In the Midst of Alarms

Yates found Kitty in the kitchen, and he looked so flurried that the girl cried anxiously:

“Are they after you again, Mr. Yates?”

“No, Kitty; I’m after them. Say, I want all the blank paper you have in the house. Anything will do, so long as it will hold a lead-pencil mark.”

“A copy book—such as the children use in school?”

“Just the thing.”

In less than a minute the energetic girl had all the materials he required ready for him in the front room. Yates threw off his coat, and went to work as if he were in his own den in the Argus building.

“This is a – of a vacation,” he muttered to himself, as he drove his pencil at lightning speed over the surface of the paper. He took no note of the time until he had finished; then he roused himself and sprang to his feet.

“What in thunder has become of that telegraph boy?” he cried. “Well, it doesn’t matter; I’ll take the horse without his permission.”

He gathered up his sheets, and rushed for the kitchen. He was somewhat surprised to see the boy sitting there, gorging himself with the good things which that kitchen always afforded.

“Hello, youngster! how long have you been here?”

“I wouldn’t let him go in to disturb you while you were writing,” said Kitty, the boy’s mouth being too full to permit of a reply.

“Ah, that was right. Now, sonny, gulp that down and come in here; I want to talk to you for a minute.”

The boy followed him into the front room.

“Well, my son, I want to borrow your horse for the rest of the day.”

“You can’t have it,” said the boy promptly.

“Can’t have it? I must have it. Why, I’ll take it. You don’t imagine you can stop me, do you?”

The boy drew himself up, and folded his arms across his breast.

“What do you want with the horse, Mr. Yates?” he asked.

“I want to get to the nearest telegraph office. I’ll pay you well for it.”

“And what am I here for?”

“Why, to eat, of course. They’ll feed you high while you wait.”

“Canadian telegraph office?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s no good, Mr. Yates. Them Canadians couldn’t telegraph all you’ve written in two weeks. I know ‘em,” said the boy with infinite scorn. “Besides, the Government has got hold of all the wires, and you can’t get a private message through till it gets over its fright.”

“By George!” cried Yates, taken aback, “I hadn’t thought of that. Are you sure, boy?”

“Dead certain.”

“Then what’s to be done? I must get through to Buffalo.”

“You can’t. United States troops won’t let you. They’re stopping everybody—except me,” he added, drawing himself up, as if he were the one individual who stood in with the United States Government.

“Can you get this dispatch through?”

“You bet! That’s why I came back. I knew, as soon as I looked at you, that you would write two or three columns of telegraph; and your paper said ‘Spare no expense,’ you remember. So says I to myself: ‘I’ll help Mr. Yates to spare no expense. I’ll get fifty dollars from that young man, seeing I’m the only person who can get across in time.’”

“You were mighty sure of it, weren’t you?”

“You just bet I was. Now, the horse is fed and ready, I’m fed and ready, and we’re losing valuable time waiting for that fifty dollars.”

“Suppose you meet another newspaper man who wants to get his dispatch through to another paper, what will you do?”

“Charge him the same as I do you. If I meet two other newspaper men, that will be one hundred and fifty dollars; but if you want to make sure that I won’t meet any more newspaper men, let us call it one hundred dollars, and I’ll take the risk of the odd fifty for the ready cash; then if I meet a dozen newspaper men, I’ll tell them I’m a telegraph boy on a vacation.”

“Quite so. I think you will be able to take care of yourself in a cold and callous world. Now, look here, young man; I’ll trust you if you’ll trust me. I’m not a traveling mint, you know. Besides, I pay by results. If you don’t get this dispatch through, you don’t get anything. I’ll give you an order for a hundred dollars, and as soon as I get to Buffalo I’ll pay you the cash. I’ll have to draw on the Argus when I get to Buffalo; if my article has appeared, you get your cash; if it hasn’t, you’re out. See?”

“Yes, I see. It won’t do, Mr. Yates.”

“Why won’t it do?”

“Because I say it won’t. This is a cash transaction. Money down, or you don’t get the goods. I’ll get it through all right, but if I just miss, I’m not going to lose the money.”

“Very well, I’ll take it to the Canadian telegraph office.”

