Chapter 11

WHO LAUGHS LAST

The trip to Winchester was uneventful. The country through which they passed had been made desolate by the contending armies; and Nancy gazed sad-eyed at the ruined homes and wasted fields. War, grim war, had devastated the entire valley.

Miss Metoaca spent most of her time repairing the rents made in her wardrobe by Miss Watt and her assistant, and she ignored Lloyd's existence with studied insolence. Goddard tried to engage Nancy in a low-toned conversation, but she did not respond to his overtures; so, tired and worried over the whole situation, he went to the farther end of the car and found what comfort he could with a cigar.

The station master and regular detail of soldiers were at Stephenson's Depot when the special train reached its destination. On inquiry Goddard learned from the officer in command of the detachment that the usual escort had come from Winchester for the mail and supplies brought by the regular train, which had arrived several hours ahead of them.

"Captain Gurley was very much excited when the conductor told him the Misses Newton, whom he had come to meet, were detained at Harper's Ferry," continued the officer. "He had to return to Winchester. He said he would ride back here, or send an escort for you if he learned by wire to Harper's Ferry that the ladies would reach here to-night."

"Is there any conveyance I can get to take these ladies over to Winchester?" inquired Goddard.

"Ole Miss Page sent her mules an' road wagon," volunteered the station master, "for them. Captain Gurley left your hoss hitched under the shed across the street, Major, thinkin' if you came through sooner than he could get back you'd want him. I reckon you'll find Miss Page's worthless nigger boy asleep in the shed, too, 'cause I tole him he couldn't loaf 'round here."

"I will stay with the ladies, Bob," said Lloyd. "You and Symonds go for your horse and the mules."

Goddard turned over an empty crate. "Better sit on this, Miss Metoaca," he advised, noting the lines of fatigue in the spinster's haggard face. "There is room for you, too, Miss Nancy. Symonds, come with me," and the two men hastened across the road to the tumbled down shed.

Goddard's mare, Brown Betty, welcomed him with a whinny of delight, and he stopped a moment to caress her. The mules, harnessed to an open two-seated wagon, were hitched beside his horse, but there was no sign of the negro driver.

"You will have to drive them, Symonds," said Goddard, pulling the blanket off his mare, and tightening the saddle girths. "Here, Sergeant," as that worthy approached, "help back these mules out into the street."

It took some moments to induce the mules to move at all, but by dint of much whipping and shouting the animals were finally made to mind. Once out of the shed, Symonds had no difficulty in driving up to the depot, where Goddard soon joined him, leading his horse.

"The darky has disappeared," he explained briefly to Miss Metoaca, as he helped her and Nancy into the back seat and covered them with the warm laprobes that were in the bottom of the wagon.

"Captain Lloyd," Miss Metoaca leaned forward with the inborn breeding inherited from generations of gentle blood, "you appear to have no way of reaching Winchester except by foot. May I offer you the fourth seat in this wagon?"

Lloyd colored as he raised his hat. "Thank you, madam." He caught Nancy's mocking smile, and murmured: "Is it to be an armed truce?"

"Why look on me as an enemy?" she retorted calmly.

Without answering, Lloyd seated himself by Symonds, and they started slowly off. Goddard stayed a moment to exchange a few more words with the officer stationed at the depot, then put spurs to his mare, and soon overtook the rest of his party.

The winter day was drawing to a close, and dusk was falling as they left the last cluster of houses behind them. The mules were old and poorly fed. It was impossible to get them to move faster than a jog-trot. They had gone some distance when Goddard saw a small detachment of cavalry approaching, leisurely walking their horses along the road from Winchester. Their blue uniforms reassured him, and he rode forward to meet the sergeant, and recognized on nearer view the insignia of his corps on the latter's uniform.

"Did Captain Gurley send you to escort these ladies?" he asked, as the sergeant spurred up and saluted.

"Yes, Major."

Goddard turned and beckoned to Symonds, who had stopped some yards in the rear. "What do you mean by letting your men straggle so along the road?" he demanded sharply. "Have them close up."

