Secret Service

In his earlier days, Jonas had been his young master’s personal attendant, his body-servant, and as such he had often gone hunting with him. During the war he had frequently visited him in camp, charged with messages of one sort or another, and he knew all about weapons.

As he stared into the long room after the departing soldiers, he did not know Edith Varney was still there, nor could he see her at all, for she was on the other side of the curtain, looking out of the window, and it seemed to him that the room was empty.

Jonas was a very intelligent negro, and while under any ordinary circumstances his devotion to his master and mistress would have been absolutely sure, yet he had become tinged with the ideas of freedom and liberty in the air. He had assisted many and many a Union prisoner. Captain Thorne, by his pleasant ways and nice address, had won his heart. And he himself was deeply concerned personally that the young man should not be punished for his attempt to bring about the success of the Union cause, which Jonas felt to be his own cause. Therefore he had a double motive to secure the freedom of his principal if it were in any way possible. Of course, any direct interposition was out of the question. He was still only a slave. His open interference would have been fruitless of any consequences except bad ones for himself, and he was already more than compromised by the events of the night. What he was to do he must do by stealth.

As he stared at the pyramids of guns, listening to the hum of conversation from the room across the hall – the door had been fortunately closed – a thought came to him. He pushed aside the portières with which he had concealed himself, and entered the room by the back door. He glanced about apprehensively. He was not burdened with any overplus of physical courage, and what he did was the more remarkable, especially in view of the fact that the soldiers might return at any moment and catch him at what they could very easily construe as an act of high treason, which would result in his blood being mingled with that of Captain Thorne, in the same gutter, probably.

He moved with cat-like swiftness in the direction of the first stack of rules. He knelt down by it, seized the nearest gun, which lay across the other three, swiftly opened the breech-plug, drew out the cartridge, looked at it a moment, put the end of it in his mouth, and crunched his strong white teeth down upon it. When he finished, he had the leaden bullet in his mouth, and the cardboard shell in his hand. He replaced this latter in the chamber and closed the breech-plug. A smile of triumph irradiated his sable features. The gun could be fired, but whatever or whoever stood in front of it would be unharmed.

He had not been quite sure that he could do this, but the result of his experiment convinced him. All the other guns were of the same character, and, given the time, he could render them all harmless. He did not waste time in reflection, but started in with the same process on the others. He worked with furious haste until every bullet had been bitten off every cartridge. It would have been impossible to have drawn the bullets of the ordinary muzzle-loading rifle, or army musket, in twenty times the period.

The noise of Jonas’ first entrance had attracted the attention of Edith Varney. She had turned with the intention of going into the room, but, on second thought, she had concealed herself further behind the curtains. Between the wall and the edge of the portières was a little space, through which she peered. She saw the whole performance, and divined instantly what was in Jonas’ mind, and what the result of his actions would be.

In an incredibly short time, considering what he had to do, the old negro finished his task. He rose to his feet and stood staring triumphantly at the long stacks of guns. He even permitted himself a low chuckle, with a glance across the hall to the court. Well, he had at least done something worthy of a man’s approbation in this dramatic game in which he was so humble a player.

Now Edith Varney, who had observed him with mingled admiration and resentment – resentment that he had proven false to her people, her family; and admiration at his cleverness – stepped further into the room as he finished the last musket, and, as he started toward the lower end of the room to make good his escape, she coughed slightly.

Jonas stopped and wheeled about instantly, frightened to death, of course, but somewhat relieved when he saw who it was who had had him under observation, and who had interrupted him. He realised at once that it was no use to attempt to conceal anything, and he threw himself upon the mercy of his young mistress, and, with great adroitness, sought to enlist her support for what he had done.

