The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 27, 1903, Page 2

-] THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL.. HIS is the second and last installment of *“A Little Traitor to the South,” which bezan in the big Christ- mas Call last Sunday. You can- not buy this exciting novel by Cyrus Townsend DBrady else- where for ten times what it costs you here and—just think it over for a moment—you get it complete in The Sunday Call in two editions. Better still, yon will get “Chrittenden,” a brand new novel (beginning -next Sun- day), in three or four issues at the most. EMPLAND was utterly unable to fathom her ysterious conduct. He had thought upon it swiftly as he cou during those trying moments which had been so filled with n, but he had not had time, until quiet and solitude of his con- nt, to give it any calm considera- He understand in th a loss to was at a traitor to the South? Did to prevent the loss of the of the Federal fleet by 4 n? That could t be, for if and sincerity shone in a ce and were evinced in a tions, they wpre in Fanny n’s appearance and life. Her patri- s unquestioned. That hypoth- sed at once. loved him so edition promised she had taken hod of preserving Had he not been too agitated the strong room of her house to re- 1d her that in some mys- she was hap at being in His heart leaped at the rec- She not struggled. She st nestled against him. d recall the clasp of her arms, st be disi because she the e Was it ying e kiss that she had given him, the words that she had said! He was al- most sure that she loved him as he th of these things Ye e had disgraced him, dishon- That was not_the act of a an. She had shown herself measure of woman- and courage. She Knew t was involved in his fall- re to carry out hi ders. How could done t all acting er kisses betray him? Was e tr r—and to him? Yet hed to resume reluctantly Had she been a party to ereby the matter might be to be shamed s glory and ? Perish the she fainted at as it at the mention of 1e? Was she alarmed for 3 If that were the cas: >4 not striven to restrain Lacy ed him to go in his place? there flashed into his mind ht be some one on the whom she wished to protect! =0 be the solution of the mys- : knew anything of her n, her past k Was she faith- the South, had she a—a—lov- one tory. the Urion fieet? Was she eed he called her—a heartless co- quette? He could have sworn from that brief-moment when he held her in his arms, when he looked at her, that she loved h kiss. Oh, h A play? To dece was he going mad? ofr one thing was he certain. He never any one the cause of his failure to present him- self on the wharf on time. Whether she loved Lacy, or some one in the Union fleet, made no difference to his love. He would love her till he dicd Ay, he would love her even ‘in the face of her treachery, her faithless- ness—everything! He hated himseit for this, but it was true; he could not deny it. And he would save her from the con- ad returned his Was it a dream? e him? Great God, only could disclose to sequences of her action at the cost of bis life—his honor even. What had he to live for any way if she were taken from him? Death might come. It would He would make no defense. It was quite within the power of a court- martial to order him shot. And it was quite within the power of a court-mar- tial to punish Fanny Glenn, too, if he fastened the culpability for his failure upon her, perhaps not by death, but certainly by disgrace and shame. The city was under martial rule—General Beauregard was supreme. No, he could not expose her to that condemnation— he her too well. Yet he wished that he could hate her, as he paced up and down the long room, stopping at the windows to stare out into the dark in the direction of the sea—where he ‘ehould have been if all had gone well. He was too far away to hear the ex- plosion of the torpedo, which was muf- come loved ad he repent- fled because it took place under the water, but he could hear the batteries of the ships as they opened on the blockade runners and the answer from the forts, and he knew that something had hapvened at any rate. And his suspense as to that added to his wretch- edness. Lacy had supplanted him and reaped the glory—again. It was mad- dening. No one came to bring him any word. The general concluded to post- pone his inquiry until the next morning, and Sempland paced the floor the night long in a pitiable condition of wounded love, blasted hope, shattered fame. At home not far away, poor Fanny Glen was even more miserable than Rhett Sempland, for she had divined —yes, as soon as the two men had left her presence the afternocon before, she had recognized the fact—that she loved Sempland. Conviction had grown her swiftly 1 in those mo- fearful that he s purpose, when she had kept him a prisoner in her home to prevent him from taking out the David to try to blow up the Wabash, she knew that she loved him. When he had held her in his arms, in that bold and successful effort to escape, when he had strained her to his breast, when upon ments when she v would succeed in h he had kissed her—oh, that kiss!