Kitabı oku: «General Nelson's Scout», sayfa 9

"Shot through the heart," he muttered; "and, by heavens! his clothes are powder burned. Drake was shot not by some prowler, but by some one inside the lines. Sergeant, count the prisoners."

The prisoners, who had all been aroused by the commotion, were huddled together, quaking with fear.

The sergeant soon reported: "Lieutenant, there is one missing; the boy in citizen's clothes."

Colonel Williams, who had been looking on with stern countenance, now asked:

"Who was guarding the prisoners?" The colonel's tones were low and ominous.

"Scott, sir," replied the sergeant of the guard.

"Scott, here!" Poor Scott came trembling in every limb.

"Colonel," said Scott, shaking so he could hardly talk, "before God, I know nothing about the escape of the prisoner. I had not been on guard more than ten or fifteen minutes before the shot was fired. Up to that time, not a prisoner had stirred."

"Did you notice the boy?"

"No, Colonel, I did not. I do not know whether he escaped before I came on guard or after the alarm. The sergeant will bear me witness that during the alarm I stayed at my post and kept the prisoners from escaping. The boy might have slipped away in the confusion, but I do not think he did."

"Whom did you relieve?" asked the colonel.

"Robert Ferror."

"Call Ferror."

The sergeant soon returned with the information that Ferror could not be found.

The colonel bit his lip. He cast his eye over the group of officers standing around him, and then suddenly asked: "Where is Captain Bascom?"

The officers looked blank, then inquiringly into each other's faces. No one had seen him during or since the alarm.

The sergeant of the guard hurriedly went to a rude tent where the captain slept. Pulling aside a blanket which served as a door he entered the tent. A moment, and he reappeared with face as white as a sheet.

"He is dead!" his ashen lips shaped the words, but they died away in a gurgle in his throat.

Captain Bascom had been stabbed through the heart.

The whole turmoil in camp was heard by Fred and Robert Ferror, as they stood panting for breath. Fred shuddered as the horrified cry of the officer of the day was borne to his ears when he stumbled on the dead body of the guard. The boys were bruised and bleeding, and their clothing was torn in shreds from their flight through the forest.

"It is all right now," said Ferror. "They can never find us in the darkness, but some of the frightened fools may come as far as this; so we had better be moving."

The boys slowly and painfully worked their way up the mountain, and at last the roar of the camp was no longer heard. They came to a place where the jutting rocks formed a sort of a cave, keeping out the rain, and the ground and leaves were comparatively dry. The place was also sheltered from the wind.

"Let us stay here," said Fred, "until it gets a little light. We can then more easily make our way. We are entirely out of danger for to-night."

To this Ferror assented, and the two boys crept as far back as they could and snuggled down close together. Fred noticed that Ferror still trembled, and that his hands were still as cold as ice.

The storm had ceased, but the wind sobbed and moaned through the trees like a thing of life, sighing one moment like a person in anguish, and then wailing like a lost soul. An owl near by added its solemn hootings to the already dismal night. Fred felt Ferror shudder and try to creep still closer to him. Both boys remained silent for a long time, but at length Fred said:

"Ferror, shooting that sentinel was awful. I had almost rather have remained a prisoner. It was too much like murder."

"I did not know the sentinel was there," answered Ferror, "or I could have avoided him. As it was, it had to be done. It was a case of life or death. Fred, do you know who the sentinel was?"

"No."

"It was Drake; I saw his face by the flash of my pistol, just for a second, but it was enough. God! I can see it now," and he shuddered.

"Fred, do you despise me? You know I helped you to escape."

"No, Ferror; if I had been in your place, I might have done the same, but that would have made it none the less horrible."

"Fred, you will despise me; but I must tell you."

"Tell what?"

"Drake is not the first man I have killed to-night."

Fred sprang up and involuntarily drew away from him. "Ferror! Ferror! What do you mean?"

"After I was relieved from guard, and before I joined you, I stabbed Captain Bascom through the heart."

A low cry of horror escaped Fred's lips.

