Special Messenger Page 9

  VIII

  EVER AFTER

  --And they married, and had many children, and lived happy ever after.--Old Tales

  For two days the signal flags had been talking to each other; for twonights the fiery torches had been conversing about that beleaguered cityin the South.

  Division after division, corps after corps, were moving forward; milesof wagons, miles of cavalry in sinuous columns unending, blackened everyvalley road. Later, the heavy Parrots and big Dahlgrens of the siegetrain stirred in their parked lethargy, and, enormous muzzles tilted,began to roll out through the valley in heavy majesty, shaking theground as they passed, guarded by masses of red artillerymen.

  Day after day crossed cannon flapped on red and white guidons; day afterday the teams of powerful horses, harnessed in twenties, trampledthrough the valley, headed south.

  Off the sandy headland a Federal gunboat lay at anchor, steam up--ablackened, chunky, grimy thing of timber and iron plates, streaked withrust, smoke blowing horizontally from her funnels. And day after day sheconsulted hill and headland with her kaleidoscopic strings of flags; andheadland and hill talked back with fluttering bunting by day and withtorches of fire by night.

  From her window in the emergency hospital the Special Messenger couldsee those flags as she sat pensively sewing. Sometimes she mended theremnants of her silken stockings and the last relics of the fine underlinen left her; sometimes she scraped lint or sewed poultice bandages,or fashioned havelocks for regiments southward bound.

  She had grown slimmer, paler, of late; her beautiful hair had beensheared close; her head, covered with thick, clustering curls, was likethe shapely head of a boy. Limbs and throat were still smooth and round,but had become delicate almost to leanness.

  The furlough she had applied for had not yet arrived; she seemed toremain as hopelessly entangled in the web of war as ever, watching,without emotion, the old spider. Death, busy all around her, tireless,sinister, absorbed in his own occult affairs.

  The routine varied but little: at dawn surgeons' call chorused by thebugles; files of haggard, limping, clay-faced men, headed by sergeants,all converging toward the hospital; later, in every camp, drums awaking;distant strains of regimental bands at parade; and all day and all nightthe far rumble of railroad trains, the whistle of locomotives, and, ifthe wind veered, the faint, melancholy cadence of the bells swinging fora clear track and right of way.

  Sometimes, sewing by the open window, she thought of her brother, nowalmost thirteen--thought, trembling, of his restless letters from hisNorthern school, demanding of her that he be permitted to take his partin war for the Union, begging to be enlisted at least as drummer in anine-months' regiment which was recruiting within sight of the dormitorywhere he fretted over Caesar and the happy warriors of the Tenth Legion.

  Sometimes, mending the last shreds of her cambric finery, she thought ofher girlhood, of the white porches at Sandy River; and always, always,the current of her waking dream swung imperceptibly back to that swiftcrisis in her life--a flash of love--love at the first glance--a word!and his regiment, sabres glittering, galloping pell-mell into thethundering inferno between the hills.... And sunset; and the woundedpassing by wagon loads, piled in the blood-soaked hay; and the glimpseof his limp gold-and-yellow sleeve--and her own white bed, and her loverof a day lying there--dead----

  At this point in the dream-tale her eyes usually became too dim to seethe stitches, and there was nothing to do except to wait until the tiredeyes were dry again.

  The sentry on duty knocked, opened the door, and admitted aweather-stained aide-de-camp, warning her respectfully:

  "Orders for you, ma'am."

  The Special Messenger cleared her eyes, breathing unevenly, and unsealedthe dispatch which the officer handed her.

  When she read it she opened a door and called sharply to a hospitalorderly, who came running:

  "Fit me with a rebel cavalry uniform--you've got that pile ofdisinfected clothing in the basement. I also want one of our own cavalryuniforms to wear over it--anything that has been cleaned. Quick,Williams; I've only a few minutes to saddle! And bring me that bundle ofcommissions taken from the rebel horsemen that were brought inyesterday."

  And to the mud-splashed aide-de-camp who stood waiting, looking out ofthe window at the gunboat which was now churning in toward the wharf,billows of inky smoke pouring from the discolored stacks:

  "Please tell the general that I go aboard in half an hour. Tell him I'lldo my best." In a lower voice: "Ask him not to forget my brother--ifmatters go wrong with me. He has given me his word.... And I think thatis all, thank you."

  The A.-D.-C. said, standing straight, hollow-backed, spurred heelstogether:

  "Orders are verbally modified, madam."

  "What?"

  "If you do not care to go--it is not an order--merely a matter ofvolunteering.... The general makes no question of your courage if youchoose to decline."

  She said, looking at the officer a little wearily:

  "Thank the general. It will give me much pleasure to fulfill hisrequest. Ask him to bear my brother in mind; that is all."

  The A.-D.-C. bowed to her, cap in hand, then went out, makingconsiderable racket with sabre and boots.

  Half an hour later a long, deep, warning blast from the gunboat'swhistle set the echoes flying through the hills.

  Aboard, leading her horse, the Special Messenger, booted and spurred, ina hybrid uniform of a subaltern of regulars, handed the bridle to asailor and turned to salute the quarterdeck.

