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In the Midst of Alarms

R >> Robert Barr >> In the Midst of Alarms




"Margaret," he said.

The girl had never heard her name pronounced in that tone before, and
the cadence of it went direct to her heart, frightening her with an
unknown joy. She seemed unable to move or respond, and stood there,
with wide eyes and suspended breath, gazing into the darkness. Renmark
stepped into the light, and she saw his face was haggard with fatigue
and anxiety.

"Margaret," he said again, "I want to speak with you a moment. Where is
your brother?"

"He has gone with Mr. Bartlett to see if he can find the horses. There
is something wrong," she continued, stepping down beside him. "I can
see it in your face. What is it?"

"Is your father in the house?"

"Yes, but he is worried about mother. Tell me what it is. It is better
to tell me."

Renmark hesitated.

"Don't keep me in suspense like this," cried the girl in a low but
intense voice. "You have said too much or too little. Has anything
happened to Henry?"

"No. It is about Arthur I wanted to speak. You will not be alarmed?"

"I _am_ alarmed. Tell, me quickly." And the girl in her excitement
laid her hands imploringly on his.

"Arthur joined the volunteers in Toronto some time ago. Did you know
that?"

"He never told me. I understand--I think so, but I hope not. He was in
the battle today. Is he--has he been--hurt?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid so," said Renmark hurriedly, now that the
truth had to come out; he realized, by the nervous tightening of the
girl's unconscious grasp, how clumsily he was telling it. "He was with
the volunteers this morning. He is not with them now. They don't know
where he is. No one saw him hurt, but it is feared he was, and that he
has been left behind. I have been all over the ground."

"Yes, yes?"

"But I could not find him. I came here hoping to find him."

"Take me to where the volunteers were," she sobbed. "I know what has
happened. Come quickly."

"Will you not put something on your head?"

"No, no. Come at once." Then, pausing, she said: "Shall we need a
lantern?"

"No; it is light enough when we get out from the shadow of the house."

Margaret ran along the road so swiftly that Renmark had some trouble in
keeping pace with her. She turned at the side road, and sped up the
gentle ascent to the spot where the volunteers had crossed it.

"Here is the place," said Renmark.

"He could not have been hit in the field," she cried breathlessly, "for
then he might have reached the house at the corner without climbing a
fence. If he was badly hurt, he would have been here. Did you search
this field?"

"Every bit of it. He is not here."

"Then it must have happened after he crossed the road and the second
fence. Did you see the battle?"

"Yes."

"Did the Fenians cross the field after the volunteers?"

"No; they did not leave the woods."

"Then, if he was struck, it could not have been far from the other side
of the second fence. He would be the last to retreat; and that is why
the others did not see him," said the girl, with confident pride in her
brother's courage.

They crossed the first fence; the road, and the second fence, the girl
walking ahead for a few paces. She stopped, and leaned for a moment
against a tree. "It must have been about here," she said in a voice
hardly audible. "Have you searched on this side?"

"Yes, for half a mile farther into the fields and woods."

"No, no, not there; but down along the fence. He knew every inch of
this ground. If he were wounded here, he would at once try to reach our
house. Search down along the fence. I--I cannot go."

Renmark walked along the fence, peering into the dark corners made by
the zigzag of the rails; and he knew, without looking back, that
Margaret, with feminine inconsistency, was following him. Suddenly she
darted past him, and flung herself down in the long grass, wailing out
a cry that cut Renmark like a knife.

The boy lay with his face in the grass, and his outstretched hand
grasping the lower rail of the fence. He had dragged himself this far,
and reached an insurmountable obstacle.

Renmark drew the weeping girl gently away, and rapidly ran his hand
over the prostrate lad. He quickly opened his tunic, and a thrill of
joy passed over him as he felt the faint beating of the heart.

"He is alive!" he cried. "He will get well, Margaret." A statement
somewhat premature to make on so hasty an examination.

He rose, expecting a look of gratitude from the girl he loved. He was
amazed to see her eyes almost luminous in the darkness, blazing with
wrath.

"When did you know he was with the volunteers?"

"This morning--early," said the professor, taken aback.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"He asked me not to do so."

"He is a mere boy. You are a man, and ought to have a man's sense. You
had no right to mind what a boy said. It was my right to know, and your
duty to tell me. Through your negligence and stupidity my brother has
lain here all day--perhaps dying," she added with a break in her angry
voice.

