Raiding with Morgan

It was evening before she could muster strength to have the desired interview with Calhoun. When she did enter the room it was with a step so languid, a face so pinched and drawn, that Calhoun stared in amazement.

“Joyce, what is it?” he cried. “Are you sick?”

“Not sick, only a little weary,” she answered, as she sank into a chair and motioned for the nurse to leave them. No sooner was she gone than Joyce told Calhoun what had happened. Her voice was so passionless that Calhoun wondered if she cared, wondered if he had been mistaken in thinking she loved him.

“Joyce, do you care if I go to prison?” he asked.

“Care?” she cried. “The thought is terrible. You shall not go, I will save you.”

“Joyce! Joyce! tell me that you love me, and it will make my cell in prison a heaven. Don’t you see that I love you, that you saved my poor life only that I might give it to you? Joyce, say that you love me!”

For answer she sank on her knees by his bedside and laid her head on his breast. He put his weak arms around her, and held her close. For a while she remained still, then gently disengaging his arms, she arose. There was a look on her face that Calhoun did not understand.

“The first embrace, and the last,” she sighed. “Oh, Calhoun, why did we ever meet?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his lips growing white.

“I mean that our love is hopeless. Father will never consent to our marriage. I feel it, know it. Without his consent I shall never marry. But save you from prison I will.”

“Joyce, you do not love me!” said Calhoun bitterly.

“As my life,” she cried.

“Yet you say you can never marry me!”

“Without my father’s consent I cannot.”

“Joyce, let us not borrow trouble. Even with your father’s consent we could not marry now. I am a prisoner. The war is going on, but it cannot last forever. When it is over, when peace is declared, I will come to you. Then, and not till then, will I ask your father for your hand. Let us hope the skies will be brighter by that time – that to be one of Morgan’s men will not be a badge of dishonor, even in the North.”

“Oh, Calhoun, if I could only hope! I will hope. Come to me after the war is over. Father’s consent may be won. But now the prison, the prison. I must save you. I have thought it all out.”

“How can you save me, a poor, weak mortal, who cannot take a step without help?” asked Calhoun.

“Put you in a carriage to-morrow night and take you where they cannot find you.”

“So soon? The Doctor said he would ask for two weeks. Two more weeks with you, Joyce – I could afford to go to prison for that.”

“Don’t talk foolishly. I feel if I don’t get you away to-morrow night, I cannot at all.”

“But you – will it endanger you, Joyce?”

“Not at all!”

“But how will you explain my disappearance?”

“Suppose you have been shamming, better than we thought you were, and so you gave us the slip.”

“A right mean trick,” said Calhoun.

“No, a Yankee trick, a real good one. Now listen, Calhoun, and I will tell you all about how I am going to get you away. Some six miles from here a colored man lives whom my father has greatly befriended. He will do anything for me I ask. I shall tell him you are a sick soldier, and for good reasons wish to remain in hiding until you get well.”

“Will he know I am one of Morgan’s men?” asked Calhoun.

“No, he will think you are a Federal soldier. Calhoun, as much as you may hate it, you must don the Union Blue.”

“That would make a spy of me. No, it wouldn’t either, if I kept clear of any military post.”

“That’s good. I have a Federal uniform in the house, which will about fit you. A friendless soldier died here a short time ago. We took him in and cared for him during his last sickness. He had been discharged for wounds received at Fair Oaks. Here is the discharge. I think it fits you close enough, so it may be of use to you.”

She handed him the discharge; he took it and read: “James Brown, age nineteen; height five feet nine inches; weight one hundred and sixty pounds; complexion dark; hair and eyes black.”

“Why, Joyce, with that in my pocket, and wearing a Federal uniform, I could travel anywhere in the North.”

“So I thought. We will cheat that old prison yet. But it is time you were asleep.”

“God bless you, Joyce,” replied Calhoun. “Give me a kiss before you go.”

She smiled and threw him one as she went out and he had to be content with that. She had not stopped to consider what the result might be if she helped Calhoun to escape. Her only thought was to save him from going to prison. To do this she would dare anything.

