A Little Traitor to the South

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER XIII

  COMPANIONS IN MISERY

  It is conceivable that a man could manage to bear without repining theloss of fame and fortune, that he could survive deprivation of rank andstation with equanimity, nay, more, that he might even contemplate witha philosophic indifference an impending forfeiture of life, provided hehad love to sustain him. But when that is lost, and consequentlyeverything is gone, he has to fall back upon conscious rectitude alone,which is well enough in schemes of philosophy, but most inadequate inthe emergencies and crises of real life.

  Lieutenant Rhett Sempland, under arrest, in confinement, awaitingtrial, alone and unvisited by any one,--which meant Fanny Glen,--feltthat morning as if he had indeed lost everything. He had been certainat first that Fanny Glen had returned his swift, impulsive caress inthe strong room even in the peculiar circumstances under which he hadbestowed it upon her, and he had therefore naturally inferred that sheloved him. Indeed, when he thought of the look in her eyes when hestrained her to his breast, although he had the pistol pointed at herforehead, the conviction was strong within him.

  Yet, again and again this proposition presented itself to him, crushinghis hope and breaking his heart: How could a woman who loved a man, anda woman especially who had become sufficiently conversant with militaryaffairs through her hospital service and other experiences in this warto understand what she was doing, have placed her lover in socompromising a position?

  And most damnably crushing thought of all, why had she not had thecommon decency after all to come and see him this morning? He was introuble, and he suffered for her sake. She must know that, she mustrealize it. Why did she give no sign of it?

  His loneliness and his craving to see her was terrible. His desire tosee her grew with every passing moment, he was consumed by it; yet, hethought bitterly, to what purpose, after all?

  Some of this had come to him last night; but the more he thought of it,the more uncertain, miserable, and deserted he felt. So it is notstrange that it was not so much his own impending fate as it was thehopeless endeavor to discover the real reason for Fanny Glen's conductwhich engrossed his attention that fateful morning.

  He had failed miserably, officially and personally. He decided, againstheart and hope, at last, that he had made no progress in his loveaffair. The woman he adored had given him convincing proof, so heargued, rebellious against the conclusion to the last, that hisprofessional future was a matter of indifference to her; nay, that hisvery life was a thing she would jeopard or even forfeit lightly. Lacy,as usual, had stepped in the breach and earned immortal fame, even ifhe had to die to secure it. Sempland envied him his rest, with hisbrave companions in arms in the desperate sea venture, beneath thecool, green waters of the ocean that laved their beloved shore.

  Well, there was no use in worrying or speculating any longer. It wouldall be over soon now. He was sufficiently experienced as a soldier toknow what would happen to him. There was only one possible verdict,only one punishment for the crimes with which he was charged.

  When he was sentenced to death, his friends would undoubtedly moveheaven and earth to get President Davis to mitigate or commute hispunishment; but he was resolved in his own mind firmly to discouragesuch efforts. He took a gloomy view of life and of love and ofwomen--do they not always go together in the heart of youth? There wasnothing now, therefore, for which he cared to live.

  Yet if he could only see Fanny Glen again! Why did she not send someone to inquire as to his whereabouts? Surely she might ask after hiswelfare. She must know he was under arrest. Why could she not comeherself? He was sacrificing himself for her, to preserve her freedom,ay, her honor and reputation. She might not love him, but at least shemight have manifested a decent interest in his fate. The barestpoliteness ought to make a woman take some thought for a man who wasabout to be shot for her sake, he thought bitterly.

  Well, he swore to himself, if she should come at the last moment, shewould find him as cold as ice, as indifferent as a Laodicean! He wouldshow her that he appreciated at its true value not only her heinousconduct, but her criminal neglect as well. He would make her understandthat it was not love for her that kept him silent. Oh, no! Simply theobligation of a gentleman, a man of honor, albeit a quixotic one.

