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CHAPTER XX.
CALHOUN AWAKES TO LIFE

For two weeks Calhoun hovered between life and death; but at last his rugged constitution conquered. During this time Joyce was unremitting in her attention. “I must save him for the sake of Mark,” she would say, “I cannot bear to have his blood on Mark’s hands.”

In speaking to Joyce’s aunt, Matilda Goodsen said: “The poor child will hardly let me do anything; she wants to do it all.”

Miss Crawford fretted and fumed, but it did no good. In this Joyce would have her way.

Calhoun’s fever had been growing less day by day, and the time came when it left him, and he lay in a quiet and restful slumber. But his breathing was so faint, Joyce was almost afraid it was the sleep which precedes death.

It was near the close of an August day. The weather had been warm and sultry, but a thunder shower had cooled and cleared the atmosphere, and the earth was rejoicing in the baptism it had received. The trees seemed to ripple with laughter, as the breeze shook the raindrops from their leaves. The grass was greener, the flowers brighter on account of that same baptism. The birds sang a sweeter song. What is more beautiful than nature after a summer shower!

It was at such a time that Calhoun awoke to life and consciousness. A delicious lethargy was over him. He felt no pain, and his bed was so soft, he seemed to be resting on a fleecy cloud. He tried to raise his hand, and found to his surprise he could not move a finger. Even his eyes for a time refused to open. Slowly his memory came back to him; how in the fierce conflict he tried to break through the line and sought to cut down an officer who opposed him. Then there came a flash, a shock – and he remembered nothing more. Where was he now? Had he passed through that great change called death? By a great effort he opened his eyes, and was bewildered. He was in a strange room. By an open window sat a young girl. She had been reading, but the book was now lying idly in her lap, and she was looking apparently into vacancy. The rays of the setting sun streamed in through the windows, and touched hair and face and clothes with its golden beams. Calhoun thought he had never seen a being so lovely; her beauty was such as he fancied could be found only in the realms above, yet she was mortal. He could not take his eyes from her. She turned her head, and saw him gazing at her. Uttering a little exclamation of surprise, she arose and came swiftly but noiselessly to his side.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Calhoun whispered, faintly.

“Hush! hush!” she said, in low, sweet tones, “you must not talk. You have been sick – very sick. You are better now.”

She gave him a cordial. He took it, and with a gentle sigh, closed his eyes, and sank to sleep again. Before he was quite gone, it seemed to him that soft, tremulous lips touched his forehead, and a tear-drop fell upon his cheek. Its memory remained with him as a beautiful dream, and it was long years before he knew it was not a dream.

Doctor Hopkins was delighted when he called in the evening and learned that his patient had awaked with his fever gone, and in his right mind. “All that he needs now,” he said, “is careful nursing, and he will get well. But mind, do not let him talk, and tell him nothing of what has happened, until he gains a little strength.”

From that time Calhoun gained slowly, but surely. When he became strong enough to bear it, Joyce told him all that had happened. He could scarcely realize that over a month had passed since he had been wounded.

“Then that stand of mine did not save Morgan,” said Calhoun, sorrowfully.

“No, he was taken a few hours afterwards,” answered Joyce. “He and his officers are now in the penitentiary at Columbus.”

Calhoun could hardly believe what he heard. “Then we are to be treated as felons, are we?” he asked, bitterly.

“They are afraid he might escape from a military prison,” replied Joyce. “But the people are very bitter against him. Some are clamoring that he be tried and executed.”

“They will not dare do that,” exclaimed Calhoun, excitedly.

“No, I do not think there is any danger that way,” replied Joyce; “but they want to keep him safe.”

“Well they may, but Morgan will yet make them trouble. No prison will hold him long.”

“There, there, don’t let us talk about it any more,” said Joyce; “it will worry you back into a fever.”

“You have saved my life,” said Calhoun, fervently. “How can I ever repay you for what you have done?”

Joyce did not reply.

Calhoun lay silent for some time, and then suddenly said: “I am one of Morgan’s hated officers, and yet you are caring for me as for a brother. What makes you do it?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” said Joyce; “I have a dear brother in the army. I am only doing by you as I would have him done by, if he should fall wounded. And then – ” Joyce stopped; she could not tell him it was her brother who had shot him.

