CHAPTER X.
A DANGEROUS MISSION.
In the progress of the present story we have now come to some of those strange, startling, and almost incredible events which prove the truth of the old proverb, “Truth is stranger than Fiction,” and which could occur only in those times when the foundations of society are shaken by martial upheavals and commotions.
We stop at a small farm-house a few miles from Manassas, and not far from the residence of Dr. Arrington. It is in the afternoon of a beautiful day. We open the door of one room of the little farm-house, and find ourselves in the presence of two Confederate officers, of high rank, who are engaged in an earnest conversation. Both have long since passed into history, and are inseparably connected with the “Great Rebellion.” The whole history of any war is, in fact, comprised in the biographies of a few individuals. The lives of Lee, Grant, Jackson, Sherman, and a few others that could be readily named, cover the entire field of the War of Secession.
It is not essential to our story that we should give the names of the two Generals to whom reference has just been made. For reasons which are clear to the author, it is deemed advisable to leave our reader the pleasure of identifying them, if he can. Merely for the sake of convenience we will designate one as General A. and the other as General B. As we stand in one corner of the room, eaves-dropping, as is the privilege of the Novelist, we hear the following colloquy:
“It will require a peculiar person for the business,” said Gen. A. in a rather low tone. “It must be a woman—and a woman of intelligence, discretion and courage.”
“I know just such a one,” replied Gen. B., “but I should dislike to ask her to run the risk that must be incurred.”
“These are times,” answered Gen. A., “which demand sacrifices. Our Southern men and women should be willing to incur danger for the sake of their country. Cannot the South furnish an Iphigenia if one is necessary to the success of our arms?”
“No doubt, many can be found,” replied Gen. B., “but I should dislike to sacrifice any of our noble women, if it could possibly be avoided.”
“Would it not be better,” coolly asked Gen. A., “to sacrifice a woman in the prosecution of this business than a good soldier? But who is the lady you mentioned? We can discuss the ethics of the case at some other time.”
“It is the daughter of Dr. Arrington,” answered Gen. B. “I dined with his family last Sabbath, and I was impressed with the idea that the young lady is just such a woman as you have described.”
“I am willing,” said Gen. A., “to take your judgment in this case. When can we have an interview with her, do you suppose?”
“Any time we may call, I think.”
“Suppose we go at once, then,” said Gen. A. “The business is urgent.”
Accordingly the two officers mounted their horses. Half an hour later they alighted at Dr. Arrington’s residence. They were met by the Doctor, and shown into the parlor. After talking a short time upon general topics, Gen. B. broached the particular subject that had caused the visit.
“Dr. Arrington,” said he, “Gen. A. is in search of a person to perform a delicate and hazardous duty. The service is of such a nature that no one but a lady can perform it well, and it must be a lady of bravery, discretion and intelligence.”
“I do not know where you can find one in this community who will fulfill such requirements,” said the Doctor.
“I have taken the liberty,” said Gen. B., without seeming to have noticed the Doctor’s remark, “to suggest your daughter, Miss Mildred.”
“I doubt,” replied the Doctor, “that she possesses the qualifications you have named—at least, I do not know that she is brave.”
“Probably,” suggested Gen. A., “you have never seen her courage put to the test.”
“No, I cannot say that I have.”
“However,” continued Gen. A., “the business I have in hand requires more tact than courage.”
“Is it a perilous business, General?”
“Perilous in case of detection; yes, sir.”
“I profess to love my country,” said the Doctor, “and I am willing to make sacrifices for it, but I cannot speak for my daughter. I will call her, if you wish, and let her speak for herself.”
“If you please,” said Gen. A. “We mentioned the matter to you first in order to get your consent to an interview with her.”
The Doctor went out of the room, and in a few moments returned with Mildred, introducing her to Gen. A., who had never seen her before. An explanation of how and why Gen. B. had formed the acquaintance of this family would, no doubt, lead at once to his personal identification.
