Читать книгу Secret Service Operator 13 - Robert William Chambers - Страница 6

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Starlight drenched the Valley of Virginia with a thin, silvery luster. The night air was like the aroma of pale wine grapes in vintage.

From the great mansion with its lighted windows came the sound of dance music at intervals, or the solo clang of Joe Sweeny’s banjo ripping out “Ben Cotton’s Walkaround” or “Oh, Lord, Ladies!”

Always where Stuart stopped there was dancing, and pretty women. Wherever he halted in town or hamlet, country girls put on their best calico and the Quality its loveliest rag of treasured silk, to dance to one of his cavalry bands or romp through a reel to the ringing ripple of his 9th Virginia minstrel’s banjo.

Jeb Stuart, in his gayest uniform, yellow sash, patent leather boots and gold spurs, was dancing every dance; and his boyish gayety swept every laughing girl into a scented vortex around him.

Here all hearts loyal to the scarlet battle flag with its blue saltier and stars beat wildly, defiantly, as the gray uniformed youngsters whirled beauty in the dance.

Here also was a wonderful source of information to those reckless enough to seek it—to listen surreptitiously to a whisper here and there—catch a veiled glance and decode its meaning.

And here Quality and village maid, Dandridge and dairymaid, danced and laughed and pirouetted and footed it to banjo and cavalry band.

And here, lovely, flushed, and sparkling, was Pauline Cushman, known as Mrs. Vail in Martinsburg, dancing exquisitely with Von Borcke who never before had held so enchanting an armful of floating grace to his gold-laced breast.

The apple toddy, too, was delightfully inflaming to wits and hearts; and there were exquisite vintages from the Bower cellars, too, older than the oldest Negro on the plantations.

Bob, in full African elegance, was there to help out the Dandridge servants. And by his side, in snowy kerchief and starched white, tripped Lucille, Headquarters laundress to Major General J. E. B. Stuart—to fetch and carry and wait upon the gay and great; and to listen with all her small, close-set ears, for a word that might ruin the flower of the Confederate cavalry some blue and golden October day—God willing.

Once she caught a whispered word from a staff lieutenant—Channing Price—to another boy, John Pelham; something about taking two guns of his own and two from Hart’s battery—

Once she heard something about a Colonel Imboden in West Virginia—something relative to getting the enemy away from the Potomac fords.

Twice, in the merry press around the punch bowl, she caught phrases relative to cutting railroads; and the name of a town, Chambersburg.

Mrs. Vail, dancing with a very young officer, was suddenly thirsty. Oh, no, no toddy; merely a little glass of Bower House Madeira—

In all the engaging glory of her billowy crinolines she stepped out to the veranda—and farther out among the Cherokee roses in the thin, silvery starlight where great, phantom oak stood lacing the dewy lawn with intricate shadows.

Close to her glided a slim shape in starched white.

“Pauline?”

“Quick, then!”

“John Pelham takes four guns somewhere. Imboden draws our cavalry away from the fords. Railroad to be cut somewhere. Chambersburg, I think—”

“When?”

“I don’t know. To-night, I believe. Is John Babcock here?”

“Yes. Go back and listen.”

The little laundress slipped away among the massed roses as white as her starched dress and kerchief. The very young staff officer was already looking along the veranda for Mrs. Vail, two slim brimming glasses in his hands, tremulous with golden Madeira. She came slowly out into the starlight to meet him. She kissed his lifted glass very solemnly. She said:

“To The Cause, Captain. God go with horse and guns, to-night!”

The lad looked at her, pale and startled. Then his stiff, scared face relaxed and cleared. Because it was impossible that this pretty Maryland woman could know about a flying battery of horse artillery and fifteen hundred reckless horsemen destined to terrify half a continent.

“To God and the guns, and the loveliest eyes on earth,” he said. Then he bowed from his slim waist and drank to the trinity.

She broke a white bud from its stem and gave it to him, and the boy blushed and drew the stem of the Cherokee rose through a small gold-edged slit in his buttoned cavalry jacket.

Banjo, strings, fiddles, now; and a young girl playing a harp; and Jeb Stuart’s clear, joyous voice leading the singing of the “Stirrup Cup”:

“Wine in the cup and cup to lip!

Good-by, dear heart, good-by!

Saddle and sword and spur and whip,

And a glance of the eye—good-by!

Here’s a cup to the Stars and Bars,

And a cheer and a laugh and a sigh—

Venus adieu, salute O Mars!

