Special Messenger

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

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

“I reckon you haven’t seen a stranger pass this way, ma’am, have you?”

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

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

“She said she was going west.”

“Has she gone?”

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

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

“Yes.”

“And she rode west?”

“I saw her going west,” she nodded, resuming her knitting.

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

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

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

“No.”

“Your father is living, is he not?”

She did not reply.

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

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

“He said we’d find his ‘Cynthy’ here,” observed the youthful officer, lowering his glass. “Are you Cynthia Gray, ma’am?”

“He named me Cynthia,” she said, with a smile.

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

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

She nodded.

“Are you afraid of us? Do you hate us, ma’am?”

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

“Are you ever lonely here?” he inquired gravely.

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

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

“What have I to say to anybody?” she asked coquettishly.

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

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

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

“What’s that?” she exclaimed.

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

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

He laughed. “Oh, no, Miss Cynthia. That’s only bushwhacking.”

“But—but where are they shooting?”

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

“Within ten miles,” she murmured; “ten miles is too near. I—I think I will go back to the house.”

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

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

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

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

“If it wouldn’t be too much to ask—too inconvenient—” He hesitated, hat in hand, handsome face brightening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you follow her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look dreadfully tired,” she said gently. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, ma’am, I should never venture–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III

ABSOLUTION

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

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

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

“No name,” she said. “They will understand—inside there.”

“That your hoss, ma’am?”

“It seems to be.”

“Swap him with a Johnny?”

“No; took him from a Johnny.”

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

“Wa’ll, the ginrall, he’s some busy.”

“Please say that his messenger is here.”

“Orders is formuel, ma’am. I dassent–”

She pronounced a word under her breath.

“Hey?”

She nodded.

“Tain’t her?” demanded the corporal incredulously.

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

“Speak low,” she said, smiling.

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

“’Tain’t the Special Messenger, ma’am, is it?” he inquired hoarsely. “The boys is tellin’ how you was ketched down to–”

She made him a sign for silence as the officer of the guard came up—an ill-tempered, heavily-bandaged young man.

“What the–” he began, but, seeing a woman’s muddy skirt in the lantern light, checked his speech.

The corporal whispered in his ear; both stared. “I guess it’s all right,” said the officer. “Won’t you come in? The general is asleep; he’s got half an hour more, but I’ll wake him if you say so.”

“I can wait half an hour.”

“Take her horse,” said the officer briefly, then led the way up the steps of a white porch buried under trumpet vines in heavy bloom.

The door stood open, so did every window on the ground floor, for the July night was hot. A sentry stood inside the wide hall, resting on his rifle, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cap pushed back on his flushed young forehead.

There was a candle burning in the room on the right; an old artillery officer leaned over the center table, asleep, round, red face buried in his arms, sabre tucked snugly between his legs, like the tail of a sleeping dog; an aide-de-camp slept heavily on a mahogany sofa, jacket unbuttoned, showing the white, powerful muscles of his chest, all glistening with perspiration. Beside the open window sat a thin figure in the uniform of a signal officer, and at first when the Special Messenger looked at him she thought he also was asleep.

Then, as though her entrance had awakened him, he straightened up, passed one long hand over his face, looked at her through the candlelight, and rose with a grace too unconscious not to have been inherited.

The bandaged officer of the guard made a slovenly gesture, half salute, half indicative: “The Messenger,” he announced, and, half turning on his heel as he left the room, “our signal officer, Captain West,” in deference to a convention almost forgotten.

Captain West drew forward an armchair; the Special Messenger sank into its tufted depths and stripped the gauntlets from her sun-tanned hands—narrow hands, smooth as a child’s, now wearily coiling up the lustrous braids which sagged to her shoulders under the felt riding hat. And all the while, from beneath level brows, her dark, distrait eyes were wandering from the signal officer to the sleeping major of artillery, to the aide snoring on the sofa, to the trumpet vines hanging motionless outside the open window. But all she really saw was Captain West.

He appeared somewhat young and thin, his blond hair and mustache were burned hay-color. He was adjusting eyeglasses to a narrow, well-cut nose; under a scanty mustache his mouth had fallen into pleasant lines, the nearsighted eyes, now regarding her normally from behind the glasses, seemed clear, unusually pleasant, even a trifle mischievous.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked respectfully.