The sergeant again saluted, and wheeled his horse just behind Goddard's. "Close up, men!" he ordered. "Close up!"

Obediently the cavalrymen trotted to their places on either side of the wagon, and Symonds urged his mules to their utmost speed to keep up with the escort.

"How far are we from Winchester, Bob?" called Lloyd.

"About...." Goddard's words died in his throat as a strong hand seized his bridle rein, and he looked into the barrel of the sergeant's army revolver. Swiftly his right hand sought his own revolver, and he fired from his hip, but the sudden rearing of his startled mare spoiled his aim. The next instant his weapon was wrenched from him by a trooper who had dashed to the sergeant's assistance, and his arms were pinioned behind his back. At the same moment Lloyd and Symonds were covered by the revolvers of the cavalrymen on either side of the wagon.

"Resistance is useless," called the sergeant. "Stop those mules!"

His orders were instantly obeyed. Lloyd, realizing that he was helpless, sank back into his seat.

"Who the ---- are you?" roared Goddard, as the men, with no gentle hand, searched him for other weapons.

"Willard Tucker, Captain, C.S.A., now serving with Colonel Mosby," was the quiet reply. "We were reconnoitring when we met your party, Major, and you obligingly asked us to 'close up.'"

Goddard inwardly cursed his own stupidity. He remembered, too late, that it was a favorite trick of Mosby's guerillas to disguise themselves in Federal uniforms and raid the mail and supply trains.

"Where are you taking us?" he inquired as, obedient to an order from Captain Tucker, the squad wheeled to the left at the fork of the roads.

"To Mosby," was the brief response. "Your name and regiment, and the names of your companions, Major?"

Goddard quickly supplied the desired information, and Tucker rode up to the wagon. "I am sorry to inconvenience you, ladies," he said, "but I must take you with me to headquarters."

Miss Metoaca and Nancy had sat spellbound watching Goddard's capture with startled eyes.

"Very well," said Miss Metoaca, with resignation, drawing a long breath. "Apparently it is as difficult for me to get to Winchester as it is for our troops to enter Richmond."

Tucker laughed as he leaned forward and addressed Symonds.

"If you try to drive anywhere but in the direction I tell you you will be instantly shot; and you, too, Captain Lloyd," he added sternly.

Symonds nodded glumly. Both he and Lloyd had been searched and their revolvers taken from them. Escape just then appeared to be out of the question. They were but three men against twenty guerillas. It was impossible to make the old mules go faster than a jog-trot; while the rebels were well mounted. Goddard, with his arms bound behind him, rode with a trooper on either side, each holding one of his reins.

After about an hour's ride over a rough road, that was really nothing more than a cow path, they turned to the east until they reached a creek.

Tucker shouted an order to his men, then turned to Miss Metoaca.

"We will bivouac in the woods yonder, near this ford," he said courteously. "It is impossible for us to reach Mosby to-night."

The rough and ready camp was soon organized, and a special shelter was arranged for Miss Metoaca and Nancy on the extreme left of the camp fire. They had watched the preparations with interest and, glad of the warmth of the fire, sat as near it as they conveniently could while a hasty meal was being cooked.

From the first moment of their capture Lloyd had watched Nancy like a lynx. Not a movement of her hands had escaped him. Had she planned their capture? If so, she would be sure to betray herself by some overt act or word. What treatment would Tucker accord her? Would he consider her a prisoner of war, or--a friend? They had met as strangers. Lloyd gave his parole so that he might keep Nancy under constant surveillance.

While these thoughts were occupying Lloyd Goddard was busy puzzling his brain for a way to escape. He might chance a dash for the open later on. Brown Betty was picketed near him, but there were Miss Metoaca and Nancy to be considered. He could not desert them. No plan seemed feasible; he would have to bide his time, and see what the fortunes of war would bring forth. He had just reached this conclusion when Captain Tucker approached him.

"If you will give me your parole not to attempt escape," he said, "I will have your arms freed."

