A Little Traitor to the South by Cyrus Townsend Brady (dark academia books to read TXT) 📕

fact, and then as you know, sent the boat out under Major Lacy."

"He was detained," said the girl, faintly.

"So he said when I arrested him last night, and he repeated the statement this morning. I pressed him to tell me by whom and where he had been detained, but he refused to tell. I plied him with every argument at my command. I pointed out to him the consequences of his action, his failure to justify himself, that is, showed him clearly the penalty which the court-martial would undoubtedly inflict upon him--"

"That is?"

"Death, madam! He will probably be shot to-morrow, for his guilt is clear."

The girl's head fell forward in her hands. There was a little silence in the room. The general watched her narrowly, but said nothing further. He was waiting, in full confidence that she would speak. He could afford to be patient now.


CHAPTER XII


THE CULPRIT IS ARRESTED

"General Beauregard," she whispered at last, "I am the traitor. He was detained by me."

"That doesn't excuse him," said the general, severely. "Any man who fails in his duty because he succumbs to a woman's wiles, even though that woman loves him, has no plea to urge in justification. He is a soldier. His duty to obey orders is first of all."

"But--but--you don't understand. I--I--kept him there by force, sir. Major Lacy told me of the expedition--he and Mr. Sempland had called upon me in the afternoon. They--they had each of them asked me--in--marriage. We--we quarrelled. Mr. Sempland left me in anger, Major Lacy divined that I--I--cared for Mr. Sempland. He came back later in the evening and told me Mr. Sempland was going to blow up the _Wabash_, and he begged me to see Mr. Sempland again and bid him good-by. I had only two thoughts--that it meant certain death to my father and possibly Mr. Sempland--the man--I--What was I to do? I might have sacrificed myself by letting Mr. Sempland run the risk, but my father, sir--"

She stopped and looked at him in pitiful entreaty.

"Go on," said the general, inflexibly.

"I had Mr. Sempland ushered into the strong room of the house--the old Rennie house, you know, sir?"

The general nodded.

"The door was locked on him after he entered. My three negro boys kept watch outside. There was no escape for him. He beat and hammered on the door until his hands bled. He begged and implored to be released. It was agonizing to hear. I did not realize that he was telling the truth when he said he was being dishonored. I had no time to consider anything. I only thought of my father--helpless on that great ship--the sudden rush of that awful little boat."

"You were a traitor to the South!" said General Beauregard, coldly.

"Yes. God pity me, I see it now," answered the girl.

"How did he get away? Did you release him?" continued the general.

"He swore that he would kill himself if I did not open the door."

"Did you open it?"

"Yes."

"Then did he burst through you and the men?"

"No. They were armed and would have killed him. He could not have made his escape that way. He begged me to speak to him alone for a moment. I went into the room and shut the door. He seized me in his arms and then put his pistol to my head, threatening to kill me if I did not order the door opened."

"And you obeyed?"

"No, I refused. Then he called out to the slaves to open at once or he would kill me, their mistress."

"What happened then?"

"I ordered them not to open the door, to let me die. But they did as he said. He made them leave the hall. They obeyed him in spite of my protests. Then he threw me aside, and ran to the wharf. I followed after. The rest you know. It was useless after all. I thought no one would go if he did not. I thought if I could detain him a night--get some delay--I would come here in the morning and tell you the truth and ask you to spare my father."

"Miss Glen," said the little general, "I would not spare my own father if my duty demanded that he be sacrificed."

"I suppose so. You are a man, you cannot understand. I am a woman. There were but two I loved on earth. I was ashamed of my father, but I loved him. Four years of war have taught me other things. I am sorry that he did not go with the South, but it is not for me to judge him. I could not see him condemned to death and not raise a hand to save him. And I discovered too late that I--I--cared for Mr. Sempland. I drove him from me in scorn and contempt--I taunted him. He sought that detail to prove his courage, I could not let him go to certain death. If he did it would be my fault, I would have murdered him. Pity me! I am only a woman. Try to understand!"

"But the young man has proven his courage--"

"I know, I know! I never doubted it," she interrupted.

"By keeping silent this morning, by facing certain death upon charges that are worse than the punishment to a soldier, in that they blast his fame," said the general.

"Thank God for that kindness to me!"

"And he did all this for you."

"He loves me, as I love him."

"But your love has disgraced him, his has protected you."

The girl shrank before the stern words of the soldier.

