Uncle Dan had long prided himself on his skill in woodcraft, and, to be thus outwitted in his old days, was more than he could endure. He plunged recklessly into the brush, which was so dense that no object could be seen a dozen feet away. He ran several narrow risks, coming two or three times almost into the rebel lines.
"To think that a nigger should get ahead of me that way! It's too much!" exclaimed the old man, as he leaned against a tree, and listened to the occasional shots which awoke the echoes of the forest. "But what do I want with him, if I should catch him? My business is to lead the army through the woods, and not to be following a strange nigger up and down."
A crushing in the underbrush told him that some one was advancing, and, a moment later, Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords with half a dozen soldiers came up to where the old man stood.
"Hilloa, old boy!" said Sergeant Swords. "Pausin' to view the land ahead?"
"No, I've been trying to git a pop at a nigger," replied Uncle Dan.
"What are niggers doing here?" said Corporal Grimm. "When dogs fight for a bone, the bone seldom fights."
"The bone is in these woods, but I'll be hanged if I know what it's here for. Let's be moving on."
"D'ye know the lay of the land?" asked Sergeant Swords.
"Every foot," said Uncle Dan.
The long line of Union skirmishers was moving slowly through the thick woods, and the line of Confederate skirmishers was retreating at the same pace to cover the rear of their army. The crack of rifles rang out frequently, but it was seldom with effect. It was evident that the Confederates were making for their stronghold beyond the Twin Mountains. The line of their retreat led by the foot of the mountains, where stood Uncle Dan's cabin.
With some anxiety Uncle Dan watched the movements of the retreating mass of soldiers. Among them was one short fat little fellow on foot, whose legs were too short to ably execute his prodigious exertions to keep pace with his companions; his little gray coat-tails were streaming in the air or whipping wildly against the trees. The officers, who were in the advance, amused themselves by popping away at the fleeing rebel with their revolvers. Still he flitted on among the trees, into the brush, out of the brush, over the logs, and under the lower branches of the trees, straining every nerve to keep up with his swifter companions. The soldiers were gaining on him rapidly, and it was painfully evident, that, when he reached open ground, one of these many loaded guns must bring him down. His companions, who were several rods in advance, suddenly turned abruptly to the left, which he, evidently too terrified to comprehend which way he was going, kept straight ahead.
Crack, crack! went the pistols of Grimm and Swords, and the bullets whizzed uncomfortably near our short friend's head.
"Oh, Lordy, Lordy, I know I shall be killed!" he cried in tones so wild and shrill that his fear could not be doubted. He reached the thicket bordering Wolf Creek and—crash, crash, bang!—he went through the thicket into the creek. The splash was plainly heard by his pursuers and, in spite of themselves, they could not repress a laugh.
In a moment they were at the bank and beheld a half drowned little man, sneezing and coughing as he struggled to the bank and clung to some pendant vines.
"Hem, hem, or Lordy!—achew—hem, hem!—oh Lordy, achew!" he murmured. "I'll—achew—quit this horrible soldier—achew—business. Oh! Lordy, I know I shall be killed! Achew! oh, Lordy. I want to quit this, I never was made to be a soldier."
"Helloa!" cried Uncle Dan. "Come out o' there, and tell us who ye are."
He looked up on the bank and, seeing the soldiers, with a cry plunged under the water. In a moment more he came up to breathe.
"Come out o' that and don't be playing mud-turtle," cried Uncle Dan. "Ef I ain't mistaken, ye are Patrick Henry Diggs, and yer lost."
It really was Diggs, and, with a yell of recognition and delight, he scrambled up the bank.
"O, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan!" he cried, falling almost exhausted at his feet. "Save me, save me, save me!"
"Save ye from what?" said Uncle Dan.
"From being shot and drowned and killed. Oh, I solemnly swear that I will never have anything more to do with this soldier business. It is only run, run, from beginning to end, and then plunging head first into a muddy stream. Oh, I'll quit it, I'll quit it. Heaven forgive me, Uncle Dan!" he cried vehemently.
"This is sorry business, Diggs. What war ye doing?" said Uncle Dan seriously.
"Running for my life," answered Diggs.
"Get up, Diggs," said the old scout solemnly.
The little fellow arose, looking more like a school-boy who was going to be thrashed.
"Diggs," said the old man, and there was not the slightest tinge of jest in his tones, "what war ye doing with the rebels?"
"If you please, sir,—hem, hem—" began Diggs, greatly confused, turning pale as death and beginning to tremble, "I—I—was taken prisoner with these two gentlemen," pointing to Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords.
"No, you were not," said both at once. "We were never taken prisoners."
"Oh, I beg your pardon—hem, hem!—gentlemen, please hear me through, and I can explain all this to you. I was taken prisoner by the rebels one night, when I went out with these two gentlemen, and they—hem, hem!—I mean the rebels, kept me for a long time until they made me go with them to-day, and you found me with them."
"Do you mean to say that ye have been a prisoner all this time?" asked Sergeant Swords.
"Yes," said Diggs, after a moment's hesitation.
"Then what was ye doing with a gun in yer hand, when we come on ye and the others?" said Corporal Grimm.
"You are mistaken, it was some one else," said Diggs, becoming confused.
"No, I am not. We all saw you throw it away and run with the rest," said the Corporal.
"Well, it was one I had just picked up. I was tryin' to escape, when you came up, and I ran with the rest."
"But here ye are with the cartridge-box belted around you," said the Sergeant, "and you have the gray uniform on."
Diggs was too much confused to reply, and his eyes dropped under the searching glance of the soldiers.
"Diggs," said the old scout, with great earnestness in his tones, "I'm afraid it will go hard with you. You are a deserter and a spy. It's sorry business, Diggs."
"O, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, promise me you will not let me be hurt!" cried Diggs.
"Come along. You shall be treated as a prisoner of war, but I can't say what a court martial may do about your desertion."
"O, Uncle Dan, you wont let them shoot me, will you? Say you won't, and I'll do anything in the world you want me to do. I'll enlist in your army and fight on half rations."
"You've 'listed a little too much already," said Uncle Dan. "This tryin' to sarve two masters won't do."
"Oh, you surely would not let me be killed. Oh, promise me, you will not let them take me out and shoot me." Poor Diggs broke down and sobbed like a whipped school-boy.
"Hush up blubberin'. Be a man, if ye've got any manhood about ye, and come along."
They now begin to retrace their steps back to where the main army had paused.
"But, Uncle Dan, you have known me from a child, and you knew my father before me. Say that you wont have me killed!" sobbed Diggs, as he walked along with a soldier on either side of him.
"That's beyond my control," replied Uncle Dan. "I'll turn ye over to the authorities, and I can't make promises."
