By Randall Parrish

CONTENTS

MY LADY OF THE NORTH

CHAPTER I. — A DESPATCH FOR LONGSTREET

CHAPTER II. — THE NIGHT RIDE

CHAPTER III. — AN UNWELCOME GUEST

CHAPTER IV. — A WOMAN WITH A TEMPER

CHAPTER V. — A DISASTER ON THE ROAD

CHAPTER VI. — A STRUGGLE IN THE DARK

CHAPTER VII. — A DISCIPLE OF SIR WALTER

CHAPTER VIII. — MRS. BUNGAY DEFENDS HER HEARTHSTONE

CHAPTER IX. — IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY

CHAPTER X. — A WOMAN'S TENDERNESS

CHAPTER XI. — IN THE PRESENCE OF SHERIDAN

CHAPTER XII. — UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH

CHAPTER XIII. — A STRANGE WAY OUT

CHAPTER XIV. — I BECOME A COLONEL OF ARTILLERY

CHAPTER XV. — AT THE STAFF OFFICERS' BALL

CHAPTER XVI. — THE WOMAN I LOVED

CHAPTER XVII. — THROUGH THE CAMP OF THE ENEMY

CHAPTER XVIII. — THE REPUTATION OF A WOMAN

CHAPTER XIX. — THE CAVALRY OUTPOST

CHAPTER XX. — A DEMON ON HORSEBACK

CHAPTER XXI. — REINFORCEMENTS FOR EARLY

CHAPTER XXII. — THE BATTLE IN THE SHENANDOAH

CHAPTER XXIII. — FIELD HOSPITAL, SIXTH CORPS

CHAPTER XXIV. — A NIGHT RIDE OF THE WOUNDED

CHAPTER XXV. — A LOST REGIMENT

CHAPTER XXVI. — THE SCOUTING DETAIL

CHAPTER XXVII. — AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION

CHAPTER XXVIII. — WE CAPTURE A COURIER

CHAPTER XXIX. — A MISSION FOR BEELZEBUB

CHAPTER XXX. — A UNION OF YANK AND REB

CHAPTER XXXI. — A CONVERSATION IN THE DARK

CHAPTER XXXII. — HAND TO HAND

CHAPTER XXXIII. — A BELLIGERENT GERMAN

CHAPTER XXXIV. — THE WORDS OF LOVE

CHAPTER XXXV. — A PLAN MISCARRIED

CHAPTER XXXVI. — THE LAST RESORT OF GENTLEMEN

CHAPTER XXXVII. — THE LAST GOOD-BYE

CHAPTER XXXVIII. — THE FURLING OF THE FLAGS

CHAPTER XXXIX. — MY LADY OF THE NORTH

MY LADY OF THE NORTH

The Love Story of a Gray-Jacket

CHAPTER I. — A DESPATCH FOR LONGSTREET

It was a bare, plain interior,—the low table at which he sat an unplaned board, his seat a box, made softer by a folded blanket. His only companions were two aides, standing silent beside the closed entrance, anxious to anticipate his slightest need.

He will abide in my memory forever as I saw him then,—although we were destined to meet often afterwards,—that old gray hero, whose masterly strategy held at bay for so long those mighty forces hurled on our constantly thinning lines of defence. To me the history of war has never contained his equal, and while I live I shall love and revere him as I can love and revere no other man.

“General Lee,” said one of the aides, as I passed the single sentry and drew aside the flap to step within, “this is Captain Wayne.”

He deliberately pushed aside the mass of papers which had been engaging him, and for an embarrassing moment fixed upon me a glance that seemed to read me through and through. Then, with simple dignity, far more impressive than I can picture it in words, he arose slowly and extended his hand.

“Captain Wayne,” he said gravely, yet retaining his grasp, and with his eyes full upon mine, “you are a much younger man than I expected to see, yet I have selected you upon the special recommendation of your brigade commander for services of the utmost importance. I certainly do not hold your youth to be against your success, but I feel unwilling to order you to the performance of this duty, which, besides being beyond the regular requirements of the service, involves unusual risks.”

“Without inquiring its nature,” I said hastily, “I freely offer myself a volunteer for any service which may be required either by the army or yourself.”

The kindly face brightened instantly, almost into a smile, and a new look of confidence swept into the keen gray eyes.

