The Iron Game - Henry Francis Keenan
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Once within the long marquee, however, Rosa was relieved to find that
the casual spectacle was not different from that of the other seriously
sick-wards. A melancholy silence seemed to signalize the despair of the
twoscore patients, each occupying a cot screened from the rest by thin
canvas curtains. Double lines of sentries guarded each opening of the
marquee, so that no one could pass in or out without the rigidly _vised_
order of the surgeon-in-chief. Braziers of charcoal burned at the foot
of each bed, while the atmosphere was heavy with a strong solution of
carbolic acid, then just beginning to be recognized as a sovereign
preventive of malarious vapors, and an antiseptic against the germs of
disease. Rosa inquired for the _proteges_ she was seeking. They were
pointed out, on one side of the tent, the steward accompanying her
to each cot.
"All have the small-pox?" she inquired, shuddering, as she glanced at
the white screens, behind which an occasional plaintive groan could
be heard.
"Oh, no! there are some here that have no more small-pox than I have."
"Then why do you keep them here?" Rosa asked, indignantly.
"Oh, red tape, miss. There's two men that were brought here three months
ago. They'd no more small-pox than you have, miss; but they were
assigned here, and I have given up trying to get them taken to the
convalescent camp. The truth, is the surgeon in charge is afraid to show
up here. The others make by the number they have in charge, for we are
allowed extra pay and an extra ration for every case on hand."
"Why, this is infamous!" Rosa cried. "It is murder. Why don't you write
to the--the--head man?"
"And get myself in the guard-house for my trouble? No, thank you, miss.
I wouldn't have spoken to you if it hadn't been for the sympathy you
showed coming in, and to sort o' show you that you are not running so
much danger as folks try to make you believe."
Rosa had a basket on her arm filled with such comforting delicacies as
the surgeon had advised. She set about administering them to her
brother's orderly, when a feeble voice in a cot a few feet away fell
upon her ear. She started. Though almost a whisper, there was a strange
familiarity in the low tone. She turned to the steward--
"Who is in the third cot from here?"
"Let me see. Oh, yes, number seven; that's a man named Paling."
"And the next?"
"Number eight; that's a man named Jake, or Jakes, I'm blessed if I am
certain. They've been out of their head since they come. They're the two
I spoke of who ain't no more small-pox than I have."
"May I see them?"
"Certainly. I'll see that they're in shape for inspection, and call
you."
He disappeared behind the curtain and could be heard in a kindly, jovial
tone:
"There, sonny, keep kivered; the lady is coming to bring you something
better than the doctor's gruel, so lie still."
Beckoning to Rosa, he made way for her to enter the narrow aisle of
number seven, but he nearly fell over the man across the bed, when Rosa,
with a shriek, fell upon the body of number seven, crying:
"O, my darling, my darling, I have found you!"
It would have required the eyes of maternal love of Rosa's to recognize
our jaunty Dick in the emaciated, fleshless face that lay imbedded in
the disarray of the cot. Dick's blue eyes were sunken and dim, his lips
chalky and parched. He made no sign of recognition when Rosa drew back
with her arm under his head to scrutinize the disease-worn face.
"Sometimes, miss, he is in his right mind--but he goes off again like
this. Is the other man his brother? They seem to understand each other
when they are at the worst. Once when we separated them they fought like
maniacs until we were forced to let them be near again."
"Oh, yes--the other." Rosa started and hastened to the next cot. Yes, it
was Jack--or a piteous ghost of him. He was sleeping, and she
withdrew gently.
"Please distribute the contents of the basket to the men I named. I will
be back presently."
With this she darted out, running at the top of her speed, heedless even
of the peremptory challenge of the sentries, who thought her mad or
stricken with the plague, and made no attempt to molest her. She ran
straight to Jones's quarters. He was writing, and started in surprise as
she entered panting and breathless.
"Ah! I have found them; I have found them!" She could say no more. Jones
helped her to a seat and held a glass of water to her lips. Then she
regained breath.
"They are in the small-pox ward, but they haven't the disease. Ah! they
are there, they are there. Come at once and take them away. Ah! take
them away this minute."
"By 'they' do you mean Perley and Sprague?" Jones asked, breathlessly.
"Yes, ah, yes. Thank God! thank God! Ah! I could say prayers from now
until my dying day. But, oh, Mr. Jones, do, do hurry; because they may
die if we do not get them away from that dreadful pest-house."