The colored man of whom she spoke was to be at the farm in the morning to do some work. A fear had seized her that she might be too late. The fear was well grounded. The authorities at Columbus had resolved to move Calhoun at once. The request of Doctor Hopkins, that he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, although he said he could be removed without danger, aroused their suspicion. Not only that, but the letter of Andrew Harmon to Mr. Crawford had alarmed that gentleman, and he was already on his way home.

Abram Prather, the colored man, was seen by Joyce as soon as he made his appearance.

“Missy Joyce, I jes’ do enything fo’ yo.’ Me an’ de ol’ woman will keep him all right.”

So everything was arranged. Joyce breathed freer, yet she waited impatiently for the night.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE ESCAPE

The day was a long and weary one to Calhoun. Between the joy of knowing he was to be free and his misery over the thought that he must part with Joyce, his soul was alternately swept with conflicting emotions. Then he had seen so little of her during the day; she seemed more distant than she did before she declared her love. How he longed to take her in his arms, to have her head rest on his breast once more! But she had said that although it was the first it was to be the last time. What did she mean? Ah! it must be that he could never embrace her again, never touch her lips again, until her father had consented to their marriage. When the war was over he would wring that consent from him.

The thought brought contentment. Yes, it was better that they should part. Then the news of the terrible battle of Chickamauga had just come, and it had fired his very soul. The South had won a great victory. Surely this was the beginning of the end. Independence was near, the war would soon be at an end, and he longed to be in at the finish. The excitement of war was once more running riot through his veins.

He little thought of the sacrifice Joyce was making, of the fierce conflicts she was having with her conscience. She knew that she was doing wrong, that she was proving a traitor to the flag she loved, that she was aiding and abetting the enemy; but it was one, only one man, and she loved him so. Surely this one man, sick and wounded, could do no harm. It was cruel to shut him up in prison. Thus she reasoned to silence conscience, but if her reasons had been ten times as weak, love would have won.

All through the day she was making preparations for Calhoun’s departure. Fortunately the young man who had been engaged to nurse Calhoun during the night had been taken sick a couple of days before, and as Calhoun rested well, another had not been engaged. Thus one of the greatest obstacles to the carrying out of Joyce’s plans was out of the way. She could easily manage Miss Goodsen. Joyce’s only confidant was the faithful Abe, who obeyed her without question. In his eyes Missy Joyce could do nothing wrong. He had been drilled by Joyce until he knew just what to do. He was to go home, but as soon as it was dark, he was to return, being careful not to be seen. After he was sure the household was asleep he was to harness a span of horses, being careful to make no noise, and have a carriage waiting in a grove a short distance back of the house. Here he was to wait for further orders from Joyce. Being well acquainted with the place, and Joyce promising to see that the barn and the carriage-house were left unlocked, he would have no trouble in carrying out his instructions.

Night came, and Joyce was in a fever of excitement. Would anything happen to prevent her carrying out her plans? If she had known that Andrew Harmon had hired a spy to watch the house she would have been in despair. But the spy was to watch the window of Calhoun’s room, and was concealed in a corn-field opposite the house. If he had watched the back instead of the front of the house, he would have seen some strange doings.

Margaret Goodsen was told that as Calhoun was so well, she could lie down in an adjoining room. If he needed anything, he could ring a little bell which stood on a table by his side. The nurse gladly availed herself of the opportunity to sleep. When the nurse retired Joyce came into the room, and speaking so that she could hear her, said, “Good night, Lieutenant Pennington; I hope you will rest well.” Then she whispered, “Here is the Federal uniform. Have you strength to put it on?”

“Yes, but oh, Joyce – ”

She made a swift gesture and pointed to the door of the nurse’s room.

“Here is some money,” she continued, in the same low whisper. “Now, don’t refuse it; you will need it.”

“I had plenty of money in a belt around me when I was wounded,” whispered Calhoun.

“The belt, oh, I forgot! The Doctor gave it to me for safe keeping.” Noiselessly she moved to the bureau, opened a drawer, and returned with the belt.

“Joyce, I shall not need your money now, but I thank you for the offer.”

“It was nothing. Be sure and be ready,” and she glided from the room.

The minutes were like hours to Calhoun. At one time he had made up his mind not to accept his proffered liberty, as it might bring serious trouble on Joyce; but he concluded that he must accept.

