21 The Time to Act

Blanchard arrived in the evening, and the easy days at our house were over. He was a captain now, and he bade me gruffly to keep to my room. “We want no spies on our movements,” he said. My grandmother came to me a little later in a great state of indignation, and said that he had taken the best room in the house, bearing himself as if he were master.

“So he is, I’m afraid,” I replied. “You see, grandmother, we have improved upon the old story. We get King Stork where we had King Log, before we even make a complaint.”

Blanchard also increased the stringency of the guard, acting as if I were a prisoner of great importance. He roughly refused to answer questions, and when I threatened to complain to higher officers of his insolence, he replied with a grin, “Send your complaint to Colonel Varian.” I counselled my grandmother to use forbearance, but she attacked Blanchard within my hearing, telling him that his conduct was infamous, and in striking contrast to that of his predecessor, that true Southern gentleman, Major Titus Tyler. Blanchard smiled, showing that he relished it. I felt like striking the man, but such an act in my position would have been madness. He stationed, on the second day, a sentinel with a rifle at the door of my room and said that I was never to go outside unless at his order. My grandmother was in a rage, but he replied only with his provoking smile.

“You wish to be as troublesome as possible, Mr. Blanchard,” I said.

“Captain Blanchard, if you please.”

“I repeat, Mr. Blanchard, that you are uselessly troublesome,”

“If it pleases you to think so, you are welcome,” he replied.

“I suppose that all this is by the orders of Colonel Varian,” I continued.

“You can suppose whatever you wish,” he responded in surly fashion.

I was able to keep my temper perfectly, and, looking him squarely in the eyes, I asked:

“Mr. Blanchard, an assassin fired several shots at me from ambush when I was here, before the battle of Shiloh. What do you know about it?”

He flushed, and then replied quite composedly:

“The name of the man who fired them is Palmore. He is well and I’ve no doubt will thank you for the inquiry about his health. He shall be here to-morrow.”

He was an old enemy, one of our county scamps, whom some testimony of mine had once helped to send to jail, and to whom the war with its destruction of law brought opportunity. I saw readily that he had become the willing tool of Blanchard, eager to use his chance to do me harm. He was a tall fellow, with heavy shoulders, a bullet head, and a red, ugly face.

I found this man in the morning on watch at my door in place of the sentinel who had been there the day before. His expression was a mixture of hatred and triumph.

“So, Mr. Palmore,” I said, “you tried to shoot me?”

“I did, but my shots were cursedly poor.”

He seemed to feel no sense of shame for his guilt, and I said nothing more to him. My imprisonment soon grew fearfully irksome. I was allowed to go outside at intervals only, and then under armed guard. Elinor did not come again, and the meagre news that we could obtain of her was alarming. It was William Penn who brought it. He said that she was restricted to the house by Mrs. Maynard, and that Varian, who now bore himself as master of the place, was often there. A girl could not be constrained of her liberty in peace times, but those were not peace times.

“The woman means to make her marry Colonel Varian,” said my grandmother, “and I am astonished that Ellen Maynard has shown such good taste. Colonel Varian is handsome, brilliant, and distinguished.”

Yet my grandmother was devoted to my cause, and nothing served me better with her than the opposition of Mrs. Maynard.

“You shall have news of the girl,” she said, “even if William Penn has to get shot in finding it.”

William Penn obtained the news and he did not get shot. He brought me my meals regularly, and took advantage of this to report to me two days later that he had been to the Maynard house and had talked with a servant. Elinor was not allowed to leave her room, her aunt saying that it was for her own good. Varian and not less than twenty soldiers were there, and he heard among them that Colonel Varian was to marry Miss Maynard very soon.

I could have struck my fist against the wall in my anger and impotence. A girl could not be forced into a marriage in a free country at this time, but she might be compelled to choose it. There are many ways to drive a girl against her will, as everybody knows. I walked to the door and the scoundrel Palmore stood on guard, rifle in hand.

“Don’t try to come out, Mr. Kingsford,” he said, reading the look on my face, “or I shall have to shoot you.”

“And you would be glad of the chance,” I said.

His face was distorted into a hideous grin.

I went back slamming the door after me and gave myself up to painful thoughts. Never, thought I, was a man in a more unpleasant position. A prisoner at such a time!

There was a knock upon my door an hour later, and Varian entered, cool, polite, and smiling. The sight of him and his confidence sent the blood in a hot torrent through my veins, but I was silent, waiting for him to speak first.

“I am sorry,” he said, “that I have not been able to come to see you sooner, Mr. Kingsford. We are enemies since you chose to have it so, but I see no reason why hostility should produce discourtesy.”

