A Little Traitor to the South - Cyrus Townsend Brady (popular novels .TXT) 📗

she was happy at being in his arms. His heart leaped at the recollection. She had not struggled. She had almost nestled against him.

He could recall the clasp of her arms, the kiss that she had given him, the words that she had said. He was almost sure that she loved him as he thought of these things.

Yet--she had disgraced him, dishonored him! That was not the act of a loving woman. She had shown herself possessed of a full measure of womanly heroism and courage. She knew exactly what was involved in his failure to carry out his orders. How could she have done it? Was it all acting then? Did her kisses betray him? Was she indeed a traitor--and to him? Yet--for whom?

There was Lacy--oh, had he repented after all? Had he wished to resume the command he had so reluctantly surrendered? Had she been a party to any plan whereby the matter might be brought about? Was he to be shamed and sacrificed for Lacy's glory and honor by this woman? Perish the thought! Yet why had she fainted on the wharf? Was it at the mention of Lacy's name? Was she alarmed for his safety? If that were the case, why had she not striven to restrain Lacy and allowed him to go in his place?

Suddenly there flashed into his mind that there might be some one on the _Wabash_ whom she wished to protect! Could that be the solution of the mystery? No one knew anything of her origin, her past history. Was she faithful to the South, yet had she a--a--lover in the Union fleet? Was she indeed what he called her, a heartless coquette? He could have sworn from that brief moment when he held her in his arms, when he looked at her, that she loved him. She had returned his kiss. Oh, had she? Was it a dream? A play? To deceive him? Great God! was he going mad?

Of only one thing was he certain. He could never disclose to any one the cause of his failure to present himself on the wharf in time. Whether she loved Lacy, or some one in the Union fleet, made no difference to his love. He would love her till he died. Ay, he would love her even in the face of her treachery, her faithlessness--everything! He hated himself for this, but it was true, he could not deny it.

And he would save her from the consequences of her action at the cost of his life--his honor even. What had he to live for anyway, if she were taken from him? Death might come. It would come. He would make no defence. It was quite within the power of a court-martial to order him shot. And it was quite within the power of a court-martial to punish Fanny Glen, too, if he fastened the culpability for his failure upon her; perhaps not by death, but certainly by disgrace and shame. The city was under martial rule, General Beauregard was supreme. No, he could not expose her to that condemnation--he loved her too well.

Yet he wished that he could hate her, as he paced up and down the long room, stopping at the windows to stare out into the dark in the direction of the sea--where he should have been if all had gone well.

He was too far away to hear the explosion of the torpedo, which was muffled, because it took place under water, but he could hear the batteries of the ships as they opened on the blockade-runners, and the answer from the forts, and he knew that something had happened at any rate. And his suspense as to that added to his wretchedness. Lacy had supplanted him and reaped the glory--again. It was maddening. No one came to bring him any word. The general concluded to postpone his inquiry until the next morning, and Sempland paced the floor the night long in a pitiable condition of wounded love, blasted hope, shattered fame.

At home, not far away, poor Fanny Glen was even more miserable than Rhett Sempland, for she had divined--yes, so soon as the two men had left her presence the afternoon before, she had recognized the fact--that she loved Sempland. Conviction had grown upon her swiftly, and in those moments when she was fearful that he would succeed in his purpose, when she had kept him a prisoner in her home to prevent him from taking out the _David_ to try to blow up the _Wabash_, she knew that she loved him.

When he had held her in his arms in that bold and successful effort to escape, when he had strained her to his breast, when he had kissed her--oh, that kiss!--the consciousness of her passion overwhelmed her. The recollection of it even filled her with passionate tenderness. She had not been afraid when he had threatened her with the pistol. She could have died easily then--in his arms, with his kiss upon her lips, his heart beating against her own. He loved her! Nothing else mattered for the moment.

She had endeavored to keep him a prisoner partly for his own sake, but principally for another and greater reason. She had not thought of disgrace or shame to him. It had all come so swiftly. She had no time to reflect at all. She had decided upon impulse, with but one thought at first--to save the Union ship. In her sudden alarm and anxiety she had not realized that she was playing a traitor's part. Or if she had, she had done it willingly, in the belief that the punishment would fall upon her, and that he would be held blameless.