Good-by, good-by, good-by!”

Then the silvery finale of the bugles ending the evening; and the ball at the Bower was history.

Through hazy starlight and a thin mist from the river, cavalier and lady, swain and maid, drifted away into the October night.

Mary Vail curtsied to host and hostess and took her graceful leave. The little laundress carried her cloak out to the buggy where her homespun driver sat waiting to take her back to the boarding house in Martinsburg.

The driver was John Babcock. The little laundress could have clapped her hands—and herself into the guard-house.

Then, as Pauline Cushman set a silver-slippered foot upon the buggy step, she felt the lightest of touches on her gayly shawled shoulder; and turned slowly around to meet the somber gaze of Vespasian Chancellor.

“One moment, ma’am,” he said.

There was a ghostly silence.

“What is it you wish?” she managed to ask him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the Provost Marshal wishes a word with you. Pray step this way, ma’am.”

Pauline Cushman paled a little. But she lifted her head calmly and looked across the grass at the cavalry camp on the hill where white tents glimmered in the starlight.

“Will you lend me your arm, sir?” she murmured.

From the buggy seat, John Babcock, slouched in the buggy, looked after her, dumbly, as she moved slowly away, leaning on the arm of the Confederate chief of scouts.

The little laundress, also, was looking after her.

Officers and ladies gathered there on the veranda steps were watching the scene gravely. Somebody said to Babcock: “There are other carriages behind you. Drive on and pull up under the trees over there.”

He sat up stupidly, shook his reins, and the buggy creaked ahead, turning to the right, and drew up again somewhere among the oak trees.

Here he slumped motionless. And, to him, in a little while, crept a slim shape through the gloom and mist—the little laundress in deadly alarm, barefoot once more, and in her single, faded garment.

“Evenin’, suh,” she said softly. “H’it’s a night of stars, suh.”

He recognized one of the night pass phrases of Pinkerton’s operators, and replied with the agreed answer, “Yes, it’s a night of stars and bars. How many stars do you count?”

“Thirteen,” she whispered.

“Add thirteen to a hundred and six,” he said.

“Done. And the answer is?”

“The Union forever.... What has happened to Number 11?”

“She has been arrested. They have her in the Provost tent. Stuart, Borcke and Pelham have been there to question her. Vespasian Chancellor and Captain Gailliard have discovered evidence against her in her room in Martinsburg. I don’t know what the evidence may be, but there is a military court sitting drumhead, now. You had better try to get away.”

“If I go it will look bad for her,” said Babcock quietly.

“If you stay they will hang you, too; and that won’t help her. Have you a horse, hidden?”

“Yes.”

“Then get back to Major Allen and tell him that Stuart’s cavalry and Pelham’s artillery leave to-night and cross the river. The talk is of Pennsylvania and Chambersburg. Imboden is to draw our cavalry away from the fords. Leave your buggy there and find your horse. For God’s sake, hurry!”

“Are you involved in any suspicion?” he asked hoarsely.

“Not that I know of.”

“You remain to take your chances?”

“Yes.”

He got out of the buggy, tied the horse.

“I’ll see you through with me if you say so,” he whispered.

“No.”

She turned her back on him and walked away through the dew-wet grass, hurrying as soon as the trees concealed her; and came breathless and anxious to the cook-tent and shanty where the Headquarters black servants were established.

“Whar yuh been a-traipsin’?” demanded Bob, suspiciously.

The girl giggled.

“Huh! Co’tin’ long o’ some no ’count nigger!” sniffed Bob disdainfully. “Mars Gailliard he done been askin’ ’bout yuh-all.”

Her heart stood still.

“What does he want of me, Bob?” she managed to ask lightly.

“Mo’ co’tin’,” said Bob ominously; “but not de kin’ ob co’tin’ yuh been a-doin’. Yuh gotta go to Mars Dandridge—ober dar to de big house. Dars a co’t martial holden ober dar. Das de kin’ ob co’t gwine teach you sum’fin you don’t know, nigger gal!”

“Who, me?” she asked saucily, and with death in her heart.

“Yaas, yuh! ’Long ob all de debblin’ an’ de gwines on in dis hyah cav’ly camp.”

“What you mean, Bob?”

