Raiding with Morgan

“The ball did not penetrate the brain,” he said, as he finished, “nor do I think the skull is injured, although the ball plowed along it for some distance. Fortunately it was a small bullet, one from a revolver, probably, which hit him. It cut a number of small arteries in its course, and that is the reason he has bled so much. An hour more and he would have been beyond my skill.”

“Will he live now?” asked Joyce.

“The chances are against him. If saved at all, it will only be by the best of nursing.”

“He can be taken into the house now, can’t he?” she asked.

“Yes, but you had better first let a tub of water be brought, and clean underclothes, and a night shirt. He needs a bath as much as anything.”

Joyce had the men get the water, while she procured some underclothes which belonged to her brother. Calhoun’s clothes were now removed, clothes which had not been off him for a month.

“Here is a belt,” said one of the men; “it looks as if it might contain money,” and he was proceeding to examine it when the Doctor forbade him.

“Give it to Miss Joyce,” he said; “the fellow is her prisoner.”

The belt was handed over rather reluctantly. Calhoun having been bathed, Joyce was called, and told that her prisoner was ready for her.

“Bring him in, the chamber is all prepared,” was her answer.

Calhoun was brought in and placed in a large, cool upper chamber.

“This is mighty nice for a Rebel,” said one of the men, looking around. “My Jake didn’t get this good care when he was shot at Stone River.”

“Too blame nice for a Morgan thief,” mumbled the other.

“Shut up,” said the Doctor; “remember what Miss Joyce has done for our boys. Worked her fingers off for them. This man, or rather boy, for he can’t be over twenty, was brought to her door. Would you have him left to die?”

The men hung their heads sheepishly, and went out. They were not hard-hearted men, but they were bitter against Morgan, and any one who rode with him.

“Now I must go,” said the old Doctor kindly, taking Joyce’s hand. “You have done to this young man as I would have one do to my son in a like extremity.”

The old Doctor’s voice broke, for he had lost a son in the army. Recovering himself, he continued, “I must go now, for I may be needed by some of our own gallant boys. I will drop in this evening, if possible, and see how your patient is getting along. God bless you, Joyce, you have a kind heart.”

Joyce looked after the old Doctor with swimming eyes. “One of God’s noblemen,” she murmured.

She took the belt which had been taken from Calhoun, and which had been handed her by the Doctor, and put it carefully away. She then began her vigil beside the bedside of the wounded man. The Doctor had given her minute directions, and she followed them faithfully. It was some hours before Calhoun began to show signs of consciousness, and when he did come to, he was delirious, and in a raging fever.

The Doctor returned as he had promised. He shook his head as he felt Calhoun’s pulse, and listened to his incoherent mutterings.

“This is bad,” he said. “It is fortunate he lost so much blood, or this fever would consume him. But we must hope for the best. Only the best of nursing will bring him through.”

“That he shall have,” said Joyce. “I have sent for Margaret Goodsen. You know she is an army nurse, and knows all about wounded men.”

“Yes, Margaret is good, none better,” replied the Doctor.

All through that night Joyce sat by the bedside of Calhoun cooling his fevered brow, giving him refreshing drinks. He talked almost continually to himself. Now he would be leading his men in battle, cheering them on. Then he was a boy, engaged in boyish sports. The name of Fred was uttered again and again.

“I wonder who Fred can be?” thought Joyce; “a brother, probably.”

Joyce Crawford was the only daughter of the Hon. Lorenzo Crawford, one of the most prominent citizens of Columbiana County. Mr. Crawford had served two terms in Congress, and was at the time of the war a member of the state senate. He had one child besides Joyce, his son Mark, who we have seen was a major in the Federal army.

Mr. Crawford lost his wife when Joyce was three years old; since that time his house had been presided over by a maiden sister. This lady was absent in Steubenville when Morgan appeared so suddenly in the county; thus at the time of Calhoun’s appearance only Joyce and the servants were at home, Mr. Crawford being absent in the east on duties connected with the Sanitary Commission.