Poor Diggs felt his heart sink within him. His very breathing became oppressive, and the soldiers who walked by his side seemed like giants of vengeance.
"Oh, what must I do, I know I shall be killed," thought Diggs. He reflected on his past life and commenced preparing for his exit from this world.
In his mind he opened a double-column ledger account of the good and the bad acts of his life. He tried to think how many times he had prayed. They were few. Only on occasions, like the present, when his danger was imminent. He remembered with horror, now, that when the danger was gone, he had always forgotten his good resolves, and mentally blamed himself for his weakness. The bad column ran up so rapidly that it seemed impossible for the account to be balanced.
"If I ever can get out of this," he mentally ejaculated, "I shall devote my life to the Lord's service. I will be a preacher; I would make a capital preacher; I was meant for a preacher, I know. If the good Lord will only get me out of this scrape, I will not go back on my word, sure!"
When Uncle Dan's party came up, they found Colonel Holdfast, Colonel Jones and Major Fleming holding a consultation under a large tree.
"Here is Uncle Dan, the scout, the very man we wanted," said Colonel Holdfast. "But who have you there? Did you find your prisoner in the home of the beaver and musk rat?"
Uncle Dan explained how they captured Diggs, and then the scout was instructed that he was to pilot two of the regiments through the woods to Snagtown, while the other was to follow up the retreating enemy. Uncle Dan understood in a moment how matters stood. There was no danger from the retreating Confederates, but it was very important that fortifications be thrown up at Snagtown.
Poor Diggs spent the night following in the jail building with several other prisoners. He passed the weary hours in prayer, good resolutions and in the firm determination to be a preacher, if the Lord would get him out of this scrape.
Major Fleming, to whom was left the task of completing the rout of the Confederate forces, was a bold, energetic man. He pushed forward with no delay after the demoralized and retreating enemy. The science of war was yet new to both sides, and, while bravery and tact was displayed at an early day of the war, there was a lack of the veteran's skill.
The retreat was up Wolf Creek toward the mountains, through a rough, wild region. The advance of the Confederates came to where Uncle Dan's cabin stood. It so happened that Joe, who had so often been Uncle Dan's companion, was at the cabin, which he kept always ready for the old man's return. He stood in the door way and watched the advancing throng, his mild blue eyes wide with wonder.
"Do you come from the land of Canaan, and is the famine over where my father dwells?" he asked of the rough soldiers, who paused at the spring to drink.
"Come from Canaan? No; we come from h—l," replied one, with a laugh at his own wit.
"Have you seen my father?" asked Joe, in astonishment.
"No; but we have seen the devil," replied another, "and he is close at our heels."
The poor idiot looked alarmed. He vaguely comprehended that some danger was advancing, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, what shall I do?" he cried, in tones so plaintive, so pitiful, that they might have touched a heart of stone.
"Do? Run," said one of the soldiers, "run for your life, and hide among the rocks. There are plenty about here."
"No," said a third, "fight them. Here is a gun," handing him a musket. "Take this and shoot the first one you see."
Joe took the gun, but no dangerous light shone in his blue eyes.
"I will fight no one but the Philistines," he said, thoughtfully.
He was stunned and confused, and stood by the spring with the old musket in his hands, as group after group of armed soldiers hurried by.
"Hilloa, Joe, what are you doing?" said a familiar voice, and Howard Jones came towards him.
"I am here to assist Samson slay the Philistines," replied the poor lunatic.
"Put that down," said Howard, taking the gun from him and laying it on the rocks by the spring. "Now run. Go that way," pointing to the west, "and don't you take any guns in your hands. If any one says 'halt!' stop at once."
Howard Jones hurried on, hoping rather than believing, that Joe would follow his advice.
"Helloa, where are you going?" cried another soldier, as Joe started away.
"Fleeing from Sodom," replied Joe.
"Well, sir, don't you flee. Pick up that gun and fight the d——d Yankees. Shoot 'em as fast as they come out of the woods."
Joe, always obedient, took up the gun again and remained automaton-like, to obey the last speaker.
"For shame, Bryant!" exclaimed Seth Williams, who came up at that moment. "He is crazy. Would you have him expose his life that way, when he doesn't know what he is doing? Put the gun down, Joe, and go that way," said Seth, pointing to the west. "Go to Mr. Tompkins; he wants you."
Joe hastened to obey, and Seth hurried on.
There seemed to be some fatal attraction about that long line of moving men, with burnished arms and glittering bayonets, to poor Joe. He had not gone a dozen rods before he paused to look back at them. Tramp, tramp, tramp, they went, on and on, and he looked till his weak mind became all confused with wonder. As the dangerous reptile chains the bird it seeks to destroy, and draws it involuntarily to its death, so poor Joe felt involuntarily drawn towards that moving line of gray coats and glittering steel. Who were they? Where were they going? When would that long line end?
They kept passing, passing, passing, so many men, and so much alike, that poor Joe finally concluded it must be only one man, doomed for some misdeed to walk on, and on, and on forever, never advancing on his endless journey. Joe forgot Howard Jones and Seth Williams, and, pausing, gazed on in mute wonder.
But the main body had at length passed. Then the line became broken, and only straggling groups of horsemen and footmen went by; then these finally came at longer intervals, but in larger groups. Joe thought the end must be near.
The rear guard of the Confederates paused in front of Uncle Dan's cabin, to check the advance guard of Major Fleming.
"Halt!" cried the officer. "Deploy skirmishers and the advance."
"They're almost upon us, lieutenant," said a subordinate officer, riding in from the woods.
"Let 'em come," said the first speaker. "Take shelter behind trees or rocks, and make sure of every head that peeps out of the woods."
The men, about fifty in number, sprang to cover. The officer in command, chancing to look around, saw Crazy Joe, still spell-bound with wonder.
"Hey, fellow," he cried, "what are you doing there?"
"Nothing," said Joe.
"Well, then, come here and I'll give you something to do."
Joe obeyed. One look in his face was enough to betray the poor fellow's weakness.
The lieutenant knew that he was crazy, but, reckless of what the poor fellow's fate might be, he pointed to the musket Joe had laid on the rocks, and said:
"Pick that up, get behind those rocks, and when I say 'Fire!' shoot at the men you see coming from those trees."
Joe knew nothing else to do, but obey, little dreaming of the dread consequences that were to follow.
"What do you expect that crazy chap to do?" asked a soldier, as he rammed a ball down his rifle.
"He can shoot, and his bullet may strike a blue coat."
"Brace up and look more soldier-like," said one.
"Who greased yer hat?" asked another.
"When was yer hair cut?" put in a third.
"What ye got in the pockets of that great coat?" said another.
"Attention!" cried the lieutenant. "Here comes the enemy. Steady! Be sure of your aim, and fire only when you have it."