"If you had known--I didn't know anything was wrong until I saw the
volunteers. I have not lost a moment since."

"I should have known he was missing, without going to the volunteers."

Renmark was so amazed at the unjust accusation, from a girl whom he had
made the mistake of believing to be without a temper of her own, that
he knew not what to say. He was, however, to have one more example of
inconsistency.

"Why do you stand there doing nothing, now that I have found him?" she
demanded.

It was on his tongue to say: "I stand here because you stand there
unjustly quarreling with me," but he did not say it. Renmark was not a
ready man, yet he did, for once, the right thing.

"Margaret," he said sternly, "throw down that fence."

This curt command, delivered in his most schoolmastery manner, was
instantly obeyed. Such a task may seem a formidable one to set to a
young woman, but it is a feat easily accomplished in some parts of
America. A rail fence lends itself readily to demolition. Margaret
tossed a rail to the right, one to the left, and to the right again,
until an open gap took the place of that part of the fence. The
professor examined the young soldier in the meantime, and found his leg
had been broken by a musket ball. He raised him up tenderly in his
arms, and was pleased to hear a groan escape his lips. He walked
through the open gap and along the road toward the house, bearing the
unconscious form of his pupil. Margaret silently kept close to his
side, her fingers every now and then unconsciously caressing the damp,
curly locks of her brother.

"We shall have to get a doctor?" Her assertion was half an inquiry.

"Certainly."

"We must not disturb anyone in the house. It is better that I should
tell you what to do now, so that we need not talk when we reach there."

"We cannot help disturbing someone."

"I do not think it will be necessary. If you will stay with Arthur, I
will go for the doctor, and no one need know."

"I will go for the doctor."

"You do not know the way. It is five or six miles. I will ride Gypsy,
and will soon be back."

"But there are prowlers and stragglers all along the roads. It is not
safe for you to go alone."

"It is perfectly safe. No horse that the stragglers have stolen can
overtake Gypsy. Now, don't say anything more. It is best that I should
go. I will run on ahead, and enter the house quietly. I will take the
lamp to the room at the side, where the window opens to the floor.
Carry him around there. I will be waiting for you at the gate, and will
show you the way."

With that the girl was off, and Renmark carried his burden alone. She
was waiting for him at the gate, and silently led the way round the
house, to where the door-window opened upon the bit of lawn under an
apple tree. The light streamed out upon the grass. He placed the boy
gently upon the dainty bed. It needed no second glance to tell Renmark
whose room he was in. It was decorated with those pretty little
knickknacks so dear to the heart of a girl in a snuggery she can call
her own.

"It is not likely you will be disturbed here," she whispered, "until I
come back. I will tap at the window when I come with the doctor."

"Don't you think it would be better and safer for me to go? I don't
like the thought of your going alone."

"No, no. Please do just what I tell you. You do not know the way. I
shall be very much quicker. If Arthur should--should--wake, he will
know you, and will not be alarmed, as he might be if you were a
stranger."

Margaret was gone before he could say anything more, and Renmark sat
down, devoutly hoping no one would rap at the door of the room while he
was there.




CHAPTER XX.


Margaret spoke caressingly to her horse, when she opened the stable
door, and Gypsy replied with that affectionate, low guttural whinny
which the Scotch graphically term "nickering." She patted the little
animal; and if Gypsy was surprised at being saddled and bridled at that
hour of the night, no protest was made, the horse merely rubbing its
nose lovingly up and down Margaret's sleeve as she buckled the
different straps. There was evidently a good understanding between the
two.

"No, Gyp," she whispered, "I have nothing for you to-night--nothing but
hard work and quick work. Now, you mustn't make a noise till we get
past the house."

On her wrist she slipped the loop of a riding whip, which she always
carried, but never used. Gyp had never felt the indignity of the lash,
and was always willing to do what was required merely for a word.

Margaret opened the big gate before she saddled her horse, and there
was therefore no delay in getting out upon the main road, although the
passing of the house was an anxious moment. She feared that if her
father heard the steps or the neighing of the horse he might come out
to investigate. Halfway between her own home and Bartlett's house she
sprang lightly into the saddle.

"Now, then, Gyp!"

