"De Lawd keep yo'!" said Aunt Liza, wiping her eyes.

Calhoun had determined to start early in the evening, travel all night, lie concealed during the day, and travel the next night. By that time he thought he would be so far away from the place of his escape that he could venture to take the cars without danger. Aunt Liza had supplied him with ample provisions for the two days. He carried out his programme, and on the morning of the second day found himself near a small town where he concluded to take the cars, but deemed it safer to wait for the night train. The conductor eyed him sharply when he paid his fare instead of showing a pass, for soldiers generally travelled on Federal transportation. But the conductor took the money and passed on without remark.

Opposite Calhoun in the car sat a gentlemanly looking man, and much to Calhoun's surprise, when the conductor passed, he saw the gentleman make the sign of recognition of the Knights of the Golden Circle, and it was answered by the conductor. When the conductor next passed Calhoun gave the sign. The man stared, but did not answer. But he seemed to be troubled, and passed through the cars frequently, and Calhoun saw that he was watching him closely. At length, in passing, the conductor bent down and whispered to the gentleman opposite. Calhoun now knew another pair of eyes were observing him.

Watching his opportunity, Calhoun gave this gentleman the sign of recognition. The gentleman shifted uneasily in his seat, but did not answer.

"I will give you something stronger," thought Calhoun, and the next time he caught the gentleman's eye, he gave the sign of distress. This was a sign no true knight could afford to ignore. Leaning over, the gentleman said, "My boy, you look pale. Have you been sick?"

"Very, and I now need friends," answered Calhoun.

"Come over here and tell me about it," said the gentleman.

Calhoun took a seat by his side, and the man whispered, "Are you a deserter, and are they after you?"

"Yes," said Calhoun.

"Where are you going?"

"To Columbus."

"That is a poor place to go to keep out of the hands of Lincoln's minions," answered the man.

"I am not afraid," said Calhoun. "What I want to know is where I can find friends in Columbus whom I can trust—true, firm friends of the South."

"My name is Pettis," replied the man. "I reside in Columbus. Once let me be satisfied as to who you are and what you are wearing that uniform for and I may be able to help you."

"That is easily answered," said Calhoun; "but first I must be fully satisfied as to you. Let me prove you, my brother."

Calhoun found that Mr. Pettis was high up in the order, and was violent in his hatred of the Lincoln government. He could be trusted.

"I am not a Federal soldier," said Calhoun after he had fully tested him. "I am wearing this uniform as a disguise. I am a Confederate officer."

"What! escaped from Johnson's Island?" asked Mr. Pettis, in astonishment.

"No, I am one of Morgan's officers."

Mr. Pettis nearly jumped off the seat in surprise.

"Morgan's officers are all in the penitentiary," he gasped.

"One is not and never was," answered Calhoun.

Mr. Pettis regarded him closely, and then said: "It can't be, but it must be. Is your name Pennington?"

"It is," replied Calhoun.

"Why, the papers have been full of your escape. But the general opinion seemed to be that you wandered away in a delirium and died."

"Which you see is not so," said Calhoun, with a smile.

"How in the world did you get away?"

"That is a secret which I cannot tell even you."

"Very well; but, Mr. Pennington, you must come home with me. You will find friends in Columbus, many of them, who will be delighted to meet you."

When Columbus was reached, Calhoun, on advice of Mr. Pettis, bought a suit of citizen's clothes, for, said he, "We Knights hate the sight of that uniform; it's the badge of tyranny."

Calhoun saw that he had found a friend indeed in Mr. Pettis. No Southerner could be more bitter toward the Lincoln government than he. He fairly worshipped Vallandigham, and said if he would only return to Ohio, he would be defended by a hundred thousand men. He was especially indignant over the way Morgan and his officers were treated.

"We have schemed and schemed how to help him," said he, "but see no way except we storm that cursed penitentiary as the Bastille was stormed. And," he added, with emphasis, "the day is fast approaching when we will do it."

For three days Calhoun remained at Mr. Pettis's, wearying his brain as to how he might help his general, but every plan proposed was rejected as impracticable. On the third morning he happened to pick up a paper, and glancing over its columns, saw an advertisement which caused every nerve in his body to tingle. It was an advertisement for a boy to work in the dining-room and wait on the table at the penitentiary. The advertisement stated that the sole duty of the boy was to wait on the table when the Confederate officers ate, as they objected to being waited upon by convicts. In less than five minutes Calhoun was in his Federal uniform and on his way to the penitentiary to apply for the position.

"You do not look very strong," said the warden, kindly; "do you think you could fill the bill?"

"I am sure I can," said Calhoun. "Only try me and see."

"Well," replied the warden, "I had rather hire a boy who has served his country, as you have, and I will give you a trial."

Thus to his great joy Calhoun found himself hired to wait upon his old comrades in arms. With what feelings he commenced his duties can be imagined. Would they recognize him, and in their surprise give him away? No, he thought not. They knew too well how to control themselves for that. It was with a beating heart that Calhoun waited for the time of the first meal. It came, and the Confederate prisoners came marching in. How Calhoun's heart thrilled at the sight of his old comrades! But if they recognized him they did not show it by look or sign.

When the meal was finished and the prisoners marched out, Calhoun managed to give Morgan a little slip of paper. On it was written: "I am here to help you if I can. Be of good cheer."

But how could Calhoun help them? Even at meal-time guards stood everywhere watching every move. His duties did not take him out of the dining-room. Calhoun began by making a careful survey of the building in which the prisoners were confined. Fortune favored him. One day he made a remark to one of the employees of the prison that the floor of the building seemed to be remarkably dry and free from damp.

"It should be," was the reply; "there is an air chamber under the floor."

