Had two ghosts suddenly started up before him, he could not have dropped his buckets more quickly.
"Bless me!" gasped Jackson. "Where in the world did you come from?"
Uncle Dan laid his hand on Jackson's shoulder telling him he was a prisoner.
"Yes, I kinder expected that for some little time," he answered, looking about in blank astonishment, as the soldiers, one by one, stole noiselessly from among the thick bushes.
"Do you belong to that house?" said Uncle Dan, pointing in the direction of the cabins.
"I did," replied Jackson, bowing politely to the veteran scout, "before you took me in charge."
"How many men are up there now!" asked Uncle Dan.
"There are but seven, now, sir."
"How many women?"
"Two, sir."
"Who are they?"
"My wife, sir, and the wife of Captain Tompkins."
"Wife of Captain Tompkins! When was he married?"
"Yesterday, sir."
"Is Oleah Tompkins your captain?"
"He is, sir," with a polite bow.
"Then, sir," said Uncle Dan with vehemence, "all I have to say is, that you have a d—d rascal for a captain."
Mr. Jackson bowed in acknowledgment.
"Where is Captain Tompkins now?"
"He went back to the command, sir, but will be here in a few minutes with more men."
"The infernal scoundrel!"
Mr. Jackson bowed politely.
"Bang!" came a musket-shot, and the ball whistled over the heads of the men grouped on the banks of the stream. The shot came from the direction of the cabins.
Uncle Dan gave the signal, and the thunder of twenty horses' feet coming down the hill instantly followed.
"Two of you stay and guard the prisoner, the rest follow me!" cried Uncle Dan, as he started up the hill, closely followed by his entire force, for every man was anxious to be in at the rescue, and every one expected that some one else would guard the prisoner, who, in consequence, was not guarded at all. Finding himself wholly deserted by the excited soldiery, Jackson hurried away down the stream. He looked injured and neglected, and slunk away, as in shame, from the men who so obstinately avoided his company.
Uncle Dan never paused in his headlong pursuit of the flying enemy until he had reached the door of the cabin. Irene and Mrs. Jackson had been both surprised and terrified by the shouting and the discharge of firearms, but it was not until Uncle Dan stood in the doorway that either realized that Irene's rescue was the object of the attacking party.
With a wild cry, Irene sprang from the cabin into the arms of the old scout.
"Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, take me home! Promise me you will take me home!" she cried as she clung to the veteran.
"You bet I will, my little angel?" replied the old man, brushing the gathering moisture from his eyes. "How long have you been here?"
"Night before last I was brought here."
"Is there any one with you in the cabin?"
"No one but a poor woman, who is frightened almost to death."
"Well, wait here till I get my men together, and then I will hear all about this rascally business."
When Irene went back into the cabin, it was her turn to comfort her companion with assurance of safety, but Mrs. Jackson was in an agony of dread as to the probable fate of her husband.
Uncle Dan had no need to recall his men, for they were already returning from the useless pursuit of the flying Confederates, who were now ascending the mountain side a mile away.
When he ordered them to bring up the prisoner, that had been captured at the creek, the soldiers looked inquiringly one at another; every one declared it was the business of some one else to have remained on guard.
It soon became evident that no one had been left behind to care for the red-headed rebel, and that he had resented this lack of attention by departing. Uncle Dan instructed his sergeant to make preparations for immediate return to Snagtown and then went into the house.
Mrs. Jackson met him with anxious inquiries if her husband had been killed.
"What kinder man was he—red hair?"
"Yes, oh yes! Is he dangerously wounded?"
"And red eyebrows?"
"Yes, yes, yes! Pray tell me the worst at once."
"And red eyelashes—long and red?"
"Yes, oh yes! Pray don't keep me in suspense."
"And a red face?"
"Yes, yes!"
"And was carryin' two buckets for water?"
"Oh, heavens! Yes. I know he is killed. Tell me where he lays that I may find him."
"Madam," said Uncle Dan, gravely, "that red man made his escape, as well as all the others."
The look of blank confusion and joyful amaze that overspread Mrs. Jackson's face was singular to behold. The old scout, having thus summarily disposed of Mrs. Jackson, turned to Irene and drew from her the relation of all that had happened to her since the evening she had left. When she had concluded with her forced marriage, she burst into tears.
"The rascal!" said Uncle Dan, with energy. "Both a rascal and a fool. Where did he go?" he asked, after a moment's pause.
"I do not know," said Irene, weeping softly. "He left a few minutes after, and I have not seen him since."
"I don't know much about law," said Uncle Dan, after a few minutes' reflection, "but I know that ain't no wedding worth a cent."
"I did not agree to it, I did not consent, but the clergyman pronounced us man and wife," sobbed Irene.
"I don't care if he did, I heard a lawyer once say that marriage was a civil contract, and if any one was induced to marry by fraud, or forced to marry any one they did not want to, it was no good. Now, although I aint a lawyer, I know you aint married, unless you want to be."
Irene still sat sobbing before the fire by the broad fire-place, which Uncle Dan's own hands had built.
At this moment a soldier looked in and said:
"The rebs are comin' down the mountains re-enforced."
"Be quiet, honey, an' I'll see you are protected. Don't leave the cabin unless I tell you to."
Uncle Dan hastened out, snatching his rifle from the door, as he went, and looked up towards the mountains. Twenty-five or thirty Confederates, headed by Oleah Tompkins, were riding at a gallop toward them.
"They mean business, Uncle Dan," said a young man, who stood by the old man's side.
"Yes, an' 'twouldn't s'prise me if some of them git business," replied the old man.
"That is Oleah Tompkins at their head, Uncle Dan. You'll not shoot at him to hit?" said the youthful soldier.