A great light came to Calhoun. “Joyce! Joyce!” he cried, “I now understand. It was your brother who shot me.”

“Oh! forgive him! forgive him!” cried Joyce. “He told me it was to save his own life that he did it.”

“Why, Joyce, there is nothing to forgive. Your brother is a brave, a gallant officer. Then he has been here?”

“Yes, and knew you. He bade me nurse you as I would nurse him in like condition.”

“Just like a brave soldier; but are there none who find fault with my being here treated like a prince?”

“Yes, one. His name is Andrew Harmon. It was his horse you were riding when you came here. He seems to hate you, and is doing all he can to have you taken to Columbus. He says you treated him most brutally when he was captured.”

“I did kick him,” answered Calhoun, laughing; “he was on the ground bellowing like a baby. I never saw a more abject coward. I kicked him and told him to get up.”

“He has a different story,” said Joyce, smiling; and then she told the wonderful story of Harmon’s capture as related by himself.

“His capacity for lying is equalled only by his cowardice,” said Calhoun, indignantly.

“Yet he is a man to be feared,” said Joyce, “for he is rich and has influence, although every one knows him to be a coward.”

The days that passed were the happiest Calhoun had ever spent. He told Joyce of his Kentucky home, of his cousin Fred, how noble and true he was, and of his own adventures in raiding with Morgan. She never tired of listening. Is it strange that these two hearts were drawn close to each other. They lived in a sweet dream – a dream which did not look to the future. But almost unknown to them Cupid had come and shot his shafts, and they had gone true.

The day came when Calhoun was able to be placed in an easy-chair and drawn to an open window. It was a proud day to him, yet it was the beginning of sorrow. The Doctor came and congratulated him on his improvement.

“Doctor Hopkins, how can I thank you for your kindness?” he said; “you have done so much for me.”

“You need not thank me, thank that young lady there,” replied the Doctor, pointing to Joyce. “She it was who saved your life.”

“I know, no reward I could give would ever repay her,” answered Calhoun. “I can only offer to be her slave for life.”

“Your offer is not accepted; you are well aware I do not believe in slavery,” replied Joyce, with a merry laugh.

When the Doctor was ready to go, he asked for a private interview with Joyce. It was hard work for him to say what he had to say. He choked and stammered, but at last Joyce understood what he meant. He had promised the government officials to inform them when Calhoun could be moved without endangering his life. That time had come. “But,” said he, as he noticed the white face of Joyce, “I shall recommend that he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, as there is no danger of his running away in his weak condition.”

But Joyce hardly heard him. “And – and – this means?” she whispered.

“The penitentiary at Columbus.”

Joyce shuddered. “And – and there is no way to prevent this?”

“None. God knows I would if I could.”

“Thank you, Doctor; I might have known this would have to come, but it is so sudden.”

The Doctor went out shaking his head. “I am afraid harm has been done,” he said to himself.

Just as he was getting into his gig to drive away Andrew Harmon came riding by. He glanced up and saw Calhoun sitting by the window. “So, your patient is able to sit up,” he exclaimed, with a sneer. “About time he were in the penitentiary, where he belongs, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know how that concerns you,” replied the Doctor, coldly, as he drove away.

“Oh ho! my fine fellow. I will show you whether it concerns me or not?” muttered Harmon, looking after him.

That night Harmon wrote to the authorities at Columbus, stating it as his opinion that there was a scheme on foot to detain Lieutenant Pennington until he was well enough to slip away. He was not aware that Doctor Hopkins had reported on the condition of his patient every week, and had already sent a letter saying he could be moved with safety, but recommending he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, on account of his weak condition. Harmon not only wrote to Columbus, but also to Mr. Crawford, hinting that it was dangerous for his daughter to care for Calhoun longer. “You know,” he wrote, “that girls of the age of Joyce are inclined to be romantic.”

As for Joyce, when the Doctor left her she sank into a chair weak and faint. She saw Andrew Harmon gazing up at the window where Calhoun was, and a terror seized her. She now knew that she loved Calhoun, but with that knowledge also came the thought that her love was hopeless, that even if Calhoun returned her love, her father would never consent to their union. He would rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, especially a hated Morgan raider. Long did she struggle with her own heart, her sense of duty, her ideas of patriotism; and duty conquered. She would give him up, but she would save him.