Like a flash there came to Calhoun a plan for escape. If this air chamber could be reached a tunnel might be run out. He took careful note of all the surroundings, and drew a plan of the buildings and surrounding grounds. These he managed to pass to Morgan unobserved. At the next meal-time as Morgan passed him, he said, as if to himself, "No tools."

This was a difficult matter. Nothing of any size could be passed to them without discovery. But in the hospital Calhoun found some large and finely tempered table-knives. He managed to conceal several of these around his person, and one by one they were given to Morgan.

Calhoun now waited in feverish excitement for the success of the plan. He had done all he could. The rest depended on the prisoners themselves. Through the shrewdness and indomitable energy of Captain Thomas H. Hines the work was carried to a successful termination inside the prison wall.

General Morgan occupied a cell in the second tier, and could do nothing. Only those who occupied cells on the ground floor had any hopes of escaping. Captain Hines, with infinite labor made an opening through the floor of his cell into the air chamber. Once in the air chamber they could work without being discovered. With only the table-knives to work with, these men went through two solid walls, one five feet, and the other six feet in thickness. Not only that, but they went through eleven feet of grouting. Then, working from under, they went through the floors of six cells, leaving only a thin scale of cement, which could be broken through by a pressure from the foot. The work was commenced November 4, and finished November 24. Thus in twenty days seven men, working one at a time, had accomplished what seemed almost impossible.

During these days Calhoun could only wait and hope. As the prisoners passed him in the dining-room, all they could say was "Progressing," "Not discovered yet," "All is well so far." At last, on the 24th, Calhoun heard the welcome words, "Finished. First stormy night."

Calhoun now examined the time-tables and found that a train left Columbus for Cincinnati at 1:15 A. M.; arriving in Cincinnati before the prisoners were aroused in the morning. So he wrote on a slip of paper: "Escape as soon after midnight as possible." He believed that train could be taken with safety. The afternoon of November 27, the weather became dark and stormy. At supper-time Calhoun heard the glad word, "To-night."

As soon as his duties were done he hurried to the home of Mr. Pettis, exchanged his uniform for citizen's clothes, telling Mr. Pettis his work at the penitentiary was done, and he had decided to leave. "Ask no questions; it is better that you know nothing," said Calhoun.

Mr. Pettis took his advice, but he was not surprised in the morning when he heard that Morgan had escaped. For General Morgan to escape, it was necessary for him to occupy a lower cell. His brother, Captain Dick Morgan, occupied the cell next to Captain Hines. The Captain, giving up his chance of escaping, effected an exchange of cells with his brother. This was easily accomplished, as they were about of a size, and it was quite dark in the cells when they were locked in.

The General had been allowed to keep his watch. When a few minutes after twelve came, he arose, fixed a dummy in his bed to resemble a man sleeping, and breaking through the thin crust over the opening with his foot, slipped into the air chamber. He gave the signal, and was quickly joined by his companions. Captain Morgan had made a ladder out of strips of bed-clothing, and by the aid of this ladder they hoped to scale two walls, one twenty feet high, which would stand between them and liberty, after they had emerged from the tunnel.

A little before midnight Calhoun made his way as close as he durst to the place where he knew the wall must be scaled. Not three hundred feet away several guards were gathered around a fire. The night was cold, and the guards kept close to the fire. Slowly the minutes passed. The city clocks struck half-past twelve. Would they never come? Had their flight been detected?

Suddenly a dark spot appeared on top of the wall. Then another, and another, until Calhoun counted seven. They were all there. Silently they slid down the rope ladder, the talk and laughter of the guards ringing in their ears. But noiselessly they glided away, and the darkness hid them.

"This way," whispered Calhoun. When out of hearing of the guards, they stopped for consultation. It would not do to keep together. They decided to go two and two. Calhoun handed each a sum of money. There was a strong clasping of the hands, a whispered farewell, and they who had dared so much separated.

The next morning there was consternation in the penitentiary at Columbus. The news of Morgan's escape was flashed over the country. The Federal authorities were astonished, dumbfounded. A reward of five thousand dollars was offered for his recapture. Every house in Columbus was searched, but to no purpose. John Morgan had flown.





CHAPTER XXIII.

THE FLIGHT TO THE SOUTH.

The 1:15 train from Columbus to Cincinnati was about to start. "All aboard," shouted the conductor.

Two gentlemen sauntered into one of the cars, to all appearances the most unconcerned of individuals. They took different seats, the younger just behind the older. General Morgan and Calhoun had reached the train in safety; had purchased tickets, and taken their seats without exciting suspicion. A moment more and they would be on their way South.

A Federal major came hurrying in and seated himself beside Morgan, and the two entered into conversation. On the way out of the city the train had to pass close to the penitentiary. The major, pointing to the grim, dark pile, and thinking he might be imparting some information, said: "There is where they keep the notorious John Morgan."

"May he always be kept as safe as he is now," quickly replied the General.

"Oh! they will keep him safe enough," said the major, complacently stroking his chin. The major better understood the Delphic answer of the General the next morning.

All went well until Dayton was reached, where by some accident the train was held over an hour. It was an anxious hour to Morgan and Calhoun. It meant that the train would be late in Cincinnati, that before they arrived there the Federal authorities of the city might be informed of the escape. It would never do for them to ride clear into the city. As the train slowed up as it entered the suburbs, the General and Calhoun both dropped off without being noticed.

