by John McElroy
CHAPTER II. THE DEACON ATTEMPTED RESTITUTION
TRIED TO RETURN THE HORSE TO HIS OWNER.
SI AND SHORTY were on the anxious lookout for the Deacon when hearrived, and not a little worried lest something might have befallenhim.
Si's weakness made him peevish and fretful, and Shorty was not a greatdeal better.
"It's an awful risk to have an old man and a civilian come down hereinto camp," Si complained. "And he oughtn't to go about alone. He'salways been used to mingling with the quiet, honest, respectable people.Up home the people are as honest as the day is long. They're religiousand peaceable, and Pap's never knowed no other kind. He wouldn't harmnobody for the world, and none o' them'd harm him. He's only a childamong these toughs down here. I wisht one of us was able to be with himall the time."
"That father o' yours is certainly quite an innocent old party," Shortyanswered, consolingly, "and the things he don't know about army life'dmake more'n a pamphlet. But he has a way of wakin' up to the situationthat is sometimes very surprisin'. I wisht I was able to go about withhim, but I think he's fully able to take care o' himself around in camp.There's always somebody about who won't see an old man and a citizenimposed on. But what I'm afraid of is that he's wandered out in thecountry, huntin' for somethin' for us to eat, and the guerrillas've gothim."
And he and Si shuddered at the thought of that good old man in the handsof the merciless scoundrels who infested the mountains and woods beyondthe camps.
"Yes," mourned Si, "Pap's likely to mosey out into the country, jestlike he would on Bean Blossom Crick, and stop at the first house he cometo, and set down with 'em on the porch, and talk about the weather, andthe crops, and the measles in the neighborhood, and the revivals, andthe price o' pork and corn, and whether they'd better hold their wheattill Spring, and who was comin' up for office, and all the time thebushwhackers'd be sneakin' up on him, an' him know no more 'bout itthan where the blackbirds was roostin'. He's jest that innocent andunsuspiciouslike."
"If they've ketched him," said Shorty fiercely, "we'll find outabout it, and when we git able, we'll go out there and kill and burneverything for five miles around. I'll do it, if I have to spend therest o' my life at hard labor on the Dry Tortugas."
They heard the rattle of light wheels on the frozen ground outside, andthe hoof-beats of a quickly-moving horse.
"Buggy or spring-wagon," muttered Si with a farmer boy's instinctiveinterpretation of such sounds. "What's it doin' in camp? Strange horse.In better condition than any around here."
The vehicle stopped in front of the corn-crib at the Deacon's command,"Whoa!"
"Gracious--there's Pap now," ejaculated Si, with whom memory went ina bound to the many times he had listened for his father's coming andheard that order.
"Hello, boys," called out the Deacon. "How are you? Shorty, come outhere."
Shorty sprang up with something of his old-time alacrity, and Si made aneffort to rise, but was too weak.
"Throw a piece o' that fat pine on the fire. Shorty," said the Deacon,"and let's see what I've got."
By the light of the blazing pine, the Deacon pulled off the cedar boughsand developed his store. The boughs had kept in the heat, so that thefood was not yet quite cold, though it had a resinous flavor, from itscovering. The Deacon broke one of the cornpones in two and gave half ofit to Shorty, with as much as he thought he should have of the meat andvegetables. Then he fed Si, who relished the new diet almost as muchas he had relished the chicken broth. The Deacon made a hearty supperhimself, and then stored away the rest in his "cellar" under the crib,rolling up some more large stones as an additional precaution.
"Well, you beat me," said Shorty admiringly, as he studied over theDeacon's booty. "I used to think I was as slick a forager as there wasin the army, but I simply ain't in the same class with a man that kingo out in this Sahara Desert o' starvation and bring in a four-year-oldhorse and a wagon-load o' cooked vittles. I'd never even see thedistance pole runnin' with him. Gen. Rosecrans ought to know you. He'dappoint you Commissary-General o' the army at once. When I get a littlestronger I want you to take me out and learn me the ABC's o' foragin'.To think that me and Si wuz grievin' about your being ketched by theguerrillas. What fools we wuz. It wuz lucky for the guerrillas that youdidn't run acrost 'em, for you'd a ketched 'em, instid o' 'em you."