"Listen to my story, Fred, and then despise me as a murderer if you will. You saw how Captain Bascom treated me. No slave was ever treated worse. My mother is a widow, residing in Tazewell county, Virginia. I am an only son, but I have two lovely sisters. I was always headstrong, liking my own way. Of course, I was humored and petted. When the war broke out I was determined to enlist. My mother and sisters wept and prayed, and at last I promised to wait. But about two months ago I was down at Abingdon, and was asked to take a glass of wine. I think it was drugged, for when I came to myself I found that I was an enlisted soldier. Worse than all, I found that this man Bascom was an officer in the company to which I belonged. Bascom is a low-lived, drunken brute. He used to live in our neighborhood. Mother had him arrested for theft and sent to jail. When he got out, he left the neighborhood, but swore he would have revenge on every one of the name. He surely has had it on me. I think he was in hopes that by brutal treatment he could make me desert, so he could have me shot if captured. When he struck me the other day, when I spoke to you, I resolved then and there to kill him."

"I know," replied Fred, in a low tone. "I saw it in your face."

"God only knows what I have suffered from the hands of that man during the last two months. I have had provocation enough to kill him a thousand times."

"I know, I know," replied Fred; "but to kill him in his sleep. I would not have blamed you if you had shot him down when he gave you that blow. I should have done so."

"It would have been best," sobbed Ferror, for the first time giving way to his feelings. "Oh, mother, what will you think of your boy!" Then he said, chokingly: "Fred, don't desert me, don't despise me; I can't bear it. I believe if you turn from me now, I shall become one of the most desperate of criminals."

"No, Ferror," said Fred; "I will neither desert nor judge you. You have done something I had rather lose my life than do. But for the present our fortunes are linked together. If we are captured, both will suffer an ignominious death. Therefore, much as I abhor your act, I cannot divorce myself from the consequences. Then let us resolve, come what may, we will never be taken alive."

Ferror grasped Fred's hand, and pressing it fervently, replied: "If we are captured, it will only be my dead body which will be taken, even if I have to send a bullet through my own heart."

After this the boys said little, and silently waited for the light. With the first gleam of the morning, they started on their way, thinking only of getting as far as possible from the scene of that night of horror.

As the sun arose, the mountains and then the valleys were flooded with its golden light. At any other time the glorious landscape spread out before them would have filled Fred's soul with delight; but as it was, he only eagerly scanned the road which ran through the valley, hoping to catch sight of Nelson's advancing columns. But no such sight greeted him.

"They will surely come before long," said Fred. "By ten o'clock we should be inside of the Federal lines and safe."

But if Fred had heard what was passing in the Rebel camp he would not have been so sanguine.

Lieutenant Davis, officer of the guard, and Colonel Williams were in close consultation.

"Colonel," said the lieutenant, "I do not believe the Yankees are pursuing us. Those boys will take it for granted that we will continue our retreat, and will soon come down off the mountains into the road. Let me take a couple of companies of cavalry, and I will station men in ambush along the road as far back as it is safe to go. In this way I believe we stand a chance to catch them."

The colonel consented, and, therefore, before the sun had lighted up the valley, pickets had been placed along the road for several miles back.

The boys trailed along the mountain side until nearly noon, but the sides of the mountain were so seamed and gashed they made slow progress. Gaining a high point, they looked towards Piketon, and in the far distance saw an advancing column of cavalry. The sight filled them with delight.

"There is nothing to be seen to the south," said Fred. "I think we can descend to the road in safety." So they cautiously made their way down to the road.

"Let us look well to our arms," said Fred. "We must be prepared for any emergency."

So their revolvers were carefully examined, fresh caps put in, and every precaution taken. They came out on the road close to a little valley farm. In front of the cabin stood a couple of horses hitched. After carefully looking at the horses, Ferror said: "Fred, one of those horses belongs to Lieutenant Davis. He has ridden back to see if he could not catch sight of us. Nelson's men will soon send him back flying."

Then a wild idea took possession of the boys. It was no less than to try and get possession of the horses. Wouldn't it be grand to enter the Federal lines in triumph, riding the horses of their would-be captors! Without stopping to think of the danger, they at once acted on the idea.

From the cabin came sounds of laughter mingled with the music of women's voices. The men inside were being pleasantly entertained.

Getting near the horses, the boys made a dash, were on their backs in a twinkling, and with a yell of triumph were away. The astonished officers rushed to the door, only to see them disappear down the road. Then they raged like madmen, cursing their fortunes, and calling down all sorts of anathemas on the boys.