"I never thought the time would come when I would harm a hair o' his head, but things air changed now, and as Randolph said about Clay, 'if I see the devil in his eye, I'll shoot to kill,'" replied Uncle Dan, examining the priming of his rifle.
"Fall in," commanded Uncle Dan.
The line was formed.
"Now wait till I fire an' then follor suit."
Oleah presented a tempting mark for any rifle, as he approached so fearlessly with his revolver in his right hand. Uncle Dan, though not without a twinge of conscience at what he was doing, leveled his deadly rifle at that head, which, when a child, had so often nestled on his breast.
Uncle Dan was a certain shot at that range, and every step Oleah took was bringing him to surer death. Unconscious of his danger, or perfectly reckless of consequences, the young Confederate urged his powerful black horse on. The old man held his heavy rifle in the palm of his right hand, the breech was balanced against his right shoulder, and his aim was as steady and true as if he were sighting a deer, instead of a human being he had known for years and loved from childhood.
"The d—d rascal!" he hissed between his clenched teeth. "He's ruined the gal, and now he shall die."
Just as his finger touched the trigger, Irene sprang from the doorway and struck the rifle from its intended mark. The ball whizzled two feet above the head of the Confederate captain.
"What do you mean?" said the old man, turning, in sharp surprise.
A roar of rifle-shots drowned any reply that Irene might have made.
Oleah had escaped the deadly bullet of the old scout, but some of the many shots, that immediately followed, struck him. The revolver dropped from his hand, his horse reared and plunged in terror, and then both rider and steed fell, a helpless mass, to the ground.
Then all eyes were astonished at the sight of a slender figure, with loosened hair streaming in the wind, hastening through the deadly shower of balls to the fallen man's side; and all ears were astonished by her wild cry:
"Spare, oh, spare his life! He is my husband!"
When their leader fell, the Confederate cavalry wheeled about and galloped away toward the mountain. Uncle Dan ordered his men to cease firing, as Irene was directly between them and the flying enemy, and her life would be endangered by every shot.
Stunned, confounded, and nonplussed by Irene's sudden and unexpected action, the old man, without loading his rifle, hurried after her. She was kneeling by the side of the insensible soldier, holding his bleeding head on her knee. The horse was struggling in the last throes of death, the blood streaming from two wounds in his breast. Oleah had fallen clear of his horse and had struck his head in falling on a large stone.
"Speak to me, oh! speak to me, Oleah!" cried Irene, bending over him. "Oh, my love, it is I who have killed you! Save him, Uncle Dan. He must not die!"
"I fear he'll never speak again," said Uncle Dan. He said no more, for with one wild, long shriek the poor girl swooned on the breast of him whom not even the avowal of her love could thrill.
"Come here, some o' you fellars what's a loafin' about there?" commanded the old scout, as half a dozen soldiers approached the place.
The men were soon at his side.
"Now, some o' you pick up that gal, and the rest o' ye that fellar and take 'em to the house. Lift 'em gently as though they were babies. This has been a sorry job."
The soldiers obeyed, and Uncle Dan followed the group with both sorrow and amazement plainly visible on his features. They carefully laid Irene on the bed and called Mrs. Jackson to attend her, while Uncle Dan and another member of the company examined the injuries of Oleah. They found a gun-shot wound in his right side under his right arm. A rifle-ball had passed through the muscles of his right arm, between the elbow and the shoulder, but no bones were shattered and the wound was not a dangerous one. The cut on the head, caused by being thrown against the stone as he fell, seemed more serious, but an examination soon convinced them that it might not be fatal. They dressed the wounded arm and washed the blood from his head, and he began to show signs of returning consciousness just as Irene, recovered from her swoon, started up, crying:
"Where is he, where is he?"
"Here he is on the floor beside you," replied Mrs. Jackson. "Lie still until you are better."
"No, no," she replied, putting aside Mrs. Jackson's restraining hand. "Let me go to my husband! Lay him on the bed," she said to the men.
"What kind of a deuced change has come over that gal," thought Uncle Dan. "She hated him like pizen afore he got hurt, but now she loves him to distraction."
"Please, Uncle Dan," pleaded Irene, "have him put on the bed, he must not lie on that hard floor when he is wounded!"
"Boys, lift him up on the bed. She shall have her way."
Oleah, still unconscious, though breathing more freely, was placed on the bed. His head had been bandaged, and a soldier stood by his side dropping cold water on the wound from a cup.
"Give me the water," said Irene. "I am his wife."
As Irene took her station by his side, the wounded soldier opened his eyes, and vacantly stared upon the group in the room. Irene bent over him, with her soul in her eyes; his eyes rested on her with no gleam of recognition for a moment, and then feebly closed again.
Uncle Dan had ordered a litter made and four men now entered with it, and reported that everything was ready for departure. Oleah was placed upon the litter, and Irene rode beside it, half the men preceding it and half following. Mrs. Jackson, at her earnest request, had been left at the cabin, and the guarded litter was not two miles on its way before her red-headed husband came from the woods, suave and smiling, and the two hurried away toward the gap between the Twin Mountains. When next heard of the Jackson family was at Colonel Scrabble's camp.
The movements of Uncle Dan were necessarily slow, and it was late at night when they arrived at the plantation. Irene with Uncle Dan rode forward to prepare the planter and his wife for Oleah's coming, the others following slowly. We will not attempt to describe the scene that followed—their joy at Irene's return, their astonishment at her story, their anxious alarm when she told them of Oleah's condition. She had hardly ceased speaking, when they heard in the hall the slow, heavy tread of men who carried a helpless burden. A fever had set in, and Oleah was in a critical condition. A messenger was despatched to Snagtown for the family physician, and Uncle Dan left his prisoner and returned to his command at the Junction.
For ten weary days and nights Oleah was unconscious or raving in the delirium of fever, and during all that time Irene was at his side, his constant attendant. When the fever had subsided and the man, once so imperious in his youthful strength, lay weak and helpless as an infant, but conscious at last, she was still at this post.
