Books: His Sombre Rivals
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E. P. Roe >> His Sombre Rivals
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"Yes," she faltered; "it may be that you can return all that we have
done a hundred-fold. It may be that you will meet Henry in battle. In
the memory of his little sister you will spare him, will you not? If
he should be captured I will tell him to write to you, and I feel sure
that you will remember our lonely ride and the gray old father who is
praying for you now, and will not leave him to suffer."
Graham drew a seal ring from his finger and said: "Dear Pearl, take
this as a pledge that I will serve him in any way in my power and at
any cost to myself. I hope the day will come when he will honor me
with his friendship, and I would as soon strike the friend I have lost
as your brother."
"Now I am content," she said. "I believe every word you say."
"And Grace Hilland will come some day and claim you as a sister dearly
beloved. And I, sweet Pearl, will honor your memory in my heart of
hearts. The man who wins you as his bride may well be prouder than an
emperor."
"Oh, no, Mr. Graham, I'm just a simple Southern girl."
"There are few like you, I fear, South or North. You are a girl to
kindle every manly instinct and power, and I shall be better for
having known you. The hope of serving you and yours in some way and at
some time will give a new zest and value to my life."
"Do not speak so kindly or I shall cry again. I've been afraid you
would think me silly, I cry so easily. I do not think we Southern
girls are like those at the North. They are colder, I imagine, or at
least more able to control their feelings. Papa says I am a child of
the South. I can't decide just how much or how little I ought to feel
on all occasions, and ever since I saw you mourning over your friend
with just such passionate grief as I should feel, my whole heart has
ached for you. You will come and see us again if you have a chance?"
"I will make chances, Pearl, even though they involve no little risk."
"No, no; don't do that. You ought to care too much for us to do that.
Nothing would give me pleasure that brought danger to you. If I could
only know that you reached your friends in safety!"
"I'll find a way of letting you know if I can."
"Well, then, good-by. It's strange, but you seem like an old, old
friend. Oh, I know Henry will like you, and that you will like him.
Next to mamma's, your ring shall be my dearest treasure. I shall look
at it every night and think I have added one more chance of Henry's
safety. Oh, I could worship the man who saved his life."
"And any man might worship you. Good-by, Pearl;" and he kissed her
hand again and again, then lifted her on her pony with a tenderness
that was almost an embrace, and she rode slowly to the door of a
little log cabin, while Graham remained concealed in the shadow of the
woods until it was made certain that no one was in the vicinity except
Jehu and his family.
The old man was soon aroused, and his ejaculations and exclamations
were innumerable.
"No, missy, dars no un been roun' heah for right smart days. It's all
safe, an' Jehu an' his ole ooman knows how ter keep mum when Mas'r
Anderson says mum; an' so does my peart boy Huey"--who, named for his
father, was thus distinguished from him. "An' de hossifer is a Linkum
man? Sho, sho! who'd a tink it, and his own son a 'Federate! Well,
well, Mas'r Anderson isn't low-down white trash. If he thought a ting
was right I reckon de hull worl' couldn't make him cut up any white-
trash didoes."
When Rita explained further the old negro replied with alacrity: "Ob
cose Jehu will took you home safe, an' proud he'll be ter go wid you,
honey. You'se a mighty peart little gal, an' does youse blood an'
broughten up jestice. Mighty few would dar' ride five mile troo de
lonesome woods wid a strange hossifer, if he be a Linkum man. He mus'
be sumpen like Linkum hisself. Yes, if you bain't afeared ter show him
de way, Huey needn't be;" and the boy, who was now wide awake, said
he'd "like notten better dan showin' a Linkum man troo de woods."
Graham was summoned, and in a few moments all was arranged.
He then drew the old man aside and said, "You good, faithful old soul,
take care of that girl as the apple of your eye, for she has only one
equal in the world. Here is one hundred dollars. That will pay for a
good many chickens and vegetables, won't it?"
"Lor' bless you, mas'r, dey ain't chickens nuff in Ole Virginny to
brought hundred dollars."
"Well, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of. This region may be wasted by
war, like so many others. You may not be troubled in this out-of-the-
way place. If Mr. Anderson's family is ever in need, you are now paid
to supply them with all that you can furnish"
"'Deed I is, mas'r, double paid."