It was evening before she could muster strength to have the desired interview with Calhoun. When she did enter the room it was with a step so languid, a face so pinched and drawn, that Calhoun stared in amazement.

“Joyce, what is it?” he cried. “Are you sick?”

“Not sick, only a little weary,” she answered, as she sank into a chair and motioned for the nurse to leave them. No sooner was she gone than Joyce told Calhoun what had happened. Her voice was so passionless that Calhoun wondered if she cared, wondered if he had been mistaken in thinking she loved him.

“Joyce, do you care if I go to prison?” he asked.

“Care?” she cried. “The thought is terrible. You shall not go, I will save you.”

“Joyce! Joyce! tell me that you love me, and it will make my cell in prison a heaven. Don’t you see that I love you, that you saved my poor life only that I might give it to you? Joyce, say that you love me!”

For answer she sank on her knees by his bedside and laid her head on his breast. He put his weak arms around her, and held her close. For a while she remained still, then gently disengaging his arms, she arose. There was a look on her face that Calhoun did not understand.

“The first embrace, and the last,” she sighed. “Oh, Calhoun, why did we ever meet?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his lips growing white.

“I mean that our love is hopeless. Father will never consent to our marriage. I feel it, know it. Without his consent I shall never marry. But save you from prison I will.”

“Joyce, you do not love me!” said Calhoun bitterly.

“As my life,” she cried.

“Yet you say you can never marry me!”

“Without my father’s consent I cannot.”

“Joyce, let us not borrow trouble. Even with your father’s consent we could not marry now. I am a prisoner. The war is going on, but it cannot last forever. When it is over, when peace is declared, I will come to you. Then, and not till then, will I ask your father for your hand. Let us hope the skies will be brighter by that time – that to be one of Morgan’s men will not be a badge of dishonor, even in the North.”

“Oh, Calhoun, if I could only hope! I will hope. Come to me after the war is over. Father’s consent may be won. But now the prison, the prison. I must save you. I have thought it all out.”

“How can you save me, a poor, weak mortal, who cannot take a step without help?” asked Calhoun.

“Put you in a carriage to-morrow night and take you where they cannot find you.”

“So soon? The Doctor said he would ask for two weeks. Two more weeks with you, Joyce – I could afford to go to prison for that.”

“Don’t talk foolishly. I feel if I don’t get you away to-morrow night, I cannot at all.”

“But you – will it endanger you, Joyce?”

“Not at all!”

“But how will you explain my disappearance?”

“Suppose you have been shamming, better than we thought you were, and so you gave us the slip.”

“A right mean trick,” said Calhoun.

“No, a Yankee trick, a real good one. Now listen, Calhoun, and I will tell you all about how I am going to get you away. Some six miles from here a colored man lives whom my father has greatly befriended. He will do anything for me I ask. I shall tell him you are a sick soldier, and for good reasons wish to remain in hiding until you get well.”

“Will he know I am one of Morgan’s men?” asked Calhoun.

“No, he will think you are a Federal soldier. Calhoun, as much as you may hate it, you must don the Union Blue.”

“That would make a spy of me. No, it wouldn’t either, if I kept clear of any military post.”

“That’s good. I have a Federal uniform in the house, which will about fit you. A friendless soldier died here a short time ago. We took him in and cared for him during his last sickness. He had been discharged for wounds received at Fair Oaks. Here is the discharge. I think it fits you close enough, so it may be of use to you.”

She handed him the discharge; he took it and read: “James Brown, age nineteen; height five feet nine inches; weight one hundred and sixty pounds; complexion dark; hair and eyes black.”

“Why, Joyce, with that in my pocket, and wearing a Federal uniform, I could travel anywhere in the North.”

“So I thought. We will cheat that old prison yet. But it is time you were asleep.”

“God bless you, Joyce,” replied Calhoun. “Give me a kiss before you go.”

She smiled and threw him one as she went out and he had to be content with that. She had not stopped to consider what the result might be if she helped Calhoun to escape. Her only thought was to save him from going to prison. To do this she would dare anything.

The colored man of whom she spoke was to be at the farm in the morning to do some work. A fear had seized her that she might be too late. The fear was well grounded. The authorities at Columbus had resolved to move Calhoun at once. The request of Doctor Hopkins, that he be allowed to remain two weeks longer, although he said he could be removed without danger, aroused their suspicion. Not only that, but the letter of Andrew Harmon to Mr. Crawford had alarmed that gentleman, and he was already on his way home.

Abram Prather, the colored man, was seen by Joyce as soon as he made his appearance.

“Missy Joyce, I jes’ do enything fo’ yo.’ Me an’ de ol’ woman will keep him all right.”

So everything was arranged. Joyce breathed freer, yet she waited impatiently for the night.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE ESCAPE

The day was a long and weary one to Calhoun. Between the joy of knowing he was to be free and his misery over the thought that he must part with Joyce, his soul was alternately swept with conflicting emotions. Then he had seen so little of her during the day; she seemed more distant than she did before she declared her love. How he longed to take her in his arms, to have her head rest on his breast once more! But she had said that although it was the first it was to be the last time. What did she mean? Ah! it must be that he could never embrace her again, never touch her lips again, until her father had consented to their marriage. When the war was over he would wring that consent from him.

The thought brought contentment. Yes, it was better that they should part. Then the news of the terrible battle of Chickamauga had just come, and it had fired his very soul. The South had won a great victory. Surely this was the beginning of the end. Independence was near, the war would soon be at an end, and he longed to be in at the finish. The excitement of war was once more running riot through his veins.

He little thought of the sacrifice Joyce was making, of the fierce conflicts she was having with her conscience. She knew that she was doing wrong, that she was proving a traitor to the flag she loved, that she was aiding and abetting the enemy; but it was one, only one man, and she loved him so. Surely this one man, sick and wounded, could do no harm. It was cruel to shut him up in prison. Thus she reasoned to silence conscience, but if her reasons had been ten times as weak, love would have won.

All through the day she was making preparations for Calhoun’s departure. Fortunately the young man who had been engaged to nurse Calhoun during the night had been taken sick a couple of days before, and as Calhoun rested well, another had not been engaged. Thus one of the greatest obstacles to the carrying out of Joyce’s plans was out of the way. She could easily manage Miss Goodsen. Joyce’s only confidant was the faithful Abe, who obeyed her without question. In his eyes Missy Joyce could do nothing wrong. He had been drilled by Joyce until he knew just what to do. He was to go home, but as soon as it was dark, he was to return, being careful not to be seen. After he was sure the household was asleep he was to harness a span of horses, being careful to make no noise, and have a carriage waiting in a grove a short distance back of the house. Here he was to wait for further orders from Joyce. Being well acquainted with the place, and Joyce promising to see that the barn and the carriage-house were left unlocked, he would have no trouble in carrying out his instructions.

Night came, and Joyce was in a fever of excitement. Would anything happen to prevent her carrying out her plans? If she had known that Andrew Harmon had hired a spy to watch the house she would have been in despair. But the spy was to watch the window of Calhoun’s room, and was concealed in a corn-field opposite the house. If he had watched the back instead of the front of the house, he would have seen some strange doings.

Margaret Goodsen was told that as Calhoun was so well, she could lie down in an adjoining room. If he needed anything, he could ring a little bell which stood on a table by his side. The nurse gladly availed herself of the opportunity to sleep. When the nurse retired Joyce came into the room, and speaking so that she could hear her, said, “Good night, Lieutenant Pennington; I hope you will rest well.” Then she whispered, “Here is the Federal uniform. Have you strength to put it on?”

“Yes, but oh, Joyce – ”

She made a swift gesture and pointed to the door of the nurse’s room.

“Here is some money,” she continued, in the same low whisper. “Now, don’t refuse it; you will need it.”

“I had plenty of money in a belt around me when I was wounded,” whispered Calhoun.

“The belt, oh, I forgot! The Doctor gave it to me for safe keeping.” Noiselessly she moved to the bureau, opened a drawer, and returned with the belt.