“I felt, even as I spoke,” he said, with a dignified courtesy I have never marked in any one else, “that I must be doing wrong to question the willingness of an officer of your regiment, Captain Wayne, to make personal sacrifice. From our first day of battle until now the South has never once called upon them in vain. You are from the ranks, I believe?”

“I was a corporal at Manassas.”

“Ah! then you have won your grade by hard service. You take with you one man?”

“Sergeant Craig of my troop, sir, a good soldier, who knows the country well.”

He lowered his eyes to the numerous papers littering the table, and then, leaning over, traced lightly with a colored pencil a line across an outspread map.

“You speak of his knowing the country well; are you aware, then, of your destination?”

“I merely inferred from what Colonel Carter said that it was your desire to re-establish communication with General Longstreet.”

“That is true; but do you know where Longstreet is?”

“Only that we of the line suppose him to be somewhere west of the mountains, sir. It is camp gossip that his present base of supplies is at Minersville.”

“Your conjecture is partly correct, although I have more reason to believe that the head of his column has reached Bear Fork, or will by to-morrow morning. Kindly step this way, Captain Wayne, and make note of the blue lines I have traced across this map. Here, you will observe, is Minersville, directly beyond the high ridge. You will notice that the Federal lines extend north and south directly between us, with their heavier bodies of infantry along the Wharton pike, and so disposed as to shut off all communication between us and our left wing. Now, the message I must get into Longstreet's hands is imperative; indeed, I will say to you, the very safety of this army depends upon its reaching him before his advance passes Bear Fork. There remains, therefore, no time for any long detour; the messenger who bears it must take his life in his hands and ride straight westward through the very lines of the enemy.”

He spoke these words rapidly, earnestly; then suddenly he lifted his eyes to mine, and said firmly: “I am perfectly frank with you. Are you the man?”

I felt the hot blood leap into my face, but I met his stern gaze without flinching.

“If I live, General Lee, I shall meet his advance at Bear Fork by daybreak.”

“God guide you; I believe you will.”

His words seemed uttered unconsciously. He turned slightly, and glanced toward the door. “Major Holmes, will you kindly hand me the draft of that despatch?”

He took the paper from the outstretched hand of the aide, read it over slowly and with great care, wrote a word of explanation upon the margin, and then extended it to me.

“Commit that, word by word, to your memory; we must run no possible risk of its ever falling into the enemy's hands.”

I can see it now, that coarse yellow paper,—the clear, upright penmanship, the words here and there misused and corrected, the sentence scratched out, the heavy underlining of a command, and his own strangely delicate signature at the bottom.

“Headquarters, Army Northern Virginia,

“In the field, near Custer House,

“Sept. 22, 2 P.M.

“Lieut.-Gen'l Longstreet,

“Commanding Left Wing.

“Sir: You will advance your entire force by the Connelton and Sheffield pikes, so as to reach Castle Rock with your full infantry command by daybreak, September 26th. Let this supersede all other orders. I propose to attack in force in the neighborhood of Sailor's Ford, and shall expect you to advance promptly at the first sound of our artillery. It is absolutely essential that we form prompt connection of forces, and to accomplish this result will require a quick, persistent attack upon your part. You are hereby ordered to throw your troops forward without reserve, permitting them to be halted by no obstacle, until they come into actual touch with my columns. The success or failure of my plans will depend utterly upon your strict observance of these orders.

“R. E. LEE, “Gen'l Commanding”

I handed back the paper, and lifted my hand in salute.

“You have memorized it?”

“Word for word, sir.”

“Repeat it to me.”

He held the paper before him as I did so, and at the close lifted his eyes again to my face.

“Very good,” he said quietly. “Now let there be no mistake; repeat it over to your companion as you proceed until he also has memorized it, and one of you must live long enough to reach Longstreet. I advise you to take the Langley road,—it is the most protected,—and not try to pass beyond the old Coulter plantation until after dark, or you will run the risk of being observed by the enemy's pickets. Beyond this I must leave all to your own discretion.”

He paused, and I still lingered, thinking he might have something more to add.

“Are you one of the Waynes of Charlottesville?” he asked gravely.

“Colonel Richard Wayne was my father, sir.”

“Ah, indeed! I remember him well”; and his face lit up with a most tender smile. “We were together in Mexico. A Virginia gentleman of the old school. He is dead, I believe?”

“He was killed, sir, the first year of the war.”

“I remember; it was at Antietam. And your mother? If my memory is not at fault she was a Pierpont?”