The Union skirmishers advanced cautiously, and the Confederates blazed away, taking care not to expose their own persons to the sharpshooters in the woods below and above. The fire from the woods became deadly, and the lieutenant ordered a retreat just as the Union forces in the woods, receiving reinforcements, made a charge.
"Run, run for your lives!" cried the lieutenant, setting the example.
A storm of leaden hail swept around Uncle Dan's low cabin, rattling against the walls and shattering shade trees in front of it.
Joe's face was now white with terror. The dread monster had come. He saw the men about him take to flight, and, in his simplicity, he threw aside the unused gun and followed them. He had not gone far before he changed his course, running off to the left, down the creek bottom, where the grass was tall and dry. The Confederates kept straight on across the woods, making for the mountain pass.
A detachment of soldiers came up to the cabin, and, seeing Joe in flight, the others already out of range, levelled their guns upon him.
"Hold!" cried an officer, in the uniform of a United States captain, as he galloped up to the group.
He was too late, before the word was fairly uttered, a dozen rifle shots drowned it.
"Great God, you have hit him!" cried Captain Abner Tompkins, as, through the smoke of the muskets, he saw Joe throw up his hands, reel, and fall. "You have hit him, and he was a poor, crazy fellow."
In a moment Abner was beside the prostrate form. He sprang from his horse and raised Joe from the ground. A deadly pallor had overspread his face; his blue eyes were glazed and he was gasping for breath.
"Who is it? Is he hurt?" cried Major Fleming, riding up to the spot, where the young captain was supporting the dying man on his knee.
"It is a poor fellow called Crazy Joe, and some of our men have shot him by mistake," said Abner, a moisture gathering in his eyes.
"He may not be badly hurt; perhaps he is only stunned," said the major.
But while they yet spoke, Joe breathed his last. Crazy Joe was dead; dead, without one ray of light piercing the dark cloud he had so vainly tried to lift; dead, with the dark mystery of his life unexplained; dead, not knowing who or what he was.
A musket ball had struck him in the back, passing out at the breast, and he lived but a few minutes after Abner had reached his side; he was past recognition then, and never spoke after he was shot.
Abner had the body conveyed to his father's house. The troops returned to Snagtown, having orders to pursue the enemy no further than the foot of Twin Mountains.
When Irene beheld the body of Crazy Joe, her resolution, which had borne her up under so many trials, gave way. She swooned, and, when she recovered, her grief so touched Mr. Tompkins that he had a costly burial outfit prepared for the poor dead boy. Abner obtained leave of absence to attend the funeral, and, early in the morning, he entered the home of his childhood, where he had so often played with the helpless being, who now lay there cold and lifeless. Irene met him in the hall, her eyes red with weeping.
"O, Abner," she cried, "it was such a cruel thing!"
"Yes, dear Irene, it was cruel, but it was a mistake, we were powerless to prevent," replied Abner, thinking it was the suddenness of his death that affected her.
"But, O, Abner, you do not understand me. I cannot tell you how strangely the death of this unfortunate being affects me. I loved Joe as we love those whose blood flows in our veins. I knew it all along, but never felt it so forcibly as now. 'Tis some great instinct, some higher power than human reason, that prompts me. Come, see how peaceful, how happy, how changed he looks."
He went with Irene into the darkened room. Joe's body was dressed in dark clothes with spotless linen, the hair trimmed and brushed, the eyelids closed over the troubled eyes. A look of intelligence had dawned in death on the face for years expressionless. There was a striking beauty in the face, with its perfect curve, its delicate, clear-cut features, and it seemed that there might have been a brain of power behind that lofty brow, on which he perceived the same deep scar that he had seen on his head when a boy. Abner was astonished. He had never thought Joe handsome with the old, pitiful look on his face, and his astonishment deepened, when, for the first time, he observed a striking resemblance between that face and the face of the girl who bent over it.
"It cannot be possible!" he thought. "Yet it might be; the birth of both was shrouded in mystery."
He did not give his thoughts expression, but he turned with deepening compassion from the white face of the dead to the face scarcely less white of the girl beside him.
Mr. Diggs' views, in the cold, dark prison, and through iron bars, of a soldier's life, were very gloomy. The first night of his incarceration, for hours, he tossed about unable to sleep.
"I am a failure," he moaned, "a miserable failure. I went into the army, intending to rise to be a general, and only got to be a corporal; then taken prisoner, lost my office, retaken by my own company and treated coolly. No chance of promotion, only kicks, cuffs, and bumps all through this cruel world. Others have risen to higher positions. There's Abner and Oleah, both captains. They were never taken prisoner, ducked in a creek, or thrown into a thorn bush; why should I? and now I am to be tried by a court-martial as a deserter, and I know I shall be killed."
"Shut up!" yelled half a dozen fellow prisoners. "Do you intend to sleep, or let any of us sleep to-night?"
"We're all going to be led out and shot to-morrow," whined Diggs.
"Well, is that any reason ye should be keepin' us awake all night?" replied one gruff fellow in an adjoining cell. The doors of all the cells were open.
Diggs was awed into silence by the tones of his companions, and, while wondering how these men could take their coming fate so coolly, fell asleep. He attributed his own emotions to the possession of finer sensibilities than those of his companions.
"What's to be done with us?" he asked next morning of the soldier who brought their breakfast.
"Don't know," was the reply, as that worthy set the breakfast on the stand and departed. Mr. Diggs did not have an excellent appetite.
"Say, messmate," said a mischievous prisoner, "don't eat too much, for these Yankees are cannibals, and, when they have fattened their prisoners, they eat 'em."
Poor Diggs pushed back his plate, sick at heart, and commenced pacing the hall in front of his cell. Seeing a soldier on guard duty outside, he went to the grating and called to him:
"Can I speak to you?"
"I reckon you can," was the answer.
"Do you know what's going to become of me?"
"I think, sir," said the soldier, gravely, "that you will be in h—l before morning."
"Oh! they do really intend to kill me," cried Diggs, and running back to his cell, he fell upon his knees and tried to pray.
"If ever I get out of this," he vowed, "I'll be a preacher. I was made for a preacher."
"Well, now, who cares if you are?" said a fellow prisoner, roughly, who was playing cards with three others at the table. "You needn't be disturbin' honest men, who hev no desire for sich things. Keep yer jaw and yer preachin' to yerself!"
"How can you be so wicked," said Diggs, "to carry on such unholy games, when you know that the judgment awaits you?"
"Oh, dry up!—I'll pass," said one.
"Remember, you wicked men, that you have souls to save!" cried Diggs, growing quite warm and earnest in this, his first exhortation.
"Oh, hush up yer nonsense!—Order him up, Bill," said another.
"You have souls," persisted Diggs.