  * * * * *

  The United States gunboat, _Kiowa_, dropped anchor at the railroad wharftwo days later, and ran out a blackened gangplank. Over it the SpecialMessenger, wrapped in her rubber cloak, led her horse to shore, mounted,and galloped toward the hill where the flag of corps headquarters wasflapping in the wet wind.

  The rain ended as she rode inland; ahead of her a double rainbow glowedand slowly faded to a rosy nimbus.

  Corps headquarters was heavily impressive and paternally polite,referring her to headquarters of the unattached cavalry division.

  She remounted, setting her horse at an easy canter for the interveningtwo miles, riding through acres of tents and vistas of loaded wagontrains; and at last an exceedingly ornamental staff officer directed herto her destination, and a few moments later she dismounted and handedher bridle to an orderly, whose curiously fashioned forage cap seemedstrangely familiar.

  As the Special Messenger entered his tent and saluted, the colonel ofthe Fourth Missouri Cavalry rose from a camp chair, standing over sixfeet in his boots. He was magnificently built; his closely clipped hairwas dark and curly, his skin smoothly bronzed and flushed at the cheekbones; his allure that of a very splendid and grave and youthful god,save for the gayly impudent uptwist of his short mustache and thestilled humor in his steady eyes.

  His uniform was entirely different from the regulation--he wore a blueforage cap with short, heavy visor of unpolished leather shadowing thebridge of his nose; his dark blue jacket was shell-cut; over it he worea slashed dolman trimmed at throat, wrists and edges with fur; hisbreeches were buff; his boots finished at the top with a yellow cordforming a heart-shaped knot in front; at his heels trailed the mostdainty and rakish of sabres, light, graceful, curved almost like ascimiter.

  All this is what the Special Messenger saw as she entered, instantlyrecognizing a regimental uniform which she had never seen but oncebefore in her brief life. And straight through her heart struck a painswift as a dagger thrust, and her hand in its buckskin gauntlet felllimply from the peak of her visor, and the color died in her cheeks.

  What the colonel of the Fourth Missouri saw before him was a lad, slim,rather pale, dark-eyed, swathed to the chin in the folds of a wetponcho; and he said, examining her musingly and stroking the ends of hiscurt mustache upward:

  "I understood from General Sheridan that the Special Messenger was toreport to me. Where is she?"<
br />
  The lightning pain of the shock when she recognized the uniforminterfered with breath and speech; confused, she raised her gloved handand laid it unconsciously over her heart; and the colonel of the FourthMissouri waited.

  "I am the Special Messenger," she said faintly.

  For a moment he scarcely understood that this slender young fellow, withdark hair as closely clipped and as curly as his own, could be a woman.Stern surprise hardened his narrowing gaze; he stood silent, handsomehead high, looking down at her; then slowly the latent humor flickeredalong the edges of lip and lid, curbed instantly as he bowed, faultless,handsome--only the persistently upturned mustache impairing theperfectly detached and impersonal decorum with a warning of the _beausabreur_ behind it all.

  "Will you be seated, madam?"

  "Thank you."

  She sat down; the wet poncho was hot and she shifted it, throwing oneend across her shoulder. In her uniform she appeared willowy and slim,built like a boy, and with nothing of that graceful awkwardness whichalmost inevitably betrays such masqueraders. For her limbs were straightat the knees and faultlessly coupled, and there seemed to be theadolescent's smooth lack of development in the scarcely accentedhips--only a straightly flowing harmony of proportion--a lad's gracemuscularly undeveloped.

  Two leather straps crossed her breast, one weighted with field glasses,the other with a pouch. From the latter she drew her credentials andwould have risen to present them, but the colonel of the Fourth Missouridetained her with a gesture, himself rose, and took the papers from herhand.

  While he sat reading, she, hands clasped in her lap, gazed at hiswell-remembered uniform, busy with her memories once more, and thesweetness of them--and the pain.

  They were three years old, these memories, now glimmering alive againamid the whitening ashes of the past; only three years--and centuriesseemed to dim the landmarks and bar the backward path that she wasfollowing to her girlhood!

  She thought of the white-pillared house as it stood at the beginning ofthe war; the severing of old ties, the averted faces of old friends andneighbors; the mortal apprehension, endless suspense; the insurgentflags fluttering from porch and portico along the still, tree-shadedstreet; her own heart-breaking isolation in the community when Sumterfell--she an orphan, alone there with her brother and bedriddengrandfather.

  And she remembered the agony that followed the news from Bull Run, thestupor that fell upon her; the awful heat of that battle summer; herevening prayers, kneeling there beside her brother; the red moons thatrose, enormous, menacing, behind the trees; and the widow bird calling,calling to the dead that never answer more.

  Her dead? Why _hers_? A chance regiment passing--cavalry wearing theuniform and number of the Fourth Missouri. Ah! she could see them again,sun-scorched, dusty, fours crowding on fours, trampling past. She couldsee a young girl in white, fastening the long-hidden flag to itshalyards as the evening light faded on the treetops!... And then--andthen--_he_ came--into her life, into her house, into her heart,alas!--tall, lean, calm-eyed, yellow-haired, wrapped in the folds of hislong, blue mantle!... And she saw him again--a few moments before hisregiment charged into that growling thunder beyond the hills somewhere.

