# The Red Mist/Chapter 16

CHAPTER XVI
A PRISONER
THE captain was hatless, and a bloody handkerchief was wound about his head; his uniform was torn and black with mud. He saw Whitlock first, and gripped his hand warmly, his glance straying from the face of the little captain to the other occupants of the room.
"Gad, but it is good to see a blue uniform again," he exclaimed heartily. What was the row here, Fred some guerrilla work? Ah! by Jove!" his eyes brightening as he recognized me. "Raymond, I am glad to see you again," and he strode forward, his lips smiling, his hand held out. "Old Ned swore to me you were dead, but the sergeant said you got away at the first rush. Not even a scratch—hey—"
"Just a moment, please," and the interested lieutenant interrupted him by a hand on the shoulder. "I believe we have never met before, but I presume you are Captain Fox?"
The latter turned, a trifle indignant at the other's manner.
​"I am; what of it?"
"Only I am naturally somewhat interested in your identification of this fellow. To us he has claimed the name of Wyatt, but you address him as Raymond. What Raymond did he represent himself to be?"
Fox stared about in surprise at the faces surrounding him, scarcely able to collect his scattered wits.
"Why," he answered, as though half in doubt of his own words, "Lieutenant Charles H. Raymond, Third Cavalry, on recruiting service. I—I met him at Hot Springs, and he showed me his papers. Isn't—isn't he all right?"
"Well, you can draw your own conclusion," returned the lieutenant, his thin lips curled in a sneer, "for I am Raymond, Third Cavalry. This man is a rebel spy."
Escape was impossible; I knew that, for I had considered the chances. Both Whitlock and the lieutenant—the latter with revolver drawn—stood between me and the windows. The hall without was thronged with troopers, and, although I might attain the open door, that would be the end of it. I saw Noreen rise to her feet, her startled face turned toward me, but I held my nerves firm, and managed to smile.
"I expect the jig is up, gentlemen," I ​acknowledged quietly, determined they should get as little comfort out of me as possible. "I know when I have played my last card."
"Is your name really Wyatt?"
"It is; I am a sergeant in the Staunton Horse Artillery."
"And Miss Harwood—she knew you, as she said, by that name?"
"She did; I was born in this county, and we were children together. If she has attempted to protect me from arrest, it has been because of no disloyalty, but a womanly desire to assist an old friend."
Raymond was far from satisfied, suspiciously glancing from my face to where she stood, white-lipped and silent.
"There is nothing else between you?" he asked roughly. "Do you mean to say she told that story of her cousin's uniform merely because of a girlhood friendship."
"I am unable to say, sir."
"I hardly think, Lieutenant," broke in Whitlock, suddenly realizing his authority. "It is necessary to ask such questions now. The man confesses himself a spy, and a court-martial will probe into this matter. We must remember the young lady is the daughter of Major Harwood."
"And as Major Harwood's daughter," she said ​gravely, standing before me, "I desire to be heard, and to answer this gentleman's question. I sought to save Sergeant Wyatt because of our early friendship, and also because of the special service he has rendered me during the past night. I know nothing of his purpose here, but—but I hold him friend whatever may be his uniform."
The lieutenant bowed, hat in hand.
"I intended no criticism of your motives, but a soldier must perform his duty. Under whose orders are you here, Wyatt?"
"Those of General Jackson, sir."
"Ah! the old fox is casting his eyes this way for his new campaign. What were your orders?"
"I refuse to answer."
"No? Well, Ramsay will get a reply out of you!"
"I hardly think so, sir. You hang spies, but do not torture them."
"True enough," and Whitlock stepped to the door. "Sergeant, bring a file of men, and take charge of this prisoner. There is nothing to detain us longer. We have extra horses, Captain Fox, and you will ride with us as far as Lewisburg; Miss Harwood, I presume you have no desire to remain here alone—indeed, I could not permit it. Better bind the fellow's hands, Harper; search him first for weapons, ​and whatever papers he may carry. Mount him on that old artillery horse, and wait for us."
Raymond watched the proceedings carefully, taking my credentials as a Federal recruiting officer from the hands of the sergeant, and reading them over with a grim smile. I gave small heed to the glance of satisfaction with which he regarded me, and only ventured to look once toward the girl, as the soldiers roughly bound my hands. She had turned away, and was staring out of the open window. With lips pressed tightly together I marched out into the hall closely surrounded by the guard, my thought less concerned with my own fate than with her feeling toward me. Suddenly the truth revealed itself to my mind that I loved the woman I had so strangely married.
It is indeed odd how the human mind works, and now this new discovery completely eclipsed every other consideration. The thought of possible escape, of any means of defense, never occurred to me. All my memory retained was that last glimpse of her slender figure at the window, and the silhouette of her averted face. What was her thought of me? Why had she endeavored so bravely to open a way for my escape? She had not even hesitated at quick invention at falsehood in my behalf, fearlessly facing her questioners, risking her very reputation in hope of ​protecting me. Could it have been merely from a sense of gratitude for the small service I had rendered her? This was hard to conceive; yet it was even harder to convince myself that she really cared—that her swift sacrifice of self had been other than the impulse of a moment. Why, really, she almost had reason to hate me for what had occurred. I had practically forced her into marriage, needlessly, uselessly. She might even be justified in believing I realized the truth, and was guilty of a cowardly deceit. My memory of her in the past was that of a proud, headstrong girl, possessing a quick temper, careless of whom she hurt. I had never thought she even liked me, or valued my friendship, and this adventure was far more liable to arouse hatred than affection. She was of a nature to resent the unfair advantage I had taken, and declare war. In the moment of her first surprise she had sprung to my defense, but as soon as she could consider the conditions, her whole nature would turn against me—even now the feeling of disgust had come. She had turned coldly away, hating the very sight of me staring out of the window until I should disappear, dreading lest I prove cur enough to boast of our relationship. Well, the lady need not fear that. Nichols might tell the story, but it would never find utterance on my lips. And it would soon be over ​with, blotted out. My fate would be swiftly and surely settled—a drumhead court-martial at Lewisburg, a verdict of guilty, and a firing squad at dawn. The remedy was simple and effective. No one need ever know, for the preacher's lips could be easily closed. And perhaps Lieutenant Raymond—Bah! my teeth clinched angrily at thought of him, and I tramped on down the stairs to the gruff order of the sergeant.
