Rapidly pushing his way through this mob, he reached the outer edge of the circle. Here groups of men were standing, but they were not hurrahing. Instead, their looks were dark and surly, and it was plain they were not enjoying the proceedings. Just as Calhoun reached these groups, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a stern low voice said: "You are our prisoner; better come quietly and make no disturbance." And in a trice Calhoun felt each of his arms grasped by strong hands. He was powerless in the iron grip by which he was held; if help there was, it must come from the outside.

"Oho ne! Oho ne! Oho ne!"

The despairing cry cleft the night air like a knife. It fell on the astonished ears of hundreds who did not understand it. But to those groups of silent, sullen-browed men it came as the call of a trumpet, summoning them to duty.

"Oho ne! Oho ne!" they answered, and before the surprised officers could draw a weapon, could raise a hand to defend themselves, they were beaten down, and their prisoner snatched from them.

The alarm was raised, and a company of soldiers came on the run, with fixed bayonets, scattering the crowd right and left. But when they reached the spot they found only a couple of half-dazed and bleeding officers. They could only say they had been set upon, knocked down, and their prisoner taken from them. By whom they did not know, for it was dark, and the crowd had dispersed.

When the onset came, Calhoun felt himself grasped by the arm, and a voice whispered, "Follow me, quick!"

Into the darkness Calhoun dashed, following his guide. In the shadow of buildings, through dark alleys, they ran. At last they came to a part of the city where only a lamp gleamed here and there. They stopped running, both exhausted, their breath coming in quick gasps.



"We are safe now," said the guide, "but it was a close shave for you. What did they arrest you for?"

"To hang me," answered Calhoun, with a shudder. "I am a Confederate officer."

"I thought you must be some big gun, or old Morton wouldn't have tried to arrest you in that crowd; but don't worry, you are all right now."

His guide, whose name proved to be Randall, soon came to a house which he said was his home, "and," he exclaimed, "none of Abe Lincoln's minions will ever find you here. I have sheltered more than one escaped Confederate prisoner from that infernal pen out there called Camp Morton. It should be called Camp Hades."

Calhoun was ushered into the house, and shown a room. "Sleep soundly, and without fear," said Mr. Randall.

Calhoun took his advice, but before he went to sleep he did not forget to return thanks for his escape, and he also had a great deal more respect for the Knights of the Golden Circle than he had had before. The next morning the papers came out with a full description of Calhoun, telling of his escape, and saying he was a famous spy. The article ended with the announcement that so important did the government consider his person that a reward of one thousand dollars would be paid for his recapture. Calhoun now knew that his work was done in the North. The only thing that remained for him was to get out of it as secretly as possible.

Two days afterwards he was conveyed out of the city concealed in a farmer's wagon. He was passed on from the hands of one true Knight to another, and at the end of three days he found himself on the banks of the Ohio, a few miles above Madison. In the darkness of the night he was rowed over, and his feet once more pressed the soil of his native state. In his ecstasy he felt like kissing the ground, for was it not the soil of Kentucky?

At the house of a true Southerner he found refuge. His measure was taken into Carrolton, where a tailor made him a fine uniform. Purchasing a horse of the gentleman with whom he stayed, he bade him good-bye, and sprang into the saddle. The sun had just set, and the whole west glowed with the beauty which we ascribe to the Golden City. In the midst of the gold hung the new moon like a silver bow.

"See! see!" cried Calhoun, "the new moon, I saw it over my right shoulder. It means good luck."

And while the happy omen still gleamed in the west, he galloped away.



CHAPTER XVI.

CALHOUN MAKES HIS REPORT.

By keeping off the main roads and avoiding the towns, Calhoun had no trouble in making his way back into Tennessee. He had been gone nearly a month, and was glad to see his old command, who gave him a royal welcome. He was showered with questions as to where he had been, but to each and every one he would laugh and say, "Be glad to tell you, boys, but can't."

"Thought you had deserted us," said his scouts.

"Not till death," replied Calhoun. "I was on a secret mission. The General knows where I was."

"It's all right then, but mark my word, there will be some deviltry going on shortly," one of them remarked, sagely.

As General Breckinridge was greatly interested, Calhoun did not make his report until that General could meet with Morgan. Then Calhoun gave a detailed account of all he had seen and heard. He was listened to with breathless attention.

"His report agrees perfectly with all I have heard," remarked Breckinridge, much pleased. "I have had a dozen different agents in the North, and they all agree."

"But you have not given us your own conclusions, Lieutenant," said Morgan.

"It might seem presumptuous in me," answered Calhoun.

"By no means; let us hear it," replied both generals.

Calhoun, thus entreated, gave the conclusions he had formed, not from what had been told him by the leaders of the Knights of the Golden Circle, but from his own observations. He was listened to with evident interest.

"Your conclusions seem to be at utter variance with all that was told you, and every fact given," said Breckinridge. "You admit that dissatisfaction in the Democratic party is almost universal over the way the war is being conducted; you say that we have not been deceived regarding the numbers of the Knights of the Golden Circle, that there are eighty thousand of the order in Indiana alone, of whom forty thousand are armed; as you know, every member of that order has taken an oath not to take up arms against the South; that they believe in states' rights; that they will resist by force the tyranny of the Federal government; and yet you say it is your belief that if General Morgan should invade the state, not a hand would be raised to help him. I cannot understand it."

"I will try to make myself plain," said Calhoun. "The Democratic party is sick and tired of the war, and want it stopped. They believe we can never be whipped, and in that they are right. But they love the Union, revere the old flag. They indulge the vain hope that if the war were stopped, the Union might be restored. We know how foolish that hope is. I speak of the rank and file. Many of their leaders are notoriously disloyal, but they deceive the people with fine words. They make the party believe that if the Republican party were only defeated, things would be as they were.

"As to the Knights of the Golden Circle, the great mass who join it are told it is only a secret political society. They scarcely comprehend its oaths; they are kept in ignorance of the real motives of the order. These Knights hate the party in power with a bitter hatred. They are friendly to the South, believe we are right; but mark my word, they will not fight for us. They are armed, but their idea is to resist the draft. Go among them to-day, and not one in a thousand would enlist to fight in the Southern army. Fighting is the last thing they want to do for either side. For these reasons I conclude that if General Morgan invaded Indiana he would receive no direct aid from the Knights of the Golden Circle. I confess these conclusions are entirely different from what the leaders told me.

"As for the leaders, they are heart and soul with us. They want us to succeed. If they dared they would rise in revolt to-morrow. They are doing all they can, without open resort to arms, to have us succeed. But they are a band of conspirators. They want us to succeed, because they want utterly to destroy the Federal Union. They want to break loose and form a Northwest Confederacy. They dare not tell their followers this, but it is what they are working for."