“Das what I mean. De debbil’s in ev’ybody. Debbil in yuh, too, ah reckon. Dey done catch a Yankee spy, an’ dey gwine hang her in de mawnin’—er, mebby in de sunset hour. An’ dars de co’t an’ dars de co’tin’ yuh gwine git. An’ Mars Gailliard he sez—”

“All right,” said Gailliard’s voice from the darkness. He came up, took the little laundress by her delicate arm, very gently.

“Clear the cook-tent, Bob. Clear out everybody. I want to talk to Lucille. Light a lantern, Bob, and keep these niggers away—”

He led the girl into the cook-tent, dropped the flap, lifted a lantern and took her by her slender hand, turning it over so that he could examine the roots of the finger nails.

They were palely bluish. Well, then, she was black.

“Where have you been since the dance ended?” he demanded.

She hung her head sulkily: “Dunno,” she muttered.

“Yes, you do. Where have you been?”

“I won’t tell on him,” she retorted defiantly.

“Tell on whom?”

“Only he’s a lieutenant; and I won’t tell you what we done.”

“What you did?” repeated Gailliard, sharply.

“Down by the river,” she giggled.

“Oh, that’s what you’ve been up to, is it!” growled Gailliard. “Well, you’re a saucy wench, and too damned fond of kissing.”

“I like it,” she admitted, looking up at him demurely. Death lay cold in her frightened heart.

“Listen to me, Lucille,” he said; “they’ve caught a Yankee spy in Bower House. There’s no mistake about it. She’s that Mary Vail of Martinsburg. She really is Pauline Cushman, of the Yankee Secret Service. Do you know her?”

A silence.

“Do you or don’t you?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir, I does.”

“I know you do. You were seen speaking to her several days ago. Besides, she admits it. Now, Lucille, where did you know Pauline Cushman?”

“I was her dresser and maid in the theater.”

“So she says. When did you leave her?”

“When I heard she-all was a Yankee.”

“Well, you seem to tell the truth. That is what she says, also. Besides, I’m certain that you really are a black girl. I thought maybe you were not. But I reckon you’re what you say you are.” He took her by her soft, brown arm again: “The gentlemen of the military court desire to see you. Come with me and don’t be frightened.”

They walked together over the grassy hill in the misty radiance of the stars. The girl was almost faint with grief and fear, but she wriggled coquettishly against him to free his arm, then dropped her velvety little hand, searching until it nestled into his.

“Marse Stuart won’t scold me, will he, Captain Gailliard?” she murmured.

“He is there.”

“Is they gwine do me a harm, suh?”

“No. But this is a most damnable thing that this actress woman has tried to do to us! Betray our secret movements to the Yankees on the very eve—” He checked himself with an oath.

Lucille whimpered: “She seemed lak a kind, good lady, suh. Only when I found out she was a Yankee—”

“She’s a devil. She’s been in our lines before. Chancellor nearly caught her once. We’ve got her this time, anyway.”

The clustered candle lights in the great hall dazzled the little laundress as they entered Bower House. Sentries on guard held them; then they went into a lamp-lit library where several officers sat whispering at a table; and Pauline Cushman lay apparently asleep deep in a huge upholstered chair.

She opened her eyes and straightened up when the little laundress came slowly into the room.

“Well, sir?” demanded a major of cavalry, very quietly.

Captain Gailliard, at attention, said: “The girl is a genuine Negro and is perfectly truthful, sir.”

The officers, after whispering together, decided to examine her, and she was formally called and sworn.

“Oh, gentlemen,” said Pauline Cushman quietly, “there is no need for all this, is there?” And she looked at Gail Loveless with a pallid smile and said: “Poor little Lucille Lyndon. You were a good maid and dresser to me.”

A captain of cavalry said to the little laundress: “You recognize and identify this—lady?”

“Yes, suh.”

“She is the well-known actress, Pauline Cushman?”

“Yes, suh.”

He turned to another officer of horse artillery, who merely shook his head and said: “I have no question to ask this colored girl.”

To Lucille the grave, weary-eyed captain of cavalry said in his pleasant voice: “That is all. You may go.”

She looked at Pauline Cushman who looked steadily back at her.

“I loved you, ma’am,” said the little laundress, “—only you turned Yankee.”

“I love you still,” said Pauline with her pallid smile.

“I—I hope, ma’am, that you’ll come to no harm,” faltered the little laundress. She had turned quite pale for a mulatto.

“Nothing really can ever harm the soul,” said Pauline Cushman.

So they acted the last scene and parted; the ruling passion strong in death, and both of them perfect in their art even in the shadow of Death’s own descending curtain.