Goddard thought quickly. "I promise--until to-morrow morning," he agreed reluctantly.

Tucker called one of the guerillas, and with his assistance released Goddard, who rubbed his stiff arms until the blood again circulated freely.

"Come over by the fire and have some supper," suggested the rebel captain, and with a muttered word of thanks Goddard hastened to join his friends. Nancy made room for him beside her.

"Don't be so down-hearted," she whispered, handing him a piece of corn-pone. "Our fate might be worse. I feel sure we will escape somehow."

"You are a brave girl to take it that way," he answered, and his eyes kindled with admiration. "I wonder how many men would have gone through this morning's humiliating experience and to-night's capture with such pluck."

Nancy laughed softly. "It is well you judge me from the exterior. I assure you I am 'all av a trimble,' and my heart quakes with fear of what the future may have in store for me," and she glanced anxiously at the rough men about her.

"Miss Newton, won't you sing for us?" called Captain Tucker across the camp fire. "It is not often we capture ladies, and I am longing for the sound of a woman's voice."

"Do," pleaded Goddard, low in Nancy's ear.

She hesitated before answering; then: "Certainly, Captain Tucker, provided you will sing first."

"Agreed." Tucker cleared his throat, thought a moment, then began:

'Tis years since last we met, And we may not meet again, I have struggled to forget, But the struggle was in vain. For her voice lives on the breeze, And her spirit comes at will; In the midnight, on the seas, Her bright smile haunts me still!

Dropping their various occupations the guerillas drew in about the camp fire as the familiar words of the famous rebel song reached them. Few joined in the chorus; they were busy thinking of their sweethearts and wives far away. Tucker glanced appealingly at Nancy as he began the next verse, but her face was averted.

I have sailed 'neath alien skies, I have trod the desert path, I have seen the storm arise Like a giant in his wrath; Every danger I have known, That a reckless life can fill; Yet her presence has not flown, Her bright smile haunts me still!

A round of applause rang out as Tucker's rich tenor voice ceased.

"Be quiet, you fellows," he directed. "Now, Miss Newton, I hold you to your promise."

Nancy looked about her. The fire had not been replenished, and the darkness was creeping in. It was difficult to clearly distinguish each man's face by the flickering light from the hot embers, but Goddard's expression caught her attention. Her woman's intuition read, and read aright, what he but dimly realized.

A burning blush dyed Nancy's pale cheeks, and for a moment her heart beat more rapidly; then sank. She was a rebel--a spy; he a--ah, not hated--Yankee--a gallant, _honorable_ foe. She must not encourage him. That should not be charged against her when the reckoning came. The old words, "he who breaks--pays," recurred to her. Let hers be the pain, not his. She forgot "My Old Kentucky Home," instead came the words:

Take back the heart that thou gavest, What is my anguish to thee? Take back the freedom thou cravest, Leaving the fetters to me. Take back the vows thou hast spoken, Fling them aside and be free.

Her eyes caught and held Goddard's. Would he understand?

Smile o'er each pitiful token, Leaving the sorrow for me; Drink deep of life's fond illusion, Gaze on the storm-cloud and flee Swiftly, through strife and confusion, Leaving the burden to me.

Not a man stirred as her glorious voice died away. Goddard's eyes fell, and he prodded the ground viciously with nervous fingers. His mouth was set in stubborn lines. No one spoke. Goddard roused himself. One quick compelling look at Nancy and his fine baritone voice took up the song she had left unfinished:

Then when at last, overtaken, Time flings its fetters o'er thee, Come, with a trust still unshaken, Come back a captive to me. Come back in sadness or sorrow, Once more my darling to be.

Come as of old, love, to borrow Glimpses of sunlight from me. Love shall resume her dominion, Striving no more to be free, When on her world-weary pinion, Flies back my lost love to me.

"Good, Major, good," exclaimed Tucker heartily, as the applause rang out. "Do sing again, Miss Newton?"

Miss Metoaca answered for Nancy. "Not to-night, Captain Tucker. We have had a trying day and are completely worn out. With your permission we will go to our tent."

