Kitabı oku: «The Master of Warlock: A Virginia War Story», sayfa 13

XXIV
Flight

Sam had so far commended himself by alertness and thoroughness in whatever he did, that he had no difficulty in securing what he called "de scrubbin' contract." He now had perfect freedom of hospital ingress and egress, but he felt that he must be cautious, especially in his first revelation of his presence to his master, who, he was confident, knew nothing of his being there. He feared to surprise some exclamation from Pegram, which would, as he phrased it, "give de whole snap away."

So on the first morning he began his scrubbing at the outer door, and moved slowly on his hands and knees along the line of cots, taking sly glimpses of their occupants as he went. It was not till he reached the farther corner of the large room that he found the cot of his master. Then with his face near the floor and scrubbing violently with his brush, he began intoning in a low voice:

"Don't say nothin', don't say nothin', don't say nothin' when yo' sees me. It's Sam sho' 'nuff, an' Sam's done come, an' don't you give it away."

To any one ten feet away, all this sounded like the humming of a chant by one who unconsciously sang below the breath as he worked. But to Baillie, who lay within a foot or two of the boy's head, the words were perfectly audible, and presently, without moving, and in a low murmuring voice, he said:

"I understand, Sam. I knew you were here. I heard you singing outside, many days ago."

Then the wounded man pretended to have difficulty in adjusting his blankets, and Sam rose and bent over the cot to help him. While doing so, he said:

"Mis' Agatha, she done brung me to New York, an' sent me heah to fin' yo'. How's you a-gittin'? Tell me, so's I kin report, an' tell me every day."

Baillie replied briefly that his wound was healing and his strength coming back, to which Sam answered:

"Don't you go fer to tell de doctah too much 'bout dat. Jes' keep as sick as you kin, while you'se a-gittin' well. I'll tell you why another time. Git 'quainted wid Sam more an' more ebery day, Mas' Baillie, so's we kin talk 'thout 'rousin' 'spicion."

In aid of this, Sam took pains, as the days went on, to establish relations with all the other patients who were well enough to talk, and as his inconsequent humour seemed to amuse them, the doctors made no objection to his loquaciousness.

It was one of the articles in Sam's philosophical creed that "yo' cawn't have too many frien's, 'case yo' cawn't never know when you may need 'em." Accordingly, he cultivated acquaintance with everybody, high and low, about the place, including the peculiarly surly man who brought the coal and the kindling-wood for the establishment. That personage was a white man of melancholy temper and extraordinary taciturnity. He went in and out of the place, wearing a long overcoat that had probably seen better days, but so long ago as to have forgotten all about them. The only other article of his clothing that was visible was a slouch hat, the brim of which had completely lost courage and could no longer pretend to stand out from the head that wore it, but hung down like a limp lambrequin over the man's eyes. The man himself seemed in an equally discouraged condition. He shambled rather than walked, and never answered a question or responded to a salutation, except in Sam's case. To him, when the two were alone, the man would sometimes speak a few words.

Sam was daily and hourly studying everybody and everything about him, with a view to possibilities. Nobody was too insignificant and nothing too trivial for him to note and consider and remember. "Yo' cawn't never know," he philosophised, "what rock will come handiest when yo' wants to frow it at a squirrel."

As the weeks passed, Baillie Pegram so improved that he sat up, and even walked about the place a little. One day, Sam learned that Baillie and three others were deemed well enough to be removed from hospital to prison, and that the transfer was to be made two days later. During the night after this discovery was made, Sam trudged through a blinding snow-storm – the last, probably, of the waning winter – to the house of Agatha's friends, ten or a dozen miles away, and back again through the snow-drifts, arriving at the hospital about daylight, as he had often done before, after a prowling by night.

He had made all his arrangements but one, and he had armed himself for that, by drawing upon Agatha's friends for ten dollars in small bills.

During the day, he managed to tell his master all that was necessary concerning the emergency, and his plans for meeting it.