Mr. Crawford was what is known as an original Abolitionist. Before the war his house was one of the stations of the underground railroad, and many a runaway slave he had helped on the way to Canada. Twice he had been arrested by the United States officials for violation of the fugitive slave law, and both times fined heavily. He believed there could be no virtue in a slave-owner; such a man was accursed of God, and should be accursed of men. His daughter had to a degree imbibed his sentiments, and the idea of slavery was abhorrent to her; but her heart was so gentle, she could hate no one. Calhoun’s helplessness appealed to her sympathies, and she forgot he was one of Morgan’s raiders. Although young, only eighteen, she had admirers by the score, but her father so far had forbidden her receiving company, considering her as yet only a child.

Joyce’s beau ideal of a man was her brother Mark, and he was worthy of her adoration. Several years her senior, he had watched over and guided her in her childhood, and never was a brother more devoted.

The next morning the news came that Morgan was captured, and the scare in Columbiana County was over. The morning also brought Miss Crawford, who had come hurrying home on receipt of the news that Morgan was in the county. She nearly went into hysterics when she learned that one of the dreadful raiders was in the house. “How could you do it, child?” she cried to Joyce; and “Doctor, why did you let her?” she added to Doctor Hopkins, who had just come in to see his patient.

“Madam, it was a case of life or death,” replied the Doctor. “Joyce did right. We are not heathens in Columbiana County.”

“But you will take him right away?” pleaded the lady.

“It would be death to move him.”

“But he might murder us all,” said Miss Crawford.

The Doctor smiled. “If he lives, it will be weeks before he will have the strength to kill a fly,” he answered.

Miss Crawford sighed, and gave up the battle. She was not a hard-hearted woman, but the idea of having one of Morgan’s dreadful raiders in the house was trying on her nerves.

The afternoon brought Major Crawford. The story of Joyce’s capture of a raider had travelled far and wide, and the Major had already heard of it. “So you captured a prisoner, did you, Puss?” he exclaimed, kissing her, as she threw herself in his arms. “Is he a regular brigand, and bearded like a pard?”

“No, no, he is young, almost a boy,” she answered. “Margaret Goodsen is taking care of him now. Come and see him, but he is out of his head, and raves dreadfully.”

She led the way to the chamber where Calhoun was. No sooner did Major Crawford see him than he turned pale and staggered back, “Great God!” he exclaimed.

What fate was it that had led the man he had shot to the house to be cared for by his sister?

“What is it, Mark? What is it?” she cried, seeing his agitation.

Should he tell her? Yes, it would be best. “Joyce, you will not wonder at my surprise, when I tell you it was I who shot him.”

“You, brother, you!” she cried, and instinctively she shrank from him.

Mark saw it, and exclaimed, “Great God! Joyce, you don’t blame me, do you? I had to do it to save my life. He was about to cut me down with his sword when I fired.”

“No, no,” she cried, “I don’t blame you, but it was so sudden; it is so dreadful. I never before realized that war was so terrible.”

“Well, Joyce, save the poor fellow’s life if you can; I don’t want his death on my hands if I can help it. Do you know who your prisoner is?”

“No, you see the condition he is in.”

“His name is Pennington, Calhoun Pennington. He is one of Morgan’s bravest and most daring officers. I ought to know him, he took me prisoner twice.”

“You, Mark, you?”

“Yes, you remember I told you how I lost my horse in Tennessee. He is the fellow who took it. He afterwards captured me at Cave City.”

“Mark, what will become of him if he gets well?” she asked.

“The United States officials will take him,” he answered. “His being here must be reported.”

“And – and he will be sent to prison?”

“Yes, until he is exchanged.”

“But you were not sent to prison when you were captured,” she protested.

“No, I was paroled; but I hardly believe the government will parole any of Morgan’s men.”

“Why?” she asked.

“They have given us too much trouble, Puss. Now we have them, I think we will keep them.”

“Mark, Aunt Matilda don’t like my taking this Pennington in. She says father will not like it at all.”

“I will see Aunt Matilda, and tell her it is all right. I will also write to father. No, Joyce, I don’t want Pennington to die. It is best, even in war, to know you have not killed a man. So take good care of him, or rather see he has good care. Get a man to nurse him nights.”

“I will look out for that,” said Joyce.

“Well, Puss, good-bye, keep me posted. I had leave of absence only a few hours, so I must be going.”

“Oh, Mark, must you go so soon?” And she clung to him as if she would not let him go. Gently disengaging her arms, he pressed kiss after kiss on her brow and was gone. She sank into a chair weeping, and for a time forgot her prisoner.

