Читать книгу Chasing an Iron Horse - Edward Robins - Страница 7

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It was the Thursday afternoon succeeding the Monday night described in the former chapter. On the north bank of the Tennessee River, not far from the town of Jasper, three drenched figures might be discerned. They were looking somewhat longingly in the direction of a white frame house not fifty yards away from the stream, which, swollen by the recent storms, was in a particularly turbulent mood. There was nothing very attractive about the building save that it suggested shelter from the rain without, and that the smoke curling up from its large chimney held forth vague hopes of a palatable supper. Certainly there was little in the landscape itself to tempt any one to remain outdoors. The three wanderers seemed to be of this opinion, for they suddenly made a move towards the house. They were roughly dressed, their clothes were soaking, and their high boots bore the evidence of a long, muddy tramp across country.

“Well,” grumbled one of them, a thick-set, middle-aged man, with a good-humored expression and a four-days’ growth of iron-gray beard on his face; “why did I leave home and home cooking to enlist in the army and then wander over the earth like this?”

“Mr. Watson!” exclaimed the person next to him, in a tone of boyish surprise; “how can you talk like that? Why, I am having the time of my life.”

The speaker was George Knight. There was mud on his face, and the natty drummer boy in blue uniform had given place to a young fellow who outwardly resembled an ordinary farm hand. But there could be no doubt, from the light which shone in his bright eyes, that he was enjoying himself to the full.

“Humph!” returned Watson. “When you get as old as I am, my boy, you won’t take such keen delight in walking through mire.”

The boy laughed, and turned to the third member of the party. “Are you tired, too, Macgreggor?” he asked.

Macgreggor, a compactly built, athletic young man of twenty-seven or thereabouts, with a light-brown beard and mustache which made him look older than he really was, shook the rain from his hat and said cheerily, “I’ve done a good deal of mountain climbing since Tuesday morning, but I’m not too tired to eat a good supper, if we are lucky enough to find one in this place.”

It need hardly be repeated that Watson and Macgreggor were the two men in whose care Andrews had placed George Knight. They were both brave, resourceful men. During their long trudge across the mountainous country between Shelbyville and the Tennessee, Watson had uttered many a grumble, but his complaints meant nothing more than a desire to hear himself talk. When it came to fording a stream, climbing a precipice, or fairly wading through the slush, he was quite as willing and energetic as the other two members of his party.

George knocked loudly at the door of the house, as he and his companions hastily sheltered themselves under the little piazza which ran along the front of the place.

“Be on your guard, boys,” whispered Watson. “Stick to your story about our being Kentuckians, and say nothing imprudent that may arouse suspicion. Remember! we must be in Marietta by to-morrow night.”

The meeting at Marietta had, at the very last moment, been postponed by Andrews from Thursday night to Friday night. “It is well he did postpone it,” thought Macgreggor; “we are far enough from Marietta as it is.”

The door was suddenly thrown open by an old negro “aunty” behind whom stood a neat, bustling little white woman. The latter was evidently engaged in the business of preparing supper, if one might judge from the fact that her bare arms were almost encaked in flour.

“We are three Kentuckians from Fleming County on our way to enlist in Chattanooga,” spoke out Macgreggor, in a voice which seemed to have the ring of truth in it. “Can we spend the night here, so that we can cross the river in the morning?”

The expression of the woman, which had at first been one of surprise and irritation at being stopped in her work, softened immediately. “Come in,” she said, quickly; “my husband’s only a farmer, and we can’t give you anything very fine, but it was never said of Mandy Hare that she turned away from her house any loyal friend of the South.”

With that she led her gratified visitors through a scantily-furnished parlor into a kitchen which seemed to them like a Paradise. Over the roaring fire in the great hearth several vessels were simmering and emitting the most delightful odors, while a table near by was already set for the coming meal. On a chair facing the fire a fat, white cat was purring blissfully. The room was delightfully warm; the whole scene had an irresistible attraction and air of domesticity.

“Make yourselves at home,” commanded Mrs. Hare, cheerfully. “My husband will be home from Jasper in a few minutes, and then you’ll have something to eat—such as ’tis.”

