The Iron Game - Henry Francis Keenan
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"You made no mistake. I shall find them. You can tell your friends
that," and he added, with a gleam of savage malice, "God help the man
that has raised the weight of a feather against them, for he has put a
heavy hurt on me if he has harmed them!"
Kate shuddered. Was she never to emerge from this hideous circle of
vengeful hatred--this condition of passionate vendetta--where men were
seeking each other's harm? On reaching home she addressed a note to her
father explaining frankly that she had entered into communication with
Jones; that who had been pained by all that she had heard; that the
inquiry had now passed out of her hands and was in that of the
authorities, and begging him to drop any participation he might have
meditated In a late letter Olympia had given good news of her mother,
saying that Kate could return with safety, and, informing her father of
this, Kate bade him good-by for a time.
When Kate reached Washington she found Mrs. Sprague convalescent, but
painfully feeble. The poor mother reproached herself for the
interruption of the search, and implored the two girls to begin again
without a moment's delay. Kate gave her as much hope as she dared. She
hinted something of the outlines of what she had done and the new agent
in the field. With this Mrs. Sprague was greatly comforted, but begged
then to remit no efforts of their own. It was after three days'
fruitless searching among the records of the department and among the
men of the Caribee regiment, now returned to Washington _en route_ to
the front, that Kate bethought herself of her father's probable presence
in the city. She got out of the carriage and entered the long reception
room of Willard's to make inquiry. The boy who came at her call said, as
soon as she asked for Mr. Boone:
"Why, I jast saw him at the desk, paying his bill. He is probably there
still. Wait here until I see."
But Kate, fearing that he might be gone before she could reach him,
followed the boy. There was no sign of her father at the desk, and,
turning hastily out of the main corridor, filled with officers and the
clank of swords almost stunning her, she reached the porch just as a cab
set out toward the station. She might a glimpse of her father's face in
it. He was leaving the city. She must see him. The inspiration of the
instant suggested by a cabman was followed. She hastily entered the
vehicle and bade the driver keep in sight of the one her father was in
until it came to a stop. The driver whipped up his horses, but there
wasn't much speed in them. Kate dared not look out of the window, and
sat in feverish anxiety while she was whirled along Pennsylvania Avenue,
almost to the Baltimore Station, then the only one in the city
connecting with the North. To her surprise, the driver stopped near the
curb a block or more short of the railway. She looked out, and as she
did so the driver pointed to her father's carriage halted just ahead.
She took out her purse, but was delayed a moment in getting the fare,
keeping her eye, however, on her father as he hurried from the cab to a
building before which a sentry was lazily pacing. She was not two
minutes in reaching the doorway, but he had disappeared.
The soldier asked her no questions, and of course she could ask none, as
probably her father was unknown to the military filling the place. She
must follow on until she overtook him. There were clerks busy at long
desks, military officials moving about with files of documents. The
presence of a few women in widow's weeds reassured Kate, and as no one
molested her she persisted in her design. He was not on the lower floor,
and, coming back, she ascended a broad stairway. The hall was wide, and
filled with people all in uniform. She could hear a monotonous voice
reading in front, where the crowd clustered thickest. She looked about
helplessly, and tried to push forward. Suddenly she heard the words:
"Guilty of taking the life of the same Wesley Boone. Specification
third: And that the said John Sprague is guilty of the crime of spying
inside the lines of the armies of the United States." For a moment Kate
stood stupefied--rooted to the floor. Jack was undergoing an ignominious
trial for murder--for desertion! All fear, all timidity, all sense of
the unfitness of feminine evidence in such a place fled from her. She
pushed her way through the astonished throng which fell aside as they
saw her black dress and flowing drapery. She reached the last range of
benches, where men were seated, some writing, some consulting documents,
while the clerk read the charges. Her eye fell upon her father seated
near the place of the presiding officer. She grew confident and
confirmed by the sight: it was a signal to the daring that fired her.
"Stop!" she said, in a clear voice. "I don't know what this place is; I
don't know what meaning these proceedings have. I heard a charge that is
not true. It is false that John Sprague murdered Wesley Boone. Wesley
Boone was my brother, and he was killed in the dark by one of several
shots fired at the same instant. Furthermore, my brother was armed and
in the sleeping-room of the mistress of the house at the dead of night.
If John Sprague's bullet killed him it was shot in self-defense and in
the safeguarding of two terrified women. He had no more idea of whom he
was struggling with than--than the soldier who fires in battle.
