VI
AN AIR-LINE
“As for me,” continued Colonel Gay bitterly, “I’m driven almost frantic by this conspiracy. Whenever a regiment arrives or leaves, whenever a train stirs—yes, by Heaven, every time a locomotive toots or a mule brays or a chicken has the pip—somebody informs the Johnnies, and every detail is known to them within a few hours!”
The Special Messenger seated herself on the edge of the camp table. “I suppose they are very disagreeable to you about it at headquarters.”
“Yes, they are—but how can I help it? Somehow or other, whatever is done or said or even thought in this devilish supply camp is immediately reported to Jeb Stuart; every movement of trains and troops leaks out; he’ll know to-night what I ate for breakfast this morning—I’ll bet on that. And, Messenger, let me tell you something. Joking aside, this thing is worrying me sick. Can you help me?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Headquarters sent me. They’re very anxious up there about the railroad.”
“I can’t help it!” cried the distracted officer. “On Thursday I had to concentrate the line-patrol to drive Maxon’s bushwhackers out of Laurel Siding; and look what Stuart did to me. No sooner were we off than he struck the unguarded section and tore up two miles of track! What am I to do?”
The Special Messenger shook her pretty head in sympathy.