"That's what I come purty nigh doin'," chuckled the Deacon. "But whatin the world 'm I goin' to do with that hoss and buckboard? I must huntaround and find that poor beast some corn for tonight. He's bin drivenpurty sharp, and he needs his supper jest as bad as I did mine, and Iwon't feel right unless he has it. Then I must try to git him back tohis owner termorrer."
"If he's here to-morrer," said Shorty, looking at the animal carefully,"it'll be a miracle. That's too good a hoss to be kept in this camp byanybody lower'n a Brigadier-General. The boys'll steal him, the Captainstake him, the Colonels seize him, and the Brigadier-Generals appropriatehim for the Government's service. They'll call it by different names,but the horse goes all the same. I don't see how you're goin' to keephim till mornin'. You can't put him in your cellar. If they don't stealhim, it's because it's too dark to see him. I'm sorry to say there's anawful lot o' thieves in the Army o' the Cumberland."
And Shorty looked very grieved over the deplorable lack of regard in thearmy for the rights of property. He seemed to mourn this way for severalminutes, and then broke out with:
"Say, Mr. Klegg, I've an idee. That Quartermaster o' the MaumeeMuskrats is a sport from way back. He'd give his vary eyes for a goodhoss--one that kin beat everybody else's. The way the horses are rundown now this one kin carry a heavy handicap, and beat any one in camp.I'll bet I kin take this hoss over to him and git $150 in greenbacks forhim, for he kin win a bushel o' money with him the very first day."
"Shorty," said the Deacon, in a tone that made that worthy start,"necessity and the stress o' circumstances may force me to do manythings which are agin my conscience, and for which I shall repentin sackcloth and ashes, if needs be, but I hain't yit bin reduced tosellin' stolen property. The Lord save me from that. That hoss andwagon's got to go back to the owner, if I risk my life in takin' 'em."
Shorty wisely kept his reply to himself, but he thought how absurd itwas to have men about the army who were too old and set in their ideasto learn army ways. He muttered to himself:
"If he succeeds in gittin' that hoss outen camp agin, I'll expect to seethe back o' my neck, or something else quite as wonderful."
The Deacon finally succeeded in getting a couple of ears of corn and ahandful of fodder for the horse's supper, and it was decided that Shortyshould watch him the first part of the night, and the Deacon from thencetill morning.
As the Deacon pondered over the matter in the early morning hours, hesaw that his only chance of getting the horse back was to start with himbefore daylight revealed him to the men in camp.
WELL, I'LL BE DUMBED, MUTTERED THE DEACON. 35]
"I'll drive him well outside our lines, and as near to the house as Ithink it prudent to go, and then turn him loose," he said to himself."If he's got the sense o' the horses up North he'll go straight home,and then my conscience will be clear. If he don't, I'll have done all Icould. The Lord don't ask unreasonable things of us, even in atonement."
So he cooked as good a breakfast for the boys as he could prepare fromhis materials, woke up Shorty and put him in charge, and an hour beforedaybreak turned the horse's head toward the pontoon bridge, and startedhim on a lively trot.
He had only fairly started when a stern voice called out to him from alarge tent:
"Here, you, stop that trotting. What do you mean? Don't you know thatit's strictly against orders to trot horses in their present condition?"
"Excuse me. Captain," said the Deacon. "I"
"Blank your Captain," roared the voice; "I'm no Captain."
"Major," said the Deacon deprecatingly.
"To thunder with your Majors, you ignorant fool. You"
&nb
sp; "I beg your pardon, Colonel. I was"
"What's the matter with you, you ignoramus?" roared the voice, moreindignantly than ever. "Don't you know Brigade Headquarters when you seethem? Don't you know your own officers when you hear their voices?"
"Rayly, General," said the Deacon, much disturbed, "I didn't mean toinsult you. I'm only a citizen, and a stranger in the camp, and--"
"A citizen and a stranger," echoed the voice. "What are you doing inhere, anyway? Orderly, bring that man in here till I see him."
The Orderly started to obey, when a regiment which had been ordered toreport at Headquarters came up at quick step, halted, and ordered armswith much clatter. The frightened horse bounded off down the road, withthe Deacon sawing on the lines and trying to stop him.
He only slowed down when he came up near a corral of other horses, towhich he turned for companionship and sympathy.