The next day Joyce had another visitor, in the person of Andrew Harmon. He had heard that his horse was at Crawford’s, and that the officer who took him was there desperately wounded. He made his visit with pleasure, for of all the girls in Columbiana County, she was the one he had selected to become Mrs. Harmon. He had no idea he would be refused, for was he not considered the greatest catch in the county?

Harmon had two things to recommend him – good looks and money. He was accounted a handsome man, and was as far as physical beauty was concerned. He had the body and muscle of an athlete, but there was nothing ennobling or inspiring in the expression of his countenance. By nature he was crafty, mean, cruel, and miserly, and was one of the biggest cowards that ever walked.

Like many others, he was a great patriot as far as talk was concerned. He had been so unfortunate as to be drafted at the first call, and had promptly furnished a substitute. He was fond of boasting he was doing double duty for his country, not only was he represented in the army, but he was doing a great work at home. This work consisted in contracting for the government, and cheating it at every turn. Many a soldier who received shoddy clothing, paper-soled shoes, and rotten meat had Mr. Harmon to thank for it. But he was piling up money, and was already known as one of the richest men in the county. When he went out with the Home Guards, he had no idea of getting near Morgan; he would look out for that. But his party ran into Morgan’s advance unexpectedly, and as has been related, he was captured by Calhoun. It was a most wonderful story he had to tell.

He had been beset by at least six of Morgan’s men. A desperate conflict followed, and he had killed, or at least desperately wounded, three of his assailants, and it was only after he had not a single shot left in his revolver and was surrounded that he had surrendered.

“So enraged were they at my desperate defence,” said he, “that the officer in charge pulled me from my horse, brutally kicked and struck me, threatened to kill me, and then appropriated my horse. He is a desperate fellow, Miss Joyce; I would not keep him in the house a single moment.”

Joyce, who had listened to his account much amused, for she had heard another version of it, said, “I do not think, Mr. Harmon, he could have beaten you very hard, for I see no marks on you, and you seem to be pretty lively. As for sending Lieutenant Pennington away, the Doctor says it would be death to move him.”

Mr. Harmon shifted uneasily in his chair as Joyce was saying this, and then asked to see Calhoun, as he wished to be sure whether he was the one who had captured him. This Joyce consented to, provided he would be careful not to disturb him. Harmon promised, and he was taken into the room. Calhoun was tossing on his bed, as he entered, and no sooner did his wild eyes rest on Harmon than he burst into a loud laugh, “Oh! the coward! the coward!” he shouted, “take him away.”

Harmon fled from the room white with rage. “Miss Joyce, that fellow is shamming,” he fumed. “I demand he be delivered to the United States officials at once.”

“The Doctor thinks differently; he says it will kill him to be moved,” she answered.

“Let him die, then. It isn’t your business to nurse wounded Rebels, especially one of Morgan’s cutthroats.”

“I do not have to come to you to learn what my business is,” answered Joyce, haughtily, and turned to leave the room.

Mr. Harmon saw that he had made a mistake. “Joyce! Joyce! don’t go, hear me,” he exclaimed.

“You will find your horse in the stable,” was all she said, as she passed out.

He left the house vowing vengeance, and lost no time in informing the Federal authorities that the wounded officer at Crawford’s was shamming, and would give them the slip if not taken away. Two deputy marshals came to investigate, and went away satisfied when Doctor Hopkins promised to report as soon as his patient was well enough to be removed.

In due time Joyce received a letter from her father. He had not heard that Morgan had come as far north as Columbiana County, until after he was captured. As all danger was now over, he would not be home for some time. The thousands who had been wounded in the great battle of Gettysburg were occupying his attention. He also had to make a visit to Washington and Fortress Monroe, and might go as far south as Hilton Head. As for the wounded Rebel at his house, Joyce had done right in not letting him die in the road, but that he should be turned over to the military authorities at the earliest possible moment. Little did Mr. Crawford think what the outcome of the affair would be.

Contrary to her aunt’s protest, Joyce insisted on taking most of the care of Calhoun during the day. Margaret Goodsen was all the help she needed. She had engaged a competent man to care for him nights. Had not Mark told her to save the life of the man he had shot, if possible?

CHAPTER XX.