Furthermore, he is no spy. He risked his life to rescue prisoners. He
saved the life of one of them who can be brought here to testify. He--"
But here Kale broke down. She had spoken with a passionate, resentful
vehemence, her mind all the time seething with the fear and shame of her
father's responsibility for this hideous attack upon the absent. She
stretched out her hand exhaustedly for support. A young officer near her
pushed up a chair and helped her into it. Boone had turned in speechless
amazement as the first words of the voice sounded in his ears. His back
was toward the door, and he had not seen Kate. He turned as she broke
into this fervid apostrophe. Whether from surprise, prudence, or anger
he sat silent, uninterrupting till she tottered into the seat placed for
her by a stranger. Then he arose and went to her side, in nowise angry
or discomposed so far as his outward demeanor betrayed him. The
presiding officer of the court-martial had attempted to silence Kate by
a gesture, but with eyes fixed steadily upon him she had disregarded his
command. Now, however, he spoke:
"Madame, you must know this is highly disorderly and indecorous. The
court can take no cognizance of this sort of testimony. Do you desire to
be heard by counsel? If you do, the judge-advocate will give you all
lawful assistance."
"If the court please, this lady is my daughter. She is somewhat excited.
I will take the necessary measures in the matter," Boone began.
Kate pushed her father from before her and again addressed the
president.
"I refuse my father's aid in this case. I don't know what is necessary,
but I ask this court, if it has anything to do with John Sprague, to
give his friends an opportunity to present his story truthfully and
without prejudice."
"The judge-advocate will give you all necessary information. Meanwhile,
the case will be adjourned until to-morrow."
Elisha Boone stood beside his daughter, a figure of perplexity and
chagrin. He dared not remonstrate openly. He was forced to hear the
judge-advocate question this extraordinary witness, and instruct her on
the steps necessary to be taken; worse than all, hear him inform Kate
that the citations to John Sprague had been regularly issued, and that
the evidence of his desertion rested wholly on the fact that he had put
in no answer to the charges promulgated against him by his commanding
officer; that the trial was proceeding on the ground that Sprague had
deserted to the enemy, and refused to answer within the time allowed
by law.
"But he has never heard of the charges," Kate cried, indignantly. "He
has not been heard of since he escaped from Richmond."
"As we understand it, he reached the Union lines merely to ambuscade our
outposts, and then returned to Richmond."
"His sister left Richmond ten days after his flight, and he had then
passed into our lines, as she had the surest means of knowing."
"There is some extraordinary error in all this. If Sprague can be
produced before the term fixed by the regulations, he can vindicate
himself by establishing the facts you have told me. If not, we have no
alternative but to condemn him to death as a spy and deserter. The
testimony on these specifications is uncontradicted. The murder we may
not be able to establish, though we have witnesses of the shooting."
It was arranged that Sprague's counsel should see the judge-advocate at
once, Kate giving him the address in case by any accident she should be
prevented from seeing the Spragues. As she left the room, under a
fusillade of admiring glances, she leaned on her father's arm, trembling
but resolute. She now knew the worst, and she had no further terror. As
they reached the door, her father asked:
"Where are you going? I suppose I need not tell you that I was on my way
home when I came here, for I suppose you have been spying on my
movements."
"Never. I feared you were acting unwisely, but I never dreamed of
watching you. Providence has put your plans in my hands at nearly every
step, but I was so ignorant that, of myself, the information would have
done but little service to poor Jack. I came into the court by the
merest chance. I saw you get into the cab at Willard's, and as I had
only reached Washington, I wanted to see you before you went away. I
drove after you--followed without the slightest suspicion of the place
or your purpose in it."
"Well, all your running about is useless. He will be sentenced to death
and the family disgraced. Nothing can now prevent that."
"Yes, Jack can prevent it! I can prevent it!"
"How?"
"Jack will be found. Surely they dare not commit such a monstrous crime
against the absent, the undefended!"
"Well, we won't talk of it. I suppose you are with the Spragues?"
"Yes; I shall remain with them until this is ended."
"What if I should tell you to come home with me?"
"I should, of course, obey you if you commanded me. But before doing so
I should have to put my statement in legal shape--that is, swear to it,
and give my address to the court that I might be regularly summoned."
"You know something of law, too, I see. I sha'n't ask you to go home,
nor shall I go myself. I shall remain to see how this affair turns out."