—the consciousness of her passions over- whelmed her. The recollection of it even filled her with passionate tender- ness. She had not been afraid when he had threatened her with a pistol. She could have died easily then—in his arms, with his kiss upon her lips, his heart beating against her own. He loved her! Nothing else mattered for the moment. She had endeavored prisoner partly for his own sake, but principally for another and greater reason. sShe had not thought of dis- grace or shame to him. It had all come so swiftly. She had no time to reflect at all. She had decided upon dmpulse, with but one thought at first —to save the Union ship. In her sud- den alarm and anxiety shé had not re- alized that she was playing a traitor’s part. Or if she had, she had done it willingly in the belief that the pun- ishment would fall upon her, and that he ‘would be held blameless. But for whatever reason she had acted as she had, she had failed after all, for another had taken Sempland’s part and the flagship, if the David suc- ceeded, was doomed. Her sacrifice was unavailing. She had lost everything. Sempland had shrunk away from her when she had confronted him and the general on the wharf, and when she had recovered consciousness he gones She could not know his heart had gone out to her lying there and how they had hurried him away from her prostrate figure. He would never for- give her—never! she thought misera- bly. He was under arrest now. What was that word she had caught as she ran up? Coward! They would kill him perhaps. She had lost all—love, the ship, everything! Lacy, too, was gone. He had taken the boat out in Semp- land’s place. Why had she not thought of that possibility? And he had loved her, and he would never come back. With a misery akin to Sempland’s she heard the bombardment which pro- claimed that something had happened. Had the flagship been blown up? Noth- ing was left to her. She would go to the general and tell the truth in the morning, and then—he would be free. They could punish her and she could die. Well, death would be welcome. Poor little Fanny Glen! She had played, and piayed the fool exceedingly —and she had lost on every hand! CHAPTER to keep him a was VIIL A STUBBORN PROPOSITION. The general = on the alert and usually began his work with the sun and rarely did he stop with the setting of it, either. The next morn- ing therefore he was at his headquar- ters at an unusually early hour. For- tune had favored him in that one of the harbor patrol boats, making a dar- ing reconnoisance about midnight to discover if posible what had happen- ed to the David, had captured a whaleboat from one of the Unmnion ships, bound on a similar errand, and had brought her crew to the city. By questioning them Beauregard learned of the blowing up of the Housatonic and the almost certain loss of the tor- pedo-boat. He was sorry that he missed the Wabash and the admiral, and intensely grieved over the lack of any tidings from the David or her men, which, however, caused him 1it- tle surprise, but he was glad, indeed, they had been s¢ brilliantly successful in eliminating the magnificent steam sloop-of-war Housatonic from the force blockading them. Incidentally he learned, with some additional satisfaction, that Admiral Vernon was to be relieved of his com- mand on account of illness and was going North with his flagship in a few days. The admiral had shown himself so intensely enterprising and pugnacious that Beauregard hoped and expected that any change in op- ponents would be for the betterment of the situation from the Southern point of view. When he had digested the important news of the morning he sent for his prisoner of the night be- fore. The general had been very in- dignant on the wharf, and justly so, alway new. "but he instinctively 2t that there was something in the situation which, if he could get at it, might relieve from the odium of his situation the young officer, whose family history, no less then his personal character, absolute- ly negatived the idea of cowardice or treachery. ° General Beauregard hoped that by questioning him quietly and calmly and by representing to him the dread- ful situation in which he found him- self, he might induce him to clear up the mystery. He spoke to him kindly, therefore, when he was ushered into the room and bade him be seated. He marked with soldierly apprecia- tion of the lieutenant's feelings the evidences of his sleepless mnight, the anguish of hie soul, in the haggard look upon his face. “Mr. Sempland,” he began with fm~ pressive and deliberate gravity, cares fully weighing his words that they might make the deeper impression upon the younger man, for whom he felt profound pity, "“you bear ome of the noblest names. in the common- wealth. I knew your father and your grandfather. They were men of the highest courage and of unimpeachable honor. . Their devotion to the South cannot be questioned. I grieve more than I can say to find you in so equivocal a position. I am convinced that there s some explanation for it and I ask you, .not as your general, but as your friend, to disclose it to me.” “You called me a coward last night, sl “In the heat of my disappointment and surprise I did make use of that term, sir. It was a; mistake. I re- gret it,” said the general magnani- mously. “I do not believe your fali- ure to take out the David arose from any fear.” This was a great concession indeed, and Sempland was intensely. relieved and an immense load was lifted from his breast by the general's reassuring words. ir, I thank you. I could have borne hing than that.” , my boy,” continued the gen- eral, severely, “you remember you &till lie under the imputation of treachery to the South, and you will recognize readily that is a scarcely less terrible’ accusation than the other.” “General Beanregard, belleve me, sir,”” burst out S:mpland impetuously, “I pledge you my word of honor, I am not a traitor to the South; I- would die for my country gladly if it would do her service. I fully intend< ed to take out '.e David. I begged for the detail a:d was thankful be- yond measure to-you for giving it to. me. I was overvhelmed with anger and dismay and forror at my failure. 1 swear to you, s/, by all that is good and true, by evegything holy, that it wasnot my fault BY whom?” Sempland onl{ bit ‘his’ 1p ‘and looked dumbly at'the general, - “Come, my boy, I want to help you,’" said the veteran officer persuasively. ° “Who, or what, détained you? Where were you detained? It must have beén some man—or was it & woman? . Tell me, and by heavens, I'll make such an example of the traitor as will never be forgotten in South Carolina or tha Confederacy!” “I cannot, sir.” “Think! Your rank, your honor, it may be your life, all depend upon vour answer! You are ,concealing something from me. You do not answer,” continued Beauregard keen- ly scanning the face of the young man standing before him in stubborn silence. “I see that you are shielding some one, sheltéring some unworthy person. Who is it?" Still no answer. The general's pa- tience was gradually vanishing in the face of such obstinacy. Yet he Te~ strained his growing anger and contin- ued his questioning. “Where did you go after you left me?” To my quarters, sir; to write a let- Were you there all the time?” “No, sir.” “Where did you go atter the letter was written?"” No answer. “M Lacy sald” began the general, changing his tactics. “Did he tell you?” cried Sempland in sudden alarm and dismay. “He knew, then?” exclaimed the gen- eral, triumphant in his clew. *No, he didn’t tell. He never will tell now. I have learned from a picket boat that was captured last night by one of our patrols that nothing was seen of the David after the explosion.” “Poor Lacy!” said Sempland. “Well, sir, he died the death of his choice.” “Yes,” said Beauregard. “Little in life became him as the ending of it.” A little silence fell between the two in the room. “And I might have been there,” said Sempland at last. “I had rather see you dead, sir, than in your present case,” commented the general deftly. “Yes, gir, and I'd rather be there,” returned the young man. ut I—I beg your pardon, general; were they suc- cesstul?” “In a measure. They missed the Wa- bash, but they blew up the Housa- tonic.” “Did the cotton ships get out?” “Unfortunately, no. One of them was sunk. The othér two returned in safe- ty. But all this is beside the question. ‘We are losing sight of the main point. For the last time, will you tell me why you failed to be on hand?” “General Beauregard, as I sald, I would rather be where Lacy is now than have failed as I did, but I cannot tell you what detained me.” “For the last time, Mr. Sempland, I beg of you to answer me. You know the consequences?” The general spoke