“After the general is awake—if I might have the use of a room—and a little fresh water—” Speech died in her throat; some of the color died in her face, too.

“Did you wish me to awake him now? If your business is urgent I will,” said Captain West.

She did not reply; an imperceptible twitching tightened her lips; then the young mouth relaxed, drooping a trifle at the corners. Lying there, so outwardly calm, her tired, faraway gaze fixed absently on him, she seemed on the verge of slumber.

“If your business is urgent,” he was repeating pleasantly. But she made no answer.

Urgent? No, not now. It had been urgent a second or two ago. But not now. There was time—time to lie there looking at him, time to try to realize such things as triumph, accomplishment, the excitement of achievement; time to relax from the long, long strain and lie nerveless, without strength, yielding languidly to the reaction from a task well done.

So this was success? A pitiful curiosity made her eyes wistful for an instant. Success? It had not come as she expected.

Was her long quest over? Was this the finish? Had all ended here—here at headquarters, whither she had returned to take up, patiently, the lost trail once more?

Her dark gaze rested on this man dreamily; but her heart, after its first painful bound of astonishment, was beating now with heavy, sickened intelligence. The triumph had come too suddenly.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She was not hungry. There was a bucket of water and a soldier’s tin cup on the window sill; and, forestalling him instinctively, she reached over, plunged the cup into the tepid depths and drank.

“I was going to offer you some,” he said, amused; and over the brimming cup she smiled back, shuddering.

“If you care to lie down for a few moments I’ll move that youngster off the sofa,” he suggested.

But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.

“Can’t you sleep? You are white as death. I’ll call you in an hour,” he ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so terrible in her ears—so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable tremor of revolt.

“What did you ask me?”

“I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour–”

Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more merciful to her at this time to-morrow—or the next day—or ever again. And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin, muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field glasses and holster.

“Are you the famous Special Messenger?—if it is not a military indiscretion to name you,” he asked, with a glint of humor in his pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered there, too—the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly feeling came over her—faintness, which passed—repugnance, which gave birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was afraid of herself—of failing in duty; she understood that she could not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No; there was more for her to do, a chance—barely a miracle of chance—that she might be mistaken.

“Why do you think I am the Special Messenger, Captain West?”

There was no sign of inward tumult under her smooth, flushed mask as she lay back, elbows set on the chair’s padded arms, hands clasped together. Over them she gazed serenely at the signal officer. And he looked back at her.

“Other spies come to headquarters,” he said, “but you are the only one so far who embodies my ideal of the highly mysterious Special Messenger.”

“Do I appear mysterious?”

“Not unattractively so,” he said, smiling.

“I have heard,” she said, “that the Union spy whom they call the Special Messenger is middle-aged and fat.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” he nodded, with a twinkle in his gray eyes—“and I’ve heard also that she’s red-headed, peppered with freckles, and—according to report—bow-legged from too many cross-saddles.”

“Please observe my single spur,” she said, extending her slender, booted foot; “and you will notice that I don’t fit that passport.”

“My idea of her passport itemizes every feature you possess,” he said, laughing; “five feet seven; dark hair, brown eyes, regular features, small, well-shaped hands–”

“Please—Captain West!”

“I beg your pardon—” very serious.

“I am not offended.... What time is it, if you please?”

He lifted the candle, looked closely at his watch and informed her; she expressed disbelief, and stretched out her hand for the watch. He may not have noticed it; he returned the watch to his pocket.

She sank back in her chair, very thoughtful. Her glimpse of the monogram on the back of the watch had not lasted long enough. Was it an M or a W she had seen?

The room was hot; the aide on the sofa ceased snoring; one spurred heel had fallen to the floor, where it trailed limply. Once or twice he muttered nonsense in his sleep.

The major of artillery grunted, lifted a congested face from the cradle of his folded arms, blinked at them stupidly, then his heavy, close-clipped head fell into his arms again. The candle glimmered on his tarnished shoulder straps.

A few moments later a door at the end of the room creaked and a fully-lathered visage protruded. Two gimlet eyes surveyed the scene; a mouth all awry from a sabre-slash closed grimly as Captain West rose to attention.

“Is there any fresh water?” asked the general. “There’s a dead mouse in this pail.”

At the sound of his voice the aide awoke, got onto his feet, took the pail, and wandered off into the house somewhere; the artillery officer rose with a dreadful yawn, and picked up his forage cap and gauntlets.