But for whatever reason she had acted as she had, she had failed after all, for another had taken Sempland's part, and the flagship, if the _David_ succeeded, was doomed. Her sacrifice was unavailing. She had lost everything. Sempland had shrunk away from her when she had confronted him and the general on the wharf, and when she had recovered consciousness he was gone. She could not know his heart had gone out to her lying there, nor how they had hurried him away from her prostrate figure.

He would never forgive her--never! she thought miserably. He was under arrest now. What was that word she had caught as she ran toward them? Coward! They would kill him perhaps. She had lost all--love, the ship, everything! Lacy, too, was gone. He had taken the boat out in Sempland's place. Why had she not thought of that possibility? And he had loved her, and he would never come back.

With a misery akin to Sempland's she heard the bombardment which proclaimed that something had happened. Had the flagship been blown up? Nothing was left to her. She would go to the general and tell the truth in the morning, and then--he would be free. They could punish her and she could die. Well, death would be welcome.

Poor little Fanny Glen! She had played, and played the fool exceedingly--and she had lost on every hand!


CHAPTER X


A STUBBORN PROPOSITION

The general, who was always on the alert, ordinarily began his work with the sun, and rarely did he stop with the setting of it, either. The next morning, therefore, he was at his headquarters at an unusually early hour.

Fortune had favored him in that one of the harbor patrol boats, making a daring reconnaissance about midnight, to discover if possible what had happened to the _David_, had captured a whale boat from one of the Union ships, bound on a similar errand, and had brought her crew to the city. By questioning them Beauregard learned of the blowing up of the _Housatonic_, and the almost certain loss of the torpedo boat. He was sorry that he missed the _Wabash_ and the admiral, and intensely grieved over the lack of any tidings from the _David_ or her men, which, however, caused him little surprise, but he was glad, indeed, they had been so brilliantly successful in eliminating the magnificent new steam sloop-of-war _Housatonic_ from the force blockading them.

Incidentally he learned, with some additional satisfaction, that Admiral Vernon was to be relieved of his command on account of illness and was going North with his flagship in a few days. The admiral had shown himself so intensely enterprising and pugnacious that Beauregard hoped and expected that any change in opponents would be for the betterment of the situation from the Southern point of view.

When he had digested the important news of the morning, he sent for his prisoner of the night before. The general had been very indignant on the wharf, and justly so, but he instinctively felt that there was something in the situation, which, if he could get at it, might relieve from the odium of his position the young officer, whose family history, no less than his personal character, absolutely negatived the idea of cowardice or treachery.

General Beauregard hoped that by questioning him quietly and calmly, and by representing to him the critical situation in which he found himself, that he might induce him to clear up the mystery. He spoke to him kindly, therefore, when he was ushered into the room and bade him be seated. He marked with soldierly appreciation of the lieutenant's feelings the evidences of his sleepless night, the anguish of his soul, in the haggard look upon his face.

"Mr. Sempland," he began with impressive and deliberate gravity, carefully weighing his words that they might make the deeper impression upon the younger man, for whom he felt profound pity, "you bear one of the noblest names in the commonwealth. I knew your father and your grandfather. They were men of the highest courage and of unimpeachable honor. Their devotion to the South cannot be questioned. I grieve more than I can say to find you in so equivocal a position. I am convinced that there is some explanation for it, and I ask you, not as your general, but as your friend, to disclose it to me."

"You called me a coward last night, sir."

"In the heat of my disappointment and surprise I did make use of that term, sir. It was a mistake. I regret it," said the general, magnanimously. "I do not believe your failure to take out the _David_ arose from any fear."

This was a great concession indeed, and Sempland was intensely relieved, and an immense load was lifted from his breast by the general's reassuring words.

"Sir, I thank you. I could have borne anything than that."

"But, my boy," continued the general, severely, "you must remember that you still lie under the imputation of treachery to the South, and you will recognize readily that such an accusation is scarcely less terrible than the other."

"General Beauregard, believe me, sir," burst out Sempland, impetuously, "I pledge you my word of honor, I am not a traitor to the South, I would die for my country gladly if it would do her service. I fully intended to take out the _David_. I begged for the detail, and was thankful beyond measure to you for giving it to me. I was overwhelmed with anger and dismay and horror at my failure. I swear to you, sir, by all that is good and true, by everything holy, that it was not my fault that I was not there--I--I--was detained."

"Detained? By whom?"

Sempland only bit his lip and looked dumbly at the general.

"Come, my boy, I want to help you," said the veteran officer, persuasively. "Who, or what, detained you? Where were you detained? It must have been some man--or