They were driving down Pennsylvania Avenue now. Kate, recalling her
departure, asked, "You did not get the letter I left for you at home?"
"No, I did not know you were gone."
"I left a few lines to tell you that I had seen Jones." She watched him
as she said this. He did not start, as she expected. His lips were
suddenly compressed and his eye grew dark; then he smiled grimly.
"I hope you felt repaid for your trouble."
"Yes. I felt amply repaid. Jones has undertaken to find out what became
of Jack after his arrival at the Union outposts."
"Did you discuss the whole affair with him?"
"Yes. I was greatly relieved by what I learned. I was afraid you had
some sinister purpose in secreting him as the only link between Jack and
his friends. It gave me new life to find that you had been so tender and
thoughtful to Jones, for, as the event proved, he no sooner learned that
there were apprehensions as to Jack's safety, than he set about his
discovery."
"Did Jones share your grateful sentiment?"
"I think he did. To spare you agitation, he set out at once alone, in
order that you might be relieved of all responsibility."
"Ah!" And Elisha Boone sank far back in the cushion. The carriage
stopped in front of Willard's; then he said: "I shall remain here now. I
will order the driver to take you home. Come to me as often as you can."
He kissed her in the old friendly way and hurried into the hotel.
On reaching her lodgings she found a telegram waiting her. It read:
"Jones gone South. He will advise you of his movements. ELKINS."
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LOST CARIBEES.
Meanwhile war, in one of its grim humors, had prepared a comedy when the
stage was set in tragic trappings. In the withdrawal of Johnston's army
from Manassas--signalized in history as the Quaker campaign, because our
army found wooden guns in the deserted works--that ardent young Hotspur,
Vincent Atterbury, ran upon a disagreeable end to a very charming
adventure. In chivalric bravado, to emphasize the fact that the
withdrawal of the Confederates was merely strategic, not forced, the
young man, with a lively company of horsemen, hungering for excitement,
formed themselves into a defiant rear-guard. The Union outposts, never
suspecting that Johnston's army was not behind the enterprising cavalry,
withdrew prudently to the main forces.
Then, when they were convinced that the little band was merely on an
audacious lark, forces were sent out on either flank, while the main
body feigned the disorder of retreat. The result was, that Vincent's
squadron was handsomely entrapped, and in the savage contest that ensued
the intrepid major was hustled from his horse with a dislocated shoulder
and broken wrist. He was brought, with a half-dozen more of his
dare-devil comrades, into the Union lines, and in the course of time
found himself in the hideous shambles allotted rebel prisoners at Point
Lookout, Maryland. Too weak at first, or too confused, to bethink
himself of his Northern friends, Vincent shared the hard usage of his
companions and resigned himself patiently to the slow procedure of
exchange, which was now going on regularly, since the Union victories in
the West and South had given the Northern authorities ten prisoners to
the Southerners' one. The prospect of his own release was, under these
circumstances, rather distant, as without special intervention he would
have to await his turn, the rule being that those first captured were
first exchanged. He knew that his family's influence and his own
intimacy with General Johnston would probably hasten the release, but he
could not count upon an immediate return to his duties, and in view of
this he was not very reluctant to undergo convalescence in the North.
Jack's influence, he counted, would soon relieve him from the hardships
of confinement, and then he should see Olympia--that, at least, was
recompense for his misfortune. His mother and Rosa would immediately
learn of his capture, and he might count upon hearing from them, as very
generous latitude was allowed in such cases by the authorities on both
sides. He caused a letter to be written to Jack, addressing it to his
regiment, in care of the War Department, and waited patiently the
response. His disappointment and anxiety, as days passed and he got no
answer, began to tell on his health, already weakened by his wounds.
Thus, one day, when a young lady was shown to his bedside--who fell upon
him with a glad cry, and held his head to her breast--he was too far
gone in delirium to distinguish his sister.
"My darling! O Olympia, I knew you would come," he murmured, and Rosa,
terrified, but composed, soothed the fevered lover as best she might. He
grew worse in spite of all her devotion. The physicians, burdened with
patients far in excess of their powers, assured her that her brother
would require the most patient care and enlightened nursing; that
medicine would do him but slight good, and that she must make up her
mind to a prolonged illness. Rosa was alone in the vast hospital, save
for the presence of her maid Linda, who had come through the lines with
her and was, of course, under the Northern laws, free. Worse than all,
she was poorly provided with money, and this need, rather than Vincent's
love-lorn babbling about Olympia, reminded Rosa to call upon the
Spragues for help. She wrote at once to Olympia, telling the distressing
story, and then set about bettering Vincent's surroundings.
