Raiding with Morgan

by Byron A. Dunn

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE LONE RAIDER.

  It was near the close of a beautiful day in early June that Joyce Crawfordwas once more standing by the gate, looking down the road. It is nearlytwo years since we saw her last. She has grown taller, more womanly, evenmore beautiful, if that were possible. The sound of war had ceased in theland. No longer was the fierce raider abroad; yet Joyce Crawford stoodlooking down that road as intently as she did that eventful evening whenCalhoun Pennington came riding to the door.

  She had not heard a word from him since his escape; nor had she expectedto hear. All that she could do was to scan the papers for his name amongthe killed or captured Confederates. But the Northern papers published fewnames of Confederates known to have been killed, except the highest andmost distinguished officers.

  During these two years Joyce's heart had been true to her raider lover. Hehad said that he would come when the war was over, that the thunder of thelast cannon would hardly have ceased to reverberate through the landbefore he would be by her side. It was two months since Lee hadsurrendered yet he had not come. That he had been untrue she would notadmit; if such a thought came to her, she dismissed it as unworthy. No!Like his general, he was lying in a soldier's grave; or he might be sick,wounded, unable to come.

  This June evening, as she stood looking down the road, her thoughts werein the past. Once more, in imagination, Morgan's raiders came riding by;she beheld the country terror-stricken; men, women, and children fleeingfrom--they hardly knew what. Once more she heard the sound of distantbattle, then down the road that little cloud of dust which grew larger andlarger, until the horse with its stricken rider came to view. How vividlyshe remembered it all, how real it seemed to her! She actually held herbreath and listened to catch the sound of battle; she strained her eyes tocatch a glimpse of that little cloud of dust.

  SHE HELD HER BREATH AND LISTENED TO CATCH THE SOUND OF BATTLE]

  No sound of battle came to her ears, but away down the road, as far as shecould see, arose a little cloud of dust. Her heart gave a great throb; whyshe could not tell, for she had seen a thousand clouds of dust arise fromthat road, as she watched and waited. The little cloud grew larger. Nowshe could see it was caused by a single horseman, one who rode swiftly,and sat his horse with rare grace. She stood with hands pressed to herbosom, her eyes dilating, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

  Before she realized it, the rider had thrown himself from his horse, andwith the cry of "Joyce! Joyce!" had her in his arms, kissing her hair, herbrow, her lips. For a minute she lay at rest in his arms; then, withburning brow and cheek and neck, she disengaged herself from his embrace,and stood looking at him with lovelit eyes. Could this be he whom, twoyears before, she had taken in wounded nigh unto death? How manly he hadgrown! How well his citizen suit became him!

  "Were you watching for me, Joyce?" asked Calhoun.

  "I have watched for you every night since Lee surrendered. I began tothink you had forgotten--no, not that, I feared you had been slain," sheexclaimed, in a trembling voice.

  "Death only could have kept me from you, Joyce. In camp and battle yourimage was in my heart. The thought of seeing you has sweetened thebitterness of defeat. The war did not end as I thought it would, but ithas brought me to you--to you. Now that the war is over, there is nothingto separate us, is there, Joyce?"

  She grew as pale as death. She had not thought of her father before--hebelieved that the South had been treated too leniently, that treasonshould be punished. All that the South had suffered he believed to be ajust punishment for her manifold sins. If the Rebels' lives were spared,they should be thankful, and ask nothing more. Joyce knew how her fatherfelt. Not a word had ever passed between them relative to Calhoun sincehis escape; but the father knew much more than Joyce thought. He had keptstill, thinking that time would cure his daughter of her infatuation, forhe considered it nothing else.

  Calhoun saw the change in Joyce, how she drew from him, how pale she hadgrown, and he asked, "What is it, Joyce? Why, you shrink from me, andtremble like a leaf. Tell me, Joyce, what is it?"

  "My father!" she whispered, "Oh, I fear--I fear!"

  "Fear what, darling?"

  "That he will drive you from me; that he will forbid me seeing you!"

  "For what?"

  "Because you fought against your country; because you were one of Morgan'smen."

  "What would he do? Hang me, if he could?" asked Calhoun, bitterly.