“All right, Mr. Yates. I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were some good. You aint got no sense, but I wish you luck. When I was at your tent, there was a man with a hammer taking a lot of men out of the woods. When one of them sees my uniform, he sings out he’d give me twenty-five dollars to take his stuff. I said I’d see him later, and I will. Good-by, Mr. Yates.”

“Hold on, there! You’re a young villain. You’ll end in state’s prison yet, but here’s your money. Now, you ride like a house a-fire.”

After watching the departing boy until he was out of sight Yates, with a feeling of relief, started back to the tent. He was worried about the interview the boy had had with Hawkins, and he wondered, now that it was too late, whether, after all, he had not Hawkins’ manuscript in his pocket. He wished he had searched him. That trouble, however, did not prevent him from sleeping like the dead the moment he lay down in the tent.

CHAPTER XIX

The result of the struggle was similar in effect to an American railway accident of the first class. One officer and five privates were killed on the Canadian side, one man was missing, and many were wounded. The number of the Fenians killed will probably never be known. Several were buried on the field of battle, others were taken back by O’Neill’s brigade when they retreated.

Although the engagement ended as Yates had predicted, yet he was wrong in his estimate of the Canadians. Volunteers are invariably underrated by men of experience in military matters. The boys fought well, even when they saw their ensign fall dead before them. If the affair had been left entirely in their hands, the result might have been different—as was shown afterward, when the volunteers, unimpeded by regulars, quickly put down a much more formidable rising in the Northwest. But in the present case they were hampered by their dependence on the British troops, whose commander moved them with all the ponderous slowness of real war, and approached O’Neill as if he had been approaching Napoleon. He thus managed to get in a day after the fair on every occasion, being too late for the fight at Ridgeway, and too late to capture any considerable number of the flying Fenians at Fort Erie. The campaign, on the Canadian side, was magnificently planned and wretchedly carried out. The volunteers and regulars were to meet at a point close to where the fight took place, but the British commander delayed two hours in starting, which fact the Canadian colonel did not learn until too late. These blunders culminated in a ghastly mistake on the field. The Canadian colonel ordered his men to charge across an open field, and attack the Fenian force in the woods—a brilliant but foolish move. To the command the volunteers gallantly responded, but against stupidity the gods are powerless. In the field they were appalled to hear the order given to form square and receive cavalry. Even the schoolboys knew the Fenians could have no cavalry.

Having formed their square, the Canadians found themselves the helpless targets of the Fenians in the woods. If O’Neill’s forces had shot with reasonable precision, they must have cut the volunteers to pieces. The latter were victorious, if they had only known it; but, in this hopeless square, panic seized them, and it was every man for himself; at the same time, the Fenians were also retreating as fast as they could. This farce is known as the battle of Ridgeway, and would have been comical had it not been that death hovered over it. The comedy, without the tragedy, was enacted a day or two before at a bloodless skirmish which took place near a hamlet called Waterloo, which affray is dignified in Canadian annals as the second battle of that name.

When the Canadian forces retreated, Renmark, who had watched the contest with all the helpless anxiety of a noncombatant, sharing the danger, but having no influence upon the result, followed them, making a wide detour to avoid the chance shots which were still flying. He expected to come up with the volunteers on the road, but was not successful. Through various miscalculations he did not succeed in finding them until toward evening. At first they told him that young Howard was with the company, and unhurt, but further inquiry soon disclosed the fact that he had not been seen since the fight. He was not among those who were killed or wounded, and it was nightfall before Renmark realized that opposite his name on the roll would be placed the ominous word “missing.” Renmark remembered that the boy had said he would visit his home if he got leave; but no leave had been asked for. At last Renmark was convinced that young Howard was either badly wounded or dead. The possibility of his desertion the professor did not consider for a moment, although he admitted to himself that it was hard to tell what panic of fear might come over a boy who, for the first time in his life, found bullets flying about his ears.