“She is now in Richmond, sir, and the old plantation is but a ruin.”

“War is indeed sad,” he said slowly; “and I often feel that our Southern women are compelled to bear the brunt of it. What heroines they have proven! History records no equal to the daily sacrifices I have witnessed in the past three years. God grant it may be soon ended.”

Then, as if suddenly moved by the impulse of the moment, he again extended his hand.

“Well, lad,” he said kindly, the same grave smile lighting his face, “our country needs us. We must not waste time here in conversation. I am very glad to have been permitted to meet the son of my old friend, and trust you will remember me to your mother. But now good-bye, Captain, and may He in whose hand we all are guide and guard you. I know that a Wayne of Virginia will always do his duty.”

Bareheaded and with proudly swelling heart I backed out of the tent as I might have left the throne-room of an emperor, but as I grasped the reins and swung up into saddle, I became conscious that he had followed me. Craig flung up his hand in quick, soldierly salute, and then, with a single rapid stride, the General stood at his horse's head.

“Sergeant,” he said,—and I was struck by the incisive military tone of his voice, so different from the gentleness shown within,—“I am informed that you are intimately acquainted with the roads to the westward.”

“Every bridle-path, sir, either by night or day.”

“Then possibly you can inform me whether the Big Hickory is fordable at Deer Gap.”

“Not for infantry at high water, sir; but there is another ford two miles north where it is never over waist deep.”

“That would be at Brixton's Mill?”

“No, sir; the other way.”

Lee smiled, and rested his hand almost caressingly on the trooper's knee.

“You are a valuable man for us to risk on such a ride,” he said kindly. “But I desire you to understand, Sergeant, how deeply I value the service you are about to render, and that I shall never permit it to be forgotten or go unrewarded. And now, good-night, Sergeant; good-night, Captain Wayne.”

As we turned into the main road, riding slowly, I glanced backward. The General was yet standing there in front of his tent, gazing after us, the rays of the westering sun gleaming on his gray hair.

CHAPTER II. — THE NIGHT RIDE

By five o'clock we were safe at Colchester, and while our horses rested and refreshed themselves on some confiscated grain, the two of us lay lazily back on a grassy knoll, well within the shadow of a ruined wall, and watched the round, red sun drop slowly down behind those western hills we had to climb.

We scarcely spoke regarding the work we knew was ahead, except to discuss briefly the better route to be selected for our hard night's ride. We were both old campaigners, inured by years of discipline to danger and obedience. This special duty, however arduous and desperate it might prove to be, was silently accepted as part of the service we owed the State. Reckless and hardened as I know Craig to have been, I have no doubt he reflected upon Lee and his kindly words and was touched and softened by their memory, as he lay there stretched at full length on the grass, his pipe glowing cheerily between his lips. But if so, his thoughts remained unuttered, nor did I feel inclined to dwell upon the theme; and so, in the strength of a simple comradeship which could remain silent, we waited patiently for the night to close us in.

As early as we deemed it safe to venture, we were again in saddle, riding now straight to the westward, along the smooth-beaten pike, until we caught sight of the black shadow of Colton Church in our front; then we swerved to the left, and still moving rapidly but with considerate care for the horses, headed directly across the more broken country toward the foot-hills.

It proved to be a hard, toilsome climb up those long, steep slopes rising before us; for we were extremely careful now to keep well away from every known route of travel, and our horses, although selected from among the best mounts of the cavalry brigade, had already been thoroughly winded by their smart trot up the valley. The short grass under foot, crisp from the hot sun of the long afternoon, caused many a slip of the poorly shod hoofs, while the darkness had grown so close and dense about us that we could barely creep through it, with only faith and a doubtful memory as guides. Every road, we well knew, would be patrolled by Federal pickets; only the broken country between could yield us the faintest prospect of success. But at best it must largely be guesswork,—Providence, luck, what you will,—and the slightest swing of the pendulum could easily frustrate our best laid plans.

An hour of this work passed. Whether or not we were yet within the enemy's lines was largely conjecture, for no human eye could pierce the enveloping gloom, and no sound, either of warning or encouragement, reached us as we strained our ears. The Sergeant rode slightly in advance as we toiled up the higher terrace, for our sole dependence as to direction and distance was upon his memory, and even that could scarcely serve for much on such a night as this. I traced his passage upward as best I might, and pressed close after him, guided not so much by sight as by sound,—the occasional rolling of a loosened stone, the rustling of leaves as he touched a bush in passage, the faint clinking of his sabre, and the heavy breathing of his horse,—until at last his long, slender figure rose sufficiently above the dark hill surface to be faintly silhouetted in deeper shadow against the dim reflection of the upper sky. Almost coincidently with this my horse ranged up beside his, where he had drawn rein in evident perplexity.