At this instant there was a querulous little bark, which appeared to come from the region of George Knight’s heart. Mrs. Hare looked around in surprise; the white cat stirred uneasily. The next second the boy had shaken his overcoat, and from out of a large side pocket jumped the diminutive Waggie. The cat, with one bound, took a flying leap to the kitchen stairs, and brushing past the half-opened door at the bottom of the flight, fairly tore up to the second story, where she disappeared. Waggie gave a shrill yelp of emotion, but evidently concluded that it was safer not to chase a strange and muscular cat in a strange house.

“Gracious me,” cried Mrs. Hare; “did you bring that little fellow all the way from Kentucky?”

“When I came away he followed me,” replied George. He spoke the truth, although he did not add that he “came away” from a Union camp rather than from Kentucky. Waggie had been consigned to a member of General Mitchell’s staff, to remain with him during his owner’s absence, but George had not proceeded five miles on his journey before he heard a joyous bark behind him—and there frisked and capered Waggie. “You’ll have to turn spy now,” George said. It was too late to send him back. Thus the dog joined the party, much to the pleasure of all concerned.

Hardly had Waggie made his theatrical entrance into the kitchen before a lean, prematurely shriveled man of fifty, whose long shaggy beard proclaimed him a veritable countryman, came shambling into the room. At sight of the three strangers a curious look came into his restless eyes. It was almost as if the look was one of triumph. George, observing it, shivered, although he could hardly say why he did so.

“This is my husband,” explained Mrs. Hare, with an awkward attempt at courtesy. “These men,” she continued, addressing her lord and master, “have the good of the Southern cause at heart, and are on their way to Chattanooga, to enlist in the Confederate army.” She cast such an approving glance upon the wanderers as she spoke, and was so good-natured, that George’s heart smote him at the deception which was being practised upon her. He was a frank, honest boy, who hated the very idea of appearing anywhere under false pretences. But he realized that he was playing a part for the good of his General, and his General’s cause, and he resolved to maintain, as well as he could, his new character of a Southern sympathizer.

Farmer Hare gave to each of the visitors a surly recognition. Waggie walked up to him, sniffed about his boots, and uttered a low growl. It was plain that the dog did not approve of the master of the house.

“You fellows are taking a pretty long journey to serve the South,” remarked Mr. Hare at last, in a nasal tone sadly at variance with the customary soft Southern cadence.

“Can he suspect us?” thought Watson. The same thought went through the mind of Macgreggor, but he merely said: “We are nearly at our journey’s end now. By to-morrow we will be in Chattanooga.”

“Sit down and make yourselves comfortable,” snarled Hare, with the air of an unwilling host. The visitors took the chairs which Mrs. Hare had placed for them at the supper-table. They were joined by husband and wife, and the negro “aunty” was soon serving a delicious meal of corn bread, Irish stew, and other good things. They all ate with a will, including Waggie, who was given a private lot of bones by the fireside. When the supper was over the farmer arose abruptly. “I s’pose you fellows have had a pretty long tramp, and want to go to bed,” he said. “We keep good hours in this house, anyway, and turn in early at night—so that we may turn out early in the morning.”

“Give them a chance to dry themselves before the fire,” urged Mrs. Hare.

“Let ’em dry themselves in bed,” muttered the farmer. Whereupon he lighted a candle, and turned towards the door leading to the second story. He was evidently in a great hurry to get his guests up-stairs. Watson, Macgreggor and George looked at one another, as if trying to fathom the cause of their peculiar reception at the hands of Farmer Hare. But each one silently decided that their only cue was to be as polite as possible, and refrain from any altercation with their host.

“After all,” thought Watson, “if we can spend the night here we will be off again at dawn—and then let our surly host take himself to Kamchatka, for all we care.”

Half an hour later Watson and Macgreggor, thoroughly tired out, were sound asleep, in one of the small rooms in the second-story of the house. George, however, lay tossing from side to side on a bed in the adjoining room, directly over the kitchen, with Waggie curled up on the floor close by. The more he thought of the strange behavior of Hare the more uneasy he became. Why had the farmer regarded him and his two companions with such a suspicious glance? Then George suddenly recollected where he had seen that face before. Yes! There could be no mistake. While he, Macgreggor and Watson were dining that day at the village tavern in Jasper, Hare was loitering on the porch of the place. But what of that? The three pretended Kentuckians had told their usual story, and professed their love for the Confederacy, and no one there had seemed to doubt their truthfulness for a moment.