“Dey’s gwine to shoot him, shoot him down lak a dog, missy,” he said in a low, pleading whisper, “an’ Ah couldn’t b’ah to see ’em do dat. Ah wouldn’t lak to see him killed, Ah wouldn’t lak it noways. You won’t say nuffin’ about dis fo’ de sake ob old Jonas, what always was so fond ob you ebah sense you was a little chile. You see, Ah jes’ tek dese yeah” – he extended his hand, full of leaden bullets – “an’ den dey won’t be no ha’m cum to him whatsomebah, les’n dey loads ’em up agin. When dey shoots, an’ he jes’ draps down, dey’ll roll him obah into de guttah, an’ be off lak mad. Den Ah kin be neah by an’” – he stopped, and, if his face had been full of apprehension before, it now became transformed with anxiety. “How’s he gwine to know?” he asked. “If he don’t drap down, dey’ll shoot him agin, an’ dey’ll hab bullets in dem next time. What Ah gwine to do, how Ah gwine to tell him?”

Edith had listened to him as one in a dream. Her face had softened a little. After all, this negro had done this thing for the man she – God forgive her – still loved.

“You tell him,” whispered Jonas; “you tell him, it’s de on’y way. Tell him to drap down. Do dis fo’ ole Jonas, honey; do it fo’ me, an’ Ah’ll be a slabe to you as long as Ah lib, no mattah what Mars Linkum does. Listen,” said the old man, as a sudden commotion was heard in the room across the hall. “Dey gwine to kill him. You do it.”

Nothing could be gained by remaining. He had said all he could, used every argument possible to him, and, realising his danger, he turned and disappeared through the back door into the dark rear hall. There was a scraping of chairs and a trampling of feet, a few words heard indistinctly, and then the voice of the old Sergeant:

“Fall in! Right Face! Forward – March!”

Before they came into the hall, Jonas made one last appeal. He thrust his old black face through the portieres, his eyes rolling, his jaws working.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sek, missy, tell him to drap down,” he whispered as he disappeared.

Wilfred, not waiting for the soldiers, came into the room, and Caroline followed him.

“Where’s mother?” asked Wilfred.

“She’s gone up to Howard; I think he is dying,” said Caroline. “She can’t leave him for anybody or anything.”

If Edith heard, she gave no sign. She stood motionless on the other side of the room, and stared toward the door; they would bring him back that way, and she could see him again.

“Wilfred dear,” asked Caroline, “what are they going to do?”

“Shoot him.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“Out in the street.”

Caroline’s low exclamation of pity struck a responsive chord in Wilfred’s heart. He nodded gravely, and bit his lips. He did not feel particularly happy over the situation, evidently, but the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the men. They came into the room in a double line, Thorne walking easily between them. They entered the room by the door, marched down it, came back, and ranged themselves opposite the stacks of arms.

“Halt!” cried the Sergeant. “Right Face! Take arms! Carry arms! Left face! Forward – March!”

Edith had not taken her eyes off Thorne since he had reëntered the room. She had watched him as if fascinated. He had shot at her one quick, searching glance, and then had kept his eyes averted, not because he would not like to look at her, but because he could not bear himself like a man in these last swift terrible seconds, if he did.

As the men moved to carry out their last order, the girl awoke to her surroundings.

“Wait,” she said. “Who is in command!”

“I am, miss,” answered the Sergeant.

Arrelsford, who had entered with the soldiers, started at this, but he said nothing.

“I’d like to speak to the – the prisoner,” continued Edith.

“I’m sorry, miss,” answered the Sergeant respectfully, but abruptly; “but we haven’t the time.”

“Only a word, Sergeant,” pleaded the girl, stepping close to him, and laying her hand on his arm.

The Sergeant looked at her a moment. What he saw in her eyes touched his very soul.

“Very well,” he said. “Right face! Fall out the prisoner!”

Thorne stepped out in front of the ranks.

“Now, Miss,” said the Sergeant; “be quick about it.”

“No!” said Wilfred sternly.

“Oh, Wilfred!” cried Caroline, laying her hand on his arm. “Let her speak to him, let her say good-bye.”

There was an instant’s pause. Wilfred looked from Caroline’s flushed, eager face, to Edith’s pale one. After all, what was the harm? He nodded his head, but no one moved. It was the Sergeant who broke the silence.

“The lady,” he said, looking at Thorne, and pointing at Edith. As he spoke, he added another order. “Matson, take your squad and guard the windows. Prisoner, you can go over to the side of the room.”