  And a third time, and the last, she saw him, deathly still, lying on herown bed, and a medical officer pulling the sheet up over his bony face.

  * * * * *

  The colonel of the Fourth Missouri was looking curiously at her; shestarted, cleared the dimness from her eyes, and steadied the tremblingunderlip.

  After a moment's silence the colonel said: "You undertake this dutywillingly?"

  She nodded, quietly touching her eyes with her handkerchief.

  "There is scarcely a chance for you," he observed with affectedcarelessness.

  She lifted her shoulders in weary disdain of that persistent shadowcalled danger, which had long since become too familiar to count veryheavily.

  "I am not afraid--if that is what you mean. Do you think you can get methrough?"

  The colonel said coolly: "I expect to do my part. Have you a rebeluniform?"

  She nodded.

  "Where is it?"

  "On me--under this."

  The colonel looked at her; a slight shudder passed over him.

  "These orders suggest that I start before sunset," he said. "Meanwhilethis tent is yours. My orderly will serve you. The regiment will moveout about sunset with some six hundred sabres and Gray's Rhode Islandflying battery."

  He walked to the tent door; she followed.

  "Is that your horse?" he asked.

  "Yes, Colonel."

  "Fit for the work?" turning to look at her.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And _you_?"

  She smiled; through the open tent a misty bar of sunshine fell acrossher face, turning the smooth skin golden. Outside a dismounted trooperon guard presented his carbine as the tall, young colonel strode out. Anorderly joined him; they stood a moment consulting in whispers, then theorderly ran for his saddled horse, mounted, and rode off through thelanes of the cavalry camp.

  From the tent door the Special Messenger looked out into the camp. Underthe base of a grassy hill hundreds of horses were being watered at abrook now discolored by the recent rains; beyond, on a second knoll, theguns of a flying battery stood parked. She could see the red trimmingson the gunners' jackets as they were lounging about in the grass.

  The view from the tent door was extensive; a division, at least, layencamped within range of the eye; two roads across the hills were fullof wagons moving south and east; along another road, stretching far intothe valley, masses of cavalry were riding--apparently an entirebrigade--but too far away for her to hear the trample of the horses.

  From where she stood, however, she could make out the course of a fourthroad by the noise of an endless, moving column of horses. At times,above the hillside, she could see their heads, and the enormouscanvas-covered muzzles of siege guns; and the racket of hoofs, thepowerful crunching and grinding of wheels, the cries of teamsters unitedin a dull, steady uproar that never ceased.

  From their camp, troopers of the Fourth Missouri were idly watching theartillery passing--hundreds of sunburned cavalrymen seated along thehillside, feet dangling, exchanging gibes and jests with the drivers ofthe siege train below. But from where she stood she could see nothingexcept horses' heads tossing, blue caps of mounted men, a crimson guidonflapping, or the sun glittering on the slender, curved blade of someofficer's sabre as he signaled.

  North, east, west, south--the whole land seemed to be covered withmoving men and beasts and wagons; flags fluttered on every eminence;tents covered plowed fields, pastures, meadows; smoke hung over all,crowning the green woods with haze, veiling hollows, rolling along therailway in endless, yellow billows.

  The rain had washed the sky clean, but again this vast, advancing hostwas soiling heaven and blighting earth as it passed over the landtoward that beleaguered city in the South.

  War! Everywhere the monotony of this awful panorama, covering hercountry day after day, month after month, year after year--war, alwaysand everywhere and in every stage--hordes of horses, hordes of men,endless columns of deadly engines! Everywhere, always, death, or thepreparation for death--every road and footpath crammed with it, everyfield trampled by it, every woodland shattered by it, every streamrunning thick with its pollution. The sour smell of marching men, thestale taint of unclean fires, the stench of beasts--the acrid,indescribable odor that hangs on the sweating flanks of armies seemed toinfect sky and earth.

  A trooper, munching an apple and carrying a truss of hay, passed, capcocked rakishly, sabre banging at his heels; and she called to him andhe came up, easily respectful under the grin of bodily well being.

  "How long have you served in this regiment?" she asked.

  He swallowed the bite of apple which crowded out his freckled cheeks:"Three years, sir."

  "'We was there--I know that, yes, an' we had a fight.'"]


  She drew involuntarily nearer the tent door.

  "Then--you were at Sandy River--three years ago?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you remember the battle there?"

  The soldier looked doubtful. "We was there--I know that; yes, an' we hada fight----"

  "Yes--near a big white house."

  The soldier nodded. "I guess so; I don't seem to place no big whitehouse----"

  She asked calmly: "Your regiment had a mounted band once?"

  He brightened.

  "Yes, sir-ee! They played us in at Sandy River--and they got into it,too, and was cut all to pieces!"

  She motioned assent wearily; then, with an effort: "You don't know,perhaps, where he--where their bandmaster was buried?"

  "Sir?"