Morgan being well acquainted with the city, they quickly made their way to a ferry, and by the time the escape had been discovered at the penitentiary, Morgan's feet were pressing the soil of Kentucky. Calhoun's heart thrilled as he once more breathed the air of his native state. He felt like a new being, yet he knew that it was hundreds of miles to safety. They must steal through the states of Kentucky and Tennessee like hunted beasts, for the enemy was everywhere. But friends there were, too—friends as true as steel. And hardly had they set foot in Kentucky before they found such a friend, one who took them in, fed them, and protected them. He gave them horses, and sent them on their way. Slowly they made their way through the state, travelling all night, sent from the house of one friend to that of another. At last they reached the Cumberland River near Burkesville, where they had crossed it at the beginning of their raid. To Calhoun it seemed that years had passed since then, so much had happened.

On entering Tennessee, their dangers thickened. They did not know friend from foe. On entering a house they did not know whether they would be protected or betrayed. The country was swarming with Federal cavalry. It was rumored that Morgan was in the country making his way south, and every officer was eager to add to his laurels by capturing him. In the mountains Morgan and Calhoun met a party of forty or fifty Confederates who were making their way to the Confederate lines. In the party were a number of Morgan's old men, who hailed their chief with the wildest delight. Morgan assumed command of them. But few of the party were mounted, consequently their progress was slow and their dangers were augmented.

All went well until the Tennessee River was reached, a few miles below Kingston. The river was high and there was no means of crossing. A rude raft was constructed, and with the horses swimming, they commenced crossing. When about half were across a company of Federal cavalry appeared and attacked those who were still on the northern bank. On the frail raft, Morgan started to push across to their aid.

"Are you crazy, General," cried Calhoun; "you can do no good, and will only be killed or captured. See, the men have scattered already, and are taking to the woods and mountains."

It was true, and Morgan reluctantly rode away. He had the satisfaction afterwards of learning that most of the men escaped.

The next day was the last day that Calhoun ever rode with Morgan, but little did he realize it at the time. Along in the afternoon they became aware of the close proximity of a squadron of Federal cavalry. Morgan and those with him took shelter behind a thick growth of cedars, while Calhoun rode ahead to investigate. He discovered no enemy and was coming back when he ran squarely into the Federals. The foremost of them were not ten feet from Morgan, he still being screened from view by the cedars. Without hesitation, Calhoun cried, "This way, Major. Hurry up, they have gone this way," pointing the way he had come.

The major took Calhoun for a guide, and giving the command, "Forward," rode rapidly after Calhoun, and Morgan was saved. For half a mile they rode, when a stream was reached, and it was seen no horseman had crossed it. The major drew rein and turned to Calhoun in fury.

"You have deceived me, you dog!" he cried.

"Yes, I am one of Morgan's men," calmly replied Calhoun.

The anger of the major was terrible. He grew purple in the face. "Yes, and you have led me away from Morgan," he hissed. "You will pay for this."

Calhoun still remained calm. "That was not Morgan," he said; "I ought to know Morgan, I have ridden with him for two years."

"I know better," roared the Major, thoroughly beside himself; "you are a lying scoundrel; I will fix you."

"What are you going to do?" asked Calhoun, with apparent calmness, but a great fear coming over him.

"Hang you, you lying devil, as sure as there is a God in heaven! I would not have had Morgan slip through my fingers for ten thousand dollars. It would mean a brigadier generalship for me if I had caught him. String him up, men."

One of the soldiers coolly took the halter off his horse, fastened it around Calhoun's neck, threw the other end over the projecting limb of a tree, and stood awaiting orders.

Once more an ignominious death stared Calhoun in the face, and there was no Captain Huffman near to rescue him. It looked as if nothing could save him, but his self-possession did not forsake him.

"Major, before you commit this great outrage—an outrage against all rules of civilized warfare—let me say one word." Calhoun's voice did not even tremble as he asked this favor.

"Be quick about it, then, but don't think you can say anything that will save your cursed neck!"

"Major, if that was General Morgan, as you say, and I have been one of Morgan's men, as I have confessed, ought I not to be hanged if I had betrayed him into your hands?"

The fire of anger died out of the major's eyes. He hesitated, and then said: "You are right. If that was General Morgan, and you are one of his men, you should be hanged for betraying him, not for saving him." Then to his men he said: "Boys, take off that halter; he is too brave and true a man to be hanged."

Calhoun drew a long breath. He had appealed to the major's sense of honor, and the appeal had not been made in vain.

The major kept Calhoun for three days, and during that time treated him more like a brother than a prisoner. Calhoun never forgot his kindness. At the end of the three days Calhoun was placed under a strong guard with orders to be taken to Knoxville. He resolved to escape before Knoxville was reached, or die in the attempt. Never would he live to be taken North in irons, as he would be when it became known that he was one of Morgan's officers.

At the end of the first day's journey the prisoners, of whom there were several, were placed in the tower room of a deserted house. Three guards with loaded muskets stood in the room, another was just outside the door. Calhoun watched his chance, and when the guards inside the room were not looking, he dashed through the door, closing it after him. The guard outside raised his musket and fired. So close was he that the fire from the muzzle of the gun burned Calhoun's face, yet he was not touched. Another guard but a few feet away saw him running, and fired. The ball tore its way through the side of his coat. But he was not yet out of danger. He had to pass close to two picket posts, and as he neared them he was saluted with a shower of balls. But he ran on unharmed. One of the pickets with fixed bayonet took after him. He came so close that Calhoun could hear his heavy breathing. Calhoun ran as he had never run before. A turn in the road took him out of sight of his pursuers, and he sprang to one side and began to climb the mountain. A squad of cavalry dashed by in pursuit; they had missed him. With a thankful heart Calhoun saw them disappear.