With a heavy heart Renmark turned back and made his way to the fatal field. He found nothing on the Canadian side. Going over to the woods, he came across several bodies lying where they fell; but they were all those of strangers. Even in the darkness he would have had no difficulty in recognizing the volunteer uniform which he knew so well. He walked down to the Howard homestead, hoping, yet fearing, to hear the boy’s voice—the voice of a deserter. Everything was silent about the house, although a light shone through an upper window, and also through one below. He paused at the gate, not knowing what to do. It was evident the boy was not here, yet how to find the father or brother, without alarming Margaret or her mother, puzzled him. As he stood there the door opened, and he recognized Mrs. Bartlett and Margaret standing in the light. He moved away from the gate, and heard the older woman say:

“Oh, she will be all right in the morning, now that she has fallen into a nice sleep. I wouldn’t disturb her to-night, if I were you. It is nothing but nervousness and fright at that horrible firing. It’s all over now, thank God. Good-night, Margaret.”

The good woman came through the gate, and then ran, with all the speed of sixteen, toward her own home. Margaret stood in the doorway, listening to the retreating footsteps. She was pale and anxious, but Renmark thought he had never seen anyone so lovely; and he was startled to find that he had a most un-professor-like longing to take her in his arms and comfort her. Instead of bringing her consolation, he feared it would be his fate to add to her anxiety; and it was not until he saw she was about to close the door that he found courage to speak.

“Margaret,” he said.

The girl had never heard her name pronounced in that tone before, and the cadence of it went direct to her heart, frightening her with an unknown joy. She seemed unable to move or respond, and stood there, with wide eyes and suspended breath, gazing into the darkness. Renmark stepped into the light, and she saw his face was haggard with fatigue and anxiety.

“Margaret,” he said again, “I want to speak with you a moment. Where is your brother?”

“He has gone with Mr. Bartlett to see if he can find the horses. There is something wrong,” she continued, stepping down beside him. “I can see it in your face. What is it?”

“Is your father in the house?”

“Yes, but he is worried about mother. Tell me what it is. It is better to tell me.”

Renmark hesitated.

“Don’t keep me in suspense like this,” cried the girl in a low but intense voice. “You have said too much or too little. Has anything happened to Henry?”

“No. It is about Arthur I wanted to speak. You will not be alarmed?”

“I am alarmed. Tell, me quickly.” And the girl in her excitement laid her hands imploringly on his.

“Arthur joined the volunteers in Toronto some time ago. Did you know that?”

“He never told me. I understand—I think so, but I hope not. He was in the battle today. Is he—has he been—hurt?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid so,” said Renmark hurriedly, now that the truth had to come out; he realized, by the nervous tightening of the girl’s unconscious grasp, how clumsily he was telling it. “He was with the volunteers this morning. He is not with them now. They don’t know where he is. No one saw him hurt, but it is feared he was, and that he has been left behind. I have been all over the ground.”

“Yes, yes?”

“But I could not find him. I came here hoping to find him.”

“Take me to where the volunteers were,” she sobbed. “I know what has happened. Come quickly.”

“Will you not put something on your head?”

“No, no. Come at once.” Then, pausing, she said: “Shall we need a lantern?”

“No; it is light enough when we get out from the shadow of the house.”

Margaret ran along the road so swiftly that Renmark had some trouble in keeping pace with her. She turned at the side road, and sped up the gentle ascent to the spot where the volunteers had crossed it.

“Here is the place,” said Renmark.

“He could not have been hit in the field,” she cried breathlessly, “for then he might have reached the house at the corner without climbing a fence. If he was badly hurt, he would have been here. Did you search this field?”

“Every bit of it. He is not here.”

“Then it must have happened after he crossed the road and the second fence. Did you see the battle?”

“Yes.”

“Did the Fenians cross the field after the volunteers?”

“No; they did not leave the woods.”

“Then, if he was struck, it could not have been far from the other side of the second fence. He would be the last to retreat; and that is why the others did not see him,” said the girl, with confident pride in her brother’s courage.

They crossed the first fence; the road, and the second fence, the girl walking ahead for a few paces. She stopped, and leaned for a moment against a tree. “It must have been about here,” she said in a voice hardly audible. “Have you searched on this side?”

“Yes, for half a mile farther into the fields and woods.”

“No, no, not there; but down along the fence. He knew every inch of this ground. If he were wounded here, he would at once try to reach our house. Search down along the fence. I—I cannot go.”