"We've got no such thing!—I'll order you up and play it alone," replied the one called Bill.
"Remember, poor dying sinners, you have souls," Diggs went on.
"Remember, sir, you have a head," said one of the players, "and if you don't keep it closed, you'll get it punched."
Abashed and crestfallen, Diggs again retired to a corner to pray, this time in silence, and to wonder at the perverseness and wickedness of this generation.
The day passed, the next, the next, and the next without any news from the outside world. Diggs asked the soldier, who brought their meals twice a day, at each visit, what was to be done to him, the soldier on each occasion answering that he did not know.
Diggs had grown despondent; his round, red face had become pale and attenuated, and his little gray eyes had lost even their silly twinkle. He thought of all the imprisoned heroes and martyred saints he had ever read of; finally he came to imagine himself a hero, and determined that, when he was released, he would write a book on prison life, relating his own experience. As an author, he certainly would achieve fame. If only he could have pen, ink and paper, he would at once begin the wonderful production, which was to astonish the world. Mr. Diggs thought, if he himself could not be a hero, he could portray heroes with life-like effect. He was half persuaded to become a novelist. He would be a preacher or lawyer, a novelist, any thing in the world but a soldier; he had had enough of that. As he had not yet been ordered out and shot, Mr. Diggs' hopes began to rise in his breast, and already, he felt half ashamed of the weakness he had displayed.
On the fifth day after his arrival at the prison, he was called to the door. It was not more than ten o'clock in the forenoon. Half a dozen soldiers, headed by a sergeant, were waiting outside the prison. He was ordered to come out, and once more stood in the open air. He was marched at once to Colonel Holdfast's head-quarters in the Courthouse at Snagtown. Colonel Holdfast, two other Colonels, Major Fleming, and another officer were sitting in the place, which was occupied by civil judges in times of peace. An awful silence seemed to pervade the court-room, as Mr. Diggs was marched in. A number of soldiers were lounging about on the seats, and several officers were conferring in whispers. What it meant Mr. Diggs was not long in conjecturing. It was the dreadful court-martial. His hopes sunk, his knees knocked together, and his head swam as he was placed before the terrible tribunal. The orderly placed a seat for him in front of the officers, and he rather fell into it than sat down.
"Is your name Patrick Henry Diggs?" said Colonel Holdfast.
"I—I believe it is," faintly gasped the terrified man.
"You are charged with having deserted from our army and gone over to the enemy. What have you to say to the charge?" asked the colonel.
There was no response. Diggs hung his head.
"What do you say, sir?" demanded the colonel, sharply.
"N—n—not guilty, your honor."
"Here is your name on our rolls as having enlisted in my own Company B, Abner Tompkins, captain. Is that true?"
"I—I—I reckon so."
Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords were called, and both testified that Diggs had been captured with other rebels in the late encounter; that, when taken, he was armed and fighting in the rebel cause. Uncle Dan Martin also testified that he had been present at the capture of Diggs, and that he was in arms for the Southern cause.
There was no jesting this time. Mr. Diggs found it all serious business. The officers were not long in arriving at a verdict. They retired into another room for a few moments' consultation, and returned with their verdict, which Colonel Holdfast read. It was simply the terrible word:
"Guilty!"
"Stand up, prisoner, that sentence may be passed," said the Colonel.
The prisoner did not move. He had fainted outright on hearing the verdict pronounced. The regimental surgeon was present and administered restoratives, and Diggs was held up by two strong soldiers.
"In view," began the colonel, "of the accumulative and convincing character of the evidence against you, proving you to be a spy, you are condemned to death."
"Oh, I knew, I always knew I should be killed!" interrupted Diggs, in a feeble voice.
"Therefore," went on the colonel, slowly and solemnly, hoping his words might have effect on the listeners and prevent other desertions, "you will be taken from here to your place of confinement, and there kept until this day week, when you will be taken therefrom, led to the field north of this town, at the hour of ten o'clock in the forenoon, and there shot until you are dead, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."
The colonel sat down, and Diggs, again fainting, was carried back, almost insensible, to his prison.
When Abner heard of the trial and the decision of the court-martial, he endeavored to persuade the officers to reconsider the case, representing to them that Diggs was imbecile in mind and not actually responsible for his deeds. Irene, hearing with horror that the poor fellow was awaiting execution, which was hourly approaching, hastened to Snagtown to plead with the commanding officers in his behalf, and Uncle Dan used his influence, too, for poor Diggs' fate, but argument and entreaty were alike unavailing, the officers declaring that the case was plain, and justice must be done, and an example made.
Irene visited poor Diggs in prison and found him on the verge of despair. He had wept until his eyes were swollen. He would not eat or sleep, and his abject terror, his want of food and sleep had made him a pitiable-looking object. She remained only a few moments, but they were the only moments of comfort he had known since his sentence was passed, for Irene came to tell him it had been arranged that Captain Tompkins should go to Washington to intercede with the President on his behalf. Almost daily Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Jones, who had known Diggs from his babyhood, came to visit him. They both had sons in the rebel army, and so could sympathize with poor Diggs. These were the only faces from the outside world that he saw, except the guard, who were sometimes kind-hearted, allowing him all possible privileges, but often rough and surly, adding to his misery by coarse taunts and harsh treatment.
A man with a heart of stone might have felt compassion for Diggs. The little fellow's vanity and boasting were gone. He was humble and meek, and he seldom spoke. Even his fellow prisoners treated him with consideration, and endeavored to cheer and encourage him. Captain Tompkins obtained leave of absence, went to the Junction, and took the first train for Washington. He knew that if he could see the President, a pardon would be obtained, but to secure an interview with the President, when the country was in such a condition as it was at that time, was no easy matter. Days and weeks might elapse and leave him still waiting for an opportunity. The village pastor found in Diggs a ready convert now, but while he professed to have found peace for his soul, he was by no means anxious to quit this world. Hour after hour dragged slowly by, until the day was gone, and no news from Captain Tompkins. The next day and the next came and passed, the doomed man waiting anxiously, hour by hour, the captain's return. He had heard of James Bird, the hero of Lake Erie, celebrated in song and story, how he had been condemned to death and pardoned, and how the messenger came bearing the pardon a few seconds too late, even while the smoke of the executioner's gun yet hung in the air, and feared that this fate would be his. It was now Wednesday, and the captain had not come and had sent no word. Diggs did nothing but pace his narrow cell—he was closely confined—bemoaning his fate and imploring every one, who came to see him, to save him from his horrible fate, from being cut off in the prime of life. Thursday dawned, and the captain did not come. Even if he did return, he might not bring the pardon. It was a day of agony to poor Diggs. To-morrow, that dread to-morrow, he must die. The minister remained with him most of the day, and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Williams stayed with him several hours. Singing and prayers were frequently heard from the cell of the condemned man, who, most of the time, crouched in the corner with his face bowed in his hands.