As for Joyce, she went to her room and threw herself down on a lounge. Her heart was beating tumultuously; every little noise startled her like the report of a gun. She waited in fear and apprehension. At length the clock struck eleven. “They must be all asleep by this time,” she thought. She arose and softly went downstairs, carrying blankets and pillows. She stopped and listened as she stepped out of doors. There was no moon, it was slightly cloudy, and darkness was over everything. Without hesitating she made her way through the back yard and the barn lot to the grove, where she had told Abe to be in waiting. She found that the faithful fellow had everything in readiness.

“Abe, I want you to come with me now and get the sick soldier. Drive through the lane until you reach the road; then drive straight to your house. The road is not much frequented, and you will not be apt to meet any one at this time of night. If you do, say nothing. Leave the soldier when you get home, drive straight back the way you came. Turn the horses into the pasture, put the harness and carriage where you found them. Be careful and make no noise. When you have done this go home again and be sure you get there before daylight. It’s a hard night’s work I have put on you, Abe, but I will pay you well for it. Now, take off your boots and come with me.”

The obedient fellow did as he was bid, and followed Joyce into the house and to Calhoun’s room.

“Take him to the carriage,” whispered Joyce.

The stalwart Abe took Calhoun in his arms as if he had been a child, and carried him to the carriage.

“Now, Abe, remember and do just as I told you,” said Joyce.

“Yes, Missy, I ’member ebberyting.”

She went to the side of the carriage, arranged the pillows and comforts around Calhoun, and then gave him her hand. “Good-bye,” she whispered; “may God keep you safe.”

The hand was cold as death, and Calhoun felt that she was trembling violently.

“Joyce! Joyce! is this to be our leave-taking?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Are you not coming to see me where I am going?”

“No, I dare not; we must not see each other again until – until the war is over.”

“Without a kiss, Joyce. Joyce, I – ”

“Hush! you have no right to ask for one, I much less right to give it. Come when the war is over, and then” – Her voice broke, and she turned and fled into the darkness.

How Joyce got back into the house she never knew. She fell on her bed half-unconscious. The strain upon her had been terrible, and the effect might have been serious if tears had not come to her relief. After a violent paroxysm of sobbing, she grew calmer, and tired nature asserted itself, and she fell asleep.

It was yet early morning when she was aroused by a cry from Miss Goodsen, and that lady came rushing into her room, wringing her hands and crying, “He is gone! He is gone!”

“Who is gone?” asked Joyce, springing up as if in amazement.

Miss Goodsen, in her excitement did not notice that Joyce was fully dressed. “The wounded Rebel, Lieutenant Pennington,” she fairly shrieked. “Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?” and she wrung her hands in her distress.

Joyce ran to Calhoun’s room; sure enough it was empty. “Stop your noise,” she said, sharply, to Miss Goodsen. “If any one is to blame, I am. They will do nothing with you. It may be he became delirious during the night and has wandered off. We must have the house and premises searched.”

The noise had aroused the whole household. The utmost excitement prevailed. Miss Crawford was frantic. She was sure they would all be sent to prison, and she upbraided Joyce for not getting another male nurse to watch him during the night. The house and the premises were thoroughly searched, but nothing was found of the missing man. The neighborhood was aroused and a thorough search of the surrounding country began.

Joyce took to her room with a raging headache. The afternoon brought a couple of deputy marshals from Columbus. They had come to convey Calhoun to prison, and were astonished when told that the prisoner had escaped. Miss Goodsen was closely questioned. She had looked in once during the night. The Lieutenant was awake, but said he was comfortable and wanted nothing. She then went to sleep and did not awake until morning. She found Joyce in her room, who was overcome when told that her patient was gone. She had not heard the slightest sound during the night.

Doctor Hopkins was summoned. The old Doctor was thunderstruck when he heard the news. He could scarcely believe it. To add to the mystery, Calhoun’s Confederate uniform was found. Apparently he had gone away with only his night clothes on. Doctor Hopkins at once gave it as his opinion that Calhoun had been seized with a sudden delirium and had stolen out of the house and wandered away; no doubt the body would be found somewhere. His professional services were needed in the care of Joyce, for she seemed to be completely prostrated, and had a high fever.

