Raiding with Morgan Part 35

"I can only offer to be her slave for life."

"Your offer is not accepted; you are well aware I do not believe in slavery," replied Joyce, with a merry laugh.

When the Doctor was ready to go, he asked for a private interview with Joyce. It was hard work for him to say what he had to say. He choked and stammered, but at last Joyce understood what he meant. He had promised the government officials to inform them when Calhoun could be moved without endangering his life. That time had come. "But," said he, as he noticed the white face of Joyce, "I shall recommend that he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, as there is no danger of his running away in his weak condition."

But Joyce hardly heard him. "And-and-this means?" she whispered.

"The penitentiary at Columbus."

Joyce shuddered. "And-and there is no way to prevent this?"

"None. G.o.d knows I would if I could."

"Thank you, Doctor; I might have known this would have to come, but it is so sudden."

The Doctor went out shaking his head. "I am afraid harm has been done," he said to himself.

Just as he was getting into his gig to drive away Andrew Harmon came riding by. He glanced up and saw Calhoun sitting by the window. "So, your patient is able to sit up," he exclaimed, with a sneer. "About time he were in the penitentiary, where he belongs, isn't it?"

"I don't know how that concerns you," replied the Doctor, coldly, as he drove away.

"Oh ho! my fine fellow. I will show you whether it concerns me or not?"

muttered Harmon, looking after him.

That night Harmon wrote to the authorities at Columbus, stating it as his opinion that there was a scheme on foot to detain Lieutenant Pennington until he was well enough to slip away. He was not aware that Doctor Hopkins had reported on the condition of his patient every week, and had already sent a letter saying he could be moved with safety, but recommending he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, on account of his weak condition. Harmon not only wrote to Columbus, but also to Mr.

Crawford, hinting that it was dangerous for his daughter to care for Calhoun longer. "You know," he wrote, "that girls of the age of Joyce are inclined to be romantic."

As for Joyce, when the Doctor left her she sank into a chair weak and faint. She saw Andrew Harmon gazing up at the window where Calhoun was, and a terror seized her. She now knew that she loved Calhoun, but with that knowledge also came the thought that her love was hopeless, that even if Calhoun returned her love, her father would never consent to their union. He would rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, especially a hated Morgan raider. Long did she struggle with her own heart, her sense of duty, her ideas of patriotism; and duty conquered. She would give him up, but she would save him.

It was evening before she could muster strength to have the desired interview with Calhoun. When she did enter the room it was with a step so languid, a face so pinched and drawn, that Calhoun stared in amazement.

"Joyce, what is it?" he cried. "Are you sick?"

"Not sick, only a little weary," she answered, as she sank into a chair and motioned for the nurse to leave them. No sooner was she gone than Joyce told Calhoun what had happened. Her voice was so pa.s.sionless that Calhoun wondered if she cared, wondered if he had been mistaken in thinking she loved him.

"Joyce, do you care if I go to prison?" he asked.

"Care?" she cried. "The thought is terrible. You shall not go, I will save you."

"Joyce! Joyce! tell me that you love me, and it will make my cell in prison a heaven. Don't you see that I love you, that you saved my poor life only that I might give it to you? Joyce, say that you love me!"

For answer she sank on her knees by his bedside and laid her head on his breast. He put his weak arms around her, and held her close. For a while she remained still, then gently disengaging his arms, she arose. There was a look on her face that Calhoun did not understand.

"The first embrace, and the last," she sighed. "Oh, Calhoun, why did we ever meet?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, his lips growing white.

"I mean that our love is hopeless. Father will never consent to our marriage. I feel it, know it. Without his consent I shall never marry. But save you from prison I will."

"Joyce, you do not love me!" said Calhoun bitterly.

"As my life," she cried.

"Yet you say you can never marry me!"

"Without my father's consent I cannot."

"Joyce, let us not borrow trouble. Even with your father's consent we could not marry now. I am a prisoner. The war is going on, but it cannot last forever. When it is over, when peace is declared, I will come to you.

Then, and not till then, will I ask your father for your hand. Let us hope the skies will be brighter by that time-that to be one of Morgan's men will not be a badge of dishonor, even in the North."

"Oh, Calhoun, if I could only hope! I will hope. Come to me after the war is over. Father's consent may be won. But now the prison, the prison. I must save you. I have thought it all out."

"How can you save me, a poor, weak mortal, who cannot take a step without help?" asked Calhoun.

"Put you in a carriage to-morrow night and take you where they cannot find you."

"So soon? The Doctor said he would ask for two weeks. Two more weeks with you, Joyce-I could afford to go to prison for that."

"Don't talk foolishly. I feel if I don't get you away to-morrow night, I cannot at all."

"But you-will it endanger you, Joyce?"

"Not at all!"

"But how will you explain my disappearance?"

"Suppose you have been shamming, better than we thought you were, and so you gave us the slip."

"A right mean trick," said Calhoun.

"No, a Yankee trick, a real good one. Now listen, Calhoun, and I will tell you all about how I am going to get you away. Some six miles from here a colored man lives whom my father has greatly befriended. He will do anything for me I ask. I shall tell him you are a sick soldier, and for good reasons wish to remain in hiding until you get well."

"Will he know I am one of Morgan's men?" asked Calhoun.

"No, he will think you are a Federal soldier. Calhoun, as much as you may hate it, you must don the Union Blue."

"That would make a spy of me. No, it wouldn't either, if I kept clear of any military post."

"That's good. I have a Federal uniform in the house, which will about fit you. A friendless soldier died here a short time ago. We took him in and cared for him during his last sickness. He had been discharged for wounds received at Fair Oaks. Here is the discharge. I think it fits you close enough, so it may be of use to you."

She handed him the discharge; he took it and read: "James Brown, age nineteen; height five feet nine inches; weight one hundred and sixty pounds; complexion dark; hair and eyes black."

"Why, Joyce, with that in my pocket, and wearing a Federal uniform, I could travel anywhere in the North."

"So I thought. We will cheat that old prison yet. But it is time you were asleep."

"G.o.d bless you, Joyce," replied Calhoun. "Give me a kiss before you go."

She smiled and threw him one as she went out and he had to be content with that. She had not stopped to consider what the result might be if she helped Calhoun to escape. Her only thought was to save him from going to prison. To do this she would dare anything.