But darkness came on and he had to feel his way up the mountain on his hands and knees. His progress was so slow that when morning came he had only reached the top of the mountain. He could hear the shouts of the soldiers searching for him. Near him was a growth of high grass. Going into this he lay down; and here he remained all day. At one time the soldiers in search of him came within twenty feet of where he lay.

It was the longest and dreariest day that Calhoun ever spent. Hunger gnawed him, and he was consumed with a fierce thirst. It was midwinter, and the cold crept into his very bones. The warmth of his body thawed the frozen ground until he sank into it. When night came it froze again, and when he tried to rise he found he was frozen fast. It was with difficulty that he released himself without sacrificing his clothing. For the next seven days he hardly remembers how he existed. Travelling by night and hiding by day, begging a morsel of food here and there, he at last reached the Confederate lines near Dalton.



CHAPTER XXIV.

CHIEF OF THE SECRET SERVICE.

"Is this General Shackelford?" asked Calhoun of a distinguished-looking Confederate officer.

"It is; what can I do for you, my boy? You look as if you had been seeing hard times."

"I have," answered Calhoun; "I have just escaped from the North. I am one of Morgan's men."

"Are you one of the officers who escaped with Morgan?" asked the General, with much interest.

"Yes and no. I was not in prison with Morgan, but I escaped South with him."

"I had a nephew with Morgan," continued the General. "We have not heard from him since Morgan was captured. The report is that he was killed in the last fight that Morgan had before he was captured. Poor Cal!" and the General sighed.

"Uncle Dick, do you not know me?" asked Calhoun, in a broken voice.

General Shackelford stared at Calhoun in astonishment. "It cannot be, yes, it is Cal!" he exclaimed, and the next moment he had Calhoun by the hand, and was nearly shaking it off.

"And you have been in a Northern prison, have you?" asked the General.

"No, but I was wounded near unto death. Fortunately I fell into kind hands."

"But your looks, Cal; you are nothing but skin and bones."

"No wonder. I have not had enough to eat in the last seven days to keep a bird alive. Then I was none too strong when I started on my journey south."

"Tell me about it some other time," said the General. "What you want now is rest and something to eat."

And rest and food Calhoun got.

When he came to tell his story it was listened to with wonder. He was taken to General Joseph E. Johnston, then in command of the Confederate forces around Dalton, and the story was repeated.

"You know, I presume," said Johnston, "that Morgan escaped, and is now in Richmond."

"Yes, I long to be with him," answered Calhoun. "I feel as strong as ever now."

"Do not be in a hurry to report," said Johnston. "Wait until you hear from me."

In a few days Calhoun received a message from General Johnston saying he would like to see him. Calhoun lost no time in obeying the summons. He was received most cordially.

"In the first place, Captain," said the General, "allow me to present you this," and he handed him his commission as captain in the Confederate army.

Calhoun choked, he could only stammer his thanks. But what came next astonished him still more. "I now offer you the position of Chief of the Secret Service of my army," said the General. "After listening to your story, although you are young, I believe there is no officer in the army more capable of filling it."

Calhoun knew not what to say; it was a place of the greatest honor, but he hated to leave Morgan. "Will you let me consult my uncle before I give an answer?" asked Calhoun.

"Most certainly," replied the General.

"Accept it, by all means, Cal," said General Shackelford when Calhoun appealed to him. "In the first place, it is your duty to serve your country in the place where you can do the most good. There is no question but that at the head of the Secret Service you can render the country vastly better service than you can riding with Morgan. In the next place, I fancy it will not be exactly with Morgan as it was before his unfortunate raid. His famous raiders are prisoners, or scattered. It will be impossible for him to gather another such force. They understood him, he understood them. This will not be the case with a new command. Then, this is for your ear alone, Calhoun, the authorities at Richmond are not satisfied with Morgan. In invading the North he disobeyed orders; and this, those high in authority cannot overlook."

So, with many regrets, Calhoun decided to accept the offer of General Johnston; but for many days his heart was with his old chieftain. The time came when he saw the wisdom of his uncle's remarks. General Morgan never regained his old prestige. It is true the Confederate government gave him the department of Western Virginia, but they so hampered him with orders that any great success was impossible.

In June, 1864, Morgan made his last raid into Kentucky. At first he was successful, sweeping everything before him. He had the pleasure of taking prisoner General Hobson, the man who had tracked him all through his Northern raid. But at Cynthiana he met with overwhelming defeat, his prisoners being recaptured, and he escaping with only a small remnant of his command.

On the morning of the 4th of September, 1864, the end came. General Morgan was slain in battle at Greenville, East Tennessee. Calhoun mourned him as a father, when he heard of his death. It was long months afterwards before he heard the full particulars, and then they were told him by an officer who was with the General on that fatal morning.

"We marched into Greenville," said the officer, "and took possession of the place on the afternoon of the 3d. There was a small company of Yankees within four miles of us, but there was no considerable body of Yankees nearer than Bull's Gap, sixteen miles away. The General established his headquarters at the house of a Mrs. Williams, the finest house in the little city.

"In the evening a furious storm arose and continued most all night. The rain fell in torrents. The lightning flashed incessantly, and there was a continual crash of thunder. It seemed impossible that troops could move in such a storm, and we felt perfectly safe.

"But there were traitors in Greenville, and they carried the news to the little company of Yankees four miles away that Morgan was in the city, and told at what house he lodged. Two daring young cavalrymen volunteered to carry the news to General Gillem at Bull's Gap. Talk about the ride of Paul Revere, compared to the ride of those two Yankees! Buffeted by wind and rain, one moment in a glaring light and the next in pitch darkness, with the thunder crashing overhead, in spite of wind and rain, those two cavalrymen rode the sixteen miles by midnight.