It was on a cold, still Winter evening. The snow lay white over the landscape, but candlelight and firelight made all bright and warm within. As Irene returned from drawing the heavy curtains, he opened his eyes and fixed them on her, as he had done many times during his long illness but this was not a wild vacant stare, it was a look of recognition. His lips moved, but her ear failed to catch the feeble, fluttering sound. She eagerly bent her head. Again his lips moved.
"Irene!" was the faint whisper.
"Do you know me, Oleah, do you know me?" she asked, tears of joy shining in her eyes.
Only his eyes answered her. Stooping she pressed a kiss on his pale lips. With a smile of perfect content he raised his weak arm and put it about her neck.
But there were other anxious hearts to be relieved, and Irene left him for a moment, went swiftly through the hall, and her glad voice broke the silence of the room where sat father and mother and physician:
"He will live! He will live! He knows me now."
They hastened to the sick-room. The favorable change was plainly visible, though the patient could not speak above a whisper and only a few words at a time. The doctor issued peremptory orders to keep him quiet and to let him have as much sleep as he could get.
The recovery was slow and for several days yet not certain. The Winter was well nigh spent before Oleah was sufficiently recovered to be conveyed to the Junction. His young wife accompanied him.
Oleah was detained a few days before his parole could be signed and then he was allowed to return. During the time he was in the Union camp, the brothers were frequently thrown together, but not a word escaped their lips of welcome or recognition. Abner passed silently and coldly by and Oleah maintained the indifferent bearing of a stranger. Irene saw this complete estrangement and it embittered all her joy.
On the day Oleah was paroled and was about to return home, Abner's company was on drill. The sleigh passed the drill-ground and so near the captain that his brother might have touched him with his hand. Abner, seeing who was passing, drew his cloak about his shoulders and turned coldly away. Winter passed and Spring came with its blooming flowers and singing birds. And not only the flowers awoke, and bird songs thrilled the air, armies, that had lain dormant all Winter, were in motion and the noise of battle was renewed.
The farmers tilled the soil. Negroes, boys, and old men, and even women toiled at the plows, while fathers and brothers, and husbands and sons were engaged in grimmer work.
Oleah had been exchanged at last and had joined his company, leaving his young wife to use all gentle endeavor to comfort and cheer the father and mother, who watched with sorrowful anxiety the movements of both armies.
A long line of muddy wagons, and a longer line of muddy soldiers was moving southward. It was one of those dark, cold, rainy days in March, when the elements above, the earth beneath, the winds about, seem to conspire to make man miserable, and surely no men could have looked more miserable than the long line of muddy soldiers. Some were mounted, but the largest number by far were infantry and plodded along on foot. Various were the moods of the soldiers. Some were gay, singing, laughing, telling jokes; others were silent and morose, complaining and cursing their hard lot. The latter class were termed professional "growlers" by their comrades. One light-hearted fellow declared that any one, who would complain at their lot, would be capable of grumbling at the prospect of being hanged.
A fine, persistent rain had been falling nearly all day, and the men were cold and wet and tired plodding through the mud.
Two soldiers were toiling along behind an ammunition wagon, one with the stripes of corporal on his sleeves, the other a private.
"I don't mind fighting or being shot," said the private, a young man and evidently a new recruit, "but the idea of a man's dragging himself apart and scattering the pieces along in the mud in this fashion is decidedly disagreeable."
"No danger of that," said his companion, who was no other than the irrepressible Corporal Grimm.
"Isn't, eh? I tell you my legs are coming unjointed at the knees, and I'll soon be going on the stumps."
"Yer not used to this," said Corporal Grimm. "I tell ye, when ye get used to it, this is nuthin'. Why, when I was with General Preston, we traveled so fur and so long in the quicksand, and our legs became so loose at the knees, that we had to run straps under the soles of our boots and strap our legs tight to our bodies, or we would have lost 'em sure."
"Well, I shall have to go to strapping mine soon, I am certain," said the young soldier with an incredulous smile.
"Them was awful times when I was out with General Preston!" said the corporal, shaking his head in sad reminiscence.
Abner Tompkins was with this train, but having sprained his ankle, he was unable to ride his horse, and had been placed in a wagon. All day long it had rumbled and jolted over the hills of Southern Virginia, and he was tired, sick, and faint with the constant motion. He leaned against the side of the wagon and gazed out from under the cover. He saw a long line of slow-moving, muddy wagons, and to the right a long line of infantry, some of the men wet and weary as they were singing.
Passing one part of the line, he heard a not unmusical voice caroling:
Further a chorus of voices joined in:
These suddenly hushed, when the song was completed, and one poor boy, determined to rouse the drooping spirits of his comrades, was heard trying to sing "Annie Laurie."
This was soon interrupted by some wild fellow, who broke out with:
Next came "Rally round the flag, boys," roared out by half a hundred throats, and all the popular songs of the day were sung as solos, duets or choruses—all, except "Dixie," for this was not a "Dixie" crowd.
"Poor fellows!" sighed Abner, as he lay back on his couch in the wagon. "Enjoy your jokes and songs if you can; it is small comfort that awaits you. Your only beds will be wet earth to-night, your only covering the lowering clouds of heaven."
Night was fast approaching, and the division commander sent men ahead to determine a suitable location for encampment. A field, with wood and water close by, was selected, and the soldiers soon spread over it. Camp-fires gleamed bright in the darkness, pickets were stationed and guards thrown around the camp.
Abner, who was unable to walk without the aid of a crutch, gave his instructions for the night and then returned to the wagon, where he was to sleep. It was not an ambulance wagon, but simply a baggage-wagon, with a couch arranged within for the captain.