CALHOUN AWAKES TO LIFE

For two weeks Calhoun hovered between life and death; but at last his rugged constitution conquered. During this time Joyce was unremitting in her attention. “I must save him for the sake of Mark,” she would say, “I cannot bear to have his blood on Mark’s hands.”

In speaking to Joyce’s aunt, Matilda Goodsen said: “The poor child will hardly let me do anything; she wants to do it all.”

Miss Crawford fretted and fumed, but it did no good. In this Joyce would have her way.

Calhoun’s fever had been growing less day by day, and the time came when it left him, and he lay in a quiet and restful slumber. But his breathing was so faint, Joyce was almost afraid it was the sleep which precedes death.

It was near the close of an August day. The weather had been warm and sultry, but a thunder shower had cooled and cleared the atmosphere, and the earth was rejoicing in the baptism it had received. The trees seemed to ripple with laughter, as the breeze shook the raindrops from their leaves. The grass was greener, the flowers brighter on account of that same baptism. The birds sang a sweeter song. What is more beautiful than nature after a summer shower!

It was at such a time that Calhoun awoke to life and consciousness. A delicious lethargy was over him. He felt no pain, and his bed was so soft, he seemed to be resting on a fleecy cloud. He tried to raise his hand, and found to his surprise he could not move a finger. Even his eyes for a time refused to open. Slowly his memory came back to him; how in the fierce conflict he tried to break through the line and sought to cut down an officer who opposed him. Then there came a flash, a shock – and he remembered nothing more. Where was he now? Had he passed through that great change called death? By a great effort he opened his eyes, and was bewildered. He was in a strange room. By an open window sat a young girl. She had been reading, but the book was now lying idly in her lap, and she was looking apparently into vacancy. The rays of the setting sun streamed in through the windows, and touched hair and face and clothes with its golden beams. Calhoun thought he had never seen a being so lovely; her beauty was such as he fancied could be found only in the realms above, yet she was mortal. He could not take his eyes from her. She turned her head, and saw him gazing at her. Uttering a little exclamation of surprise, she arose and came swiftly but noiselessly to his side.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Calhoun whispered, faintly.

“Hush! hush!” she said, in low, sweet tones, “you must not talk. You have been sick – very sick. You are better now.”

She gave him a cordial. He took it, and with a gentle sigh, closed his eyes, and sank to sleep again. Before he was quite gone, it seemed to him that soft, tremulous lips touched his forehead, and a tear-drop fell upon his cheek. Its memory remained with him as a beautiful dream, and it was long years before he knew it was not a dream.

Doctor Hopkins was delighted when he called in the evening and learned that his patient had awaked with his fever gone, and in his right mind. “All that he needs now,” he said, “is careful nursing, and he will get well. But mind, do not let him talk, and tell him nothing of what has happened, until he gains a little strength.”

From that time Calhoun gained slowly, but surely. When he became strong enough to bear it, Joyce told him all that had happened. He could scarcely realize that over a month had passed since he had been wounded.

“Then that stand of mine did not save Morgan,” said Calhoun, sorrowfully.

“No, he was taken a few hours afterwards,” answered Joyce. “He and his officers are now in the penitentiary at Columbus.”

Calhoun could hardly believe what he heard. “Then we are to be treated as felons, are we?” he asked, bitterly.

“They are afraid he might escape from a military prison,” replied Joyce. “But the people are very bitter against him. Some are clamoring that he be tried and executed.”

“They will not dare do that,” exclaimed Calhoun, excitedly.

“No, I do not think there is any danger that way,” replied Joyce; “but they want to keep him safe.”

“Well they may, but Morgan will yet make them trouble. No prison will hold him long.”

“There, there, don’t let us talk about it any more,” said Joyce; “it will worry you back into a fever.”

“You have saved my life,” said Calhoun, fervently. “How can I ever repay you for what you have done?”

Joyce did not reply.

Calhoun lay silent for some time, and then suddenly said: “I am one of Morgan’s hated officers, and yet you are caring for me as for a brother. What makes you do it?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” said Joyce; “I have a dear brother in the army. I am only doing by you as I would have him done by, if he should fall wounded. And then – ” Joyce stopped; she could not tell him it was her brother who had shot him.