In vain the boy tried to fall asleep. At last, hearing voices in the kitchen, he rose quietly from his bed, stole out of his room, and stealthily walked to the little hallway that led to the kitchen stairway. At the head of the staircase he halted. It was clear that Farmer Hare was saying something emphatic, while his wife was entering a feeble protest. An intuition told the listener that his own party was the subject of discussion. Slowly, cautiously, he crept down the stairway, until he almost touched the closed door which led from it to the kitchen.

“I tell you, woman,” Hare was saying, “these three fellows are spies of some sort, and the sooner we have them under arrest the better.”

“I can’t believe it,” murmured the wife.

“I don’t care whether you believe it or not,” rejoined the husband, in a harsh tone. “Don’t I tell you that when these two men, and the boy, were at the tavern in Jasper to-day, one of the men was recognized by John Henderson. Henderson is a spy in the service of General Beauregard, and was in the camp of General Mitchell only a few days ago, disguised as a trader. There he saw this fellow—the one with the brown beard—and he swears there’s no mistake. But he didn’t tell us in time—the three disappeared. No; there’s mischief of some sort brewing here, and I intend to stop it, if my name’s Hare. We don’t want any spies around here.”

“Spies!” exclaimed the woman. “Then if they are caught within our lines they will be shot!” It seemed as if she shuddered as she spoke.

“Or hanged,” added the farmer, with an unpleasant laugh.

“Let them go,” whispered Mrs. Hare, pleadingly. “I’m just as good a Confederate as you are, Jake, but don’t let us have the blood of these fellows on our hands. That nice little chap with the dog—I would as soon see my own son get into trouble, if I was lucky enough to have one, as that bright-eyed boy. Turn ’em out of the house, Jake, if you suspect them—tell them to go about their business—but don’t set a trap for them.” Her voice became almost plaintive. It was evident that the strangers had made a favorable impression upon Mrs. Hare, and that her woman’s feelings revolted at the idea of betraying them, even though they were the secret enemies of her cause. “I hate war, anyway,” she added. “It sets friend against friend, brother against brother, father against son, state against state. All this trouble between the North and South might have been fixed up without fighting, if there’d been a little more patience on both sides.”

“Don’t preach,” muttered Hare. “There ain’t time for it. Where’s Uncle Daniel?”

The listening George did not know that “Uncle Daniel” was the black farm-hand who helped Hare, but, from the name, he felt sure that a slave was meant.

“Uncle Daniel is out in the barn, I reckon,” answered the wife. “What do you want him for?”

“Wait and see,” rejoined her husband, gruffly. With that enigmatical reply he opened a door leading to the barn, stalked out, and disappeared. There was a half-stifled cry from Mrs. Hare, but she apparently made no effort to detain him. “The Vigilants! Oh! the Vigilants!” she repeated, in accents of distress.

“The sooner we get out of this the better for our necks,” thought George. He had no sense of fear; he was only filled with one consuming idea. He must get word to his two companions, and at once. Just what Hare contemplated in the way of a trap he could not tell, yet it was evident that the sooner Watson and Macgreggor were awakened the more chance would all three have for escaping from whatever fate the farmer had in store for them.

Cautiously George crept back until he was at the door of the room where the two men were heavily sleeping. His first impulse was to rattle at the knob; but he recollected in time that this would make a noise that might bring Mrs. Hare to the scene. He stood still and reflected. It would be foolish to invite the attention of her husband or herself before a plan of action could be decided upon. For nearly five minutes he stood in the hallway, wondering how he could awaken his tired fellows without making a disturbance.

“I wonder if I’m very stupid,” thought the boy. He could hear the kitchen door open, as Hare came back into the house, and began talking to his wife in low tones. He could distinguish but one word. It was “Vigilants!”