The wide, desolate field, with its hundreds of blackened stumps, gnarled snags, and drenched and matted grass, soon presented an exciting and not an uncheerful scene. The artillery and ammunition wagons were drawn up in a hollow square in the centre of the camp, and the baggage-wagons formed a circle about them. Then over all the broad acres of the field, from its farthest hilly border to the ravines beyond, hundreds of camp-fires blazed. The fences for miles disappeared, and roots and snags vanished as if by magic.
Abner was a patient sufferer, and, when the regimental surgeon came with his lantern on one arm and his box of instruments, medicines, and plasters on the other, he underwent, without a groan, the dressing and bandaging, firmly resolving not to have any more sprained ankles to be dressed, if he could avoid it.
"Captain—hem, hem!—Captain Tompkins," said a voice, as a head was thrust in the wagon front.
"Well, what will you have?"
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, come in."
Abner had lighted a small piece of candle, which he had placed on a box at the head of his couch.
A little round-faced man, with glasses on his nose, entered the wagon and seated himself on a camp-stool near the box, on which the captain had placed his light.
"Well, Diggs, we have had a disagreeable day for marching."
"Yes, captain," said the little fellow, removing a greasy sutler's cap. "It has thoroughly satisfied me that I am not for the army. A soldier's life may suit coarser natures, but one such as mine, one that recoils from uncleanliness and confusion, and death by torture, should not be brought in daily contact with sights and sounds so repellant."
"I thought," said Corporal Grimm, who had just come to the wagon front, "that you had resolved to become a preacher."
Mr. Diggs turned towards the new-comer with an unuttered oath.
The corporal's laugh brought half a dozen soldiers to his side.
"Didn't you tell that preacher, that prayed a week for you, that you had talent for a preacher, and that you would be one if only you got out of that scrape?"
"What's the use of bringing up those old things again?" said Mr. Diggs, angrily. "I—hem, hem!—feel satisfied that my real vocation lies in the editorial field. I think I shall try my hand in the newspaper business."
"Better try preaching first. Maybe you can assist the chaplain next Sunday."
The little greasy sutler's clerk flew into a rage and left the wagon, cursing the fates that would not give him renown.
Diggs having gone, the rest also withdrew, but Abner was not yet to have the rest he so much needed. Scarcely had they gone before the entrance of the wagon was darkened again, this time by that strange person we have known as Yellow Steve. Abner had not seen him since the day he prevented the combat between himself and his brother in the forest, between Snagtown and the Twin Mountains.
"Well, sir," he demanded, "what are you doing here, more than two hundred miles from your usual place of abode."
"Forests and mountains everywhere are my usual place of abode, and have been for the last eighteen years."
"You have been a slave," said Abner.
"Yes, sir, and for eighteen years a fugitive. I have become accustomed to constant flying, to battling blood-hounds and their no less brutal owners, to all the mysteries of wood craft. Many are the bloodhounds that I have put to death, and have sent more than a few negro hunters plunging over the steep cascades and mountain sides to certain death. For eighteen years my life has been devoted to the liberation of my poor race, and I can number by hundreds the fugitives whom I have induced to leave their masters and have guided to where freedom awaited them."
"What are you doing here?"
"I am the sutler's steward, and, strange as you may think it, Captain Tompkins, I have come with the regiment on purpose to be near you. I have a story, a sad, dark story to tell you, that will strike you with wonder and horror. In these times life is uncertain and I must be near you when my time comes. I have written it, and the manuscript can not be lost; my trunk, in the sutler's camp, holds it."
The strange being was gone, and Abner was left alone to wonder.
The year 1862 passed, darkened by battle smoke, saddened by the groans of the dying, the tears shed over the dead. Abner Tompkins had been acting principally in Eastern Virginia, Maryland and Kentucky. His regiment had suffered severely in some of McClellan's hardest fought battles. His colonel had been killed at Fair Oaks on the 31st of May, 1862, and Captain Tompkins had been promoted to the vacant place.
It was the 2nd of May, 1863, and Abner and his command, now under General Hooker, having crossed the Rappahannock and Rapidan rivers, were advancing on Chancellorville, to meet a powerful Confederate force under Stonewall Jackson.
Yellow Steve, who was still the sutler's steward on the morning of the first day's fight at Chancellorsville, came to the Colonel's tent, just as he was preparing to take charge of his regiment.
"Well, Steve," said Abner, "we shall have some work to do to-day."
"I should be surprised, colonel, if we don't," was the reply.
"Do you think those fellows over there will fight?"
"I think they will, their guns shine bright enough, and they look dangerous. I went over there this morning before daylight, and I can tell you, it will be nasty getting into that town."
"You over there, Steve? What do you mean?"
"I often go over to the rebel camp," said Steve, coolly.
"Do you know that is very dangerous?"
"I do not value my life very highly; it has not been worth a straw for eighteen years; all that ever was good within me has been crushed out by the very men who carry those bayonets over yonder. I have a feeling that my time has come and that you will know my story when the fight is over."
The long roll of the drum was heard calling to the field.
"I must be going now, Steve," said the colonel, buckling on his sword, "but I will see you when the fight is over, if I live."
Colonel Tompkins mounted his horse, and took his place at the head of his regiment. The order had been extended along the entire line to advance, Abner was ordered forward to support a battery on the extreme right, which was being thrown forward to drive a body of the enemy out of the woods. The battery unlimbered when within point-blank range, and, after the first three or four rounds, the enemy fell back. As the order to advance had been countermanded, the intrepid young colonel pushed his forces to the edge of the wood, pouring in a galling fire on the enemy. By this time the Eleventh Corps, to which Abner's regiment belonged, was fiercely engaged. The enemy poured forth twenty thousand strong and hurled themselves on the Eleventh, which was composed in great part of raw recruits. The attack was fierce, and the Eleventh, being somewhat taken by surprise, were soon forced to fall back.
