Love under Fire Part 43

"That feller who knifed Burke. I had him all right, sir, back in the coal cellar. He'd crawled away there into one corner, an' it was dark as h.e.l.l--beg your pardon, Miss." The sergeant sank back against Jones'

shoulder, and the man wet his lips with water. "I couldn't see only the mere outline of him, and didn't dare crawl in, for I knew he had a knife. All I could do was cover him with a gun, an' try to make him come out. That's what I was up to when you called. d.a.m.ned if I knew what to do then--there was some racket up stairs, let me tell you, an' I knew there was a devil of a fight goin' on. I wanted to be in it the worst way, but I couldn't find it in my heart to let that devil loose again.

Finally I got desperate, an' grabbed him by the leg, an' hauled him out, spittin' and fightin' like a cat. He cut me once, before I got a grip on his wrist, an' my gun shoved against him. Then he went weak as a rag.

But I wan't thinkin' much except about the fracas up stairs--the boys catchin' h.e.l.l, an' me not with 'em. So I didn't fool long with that feller. I just naturally yanked him 'long with me up stairs into the kitchen, an' flung him down against the wall. I got one glance out into the hall, an' didn't care no more what become o' him. You was facin' the whole mob of 'em, swingin' a gun barrel, an' I knew where I belonged.

But d.a.m.ned if that feller didn't startle me. He was up like a flash to his feet, an' I thought he was trying to get me. But he wasn't. When I run to you, he wasn't two steps behind, an' may I be jiggered, sir, if he didn't jump in there on your right, an' fight like a wild man. That's all I saw, just the first glimpse. He sure went into it all right, but I don't know how he come out."

"Well, I do; I happened to see that myself, though I hardly know how. He was clubbed with a musket from the stairs. The man who hit him fell when the railing broke. The two of them must be lying over there now. Who was he, Miles? Did you know him?"

The sergeant wiped the perspiration from his face with his sleeve, and Jones moistened his lips again. I felt Billie's grasp tighten, and her hair brush my cheek.

"Well, I thought I did, sir," he admitted at last, but as though not wholly convinced, "only I don't like to say till you have a look at the lad. He was dead game anyhow, I'll say that for him, an' I don't feel just sure. I never got eyes on him in daylight, an' when I yanked him out o' the coal hole he was mostly black. Maybe that's him over there, sir."

The hospital squad had cleared out much of the front hall, but had not reached the plaster pile where we had made our last stand. Those that were left were mostly clad in gray, but over against the stairs, one leg and arm showing, was a blue uniform. The hospital men came back, and I called to them,

"Sergeant, there is one of our men lying in that pile. Will you lift him up so I can see the face?"

This was the work of a moment only, and for an instant no one spoke.

Disfigured as the face was, blackened and b.l.o.o.d.y, there could be no mistake in ident.i.ty--it was that of Charles Le Gaire.

"Why--why," exclaimed Billie, thunderstruck. "I know him, but I cannot remember. Who is the man?"

It was all clear enough to me now; I only wondered at not suspecting the truth before. After guiding us up the ravine he had not returned to camp, but remained, intent on revenge, feeling that this was an opportunity for vengeance which would insure his own safety. Yet she did not know, did not understand, and it must all be explained to her.

Miles broke in impatiently.

"Ain't it the same n.i.g.g.e.r, sir, what brought us up here?"

"Yes," I said, but with my eyes on the girl's face. "Billie, listen, dear. The man was Le Gaire's servant, his slave, but also his son. He was here with his master, but you never knew of the real relationship between them. The boy was our guide last night, and he told me his story--of how justly he hated Le Gaire. Shall I tell it to you now, or wait? The doctor is coming."

She glanced from my face up into that of the approaching surgeon. The hospital squad, at the nod of command, were bearing the body down the hall.

"Tell me now."

"It will require but a moment, dear. It was because this Charles Le Gaire had lived here that I asked for him as a guide. He agreed to come as far as the end of the ravine only, as he did not wish to be recognized. Then he disappeared, and, I supposed, returned to camp.

Instead, he evidently stole into the house. He was Captain Le Gaire's son by a slave mother. Bell told me later that the mother was sent back into the fields, and died as a result. That would account for the hate the boy felt against the father."

"How--how old was he?" her trembling lips white.

"Not over eighteen."

Billie hid her face on my shoulder, sobbing silently. A moment the surgeon stood looking down at us compa.s.sionately.

"I am going to have both you and your sergeant taken up stairs," he said at last. "Come, Miss Hardy, you have no right to break down now."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

THE COMING OF THE NIGHT

It was sundown, and silent without, except for voices and the constant movement of men. The din of battle, the roar of guns, had ceased, and everywhere gleamed the light of fires where the tired commands rested.

The house stood, shattered but stanch, great gaping holes in its side, the front a mere wreck, the lower rooms in disorder, with windows smashed, and pools of hardening blood staining the floors. Appearing from without a ruin, it yet afforded shelter to the wounded.