"The command was aroused. What if the rain did pour and the elements warred with each other? Morgan was the prize, and by daylight Gillem's soldiers had reached Greenville. So complete was the surprise that the house in which the General slept was surrounded before the alarm was given. Then thinking only of joining his men, the General leaped out of bed, and without waiting to dress, seized his sword and dashed out of the house, seeking to escape by the way of the garden. But he was seen by a soldier and shot dead. The news that Morgan was killed seemed to go through the air. It was known in an incredibly short time by both sides.

"Now," said the officer, "occurred one of the most singular circumstances I know of during the war. There was no flag of truce, no orders to cease firing, yet the firing ceased. The Confederates gathered together, and marched out of the city; the Federals marched in; the two were close together, within easy musket range, but not a shot was fired. It seemed as if both sides were conscious that a great man had fallen, a gallant soul fled, and that even grim war should stay his hand."

It is not within the scope of this book to follow Calhoun through the last year of the war. Suffice it to say, that in the enlarged sphere of his new position, his genius found full scope. He was all through the Atlantic campaign, where for four months the thunder of cannon never ceased, and where seventy-five thousand men were offered as a sacrifice to the god of war. He followed Hood in his raid to the rear of Sherman's army, and then into Tennessee. He was in that hell of fire at Franklin, where fell so many of the bravest sons of the South. At Nashville he was among those who tried to stem the tide of defeat, and was among the last to leave that fatal field. When the remnants of Hood's army were gathered and marched across the states of Alabama and Georgia into North Carolina, hoping to stay the victorious progress of Sherman, Calhoun was with them.

Not until the surrender of Lee and Johnston did Calhoun give up every hope of the independence of the South. But the end came, and in bitter anguish he laid down his arms. He had given his young life to his country when only seventeen years of age. For four years he had fought and hoped. When the end came it seemed to him the sky was darkened, that every hope had perished, that everything worth living for was gone. Oh, the bitterness of defeat! Strong men wept like children.

Even the victors stood in silence over the grief of those whom they had met so many times in battle. They were brothers now, and they took them by the hand and bade them be of good cheer, and divided their rations with them. The soldiers who had fought each other on so many bloody fields were the first to fraternize, the first to forget.

When Calhoun gave his parole, he met his cousin Fred, who was on General Sherman's staff. The meeting was a happy one for Calhoun, for it served to dispel the gloom which depressed his spirits. It seemed to be like old times to be with Fred again. Nothing would satisfy Fred, but that Calhoun should return home by the way of Washington. He consented, and was in Washington at the time of the Grand Review. All day long he watched the mighty armies of Grant and Sherman, as with steady tread they marched through the streets, showered with flowers, greeted with proud huzzahs. And then he thought of the home-coming of the ragged Confederates, and the tears ran down his cheeks. But as he looked upon the thousands and thousands as they marched along, and remembered the depleted ranks of the Southern army, his only wonder was that the South had held out so long as it did. Defeated they were, but their deeds are carved deep in the temple of fame, never to be erased.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE LONE RAIDER.

It was near the close of a beautiful day in early June that Joyce Crawford was once more standing by the gate, looking down the road. It is nearly two years since we saw her last. She has grown taller, more womanly, even more beautiful, if that were possible. The sound of war had ceased in the land. No longer was the fierce raider abroad; yet Joyce Crawford stood looking down that road as intently as she did that eventful evening when Calhoun Pennington came riding to the door.

She had not heard a word from him since his escape; nor had she expected to hear. All that she could do was to scan the papers for his name among the killed or captured Confederates. But the Northern papers published few names of Confederates known to have been killed, except the highest and most distinguished officers.

During these two years Joyce's heart had been true to her raider lover. He had said that he would come when the war was over, that the thunder of the last cannon would hardly have ceased to reverberate through the land before he would be by her side. It was two months since Lee had surrendered yet he had not come. That he had been untrue she would not admit; if such a thought came to her, she dismissed it as unworthy. No! Like his general, he was lying in a soldier's grave; or he might be sick, wounded, unable to come.

This June evening, as she stood looking down the road, her thoughts were in the past. Once more, in imagination, Morgan's raiders came riding by; she beheld the country terror-stricken; men, women, and children fleeing from—they hardly knew what. Once more she heard the sound of distant battle, then down the road that little cloud of dust which grew larger and larger, until the horse with its stricken rider came to view. How vividly she remembered it all, how real it seemed to her! She actually held her breath and listened to catch the sound of battle; she strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of that little cloud of dust.



No sound of battle came to her ears, but away down the road, as far as she could see, arose a little cloud of dust. Her heart gave a great throb; why she could not tell, for she had seen a thousand clouds of dust arise from that road, as she watched and waited. The little cloud grew larger. Now she could see it was caused by a single horseman, one who rode swiftly, and sat his horse with rare grace. She stood with hands pressed to her bosom, her eyes dilating, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

Before she realized it, the rider had thrown himself from his horse, and with the cry of "Joyce! Joyce!" had her in his arms, kissing her hair, her brow, her lips. For a minute she lay at rest in his arms; then, with burning brow and cheek and neck, she disengaged herself from his embrace, and stood looking at him with lovelit eyes. Could this be he whom, two years before, she had taken in wounded nigh unto death? How manly he had grown! How well his citizen suit became him!

"Were you watching for me, Joyce?" asked Calhoun.

"I have watched for you every night since Lee surrendered. I began to think you had forgotten—no, not that, I feared you had been slain," she exclaimed, in a trembling voice.

"Death only could have kept me from you, Joyce. In camp and battle your image was in my heart. The thought of seeing you has sweetened the bitterness of defeat. The war did not end as I thought it would, but it has brought me to you—to you. Now that the war is over, there is nothing to separate us, is there, Joyce?"