sharply now. Such determination and contumacy had at last got the better of his patience and forbearance. He had trled to save Sempland, but the young officer would ~give him no assistance. Well, on- his own head it would be. “You realize what is before you, sir?” “Yes, sir.”, A court-martlaL' Possibly-—nay, cer- I was not there “HE LS HEAD FELL FORWARD I TER HAND:S ” tainly, death. For in the face of your refusal to explain I can do nothing more for you,’ Sempland bowed to the inevitable. “You have sald,” he began, “that you did not belleve I was a coward, nor a traitor. If you will not allow the stig- ma of either ot these charges to rest upon me I will bear with equanimity whatever punishiment the court-martial may award.” “Even to loss of life?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well,” said the general, shrug- ging his shoulders, a trick of his French ancestry. “I have done my best, Mr. Sempland, for you. As to my personal beliefs I can and will express them, but I cannot tell whether the court-martial will receive them or no. Will nothing move you?” “Nothing, sir.” The general struck a bell on the desk before him. 5 “‘Orderly,” he said, as a soldier pre- sented himself, “my compliments to the assistant adjutant genetal. him to came here. Ah, General Wyll&," he said as that functionary pr;sgnted himself, “will you make out an drder assembling a court-martial to try Lieutenant Rhett Sempland, here, for disobedlience of or- ders and neglect of duty in the presence of the enemy, and—well, that will be enough, I think,” he continued after a pause which was fraught with agony to Sempland, at Jeast, lest the general should mentlon cowardice or treason again. “Meanwhile see that Mr. Semp- land is carefully guarded here in the headquarters bullding.” “Very good, sir,” sald the officer, luting. “This way, Mr. Sempland. CHAPTER IX. THE CONFESSION THAT CLEARED, As the two men left the room the orderly entered it once more and an- nounced to the general that a lady was below who asked the privilege of an Interview with him. “Lady? What lady?* Beauregard impatiently. He was in no mood for feminine so- clety after the difficult interview in which-he had just participated. s “I think it is Miss Glen, sir, says she must see you and—" “Ah!” interrupted the general hast- ily as he recoflected the scene on the wharf the night before, when Fanny demanded She Glen had fainted at the news that the boat was gone and that Lacy had gone with it. “Show her in here at once, orderly.” He had intended to seek her in her house in the course of the morning and break the melancholy news to her that the torpedo-boat was lost in all probability with all on board, for from her agitation on the wharf he inferred that her affections were bestowed ypon @Lacy. He was very sorry for her, of course, but knowing Lacy as he had, and estimating Fanny Glen as he did, there was a certain sense of re- lief that she would not be condemned to a lifetime of misery which such a marriage would inevitably have en- talled. Still he pitied her profoundly, and he pitied her more when she came into his private ofice in the wake of the orderly and threw back her veil Her beautiful face showed the sorrow under which she labored. Suffering had thrown a blight upon it, the fresh- ness and youth seemed to have depart- ed from it. She was a Dpiteous little spectacle indeed. The general received her with the utmost cordiality and consideration. He handed her to a chair, and bade the orderly see that they were mot dis- turbed on any account. “Miss Fanny,” he began gently—the war had brought the general and the brave girl very close together—"1 was coming over to see you in a little while. You have shown yourself a brave little woman many times. You need all your courage now."” “Yes, general,” sald the girl faintly, ‘I know."” 'You have sustained a terrible loss.” “Is—is—Mr. Sempland—" “He is well enough at present. I refer to your friend, Major Lacy.” “Is he—" “I am sorry to say that in all proba- bility he has lost his life in the torpedo- boat. We can get no tidings of her or of any of her crew. She must have gone down with the ship.” “Did they succeed, sir?” interrupted Fanny Glen, with an anxiety and an apprehension too great to be controlled. “They did,” returned Beauregard, somewhat surprised at her question, “but the- torpedo-boat, I think, went down with the ship she blew up, and no one has seen her or any of her crew gince the explosion. I knew that it was almost certain death to them.” Fanny Glen sank back In the chair. She almost lost consciousness in her agony. She murmured strange and