Ervin returns to Charleston and invents the ironclad torpedo, destined, when copied by the Federals, to destroy the Confederate Navy. He also constructs a submarine torpedo boat, and while preparing for his initial trip has an interview with Helen Brooks.
He decides to attack the Housatonic instead of the New Ironsides, as Helen has confessed that one whom she loves is on the latter. The Housatonic is sunk, also the torpedo, Ervin alone being rescued and captured. Sent to the stockade on Morris’ Island, he finds Tait Preston, who is about to be exchanged on account of a wound. Ervin determines to escape.
After some weeks he does so, being wounded in the flight. At this time his dragoon pigeon being accidentally loosened by Mrs. Adams, returns to Dunvegan and Helen Preston leaves her father, who is at home on sick leave, to nurse her lover. Arriving at Charleston, she learns that his friends there suppose him to have been destroyed in the sinking of the Housatonic, but the faithful girl continues her search until she finds him on James’ Island and nurses him back to health. In the meantime Mrs. Corbin and her family have fled to Columbia, on the news of the approach of General Sherman.
CHAPTER XLIII
For the second time in his life, Ervin McArthur was nursed back to health by the gentle hands of the maid of Sunahlee. By day her slim fingers wrought incessantly for his comfort, by night she rested in a rudely made arm chair by his cot.
To Captain Dillard and the surgeon the air of order, of complete sufficiency in the rough cabin was a miracle, daily enacted. Was a bandage necessary? Helen produced it. Barley water? Broth? They had merely to announce Ervin’s needs and shortly she would be found administering to them. Often he was restless at night. Tossing uneasily he would mutter—always of Helen. Now he would speak with the old-time winning raillery the girl remembered so well, now seriously of his inventions, astonishing her with references to details which were beyond her understanding.
“How little we know of the mental processes of those we love!” she mused. “While I mourned over the infrequency of his letters, he was making me his hourly companion and confidante.”
“It is Helen, dearest. Be calm now, and sleep,” she would tenderly adjure him, bringing the burning eyes searching to hers.
“It is my little Helen,” he would breathe in relief, and drop into slumber.
There were times when his delirium became stormy. Raving, he would denounce her fickleness, her rapacious coquetry and her assumed sympathy.