“Poor girl,” said the Doctor, “the excitement has been too much for her.” If he suspected anything he kept his secret well.

The spy employed by Andrew Harmon reported that he had not seen or heard anything suspicious during the night, so that gentleman concluded to say nothing, as he did not wish it to be known that he had had the house secretly watched.

Mr. Crawford returned the day after the escape. He was greatly exercised over what had happened, and blamed every one that Calhoun had been kept so long as he had. Poor Joyce came in for her share, but she wisely held her peace. The country was scoured for miles around, but nothing was seen or heard of the escaped prisoner, and at last the excitement died out.

Joyce did not lack news from Calhoun. The faithful Abe kept her fully informed. Joyce told him that both of them would go to prison if it was known what they had done, and he kept the secret well. He reported that Calhoun was gaining rapidly, and would soon be able to go his way. “He want to see yo’ awful bad befo’ he goes,” said Abe.

But Joyce resolutely refused. It would not do either of them any good. One day the negro brought her a letter. It was from Calhoun, telling her that when she received it he would be gone. He thought it cruel that she had not come to see him just once. He closed as follows:

“Joyce, I feel that my life is yours, for you saved it. Not only that, but to you I now owe my liberty, and I realize the struggle you have had to do as you have done. But be of good cheer. When the war is over the thunder of the last cannon will hardly have died away before I shall be at your side. Till then adieu.”

That letter was very precious to Joyce. Before the war was over it was nearly worn out by being read and reread.

Shortly after Mr. Crawford’s return he was asked by Andrew Harmon for permission to pay his addresses to his daughter. Harmon hoped that if he had her father’s permission to pay his addresses to her, Joyce’s coldness might disappear.

Mr. Crawford did not like the man, but he was rich and had a certain amount of political influence. Mr. Crawford was thinking of being a candidate for Congress at the approaching election, and he did not wish to offend Harmon, but he secretly hoped that Joyce would refuse him; in this he was not disappointed. She was indignant that her father had listened to Harmon, even to the extent that he had. “Why, father, I have heard you call him cowardly and dishonest,” she exclaimed, “and to think that you told him you would leave it entirely to me.”

“I did not wish to offend him,” meekly replied Mr. Crawford, “and I had confidence in your judgment. I was almost certain you would refuse him.”

“Will you always have such confidence in my judgment?” asked Joyce, quickly.

“What do you mean?” asked her father.

“Suppose I should wish to marry one of whom you did not approve?”

“That is another proposition,” said Mr. Crawford. “You might have been so foolish as to fall in love with that Morgan Rebel and horse-thief you took care of so long. If so, I had rather see you dead than married to him.”

Poor Joyce! Did her father suspect anything? She caught her breath, and came near falling. Quickly recovering herself, she answered. “At least he was a brave man. But everybody says he is dead, and mortals do not wed ghosts.”

“It is to be sincerely hoped he is dead,” replied Mr. Crawford, for he had noticed his daughter’s confusion, and an uneasiness took possession of him. But much to Joyce’s relief he did not question her further.

Andrew Harmon was beside himself with rage when told by Mr. Crawford that, while his daughter was sensible of the great honor he would bestow upon her, she was still very young, and had no idea of marrying any one at present.

Harmon determined to have revenge on Joyce, and began slyly to circulate reports that Joyce Crawford, if she chose, could tell a great deal about the escape of the Rebel officer. In fact, half of his sickness was shammed.

These rumors came to the ears of Mark Crawford. He had been promoted to a colonelcy for gallantry at Chickamauga. During the winter, while the army lay still around Chattanooga, he had come home on furlough. While at home he sought out Harmon and gave him as fine a thrashing as a man ever received, warning him if he ever heard of him connecting his sister with the escape of Calhoun again he would break every bone in his body. The only revenge Harmon durst take was to defeat Mr. Crawford in his aspirations for a nomination for Congress.

CHAPTER XXII.