The Sergeant’s purpose was plain. It would give Edith Varney an opportunity to say what she had to say to Thorne in a low voice if she chose, without the possibility of being overheard. The initiative must come from the woman, the man realised. It was Edith who turned and walked slowly across the room, Thorne followed her more rapidly, and the two stood side by side. They were thus so placed by the kindness of the veteran that she could speak her words, and no one could hear what they were.

“One of the servants,” began the girl in a low, utterly passionless and expressionless voice, “Jonas, has taken the bullets from the guns. If you will drop when they fire, you can escape with your life.”

In exactly the same level, almost monotonous, voice, Thorne whispered a pertinent question:

“Shall I do this for you?”

“It is nothing to me,” said the woman quietly, and might God forgive her, she prayed, for that falsehood.

Thorne looked at her, his soul in his eyes. If her face had been carved from marble, it could not have been more expressionless and indifferent. He could not know how wildly her heart was beating underneath that stony exterior. Well, she had turned against him. He was nothing to her. There was no use living any longer. She did not care.

“Were you responsible in any way for it?” he asked.

The girl shook her head and turned away without looking at him. She had not the least idea of what he was about to do. Not one man in a thousand would have done it. Perhaps if he went to his death in some quixotic way, he might redeem himself in her eyes, had flashed into Thorne’s mind, as he turned to the guard.

“Sergeant,” he said, saluting. He spoke in a clear, cool, most indifferent way. “You had better take a look at the rifles of your command. I understand they have been tampered with.”

“What the hell!” cried the Sergeant, seizing a piece from the nearest man. He snapped open the breech-plug and drew out the cartridge and examined it. Some one had bitten off the bullet! He saw everything clearly. “Squad ready!” he cried. “Draw cartridges!”

There was a rattling of breech-plugs and a low murmur of astonishment, as every man found that his cartridge was without a bullet.

“With ball cartridges, load!” cried the Sergeant. “Carry arms!”

When this little manœuvre, which was completed with swiftness and precision because the men were all veterans, was finished, the Sergeant turned to the prisoner, who had stood composedly watching the performance which took away his last opportunity for escape, and saluted him with distinct admiration.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said.

How Edith Varney kept her feet, why she did not scream or faint away, she could not tell. Thorne’s words had petrified her. Her pride kept her from acknowledging what she felt. She had never dreamed of any such action on his part, and it seemed to her that she had sent him to his death again. How could she retrace her steps, repair her blunder? There was nothing to do. But her countenance changed. A look of such desperate entreaty came into her face as fully betrayed her feelings. Of the people in the room, only Arrelsford observed her, and even his jealousy and resentment were slightly softened by her visible anguish. Everybody was staring at Thorne, for they all knew the result of his remarkable action, although no one could in the least degree fathom the reason.

It was Wilfred who broke the silence. He walked slowly up to Thorne and thrust out his hand.

“I would like to shake hands with you,” he said admiringly, and for the first time in the long hours a slight smile quivered about the man’s lips. It was the generous, spontaneous tribute of youth that gave him that moment of melancholy satisfaction.

“Oh,” thought Edith, watching her brother; “if only I dared to do the like.”

“Is this for yourself?” asked Thorne, “or your father?”

“For both of us, sir,” answered Wilfred.

Thorne shook him by the hand. The two looked into each other’s faces, and everybody saw the satisfaction and gratification of the older man.

“That’s all, Sergeant,” said Thorne, turning away.

“Fall in the prisoner! Escort left face! Forward – March!” cried the Sergeant.

At that moment a man, breathless from having run rapidly, entered the room by the window. His uniform was that of an officer, and he wore a Lieutenant’s shoulder-straps.

“Halt!” he cried, as he burst into the room. “Are you in command, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Randolph’s on the way here with orders. You will please wait until – ”

But Arrelsford now interposed.

“What orders, Lieutenant? Anything to do with this case?”

The officer looked greatly surprised at this intervention by a civilian, but he answered civilly enough:

“I don’t know what his orders are. He has been with the President.”

“But I sent word to the Department,” said Arrelsford, “that we had got the man, and were going to drumhead him on the spot.”

“Then this must be the case, sir. The General wishes to be present.”