  "No, no, but--oh, Calhoun, let us hope for the best. Perhaps when he seesyou it will be different. You must see him. He and aunt have gone to NewLisbon; but they will be at home presently."

  With many misgivings Calhoun allowed his horse to be put up, and he andJoyce enjoyed an hour's sweet converse before her father and auntreturned.

  When her father entered the room Joyce, with a palpitating heart, said:"Father, let me introduce you to Mr. Calhoun Pennington, of Danville,Kentucky. He is the young officer whom we cared for when wounded. He hascome to thank us for the kindness shown him."

  Mr. Crawford bowed coldly, and said, without extending his hand, "Mr.Pennington need not have taken the trouble; the incident has long sincebeen forgotten. But supper is ready; I trust Mr. Pennington will honor usby remaining and partaking of the repast with us."

  Calhoun could do nothing but accept, yet he felt he was an unwelcomeguest. As for Joyce, she knew not what to think; she could only hope forthe best. The meal passed almost in silence. Mr. Crawford was scrupulouslypolite, but his manner was cold and constrained. Poor Joyce tried to talkand appear merry, but had to give it up as a failure. Every one was gladwhen the meal was through. As they arose from the table, Mr. Crawfordsaid: "Joyce, remain with your aunt, I wish to have a private conversationwith Mr. Pennington." Calhoun followed him into the parlor. He knew thatwhat was coming would try his soul more than charging up to the mouth of aflaming cannon.

  The first question asked nearly took Calhoun's breath away, it was sosudden and unexpected. It was, "Young man, why am I honored with thisvisit?"

  "As your daughter said, to thank you for the kindness I received while anenforced guest in your house," answered Calhoun, and then he mentallycursed himself for his cowardice.

  "Guests who leave as unceremoniously as you did do not generally return toexpress their thanks," answered Mr. Crawford, dryly. "It was a poor returnyou gave my daughter for her kindness."

  "What do you mean?" asked Calhoun, in surprise.

  "I mean that leaving as you did subjected my daughter to much unjustcriticism. An honorable man would have gone to prison rather thansubjected the young lady to whom he owed his life to idle remarks."

  Calhoun felt every nerve in him tingle. His hot blood rushed through hisveins like fire, he clenched his hands until his nails buried themselvesin the palms. How he longed to throttle him and force the insult down histhroat! But he was an old man; he was Joyce's father. Then, as Joyce hadnever told him it was she who had planned the escape, it was not for himto speak. Controlling himself by a mighty effort, he calmly said: "Mr.Crawford, I am sorry you think so poorly of me, for I came here to ask ofyou the greatest boon you have to give on earth, that is your consent thatI may pay my addresses to your daughter, and in due time make her my wife.I love her with my whole soul, and have reason to know that my love isreturned."

  "And I had rather see my daughter dead than married to a Rebel andtraitor, especially to one of Morgan's men. You have my answer," said Mr.Crawford, angrily.

  "Why call me Rebel and traitor?" asked Calhoun. "Whatever I may have been,I am not that now. The government has pardoned; can you not be as generousas the government? as generous as your great generals, Grant and Sherman?"

  "And the government will find out its mistake. Your punishment has notbeen what your sins deserve. Your lands should be taken from you and givento the poor beings you have enslaved these centuries. But we need notquarrel. You have had my answer concerning my
daughter. Now go, and neverlet me see you again."

  "Mr. Crawford," said Calhoun, rising, "you have been very outspoken withme, and I will be equally so with you. As to the terms you say should havebeen given the South, I will say that had such been even hinted at, everyman, woman, and child in the South would have died on their hearthstonesbefore yielding. But this is idle talk, as I trust there are but few inthe North so remorseless as you. Now, as to your daughter; if she iswilling, I shall marry her in spite of you. There is one raider of Morganstill in the saddle, and he will not cease his raid until he has carriedaway the fairest flower in Ohio."

  "Go," cried Mr. Crawford, losing his temper, "go before I am forced to useharsher means."

  Before Calhoun could reply, before he could take a step, there was a swishof woman's garments, and before the father's astonished eyes there stoodhis daughter by the side of her lover. Her form was drawn to its fullheight, her bosom was heaving, her eyes were flashing. Taking her lover'shand, she cried: "Father, what have you done? I love this man, love himwith all my heart and soul, and he is worthy of my love. If I can nevercall him husband, no other man shall ever call me wife."

