless for a moment, and then sat wearily down to rest. Scarcely had he done so when he heard shouts far outside in the street, the heavy trampling of feet, cries, directions, orders. He rose and walked over to the window. The cries were growing louder and the footsteps more distinct. Men were approaching the house rapidly, he could tell that they were running. What could they be? What was toward? A suspicion flashed into his mind. It had hardly found lodgment there when Thorne sprang upon the porch, leaped across it, and burst through the other front window into the long room. A pedestal with a bust of Washington on it was standing between the windows. As Thorne sprang back from the window, he knocked against it. It fell to the floor with a tremendous crash.

He stood staring a moment toward the window, listening while the noise of the running feet died away in the distance. It seemed that he had distanced his pursuers or eluded them for the time being. It could only be for a moment, however; he had other things to think of. Well, that moment would be enough; it was all he required. He turned to go down the room, only to find himself confronted by the boy.

It is hard to say which was the more surprised of the two – Thorne at seeing Wilfred, or Wilfred at Thorne’s appearance. The latter’s face was pale, his breath was coming rapidly, he was bareheaded. His brow was covered with sweat, and he had the hunted, desperate look of a man at the very end of his resources. Neither at first said anything to the other. It was Thorne who first recovered himself. He sought to pass by the boy, but Wilfred seized him.

“Halt!” he cried; “you are under arrest.”

“Wait a moment!” gasped out Thorne; “and I will go with you.”

As he spoke he shook himself loose from the weak grasp of the wounded young man, and started down the room.

“Halt, I say!” cried Wilfred. “You are my prisoner.”

“All right, all right,” said Thorne quietly; “your prisoner, anything you like. Here,” – he drew his revolver from his pocket and pushed it into the boy’s hand; “take this, shoot the life out of me, if you wish; but give me a chance to see my brother first.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. He was shot here to-night. I want one look at his face; that’s all.”

“Where is he?”

“Maybe they put him in the room across the hall yonder.”

“What would he be doing there?” asked Wilfred, not yet apprehending the situation from Thorne’s remarks.

“Nothing,” said the other bitterly; “I guess he is dead.”

“Wait,” said Wilfred. He stepped across the hall, keeping Thorne covered with his revolver. “Don’t move; I will see.” He threw open the door, glanced in, and then came back. “It’s a lie!” he said.

“What!” exclaimed Thorne.

“There is no one in there. It is just one of your tricks. Call the guard!” He shouted toward the hall, and then toward the window. “Sergeant of the Guard! Captain Thorne is here, in this house.”

He stepped out on the porch and shouted again with astonishing power for one so painfully wounded as he. Then the boy felt a faintness come over him. He sank down on a seat on the porch and leaned his head against the house, and sought to recover his strength, fighting a desperate battle; fearful lest Thorne should escape while he was thus helpless.

It was Edith Varney who first replied to his frantic summons by hurrying into the room. She was as much surprised to see Thorne as he was to see her. Her heart leaped in her bosom at the sight of him, and she stared at him as at a wraith or a vision.

“You wouldn’t tell me an untruth, would you?” said Thorne, coming closer to her. “He was shot in this room an hour ago, my brother Henry. I’d like to take one look at his dead face before they send me the same way. Where is he? Can’t you tell me that much, Miss Varney? Is he in the house?”

Edith looked at his face, shook her head a little, and moved away from him toward the table. Thorne threw up his hands in a gesture of despair, and turned toward the window. As he did so, Wilfred, having recovered from his faintness a little, called out again:

“The guard! The escaped prisoner, Captain Thorne!”

This time his frantic outcry was answered. At last they were closing in upon the wretched man. He turned from the window and faced the girl, scarcely less wretched than he, and laughed shortly.

“They are on the scent, you see,” he said; “they’ll get me in a minute; and when they do, it won’t take them long to finish me off. And as that’ll be the last of me, Miss Varney, maybe you’ll listen to one thing. We can’t all die a soldier’s death, in the roar and glory of battle, our friends about us, under the flag we love. No, not all! Some of us have orders for another kind of work, dare-devil, desperate work, the hazardous schemes of the Secret Service. We fight our battles alone, no comrades to cheer us on, ten thousand to one against us, death at every turn. If we win, we escape with our lives; if we lose, we are dragged out and butchered like dogs. No soldier’s grave, not even a trench with the rest of the boys – alone, despised, forgotten! These were my orders, Miss Varney; this is the death I die to-night, and I don’t want you to think for one moment that I am ashamed of it; no, not for one moment.”

The sound of heavy feet drew nearer. Wilfred called again, while the two in the room confronted each other, the man erect, and the woman, too. A strange pain was in her heart. At least here was a man, but before she could say a word in answer to his impassioned defence, the room filled with soldiers.