Renmark walked along the fence, peering into the dark corners made by the zigzag of the rails; and he knew, without looking back, that Margaret, with feminine inconsistency, was following him. Suddenly she darted past him, and flung herself down in the long grass, wailing out a cry that cut Renmark like a knife.

The boy lay with his face in the grass, and his outstretched hand grasping the lower rail of the fence. He had dragged himself this far, and reached an insurmountable obstacle.

Renmark drew the weeping girl gently away, and rapidly ran his hand over the prostrate lad. He quickly opened his tunic, and a thrill of joy passed over him as he felt the faint beating of the heart.

“He is alive!” he cried. “He will get well, Margaret.” A statement somewhat premature to make on so hasty an examination.

He rose, expecting a look of gratitude from the girl he loved. He was amazed to see her eyes almost luminous in the darkness, blazing with wrath.

“When did you know he was with the volunteers?”

“This morning—early,” said the professor, taken aback.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He asked me not to do so.”

“He is a mere boy. You are a man, and ought to have a man’s sense. You had no right to mind what a boy said. It was my right to know, and your duty to tell me. Through your negligence and stupidity my brother has lain here all day—perhaps dying,” she added with a break in her angry voice.

“If you had known—I didn’t know anything was wrong until I saw the volunteers. I have not lost a moment since.”

“I should have known he was missing, without going to the volunteers.”

Renmark was so amazed at the unjust accusation, from a girl whom he had made the mistake of believing to be without a temper of her own, that he knew not what to say. He was, however, to have one more example of inconsistency.

“Why do you stand there doing nothing, now that I have found him?” she demanded.

It was on his tongue to say: “I stand here because you stand there unjustly quarreling with me,” but he did not say it. Renmark was not a ready man, yet he did, for once, the right thing.

“Margaret,” he said sternly, “throw down that fence.”

This curt command, delivered in his most schoolmastery manner, was instantly obeyed. Such a task may seem a formidable one to set to a young woman, but it is a feat easily accomplished in some parts of America. A rail fence lends itself readily to demolition. Margaret tossed a rail to the right, one to the left, and to the right again, until an open gap took the place of that part of the fence. The professor examined the young soldier in the meantime, and found his leg had been broken by a musket ball. He raised him up tenderly in his arms, and was pleased to hear a groan escape his lips. He walked through the open gap and along the road toward the house, bearing the unconscious form of his pupil. Margaret silently kept close to his side, her fingers every now and then unconsciously caressing the damp, curly locks of her brother.

“We shall have to get a doctor?” Her assertion was half an inquiry.

“Certainly.”

“We must not disturb anyone in the house. It is better that I should tell you what to do now, so that we need not talk when we reach there.”

“We cannot help disturbing someone.”

“I do not think it will be necessary. If you will stay with Arthur, I will go for the doctor, and no one need know.”

“I will go for the doctor.”

“You do not know the way. It is five or six miles. I will ride Gypsy, and will soon be back.”

“But there are prowlers and stragglers all along the roads. It is not safe for you to go alone.”

“It is perfectly safe. No horse that the stragglers have stolen can overtake Gypsy. Now, don’t say anything more. It is best that I should go. I will run on ahead, and enter the house quietly. I will take the lamp to the room at the side, where the window opens to the floor. Carry him around there. I will be waiting for you at the gate, and will show you the way.”

With that the girl was off, and Renmark carried his burden alone. She was waiting for him at the gate, and silently led the way round the house, to where the door-window opened upon the bit of lawn under an apple tree. The light streamed out upon the grass. He placed the boy gently upon the dainty bed. It needed no second glance to tell Renmark whose room he was in. It was decorated with those pretty little knickknacks so dear to the heart of a girl in a snuggery she can call her own.

“It is not likely you will be disturbed here,” she whispered, “until I come back. I will tap at the window when I come with the doctor.”

“Don’t you think it would be better and safer for me to go? I don’t like the thought of your going alone.”

“No, no. Please do just what I tell you. You do not know the way. I shall be very much quicker. If Arthur should—should—wake, he will know you, and will not be alarmed, as he might be if you were a stranger.”