"Never mind," at last said Sergeant Jones, who was the lieutenant's companion in misfortune, "the squad down the road will catch them."

"Poor consolation for the disgrace of having our horses stolen," snapped the lieutenant.

The elation of the boys came to a sudden ending. In the road ahead of them stood a squad of four horsemen. Involuntarily the boys checked the speed of their horses. They looked into each other's faces, they read each other's thoughts.

"It can only be death," said Fred.

"It can only be death," echoed Ferror, "and I welcome it. I know, Fred, you look on me as a murderer. I want to show you how I can die in a fair fight."

Fred hardly realized what Ferror was saying; he was debating a plan of attack.

"Ferror," he said, "let us ride leisurely forward until we get within about fifty yards of them. No doubt they know the horses, and will be nonplused as to who we are. When we are close we will charge. It will be all over in a moment – safety or death."

Ferror nodded. He was as pale as his victims of the night before, but his eyes blazed, his teeth were set hard, every muscle was strained.

Just as Fred turned to say, "Now!" Ferror shouted, "Good-bye, Fred," and dashed straight for the horsemen. The movement was so sudden it left Fred slightly behind. The revolvers of the four Confederates blazed, but like a thunderbolt Ferror was on them. The first man and horse went down like a tenpin before the ball of the bowler; the second, and boy and man and both horses went down in an indistinguishable mass together.

As for Fred, not for a second did he lose command of himself or his horse. He saw what was coming, and swerved to the right. Here a single Confederate confronted him. This man's attention had been attracted for a moment to the fate of his comrades in the road, and before he knew it Fred was on him. He raised his smoking revolver to fire, but Fred's revolver spoke first, and the soldier reeled and fell from his saddle.

The road was now open for Fred to escape, but he wheeled his horse and rode back to see what had become of his comrade. One Confederate still sat on his horse unhurt. Seeing Fred, he raised his pistol and fired. Fred felt his left arm grow numb, and then a sensation like that of hot water running down the limb. Before the soldier could fire the second time, a ball from Fred's pistol crashed through his brain, and he fell, an inert mass, in the road. The fight was over.

Of the two Confederates overthrown in the wild charge of Ferror, one was dead, the other was untouched by bullets, but lay groaning with a broken leg and arm. Fred turned his attention to Ferror. He lay partly under his horse, his eyes closed, his bosom stained with blood.

Fred raised his head. "Ferror! Ferror!" he cried, with burning tears.

The boy opened his eyes and smiled. "It's all right, Fred – all right," he gasped. "That was no murder – that was a fair fight, wasn't it?"

"Oh, Ferror! Ferror!" moaned Fred. "You must not die."

"It is better as it is, Fred. I will not have that to think of."

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again it was with a far-away look. He tried to raise himself. "Yes, mother," he whispered, and then his eyes closed forever.

The clatter of horses' hoofs, and the clang of sabers were now heard. Fred looked up; a party of Federal cavalry was bearing down upon him. They looked on the bloody scene in astonishment. A dashing young captain rode up. Fred pointed to young Ferror's lifeless body, and said: "Bring his body back to Piketon with you. He gave his life for me. I am one of General Nelson's scouts."

Then everything grew black before him, and he knew no more. He had fainted from the loss of blood.

The rough troopers bound up his arm, staunched the flow of blood, and soon Fred was able to ride to Piketon. General Nelson received him with astonishment; yet he would not let him talk, but at once ordered him to the hospital. As for Robert Ferror, he was given a soldier's burial.

A year after the war closed, Frederic Shackelford, a stalwart young man, sought out the home of Mrs. Ferror. He found a gray-haired, brokenhearted mother and two lovely young ladies, her daughters. They had mourned the son and brother, not only as dead, but as forever disgraced, for they had been told that Robert had been shot for desertion.

Fred gave them the little mementoes he had kept through the years for them. He told them how Robert had given his life to try and save him, and that the last word that trembled on his lips was "Mother."

The gray-haired mother lifted her trembling hands, and thanked God that her son had at least died the death of a soldier.