“Joyce, I shall not need your money now, but I thank you for the offer.”

“It was nothing. Be sure and be ready,” and she glided from the room.

The minutes were like hours to Calhoun. At one time he had made up his mind not to accept his proffered liberty, as it might bring serious trouble on Joyce; but he concluded that he must accept.

As for Joyce, she went to her room and threw herself down on a lounge. Her heart was beating tumultuously; every little noise startled her like the report of a gun. She waited in fear and apprehension. At length the clock struck eleven. “They must be all asleep by this time,” she thought. She arose and softly went downstairs, carrying blankets and pillows. She stopped and listened as she stepped out of doors. There was no moon, it was slightly cloudy, and darkness was over everything. Without hesitating she made her way through the back yard and the barn lot to the grove, where she had told Abe to be in waiting. She found that the faithful fellow had everything in readiness.

“Abe, I want you to come with me now and get the sick soldier. Drive through the lane until you reach the road; then drive straight to your house. The road is not much frequented, and you will not be apt to meet any one at this time of night. If you do, say nothing. Leave the soldier when you get home, drive straight back the way you came. Turn the horses into the pasture, put the harness and carriage where you found them. Be careful and make no noise. When you have done this go home again and be sure you get there before daylight. It’s a hard night’s work I have put on you, Abe, but I will pay you well for it. Now, take off your boots and come with me.”

The obedient fellow did as he was bid, and followed Joyce into the house and to Calhoun’s room.

“Take him to the carriage,” whispered Joyce.

The stalwart Abe took Calhoun in his arms as if he had been a child, and carried him to the carriage.

“Now, Abe, remember and do just as I told you,” said Joyce.

“Yes, Missy, I ’member ebberyting.”

She went to the side of the carriage, arranged the pillows and comforts around Calhoun, and then gave him her hand. “Good-bye,” she whispered; “may God keep you safe.”

The hand was cold as death, and Calhoun felt that she was trembling violently.

“Joyce! Joyce! is this to be our leave-taking?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Are you not coming to see me where I am going?”

“No, I dare not; we must not see each other again until – until the war is over.”

“Without a kiss, Joyce. Joyce, I – ”

“Hush! you have no right to ask for one, I much less right to give it. Come when the war is over, and then” – Her voice broke, and she turned and fled into the darkness.

How Joyce got back into the house she never knew. She fell on her bed half-unconscious. The strain upon her had been terrible, and the effect might have been serious if tears had not come to her relief. After a violent paroxysm of sobbing, she grew calmer, and tired nature asserted itself, and she fell asleep.

It was yet early morning when she was aroused by a cry from Miss Goodsen, and that lady came rushing into her room, wringing her hands and crying, “He is gone! He is gone!”

“Who is gone?” asked Joyce, springing up as if in amazement.

Miss Goodsen, in her excitement did not notice that Joyce was fully dressed. “The wounded Rebel, Lieutenant Pennington,” she fairly shrieked. “Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?” and she wrung her hands in her distress.

Joyce ran to Calhoun’s room; sure enough it was empty. “Stop your noise,” she said, sharply, to Miss Goodsen. “If any one is to blame, I am. They will do nothing with you. It may be he became delirious during the night and has wandered off. We must have the house and premises searched.”

The noise had aroused the whole household. The utmost excitement prevailed. Miss Crawford was frantic. She was sure they would all be sent to prison, and she upbraided Joyce for not getting another male nurse to watch him during the night. The house and the premises were thoroughly searched, but nothing was found of the missing man. The neighborhood was aroused and a thorough search of the surrounding country began.

Joyce took to her room with a raging headache. The afternoon brought a couple of deputy marshals from Columbus. They had come to convey Calhoun to prison, and were astonished when told that the prisoner had escaped. Miss Goodsen was closely questioned. She had looked in once during the night. The Lieutenant was awake, but said he was comfortable and wanted nothing. She then went to sleep and did not awake until morning. She found Joyce in her room, who was overcome when told that her patient was gone. She had not heard the slightest sound during the night.