  "The bandmaster of the Fourth Missouri? You remember him--that tall,thin young officer who led them with his sabre--who sat his horse like acolonel of regulars--and wore a cap of fur like--like a hussar of somemilitia State guard----"

  "Well, you must mean Captain Stanley, who was at that time bandmaster ofour regiment. He went in that day at Sandy River when our mounted bandwas cut to pieces. Orders was to play us in, an' he done it."

  There was a silence.

  "Where is he--buried?" she asked calmly.

  "Buried? Why, _he_ ain't dead, is he?"

  "He died at Sandy River--that day," she said gently. "Don't youremember?"

  "No, sir; our bandmaster wasn't killed at Sandy River."

  She looked at him amazed, almost frightened.

  "What do you mean? He is dead. I--saw him die."

  "It must have been some other bandmaster--not Captain Stanley."

  "I saw the bandmaster of your regiment, the Fourth Missouri Cavalry,brought into that big white house and laid on my--on a bed----" Shestared at the boy, caught him by the sleeve: "He is dead, isn't he? Doyou know what you are telling me? Do you understand what I am saying?"

  "Yes, sir. Captain Stanley was our bandmaster--he wasn't captain then,of course. He played us in at Sandy River--by God! I oughter know,because I got some cut up m'self."

  "You--you tell me that he wasn't killed?" she repeated, steadyingherself against the canvas flap.

  "No, sir. I heard tell he was badly hurt--seems like I kinderremember--oh, yes!" The man's face lighted up. "Yes, sir; CaptainStanley, he had a close shave! It sorter comes back to me now, how theburial detail fetched him back saying they wasn't going to bury no manthat twitched when they shut his coffin. Yes, sir--but it's three yearsand a man forgets, and I've seen--things--lots of such things in threeyears with Baring's dragoons. Yes, sir."

  She closed her eyes; a dizziness swept over her and she swayed where shestood.

  "Is he here?"

  "Who? Captain Stanley? Yes, sir. Why, he's captain of the Black Horsetroop--F, third squadron.... They're down that lane near the trees.Shall I take you there?"

  She shook her head, holding tightly to the canvas flap; and the trooper,saluting easily, resumed his truss of hay, hitched his belt, cocked hisforage cap, and went off whistling.

  All that sunny afternoon she lay on the colonel's camp bed, handstightly clenched on her breast, eyes closed sometimes, sometimes wideopen, gazing at the sun spots crawling on the tent wall.

  To her ears came bugle calls from distant hills; drums of marchingcolumns. Sounds of the stirring of thousands made tremulous the dimsilence of the tent.

  Dreams long dead arose and possessed her--the confused dreams of awoman, still young, awakened from the passionless lethargy of the past.

  Vaguely she felt around her the presence of an earth new born, of a newheaven created. She realized her own awakening; she strove to comprehend_his_ resurrection, and it frightened her; she could not understand thatwhat was dead through all these years was now alive, that the ideal shehad clung to, evoking it until it had become part of her, was real--anactual and splendid living power. In this vivid resurgence she seemed tolose her precise recollections of him now that he was alive.

  While she had believed him dead, everything concerning his memory hadbeen painfully real--his personal appearance, the way he moved, turned,the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand as it tightened in herswhen he lay there at sunset, while she and Death watched the colorfading from his face.

  But now--now that he was living--here in this same world with heragain--strive as she would she could neither fix either his features northe sound of his voice upon her memory. Only the stupefying wonder of itpossessed her, dulling her senses so that even the happiness of itseemed unreal.

  * * * * *

  How would they meet?--they two, who had never met but thrice? How wouldthey seem, each to the other, when first their eyes encountered?

  In all their lives they had exchanged so little speech! Yet from thefirst--from the first moment, when she had raised her gaze to him as heentered in his long, blue cloak, her silence had held a deeper meaningthan her speech. And on that blessed night instinct broke the silence;yet, with every formal word exchanged, consciousness of the occult bondbetween them grew.

  But it was not until she thought him dead that she understood that ithad been love--love unheralded, unexpected, incredible--love at thefirst confronting, the first encountering glance. And to the memory ofthat mystery she had been faithful from the night on which she believedhe died.

  How had it been with him throughout these years? _How had it been withhim?_

  The silvery trumpets of the cavalry were still sounding as she mountedher horse before the colonel's tent and rode out into the splendour ofthe setting sun.

  On every side cavalrymen were setting toe to stirrup; troop after troop,forming by fours, trotted out to the crest of the hill where the Westernlight lay red across the furrowed grass.

  A blaze of brilliant color filled the road where an incoming Zouaveregiment had halted, unslinging knapsacks, preparing to encamp, and thesetting sun played over them in waves of fire, striking fiercely acrosstheir crimson fezzes and trousers.

  Through their gorgeous lines the cavalry rode, colonel and staffleading; and with them rode the Special Messenger, knee to knee with thechief trumpeter, who made his horse dance when he passed the gorgeousZouave color guard, to show off the gridiron of yellow slashings acrosshis corded and tasseled breast.

