Secret Service

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE DRUMHEAD COURT-MARTIAL

  It so happened that the soldiers who had thrust old Jonas back in hiscloset, whence they had taken him a short time before, in their haste,had failed to lock the door upon him. The negro, who had listened forthe click of the key in the lock, had at once known of theircarelessness. So soon as they had withdrawn from the room, and theirsearch took them to other parts of the house, he had opened the doorcautiously and had made his way toward the hall by the drawing-room,which he felt instinctively was the place where the exciting events ofthe night would soon culminate.

  Thorne's entry and the circumstances of his apprehension had been soengrossing that no one had given a thought to Jonas, or to any otherpart of the house, for that matter, and he had been able to seeeverything through the hangings. He was a quick-witted old negro, and heknew, of course, that there would be but one verdict given by such acourt-martial as had assembled. Now, the men who composed the courtwould of necessity be detailed to carry out their own sentence. The longroom was filled with stacks of guns. Every soldier, even those under thecommand of Corporal Matson in Arrelsford's Department, had gone to thecourt-martial. There was nothing else of interest to attract them in thehouse. Every gun was there in that room, unguarded.

  A recent capture of a battalion of Federal riflemen had put theConfederates into possession of a few hundred breech-loading weapons,not of the latest and most approved pattern, for the cartridges in theseguns were in cardboard shells, but still better than any the Southpossessed. These rifles had been distributed to some of the companies ingarrison at Richmond, and it so happened that the men of the SecretService squad and the Provost Guard had received most of them. Every gunin the stacks was of this pattern.

  In his earlier days, Jonas had been his young master's personalattendant, his body-servant, and as such he had often gone hunting withhim. During the war he had frequently visited him in camp, charged withmessages of one sort or another, and he knew all about weapons.

  As he stared into the long room after the departing soldiers, he did notknow Edith Varney was still there, nor could he see her at all, for shewas on the other side of the curtain, looking out of the window, and itseemed to him that the room was empty.

  Jonas was a very intelligent negro, and while under any ordinarycircumstances his devotion to his master and mistress would have beenabsolutely sure, yet he had become tinged with the ideas of freedom andliberty in the air. He had assisted many and many a Union prisoner.Captain Thorne, by his pleasant ways and nice address, had won hisheart. And he himself was deeply concerned personally that the young manshould not be punished for his attempt to bring about the success of theUnion cause, which Jonas felt to be his own cause. Therefore he had adouble motive to secure the freedom of his principal if it were in anyway possible. Of course, any direct interposition was out of thequestion. He was still only a slave. His open interference would havebeen fruitless of any consequences except bad ones for himself, and hewas already more than compromised by the events of the night. What hewas to do he must do by stealth.

  As he stared at the pyramids of guns, listening to the hum ofconversation from the room across the hall--the door had beenfortunately closed--a thought came to him. He pushed aside the portiereswith which he had concealed himself, and entered the room by the backdoor. He glanced about apprehensively. He was not burdened with anyoverplus of physical courage, and what he did was the more remarkable,especially in view of the fact that the soldiers might return at anymoment and catch him at what they could very easily construe as an actof high treason, which would result in his blood being mingled with thatof Captain Thorne, in the same gutter, probably.

  He moved with cat-like swiftness in the direction of the first stack ofrules. He knelt down by it, seized the nearest gun, which lay across theother three, swiftly opened the breech-plug, drew out the cartridge,looked at it a moment, put the end of it in his mouth, and crunched hisstrong white teeth down upon it. When he finished, he had the leadenbullet in his mouth, and the cardboard shell in his hand. He replacedthis latter in the chamber and closed the breech-plug. A smile oftriumph irradiated his sable features. The gun could be fired, butwhatever or whoever stood in front of it would be unharmed.

  He had not been quite sure that he could do this, but the result of hisexperiment convinced him. All the other guns were of the same character,and, given the time, he could render them all harmless. He did not wastetime in reflection, but started in with the same process on the others.He worked with furious haste until every bullet had been bitten offevery cartridge. It would have been impossible to have drawn the bulletsof the ordinary muzzle-loading rifle, or army musket, in twenty timesthe period.

  The noise of Jonas' first entrance had attracted the attention of EdithVarney. She had turned with the intention of going into the room, but,on second thought, she had concealed herself further behind thecurtains. Between the wall and the edge of the portieres was a littlespace, through which she peered. She saw the whole performance, anddivined instantly what was in Jonas' mind, and what the result of hisactions would be.

  In an incredibly short time, considering what he had to do, the oldnegro finished his task. He rose to his feet and stood staringtriumphantly at the long stacks of guns. He even permitted himself a lowchuckle, with a glance across the hall to the court. Well, he had atleast done something worthy of a man's approbation in this dramatic gamein which he was so humble a player.

  Now Edith Varney, who had observed him with mingled admiration andresentment--resentment that he had proven false to her people, herfamily; and admiration at his cleverness--stepped further into the roomas he finished the last musket, and, as he started toward the lower endof the room to make good his escape, she coughed slightly.