  The father staggered and grew deadly pale.

  "O God," he moaned. "I have no daughter now. Child, child, much as I loveyou, would that you were lying beside your mother."

  Leaving the side of Calhoun, Joyce went to her father, and taking hishands in hers said, "Father, grant me but a few moments' private interviewwith Captain Pennington, and I promise I will never marry him without yourfree and full consent. Nay, more, without your consent I will never seehim again or correspond with him."

  "Joyce, Joyce!" cried Calhoun, "what are you doing? What are youpromising?" and he started toward her, but she motioned him back.

  "Father! Father!" she wailed, "don't you hear?"

  Mr. Crawford looked up.

  "Joyce, what did you say? What do you mean?" he whispered.

  Joyce repeated what she had said.

  "And you mean it, Joyce? you are to stay with me?" he asked, eagerly.

  "Yes, but I must have a private interview with Captain Pennington beforehe goes. Then it is for you to say whether I shall ever meet him again ornot."

  Calhoun stood by while this conversation was going on, the great drops ofperspiration gathering on his forehead. Was he going to lose Joyce afterall?

  The father arose and left the room. No sooner was he gone than she turned,and with a low cry sank into her lover's arms.

  "Joyce, Joyce, what have you done?" cried Calhoun. "Fly with me now! Letme take you to my Kentucky home. Father will welcome you. You will notlack the love of a father."

  Joyce raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears, but full of love andtenderness. "Hear me, Calhoun," she said, "and then you will not blame me.We cannot marry now, we are both too young. You told me that you and yourcousin were to go to Harvard. That means four long years. Before that timemy father may give his consent to our union."

  "But you told him you would not see me, would not even write. That meansbanishment."

  "Not from my heart," she whispered. "Calhoun, for you to attempt to see menow, or to write to me, would be but to increase my father's opposition. Itrust to time, and by filial obedience to win him. It is a fearful thing,Calhoun, to be disowned by one's own father, and by a father who loves oneas I know my father loves me. It would kill him if I left him, and theknowledge would make me unhappy, even with you. Calhoun, do you love me?"

  "As my life," he answered, clasping her once more to his breast. "And tobe banished entirely from your presence is more than I can bear. It iscruel of you to ask it."

  "Calhoun, did you love me when I aided you to escape?"

  "You know I did, why do you ask?"

  "Yet you left me for two long years, left me to fight for principles whichyou held dear. What if, for love of me, I had asked you to resign from thearmy, to forsake the cause for which you were fighting?"

  "I couldn't have done it, Joyce. I couldn't have done it, even for yourlove. But you would not ask me to do such a craven act."

  "And yet you ask me to forsake my father, to be false to what I know isright."

  "Joyce, how can I answer you? I am dumb before your logic. But how can Ipass the weary years which are to come?"

  "You have passed two since we parted, and your college years need not beweary. They will not be weary. Have faith. When father learns how good,how noble, how true you are, he will give his consent. And Mark, mybrother Mark, he will plead for me, I know."

  "Joyce, I am like a criminal awaiting pardon--a pardon which may nevercome."

  "Don't say that. Now, Calhoun, we must part. Remember you are not to tryto see me or write to me. But the moment father relents I will say, Come.It will not be long. Now go."

  Calhoun clasped her once more in his arms, pressed the farewell kiss onher lips, and left her.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  "COME."

  Calhoun found his life in the university delightful. He was a goodstudent, and a popular one. The black-haired young Kentuckian who hadridden with Morgan was a favorite in society. Many were the languishingglances cast upon him by the beauties of Cambridge and Boston, but he wastrue to Joyce. In the still hours of the night his thoughts were of her,and he wondered when he would hear that word "Come." But months and yearspassed, and no word came. He heard that her father was still obdurate. Hewould wait until his college course was finished, and then, come whatwould, he would see Joyce and try to shake her resolution. He would carryher off _vi et armis_ if necessary.