  Oh, noble resolution! He would go to his grave silent, loading upon herthe weight of an obligation, from which she should never escape. Whenthe war was over she might marry that man on the _Wabash_ whom she hadbeen so anxious to save that she had pretended love for him--Sempland!Yes, he would be under obligation, too, this Union sailor, for toSempland would be due his possession of Fanny Glen.

  The imprisoned officer ground his teeth in rage at that thought andturned suddenly from the barred window where he had been standinglistlessly looking down the bay toward old Fort Sumter, almost knockedto pieces by fierce bombardments, yet still flying the Stars and Barsin brave defiance of the ironclads far away, and with clenched hands,firm-set lips, and troubled brow, began pacing up and down the longapartment. The moments dragged miserably. He wished they would assemblethat court-martial and have it over with. He would not care what theydid, he thought savagely. He was sick and tired of the wholebusiness--the war, the South, General Beauregard, Fanny Glen,everything, everybody!

  Suddenly he heard footsteps, the clanking of a sword, a word or twoexchanged between the sentry and a newcomer, in the corridor. Some oneturned the handle of the door. It was opened.

  Sempland instantly stood at attention, then folded his arms with greatdignity, expecting, of course, to confront some one sent to fetch himto the opening session of the court. General Beauregard was remarkablefor his promptness and celerity, and he had declared that the young manshould be tried immediately. He had wondered already at the unnecessarydelay. But no stern-featured, dignified official presented himself.Sempland's astonished gaze fell upon the small figure of a woman!

  The door was instantly closed and locked behind her without a word ofexplanation from those outside, and the two were alone in a locked roomfor the second time in twenty-four hours. There was a difference in thesituation that morning, although the man did not know it. On thisoccasion Fanny Glen was a prisoner as well as he.

  He could not see her face as her veil still remained down, yet therewas no mistaking her form. Indeed he felt that had it been midnight hewould have recognized her presence. His heart leaped within his breastat the sight of her. He thought it beat so she might almost have heardit in the perfect silence that had fallen between them.

  His first impulse was to run toward her and take her in his arms oncemore. Above all his troubled conclusions of the night before therecollection of that instant when he had held her so closely stillremained dominant. In her presence he almost forgot everything butthat. Yet he looked at her impassively for a moment, bowed slightly,then turned and walked deliberately to the other end of the room,resuming his station at the window looking out to sea.

  She had an excellent view of his back. The beating of his heart did notmanifest itself outwardly after all. To her gaze he appeared asimpassive, as quiet, as motionless, as if he had been cut out of ironlike the grated bars. It was a most unsatisfactory beginning to whatmust prove an important interview. They played at cross purposesindeed. He had sacrificed himself to save her, she had sacrificedherself to save him, and here they were both prisoners apparently, andthings were as unsettled as ever!

  Poor Fanny Glen was infinitely more surprised at the sight of her loverthan he had been at the sight of her. Not until she had fairly enteredthe room and the door had been closed behind her had she realized thatshe was not alone, that he was there. She stood rooted to the spot,waiting to see what he would do. Had he followed his first impulse,which would have been to sweep her to his breast, he would have foundher unresisting, submissive, acquiescent. The kiss which had been givenher last night still trembled upon her lips. It was for the taking, shewas his for the asking.

  Yet his first movement, save for that cold, perfunctory salutation, hadbe
en one of indifference amounting to contempt. He despised her, then;he hated her. She had brought him to a terrible position. Ah, well, hewould be sorry for her when he learned her reason, and he would be moresorry for his treatment of her when he learned that he would be freeand she would suffer for it, not he.

  There was something very attractive, after all, in her possiblemartyrdom. The thought gave her not a little comfort. She was surprisedthat Sempland had not been immediately summoned to the general'spresence when she had been put under guard. She supposed, however, thatthe delay was due to some military technicality, and she imagined thatthe next moment would see him called from the room in her presence. Andshe would be left alone, most miserably, forlornly alone to face herfate.

  Being a martyr is certainly a fine thing, but the position loses halfits charm unless people know it. To complete her melancholysatisfaction, he--and he considered himself the martyr, not she!--mustrecognize it. If he would only turn and speak to her. This silence,this immobility, on his part, was unbearable.

