CHAPTER XXII
A STEP NEARER
THE stables?" I asked. "What horses are there?"
"Officers' mounts; but there were several others tied at the hitch rail an hour ago. Two or three civilians rode over from Beckley to attend the dance. These will be easier to get, as they are not guarded."
"You saw them?"
"When they arrived—yes; they appeared to be good stock; better even than the government horses."
I could perceive them dimly, now they were pointed out, from where we skulked in the shadow of the building, but they were so bunched together it was impossible to distinguish the number.
"They will be all equipped?"
"Yes—they were simply ridden in, and tied. I was sitting on the porch here with Captain Fox, and do not remember seeing one unsaddled."
I took a step or two forward, circling the house, so as to better approach the animals along the shadow of an orchard fence. I knew she followed close at my heels, although I did not glance around, my whole attention concentrated on the work before me. I saw nothing to cause alarm, and heard no unusual sound. I do not know yet where the fellow came from, but he must have been crouching down within the shadow of the cellar door, which stood wide open. What he was, who he was, I shall never know, nor the cause of his savage attack. He was a soldier, with cartridge belt on, and musket in hand as though on duty, yet if he was a guard posted there, why did he fail to challenge? It is my thought the man had left his post and was looting the cellar; perhaps was drunk, and mistook me for an officer who had discovered him. I recall pausing an instant, and staring down the dark steps, but I saw nothing, and passed on. I could not have taken two steps, when Noreen gave utterance to a sharp cry, and, instinctively, I sprang swiftly aside, flinging up an arm to protect my head. The blow struck and glanced off, terribly bruising arm and shoulder, the force of it flinging me to the ground. I staggered to my knees, jerking a revolver from the belt, my brain dazed, and one hand numb and useless. Before I could turn entirely about, or perceive anything, there sounded a muffled oath and a crash; then I had a glimpse of the girl alone leaning above the open cellar-way. I managed to gain my feet, and get close enough to touch her dress.
"What is it? What has happened?"
"Oh!" she started, and looked at me scarce able to speak. "You are not killed? not even badly hurt?"
"A hard crack only; I cannot move my arm. It was your cry which saved my head. Who struck the blow? I saw nothing."
"A soldier; he came up out of here," her voice trembling. "I do not think he saw me at all. He—he just seemed to leap forward out of the dark, and struck one blow with his musket—see, it lies here."
"He dropped it, and ran?"
She hid her face in her hands, and I could feel the trembling of her body.
"No! I—I do not know how it happened. I—I caught hold of him suddenly from behind just as he struck. That—that must have frightened him, for—for he reeled back, missed his footing, and went down. He—he just swore once, and I saw his face; then his gun struck against me, and—and he tumbled over backward, and went crunching against something down there. He—he hasn't moved since."
I waited an instant listening, conscious of the pain in my arm, and more fearful that the noise of the encounter had reached the ears of the guard at the gate, than of the silent form below. Then I crept down the steps, until I touched the stone slabs at the bottom of the cellar. I had to feel about blindly in the darkness to locate the fellow, but the first touch of his flesh told me he was dead. He lay at full length, his head curled to one side, his neck broken. I could feel the buttons on his uniform blouse, the bulge of his cartridge belt. Without a word I crawled back into the open air, and got a glimpse of her frightened face.
"The fellow is dead," I said softly. "We have no cause to fear him."
"But I did not kill him! Why, I could not; he—he just stepped back, and fell."
"There is no reason why you should worry about that," I urged, taking her hands from before her face, and clasping them in mine. "His death was an accident, although his attack was murderous enough, and he deserved his fate."
"Was—was he a soldier?"
"Yes, an infantry private, I think. Now don't cry. Listen to me, your nerves are all unstrung; this night's work has been too much for you—too much for any girl. And God knows, you have done enough for me already. Where are you stopping? here at the hotel?"
"Y—yes."
"Then slip inside while there is no one hanging around; and get safely to your own room. There is nothing more you can do. I will take one of those horses yonder, and be off, and I know the country well enough to find my way. Once in the mountains I shall be safe. You will do as I say?"
To my surprise she looked straight into my face, standing motionless. She seemed to catch her breath, as though it was difficult to speak.