  The day of his graduation came. It was a proud as well as a sad day tohim. Sad because friendships of four years must be broken, in most casesnever to be renewed; and sadder yet because no word had come from Joyce.She must know that he was now free, that of all things he would long tocome to her. Why should she longer be held by that promise to her father?For the first time he felt bitterness in his heart.

  Twilight, darkness came, still he sat in his apartments brooding. Fromwithout came the shouts and laughter of students, happy in the thought ofgoing home; but their laughter found no echo in his heart. A step washeard, and his cousin Fred came dashing into the room. "Why, Cal," heexclaimed, "why sit here in the darkness, especially on this day of alldays? We are through, Cal, we are going back to Old Kentucky. Don't thethought stir your blood?"

  "Go away and leave me, Fred. I am desperate to-night. I want to be alone,"replied Calhoun, half despondently, half angrily.

  Fred whistled. "Look here, old fellow," he said, kindly, "this won't do.It's time we met the folks down at the hotel. By the way, here is atelegram for you. A messenger boy handed it to me, as I was coming up tothe room."

  Calhoun took the yellow envelope languidly, while Fred lighted the gas;but no sooner had he glanced at his telegram, than he gave a whoop thatwould have done credit to a Comanche Indian.

  "Fred, Fred!" he shouted, dancing around as if crazy, "when does the firsttrain leave for the west? Tell the folks I can't meet them."

  "Well, I never--" began Fred, but Calhoun stopped him by shaking histelegram in his face.

  It read:

  "Come.

  "Joyce."

  That was all, but it was enough to tell Calhoun that the long years ofwaiting were over, that the little Puritan girl had been true to herlover, true to her father, and won at last. The first train that steamedout of Boston west bore Calhoun as a passenger, and an impatient passengerhe was.

  How had it fared with Joyce during these years? If Calhoun had known allthat she suffered, all her heartaches, he would not have been so happy atHarvard as he was. The fear of losing his daughter being gone, Mr.Crawford, like Pharaoh, hardened his heart. He believed that in time Joycewould forget, a pitiable mistake made by many fathers. A woman like Joyce,who truly loves, never forgets. It is said that men do, but this I doubt.

  The troublesome days of Reconstruction came on,
and Mr. Crawford felt moreaggrieved than ever toward the South. He believed that the facts bore outhis views, that the North had been too lenient. As for Joyce, she gavelittle thought to politics. She believed that her father would surelyrelent before Calhoun had finished his college course; but as the time forhis graduation approached, and her father was still obdurate, her couragefailed. Her step grew languid, her cheeks lost their roses, the music ofher voice in song was no longer heard.

  Strange that her father did not notice it, but there was one who did. Thatwas her brother Mark. He was now a major in the Regular Army, had beenwounded in a fight with the Apaches, and was home on leave of absence. Tohim Joyce confided all her sorrows, and found a ready sympathizer, for hewas as tender of heart as he was brave.

  He went to his father and talked to him as he had never talked before."Your opposition is all nonsense," said Mark. "Young Pennington is inevery way worthy of her. I have taken pains to investigate."

  The old gentleman fairly writhed under his son's censures, and tried toexcuse himself by saying, "Mark, I have said I had rather see her deadthan married to a Rebel, one of Morgan's men."

  "Well, you will see her dead, and that very soon," retorted Mark,thoroughly aroused. "Have you no eyes? Have you not noticed her palecheeks, her languid steps? Is she the happy girl she was? Your foolish,cruel treatment is killing her."

  Mr. Crawford groaned. "Mark, Mark," he cried, "I can't bear to hear youtalk like that, you my only son. I have only done what I thought wasright. You must be mistaken about Joyce."

  "I am not; look at her yourself. Never was there a more dutiful daughterthan Joyce. She would rather die than break her promise to you. Free herfrom it. Make her happy by telling her she can see Pennington."

  "Mark, don't ask too much. Joyce is all I have to comfort me. When I amgone you will be the head of the family. You can then advise her as youplease."

  "Better be kind to her and give her your blessing while you live," saidhis son, turning away, believing that his words would bear fruit.