"Of course, Miss Newton," exclaimed Tucker, springing to his feet. "You and your niece are at liberty to walk about the camp, provided you do not approach the picket line."

"Thanks," Miss Metoaca's tone was dry. "Coming, Nancy? Good night, gentlemen," and she stalked to her temporary shelter with as much dignity as the uneven ground permitted.

Nancy rose, bade Tucker a courteous good night and, accompanied by Goddard, followed her aunt.

"Good night, Major," she said, and turned to enter the canvas shelter.

Goddard took her half extended hand in both of his.

"One moment," he implored, in so low a tone that she barely heard the words. "Did you intend that song to have an especial meaning for me? _Did you?_"

Nancy simply bowed her head in an affirmative.

Goddard drew a deep breath. His eyes scanned her face yearningly.

"No man or circumstance shall part us," he said grimly.

"You forget, sir, that it is my privilege to choose my friends and acquaintances."

The accent on the last word was unmistakable. Goddard paled under his tan.

"Do you dislike me?" he demanded.

"Yes."

Goddard could not see the effort the monosyllable cost her. In bitter disappointment he dropped her hand. As Nancy turned abruptly away she tripped over the root of a tree. Instantly Goddard caught and steadied her. Her soft hair brushed his cheek ... one breathless moment ... he clasped her in his arms and showered kisses on the face pressed against his shoulder. Desperately Nancy wrenched herself free and disappeared inside the tent. With shining eyes and bounding pulse he rejoined Tucker and Lloyd by the camp fire.

Some hours later Goddard awoke from an uneasy sleep. At first, bewildered by his surroundings, he lay without moving; then gradually the occurrences of that day recurred to him. His thoughts flew to Nancy, and raising himself on his elbow, he glanced in the direction of her improvised shelter some distance to his left.

In the stillness the snores of the sleeping men sounded clearly; surely it had not been that which had awakened him? As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw dimly the outlines of a man's figure approach Nancy's tent and disappear behind it. He was wide awake on the instant. Some midnight marauder was trying to enter her tent. The pickets were far away. Captain Tucker, knowing they were within the Confederate lines, had relaxed his vigilance, and the camp was but lightly guarded.

Goddard wasted no time in idle speculation. He slid out of his blanket; then softly, very softly, crouching behind each bush he stole toward the tent. Then cautiously, on hands and knees, he crept around it. He was about to rise when fingers closed over his throat, and a heavy body fell upon him. Silently the two men struggled in the little clearing. Goddard's eyes were starting from his head as the pressure tightened on his windpipe. His breath came in panting gasps. With strength born of desperation he tore the gripping hands away, and the fresh air rushed into his stifled lungs.

"Lloyd! Lloyd! Help!" he gasped. His weak voice did not carry far; but the figure above him stiffened.

"My God! Is it you, Bob?" whispered Lloyd. "We have been fighting each other." He slid off Goddard's body, and assisted him to sit up.

"What--what--in blazes did you jump on me for?" demanded Goddard, in a hoarse whisper, tenderly feeling his aching throat.

"I did not know it was you, Bob. I have been dozing off and on; and suddenly heard a faint noise in this direction. Thinking it might be Tucker trying to communicate unseen with Miss Newton, I stole over here. When you came creeping around the corner there I sprang on you."

"Have you still got that bee in your bonnet?" whispered Goddard scornfully. "When will your persecution of that girl cease? Your search this morning proved she hadn't any despatch. Besides, you did not actually see her pick up that said despatch in Gautier's; you simply jumped to that conclusion because the despatch was not on the floor when you reached their table. Any one might have picked it up. Now, we both have proof that she has not communicated with Tucker. We mistook each other for him, that is all. Let's go back to our blankets." His advice was good, and Lloyd followed it.

Inside the tent, a girl, sad at heart, crouched against the canvas; her fingers felt around the _empty_ hole in one of her pear-shaped earrings. As she deftly fitted the two halves together into one pendant she crooned softly:

Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland!