CHAPTER XV.
A REMARKABLE EVENT.
It was night. The stars looked down from their blue dome upon the lamp-lit streets of Washington. Busy feet went hurrying along this way and that. Small groups could be seen standing at different places, discussing some question of an exciting character. If we draw near to any of these groups, we will hear such expressions as “great victory,” “hard fight,” “four hundred rebels killed.” But we are not now specially concerned with this “glorious news,” which had come on the telegraph wires.
Let us pause before that large hotel, standing on a certain street, which shall be nameless. Then let us enter, and ascend to the corner room of the fourth story. The door is locked, and on the outside stands a sentinel with musket in hand. Inside there is a lady on her knees. She has been informed that her trial will take place on the ensuing day. Three days have passed since her interview with Ernest. Gen. A. had told her what would be the consequence of detection with that handkerchief in her possession. The result of the trial may, therefore, be easily anticipated. The fate of a spy is “death by hanging.”
Mildred well knew what she had to expect, but strange to say, the dark prospect excited no alarm. Probably she could not make a reality of the impending danger. This is what the world would say. We are creatures of hope, and we do not yield to despair till the last chance is gone. But the Christian is sustained in the most awful calamities by something higher than any human hope of deliverance. In the darkest hours of trial, a mysterious influence pervades the Christian’s breast, produces a holy calm, a sacred joy, and elevates the soul in triumph above earthly sufferings and sorrows. Unbelievers may pronounce it a delusion, but, nevertheless, it is a delusion which brings happiness; and if this be so, the delusion is just as useful and comforting as though death should put an end to the entire man—both body and soul.
After arising from her knees, Mildred seated herself at the window, and gazed down upon the scenes below. At that moment she felt not a particle of fear or mistrust. She was perfectly resigned to the will of the Heavenly Father, let it be expressed in what aspect it might. She gave herself up to this ecstatic sense of security, feeling as if she were nestling, like a timid bird in the Omnipotent Hand. Were “coming events casting their shadows before?”
While in this strange state of feeling, she was startled by a gentle rap on her door. This was so unusual that she waited for a repetition of the signal. There was a louder tap.
“What is wanted?” she asked.
She heard the click of a key, and the door stood open. Her lamp threw its rays upon the form of a young man dressed in the Federal uniform. He took off his cap, bowed, and looked straight at Mildred. She glanced at his face, and with a little cry of joy sprang toward him.
“O, Will, can it be you?” she exclaimed.
“It is I, cousin Mildred.”
Without another word, she threw her arms around his neck, and pent-up tears flowed without restraint. The officer brushed the drops from his own eyes, and said:
“Come, cousin, you’ll make me ashamed of myself. It is weakness in a soldier to cry. Sit down and let me look at you. I have not seen you for five years. Upon my word, you’ve got to be right good-looking.”
“Why have you not called to see me before?”
“Now don’t begin to scold before I’ve had time to say ‘howdy’;” said the officer gaily. “I didn’t know you were here. My company has been guarding you too, but I did not see you, nor hear your name called. To-day I happened to be in the room where they are holding court, and I heard one of the officers say that the case of Mildred Arrington would come first to-morrow morning. I ascertained the charges against you, and I’ve come to see whether it was my cousin Mildred; and sure enough it is. But I never expected to find you in such a place—at least, in such a predicament. It seems you are a spy.”
“That I deny, cousin Will, if I know what it is to be a spy.”
“Well, it amounts to the same thing. Your accomplice was tried to-day.”
“Who.”
“You know—one Capt. Beall.”
“And what?” asked Mildred.
“Why, he will hang next Friday—that’s all.”
We may here remark that it is a matter of history that Capt. Beall was executed as a spy, and met his dismal fate with an undaunted courage that excited the admiration, and pity of his enemies—I say pity, because we all dislike to see a brave, noble man put to an ignominious death.
“I am very sorry,” said Mildred.