Colonel Tompkins' regiment had advanced three or four hundred yards beyond the main body of troops, and the falling back of the corps was not noticed until the enemy had them almost surrounded and were pouring in showers of grape and canister, while the face of the earth seemed ablaze with musketry.
"Colonel," cried the adjutant, galloping up to Col. Tompkins, "that infernal Eleventh is routed. They are in flight."
Abner's glance swept over the field. He was loth to give up the ground he had won, but they were almost surrounded. Things looked desperate. They must cut their way through and fly with the others or surrender. Rising in his stirrups, and waving his sword, the colonel shouted in thunder tones which were heard by the entire regiment:
"Yonder is our army. To remain here is death. Cut your way through, every man for himself!"
A wild cry went up, and the retreat commenced. As the colonel resumed his seat in his saddle a shell exploded in his horse's face, and, with one wild plunge, rider and steed fell to the earth, the horse struggling in death, the master struck senseless by a fragment of the shell; in a moment more rebel infantry were pouring over the place in quick pursuit of the flying soldiers.
Abner was only stunned by the shock and fall, and his men were scarcely driven from the field when he sat up and gazed around on the scene of desolation. The roar of battle could be heard in the distance; beside him lay his dead horse, and all the field was strewn with men and horses, dead and dying.
He wiped away the blood, that was flowing from a wound in his forehead, and tried to rise to his feet. A Confederate officer, seeing his endeavor, advanced and said:
"Are you badly hurt, colonel?"
"I think it is only a scratch," replied Abner, holding his handkerchief to his head, "but it bleeds quite freely."
"Let me assist you to bandage your head, and then we will retire to the rear." He bound Abner's handkerchief about his head, assisted him to rise, and offered him his arm.
"No, I thank you," said Abner, "I can walk alone; I am only a little stunned."
"I shall be compelled to take your sword, colonel," said the lieutenant.
"I am glad," said Abner, handing it to him, "that if I must surrender, it is to a gentleman."
Abner was conveyed to the rear of the Confederate army. During that day and part of the next the battle raged, but Hooker was finally compelled to fall back, with a loss of eleven thousand men; the enemy, however, suffered an irreparable loss in the death of Stonewall Jackson, who was mortally wounded and died in a few days after. The affair was kept secret in the rebel army as long as possible, and there is yet a difference of opinion as to how he met his death, some asserting that he was accidentally shot by his own pickets, others that he was killed by sharpshooters, while reconnoitering, and still others claim that he was assassinated.
The fourth day after the battle, several hundred prisoners, Abner among them, were brought before the provost-marshal, their names demanded and placed on a large roll. As Abner was standing in the ranks he observed a Confederate officer near him. There was something familiar about his figure, and Abner, looking up quickly, recognized his brother. A swift impulse swept over him, a longing to speak to him, to hear his voice, to break down—to sweep away, with passionate appeal, this monstrous barrier. But he smothered the impulse; his brother might think him imploring clemency at his hands, and that he would never do.
Oleah's look was only the indifferent glance of a stranger, and he passed on and made no sign.
It was no jealous rivalry that held these brothers apart. Abner felt no bitterness that his brother had won the gentle Irene's love; his feeling for her had not been the one overpowering love of a lifetime, and now he looked after Oleah with the brotherly affection, so long suppressed, welling anew in his heart, and deplored their hopeless estrangement, little dreaming that Irene had come to blame herself as the cause. But Irene was wrong; it was a deeper and deadly passion than love of her that had worked this evil miracle—a passion which had been roused in one son by the father's words, in the other by the mother's, which had grown in intensity, stirring up their very souls within them, and at last overcoming all other feelings.
Colonel Tompkins' name was enrolled on the prison list, and he was marched away with the other prisoners.
Abner was kept but a few days at Chancellorville, when he was sent to Libby prison. Here he remained but a few weeks, when, from some cause, or no cause, unless the hope that change of climate would prove fatal, he was removed to Mobile. Here he was confined for four months during the hottest weather; but, Mobile being threatened, he was removed to a small town in the eastern part of Louisiana, about fifty or sixty miles north of New Orleans, and near the headwaters of Lake Ponchartrain; here he was confined in a small stone jail. The town was nearly all French, and the regiment stationed there were nearly all of French or Spanish descent.
The colonel of the regiment, Castello Mortimer, was a citizen of the town. He had formerly been one of the cotton kings of New Orleans; but, on the capture of that city, had removed to Bay's End, where he had a large cotton plantation. Colonel Mortimer was half Spanish and half French, a portly man, open-hearted and pleasant of countenance, with kindly black eyes and thick, iron gray hair.
He was regarded as a generous, whole-souled man, although he had his bitter prejudices. He was a most uncompromising rebel, and, although he knew very little about military tactics, was brave and chivalrous. He owned an untold number of slaves, and countless acres of cotton fields.
Colonel Mortimer had received his commission, not on account of his ability as a soldier, but on account of his wealth, and, as he was thought not fitted for active service, he was assigned to guard this out-of-the-way place, called Bay's End, and prisoners were brought and left there to be guarded and kept by him. Those brought to the colonel's camp fared well, considering the general treatment accorded prisoners. They were furnished with clean straw to sleep on, and their food, though not always the amplest in quantity, or the best in quality, was the best that, in the distressed condition of the country, could be afforded.
Here Abner lingered for two or three months. The glorious tropical Winter was coming on; the sun was losing his fiercer heat, and his rays fell with mellowed luster on the earth. The orange and citron groves made the air sweet with their perfume. The fields were yet white with cotton; but there were no slaves left now to gather it. A number of negroes, hired and forced, and whom the boon of freedom had not yet reached, were at work in and near Bay's End.