  What Mark had said deeply troubled Mr. Crawford. He now noticed Joyceclosely, and was surprised that he had not perceived the change in her. Hemeant to speak to her, but kept putting it off day by day, until sicknessseized him. The doctor came, and told him he had but a short time to live.Mr. Crawford heard the verdict with composure. The Puritan blood in hisveins led him to meet death as he would meet any enemy in life. But hewould do justice to his daughter before he died. Calling Joyce to him, hetook her hand in his, and said: "Joyce, you have been all that a daughtershould be to me, but to you I have been a hard, cruel father."

  "No, no, you have been the kindest of fathers," she cried, her tearsfalling fast. "Father, don't talk so, or you will break my heart."

  "Listen, Joyce. I now know how much suffering I have caused you. I drovefrom you the man you loved. Do you still love him, Joyce?"

  "Father, I love him, I shall always love him, but I have been true to mypromise. I--"

  "There, child," broke in Mr. Crawford, "say no more. I know how true youhave been, how sacred you have kept your word, while I--oh, forgive me,Joyce!"

  "Don't, father, don't, you only did what you thought was right."

  "But Pennington, Joyce--has he been true all these years?"

  "I charged him not to see or write to me until I bade him, and that was tobe when I had your free and full consent. Father, have I that consentnow?"

  "Yes, yes, tell him to come."

  With her feet winged with love Joyce flew to send the glad message. Butthat night Mr. Crawford became much worse. It was doubtful if he wouldlive until Calhoun could arrive.

  Once more the sun is sinking in the west; again is Calhoun galloping upthe road which leads to the Crawford residence. But Joyce is not standingat the gate watching for him. The little cloud of dust grows larger andlarger, but it is not noticed. In the house a life is ebbing away--goingout with the sun. Calhoun is met by Abe, who takes his horse, and pointsto the house. "Massa Crawford dyin'," is all he said.

  He is met at the door by Joyce. "Come, father wants to see you," she says,and leads him into the chamber where the dying man lies.

  "Father, here is Calhoun," she sobbed.

  Mr. Crawford opened his eyes, stretched forth a trembling hand, and it wasgrasped by Calhoun. In that hour all animosity, all bitterness, wasforgotten.

  Joyce came and stood by the side of her lover. Her father took her handand placed it in that of Calhoun. "God bless you both, my children," hewhispered. "Forgive!"

  "There is nothing to forgive," replied Calhoun, in a choking voice.

  A look of great contentment came over the dying man's face. "Sit by me,Joyce," he whispered. "Let me hold your hand in mine."

  Joyce did so, her tears falling like rain. For some time she held herfather's hand, and then his mind began to wander. It was no longer Joyce'shand he held, but the hand of her mother, who had lain in the grave for somany years. Once he opened his eyes, and seeing the face of Joyce bendingover him, murmured, "Kiss me, Mary."

  Brushing aside her tears, Joyce kissed him, not once, but again and again.

  He smiled, closed his eyes--and then fell asleep.

  A year has passed since the death of Mr. Crawford. Calhoun has come toclaim his beautiful bride. He is making his last raid; but this time noenemy glowers upon him. Instead, flowers are scattered in his path; gladbells are ringing a joyful welcome. He is fully aware that the war hasleft many bitter memories; yet when the words are spoken which link hislife to Joyce's forever and forever (for true love ends not in the grave),he clasps her to his heart, and thanks God that Morgan made his raid intoOhio.

  THE END.

  PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.

  FOOTNOTES

  1 Calhoun did not tell Morgan the exact truth regarding his capture and release. For this see "General Nelson's Scout."

  2 For full particulars of this see "On General Thomas's Staff."

  3 This convention was in reality not held until June 15, 1864.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

  The author's footnotes have been moved to the end of the volume.

  The following typographical errors were corrected:

  page 70, "wagon train" changed to "wagon-train" page 73, "orced" changed to "forced" page 86, "kulking" changed to "skulking" page 125, "way" changed to "way." page 140, "At" changed to "As"

  In addition, several missing, superfluous or misplaced quote marks havebeen corrected.

  Variations in spelling ("pass-word" and "password", "tear-drop" and"teardrop", "bastile" and "Bastille") were not changed. The singleoccurrence of "Matthews" was not changed to "Mathews" as it is not clearif the same character is meant. Similarly, it can not be decided if ahorse is called "Salim" or "Selim".