CHAPTER VII
SHELTER FROM THE STORM
IT WAS a hard tramp, the notch in the hills farther away than I had reckoned upon, and the ground between extremely difficult to travel over. At times an impenetrable tangle of brush turned me aside, and I was obliged to skirt numerous ravines which were impassable. Yet I held stubbornly to the course, seeing no other way out from the tangle, and stumbled steadily forward, my body aching from fatigue, and growing weak from hunger. It was considerably after the noon hour before I came upon the first sign of human life—an old logging road. Weed overgrown, and evidently long abandoned, it was nevertheless a most welcome discovery, and I limped on between its ruts, animated by new hope. The weather had turned colder, and there were whirling flakes of snow in the air. The direction I traveled compelled me to face the storm, and the wind whipped my face cruelly. An hour more of struggle brought me suddenly on a dismal shack of logs in the midst of a small clearing. I hesitated at the edge of the wood, peering through the snow. The scene was a desolate one, the clearing overgrown with weeds, the hut barely fit for habitation. Yet the very desperation of my situation compelled me to chance its occupancy, and I pushed a way forward through the weeds, discovering no path, until I attained the door. It was closed, but unfastened, and, revolver in hand, I opened it softly and stepped within. There was but one room, and that bare, except for an empty box or two, and a few discarded garments hanging from pegs against the wall. A gun with broken lock stood in one corner beside an axe, and a rudely constructed fireplace occupied one end. There was no other entrance, and the single window was securely closed. The light streaming in through the door revealed these details, and that the room was unoccupied. Yet someone had been there, and not so very long ago, for there were scraps of food on one of the overturned boxes, and a faint, barely perceptible curl of smoke arose from the black ashes on the hearth.
Whoever the former occupant might be, or where he had gone, was of small moment to me just then. It was enough to be assured that he had departed. The sight of those food fragments renewed my consciousness of hunger, revived my sense of chilly discomfort. I glanced without into the storm and closed the door, changing the interior into twilight gloom. Using the axe I soon had a cheerful fire going, and as the warmth of the flame became perceptible, began eager search for something to eat. I almost despaired of success in this effort, but by chance pushing aside one of the garments on the side wall, discovered a haversack in which remained some hard bread and a bit of home-smoked bacon. Unappetizing as these appeared, I sat down before the fire and ate heartily. I dared not sleep, and indeed felt little inclination to do so, my mind busy with recollections of the night's adventures, and planning my future course of action. I thought of Fox, and his men, wondering who among them all had fallen during the fight, and what might be the fate of the others. It was Cowan, no doubt, and his mountaineers, who had attacked, and there would be little mercy shown. This hut likely was the abode of one of the gang, and I gazed about in renewed disgust. It would be well for me to be away before the owner returned, yet I lingered, seduced by the warmth of the fire, and dreading the storm without. The fellow would not come back probably until the snow ceased. Nor did I in the least know where I was to go—except that I must push along to the north, out of Cowan's country. Once in the neighborhood of Lewisburg, I would be on more familiar ground, and could proceed with the work assigned me. If there were Federal troops there I would boldly report the fate of Fox's detachment, proclaim my own purpose as a recruiting officer, and request protection. My papers, my intimacy with Captain Fox, and the knowledge throughout the district that a Lieutenant Raymond had been detailed to this service, would disarm all suspicion. And in my judgment Lewisburg was in that valley ahead—might indeed be visible at the other end of the gap.
I got to my feet, somewhat reluctantly, and opened the door. The storm had ceased, but the ground was white, and the wind still whipped the snow viciously. There was no excuse, however, for not going forward, and closing the door securely behind me I ploughed through the tangle of weeds back to the road. A hundred yards below I came to a pike, along which a wagon had passed since the fall of snow. The vehicle had been drawn by mules, and their narrow hoof marks pointed to the valley. I followed cautiously, making no effort to overtake the outfit, and thus, just before sundown, emerged from the narrow gap and looked down into the broad valley of the Green Briar. It was a scene to linger in the memory, and at my first glance I knew where I was, recognizing the familiar objects outspread before me. The road led downward, turning and twisting as it sought the easier grades, and, no longer obscured by snow, the soil showed red and yellow. The wagon was already nearly to the bottom of the hill, distinguished by its spread of dirty canvas top. Other than this I could perceive no moving object, except what appeared to be either a body of horsemen, or bunch of cattle, far away to the left. Lewisburg lay beyond a spur of the hills, invisible from my position, although distant spirals of smoke indicated its presence. A few log huts appeared along the curving road, the one nearest me in ruins, while a gaunt chimney beside a broad stream unbridged was all that remained of a former mill. Beyond this, in midst of a grove of noble trees, a large house, painted white, was the only conspicuous feature in the landscape. I recognized it at once as the residence of Major Harwood.