Colonel Mortimer was anxious about his cotton; as some of the negroes were constantly escaping and flying to the North, he kept a small body of soldiers detailed to watch them, while they worked in the fields.
Bay's End was a beautiful village, situated on rising ground, that overlooked distant bayous, lagoons, lakes and sluggish streams, where the alligator reveled in his glory. The colonel had selected the village, on account of its healthy location, for his country residence. He had here a spacious mansion, such as only a Southerner knows how to construct; and here, every Autumn, he came with his beautiful Spanish wife. But she had died years before, and the colonel's family consisted of only one daughter, now a young lady.
At the end of three months, after Abner's arrival at Bay's End, Colonel Mortimer appeared one morning at his cell door.
"Colonel," he said, "I shall be compelled to remove you from here. More prisoners are coming, and there is not room for all in this little jug."
"I hope, sir, that you will give me accommodations as good as I have at present," replied Abner.
"I shall be compelled to take you to my own house, every other place being occupied," said the fat, old colonel, with a merry twinkle in his black eyes.
"Surely, if I fare as well as my jailer, I can not complain," said Abner.
He followed Colonel Mortimer from the prison, and stood still for a moment, looking about him in the glorious sunshine, up and down the shaded street, and at the beautiful orange groves in the distance. Never had nature seemed so beautiful to him before. For weeks at a time he had not seen the light of the sun, except through grates, for the rays that had struggled into his dungeon were shorn of their splendor. Now all the beauty of a tropical clime burst on him at once—the fields of cotton, the cloudless sky and the sweet scent of flowers, that continually bloom in this land of endless Summer.
"Oh, beautiful, beautiful!" murmured the prisoner, a moisture gathering in his eyes.
"What is beautiful?" asked the colonel, who was by his side; two soldiers walking in the rear.
"This world, which God has given us," was the reply.
"Yes, it is a beautiful world," said the rebel.
"But we know not how to appreciate it, until we have been for a while deprived of the sight of its beauties," answered Abner.
"Yonder is my home," said the Confederate, pointing to a large granite building. "It is not, perhaps, in strict accordance with military discipline, to keep a prisoner in one's own house, but I have no other place for you."
"I wish your home was farther away," said Abner.
"Why, sir?"
"That I might longer enjoy the free air and sunshine."
The tender-hearted old colonel wiped his face vigorously with his red bandana, and the rest of the journey was made in silence.
On entering the house, the colonel took his prisoner into a reception room, opening from the hall, to wait until his prison room could be made ready.
"You will be granted some privileges here, that you have not had before," said the colonel. "You will be permitted to walk in the grounds once in every two or three days for an hour or so."
"I shall be very grateful to you for the favor, Colonel Mortimer," said Abner.
At this moment his quick ear caught the sound of a gay girlish voice on the stairway, and the swish of silken draperies. Then the door opened and a young girl entered. She cast a quick, surprised glance about the room, as one will, entering a room supposed to be vacant, to find therein a stranger. For a moment she hesitated.
"Come in, Olivia," said the colonel. "My dear, this is our prisoner, Colonel Tompkins. My daughter, colonel!"
A look of sorrowing compassion instantly clouded that sweet face—the sweetest Abner had ever looked on.
Olivia Mortimer was one of those Southern women, over whose beauty novelists wax enthusiastic, poets rave and painters dream and despair.
Abner forgot that he was a prisoner, forgot past hardships and future peril, forgot all but this beautiful, unexpected vision, with outstretched hand, and pitying eyes, and sweet, low voice, that made the heart throb wildly, that had kept its even beat amid the blasting of bugles and the sullen roar of cannon. He blushed like an awkward school-boy, as he bowed before her queenly little figure.
"I am very sorry to see you a prisoner," she said. "It must be very hard to suffer confinement; to know that the flowers bloom and the birds sing, without being able to partake of their joy."
The gentle words betrayed a heart, kind and womanly. Abner felt that to lay down his life at her feet would be the highest bliss a man might hope for.
"I assure you, Miss Mortimer, that prison life is not desirable, but I am more fortunate than most prisoners, while I have your father for my jailer, and his mansion for my jail, I can well endure my captivity."
"Colonel," said the old Confederate impulsively, "I have a notion to parole you and give you the freedom of the place. It will be pleasanter for you and easier for me."
"For such a privilege, sir, I should be grateful indeed. I already owe much to your generosity, but this I can hardly realize."
"And I shall make Olivia your jailer," said the old colonel, with a quiet laugh, that caused his frame to quiver like agitated jelly.
"Then, sir, my imprisonment will be no punishment at all, but rather a lot to be envied," replied Abner.
"My dear, do you think you can guard a man who has led a thousand soldiers to the field of battle?" said the old colonel, with another quiet laugh.
"He don't look dangerous, papa, and I can find him sufficient occupation; busy people, you know, are not apt to get into mischief."
"Do you comprehend, colonel?" said Colonel Mortimer. "She means to make you a galley slave as well as a prisoner."
"Even such servitude, under such a mistress, would be a pleasure," answered Abner.
The old Confederate, being part French, was polite, being part Spanish, was chivalrous, and, when he had taken it into his head to treat his prisoner well, seemed unable to do enough for him. So Abner remained in the colonel's mansion, hardly realizing that he was a prisoner, treated rather as a guest. Since he had been brought to the house of the commander at Bay's End, Abner had greatly improved in his personal appearance. By chance he had retained a suit of undress colonel's uniform, which had not been soiled by the dampness of prison. He had been close shaved, excepting his light-colored mustache, and he had his hair trimmed by Colonel Mortimer's own barber. Still when in the presence of the Confederate's beautiful daughter, he always lost his self possession; his conversational powers, and, in fact, his common sense, seemed suddenly to desert him. He could only listen in silence, or make disjointed, incoherent replies.