"It will take some time to get the order for the removal. Meanwhile,
they will need good nursing. If you hope to help them you must be calm;
you must keep well. Now go to your brother. It is just as well that Miss
Sprague went away this morning. Before she comes back, her brother will
be in a place she can visit with safety. You can not go back there. You
must remain patient now until I get them away from that
dangerous place."
It was not until the next day that the red tape of the establishment was
so far cut as to warrant the surgeon in charge in making a personal
inspection of the two invalids. He at once, and in indignant
astonishment, pronounced the two untouched by the disease set against
their names in their papers of admission. Early in the afternoon they
were carried on a stretcher to a clean, fresh tent on the sandy beach,
where the laurel bushes almost ran into the water. Letters had been
dispatched to Olympia in forming her that Jack was found, and urging her
to come on at once. The next evening the three ladies arrived--Mrs.
Sprague, Olympia, and Kate. With them they brought a renowned physician
who had been uniformly successful in treating maladies of the sort the
lads were described as suffering.
Days of painful anxiety followed. Once, all hope of Dick was abandoned,
and his aunts were telegraphed for. But, in the end, he opened his big
blue eyes, sane and convalescent. There was rapid mending after this,
you may be sure. Kate had, through Olympia's unobtrusive manoeuvring,
been forced to bear the burden of Jack's nursing, and, somehow, when
that impatient warrior mingled amorous pleadings with his early
consciousness, she forgot upon which side the burden of repentance and
forgiving lay. She listened with gentle serenity to his protestations,
checking him only by the threat to quit the place and return to
her father.
During all this, Rosa was divided in her mind. She resented the
assiduity of Jones in the recovery of Dick. That reticent person had
installed himself in Dick's tent and never quitted the lad, day or
night, unless to relinquish him to Rosa's arbitrary hand. When, one day,
Pliny and Merry Perley entered the tent, Jones changed color. The two
ladies, not heeding the stranger, fell upon the convalescent on the cot,
and Jones slipped away. Thereafter Rosa had her invalid to herself,
Jones only reappearing at night, to keep the vigils of the dark. A month
later, the invalids were strong enough to be removed. An inquiry had
been set on foot to account for the presence of the two Union soldiers
among the rebel prisoners. The result was confusing, however. The facts
seemed to point out design in the original entry of the young men's
names at Hampton, where they had been taken when brought in by
the outposts.
The dispersion of the rest of their companions from Richmond was
accounted for by furloughs granted them so soon as they reached the
provost-marshal's office. Just before leaving Point Lookout Jack
received a much-directed letter that gave signs of having been in every
mail-bag in the Army of the Potomac. It was from Barney Moore, bristling
with wonder and turgid with woful lamentation at Jack's coldness in not
writing him. He had been sent by mistake to Ship Island, near New
Orleans, to join his regiment, and had only at the writing of the letter
reached Washington, where the Caribees were expected every day to move
to the Peninsula in McClellan's new campaign.
So soon as he was sufficiently recovered to write, Jack reported by
letter to the regiment. He had received no reply. The explanation was
awaiting him so soon as he reached Washington. While seated with his
mother in Willard's, a heavy knock came on the door. It was thrown open
before the maid could reach it. A provost corporal stood on the
threshold, a file of men behind him:
"I have an order for the arrest of Sergeant John Sprague."
"I am John Sprague. Of what am I accused?"
"I have no orders to tell you. My orders are to deliver you at the
provost prison. You will hear the charges there."
"But I am still under the doctor's charge. I am on the hospital list."
"I don't know what condition you are in. My orders are to arrest you,
and you know I have no option. All can be remedied at the
provost's office."
"I will go with you, my son," Mrs. Sprague said, trying to look
untroubled. "It is some error which can be explained."
"No, mamma, you can't come. Send word to the counsel you engaged in the
search. I fancy it is some mistake; but I wish it hadn't occurred just
now. I wouldn't write Olympia about it." Olympia had gone on to Acredale
with Kate, to set the house in order for a season of festivity. Jack,
Vincent, Dick, and the rest, were to join them so soon as the invalid
had taken rest in Washington.
The guard indulged Jack in a carriage to headquarters. Here he was
handed over to a lieutenant in charge, and conducted to a prison-like
apartment in the rear.
"What is the charge against me?" Jack asked, as the officer touched a
bell.