  And now another infantry regiment blocked the way--a heavy, blue columntramping in with its field music playing and both flags flying in thesunset radiance--the Stars and Stripes, with the number of the regimentprinted in gold across crimson; and the State flag--white, an Indian andan uplifted sword on the snowy field: Massachusetts infantry.

  On they came, fifes skirling, drums crashing; the colonel of the FourthMissouri gave them right of way, saluting their colors; the SpecialMessenger backed her horse and turned down along the column.

  Under the shadow of her visor her dark eyes widened with excitement asshe skirted the halted cavalry, searching the intervals where the troopcaptains sat their horses, naked sabres curving up over their shoulderstraps.

  "Not this one! Not _this_ one," her little heart beat hurriedly; andthen, without warning, panic came, and she spurred up to the major ofthe first squadron.

  "Where is Captain Stanley?" Her voice almost broke.

  "With his troop, I suppose--'F,'" replied that officer calmly; and herheart leaped and the color flooded her face as she saluted, wheeled, androde on in heavenly certainty.

  A New York regiment, fresh from the North, was passing now, itsmagnificent band playing "Twinkling Stars"; and the horses of thecavalry began to dance and paw and toss their heads.

  One splendid black animal reared suddenly and shook its mane out; and atthe same moment she saw _him_--knew him--drew bridle, her heart in hermouth, her body all a-tremble.

  He was mastering the black horse that had reared, sitting his saddleeasily, almost carelessly, his long, yellow-striped legs looselygraceful, his straight, slim figure perfect in poise and balance.

  And
now the trumpets were sounding; captain after captain turned in hissaddle, swung his sabre forward, repeating the order: "Forward--march!Forward--march!"

  The Special Messenger whirled her horse and sped to the head of thecolumn.

  "I was just beginning to wonder--" began the colonel, when she broke in,breathless:

  "_May_ I ride with Captain Stanley of F, sir?"

  "Certainly," he replied, surprised and a trifle amused. She hesitated,nervously picking at her bridle, then said: "When you once get methrough their lines--I mean, after I am safely through and you are readyto turn around and leave me--I--I would like--to--to----"

  "Yes?" inquired the colonel, gently, divining some "last message" todeliver. For they were desperate chances that she was taking, and thosein the beleaguered city would show her no mercy if they ever caught herwithin its battered bastions.

  But the Special Messenger only said: "Before your regiment goes back,may I tell Captain Stanley who I am?"

  The colonel's face fell.

  "Nobody is supposed to have any idea who you are----"

  "I know it. But is there any harm if I only tell it to--to just thisone, single man?" she asked, earnestly, not aware that her eyes as wellas her voice were pleading--that her whole body, bent forward in thesaddle, had become eloquent with a confession as winning as it wasinnocent.

  The colonel looked curiously into the eager, flushed face, framed in itssetting of dark, curly hair, then he lifted a gauntleted hand from hisbridle and slowly stroked his crisp mustache upward to hide the smile hecould not control.

  "I did not know," he said gravely, "that Captain Stanley wasthe--ah--'one' and 'only' man."

  She blushed furiously, the vivid color ran from throat to temple,burning her ears till they looked like rose petals caught in her darkhair.

  "You may tell Captain Stanley--if you must," observed the colonel of theFourth Missouri. He was gazing absently straight between his horse'sears when he spoke. After a few moments he looked at the sky where,overhead, the afterglow pulsated in bands of fire.

  "I always thought," he murmured to himself, "that old Stanley was inlove with that Southern girl he saw at Sandy River.... I had no idea heknew the Special Messenger. It appears that I am slightly in error."And, very thoughtfully, he continued to twist his mustache skyward as herode on.

  When he ventured to glance around again the Special Messenger haddisappeared.

  "Fancy!" he muttered; "fancy old Stanley knowing the mystery of thethree armies! And, by gad, gentlemen!" addressing, _sotto voce_, theentire regiment, as he turned in his stirrups and looked back at thedarkening column behind him--"by gad! gentlemen of the Fourth Dragoons,no prettier woman ever sat a saddle than is riding this moment with thecaptain of Troop F!"

  What Captain Stanley saw riding up to him through the dull afterglow wasa slightly built youth in the uniform of the regular cavalry, yellowtrimming on collar, yellow welts about the seams of the jacket, yellowstripes on the breeches; and, as the youth drew bridle, saluted, andturned to ride forward beside him, he caught sight of a lieutenant'sshoulder straps on the sergeant's shell jacket.

  "Well, youngster," he said, smiling, "don't they clothe you in theregulars? You're as eccentric as our butternut friends yonder."

  "I couldn't buy a full uniform," she said truthfully. She did not addthat she had left at a minute's notice for the most dangerousundertaking ever asked of her, borrowing discarded makeshifts anywhereat hazard.

  "Are you a West Pointer?"

  "No."

  "Oh! You've their seat--and their shapely leanness. Are you going withus?"

  "Where are _you_ going?"

  Stanley laughed. "I'm sure I don't know. It looks to me as though wewere riding straight into rebeldom."

  "Don't you know why?" she asked, looking at him from under the shadow ofher visor.

  "No. Do you?"

  "Yes."

