A War-Time Wooing: A Story

by Charles King

  II.

  An hour after sundown and the rattling old cabriolet has two occupantsas it drives back to town. Colonel Putnam comes forth with the oldgentleman whom he had so tenderly conducted to the farmhouse but a fewmoments after the strange scene out on the bank, and is now his escortto Frederick. The sergeant of the guard has been besieged withquestions, for several of the men saw the doctor drop upon the bench andwere aware of the melodramatic nature of the meeting. Lieutenant Abbotwith a face paler than before, with a strange look of perplexity andsmouldering wrath about his handsome eyes, has gone over to his owntent, where the surgeon presently visits him. The colonel and hiscivilian visitor are closeted together over half an hour, and the latterlooks more dead than alive, say the men, as he feebly totters down thesteps clinging to the colonel's arm.

  "What did you say was the name of the officer who was killed--his son?"asks one of the guards as he stands at the entrance to the tent.

  "Warren--Guthrie Warren," answers the sergeant, briefly. "I don't knowwhether the old man's crazy or not. He said the lieutenant had beenwriting to him for months about his son, and the lieutenant deniedhaving written a line."

  "He lied then, by----!" comes a savage growl from within the tent."Where is the old man? Give me a look at him!" and the scowling face ofRix makes its sudden appearance at the tent-flop, peering forth into thefire-light.

  "Be quiet, Rix, and go back where you belong. You've made more thanenough trouble to-day," is the sergeant's low-toned order.

  "I tell you I only want to see the old man," answers the teamster,struggling, "Don't you threaten me with that bayonet, Drake," he growlssavagely at the sentry, who has thrown himself in front of the opening."It'll be the worse for you fellows that you ever confined me, no matterby whose order; but as for that stuck-up prig, by----! you'll see soonenough what'll come of _his_ ordering me into the guard-tent."

  His voice is so hoarse and loud with anger that the colonel's attentionis attracted. He has just seated Doctor Warren in the vehicle, and isabout to take his place by his side when Rix's tirade bursts upon hisear. The words are only partially distinguishable, but the colonel stepspromptly back.

  "What is the matter with your prisoner, sergeant? Is he drunk or crazy,that he persists in this uproar?"

  "I don't think it either, sir," answers the sergeant; while Rix, atsight of his commanding officer, pops his head back within the tent, andshuts the narrow slit. "He's simply ugly and bent on making trouble."

  "Well, stop it! If he utters another insubordinate word, have him buckedand gagged at once. He is disgracing the regiment, and I won't tolerateit. Do you understand?"

  "I do, sir."

  The colonel turns abruptly away, while the prisoner, knowing his man,keeps discreetly out of sight, and correspondingly silent. At the gatethe older officer stops once more and calls to a soldier who is standingnear.

  "Give my compliments to Lieutenant Abbot, and say that I will be outhere again to-morrow afternoon. Now, doctor, I am with you."

  The old gentleman is leaning wearily back in his corner of the cab; astrange, stunned, lethargic feeling seems to have come over him. Hiseyes are fixed on vacancy, if anything, and the colonel's attempt atcheeriness meets no response. As the vehicle slowly rattles away hemakes an effort, rouses himself as it were from a stupor-like condition,and abruptly speaks:

  "You tell me that--that you have seen Lieutenant Abbot's mail all summerand spring and never saw a--our postmark--Hastings?"

  "I have seen his mail very often, and thought his correspondents wereall home people. I am sure I would have noticed any letters comingfrequently in one handwriting, and his father's is the only masculinesuperscription that was at all regular."

  "My letters--our home letters--were not often addressed by me,"hesitates the doctor. "The postmark might have given you an idea. I hadnot time--" but he breaks off, weakly. It is so hard for him toprevaricate: and it is bitter as death to tell the truth, now. Andworse--worse! What is he to tell--_how_ is he to tell her?

  The colonel speaks slowly and sadly, but with earnest conviction:

  "No words can tell you how I mourn the heartlessness of this trick,doctor; but you may rest assured it is no doing of Abbot's. What earthlyinducement could he have? Think of it! a man of his family andconnections--and character, too. Some scoundrel has simply borrowed hisname, possibly in the hope of bleeding you for money. Did none of theletters ever suggest embarrassments? It is most unfortunate that you didnot bring them with you. I know the writing of every officer and many ofthe men in the regiment, and it would give me a clew with which to work.Promise me you will send them when you reach home."