"You mean that? that I am to go to my room?" she asked slowly.
"Certainly; that will be the safest and best thing for you to do. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you; nothing I can ever do will repay the service you have rendered me. You are a wonderfully brave girl."
"Do you think so? Oh, but I am neither brave, nor wonderful. I have scarcely known what I was doing; it didn't seem as if there was anything else I could do. But I know now; I have no doubt any more—unless—unless you refuse to let me."
"I refuse! I do not understand what I could refuse. All that remains is for you to go to your room."
"But if I do not go there? if I if I ride away with you!"
"But, Noreen, that would not be right; it would expose you to terrible danger. Think of the days and nights of travel, of hiding and exposure, before I can hope to attain the safety of the Confederate lines; and there is no need of such a sacrifice—you will be perfectly safe here."
"How will I be safe here?" she asked indignantly. "Do you suppose they will spare me, merely because I am a woman? This has not been done in secret; there are too many who know my part in your escape to ever keep the truth hidden. Colonel Pickney will have to make his report, and shield himself from blame. There is not an officer here who will stand openly in my defense, unless it be Captain Fox, and he could not help me. Is it under such conditions you desire I remain here?"
"But do you realize what going with me will inevitably mean?"
"Yes, I realize—not only the peril and hardship, but every issue involved. I made my choice back in the courthouse. It is too late to withdraw."
She paused as though unable to find expression, breathing heavily, and her face sank until I could no longer see her eyes.
"When—when I told Colonel Pickney that—that you were my husband," she faltered, driven to it by my continued silence, "I spoke hastily, it is true; for my only thought just then was the necessity for saving your life. I felt that—that I could do no less, and—and I desired to justify my action. They—they had to know why I did it; do you not understand? I—I am a Union woman; they have trusted me always, these men; even tonight they told me the countersign because of confidence in my loyalty. I—I was the daughter of an officer on General Ramsay's staff. I could not let those men think me a traitor. I—I had to tell them why it had become my duty to aid you. There was no other possible way; no other reason which would justify me in such an act; but—but that confession left me utterly in your power."
"In my power, Noreen! Surely you do not think that I will ever take advantage? that I will ever misconstrue your real purpose?"
"No! but will you live up to the obligation? Oh, you do not see the situation at all! When I said you were my husband I threw myself on your protection. I—I burned the boats. I am all alone now, unless—unless you stand by me. My father is dead; there is not one person anywhere to whom I can go. If I remain here I shall be placed under arrest before daylight—charged with aiding your escape; perhaps charged with the death of this soldier—and I have no friends, no defense. Tom, I must go on with you!"
I saw it all clearly enough now, although her situation was not quite as desperate to my mind as it appeared to her. Yet it might result even as she feared, for Pickney would certainly be furious at the indignity of his treatment, and Raymond was of a disposition to seek revenge; while all I knew regarding Ramsay was, that he was a rigid disciplinarian, little given to acts of mercy. I could not ignore her plea, nor would I misconstrue it. It was fear which thus drove her to me; she had more confidence in my kindness than in their justice—that was the whole story. The poor girl was so frightened she had chosen blindly—she could perceive nothing, realize nothing, except the necessity for immediate escape. My own resolve was instant.
"Do not say any more, Noreen," I said soberly, but making no attempt to touch her. "I understand now. You mean you wish to ride with me?"
"Yes."
"It will be a hard journey, and I cannot guess the end. But you trust me fully?"
"Yes."
"We are to be friends, real friends?"
"I trust you; is not that enough? All I ask now is, do not leave me here alone."
Her fingers clasped my coat, her eyes suddenly lifted to my face.
"Promise me that, Tom," she begged brokenly. "It will be all I ask."
"Surely; we will go together," and I gripped her hands tightly in mine. "Whatever happens I will do my best. But we must go at once."
"Yes, and—and thank you."
We crept forward along the shadow of the orchard fence, until we mingled with the horses fastened at the hitching rail. There were seven altogether tied there, and I selected among them, as best I could in the darkness, two that seemed well adapted to our purpose. I helped her silently into the saddle, thrusting one of my revolvers into the empty holster, and then mounted myself. There had been no noise, no disturbance, and the sleeping camp behind remained quiet. Only one light gleamed from an upper window of the hotel, and we were safely beyond its reflection. The girl was but a dim shape, the riding cloak she wore completely hiding her form. I could no longer distinguish the sound of distant music, but the courthouse was still aglow.
