# The Red Mist/Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII
I CHOOSE DEATH
I KNEW the town well, and few changes had occurred since last I walked those streets hand in hand with my father. It had not grown any larger, and thus far the war had wrought little damage, although many of the shops were closed, and occasionally I observed marks of fire. The majority of the men on the street were in uniform, very few civilians and no women being visible, although I caught glimpses of curious faces peering at us through closed windows. Lewisburg had been strongly Southern in sentiment, and doubtless the majority of her male population were bearing arms in the Confederate ranks, or had taken to the mountains in guerrilla warfare. The most of life in the sleepy old town centered about the Frost Hotel, a three-story wooden structure, where the officers of the garrison lodged, and the court house, a dignified edifice of red brick, a block beyond, where in other days my father presided on the bench, now completely surrounded by a military camp. There were more Federal soldiers here than I had expected to see, but a remark exchanged between two of my ​guard informed me that most of these had arrived during the night—a regiment of Ohio troops, and a battery of light artillery, destined to assist in a contemplated attack on Covington.
The head of our little column halted in front of the hotel, but Whitlock shouted a command to the sergeant, and we rode on past, the guard closing up tightly. I kept my face straight ahead, determined to make no sign, but, nevertheless, I had a glimpse of Noreen, standing at her horse's head, and, for an instant, I felt certain her eyes were resting on me. Momentary as this was—no doubt merely a glance of curiosity—yet it served to send the hot blood throbbing through my veins. That was the first faint sign vouchsafed me that she even recalled my existence, or gave me so much as a thought. She stood too far away for me to read the expression in her eyes, and yet, the very fact that her glance followed me brought quick response. Then Raymond spoke to her, touching her sleeve familiarly with his hand to attract attention, and she smiled up into his face, as if in answer to some witty remark. This was the last glimpse I had as we clattered on down the street.
At the court house steps the sergeant turned me over to the officer of the day, and I was marched into the basement. The old jail had evidently been burned, for I could see the roof had fallen in, and ​the stone walls were blackened with smoke, but the lower story of the court house was bastile enough, the windows barred, the walls strong and thick. The place in which they thrust me had at one time protected the county records, was perhaps nine feet square, with one narrow window high up in the wall, and an iron door. The floor and walls were of stone, and the ceiling beyond reach. A soldier threw in a box, to be utilized as a seat, together with a couple of blankets.
"There, Johnny," he said carelessly, "I guess you'll stay here till you're wanted. There'll be some grub along after awhile."
The iron door clanged behind him, and I heard the sharp click of a heavy lock, then regular steps passing back and forth across the stone floor, proof that a sentinel had been posted. There seemed little need of one as I sat down on the box, and stared disconsolately about. The window afforded ample light, but no hope of escape. I could barely reach it with my hands by standing on the box, and the opening, even if the iron grating could be removed, was far too small to permit the passage of my body. I merely glanced at the patch of blue sky thus revealed, and then permitted my eyes to wander along the solid walls, until they encountered the only bit of the original furnishings of this underground ​vault—the shelves on which had once reposed the records of Green Briar County. They were of iron, as a safe-guard against fire, with a sheet of iron at their back, concealing the wall behind. My heart gave a sudden leap; perhaps, after all, Fate had not been wholly unkind; at least I had another card left to play, and need not remain hopelessly staring about at those bare, solid walls. As a boy I had played about this building, invading every nook and corner. I could even recall when those shelves were first installed, and I had sat almost where I was sitting then, and watched the workmen bolt them into their present position. That seemed a long while ago—why, I could not have been more than eight or nine years of age. It was before my father bought the place out on the ridge, and we were living only a block down the street. This old courthouse was my favorite playground then, and I had explored every inch of it from cupola to wood cellar. I watched those workmen all one day, and the memory came back to me that those shelves rested against the big chimney, and there was an opening leading into it, across which they had nailed a tin protector before they fastened the iron to the wall.