  After a pause: "Well," he said, laughing, "are you going to tell me?"

  "Yes--later."

  Neck and neck, knee and knee they rode forward at the head of the BlackHorse troop, along a road which became dusky beyond the first patch ofwoods.

  After the inner camp lines had been passed the regiment halted while atroop was detailed as flankers and an advanced guard galloped off ahead.Along the road behind, the guns of the Rhode Island Battery camethudding and bumping up, halting with a dull clash of chains.

  Stanley said: "This is one of Baring's pet raids; we've done it dozensof times. Once our entire division rode around Beauregard; but I didn'tsee the old, blue star division flag this time, so I guess we're goingit alone. Hello! There's infantry! We must be close to the extremeoutposts."

  In the dusk they were passing a pasture where, guarded by sentinels, laypiled, in endless, straight rows, knapsacks, blankets, shelter tents,and long lines of stacked Springfield rifles. Soldiers with the whitestrings of canteens crossing their breasts were journeying to and from astream that ran, darkling, out of the tangled woodland on their right.

  On the opposite side of the road were the lines of the SeventiethIndiana, their colors, furled in oilcloth, lying horizontally across theforks of two stacks of rifles. Under them lay the color guard; thescabbarded swords of the colonel and his staff were stuck upright inthe ground, and the blanket-swathed figures of the officers in ponchoand havelock reposed close by.

  The other regiment was the Eleventh Maine. Their colonel, strapped withhis silver eagles, was watching the disposal of the colors by a sergeantwearing the broad stripe, blue diamond and triple underscoring on eachsleeve. With the sergeant marched eight corporals, long-limbed, ruggedgiants of the color company, decorated with the narrow stripe and doublechevron.

  A few minutes later the cavalry moved out past the pickets, then swungdue south.

  Night had fallen--a clear, starlit, blossom-scented dimness fresheningthe air.

  The Special Messenger, head bent, was still riding with Captain Stanley,evidently preferring his company so openly, so persistently, that theother officers, a little amused, looked sideways at the youngster fromtime to time.

  After a while Stanley said pleasantly: "We haven't exchanged names yet,and you haven't told me why a regular is riding with us to-night."

  "On special service," she said in a low voice.

  "And your name and regiment?"

  She did not appear to hear him; he glanced at her askance.

  "You seem to be very young," he said.

  "The colonel of the Ninetieth Rhode Island fell at twenty-two."

  He nodded gravely. "It is a war of young men. I think Baring himself isonly twenty-five. He's breveted brigadier, too."

  "And you?" she asked timidly.

  He laughed. "Thirty; and a thousand in experience."

  "I, too," she said softly.

  "You? Thirty?"

  "No, only twenty-four; but your peer in experience."

  "Your voice sounds Southern," he said in his pleasant voice, invitingconfidence.

  "Yes; my home was at Sandy River."

  Out of the corners of her eyes she saw him start and look around ather--felt his stern gaze questioning her; and rode straight on beforeher without response or apparent consciousness.

  "Sandy River?" he repeated in a strained voice. "Did you say you livedthere?"

  "Yes," indifferently.

  The captain rode for a while in silence, then, carelessly: "There was, Ibelieve, a family living there before the war--the Westcotes."

  "Yes." She could scarcely utter a word for the suffocating throb of herheart.

  "You knew them?"

  "Yes."

  "Do--do they still live at Sandy River?"

  "The house still stands. Major Westcote is dead."

  "Her--I mean their grandfather?"

  She nodded, incapable of speech.

  "And"--he hesitated--"and the boy? He used to ride a pony--the mostfascinating little fellow----"

  "He is at school in the North."

  There was a silence, t
hen the captain turned in his saddle and lookedstraight at her.

  "Does Miss Westcote live there still?"

  "Do you mean Celia Westcote?" asked the Messenger calmly.

  "Yes--Celia--" His voice fell softly, making of her name a caressingcadence. The Special Messenger bent her head lower over her bridle.

  "Why do you ask? Did you know her?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  The captain lifted his grave eyes, but the Messenger was not looking athim.

  "I knew her--in a way--better than I ever knew any woman, and I saw heronly three times in all my life. That is your answer--and my excuse forasking. Does she still live at Sandy River?"

  "No."

  "Do you know where she has gone?"

  "She is somewhere in the South."

  "Is she--married?" he asked under his breath.

  The Special Messenger looked up at him, smiling in the darkness.

  "No," she said. "I heard that she lost her--heart--to a bandmaster ofsome cavalry regiment who was killed in action at Sandy River--threeyears ago."

  The captain straightened in his saddle as though he had been shot; inthe dim light his lean face turned darkly scarlet.

  "I see her occasionally," continued the Messenger faintly; "have you anymessage--perhaps----"

  The captain turned slowly toward her. "Do you know where she is?"

  "I expect that she will be within riding distance of me--very soon."

  "Is your mission a secret one?"

  "Yes."

  "And you may see her--before very long?"

  "Yes."

  "Then tell her," said the captain, "that the bandmaster of the FourthMissouri--" He strove to continue; his voice died in his throat.