At last he gave a faint exclamation of satisfaction, and stole back to his own room. Waggie, who was now lying on the bed, moved uneasily. George lighted a candle and examined the plastered wall which ran between his room and the one where the unconscious Watson and Macgreggor were gently snoring. He knew that the bed on which they slept was directly on the other side of this wall, and he judged that the partition itself was very thin. In this theory he was correct: the laths and their plaster covering formed a mere shell, which was not much thicker than an ordinary wooden partition. Taking a large jack knife from his waistcoat he began to cut into the wall, about four feet from the floor. Before long he had made a small hole, not bigger than the dimensions of a five-dollar gold piece, straight through the plaster. Looking through it, with the aid of his candle, he saw that Watson and Macgreggor were stretched out in bed on the other side, each half-dressed and each sleeping as if there were no such thing in the world as war or danger.

“They deserve a good sleep,” said the boy to himself; “but it can’t be helped, so here goes!” At the same moment he extinguished his candle, pulled it out of the candlestick, and poked it through the hole. He directed it in such a way that it fell squarely on the face of Macgreggor. The man suddenly stopped snoring, turned his body from one side to the other, and then started up in the bed, in a half-sitting posture.

“Macgreggor! Mac!” whispered George; “it’s I, George Knight. Don’t speak loud.”

“Where on earth are you?” asked the newly-awakened sleeper, in a startled voice.

“Never mind where I am,” answered George. “Only don’t make a noise. But get up, light your candle, and open your door for me without letting them hear you down-stairs.”

By this time Watson was awake too, and had jumped to the floor. When Macgreggor lighted his candle, and saw the little hole in the wall, at which appeared one of George’s eyes, he almost gave a cry of surprise; but prudence restrained him, and he merely touched Watson’s arm, pointed to the hole, and then quietly unlocked the door of their room. George soon crept carefully in, and proceeded, in as low a voice as he could command, to tell the two men what he had heard from the kitchen.

“The Vigilants!” whispered Watson. “Why, don’t you know what that means? When we were in Jasper to-day I saw some of them standing around the village grocery store, and even talked with them. They thought I was a good ‘Confed,’ and I found out that they are organized into a band to arrest suspicious characters, keep things in order in this section of the county and even turn guerrillas when they are wanted.”

“I see the whole thing,” said Macgreggor. “This Hare has sent his negro over to Jasper to bring the Vigilants here to take charge of us, and to string us up, no doubt, to the first convenient tree. The sooner we get away from here the better for our lives. Jasper is only two miles off, and the Vigilants will be riding over here before we have time to say Jack Robinson.”

“There’s still time,” said George, “and as there’s only one man here against us now—I mean Hare—we can seize him, tie him to something, and then escape into the darkness.”

“So we can, my boy,” replied Watson, who was thinking as deeply and as calmly as if a game of chess, rather than a matter of life and death, were the issue. “There’s no trouble as to our escaping. But remember this. It’s pitch dark and raining again like cats and dogs; we don’t know our way; we are sure to get lost before we have run fifty yards from the house, and these Vigilants, who understand every foot of the country, will divide into small parties, and hunt us down, as sure as fate. And if they can’t, they will put hounds on our track—and then we’ll be beautifully carved up into beefsteaks. I have seen hounds, and I know how they appreciate a nice little man hunt.” Watson smiled grimly.

Macgreggor walked silently to one of the windows, opened the sash just a crack, and listened. He could hear nothing but the downpour of the rain. Yet it would not be long before the Vigilants dashed up to the house. No doubt they had all been telling anecdotes in the corner grocery store, and they would take but a short time for the mounting of their horses. Cautiously closing the window he returned to the centre of the room.

“It’s a dark night,” he said, “and all the better for a plan I have to propose. We are each secretly armed with pistols, are we not? Well, then, let us put out this candle, and open the window to the left, looking out towards the highroad to Jasper. When the Vigilants come riding up the road and get in front of the house we will suddenly fire on them. This may cause a panic, as the fellows will not be able to tell just where the enemy are, and then——”

“Pshaw!” interrupted Watson. “You don’t know whom you’re dealing with. These Vigilants are as brave as they are reckless, and there are at least twenty-five or thirty of them. Three men can’t frighten them. They would only get us in the end, even if we did succeed in disabling one or two of them in the first surprise.”

“Then what are we to do?” asked George eagerly. Watson was so composed that the boy felt sure he must have some better plan for escape.

“I have a scheme,” said Watson, quite simply. “I have been hatching it in my brain while we were talking. But the quicker it’s put to the test, the quicker will we save our necks. Are you willing to trust me blindly?”

There was a whispered “yes” from both the other conspirators. Watson inspired confidence by his assurance.