If I could once get in behind that iron plate the way out would not be such a hard or difficult one to travel. The chimney was large; I recalled standing ​upright in the fireplace on the floor above, and looking up to where I could perceive the light of the sky. It was constructed of irregular bits of stone, which would afford lodgment for the feet, and grip for the hands, in climbing—no easy job, of course, but not impossible for one reckless enough to make the attempt. But how could I hope to pry loose that protecting sheet of iron? Where could I discover a tool to give me the necessary leverage to dislodge those bolts? Could one of those supports be unscrewed or twisted off? If so it might prove strong enough for the purpose. I stepped hastily across, and tested two of them with my hands, but found both these firm and immovable. I dare not exercise much force in fear the noise might be overheard, and besides it was time the jailer brought me in some food. So I went back to my seat on the box, and waited, my eyes on the iron, and my mind eagerly working on some plan which seemed feasible. I had a half dozen keys in my pocket, and a broken cartridge shell in my belt—nothing else available. The searchers had stripped me clean. A careful survey of the floor revealed only a twisted nail, but there was something caught in the iron bars of the window; from where I sat it looked like the half of a broken horseshoe. I got up to see, but quickly sat down again—there was someone at the door.
​It opened, and a soldier stood aside while two men entered. One was Fox, the other a heavy-set, gray mustached officer, in the uniform of a colonel of infantry. The captain greeted me gravely, and extended his hand.
"I would far rather meet you as I did before," he said, "but war gives us no choice."
"I took my chances, and have no complaint," I answered heartily, for I liked the man. "I presume there is no doubt as to my fate?"
"I fear not, but the matter is not in my hands, for which I am grateful. This is Colonel Pickney, in command."
I bowed, and our eyes met. The face confronting me was strong and resolute, its expression that of regret.
"A very young man, Captain Fox," he said to his companion, "which fact adds to the unpleasantness of such duty. Your name is Wyatt?"
"Yes, sir."
"You claim connection with the Confederate service—an officer?"
"A sergeant of artillery, sir."
He cleared his throat impressively.
"You have the appearance of an intelligent man, Sergeant Wyatt, and must realize the seriousness of your position. I am sure I need not dwell upon the ​fate which befalls a spy when captured by the enemy. In your case there seems to be no defense possible—you wear Federal uniform; were within our lines, and papers have been found on you of a most incriminating character. It is my understanding you make no denial."
"None whatever, sir; it would be useless."
"You have no reason to expect mercy?"
"No, sir."
"Yet there is always a way in which mercy can be extended," he went on earnestly. "Doubtless you possess information which would be of the utmost value to us. I shall gladly use my influence on your behalf if the circumstances warrant."
"You mean, of course, if I will answer such question as you may ask me? "
"That is my meaning. You are from Jackson's headquarters?"
"I am here under his orders."
"The probability is, then, that you possess knowledge of the utmost value to us—worth, let me say, the sparing of life."
I glanced aside at Fox, and caught the look of appeal in his face; then back into the expectant eyes of the colonel.
"You have authority to make me this proposition?" I asked quietly.
​"I am in command of this camp, and my recommendation will have weight. I pledge you my influence with General Ramsay."
"What is it you wish to know?"
"The number and disposition of Jackson's troops; where they are at present stationed, and in what force; and any inkling you may have as to his immediate plans of campaign."
"And in return for this information you guarantee me release from arrest?"
"That would be impossible, Sergeant," and he laid his hand on my shoulder. "We shall have to hold you as prisoner of war, but there will be no charge made involving the death penalty."
I stood motionless a moment, endeavoring to straighten the matter out in my own mind. When I spoke it was as briefly as possible.
"I can only thank you, Colonel Pickney," I said quietly, "and respectfully decline. I am a soldier, and loyal to my flag; I accepted the chance of such a situation as this when General Jackson requested my services. Even at the cost of life I will not answer your questions, sir."
"You will die the death of a spy; you will be hanged."
"That is as God wills, sir; the threat has no effect upon me."
​Fox gripped my arm, and as I glanced at him, I was surprised to see a mist of tears in his eyes.