“Shall I remain in the room?” asked the Doctor, after Mildred was seated.
“Certainly; we expected you to do so,” replied Gen. A.
The true, actual history of the war of 1861 will never be written. It cannot be. It is only general events that the dignity of history will condescend to record. Take the battle of Bull Run, which has been so briefly described in previous pages of our story. Scarcely anything more than the events which we have outlined will go down to future generations. The thousand little incidents which constituted the very essence of the fight, and give to it a coloring which the historical brush must ever miss, will never be known. The history of a battle is nothing more than a picture of it: three-fourths of the scenes are left out.
From one till three o’clock who can tell what occurred on the field of Bull Run? The war-cloud floated in fragments: it was like a fog. The contest seemed to dwindle almost into individual combats. The grim warriors were mixed up in a dense cloud of smoke, through which the historian cannot see clearly. It was not till after three o’clock that the battle presented an aspect that comes within the scope of history. To get the correct history of those two or three hours, each individual like Ernest would have to tell what occurred within his sight. Little incidents, though thrilling, such as we are about to relate, are rejected from the domain of sober history. Individual deeds of daring and heroism, necessity demands shall find their place in the province of biography. Accordingly that which Mildred performed will be found recorded nowhere except in the pages of this story.
“We have a mission,” said Gen. A. presently, “which only a lady can accomplish, and Gen. B. has suggested you as a person who would be likely to undertake it; and this is the object of our present visit.”
Mildred looked surprised.
“If it is anything I can do, General,” she said, “I think I have sufficient patriotism to undertake it.”
“I have no doubt of that. But, to make a long story short, we want a lady to go into the capital—Washington City, I mean.”
Gen. A. watched her face closely and critically as he said this. Mildred did not appear to be amazed at this information, but she quietly said:
“Will that be easy to do?”
“I do not know; it depends upon the tact of the person that tries it,” answered Gen. A.
“I infer, then,” she said, “that I would have to avoid the pickets and sentinels?”
“Not so much that as other things which I will explain to you. But I shall not conceal the fact from you, that if you are detected, the consequences will be enough to terrify not only a lady, but a desperate man.”
“Death, would it be?” she asked in a firm, but gentle tone which convinced Gen. A. that Gen. B. was not mistaken in his estimate of her character.
“Death, and ‘death by hanging’,” answered Gen. A. with an emphasis designed to test her nerves.
“O, General!” exclaimed the Doctor in some alarm, “that is asking too much of my child. She is too delicate and timid to take such a risk.”
“I shall not insist upon anyone’s undertaking it,” replied Gen. A. with a disappointed look. “Gen. B. here suggested that your daughter would be the kind of person we need, but if you object we will say no more about it.”
“My kind father has spoken hastily,” said Mildred with dignity. “I do not know why the women of our country should not sometimes risk their lives as well as the soldiers. Suppose I should lose my life, it is no more than hundreds have already done. I am not afraid. I will go, General, unless my father positively forbids it.”
“There will be no very great risk, though, after all,” said Gen. A., “especially after you are in the city. I have a paper to be delivered to a certain person in Washington. If you were caught with that paper, you would no doubt be treated as a spy, but a lady of intelligence and tact can conceal it.”
“Could I not commit the contents to memory and write them out after I get into the city?” asked Mildred.
“No; the person who is to receive it must have the original paper.”
Mildred reflected for a moment, and turning to the Doctor said:
“Father, I am willing to do this small service for the General.”
“It is no small service, I should think,” interrupted the Doctor.
“No,” replied the General, “it is a very great service, one which will bring your country under obligations.”
“What do you say, father?” asked Mildred.
“My child,” said the doctor with some emotion, “I cannot encourage you to do it. I will leave it to your own judgment. I, however, would prefer to undertake the mission myself, if that would answer.”
“If the business,” answered Gen. A., “could be accomplished by a man, we have any number of soldiers in camp who would cheerfully volunteer, but no person will answer but an intelligent lady. You will see that when I enter into fuller explanations.”