“Then let us get all our clothes, shoes, everything on at once, and walk boldly down-stairs.”

Three minutes later the trio were marching down-stairs into the kitchen. Hare and his wife were standing at the fireplace, looking the picture of surprise, as their guests burst into the room, with the irrepressible Waggie at their heels. The old negro “aunty,” who had been dozing on a stool near the hearth, jumped to her rheumatic feet in consternation. “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” she cried, throwing her withered arms above her turbaned head. For the guests held revolvers in their hands, and the “aunty’s” heart always sank at the thought of gunpowder.

The farmer took a step forward, as if uncertain what to do or say. At last he said, trying to smile, yet only succeeding in looking hypocritical: “You ain’t going to leave us this time of night, are you? Wait till morning, and get some breakfast.”

“It’s a nice breakfast you’d give us in the morning,” laughed Watson, with a significant look at their host. “A halter stew, or some roast bullets, I guess!”

Hare jumped backward with such suddenness that he almost knocked into the fire his frightened wife who had been standing directly behind him. “What do you mean?” he hissed.

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Mr. Hare,” said Watson, looking him straight in the face, whilst the other spectators listened in breathless interest. “You have sent word to the Jasper Vigilants to ride over here and arrest us, on the suspicion of being spies.”

Had the heavens suddenly fallen, the countenances of the Hares could not have shown more dismay.

“How did you find that out?” asked the farmer, quite forgetting to play his part of amiable host.

“Never mind how,” cried George, who was burning to play his part. “Only it’s a pity you haven’t as much mercy in you as your wife has.”

“Listen,” said Watson, as he motioned the others in the room to be silent. “George, you will watch this old negress, and if she attempts to make a sound, or to leave the room before we are ready, give her a hint from your revolver.”

With a scream of fright, comical in its intensity, the “aunty” sank back on her stool near the hearth, and covered her dark face with her hands. There she sat, as if she expected to be murdered at any moment.

“And you, Macgreggor,” continued Watson impressively, “will keep the same sort of watch over Mrs. Hare. Happen what may, there is not to be a sound from either woman.”

Mrs. Hare started in confusion. Her husband made a bound for the kitchen door. With another bound no less quick Watson darted forward, caught the farmer, pushed him back at the point of the pistol, and bolted the door.

“What do you want to do?” demanded Hare. “Are we to be murdered?”

“No,” cried Watson, “but——”

Then there came the sound of horses’ hoofs in the distance. Every one listened eagerly, and none more so than the farmer.

“You’re done for,” he said slowly, casting a half-malevolent, half-triumphant glance at the three Northerners.

“Not by a great deal,” said Watson. “March with me to the parlor, open the front door just a crack, and, when the Vigilants come up, say to them that we three men have escaped from the house, stolen a flatboat, and started to row across the Tennessee River. Send them away and shut the door. I will be standing near you, behind the door, with my pistol leveled at your head. Make one movement to escape, or say anything but what I have told you to say, and you are a dead man!”

The patter of the horses was becoming more and more distinct.

“Will you do as I tell you?” asked Watson, very coolly, as he toyed with his revolver.

“If I won’t?” asked Hare. His face was now convulsed by a variety of emotions—fear, rage, craftiness, and disappointment.

“I give you three seconds to choose,” said Watson. “If you refuse, you will be stretched out on that floor.”

Mrs. Hare, with white cheeks, leaned forward, and whispered to her husband: “Do as he tells you, Jake. Better let these Yankees go, and save your own life.”

“One—two——” counted Watson.

Hare held up his right hand, and then dropped it listlessly by his side.

“I give in,” he said sullenly. “You’ve got the better of me.” He looked, for all the world, like a whipped cur.

There was not a second to lose. The horsemen were riding up to the house. Watson motioned to the farmer, who walked into the parlor, which was unlighted, closely followed by the soldier. There were sounds without, as of horses being reined in, and of men’s gruff voices. Hare opened the parlor door a few inches, while Watson, safe from observation, stationed himself within a few feet of him, with cocked revolver. “Remember!” he whispered, significantly.

“Is that you, boys?” shouted Hare. “Those three spies I sent word about escaped from here ten minutes ago, stole a boat on the bank, down by the landing, and started to row across the river.”