"Wyatt," he exclaimed, making no pretense at calmness, "do not be hasty in your decision. I would not counsel you to any act of dishonor, but surely some compromise is possible. I not only ask you to consider the situation from your own standpoint, but also from ours. I accompanied Colonel Pickney in the hope I might have some influence." He hesitated an instant, as though doubtful of his words. "Perhaps I should say, my boy, that another urged me to come."
"Another?"
"Yes—a lady."
My head swam, my heart beating like a triphammer.
"Do—do you mean, Captain Fox, that she actually asked you to urge me to save myself by such an act?"
"No, Wyatt; not that. She requested me to accompany Colonel Pickney, and do all I could on your behalf."
I drew a long breath of relief, my mind clearing, my resolve strengthened. She did care then! God knew I was glad; and she had not urged me to an act of dishonor. And I knew, I understood—she wished me to realize that she was not indifferent to ​my fate, that her interest was not dead; and she had sent the message to me by the only man she could trust to rightly deliver it. But she would want me to decide right, for it was not in the character of Noreen Harwood to compromise with duty—better to die a death of disgrace than to live, and read the scorn in her eyes. My heart lightened, and my lips smiled.
"I thank you for your message, Captain Fox," I said sincerely, clasping his hand. "Tell her how glad it made me. But it cannot change my decision; I will answer no questions."
"This is your final reply, Sergeant?" the Colonel's voice had hardened; his eyes had lost their friendliness.
"It is, sir."
"Very well, then; there is nothing more for us to accomplish here, Fox. I think, young man, you will come to your senses too late. Good day, sir."
The door opened to the rap of his knuckles, and the two men passed out, neither one glancing back at me. The sentry asked a question, and I heard Pickney answer:
"Yes, set the food within, but let no one communicate with the prisoner except on my written order. I will have another sentry posted above."
A soldier entered bearing a camp ration, and a pannikin of water, and placed these on the box. He ​said nothing, and the colonel stood beside the door watching, until I was left alone. Then the iron shutter closed, and I heard the bar which secured it forced down into place. As I stared about me at the bare, solid walls, I knew that I was already condemned; that the court-martial which would follow would be only a mere form. Yet for the moment this knowledge scarcely penetrated my consciousness—one thing I remembered, her message. She cared! she would serve me if she could! Her thought of me was kindly! I put the food on the floor untouched, and sat down on the box. I wanted to live; I was young, ambitious, and—I loved that girl. I realized this truth clearly, and it became the one ceaseless incentive to effort. Her face arose before me, and I felt that her message was meant for my encouragement. She wanted me to live; wished me to know that she was not indifferent; trusted me to accomplish all that a man could. And I must act now, if at all. The time allowed me was short—how short I could not even guess. I ate the food, not from any sense of hunger, but because I needed it to keep up my strength, my mind ever busy with the problem. Would they give me a few hours respite—opportunity to reflect? If so, there was hope; I could plan and work, with some faith that the coming night would bring me a chance for escape. I was alone, ​unwatched; there was no place where an eye could peer in on my movements. I dragged the box over to the window, stood on it, and managed to dislodge the bit of iron entangled in the grating. It proved to be part of a discarded horseshoe, flung there carelessly by some farrier, and contained three thin-headed nails. With difficulty I loosened one of these, and fitted the sharp edge into a screwhead of a shelf bracket. The nail afforded little purchase, and I tried three of the screws before finding one loose enough to turn. By this time my fingers were numb and bleeding, yet the final success set my heart throbbing with exultation.
The removal of the screw, which by chance was the lower one, enabled me to insert the remnant of horseshoe beneath the bracket iron. Slowly, fearful of creating alarm, this improvised lever wrenched the bracket free, until I was enabled to get firm grip on it with my hands. With foot braced, and every muscle strained, I worked that bit of iron back and forth, tearing it free, until I knew that another wrench would separate it entirely from its fastenings. Then I forced it back into place again, pressed down the loosened screws, carefully gathered together the slight debris littering the floor, and cast it into a dark corner. The bracket seemed as solid as ever. Now I must wait for night.