A Little Traitor to the South<br />A War Time Comedy with a Tragic Interlude by Cyrus Townsend Brady (the best novels to read txt) 📕

Yet there were sharp eyes on the ship, and no negligent watch was kept either. When the David was perhaps two hundred feet away, she was seen. The steadiness of her movement proclaimed a thing intelligently driven.

A sharp, sudden cry from the forecastle ahead of them rang through the night. It was so loud and so fraught with alarm that it came in a muffled note to the men in the depths of the torpedo boat. A bugle call rang out, a drum was beaten. The erstwhile silent ship was filled with tumult and clamor.

"They have seen us!" said Lacy. "Ahead!" he cried, hoarsely. "Hard!"

At the same instant the chain cable of the vessel was slipped, bells jangled in her depths, the mighty engines clanked into sudden motion, the screws revolved, and she began slowly to drive astern. But it was too late, the sea devil was too near to be balked of the prey. The men at the cranks of the David, working with superhuman energy, fairly hurled the torpedo boat upon the doomed ship. Lacy had time for a single upward glance—his last look at anything! The black railing towering above his head was swarming with men. Flashes of light punctured the darkness. Bullets pattered like rain on the iron. One or two tore through the flimsy shell. A jet of water struck him in the face.

The next second there was a terrific concussion. The torpedo struck the ship just forward the mainmast and exploded, tearing a great hole in the side, extending far below the water-line. In the blaze of light that followed, the men in the David cheered wildly, and the next moment blackness overwhelmed them.

On the frigate there was the wildest confusion as the sleeping men below came swarming up on deck. Some of them never succeeded in reaching the hatchways and were drowned where they slept. Some were killed by the explosion. The officers, however, quickly restored order, and as a last resort ordered the surviving men into the rigging, for the water where she lay was shallow, and there they could find safety.

The ship was hopelessly lost. Indeed, she began to sink so soon as the torpedo exploded. The water poured into her vitals, and soon the crash of exploding boilers and the hiss of escaping steam added their quota to the confusion.

Some of the cooler among the officers and men lingered on the decks, small arms in hand, searching the sea on every hand, until the decks were awash. They were looking and hoping for a chance at the boat which had caused them such a terrible disaster, but they never saw her. She had disappeared.

Signals had been burned instantly on the shattered ship. Far up and down the line the lights of moving vessels burning answering signals showed that they were alert to render assistance. Boats, ships' cutters, dashed alongside to render help, and they, too, sought the torpedo boat, but in vain. She was not to be found.

At the same time the ships of the fleet did not move from their appointed stations, and when the blockade-runners came dashing down through the Swash Channel in the hope that the vessels usually stationed there would be withdrawn in the excitement, they were met by a deadly fire from the rifled guns, which rendered it impossible for them to proceed. They turned tail and fled. Two of them succeeded in returning to the harbor. One of them never came back. She was set on fire and burned by the shells of the ships. The monitors and ironclads joined in the battle, the forts returned the fire, and the quiet night was filled with the noise of roaring cannon and exploding shell.

Lacy's had been a gallant and heroic attempt. It had succeeded as to the blowing up of a Federal warship, but it had failed otherwise. By a singular freak of fortune the blow had not fallen upon the vessel for which it had been intended. After dark the fine new sloop-of-war Housatonic had replaced the Wabash off the Main Ship Channel, and she had suffered instead of the flagship.

Although when day broke she was sought for again, nothing more was seen of the David. At least not then. With the explosion of the torpedo she had vanished from the face of the waters. For a long time General Beauregard and the people in Charleston waited for tidings of her, but it was not until the war was over and the Housatonic was raised that the mystery was solved. They found the torpedo boat with her nose pointed toward the hole she had torn in the side of the ship, about a hundred feet away from the wrecked sloop-of-war. She had been riddled with bullets and shattered by the explosion of her own torpedo. She was, of course, filled with water, and in her, at their stations, they found the bodies of her devoted crew, Lacy with his hand on the wheel.

Nothing in life had so become Lacy as the ending of it. It is a proverb that the good men do lies buried with them, the evil is long remembered. It was not so in his case, at any rate, for men forgot everything but the dauntless heroism with which he had laid down his life for his country, and assured his fame.

And, after all, he was not to be pitied for that he died the death of his choice.