When Calhoun had stated his opinion, both Breckinridge and Morgan asked him many questions. He was then dismissed. Unknown to Calhoun there were three or four other Southern officers present, who had also been in the North. They were called in, and questioned on the points raised by Calhoun. Every one differed with him. They believed that if an opportunity were presented the Knights would rise almost to a man at the call of their leaders.

Breckinridge and Morgan held an earnest consultation. Morgan was greatly disappointed over Calhoun's report, for he had set his heart on making a raid into Indiana and Ohio. He believed it would be the greatest triumph of his life, and with the Northwest in open revolt, the independence of the South would be assured.

"Lieutenant Pennington must be mistaken," said Breckinridge. "My acquaintance in the North is extensive, and I believe my friends there will do just as they say they will."

Before Morgan and Breckinridge parted, it was fully agreed that Morgan should make the raid. But when the subject was broached to Bragg, that general absolutely refused to sanction it. He gave Morgan permission to make a raid into Kentucky and capture Louisville if possible. That was as far as he would go, and even with that object in view, he limited Morgan's force to two thousand.

Morgan apparently acquiesced in this decision of his commander; but in his heart he resolved to disobey if, when he neared Louisville, he found conditions at all favorable for the invasion of Indiana.

Some time had passed since Morgan had made a raid, and the news that they were again to ride north, probably clear to Louisville, was welcomed by the rough riders. To them a raid was but a holiday. It did not take Morgan long to prepare. His men were always ready to move. "To Louisville," was the cry, "we want to call on George D.," meaning George D. Prentice, the editor of the Louisville Journal.

In all probability few men in the Confederate army knew that Morgan was on another raid, until he was well on his way. This time he entered Kentucky farther east than was his custom, and the first intimation the Federals had that he was in the state, he was crossing the Cumberland River at Burkesville. This was on the second day of July. The alarm was given. The frenzied Federals telegraphed right and left for troops to head off Morgan. It was thought that he intended to strike the Louisville and Nashville Railroad again at his favorite place—Bacon Creek. General Judah hurried from Tompkinsville with a brigade to head him off, but his advance under General Hobson was struck at Marrowbone, and hurled back. This left Morgan an open road to Columbia, and that place fell an easy prey on the 3d.

Leaving General Hobson to pursue Morgan, General Judah hurried back to Glasgow to bring up another brigade. But General Judah never overtook Morgan until days afterwards, and then he caught him at Buffington Island.

As for Hobson, he stuck to Morgan's trail as an Indian sticks to the trail of his enemy. He followed him all through Kentucky, all through Indiana, all through Ohio, never but a few hours behind, yet never in striking distance until Buffington Island was reached.

After leaving the forces of Judah and Hobson in the rear, Morgan had nearly an open road to Louisville. The 4th found him at the crossing of Green River on the road between Columbia and Campbellsville. Here a portion of the Twenty-fifth Michigan, under Colonel Moore, was strongly fortified, and a charge made by Morgan was bloodily repulsed. As both Judah and Hobson were close in his rear, it would take too much time to bring these determined men to terms, and so Morgan, much to his regret, was forced to leave them, and pass on. The 5th of July found him at Lebanon. The garrison under Colonel Hanson fought desperately, but was forced to capitulate, and Lebanon with all its stores and three hundred and fifty prisoners was again in Morgan's hands.

The next day found him at Bardstown, where twenty-five men of the Fourth Regular Cavalry, under the command of Lieutenant Thomas Sullivan, threw themselves into a livery stable, strongly fortified it, and refused to surrender. Here Morgan made a mistake. He should have left them and passed on; but angered that he should be defied by so few men, he determined to capture them and it delayed him twenty-four precious hours. So enraged were his men over what they considered the obstinacy of the brave little band, that they began to misuse the prisoners, but Morgan stopped them, saying: "The damned Yankees ought to be complimented on their pluck."

Never, in any of his raids, had Morgan met with so fierce resistance as on this one. Cut to the quick by the numerous criticisms which had been published in Northern papers, that cowardice prompted nearly every one of the surrenders to Morgan, these troops fought long after prudence should have caused them to surrender.

From Bardstown Morgan moved to Shepherdsville. He was now within striking distance of Louisville. Here it was that he fully decided, if he had not done so before, upon the invasion of Indiana, instead of attempting the capture of Louisville. At Shepherdsville he was on the Louisville and Nashville Railroad, where a long bridge spans the Salt River. But he did not stop to capture the garrison which guarded the bridge, nor did he attempt to burn it; time was too precious. Instead, he rode straight west, and on the 9th was in Brandenburg. Before him rolled the Ohio River, beyond lay the green hills of Indiana. It was the first time he had led his men clear to the Ohio River. The sight of Yankee land aroused them to the utmost enthusiasm. They would have attempted to cross if ten thousand foes had opposed them.

Calhoun had had the advance into Brandenburg with instructions to sweep through the place, stopping for nothing, and to capture any steamboats which might be at the landing. This he did. Far in advance of the main body, he galloped into the town, to the astonishment and dismay of its citizens.

Two small steamboats were lying at the landing, and before the terrorized crews could cut the hawsers and drift out into the stream, Calhoun and his men were on board and the boats were theirs.

The means of crossing the river were now in Morgan's hands. But a fresh danger arose. A gunboat came steaming down the river from Louisville and opened fire. Morgan brought every piece of his artillery into action, and for two hours the battle raged. Then the gunboat, discomfited, withdrew and went back to Louisville, leaving the way open. There was now nothing to prevent Morgan from crossing the river.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE PASSING OF THE RUBICON.

Who can tell the thoughts of John H. Morgan, as he sat on his horse that July day, and with fixed gaze looked out upon the river. Beyond lay the fair fields of Indiana, the Canaan of his hopes. Should he go in and possess? The waters needed not to be rolled back. He had the means of crossing. Before him all was calm, peaceful. No foe stood on the opposite bank to oppose him; no cannon frowned from the hilltops. Behind him were thousands of angry Federals in swift pursuit. Would it be safer to go ahead than to turn back?

As Caesar stood on the bank of the Rubicon debating what to do, so did Morgan stand on the bank of the Ohio. Like Caesar, if he once took the step, he must abide the consequences. But if there was any hesitation in the mind of Morgan, he did not hesitate long. "Cross over," was the order which he gave. "We shall soon know," he said to Calhoun, "whether they are friends or foes over there; whether the forty thousand Knights who were so anxious for me to come will appear or not."