A great light came to Calhoun. “Joyce! Joyce!” he cried, “I now understand. It was your brother who shot me.”

“Oh! forgive him! forgive him!” cried Joyce. “He told me it was to save his own life that he did it.”

“Why, Joyce, there is nothing to forgive. Your brother is a brave, a gallant officer. Then he has been here?”

“Yes, and knew you. He bade me nurse you as I would nurse him in like condition.”

“Just like a brave soldier; but are there none who find fault with my being here treated like a prince?”

“Yes, one. His name is Andrew Harmon. It was his horse you were riding when you came here. He seems to hate you, and is doing all he can to have you taken to Columbus. He says you treated him most brutally when he was captured.”

“I did kick him,” answered Calhoun, laughing; “he was on the ground bellowing like a baby. I never saw a more abject coward. I kicked him and told him to get up.”

“He has a different story,” said Joyce, smiling; and then she told the wonderful story of Harmon’s capture as related by himself.

“His capacity for lying is equalled only by his cowardice,” said Calhoun, indignantly.

“Yet he is a man to be feared,” said Joyce, “for he is rich and has influence, although every one knows him to be a coward.”

The days that passed were the happiest Calhoun had ever spent. He told Joyce of his Kentucky home, of his cousin Fred, how noble and true he was, and of his own adventures in raiding with Morgan. She never tired of listening. Is it strange that these two hearts were drawn close to each other. They lived in a sweet dream – a dream which did not look to the future. But almost unknown to them Cupid had come and shot his shafts, and they had gone true.

The day came when Calhoun was able to be placed in an easy-chair and drawn to an open window. It was a proud day to him, yet it was the beginning of sorrow. The Doctor came and congratulated him on his improvement.

“Doctor Hopkins, how can I thank you for your kindness?” he said; “you have done so much for me.”

“You need not thank me, thank that young lady there,” replied the Doctor, pointing to Joyce. “She it was who saved your life.”

“I know, no reward I could give would ever repay her,” answered Calhoun. “I can only offer to be her slave for life.”

“Your offer is not accepted; you are well aware I do not believe in slavery,” replied Joyce, with a merry laugh.

When the Doctor was ready to go, he asked for a private interview with Joyce. It was hard work for him to say what he had to say. He choked and stammered, but at last Joyce understood what he meant. He had promised the government officials to inform them when Calhoun could be moved without endangering his life. That time had come. “But,” said he, as he noticed the white face of Joyce, “I shall recommend that he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, as there is no danger of his running away in his weak condition.”

But Joyce hardly heard him. “And – and – this means?” she whispered.

“The penitentiary at Columbus.”

Joyce shuddered. “And – and there is no way to prevent this?”

“None. God knows I would if I could.”

“Thank you, Doctor; I might have known this would have to come, but it is so sudden.”

The Doctor went out shaking his head. “I am afraid harm has been done,” he said to himself.

Just as he was getting into his gig to drive away Andrew Harmon came riding by. He glanced up and saw Calhoun sitting by the window. “So, your patient is able to sit up,” he exclaimed, with a sneer. “About time he were in the penitentiary, where he belongs, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know how that concerns you,” replied the Doctor, coldly, as he drove away.

“Oh ho! my fine fellow. I will show you whether it concerns me or not?” muttered Harmon, looking after him.

That night Harmon wrote to the authorities at Columbus, stating it as his opinion that there was a scheme on foot to detain Lieutenant Pennington until he was well enough to slip away. He was not aware that Doctor Hopkins had reported on the condition of his patient every week, and had already sent a letter saying he could be moved with safety, but recommending he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, on account of his weak condition. Harmon not only wrote to Columbus, but also to Mr. Crawford, hinting that it was dangerous for his daughter to care for Calhoun longer. “You know,” he wrote, “that girls of the age of Joyce are inclined to be romantic.”

As for Joyce, when the Doctor left her she sank into a chair weak and faint. She saw Andrew Harmon gazing up at the window where Calhoun was, and a terror seized her. She now knew that she loved Calhoun, but with that knowledge also came the thought that her love was hopeless, that even if Calhoun returned her love, her father would never consent to their union. He would rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, especially a hated Morgan raider. Long did she struggle with her own heart, her sense of duty, her ideas of patriotism; and duty conquered. She would give him up, but she would save him.