“Not at all,” I replied; “and as an evidence of it I ask you how your suit is progressing?”

“Very well, indeed. I speak sincerely. You know that the marriage of Miss Maynard and myself is to occur next week. Your servant, Mr. Johnson, was at Mrs. Maynard’s seeking information, and as I saw no reason why he should not obtain it I gave orders that he have facilities. As you see, I am thoroughly informed, Mr. Kingsford.”

“There is one question that I would like to ask you,” I said, “if I may be permitted.”

“Certainly.”

“Have you yet obtained the consent of Miss Maynard to this marriage?”

I saw a faint colour come into his face for the first time, but in a moment he was impassive again.

“I think it is well to be frank,” he replied, “and I say to you that I have not; yet I do not doubt that I shall. I warned you that this was an unequal contest, that all the advantages were on my side. I do not know of any pursuit in which a close prisoner can show great activity.”

“I expected at least that you would fight openly,” I replied.

“Have I not done so?”

“Not when your man Palmore attempted to assassinate me before the battle of Shiloh.”

“Mr. Kingsford, I have wished to speak to you of that, but I waited for you to introduce the subject. I had nothing to do with the affair. I did not know of it until long since, and then by chance, from Blanchard. It was Blanchard’s fault, perhaps. The man is rough in his ways, but he is attached to me. I was of some service to him once on the other side, and perhaps he has been indiscreet in his zeal to repay me. He met this man, learned of his hostility to you, and—well, the two misinterpreted my wishes. Even if I were such a wretch, I do not need the help of assassins in any affairs of mine.”

He spoke proudly, and drew up his figure as if he would defy criticism. I believed that he was speaking the truth, but I asked:

“Why do you keep Palmore in your service, and, above all, why do you have him on watch at my door?”

He hesitated a little and then replied:

“You still wish perfect frankness from me, and I own that my motives are a little mixed. Perhaps I can put it this way: he would not dare to murder you here, but as you are his pet enemy he is a most excellent guard over you. I have no legal right to interfere with him because of his attempt upon your life. He is doing his duty at present as a soldier, and we need ask no more. I tell you in confidence that I detest him as much as you can. Is my explanation satisfactory?”

“It will serve,” I replied. “But, since I should be equally frank, I say that I would not do as you are doing.”

“Put it down to the difference in men,” he said, “and in such a case who is to decide which is right? I am sorry, as I have told you before, that we are forced to be rivals and enemies, Mr. Kingsford. You have qualities that are to be admired.”

I thanked him, and he added that the rigours of my imprisonment would be relaxed. Moreover, I should be treated with courtesy by all his men. Just before he left he returned to the subject of Elinor.

“I assure you, Mr. Kingsford,” he said, “that Miss Maynard will be my wife within a week, and she shall be a happy wife. I am sorry, I repeat, that we are rivals in this particular, but it is a commonplace saying now that women shall ever divide men. When I first saw her in Washington I determined that she should become mine, and usually I have my way. I have known many women, but none before who has touched me so deeply, perhaps none who has touched me at all. Is it not true that those who love slowly love deepest?”

I had much to think of when he departed. Again I was furious at my fate because I was a prisoner when I needed most to be free, and Varian, with his smiling and confident manner, appeared the most formidable of all enemies. In truth, Elinor was in his power, and perhaps she would not long regard him as one to be feared. His confidence in himself might not be misplaced, and it is the bold who win the hearts of women. Varian certainly had an abundant share of boldness, and one who would oppose him must bring the same qualities into use. I conceived in that moment a daring plan, too daring it appeared after a little reflection, but I believed that it was an inspiration and I clung to it. I began immediately to arrange in my mind the details. Yet I was forced to delay action owing to the lack of opportunities, and I burned with angry impatience.

Madam Arlington took dinner with me the next day, much pleased with Varian’s order that I should be treated with more consideration. I, too, felt the benefits of this relaxation, as I could now go about the house almost as I pleased, and Palmore’s leering face was not visible so often. But the news that my grandmother brought me was far from cheering.

“The marriage of Elinor and Varian is sure to occur next week,” she said. “William Penn hears that Elinor is yielding.”

“I do not believe it! I do not believe that Elinor is so weak!” I exclaimed.

“Henry,” she replied calmly, “you know nothing at all about women.”