"Be faithful to them and you shall have more 'Linkum money,' as you
call it. Keep it, for your money down here won't be worth much soon."
"Dat's shoah. De cullud people bain't all prayin' for Linkum for
notten."
"Good-by. Do as I say and you shall be taken care of some day. Say
nothing about this."
"Mum's de word all roun' ter-night, mas'r."
"Huey, are you ready?"
"I is, mas'r."
"Lead the way, then;" and again approaching Rita, Graham took off his
hat and bowed low as he said, "Give my grateful greeting to your
honored father, and may every hope of his heart be fulfilled in return
for his good deeds today. As for you, Miss Anderson, no words can
express my profound respect and unbounded gratitude. We shall meet
again in happier times;" and backing his horse, while he still
remained uncovered, he soon turned and followed Huey.
"Well, now," ejaculated Jehu. "'Clar ter you ef dat ar Linkum hossifer
bain't nigh onter bein' as fine a gemman as Mas'r Henry hisself. Won't
you take some 'freshment, missy? No? Den I'se go right 'long wid you."
Rita enjoined silence, ostensibly for the reason that it was prudent,
but chiefly that she might have a respite from the old man's
garrulousness. Her thoughts were very busy. The first romance of her
young life had come, and she still felt on her hands the kisses that
had been so warm and sincere, although she knew they were given by one
who cherished a hopeless love. After all, it was but her vivid
Southern imagination that had been kindled by the swift, strange
events of the past twenty-four hours. With the fine sense of the best
type of dawning womanhood, she had been deeply moved by Graham's
strong nature. She had seen in him a love for another man that was as
tender and passionate as that of a woman, and yet it was bestowed upon
the husband of the woman whom he had loved for years. That he had not
hesitated to risk captivity and death in returning for his friend
proved his bravery to be unlimited, and a Southern girl adores
courage. For a time Graham would be the ideal of her girlish heart.
His words of admiration and respect were dwelt upon, and her cheeks
flushed up seen in the deep shadow of the forest. Again her tears
would fall fast as she thought of his peril and of all the sad scenes
of the day and the sadder ones still to come. Grace Hilland, a
Southern girl like herself, became a glorified image to her fancy, and
it would now be her chief ambition to be like her. She would keep her
lovely portrait on her bureau beside her Bible, and it should be
almost equally sacred.
In the edge of the forest she parted from Jehu with many and warm
thanks, for she thought it wise that there should not be the slightest
chance of his being seen. She also handed him a Confederate bill out
of her slender allowance, patted him on the shoulder as she would some
faithful animal, and rode away. He crept along after her till he saw
her let down some bars and turn her pony into the fields. He then
crept on till he saw her enter a door, and then stole back to the
forest and shambled homeward as dusky as the shadows in which he
walked, chuckling, "Missy Rita, sweet honey, guv me one of dern
'Federate rags. Oh, golly! I'se got more money--live Linkum money--dan
Mas'r Anderson hisself, and I'se got notten ter do but raise chickens
an' garden sass all my born days. Missy Rita's red cheeks never grow
pale long as Jehu or Huey can tote chickens and sass."
CHAPTER XXX
GUERILLAS
Graham, beyond a few low, encouraging words, held his peace and also
enjoined silence on his youthful guide. His plan was to make a wide
circuit around the battlefield of the previous day, and then strike
the trail of the Union forces, which he believed he could follow at
night. Huey thought that this could be done and that they could keep
in the shelter of the woods most of the distance, and this they
accomplished, reconnoitring the roads most carefully before crossing
them. Huey was an inveterate trapper; and as his pursuit was quite as
profitable as raising "sass," old Jehu gave the boy his own way.
Therefore he knew every path through the woods for miles around.
The dawn was in the east before Graham reached the Union trail, and be
decided to spend the day in a dense piece of woods not very far
distant. Huey soon settled the question of Mayburn's provender by
purloining a few sheaves of late oats from a field that they passed;
but when they reached their hiding-place Graham was conscious that he
was in need of food himself, and he also remembered that a boy is
always ravenous.
"Well, Huey," he said, "in providing for the horse you have attended
to the main business, but what are we going to do?"
"We'se gwine ter do better'n de hoss. If mas'r'll 'zamine his saddle-
bags, reckon he'll fine dat Missy Rita hain't de leddy to sen' us off
on a hunt widout a bite of suthin' good. She sez, sez she to me, in
kind o' whisper like, 'Mas'r Graham'll fine suthin' you'll like,
Huey;'" and the boy eyed the saddle-bags like a young wolf.