"To-morrow 'bout sundown, Mas' Baillie," he said, at the last. "'Member de hour. When Sam speaks to yo' at de front do', yo' is to go ter yo' cot. Yo'll fin' de coat an' de hat a-waitin' fo' yo'. Put 'em on quick, an' pull de hat down clos't, an' turn de collah up high. Den walk out'n de back do' fru de wood-shed, an' pass out de gate, jes' as ef yo' was de ole man, sayin' nuffin' to nobody. Yo' mustn't walk straight like yo' always does, but shufflin'-like, jes' as de ole man does. Den mount de coal kyart an' drive up to de forks o' de road. Den shuffle out'n de coat an' hat, an' git inter de sleigh. Yo' frien's 'ull take kyar o' de res'."

Having thus instructed his master, Sam postponed further proceedings until the morrow. He had not yet opened negotiations with the old coal-man, – negotiations upon which the success of his plans depended, – but he trusted his wits and his determination to accomplish what he desired, and he had no notion of risking all by unnecessary haste.

Even when the coal-man came during the next morning, Sam contented himself with asking if he would certainly come again with his cart about sunset of that day, as he usually did. Having reassured himself on that point, Sam said nothing more, except that he would himself be at leisure at that time and would help bring in the load of wood.

Then Sam finished his scrubbing, and spent the afternoon in repairing the apparatus of his handicraft. He readjusted the hoops on his scrubbing-bucket, scoured his brushes, and ground the knife that he was accustomed to use in scraping the floor wherever medicines had been spilled or other stains had been made, for Sam had a well earned reputation for thoroughness in his work. Curiously enough, he this time ground the knife-blade to a slender point, "handy," he said, "fer gittin' into cracks wid."

When the coal-man came with a load of wood, a little before sunset, dumping it outside the gate, Sam was ready to help him carry it in and split it into kindlings within the shed. For this work, when the wood had all been brought in, the old man laid off his overcoat and hat. Thereupon Sam opened negotiations.

"I'se a-gwine to a frolic to-night," he said, "an' I'se a-gwine to have a mighty good time a-playin' o' de banjo an' a-dancin', but hit's powerful cold, an' de walk's a mighty long one."

Then, as if a sudden thought had come to him, he said:

"Tell yo' what! 'Spose yo' lemme wahr yo' overcoat. Yo' ain't got far to go, an' I'll give yo' a dollah fer de use of it."

The old man hesitated, and Sam was in a hurry.

"I'll make it two dollahs, an' heah's de money clean an' new," pulling out the bills. "Say de word an' it's your'n."

The offer was too tempting to be resisted, and the bargain was quickly made.

"Reckon I better go brush it up," said Sam, taking the garment and managing to fold the soft hat into it. He passed through the door into the hospital, cast his bundle upon Baillie Pegram's bed, and walked quickly to the front door, where his master was standing looking out upon the snow, now darkening in the falling dusk.

"All ready," the negro said, in an undertone, as he passed, and Captain Pegram wearily turned and walked toward his cot. Half a minute later, what looked like the old coal-man passed into the wood-shed, and out of it at the rear, whence, with shuffling steps he walked to and through the gate, mounted the coal-cart, and slowly drove away.

Sam, hurrying around the building, entered the wood-shed just as his master was leaving it, and confronted the owner of the coat and hat that Pegram wore. He was none too soon, for the old man, seeing Pegram pass, clad in his garments, thought he was being robbed, and was about to raise a hue and cry. Sam interposed with an assumption of authority:

"Stay right whah yo' is," he commanded, "an' don't make no noise, do yo' heah? Ef you keeps quiet-like, an' stays heah at wuk fer ha'f a hour, an' den goes away 'bout yo' business a-sayin' nothin' to nobody, you'll git another dollah, an' I'll tell yo' whah to fin' yo' clo'se. Ef yo' don't do jes' as I tells yo', yo'll git dis, an' yo' won't never have no 'casion fer no clo'se no more. Do yo' heah?"