"I am not acquainted with the papers in your case. My instructions are
to hold you until called for.--Sergeant," he added, as a soldier in
uniform entered, "the prisoner is to be confined in close quarters, and
is not to be lost sight of night or day."
The soldier saluted and motioned Jack to follow him, two other soldiers
closing in behind him as he set out. At the end of a short hallway the
sergeant stopped, took a key from a bunch at his belt, unlocked a
heavily-barred door and motioned Jack to enter. It was useless to
protest, useless to parley. He knew military procedure too well to think
of it, but his heart swelled with bitter rage. This was the reward of an
almost idolatrous patriotism--this was the _patrie's_ way of cherishing
her defenders. He flung himself on the cot in a wild passion of tears
and rebellious scorn. But his humiliation was not yet ended; while he
sat with his face covered by his bands, he felt hands upon his legs, and
the sharp click of a lock. He moved his left leg. Great God! it was
chained to an enormous iron bolt. He started to rise; the sharp links of
the chain cut his ankle as the great ball rolled away from him. With a
cry of madness he flung himself on the harsh pine pallet, groaning his
heart out in bitter anguish and maledictions. In time food was brought
him, but he sat supine, staring ghastly at the dull-eyed orderly,
silent, unquestioning. Dim banners of light fell across the corridor.
They were broken at regular intervals by the passing figure of a sentry.
The night wore on. There was a lull in the monotonous tramp. Steps came
toward Jack's cell--stopped; the key grated in the lock; some one
touched him on the shoulder. He never stirred.
"Cheer up, Sprague; it's all a mistake." It was the voice of the lawyer.
At this Jack started, his eyes gleaming wildly. "Ah, I thought so. I
knew I could never have been disgraced like this in earnest. They have
discovered the wrong done me?"
"No, no; not exactly that, Jack, but we shall show them the mistake, I
make no doubt."
"Why am I dishonored? Of what am I accused? Why am I here?" Jack cried,
shivering under the revulsion from despair to hope, and from hope back
to horror.
"You are dishonored, my poor young friend, because a court-martial has
found you guilty of murder, desertion, and treason against the articles
of war, and you are here because you are sentenced to be shot one week
from Friday, in the center of a hollow square, seated on your
own coffin."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
FATHER ABRAHAM'S JOKE.
In her own mind, as the train rolled toward Acredale from Washington,
Kate was enjoying in anticipation the victory she had to announce to her
father. He had written her regularly from Warchester, where he was
engaged in an important suit. She had written more frequently than he,
but she had made no allusion to the happy ending of her troubles. It was
partly dread that the knowledge of Jack's restoration might bring on
more active hostility, as well as a whimsical feminine caprice to spring
the great event upon him when all danger was over. She watched Dick and
Rosa in the seat near her, for they, too, were of the advance guard to
Acredale, where, when Olympia had arranged the house, Vincent and Jack
were to come for final restoration to health. When the party arrived at
the little Acredale Station there was a great crowd gathered.
A company of the Caribees was just setting out for the front. Some of
the old members recognized Dick, and then straightway went up a cheer
that brought all the corner loiterers to the spot to learn the goings
on. It was in consequence rather a triumphal procession that followed
the carriage to the Sprague gateway, and even followed up the sanded
road to the broad piazza. Rosa remained with Olympia, while Kate carried
Dick off to commit him to the aunts waiting on the porch to welcome the
prodigal. Kate had telegraphed her coming, and her father was at the
door to meet her. He was plainly relieved and delighted to have her with
him again, for he held her long and close in his arms. "Then all's
forgiven; we're friends again," she said, laughing and crying together.
"There is nothing to forgive. It may be a matter of regret that you are
a Boone in blood rather than an Ovid, and that you imitate the Boones in
obstinacy. But justice has been done, and there's no need to quarrel
about strangers."
She didn't understand in the least what he meant about justice being
done. Remembering that all was well, she smiled as they entered the
library, and when she had removed her wraps, said, in repressed triumph:
"You need never attempt the role of Shylock again. I play Portia better
than you play the Jew. You have lost your pound of flesh."
"Well, be magnanimous. Don't abuse your victory. I shouldn't, in your
place; but women are never merciful to the fallen."
"I am to you. For, see, I kiss you as gayly as when I believed you all
heart and goodness."
"Now you believe me no heart and badness?"
"I didn't say that, I say you are given over to sinful hates, and I must
correct you."
"Well, I'm willing now to be corrected."
"But the correction will be a severe one; you must prepare for a very
grievous penance."