Point Lookout had been selected for its natural prison-like safeguards.
A rank bog surrounded the place on three sides, and thus but few troops
were needed to guard the great mass of rebel prisoners lodged in wooden
barracks and long lines of tents. Vincent's case seemed to have grown
stationary after her coming. He slept a fitful, troubled sleep half the
day. At night he grew delirious and restless. Rosa and Linda divided the
hours into watches, and administered the draughts prepared by the
stewards. Through the humanity of the physician in charge, the invalid
had been transferred to an A tent, where Rosa could remain day and night
unmolested with her maid. Vincent thus cared for, Rosa began to think of
the other poor fellows in her brother's squadron, and set about a
systematic search for them. Many of them she found in the general wards
of the hospital. It was on this kindly mission one day that she heard
her brother's name mentioned by a civilian, who was talking with an
official in uniform.
"Major Atterbury? Oh, yes; he was removed to division D. You will find
him in a separate tent. He has a woman nurse. I will send an orderly
with you."
Rosa did not recognize the civilian at first, but as he turned to
accompany the soldier she remembered where she had seen him before. He
was the prisoner Jack had spoken with in Richmond the day the party
visited the tobacco warehouse. She hastened her step, and, as she came
up with the men, she said, tremulously:
"I am Major Atterbury's sister. My brother is unconscious. Can I attend
to the business you have with him?"
Jones turned and stopped, glancing in surprise at the girl.
"I'm sorry to learn that your brother's so low. But you can do all that
I hoped from him. Here is a letter addressed to John Sprague. It was
received at his regiment three days ago. I happened to be there making
inquiries for him, and the colonel handed it to me. Under the
circumstances I felt justified in reading it, and it turns out that I
did well."
"John Sprague is missing?" Rosa cried, her mind instantly at work in
alarm for some one else.
Jones, dismissing the orderly, told her the facts as we have already
followed them. Leaving out all mention of Kate, he told her how he had
hurried down to Newport News, and thence to the outposts on the Warrick.
There he had learned that Jack and Dick had been wounded, fatally the
story went, in the final volley fired by the pursuers. They had been
carried to the hospital at Hampton. But there all trace had been lost.
The steward who received them and the surgeon who had taken their
descriptive list had been transferred to St. Louis. There was, however,
no record of their deaths, and upon that he based the hope that they
were either in hospital, or had been, through some strange confusion,
assigned among rebel wounded, a thing that had frequently happened in
the hurry of transporting large numbers of wounded men.
"And does Mrs. Sprague know all this?" Rosa cried, understanding now why
Vincent's letter and her own had not brought a response.
"Partly, I think. Mrs. Sprague and her daughter are in Washington, in
the state of mind you may imagine, and exhausting bales of red tape to
reach the lost boys."
Poor Rosa! She had thought her grief and terror too much to endure
before. Now how trivial Vincent's fever in comparison with this
appalling disappearance of Dick and Jack! She walked on over the sparse
herbage, over her shoes in the soft sand, when Linda came running from
the tent in joyous excitement.
"De good Lord, Miss Rosa, she's here; she's done come!"
"Who is here--who is come?" Rosa cried, impatiently; "not mamma?"
"'Deed no, Miss Rosa; Miss Limpy."
"What?"
"Yes, indeedy; and, oh, bress de Lord, Massa Vint knows her, and is
talkin' like a sweet dove!"
It was true. Miss "Limpy," blushing very red, was surprised by Rosa in a
very motherly attitude by the patient's cot. The two girls melted in a
delirious hug, mingled with spasmodic smacks of the lips and a soft,
gurgling _crescendo_ of exclamation, not very intelligible to Jones and
Linda, who discreetly remained near the door on the outside.
Vincent's eyes were fixed on Olympia. For the first time in ten days
they shone with the light of reason. He smiled softly at the scene and
murmured lightly to himself. Warned not to tax the feeble powers of the
invalid, Rosa and Jones withdrew, leaving Olympia to recover from the
fatigues of her journey in the tent with Vincent.
"Now, you're not to talk, you know," Olympia said, with matronly
decision, "I shall remain here to mesmerize you into repose. You know I
am a magnetic person. Be perfectly quiet, and keep your eyes off me.
They make me nervous."
"I can only keep my eyes away on condition you put your hand in mine,
Then the magnetic current can have full play."