“There’s your man, Sergeant,” said Wilfred; “I hand him over to you.”

“You are my prisoner,” said the Sergeant.

His command was reinforced by a number of others, including Corporal Matson and his squad, and some of the men of the Provost Guard, who had been chasing Thorne through the streets. At this juncture, Arrelsford, panting and breathless, also joined the company in the drawing-room. He came in rapidly, thrusting aside those in his way.

“Where is he?” he cried. “Ah!” he exclaimed triumphantly, as his eye fell upon Thorne, standing quietly, surrounded by the soldiers. “We’ve got him, have we?”

“Young Mr. Varney, here, took him, sir,” said the Sergeant.

“So,” returned Arrelsford to his prisoner, “run down at last. Now, you will find out what it costs to play your little game with our Government Telegraph lines.”

But Thorne did not turn his head, although Arrelsford spoke almost in his ear. He looked straight at Edith Varney, and she returned his glance.

“Don’t waste any time, Sergeant,” said Arrelsford furiously. “Take him down the street and shoot him full of lead. Out with him.”

“Very well, sir,” said the Sergeant.

But Wilfred interposed. He came forward, Thorne’s revolver still in his hand.

“No,” he said decisively; “whatever he is, whatever he has done, he has the right to a trial.”

“The head of the Secret Service Department said to me if I found him, to shoot him at sight,” snarled Arrelsford.

“I don’t care what General Tarleton said. I captured this man; he’s in this house, and he is not going out unless he is treated fairly.”

The Sergeant looked uncertainly from Wilfred to Arrelsford. Mrs. Varney, who had entered with the rest of them, and who now stood by her daughter’s side, looked her approval at her son. The mettle of his distinguished father was surely in his veins.

“Well done,” said the woman softly, but not so softly that those about her did not hear; “your father would have spoken so.”

Arrelsford came to a sudden decision.

“Well, let him have a trial. We’ll give him a drumhead court-martial, but it will be the quickest ever held on earth. Stack your muskets here, and organise a court,” he said.

“Fall in here,” cried the Sergeant, at which the men quickly took their places. “Attention! Stack arms! Two of you take the prisoner. Where shall we find a vacant room, ma’am?”

“Across the hall,” said Mrs. Varney; “where the ladies were sewing this evening.”

“Very good,” said the Sergeant. “Left face! Forward, march!”

Arrelsford and Wilfred followed the soldiers.

“I am the chief witness,” said the former.

“I will see that he gets fair play,” remarked the latter, as they marched out.

“I must go to Howard,” said Mrs. Varney; “this excitement is killing him; I am afraid he will hardly survive the night. Caroline is with him now.”

“Very well, mother,” said Edith, going slowly up the now deserted room and standing in the window, looking out into the night, thinking her strange, appalling thoughts. They would convict him, shoot him, there was no hope. What had he said? He was not ashamed of his work. It was the highest duty and involved the highest and noblest sacrifice, because it made the greatest demand; and they would shoot him like a mad dog.

“Oh, God!” she whispered; “if some bullet would only find my heart as well.”

CHAPTER XIX

THE DRUMHEAD COURT-MARTIAL

It so happened that the soldiers who had thrust old Jonas back in his closet, whence they had taken him a short time before, in their haste, had failed to lock the door upon him. The negro, who had listened for the click of the key in the lock, had at once known of their carelessness. So soon as they had withdrawn from the room, and their search took them to other parts of the house, he had opened the door cautiously and had made his way toward the hall by the drawing-room, which he felt instinctively was the place where the exciting events of the night would soon culminate.

Thorne’s entry and the circumstances of his apprehension had been so engrossing that no one had given a thought to Jonas, or to any other part of the house, for that matter, and he had been able to see everything through the hangings. He was a quick-witted old negro, and he knew, of course, that there would be but one verdict given by such a court-martial as had assembled. Now, the men who composed the court would of necessity be detailed to carry out their own sentence. The long room was filled with stacks of guns. Every soldier, even those under the command of Corporal Matson in Arrelsford’s Department, had gone to the court-martial. There was nothing else of interest to attract them in the house. Every gun was there in that room, unguarded.

A recent capture of a battalion of Federal riflemen had put the Confederates into possession of a few hundred breech-loading weapons, not of the latest and most approved pattern, for the cartridges in these guns were in cardboard shells, but still better than any the South possessed. These rifles had been distributed to some of the companies in garrison at Richmond, and it so happened that the men of the Secret Service squad and the Provost Guard had received most of them. Every gun in the stacks was of this pattern.