Now, to look upon the invasion of Indiana and Ohio by Morgan seems like sheer madness. He had a force of only a little over three thousand, and the states which he invaded had millions of population. But he had reasons to believe that thousands of that population were friendly to him, would welcome him with gladness. When he so nearly escaped though no hand was raised to help him, what would he have accomplished if only a few thousand had come to his relief? That there were thousands in the two states who would have flocked gladly to his standard if they had dared, there is no doubt. But the hand of the government was too strong for them to resist. The fires of loyalty burned too fiercely to be quenched by them. With all their boasted strength, the Knights of the Golden Circle were powerless when the supreme moment came.

The order to cross the river was hailed with enthusiasm by every man in Morgan's command. Where they were going they knew not, cared not; they would go where their gallant leader led. He had never failed them, he would not fail them now. They knew only that they were to invade the land of their enemies; that was enough. The war was to be brought home to the North as it had been to the South. Calhoun caught the fever which caused the blood of every man to flow more swiftly through his veins. He had been full of doubts; he trembled for the results if that river were once passed. He had been through the North and noted her resources, how terribly in earnest her people were that the Union should be saved. What if there were thousands of traitors in their midst? There were enough loyal men left to crush them. What if the state of Indiana was honeycombed with camps of the Knights of the Golden Circle? The lodges of the Union League were fully as numerous. He now forgot all these things. Did not the Knights come to his relief in his hour of sore distress? Surely they would not forget their oaths, when Morgan came. So he tossed his hat in the air, and shouted, "Boys, over there is Yankee land! we will cross over and possess it."

The order to cross once given, was obeyed with alacrity. In an incredibly short time the three thousand men and horses were ferried across the river.

"Burn the boats," was Morgan's order.

The torch was applied, and as the flames wrapped them in their fiery embrace, lo! on the other side came the eager troopers of Hobson. Like beasts baffled of their prey, they could only stand and gnash their teeth in their rage. Between them and Morgan rolled the river, and they had no means of crossing.

"Why don't you come across, Yanks?" Morgan's men shouted in derision.

"Got any word you want to send to your mammy? We are going to see her," they mockingly cried.

And thus with taunt and laugh and hurrah, Morgan's men rode away, leaving their enemies standing helpless on the farther bank.

"Twenty miles to Corydon," said Calhoun, as he galloped with his scouts to the front to take the advance. "I wonder if I shall meet my friend Jones, and whether, when he sees us, he will throw his hat on high, and give us a royal welcome? If he spoke the truth, the bells of Corydon will ring a joyful peal when the people see us coming, and we shall be greeted with waving flags, and find hundreds of sturdy Knights ready to join us."

But in that twenty miles not a single waving flag did Calhoun see, not a single shout of welcome did he hear. Instead, the inhabitants seemed to be in an agony of fear. They met only decrepit old men and white-faced women and children. Not a single cup of cold water was freely offered them in that twenty miles. If Calhoun could only have seen the welcome given Hobson's men the day after as they came over the same road, the flags that were waved, the shouts of welcome that greeted them, how women and children stood by the roadside with cooling water and dainty food to give them, and sent their prayers after them—if Calhoun could have seen all these things, his heart would have sunk, and he would have known that there was no welcome for Morgan's men in Indiana.

But he was soon to have a ruder awakening. As he neared Corydon, he and his scouts were greeted with a volley, and sixteen of his men went down. The raid for them was over.

"Charge!" shouted Calhoun, and like a whirlwind he and his men were on the little band of home guards, who thought they could withstand Morgan's whole force.

In a few brief minutes the fight was over, and on the sod lay several motionless figures. In spite of himself, Calhoun could not help thinking of Lexington and the farmer minute men who met Pitcairn and his red-coats on that April morning in 1775. Were not these men of Corydon as brave? Did they not deserve a monument as much? He tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy, but it stayed with him for a long time.

A short distance beyond Corydon stood a fine house, which, with all its surroundings, showed it to be the dwelling of a rich and prosperous farmer. When Calhoun came up, the owner, bareheaded and greatly excited, was engaged in controversy with one of Calhoun's scouts who had just appropriated a fine ham from the farmer's smoke-house and was busily engaged in tying it to his saddle-bow.

"You have no business to take my property without paying for it!" the farmer was saying, angrily. "I am a friend of the South; I have opposed the war from the beginning."

Seeing Calhoun, and noticing he was an officer, the farmer rushed up to him, crying, "Stop them! Stop them! they are stealing my property!"

"Well, I declare, if it isn't my old friend Jones!" exclaimed Calhoun. "How do you do, Mr. Jones? Where are those five hundred armed Knights who you said would meet us here? Where is your hat, that you are not throwing it high in air? Why are you not shouting hallelujahs over our coming?"

Jones had stopped and was staring at Calhoun with open mouth and bulging eyes. "Bless my soul," he at length managed to stammer, "if it isn't Mr. Harrison!"

"Lieutenant Pennington, at your service. But, Jones, where are those Knights of the Golden Circle you promised would join us here?"

Jones hung his head. "We—we didn't expect you to come so soon," he managed to answer; "we didn't have time to rally."

"Mr. Jones, you told me this whole country would welcome us as liberators. They did welcome us back there in Corydon, but it was with lead. Sixteen of our men were killed and wounded. Mr. Jones, there will be several funerals for you to attend in Corydon."

"It must be some of those Union Leaguers," exclaimed Mr. Jones. "Glad they were killed; they threatened to hang me the other day."

"They were heroes, compared to you!" hotly exclaimed Calhoun. "You and your cowardly Knights can plot in secret, stab in the dark, curse your government, but when it comes to fighting like men you are a pack of cowardly curs."

But Mr. Jones hardly heard this fierce Phillipic; his eyes were fixed on his smoke-house, which was being entered by some more of the soldiers.

"Won't you stop them," he cried, wringing his hands; "they will take it all! Why, you are a pack of thieves!"

"Boys, don't enter or disturb anything in the house," cried Calhoun, turning to his men, "but take anything out of doors you can lay your hands on; horses, everything."

The men dispersed with a shout to carry out the order. Calhoun left Mr. Jones in the road jumping up and down, tearing his hair and shouting at the top of his voice, "I am going to vote for Abe Lincoln. I am—I am, if I am damned for it!"

In all probability Morgan's raid in Indiana and Ohio made more than one vote for old Abe. Of all the thousands of Knights of the Golden Circle in Indiana and Ohio, not one took his rifle to join Morgan, not one raised his hand to help him.

In speaking of this to General Shackelford, who captured him, Morgan said, bitterly: "Since I have crossed the Ohio I have not seen a single friendly face. Every man, woman, and child I have met has been my enemy; every hill-top a telegraph station to herald my coming; every bush an ambush to conceal a foe."

