by John McElroy
Produced by David Widger
SI KLEGG
The Deacon's Adventures At Chattanooga In Caring For The Boys
By John McElroy
Book Five
Published By
The National Tribune Company,
Washington, D. C.
Second Edition
Copyright 1912
By The National Tribune Company.
Contents:
CHAPTER I. THE DEACON PROVIDESCHAPTER II. THE DEACON ATTEMPTED RESTITUTIONCHAPTER III. A COW IN CAMPCHAPTER IV. THE DEACON'S PLANCHAPTER V. TROUBLE ENCOUNTEREDCHAPTER VI. THE BOYS IN THE OLD HOME ON BEAN BLOSSOM CREEKCHAPTER VII. WEEKS OF CONVALESCENCECHAPTER VIII. SI IS PROMOTEDCHAPTER IX. SHORTY IN TROUBLECHAPTER X. SHORTY AS ORDERLYCHAPTER XI. SHORTY RUNS HEADQUARTERSCHAPTER XII. SHORTY ON A HUNTCHAPTER XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETINGCHAPTER XIV. GUARDING THE KNIGHTSCHAPTER XV. OFF FOR THE FRONTCHAPTER XVI. THE TROUBLESOME BOYSCHAPTER XVII. THE FRIGHTENED SURGEONCHAPTER XVIII. NO PEACE FOR SI AND SHORTYCHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST SCRAPECHAPTER XX. AFTER THE SKIRMISHCHAPTER XXI. CHATTANOOGA AT LAST
PREFACE
"Si Klegg, of the 200th Ind., and Shorty, his Partner," were born yearsago in the brain of John McElroy, Editor of The National Tribune.
These sketches are the original ones published in The National Tribune,revised and enlarged somewhat by the author. How true they are to natureevery veteran can abundantly testify from his own service. Really, onlythe name of the regiment was invented. There is no doubt that there wereseveral men of the name of Josiah Klegg in the Union Army, and who didvaliant service for the Government. They had experiences akin to, ifnot identical with, those narrated here, and substantially every manwho faithfully and bravely carried a musket in defense of the bestGovernment on earth had sometimes, if not often, experiences of whichthose of Si Klegg are a strong reminder.'
The Publishers.
THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
TO THE RANK AND FILE
OF THE GRANDEST ARMY EVER MUSTERED FOR WAR.
THIS IS NUMBER FIVE
OF THE
SI KLEGG SERIES.
SI KLEGG
CHAPTER I. THE DEACON PROVIDES
RESORTS TO HIGHWAY ROBBERY AND HORSE STEALING.
THE Deacon was repaid seventyfold by Si's and Shorty's enjoyment of thestew he had prepared for them, and the extraordinary good it had seemedto do them as they lay wounded in the hospital at Chattanooga, to whichplace the Deacon had gone as soon as he learned that Si was hurt in thebattle.
"I won't go back on mother for a minute," said Si, with brightened eyesand stronger voice, after he had drained the last precious drop of thebroth, and was sucking luxuriously on the bones; "she kin cook chickensbetter'n any woman that ever lived. All the same, I never knowed howgood chicken could taste before."
"Jehosephat, the way that does take the wrinkles out down here," saidShorty, rubbing appreciatively the front of his pantaloons. "I feel assmooth as if I'd bin starched and ironed, and there's new life cleardown to my toe-nails. If me and Si could only have a chicken a day forthe next 10 days we'd feel like goin' up there on the Ridge and bootin'old Bragg off the hill. Wouldn't we, Si?"
"Guess so," acceded Si cheerily, "if every one made us feel as muchbetter as this one has. How in the world did you git the chicken, Pap?"
"Little boys should eat what's set before 'em, and ask no questions,"said the father, coloring. "It's bad manners to be pryin' around thekitchen to find out where the vittles come from."
"Well, I've got to take off my hat to you as a forager," said Shorty. "Aman that kin find a chicken in Chattenoogy now, and hold on to it longenough to git it in the pot, kin give me lessons in the art. When I gitstrong enough to travel agin I want you to learn me the trick."