“If this be so, father, it seems to me that I ought to perform this service for the country. The enemy can but destroy this body, if I should be detected. Suppose, General,” turning to him, “you can find no lady who will undertake the affair, what will be the consequence?”
“That will be difficult to foretell or foresee,” replied Gen. A. “It might cause the loss of a great battle. On the other hand, her going might result in achieving the independence of the Confederate States. Very little affairs of this kind frequently result in great things.”
“Then, father,” said Mildred with firmness, “I can no longer hesitate. We helpless women ought to serve our country in some way in the hour of need. Will you give your consent, father.”
“I can not tell you either to go or to stay,” answered the Doctor. “Do as you please.”
“Then, General, I will go and do the best I can for you. What is it you wish me to do?”
“When can you start?” asked Gen. A.
“To-morrow, if you desire it.”
“Very well: now give me your attention and I will tell you what is to be done. The paper of which I spoke is this,” taking a folded document from his pocket. “You see this is a map.”
It is not necessary to enter into details in regard to this map. Besides it might not be advisable to unfold any portion of the secret history of the “Great Rebellion” at this time when some of the actors in the scenes we are now describing are yet living.
“This,” continued the General, “is to be delivered to a gentleman by the name of Beall.”
“What is his address?” asked Mildred.
“That I am not able to give you at present,” responded Gen. A. “He changes his quarters frequently; but there are five hotels at which he stops, and you will find him registered in one of them.” The General here informed her how she could identify Beall, with whose melancholy history our reader is probably acquainted. “This paper must be put into the hands of Captain Beall,” continued Gen. A., “and no one else.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Mildred.
“The principal danger,” the General went on, “lies in this. If you should be arrested with this paper on your person or in your possession, your fidelity to your country will cost you very dearly, you understand.”
“Yes, sir, my life will be the price.”
“When you meet Beall,” coolly resumed Gen. A., “he will give you another paper which you are to bring to me. Of course I will have to leave some of the details to your own good sense and tact. If you should get into any difficulty, do not lose your presence of mind and self-possession. Keep cool under all circumstances, and I think you will soon come back to us in safety.”
After some further directions and explanations, which can be omitted without detriment to our story, the General said:
“Now, you fully understand what is to be done; are you still willing to go?”
Mildred looked appealingly at her father, but he said not a word.
“What do you say, father?” she again asked.
“I candidly confess,” he replied at last “that I dislike to see my daughter subjected to exposure of this sort. Probably the result may be such as makes me shudder to think about it, and then my gray hairs would be brought in sorrow to my grave. In that case, I never could forgive myself for not having forbidden her to go.”
“Well,” said Gen. A., “I shall not even now insist upon her going. She can still decline if she wish. The danger is just what I have represented it. If,” turning to Mildred, “you shrink from it, you would better decline at once.”
“It is not the danger I dread,” answered Mildred. “I am willing to serve my country in any way I can, even to the extent of shedding my blood, but I dislike to do anything that will cause my father to suffer. But I have already told you I would go, and so I will unless my father sees proper to exercise his parental authority and forbids it.”
“I shall not forbid,” said the Doctor. “I want you to consult your own feelings and judgment and act accordingly.”
“Then General,” said Mildred with firmness, “I shall start in the morning. There is no use of any further discussion.”
“God bless you!” exclaimed General B., who had not taken any part in the conversation. “I thought I could not be mistaken in your character. I knew your religious training had developed those very traits which peculiarly qualify you for this perilous undertaking. May God protect and crown the undertaking with deserved success.”
As the officers were riding away, Gen. B. said:
“What a pity it would be if that noble girl should be arrested and—”
“Hanged?” spoke up Gen. A., finishing the uncompleted sentence.
“Yes; it would be terrible,” answered Gen. B.
“Well,” said Gen. A. deliberately, “war signifies bloodshed. If the young lady falls a victim, does not the occasion demand the sacrifice.”
And the two officers rode on.