The fatal morning dawned. Poor Diggs! despair had seized him. His most intimate friends would not have recognized that haggard, wild-looking face. The minister, at his request, came early to his cell, also the sympathizing old ladies, who had passed so many weary hours with him. But the morning hours now seemed to fly. No message or messenger came. The minister looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes before ten. All was silence, save an occasional sob from the prisoner or the old ladies. No one dared speak. The minister sat silently holding his watch, noting the swift flying moments, his lips moving in silent prayer for the soul of the man, who was soon to appear at the bar of God.
Ten o'clock came. There was a rattling of keys, a sliding of iron bolts and bars, and the jailer called the name of
"Patrick Henry Diggs!"
The minister and all, in the doomed man's cell, bowed for a moment in silence, then the good man lifted up his voice to that God, whom all the universe worships, in a prayer for a soul about to take flight.
Two soldiers entered and supported the prisoner beyond the prison walls, the minister following with the guard.
The dread place was reached. Sergeant Swords and Corporal Grimm had charge of the execution. At the farther extremity of the field was a fresh dug grave—a rude coffin beside it—and, standing in line beneath an oak tree, were twelve soldiers with muskets in their hands. The sight was too much for Diggs and he again fainted. The regimental surgeon administered restoratives, and the officers in charge advanced to prepare the prisoner for his fate.
The minister approached Sergeant Swords, asking permission, before this was done, to offer a last prayer. It was granted.
The prayer was long and earnest, appealing to the Ruler of the universe, in universal terms. The minister prayed for the prisoner, he prayed for his executioners; he prayed for the officers who composed the court-martial; he prayed for the soldiers, who were to execute the sentence; he prayed for the army, for both armies, for all the armies in the world, for all the armies that had been, and for all that might be. Having completely finished up the army business, the preacher commenced on civilians, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed, until both soldiers and officers looked at him and at each other in amazement.
"Sergeant," whispered Corporal Grimm, "did you ever hear as long a prayer in your life?"
"No," was the whispered reply. "There! I'll be hanged if he ain't gone back to Moses!"
The prayer still went on, and on, and on; and the soldiers, tired of standing, kneeled; tired of kneeling, sat; tired of sitting, lay down—and still the prayer went on. It was long past high noon, before the faltering "Amen!" was pronounced.
"Ready, fall in!" came the sharp order.
The men rose from the grass and fell in line, and the sergeant led Diggs over to the coffin by the side of the grave; but Diggs, sobbing piteously, clung to him with such tenacity that it was difficult for the sergeant to free himself. He finally succeeded, forced him to kneel by his coffin, put the bandage over his eyes. Just as he stepped away, the clatter of hoofs were heard coming around the bend in the road.
"Attention!" said the sergeant. "Ready!"
A loud cry interrupted the order, and a horseman came dashing up the hill.
"Hold!" said Sergeant Swords. "There comes the captain."
On, on he came, waving a paper high over his head. The soldiers rested on their guns.
Abner Tompkins was among them in a minute, and declared the prisoner free by the authority of Abraham Lincoln.
When released, Diggs sprang to his feet and, in his joy, embraced the preacher, embraced the officers and would have embraced the soldiers, had not one threateningly pointed his bayonet at him.
As they returned to the village, all pleased with the happy result, Corporal Grimm, approaching the minister, said:
"I shall always hereafter be a believer in the saving power of prayer. Praying often and praying long, does the work."
The Union forces stationed at Snagtown did not remain there many days after the event related in the last chapter. Diggs was paroled, and the regiments ordered into Winter quarters at the Junction. The retirement of the Union forces was followed by predatory incursions of the Confederates, who were encamped just across the Twin Mountains. Small parties on foraging expeditions frequently crossed the latter, and greatly harassed the citizens in and around Snagtown.
Since the last battle of Snagtown and the Confederate defeat, the peace and quiet of the Tompkins mansion was broken. Mrs. Tompkins openly and warmly avowed her principles, and Mr. Tompkins, old as he was, had almost decided to enlist in the ranks of the Union army and fight for his country.
Irene could range herself with neither party; her sympathies were too equally divided.
"To think," said Mrs. Tompkins to Irene, in her husband's presence, "that the Yankees, not content with killing poor, harmless Joe, should attempt to murder Diggs in cold blood!"
"How unfair it is," said Mr. Tompkins, "for you to charge the soldiers, who are fighting for our country, with what was purely a mistake in one case, and what, in the other, was the result of laws which have existed in all armies since military law was established."
"Don't say our country," said Mrs. Tompkins, bitterly. "They are fighting for your cold, frozen North, not for my sunny South, which they are trying to desolate and destroy. Sooner than see them victorious, I would willingly follow both my sons to the grave."
Before Mr. Tompkins could reply, Irene interrupted the discussion.
"Oh, father, mother, do not talk about this dreadful war. It has brought us misery enough; let it not ruin our home. It is all wrong—wrong on both sides—and the world will one day say so. The Nation is a great family, and if members of that family are in arms against each other, is it any credit to either—can it matter which side is defeated? I know nothing about either side, but I know it is nothing to take pride or pleasure in. Rather let us pray for its ending, than rejoice or sorrow over triumph or defeat."
Mrs. Tompkins went sobbing from the room, and the planter went out and seated himself beneath his favorite maple, in his rustic chair. His face was clouded. A barrier was gradually rising between himself and his wife—the wife whose love had blessed his youth and his manhood, the wife whose estrangement he had never dreamed of, between whom and himself he had thought no obstacle, material or immaterial, could ever come.
To no one was this sad change more painful than Irene. Left alone in the great, silent room, her heart swelled with pain, her eyes grew dim. Clouds were rising thick and fast about her life; it seemed to her that no ray of light could ever pierce their darkness. She could not stay in the house, it seemed so cold and empty, and she went out, walking almost mechanically from the garden to the high road leading past the house.
The road was very pleasant this Autumn evening; great oaks grew on either side, their brown leaves rustling musically overhead. Irene followed it to the grave-yard, and, like one treading an accustomed path, made her way between the grass-grown graves and paused by the side of a new-made mound.
"Poor Joe!" she sighed. "Your life so sad, your death so terrible and swift. No home, no friends, no hope on earth! Then why should I mourn for you?"
As with soft fingers, the evening air touched her aching eyes, and the evening stillness fell like balm on her aching heart; but on the stillness suddenly fell the sound of horses' feet. She started from the grave. The tramp of hoofs was approaching. What could it mean? Alarmed, she turned to fly. She had caught a glimpse of a horseman in gray uniform, and she had taken but a few swift steps toward her home, when the horseman galloped down the forest path and drew rein at her side.