Learning that the family had been impoverished by the war, when Fred left, he slipped $1,000 in Mrs. Ferror's hand, and whispered, "For Robert's sake;" and the stricken mother, through tear-dimmed eyes, watched his retreating form, and murmured: "And Robert would have been just such a man if he had lived."

CHAPTER XI.
CRAZY BILL SHERMAN

Fred's wound was not a dangerous one. The ball had gone through the fleshy part of the arm, causing a great loss of blood; but no bones were broken, and it was only a question of a few weeks before he would be as well as ever.

The story of the two boys charging four Confederate cavalrymen, killing three, and disabling the fourth was the wonder of the army. But Fred modestly disclaimed any particular bravery in the affair.

"It is to poor Bob Ferror that the honor should be given," he would say; "the boy that knowingly rode to his death that I might be saved."

Fred gave General Nelson the particulars of his capture and escape, and the general looked grave and said:

"If I had known I was going to place you in such extreme danger, I should not have sent for you. On account of the crime of young Ferror, you would have met with a most ignominious death if you had been recaptured; yet the charging on those four cavalrymen was one of the pluckiest things I have heard of during the war. You deserve and shall have a good rest. I have just finished making up some dispatches for General Sherman, and you shall be my messenger. A dispatch boat leaves in the morning, and you shall go with it. When you get to Catlettsburg, you can take an Ohio river steamer for Louisville. The trip being all by water, will be an easy one, and as a number of sick and wounded will be sent away on the same boat, you will have good surgical attendance for your wounded arm. Here is a paper that will admit you to the officers' hospital when you get to Louisville. Take a good rest, you need it. I do not think it will be long before I, with my command, will be ordered back to Louisville. The enemy has retreated through Pound Gap into Virginia, and there is nothing more for me to do here. Stay in Louisville until you hear from me."

The next morning found Fred on his way down the Big Sandy. The whole voyage was uneventful, and after a quick trip Fred once more found himself in Louisville. The rest and quiet of the voyage had almost cured the ill-effects of his experience, and with the exception of his wounded arm, which he was compelled to carry in a sling, he was feeling about as well as ever.

Once in Louisville, he lost no time in turning over his dispatches to General Sherman. He found the general surrounded by a delegation of the prominent Union men of the city. They seemed to be arguing with Sherman about something, and as for the general, he was in a towering rage, and was swearing in a manner equal to General Nelson in one of his outbreaks of anger.

Fred was surprised to find the usually mild and gentlemanly officer in such a passion, but there was no mistake, he was angry clear through.

"There is no use talking, gentlemen," he was saying, as he paced the room with quick nervous tread, "I am not only going to resign, but I have already sent in my resignation. I will not remain in command of the Department of Kentucky another day; the command of the armies of the United States would not induce me to remain and be insulted and outraged as I have been."

"We are very sorry to hear it, General," replied the spokesman of the delegation. "We had great hopes of what you would accomplish when you were appointed to the command of the department, and our confidence in you is still unabated."

"I am thankful," replied the general, "for that confidence, but what can you expect of a man bound hand and foot. They seem to know a great deal better in Washington what we need here than we do who are on the ground. This, in a measure, is to be expected; but to be reviled and insulted is more than I can stand. But if I had not resigned, I should be removed, I know that. Just let the newspapers begin howling at a general, and denouncing him, and every official at Washington begins shaking in his boots. What can be expected of a general with every newspaper in the land yelping at his heels like a pack of curs? If I wanted to end this war quickly, I would begin by hanging every editor who would publish a word on how the war should be conducted. It would be a glorious beginning."

"Are you not a little too severe on the newspaper fraternity, General?" mildly put in one of the citizen delegates.

"Severe! severe! not half as severe as the idiots deserve. They think they know more about war, and how to conduct campaigns than all the military men of the country combined. Not satisfied with telling me how and when to conduct a campaign, they attack me most unjustly and cruelly, attack me in such a manner I cannot reply. Just listen to this," and the general turned and took up a scrapbook in which numerous newspaper clippings had been pasted. "Here is an editorial from that esteemed and influential paper, The Cincinnati Commerce," and the general read:

"'It is a lamentable fact that many of our generals are grossly incompetent, but when incipient insanity is added to incompetency, it is time to cry a halt. Right here at home, the general who commands the Department of Kentucky and therefore has the safety of our city in his hands, is W. T. Sherman. We have it on the most reliable evidence that he is of unsound mind. Not only do many of his sayings excite the pity of his friends and ridicule of his enemies, but they are positively dangerous to the success of our cause. The Government should at least put the department in charge of a general of sound mind.'