“No doubt, you are; but what is to become of yourself, my pretty cousin?”
“Why, has not God sent you to release me?” asked Mildred with the simple faith of a child.
“O, you old blue-stocking Presbyterian!” cried Capt. Benner, breaking into a laugh. “That is so like you. You get into an ugly scrape, and ask God to help you out of it, and a kind-hearted young fellow calls to see you, and you forthwith jump to the conclusion that the Lord sent him to save you. What a faith you do have. But don’t be too fast,” continued the officer, with a merry twinkle, “you are a rebel, and I am a union man. I don’t know whether I ought to have called at all or not. But how do you expect me to save you? Do you want me to be a traitor? Do you want me to release a dangerous spy? Say, now?”
“No, cousin. If it endangers you, let me be. I am ready to be sacrificed on the altar of my country,” said Mildred.
“O, ho! you want to be a martyr, do you?”
“No; I have no ambition in that way,” replied Mildred. “I would prefer to go home to my family; but I do not want you to take any risks to save me.”
“Do you suppose I could release a prisoner without taking risks? To be sure, my fair cousin, I will have to take risks.”
“Then, leave me alone,” said Mildred.
“Leave you to be hanged, you mean?”
“Yes, if that is the penalty.”
“And after that deplorable event,” said the officer, “could I ever look my mother in the face? Could I see Uncle Arrington again, and good Aunt Jennie? After the war, when I go down South again, and call at uncle’s, and I should hold out my hand, he would start back and say, ‘No, I cannot touch that hand; it is stained with poor Mildred’s blood.’ And aunt would say, ‘Leave me, Will, I cannot bear to look at you.’ How do you suppose I would feel, eh? I guess I should go off like Judas did, and hang myself—I think I would.”
“Well, let us be serious, Will. I am in no humor for sport now. Do not keep me in suspense. What have you come for?”
“Didn’t you say, just now, that God sent me? I wish I could think it. It would be a great relief to my conscience.”
“How is that?”
“Why, don’t you see, I’ve got to play false to my government and my country, if I give you freedom?”
“Is that painful to your conscience?”
“If I say yes, then you will become stubborn, and refuse to accept the boon of freedom. So, that you may have no scruples, I will tell you that I have a convenient conscience—one that will stretch. I never was raised, like you, a regular, old blue-stocking Presbyterian. Sometimes, though, I wish I had been. For there is no doubt in my mind that the Presbyterian is the most solid and substantial Church on earth.[2] My mother, you know, is a Presbyterian, and my father belongs to the —— Church. I notice that she is the firmer character, and I can say with truth, more consistent, religiously. I take after my father; and that, I guess, is a good thing for you.”
“Why is it?” asked Mildred.
“Why, don’t you see, if I were a rigid Presbyterian, I should hesitate about giving you liberty? I should be afraid of doing violence to my conscience. Waiving that, however, I think I have been a faithful servant of my government, and they might allow me to release one wretched prisoner.”
“Why could you not get a pardon for me, and thus save your conscience?” asked Mildred.
“How green you women are! Don’t you know there is no pardon for a spy? Don’t you remember Maj. Andre, of the Revolutionary war? Washington would not even let the poor fellow select his own mode of quitting ‘these low grounds of sorrow.’ The punishment for this great sin of espionage is death, and death by hanging.”
“Can you free me,” asked Mildred, “without compromising your own safety?”
“I will have to take some risks, of course, but you needn’t give yourself any uneasiness on my account, my fair cousin. Can you make your way home, if you were out of this building? Can you go alone?”
“Certainly, but it will not be necessary.”
“What! you’ve got another accomplice?”
“I shall not conceal anything from you, Will, since you are so kind,” replied Mildred, while a deep blush spread over her features. “I am engaged to be married to a young man who is here. His room is on this floor.”