No second word was required. Away they sped down the road toward the
east, the mild June air coming sweet and cool and fresh from the
distant lake, laden with the odors of the woods and the fields. The
stillness was intense, broken only by the plaintive cry of the
whippoorwill, America's one-phrased nightingale, or the still more
weird and eerie note of a distant loon.

The houses along the road seemed deserted; no lights were shown
anywhere. The wildest rumors were abroad concerning the slaughter of
the day; and the population, scattered as it was, appeared to have
retired into its shell. A spell of silence and darkness was over the
land, and the rapid hoof beats of the horse sounded with startling
distinctness on the harder portions of the road, emphasized by
intervals of complete stillness, when the fetlocks sank in the sand and
progress was more difficult for the plucky little animal. The only
thrill of fear that Margaret felt on her night journey was when she
entered the dark arch of an avenue of old forest trees that bordered
the road, like a great, gloomy cathedral aisle, in the shadow of which
anything might be hidden. Once the horse, with a jump of fear, started
sideways and plunged ahead: Margaret caught her breath as she saw, or
fancied she saw, several men stretched on the roadside, asleep or dead.
Once in the open again she breathed more freely, and if it had not been
for the jump of the horse, she would have accused her imagination of
playing her a trick. Just as she had completely reassured herself a
shadow moved from the fence to the middle of the road, and a sharp
voice cried:

"Halt!"

The little horse, as if it knew the meaning of the word, planted its
two front hoofs together, and slid along the ground for a moment,
coming so quickly to a standstill that it was with some difficulty
Margaret kept her seat. She saw in front of her a man holding a gun,
evidently ready to fire if she attempted to disobey his command.

"Who are you, and where are you going?" he demanded.

"Oh, please let me pass!" pleaded Margaret with a tremor of fear in her
voice. "I am going for a doctor--for my brother; he is badly wounded,
and will perhaps die if I am delayed."

The man laughed.

"Oho!" he cried, coming closer; "a woman, is it? and a young one, too,
or I'm a heathen. Now, miss or missus, you get down. I'll have to
investigate this. The brother business won't work with an old soldier.
It's your lover you're riding for at this time of the night, or I'm no
judge of the sex. Just slip down, my lady, and see if you don't like me
better than him; remember that all cats are black in the dark. Get
down, I tell you."

"If you are a soldier, you will let me go. My brother is badly wounded.
I must get to the doctor."

"There's no 'must' with a bayonet in front of you. If he has been
wounded, there's plenty of better men killed to-day. Come down, my
dear."

Margaret gathered up the bridle rein, but, even in the darkness, the
man saw her intention.

"You can't escape, my pretty. If you try it, you'll not be hurt, but
I'll kill your horse. If you move, I'll put a bullet through him."

"Kill my horse?" breathed Margaret in horror, a fear coming over her
that she had not felt at the thought of danger to herself.

"Yes, missy," said the man, approaching nearer, and laying his hand on
Gypsy's bridle. "But there will be no need of that. Besides, it would
make too much noise, and might bring us company, which would be
inconvenient. So come down quietly, like the nice little girl you are."

"If you will let me go and tell the doctor, I will come back here and
be your prisoner."

The man laughed again in low, tantalizing tones. This was a good joke.

"Oh, no, sweetheart. I wasn't born so recently as all that. A girl in
the hand is worth a dozen a mile up the road. Now, come off that horse,
or I'll take you off. This is war time, and I'm not going to waste any
more pretty talk on you."

The man, who, she now saw, was hatless, leered up at her, and something
in his sinister eyes made the girl quail. She had been so quiet that he
apparently was not prepared for any sudden movement. Her right hand,
hanging down at her side, had grasped the short riding whip, and, with
a swiftness that gave him no chance to ward off the blow, she struck
him one stinging, blinding cut across the eyes, and then brought down
the lash on the flank of her horse, drawing the animal round with her
left over her enemy. With a wild snort of astonishment, the horse
sprang forward, bringing man and gun down to the ground with a clatter
that woke the echoes; then, with an indignant toss of the head, Gyp
sped along the road like the wind. It was the first time he had ever
felt the cut of a whip, and the blow was not forgiven. Margaret,
fearing further obstruction on the road, turned her horse's head toward
the rail fence, and went over it like a bird. In the field, where fast
going in the dark had dangers, Margaret tried to slacken the pace, but
the little horse would not have it so. He shook his head angrily
whenever he thought of the indignity of that blow, while Margaret
leaned over and tried to explain and beg pardon for her offense. The
second fence was crossed with a clean-cut leap, and only once in the
next field did the horse stumble, but quickly recovered and went on at
the same breakneck gait. The next fence, gallantly vaulted over,
brought them to the side road, half a mile up which stood the doctor's
house. Margaret saw the futility of attempting a reconciliation until
the goal was won. There, with difficulty, the horse was stopped, and
the girl struck the panes of the upper window, through which a light
shone, with her riding whip. The window was raised, and the situation
speedily explained to the physician.