"Yes," she said faintly, "it is as you say. I alone am to blame. Let mine alone be the punishment. I will tell all to the court. He must be cleared!"

"It is just," said Beauregard. "You have committed an act of treason against the South. There is, however, some excuse for your action, and your previous record in the hospital service has been such as to entitle you to every consideration. I am disposed to be lenient, but the offence is one I cannot condone. I will have to put you under guard until I can consider what is best to be done."

"I make no protest," said Fanny Glen. "You will, of course, release Mr. Sempland from arrest, and see that his reputation takes no hurt?"

"I will attend to that."

He struck a bell again and summoned the assistant adjutant-general once more. Fanny Glen dropped her veil so that her face was concealed from the officer. He did not perceive what she had suffered and was suffering. Yet her heart was full of relief--her father was safe, her lover would be free, and, best of all, she had such testimony as few women have received to the depth and power of his passion. He loved her indeed. There was a joy in that thought that set her heart beating.

The general drew his subordinate into a corner of the room, where they conversed earnestly for a few moments. Then they came back to the young girl.

"Adjutant-General Wylie," said the commander-in-chief, "you will take charge of Miss Glen. You will follow him, Miss Glen. I will communicate my further plans within an hour."

There was something intensely pathetic in the droop of the little figure, in spite of the comforting thoughts that had come to her, when the girl rose and followed the soldier from the room.

The general was almost persuaded to call after her a reassuring word or two, but he restrained himself and said nothing.


CHAPTER XIII


COMPANIONS IN MISERY

It is conceivable that a man could manage to bear without repining the loss of fame and fortune, that he could survive deprivation of rank and station with equanimity, nay, more, that he might even contemplate with a philosophic indifference an impending forfeiture of life, provided he had love to sustain him. But when that is lost, and consequently everything is gone, he has to fall back upon conscious rectitude alone, which is well enough in schemes of philosophy, but most inadequate in the emergencies and crises of real life.

Lieutenant Rhett Sempland, under arrest, in confinement, awaiting trial, alone and unvisited by any one,--which meant Fanny Glen,--felt that morning as if he had indeed lost everything. He had been certain at first that Fanny Glen had returned his swift, impulsive caress in the strong room even in the peculiar circumstances under which he had bestowed it upon her, and he had therefore naturally inferred that she loved him. Indeed, when he thought of the look in her eyes when he strained her to his breast, although he had the pistol pointed at her forehead, the conviction was strong within him.

Yet, again and again this proposition presented itself to him, crushing his hope and breaking his heart: How could a woman who loved a man, and a woman especially who had become sufficiently conversant with military affairs through her hospital service and other experiences in this war to understand what she was doing, have placed her lover in so compromising a position?

And most damnably crushing thought of all, why had she not had the common decency after all to come and see him this morning? He was in trouble, and he suffered for her sake. She must know that, she must realize it. Why did she give no sign of it?

His loneliness and his craving to see her was terrible. His desire to see her grew with every passing moment, he was consumed by it; yet, he thought bitterly, to what purpose, after all?

Some of this had come to him last night; but the more he thought of it, the more uncertain, miserable, and deserted he felt. So it is not strange that it was not so much his own impending fate as it was the hopeless endeavor to discover the real reason for Fanny Glen's conduct which engrossed his attention that fateful morning.

He had failed miserably, officially and personally. He decided, against heart and hope, at last, that he had made no progress in his love affair. The woman he adored had given him convincing proof, so he argued, rebellious against the conclusion to the last, that his professional future was a matter of indifference to her; nay, that his very life was a thing she would jeopard or even forfeit lightly. Lacy, as usual, had stepped in the breach and earned immortal fame, even if he had to die to secure it. Sempland envied him his rest, with his brave companions in arms in the desperate sea venture, beneath the cool, green waters of the ocean that laved their beloved shore.

Well, there was no use in worrying or speculating any longer. It would all be over soon now. He was sufficiently experienced as a soldier to know what would happen to him. There was only one possible verdict, only one punishment for the crimes with which he was charged.

When he was sentenced to death, his friends would undoubtedly move heaven and earth to get President Davis to mitigate or commute his punishment; but he was resolved in his own mind firmly to discourage such efforts. He took a gloomy view of life and of love and of women--do they not always go together in the heart of youth? There was nothing now, therefore, for which he cared to live.

Yet if he could only see Fanny Glen again!