"Was there ever such a blessed girl!" cried Graham, as he pulled out a
flask of wine, a fowl cut into nice portions, bread, butter, and
relishes--indeed, the best that her simple housekeeping afforded in
the emergency. In the other bag there was also a piece of cake of such
portentous size that Huey clasped his hands and rolled up his eyes as
he had seen his parents do when the glories of heaven were expatiated
upon in the negro prayer-meetings.
"That's all for you, Huey, and here's some bread and cold ham to go
with it. When could she have provided these things so thoughtfully? It
must have been before she called me last night. Now, Huey, if you ever
catch anything extra nice in the woods you take it to Miss Rita. There
is ten dollars to pay you; and when the Lincoln men get possession
here I'll look after you and give you a fine chance, if you have been
faithful. You must not tell Miss Rita what I say, but seem to do all
of your own accord. I wish I had more money with me, but you will see
me again, and I will make it all right with you."
"It's all right now, mas'r. What wouldn't I do for Missy Rita? When my
ole mammy was sick she bro't med'cin, and a right smart lot ob tings,
and brung her troo de weariness. Golly! Wonder Missy Rita don't go
straight up ter heben like dem rackets dey shoots when de 'Federates
say dey hab a vict'ry;" and then the boy's mouth became so full that
he was speechless for a long time.
The sense of danger, and the necessity for the utmost vigilance, had
diverted Graham's thoughts during his long night ride; and with a
soldier's habit he had concentrated his faculties on the immediate
problem of finding the trail, verifying Huey's local knowledge by
observation of the stars. Now, in the cool summer morning, with Rita's
delicious repast before him, life did not seem so desperate a thing as
on the day before. Although exceedingly wearied, the strength of mind
which would enable him to face his sad tasks was returning. He thought
little about the consequences of his disobedience to orders, and cared
less. If he lost his rank he would enlist as a private soldier after
he had done all in his power for Grace, who had been committed to his
care by Hilland's last words. He felt that she had the most sacred
claims upon him, and yet he queried, "What can I do for her beyond
communicating every detail of her husband's last hours and his burial?
What remedy is there for a sorrow like hers?"
At the same time he felt that a lifelong and devoted friendship might
bring solace and help at times, and this hope gave a new value to his
life. He also thought it very possible that the strange vicissitudes
of war might put it in his power to serve the Andersons, in whom he
felt a grateful interest that only such scenes as had just occurred
could have awakened. It would ever be to him a source of unalloyed joy
to add anything to Rita Anderson's happiness.
His kind old aunt, too, had her full share of his thoughts as he
reclined on the dun-colored leaves of the previous year and reviewed
the past and planned for the future. He recalled her words, "that good
would come of it," when he had promised to "live and do his best."
Although in his own life he had missed happiness, there was still a
prospect of his adding much to the well-being of others.
But how could he meet Grace again? He trembled at the very thought.
Her grief would unman him. It was agony even to imagine it; and she
might, in her ignorance of an officer's duties in battle, think that
if he had kept near Hilland the awful event might have been averted.
After all, he could reach but one conclusion--to keep his old promise
"to do his best," as circumstances indicated.
Asking Huey, who had the trained ear of a hunter, to watch and listen,
he took some sleep in preparation for the coming night, and then gave
the boy a chance to rest.
The day passed quietly, and in the evening he dismissed Huey, with
assurances to Rita and her father that a night's ride would bring him
within the Union lines, and that he now knew the way well. The boy
departed in high spirits, feeling that he would like "showin' Linkum
men troo de woods" even better than trapping.
Then looking well to his arms, and seeing that they were ready for
instant use, Graham started on his perilous ride, walking his horse
and stopping to listen from time to time. Once in the earlier part of
the night he heard the sound of horses' feet, and drawing back into
the deep shadow of the woods he saw three or four men gallop by. They
were undoubtedly guerillas looking for him, or on some prowl with
other objects in view. At last he knew he must be near his friends,
and he determined to push on, even though the dawn was growing bright;
but he had hardly reached this conclusion when but a short distance in
advance a dozen horsemen dashed out of a grove and started toward him.