Sam held the keenly pointed knife in his hand, while the old man worked for the appointed space of half an hour. At the end of that time, Sam said:

"Now yo' may go, an' heah's yo' dollah. Yo'll fin' yer kyart at de forks o' de road, an' yer coat an' hat'll be in de kyart. But min' you don't never know nothin' 'bout dis heah transaction, fer ef yo' ever peeps, dey'll hang yo' fer helpin' a pris'ner to escape, an' I'll kill yo' besides. Go, now. Do yo' heah?"

Sam watched him pass out through the gate and turn up the road. When he had disappeared, the black strategist muttered:

"Reckon dat suggestion 'bout gittin' hisse'f 'rested fer helpin' a pris'ner 'scape, will sort o' bar itse'f in on de ole man's min'. He won't never let hisse'f 'member nuffin' 'bout dis heah. Anyhow, Mas' Baillie's gone, an' it's time Sam was a-gittin' out o' this, too."

With that the boy secured his banjo and bade good night to the surgeon whom he met outside, saying that he was going to have a "powerful good time at de frolic."

XXV
A narrow escape

Baillie Pegram found little difficulty in imitating the shambling gait of the old coal man as he walked to the hospital exit. In his weakness he could hardly have walked in any other fashion. He managed with difficulty to climb upon the cart, and to endure the painful drive to the forks of the road, somewhat more than half a mile away.

There he found a sleigh awaiting him, with four women in it, all muffled to the eyes in buffalo-robes, and a gentleman wrapped in a fur overcoat, on the box. The gentleman gave the reins to one of the ladies, and proceeded to help Pegram from the coal-cart, while the others stepped out upon the hard frozen snow.

The body of the sleigh was deep, and it had been filled with fresh rye straw. One of the gentlewomen parted this to either side, and spread a fur robe upon the floor beneath, into which the gentleman hurriedly helped Baillie, drawing the robe closely together over him, and replacing the straw so that no part of the fur wrapping beneath could be seen.

All this was done quickly, and without a word, the women resumed their seats, the man cracked his whip, and the spirited horses set off at a merry pace.

By way of precaution, a roundabout road was followed, and it was late when the sleighing-party reached its destination. There the women alighted and passed into the house. The gentleman drove the sleigh into the barn, with Baillie Pegram still lying under the straw. When the horses were unhitched, their owner directed the negro, who took charge of them, to walk them back and forth down by the stables to cool them off, before putting them into their stalls. It was not until the hostler was well away from the barn that his master removed the seats and lifted Baillie from his hiding-place under the straw. By that time, a young man, perhaps thirty years old, and strong of frame, had appeared, and the two hurriedly carried the now nearly helpless man into the house, where a bed awaited him. Stripping him, the younger man proceeded to examine the wound with the skilful eye of a surgeon.

"The wound has suffered no injury," he presently said to his host, "but the man is greatly exhausted. Will you heat some flat-irons, and place them at his feet? He must have nourishment, too, but of course it won't do to bring any of the servants in here – "

"I'll manage that," said the host. "We are all supposed to have been out on a lark, and I always have a late supper after that sort of thing. I'll have it served in the room that opens out of this. As soon as it comes, I'll send the servants away, and we can feed your patient from our table."

In the meanwhile, the ever faithful Sam, half frozen but full of courage and determination, was toiling over the flint-like snow, trying to reach the house before the morning. In order that he might the better keep his hands from freezing, he cast his banjo into a snow-filled ravine, saying:

"Reckon I sha'n't need you any more, an' ef I does, I kin git another." With that, he thrust his hands into his pockets, where his accumulated earnings reassured him as to his ability to buy banjos at will.

It had been a part of the plan of rescue that Baillie should remain but a brief while at his present stopping-place. It was deemed certain that a search for him would be made as soon as his escape should be discovered, and the house in which he had been put to bed that night was likely to be one of the first to be examined, wherefore Sam was anxious to reach that destination as soon as possible, lest he miss his master.

But when the morning came, Baillie was in a high fever, and the doctor forbade all attempts to remove him, for a time at least. As the day advanced, the fever subsided somewhat, and Baillie grew anxious to continue his journey. Finally, the doctor hit upon a plan of procedure.