  "Yes--yes--say it," whispered the Special Messenger. "I will tell her;she will understand--truly she will--whatever you say."

  "Tell her--that the bandmaster has--has never forgotten----"

  "Yes--yes----"

  "Never forgotten her!"

  "Yes--oh, yes!"

  "That he--he----"

  "Yes! Oh, please--please say it--don't be afraid to say--what you wish!"

  The captain's voice was not under perfect control.

  "Say that he--thinks of her.... Say that--that he--he thought of herwhen he was falling--there, in the charge at Sandy River----"

  "But he once told her that himself!" she cried. "Has he no more to tellher?"

  And Captain Stanley, aghast, fairly leaped in his stirrups.

  "Who are you?" he gasped. "What do _you_ know of----"

  His voice was smothered in the sudden out-crash of rifles, through whichstartled trumpets sounded, followed by the running explosions of cavalrycarbines.

  "Attention! Draw sabres!" rang out a far voice in the increasing uproar.

  The night air thrilled with the rushing swish of steel drawn swiftlyacross steel.

  "Forward!" and "Forward! Forward!" echoed the officers, one afteranother.

  "Steady--right dress!"--taken up by the troop officers: "Steady--rightdress! By fours--right wheel--march!"

  Pell-mell the flanking parties came crashing back out of the duskyundergrowth, and:

  "Steady--trot! Steady--right dress--gallop!" came the orders.

  "Gallop!" repeated her captain, blandly; and, under his breath: "We aregoing to charge. Quick, tell me who you are!"

  "Steady--steady--charge!" came the clear shout from the front.

  "Charge! Charge! Charge!" echoed the ringing orders from troop to troop.

  In the darkness of the thickets she rode knee to knee with her captain.The grand stride of her horse thundering along beside his throughobscurity filled her with wild exultation; she loosened curb and snaffleand spurred forward amid hundreds of plunging horses, now goaded franticby the battle clangor of the trumpets.

  Everywhere, right and left, the red flash of Confederate rifles ranalong their flanks; here and there a stricken horse reared or stumbled,rolling over and over; or some bullet-struck rider swayed wide from thesaddle and went down to annihilation.

  Fringed with darting flames the cavalry drove on headlong into theunseen; behind clanked the flying battery, mounted gunners sabering thedark forms that leaped out of the underbrush; on--on--rushed horses andguns, riders and cannoneers--a furious, irresistible, chaotic torrent,thundering through the night.

  "'Yes,' she gasped, 'The SpecialMessenger--noncombatant!'"]

  Far behind them now danced and flickered the rifle flames; fainter,fainter grew the shots; and at last, galloping steadily and, by degrees,reforming as they rode, the column swung out toward the bushy hills inthe west, slowed to a canter, to a trot, to a walk.

  "We are through!" said the Special Messenger, brokenly, breathing fastas she pulled in her mount and turned in the starlight toward the manshe rode beside.

  At the same moment the column halted; and he drew bridle and lookedsteadily at her.

  All around them was the confusion and turmoil of stamping, pantinghorses, the clank of metal, the heavy breathing of men.

  "Look at me!" she whispered, baring her head in the starlight. "Quick!Look at me! Do you know me now? Look at me--if you--love me!"

  A low cry broke from him; she held out both arms to him in the dimlight, forcing her horse up against his stirrup.

  "If you love me," she breathed, "say so now!"

  Leaning free from his saddle he caught her in his arms, held her, lookedinto her eyes.

  "You?"

  "Yes," she gasped, "the Special Messenger--noncombatant!"

  "The Special Messenger? _You?_ Good God!"

  A dull tattoo of hoofs along the halted column, nearer, nearer,clattering toward them from the front, and:

  "Good-by!" she sobbed; "they're coming for me! Oh--do you love me? Doyou? Life was so dark and dreadful without you! I--I neverforgot--never, never! I----"

  Her gloved hands crept higher around the neck of the man who held hercrushed in his arms.

  "If I return," she sighed, "will you love me? Don't--don't look at methat way. I will return--I promise. I love you so! I love you!"

  Their lips clung for a second in the darkness, then she swung her horse,tearing herself free of his arms; and, bared head lifted to the skies,she turned south, riding all alone out into the starlit waste.

  THE END

  * * * * * *

  OTHER BOOKS

  BY

  ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

  Mr. Chambers is unquestionably the most popular of American noveliststo-day. He is the author of some thirty books of extraordinary varietyin fiction. He was born in New York, and studied in the studios of Paristo become an artist. While working at painting he took up writing as apastime, and had such immediate success that he soon gave up art andturned to literature as his life work. Always, as a part of thisinterest, he has studied and worked in the field of natural history, sothat to-day he is something of an authority on birds and butterflies, aconfirmed fisherman, and a good shot. All these qualities--the study ofart, the experience with nature, both in the line of sport and as anentomologist--have put their stamp upon his work, as will be seen by aglance at his books, for only a few of which there is space hereavailable.

