27 Prisoners of Varian

We resumed the eastward journey the next morning, but under conditions so different. Our happy ride was over. I sat upon the same horse, but I was bound to him, and a trooper was on either side of me, almost shoulder to shoulder. Elinor rode just ahead. They treated her with the utmost respect; in truth I had not feared otherwise, but Blanchard refused to listen to her request that I be unbound.

“Perhaps, as you claim, lady, he can not escape,” he replied; “but he did so once, and he may try it again. He’ll have to stand it the best he can.”

But she showed in this crisis the nobility and courage of her nature. She did not droop or entreat. She was brave and cheerful, and whenever they permitted she rode near me, speaking of the time when we would be free again and happy together. Had I been disposed to be downcast, my very pride would not have permitted me to be sustained only by the strength of the one who would have been called the weaker of the two.

“You are only a prisoner, Henry,” she said, “and they have no right to treat you so. The Southern authorities would not permit it if they knew of it, and when we reach the East I shall tell them, if I have to go to General Lee himself, who is the most humane of men.”

I had little in my treatment to complain of save the binding of my arms and the inconvenience that it caused. They gave me a fair share of their fare, and at night I had as good shelter as the others. Nor was there any diminution in the respect that they paid Elinor. I hoped sometimes for a rescue, but the chances decreased fast as we began to descend the eastern slopes of the mountains and enter the lowlands. Villagers and farmers came to look at us now and then as we passed, but they said nothing. Blanchard met no force sufficient to cope with his, although almost the whole of the region through which we rode was hostile to the South. We were fired at once from a mountain ridge by some of those pleasant gentlemen known as bushwhackers, but none of the bullets touched us, and they did not dare to come nearer. Elinor showed no fear when the rifles cracked and the bullets whizzed about our ears, and Blanchard spoke his admiration.

“Both Colonel Varian and you show good taste,” he said.

I did not reply.

We descended into the Valley of Virginia, a region devoted to the Southern cause, and now occupied, at least in the portion we entered, by Southern troops. Blanchard came to me on the second day after we reached the low country, and said:

“We shall overtake Colonel Varian to-morrow, and I shall give the lady and you to him. Both of you, doubtless, will be glad to part with me, but not more so than I am to part with you. I do not care for commissions of this kind, because I have been afraid that you would escape again.”

I bowed assent, but I was surprised and disappointed to hear that Varian was so near. I had believed that we would be taken to Bichmond, where I was confident that I could secure at once the release of Elinor, and my own too, or, at least, a recognition of my status as a mere prisoner of war. The Southern leaders would not tolerate for a moment such treatment as we were now receiving. But I should have known better, knowing Varian’s boldness so well. Nevertheless I did not permit my face to show my feelings to Blanchard.

“I should like to speak to my wife,” I said.

He considered a moment, but at last consented, and then Elinor was at my side. I told her that we were approaching the camp of Varian, and would not go to Richmond as we had hoped. It was likely that we should be separated there, and the future would not be pleasant for either of us, at least for a while; many things not true would be said to her, but she need fear nobody.

“I shall never forget, Henry,” she said, “that I am your wife.”

She looked into my eyes with so much courage and truth that my fears for her diminished. Neither her aunt, nor Varian, nor circumstances could quench her spirit. I felt a deep sense of pride because I held the love of such a woman, and I wondered how I had ever won it.

She feared only for me, not for herself, and I swore under my breath that I would rescue her yet from the hands into which she had fallen.

We reached Varian’s camp the next day. He and some of his officers were occupying a large double brick house on a hill, and the tents of the men stood on the lawn. The detachment seemed to number about five hundred, all cavalry. As we approached, Elinor said, “Good-bye for a time.”

Then she went away, and I saw a woman come forward to meet her. It was her aunt, and, however hostile and revengeful Mrs. Maynard might be, I was glad that she was there, since Elinor would not now be the only woman in the camp.

“I am sorry, Mr. Kingsford,” said Blanchard, “that we can’t give you quarters in the house, but this is not a hotel, and you will have to put up with the barn.”