Doctor Hopkins was summoned. The old Doctor was thunderstruck when he heard the news. He could scarcely believe it. To add to the mystery, Calhoun’s Confederate uniform was found. Apparently he had gone away with only his night clothes on. Doctor Hopkins at once gave it as his opinion that Calhoun had been seized with a sudden delirium and had stolen out of the house and wandered away; no doubt the body would be found somewhere. His professional services were needed in the care of Joyce, for she seemed to be completely prostrated, and had a high fever.

“Poor girl,” said the Doctor, “the excitement has been too much for her.” If he suspected anything he kept his secret well.

The spy employed by Andrew Harmon reported that he had not seen or heard anything suspicious during the night, so that gentleman concluded to say nothing, as he did not wish it to be known that he had had the house secretly watched.

Mr. Crawford returned the day after the escape. He was greatly exercised over what had happened, and blamed every one that Calhoun had been kept so long as he had. Poor Joyce came in for her share, but she wisely held her peace. The country was scoured for miles around, but nothing was seen or heard of the escaped prisoner, and at last the excitement died out.

Joyce did not lack news from Calhoun. The faithful Abe kept her fully informed. Joyce told him that both of them would go to prison if it was known what they had done, and he kept the secret well. He reported that Calhoun was gaining rapidly, and would soon be able to go his way. “He want to see yo’ awful bad befo’ he goes,” said Abe.

But Joyce resolutely refused. It would not do either of them any good. One day the negro brought her a letter. It was from Calhoun, telling her that when she received it he would be gone. He thought it cruel that she had not come to see him just once. He closed as follows:

“Joyce, I feel that my life is yours, for you saved it. Not only that, but to you I now owe my liberty, and I realize the struggle you have had to do as you have done. But be of good cheer. When the war is over the thunder of the last cannon will hardly have died away before I shall be at your side. Till then adieu.”

That letter was very precious to Joyce. Before the war was over it was nearly worn out by being read and reread.

Shortly after Mr. Crawford’s return he was asked by Andrew Harmon for permission to pay his addresses to his daughter. Harmon hoped that if he had her father’s permission to pay his addresses to her, Joyce’s coldness might disappear.

Mr. Crawford did not like the man, but he was rich and had a certain amount of political influence. Mr. Crawford was thinking of being a candidate for Congress at the approaching election, and he did not wish to offend Harmon, but he secretly hoped that Joyce would refuse him; in this he was not disappointed. She was indignant that her father had listened to Harmon, even to the extent that he had. “Why, father, I have heard you call him cowardly and dishonest,” she exclaimed, “and to think that you told him you would leave it entirely to me.”

“I did not wish to offend him,” meekly replied Mr. Crawford, “and I had confidence in your judgment. I was almost certain you would refuse him.”

“Will you always have such confidence in my judgment?” asked Joyce, quickly.

“What do you mean?” asked her father.

“Suppose I should wish to marry one of whom you did not approve?”

“That is another proposition,” said Mr. Crawford. “You might have been so foolish as to fall in love with that Morgan Rebel and horse-thief you took care of so long. If so, I had rather see you dead than married to him.”

Poor Joyce! Did her father suspect anything? She caught her breath, and came near falling. Quickly recovering herself, she answered. “At least he was a brave man. But everybody says he is dead, and mortals do not wed ghosts.”

“It is to be sincerely hoped he is dead,” replied Mr. Crawford, for he had noticed his daughter’s confusion, and an uneasiness took possession of him. But much to Joyce’s relief he did not question her further.

Andrew Harmon was beside himself with rage when told by Mr. Crawford that, while his daughter was sensible of the great honor he would bestow upon her, she was still very young, and had no idea of marrying any one at present.

Harmon determined to have revenge on Joyce, and began slyly to circulate reports that Joyce Crawford, if she chose, could tell a great deal about the escape of the Rebel officer. In fact, half of his sickness was shammed.

These rumors came to the ears of Mark Crawford. He had been promoted to a colonelcy for gallantry at Chickamauga. During the winter, while the army lay still around Chattanooga, he had come home on furlough. While at home he sought out Harmon and gave him as fine a thrashing as a man ever received, warning him if he ever heard of him connecting his sister with the escape of Calhoun again he would break every bone in his body. The only revenge Harmon durst take was to defeat Mr. Crawford in his aspirations for a nomination for Congress.