The people who lived along the route pursued by Morgan will never forget his raid. What happened has been told and retold a thousand times around the fireside, and the story will be handed down not only to their children, but to their children's children. Morgan was everywhere proclaimed as a thief and a robber. They forgot that he had to subsist at the expense of the country, and that he had to take horses to replace those of his own which had broken down. Not only that, but it was life to him to sweep the country through which he passed clear of horses, that his pursuers might not get them. The Federals in pursuit took horses as readily as Morgan's men.

Those who proclaim Morgan a thief and a robber sing with gusto "Marching through Georgia," and tell how "the sweet potatoes started from the ground." They forget how Sheridan, the greatest cavalry leader of the Federal army, boasted he had made the lovely Shenandoah Valley such a waste that a crow would starve to death flying over it. The Southern people look upon Sherman and Sheridan as the people of Ohio and Indiana look upon Morgan. These generals were not inhuman; they simply practised war. It is safe to say that less private property was destroyed in Morgan's raid in Indiana and Ohio than in any other raid of equal magnitude made by either side during the war.

One can now see by reading the dispatches the panic and terror caused by Morgan in this raid. From Cairo, Illinois, to Wheeling, West Virginia, the Federals were in a panic, for they knew not which way Morgan would turn, or where he would strike. From the entire length of the Ohio, the people were wildly calling on the government to send troops to protect them from Morgan. There were fears and trembling as far north as Indianapolis. Governor Tod, of Ohio, declared martial law through the southern part of his state, and called on Morton to do the same for Indiana. But Morton, cooler, more careful, and looking farther ahead as to what might be the effect of such a measure, wisely refused to do so.

From Corydon Morgan rode north to Salem. The Federals now thought for sure that Indianapolis was his objective point, but from Salem he turned northeast and swept through the state, touching or passing through in his route the counties of Jackson, Scott, Jennings, Jefferson, Ripley, and Dearborn, passing into Ohio, in the northwest corner of Hamilton County, almost within sight of the great city of Cincinnati. Turning north, he entered Butler County. Here, as in Indiana, he met only the scowling faces of enemies.

"And here is where they worship Vallandigham!" exclaimed Calhoun, passionately. "Here is where they told me almost every man belonged to the Knights of the Golden Circle, and that the whole county would welcome us. Here is where even the Democratic party meet in open convention, pass resolutions in favor of the South, denounce Lincoln as a monster and tyrant, and demand that the war cease at once and the South go free, saying they will support no man for office who in the least way favors the war. And now not a word of welcome, not a single hand reached out in aid. Oh! the cowards! the cowards!"(3)

Morgan made no bitter reply, but said. "You warned us, Lieutenant, how it would be. I have expected no aid since the first day we entered Indiana. But with God's help we shall yet escape from our foes. Oh, if my gallant men were across the Ohio once more! It is only that river which stands in between us and safety. There is now no hope of securing a steamboat. But at Buffington Island the river is shoal, and can be forded. If we can reach Buffington Island before our enemies, we can laugh at our pursuers."

And for Buffington Island Morgan headed, threatening each place along the way, to keep the Federals guessing where he would attempt to cross. Like a whirlwind he swept through the counties of Warren, Clermont, Brown, Adams, Pike, Jackson, Gallia, Meigs, brushing aside like so many flies the militia which tried to impede his progress.

The goal was nearly reached. Hobson was half a day behind, still trailing, still following like a bloodhound. The Confederates knew of no force in front except militia. Safety was before them. The river once passed, Morgan would have performed the greatest exploit of the war. His men were already singing songs of triumph, for the river was in sight. Night came on, but they marched through the darkness, to take position. In the gray of the morning they would sweep aside the militia and cross over.

In the morning a heavy fog hung over river and land, as if the sun were afraid to look down upon the scene to be enacted. In the gloom, Colonel Duke and the dashing Huffman formed their commands and moved to the attack. They were received with a fire which surprised them, coming as they supposed from militia. But with loud cheers they swept forward, and the Federals were forced back, leaving a piece of artillery. A little farther and the ford would be won; then there came a crashing volley, mingled with the thunder of artillery, and they saw before them, not militia, but long lines of blue-coated veterans. General Judah's brigade had been transported up the river in steamboats, and landed at Pomeroy. They had marched all night, and were now in possession of the ford.

In vain the gallant Duke and Huffman struggled against that force. They were driven back. Flight was to be resumed up the river, when couriers came dashing in with the news that Hobson was up. They were hemmed in. There was one place yet, a path through the woods, by which a few could escape, if the Federal force could be held back for a time.

"Go!" cried Duke to Morgan, "and I will hold them until you are gone."

"Go!" cried Huffman, faint and bleeding from a wound, "and I will stay and help Colonel Duke."

"Go!" cried Calhoun, "if you are saved I care not for myself."

Then there arose a storm of protests. Who could so well guard and protect the chief as Calhoun and his scouts? And so, against Morgan's will, Calhoun went with him.

"Come, then, we will clear the way," Calhoun cried to his scouts, and before the way was closed, six hundred men with Morgan had escaped.

Hemmed in on every side, the Confederates fought as only desperate men can fight; but as soon as it was known that Morgan was well away, Duke and Huffman, and with them many other gallant officers, saw it would be madness to fight longer, and with breaking hearts they surrendered to their exultant foes. Then it was that some two or three hundred, in spite of shot and shell, in spite of the leaden hail which fell around them, plunged down the bank into the river. The bodies of many floated down, their life blood reddening the water. The current swept many a steed and rider down, and they were seen no more. A few there were who struggled through to safety, and these were all that escaped of the thousands that crossed the Ohio at Brandenburg.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE RIDE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.

What Morgan's thoughts were, what his hopes were, as he rode away from that fatal field at Buffington Island, no one knows. With him rode six hundred, all that were left of three thousand. He could have had no thoughts of attempting to cross the Ohio anywhere near Buffington Island, for he rode almost due north. It may have been he thought that he might cross near Wheeling or higher up, and escape into the mountains of Western Pennsylvania; or as a last resort, he might reach Lake Erie, seize a steamboat, and escape to Canada. Whatever he thought, north he rode, through the most populous counties of Ohio. And what a ride was that for six hundred men! Foes everywhere; Home Guards springing up at every corner; no rest day or night.

Close in his rear thundered the legions of General Shackelford, a Kentuckian as brave, as fearless, as tireless as Morgan himself. But in spite of all opposition, in spite of foes gathering on right and left and in front, Morgan rode on, sweeping through the counties of Meigs, Vinton, Hocking, Athens, Washington, Morgan, Muskingum, Guernsey, Belmont, Harrison, Jefferson, until he reached Columbiana County, where the end came.