  The Doctor bows his head in deep dejection. "What good will it do? Ithought to find a comrade of my boy's. Indeed! it must be one who knewhim well!--and how can I desire to bring to punishment one whoappreciated my son as this unknown writer evidently did. His only crimeseems to have been a hesitancy about giving his own name."

  "And a scoundrelly larceny of that of a better man in every way. No,doctor. The honor of my regiment demands that he be run down and broughtto justice; and you must not withhold the only proof with which we canreach him. Promise me!"

  "I--I will think. I am all unstrung now, my dear sir! Pray do not pressme! If it was not Mr. Abbot, who could it have been? Who else could haveknown him?"

  "Why, Doctor Warren, there are probably fifty Harvard men in this oneregiment--or were at least," says the colonel, sadly, "up to a monthago. Cedar Mountain, Bull Run, South Mountain, and Antietam have leftbut a moiety. Most of our officers are graduates of the old college, andmany a man was there. I dare say I could have found a dozen who wellknew your son. In the few words I had with Abbot, he told me heremembered that there had been some talk among the officers last Julyafter your son was killed. Some one saw the name in the papers, and saidthat it must have been Warren of the class of '58, and our CaptainWebster, who was killed at Manassas, was in that class and knew himwell. Abbot said he remembered him, by sight, as a sophomore would knowa senior, but had never spoken to him. Anybody hearing all the talkgoing on at the time we got the news of Seven Pines could have wovenquite a college history out of it--and somebody has."

  "Ah, colonel! There is still the fact of the photograph, and the lettersthat were written about Guthrie all last winter--long before SevenPines."

  The colonel looks utterly dejected, too; he shakes his head, mournfully."That troubles Abbot as much as it does me. Fields, gallant fellow, wasour adjutant then, and he and Abbot were close friends. He could hardlyhave had a hand in anything beyond the photograph and letter which, youtell me, were sent to the Soldier's Aid Society in town. I remember theyoung fellows were having quite a lot of fun about their Havelocks whenwe lay at Edwards's Ferry--but Fields was shot dead, almost the firstman, at Cedar Mountain, and of the thirty-five officers we had when wecrossed the Potomac the first time, only eleven are with the--th to-day.Abbot, who was a junior second lieutenant then, is a captain now, byrights, and daily expecting his promotion. I showed you several lettersin his hand, and they, you admit, are utterly unlike the ones youreceived. Indeed, doctor, it is impossible to connect Abbot with it inany way."

  The doctor's face is covered by his hands. In ten minutes or less hemust be at _her_ side. What can he tell his little girl? What shall hesay? What possible, probable story can man invent to cover a case socruel as this? He hardly hears the colonel's words. He isthinking--thinking with a bursting heart and whirling brain. For a timeall sense of the loss of his only son seems deadened in face of thisundreamed-of, this almost incredible shadow that has come to blight thesweet and innocent life that is so infinitely dear to him. What can hesay to Bessie when he meets those beautiful, pleading, trusting, anxiouseyes? She has borne up so bravely, silently, patiently. Their journeyhas been trying and full of fatigue, but once at Frederick he has lefther in the hands of a sympathetic woman, the wife of the proprietor ofthe only tavern in which a room could be had, and, promising to returnas soon
as he could see the lieutenant, he has gone away on his questwith hopeful heart. A soldier claiming to be of the--th Massachusettstold them that very morning at the Baltimore station that Mr. Abbot waswell enough to be up and about. It is barely nine o'clock now. In lessthan an hour there will be a train going back. All he can think of isthat they must go--go as quick as possible. They have nothing now tokeep them here, and he has one secret to guard from all--his littlegirl's. No one must know, none suspect that. In the bitterness ofdesolation, still stunned and bewildered by the cruelty of the blow thathas come upon them, his mind is clear on that point. If possible no one,except those people at the tavern, must know she was with him. None mustsuspect--above all--none must suspect the bitter truth. It would crushher like a bruised and trodden flower.