"You simply must not now undertake the long journey we had intended you to make to-day, Captain," he said, "but the distance to my house in the town is comparatively small. I might manage to take you there this afternoon, if you think you can sit up in my sleigh for a five-mile ride, and then get out at my door and walk into the house without tottering on your legs."

Baillie eagerly protested his ability to endure the ride, and the doctor proceeded to arrange for it. Some clothing had already been provided in the house for Baillie to don in place of his uniform, and the doctor now said:

"I'm going to drive home at once. I'll be back before three o'clock. Get the captain into his citizen's clothes and have him ready by that time, but let him lie down till I come, to spare his strength. I've a patient in town, a consumptive, and I've been taking him out with me every fine day, for the sake of the air. He is not very ill at present, but he is one of us, and will be just as sick as I tell him to be when I get him here. I'm afraid I shall find it necessary to ask you to keep him for a day or two."

The hint was understood, and the doctor drove away behind a pair of good trotters. Before the appointed time he returned, bringing his patient with him, and at his request the sick man was put to bed in the room where Baillie had passed the night.

A few minutes later a party of soldiers rode up and reported that they were under orders to search the house for an escaped Confederate officer. The doctor, with a well assumed look of professional concern on his face, said to the officer in command of the squad:

"That is a trifle unfortunate just now. I have a patient in the adjoining room – a young man in pulmonary consumption. Of course you'll have to search the house, but I beg you, Lieutenant, to spare my patient. His condition is such that – "

"I'll be very careful, I assure you. I'll go alone to search that room, and make as little disturbance as possible."

Still wearing a look of anxiety, the doctor said:

"Couldn't you leave that room unexamined, Lieutenant? I assure you on my honour that there is nobody there except my patient."

The physician's anxiety suggested a new thought to the officer's mind.

"I take your word for that, Doctor. I believe you when you tell me there's nobody but your patient in that room. But your patient may happen to be the very man we want, even without your knowing the fact. Our man is very ill, recovering from a severe wound, – and he'd be sure to need a doctor after walking, as he must have done, a dozen miles in this snow. Pardon me, Doctor; I do not mean to accuse you of any complicity; but you are a physician, bound to do your best for any patient who sends for you, and to keep his confidence – professional ethics requires that. I shall not blame you if I find your patient to be my man. You are doing only your professional duty. But I must see the man. I can tell whether he's the one we want. Our man has been shot through the body, and the wound is not yet completely healed. My orders are to look for that wound on every man I have reason to suspect, and I must do my duty."

"O, certainly," replied the physician. "You'll find no wounds on my patient, and I earnestly beg you to avoid exciting him more than is absolutely necessary. You see, in his condition, any undue excitement – "

"O, I'll be very careful, Doctor, very careful, indeed."

"Thank you. It is very good of you. You see, as I was saying, in his condition, any undue excitement – "

"O, yes, I know all about that. You may trust me to be careful."

"Again thank you. Come, Bob," looking at his watch, and addressing Baillie, who was sitting by, "we must be going. I've half a dozen patients waiting for me."

Baillie rose, nerving himself for the effort, bowed to the lieutenant, and walked out of the house. A minute later, muffled to the ears in furs, the two men were speeding over the snow, with Sam clinging on behind, and playing the part of "doctah's man."

"Here," said the physician, handing Baillie a flask, "take a stiff swig of that. You must keep up your strength." Then after he had replaced the flask in his overcoat pocket, he chuckled:

"That was very neatly done – to have you walk away in that fashion from under the very nose of the man who was looking for you."

Sam echoed the chuckle, and Baillie said:

"I hope your patient will suffer no harm from all this!"

"O, not a bit. He's in the game, and he'll enjoy it, especially after they are gone, and he suddenly recovers from his extreme illness."

"But why was it necessary to take him there at all?"