“It is impossible,” returned Arrelsford. “We have already held the court, and I have sent the findings to the Secretary. The messenger is to get his approval and meet us at the corner of the street yonder. I have no doubt he is waiting there now. It is a mere formality.”

“I have no further orders to give, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “General Randolph will be here in a minute, but you can wait for him or not, as you see fit.”

The Sergeant stood uncertain. For one thing, he was not anxious to carry out the orders he had been given now. That one little action of Thorne’s had changed the whole situation. For another thing, Arrelsford was only a civilian, and General Randolph was one of the ranking officers in Richmond.

“Move on, Sergeant,” said Arrelsford peremptorily. “You have all the authority you want, and – ”

The Sergeant held back, uncertainly, but the day was saved by the advent of the General himself.

CHAPTER XX

THE LAST REPRIEVE

General Randolph was evidently in a great hurry. Public affairs of great moment pressed upon him, and it was an evidence of the interest he took in the case of Captain Thorne that he gave him even a minute of his valuable time. He had come on horseback, and everybody could see that he was anxious to get through with his appointed task and get away.

“Ah, Sergeant,” he said, answering the latter’s salute as he brought the guard to attention, and then his eye fell upon Captain Thorne. “You have the prisoner, have you?”

“Just taking him out, sir,” answered the Sergeant, saluting again.

“To prison?”

“No, sir.”

“Where, then?”

“To execute the sentence of the court, sir.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the General, looking hard at the Sergeant. “He has had his trial, has he?”

But Arrelsford, who chafed at thus being left out of the game, now stepped over and took up the burden of the conversation before the Sergeant could reply.

“We have done everything according to regulation, sir,” he said, saluting in a rather cavalier manner. He did not like General Randolph. If it had not been for his interference, the affair would have been settled long ago, and he still cherished a grudge against the latter for having arrested a man so important as the trusted agent of the Secret Service. “The findings have gone to the Secretary.”

“Ah!” said General Randolph blandly. He did not like Mr. Arrelsford any better than Mr. Arrelsford liked him.

“Yes, sir.”

“And he was found guilty, I presume?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And what are you going to do with him?”

“There is no time for a hanging now, and the court has ordered him shot.”

“Oh, indeed. And what were the charges?”

“Conspiracy against our government and the success of our arms, by sending a false and misleading despatch containing forged orders, was the particular specification.”

“Well,” said General Randolph, “I regret to say that the court has been misinformed.”

“What!” cried Arrelsford, in great surprise. “The testimony was very plain.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” interposed the Sergeant.

“Nevertheless,” returned the General, “the man is not guilty of that charge. The despatch was not sent.”

Now Edith Varney had scarcely moved. She had expected nothing, she had hoped for nothing, from the advent of the General. At best it would mean only a little delay. The verdict was just, the sentence was adequate, and the punishment must and would be carried out. She had listened, scarcely apprehending, busy with her own thoughts, her eyes fastened on Thorne, who stood there so pale and composed. But at this remarkable statement by General Randolph she was suddenly quickened into life. A low exclamation broke from her lips. A hope, not that his life might be saved, but that it might be less shameful to love him, came into her heart. Wilfred stepped forward also.

The terse statement of the General had caused a great deal of excitement and commotion in the room. Only Thorne preserved his calmness. He was glad that Edith Varney had learned this, and he was more glad that she had learned it from the lips of the enemy, but it would make no difference in his fate. He was not guilty of that particular charge, but there were dozens of other charges for which they could try him, the punishment of any one of which was death. Besides, he was a spy caught in the Confederate lines, wearing a uniform not his own. It was enough that the woman should learn that he had not taken advantage of her action; at least she could not reproach herself with that.

“Why, General,” began Arrelsford, greatly dismayed, “I hardly understand what you mean. That despatch – I saw him myself – ”

General Randolph turned on him quickly.

“I say that that despatch was not sent,” he roared, striking the table with his hand. “I expected to arrive in time for the trial. There is one here who can testify. Lieutenant Foray?”

From among the group of staff officers who had followed General Randolph, Lieutenant Foray stepped forward before the General and saluted.

“Did Captain Thorne send out that despatch after we left you with him in the office an hour ago?” asked the older officer.