in- coherent words. The general did not understand them, but he rose, came to her side, bent over her and took her hand, patting it softly. “I know, 1 know, my dear child,” he said gently, “how you must suffer. Many another woman has had to give up her heart’s desire for our beloved country. Think of the service he ren- dered, to you and to all of us! Think of his noble sacrifice, his death! Cherish his memory and be proud that he loved you and that you loved him. Few wom- en have done more for the South than you, and there is still much to do. Work will assuage your grief,” con- tinued the general, laying his hand ten- derly upon the bowed head. “You will slways have the deathless memory of his heroism."” “Oh!" cried the woman, throwing back her head, “‘you are wrong. You do not know, you do not understand, I honored Major Lacy, I rejoiced in his courage, but I do not love him. It is not he that I think of. Itis my father.” “Your father? What do you mean?” “Admiral Vernon.” “What!" “Yes, he is my father. Fanny Glen Vernon.” “Good heavens! It cannot be sible.” “It is true. My mother was a South- ern woman, one of the Glens of Hall- fax—" “I knew her!” gard. “She died when I was a child and I was brought up by her sister. My father — I did not see much of him. He was a sailor, and after my moth- er's death he sought constantly to be in active service. When the war broke out he sald he must stay by the old flag. I strove to persuade him aif- ferently. It was horrible to me, to think that a son of South Cdroiina, and my father, would fight against her. There was a quarrel between us. I told my father I would not ac- knowledge him any longer. I repudi- ated the Vernon name and came here and worked for the South, as you know. When I learned yesterday that you were going to blow up the Wa- bash g “But, my dear girl,” interrupted the general quickly, “we didn’t blow up the Wabash.” “But you said that Major Lacy had succeeded!” sald the girl In great be- My name is pos- exclaimed Beaure- t. “He did. The Wabash and Hou- satonic exchanged places during the night and the latter was sunk. The ‘Wabash is all right. For your sake, my dear child, I say thank God for the mistake.” ““Then my father is safe?” ‘He is. Some Yankees we captured this morning say that he is to be re- lieved of his command and ordered North on' a sick leave. He will no longer be in danger from us, you see.” - “Thank God, thank Ged!™ cried the girl, and the rellef in her voice sad face seemed to make another woman of her. “It was wrong, I know. It was treason to the South—I love the South—but I strove to prevent—" “Ah!" exclaimed Beauregard. have it now! Sempland—" “He Is preparing,” continued Beau- regard coolly—he had the clew to the mystery and he determined to follow it to the end—"to be tried by a court- martial—" “By a court-martial, General Beaure- gard! For what, sir?” “For disobedience of orders and neg- lect of duty in the face of the enemy. And I am in two minds whether to these charges should be added cow- ardice and treason or mot!" “Impossible!” exclaimed Fanny Glen. “Miss Glen, it is an absolute fact. He came to me yesterday afternoon and volunteered for the command of the expedition. Begging for it, In fact. Major Lacy reluctantly but generously yielded to him with my consent.” “It was for me he sought it.” said the girl full of reproach for h!‘z;l‘f ™~ “I had mocked him for his lack offglis« tinction, sir, before he saw you. He hazarded his life for my approval and for the cause of the South.” A tuller light broke upon the sel}- eral’'s mind. He understood all now, yet he went on pitilessly. “After getting command In this pe- culiar way he failed to presert him- self on the wharf at the appointed time. We walted ten minutes for him, as long as we dared, in fact, and then, as you know, sent the boat out under Major Lacy. “He was detained,” faintly. “So he sald when I arrested him last night, and he repeated the state- ment this morning. I pressed him to tell me by whom and where he had been detained, but he refused to tell. I plied him with every argument at my command. I pointed out to him the consequences of his actiom, his failure to justify himself, that is, showed him clearly the penalty which the court-martial would undoubtedly inflict upon him—" “That } said the girl is? “Death, madam! b: shot to-morrow, clear.” The girl's head fell forward in her He will probably for his guilt is hands. There was a little silengp in the room. The general watchedSNher narrowly, but said nothing further. He was waiting. in full confidence that she would speak. He could afford to be patient now. . 3