Although I remained silent I was alarmed to the utmost, and I grew more impatient than ever to attempt my plan. Yet I could not believe, upon reflection, that Elinor would consent to this marriage. No words of love had passed between us, but she had ridden once in the dark to save my life. When I was wounded and delirious she had been the tenderest of nurses at my bedside. She had spoken of Varian with fear, and I did not believe that the eyes which looked with such truth into mine could become false. Some other woman might change, but not the Elinor Maynard whom I knew.

William Penn came to me the next day.

“I could not get any news of Miss Elinor,” he said, in great grief, “except that she is still locked up in Mrs. Maynard’s house. They said they didn’t want me hanging about there any more, and if I came again I’d be arrested and sent off to a prison in the South, and you know, Henry, there is no better Southern man than I am.”

I consoled William Penn with the assurance that they would not seize a loyal Southerner like himself, and then I confided to him my plan, which depended in great part upon his assistance.

“I would not dare, Henry!” he cried. “You know I’m not a fighting man, and I think your scheme is wild. It’s bound to fail, anyhow.”

“It will succeed if you stand by me, William Penn, and I shall rely upon you,” I replied with confidence.

He protested no more and left much dejected. As I looked through my window presently I saw him riding away and I knew that I did not trust him in vain. Yet I became nervous and excited. Everything depended upon so many happy chances that I was afraid of a weak link in the chain. The minutes doubled and tripled in length. Noon was long in coming and I had no appetite for dinner; but I forced myself to eat, knowing that I would need all my strength. The afternoon dragged even more heavily. I looked through the window and saw only sunshine and peace. Two of the soldiers were on the front lawn lounging in the shade of the beech trees. The sun grew warmer. It was one of those long, hot summer afternoons in the South. The flies droned against the window panes, and one of the soldiers under the beech trees fell asleep. It was a day that invited rest, and I was glad. Few could be suspicious and alert under such an ardent sun and in such a peaceful world. My grandmother walked presently across the lawn, a straight, reliant figure. The forest formed a black line at the edge of the horizon, and a dim haze of heat hung between.

I began to feel some of the languor of the day despite my nervous excitement, but I did not leave the window, and an hour before sunset William Penn appeared, riding down the road that led to the village. He raised his hand twice, thus making the signal agreed between us, and I knew that he had been successful. It was a good beginning, and my heart leaped up with encouragement. I walked to the door of my room, and I did not know whether to be glad or sorry when I found that the man on guard was Palmore.

“So you are to watch over me this evening?” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, with some return of his old insolent manner. “I am to see that the bird keeps in its cage.”

“Mr. Palmore,” I said, “I am not able to understand the importance which seems to be assigned to me. Why should such a guard be kept over an ordinary prisoner?”

“You will have to talk to Colonel Varian about that,” he replied.

I returned to my window and watched with infinite gladness the coming of the night. I looked toward the west, and just as the sun was about to sink behind a hill William Penn appeared, his figure showing black and sharp against its crimson glow. He again raised his hand twice, giving the signal once more, and I knew that the second step in our plan had been taken.

My grandmother brought me my supper with her own hands. I was glad of it, because I meditated a long journey, and if I took it I was not likely to see her again for many days. She was strangely silent, and seemed to be more depressed than usual, she, as I have said, being a woman of such vigorous temperament that sadness could not endure long in her mind. I would have told her of my intentions, but when she had been present only a few minutes Blanchard himself came in and began to talk to me. Thereupon Madam Arlington, who disliked him extremely, walked out without a word.

“I don’t think that we shall keep you here much longer, Mr. Kingsford,” said Blanchard, with an appearance of joviality. “We’ll send you South to join the other Yankee prisoners as soon as we get a chance. Colonel Varian would attend to it himself, but he’s so busy getting ready for his marriage—and isn’t she handsome too!—that he’ll have more agreeable duties to attend to, and I’m afraid I must take you myself.”

I was tempted to deliver a blow with all my might in the centre of his smirking face, but I refrained and instead drank the last of my coffee.

“Let Colonel Varian attend to his affairs as he thinks best,” I replied, with an assumption of indifference.

“Oh, he will! Don’t you fear!”

He saw that he could not provoke me into any passionate outburst, and presently left me alone in the room. I went anew to the window which had served me so well and saw to my great delight that the night would be dark. Two sentinels paced back and forth on the lawn, and I knew that a third, Palmore, was in the hall at my door. Varian, certainly, was taking good care of his prisoner, and I wondered what his superiors would say when they learned that he was using the soldiers of the Confederacy in his personal cause.