  "If--if it had been a correspondence where there was a woman in thecase," begins the colonel again--and the doctor starts as though stung,and his wrinkled hands wring each other under the heavy travelling-shawlhe wears--"I could understand the thing better. Quite a number ofromantic correspondences have grown up between our soldiers and younggirls at home through the medium of these mittens and things; they seemto have lost their old significance. But you give me to understandthat--that there was none?"

  "The letters were solely about my son, all that ever came to me," saidthe doctor, nervously.

  "That seems to complicate the matter. If it were a mere flirtation byletter, such as is occasionally going on, _then_ somebody might haveborrowed his name and stolen his photograph; but I don't see how hecould have secured the replies--the girl's letters--in such a case. No.As you say, doctor, that wasn't apt to be the solution, though I'm at aloss to account for the letters that came from you. They were addressedto Lieutenant Abbot, camp of the--th Massachusetts, you tell me, andAbbot declares he has never heard from any one of your name, or had aletter from Hastings. He would be the last man, too, to get into acorrespondence with a woman--for he is engaged."

  The doctor starts again as though stung a second time. Was there not inone of those letters a paragraph over which his sweet daughter hadblushed painfully as she strove to read it aloud? Did it not speak of anentanglement that once existed; an affair in which his heart had neverbeen enlisted, but where family considerations and parental wishes hadconspired to bring about a temporary "understanding"? The cabriolet isbouncing about on the cobblestones of the old-fashioned street, and thedoctor is thankful for the physical jar. Another moment and they drawup at the door of the old Maryland hostelry, and the colonel steps outand assists his companion to alight.

  "Let me take you to your room now, doctor; then I'll have our staffsurgeon come over and see you. It has been a shock which would break ayounger man--"

  But the old gentleman has nerved himself for the struggle. First andforemost--no one must follow him to his room--none suspect the trialthere awaiting him. He turns sadly, but with decision.

  "Colonel, I cannot thank you now as you deserve; once home, I willwrite, but now what I need is absolute rest a little while. I amstunned, bewildered. I must think this out, and my best plan is to getto sleep first. Forgive me, sir, for my apparent discourtesy, and do nottake it amiss if I say that for a few moments--for the present--I shouldlike to be alone. We--we will meet again, sir, if it rest with me, and Iwill write. Good-night, colonel. Good-night, sir."

  And he turns hurriedly away. For a moment the soldier stands uncertainwhat to do. Then he enters the hallway determined to bespeak the bestoffices of the host in behalf of his stricken friend. There is a broadstairway some distance back in the hall, and up this he sees the doctorslowly laboring. He longs to go to his assistance, but standsirresolute, fearing to offend. The old gentleman nears the top, and isalmost on the landing above, when a door is suddenly opened, a light,quick step is heard, and in an instant a tall, graceful girl, clad indeep black--a girl whom the colonel sees is young, beautiful, and verypale--springs forward into view, places her hands on the old man'sshoulders, and looks eagerly, imploringly, into his face. What she asks,what she says, the colonel cannot hear; but another moment solves alldoubt as to his proper course. He sees her clasped to the doctor'sbreast; he sees them clinging to each other one instant, and then thefather, with sudden rally, bears her pale and probably fainting from hissight. A door shuts with muffled slam, and they are gone; and with theintuition of a gentleman Colonel Putnam realizes why his proffer ofservices would now be out of place.

  "And so there is a woman in the case, after all," he thinks to himselfas he steps forth into the cool evening air. "And it is for her sakethe good old man shrinks from dragging the matter into the light ofday--his daughter, probably; and some scoundrel has been at work, and inmy regiment."

