Raiding with Morgan Part 34

"You will find your horse in the stable," was all she said, as she pa.s.sed 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 const.i.tution 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+" 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed were the happiest Calhoun had ever spent. He told Joyce of his Kentucky home, of his cousin Fred, how n.o.ble 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.