"Why, under the circumstances, it would never have done for me to be seen driving away from there with a companion when I had been seen driving out there alone. As it is, your presence in the sleigh is satisfactorily accounted for to everybody who sees us. But how about your discarded uniform? Won't they find that?"

"No. Sam reduced it to ashes early this morning, and then aired the room to get rid of the smell of burning wool."

"That was excellent. Who thought of doing it?"

"Sam."

XXVI
Mademoiselle roland

During all those months of waiting, Agatha Ronald had remained in New York, under the advice of Marshall Pollard's friend, who was accustomed to put his counsel into the form of something like a command whenever that seemed to him necessary. She was urged to remain in the city, too, by all her friends who were near Baillie Pegram's prison hospital. "Stay where you are," was the burden of all their letters. "You can do no good here, and you may do much harm if you attempt to come, while you will very surely be needed where you are, if we succeed, as we hope, in effecting Captain Pegram's escape. We shall do all that is possible to accomplish that, but when we do he will still be a very ill man, – for if he is to escape at all, it must be before he sufficiently recovers to be sent to a prison. You will be needed then to care for him somewhere, for, of course, he must not remain in this quarter of the country. Be patient and trust us – and Sam. For that boy is a wonder of devotion and ingenuity. He has just left us to return to the hospital before morning. He makes the journey on foot by night, three times a week, walking twenty odd miles each trip, in all sorts of weather. When we remonstrated with him to-night – for a fearful storm is raging – and told him he should have waited for better weather, he indignantly replied: 'Den Mis' Agatha would have had to wait a whole day beyond her time fer news. No sirree. Sam's a-gwine to come on de 'pinted nights, ef it rains pitchforks an' de win' blows de ha'r offen he haid.'"

So Agatha busied herself with such concerns as were hers. She laboured hard to improve the service of her "underground railroad," and sent medicines and surgical appliances through the lines with a frequency that surprised the authorities at Richmond. She corresponded in a disguised way with her friends in and near Washington, offering all she could of helpful suggestion to them and through them to Sam. It was by her command that Sam told his master, while in the hospital, just where and how she was to be found if he should escape, and how perfectly equipped she was to come to his assistance in such a case.

For the rest, she battled bravely with her sorrow and her anxieties, lest they unfit her for prompt and judicious action when the time for action should come. In brief, she behaved like the devoted and heroic woman she was.

After long months of weary waiting, her pulse was one day set bounding by the tidings that the master of Warlock had escaped from the hospital, and was in safe hands. This news was communicated by means of a telegram, which said only, "Dress goods satisfactory. Trimmings excellent."

Fuller news came by letter a day later, and it was far less joyous. It told her that the exposure, exertion, and excitement of the escape had brought Baillie into a condition of dangerous illness; that he lay helpless in the physician's house; that no one was permitted to see him for fear of discovery, except Sam, who had been installed as nurse.

Other letters followed this daily for a week, each more discouraging than the last. Finally came one from the doctor himself, in answer to Agatha's demand, in which he wrote:

"I labour under many difficulties. Captain Pegram's presence in my house must be concealed as long as that can be accomplished. I am a bachelor, and I often receive patients for treatment here, but in this case the man's illness is the consequence of a bullet wound, and should that fact become known, it would pretty certainly cause an inquiry; for my Southern sentiments are well known, and in the eyes of the governmental secret service, I am very distinctly a 'suspect.' The consequence of all this is that I dare not introduce a competent nurse into the house.

"Sam is willing and absolutely devoted, but of course he knows nothing of nursing. Yet nursing, and especially the tender nursing of a woman, is this patient's chief need. If he were in New York now, where political rancour is held in check by the fact that sentiment there is divided, and where people are too busy to meddle with other people's affairs, we could manage the matter easily. You can scarcely imagine how different the conditions here are. I might easily command the services of any one of half a dozen or a dozen gentlewomen of Maryland whom I could trust absolutely. But the very fact of my bringing one of them here to nurse a stranger, would set a pack of clever detectives on the scent, and within twenty-four hours they would know the exact truth.

"You will see, my dear young lady, how perplexing a situation it is. I hoped at first that Capt. P. might presently rally sufficiently to stand the trip to New York. I could have managed that. But he simply cannot be moved now, or for many weeks to come. It would be murder to make the attempt."

When Agatha had read this latter, her mind was instantly made up.

"I must go to him at all hazards and all costs, and nurse him myself. But first I must think out a way, so that there may be no failure."

She sat for an hour thinking and planning. Then she got up and hurriedly scribbled two letters. It was after nightfall, and Agatha had never yet gone into the streets by night. Her terror of that particular form of danger was great. But these letters must be posted at once, and by her own hand. There were no lamp-post mailing-boxes in those half-civilised days, and she must travel many blocks to reach the nearest post-office station. She took up the little pistol which she had so long carried for the purpose of defending her honour by self-destruction, if need should arise, examined its chambers, placed it beneath her cloak, and hurried into the street.

Then, as now, to the shame of what we call our civilisation, no woman could traverse the thoroughfares of a great city after dark and unattended without risk of insult or worse. Then, as now, a costly police force utterly ignored its duty of so vigilantly protecting the helpless that the streets should be as safe to women as to men, by night as well as by day.

During that little walk of a dozen city blocks through streets that the public adequately paid to have securely guarded, Agatha felt far more of fear than she had experienced while facing the canister fire of Baillie Pegram's guns.

She escaped molestation more by good fortune than by any security that police protection afforded or now affords to the wives and daughters of a community that calls itself civilised, and pays princely sums every year for a police protection that it does not get.

One of her letters was addressed to a friend in Baltimore. It gave her the address of Marshall Pollard's friend, the banker, and added:

"On receipt of this you are to telegraph, asking him to find and send you a nurse who speaks French – a Frenchwoman preferred. He will send me, in response to the demand, as Mlle. Roland, – an anagram of my own name. I shall speak nothing but French in your house, and afterward."

To Baillie's doctor she wrote:

"I think I see a way out of your difficulties. Can you not make a new diagnosis of Captain Pegram's case – finding him ill of tuberculosis, or typhoid, or some other wasting malady corresponding with his external appearance, thus concealing the fact that he suffers in consequence of a wound? He speaks French like a Parisian – I suppose he can even dream in that language, as I always do – so for safety and by way of forwarding my plan, you may regard him as a French gentleman who has fallen ill during his travels in America, and come to you for treatment. You are to be very anxious to secure a French nurse for him, and to that end you may write as soon as you receive this, to the gentlewoman whose address in Baltimore is enclosed, asking her to procure such a nurse if she can. I will be that nurse, and will know no English during my stay. This plan will enable me to go to Captain Pegram's bedside without exciting the least suspicion, and, when he is sufficiently recovered to travel, there will be little if any trouble in arranging for his nurse to take the convalescent to New York, and thence to Europe. Once out of the country and well again, he can go to Nassau, and thence to a Southern port on one of the English blockade-running ships. To secure all this we must scrupulously maintain the fiction that he is a Frenchman, and I a French nurse."

Agatha's first care on the next morning was to visit the banker and instruct him as to the part he was to play in the conspiracy, when the telegram should come from Baltimore. That done, she plied her needle nimbly, fashioning caps, aprons and the like, such as French nurses only wore at that time, before there were any trained nurses other than Frenchwomen among us. She was already wearing black gowns, of course, and when she added a jet rosary and a stiffly starched broad white collar to her costume, she had no need to inform anybody that she was a hospital-bred nurse from Paris.

In the little Maryland town where Baillie Pegram lay in a stupor, her advent attracted much curious attention, especially because of the jaunty little nurse's cap she wore, and of her inability to speak English. But this curiosity averted, rather than invited suspicion, as Agatha had intended and planned that it should do.

The physician's knowledge of the French language was scant, and his pronunciation was execrably bad, but he managed to greet the nurse in that tongue on her arrival, and to say, very gallantly:

"Now my patient should surely get well. Under care of such a nurse even a dead man might be persuaded back to life."