  The colonel grinds his teeth and clinches his fists at this reflection.He is a husband and father himself, and now he understands some featuresin the old doctor's trouble which had puzzled him before. He strollsacross the street to the sidewalk under the quaint old red-brick,dormer-windowed houses where lights are still gleaming, and where groupsof people are chatting and laughing in the pleasant air. Many of themare in the rough uniform of the army--teamsters, drivers, and slightlywounded soldiers out on pass from the neighboring field hospitals. Theold cabriolet is being trundled off to some neighboring stable after abrief confabulation between the driver thereof and the landlord of thetavern, and the colonel is about hailing and tendering the Jehu anotherjob for the morrow, when he sees that somebody else is before him; and,bending down from his seat, the driver is talking with a man who hascome out from the shadow of a side porch. There is but little light inthe street, and the colonel has turned on reaching the curb, and isseeking among the windows across the way for one which may possiblyprove to be the young lady's. He is interested in the case more thanever now, but the windows give no sign. Some are lighted, and occasionalshadows flit across them, but none that are familiar. Suddenly he hearsa sound that brings him back to himself--the tramp of marching feet, andthe sudden clash of arms as they halt; a patrol from theprovost-marshal's guard comes quickly around a corner from the soft dustof a side street, and the non-commissioned officers are sharply haltingall neighboring men in uniform, and examining their passes. Severalparties in army overcoats shuffle uneasily up the street, only to fallinto the clutches of a companion patrol that pops up as suddenly aroundthe next corner beyond. "Rounding up the stragglers," thinks thecolonel, with a quiet smile of approval, and, like the soldier he is, hefinds time to look on a moment and watch the manner in which the work isdone. The patrol seems to have possessed itself of both sides of thestreet at the same instant, and "spotted" every man in blue. These arebidden to stand until their papers are examined by the brace of youngofficers who appear upon the scene, belted and sashed, and bearing smalllanterns. Nor are uniforms alone subject to scrutiny. Ever since SecondBull-Run there has been much straggling in the army, and not a littledesertion; and though a fortnight has passed since Antietam was fought,the provost-marshal's men have not yet finished scouring the country,and a sharp lookout is kept for deserters. Those civilians who canreadily establish their identity as old residents of the town have notrouble. Occasionally a man is encountered whom nobody seems to know,and, despite their protestations, two of those characters have beengathered in by the patrol, and are now on their way to the office. Thecolonel hears their mingled complaint and blasphemy as they are marchedpast him by a file of the guard, and then turns to the nearest of theofficers--

  "Lieutenant, did you note the man who ran back from where that cab isstanding?"

  The officer of the patrol looks quickly up from the "pass" he isexamining by the light of his lantern, and at sight of Colonel Putnamhis hand goes up to the visor of his cap.

  "No, colonel; was there one? Which way did he go?"

  "Straight back to the shadow of the porch; just a minute ago. Whatattracted my attention to him was the fact that he was deep in talk withthe driver when your men rounded the corner, and did not seem to see orhear them. Then I turned to look at that corporal
yonder, as he crossedto halt a man on the east side, and at sound of his voice this fellow atthe cab started suddenly and ran, crouching in the shadow, back to theside of the tavern there. It looks suspicious."

  "Come with me, two of you," says the lieutenant, quickly, and, followedby a brace of his guard, he crosses the street, and his lantern is seendancing around the dark gallery. The colonel, meantime, accosts thedriver:

  "What took that man away so suddenly? Who is he?"

  "I don't know, sir. I never seen him afore. He stopped me right here toask who the gentleman was I was drivin'. I told him your name, 'cause Iheard it, and he started then kinder queer, but came back and said 'twasthe citizen he meant; and the boss here had just told me that was DoctorWarren, and that his daughter was up-stairs. Then the feller jumped likehe was scared; the guard had just come round the corner, and when hesaw them he just put for the barn."

  "Is there a barn back there?" asks the colonel. The driver nods assent.A moment's silence, and then the colonel continues: "I want to see youin the morning. Wait for me here at the hotel about nine o'clock.Meantime say nothing about this, and you'll lose nothing by holding yourtongue. What was his face like--this man I mean?"

  "Couldn't see it, sir. It was dark, and he had a beard all over it, andwore a black-felt hat--soft; and he had a cloak something like yours,that was wrapped all over his shoulders."

  "Remember, I want to see you here in the morning; and hold your tonguetill then."

  With that the colonel hastens off on the trail of the searching-party.He sees the lantern glimmering among some dark buildings beyond theside-gallery, and thither he follows. To all appearances the spot isalmost a _cul de sac_ of wooden barns, board-fences, and locked doors,except for a gateway leading to the yard behind the tavern. The searchhas revealed no trace of the skulker, and the lieutenant holds his lampaloft as he examines the gate and peers over the picket fence thatstands barely breast-high and bars them out.

  "May have gone in here," he mutters. "Come on!"

  But the search here only reveals half a dozen avenues of escape. The mancould have gone back through several doors into the building itself, oreastward, through some dilapidated yards, into a street that wasuninfested by patrols, and dark as the bottom of a well. "It is uselessto waste further time," says the lieutenant, who presently rejoins thecolonel behind the tavern, and finds him staring up at the rear windows.To him the young officer, briefly and in low tone, reports the result ofhis search.