“What is it, Dan?” I questioned cautiously; for all I could feel reasonably assured of just then was that behind any rock or tree in our front there might be crouching a Federal picket.

“It's nothing Cap,” he answered quietly, turning his face toward me as he spoke. “I'm just tryin' ter 'member some landmark yereabout ter guide from. Blamed if ever I see such a dark night; it's like bein' inside a pocket, sir, an' I reckon as how it must be nigh onter ten year since I run loose in this yere country as a kid. Thet thar cut-off we took a while back has sort o' confused me, that's a fac', and I don't just know whar I am; but I reckon as how the main ridge road we 're a huntin' after oughter run somewhar out yonder.” He pointed forward into the night.

“I supposed from the map it would be found farther back and considerably to the right of us,” I ventured doubtfully.

“Never saw no map, Cap,” he returned, with the easy familiarity of a scout on service. “But if I recollect clear, it sure used ter run mighty close ter the east edge. I reckon it ain't changed none to speak of, an' so it'll have ter be somewhere just along thar.”

He spoke with such an air of certainty that I felt any controversy useless.

“Very well; hand me your rein, and see what you can discover out there on foot. Sitting here isn't apt to mend matters, and we surely cannot afford to cripple our horses among those rocks.”

The Sergeant, a gaunt, tireless mountaineer, slipped silently from his saddle, swung his light cavalry carbine from his back to the hollow of his arm, and in another moment was lost to sight in the darkness. A snake could not have slipped away more stealthily. I heard a stone rattle under his foot, a half-suppressed oath, and then the night had completely swallowed him.

How utterly alone I seemed; how intensely, painfully still everything was! The silence felt almost like a weight, so greatly it oppressed me. Even the accustomed voices of nature were hushed, as if war, with its unspeakable cruelty, had cast a spell over all things animate and inanimate. It was weird, uncanny. With every nerve strained I leaned forward across the pommel of my saddle, listening for the slightest sound out in that black void. My head burned and throbbed as with fever, and I felt that strange, unnatural stillness as though it had been a physical thing; surely others besides us were upon this hilltop! For I knew well—my every soldier instinct told me—that somewhere out in that impenetrable mystery were blazing the camp-fires of an enemy. Vigilant eyes were peering everywhere in search for such as we. How far away they might lurk I could not even conjecture,—perhaps merely around some near projecting wall of rock,—and we might even now be within the range of their ready rifles. I could hear the quickened throbbing of my

heart, and my hand fell heavily on a pistol butt in nervous expectancy.

The soft night wind, heavy with pine odors, began suddenly to play amid the leaves of a low tree beside me, and the pleasant rustling mingled like strains of music with the slow breathing of the horses, but no other sound broke a silence that had become a positive pain. Man at his best is largely a creature of impulse, and I confess to a feeling almost of terror as I sat there in utter loneliness. I glanced behind, hoping that there at least I might discover some object on which my gaze might settle, something that would relieve the intense nerve-strain of the black nothingness. I swept with staring eyes the half circle where I knew must lie the deep wide valley far beneath, but no welcome gleam of light greeted me. Far out yonder, as I well knew, was the cheery glow where our ragged, tired comrades rested around their night fires, but the bend of the land between shut it all off as completely as if I were already in another world, a denizen of those cold and silent stars so far away.

I recall it now as one of the loneliest moments of my life, one of those almost unaccountable conditions of mind and body when it seemed to me that the thin, sinewy fingers of an inexorable fate were closing down with a pressure which no strength of man might resist. I was worn with fatigue in the saddle, but did not dream of sleep; my mind, in a firm endeavor to cast aside the uncanny influences of the hour, recalled in swift panorama those three years of civil strife which had run their course since I, a slender, white-faced lad, had stolen forth into the moonlight from the portals of the old home, to ride away into the northward where the throbbing drums called me. In those days I understood but little of the cause for which I was so eager to fight and suffer. Possibly I cared even less; yet I had ever since blindly followed the faded, tattered flag of my native State with the same passionate devotion that possessed thousands of others, and with no clearer thought than to remain beside it to the bitter end.