“Indeed! what a pretty, romantic scrape you have got into! It would do to go into a novel. But you have made such an honest confession, though, that I can’t have the pleasure of teasing you. Is he a Rebel too?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Wouldn’t it be patriotic, if I were to have him arrested, and tried as a spy? Two romantic lovers hanged on a sour apple tree!”
“You might call it patriotic,” said Mildred, “but what would I call it?”
“O, treacherous, mean, diabolical, and the like. But we’ve got to act now,” taking out his watch. “What do you want me to do? Can you and the young man who is so interesting, manage the matter if you can get out of the city?”
“Certainly.”
“When can you see him?”
“I suppose he is in his room,” replied Mildred.
“What number?”
“No. 18.”
“I’ll go see him at once.”
Accordingly, the officer went to the designated number, and tapped on the door. A footstep was heard inside, and the door was opened by Ernest. Seeing a Federal officer standing before him, he was disagreeably surprised. The first thought that entered his mind was that he had been watched, and this man had come to arrest him. The prospect was enough to make him turn pale. Benner observed his alarm, and said with a smile:
“Is your name Edgefield?”
“Who told you that I bore such a name?” asked Ernest, in ill-concealed surprise.
“It does not matter who told me, is the information correct?”
“I do not like to answer questions in regard to myself till I understand your object.”
“My object is, to establish your identity.”
“For what purpose?” asked Ernest.
“If you know what is for your own good,” replied Benner, “you will answer candidly.”
“Supposing that to be my name, what then?”
“If that’s your name, come with me.”
“Where,” asked Ernest.
“To that lady in the corner room.”
Ernest looked more astonished than ever, on hearing this, but thought it best to obey in silence. Both entered the room, and Mildred said:
“Allow me to introduce, Capt. Edgefield, my cousin, Capt. Benner.”
Ernest, at first, appeared puzzled and bewildered, but he soon took in the situation, and his feelings vibrated to the opposite extreme. He was elevated from the depths of darkness to the pinnacle of light. Of course, he thought the young man had come to bring deliverance to his kinswoman. At that moment, too, a sense of his ingratitude toward God flashed into his mind. In a subdued tone he inquired how Capt. Benner had discovered his cousin. He was told in a very few words what the reader knows concerning the affair. Ernest relapsed into silence, and bitterly reproached himself for his lack of confidence in the kind Heavenly Father. Here God was bringing the blind by a way they knew not, and was preparing deliverance, while he had been indulging in harsh reflections toward the Giver of all good. It was a lesson which he never forgot. From that moment he became a firm believer in the doctrines of grace as held by the Presbyterian Church.
We hope we are not taking undue advantage of any interest that may be excited by the present story to give undeserved prominence to the Presbyterian Church. The effect which her doctrines have upon individual and national character is admitted by thoughtful historians. Buckle, in his History of Civilization, does justice to them. According to him, they are better adapted to democratic institutions than any other published creeds. It will be found that those who have believed in these doctrines, which some people call “horrible,” have ever been the most stubborn, uncompromising advocates of human rights. They have been foremost in all the great conflicts for freedom. These same doctrines underlaid the Reformation of the 16th century, as is evident to the most cursory reader. We are, by no means, attempting to disparage other Churches, but our present undertaking will not allow us to point out their excellences. We will now proceed with the story. We need not detail the conversation which took place among the trio, nor attempt to describe the happiness of the two who were in the greatest danger. Ernest was so overwhelmed by this evident demonstration of divine providence that he did not have much to say. He was thinking. Mildred acted as though she were not greatly surprised. She had sent up many earnest prayers to the Throne of Grace and she was not astounded that her petitions were answered.
“Well,” said Benner, presently, when it was time to bring the interview to an end, “you must leave about 12 o’clock, when most honest people are asleep. I will see that the way is clear in the hotel. You must both be dressed as union soldiers, at least till you get to the forests. I will have the clothing here in time.”