"I will be with you in a moment," he said.

Then Margaret slid from the saddle, and put her arms around the neck of
the trembling horse. Gypsy would have nothing to do with her, and
sniffed the air with offended dignity.

"It _was_ a shame, Gyp," she cried, almost tearfully, stroking the
glossy neck of her resentful friend; "it was, it was, and I know it;
but what was I to do, Gyp? You were the only protector I had, and you
_did_ bowl him over beautifully; no other horse could have done it
so well. It's wicked, but I do hope you hurt him, just because I had to
strike you."

Gypsy was still wrathful, and indicated by a toss of the head that the
wheedling of a woman did not make up for a blow. It was the insult more
than the pain; and from her--there was the sting of it.

"I know--I know just how you feel, Gypsy dear; and I don't blame you
for being angry. I might have spoken to you, of course, but there was
no time to think, and it was really him I was striking. That's why it
came down so hard. If I had said a word, he would have got out of the
way, coward that he was, and then would have shot you--_you_,
Gypsy! Think of it!"

If a man can be molded in any shape that pleases a clever woman, how
can a horse expect to be exempt from her influence. Gypsy showed signs
of melting, whinnying softly and forgivingly.

"And it will never happen again, Gypsy--never, never. As soon as we are
safe home again I will burn that whip. You little pet, I knew you
wouldn't----"

Gypsy's head rested on Margaret's shoulder, and we must draw a veil
over the reconciliation. Some things are too sacred for a mere man to
meddle with. The friends were friends once more, and on the altar of
friendship the unoffending whip was doubtless offered as a burning
sacrifice.

When the doctor came out, Margaret explained the danger of the road,
and proposed that they should return by the longer and northern way--
the Concession, as it was called.

They met no one on the silent road, and soon they saw the light in the
window.

The doctor and the girl left their horses tied some distance from the
house, and walked together to the window with the stealthy steps of a
pair of housebreakers. Margaret listened breathlessly at the closed
window, and thought she heard the low murmur of conversation. She
tapped lightly on the pane, and the professor threw back the door-
window.

"We were getting very anxious about you," he whispered.

"Hello, Peggy!" said the boy, with a wan smile, raising his head
slightly from the pillow and dropping it back again.

Margaret stooped over and kissed him.

"My poor boy! what a fright you have given me!"

"Ah, Margery, think what a fright I got myself. I thought I was going
to die within sight of the house."

The doctor gently pushed Margaret from the room. Renmark waited until
the examination was over, and then went out to find her.

She sprang forward to meet him.

"It is all right," he said. "There is nothing to fear. He has been
exhausted by loss of blood, but a few days' quiet will set that right.
Then all you will have to contend against will be his impatience at
being kept to his room, which may be necessary for some weeks."

"Oh, I am so glad! and--and I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Renmark!"

"I have done nothing--except make blunders," replied the professor with
a bitterness that surprised and hurt her.

"How can you say that? You have done everything. We owe his life to
you."

Renmark said nothing for a moment. Her unjust accusation in the earlier
part of the night had deeply pained him, and he hoped for some hint of
disclaimer from her. Belonging to the stupider sex, he did not realize
that the words were spoken in a state of intense excitement and fear,
that another woman would probably have expressed her condition of mind
by fainting instead of talking, and that the whole episode had left
absolutely no trace on the recollection of Margaret. At last Renmark
spoke:

"I must be getting back to the tent, if it still exists. I think I had
an appointment there with Yates some twelve hours ago, but up to this
moment I had forgotten it. Good-night."

Margaret stood for a few moments alone, and wondered what she had done
to offend him. He stumbled along the dark road, not heeding much the
direction he took, but automatically going the nearest way to the tent.
Fatigue and the want of sleep were heavy upon him, and his feet were as
lead. Although dazed, he was conscious of a dull ache where his heart
was supposed to be, and he vaguely hoped he had not made a fool of
himself. He entered the tent, and was startled by the voice of Yates:

"Hello! hello! Is that you, Stoliker?"