"Frosty mornin' makes that hoss purty frisky," said the Deacon, as hereadjusted his hat, and got himself in shape after his jolting. "Lucky,though. I didn't like that old General's voice. I'm afraid he had itin for me, and would 've made me trouble for lowerin' his dignity bycallin' him Captain. Big officers are awfully tetchy."
"Here, who are you? And what are you doin' out there?" came the steminquiry from the dark depths of one of the sheds.
"Excuse me. General," answered the Deacon hastily, "I"
"General? Who are you callin' General, you fool? Don't try to be funnywith me. You know I'm no General."
"I meant Colonel," the Deacon started to explain.
"The blazes you did. You expect Colonels to run hoss-corrals, and managemule boarding-houses, do you? stop your blimmed nonsense and answer myquestions."
"Major, I was tryin' to say"
"I'll Major you when I git my boots on and git out there. Don't think toshut my eye up callin' me big titles."
"But, Captain."
"I'm no Captain, neither. I'm plain Jim Crimmins,Quartermaster-Sergeant, in charge o' this corral, that you're stealin'around. I'm comin' out there to break every bone in your body. Youinfernal sneaks 've pestered the life out o' me stealin' my corn and mymules, even. I've bin watchin' you piroutin' around in the dark for along time. I'm goin' to stop this business if I've got to kill everythievin' varmint in the Army o' the Cumberland. Don't you dare move tillI come out, or I'll put a bullet through you. Do you hear?"
"I don't believe I've got any more time to waste on that bellerin'bull-calf," said the Deacon to himself. He gathered up the lines, turnedthe horse's head toward the road, and gave him a lick with a switch, andhe dashed off, followed by a couple of shots from Mr. Crimmins, to givecolor and confirmation to the story that worthy related later in the dayof a particularly audacious attempt on the part of sneak thieves to getaway with his mules and corn, and which was frustrated by his vigilanceand daring.
As the horse slowed down to a walk again a Sergeant of the Guard at thehead of a squad stepped out and took him by the reins.
"Here, who are you, and where are you going so early in the morning?" heinquired.
"My name's Josiah Klegg, sir," said the Deacon, prudently ignoringtitles. "I'm from Injianny, and am down here 'tendin' to my son,who belongs to Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteers, and who was shot atChickamaugy. I borryed this hoss and wagon from a man out in the countryto bring in some vittles for him and his pardner, and some boughs for'em to sleep on, and I'm takin' 'em back to him."
"Well, that story may be true, and it mayn't. Probably it ain't. Mendon't get up before daybreak to take back borrowed horses. You're upto some devilment; probably taking information or contraband out tothe rebels. I haven't time now to investigate. I'll put you under guarduntil I have. As for the horse, we've got use for him. McCook's Cavalryneeds about a thousand such as he. We're out lookin' for horses now.Unhitch him, boys."
The Deacon started to make an earnest protest, but at that moment therebels on Lookout Mountain made their usual daylight salute to thecamp. The size of the squad had attracted their attention, and a shellshrieked over and struck quite near. This was too much for the nervoushorse. He made a convulsive leap, which scattered the guards around himand almost threw the Deacon out of the seat. When the latter recoveredhimself, and got the horse under control again the guards were far away,and he was at the approach to the pontoon bridge.
"I'll be plagued," mused the Deacon, as the horse moved over the bridgeat a slow walk, and gave him time to think, "the army's a terribleplace. I had no sort o' trouble when I was doin' something that mebbe Ioughtn't to have done, but the minute I start out to do a right thingI meet no end o' difficulties. But these are the obstacles that Satanalways puts in the way of the righteous. I'm goin' to git this boss'back to its owner, or know the reason why. Git up, there."
He soon came to a piece of the road which was in full view of the rebelson Lookout Mountain. They had been preparing the day before to stop alltravel by that route, and the Deacon's was the first vehicle that hadappeared since they had got their guns planted. They waited until he wasfairly out into the open, and sent a shell which struck a panel ofthe fence off to the left, burst with a crash, and sent rails, chunks,stones and pieces of brush flying through the air. The horse becamefrantic, and tore up the hill at such a rate the buckboard and harnessspeedily went to pieces, and the Deacon was flung in the ditch, whilethe horse galloped wildly over the hill.
The Union artillerymen on Moccasin Point had evidently anticipated justsuch an attempt on the part of the rebels. Instantly a score of gunswhich had been placed to cover that spot thundered out, and their shellscould be seen striking and tearing up the ground all around where theshot came from. Other rebel guns came to the assistance of the firstone; the Union batteries within reach started in to help their side, andin a minute the whole country was shaking with the uproar.
"Well, I'll be dumbed," muttered the Deacon, crawling out of the ditch,shaking himself together again, cleaning off the mud, and trying tocomprehend what was happening. "Did anybody ever see sich a commotionkicked up over one four-year-old hoss, and not a particularly good hossat that? 't'd take a mighty smart man to git as much as $100 for him upin Posey County. Nobody but a Methodist Elder could do it. I've sold abetter hoss than that for $80, and got all he was worth."
He stood for a few minutes and looked at the grand display until theUnion batteries, satisfied that they had finally quashed the impudentrebel, ceased firing, and then he looked around.
"Well, that buckboard's done for. I can't take it back. It's only goodfor kindlin' wood now. But I may ketch the hoss and take him back."
He went up on top of the hill, and saw the horse standing under a tree,apparently pondering over what had happened, and wondering whether heshould run farther or remain where he was.
The horse gave him a glad whinney of recognition, as if congratulatinghim on escaping from the crash of matter.
"Yes, you beast," snorted the Deacon; "I'm safe, but no thanks to you.You done your best to kick my brains out. Twice your condemned heelsjest grazed my eyebrows. All the thanks I git for tryin' to save youfrom being starved to death there in Chattanoogy, and git you back home.But you go back home all the same."
He led the horse to a rock, mounted him, and started up the road.He reached the point where the road to the house turned off, and wasdebating whether he should go farther or turn the horse loose there,when he saw a company of cavalry coming up the main road from the otherdirection--that toward Bridgeport. Though they wore blue overcoats, hehad learned enough about army life to not trust this implicitly, so heprudently rode into the woods to watch them until he could make sure.The company came up to where the roads parted, and he overheard a manwho rode by the Captain at the head, and who wore a semi-soldier costumeand seemed to be a scout or guide, tell the Captain:
"Their camp's right over there on that ridge (pointing to the crest onwhich the Deacon had seen the smoke). They're probably on the lookoutfor us, and we'll have to be very careful if we get near enough to jumpthem. I thoug
ht I saw one of their lookouts about here when we came up.Yes, there he is in there."
The Deacon had started to ride boldly toward them when he was sure theywere Union troops, and a couple of the men, who in their dealingswith bushwhackers had learned that it is best to shoot first and askquestions afterward, had promptly fired, and cut twigs uncomfortablynear the Deacon's head. His horse plunged, but he kept him in hand andcalled out:
"Hold on! Hello! Don't do that. I'm a friend. I'm from Injianny."
"You're a devil of a way from home, and in a bad neighborhood," saidone of the men who had fired, as he slipped another cartridge into hisSharpe's.
The Captain interrogated him as to who he was and what he was doing outthere, while the scout fidgeted in his saddle over the time that wasbeing wasted.
"Captain," said the scout finally, "we must hustle if we're going tostrike those fellers before dark. We can't go down here, but' ll have tomake a long circuit around, so they won't see us."
"That's so," said the Captain, adjusting himself to start.
"Captain," said one of the men, "my horse can't go any farther. He'sbeen in bad shape, and he fell and broke his knee coming up the hill."
"Well, here, take that citizen's horse. Old man, get off, and let thisman have that horse."
The Deacon started to protest, but the man was in a hurry, and almostpulled him off, and slapped his own saddle on in a flash.
"But what am I do to?" asked the Deacon bewildered.
"Do? Do as you please," laughed the Captain. "You are as well off hereas anywhere. When a man's away from home one place's the same's anotherto him. Here, I'll tell you what you can do. See that cow back there?The boys have been trailing her along, in hopes to get her intoChattanooga and make beef of her. We've got to leave her now, for we aregoing on the jump. We'll make you a present of her and this broken-downhorse. That'll start you in business. A horse and a cow's a big startfor any man. Good-by. Attention, company! Forward, head of columnright--March!"
"Well, I've done all I could," said the Deacon, going back and pickingup the rope which was tied to the cow's horns. "The Lord knows I'vetried hard enough to git that hoss back. The cow looks as if she's agood milker. A little milk'll do the boys good. Then, they kin havefresh beef. Come along, Bos."
Late at night he tied the cow to the corn-crib and went to his wearybed.