“They will never reach the other side a night like this,” called out some one.

“What did you let ’em get away from you for?” asked another of the Vigilants.

“How could I help it?” growled the farmer. “They were well armed—and ’twas three men against one.”

“Pah! You’ve brought us out on a wild-goose chase, and on a durned bad night,” came a voice from the wet and darkness.

“Perhaps they’ll drift back to this side of the river, and can be caught,” one Vigilant suggested. But this idea evidently met with little approval. It was plain, from what Watson could hear of the discussion which ensued, that the Vigilants were disgusted. They were ready, indeed, to give up the chase, on the supposition that the three fugitives would either drift down in midstream, or else be capsized and find a watery grave.

“Come, we’ll get home again,” commanded a horseman, who appeared to be the leader. “And no thanks to you, Jake Hare, for making us waste our time.”

“Say Jake, won’t you ask us in to have something warm to drink?” cried another Vigilant.

Watson edged a trifle nearer to Hare, and whispered: “Send ’em away at once, or else——”

Once bring the Vigilants into the house, as the soldier knew, and capture or death would be the result.

Hare could almost feel the cold muzzle of the revolver near his head.

“Go away, fellows,” he called, “You know I ain’t got nothing for you.”

A jeer, and a few sarcastic groans greeted this remark. “I always reckoned you was a skinflint,” yelled one of the party.

There was a derisive cheer at this sally. Then, at a word of command, the Vigilants turned their horses and cantered back towards Jasper. The sound of hoofs became fainter and fainter.

“Shut the door,” ordered Watson, “and go back to the kitchen.”

Sullenly the farmer obeyed. When the two were once more by the blazing hearth, George and Macgreggor, who had been guarding Mrs. Hare and the negress, rushed forward to grasp the hands of their deliverer. They were about to congratulate him upon his successful nerve and diplomacy when he interrupted them.

“Don’t bother about that,” he said; “let us get away from here as soon as possible, before our kind host has a chance to play us any more tricks.”

“I suppose you think yourself pretty smart, don’t you?” snapped Hare, casting a spiteful glance at Watson.

“So smart,” put in George, “that if you don’t want to be laughed at from now until the day of your death you’d better not tell the citizens of Jasper about to-night’s occurrences.”

“Come, boys, let us be going,” exclaimed Watson impatiently, as he offered his hand to Mrs. Hare, and said to that lady: “Thank you for the best supper we’ve had since we left—home.”

Mrs. Hare refused to shake hands, but she regarded Watson with an admiring expression. “I won’t shake hands with you,” she replied, half smiling, “for you may be an enemy of the South, but I’m glad you’ve escaped hanging. You’ve too much grit for that. As for you, Jake, don’t ever pretend to us again that you’re the brainiest man in the county.”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” cried the amiable farmer.

In a couple of minutes the three travelers were striking out from the back of the house into the slush, and rain, and blackness of the night. Waggie was occupying his usual place inside a pocket of George’s overcoat. He had supped regally at the Hares on bacon and bones, and he felt warm and at peace with the world.

Before the party had more than emerged from the garden (a task by no means easy in itself, on account of the darkness), something whistled by them, to the accompaniment of a sharp report. Looking behind them they saw the meagre form of Hare standing in the kitchen doorway. He held a rifle in his right hand. The kitchen fire made him plainly visible.

“Pretty good aim, old boy,” shouted Macgreggor, “considering you could hardly see us. But I can see you plainly enough.”

As he spoke he drew his revolver. Hare was already putting the rifle to his shoulder, preparing for another shot. He had hardly had a chance to adjust the gun, however, before he dropped it with a cry of pain and ran into the house. A bullet had come whizzing from Macgreggor, and struck the farmer in his right arm.

“Just a little souvenir to remember me by,” laughed the lucky marksman.

“Hurry up!” cried Watson. “To-morrow night we must be in Marietta. We are still many miles away, and in a hostile, unknown country.”

So the three pushed on into the gloom. The prospect of meeting James Andrews at the appointed place was not reassuring. Their only hope was to keep on along the bank of the Tennessee River until they reached Chattanooga. From there they could take a train for Marietta.

“Shall we make it?” thought George. Waggie gave a muffled bark which seemed to say: “Courage!”