"Knowing you, I can foresee that you won't spare the rod. Very well,
I'll try to get used to it."
At this moment a servant came to the door.
"A note for Miss Kate," she said. Kate tore it open and read:
"Come to me at once. I have frightful news from
Washington. As it concerns Jack you ought to know it.
"OLYMPIA."
She read the lines twice before she could seize the meaning. Frightful
news concerning Jack! Had he suffered a relapse? Had he been
accidentally hurt? No; if it had been news of that sort, Olympia would
have come herself. A gleam of prescience shot through her brain. The
court--the charges against Jack! That was it. That was the secret of her
father's equanimity under her raillery. She turned with a rush into the
library. The bad blood of the Boones was all up in her soul now. She
walked straight at, not to her father, and, holding Olympia's note
before him, said in bitter scorn:
"Tell me what this means. I know that you know."
He took the paper with leisurely unconcern, affecting not to remark
Kate's flashing wrath; he read the lines, handed the paper back, or held
it toward Kate, who put her hands behind her.
"Since it concerns you, my child, suppose you go over and ask Miss
Sprague. How should I know the affairs of such superior people?"
"Could nothing soften you?--humanize you, I was going to say. Could
nothing satisfy you but the death of this injured family?--for this blow
will kill them. Kill them? Why should they care to live when that noble
fellow has been dishonored by your cruel acts? Ah, I know what you have
done! You have brought the court to disgrace Jack--to make him appear a
deserter. You it was who, in some mysterious way, caused him to be
abducted into the small-pox ward among the rebel prisoners. But it shall
all be made known. I shall myself go on the stand and testify to your
handiwork. Yes, I am a Boone in this. I will follow the lesson you have
set me. I will avenge the innocent and save him by exposing the guilty."
"On second thought, daughter, you are not in a frame of mind to see
strangers to-night. You will remain home this evening. To-morrow you can
see your friend and advise her in her sorrow, whatever it is." He went
to the door and called the servant. "Go to Miss Sprague with my
compliments, and tell her my daughter is not able to leave the house
this evening." As the man closed the outer door, Kate made a step
forward, crying:
"You never mean to say that I am a prisoner in my own father's house?"
"Certainly not. We're not play-actors. I think it best that you should
not go to the neighbors to-night, and you, as a dutiful daughter, obey
without murmur, because I have always been an indulgent parent and
gratified every whim of yours, even to letting you consort with my
bitterest enemies for months." As he spoke, there was a ring at the
doorbell. Presently the servant entered the room and announced "Mr.
Jones." Before Boone could direct him to be shown into another room
Jones entered the library, fairly pushing the astonished menial aside.
Boone held up his hand with a warning gesture, and nodded toward Kate;
but, without halting, Jones advanced to Boone's chair, and, seizing him
by the shoulder, held up a copy of the afternoon paper.
"Read that? What does it mean?"
Boone's eyes rested a moment on the paragraphs pointed out. Then,
throwing the paper aside, he asked, coldly:
"Why should you ask me what it means? If you are interested in the
affair, you might find out by writing to the court."
At this, Jones, looking around the room, marked the two doors, one
leading to the hall, the other to the drawing-room. He deliberately went
to each, and, locking it, slipped the key in his pocket. He glanced
reassuringly at Kate, as she sat dumfounded waiting the issue of this
singular scene. He confronted Boone, leaning against the mantel.
"It's just as well that we have a witness to this final settlement,
Elisha Boone.--Twenty years ago, Miss Boone, I was a citizen of this
town. I was the owner of these acres. I am Richard Perley. In those days
I was a wild fellow--I thought then, a wicked one; but I have learned
since that I was not, for folly is not crime. In those days--I was
barely twenty-five--your father had a hard ground to till in his way of
life. I became his patron, and from that I became his slave. I never
exactly knew how it came about, but within a few years most of my
property was mortgaged to Elisha Boone. I won't accuse him, as the world
does, of inciting me to drink and gambling. God knows he has enough to
answer for without that! In the end I was driven to a deed that
imperiled my liberty, and Elisha Boone put the temptation and the means
to do it within my reach. Detection followed, and the detection came
about through Elisha Boone. All my property in his hands, my name a
scorn, and my person subject to the law, Elisha Boone had no further
fear of me, and thenceforth doled me out an income sufficient to supply
my modest wants. I strove to turn the new leaf that recommends itself to
men who have exhausted the so-called pleasures of life. I was living in
honesty and seclusion in Richmond, when Boone, who had never lost sight
of me, came with a mission for me to perform. I was engaged as an agent
of the detective force of the United States, with the special duty of
rescuing Wesley Boone from captivity.