"Stop, Irene, it is I," said a familiar voice, and the rider sprang from the saddle and stood before her.
"Oleah!" she exclaimed, in joyous surprise. "How you did frighten me!"
"You should not be out at this hour alone," said Oleah. "Where are you going, Irene?"
"I am going home," she said.
"Well, you need be in no hurry to leave me. It is not often you see me Irene."
"Leave you? Cannot you come with me?" her lovely gray eyes full with entreaty.
"No," he answered, his head shaking sadly and his lips tremulous with emotion. "When last I was beneath the roof I met an enemy—"
"Oleah," she said sadly, "I wish that I had never been taken beneath that roof to bring discord between you and your only brother."
"A brother once," he cried bitterly; "a brother once, whom I loved—never loved as brother loved before. But now he has turned that love to hate. He is the enemy of my country, the enemy of my happiness, the destroyer of all my heart holds dear. Brother! Harp no longer on that word. I am not his brother, nor yours. Here, in the face of heaven, I tell you, you must choose. I will not have friendship, or your sisterly affection. Tell me you cannot love me, and I will leave you and my home forever. Tell me! I must and will know my fate now!"
"How hard you make it for me!" she cried. "Do you not see, can you not understand, that you ask impossibilities of me?"
"Irene," he said, in his low, deep, passionate tones, "you cannot say the words that will send me from you. My life is in danger here. Every moment that I stand by your side, holding your little, trembling hand in mine, increases my danger. We must go. I will never again leave you till you are my wife."
"Oh, heavens, Oleah! What is it that you mean?"
"I shall take you to my camp, and our chaplain shall marry us. Come, we have no time to lose."
"Oleah!" she cried, in such a tone, so firm and sharp, that he paused involuntarily. "Think what it is you would have me do. Think of the disgrace, the anxiety, the suffering, you would cause!"
"There cannot be disgrace for you, when your husband is by your side; and, as to the anxiety of my parents, theirs can be no greater than mine has been. My father cares not how much misery I and mine may undergo; need I care if a few gray hairs are added to his head? My love, my darling, listen! That old Yankee hunter, Dan Martin, is in the woods, his rifle is certain death five hundred yards away; and every moment I stand here, I do so at the peril of my life."
"Then, dear Oleah, go! Leave me, and go!"
"I came for you and I will not go alone."
"I can not, can not—"
He seized her in his arms and attempted to place her on his horse.
"Oh, let me go!" she cried. "I don't love you, no, not even as a sister! Now, let me go!"
Oleah uttered a sharp whistle and four horsemen, dressed in gray, galloped to his side and dismounted.
"Help me," said Oleah, briefly.
The next moment Irene was on the charger, her determined lover holding her before him. They dashed through the dark woods like the wind, the four cavalrymen following closely after.
Irene resisted and implored in vain. From the moment his strong arms closed round her, Oleah had spoken no word except to urge on his horse. Then she uttered shriek after shriek, which only died out in the great forest as the little cavalcade thundered on.
Mr. Tompkins was still sitting in his rustic seat, beneath his favorite maple, as the sun sank behind the Western hills. He was thinking, and his clouded brow told that his thoughts were far from pleasant. For twenty-five years he and his wife had lived together, and never before had the lightest word or deed disturbed their perfect harmony, but now the breach, that had divided brothers, yawned between husband and wife; he must either sacrifice his principles or lose the love of his wife.
The sun had set, and the planter felt the chill of the evening air. He rose with a sigh and was turning to go toward the house, when he observed a negro, hatless and breathless, running in at the front gate.
"What is the matter, Job?" he asked, as the black paused breathless in front of his master.
"Why, marster—oh! it am too awful to tell all at once, unless you are prepared for it," said the darkey.
"What is it? I am prepared for anything. Tell me, what is the matter?" demanded the planter.
"Oh, marster, I had been to town and was comin' home froo de woods. I went that way afoot, kase the seceshers might a kotch me, seein' as de road is full of 'em all the time. An' Jim Crow, one of Mr. Glaze's niggers, told—told me as how they jes' hung up a nigger whenever they could find him. Jim told me that over on tother side o' mountains they had de woods hangin' full of niggers. Well, you see, hearin' all dem stories I was afraid to go on hossback de roadway, when I went arter de mail, but goes afoot froo de woods."
"Well, go on now, and tell what it was you saw and what is the matter," said the planter growing impatient.
"Well, marster, I had been to de post-office and brought you these papers and dis letter," producing them, "and was on my way home froo de woods, when I hears an awful thumpin' and thunderin' o' hosses feet comin' down the wood path, that leads in the direction o' Twin Mountains. I think, may be, its seceshers comin' arter dis yer nigger an' I gits behind a big tree dat had jist been blown down not berry long ago, an' watches. I knowed it warn't no use for dis chile to 'tempt to run, kase dey would cotch 'im shua."
Job paused for breath, and the planter waited in silence, knowing that he would comprehend the meaning of Job sooner by letting him tell his story in his own way.
"Well, pretty soon I sees five seceshers on hossback, comin' just as fast as dere hosses could go froo de woods. An' de one what was afore de others had a woman, carrin' her like she was a baby. Just as dey got in front ob me I see dat de woman was fighting an' tryin' to git away. She hollered, 'Oh! I won't go, I won't go!' an' den I recognize dat it was my Miss Irene, an' dat dey were carrin' her off. I knowed her dress, I knowed her har, an' all de time she scream I knowed it was her. Den I jist wait till dey git by an' run ebery step home."
"Oh, pshaw, Job, what an old idiot you are!" said the planter, with a laugh. "You had almost frightened me. It was not Miss Irene."
"Oh, marster, it war," persisted Job.
"I just left Miss Irene in the house."
"But, marster, you is mistaken. I tell you it war her. I know for shua!"
At this moment Irene's waiting-maid was crossing the lawn. Mr. Tompkins called to her:
"Maggie, is your mistress in her room?"
"No, sir, she went down the road about an hour ago."
The planter fell back in his chair, as though he had been struck a blow, and buried his face in his hands, while the terrified maid hastened into the house to spread the news.
Mrs. Tompkins hurried out on the lawn, where half a dozen blacks had already gathered about their master.
"Oh, what shall we do? what shall we do?" she cried, all her patriotic fervor swallowed up in terror. "Maggie run to her room and see if she is not there."
"No, missus, I have just been to see, an' she is gone."
"Oh, my poor Irene! In the power of the mountain guerillas! What must be done?"
"Be calm, Camille," said the planter, "we will immediately plan a pursuit and rescue her."
The overseer aroused the neighbors, but it was quite dark before they had gathered on the lawn in front of the mansion.
Twenty men, black and white, were chosen, and, with Mr. Tompkins at their head, they went down the road into the dark forest.