They were part of "The Band," who, with the instincts of their class,
conjectured too truly that, since he had eluded them thus far, their
best chance to intercept him would be at his natural approach to the
Union lines; and now, with the kind of joy peculiar to themselves,
they felt that their prey was in their power, beyond all hope of
escape, for Graham was in plain sight upon a road inclosed on either
side by a high rail fence. There were so many guerillas that there was
not a ghost of a chance in fighting or riding through them, and for a
moment his position seemed desperate.
"It's Mayburn to the rescue now," he muttered, and he turned and sped
away, and every leap of his noble horse increased the distance between
him and his pursuers. His confidence soon returned, for he felt that
unless something unforeseen occurred he could ride all around them.
His pursuers fired two shots, which were harmless enough, but to his
dismay Graham soon learned that they were signals, for from a
farmhouse near other horsemen entered the road, and he was between two
parties.
There was not a moment to lose. Glancing ahead, he saw a place where
the fence had lost a rail or two. He spurred toward it, and the
gallant horse flew over like a bird into a wide field fringed on the
further side by a thick growth of timber. Bullets from the
intercepting party whizzed around him; but he sped on unharmed, while
his pursuers only stopped long enough to throw off a few rails, and
then both of the guerilla squads rode straight for the woods, with the
plan of keeping the fugitive between them, knowing that in its tangle
he must be caught.
Graham resolved to risk another volley in order to ride around the
pursuers nearest the Union lines, thus throwing them in the rear, with
no better chance than a stern chase would give them. In order to
accomplish this, however, he had to circle very near the woods, and in
doing so saw a promising wood-road leading into them. The yelling
guerillas were so close as to make his first plan of escape extremely
hazardous; therefore, following some happy instinct he plunged into
the shade of the forest. The road proved narrow, but it was open and
unimpeded by overhanging boughs. Indeed, the trees were the straight,
slender pines in which the region abounded, and he gained on all of
his pursuers except two, who, like himself, were superbly mounted. The
thud of their horses' hoofs kept near, and he feared that he might
soon come to some obstruction which would bring them to close
quarters. Mayburn was giving signs of weariness, for his mettle had
been sorely tried of late, and Graham resolved to ambush his pursuers
if possible. An opportunity occurred speedily, for the road made a
sharp turn, and there was a small clearing where the timber had been
cut. The dawn had as yet created but a twilight in the woods, and the
obscurity aided his purpose. He drew up by the roadside at the
beginning of the clearing, and in a position where he could not
readily be seen until the guerillas were nearly abreast, and waited,
with his heavy revolver in hand and his drawn sword lying across the
pommel of his saddle.
On they came at a headlong pace, and passed into the clearing but a
few feet away. There were two sharp reports, with the slightest
possible interval. The first man dropped instantly; the other rode
wildly for a few moments and then fell headlong, while the riderless
horses galloped on for a time.
Graham, however, soon overtook them, and with far more compunction
than he had felt in shooting their riders, he struck them such a blow
with his sword on their necks, a little back of their ears, that they
reeled and fell by the roadside. He feared those horses more than all
"The Band"; for if mounted again they might tire Mayburn out in a
prolonged chase.
To his great joy the wood lane soon emerged into another large open
field, and he now felt comparatively safe.
The guerillas, on hearing the shots, spurred on exultantly, feeling
sure of their prey, but only to stumble over their fallen comrades.
One was still able to explain the mode of their discomfiture; and the
dusky road beyond at once acquired wholesome terrors for the
survivors, who rode on more slowly and warily, hoping now for little
more than the recapture of the horses, which were the envy of all
their lawless hearts. Your genuine guerilla will always incur a heavy
risk for a fine horse. They soon discovered the poor brutes, and saw
at a glance that they would be of no more service in irregular
prowlings. Infuriated more at the loss of the beasts than at that of
the men, they again rushed forward only to see Graham galloping easily
away in the distance.
Even in their fury they recognized that further pursuit was useless,
and with bitter curses on their luck, they took the saddles from the
fallen horses, and carried their associates, one dead and the other
dying, to the farmhouse in which dwelt a sympathizer, who had given
them refreshment during the night.
A few hours later--for he travelled the rest of the way very warily--
Graham reported to his colonel, and found the brigade under orders to
move on the following morning, provided with ten days' rations.