They imprisoned me in a small room that had been used in better times for the storage of shelled corn. The place was comfortable enough in autumn weather, and I had no complaints to make. I had been there several hours, given up to lonely thought, when the sentinel at the door presented arms and admitted Varian.

He was dressed as a brigadier general in the Southern service; his uniform was of the richest and freshest texture, and a magnificent gold-hilted sword hung by his side. This weapon, as he afterward told me himself, was presented to him by the ladies of Nashville and Clarksville for heroic conduct in the presence of overwhelming numbers of the enemy. His manner was dignified, and not expressive of triumph.

“Your quarters here are not luxurious, Mr. Kingsford, but we give you the best that we have,” he said.

“Has a man a right to ask more?” I replied.

“You are perhaps surprised to see me in Virginia before you,” he resumed; “but as I came by a more direct route, and in great haste, I have been here several days awaiting you and the woman for whom we are rivals. I never doubted Blanchard’s success in finding and recapturing you. I have in him a most loyal and able friend. He has told me of a proposition that he made to you, and the reply that you made to him. He is a man of blunt speech, and perhaps has not that delicacy of mind which we think natural to a gentleman. He went further than I would have had him go. Yet I regret to tell you, Mr. Kingsford, that your position is an exceedingly doubtful one, and we scarcely know what to do with you.”

“Why so?” I asked.

“You escaped from us, and instead of returning to your army you stole a young woman from her nearest relative and natural guardian, and ran away with her into the mountains. If we returned you to your own forces would not they treat you as a deserter?”

I laughed, amused that he should seek to frighten me with such a story.

“Mr. Varian,” I said—I did not yet call him general, although I saw by his uniform that he had been promoted to that rank—“I do not fear any such result as the one at which you seem to hint, and why should you fear for me?”

“Then we will dismiss that phase of the question,” he said; “but as you, a soldier, were taken in civilian’s attire, it might be held that you are a spy, if I chose to press the charge against you; and then your kidnapping of Miss Maynard can not be passed over even in a time of war.”

“You should know,” I replied, “that Miss Maynard was not kidnapped. She came with me of her own will.”

His eyes flashed with anger and the blood surged to his face. I had touched him in a tender spot, and for a moment he showed it, but he recovered himself quickly, and again was cool and unimpassioned.

“It is not well to boast of one’s triumphs with a lady,” he said.

“Ask my wife if she did not come willingly,” I replied.

“Listen to me, Mr. Kingsford,” he continued. “There is a rivalry between us which must have a decisive issue. We have long known it; we knew it in Washington before the war, although it was then vague, but it is now acute. You have been triumphant so far with Miss Maynard. It is an old truth that no one can ever account for a lady’s choice. I do not say that as any criticism of you, but rather in defense of myself—but I think that fortune is changing. The cards are now in my hands, and to be frank with you, Mr. Kingsford, I shall use them. I have been accustomed to my own way all my life; it is now a habit with me, and the strongest motive in a man’s life is the love of a woman. I mean that she shall yet he my wife. I had planned a great career for her by my side, and in order to win her, to be frank again, I am ready to compromise with my conscience, if it is necessary. I tell you that she shall yet be mine.”

He spoke with the quiet resolution of a strong man, sure of success. But I was not afraid. I, too, was confident.

“You forget the greatest obstacle,” I said.

“What is that?”

“The will of the lady. You forget that I have her love. As you say, no one can account for the choice of a woman, but I have it, and you can never win it from me, whether I be alive or dead.”

The threatening flash, quick as lightning, appeared again in his eyes, and his face reddened to the brow.

“Let me remind you again, Mr. Kingsford,” he said, “that it is not wise to boast of your triumph with a lady; but since you speak in such plain terms, so will I. If I can not win her with her consent, I shall win her without it, whether you be alive or dead.”

I felt the full measure of his threat against both Elinor and myself.

“I am glad to see you as you are, Mr. Varian,” I said, “and to find of what material you are really made beneath your false covering.”