When morning dawned no trace of the missing girl had been found, and all the day passed in fruitless search.
The exhausted men were assembled in the road in front of Mr. Tompkins' house, arranging what should be done the next day, when down the hill came a troop of Union scouts, headed by no less a personage than Uncle Dan himself.
"Well, what's the matter here?" asked Uncle Dan in astonishment halting his party.
Mr. Tompkins told him what had happened.
"Thunder! Jehoshaphat! Ye don't say so?" were the frequent interjections of the old scout during the brief narration.
"Well, if that don't beat all creation, you may call me a skunk," said the old man at the conclusion. "We chaps are jist after sich sorry cusses, as them what carried off the gal; but we are tired out, hevin' been in the saddle ever since daylight and two scrimmages throwed in; so, ye see, we'll have to camp for the night; but we'll have that gal afore the sun circles this earth again."
"There is plenty room for all in the house, and you are welcome to it," said Mr. Tompkins.
"We'd ruther hev yer barn," said Uncle Dan. "We don't care about sleeping in houses, seein' we don't seldom git to sleep in one, besides we'd rather be near our hosses."
The efficient aid of the old scout having been secured, Mr. Tompkins' party dispersed, and the scouts, forty-one in number, were soon in the barn, their horses being stabled with quantities of corn and hay before them; then bright camp-fires were built in the barn-yard. The planter told them to take whatever they required, and soldiers seldom need a second hint of that kind. That night they fared sumptuously.
This scouting party was under the immediate command of Uncle Dan. They were all experienced scouts, their rifles were of the very best make, and each was considered a marksman. Uncle Dan placed a careful guard about the premises, and then, while all the men not on duty lay wrapped in their blankets sleeping quietly on the fresh, sweet hay, he sat by the side of a smouldering camp-fire, under a large oak tree, smoking a short black pipe and wrapped in thought.
A hand was laid on his shoulder. Supposing it to be one of his men, he glanced up at the person by his side. His astonishment can better be imagined than described, when he recognized the mysterious black, who had frustrated him in the woods during the retreat from Snagtown.
That copper-face, the grizzled hair, the marvelous, bright, eyes, were not to be mistaken. It was Yellow Steve.
Uncle Dan's astonishment for a moment held him dumb. How could that man have passed the line of pickets? Gaining his voice after a few moments, he said:
"Well, I must say you are a bold 'un. I would like to know how you passed the pickets?"
"Pickets, sir?" said the stranger, seating himself by the camp-fire opposite the old scout, "are very useful on ordinary occasions, but I have spent the most of my life in hiding, in avoiding guards, in running for my life, and consequently have become very expert in the business."
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
"I am called Yellow Steve. You are to start to-morrow in search of the young lady who was abducted?"
"How did you learn that? How did you learn that any lady was abducted?"
"That, sir, is a part of my profession. I learn things by means which ordinary mortals would never dream of. I came here to give you information that will lead to the discovery of the young lady you are in search of."
"What do you know of her?" asked the old scout.
"She is at the foot of the Twin Mountains, confined in the cabin you and Crazy Joe occupied for so many years. There is only ten men to guard her. She is there to-night. I saw her to-day when she saw me not. What is more, I know she will be there to-morrow. Then she is to be removed from there."
"Are you laying a trap to catch us?" asked the old man sternly.
"I am telling you heaven's own truth. Now I have performed my errand, I will go."
Before the old scout could reply, the mysterious messenger rose and stole silently away in the darkness. He waited to hear the picket challenge him, but no challenge came.
Irene soon discovered that her cries and her struggles were quite useless. The strong arm of Oleah held her firmly in the saddle, and the powerful horse swept steadily on. Night was falling fast, and she observed that the country, through which she was passing, was entirely strange to her; but, judging from their course, they would pass the Twin Mountains before morning. Looking appealingly into the dark, determined face, she said:
"Even now it is not too late, Oleah; take me home."
"Can you not trust me, Irene?" he answered, with a look of tenderness veiling the fire of his black eyes. "You are mine already, because you love me. No, your lips have not said it, but your eyes have betrayed you. I am fulfilling an oath, the violation of which would be perjury and the eternal ruin of my soul."
"What can you mean?" she cried. "Oh, you are mad, mad!"
"I have been mad," he answered. "A fire has been raging in my breast, that had almost burned my life away. One word from you would end my torture. What is the reason that locks your lips!"
"Is it a proof of your love that you take me from my home to a soldiers' camp, bringing disgrace to me and grief to those to whom I owe more than life?"
"I am taking you to no soldiers' camp. No rude gaze shall fall on your sweet face, and no rude words reach your ear. You shall sleep safely to-night within four walls, your companion gentle and kind, and men with strong arms and brave hearts shall guard the door, each willing and ready to lay down his life for yours."
They rode on over hill and vale, crossed streams and passed through grand old forests.
It was near midnight when they crossed a small, rocky stream and approached two log cabins that stood at the foot of the Twin Mountains. The moon had risen, and the Autumn night was calm and peaceful. The cry of night birds or the rustling of leaves, stirred by the light breezes, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. The tall mountain peaks in the distance looked like giant sentinels keeping guard over a sleeping world.
A man stood in front of the most comfortable looking of the two cabins, apparently waiting for Oleah and his party. He was dressed in the gray uniform, had a very red head, red whiskers, red eyelashes, red eyebrows, and red freckles on his face. This Irene noticed as he came forward to assist her to alight. The next thing she noticed, was his musket leaning against the cabin wall.
"Is every thing arranged, Jackson?" asked Oleah, as he sprang from the saddle.
"Every thing, captain; the cabin is as neat as a pin," and the red-headed soldier lifted his cap, blinking and nodding his head.
"Did you bring your wife?"
"Yes, sir; Mrs. Jackson is in the house, sir, and will wait on the young lady," again touching his cap, blinking and nodding his head.
"You will stay here to-night, Irene," said Oleah.
She knew that, for the present, she must yield; yet she determined to resist when the time should come. She found a neat, pleasant looking woman within the cabin, evidently a mountaineer's wife, and supper ready laid for her. But she was too much agitated to eat, only tasting a cup of fragrant coffee. She noticed that the cabin in which she was confined bore evidence in more places than one of bullet marks, and rightly conjectured that there had been a recent fight there, though she little dreamed that she was so near the spot where Crazy Joe had breathed his last, and that she was beneath the roof that had so long sheltered him and Uncle Dan Martin, the hunter. It was nearly morning when she threw herself on the bed Mrs. Jackson had so carefully prepared for her, and in spite of her strange surroundings, her anxiety, her dark forebodings, she slept soundly.