The Deacon did not reply to the raillery. He was pondering anxiouslyabout the preservation of his four remaining chickens. The good resultsmanifest from cooking the first only made him more solicitous about theothers. Several half-famished dogs had come prowling around, from no oneknew where. He dared not kill them in daylight. He knew that probablysome, if not all, of them had masters, and the worse and more dangerousa dog is the more bitterly his owner resents any attack upon him. Then,even hungrier looking men with keen eyes and alert noses wandered near,with inquiry in every motion. He would have liked to take Shortyinto his confidence, but he feared that the ravenous appetite ofconvalescence would prove too much for that gentleman's continence.
He kept thinking about it while engaged in what he called "doin' up thechores," that is, making Si and Shorty comfortable for the day, beforehe lay down to take a much-needed rest. He had never been so puzzled inall his life. He thought of burying them in the ground, but dismissedthat because he would be seen digging the hole and putting them in, andif he should escape observation, the dogs would be pretty certain tonose them out and dig them up. Sinking them in the creek suggesteditself, but had to be dismissed for various reasons, one being fear thatthe ravenous catfish would devour them.
"If I only had a balloon," he murmured to himself, "I might send 'em upin that. That's the only safe way I kin think of. Yes, there's anotherway. I've intended to put a stone foundation under that crib, and daubit well, so's to stop the drafts. It orter be done, but it's a hardday's work, even with help, and I'm mortal tired. But I s'pose it's theonly way, and I've got to put in stones so big that a dog can't pull 'emout."
He secured a couple of negroes, at prices which would have paid forhighly-skilled labor in Indiana, to roll up enough large stones to fillin the space under the crib, and then he filled all the crevices withsmaller ones, and daubed over the whole with clay.
"There," he said, as he washed the clay from his hands, "I think themchickens are safe for to-night from the dogs, and probably from the men.Think of all that trouble for four footy chickens not worth more'n fourbits in Injianny. They're as much bother as a drove o' steer'd be. Ithink I kin now lay down and take a wink o' sleep."
He was soon sleeping as soundly as only a thoroughly-tired man can,and would have slept no one knows how long, had not Shorty succeeded inwaking him towards morning, after a shaking which exhausted the latter'sstrength.
"Wake up, Mister Klegg," said Shorty; "it must 've bin rainin' dogs, andthey're tryin' to tear the shanty down."
The Deacon rubbed his eyes and hastened a moment to the clamor outside.It seemed as if there were a thousand curs surrounding them, barking,howling, snarling, fighting, and scratching. He snatched up a club andsprang out, while Shorty tottered after. He ran into the midst of thepack, and began laying about with his strong arms. He broke the backs ofsome, brained others, and sent the others yelping with pain and fright,except two particularly vicious ones, who were so frenzied with hungerthat they attacked him, and bit him pretty severely before he succeededin killing them. Then he went around to the end of the crib nearest hisprecious hoard, and found that the hungry brutes had torn away his clayand even the larger of the stones, and nothing but their fighting amongthemselves had prevented the loss of his chickens. "What in tarnationset the beasts onto us," inquired Shorty wonderingly. "They were wuss'ncats around catnip, rats after aniseed, or cattle about a spot o' blood.I've felt that me and Si wuz in shape to bring the crows and buzzardsaround, but didn't expect to start the dogs up this way."
"I've got four chickens hid under the underpinnin' there for you andSi," confessed the Deacon. "The dogs seemed to 've smelled 'em out andwuz after 'em."
He went to the hiding place and pulled out the fowls one after another."They are all here," he said; "but how in the world am I goin' to keep'em through another night?"
"You ain't a-goin' to keep 'em through another night, are you?
" askedShorty anxiously, as he gloated over the sight. "Le's eat 'em to-day."
"And starve to-morrer?" said the thrifty Deacon rebukingly. "I don'tknow where any more is comin' from. It was hard enough work gittin'these. I had calculated on cookin' one a day for you and Si. That'dmake 'em provide for four more days. After that only the Lord knows whatwe'll do."
"Inasmuch as we'll have to trust to the Lord at last, anyway," saidShorty, with a return of his old spirit, "why not go the whole gamut? Aday or two more or less won't make no difference to Him. I feel as if Icould eat 'em all myself without Si's help."