“I do not differ from other men,” he replied, “although I may be less of a hypocrite than most of us. What is it that our sex has not done for the love of a woman? Have not the greatest in history thrown away all else for the smile of a round-cheeked girl? I think that Adam himself ate of the apple merely to please Eve, and not because he wanted it. Shall I hold myself superior to other men, and can you claim that you possess an exclusive virtue in this respect? Women are fickle, and a week from now you who feel so confident may be planning as bad deeds as I.”

He ceased abruptly and left the room, and during the next two days I saw only the guards and those who brought me food. But on the third day a fresh breeze blew into the room and brought with it Major Titus Tyler. He greeted me with effusiveness and evident joy.

“Henry Kingsford, and a prisoner again!” he exclaimed. “It seems to me that when the invincible Southern army has nothing else to do it occupies itself with letting you escape and recapturing you. Henry, my son, have you heard how gloriously things are going here in the east? Why didn’t you show common sense and join our side? Didn’t you know that we would win? Didn’t I take the trouble to tell you so in Washington, just before the war began? You know how we beat McClellan in the Seven Days, drove him back with unparalleled slaughter. Stonewall Jackson, the greatest division commander that ever honoured the earth by riding over it, has now surpassed Napoleon’s Italian campaigns. Pope and the Army of the Potomac have been caught between Lee and Jackson at Manassas, and ground to pieces. We are magnificent, invincible, and in three months I shall be mixing mint juleps for my friends on the steps of the Capitol in Washington.”

I had heard of this bad news, but the Manassas defeat was new to me. Occupied as I was with the fortunes of Elinor and myself, it nevertheless filled me with the gloomiest thoughts of my country. Our generals, at least in the east, where it was most important, seemed unable to cope with those of the South; our fine armies were sacrificed when bravery availed nothing, and the cause of the Union was declining. My feelings must have been reflected in my face as the major clapped his hands on my shoulders, and cried:

“Don’t take it to heart so much, Henry; it had to be! Did you think that anybody could conquer the South?”

I asked him if he had seen Elinor, and he replied that he was talking to her not an hour since; indeed, he had seen her often in the last two days. Then he burst out with a flowery tribute to her.

“One of the noblest girls that I ever saw, Henry,” he said. “Did I say a girl? I meant a magnificent woman. By God, sir! a prisoner though you be, I think that you are to be envied. They brought her in as much a captive as you yourself are, and gave her into the care of her aunt. The old lady began with reproaches and stern looks; she was afraid that her niece had ruined herself forever; she had not believed it possible that a member of the Maynard family could have been guilty of such conduct; but the girl, blazing with wrath, stopped her right there. She said that she married you, and she was proud to be your wife; she had done nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that she would have undone, and that it was useless either to reproach or threaten her. If her aunt objected to her hasty marriage with you, Mrs. Maynard herself was chiefly to blame, because she tried to force her into a marriage with Varian. They say that she was magnificent in her anger, Henry, and would not allow a word against you. I repeat that you are a lucky fellow, prisoner that you are, but how it will all end I don’t know.”

My heart swelled with pride and gratitude, and, prisoner though I was, I agreed with Major Tyler that I was a lucky man.

“Tell me about Varian,” I said.

“He is as high and haughty as ever,” replied the major; “but silent and stern. It was a heavy blow that Elinor struck him. Oh, I know that he was wild with love of her, and is yet; but he is a great soldier; neither you nor anybody else can deny it. He has just been made a brigader general for distinguished and valuable services in the field, and besides that, you know the influence that he has abroad, and we want friends in Europe. He is my commander and your enemy, Henry; he could not be anything else, with that girl dividing you,”

The major said that he could have only a half hour with me, but he talked all the time. How long they would stay at the present camp he did not know. Varian’s was partially an independent command, and the confidence in him was so great that he could do as he chose within wide limits. Then the major passed from the particular to the general, speaking again with enthusiasm of the Southern successes in the East. He was sincere in his beliefs, and his confidence in the complete triumph of his cause was apparent. I did not dispute the point with him, knowing the vanity of such attempts, and when he went away I missed him sorely.

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