Captain Gailliard followed her to the veranda; and here the girl seemed to grow giddy, holding to the painted rail a moment and swaying backward—into his arms.

She was a light burden. He lifted and carried her out to a garden seat under the great oaks, returned to the house and came again, bringing a glass of cold water.

A noise of spurs and sabers on the veranda aroused her. The gentlemen of the drumhead court were returning to the cavalry camp on the hill. Gailliard, who went hastily to join them, stood aside at salute as Pauline Cushman appeared between two troopers with drawn sabers. She moved with confidence and grace into the misty light of the firmament, and with all the dreamy acquiescence of one who, prepared for death, sets out tranquilly toward those far bournes from which no traveler returns.

The little laundress rose on legs that trembled under her, and crept across the grass to where Captain Gailliard stood.

“Are they going to hang her?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“To-morrow at sunset. They are taking her to the Provost. You had better go back to your cook-tent. Shall I walk with you?”

“If you—would be—so kind, suh—”

They moved slowly and in silence across the grass. The cavalry camp, as yet, showed no sign of midnight departure; sentries walked their posts; horses stamped the picket line; lights were extinguished except at Headquarters and in the Provost Guard tent.

“Is she in there?” whispered the little laundress.

Before Captain Gailliard could reply, a hissing rush and a glare of light dazzled them as a rocket soared skyward from the river below. Another red glare blinded them; another and another, as rocket after rocket swished upward, roaring above the fords; and bang, bang, bang went the cavalry rifles and carbines in the misty bushes.

Instantly their ears were deafened by a perfect hell of trumpet and bugle blasts; roar of voices from darkened tents; shouting of half-dressed officers stumbling out of tents. Torches blazed up everywhere; the trample of excited horses shook the ground; everywhere men were battling with horses, saddling up, pulling their mounts into line; volley after volley of musketry rattled out along the river.

An officer, riding up, called out to Gailliard: “Yankee cavalry attacking at White’s Ford!”

In the frightful racket and confusion, amid darkness and fitful torchlight, the little laundress ran crouching among the trampling confusion toward the Provost tent. Under her single garment, strapped to her naked body, was a long razor-edged knife in its velvet sheath. She threw herself flat on the wet grass, felt for it, drew it, and reaching out, slit the white wall-tent swiftly, and without a sound.

So keen her knife’s edge, so silently she accomplished it, that the woman, lying on a blanket within, never heard or saw her; nor did the armed sentry, craning his excited neck out the open flap to stare at the rifle flashes along the river below.

It was only when a soft hand touched her cheek that Pauline Cushman sat up swiftly and looked fearfully behind her.

The next instant she was out of her blanket and out of the tent, threading the dusky confusion of milling horses and men—off into starry darkness and down the hill and away to the mountains looming like a ghostly cloud bank low in the west.

The little laundress, trembling at the door of the cook-tent, saw Jeb Stuart gallop up in the torchlight, followed by a staff officer from Hampton; and she heard him say angrily to Rooney Lee:

“Pleasanton has broken into Martinsburg with a thousand cavalry and six guns! Sir, I give you exactly twenty minutes to throw him out and across the Opequon!”

At that instant a frantic sergeant of the Provost Guard rode up, almost too scared to speak, but managed to report the Provost tent-wall slit, and the Yankee spy vanished.

Stuart glared at him, blue eyes ablaze. Suddenly he shouted with laughter:

“I’m glad of it!” he cried gayly; “we’re off for Pennsylvania, and I don’t care whether the whole world knows it! May God speed her pretty feet! Stand to horse!”

In the darkened quarters of the cook-tent the little laundress lay on her blanket amid her baskets and hampers and scattered laundry. Sometimes she shivered from the tips of her delicate toes to her finger ends. Sometimes she quivered with sheer joy in the dreadful game so safely ended where she had faced and defied and euchred Old Man Death.

Close to her tent the troopers were riding on their way down to the Opequon, laughing, joking, bragging that they had twenty minutes in which to chase the Yankee cavalry out of Martinsburg, and that ten minutes would be quite enough.

One of the harum-scarum riders, passing, leaned low from his gaunt horse and pulled up the flap of the cook-tent.

“Where’s that pretty little nigger?” he called out. “I reckon I’ll need a laundress myse’f when I’m promoted Gin-’ral of this hyar army!”

The little laundress, lying on her dark blanket, brushed the tears from her frightened eyes and giggled.