"Which way had we better go?" I asked, my face close, our horses touching.
"Along the south road at first; there is a cut-off just back of the old school."
"And the pickets? do you know where they are posted?"
"At the ford of the Green Briar—the main ford."
"There are none at Benton?"
"No; I do not think they even know the river is fordable there; it is not on the maps."
We rode forward slowly, my hand on her bridle rein, keeping in the deeper shadows along the side of the road, until we passed beyond the last house of the village. I felt no fear of encountering the pickets posted at the Green Briar, for the wood trail she mentioned, leading off just this side of the old red schoolhouse, would take us a quarter of a mile east. If we could attain Benton's Crossing before daylight our chances of getting hidden in the mountains were most excellent. If the camp was not alarmed for another half hour, our pursuers would be given a hard task. Strange, though, that the Federal scouts had never located the Benton ford. To be sure it was narrow, and of no value in high water, yet an ideal place for raiding parties to cross, and all those hills beyond were full of guerrilla bands eager to strike quick and get safely away. That they dared to attack small bodies of troops, and especially poorly guarded wagon trains, had been demonstrated more than once, and this secret ford gave them easy opportunity. The Cowans certainly knew of its feasibility, and the wonder was they had never utilized it before. The longer I thought the more I began to dread the unknown dangers ahead—the gauntlet we must run before attaining the Confederate lines. We could baffle pursuit, but if once we came into contact with those irregulars of the mountains—merciless, irresponsible—no one could predict the result. And every mile of the way we must now traverse lay directly through their country—a region bare, inhospitable, open to all the nameless horror of civil war, where men fought like wolves, and woman suspected every stranger. I glanced aside at the girl, riding so silently at my side, but she was a mere shadow in that darkness. Should I tell her the fear that almost paralyzed me, now that I faced it clearly? Should I compel her to return, and permit me to go on alone? I could skulk along through the night, discard my horse, travel afoot, and thus avoid encountering any of those villains. I was myself a mountaineer, and knew the secret trails—alone, on foot, with no one else to care for, or defend, I could discover some unguarded passage. But with her beside me, the two of us mounted, such a feat was almost impossible. I must find her food and shelter, and we could not travel on horseback without leaving a trail unconcealed. To be sure I knew her of old; that she was strong, resourceful, fearless—yet she was a woman to be protected from insult, to be guarded against exposure; more, she was the woman I loved.
But would she be in any less danger if I compelled her to return to Lewisburg? To be sure nothing worse than imprisonment would be her fate at the hands of the Federal authorities—but she would be exposed to indignities, to almost certain persecution from Raymond. If I understood the inner nature of the fellow his one thought now would be revenge, and he would halt at nothing in an attempt to attain it. I believed she feared him more than all else; that she would prefer the exposure and danger of the mountains rather than remain alone within the scope of his power.
"Noreen," I said, turning my face toward her. "Do you really think it best to try this ride with me?"
"You do not wish me to go?" she asked, as instantly reining up. "You want me to return?"
"No, not that. I have no thought, but for your own good. Only do you understand the perils through which we must pass in those mountains?"
"Yes, I do understand," she answered soberly, "and I comprehend, as you cannot, the danger of my returning to Lewisburg. I will never go back there; but, if you think it best for us to part, I will endeavor to reach Charleston alone."
"You would rather go on with me?"
"I made that choice, but if you consider me a burden—"
"No, it is not that, Noreen," I interrupted, touched by the regretful tone of her voice. "It was of you I was thinking; not myself. Then we go on together?"
She was silent, her eyes on the darkness ahead.
"It must be your decision," I insisted.
"I made my choice an hour ago," she answered frankly.
I waited an instant, thinking she might say more, but she sat motionless in the saddle. Just what her decision signified I could not judge. It seemed to me that between two dangers she had simply chosen the one she deemed to be the lesser. It was not affection for me, but fear of others, which urged her forward. Grasping her bridle rein I rode on through the dark without another word. The decision had been made; now we must both of us abide the consequences.