I had had my own wounds washed and cared for. They were numerous enough and painful--an ugly slash in the side, a broken rib, the crease of a bullet across the temple, and a shoulder crushed by a terrific blow, together with minor bruises from head to heels--and yet none to be considered serious. They had carried me up the shattered stairs to her room, and I lay there bolstered up by soft pillows, and between clean sheets, my eyes, feverish and wide-awake, seeking out the many little things belonging to her scattered about, ever reminded of what had occurred, and why I was there, by my own ragged, stained uniform left lying upon a chair. I could look far away out of the northern window from where I rested, could see the black specks of moving columns of troops beyond the orchard, the vista extending as far as the log church, including a glimpse of the white pike. The faint odor of near-by camp-fires reached my nostrils, and the murmur of voices was wafted to me on the slight breeze. Some lad was singing not far away, although the words could not be distinguished, and from the farther distance sounded clearly a cavalry bugle. I could hardly realize, hardly comprehend what it all meant. It hurt me to move, and the fever made me half delirious.

I fingered the soft, white sheets almost with awe, and the pillows seemed hot and smothering. Every apartment in the house held its quota of wounded, and down below the busy surgeons had transformed the parlor into an operating room. In spite of my closed door I could overhear occasionally a cry of pain.

Yet I was only conscious of wanting one presence--Billie. I could not understand where she had gone, why she had left me. She had been there, over in the far corner, her face hidden in her hands, when the surgeon probed my wounds. She had been beside me when he went out, her soft hand brushing back my hair. I remembered looking up at her, and seeing tears in the gray-blue eyes. Then some one had come to the door, and, after speaking, she came back to me, kissed me, said something softly, and went out, leaving me alone. I could not recall what it was she said.

That must have been an hour, maybe two hours, ago, for it was already growing dusk. I do not know whether I thought or dreamed, but I seemed to live over again all the events of the past few days. Every incident came before me in vividness of coloring, causing my nerves to throb. I was riding with Billie through the early morning, and seeing her face for the first time with the sunlight reflected in her smiling eyes; I was facing Grant, receiving orders; I was struggling with Le Gaire, his olive face vindictive and cruel; I was with Billie again, hearing her voice, tantalized by her coquetry; then I was searching for Le Gaire's murderer, and in the fight, slashing madly at the faces fronting me. It must have been delirium, the wild fantasy of fever, for it was all so real, leaving me staring about half crazed, every nerve throbbing. Then I sank back dazed and tired, sobbing from the reaction, all life apparently departed from the brain. I could not realize where I was, or how I got there, and a memory of mother came gliding in to take Billie's place. I was in the old room at home, the old room with the oak tree before the window, and father's picture upon the wall at the foot of the bed. I thought it was mother when she came in, and it was the touch of mother's hand that fell so soft and tender upon my temple, soothing the hot pain. Gradually the mists seemed to drift away, and I saw the gray-blue eyes, and Billie.

She was kneeling there beside me clasping one of my hands, and she looked so happy, the old, girlish smile upon her lips.

"You have been away so long," I began petulantly, but she interrupted,

"No, dear, scarcely fifteen minutes, and I have had such good news. I hurried back just to share it with you. The doctor says you are going to get well, that all you need is nursing, and--and I have heard from father."

I looked at her, dimly understanding, and beginning to reflect her own happiness.

"How did you hear? Is he a prisoner?"

"Oh, no! Could I be happy under those conditions? He is unhurt, and has sent for me. General Johnston despatched an officer through the lines with a flag of truce. He was brought here, and that was why I left you.

He had a letter for me, and authority to conduct me back to the general's headquarters. Was not that thoughtful of them?"

"Yes," I answered wearily, clinging to her hand, "and--and you are going now? You came to say good-bye?"

"You poor boy, do you really think that? Shall I tell you what message I sent back?"

My face must have answered, for she lowered her head until her cheek rested against mine, her eyes hidden.

"I--I said I would stay here with my soldier."

I was still a long while it seemed to me, our hands clasped, our cheeks pressing. I could feel her soft breath, and the strands of her hair.

"Billie, there is no regret, no doubt any more?" I asked falteringly.

"It is all love for me?"

"All love," she answered, moving just enough so that our eyes met. "You are my world forever."

"And that uniform yonder--it is no barrier, dear? I am still a Federal officer."

She glanced at the rags, and then back into my face.

"Sweetheart," she whispered gently, "I can be loyal to the South, and to you also--you must be content with that."

Content! It was as though everything else had been forgotten, blotted out. It was almost dark now, and far away the camp-fires blazed red and yellow among the trees. I lay there, gazing out through the open window, her rounded arm under my head, her cheek still pressed tightly against mine. My nerves no longer throbbed, my veins no longer pulsed with fever. She never moved; just held me there against her, and in the silence I fell asleep.

THE END