The officer was both delighted and perplexed. "It's a hard case," he
said. "You acted from the noblest impulses; but it was flat
disobedience to orders."
"I know it. I shall probably be dismissed from the service. If so,
colonel, I will enlist as a private in your regiment. Then you can
shoot me if I disobey again."
"Well, you are the coolest fellow that ever wore the blue. Come with
me to headquarters."
The fact of his arrival, and an imperfect story of what had occurred,
soon got abroad among the men; and they were wild in their approval,
cheering him with the utmost enthusiasm as he passed to the
brigadier's tent. The general was a genuine cavalryman; and was too
wise in his day and generation to alienate his whole brigade by any
martinetism. He knew Graham's reputation well, and he was about
starting on a dangerous service. The cheers of the men crowding to his
tent spoke volumes. Hilland's regiment seemed half beside themselves
when they learned that Graham had found their lieutenant-colonel dying
on the field, and that he had been given an honorable burial. The
general, therefore, gave Graham a most cordial welcome; and said that
the question was not within his jurisdiction, and that he would
forward full particulars at once through the proper channels to the
Secretary of War, adding, "We'll be on the march before orders can
reach you. Meanwhile take your old command."
Then the story had to be repeated in detail to the chief officers of
the brigade. Graham told it in as few words as possible, and they all
saw that his grief was so profound that the question of his future
position in the army was scarcely thought of. "I am not a sentimental
recruit," he said in conclusion. "I know the nature of my offence, and
will make no plea beyond that I believed that all danger to our
command had passed, and that it would ride quietly into camp, as it
did. I also thought that my superiors in giving the order were more
concerned for my safety than, for anything else. What the consequences
are to myself personally, I don't care a straw. There are some
misfortunes which dwarf all others." The conference broke up with the
most hearty expressions of sympathy, and the regret for Hilland's
death was both deep and genuine.
"I have a favor to ask my colonel, with your approval, General," said
Graham. "I would like to take a small detachment and capture the owner
of the farmhouse at which was harbored part of the guerilla band from
which I escaped. I would like to make him confess the names of his
associates, and send word to them that if harm comes to any who showed
kindness or respect to officers of our brigade, severe punishment will
be meted out on every one whenever the region is occupied by Union
forces."
"I order the thing to be done at once," cried the general. "Colonel,
give Major Graham as many men as he needs; and, Graham, send word
we'll hang every mother's son of 'em and burn their ranches if they
indulge in any more of their devilish outrages. Bring the farmer into
camp, and I will send him to Washington as a hostage."
On this occasion Graham obeyed orders literally. The farmer and two of
the guerillas were captured; and when threatened with a noosed rope
confessed the names of the others. A nearly grown son of the farmer
was intrusted with the general's message to their associates; and
Graham added emphatically that he intended to come himself some day
and see that it was obeyed. "Tell them to go into the army and become
straightforward soldiers if they wish, but if I ever hear of another
outrage I'll never rest till the general's threat is carried out."
Graham's deadly pistol shots and the reputation he had gained in the
vicinity gave weight to his words; and "The Band" subsided into the
most humdrum farmers of the region. Rita had ample information of his
safety, for it soon became known that he had killed two of the most
active and daring of the guerillas and captured three others; and she
worshipped the hero of her girlish fancy all the more devoutly.
CHAPTER XXXI
JUST IN TIME
Graham returned to camp early in the afternoon, and was again greeted
with acclamations, for the events that had occurred had become better
known. The men soon saw, however, from his sad, stern visage that he
was in no mood for ovations, and that noisy approval of his course was
very distasteful. After reporting, he went directly to his tent; its
flaps were closed, and Iss was instructed to permit no one to approach
unless bearing orders. The faithful negro, overjoyed at his master's
safe return, marched to and fro like a belligerent watch-dog.
Graham wrote the whole story to his aunt, and besought her to make
known to Grace with all the gentleness and tact that she possessed the
awful certainty of her husband's death. A telegram announcing him
among the missing had already been sent. "Say to her," he said, in
conclusion, "that during every waking moment I am grieving for her and
with her. Oh, I tremble at the effect of her grief: I dread its
consequences beyond all words. You know that every power I possess is
wholly at her service. Write me daily and direct me what to do--if,
alas! it is within my power to do anything in regard to a grief that
is without remedy."
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