"No; it is Renmark. Are you asleep?"

"I guess I have been. Hunger is the one sensation of the moment. Have
you provided anything to eat within the last twenty-four hours?"

"There's a bag full of potatoes here, I believe. I haven't been near
the tent since early morning."

"All right; only don't expect a recommendation from me as cook. I'm not
yet hungry enough for raw potatoes. What time has it got to be?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Seems as if I had been asleep for weeks. I'm the latest edition of Rip
Van Winkle, and expect to find my mustache gray in the morning. I was
dreaming sweetly of Stoliker when you fell over the bunk."

"What have you done with him?"

"I'm not wide enough awake to remember. I _think_ I killed him,
but wouldn't be sure. So many of my good resolutions go wrong that very
likely he is alive at this moment. Ask me in the morning. What have you
been prowling after all night?"

There was no answer. Renmark was evidently asleep.

"I'll ask _you_ in the morning," muttered Yates drowsily--after
which there was silence in the tent.




CHAPTER XXI.


Yates had stubbornly refused to give up his search for rest and quiet
in spite of the discomfort of living in a leaky and battered tent. He
expressed regret that he had not originally camped in the middle of
Broadway, as being a quieter and less exciting spot than the place he
had chosen; but, having made the choice, he was going to see the last
dog hung, he said. Renmark had become less and less of a comrade. He
was silent, and almost as gloomy as Hiram Bartlett himself. When Yates
tried to cheer him up by showing him how much worse another man's
position might be, Renmark generally ended the talk by taking to the
wood.

"Just reflect on my position," Yates would say. "Here I am dead in love
with two lovely girls, both of whom are merely waiting for the word. To
one of them I have nearly committed myself, which fact, to a man of my
temperament, inclines me somewhat to the other. Here I am anxious to
confide in you, and yet I feel that I risk a fight every time I talk
about the complication. You have no sympathy for me, Renny, when I need
sympathy; while I am bubbling over with sympathy for you, and you won't
have it. Now, what would you do if you were in my fix? If you would
take five minutes and show me clearly which of the two girls I really
ought to marry, it would help me ever so much, for then I would be
sure to settle on the other. It is the indecision that is slowly but
surely sapping my vitality."

By this time, Renmark would have pulled his soft felt hat over his
eyes, and, muttering words that would have echoed strangely in the
silent halls of the university building, would plunge into the forest.
Yates generally looked after his retreating figure without anger, but
with mild wonder.

"Well, of all cantankerous cranks he is the worst," he would say with a
sigh. "It is sad to see the temple of friendship tumble down about
one's ears in this way." At their last talk of this kind Yates resolved
not to discuss the problem again with the professor, unless a crisis
came. The crisis came in the form of Stoliker, who dropped in on Yates
as the latter lay in the hammock, smoking and enjoying a thrilling
romance. The camp was strewn with these engrossing, paper-covered
works, and Yates had read many of them, hoping to came across a case
similar to his own, but up to the time of Stoliker's visit he had not
succeeded.

"Hello, Stoliker! how's things? Got the cuffs in your pocket? Want to
have another tour across country with me?"

"No. But I came to warn you. There will be a warrant out to-morrow or
next day, and, if I were you, I would get over to the other side;
though you need never say I told you. Of course, if they give the
warrant to me, I shall have to arrest you; and although nothing may be
done to you, still, the country is in a state of excitement, and you
will at least be put to some inconvenience."

"Stoliker," cried Yates, springing out of the hammock, "you are a white
man! You're a good fellow, Stoliker, and I'm ever so much obliged. If
you ever come to New York, you call on me at the _Argus_ office,--
anybody will show you where it is,--and I'll give you the liveliest
time you ever had in your life. It won't cost you a cent, either."

"That's all right," said the constable. "Now, if I were you, I would
light out to-morrow at the latest."

"I will," said Yates.

Stoliker disappeared quietly among the trees, and Yates, after a
moment's thought, began energetically to pack up his belongings. It was
dark before he had finished, and Renmark returned.

"Stilly," cried the reporter cheerily, "there's a warrant out for my
arrest. I shall have to go to-morrow at the latest!"

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