Olivia sympathized with the poor prisoner, who was so far from home and friends. She did every thing in her power to cheer him, she misunderstanding his feelings and attributing his silence and sadness to the hardships he had suffered during his imprisonment and his long absence from home. She sang and played for him, she read to him, she walked and talked with him, revealing all her past history, telling him of the years she had passed in one of the New England seminaries, of her mother's death in her early girlhood, and of many incidents in her bright pleasant life, to which the war as yet had brought no bitterness.
It was several weeks, after Colonel Mortimer had brought Abner to his home, that the shattered remnant of a Confederate regiment, passing through the village, paused to rest. There were not over three hundred men in the regiment fit for duty, and some of these were battle-scarred. Colonel Mortimer invited the commander of this brave little band to his house. He informed his prisoner and his daughter that a very brave and distinguished officer would dine with them that day—a young man, a brigadier-general—he could not recall the name, but they would meet him at dinner. Abner and his fair jailer were in the garden when the guest arrived, for, although it was in the month of February, the weather on this particular day was fine, and the garden was yet a pleasant resort.
They went together towards the house, and, passing the low, open window, saw the rebel general engaged in conversation with Colonel Mortimer—a young man, with fierce, black eyes, black hair and black moustache.
It was his brother. Abner turned suddenly pale. He detained Olivia for a moment, told her that he had been taken suddenly ill, begged her to make his excuses to her father, and left her at the door of the dining-room. The distinguished general dined, and, later on, left with the gallant remnant of his regiment. Olivia was too much rejoiced at the prisoner's rapid recovery to inquire into its cause.
The fountain gleamed beneath the beams of the Southern moon, gentle ripples stirred the waves on the lake below, and the soft breezes wafted sweetest perfumes through the splendid gardens of Colonel Mortimer. Spring had come—Spring more than beautiful in this tropical clime.
Months had passed since last we saw Colonel Tompkins and his beautiful jailer, who now stand side by side by the splashing fountain. To him these months had seemed like a dream of heaven.
Never did he believe that such surpassing happiness could fall to the lot of any human being. Even now, at times, it did not seem real. When he paused to reflect, he thought it must be some delightful dream, that would pass and take with it all the brightness of life. Could there be on the face of this earth a being so lovely; a mansion, a village, a country so perfectly delightful? Was it not some wild imagination of some artist, that had turned his brain?
No, it was all real. Olivia was not paint and canvas, but flesh and blood; a living reality, though face and form were so beautiful; her voice was sweetest music, and her soul pure as her perfect face. Young as she was, Olivia had had many suitors, but the pale young officer from Virginia, with his handsome, melancholy face, had won her heart. Perhaps it was pity that first stirred her soul—pity for the poor prisoner so far from home and friends; pity for his former sufferings, and admiration for his brave record.
He had apparently succeeded in overcoming the mood that had held him silent and abashed in her presence, for now, as they stand in the pale moonlight and listen to the murmuring fountain, which seems, like their own hearts, to overflow for very gladness, the arm of the young colonel in blue clasps the yielding form of his jailer, and it is he who speaks, and she who listens in silence.
Darkness fell over the lake as they lingered. A light moved over the dark waters. The lovers saw it not. Another light and yet another appeared, first mere luminous points or stars, but gradually growing in size as they approached. No one, certainly not the inhabitants of Bay's End, would have dreamed of a floating battery of steamers crossing that shallow lake.
For days the Union forces had been busy damming up all the outlets of the lake, and the water had been gradually rising, occasioning considerable comment among the inhabitants.
Slowly the lights glided over the dark face of the waters. As they came nearer, they grew in size, and beneath them were defined the hulk of three monster gunboats, sweeping up towards the village. The sentry gave the alarm.
Simultaneously with the alarm came a great blinding flash from one of the monsters of the water; then a ball of fire circled through the air, and an explosion shook the village to its centre. Another, another, and another shell, hurled from the gunboats, came curving through the air and exploded in the streets of the village.
Abner cast a quick glance around, seeking some place of safety for the terrified Olivia. The stone fence that bounded the grounds seemed to offer the most inviting retreat at present. Scarcely had he placed the frightened girl on the opposite side of the wall than a shell exploded in the fountain, tearing the water nymphs to pieces and scattering fragments far and wide; then a solid shot struck the mansion.
At this moment a rocket shot up skyward, leaving a long red tail, from the palmetto and orange groves at the north of the village, and wild cheers went up from a land force on that side. The bombardment from the gunboats ceased.
"What is it, what is it?" cried the terrified girl.
"Don't be frightened," answered Abner. "You will be quite safe here."
"But what is that awful noise? Is the lake blowing up? Is an earthquake coming?"
"No, it is gunboats bombarding the town."
"Then, let us hasten to the house. We shall be killed here," she cried.
"No, no, Olivia, that would not do," he answered, "for they will make the house an especial mark, it being the largest building in the village. Here is the safest place we can find for the present."
The wild yells of land troops, as they advanced on the village, again rose on the air.
The poor girl looked questionably at her companion, speechless with terror.
"They are soldiers, who have come around by land, and are advancing on the village."
"Oh, let me go! I must go home, I must go to my father!"
She struggled wildly in Abner's grasp, for he held her fast.
"Just listen to me one moment, Olivia," he entreated. "Can you not trust me? I tell you truly that the most dangerous place in town is at your father's house. Already a cannon ball has struck it, and if the present sortie is repulsed the cannonade will be instantly resumed, and it will be battered down."
"But my father is there!"
"No, he is in the village, forming his men to meet the attack. This is the only place of safety for you. They will scarcely throw any shells over here, and the fight will be on the other hill."