At almost every hour during this ride the six hundred grew less. Men fell from their horses in exhaustion. They slept as they rode, keeping to their saddles as by instinct. The terrible strain told on every one. The men grew haggard, emaciated. When no danger threatened, they rode as dead men, but once let a rifle crack in front, and their sluggish blood would flow like fire through their veins, their eyes would kindle with the excitement of battle, and they would be Morgan's fierce raiders once more.

As for Calhoun, it seemed as if he never slept, never tired. It was as if his frame were made of iron. Where danger threatened there he was. He was foremost in every charge. It looked as if he bore a charmed life. The day before the end came he was scouting on a road, parallel to the one on which the main body was travelling. Hearing shots, he took a cross-road, and galloped at full speed to see what was the trouble. A small party of Home Guards were retreating at full speed; one far in advance of the others was making frantic efforts to urge his horse to greater speed. Calhoun saw that he could cut him off, and he did so, reaching the road just as he came abreast of it. So intent was the fellow on getting away he did not notice Calhoun until brought to a stand by the stern command, "Surrender."

In his surprise and terror, the man rolled from his horse, the picture of the most abject cowardice Calhoun ever saw. He fairly grovelled in the dust. "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" he cried, raising his hands in supplication. "I didn't want to come; they forced me. I never did anything against you."

Dismounting Calhoun gave him a kick which sent him rolling. "Get up, you blubbering calf," he exclaimed, "and tell us what you know."

The fellow staggered to his feet, his teeth chattering, and trembling like a leaf.

"Now, answer my questions, and see that you tell the truth," said Calhoun. "Are there any forces in front of us?"

"N—not—not as I know," he managed to say.

"Do you know the shortest road to Salineville?"

"Yes; yes."

"Will you guide us there if I spare your life?"

"Anything, I will do anything, if you won't kill me," he whined.

"Very well, but I will exchange horses with you, as I see you are riding a fine one, and he looks fresh," remarked Calhoun.

The exchange was made, and then Calhoun said, "Now lead on, and at the first sign of treachery, I will blow out your brains. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, I will take you the shortest road."

"What's your name," asked Calhoun, as they rode along.

"Andrew Harmon."

"Well, Andrew, I wish all Yankees were like you. If they were, we should have no trouble whipping the North. I reckon you are about as big a coward as I ever met."

Harmon, still white and trembling, did not answer; he was too thoroughly cowed.

Ride as hard as Morgan's men could, when they neared Salineville Shackelford was pressing on their rear. They had either to fight or surrender.

"My brave boys, you have done all that mortals can do. I cannot bear to see you slaughtered. I will surrender."

As Morgan said this his voice trembled. It was a word his men had never heard him use before.

"General, it is not all over for you," cried Calhoun, his voice quivering with emotion. "Think of the joy of the Yankees if you should be captured. Let me take half the men. You take the other half and escape. I can hold the enemy in check until you get well away."

Morgan demurred. "The sacrifice will be too great," he said.

"You must, you shall consent. We will force you," the cry went up from the whole command as from one man.

Morgan bowed his head, he could not speak. In silence he took Calhoun's hand, tears gathered in his eyes, the first tears Calhoun ever saw there. There was a strong clasp, a clasp which seemed to say "It may be the last," then, wheeling his horse, Morgan galloped swiftly away, followed by less than half of his six hundred.

There was not a moment to lose, for the Federals were already charging down with triumphant cheers, confident of an easy victory. Calhoun had posted his men well, and a withering volley sent the Federals reeling back. They charged again, only to recoil before the fierce fire of the Confederates. There was now a lull in the fighting. Calhoun saw that they were flanking him on the right and left. "Charge!" he shouted, and the little band were soon in the midst of their enemies. The Federals closed in around them. There was no way to retreat. Calhoun's men, seeing how hopeless the fight was, began to throw down their arms.

"Surrender," cried a fine-looking officer to Calhoun, who, well in front, was fighting like a demon. Even in that hell of battle Calhoun knew the officer. It was Mark Crawford, the captain whose horse he had captured in Tennessee, and whom he afterwards took prisoner at Cave City. But the captain was wearing the shoulder-straps of a major now.

"Never!" shouted Calhoun, in answer to the summons to surrender, and with sword in hand, he spurred forward to engage Crawford in single combat. But that officer had a revolver in his hand, and he raised it and fired.

Calhoun felt as if he had been struck on the head with a red-hot iron. He reeled in his saddle, and then fell forward on his horse's neck. His sword dropped from his nerveless hand. His horse, wild with fear and not feeling the restraining hand of a master, broke through the ranks of the Federals, and bore him out of the conflict.

Still clinging to the neck of his horse and the horn of his saddle, he kept his seat. He straightened himself up, but the blood streaming over his face blinded him, and he saw not where he was going. Neither did he realize what had happened, for the shock of his wound had rendered him half-unconscious. His mind began to wander. He was a soldier no longer, but a boy back in Kentucky running a race with his cousin Fred.

"On! on! Salim," he weakly shouted; "we must win, it is for the Sunny South we are racing."

The horse still ran at full speed, his glossy coat dripping with perspiration, his nostrils widely distended and showing red with blood. But his pace began to slacken. Darkness gathered before the eyes of Calhoun. "Why, it's getting night," he murmured; "Fred, where are you?" Lower still lower he sank, until he was once more grasping the neck of his horse. A deadly faintness seized him, total darkness was around him, and he knew no more.

With Calhoun gone, all resistance to the Federals ceased. Of the six hundred, who had ridden so far and so well, fully one-half were prisoners.

The Federals were greatly chagrined and disappointed when they found that Morgan was not among the prisoners. The man they desired above all others was still at liberty. "Forward," was the command, and the pursuit was again taken up.

With the remnant of his command, Morgan was nearing New Lisbon. If there were no foes before him there was still hope. From a road to the west of the one he was on, a cloud of dust was rising. His guide told him that this road intersected the one he was on but a short distance ahead. His advance came dashing back, saying there was a large body of Federal troops in his front. From the rear came the direful tidings that Shackelford was near. Morgan saw, and his lip quivered. "It is no use," he said, "it is all over."

The ride of the six hundred had ended—a ride that will ever live in song and story.

"Morgan has surrendered! Morgan is a prisoner!" was the news borne on lightning wings all over the entire North.

What rejoicing there was among the Federals! The great raider, the man they feared more than an army with banners, was in their power.



CHAPTER XIX.

AN ANGEL OF MERCY.

In front of one of the most beautiful and stately farm-houses in Columbiana County stood a young girl. With clasped hands and straining eyes she was gazing intently down a road which led to the west. The sound of battle came faintly to her ears. As she listened, a shudder swept through her slight frame.