Capt. Benner then left, but returned at 30 minutes past 11 o’clock. Mildred and Ernest were soon transformed into Federal soldiers, at least, in appearance. Each was armed with a musket, and no one, without an unusually close inspection, would have supposed they were other than they appeared to be. And now all was ready.
As the clock struck 12, two Federal soldiers issued from —— hotel, and walked leisurely along the streets. In a short time they left the lamps glimmering in the distance, and plunged into the darkness of the forest. Two miles from the city they mounted their horses which had been left in the care of a friend.
Early the next day, they suddenly ran upon a union soldier, who was a vidette. This route had not been occupied by Federal soldiers before, as it was scarcely anything more than a path. The young people were very much surprised, but Ernest in an instant recovered his self-possession, and decided upon his plan of action. He was still dressed in the Federal uniform, and had his musket, besides his own pistol. They came upon the soldier in a sudden turn of the path, and were within a few paces of him before they discovered him. The vidette, taking Ernest to be what this garb indicated, without raising his gun, called out:
“Halt! who goes there?”
He had barely uttered the words before Ernest leveled his gun, and exclaimed:
“Surrender!”
“Who are you?” cried the astounded soldier.
“Drop your gun,” exclaimed Ernest sternly, “or I shall kill you.”
The amazed vidette, perceiving that resistance would be in vain, let his gun drop to the earth.
“Now,” said Ernest, “I have no disposition to harm you. All we want is to pass you. Are you willing to let us go?”
“How can I hinder you,” asked the soldier “when I am disarmed?”
“But you must promise not to pursue us.”
“Where are you going?” asked the soldier.
“That is my business,” replied Ernest.
“Certainly. I promise then.”
“Promise,” said Ernest, “that you will remain on your horse for fifteen minutes, and not touch that gun, and will give no alarm after we are gone.”
“I promise,” answered the soldier.
“To make assurance doubly sure,” continued Ernest, “I will take your cartridges.”
“O, don’t do that,” begged the vidette. “I will promise just as you want me to.”
“Why are you so opposed to giving up your cartridges?”
“Because I am accountable for them. I don’t intend to say anything about this affair, because the boys would laugh at me, and I might be punished too. Just go, and get out of the way as quick as you can, and I give you my word of honor that you shall not hear another word from me. But how am I to account for the loss of my cartridges?”
“You seem to be honest,” said Ernest, “and I believe I will try you.”
The two immediately rode on, and the soldier kept his word, so far as Ernest knew.
That morning, while Mildred and Ernest were making their escape, the first passers-by saw a long rope, reaching from the corner room of the fourth story of —— hotel, down to the pavement below. They knew not what it meant. About 9 o’clock though, when the Court-Martial sent for the female prisoner, it was discovered that the “bird had flown.” The sentinel, who had been stationed at the door about twelve o’clock, could give no account of the escape. The door was locked, and he heard nothing. It was presently noised abroad that the lady spy had escaped, and soon hundreds of people gathered in the streets, looked up at the dangling rope, and wondered how a lady could have climbed down such a fearful distance. The general opinion was that she was a brave, daring woman, who was confined to this one mode of escape. “Of course,” they said, “she had friends in the city, who assisted her in the perilous undertaking.” At any rate, she was gone. The chief clerk at the hotel, who had been instrumental in her arrest, was not of the rabid class who regretted her timely flight. “I don’t care,” he said with a smile. “I don’t believe she was a spy anyhow. Even if she was, and they had hanged her, I believe I should have felt guilty of murder.”
Nothing more was ever found out about it, and Capt. Benner bore the character of a true and loyal soldier till the horrid war came to an end. Some years afterwards he met Mildred, and laughingly explained his scheme, remarking that, “people might have had sense enough to know that she could not have escaped in that way.”
“Possibly I might, though,” she said. “There is no telling what one can do, when life depends upon it.” And she laughed as she thought of how she would have appeared, dangling by her hands on a rope between heaven and earth.