Bay's End was in a state of confusion. Colonel Mortimer was aroused by the first cannon shot, and was making ready for the attack. The long roll of the drum and the trumpets sounded, and the half-dressed Confederates fell hastily into line. Colonel Mortimer had the three field pieces in his camp turned on the gunboats, and they belched forth fire and smoke at the monsters, making the very earth shake. But their most deadly foe now was the land force, which was coming down in a solid column.
From behind the stone wall Abner could see the old Confederate colonel leading his men to meet them.
The Union forces advanced up the hill with fixed bayonets.
"Fire!" cried Colonel Mortimer.
A roar of fire-arms shook the air, and for a moment caused the advancing line to waver. The fire had but little effect, however. One or two of the soldiers fell, but most of the leaden hail swept over their heads.
"Forward!" commanded a voice among that line of dark blue coats, and they rushed up the hill.
"Fire!" came Colonel Mortimer's command again.
Not more than a dozen guns responded. All had been emptied in the first volley, and the enemy was now almost upon them.
"Stand firm!" cried the brave old colonel, waving his sword in the air. "Don't give way an inch! Shoot them down as they come!"
Drawing his revolver, he commenced firing at the line, and several of his officers followed his example. His men, taking courage, began to reload. The Union forces halted and poured a raking fire into the Confederate ranks. Men fell to the left and to the right of the old colonel, but he was as yet unhurt. About two hundred of his men, having reloaded, poured a destructive fire on the approaching lines, which made them recoil for a moment; but, rallying, they advanced up the hill again and poured three volleys in quick succession into the ranks under the brave old colonel, which settled the fortunes of the day, or night rather, though the moon shone almost as bright as day.
The Confederates fled, pursued by the glittering bayonets of their foes. Colonel Mortimer, with a mere handful of his bravest men, fell back towards his mansion. A detachment of soldiers pursued them and hemmed them in.
"Oh, my father, my father! he will be killed!" cried Olivia, as she saw the soldiers leaping the wall and surrounding the house. She broke away from Abner's restraining hand and ran towards the place, where the two opposing forces had met with clashing and thrusting of bayonets. Abner followed her, but no bird was more fleet than she, as she skimmed over garden and lawn and disappeared behind the house, from whence came the sound of defiant voices and the discharge of fire-arms, but she heeded them not.
When Abner reached the scene of struggle, he found that Colonel Mortimer had been thrown to the ground, and a bayonet glittered at his breast; then he saw a small, white hand thrust the bayonet aside, and Olivia threw herself between the soldier and the prostrate man. Abner sprang to the side of Colonel Mortimer and thrust back the astonished soldier.
"Colonel Mortimer surrenders as a prisoner of war," he cried, in his firm, ringing tones.
"Hold on!" cried the soldier, looking at the newcomer, "I be hanged if here ain't our old colonel. Hurrah, boys, here's Colonel Tompkins!" and the excited soldier, who was no other than Corporal Grimm, took off his cap, and gave three cheers, that were joined in by a hundred more men, who had gathered round.
The village was in possession of the Union forces, and nearly all of Colonel Mortimer's command were prisoners.
It was Abner's own regiment which had stormed the village.
"Well, well, I do declare," said Corporal Grimm, "this finding the colonel is a little romantic, and with a purty girl, too! It reminds me of an incident in my experience with General Preston. Sergeant Swords, did I ever tell you my experience with General Preston?" and Grimm took the long suffering sergeant aside to relate it.
When Abner had told the story of the colonel's kindness toward him, the victors' politeness and kindness towards the old Confederate amply repaid him for the manner in which he had treated their colonel.
Abner was informed by Major Fleming that he was to take immediate command of the regiment.
He instantly ordered Colonel Mortimer paroled and given the freedom of the camp. He whispered to the beautiful, dark-eyed daughter that she need have no fear on her father's account, that he commanded the men, who held him prisoner. She clung to him and asked so sweetly for him to spare her papa that, had he been a monster, he could not have refused.
The night passed away, and daylight dawned before the dead and wounded had been gathered up. Some lay stark and stiff in some gully, ravine, or behind some trees, among the bushes and between the rocks, and it required time to find them.
The next morning a courier reached Abner, with an urgent message from a wounded man, who was dying and wished to see him.
"Who is he?" asked Abner.
"A steward of one of the sutlers, who came on this expedition as cook. He was a colored fellow," answered the messenger.
A look of intense interest came over Abner's face.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
"Follow me and I will show you," said the messenger.
Leaving the affairs, that were engaging his attention, to the management of Major Fleming, Colonel Tompkins hurried away. In one of the lowly huts of the village he found Yellow Steve, the strange negro, lying on a pallet. He had been wounded by a musket ball in the breast, and his life was fast ebbing away. He had but a few hours to live at most, for the wound was such the surgeon pronounced recovery impossible.
"I am dying, colonel," said the negro, "but I thank God that I have seen you at last to give you this." He put his hand in the breast-pocket of his blouse and drew forth a sealed package. "I could not have died without giving you this. I have hunted for you everywhere since you were captured. I have been in almost every camp in the South. I should have been satisfied to give it to your brother Oleah, had he not shown the same haughty spirit of one who has been the cause of his own ruin as well as mine."
Abner noticed that the packet had been much worn, as if it had been carried a long time in some one's pocket. It was addressed, in a very plain but evidently unknown hand, to himself.
"You will understand," said the negro, "the seal is not to be broken, nor the contents examined, until I am dead. I want no one, least of all you, to know my dark secret while there is yet life within this poor body. I have suffered enough during my miserable existence without having your curses heaped upon my dying head."
Abner assured him that the packet should not be opened while he lived, and left, promising to return.
His multifarious duties demanded his attention, and when he returned to the hut Yellow Steve was dead.
It was late that night when Abner found time to return to his head-quarters. He drew his chair close to a lighted lamp, and, breaking the seal of the packet, he drew forth the manuscript and read.