"My brother! My brother!" she moaned, "he may be in it. O God of battles, protect him!"

She would have made a picture for an artist as she stood there. The weather being warm, she wore a soft, thin garment, which clung in graceful folds around her. Her beautifully rounded arm and shapely shoulders were bare. Her luxuriant hair, the color of sun-beams, fell in a wavy mass to her waist. Her eyes, blue as the sky, were now troubled, and a teardrop trembled and then fell from the long lashes.

As she looked, the sound of battle became fainter, and then ceased altogether. But down the road, a mile away, a little cloud of dust arose. It grew larger and larger, and at last she saw it was caused by a single horseman who was coming at a furious pace. Was the rider a bearer of ill tidings? No, there was no rider on the horse. He who rode must have been killed. It might be her brother's horse; she grew sick and faint, but still she gazed. The horse came nearer; he was slackening his speed. Yes, there was some one on the horse—a man—but he had fallen over on the saddle, and his arms were around the horse's neck.

It must be her brother, wounded unto death, coming home to die, and she gave a great convulsive sob. Then like a bird she flew to the middle of the road. She saw that the horse's mane and shoulders were dripping with blood, that the rider's hair was clotted with it.

As the horse came to her it stopped, and the rider rolled heavily from the saddle. With a cry she sprang forward and received the falling man; but the weight of Calhoun, for it was he, bore her to the earth. She arose, screaming for help. There was no one in the house except a colored servant, who came rushing out, and nearly fainted when she saw her mistress. No wonder, for the girl's dress and arms were dripping with blood.

"Oh! Missy Joyce! Missy Joyce!" wailed the colored woman, "what's de mattah? Be yo' killed?"

"No, no, this soldier—he is dead or dying. Oh, Mary, what can we do?"

But help was near. A couple of neighbors had also heard the sound of battle, and were riding nearer that they might learn the result.

"Great heavens! what is this?" exclaimed one, as they rode up. "As I live, that is Andrew Harmon's horse. Well, I never thought Andrew would get near enough to a battle to get shot."

By this time they had dismounted. Going to Calhoun they looked at him, and one exclaimed, "This is not Harmon; it's one of Morgan's men. Got it good and heavy. Served him right."

"Is he dead?" asked the girl, in a trembling voice.

The man put his hand on Calhoun's heart. "No, marm," he answered, "but I think he might as well be."

"Carry him into the house, and send for Doctor Hopkins, quick," she said.

"What! that dirty, bloody thing! Better let us carry him to the barn. It's a blame sight better place than our boys get down South."

"The house, I say," answered the girl, sharply.

"Why, Miss Joyce," said the other man, as he looked at her, "you are covered with blood."

"Yes, I caught him as he fell from his horse," she answered. "I am not hurt."

The men were about to pick Calhoun up and carry him in according to the directions of the girl, when she exclaimed, "There comes Doctor Hopkins now."

Sure enough, the Doctor had heard of the fight, and was coming at a remarkable speed, for him, to see if his professional services were needed. He reined in his horse, and jumping from his gig, ejaculated, "Why! why! what is this? And Miss Joyce all bloody!"

"I am not hurt. The man, Doctor," she said.

The Doctor turned his attention to Calhoun. "As I live, one of Morgan's men," he exclaimed, "and hard hit, too. How did he come here?"

"His horse brought him," answered one of the men. "He clung to his horse as far as here, when he fell off. Miss Joyce caught him as he fell. That is what makes her so bloody."

"Well! well! well!" was all that the old Doctor could say.

"The queer part is," continued the man, "that the horse belongs to Andrew Harmon. I heard that Andrew had gone out with the Home Guards, but I could hardly believe it. I guess this fellow must have killed him and appropriated the horse."

"What! Andrew Harmon killed in battle?" cried the Doctor, straightening up from his examination of Calhoun. "Don't believe it. He will turn up safe enough."

Then speaking to the girl, the Doctor said, "Miss Joyce, this man has nearly bled to death. I cannot tell yet whether the ball has entered his head or not. If not, there may be slight hopes for him, but he must have immediate attention. It is fortunate I came along as I did."

"Miss Joyce wanted us to take him into the house," said one of the men, "but I suggested the barn."

"The barn first," said the Doctor; "if I remember rightly, there is a large work-bench there. It will make a fine operating-table. And, Joyce, warm water, towels, and bandages."

Joyce Crawford, for that was the girl's name, flew to do the Doctor's bidding, while the men, to their credit be it said, picked Calhoun up tenderly and carried him to the barn, where the work-bench, as the Doctor had suggested, made an operating-table. Joyce soon appeared with the water, towels, and bandages. The Doctor had already taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready for work. Although he was a country practitioner, he was a skilful surgeon. Carefully he washed away the blood, then clipped away the matted hair from around the wound. It seemed to Joyce a long time that he worked, but at last the wound was dressed and bandaged.

"The ball did not penetrate the brain," he said, as he finished, "nor do I think the skull is injured, although the ball plowed along it for some distance. Fortunately it was a small bullet, one from a revolver, probably, which hit him. It cut a number of small arteries in its course, and that is the reason he has bled so much. An hour more and he would have been beyond my skill."

"Will he live now?" asked Joyce.

"The chances are against him. If saved at all, it will only be by the best of nursing."

"He can be taken into the house now, can't he?" she asked.

"Yes, but you had better first let a tub of water be brought, and clean underclothes, and a night shirt. He needs a bath as much as anything."

Joyce had the men get the water, while she procured some underclothes which belonged to her brother. Calhoun's clothes were now removed, clothes which had not been off him for a month.

"Here is a belt," said one of the men; "it looks as if it might contain money," and he was proceeding to examine it when the Doctor forbade him.

"Give it to Miss Joyce," he said; "the fellow is her prisoner."

The belt was handed over rather reluctantly. Calhoun having been bathed, Joyce was called, and told that her prisoner was ready for her.

"Bring him in, the chamber is all prepared," was her answer.

Calhoun was brought in and placed in a large, cool upper chamber.

"This is mighty nice for a Rebel," said one of the men, looking around. "My Jake didn't get this good care when he was shot at Stone River."

"Too blame nice for a Morgan thief," mumbled the other.

"Shut up," said the Doctor; "remember what Miss Joyce has done for our boys. Worked her fingers off for them. This man, or rather boy, for he can't be over twenty, was brought to her door. Would you have him left to die?"

The men hung their heads sheepishly, and went out. They were not hard-hearted men, but they were bitter against Morgan, and any one who rode with him.

"Now I must go," said the old Doctor kindly, taking Joyce's hand. "You have done to this young man as I would have one do to my son in a like extremity."