My gaze rested upon it, as memory of the man, and his fate, surged freshly back into mind. The place had been spared destruction; it remained unchanged—but from that distance there was nothing to indicate that the house was still occupied. It had the appearance of desertion—no smoke showing above the broad chimney, no figures moving either about the main house, or the negro cabins at the rear. This condition was no particular surprise, for Harwood's daughter, scarcely more than a girl to my remembrance, would not likely remain there isolated and alone during such troublesome times, and the servants had doubtless long since disappeared in search of freedom. The young woman would doubtless be with friends, either in Lewisburg or Charleston; and that the mansion, thus deserted, still remained undestroyed was, after all, not so strange, for the Major's standing throughout that section would protect his property. He would retain friends on each side of the warring factions who would prevent wanton destruction. I moved on down the steep descent, losing sight of the house as the road twisted about the hill, although memory of it did not desert my mind. Some odd inclination seemed to impel me to turn aside and study the situation there more closely. Possibly some key to the mystery of Harwood's murder—some connection between him and old Ned Cowan—might be revealed in a search of the deserted home. Fox had said that his party halted at the house on their march east toward Hot Springs. Some scrap of paper might have been left behind in the hurry of departure, which would yield me a clue. If not this, then there might be other papers stored there relating to military affairs in this section of value to the Confederacy. Harwood was the undoubted leader of the Union sympathizers throughout the entire region; he would have lists of names, and memoranda of meetings, containing information which would help me greatly in my quest. An exploration could not be a matter of any great danger, and might yield me the very knowledge I sought.
I had almost determined on this course when I came to the cross-road, which I knew ran directly in front of the house. It was already growing dark, clouds hanging low over the valley, and, as I paused irresolute, a cold drizzle set in, the north wind sweeping the dampness into my face. Determined by this I turned aside into the new road, and pressed forward, only anxious now to find shelter. The road twisted about along the bank of a small stream shadowed by trees on either side. I passed the ruins of the mill, but beyond the night closed about me so dark that objects became shapeless, and I even found difficulty in following the path, although it was seemingly a well traveled road. Only detached sections of rail fence remained standing, and I should have stumbled blindly past the very place I sought but for the high stone pillars which marked the place where the gate had once been. These guided me to the driveway, and I groped a passage through the grove of trees to the front steps.
The great house loomed before me black and silent. If I had ever questioned its desertion its appearance lulled every such suspicion. Nor had it escaped unscathed from the despoilation of war. At a distance, gazing from the side of the mountain, I could perceive no change. But now, close at hand, even the intense darkness could not hide the scars left by vandals. The front steps were broken, splintered as if by an axe, and the supporting pillars of the wide veranda had been hacked and gashed. The door above was tightly closed, yet both the windows to the right were smashed in, sash and all, leaving a wide opening. I crept forward, and endeavored to peer through, but the darkness within was opaque. The only sound was the beating of rain on the roof overhead. Occasionally the swirl of the wind drove the cold drops against me where I crouched listening; I was wet through, chilled to the bone, my uniform clinging to me like soaked paper. At least the inside promised shelter from the storm, a chance for a fire, and possibly fragments of food. And I had nothing to fear but darkness.