  Jonas stopped and wheeled about instantly, frightened to death, ofcourse, but somewhat relieved when he saw who it was who had had himunder observation, and who had interrupted him. He realised at once thatit was no use to attempt to conceal anything, and he threw himself uponthe mercy of his young mistress, and, with great adroitness, sought toenlist her support for what he had done.

  "Dey's gwine to shoot him, shoot him down lak a dog, missy," he said ina low, pleading whisper, "an' Ah couldn't b'ah to see 'em do dat. Ahwouldn't lak to see him killed, Ah wouldn't lak it noways. You won't saynuffin' about dis fo' de sake ob old Jonas, what always was so fond obyou ebah sense you was a little chile. You see, Ah jes' tek deseyeah"--he extended his hand, full of leaden bullets--"an' den dey won'tbe no ha'm cum to him whatsomebah, les'n dey loads 'em up agin. When deyshoots, an' he jes' draps down, dey'll roll him obah into de guttah, an'be off lak mad. Den Ah kin be neah by an'"--he stopped, and, if his facehad been full of apprehension before, it now became transformed withanxiety. "How's he gwine to know?" he asked. "If he don't drap down,dey'll shoot him agin, an' dey'll hab bullets in dem next time. What Ahgwine to do, how Ah gwine to tell him?"

  Edith had listened to him as one in a dream. Her face had softened alittle. After all, this negro had done this thing for the man she--Godforgive her--still loved.

  "You tell him," whispered Jonas; "you tell him, it's de on'y way. Tellhim to drap down. Do dis fo' ole Jonas, honey; do it fo' me, an' Ah'llbe a slabe to you as long as Ah lib, no mattah what Mars Linkum does.Listen," said the old man, as a sudden commotion was heard in the roomacross the hall. "Dey gwine to kill him. You do it."

  Nothing could be gained by remaining. He had said all he could, usedevery argument possible to him, and, realising his danger, he turned anddisappeared through the back door into the dark rear hall. There was ascraping of chairs and a trampling of feet, a few words heardindistinctly, and then the voice of the old Sergeant:

  "Fall in! Right Face! Forward--March!"

  Before they came into the hall, Jonas made one last appeal. He thrusthis old black face through the portieres, his eyes rolling, his jawsworking.

  "Fo' Gawd's sek, missy,
tell him to drap down," he whispered as hedisappeared.

  Wilfred, not waiting for the soldiers, came into the room, and Carolinefollowed him.

  "Where's mother?" asked Wilfred.

  "She's gone up to Howard; I think he is dying," said Caroline. "Shecan't leave him for anybody or anything."

  If Edith heard, she gave no sign. She stood motionless on the other sideof the room, and stared toward the door; they would bring him back thatway, and she could see him again.

  "Wilfred dear," asked Caroline, "what are they going to do?"

  "Shoot him."

  "When?"

  "Now."

  "Where?"

  "Out in the street."

  Caroline's low exclamation of pity struck a responsive chord inWilfred's heart. He nodded gravely, and bit his lips. He did not feelparticularly happy over the situation, evidently, but the conversationwas interrupted by the entrance of the men. They came into the room in adouble line, Thorne walking easily between them. They entered the roomby the door, marched down it, came back, and ranged themselves oppositethe stacks of arms.

  "Halt!" cried the Sergeant. "Right Face! Take arms! Carry arms! Leftface! Forward--March!"

  Edith had not taken her eyes off Thorne since he had reentered the room.She had watched him as if fascinated. He had shot at her one quick,searching glance, and then had kept his eyes averted, not because hewould not like to look at her, but because he could not bear himselflike a man in these last swift terrible seconds, if he did.

  As the men moved to carry out their last order, the girl awoke to hersurroundings.

  "Wait," she said. "Who is in command!"

  "I am, miss," answered the Sergeant.

  Arrelsford, who had entered with the soldiers, started at this, but hesaid nothing.

  "I'd like to speak to the--the prisoner," continued Edith.

  "I'm sorry, miss," answered the Sergeant respectfully, but abruptly;"but we haven't the time."

  "Only a word, Sergeant," pleaded the girl, stepping close to him, andlaying her hand on his arm.

  The Sergeant looked at her a moment. What he saw in her eyes touched hisvery soul.

  "Very well," he said. "Right face! Fall out the prisoner!"

  Thorne stepped out in front of the ranks.

  "Now, Miss," said the Sergeant; "be quick about it."

  "No!" said Wilfred sternly.

  "Oh, Wilfred!" cried Caroline, laying her hand on his arm. "Let herspeak to him, let her say good-bye."

  There was an instant's pause. Wilfred looked from Caroline's flushed,eager face, to Edith's pale one. After all, what was the harm? He noddedhis head, but no one moved. It was the Sergeant who broke the silence.

  "The lady," he said, looking at Thorne, and pointing at Edith. As hespoke, he added another order. "Matson, take your squad and guard thewindows. Prisoner, you can go over to the side of the room."