The old Doctor's voice broke, for he had lost a son in the army. Recovering himself, he continued, "I must go now, for I may be needed by some of our own gallant boys. I will drop in this evening, if possible, and see how your patient is getting along. God bless you, Joyce, you have a kind heart."

Joyce looked after the old Doctor with swimming eyes. "One of God's noblemen," she murmured.

She took the belt which had been taken from Calhoun, and which had been handed her by the Doctor, and put it carefully away. She then began her vigil beside the bedside of the wounded man. The Doctor had given her minute directions, and she followed them faithfully. It was some hours before Calhoun began to show signs of consciousness, and when he did come to, he was delirious, and in a raging fever.

The Doctor returned as he had promised. He shook his head as he felt Calhoun's pulse, and listened to his incoherent mutterings.

"This is bad," he said. "It is fortunate he lost so much blood, or this fever would consume him. But we must hope for the best. Only the best of nursing will bring him through."

"That he shall have," said Joyce. "I have sent for Margaret Goodsen. You know she is an army nurse, and knows all about wounded men."

"Yes, Margaret is good, none better," replied the Doctor.

All through that night Joyce sat by the bedside of Calhoun cooling his fevered brow, giving him refreshing drinks. He talked almost continually to himself. Now he would be leading his men in battle, cheering them on. Then he was a boy, engaged in boyish sports. The name of Fred was uttered again and again.

"I wonder who Fred can be?" thought Joyce; "a brother, probably."

Joyce Crawford was the only daughter of the Hon. Lorenzo Crawford, one of the most prominent citizens of Columbiana County. Mr. Crawford had served two terms in Congress, and was at the time of the war a member of the state senate. He had one child besides Joyce, his son Mark, who we have seen was a major in the Federal army.

Mr. Crawford lost his wife when Joyce was three years old; since that time his house had been presided over by a maiden sister. This lady was absent in Steubenville when Morgan appeared so suddenly in the county; thus at the time of Calhoun's appearance only Joyce and the servants were at home, Mr. Crawford being absent in the east on duties connected with the Sanitary Commission.

Mr. Crawford was what is known as an original Abolitionist. Before the war his house was one of the stations of the underground railroad, and many a runaway slave he had helped on the way to Canada. Twice he had been arrested by the United States officials for violation of the fugitive slave law, and both times fined heavily. He believed there could be no virtue in a slave-owner; such a man was accursed of God, and should be accursed of men. His daughter had to a degree imbibed his sentiments, and the idea of slavery was abhorrent to her; but her heart was so gentle, she could hate no one. Calhoun's helplessness appealed to her sympathies, and she forgot he was one of Morgan's raiders. Although young, only eighteen, she had admirers by the score, but her father so far had forbidden her receiving company, considering her as yet only a child.

Joyce's beau ideal of a man was her brother Mark, and he was worthy of her adoration. Several years her senior, he had watched over and guided her in her childhood, and never was a brother more devoted.

The next morning the news came that Morgan was captured, and the scare in Columbiana County was over. The morning also brought Miss Crawford, who had come hurrying home on receipt of the news that Morgan was in the county. She nearly went into hysterics when she learned that one of the dreadful raiders was in the house. "How could you do it, child?" she cried to Joyce; and "Doctor, why did you let her?" she added to Doctor Hopkins, who had just come in to see his patient.

"Madam, it was a case of life or death," replied the Doctor. "Joyce did right. We are not heathens in Columbiana County."

"But you will take him right away?" pleaded the lady.

"It would be death to move him."

"But he might murder us all," said Miss Crawford.

The Doctor smiled. "If he lives, it will be weeks before he will have the strength to kill a fly," he answered.

Miss Crawford sighed, and gave up the battle. She was not a hard-hearted woman, but the idea of having one of Morgan's dreadful raiders in the house was trying on her nerves.

The afternoon brought Major Crawford. The story of Joyce's capture of a raider had travelled far and wide, and the Major had already heard of it. "So you captured a prisoner, did you, Puss?" he exclaimed, kissing her, as she threw herself in his arms. "Is he a regular brigand, and bearded like a pard?"

"No, no, he is young, almost a boy," she answered. "Margaret Goodsen is taking care of him now. Come and see him, but he is out of his head, and raves dreadfully."

She led the way to the chamber where Calhoun was. No sooner did Major Crawford see him than he turned pale and staggered back, "Great God!" he exclaimed.

What fate was it that had led the man he had shot to the house to be cared for by his sister?

"What is it, Mark? What is it?" she cried, seeing his agitation.

Should he tell her? Yes, it would be best. "Joyce, you will not wonder at my surprise, when I tell you it was I who shot him."

"You, brother, you!" she cried, and instinctively she shrank from him.

Mark saw it, and exclaimed, "Great God! Joyce, you don't blame me, do you? I had to do it to save my life. He was about to cut me down with his sword when I fired."

"No, no," she cried, "I don't blame you, but it was so sudden; it is so dreadful. I never before realized that war was so terrible."

"Well, Joyce, save the poor fellow's life if you can; I don't want his death on my hands if I can help it. Do you know who your prisoner is?"

"No, you see the condition he is in."

"His name is Pennington, Calhoun Pennington. He is one of Morgan's bravest and most daring officers. I ought to know him, he took me prisoner twice."

"You, Mark, you?"

"Yes, you remember I told you how I lost my horse in Tennessee. He is the fellow who took it. He afterwards captured me at Cave City."

"Mark, what will become of him if he gets well?" she asked.

"The United States officials will take him," he answered. "His being here must be reported."

"And—and he will be sent to prison?"

"Yes, until he is exchanged."

"But you were not sent to prison when you were captured," she protested.

"No, I was paroled; but I hardly believe the government will parole any of Morgan's men."

"Why?" she asked.

"They have given us too much trouble, Puss. Now we have them, I think we will keep them."

"Mark, Aunt Matilda don't like my taking this Pennington in. She says father will not like it at all."

"I will see Aunt Matilda, and tell her it is all right. I will also write to father. No, Joyce, I don't want Pennington to die. It is best, even in war, to know you have not killed a man. So take good care of him, or rather see he has good care. Get a man to nurse him nights."

"I will look out for that," said Joyce.

"Well, Puss, good-bye, keep me posted. I had leave of absence only a few hours, so I must be going."

"Oh, Mark, must you go so soon?" And she clung to him as if she would not let him go. Gently disengaging her arms, he pressed kiss after kiss on her brow and was gone. She sank into a chair weeping, and for a time forgot her prisoner.