She grew as pale as death. She had not thought of her father before—he believed that the South had been treated too leniently, that treason should be punished. All that the South had suffered he believed to be a just punishment for her manifold sins. If the Rebels' lives were spared, they should be thankful, and ask nothing more. Joyce knew how her father felt. Not a word had ever passed between them relative to Calhoun since his escape; but the father knew much more than Joyce thought. He had kept still, thinking that time would cure his daughter of her infatuation, for he considered it nothing else.

Calhoun saw the change in Joyce, how she drew from him, how pale she had grown, and he asked, "What is it, Joyce? Why, you shrink from me, and tremble like a leaf. Tell me, Joyce, what is it?"

"My father!" she whispered, "Oh, I fear—I fear!"

"Fear what, darling?"

"That he will drive you from me; that he will forbid me seeing you!"

"For what?"

"Because you fought against your country; because you were one of Morgan's men."

"What would he do? Hang me, if he could?" asked Calhoun, bitterly.

"No, no, but—oh, Calhoun, let us hope for the best. Perhaps when he sees you it will be different. You must see him. He and aunt have gone to New Lisbon; but they will be at home presently."

With many misgivings Calhoun allowed his horse to be put up, and he and Joyce enjoyed an hour's sweet converse before her father and aunt returned.

When her father entered the room Joyce, with a palpitating heart, said: "Father, let me introduce you to Mr. Calhoun Pennington, of Danville, Kentucky. He is the young officer whom we cared for when wounded. He has come to thank us for the kindness shown him."

Mr. Crawford bowed coldly, and said, without extending his hand, "Mr. Pennington need not have taken the trouble; the incident has long since been forgotten. But supper is ready; I trust Mr. Pennington will honor us by remaining and partaking of the repast with us."

Calhoun could do nothing but accept, yet he felt he was an unwelcome guest. As for Joyce, she knew not what to think; she could only hope for the best. The meal passed almost in silence. Mr. Crawford was scrupulously polite, but his manner was cold and constrained. Poor Joyce tried to talk and appear merry, but had to give it up as a failure. Every one was glad when the meal was through. As they arose from the table, Mr. Crawford said: "Joyce, remain with your aunt, I wish to have a private conversation with Mr. Pennington." Calhoun followed him into the parlor. He knew that what was coming would try his soul more than charging up to the mouth of a flaming cannon.

The first question asked nearly took Calhoun's breath away, it was so sudden and unexpected. It was, "Young man, why am I honored with this visit?"

"As your daughter said, to thank you for the kindness I received while an enforced guest in your house," answered Calhoun, and then he mentally cursed himself for his cowardice.

"Guests who leave as unceremoniously as you did do not generally return to express their thanks," answered Mr. Crawford, dryly. "It was a poor return you gave my daughter for her kindness."

"What do you mean?" asked Calhoun, in surprise.

"I mean that leaving as you did subjected my daughter to much unjust criticism. An honorable man would have gone to prison rather than subjected the young lady to whom he owed his life to idle remarks."

Calhoun felt every nerve in him tingle. His hot blood rushed through his veins like fire, he clenched his hands until his nails buried themselves in the palms. How he longed to throttle him and force the insult down his throat! But he was an old man; he was Joyce's father. Then, as Joyce had never told him it was she who had planned the escape, it was not for him to speak. Controlling himself by a mighty effort, he calmly said: "Mr. Crawford, I am sorry you think so poorly of me, for I came here to ask of you the greatest boon you have to give on earth, that is your consent that I may pay my addresses to your daughter, and in due time make her my wife. I love her with my whole soul, and have reason to know that my love is returned."

"And I had rather see my daughter dead than married to a Rebel and traitor, especially to one of Morgan's men. You have my answer," said Mr. Crawford, angrily.

"Why call me Rebel and traitor?" asked Calhoun. "Whatever I may have been, I am not that now. The government has pardoned; can you not be as generous as the government? as generous as your great generals, Grant and Sherman?"

"And the government will find out its mistake. Your punishment has not been what your sins deserve. Your lands should be taken from you and given to the poor beings you have enslaved these centuries. But we need not quarrel. You have had my answer concerning my daughter. Now go, and never let me see you again."

"Mr. Crawford," said Calhoun, rising, "you have been very outspoken with me, and I will be equally so with you. As to the terms you say should have been given the South, I will say that had such been even hinted at, every man, woman, and child in the South would have died on their hearthstones before yielding. But this is idle talk, as I trust there are but few in the North so remorseless as you. Now, as to your daughter; if she is willing, I shall marry her in spite of you. There is one raider of Morgan still in the saddle, and he will not cease his raid until he has carried away the fairest flower in Ohio."

"Go," cried Mr. Crawford, losing his temper, "go before I am forced to use harsher means."

Before Calhoun could reply, before he could take a step, there was a swish of woman's garments, and before the father's astonished eyes there stood his daughter by the side of her lover. Her form was drawn to its full height, her bosom was heaving, her eyes were flashing. Taking her lover's hand, she cried: "Father, what have you done? I love this man, love him with all my heart and soul, and he is worthy of my love. If I can never call him husband, no other man shall ever call me wife."

The father staggered and grew deadly pale.

"O God," he moaned. "I have no daughter now. Child, child, much as I love you, would that you were lying beside your mother."

Leaving the side of Calhoun, Joyce went to her father, and taking his hands in hers said, "Father, grant me but a few moments' private interview with Captain Pennington, and I promise I will never marry him without your free and full consent. Nay, more, without your consent I will never see him again or correspond with him."