My revolver was under the flap of my cavalry jacket, dry and ready for use. I brought it forward, within easy grip, and stepped over the sill. My feet touched carpet, littered with broken glass, and I felt about cautiously, locating an overturned chair, and a cushioned settee, minus one leg. My recollection of the interior of the house was vague and indistinct—the remembrance only of one brief visit made there years before, a boy of ten with my father. I had never been in this room, which must be the parlor, but I knew a wide hallway led straight through from front door to back, bisected only by a broad stairway leading to the upper story. The library would be opposite directly across the hall, and the dining room behind that. I had been in both these apartments, and they had seemed to me then spacious and wonderful; quite the most remarkable rooms I had ever seen. I groped along the inside wall, seeking the door, making no particular effort to be noiseless, yet rendered cautious by fear of stumbling over misplaced furniture. The apartment was evidently in much disorder, glass crackling under my feet, and a breadth of thick carpet torn up, so that I tripped over it, and nearly fell. Yet I found the door at last, standing wide open, and emerged into the hall. The way was clearer here, and there came into my mind the recollection of a bracket lamp, on the wall at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps it was there still, and might contain oil. If this could be located, a light would be of great assistance, and could not add very much to my peril of discovery. No one would be abroad in this desolate country on such a night of storm, and the house was utterly abandoned. Besides, the heavy blinds at most of the windows were closed tightly. My remembrance of the position of the lamp was extremely vague, yet my fingers found it at last, and lifted it from the bracket. The globe contained oil, and, in another moment, the light revealed my immediate surroundings.
Except for a broken stair rail the hall remained in good order, a storm-coat hanging beside the front door, and a serving table and low rocker occupying the recess behind the stairway. I could see nearly to the further end, where a bench stood against the wall with some garment flung over it, and up the stairs to the blackness of the second story. The total desertion of the place was evident; the destruction which had been wrought was plainly the work of cowardly vandals, who had broken in after the Harwoods left. Convinced of this truth I proceeded fearlessly to explore, seeking merely the warmth of a fire and food. The library, a large room, the walls lined with bookcases, afforded no encouragement, but I stopped in amazement at the door of the dining room—the light of my lamp revealing a table at which someone had lately eaten, apparently alone. There was a single plate, a cup and saucer, a half loaf of bread, with a slice cut, part of a ham bone, with considerable meat remaining untouched, and a small china teapot. For an instant the unexpected sight of these articles fascinated me, and then my eyes caught a dull glow in the fireplace at the opposite end of the room—the red gleam of a live ember.
I could not actually credit the evidence of my own eyes, firmly believing, for an instant, the glow was but the reflection of the light held in my hands. Yet a step forward convinced me—the ashes of the fire-place radiated warmth; someone then had been in that very room within an hour, had warmed himself there, and partaken of food. The shock of this discovery was so sudden as to give me a strange, haunted feeling. The house had seemed so completely deserted, so desolate, wrapped in silence and darkness, that the very conception that someone else was hiding there came upon me like a blow. Who could the person be? A faithful slave remaining to guard the property for his master? Some fugitive who, like myself, had sought shelter from the storm? Or Old Ned Cowan seeking to complete his mysterious purpose? Could this be the aftermath of the murder? A search after papers not found upon the body of the dead man? Somehow my mind settled to this theory, leaped to this conclusion—the prowler was Cowan, or else some emissary he had sent. Well, I would find out. Thus far the advantage was mine, for I knew of another presence, while the fellow, whoever he might prove to be, in all probability possessed no knowledge of my entrance. Perhaps he had already completed his search and departed; if not, then he must be somewhere on the second floor, for if below he would have certainly perceived my light or been alarmed by the sound of my movements.
My heart beat fast, but from excitement, not fear. With cocked revolver in one hand, the lamp in the other, I silently opened door after door, peering into vacant apartments, half thinking every shadow to be a skulking figure. The search revealed nothing; not even further evidence of any presence in the house. The kitchen fire was cold, the cooking utensils clean, and in their proper places. The back door was bolted from within, the windows securely closed. I listened for any sound, but the house was as silent as a tomb; I could hear the patter of rain, the scraping of a limb against the outer wall, but not the faintest movement within. Satisfied already that the mysterious invader had departed, yet sternly determined now to explore the whole house, and have done with the business, I mounted the back stairway, a strip of rag carpet rendering my steps silent, and, with head above the landing, flashed my light cautiously along the upper hall. There were doors on either side, the most of them open, but the third to the left was closed. There was no transom over it, but the door was far enough away from the radius of my lamp so as to reveal a faint glow of light at the floor line. I sat the lamp down on the landing, and crept noiselessly forward to assure myself; it was true, a light was burning within the closed room.