"I tell you what I'll do," said the Deacon, after a littleconsideration. "I feel as if both Si and you kin stand a little more'nyou had yesterday. I'll cook two to-day. We'll send a big cupful over toCapt. McGillicuddy. That'll leave us two for to-morrer. After that we'llhave to trust to Providence."
"If ever there was a time when He could use His ravens to advantage,"said the irreverent Shorty, "it's about now. They carried bread and meatto that old prophet. There's a lot o' mighty good men down here in thisvalley now in terrible want of grub, and nothin' but birds kin git overthe roads to the rear very well."
"Don't speak lightly o' the Lord and His ways, Shorty," said the Deaconseverely.
"'Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace. Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smilin' face,'
as the hymn says. Here, take these chickens in one hand and this pistolin the other, and guard 'em while I go down to the branch and wash andgit some water. Then I'll cook your breakfast."
Again the savory smell of the boiling chickens attracted sick boys, whobegged for a little of the precious food. Having double the quantity,the Deacon was a little more liberal, but he had to restrain Shorty,who, despite his own great and gnawing hunger, would have given away thebigger part of the broth to those who so desperately needed it.
"No, Shorty," said the prudent Deacon. "Our first duty is to ourselves.We kin help them by gittin' you and Si on your feet. We can't feed thewhole Army o' the Cumberland, though I'd like to."
A generous cupful was set aside for Capt. McGillicuddy, which hisservant received with gratitude and glowing reports of the good theformer supply had done him.
With the daylight came the usual shells from the rebel guns on LookoutMountain. Even the Deacon was getting used to this noisy salutation tothe morn, and he watched the shells strike harmlessly in the distancewith little tremor of his nerves. As the firing ceased, amid thederisive yells of the army, he said quietly:
GIT DOWN FROM THERE! COMMANDED THE DEACON 21]
"That last shell's saved me a good deal o' work diggin'. It, tore out ahole that'll just do to bury the carcasses of these dogs."
Accordingly, he dragged the carcasses over after breakfast, and threwthe dirt back in the hole upon them.
The two remaining chickens were stowed in a haversack, and duringthe day hung outside from the ridge-pole of the crib, where they wereconstantly under the eye of either the Deacon or Shorty, who took turnswatching them. That night the Deacon slept with them under his head,though they were beginning to turn a little, and their increasinggameness brought a still larger herd of dogs about. But the Deacon hadsecurely fastened the door, and he let them rage around as they pleased.
When they were cooked and eaten the next morning the Deacon becameoppressed with anxious thought. Where were the next to come from? Theboys had improved so remarkably that he was doubly anxious to continuethe nourishing diet, which he felt was necessary to secure their speedyrecovery. Without it they would probably relapse.
He could think of nothing but to go back again to the valley wherehe got the chickens, and this seemed a most desperate chance, for themoment that either of the old couple set eyes on him he or she wouldgive the alarm. He went to sleep thinking about the matter, and when herose up in the morning, and had nothing to offer his boys but the coarseand uninviting hardtack, pork and coffee, he made up his mind to takethe chances, whatever they might be. He set out again immediately afterbreakfast, and by cutting across the mountain came to the entrance tothe valley a little after noon. Keeping close under cover of the woods,he approached within sight of the house, and carefully scanned it. Whatto do he had scarcely planned. He was only determined to have some freshmeat to take back to camp. He was going to get it as honestly and fairlyas he could, but fresh meat he must have.
He could see no other house anywhere in the distance, and probably ifhe went farther he would run into rebel bushwhackers and guerrillas, whowere watching from the high ridges. So long as he kept under cover ofthe woods he would feel all right, for he was as skilled in woodcraft asany of them, and could take care of himself. But if he should come outinto the open fields and road to cross the valley they would have himat an advantage. He was confirmed in this fear by seeing several littleclouds of smoke rise up above the tops of the trees on the ridge.
"There's a gang of rebels in camp over there," said he to himself, witha woodman's quick reading of every sign. "That smoke's from their fires.'Tain't enough of it to be clearin' ground; people ain't clearin' up atthis time o' year; that ground over there ain't the kind they'd clearup for anything. 'Twouldn't raise white beans if it was cleared; and youdon't hear nobody choppin'."
He looked again at the house. Everything was very quiet and peacefularound it. There was no stock in the barnyard or fields, and theonly signs of life were the smoke rising from one of the great stonechimneys, the chickens picking and scratching in the garden, a couple ofnegresses, who occasionlly passed back and forth between the main houseand another cabin apparently used as a kitchen.
The Deacon had almost made up his mind to march boldly down to thehouse, snatch up a few of the chickens, and make his way back to thewoods again, before the old couple could summon assistance. Suddenly hisquick eyes caught a glimpse of something at a point where the road fromthe ridge came down out of the woods. Then that something developedinto a man on horseback, who rode forward to a little rise, stopped,and surveyed the landscape cautiously, and then rode forward toward thehouse.
He dismounted and entered the house. In a few minutes there appearedunusual bustle and activity, during which the man rode back again,munching as he went at a piece of cornpone and one of meat, which he hadgotten at the house, and held in either hand, while his reins lay on hishorse's neck.
The old woman came out into the yard with some meat in her hand, and theshrill note of her orders to the negresses reached the Deacon's ears,though he could not make out the words. But he saw one of them go to thespring and bring water, which she poured in a wash-kettle set up in theyard, while the old woman prepared the beef and put it in, the othernegress started a fire, and the old man chopped and split wood to putaround the kettle and fill the stone oven near by.
"They're cookin' vittels for them rebels on the ridge." The Deaconcorrectly diagnosed the situation. "By-and-by they'll come for 'em, ortake 'em to 'em. Mebbe I kin find some way to collar some of 'em. It'sa slim chance, but no other seems to show up just now. If no more'n oneman comes for that grub I'm goin' to jump him."
The Deacon looked at the caps on his revolver and began laying plans fora strategic advance under the cover of the sumachs to a point where hecould command the road to the house.
His cheek paled for an instant as the thought obtruded that the manmight resist and he have to really shoot him.
"I don't want to shoot nobody," he communed with himself, "and it won't'be necessary if the other fellow is only sensible and sees, that I'vegot the drop on him, which I will have before I say a word. Anyway, Iwant that grub for a work of necessity and mercy, which justifies manythings, and as a loyal man I ought to keep it from goin' to rebels. IfI've got to put a bullet into another feller, why, the Lord'll hold meguiltless and blame the other feller. I ain't no Free Will Baptist.I believe things 've bin foreordained. Wisht I knowed that it wasforeordained that I was to git that grub back to Si and Shorty."
Presently he sa
w the old man come out and take a path into the woods. Hecautiously circled around to where he could follow and watch him. He sawhim make his way to a secluded little cove, where there was a corn-cribpartially filled and a rude shelter, under which were a buckboard andfairly-good young horse. The old man began putting the clumsy harness ofropes, chains and patched leather on the horse and hitching him to thebuckboard.
"Good, the old man's goin' to take the grub out to 'em himself," thoughtthe Deacon with relief. "He'll be easy to manage. No need o' shootin'him."
He hurried back to his covert, and then shpped unseen down to where hehad selected for his ambush. The old man drove the buckboard around tothe front of the house, and the negresses, obeying the shrill orders ofthe old woman, brought out pones of smoking cornbread, and buckets, tinpans and crocks containing the meat, potatoes, turnips and other food,and loaded them on to the buckboard. The fragrance of the food reachedthe Deacon's nostrils, and made his mouth water and fond anticipationsrise as to the good it would do the boys.
"I'll have that grub, and the boys shall have it," he determined, "orthere'll be an Injianny Deacon pretty badly used up."
The old man mounted into the seat, gathered up the rope lines, andchirruped to the horse to start.
When he came opposite, the Deacon jumped out, seized the reins, andpointing his revolver at him, commanded sternly:
"Git down from there, and git down quick."
The old man dropped the lines, and for an instant gazed at him withscared eyes.
"Why, yo' robber, what d'yo' mean?" he gasped.
"Git down from there, and git down quick!" repeated the Deacon.
"Why, this is highway robbery, threats, puttin' in bodily fear,attempted murder, hoss-stealin'."
"Hain't no time to argy law with you," said the Deacon impatiently."This ain't no court-room. You ain't in session now. Git down, and gitdown quick!"
"Help! help! murder! robbery! thieves!" shouted the old man, at the topof his voice.
The negresses, who had been watching their master depart, set toscreaming, and the old woman rushed back into the house and blew thehorn. The Deacon thrust his revolver back into the holster, caught theold man with his sinewy hand, tore him from the seat, and flung himinto the fence-corner. He sprang into the seat, turned the horse's headtoward Chattanooga, and hit him a sharp cut with a switch that lay inthe wagon.
"I've got about three miles the start," he said as he rattled off. "Thishorse's young and fresh, while their's probably run down. The roadfrom here to the main road's tollably good, and I think I kin git therebefore they kin overtake me."
At the top of the hill he looked back, and saw the rebels coming out.Apparently they had not understood what had happened. They had seen noYankees and could not have seen the Deacon's tussle with the old man.They supposed that the holler simply meant for them to come in and gettheir dinner, instead of having it taken out to them. All this passedthrough the Deacon's mind, and he chuckled over the additional start itwould give him.
"They won't find out nothin' till they git clean to the house," he said."By that time I'll be mighty nigh the main road. My, but wouldn't Ilike to have as many dollars as they'll be mad when they find the Yankeetrick that's bin played on 'em, with their dinner hauled off into theUnion camp."
He rattled ahead sharply for some time, looking back at each top of ahill for his pursuers. They did not come in sight, but the main road toChattanooga did, and then a new trouble suggested itself.
"I won't never dare haul this load uncovered through camp," he said tohimself. "The first gang o' roustabout teamsters that I meet'll takeevery spoonful of the vittles, and I'd be lucky if I have the horse andwagon left. I must hide it some way. How? That's a puzzler."
At length a happy idea occurred to him. He stopped by a cedar thicket,and with his jack-knife cut a big load of cedar boughs, which he piledon until every bit of food was thoroughly concealed. This took muchtime, and as he was finishing he heard a yell on the hill behind, andsaw a squad of rebels riding down toward him. He sprang to the seat,whipped up his horse, and as he reached the main road was rejoiced tosee a squad of Union cavalry approaching.
"Here, old man," said the Lieutenant in command; "who are you, and whatare you doing here?"
"I'm a nurse in the hospital," answered the Deacon unhesitatingly. "Iwas sent out here to get some cedar boughs to make beds in the hospital.Say, there's some rebels out there, comin' down the hill. They saw meand tuk after me. You'll find 'em right over the hill."
"That's a pretty slick horse you're driving," said the Lieutenant."Looks entirely too slick to belong to Chattanooga. It's a much betterhorse than mine. I've a notion--"
"Say, them rebels are just over the hill, I tell you," said the Deaconin a fever of apprehension of losing his steed. "They'll be on top ofyou in a minute if you don't look out."
"Right over the hill, did you say?" said the Lieutenant, forgetting forthe moment the horse. "Attention, there, boys. Look out for the rebels.Advance carbines--Forward--trot! I'll come back directly and takeanother look at that horse."
The squad trotted up the hill in the direction the Deacon had pointed,and as he drove off as fast as he could he heard the spatter ofexchanging shots.
Late in the evening, as he drove off the pontoon into Chattanooga andturned to the right toward his corn-crib he muttered over to himself:
"They say that when a man starts down the path of sin and crime the roadseems greased for his swift progress. The other day I begun withpetty larceny and chicken stealin'. To-day it's bin highway robbery,premeditated murder, horse stealin', grand larceny, and tellin' adeliberate lie. What'll I be doin' this time next week? I must git thatold man's horse and buckboard back to him somehow, and pay him for hisvittles. But how'm I goin' to do it? The army's terribly demoralizin'. Imust git Si back home soon, or I won't be fit to associate with anybodyoutside the penitentiary. How kin I ever go to the communion tableagin?"