  The Sergeant's purpose was plain. It would give Edith Varney anopportunity to say what she had to say to Thorne in a low voice if shechose, without the possibility of being overheard. The initiative mustcome from the woman, the man realised. It was Edith who turned andwalked slowly across the room, Thorne followed her more rapidly, and thetwo stood side by side. They were thus so placed by the kindness of theveteran that she could speak her words, and no one could hear what theywere.

  "One of the servants," began the girl in a low, utterly passionless andexpressionless voice, "Jonas, has taken the bullets from the guns. Ifyou will drop when they fire, you can escape with your life."

  In exactly the same level, almost monotonous, voice, Thorne whispered apertinent question:

  "Shall I do this for you?"

  "It is nothing to me," said the woman quietly, and might God forgiveher, she prayed, for that falsehood.

  Thorne looked at her, his soul in his eyes. If her face had been carvedfrom marble, it could not have been more expressionless and indifferent.He could not know how wildly her heart was beating underneath that stonyexterior. Well, she had turned against him. He was nothing to her. Therewas no use living any longer. She did not care.

  "Were you responsible in any way for it?" he asked.

  The girl shook her head and turned away without looking at him. She hadnot the least idea of what he was about to do. Not one man in a thousandwould have done it. Perhaps if he went to his death in some quixoticway, he might redeem himself in her eyes, had flashed into Thorne'smind, as he turned to the guard.

  "Sergeant," he said, saluting. He spoke in a clear, cool, mostindifferent way. "You had better take a look at the rifles of yourcommand. I understand they have been tampered with."

  "What the hell!" cried the Sergeant, seizing a piece from the nearestman. He snapped open the breech-plug and drew out the cartridge andexamined it. Some one had bitten off the bullet! He saw everythingclearly. "Squad ready!" he cried. "Draw cartridges!"

  There was a rattling of breech-plugs and a low murmur of astonishment,as every man found that his cartridge was without a bullet.

  "With ball cartridges, load!" cried the Sergeant. "Carry arms!"

  When this little manoeuvre, which was completed with swiftness andprecision because the men were all veterans, was finished, the Sergeantturned to the prisoner, who had stood composedly watching theperformance which took away his last opportunity for escape, and salutedhim with distinct admiration.

  "I am much obliged to you, sir," he said.

  How Edith Varney kept her feet, why she did not scream or faint away,she could not tell. Thorne's words had petrified her. Her pride kept herfrom acknowledging what she felt. She had never dreamed of any suchaction on his part, and it seemed to her that she had sent him to hisdeath again. How could she retrace her steps, repair her blunder? Therewas nothing to do. But her countenance changed. A look of such desperateentreaty came into her face as fully betrayed her feelings. Of thepeople in the room, only Arrelsford observed her, and even his jealousyand resentment were slightly softened by her visible anguish. Everybodywas staring at Thorne, for they all knew the result of his remarkableaction, although no one could in the least degree fathom the reason.

  It was Wilfred who broke the silence. He walked slowly up to Thorne andthrust out his hand.

  "I would like to shake hands with you," he said admiringly, and for thefirst time in the long hours a slight smile quivered about the man'slips. It was the generous, spontaneous tribute of youth that gave himthat moment of melancholy satisfaction.

  "Oh," thought Edith, watching her brother; "if only I dared to do thelike."

  "Is this for yourself?" asked Thorne, "or your father?"

  "For both of us, sir," answered Wilfred.

  Thorne shook him by the hand. The two looked into each other's faces,and everybody saw the satisfaction and gratification of the older man.

  "That's all, Sergeant," said Thorne, turning away.

  "Fall in the prisoner! Escort left face! Forward--March!" cried theSergeant.

  At that moment a man, breathless from having run rapidly, entered theroom by the window. His uniform was that of an officer, and he wore aLieutenant's shoulder-straps.

  "Halt!" he cried, as he burst into the room. "Are you in command,Sergeant?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "General Randolph's on the way here with orders. You will please waituntil----"

  But Arrelsford now interposed.

  "What orders, Lieutenant? Anything to do with this case?"

  The officer looked greatly surprised at this intervention by a civilian,but he answered civilly enough:

  "I don't know what his orders are. He has been with the President."

  "But I sent word to the Department," said Arrelsford, "that we had gotthe man, and were going to drumhead him on the spot."

  "Then this must be the case, sir. The General wishes to be present."

  "It is impossible," returned Arrelsford. "We have already held thecourt, and I have sent the findings to the Secretary. The messenger isto get his approval and meet us at the corner of the
street yonder. Ihave no doubt he is waiting there now. It is a mere formality."

  "I have no further orders to give, sir," said the Lieutenant. "GeneralRandolph will be here in a minute, but you can wait for him or not, asyou see fit."

  The Sergeant stood uncertain. For one thing, he was not anxious to carryout the orders he had been given now. That one little action of Thorne'shad changed the whole situation. For another thing, Arrelsford was onlya civilian, and General Randolph was one of the ranking officers inRichmond.

  "Move on, Sergeant," said Arrelsford peremptorily. "You have all theauthority you want, and----"

  The Sergeant held back, uncertainly, but the day was saved by the adventof the General himself.