  "I presume there is nothing else I can do just here, is there, colonel?"he asks. The colonel shakes his head.

  "Nothing that I can think of, unless you look through the halls andoffice."

  "We are going there. Shall I light you back to the street?"

  "Er--ah--no! I think I'll wait here--just a moment," says the colonel,and, marvelling not a little, the subaltern leaves him.

  No sooner is he gone, followed by his men, than Colonel Putnam stepsback to the side of an old chain-pump that he has found in the course ofhis researches, and here he leans for support. Though his shoulder hasset in shape, and is doing fairly well, he has had two rather longdrives this day, and one fatiguing experience; he is beginning to feelwearied, but is not yet ready to go to his bed. That was Doctor Warren'sshadow, bent and feeble, that he saw upon the yellow light of thewindow-shade a moment ago, and he is worried at the evidence ofincreasing weakness and sorrow. Even while he rests there, irresolute asto what he ought to do--whether to go and insist on his right, as a manand a father, to be of some comfort to another in his sore trial, or torespect that father's evident wish to conceal his daughter's interest inthe trouble that had come upon them--he is startled to see anothershadow, hers; and this shadow is in hat and veil. Whither can they begoing at this hour of the night? 'Tis nearly ten o'clock. Yes, surely;there is the doctor's bent shadow once more, and he has thrown on anouter coat of some kind. Then they are going back by the night train.They shrink from having it known that she was here at all; that she wasin any way interested. And the doctor wants to make his escape withoutthe pang of seeing or being seen again by those who witnessed his uttershock and distress this day. So be it! thinks the colonel. God knows Iwould not intrude on the sanctity of his sorrow or her secret. Later,when they are home again, the matter can be looked into so far asgetting specimens of this skulking felon's handwriting is concerned, andno one need know, when he is unearthed, that it was a young girl he wasluring under the name of another man. So be it! They may easily eludeall question now. Night and the sacred mantle of their evident sufferingwill shield them from observation or question.

  The colonel draws deeper into the shade of the barn. It seems asacrilege now to be thus spying upon their movements, and he is ashamedof the impulse that kept him there. He decides to leave the yard andbetake himself to his lodgings, when he is suddenly aware of a darkobject rising from under the back porch. Stealthily and slowly thefigure comes crouching out into the open yard, coming towards where thecolonel stands in the shadow of the black out-buildings; and then, whenclose by the pump where he stood but a moment before, it rises to itsfull height, and draws a long breath of relief. It is a man in a softblack-felt hat, with a heavy, dark beard, and wearing one of the biggestof the great circular capes that make a part of the officer's overcoat,and are most frequently worn without the coat itself, unless the weatherbe severe.

  The colonel is unarmed; his pistols are over at the room he temporarilyoccupies in town; he is suffering from recent injury, and one arm ispractically good for nothing, but he loses no time in lamenting thesepoints. The slight form of the girl approaches the window at this veryinstant as though to pick up some object on the sill, then disappears,and the light vanishes from the room. From the figure at the pump hehears a stifled exclamation of surprise, but no articulate word; andbefore the figure has time to recover he stands close beside it and hisvoice breaks the stillness of the night.

  "Your name, sir, and your regiment? I am Colonel Putnam."

  He has laid his hand on the broad shoulder under the cloak and plainlyfeels the start and thrill with which his words are greeted. He evenfancies he can hear the stifled word "God!" The man seems strickendumb, and more sharply the colonel begins his stern query a second time,but gets no farther than "Your name," when, with a violent wrench, thestranger is free; he makes a spring, trips over some loose rubbish, andgoes crashing to earth.

  "The guard!" yells the colonel, as he throws himself upon him, but theman is up in an instant, hurls off his antagonist, and, this time, leapsoff into the darkness in comparative safety. But he has left a clewbehind. As the soldiers of the provost guard come running around intothe yard and the windows are thrown up and eager heads peer forth inexcited inquiry, Colonel Putnam raises to the light of the first lanterna hairy, bushy object that he holds in his hand; it is a false beard,and a big one.

  "By Jove!" says the lieutenant. "It must be some rebel spy."