“No, sir,” answered Foray promptly, glancing from Arrelsford’s thwarted and flushed and indignant countenance to Edith Varney’s face, in which he saw the light of a great illumination was shining. “No, sir,” he repeated; “I was just about to send it by his orders, when he countermanded it and tore up the despatch.”

“And what despatch was it?”

“It was one signed by the Secretary of War, sir, removing Marston’s Division from Cemetery Hill.”

“You hear, gentlemen,” said the General, and, not giving them time to answer, he turned again to Foray. “What were Captain Thorne’s words at the time?”

“He said he refused to act under that commission, and crumpled it up and threw it away.”

“That will do, Lieutenant,” said General Randolph triumphantly. He turned to Arrelsford again. “If you are not satisfied, Mr. Arrelsford, I beg to inform you that we have a despatch, from General Chesney at the front, in which he says that no orders were received from here. He got an uncompleted despatch, but could not make anything out of it. Marston’s Division was not withdrawn from Cemetery Hill, and our position was not weakened in any way. The attack there has failed.” There was a low murmur of astonishment from the group of men in the room. Edith Varney did one significant thing. She made two steps in Thorne’s direction. That young man did not dare to trust himself to look at her. “It is quite plain,” continued the General, “that the court has been acting under an error. The President of the Confederacy is, therefore, compelled to disapprove the finding, and it is set aside. He happened to be with the Secretary when the finding came in.”

Arrelsford made one last desperate effort.

“General Randolph,” he said, and, to do him justice, he did not lack courage, “this was put in my hands, and – ”

General Randolph laughed.

“I take it out of your hands,” he said curtly. “Report back to the War Office, or the Secret Service Office, with my compliments, and – ”

“But there are other charges upon which he could be tried,” persisted Arrelsford. “He is a spy anyway, and – ”

“I believe I gave you your orders, Mr. Arrelsford,” interrupted the General, with suspicious politeness.

“But hadn’t I better wait and see – ”

“By God, sir,” thundered Randolph, “do I have to explain my orders to the whole Secret Service of the Confederacy? Don’t wait to see anything. Go at once, or I will have you escorted by a file of soldiers.”

Arrelsford would have defied the General if there had been the least use in the world in doing it, but the game was clearly up for the present. He would try to arrange to have Thorne rearrested and tried as a spy later. Now he could do nothing. He walked out of the room, pride enabling him to keep up a brave front, but with disappointment and resentment raging in his heart. He did not realise that his power over Thorne had been withdrawn. In the great game that they had played, he had lost at all points. They all watched him go, not a single one in the room with sympathy, or even pity.

“Now, Sergeant,” said the General, as they heard the heavy hall door close; “I want to speak to the prisoner.”

“Order arms!” cried the Sergeant. “Parade rest!” As the squad assumed these positions in obedience to his commands, the Sergeant continued, “Fall out the prisoner.”

Thorne stepped forward one pace from the ranks, and saluted the General. He kept his eyes fixed upon that gentleman, and it was only the throbbing of his heart that made him aware that Edith Varney was by his side. She bent her head toward him; he felt her warm breath against his cheek as she whispered:

“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you sent it, I thought you – ”

“Miss Varney!” exclaimed the General in surprise.

But Edith threw maidenly reserve to the winds. The suddenness of the revelation overwhelmed her.

“There is nothing against him, General Randolph, now; is there? He didn’t send it. There’s nothing to try him for!” she said.

General Randolph smiled grimly at her.

“You are very much mistaken, Miss Varney,” he answered. “The fact of his being caught in our lines without his proper uniform is enough to hang him in ten minutes.”

Edith caught her heart with her hand with a sharp exclamation, but General Randolph had turned to speak to the prisoner.

“Captain Thorne,” he said, “or Lewis Dumont, if that is your name; the President is fully informed regarding the circumstances of your case, and I needn’t say that we look upon you as a cursed dangerous character. There isn’t any doubt whatever that you ought to be shot right now, but, considering the damned peculiarity of your behaviour, and that you refused to send out that despatch when you might have done so, we’ve decided to keep you out of mischief some other way. You will be held a prisoner of war.”