The next day Joyce had another visitor, in the person of Andrew Harmon. He had heard that his horse was at Crawford's, and that the officer who took him was there desperately wounded. He made his visit with pleasure, for of all the girls in Columbiana County, she was the one he had selected to become Mrs. Harmon. He had no idea he would be refused, for was he not considered the greatest catch in the county?

Harmon had two things to recommend him—good looks and money. He was accounted a handsome man, and was as far as physical beauty was concerned. He had the body and muscle of an athlete, but there was nothing ennobling or inspiring in the expression of his countenance. By nature he was crafty, mean, cruel, and miserly, and was one of the biggest cowards that ever walked.

Like many others, he was a great patriot as far as talk was concerned. He had been so unfortunate as to be drafted at the first call, and had promptly furnished a substitute. He was fond of boasting he was doing double duty for his country, not only was he represented in the army, but he was doing a great work at home. This work consisted in contracting for the government, and cheating it at every turn. Many a soldier who received shoddy clothing, paper-soled shoes, and rotten meat had Mr. Harmon to thank for it. But he was piling up money, and was already known as one of the richest men in the county. When he went out with the Home Guards, he had no idea of getting near Morgan; he would look out for that. But his party ran into Morgan's advance unexpectedly, and as has been related, he was captured by Calhoun. It was a most wonderful story he had to tell.

He had been beset by at least six of Morgan's men. A desperate conflict followed, and he had killed, or at least desperately wounded, three of his assailants, and it was only after he had not a single shot left in his revolver and was surrounded that he had surrendered.

"So enraged were they at my desperate defence," said he, "that the officer in charge pulled me from my horse, brutally kicked and struck me, threatened to kill me, and then appropriated my horse. He is a desperate fellow, Miss Joyce; I would not keep him in the house a single moment."

Joyce, who had listened to his account much amused, for she had heard another version of it, said, "I do not think, Mr. Harmon, he could have beaten you very hard, for I see no marks on you, and you seem to be pretty lively. As for sending Lieutenant Pennington away, the Doctor says it would be death to move him."

Mr. Harmon shifted uneasily in his chair as Joyce was saying this, and then asked to see Calhoun, as he wished to be sure whether he was the one who had captured him. This Joyce consented to, provided he would be careful not to disturb him. Harmon promised, and he was taken into the room. Calhoun was tossing on his bed, as he entered, and no sooner did his wild eyes rest on Harmon than he burst into a loud laugh, "Oh! the coward! the coward!" he shouted, "take him away."

Harmon fled from the room white with rage. "Miss Joyce, that fellow is shamming," he fumed. "I demand he be delivered to the United States officials at once."

"The Doctor thinks differently; he says it will kill him to be moved," she answered.

"Let him die, then. It isn't your business to nurse wounded Rebels, especially one of Morgan's cutthroats."

"I do not have to come to you to learn what my business is," answered Joyce, haughtily, and turned to leave the room.

Mr. Harmon saw that he had made a mistake. "Joyce! Joyce! don't go, hear me," he exclaimed.

"You will find your horse in the stable," was all she said, as she passed out.

He left the house vowing vengeance, and lost no time in informing the Federal authorities that the wounded officer at Crawford's was shamming, and would give them the slip if not taken away. Two deputy marshals came to investigate, and went away satisfied when Doctor Hopkins promised to report as soon as his patient was well enough to be removed.

In due time Joyce received a letter from her father. He had not heard that Morgan had come as far north as Columbiana County, until after he was captured. As all danger was now over, he would not be home for some time. The thousands who had been wounded in the great battle of Gettysburg were occupying his attention. He also had to make a visit to Washington and Fortress Monroe, and might go as far south as Hilton Head. As for the wounded Rebel at his house, Joyce had done right in not letting him die in the road, but that he should be turned over to the military authorities at the earliest possible moment. Little did Mr. Crawford think what the outcome of the affair would be.

Contrary to her aunt's protest, Joyce insisted on taking most of the care of Calhoun during the day. Margaret Goodsen was all the help she needed. She had engaged a competent man to care for him nights. Had not Mark told her to save the life of the man he had shot, if possible?



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.



CHAPTER XXII.

PRISON DOORS ARE OPENED.

When Calhoun parted from Joyce he sank back in the carriage and gave himself up to the most gloomy thoughts. The sorrow of parting from her took from him the joy of his escape. During the journey his dusky driver did not speak a word. The drive seemed a long one to Calhoun, and he was thoroughly wearied when the carriage drew up by a log house, surrounded by a small clearing.

"Heah we be, Massa," said Abe, as he alighted from his seat. "Hope Massa had a good ride."

The door of the house was opened by a motherly looking colored woman, and Abe, taking Calhoun once more in his arms, carried him into the house. Aunt Liza, as the wife of Abe was called, seeing Calhoun looking so pale and thin, put her fat, black hand on his forehead, and said, "Po' chile, po' chile, don't yo' worry. Aunt Liza take good care ob yo'."

Calhoun felt that he was among friends—friends that would prove faithful and true. He was carried up a ladder to a chamber. The upper part of the house was all in one room, rather low, but the rough walls were whitewashed, and everything was neat and clean. He was placed on a snow-white bed, and soon sank into a peaceful slumber. When he awoke the sun was shining in at the window and Aunt Liza appeared with a breakfast good enough to tempt the appetite of one far more particular than Calhoun.

The invalid remained with his kind friends two weeks, treated like an honored guest, and protected from every inquiring eye. He gained strength rapidly, and at the end of a week was able to walk out evenings, when there was no danger of being seen. Once men who were searching for him entered the house, and Calhoun could hear every word that was said. His heart beat painfully, for it entered his mind that Abe and his wife might betray him for the sake of the reward offered. But the thought did injustice to these simple-minded people. As for the searchers, the loft of the house of a poor negro who had run away from slavery was the last place they thought of looking for an escaped Confederate.

Through Abe Calhoun often heard from Joyce. She cheered him with words of love and comfort, but absolutely refused to come and see him, saying it would be dangerous. In this she was right, for Andrew Harmon was alert. He believed that Joyce had had something to do with the disappearance of Calhoun, and had her closely watched. Fortunately his suspicions did not extend to Abe, so that communication between Joyce and Calhoun was not interrupted. At the end of two weeks he felt able to leave his place of concealment. But where should he go? He longed to be South, in the midst of the strife, but his heart was drawn toward Columbus, where his comrades lay languishing in prison. What could he do at Columbus? He did not know, but something might transpire that would enlighten him. At least he would go and look over the field. Once out of the neighborhood, in his Federal uniform and with Brown's discharge in his pocket, there would be little fear of detection. He made his preparations to go, wrote Joyce the letter which she prized so highly, and bade his kind protectors farewell, placing in their hands a hundred dollars. Their surprise and joy over the gift were about equal.