CHAPTER IX

MISERABLE PAIR AND MISERABLE NIGHT

Sempland's mind was in a fearful turmoil. It had all come so suddenly and unexpectedly upon him that as yet he hardly realized the gravity of his situation, although it could scarcely be worse. He was under arrest and in confinement, facing such serious charges as neglect of duty, disobedience of orders, treason, cowardice! As to these last, he was so conscious of his loyalty and intrepidity that they did not worry him so much as they might have done. The other things were bad enough, but surely, surely, no one could ever believe him either a traitor or a coward!

His mind did not dwell on his own situation as it might have done, either, if it had not been for Fanny Glen. Instinctively he had stepped forward to gather her in his arms when she fainted before him on the wharf that night, but he had been sternly waved back by the general, and without being given a chance to learn anything about her condition he had been hurried to headquarters and heavily guarded in the room where he was to be held pending Beauregard's further pleasure. As for Fanny Glen, although Sempland could not know it, the surgeon who had been present had speedily revived that young woman, a carriage had been summoned, and she had been taken home under the escort of one of the staff officers.

Sempland was utterly unable to fathom her mysterious conduct. He had thought upon it swiftly as he could during those trying moments which had been so filled with action, but he had not had time, until in the quiet and solitude of his confinement, to give it any calm consideration. He was at a loss to understand her actions.

Was she a traitor to the South? Did she think to prevent the loss of the flagship of the Federal fleet by detaining him? That could not be, for if ever truth and sincerity shone in a woman's face and were evinced in a woman's actions, they were in Fanny Glen's appearance and life. Her patriotism was unquestioned. That hypothesis must be dismissed at once.

Was it because she loved him so that, fancying the expedition promised certain death to him, she had taken this unfortunate method of preserving his life? He had not been too agitated in the strong room of her house to realize as he held her that in some mysterious way she was happy at being in his arms. His heart leaped at the recollection. She had not struggled. She had almost nestled against him.

He could recall the clasp of her arms, the kiss that she had given him, the words that she had said. He was almost sure that she loved him as he thought of these things.

Yet—she had disgraced him, dishonored him! That was not the act of a loving woman. She had shown herself possessed of a full measure of womanly heroism and courage. She knew exactly what was involved in his failure to carry out his orders. How could she have done it? Was it all acting then? Did her kisses betray him? Was she indeed a traitor—and to him? Yet—for whom?

There was Lacy—oh, had he repented after all? Had he wished to resume the command he had so reluctantly surrendered? Had she been a party to any plan whereby the matter might be brought about? Was he to be shamed and sacrificed for Lacy's glory and honor by this woman? Perish the thought! Yet why had she fainted on the wharf? Was it at the mention of Lacy's name? Was she alarmed for his safety? If that were the case, why had she not striven to restrain Lacy and allowed him to go in his place?

Suddenly there flashed into his mind that there might be some one on the Wabash whom she wished to protect! Could that be the solution of the mystery? No one knew anything of her origin, her past history. Was she faithful to the South, yet had she a—a—lover in the Union fleet? Was she indeed what he called her, a heartless coquette? He could have sworn from that brief moment when he held her in his arms, when he looked at her, that she loved him. She had returned his kiss. Oh, had she? Was it a dream? A play? To deceive him? Great God! was he going mad?

Of only one thing was he certain. He could never disclose to any one the cause of his failure to present himself on the wharf in time. Whether she loved Lacy, or some one in the Union fleet, made no difference to his love. He would love her till he died. Ay, he would love her even in the face of her treachery, her faithlessness—everything! He hated himself for this, but it was true, he could not deny it.

And he would save her from the consequences of her action at the cost of his life—his honor even. What had he to live for anyway, if she were taken from him? Death might come. It would come. He would make no defence. It was quite within the power of a court-martial to order him shot. And it was quite within the power of a court-martial to punish Fanny Glen, too, if he fastened the culpability for his failure upon her; perhaps not by death, but certainly by disgrace and shame. The city was under martial rule, General Beauregard was supreme. No, he could not expose her to that condemnation—he loved her too well.

Yet he wished that he could hate her, as he paced up and down the long room, stopping at the windows to stare out into the dark in the direction of the sea—where he should have been if all had gone well.

He was too far away to hear the explosion of the torpedo, which was muffled, because it took place under water, but he could hear the batteries of the ships as they opened on the blockade-runners, and the answer from the forts, and he knew that something had happened at any rate. And his suspense as to that added to his wretchedness. Lacy had supplanted him and reaped the glory—again. It was maddening. No one came to bring him any word. The general concluded to postpone his inquiry until the next morning, and Sempland paced the floor the night long in a pitiable condition of wounded love, blasted hope, shattered fame.

At home, not far away, poor Fanny Glen was even more miserable