"I was further commissioned to get evidence against John Sprague, fixing
upon him the crime of betraying his colors and aiding the Confederacy.
In the attempt to rescue Captain Boone at Bosedale circumstances pointed
to the guilt of young Sprague, but that was all dissipated a few weeks
after, when, at the peril of his own life, not once, but a score of
times, he rashly liberated a score or two of prisoners, and personally
led them through an entire rebel army to the Union lines. I, who would
have been abandoned by a less noble nature, for I was weakened by
captivity and bad fare, broke down, but Sprague and--and--young Dick--my
son, clung to me with such devotion as few sons would exhibit under such
trials, and brought me safe to the outposts. Here, by some mysterious
means, we were all dispersed. When I found my senses I was under Elisha
Boone's Samaritan care in the house where you saw me at first. The two
boys, Sprague and Perley, spirited away from the hospital at Hampton,
where they had been entered under assumed names, Jacques and Paling,
were by some curious instrumentality hidden in the small-pox ward of the
rebel prison at Point Lookout. While they lay there, and while some one
in Washington knew that they were there, a court martial in that city
hurriedly convened, found John Sprague guilty of murder, desertion, and
treason, and the evening dispatches from Washington state that John
Sprague is to be shot a week from Friday in a hollow square, in which a
company of the Caribees is to do the shooting.
"Miss Boone, you worked faithfully to rescue the life of this young man,
but your father has brought that work to ruin. Worse, the death you
dreaded when you gave heart and soul to the rescue of the lost was a
mercy compared to that in store for him. He is to be shot by a file of
his own company, seated upon a rough board coffin, ready to receive his
mangled remains. You will--"
But Kate, at this hideous detail, fell with a low, wailing cry to the
floor, happily dead to the woful consciousness of the scene and its
meaning. Jones ran to the door, and, unlocking it, shouted for the
servants. When they came, she was carried to her room and the physician
summoned. Almost at the same time Olympia, in her traveling-dress, drove
up. She was informed by the servants of Kate's state, and, without
stopping to ask permission, ran up to the sick-room. Kate was now
conscious, but at sight of Olympia she covered her face, shuddering.
"Ah, Kate! Kate! what is it? Have you learned the dreadful news? I am
going to take the train back this evening."
"I, too, will go with you. Stay with me; don't leave me!"
She stopped, put out her hand, as if to make sure of Olympia, then broke
into low but convulsive sobs. Her father, with the doctor, entered the
room; but at the sight Kate turned her head to the wall, crying,
piteously:
"No, no--not here, not here! I can't see him now! Oh, spare me! I--I--"
"Do your duty, doctor," Boone said, in a quick, gasping tone, and with
an uncertain step quit the chamber. Olympia explained to the physician
that Kate had heard painful news from an unexpected quarter, and that
her illness was more nervous than physical.
"I don't know about that," the doctor said, decisively. He felt her
pulse, then with a quick start of surprise raised her head and examined
the tongue and lining of the palate. A still graver look settled on his
face as he tested the breath and action of the heart. When he had
apparently satisfied himself he turned to Olympia with a perturbed air,
and, beckoning her into the dressing-room, said:
"Miss Sprague, this is no place for you. Miss Boone has every symptom of
typhoid fever. She has evidently been exposed to a malarial air. Her
complaint may be even worse than typhoid--I can't quite make out certain
whitish blotches on her skin. I should suspect small-pox or varioloid,
but that there has not been a case reported here for years. Where has
she been of late?"
Olympia turned ghastly white with horror.
"O doctor, she has been nursing Jack, who was for weeks in the small-pox
ward at Point Lookout!"
"Good God! Fly, fly the house at once! I wondered if I could be deceived
in the symptoms. I must insist on your leaving at once."
"But the poor girl must have some one of her own sex with her. Whom can
she get if not a friend?"
"She can get a professional nurse, and that is worth a dozen friends.
Indeed, friends will be only a drawback for the next ten days."
He took her gently by the shoulders and pushed her out of the room. He
was an old friend of the family, and she was accustomed to his
tyrannical ways. He held her sternly under way until the front door
closed and shut her out. Then, turning into the library, he saw that the
host was alone. Closing the door, he said: