The torrent of his passion was stayed by this appeal to his forbearance.
He essayed to calm down his impetuous eagerness for a decision of his fate, and said penitently:
"I beg your pardon. I really forgot. I have so long sought an opportunity to speak to you upon this matter, and I have been so often balked at the last moment, that when a seeming chance came I was carried away with it, and in my selfish eagerness for my own happiness, I forgot your distress. Forgive me--do."
"I have nothing to forgive," she said frankly, most touched by his tender consideration. "You never allow me an occasion for forgiveness, or to do anything in any way to offset the favors you continually heap upon me."
"Pay them all a thousand times over by giving me the least reason to hope."
"I only wish I could--I only wish I dared. But I fear to say anything now. I can not trust myself."
"But you will at least say something that will give me the basis of a hope," he persisted.
"Not now--not now," she said, giving him her hand, which he seized and kissed fervently, and withdrew from the room.
She bolted the door and gave herself up to the most intense thought.
Assignment to duty with an expedition took Dr. Denslow away the next morning, without his being able to see her. When he returned a week later, he found this letter lying on his desk:
MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: The declaration you honored me with making has been the subject of many hours of the most earnest consideration possible.
I am certain that it si due to you and to the confession that you have made of your feelings, that I should in turn confess that I am deeply--what shall I say--INTERESTED in you? No; that is too prim and prudish a term. There is in you for me more than a mere attraction; I feel for you something deeper than even warm friendship. That you would make such a husband as I should cherish and honor, of whom I should be proud, and whose strong, kindly arms would be my secure support and protection until death claimed us, I have not the slightest doubt. But when I ask myself whether this is really love--the sacred, all-pervading passion which a woman should feel for the man to whom she gives herself, body and soul, I encounter the strongest doubts. These doubts have no reference to you--only to myself. I feel that it would be a degradation--a deep profanation--for me to give myself to you, without feeling in its entirety such a love as I have attempted to define. I have gone away from you because I want to consider this question and decide it with more calmness and impartiality than I can where I meet you daily, and daily receive some kindness from your hands. These and the magnetism of your presence are temptations which I fear might swerve me from my ideal, and possibly lead to a mistake which we both might ever afterward have reason to regret.
I have, as you will be informed, accepted a detail to one of the hospitals at Nashville. Do not write me, except to tell me of a change in your postoffice address. I will not write you, unless I have something of special moment to tell you. Believe me, whatever may betide, at least your very sincere friend,
Rachel Bond.
Chapter XVIII. Secret Service.
The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow, Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below.
And calm and patient Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell.
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot, But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles out bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.
--Whittier's "Battle Autumn of 1862"
The Summer and Fall of the "Battle Year" of 1862 had passed without the Army of the Cumberland--then called the Army of the Ohio--being able to bring its Rebel antagonist to a decisive struggle. In September the two had raced entirely across the States of Tennessee and Kentucky, for the prize of Louisville, which the Union army won. In October the latter chased its enemy back through Kentucky, without being able to inflict upon it more than the abortive blow at Perryville, and November found the two opponents facing each other in Middle Tennessee--the Army of the Cumberland at Nashville, and the Rebel Army of the Tennessee at Murfeesboro, twenty-eight miles distant. There the two equally matched giants lay confronting each other, and sullenly making ready for the mighty struggle which was to decide the possession of a territory equalling a kingdom in extent.
In the year which had elapsed since the affair at Wildcat Harry Glen's regiment had not participated in a single general engagement. It had scouted and raided; it had reconnoitered and guarded; it had chased guerrillas through the Winter's rain and mud for days and nights together; it had followed John Morgan's dashing troopers along limestone turnpikes that glowed like brick-kilns under the July sun until three-fourths of the regiment had dropped by the roadside in sheer exhaustion; it had marched over the mountains to Cumberland Gap, and back over the mountains to Lexington; across Kentucky and Tennessee to Huntsville, Ala., back across those States to the Ohio River, and again back across Kentucky to Nashville, beside side marches as numerous as the branches on a tree; 50 per cent. of its number had fallen victims to sickness and hardship, and 10 per cent. more had been shot, here and there, a man or two at a time, on the picket or skirmish line, at fords or stockades guarding railroad bridges. But while other regiments which had suffered nothing like it had painted on their banners "Mill Springs," "Shiloh," and "Perryville," its colors had yet to receive their maiden inscription. This was the hard luck of many of the regiments in the left wing of Buell's army in 1862.
Kent Edwards, whose promotion to the rank of Sergeant, and reduction for some escapade had been a usual monthly occurence during the year, was fond of saying that the regiment was not sent to the field to gain martial glory, but to train as book agents to sell histories of the struggle, "When This Cruel War is Over." Whereupon Abe Bolton would improve the occasion to invoke a heated future for every person in authority, from the President down to the Fifth Corporal.
But for all this the 400 hardy boys who still remained to answer roll-call, out of the 1,100 that had crossed the Ohio River in September, 1861, were as fine a body of fighting men as ever followed a flag, and there was no better soldier among them than Harry Glen. Every day had been a growth to him, and every trial had knit his spirit into firmer texture. For awhile he had made it a matter of conscience to take an active part in everything that his comrades were called upon to do. Soon this became a matter of pleasure, for the satisfaction of successfully leading them through difficulties and dangers more than compensated for the effort. But while he had vindicated himself in their estimation, he yet lacked that which the ordeal of a battle would give him at home, and more than all, in Rachel's eyes. He heard nothing from or of her, but he consoled himself with the hope that the same means by which she had been so promptly informed of his misstep, would convey to her an intimation of how well he was deserving her. When he gained his laurels he would himself lay them at her feet. Until then he could only hope and strive, cherishing all the while the love for her that daily grew stronger in his heart.
A patient in her ward, recovering from a fever, attracted Rachel's attention soon after her entrance upon duty at Nashville.
Womanly intuition showed her that no ordinary spirit slumbered underneath the usual mountaineer characteristics. The long, lank, black hair, the angular outlines, and the uncouth gestures were common enough among those around her, but she saw a latent fire in the usually dull and languid eyes, which transformed the man into one in whose brain and hand slept many possibilities that were liable to awaken at any moment.
Still womanly, she could not help betraying this fact by singling him out as the recipient of many little attentions somewhat more special than those she bestowed on others.
On the other hand, often as she moved about the ward she would in turning discover his eyes fixed upon her movements with an expression of earnest study. After awhile the study seemed to show that it had been satisfactory, and one day, when the Surgeon had informed him that he was now in a condition to return to duty whenever he saw fit to do so, he asked Rachel:
"Kin I speak ter ye a moment in private, Miss?"
"Certainly," she replied. "Come right in here."
Entering the room he closed the door behind them, and made a minute survey of the windows, and other points of vantage for eavesdroppers.
This done, he returned to where Rachel was watching his operations with much curiosity, and said:
"Let's set down. I guess no one'll overhear us, ef we're keerful.
"Hev ye enny idee who I am?" he asked abruptly, as they sat down on one of the rude benches with which the room was furnished.
"Not the slightest," she answered, "except that you appear on the roll as 'James Brown, No. 23,' no company or regiment given."
"Very good. D'ye reckon thet enny o' them in thar hev?"--pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the ward.
"Of course I can not tell as to that. I never hear them say anything about you. They seem to think that you are one of the loyal East Tennesseans that are plentiful about here."
"I've been afeered fur the last few days that some uv 'em were Rebels in disguise, an' thet they sort o' suspicioned me. I hev seed two on 'em eyein' me mouty hard. One has a red head, an' 'tother a long black beard."
"I can perhaps set your anxiety at rest on that score. They ARE Southerners, but loyal ones. They were forced into the Rebel army, but made their escape at the first opportunity. They naturally watch every Southern-looking man with great interest, fearing that he may be an unpleasant acquaintance."
"Desarters from the Rebel army, be they? Thet makes me so'. I thot I'd seen 'em afore, an' this makes me sartin. They're mouty bad pills, an'
they hain't heah fur no good, but whar did I see 'em? In some Rebel camp somewhar? No; now I remember. Ef I hain't powerfully fooled them's the two laddie-bucks thet Harry Glen an' me gobbled up one fine mornin' an'
tuck inter Wildcat. They're bad aigs, ef ther ever war bad aigs."
"Harry Glen, did you say? What do you know of Harry Glen?" Her heart was in her mouth.
"What do I know of harry Glen? Why, jest heaps an' more yit. He's one o' the best men thet ever wore blue clotes. But thet's nuther heah nor thar. Thet hain't what I brung ye out heah ter talk on."
"Go on," said Rachel, resisting her eagerness to overwhelm him with questions concerning the one man of all the world she most desired to learn about. "I can spare you but little time."
"All right, Miss. Ter begin with, my name's not Brown. Nary a time.
Hit's Fortner--Jim Fortner--the 'noted Scout,' ez I heered ye readin'
'bout 'tother day, when ye war givin' the boys the war news in the papers. I'm well-known ez a secret-sarvice man--tu well-known, I'm afeered. I could git 'long 'ithout quite ez menny 'quaintances ez I hev gethered up lately. More 'specially o' the kind, fur menny on 'em ar'
only waitin' a good opportunity ter gin me a gran' interduction to 'tarnity. I'd ruther know fewer folks an' better ones, ez I wunst heered Harry Glen say."
"What do you know of----" Rachel started to say, but before she could finish the sentence Fortner resumed: