Love under Fire | Page 3

lines, and I doubt if there is a
soldier in my command who could succeed. Billie might have a chance,
and I know no one else who would--do you? I sent for you to gain your
consent, and I ask it, Major, in the name of the South."
The taller man remained silent, his hands clasped, and head sunk on his
breast. Finally he glanced up into the face of the other, with shoulders
thrown back.
"No Hardy ever yet failed in duty," he said sternly, "nor will one now.
Where are the papers?"

"In my tent, but the bearer will be safer not to come here for them.
Even my orderly may be a spy. An aide shall deliver them at Three
Corners in an hour--will that be too early?"
"No; which aide? There should be no mistake."
"There will be none. I will send Lieutenant West, and he shall act as
escort as far as the outer pickets; beyond that--"
"Wit and good luck, of course. What is the word?"
"'Cumberland'; now listen, and repeat exactly what I say to Billie." His
voice fell into lower, more confidential tones, and, listen as I would, I
could catch only now and then a word, or detached sentence. "The
upper road"; "yes, the wide detour"; "coming in by the rear will be
safer"; "that isn't a bad story"; "he's a tartar to lie too"; "just the thing,
Major, just the thing"; then, "But that's enough for the outlines; details
must take care of themselves. Let's waste no more time; there are only
four more hours of darkness."
The two men separated hurriedly with a warm hand-clasp, the stocky
general entering the tent, and brusquely addressing some one within,
while the major swung into the saddle of the waiting horse, and driving
in the spurs rode swiftly away, instantly disappearing.
There was no doubt as to my own duty. By the merest accident I had
already become possessed of most important information. What it was
all about was still only guess-work, yet it was evidently enough a most
serious matter. I could better serve the cause of the Union by
intercepting these despatches, and running down this spy, than by
carrying out Sheridan's original instructions. And it seemed to me I
could do it; that I already knew a way in which this might be
accomplished. Our army had held all this ground only a few months
before, and I recalled clearly to mind the exact spot where the aide was
to meet the despatch-bearer. The "Three Corners"; surely that must be
where the roads met at the creek ford, with the log meeting house
perched on the hill above. It would be to the west of where I was, and
not more than two miles distant.

CHAPTER II
AFTER THE DESPATCH-BEARER
I was cool-headed, and accustomed to this species of adventure, or I
should never have been there. Yet, I confess my nerves tingled as I
crept cautiously forward through the fringe of bushes, seeking the exact
spot where the major had disappeared down what must have been some
species of road. There were sentinels posted about the tent; I saw the
silhouette of one, and heard several voices conversing gruffly as I slunk
past, yet could not definitely locate these last in the gloom. There was a
little row of tents--three or four--back of the larger one occupied by the
general; but these were unlighted and silent. I crept past them
unobserved, emerging into a more open space, where my groping hands
encountered wheel-tracks, and the beaten earth of a road.
This apparently ran nearly east and west, as I recalled direction, and I
turned to the right, bending low in the shadows, and advancing at a
crouching run. Seemingly there was nothing to obstruct progress. The
noise of stomping and restless horses reached me from the left,
evidence of a nearby cavalry or artillery camp; yet I saw no one,
perceived no light even, until after advancing at least a quarter of a mile.
Then a sudden slight turn in the road brought me upon a rude shack,
showing a blacksmith's fire glowing within, and the smith himself
pounding busily away at an anvil. The gleam of the forge shot out redly
across the road. As I crept closer I could perceive the figures of others
lounging about inside--soldiers, no doubt, although I could not be
certain. There was a ragged Confederate cavalry jacket hanging over a
rain-barrel just outside the window, and, getting hold of it, I slipped it
on over my woollen shirt. The night air was chill, my clothes still damp
from the river, and besides it might help later on. As I did this a rider
came flying up the road, bending low over his pommel.