There were three other prisoners, sallow faced, roughly dressed mountaineers, one wounded in the arm, but I was kept separated from them with a special guard. The day was gloomy, with clouded skies, and the road so muddy the horses stood fetlock deep. Within ten minutes the entire command was in saddle, and moving slowly northward. The lieutenant rode in my rear for the first mile, watchful and suspicious; I could hear his voice issuing orders, but cared nothing as to what precautions were taken. The faint hope of some possible escape was beginning to dawn on my mind, but I realized the futility of any attempt then—a way might open at Lewisburg if the guards grew careless, but the slow moving horse under me, limping painfully with each step, was proof positive that any effort made now to break away would prove utterly useless. Noreen was riding in advance of the column between the two ​captains. A gray circular cape concealed her slender form, but I could observe the frequent turning of her head as she apparently conversed vivaciously with her attentive escorts. After we reached the crossroads Raymond spurred his horse forward and joined them, evidently convinced that my guard was sufficiently vigilant, although he stopped in passing to test the knot which bound my hands behind the saddle. It was an insolent act, but I gave no outward sign of resentment, not even glancing aside at his face as he finally rode on. No one spoke to me, the sergeant gripping my rein in one hand, his face as expressionless as though carved from stone. Once I asked a question of the trooper on the other side—a rather pleasant faced lad—but he only shook his head, and looked away. I was thus driven to my own solitary thoughts, and they were far from enjoyable.
I had been caught red-handed, within the enemy's lines, dressed in Federal uniform, and bearing papers purporting to belong to Lieutenant Raymond. There was no defense I could offer, no plea for mercy I could make. The court-martial before which I would be brought for trial would be merely a form—I was condemned already. I realized all this, yet the knowledge of my desperate condition did not weigh on my mind as heavily as did the memory of my ​relations with that careless, laughing girl riding in advance. Could she be acting a part? or did she actually feel indifferent to my fate? Surely she must know, must understand the conditions of my arrest. She was a soldier's daughter, and had seen enough of army life to realize the treatment given a captured spy. Yet the fate overhanging me apparently made not the slightest impression upon her. She had never glanced at me as she came forth from the house; she had passed me by as if totally unaware of my existence, and now I could hear the sound of her laughter, as she chattered unconcerned with her three companions. There was but one conclusion possible—she really cared nothing. She had, obeying blindly the first impulse, endeavored to protect me from arrest, yet even that effort might have been made in fear lest I announce our marriage. But now, assured that I would not speak, relieved of that dread, her only remaining desire was to forget me utterly, to blot me completely from her memory.
It was a bitter thought, and yet no other was possible; nothing in her conduct, in the echo of her laughing words, the interest she exhibited in her blue-coated cavaliers, led me to any other conclusion. Perhaps I should have realized that such light-heartedness on her part must be assumed, for, casting my own case entirely aside, it was not natural that ​she should so soon forget the death of her father. It had come to her a shock, a blow. I had witnessed the intense suffering in her face at her earlier realization of the truth. She could not have forgotten so suddenly, so completely; her present effort to appear light-hearted, indifferent, must arise from some special purpose in her mind. In a vague way this occurred to me, but prejudice, doubt of her, had assumed possession of my brain, and I could not grasp the probability in any clearness. Her show of utter, heartless indifference hurt and blinded me. I actually believed the girl was glad of my capture; that she rejoiced at the knowledge that within a few hours she would be freed from all the consequences of our rash act. It was the reaction which had given her such high spirits, the exhilarating sense of escape, a relief so profound as to cause her to even forget her father's death. This was the conception which took possession of me, obliterating every other possibility.
At first the thought served to numb my faculties, and I rode forward with lowered head, all interest in life dead within me. Then pride came to the rescue, and I straightened up in the saddle. She was my wife—that slender, laughing girl! Of course I would never claim her; no word would ever pass my lips to bring to her pain and humiliation. No one ​would ever know—excepting us two. But if I did speak she could not deny, and she must realize why I had kept silent, why I had even gone down to death with closed lips. She could not be a woman and fail to appreciate such a sacrifice. It would live in her memory; she would think of me as not altogether unworthy; she would know some time this was not a trick, but an accident, in which my part was as innocent as her own. Resentment would die out in her heart, and a kindlier feeling creep in. And then—there was yet a chance! While there was life there was hope, and I was soldier enough, and sufficiently reckless, to accept of any opportunity. There might occur a relaxation in the vigilance of the guard, some delay at Lewisburg, possibly a forwarding of me to headquarters at Charleston—some sudden, unexpected opening through which I could squeeze. I was ready enough to try, however desperate the occasion; and, if such a chance did serve, the end might not come merely with escape. I could see her again; talk with her face to face. It became a fascinating dream, an inspiration—at last a grim determination.
And so through the mud we rode steadily on, following the pike that curved along the base of the mountains, and finally into the streets of Lewisburg.