  She coughed gently and took a step or two across the floor toward him.He gave no sign that he heard her. How cruel he was! So despotic, sodetermined, so masterful! She abominated a masterful man! She coughedagain, and this time a little more emphatically. Still no attention. Itwas discouraging!

  There was a small mirror upon the wall of the room. Her eye inaccordance with an instinct feminine, fell swiftly upon it. She liftedher veil to see how far the experiences she had gone through hadaffected her most potent talisman.

  "Heavens!" she thought, "what a fright!"

  To take off her hat was the work of a moment. Her swift, subtle fingersbusied themselves with her rebellious curls. Another glance reassuredher a little. She felt more confident. She coughed again, but asbefore, he did not move.

  "Mr. Sempland," she said softly at last, in sheer desperation.

  He turned on his heel as suddenly as if he had been moved by a spring,and faced her. He had been longing for a chance to recede from hisposition.

  "Miss Glen," he answered with depressing coldness.

  "You--you--don't--seem very glad--to see me, sir."

  The moment was one of great importance to both of them; their future,the life and happiness of one, the honor and good name of the other,depended upon it--so they thought at least. The conversationaccordingly began, as conversations under such circumstances usuallybegin, in trivialities.

  "I am not," he answered shortly and mendaciously as well.

  "I suppose not. I noticed that you--your welcome--wasn't very cordial,I am sure."

  "I didn't mean it to be."

  "Why didn't you order me out of your room, then?" she went on withbecoming humility.

  "This room is not mine, I am a prisoner, madam. I have no choice as tomy guests."

  "But you will soon be free," returned the girl, quietly. "That is, assoon as General Beauregard learns that I--I--"

  "Give yourself no concern, Miss Glen," he said loftily; "I shall notbetray you."

  "What! You won't tell him?" with a perfect assumption of profoundamazement.

  "I will not," sternly.

  "But they say--I heard--you are to--be--court-martialled."

  Her voice sank to a low whisper, as if she were awestricken by theheavy tidings.

  "I am."

  "And that you will be found guilty--"

  "I shall be."

  "And--you may--be--shot!"

  "You should have thought of that last night when you arrested me,imprisoned me, and so made me false to my duty; but what's the use--"He checked the swift rush of his indignation and continued in bittercalm: "A woman who could so trifle with a soldier's honor cannotappreciate the consequences to him."

  "I am sure," she went on very humbly, "that I didn't realize what wouldhappen."

  "Of course not," sarcastically.

  "And I am willing to make any amends that I can. I will tell GeneralBeauregard myself that I did it. That it was my fault. That I alone amto blame."

  "I forbid you to do it!" he exclaimed with great energy.

  "I do not care what you say, I shall do it!" stubbornly.

  "You do not know what it means," he urged, his heart leaping at thethought that she was willing to set him right and take the blame uponherself--and she loved him after all! Yet he could not permit her to doit. "You do not know what this would mean to you," he repeated. "It wasan act of high treason to the South. They will put you in my place.They will certainly punish you."

  "Would they shoot me?" she inquired in her most terrified manner, hereyes wide open with beautifully simulated terror.

  "'Would they shoot me?' she inquired."]

  He felt so sorry for the poor little frightened thing. He longed togather her up in his arms and comfort her, reassure her.

  "They might," he returned, stepping nearer to her and visiblyunbending. "I cannot have you take the risk. I won't allow it!"

  There was something nice, after all, in the imperative mood, shethought.

  "But how will you prevent it, Mr. Sempland?"

  "I tell you, I forbid you!"

  "But if I disobey? I never promised to obey you, did I?--that is, notyet?"

  "I cannot compel you, of course," he answered sadly, drawing back alittle. "I know I have neither power nor influence over you, Miss Glen,but this, at least, I can do. I can swear that you are not telling thetruth."

  "I am sure they would not believe you against me," she retortedvehemently.