PRISON DOORS ARE OPENED

When Calhoun parted from Joyce he sank back in the carriage and gave himself up to the most gloomy thoughts. The sorrow of parting from her took from him the joy of his escape. During the journey his dusky driver did not speak a word. The drive seemed a long one to Calhoun, and he was thoroughly wearied when the carriage drew up by a log house, surrounded by a small clearing.

“Heah we be, Massa,” said Abe, as he alighted from his seat. “Hope Massa had a good ride.”

The door of the house was opened by a motherly looking colored woman, and Abe, taking Calhoun once more in his arms, carried him into the house. Aunt Liza, as the wife of Abe was called, seeing Calhoun looking so pale and thin, put her fat, black hand on his forehead, and said, “Po’ chile, po’ chile, don’t yo’ worry. Aunt Liza take good care ob yo’.”

Calhoun felt that he was among friends – friends that would prove faithful and true. He was carried up a ladder to a chamber. The upper part of the house was all in one room, rather low, but the rough walls were whitewashed, and everything was neat and clean. He was placed on a snow-white bed, and soon sank into a peaceful slumber. When he awoke the sun was shining in at the window and Aunt Liza appeared with a breakfast good enough to tempt the appetite of one far more particular than Calhoun.

The invalid remained with his kind friends two weeks, treated like an honored guest, and protected from every inquiring eye. He gained strength rapidly, and at the end of a week was able to walk out evenings, when there was no danger of being seen. Once men who were searching for him entered the house, and Calhoun could hear every word that was said. His heart beat painfully, for it entered his mind that Abe and his wife might betray him for the sake of the reward offered. But the thought did injustice to these simple-minded people. As for the searchers, the loft of the house of a poor negro who had run away from slavery was the last place they thought of looking for an escaped Confederate.

Through Abe Calhoun often heard from Joyce. She cheered him with words of love and comfort, but absolutely refused to come and see him, saying it would be dangerous. In this she was right, for Andrew Harmon was alert. He believed that Joyce had had something to do with the disappearance of Calhoun, and had her closely watched. Fortunately his suspicions did not extend to Abe, so that communication between Joyce and Calhoun was not interrupted. At the end of two weeks he felt able to leave his place of concealment. But where should he go? He longed to be South, in the midst of the strife, but his heart was drawn toward Columbus, where his comrades lay languishing in prison. What could he do at Columbus? He did not know, but something might transpire that would enlighten him. At least he would go and look over the field. Once out of the neighborhood, in his Federal uniform and with Brown’s discharge in his pocket, there would be little fear of detection. He made his preparations to go, wrote Joyce the letter which she prized so highly, and bade his kind protectors farewell, placing in their hands a hundred dollars. Their surprise and joy over the gift were about equal.

“De Lawd keep yo’!” said Aunt Liza, wiping her eyes.

Calhoun had determined to start early in the evening, travel all night, lie concealed during the day, and travel the next night. By that time he thought he would be so far away from the place of his escape that he could venture to take the cars without danger. Aunt Liza had supplied him with ample provisions for the two days. He carried out his programme, and on the morning of the second day found himself near a small town where he concluded to take the cars, but deemed it safer to wait for the night train. The conductor eyed him sharply when he paid his fare instead of showing a pass, for soldiers generally travelled on Federal transportation. But the conductor took the money and passed on without remark.

Opposite Calhoun in the car sat a gentlemanly looking man, and much to Calhoun’s surprise, when the conductor passed, he saw the gentleman make the sign of recognition of the Knights of the Golden Circle, and it was answered by the conductor. When the conductor next passed Calhoun gave the sign. The man stared, but did not answer. But he seemed to be troubled, and passed through the cars frequently, and Calhoun saw that he was watching him closely. At length, in passing, the conductor bent down and whispered to the gentleman opposite. Calhoun now knew another pair of eyes were observing him.

Watching his opportunity, Calhoun gave this gentleman the sign of recognition. The gentleman shifted uneasily in his seat, but did not answer.

“I will give you something stronger,” thought Calhoun, and the next time he caught the gentleman’s eye, he gave the sign of distress. This was a sign no true knight could afford to ignore. Leaning over, the gentleman said, “My boy, you look pale. Have you been sick?”

“Very, and I now need friends,” answered Calhoun.

“Come over here and tell me about it,” said the gentleman.