Morning came, and she ate Mrs. Jackson's carefully prepared breakfast, assiduously waited on by that pleasant-voiced woman. Irene noticed that no man entered the room. Mr. Jackson came to the door occasionally, to bring wood or water for his wife, but never entered. From the sound of voices without, she knew that there must be a dozen or more men about the house, yet she saw none save the red-headed Mr. Jackson, who was evidently on his best behavior, and never approached the cabin door without removing his cap.
Though her comfort was carefully provided for, Irene saw that her every movement was watched and guarded. There was no possible chance of escape, surrounded by a guard so vigilant. About the middle of the afternoon, Oleah, who had evidently been away, returned, and with him came a man dressed in citizen's garb, with a meek face and frightened air, and the same four cavalrymen who had accompanied them the previous day. The man in citizen's garb, she was sure, must be a prisoner. Oleah approached the door with the meek-looking, timid stranger, and both entered. At a motion the four cavalrymen followed.
"Irene," began Oleah, "it is necessary, in these troublesome times, that I have the right to protect you. This is a clergyman. We will be married now."
"I will never marry you, Oleah," said Irene, firmly, her beautiful hazel eyes flashing fire on her determined lover.
Without another word, Oleah forcibly took her right hand in his, then he turned to the clergyman and said:
"You know your duty, sir; proceed."
"But, sir, if the young lady is unwilling—if she refuses——"
"She will not—does not," said Oleah.
"I do! I do! I do!" cried Irene, struggling to free her hand.
"Go on, sir!" said Oleah, sternly.
The four cavalrymen ranged themselves behind their master, and the poor clergyman cast about him one desperate glance, and then, in faltering tones, began the marriage ceremony. Oleah's responses came deep and low, but Irene's "No, no, never!" rang out loud and clear.
At a sign from the young captain, one of the tall cavalrymen quickly stepped behind her and forced her to bow assent.
The minister stopped, aghast.
"Go on, sir; go on!" thundered Oleah, his eyes gleaming.
The terrified clergyman concluded the ceremony, pronouncing them man and wife, and then, burying his face in his hands, burst into tears.
Immediately upon conclusion of the marriage ceremony, Oleah obtained a certificate of marriage from the minister, who was then allowed to depart under the escort of the faithful four, and Mrs. Jackson followed, them from the room, leaving Oleah alone with his reluctant bride.
"Irene, my Irene," said Oleah, in his low, thrilling tones, "this was my only hope. In peaceful times I might have pressed my suit as others do—I might have wooed and waited; but to wait now was to lose you. Will not my wife forgive me?" he cried, imploringly.
"This is no marriage—I am not your wife!" said Irene, in a low, steady voice. "Leave me! You have forfeited even a brother's claim. No, no; I will not listen to you!" she cried desperately, as Oleah came a step nearer. "You will not leave me, then! You will force me to defend myself!" As she spoke she snatched a pistol from his belt and leveled the weapon at his heart.
Oleah folded his hands. "Fire if you wish," he said calmly. "Death at your hands is preferable to life without your love."
She lowered the pistol, the flush faded from her face, her eyes grew misty with tears.
"If to love you is a crime, deserving death, then, indeed, you shall be my executioner; for never did mortal love as I love you."
She hesitated a moment, then laid the revolver on the table, and sinking into a chair burst into tears.
"Heaven forgive you!" she sobbed, "for the misery you have caused!"
"It is your forgiveness I want, my darling," he said. "I will leave you now since you bid me. To-morrow you shall be returned to your home, and I will never come to you save at your bidding."
She did not lift her bowed head. There was a moment's stillness, broken only by her sobs. Then Oleah took the pistol from the table, returned it to his belt, and left the room.
It was scarcely daylight when Uncle Dan ordered every man to the saddle. The drowsy soldiers protested, declaring the music of the crowing cock made them the more sleepy, but their leader was inexorable. Every man must be prepared to mount in thirty minutes. Breakfast over, they filed out of the barnyard, while the darkness of the night still hovered in the shadows of the thick forest. Uncle Dan had not deemed it prudent to reveal the interview of the night before, and none of the men knew what direction they were to take or what was to be their destination.
When they had reached a clearing in the woods, the men were drawn up in a double circle, and the old scout rode in their midst, and, holding in his hand his broad-brimmed hat (he would not wear the regimental cap), he addressed them:
"Now, boys, we're gwine where there will likely be some powder burnt and some lead scattered about loose. The gal, you heerd about last night, is up near the Twin Mountains, and we've got to get back home to-night. But the whole place is alive with guerrillas and bushwhackers and you may bet there'll be some hurting done. I want every man to be prepared and not to be taken by surprise. Look out for a big bushwhack, and be prepared to shoot at half a second's notice. Keep yer guns in yer hand and yer fingers near the locks. That's all, come on!"
He led the way at a gallop, and the others followed, their horses' hoofs clattering on the frosty ground. The sun was just now rising over the eastern hills, and grass and leaves and bare brown twigs glittered resplendent in its rays. The country, over which they were passing, was rough and broken, with occasional bottom lands, covered with gigantic forest trees, and the morning air was clear and chilly, as they swept so swiftly through it, close after their veteran commander, who was a striking figure mounted on his powerful bay horse, with the broad brim of his hat turned back from his earnest bronze face. He kept the bridle-rein in the same hand that held his trusty rifle on the pommel of his saddle, leaving the other free for any emergency—the emergency most frequently arising now being the persistent flapping of his hat-brim. The sun was two hours high at least and was fast dissolving the crystal covering that glittered above the denuded vegetation, when they came to the creek that flowed by the mountain cabins. Just beyond the creek rose the Twin Mountains, not more than a mile away, and the cabins were within a few hundred yards. They had traveled sixteen miles or thereabout that morning, and men and horses were weary with the rough riding. The creek was thickly fringed with timber, yet retaining the leaves, which the florist had turned from green to brown and gold. Uncle Dan paused, before the creek was reached, and urged his men to use their utmost caution, the objects of their search were in two cabins just beyond the stream.
"One thing I want ye all to understand," he said, with great concern. "That gal, what the rebels took in, is in one of them cabins, and no shot must be fired into 'em for fear o' hurting her. Remember, not a hair o' her head must be touched."
They halted, and Uncle Dan, with twelve picked men, dismounted and proceeded ahead on foot, while the others remained under cover, until a signal should be given to surround the cabins.
It happened, that the red-headed rebel, Jackson, had gone to the stream with two pails to bring water for his wife. A thin skim of ice overlaid the stream, which Mr. Jackson must break in order to get his water. Not finding any stick or other implement at hand, he used the bottom of one of his pails, and the thumping and splashing made so much noise that our friend did not hear the footsteps gradually approaching him, and, so much engaged was he, that he did not observe two men in blue uniform standing just behind him until he had filled his pails and turned to go to the house.