"Joyce, Joyce!" cried Calhoun, "what are you doing? What are you promising?" and he started toward her, but she motioned him back.

"Father! Father!" she wailed, "don't you hear?"

Mr. Crawford looked up.

"Joyce, what did you say? What do you mean?" he whispered.

Joyce repeated what she had said.

"And you mean it, Joyce? you are to stay with me?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes, but I must have a private interview with Captain Pennington before he goes. Then it is for you to say whether I shall ever meet him again or not."

Calhoun stood by while this conversation was going on, the great drops of perspiration gathering on his forehead. Was he going to lose Joyce after all?

The father arose and left the room. No sooner was he gone than she turned, and with a low cry sank into her lover's arms.

"Joyce, Joyce, what have you done?" cried Calhoun. "Fly with me now! Let me take you to my Kentucky home. Father will welcome you. You will not lack the love of a father."

Joyce raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears, but full of love and tenderness. "Hear me, Calhoun," she said, "and then you will not blame me. We cannot marry now, we are both too young. You told me that you and your cousin were to go to Harvard. That means four long years. Before that time my father may give his consent to our union."

"But you told him you would not see me, would not even write. That means banishment."

"Not from my heart," she whispered. "Calhoun, for you to attempt to see me now, or to write to me, would be but to increase my father's opposition. I trust to time, and by filial obedience to win him. It is a fearful thing, Calhoun, to be disowned by one's own father, and by a father who loves one as I know my father loves me. It would kill him if I left him, and the knowledge would make me unhappy, even with you. Calhoun, do you love me?"

"As my life," he answered, clasping her once more to his breast. "And to be banished entirely from your presence is more than I can bear. It is cruel of you to ask it."

"Calhoun, did you love me when I aided you to escape?"

"You know I did, why do you ask?"

"Yet you left me for two long years, left me to fight for principles which you held dear. What if, for love of me, I had asked you to resign from the army, to forsake the cause for which you were fighting?"

"I couldn't have done it, Joyce. I couldn't have done it, even for your love. But you would not ask me to do such a craven act."

"And yet you ask me to forsake my father, to be false to what I know is right."

"Joyce, how can I answer you? I am dumb before your logic. But how can I pass the weary years which are to come?"

"You have passed two since we parted, and your college years need not be weary. They will not be weary. Have faith. When father learns how good, how noble, how true you are, he will give his consent. And Mark, my brother Mark, he will plead for me, I know."

"Joyce, I am like a criminal awaiting pardon—a pardon which may never come."

"Don't say that. Now, Calhoun, we must part. Remember you are not to try to see me or write to me. But the moment father relents I will say, Come. It will not be long. Now go."

Calhoun clasped her once more in his arms, pressed the farewell kiss on her lips, and left her.



CHAPTER XXVI.

"COME."

Calhoun found his life in the university delightful. He was a good student, and a popular one. The black-haired young Kentuckian who had ridden with Morgan was a favorite in society. Many were the languishing glances cast upon him by the beauties of Cambridge and Boston, but he was true to Joyce. In the still hours of the night his thoughts were of her, and he wondered when he would hear that word "Come." But months and years passed, and no word came. He heard that her father was still obdurate. He would wait until his college course was finished, and then, come what would, he would see Joyce and try to shake her resolution. He would carry her off vi et armis if necessary.

The day of his graduation came. It was a proud as well as a sad day to him. Sad because friendships of four years must be broken, in most cases never to be renewed; and sadder yet because no word had come from Joyce. She must know that he was now free, that of all things he would long to come to her. Why should she longer be held by that promise to her father? For the first time he felt bitterness in his heart.

Twilight, darkness came, still he sat in his apartments brooding. From without came the shouts and laughter of students, happy in the thought of going home; but their laughter found no echo in his heart. A step was heard, and his cousin Fred came dashing into the room. "Why, Cal," he exclaimed, "why sit here in the darkness, especially on this day of all days? We are through, Cal, we are going back to Old Kentucky. Don't the thought stir your blood?"

"Go away and leave me, Fred. I am desperate to-night. I want to be alone," replied Calhoun, half despondently, half angrily.

Fred whistled. "Look here, old fellow," he said, kindly, "this won't do. It's time we met the folks down at the hotel. By the way, here is a telegram for you. A messenger boy handed it to me, as I was coming up to the room."

Calhoun took the yellow envelope languidly, while Fred lighted the gas; but no sooner had he glanced at his telegram, than he gave a whoop that would have done credit to a Comanche Indian.

"Fred, Fred!" he shouted, dancing around as if crazy, "when does the first train leave for the west? Tell the folks I can't meet them."

"Well, I never—" began Fred, but Calhoun stopped him by shaking his telegram in his face.

It read:

"Come.

"Joyce."

That was all, but it was enough to tell Calhoun that the long years of waiting were over, that the little Puritan girl had been true to her lover, true to her father, and won at last. The first train that steamed out of Boston west bore Calhoun as a passenger, and an impatient passenger he was.

How had it fared with Joyce during these years? If Calhoun had known all that she suffered, all her heartaches, he would not have been so happy at Harvard as he was. The fear of losing his daughter being gone, Mr. Crawford, like Pharaoh, hardened his heart. He believed that in time Joyce would forget, a pitiable mistake made by many fathers. A woman like Joyce, who truly loves, never forgets. It is said that men do, but this I doubt.

The troublesome days of Reconstruction came on, and Mr. Crawford felt more aggrieved than ever toward the South. He believed that the facts bore out his views, that the North had been too lenient. As for Joyce, she gave little thought to politics. She believed that her father would surely relent before Calhoun had finished his college course; but as the time for his graduation approached, and her father was still obdurate, her courage failed. Her step grew languid, her cheeks lost their roses, the music of her voice in song was no longer heard.