  THE FIRING LINE

  The most recent of his works is the third in a group of studies in American society life. It is full of the swing of good romance, behind which lies the bright philosophy that the saving quality in our American families is to come with the injection of fresh blood into each new generation. The story itself deals with the adopted daughter of a multimillionaire, who does not even know her own parentage--a girl from nowhere, with all the charm and beauty which a bringing up in the midst of wealth can give her. The hero is a young American of good family who first meets her at Palm Beach, Florida. Here is a background that Mr. Chambers loves--the outdoor life of exotic Florida, the everglades, the hunting, the shooting, and the sea--all in the midst of that other exotic life which g
oes with a winter resort and a large group of the idle rich. The story--already in its 150th thousand--is, perhaps, the author's favorite piece of work.

  THE YOUNGER SET

  is also of the social _comedie humaine_ of America, with its scenes laid in New York and on Long Island. Here again, behind a romance of love and of society complications, Mr. Chambers conceals his philosophic suggestions that may be gathered from the title. The younger set comes into our society fresh and unspoiled with each generation, and in its way contributes something of freshness, something of vigor to keep the social world from going down hill on a grade of decadence. The story deals with a man who, although still young, feels that his life is practically over because his marriage, through no fault of his own, has proved a failure and ended in divorce. He meets a young girl just introduced into society, whose wholesome youth charms him and leads him back to optimism and life. The character of _Eileen_ is perhaps one of Mr. Chambers's most real and most successful creations. The fact that this novel, after one year, is in its 200th thousand is sufficient proof of its popularity. In

  THE FIGHTING CHANCE

  the author still deals with American society, but here his background is the consideration of the evil influences of inheritance in old families. The scene is still New York and Long Island, full of the charm of outdoor life and hunting episodes. The principal male character _Siward_ is cursed with the inheritance of drink. _Siward's_ struggles to conquer his Enemy, and the fighting chance he sees at last in the affection of a girl, carry on the story to a hopeful finish. The novel has been published two years and a few months and more than 250,000 copies have been sold, so that its claims to success are undeniable.

  THE RECKONING

  The varied interests of the author which have been suggested above are sustained in this novel. It is a story of a side light of the American Revolution, and it makes the fourth novel in a series of books telling in fiction of the scenes and invoking the characters in the Mohawk Valley during the war for American Independence. The first novel of the series was "Cardigan"; the second, "The Maid-at-Arms"; the third is still to be written, when the distinguished author can find time; while "The Reckoning" is the last.

  IOLE

  Another splendid example of the author's versatility is this farcical, humorous satire on the _art nouveau_ of to-day. Mr. Chambers, with all his knowledge of the artistic jargon, has in this little novel created a pious fraud of a father, who brings up his eight lovely daughters in the Adirondacks, where they wear pink pajamas and eat nuts and fruit, and listen to him while he lectures them and everybody else on art. It is easy to imagine what happens when several rich and practical young New Yorkers stumble upon this group. Everybody is happy in the end.

  THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS

  Here again is a totally different vein of half humor and half seriousness. Mr. Chambers selects a firm of detectives (based, by the way, on fact) who guarantee to find lost persons, missing heirs, etc. In this case the author's fancy and humor suggest to a young bachelor, who has always had an ideal girl in mind, that he go and describe her as a real person to _Mr. Keen_, the Tracer of Lost Persons. He gives his description, and, as may be supposed, _Mr. Keen_ finds the girl, but after such a series of episodes, escapes, discoveries and denouements that it takes a full-grown novel to accomplish the task.

  THE TREE OF HEAVEN

  Half in fancy, half in fact, the thread of an occult idea runs through this weird theme. You cannot, even at the end, be quite sure whether the author has been making fun of you or not. Perhaps, if the truth were told, he could not quite tell you himself. The tale all hangs about one of a group of friends who lives for years in the Far East and gathers some of the occult knowledge of that far-off land. Into the woof of an Eastern rug is woven the soul of a woman. Into the glisten of a scarab is polished the prophecy of a life. Into the whole charming romance of the book is woven the thread of an intangible, "creepy," mysterious force. What is it? Is it a joke? Who knows?

  SOME LADIES IN HASTE

  This novel is as widely different from all the others as if another hand had written it and another mind conceived it. This time, too, it is impossible to say whether the author is quizzing our new thought transference and telepathic friends, or whether he is half inclined to suggest that "there may be something in it." Here is a character who suddenly discovers that by concentrating his mind on certain ideas he can inject or project them into others. And forthwith he sets half a dozen couples making love to each other in most grotesque surroundings. They climb trees and become engaged. They put on strange Panlike costumes and prance about the woods--always charming, always well bred, always with a touch of romance that makes the reader read on to the end and finally lay the book down with a smile of pleasure and a little sigh that it is over so soon.

  One might run on for twenty books more, but there is not space enougheven to mention Mr. Chambers's delightful nature books for children,telling how _Geraldine_ and _Peter_ go wandering through "Outdoor-land,""Mountain-Land," "Orchard-Land," "River-Land," "Forest-Land," and"Garden-Land." They, in turn, are as different from his novels in fancyand conception as each of his novels from the other. No living writerhas given to the public so varied a list of books with suchextraordinary popularity in all of them as Mr. Robert W. Chambers.