Margaret was gone before he could say anything more, and Renmark sat down, devoutly hoping no one would rap at the door of the room while he was there.

CHAPTER XX

Margaret spoke caressingly to her horse, when she opened the stable door, and Gypsy replied with that affectionate, low guttural whinny which the Scotch graphically term “nickering.” She patted the little animal; and if Gypsy was surprised at being saddled and bridled at that hour of the night, no protest was made, the horse merely rubbing its nose lovingly up and down Margaret’s sleeve as she buckled the different straps. There was evidently a good understanding between the two.

“No, Gyp,” she whispered, “I have nothing for you to-night—nothing but hard work and quick work. Now, you mustn’t make a noise till we get past the house.”

On her wrist she slipped the loop of a riding whip, which she always carried, but never used. Gyp had never felt the indignity of the lash, and was always willing to do what was required merely for a word.

Margaret opened the big gate before she saddled her horse, and there was therefore no delay in getting out upon the main road, although the passing of the house was an anxious moment. She feared that if her father heard the steps or the neighing of the horse he might come out to investigate. Halfway between her own home and Bartlett’s house she sprang lightly into the saddle.

“Now, then, Gyp!”

No second word was required. Away they sped down the road toward the east, the mild June air coming sweet and cool and fresh from the distant lake, laden with the odors of the woods and the fields. The stillness was intense, broken only by the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill, America’s one-phrased nightingale, or the still more weird and eerie note of a distant loon.

The houses along the road seemed deserted; no lights were shown anywhere. The wildest rumors were abroad concerning the slaughter of the day; and the population, scattered as it was, appeared to have retired into its shell. A spell of silence and darkness was over the land, and the rapid hoof beats of the horse sounded with startling distinctness on the harder portions of the road, emphasized by intervals of complete stillness, when the fetlocks sank in the sand and progress was more difficult for the plucky little animal. The only thrill of fear that Margaret felt on her night journey was when she entered the dark arch of an avenue of old forest trees that bordered the road, like a great, gloomy cathedral aisle, in the shadow of which anything might be hidden. Once the horse, with a jump of fear, started sideways and plunged ahead: Margaret caught her breath as she saw, or fancied she saw, several men stretched on the roadside, asleep or dead. Once in the open again she breathed more freely, and if it had not been for the jump of the horse, she would have accused her imagination of playing her a trick. Just as she had completely reassured herself a shadow moved from the fence to the middle of the road, and a sharp voice cried:

“Halt!”

The little horse, as if it knew the meaning of the word, planted its two front hoofs together, and slid along the ground for a moment, coming so quickly to a standstill that it was with some difficulty Margaret kept her seat. She saw in front of her a man holding a gun, evidently ready to fire if she attempted to disobey his command.

“Who are you, and where are you going?” he demanded.

“Oh, please let me pass!” pleaded Margaret with a tremor of fear in her voice. “I am going for a doctor—for my brother; he is badly wounded, and will perhaps die if I am delayed.”

The man laughed.

“Oho!” he cried, coming closer; “a woman, is it? and a young one, too, or I’m a heathen. Now, miss or missus, you get down. I’ll have to investigate this. The brother business won’t work with an old soldier. It’s your lover you’re riding for at this time of the night, or I’m no judge of the sex. Just slip down, my lady, and see if you don’t like me better than him; remember that all cats are black in the dark. Get down, I tell you.”

“If you are a soldier, you will let me go. My brother is badly wounded. I must get to the doctor.”

“There’s no ‘must’ with a bayonet in front of you. If he has been wounded, there’s plenty of better men killed to-day. Come down, my dear.”

Margaret gathered up the bridle rein, but, even in the darkness, the man saw her intention.

“You can’t escape, my pretty. If you try it, you’ll not be hurt, but I’ll kill your horse. If you move, I’ll put a bullet through him.”

“Kill my horse?” breathed Margaret in horror, a fear coming over her that she had not felt at the thought of danger to herself.

“Yes, missy,” said the man, approaching nearer, and laying his hand on Gypsy’s bridle. “But there will be no need of that. Besides, it would make too much noise, and might bring us company, which would be inconvenient. So come down quietly, like the nice little girl you are.”