Strange that her father did not notice it, but there was one who did. That was her brother Mark. He was now a major in the Regular Army, had been wounded in a fight with the Apaches, and was home on leave of absence. To him Joyce confided all her sorrows, and found a ready sympathizer, for he was as tender of heart as he was brave.

He went to his father and talked to him as he had never talked before. "Your opposition is all nonsense," said Mark. "Young Pennington is in every way worthy of her. I have taken pains to investigate."

The old gentleman fairly writhed under his son's censures, and tried to excuse himself by saying, "Mark, I have said I had rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, one of Morgan's men."

"Well, you will see her dead, and that very soon," retorted Mark, thoroughly aroused. "Have you no eyes? Have you not noticed her pale cheeks, her languid steps? Is she the happy girl she was? Your foolish, cruel treatment is killing her."

Mr. Crawford groaned. "Mark, Mark," he cried, "I can't bear to hear you talk like that, you my only son. I have only done what I thought was right. You must be mistaken about Joyce."

"I am not; look at her yourself. Never was there a more dutiful daughter than Joyce. She would rather die than break her promise to you. Free her from it. Make her happy by telling her she can see Pennington."

"Mark, don't ask too much. Joyce is all I have to comfort me. When I am gone you will be the head of the family. You can then advise her as you please."

"Better be kind to her and give her your blessing while you live," said his son, turning away, believing that his words would bear fruit.

What Mark had said deeply troubled Mr. Crawford. He now noticed Joyce closely, and was surprised that he had not perceived the change in her. He meant to speak to her, but kept putting it off day by day, until sickness seized him. The doctor came, and told him he had but a short time to live. Mr. Crawford heard the verdict with composure. The Puritan blood in his veins led him to meet death as he would meet any enemy in life. But he would do justice to his daughter before he died. Calling Joyce to him, he took her hand in his, and said: "Joyce, you have been all that a daughter should be to me, but to you I have been a hard, cruel father."

"No, no, you have been the kindest of fathers," she cried, her tears falling fast. "Father, don't talk so, or you will break my heart."

"Listen, Joyce. I now know how much suffering I have caused you. I drove from you the man you loved. Do you still love him, Joyce?"

"Father, I love him, I shall always love him, but I have been true to my promise. I—"

"There, child," broke in Mr. Crawford, "say no more. I know how true you have been, how sacred you have kept your word, while I—oh, forgive me, Joyce!"

"Don't, father, don't, you only did what you thought was right."

"But Pennington, Joyce—has he been true all these years?"

"I charged him not to see or write to me until I bade him, and that was to be when I had your free and full consent. Father, have I that consent now?"

"Yes, yes, tell him to come."

With her feet winged with love Joyce flew to send the glad message. But that night Mr. Crawford became much worse. It was doubtful if he would live until Calhoun could arrive.

Once more the sun is sinking in the west; again is Calhoun galloping up the road which leads to the Crawford residence. But Joyce is not standing at the gate watching for him. The little cloud of dust grows larger and larger, but it is not noticed. In the house a life is ebbing away—going out with the sun. Calhoun is met by Abe, who takes his horse, and points to the house. "Massa Crawford dyin'," is all he said.

He is met at the door by Joyce. "Come, father wants to see you," she says, and leads him into the chamber where the dying man lies.

"Father, here is Calhoun," she sobbed.

Mr. Crawford opened his eyes, stretched forth a trembling hand, and it was grasped by Calhoun. In that hour all animosity, all bitterness, was forgotten.

Joyce came and stood by the side of her lover. Her father took her hand and placed it in that of Calhoun. "God bless you both, my children," he whispered. "Forgive!"

"There is nothing to forgive," replied Calhoun, in a choking voice.

A look of great contentment came over the dying man's face. "Sit by me, Joyce," he whispered. "Let me hold your hand in mine."

Joyce did so, her tears falling like rain. For some time she held her father's hand, and then his mind began to wander. It was no longer Joyce's hand he held, but the hand of her mother, who had lain in the grave for so many years. Once he opened his eyes, and seeing the face of Joyce bending over him, murmured, "Kiss me, Mary."

Brushing aside her tears, Joyce kissed him, not once, but again and again.

He smiled, closed his eyes—and then fell asleep.



A year has passed since the death of Mr. Crawford. Calhoun has come to claim his beautiful bride. He is making his last raid; but this time no enemy glowers upon him. Instead, flowers are scattered in his path; glad bells are ringing a joyful welcome. He is fully aware that the war has left many bitter memories; yet when the words are spoken which link his life to Joyce's forever and forever (for true love ends not in the grave), he clasps her to his heart, and thanks God that Morgan made his raid into Ohio.

THE END.

PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.



FOOTNOTES

1 Calhoun did not tell Morgan the exact truth regarding his capture and release. For this see "General Nelson's Scout."

2 For full particulars of this see "On General Thomas's Staff."

3 This convention was in reality not held until June 15, 1864.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

The author's footnotes have been moved to the end of the volume.

The following typographical errors were corrected:

page 70, "wagon train" changed to "wagon-train" page 73, "orced" changed to "forced" page 86, "kulking" changed to "skulking" page 125, "way" changed to "way." page 140, "At" changed to "As"

In addition, several missing, superfluous or misplaced quote marks have been corrected.

Variations in spelling ("pass-word" and "password", "tear-drop" and "teardrop", "bastile" and "Bastille") were not changed. The single occurrence of "Matthews" was not changed to "Mathews" as it is not clear if the same character is meant. Similarly, it can not be decided if a horse is called "Salim" or "Selim".

THE END