I waited an hour longer, and again I noticed with pleasure the increasing darkness. Then I hurriedly took a sheet from my bed, twisted it into a rope, and softly opened the window. Neither of the sentinels on the lawn turned to see, and I was thankful now that I had seemed listless in my prison, making no effort to escape, and, so far as my immediate guards could note, willing to remain a prisoner there in my own home, where I could find the comforts of life. Then I pressed hard upon the leg which had been broken. It gave back no twinge, and I knew that it was as strong as ever.

The two sentinels met on their beats and exchanged gossip. Then they went on, one lighting a pipe and smoking contentedly as he walked. I pulled the bed across the floor to the window, and then paused in fear lest the soft sliding noise should draw the attention of Palmore. But he had not noticed, and tying my clumsy rope to the leg of the bed I swung myself out of the window, taking all the chances of a shot from either or both of the sentinels, should they see me. Never before did I feel such gratitude for a dark night. My room was on the second floor, and when I slid down to the end of the sheet I was within three or four feet of the ground. I hung there for a few moments, a black figure against the black wall; but I knew that the sheet showed in a strip of white above my head. I saw the two sentinels dimly as they walked to and fro, one of them smoking. A spark in his pipe blazed up and went out. He stumbled on a root, uttered a curse, and went on. I thought what a splendid target I would make if they saw me there against the wall; but they did not see me and I dropped to the ground. The soft turf felt pleasant under my feet, and the air of freedom was like the breath of hope. It filled me with courage.

The house cast a protecting shadow which increased the darkness, and I lingered there a little as I selected my line of escape. The eyes of the soldiers had grown accustomed to the night and I knew that my risk was great. I crept in the shadow of the house to the corner, and there I paused when I heard the sentinel who was smoking swear again. His pipe had gone out and he stopped to relight it. The other man joined him and they talked for a few moments. I waited, expecting them to go on, when I would continue my flight. The fence of the garden was only about fifteen feet away. I would make a silent dash for it, and then escape under its protection.

The two sentinels lingered, and presently one of them looked up at my window. He beheld the white sheet hanging down and knew instantly that his prisoner was escaping. He uttered a shout and ran toward the house. Had I retained complete presence of mind I would have remained where I was, my figure blotted out against the blackness of the wall, but, obeying the first impulse, I dashed across the lawn and sprang over the garden fence, fleeing for my life for the second time from the home of my childhood. The other sentinel saw me first and fired at me with his rifle. The bullet whizzed over my shoulder, and as my feet touched the ground on the far side of the fence a second came from a different direction. My flight had brought me within sight of the sentinels on the far side of the house, and they, too, opened fire.

My grandmother’s extreme fondness for pease had always been a joke with me, but now I thanked God for it. More than a dozen rows of pea vines, trained on sticks almost to the height of a man’s head, ran the full length of the garden, and I dashed down one of the aisles, completely hidden for the time from my pursuers and those disturbing rifle shots. It is dangerous enough to be under fire in battle, but to be the sole target of a half dozen men, good marksmen too, seeking your life, and hunting you as they would a fox, is far more trying.

I dropped down momentarily between the pea rows, hoping to profit by the confusion that my disappearance would cause among my enemies, and as I stooped there I saw lights appearing in the house and heard much shouting. But the voices were those of the soldiers only. I neither saw nor heard anything of my grandmother, and I was much surprised, knowing how vigorous she would be on such an occasion.

There was a sound of tremendous swearing, and both Blanchard and Palmore dashed from the house. I peeped through the pea vines and saw the soldiers who had fired the last shots running about like hounds that had lost the scent, mystified by my sudden disappearance. I ran, still stooping between the rows, until I reached the far end of the garden, and then paused again. Before me was another open space about twenty feet across, beyond that a fence again, and the forest about a hundred yards farther.

“Which way did he go?” I heard Blanchard shout.

“Into the garden and then we lost sight of him,” a sentinel replied.

“He’s’ among these pea vines!” cried Blanchard. “Now, Palmore, is your chance!”

I knew the sinister meaning of his hint, and Palmore comprehended it too, as he sprang over the fence the next instant, and then crashed among the vines. I was wholly unarmed, and he doubtless knew it or he would not have come so fast. I saw him, pistol in hand, rushing down between the rows, and I ran for the fence. I crossed the brief open space before I was seen, but as I put my hand upon the fence and cleared it at one leap three or four bullets whistled around me. Then I ran for my life toward the woods. Halfway across I glanced back and saw that Palmore was resting his pistol upon the fence and drawing a dead aim upon me. It was an easy shot for a Kentuckian, but even as I looked a rifle was fired from the wood, a sudden look of vague wonder appeared on Palmore’s face, and he sank without a cry to the ground.

I paused no longer, but with a heart full of thankfulness ran to the shelter of the trees.

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