"My impression is that you have not been ill at all. I believe you have
been shamming, to escape the harder lines of the prison. Very well, you
needn't answer. I'll take that shake of the head as denial and proof for
want of better. Now, I will give you the history of our doings since I
saw you at Fairfax Court-House in January. I got home safe. I found
mamma in painful excitement."
He moved impatiently, and said, beseechingly:
"But tell me how you got here so soon. How did you learn I was here?
Jack told you when he got my letter?"
"O Vincent, that was what I was coming to! Jack has never been seen or
heard from since he escaped from your troops near the Warrick. I did not
know you had written. I got a letter from Rosa yesterday morning and
went at once to the War Department, where we have a good friend--"
"I can't understand it. All these things are done with system in an army
like yours. Men can't disappear like this, leaving no record. I'll stake
my head there's foul play, if the boys can't be found. Have you made
inquiry in the company on duty where Jack and his companions got into
your lines?"
She explained all the efforts that had been made--how Brodie had been
baffled, and how letters had been sent to the commanding officer at
Fort Monroe.
"We had begun to think that Jack had been recaptured; but surely, if he
were, you would have known of it."
"Of course I should."
"Then that confines the search to our own lines. I can not make myself
believe that Jack is dead, though mamma has nearly made up her mind to
it. The mysterious part of the affair is, that we can not find one of
the men who escaped with Jack, though it was announced in the papers
weeks ago that a party of them had arrived at Fort Monroe."
"And young 'Perley'?"
"He, too, we can get no trace of."
"Good heavens! I'm glad Rosa doesn't know that; she'd be in every camp
and hospital in the North until she had found her sweetheart."
"That sounds something like a reflection on us--mamma and me."
"Ah! never. What I mean is, that Rosa is such an impulsive, silly child,
she would do all sorts of imprudent things. How could you do such a
thing? Preposterous!"
"Well, I began it yesterday morning. As I said, so soon as I read Rosa's
letter, I went to headquarters, where we have a good friend and gave my
word for your safe keeping. You are to be our prisoner; but if you
escape you will get us into trouble, for we are none too well considered
by the folks in power."
"God forgive me, Olympia! escape is the last thing I think of now, when
I am near you. I was going to say I should never care to go back, but I
know you wouldn't think the better of me for that."
"I don't know. Why should you go back? The South is sure to be beaten.
We are conquering territory every day, from the armies at Donelson to
the forts at New Orleans. We shall beat you in Virginia so soon as
General McClellan gives the word."
"Even if that were the case, my duty and my honor would point to but one
course--to return to the natural course of exchange."
"Honor? Vincent, it is a vague term under such circumstances--"
"I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honor more. You know
you gave me that for a motto."
"Poetic rubbish, Mr. Soldier; but I must leave you now. You will insist
on talking, and, as I shall be held responsible to your mother and Rosa,
I must be firm--not another syllable! Besides, the imprudence will keep
you here longer, and if you are to be carried away you must get well at
once. I can't leave mamma alone in Washington with such grief preying
upon her."
He answered with a glance of pitying pleading. He looked so helpless--so
woe-begone--that she bent over near his face to smooth his disordered
bandages. When she withdrew she was blushing very prettily, and Vincent
was smiling in triumph. "On these terms," the smile seemed to say, "I
will be mute for an age."
What an adroit ally war is to love! Here was the self-contained
Olympia--so confident of herself--fond and yielding as Rosa; when war
rushed in, infirmity came to the rescue of Vincent's despairing passion.
Meanwhile, Jones began a systematic search among the prisoners for the
missing Caribees. Rosa joined with impatient ardor. There were three
thousand inmates of the improvised city, but no one resembling Jack or
Dick could be found. Linda, ministering to some of Vincent's comrades,
was piteously besought to ask her mistress's good offices for an orderly
in the small-pox ward. This was a tent far off from the main barracks on
the beach, attended only by a single surgeon and a corps of rather
indifferent nurses. Two of Vincent's men were in this lazar, shut off
from the world, for the soldier, reckless in battle, has a shuddering
horror of this loathsome disease. Rosa instantly resolved that she would
herself nurse the plague-smitten rebels. She had no fear of the disease,
the truth being that she had only the vaguest idea of what it was. With
great difficulty she obtained permission to visit the outcast colony.
She was forced to enter the noisome purlieu alone, even the maid's
devotion rebelling against the nameless horror small-pox has for
the African.