"Now, if that is not enough," continued the general, with a touch of irony in his tones, "I will give you a choice clipping from the great New York Tricate.

"'It is with sorrow that we learn that General W. T. Sherman, who is in command of the Department of Kentucky, is not in his right mind. It is said that the authorities at Washington have been aware of this for some time, but for political reasons fear to remove him. He is a brother of John Sherman, one of the influential politicians of Ohio, and United States Senator-elect. While the affair is to be regretted, the Government should not hesitate on account of political influence. General Sherman should be at once removed. That he is mentally unsound is admitted, even by his best friends. Let the administration act at once.'"

The whole company was smiling at the absurdity of the affair. Even the general had to laugh.

"I will read once more," said the general. "It is from the Chicago Timer, and hits others as well as myself. Here it is:

"'General Bill Sherman, in command of the Department of Kentucky, is said to be insane. We don't doubt it. In our mind the whole Lincoln Government, from President down, is insane – insane over the idea that they can coerce the South back into the Union. The only difference that we can see is that Bill Sherman may be a little crazier than the rest; that's all.'

"There," continued the general, "are only a few of the scores of extracts which I have from the most influential papers in the land. Of course the smaller papers have taken their cue from the larger ones, and now the whole pack of little whiffets are after me, snapping at my heels; and the good people believe the story because it is published. Hundreds of letters are being received at Washington, asking for my removal. My brother writes that he is overwhelmed with inquiries concerning me. I believe the War Department more than half believes I am of unsound mind. They are only waiting for an excuse to get rid of me, and I know that my resignation will be received with joy."

"General," asked one of the citizens present, "have you any idea of how the story of your insanity started?"

"Oh, yes!" replied the general. "When Secretary of War Cameron was here, I laid before him the wants of Kentucky, and among other things said that I needed 60,000 men for defensive work, but for offensive operations I should need 200,000. The Secretary spoke of it as an 'insane request.' Some reporter got hold of it, and then it went. The Secretary has never taken the pains to correct the impressions."

"Were you not a little extravagant in your demands?" asked another citizen.

"Not at all. The politicians at Washington have never yet recognized the magnitude of the war in which we are engaged. Then their whole life is office, and they are afraid of doing something that will lose them a vote. As for the newspapers, they would rather print a sensation than have us win a victory. My God! They have called me crazy so much they have alarmed my wife," and the general again indulged in another burst of anger. When he became calmer, he said: "Gentlemen, I thank you for your expressions of sympathy and confidence. I trust my successor will be more worthy than I," and he bowed the delegation out.

Fred remained standing. The general noticed him, and asked: "Well, my boy, what is it? Why, bless my soul, it's Fred Shackelford! Just from General Nelson, Fred?"

"Yes, General, with dispatches," and he handed them to him.

"I will read them when I cool off a little; I have been rather warm. I see your arm is in a sling; been in a skirmish?"

"Yes, General, a small one. The wound didn't amount to much; it is nearly well."

"You should be thankful it is no worse. Come in in the morning, Fred; I will have the dispatches read by that time."

Fred called, as requested, the next morning, and found the general calm and courteous as ever. The storm had passed away.

"General Nelson writes good news," said Sherman. "He reports he has entirely driven the Rebels out of the valley of the Big Sandy. He also tells me in a private letter of your capture and escape. He speaks of the desperate conflict that you and your comrade had with four Rebel cavalrymen. It was a most remarkable adventure. My boy, I shall keep my eye on you. I surely should ask for your services myself if I were going to remain in command of the department."

"General, I am sorry to have you resign," answered Fred, hardly knowing what to say.

The general's face darkened, and then he answered lightly: "I do not think they will be sorry at Washington."

And they were not; his resignation was gladly accepted, and the general who afterward led his victorious army to Atlanta, and then made his famous march to the sea, and whose fame filled the world, retired under a cloud. And the injustice of it rankled in his breast and imbittered his heart for months.